by Janet Fife

People of faith, even heroes of the faith, sometimes turn out to be abusive. We feel betrayed and let down, and rightly so. But this is not a modern phenomenon: it’s as old as faith itself, and Abraham ‘the father of faiths’. Here’s another take on his story.

ʻBe your own person,ʼ you say. ʻYou have choices.ʼ

Choices? Choices? If bloody only! If you can make your own choices youʼre one of the lucky few. Or (since youʼre religious) one of the blessed. And Iʼve never been blessed. Thatʼs always for others.

Some said I was blessed, being Sarah’s personal slave. Sarah was one of Godʼs favourites. At least, Abraham was one of Godʼs favourites, and Sarah was his woman. His wife, as she liked to point out. Forcibly, sometimes. But Iʼll be coming to that.

For a long while I did think I was lucky to be their slave – if I had to be anyoneʼs slave, that is. Slaves have a tough time of it in Egypt, where I come from. Abraham and Sarah were elderly and not too demanding, though they did move around a lot. And then, as I said, they were God’s favourites, his blessed. Everything went well for them. Abraham was rich, there were lots of us slaves to share out the work, and the tents were comfortable. We ate

well, drank well, and slept well. Wherever we went, people didnʼt mess with us. You get a lot of respect if youʼre rich.

So youʼd think they’d have counted their blessings, but no. Abraham was convinced God wanted him to be an ancestor – the Ancestor. And they had no children. None at all, not even a girl. They were desperate for kids. Iʼd have liked to have babies too, of course, but no one thought of that. I was only Sarah’s slave Hagar, and I wasnʼt supposed to have any feelings. Or any choices.

The years went by, and the biological clock was ticking.  Sarah had long ago gone through the menopause and out the other side. And I wasnʼt a little girl any more. I hadnʼt been for a while, but theyʼd only just noticed.  Then Sarah did notice, and had a bright idea.  I could have a baby for her! It may sound weird to you, but that was our custom, and the law.  If a wife had no children, she could let her husband sleep with one of her slaves. The child would belong to the wife, not to its natural mother. But it still wouldnʼt inherit from the father, unless he adopted it.

Nobody consulted me, of course. I was just Hagar the slave. A slave has no voice, no feelings, and no choices. What a shock it was when Abraham came into my tent that night, and took off his clothes.  I was confused, embarrassed – and frightened.  But he was gentle with me. He was an old man, and old men learn patience. Iʼd never wanted a partner who was 86, but I did learn to appreciate him. I had time to learn, because there were many such nights.

Then my periods stopped, and I felt sickly in the mornings. I couldnʼt bear the taste of dates, and longed instead for capers. The child they – we – were desperate for was on the way. Abraham and Sarah were thrilled. So thrilled I was promoted from slave to wife. And that was neither custom nor the law.

Abraham, always gentle, became tender and considerate. For the first time in his very long experience, a woman was carrying his child. He made much of me, fussed over me.

Nobody had ever made a fuss of me before, nobody had ever cared whether I was comfortable, nobody had ever seen that what I fancied, I ate. Now I was not only equal to Sarah, I was getting more attention than her. And it went to my head. I was the mother of the heir. I had status. And I began to look down on Sarah, who had never been pregnant. I was more of a woman than she was!

There was an end to the peace, an end to the happiness of the household. Sarah had words with Abraham. Loud words. Abraham gave in, of course. As I said, he was gentle. Anything for peace. Sarah got her way, and I was a divorced woman, and a slave again. It was worse than before, because now Sarah had it in for me. I wasnʼt her personal slave now, I got all the

drudgery and the hard work. Heavy work, and me heavy with child. She rubbed my face in it too. She shouted, she taunted, she was abusive. And with my hormones all over the place, and the emotional roller coaster Iʼd been on, I couldnʼt deal with it. Iʼd had a taste of freedom, of being my own person. I wanted that back again.

So one day, when I went to fetch water from the well, I just kept on walking.  It wasnʼt planned. I simply couldnʼt face going back, so I headed for the road to Egypt. I walked a long way, and at last I stopped at a well beside the road. I sat down for a bit. The sun was at its height, it was blazing hot, and it would be foolish to stray far from the well until the day cooled. The baby moved inside me. And suddenly I realised what Iʼd done. I was alone, pregnant,

without shelter or food, vulnerable to any bandit or rapist who came along. And I was now an outlaw.

For once in my life Iʼd made a choice – and now I was at a dead end. I felt

horribly alone, and desperate. Then a man appeared, and I mean appeared. One minute I was alone, the next this guy was sitting next to me. Strangely I didnʼt feel threatened at all. He felt…safe, somehow.

ʻWhat are you doing here, Hagar, Sarahʼs maid?ʼ he asked. He knew me, no point in lying. So I admitted Iʼd run away. We had a long talk then. I told him everything. About my master and mistress, who were so blessed by God, and how theyʼd treated me. How for the first time in my life Iʼd begun to feel that I mattered, and how good that had felt. How, as my belly swelled, it had all gone pear-shaped. He listened to it all.

No one had listened before. No one had cared how I felt. And because he didnʼt tell me off, and he seemed sympathetic, somehow I could admit to him – to myself – that Iʼd messed up too.

At last he spoke. My child – my child, not just Abrahamʼs  – would be a boy. He  would be the father of many nations. I too was called by God to be an ancestor. I should call the lad Ishmael, which means ʻGod hearsʼ. Ishmael would be like the wild donkey, free and proud. No one would ever tame him. He would have no friends, no family but me. He would depend on no one but himself.

That was special. The Lord, the God of all the world – the God of Abraham and Sarah – was my God too. He cared about my child, and not just because he was Abrahamʼs son.

ʻGod has heard your misery,ʼ he said.

Then came the hard part. I had to go back to Sarah and submit to her. But what option did I have? It was that or die here in the desert, with my baby unborn. And my lad would need his father. So we went back, to an uneasy truce.

You know the rest of the story. How Isaac, ʻthe child of promiseʼ, was born to Sarah 14 years later. And Ishmael, used to being the only child and heir, and the apple of his father’s eye, was suddenly nowhere. We were both non-persons again. Worse, we were thrown out.

Again I wandered in the desert, and this time we were nowhere near a road or a well. We got lost, Ishmael and I. Ishmael collapsed first. I laid him in what scrubby shade I could find, and retreated a little way. I couldn’t bear to watch my child die.  I wept aloud.  So did Ishmael, he in his small corner and I in mine.

No stranger appeared, there was no one. But a voice called from nowhere,

ʻWhat is the matter, Hagar? Your weeping has been heard, your boy will live and become a great nation.ʼ

And suddenly we were given the skills to survive in the desert. God made my eyes keen to see the signs of hidden water. I found some straight away and gave Ishmael a drink. I got good at foraging for fruit and veg; we got our five a day. Ishmael learned to track game, and make bows and arrows out of desert shrubs. We found a way to live, and Ishmael became a man. His own man, and in need of a wife.

Finding a wife for him was his fatherʼs job, of course. The man chooses the bloodlines from which his descendants will come. But Abraham had opted out. So I, Hagar, the slave, at last had a choice to make.

It was a choice that would shape the destiny of nations. From out of Egypt I chose a wife for my son.

And so our dynasty began.