It is a stunning centuries-long run of contempt, and it means that most of what we know about Al-Andalus has become available only in the last several decades. Much more will be discovered, but we walked our barrio in thankfulness to the many scholars who have begun to teach us about this splendid period. Let us, together, pass through one of the strange doors in the Albayzín and look into another age.
And where might we look? Let us, to begin, visit a workshop in Toledo in the thirteenth century.
THE REBIRTH OF BOOKS IN THE CONVIVENCIA
The workshop is a room of stone provided by a Christian king, Alphonso X, known to history as Alphonso the Wise. At a large wood table piled with books sit two scholars, one of them reading aloud slowly from a text in Arabic, translating it as he speaks into Castilian; the other man listens and writes down his own translation, translating the Castilian into Latin. Aiding them in their task are editors and researchers, who come and go as needed. It is a slow process, and there are many pauses to clarify, to review, to dispute. Many of the terms in Arabic have no exact equivalent, and a new word must be coined for the translation. It is laborious, intelligent, patient work; slowly the translation takes form.
What books do they translate? In Toledo principally, but also among the cities in the region where good libraries and royal patronage are available, the books in the hands of these men span a phenomenal range of subjects. First among them we must list Euclid’s Elements, one of the key advances in human history, and one of the books in wide use in Al-Andalus. Euclid had been translated into Arabic in Baghdad by an assembly of scholars first organized by Haroun al-Rashid and carried on by his son, who created an academy called the House of Wisdom, a crucial source of books for Al-Andalus.
In the House of Wisdom worked Al-Khwarizimi, a ninth-century astronomer and mathematician who wrote his books principally in Baghdad. His name gives us the word algorithm, and he is honored as the father of algebra. Al-Khwarizimi’s work on astronomy centered on the refinement of astronomical tables used to calculate and understand the motions of the heavens. It was none other than Adelard of Bath, seeking “truth based on reasoning and not doctrine,” who translated into Latin the entirety of the tables, which were studied throughout Europe. But even more important was the book of Al-Khwarizimi’s called The Hindu Art of Reckoning; that is, what we know as Hindu-Arabic numerals. This book is a straightforward description of a place-value system of numbers, with the use of zero demonstrated, and calculations in arithmetic set forth. It is an intellectual thunderclap, and it was translated into Latin in Toledo. This book, along with others such as Abraham bar Hiyya’s Book of Geometry, which also taught arithmetic, would play a crucial role in bringing the Hindu-Arabic numbers into widespread use in Europe, and so transform the study of mathematics and astronomy throughout the continent.
And what about the extraordinary and anonymous Epistles of the Brethren of Purity, a mystical work meant to be a compilation of all knowledge, so as to bring the mind into the freedom of understanding, and so closer to the divine? This book dealt not just with math and logic, but with music and natural history, botany, geography, music, and psychology, all with the idea that we may be transformed by the harmony and beauty of the whole. The book was likely in Saragossa as early as the eleventh century, and at least two of the Epistles have anonymous Latin translations.
Other key philosophical texts were translated: Al-Farabi’s Classification of the Sciences, which set out the discipline of philosophy as a whole and organized scientific study into six branches, from the sciences of language through logic, math, and physics, on to metaphysics and law; and for each of these studies he proposed a method. This, from a man who wrote as well on politics, sociology, ethics, medicine, and music.
And most famously among translated texts: the work of the Córdoban scholar Averroes, who wrote three levels of commentaries on the whole of Aristotle as well as a translation of and commentary upon Plato’s Republic. All his books would be studied in Europe and kick off an intellectual revolution in philosophy, education, and theology. Even Dante in The Divine Comedy would find a place for the Muslim Averroes—in Limbo, where he mused alongside the pagans Socrates, Aristotle, Homer, and Euclid. It was a kind of All-Star team of indispensable men, curiously dispensed with by Dante into a kind of steamy vestibule of the Inferno.
In Limbo they had for company someone else translated in Toledo: the Persian genius Avicenna, whose Canon of Medicine was a work of genius that dominated medical practice and teaching for centuries in Europe and remains among the most illustrious texts in the whole history of medicine.
Scholars even translated the Koran, in a fit of curiosity about the culture politically dominant in Toledo for more than four hundred years.
These books are a small sample of the collection translated in Toledo, in Saragossa, and in other cities in Al-Andalus in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. By these translations, much of the philosophy, science, and technology of the Greek world, and the advances and inventions of the Arab and Persian civilizations, were given to Europe. From the beginning of the twenty-first century, as we look back on the ecology of ideas as they moved from culture to culture, we stand in thankfulness and amazement at the effort. By their work, these men shared the best of the science and philosophy present in one of the most advanced cultures in the history of the Mediterranean: a recent evaluation among historians places Al-Andalus at its zenith no fewer than four centuries ahead of Latin Europe. The texts they translated are a crucial part of the foundation of the Renaissance. It is impossible to imagine the rapid development of the West in science, culture, and commerce without just this gift of knowledge. That it turned out to be a monumental and decisive transfer of power, as well, could not have been known to the translators.
Who were these men who labored in so concentrated a period in the history of Al-Andalus? They translated texts from Arabic, and their teams consisted of Arab and Jewish scholars, Spanish Christians, and a smattering of Slavs and Englishmen. Since they worked so beneficial a revolution in history, we might expect to recognize on sight so extraordinary a group. Let me recite at random the names of some of them: Hugo of Santalla, Hermann of Carinthia, Robert of Ketton, John of Seville, Daniel of Morley, Judah Mosca, Galippus, Guillen Arremon Daspa, Plato of Tivoli, Peter of Toledo, Gerbert of Aurilliac, Gerard of Cremona, Michael Scot, Abuteus Levita, bar Hiyya, Galip, Ibn Daud, Gundalissimus. So obscure a gathering of men! Many a common fungus is better known. Here are men who killed and tortured no one, made no practice of pomp or grandeur, nor promoted any hatred. Yet they played a pivotal role in human history, undertaking prodigious labors that uprooted prejudice and ignorance, concentrated twenty centuries of knowledge, and showed Europe a way forward based on reason, understanding, and calculation. Perhaps the day may come when these workers and their colleagues are those we name, recognize, and honor in place of the sordid lists of kings and soldiers that we suffer in book after book of history.
How was such a work possible, and why was it so splendidly done in Al-Andalus?
This is a question that begs a wildly complex explanation, so let us answer in one word: the convivencia.
In Al-Andalus, for eight centuries, communities of Muslims, Jews, and Christians lived side by side or intermingled the one with the other. There was no precedent for so extended an experiment in the history of Europe, and it has not been equaled since, for daring, brilliance, or productivity.
First, the religious background. As is well-known by now, Islam did not claim to bring a new faith. It claimed, rather, that Muhammad was the last of a series of prophets come to humankind with a revelation to speak to our hearts and awaken our souls. In the Koran we find Moses, Abraham, and Jesus honored and exalted. This sensible idea, of a continuity of knowledge through the ages, meant that Islam, especially in its early period, was predisposed to tolerance. This tolerance was a matter of religious principle, not political conniving; that is, it rested on Koranic teaching and the direct
statements of Muhammad. To disclaim Jesus and Abraham would have been a blow to Islam itself, since these teachers featured prominently in the Koran. And not only did Christianity and Judaism have as founders authentic prophets, they had scriptures—they were “People of a Book.” As such, they merited protection and respect, and in the first several centuries of Al-Andalus, they had it. Each religious community had its own law courts and religious practice and custom, derived from Visigothic law in the case of the Christians and rabbinic law for the Jews. But the center point of this system of tolerance was simple: there were to be no forced conversions to Islam.
So it was that in this early period of Al-Andalus, from 711 to 1009, the three principal religious communities of the Mediterranean settled down to live together: to learn new languages, trade, start businesses, farm, travel, intermarry, and, slowly, learn from one another. The project had its difficulty, conflict, animosity, and spasmodic, wretched violence. At times brutish attacks and murders overcame the test and tradition of tolerance. But overall, during this early period, and in fact during the nearly eight hundred years of Al-Andalus, under Muslim emirs and caliphs and Christian kings, and with the assistance of an active and powerful Jewish community, the three great religions of the Mediterranean had their chance to settle down together and make a go of it.
What happens when, under conditions of relative safety, such a diversity of cultures has a chance at civility, at prosperity, at study, at shared labor? To walk through our beloved Albayzín is to move among the centuries of medieval Spain, to observe the texture and detail of the convivencia.
THE CONVIVENCIA IN STONE, WORSHIP, AND POLITICS
First, an architectural convivencia: in the Albayzín, the Alhambra, and throughout Spain, the form most identified with Al-Andalus is the horseshoe arch. We see this emblematic arch as a graceful entrance to houses, to courtyards, to palaces. In the famous Mosque of Córdoba, it defines the exterior of the whole building, and inside, double horseshoe arches lead our vision skyward, along with our meditations. It is a rare shape, and one that is literally uplifting, because of a simple trick in its design. The semicircle of the arch is extended, so that the ends of the arch fall below the center point of the circle that defines the arch. Because of this simple layout, the whole form seems to be rising: it’s a portrait in stone of sunrise. It gives the form a natural lightness and grace. And when the horseshoe arches are multiplied, as in the Mosque of Córdoba, we feel weightless in the force field of such strange beauty.
Universally, the design of these arches is identified with Islam and with Islamic Spain; but, curiously, in its origins it is not just Syrian, it is Visigothic. From this historical mix, Muslim architects and builders of Al-Andalus took up the design and brought it to full elaboration and prominence. The horseshoe arch is an architectural convivencia.
Yet even this plain fact makes us wonder: Who was a Muslim, and who a Christian or a Jew, and if we wanted to tell one from another, what might we look for?
When, in 711, the Iberian peninsula came under Islam, Muslims numbered in the hundreds, and only later in the thousands, and this among a Christian population of around seven or eight million and a Jewish population of several hundred thousand. A hundred years later, only about 10 percent of the population was Muslim; but as religious and cultural life became mingled, so the voluntary conversions increased slowly, so that after another two full centuries, Iberia had a population that was more than 70 percent Muslim. But as most of the converts had a long family history as Christians, there would have been an understanding of and natural insight into Christian doctrine and custom. It was, overall, so rich a mix that it called forth a whole new vocabulary: mozarabs were Christians under Islamic administration; mudejars, Muslims under Christian administration; muwallads, non-Arab converts to Islam; moriscos and conversos, the Muslims and Jews who had been baptized. The complexity increased with the centuries. Later, as power swung from Muslim to Christian hands, anti-Semitism increased, and the number of conversions from Judaism to Christianity rose, many of them forced on Jews with political pressure, threats, or violence. Or, in the same way, forced on Muslims who once were Christians. At the same time, some Muslims kept to their faith and were full participants in the culture. In addition, there were marriages between men and women of different faiths. All in all, the more we seek to understand the religions of the people of Al-Andalus, the more complex and bewildering it seems. The story is one of an iridescent and complex weaving and unweaving, all through the history of Al-Andalus. If we know anything about this tumultuous movement of faith and family in the communities of Al-Andalus over eight centuries, we know that the legacy of belief, ritual, bonds of friendship, family stories, religious feeling, and wealth all endured in one form or another, and wove into the life of the times myriad threads of sympathy and understanding.
The convivencia created one of the great cultures in the history of Europe, and in the history of the Mediterranean. In the far north of present-day Spain, as far from the power centers of Islamic Spain as one may get, in the settlement of Escalada, we found a tenth-century church, cold, austere. It was full of horseshoe arches, because it was built by monks who came from Córdoba. Even though it was built by Christians, in a place where they would not have been forced into any design, the builders were fully versed in decoration and construction in the style of the day, which was a collective creation.
All through Al-Andalus, we see these synthetic creations. In Toledo, the medieval synagogue of Samuel Halevi bears horseshoe arches, and everywhere arabesques and worked plaster similar to those that bejewel the walls of the Alhambra. Among the inscriptions in Hebrew are passages from the Book of Psalms and the Chronicles; but the inscriptions are not only in Hebrew—they are in Arabic, which most the Jewish population of Al-Andalus would have spoken fluently. And among the Arabic inscriptions, here in this Jewish holy place, astonishingly, are quotations from the Koran. What is more, we find incised in the stucco the coat of arms of Castile; so in addition to the Old Testament and the Koran, we have an explicit acknowledgment of close bonds with the Christian royal house. This place of worship shows us just how far the fusion of cultures proceeded. We stand within it and try the obvious thought experiments: Do we know a church with Jewish ornament and declarations from the Koran? Do we know a mosque with Christian painting and quotations in Hebrew from the Torah prominently displayed? It is easy to overlook the strangeness and hopefulness of the synagogue of Samuel Halevi. I hope we do not.
Not far from this famous synagogue—one of three remaining in Spain—is the mosque of Bab al-Mardum, also called Cristo de la Luz, which has an apse called the Church of Santa Cruz. It is packed with strange magic, like the cave of Ali Baba. Its façade is made of brickwork so delicate it looks sculpted, and exquisite small horseshoe arches, so evocative of Islam, are set along the upper story, as though trying to lift the whole edifice into the sky. This beautiful neighborhood mosque became later a chapel and oratory for the Knights of Saint John, and within it we see an octagonal ceiling like the inside of a jewel and a fresco of Jesus as the ruler of creation, surrounded by stars. It feels miraculous, this small chapel. It feels simultaneously Christian and Muslim, a place where we know Jesus to be an authentic prophet common to both faiths. It is a magnetic, complex treasure box of beauties.
What about the men and women of influence in Al-Andalus? Do we find, in their life and blood, the same deep envelopment in the convivencia?
One high point of the period is the early tenth century, that of the Caliph Abd Rahman III, whom we have met in our travels among the gardens of Spain. He is found in many history books as the exemplar of Islamic Spain, princely ally of the arts and sciences and relentless military genius who reigned for almost fifty years, built his incomparable palace, and presided over a time of increasing conversions to Islam. One thinks of a classically formed Arab prince, descended from the illustrious Abd al-Rahman I, another poet, lover of books, and devotee of gardens. But the caliph w
as hardly Arab at all. His mother was Basque, and his grandmother was from Navarre. Toda, queen mother of Navarre, was his great-aunt. He was blond and blue-eyed, stocky, and he governed with the help of Christians, who sought employment in his administration, and especially of Jews, among whom none was more powerful than Hasdai Shaprut. This learned man was master of Arabic, Latin, Hebrew, and Aramaic. As if that were not enough to accomplish, he was physician, advisor, diplomat, financial manager, and confidant of the caliph. And Hasdai, at the center of power in Al-Andalus, was himself a friend and patron of the arts and sciences, and he gathered in the court astronomers, mathematicians, and musicians. Such was Hasdai’s love of language that he hired as his two personal secretaries poets of gifts so lustrous that we admire their work today, twelve centuries later. He was cofounder of a school in Córdoba for the study of the Talmud. At the same time, as an emissary from the Muslim caliph, this devout Jewish scholar traveled to Leon to propose medical treatments for the Christian King Sancho, who returned to Córdoba for his ministrations.
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