
How Fatima Started Islam: Mohammad’s Daughter Tells All by Noor Barack
2009 Camel Flea Press
ISBN 978-0-578-03290-0
[Amazon]
No matter what his followers might be up to these days, Mohammad was a fight-starting, raisin-thieving, child-raping, lie-telling, Jew-killing, Christian-hating, nonsense-spouting sort of a One True Prophet of Allah. Allah being an invisible monster that lives in the sky, the theocracy of Islam is a sacred fantasy. And what better to deflate a sacred fantasy than a profane fantasy?
How Fatima Started Islam: Mohammad’s Daughter Tells All by Noor Barack is a revisionist fiction on the origins of Islam, told from the perspective of one of Mohammad’s daughters. Mr. Barack demonstrates a knowledge of Islam’s history in what he chooses to mock and re-interpret. He also freely invents scandal upon scandal, heresy upon heresy, if it moves the story forward or evokes a shriek from the faithful. Readers will laugh as blasphemy and narrative collide. How Fatima Started Islam purposefully insults Islam and Muslims. It’s personal. And yet as rough and base as the book may be, it is still better than how things are done by the target of Mr. Barack’s scorn. It’s how things are done in the West. Don’t like something? Write a book about it, perhaps even a mean-spirited and funny book. How things are done in the Muslim world is quite different. Don’t like something? Then you go killing, killing, killing, killing, killing, killing, killing, until your enemies are either dead or cowed. Faced with this distinction, I prefer my fantasies profane.
Poking fun at a bully won’t always make them stop, and it doesn’t lead to knowing what you and the bully should do once the bullying has ended. But words will never hurt you. The worst outcome this book could ever possibly generate is that after reading it a person might feel insulted, or bored. That’s the very worst thing that could happen when you read a book. Not so bad, is it? And that’s part of the point of winding up bullies – it’s an opportunity for them to join the laughter, if they will only take it. When it comes time for the fingers to be pointed at me I do my best to muddle through and move on. Taking satire and inquiry “too far” is how the darkness is dispelled, even if not everyone cares to venture to the edge. Heresy and not orthodoxy is the guardian of truth, for only heresy can reveal errors in thought and action. One of the heresies of How Fatima Started Islam is found on the back cover, a photograph of Mohammad. It seems like a nontroversy to me, but people are being threatened with death all over the world for publishing images said to be Mohammad. Let me join the fun: the image above is the back cover of How Fatima Started Islam.
From a letter accompanying my (signed!) copy of How Fatima Started Islam:
As all warriors against the Islamification of the West have observed, the Imans, Mullahs, and Terrorists want it both ways. The West must kowtow to them while they can trash any other religion or culture with impunity. They hate ridicule and my little effort is what they hate, to be laughed at and denigrated.
From the introduction:
I have broadly tried to humorously poke fun at some people who are not known for being fun loving, and to make less serious the tenets of a belief. I believe we have to fearlessly show that all faiths, people, cultures, religions and ideas are on an equal footing in the market place of human endeavor, and that no one person or group is above anyone else. [...] In an odd way, things like this little book will eventually help achieve mutual understanding and respect when people can look at themselves and others on an equal footing.
From Chapter Three
The first pillar of Islam, in a sense the key to the very beginning of the religion, is the camel. It was actually one specific camel named Old Mama, but she was a representation of all the camels needed for the rapid, bloody spread of Islam.
For those fortunate enough to have no personal knowledge of the beasts let me give some brief background. Camels are large, ugly animals who were genetically engineered for deserts. They have a tough skin that smells really bad, an evil, foul breath that can kill small animals and children, a stubborn nature that a mule could envy, and all this is coupled with a colossal stupidity. In short, the camel is a metaphor for the land of Arabia. Among the locals there is a constant argument on whether the camel was made for Arabia or Arabia made for the camel.
But many of our men, and even some women, seem to love these flatulent stinkpots. When the wind is right a caravan, and even sometimes a single camel, can be smelled before it can be seen. Needless to say, those associated with the animals retain an unfortunate aura of camelness about their person. Add this to the general lack of rain and water of the region and you have many persons seriously questioning why people were born with noses. The vast majority of the population never gets totally used to it: and pity the few who do, and become walking plagues of stink. My father Mohammad seemed to relish in camel-stink. It added one more assault upon me on my night that I was raped into womanhood.
Now like many camelmen, the old sot had a favorite camel, which was his bimmy. A bimmy was a pet camel that shared a special relationship with her master. Old Mama was Mohammad’s bimmy for many years and he seemed to love this obstinate, moody, and gaggingly foul smelling animal. The main reason for the affection was that Old Mama when commanded would lower and angle herself whenever Mohammad wanted to fuck her. As he got older his sexual liaisons with the beast lessened and she did die before he did. But he was famous for getting blind drunk and humping Old Mama in every public place in Mecca. The citizens of Mecca do not have high standards for anything, but even among that crowd his drunken behavior with Old Mama was considered bush league and a cause of public derision as well as constant off color jokes.
The way Islam was actually started was like this. One night as I was approaching thirteen, and in total unhappiness with my horrible life, my father was out and about and got into his usual state of stupor. For whatever reason he decided to come home and sleep it off at the complex. He managed to get on Old Mama with no problem and she put it into automatic and headed toward home as she had done a thousand times before. When the pathway diverged into a fork with one branch going left and other right, Old Mama headed right the way to our quarters. Dear old dad in his fog was confused and sure that the way to go was left. He steers Old Mama to the left but she still wanted to go right. He got pissed, both literaraly and figuratively, and started kicking and hitting her with a stick. Old Mama angrily stopped and purposely bucked with Mohammad being thrown off. This had all happened before and was no big deal, but this time he landed head first on a rock. He lay there for about fifteen minutes before he was discovered and carried back to the complex unconscious.
He lay like that until the middle of the second day when he awoke, his body had detoxed all the booze, he ate some food, talked normally and went immediately back into a state of unconsciousness for another 24 hours. Mohammad again awoke, ate heartily and communicated quite normally. About five hours later he went into a trancelike state and began to talk in total gibberish. This was absolutely unlike his drunken slurred and nearly impossible to comprehend ramblings, which we were all used to, but a sober sounding, even authoritative clear speech of absolute nonsense.
He went in and out of this trancelike state. Of course, when he was appearing normal, he was asked about the odd behavior and speech. He stated that he had no idea he was doing anything and no memory of acting at all unusually. He was a little scared and he kept to himself more and drank less. The alcohol did not seem to affect the weird gibberish states one way or the other. So, after another few days, things were pretty normal as I am still keeping the cash accounts and screwing every horny moron who could beg, borrow, or steal two shekels. I had briefly talked to my father about raising the rates in the brothel because I was very sure that we would make more money, also at the same time we would have slightly less volume with me off my back a little more. I figured that if we raised the rates 50% we would only lose about 10% of the tricks for an increased profit of 35%. Naturally he dismissed the idea off hand.
After the evening meal break, when only the slave whores were available, I decided that the time was approaching. Mohammad was slurping over a roasted camel neck when he went into the trance and started babbling incomprehensible foolishness in a deliberative way. It was as if he were expounding on an important point in an intelligent way if you did not know him and know that the syllables coming out were pure nonsense. It was the third time that day that he had began to speak gibberish so the awe and wonder had faded a little bit.
I rose and went right next to him. Everyone was looking at me and all was quiet as I waited a few seconds and then announced, “I can understand what he is saying.”