Radwa Ashour - Granada

Abu Jaafar had agreed with his colleagues in the Paper Makers’ Quarter that he would move his books to their houses only under cover of night, and that in the daytime he would take them to their permanent hiding place. He would load them on donkey carts or on the backs of mules camouflaged as household goods and utensils, pretending to be moving house. They all agreed that this should be carried out in stages, quietly and cautiously, in a way that wouldn’t draw any attention. They agreed that the books would be distributed evenly in a number of places, in mountain caves, under the ruins of abandoned houses, and in the vaults of their own homes.

Several days later Abu Jaafar rented two carts and loaded them with his books and those of some of his friends. He mounted his wife and Saleema on one mule, Hasan and Umm Hasan on another, and he himself mounted a third. They rode in the direction of Ainadamar. Abu Jaafar wanted to make it known to whomever passed them by that he could no longer bear to live in Albaicin, nor tolerate the onslaught of the Christian missionaries who invaded the quarter like a swarm of locusts. They arrived at the house at Ainadamar and unloaded the goods. They paid the drivers and moved the books to the vault. Umm Jaafar turned her attention to the windows as she and Umm Hasan made a courageous attempt to coax Saleema into helping them clean the house as though they had every intention of staying for good. Saleema spent nearly an hour helping out but soon crafted the excuse that she heard her grandfather calling her from the vault. She then left them and went down below. Umm Jaafar smiled, knowing full well that her granddaughter was not inclined at all toward housework. Her mother, on the other hand, also knowing the same thing, only sighed and secretly feared for her daughter.

Hardly two weeks passed when Abu Jaafar hired another three mules and a cart and returned the family to Albaicin. Once again, Abu Jaafar let it be known to anyone who would listen what he wanted them to believe. “I had every intention to live out the remainder of my days at Ainadamar, but I just couldn’t do it. I can’t survive away from Albaicin. I was born there, and God knows I will die there as well.”

Just as Umm Hasan was opening the door, Naeem came rushing in panting: “Where’s Abu Jaafar?”

“What’s gotten into you, boy? No ‘good morning’?”

Naeem acted like a madman as he called out to Abu Jaafar as loud as he could. Abu Jaafar came as quickly as his many years would allow.

“They’re piling up all the books they can get their hands on at Bibarambla Gate,” he shouted. They’re going to burn all the books!”

Abu Jaafar put on his shoes and hurried out of the house behind Naeem. Saleema came out to see what all the uproar was about, and her mother repeated to her only what she was able to catch. Saleema rushed back to her chest and came back in a few short moments ready to go out.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going with Grandfather,” she said, not waiting to hear her mother’s response, as she darted past the door as fast as an arrow. The only thing her mother could do was to call out to Hasan to go and follow his sister.

They all assembled at the bank of the Darro. The river flowed in a mad rush in the same direction as the hordes of people — those who knew or didn’t know, some silent and others boisterous. When they reached the Tanners’ Bridge, the river bent in the direction of the Genii, and the throngs of people made their way toward Bibarambla Gate. At the main square of Bibarambla, they saw many carts drawn by oxen, mules, and donkeys. Each cart would pull into the center of the square, and when the driver pulled on the reins the animal slowed down. The wheels screeched to a halt and the cart came to a full stop. Three guards who had been sitting on top of the piles of confiscated books loaded on the cart stood up and stretched out for a moment to rid themselves of the numbness that had set in during the ride. Then they went to work. Their backs arched and their heads disappeared and reappeared as their torsos straightened out and their hands worked together in lifting the loads. Again and again, bodies bent and straightened, hands grabbed and let go, in unison and with efficient speed, as the books dropped to the ground, piling on top of one another, some closed, others opened, as fragments and pages flew apart, tumbling like autumn leaves through the air before they hit ground, reaching their final resting place. The people followed with their eyes as the many copies of the Quran fell to the ground, both large and small, as the leather binding, embellished with exquisite engravings and magnificent script, came apart. They watched their precious manuscripts falling to pieces, ancient ones and those newly inscribed, as well as hundreds of folios that bore the same words, whether composed in prose, line after line, or set in verse, with their two columns neatly balancing every page.

The guards continued their task as several more carts pulled up, one after the other, each one making its way to the center of the square. The screeching of the wheels mixed with the thump of the books as they crashed to the ground, while the people shouted in horror and the guards warned them with their weapons not to come close to the books. Abu Jaafar watched this specter, then turned his eyes away. He looked back again and muttered something that nobody could understand. He was completely oblivious to Saleema’s hand that was pulling his, as her nails were digging into him. He was oblivious to her and deaf to what she was saying, even as she raised her voice, asking time and again. “They won’t burn the books, Grandfather, will they? They can’t do that!” Saad and Hasan stood dumbfounded as Naeem sobbed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. Carts rolled in from every direction, from Albaicin and the hospital, from Alhambra and the Jewish Quarter, from the university and the Grand Mosque. Saleema was distraught by this horrible spectacle, and she told her grandfather she didn’t want to look any longer. She pulled her hand away from his and ran away. Abu Jaafar remained motionless, drowning in the inner turmoil of his most private thoughts. Could it be that God was abandoning His pious servants? Could He allow His book to be burnt? Abu Jaafar raised his eyes to the sky searching and waiting for an answer, when he suddenly became conscious of the moans of the crowd as the smoke thickened the skies.

The soldiers hastily dispersed in different directions to avoid the spreading flames. The fire quickly consumed the books, charring the edges and desiccating the pages, as the paper curled up on itself as though it was trying to protect itself, but to no avail. The fire devoured everything that fell in its way, and gobbled up every line, every page, book after book. It crackled and sizzled so intensely that it seared your eyes and suffocated you with its thick, black smoke. Abu Jaafar stared, horrified, as his mind screamed out in silence: this is not a forest set ablaze by fire that devoured its greenery and seared its branches and trunks; this was not a forest whose seeds were carried off by the winds or drenched by the heaven’s rains, growing wild and on its own. This was not Granada’s Vega, a field that the farmers cultivated year after year, with wheat, figs, olives, lemons, and oranges, and when it suddenly catches fire before their very eyes they respond, “There is no power or strength save in God,” and then roll up their sleeves and go back to tilling the soil until they’re blessed with a new harvest. It was not a forest or a cultivated land. Abu Jaafar knew it, but he could only see a land and forest besieged by vultures hovering over their heads, swooping down to pluck men’s hearts out of their chests.

Abu Jaafar turned around and went home to Albaicin. On the way he watched the people walking alongside him, but the only thing he could see was the blazing fire. He was coughing and wiping the sweat from his brow. As he walked on the only thing he realized was that the door to God, which he had lived his life believing in, its existence and proximity, was now shut like a solid wall. He stopped in the middle of the road, besieged by a long, uncontrollable fit of coughing that nearly choked him to death.