Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

by Tariq Ali

  ‘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?’

  For a few seconds they were stunned. It was a dangerously heretical idea, and the village was so isolated from Gharnata, let alone the rest of the peninsula, that they could not follow his line of reasoning. They recovered rapidly and a spontaneous chant rose from the ground on which they sat and reached for the sky.

  ‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is His Prophet.’

  Umar’s eyes moistened. He nodded his head and, with a sad smile, addressed them once again.

  ‘I thought that would be your response, but I feel it is my duty to warn you that the Christian kings who now rule over us may not permit us the freedom to worship Allah for much longer. In any case the choice must be yours.

  ‘The second possibility is to resist any incursion on our lands and fight to the death. Your death. My death. The death of all of us and the dishonouring of our mothers, wives, sisters and daughters. It is an honourable choice, and if that is what you decide will fight alongside you, though I must be honest. I will send the women and children in my family to a safe refuge before the battle and I would advise you to do the same. What is your feeling on this matter? How many of you wish to die sword in hand?’

  Once again they were silent, but this time without anger. The old men looked at each other. Then, from somewhere in the middle of the assembly, five young men stood up. In the front row Zuhayr al-Fahl jumped to his feet. The sight of the young master offering his life for the cause created a miniature sensation. A few dozen young men rose to their feet, but not Ibn Daud. His thoughts had wandered to Hind, whose infectious laughter was still ringing in his head. Yazid was torn between his father and his brother. He agonized for a few minutes and then stood up and clutched Zuhayr’s hand. This gesture, in particular, moved everyone present, but only a mi
nority was on its feet. Umar was greatly relieved. Suicide was not a course that he favoured. He signalled to his sons that they should sit down and their followers followed suit. Umar cleared his throat.

  ‘The last option is to leave our lands and our homes in this village which our forefathers built when there was nothing but large rocks which covered the earth. It was they who cleared the ground. It was they who found the water and planted the seed. It was they who saw the earth yield a rich harvest. My heart tells me this is the worst of all choices, but my head warns that it may be the only way to preserve ourselves. It may not happen, but we should be mentally prepared to leave al-Hudayl.’

  A half-scream in a choked voice interrupted Umar.

  ‘And go where? Where? Where?’

  Umar sighed.

  ‘It is safer to climb the stairs step by step. I do not yet know the answer to your question. All I wish to do is to make it clear to you that the cost of believing in what we believe will involve sacrifices. The question we will have to ask ourselves is whether to live here as unbelievers or to find a place where we can worship Allah in peace. I have nothing more to say, but if any of you wish to speak and present us with a more acceptable choice then now is the time. Speak while your lips are free.’

  With these words Umar sat down next to Yazid. He hugged his young son and kissed him on the head. Yazid clasped his father’s hand and held on to it, much as a drowning person grasps anything that is afloat.

  Umar’s words had made a deep impression. For a while nobody spoke. Then Ibn Zaydun, who called himself Wajid al-Zindiq, rose in his place and enquired if he could speak his mind. Umar turned round and nodded vigorously. The older men present frowned and stroked their beards. They knew Ibn Zaydun as a sceptic who had poisoned a large number of young minds. But, they reasoned to themselves, this was a crisis and even heretics had a right to speak their minds. The voice, which was so familiar to Zuhayr al-Fahl, now began to crackle with indignation.

  ‘For twenty years I have tried to tell you that it was necessary to take precautions. That blind faith alone would not get us anywhere. You thought that the Sultans would last till the Day of Judgement. When I warned you that he who eats the Sultan’s soup ends up with his own lips on fire, you mocked me, denounced me as a heretic, an apostate, an unbeliever who had lost his mind.

  ‘And now it is too late. All the wells are poisoned. There is no more pure water in the whole of this peninsula. That is what Umar bin Abdallah has been trying to tell you for the last hour. Instead of looking to the future we Muslims have always turned to the past. We still sing songs of the time when our tents first rose in these valleys, when we united in a staunch defence of our creed, when our pure white banners returned from the battlefield a different colour, drenched in the blood of the enemy. And how many cups of wine were drained in this village alone to celebrate our victories.

  ‘After seventy years, I am tired of living. When death comes stumbling my way, like a night-blind camel, I will not move aside. Better to die in complete possession of my senses than be trampled on when my mind has already ceased to exist. And what holds true for an individual applies equally to a community ...’

  ‘Old man!’ cried Zuhayr in agony. ‘What makes you think that we are ready to die?’

  ‘Zuhayr bin Umar,’ al-Zindiq replied with a steady voice. ‘I was speaking in symbols. The only way for you and your children and their children to survive in the lands now occupied by the Castilians is to accept that the religion of your fathers and their fathers is on the eve of its demise. Our shrouds have already been prepared.’

  This remark annoyed the faithful. There were some angry faces as a familiar chant was hurled at the sceptic.

  ‘There is only one Allah and he is Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the old man. ‘That is what we have been saying for centuries but Queen Isabella and her Confessor do not agree with you. If you go on repeating this the Christians will tear open your hearts with straight and hard-shafted spears.’

  ‘Al-Zindiq,’ shouted Ibn Hasd from the back of the mosque. ‘Perhaps what you say is true, but in this village we have lived at peace for five hundred years. Jews have been tormented elsewhere, but never here. Christians have bathed in the same baths as Jews and Muslims. Might the Castilians not leave us alone if we do nothing to harm them?’

  ‘It is unlikely, my friend,’ replied the sage. ‘What is good for the liver is bad for the spleen. Their Archbishop will argue that if even one example is permitted to survive it will encourage others. After all if we are allowed to carry on as before on these estates, sooner or later, when other kings and queens, less given to violence, are on the throne, our existence might well encourage them to relax the restrictions against the followers of Hazrat Musa and Mohammed, may peace be upon him. They wish to leave nothing of us. That is all I wish to say. I thank you Umar bin Abdallah for letting my voice be heard.’

  As al-Zindiq began to walk away, Umar put Yazid on his lap and beckoned the old man to sit by his side. As he settled down on the prayer rug, Umar whispered in his ear: ‘Come and eat with us tonight, Ibn Zaydun. My aunt wishes it so.’

  For once al-Zindiq was taken by surprise as he held back his emotions and nodded silently. Then Umar rose once again.

  ‘If there is nobody else who wishes to speak, let us disperse, but remember that the choice is yours. You are free to do as you wish and I will help in any way I can. Peace be upon you.’

  ‘And peace be upon you,’ came the collective reply.

  Then up rose the young preacher and recited a surá from the al-koran, which they all, including the Christians and Jews present, repeated after him. All that is except al-Zindiq.

  ‘Say: “O Unbelievers,

  I worship not that which ye worship,

  And ye worship not that which I worship,

  Neither will I worship that which ye worship,

  Nor will ye worship that which I worship.

  Ye have your religion and I have my religion.”’

  As the meeting dispersed, al-Zindiq muttered to himself: ‘The creator must have been suffering from indigestion on the day he dictated those lines. The rhythm is broken.’

  Ibn Daud had overheard him and could not restrain a smile. ‘The punishment for apostasy is death.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied al-Zindiq, staring straight into the young man’s green eyes, ‘but no qadi alive would ever pass such a sentence today. Are you the one who calls himself the grandson of Ibn Khaldun?’

  ‘I am,’ replied Ibn Daud as they walked out of the mosque.

  ‘Strange,’ reflected al-Zindiq, ‘when all his family perished on the sea.’

  ‘He lived with another, my grandmother, in later years.’

  ‘Interesting. Perhaps we can discuss his work tonight? After supper?’

  ‘Zuhayr has told me that you have studied his books and much else besides. I have no desire to quarrel with you or compete with your knowledge. I myself am still at the stage of learning.’

  Ibn Daud saluted his interlocutor and hurried to the spot where the horses had been tethered. He did not wish to keep his host waiting, but when he arrived he could only see Yazid and Zuhayr. The young boy was smiling. Zuhayr had a distant look on his face and frowned at Ibn Daud. He was angry with his new-found friend. In the hammam in Gharnata, Ibn Daud had fired their imaginations with his talk of an armed uprising against the occupiers. Here he had swayed with the wind. Zuhayr stared coldly at the Qahirene and wondered whether he believed in anything.

  ‘Where is your respected father?’ enquired the visitor, feeling slightly uneasy.

  ‘Attending to his business,’ snapped Zuhayr. ‘Are you ready?’

  Umar had been surrounded by the elders of the village. They were anxious to discuss the future in much greater detail and in the privacy of a familiar house. It was for this reason that they had all repaired to the house of Ibn Hasd, the cobbler, where they were greeted with almond cakes and co
ffee, flavoured with cardamom seeds and sweetened with honey.

  Zuhayr had been deeply disturbed by the events in the mosque. His anger was directed against himself. For the first time ever he had understood how grim the situation really was, and that there appeared to be no possibility of escape. Now he knew that any insurrection in Gharnata was doomed. He had learnt more from the looks of defeat and despair on the faces inside the mosque than from all the talk of Great-Uncle Miguel or Uncle Hisham, and yet ... And yet everything had been planned. It was too late.

  Zuhayr appeared to forget that a guest was riding by his side. He nudged his horse gently in the stomach and the creature responded by a sudden burst of speed, which took Yazid by surprise. At first he thought his brother was trying to race him back to the house.

  ‘Al-Fahl! Al-Fahl! Wait for me,’ he grinned, and was about to race after his brother, but Ibn Daud stopped him.

  ‘I cannot ride like your brother and I need a guide.’

  Yazid sighed and reined in his horse. He had realized that Zuhayr wanted to be alone. Perhaps he had arranged to meet some of the young men who wanted to fight. Yazid understood that he had to take his brother’s place. Otherwise Ibn Daud might imagine that they were being deliberately discourteous.

  ‘I suppose I had better accompany you home. My sister Hind would never forgive me if you were lost!’

  ‘Your sister Hind?’

  ‘Yes! She’s in love with you.’

  Chapter 7

  IN NOMINE DOMINI NOSTRI Jesu Christi.

  Most excellent, most Christian and most brave King and Queen of all Spain.