Tariq Ali - Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

He began to drone about the glories of al-Andalus and its Muslim rulers. He wanted there to be no doubt that the Islam which had existed in the Maghreb had been the only true Islam. The Umayyad Caliph of Qurtuba and his successors had defended the true faith as prescribed by the Prophet and his Companions. The Abbasids in Baghdad had been moral degenerates.

Yazid had heard talk like this in mosques ever since he had started attending Friday prayers. All the preachers reminded him of Ama, except that he could stop Ama with a question and divert her from all this lofty talk. That was impossible in the mosque.

Nor was Yazid the only member of the congregation to be distracted by the preacher’s performance. At the back of the mosque the veterans of the Friday congregation were beginning to whisper to each other. It was difficult not to feel sorry for the young man trying to impose his will on a gathering which was not kind to newcomers or beginners, and for that reason Umar bin Abdallah put his finger to his lips and glared at the offenders. There was silence. The encouragement was sufficient to free the man with the brown beard. He became fired with a new enthusiasm and departed from the text he had so painstakingly prepared, abandoning the quotations from the al-koran which he had spent half the night learning and rehearsing. Instead he gave voice to his real thoughts.

‘In the distance we can hear the solemn bells of their churches begin to ring with a tone so ominous that the noise eats my insides. They have already prepared our shrouds and it is for that reason that my heart is heavy, my spirit is oppressed and my mind is permanently troubled. It is only eight years since they conquered Gharnata, but so many Muslims already feel dead and dumb. Has the end of our world arrived? All the talk of our past glories is true, but what use are they to us now? How is it that we who held this peninsula in the palm of our hand have let it slip away?

‘Often I hear our elders speak of the even worse calamities which befell the Prophet, peace be upon him, and how he overcame all of them. This is, of course, true, but at that time his enemies had not understood correctly the impact of the true word. We are paying the price for having become a universal religion. The Christian kings are not frightened of us alone, but when they hear that the Sultan of Turkey is considering sending his fleet to help us, then they begin to tremble. That is where the danger lies and that is why, my brethren, I fear the worst. Ximenes confides to his intimates that the only way to defeat us is to destroy everything…’

Every word he spoke was heard in silence. Even Yazid, an extreme critic of confessional performances, was struck by the integrity of the preacher. It was obvious that he was speaking from the heart. His brother was less impressed. Zuhayr was irritated by the pessimistic note which had been struck. Was the man going to offer any solution to the problem or simply demoralize the congregation?

‘I think of our past. Our standards fluttering in the air. Our knights waiting for the command that will send them into the battle. I remember the stories we have all heard of our bravest of knights, Ibn Farid, may his soul rest in peace, challenging their warriors and slaying them all in the course of a day. I think of all this and pray to the Almighty for succour and support. If I were convinced that the Sultan in Istanbul would really dispatch his ships and soldiers I would willingly sacrifice every inch of this body to save our future. But, my brothers, I fear that all these hopes are empty. It is too late. We have only one solution. Trust in God!’

Zuhayr was frowning. To finish without an exhortation was an extremely unorthodox procedure at the best of times. Given the present situation it was an unheard-of abdication of a theologian’s duty. Perhaps he was pausing to think. No. He had finished. He had taken his place in the front row and sat down three places away from Yazid.

Usually the congregation broke up after the khutba, but on this particular Friday it was as if a paralysis had set in. Nobody moved. How long they would have remained still and silent is a matter for conjecture, but Umar bin Abdallah, realizing that some action was needed, stood up and, like a lone sentinel stationed on a mountain top, observed the landscape around him. No one followed his example. Instead they all moved in unison, as if rehearsed, to create a path for him. Slowly he walked along this corridor. When he reached the front he turned round and faced them all. Yazid looked up at his father, his eyes gleaming with expectation and pride. Zuhayr’s features were masked, but underneath his heart was beating rapidly.

For a moment Umar bin Abdallah was buried deep in reflection. He knew that at moments like this, when the sense of impending disaster hangs over a people, each word and every sentence acquires an exaggerated importance. For that reason everything has to be carefully chosen and the cadences united with the words. Rhetoric has its own laws and its own magic. This man who had grown up in the patterned tranquillity of the family estates, who had been bathed in water scented with the oil of orange blossoms, had been always surrounded by the delicate scent of mountain herbs and had, from his childhood, learnt the art of presiding over the lives of other men and women, understood what was expected of him.

The cellars of his memory were overflowing, but there was nothing there which could be raided to provide even the slightest degree of comfort to these people seated before him.

Umar began to speak. He recounted all that had been happening in Gharnata under the Christian occupation. He described the wall of fire in vivid detail, and as he spoke his eyes filled with tears, their grief shared by the congregation; he told of the fear which reigned in every Muslim household; he evoked the uncertainties which hung over the city like a dark mist. He reminded them that clouds were not shifted by the howls of dogs, that the Muslims of al-Andalus were like a river which was being re-channelled under the stern gaze of the Inquisition.

Umar spoke for an hour and they listened to every word. He could not by any means be described as an orator. His soft voice and modest style contrasted favourably with the noise made by many of the preachers, who sounded like hollow drums and whose recitation of the holy texts was accompanied by exaggerated mannerisms. These not only lost them the attention of their audiences after the first few minutes, but had the undesired effect of providing merriment for the benefit of Yazid and his friends.

Umar knew that he could not go on much longer with his litany of disasters. He had to suggest a course of action. As the leading notable of the village it was his duty, and yet he hesitated. For if the truth be told, Umar bin Abdallah was still not sure in which direction to take his people. He stopped speaking and let his eyes wander as they searched out the elders of the village. There was no help coming from that direction and so Umar decided that honesty was the only approach. He would trust them with his uncertainties.

‘My brothers, I have a confession to make. I have no way of communicating directly with our Creator. Like you I am lost, and so I have to tell you that there is no easy solution to all our problems. One of our greatest thinkers, the master Ibn Khaldun, warned us many years ago that a people which is defeated and subjugated by another soon disappears. Even after the fall of Qurtuba and Ishbiliya we did not learn anything. There is no excuse for falling into the same hole thrice. Those of us who, in the past, sought refuge in the Sultan’s shadow were fools because it quickly faded.

‘There are three ways out of the maze. The first is to do what many of our brethren have done elsewhere. To say to oneself that a sane enemy is better than an ignorant friend and convert to their religion, while in our hearts believing what we wish to believe. What do you think of such a solution?’