Scene 1: Tikrit Under Shadows
Tikrit, 1137 CE – A fortress town on the Tigris River
A cold wind swept through the narrow stone alleys of Tikrit. The river flowed silently in the moonlight, as though hiding the secrets of the night. In a modest brick house inside the fortress walls, a woman lay in labor, her cries muffled behind a woven curtain.
Najm ad-Din Ayyub paced outside the room, his hands clenched behind his back. A soldier by profession and a governor by duty, Ayyub was usually a man of calm authority. But tonight, even his breath betrayed his nerves.
"Brother," came a voice from the entrance.
It was Shirkuh, younger and stockier, his face flushed from the walk. He removed his cloak, drenched with dew. "Any news?"
"She is strong," Ayyub said, glancing at the curtain. "But the midwife says the child may be delayed. It's already the third hour of the night."
Shirkuh walked to the corner, poured a cup of warm goat's milk, and handed it to Ayyub.
"You've seen battlefields, storms, and exiles. And yet this—this moment turns you pale."
Ayyub took the cup, eyes fixed on the closed door. "This isn't war, Shirkuh. This is fate."
Before Shirkuh could reply, the midwife emerged, her robes stained, but her face calm.
"It is a boy," she said simply. "Strong. Wide-eyed. He came quietly, as if listening to the world before he entered it."
Ayyub exhaled with relief, then stepped inside.
The fire crackled gently in the corner. His wife, Umm Ayyub, rested against the cushions, her face glistening with sweat, her lips curled in a tired smile. In her arms, the newborn slept.
"What shall we name him?" she whispered.
Ayyub looked down at the child. His fingers were curled tightly, his expression peaceful.
"Yusuf," he said. "Let him carry the name of the Prophet—beloved and tested."
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Scene 2: The Governor's Wrath
Three weeks later, the peaceful silence that cradled Yusuf's early days was shattered.
Ayyub stood before Governor Zengi's envoy, his face grave.
"You have defied orders," the man spat. "To aid an enemy of the state is treason."
"I gave Imad al-Din Zengi's prisoner a boat," Ayyub said evenly. "But only because he had repented. He feared death. I showed him mercy."
"That man was plotting against the emir!"
The envoy turned and left with venom in his eyes. Within the hour, a decree was issued—Ayyub and his family were to leave Tikrit before sunrise.
Inside their modest home, Shirkuh slammed his fist on the table.
"All for one condemned man?"
Ayyub remained composed. "It is Allah who gives and takes authority. We leave with our honor."
His wife packed their things quietly, wrapping Yusuf in a soft linen sheet. He stirred but did not cry.
"You must not carry him," Ayyub told her. "You are not fully healed."
"I will carry him," she replied, lifting the child with a tenderness only a mother can give. "He was born on a night of exile. Let him know early what it means to walk away from comfort with your head held high."
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Scene 3: Departure on the Tigris
At the riverbank, just before dawn, the family stood under the dim sky. Shirkuh secured the last bundle on the boat. Ayyub turned back toward Tikrit's silent fortress one last time.
A soldier approached. He was young and nervous.
"Sir," he whispered, "I am under orders not to help you... but may Allah bless you and your family. Tikrit will not forget your fairness."
Ayyub nodded silently and boarded.
The boat cut through the water quietly, the moonlight dancing on the river. As the fortress faded from view, baby Yusuf stirred in his mother's arms.
"Where will we go?" she asked.
"Mosul," Ayyub replied. "The emir there is a cousin. He will offer us shelter, at least for a while."
Shirkuh sat beside him and muttered, "From governor to wanderer. What a fate."
"No," Ayyub said. "We are not wanderers. We are servants of truth. And perhaps this child"—he glanced at Yusuf—"is meant to build what we have lost."
Umm Ayyub kissed Yusuf's forehead. "Let him grow knowing the price of honor. And let the world remember that he came into it on a night of exile—not in a palace, but in faith."
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Scene 4: A Glimpse of the Future
One week later – In Mosul
They were housed in a small servant quarter near the palace of Imad ad-Din, Emir of Mosul. The days passed slowly, and Yusuf's cries echoed in the narrow walls.
One evening, Shirkuh held the child in his lap and spoke to him playfully.
"Your father was a governor. I am a soldier. What will you become, little Yusuf?"
The baby gurgled and grabbed at Shirkuh's beard.
"Maybe a warrior," Shirkuh laughed. "Or a wise man. But if you're lucky, you'll be both."
Ayyub overheard and entered the room, his hands dusty from labor.
"He will be what Allah has written for him," he said. "But if I teach him anything, it will be this: to never seek power for its own sake, but for the protection of the weak."
Umm Ayyub smiled as she nursed the child. "He has your eyes, Ayyub. But I see something else in him. A stillness. A waiting."
"Waiting for what?" Shirkuh asked.
"For his time," she replied.
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Scene 5: Dream of the Palm Tree
That night, Ayyub had a dream.
He stood in a barren desert. Before him was a small palm sapling, alone, fragile. Then a wind blew—and the sapling grew. Taller and stronger until it became a towering tree, casting shade over cities, mosques, and fortresses. Under its shadow, people of many tongues gathered—Arabs, Kurds, Africans, and even some from the land of the Franks. All were safe, all were silent.
Then he heard a voice:
"From the house of the faithful shall rise the defender of the sanctuary."
He awoke with sweat on his brow.
He looked over to see his wife sleeping, Yusuf in her arms, glowing softly in the moonlight.
And Ayyub whispered:
"May you grow, my son, into the shade of that tree."
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