A column here, a column there – Originally Published: Cordoba, 2021 

Córdoba, 1021 

You must remember Córdoba as it was. The shining city. The capital of the world. Now, as seething clouds of chaos muster upon the Sierra Morena, there is silence . A storm is brewing in the east. On the bridge a half-dead colt casts a solitary shadow upon the Guadalquivir, Al-wādī l-kabīr, the great river. The afternoon heat coats the city like sticky sugared water and all but the most determined of creatures have retreated to the safety of their crevices. Somewhere from within her prison of rubble a sick dog howls. She’s been howling for days, ever fainter but still incessant; how fitting that the whimper of a starving dog is the epilogue to our inevitable dissolution into history. You must remember Córdoba as it was, as a shining city – the capital of the world.  

The death of an idea is not mourned by those who never understood it; in the street life goes on. As evening falls so too does the veil of normality. The war has spared us another day, money is still the illusion of perpetuity and now more than ever business is booming. Along the river, at the base of the old wall, swarms of buyers and sellers materialise like midges beneath the canopy of orange and alder. Above the chatter and multitude of tongues the glistening water wheel churns religiously, creaking and splashing in its unwavering tempo as though assured of its own purpose and permanence. A welcome breeze dissolves the last of the afternoon heat, a colony of cats emerge from a ruin to cool themselves, and the first smells of cooking drift from the warren of winding streets beyond.  

Riverside waterwheel – one of many from the Islamic period 

At the gates of the Alcázar a bored guard watches, sharing his weight with his spear. His solitude and composure betray the emptiness of the royal residence. Five Caliphs in the last ten years after a century of stability. It seems the fragility of prosperity lies within our amnesia of the times that came before. How powerful we were, how glorious and awesome our ambitions, yet how blind. Although ravaged, the fortress retains its imposing majesty. A figure moves along the towering ramparts silhouetted by the low hanging sun. Through an unrepaired breach in the walls, curtesy of a passing raid, the once secluded gardens are now a familiar sight; a carpet of rotting dates, still fountains and toppled columns, the pools stagnant and green – the garden of Eden for a field of Mars. In the far corner a dark mountain of charcoal and horse manure has formed beside a pile of rubble and broken ceramic. Five hundred years ago the Roman fortress upon which we built this Alcázar must have suffered the same ignominious fate, the last bastion of order in a world in disarray, defying its increasing inconsequentiality . Every day is a victory of routine over hysteria, and so long as these walls stand, symbolically, the Caliphate persists.  

The current Alcazar was built in the 13th century (Christian) on the ruins of the Islamic fortress 

As the sun nears the outline of the Sierra men hurry towards the adjacent baths. They come mostly in twos and threes, arguing, discussing, few are alone. Inside the air is heavy with rosewater and tea, and they emerge trailing a path of steam as they advance towards the Mosque. Following, as the shadows elongate and the sky melts into a soup of indigo and apricot, the adhan echoes across the capital. The minaret appears without warning between the rooftops, reflecting the last light of day into the streets like a great honey-coloured mirror. By the fountains of the sahn men assemble to observe wudu, the surrounding trees are an orchestra of birdsong. From within the bells captured from the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela light radiates and penetrates a world of beauty so dazzling as to defy all description. Not long ago every slab of marble would be occupied, the hypostyle hall resounding with the prayers of thousands. Faith in the time of fitna is a bittersweet consolation when your father, brother, son, is the one who hears your prayers.  

Inside the Great Mosque, a still functioning catholic cathedral since the Christian conquest of the city 

Outside in the dusk cats prowl between the debris of brick and vegetation where a magnificent Roman temple once stood. Many gods have claimed this city with the promise of paradise and power, but in time all are claimed by the cats. Passing through the Roman gate by the Jewish quarter four old men sit beneath an arch, eight watery eyes transfixed by the progression of counters making their all-important pilgrimage around the backgammon board. An elderly woman mutters to passers-by as she sweeps her street. The city guard light the new walls and bid goodnight as they shut the gates behind. To the west, across the fields and olive trees, along the path of the Roman aquaduct, lies our greatest achievement and failure, our story in stone, Madīnat az-Zahrā.  

Remains and reconstruction of the Roman temple 

Here we would found our golden city, a new Baghdad, the seat of the true Caliphate. Here we would collect all the knowledge of the world, the Alexandria of the modern era. Here we would study the mysteries of nature, the vast expanse of the universe, the secrets of healing. Here we would preserve the artifacts of the ancients, and by all of this, ensure our own eternity. Our Madīnat was a triumph of progress, and embassies from all the nations marveled at its splendor. There was nothing like it in all the world, and that was its undoing. As the ultimate symbol of our dynasty and state, it was the obvious target in the destruction of such. Thus, we are returned to the mountain from which we cut our testament of greatness. Although perhaps it is best; what an embarrassment that our ultimate downfall lies not in the form of invasion nor calamity, but in the greed of a few and the intolerance of the many. When the mountain finally consumes the last stone of Madīnat az-Zahrā, you will not be able to point and say ‘look – despite possessing all the knowledge and wealth to govern all the peoples of the land, and even the land itself, they could not govern themselves’.  

Inside some of the restored ruins of Madīnat az-Zahrā 

We did not build Córdoba, and that is why it will outlast us. This city is change made physical; it nourishes, then devours us. Soon we and all our achievements will pass into its history, consumed as brick and mortar to be transformed into the unremarkable foundations upon which our descendants will unknowingly build their world. For a thousand years the city has thrived in this way, as it will for a thousand more. Finally, the storm breaks. The sky above the great mosque is split and streaked as though being lashed by a divine whip. Momentarily illuminated, in all its stone and grandeur, Córdoba stands resilient. Spanning the tumultuous Guadalquivir, the Roman bridge withstands the cascade of wind and water as it has for centuries. The peaked battlements of the Alcázar split the rain as it crashes like a million battering rams against the smooth walls. At the center of it all the great mosque stretches its minaret towards the heavens, a fork of lightning shoots towards it like gigantic spitting cobra before recoiling into the churning blackness with a bellowing of thunder. Nothing we have built will stand. And yet, like an old olive tree molded and twisted by centuries of change, Córdoba will endure. And perhaps here, in a city as new as it is a thousand years old, some remnants of our brief moment of glory will survive in new forms; a reminder – no matter how wealthy, powerful or permanent your world may seem, all glory is fleeting.