By Rabia for the Al-Andalus Tribune
I have come back to my roots, my ancestors’ spiritual tradition. After many years of voluntary revolting self uprooted journey into unconsciously self-imposed but failed integration to the west. I have come back to the Hambra. Oh my Hambra! How much have I dreamed to be here! So Alhamdulillah I am! Alhambra the jewel of Granada where the spirit of Islam bursts with Beauty one can only get a glimpse of. The living Gardens, the everlasting flowing waters of life’s fountains, the arches of Noah’s doors into salvation. Salve me salve me, salve me, salve me…Fons Pietatis
This mighty little Hambra of mine. I call it mine. Because it is forgiving, gently, compassionately, making its way into my heart, holding me into its arms and allowing space for me so I can cry… both from feeling sad to have not lived and been part of the era that produced such a glorious timeless Beauty, and from feeling deep awe at the chance of experiencing it. Thirteen centuries later…still alive, and being comforted by the odd feeling of solace of the unexplained yet certain undisputed presence of the people who bared their soul to birth this magnificence.
It was a hot day in Granada. And as I was climbing up the castle of Abu ʿAbdullah al-Ṣaghir known as az-Zughbi, “the unlucky” I became disturbed, annoyed, robbed of the feeling of amazement as I came upon this completely aesthetically unpleasant off-putting arrangement of lined evergreen trees, creating a dark claustrophobic atmosphere, shading light from doing its magical dance on the water waves of the fountains, like a death sentence of some dark secret passed down throughout endless generations, like a spell wished upon humanity that made itself resist surrender… like a twisted story of death, a psychic, soul-crippling fear to keep us in a perpetual state of resistance, to trick us into the real trap of the real death where our temporary hologram body seems to move but our soul is lethally impoverished.
This experience reminded me of my other visit, in Cordoba, to the mesquita church. Masjid cordoba where I saw life and eternal Beauty. A high caliber of transcendentional mathematics in the architectural details of the buildings. One doesn’t need to be an engineer to understand it. It needs only speak to the heart to get a glimpse of Truth… if we allow it…
It seemed all that life’s exuberance and joy was replaced by countless images of Jesus’s sufferings, statues of Jesus’s crucifixion, and the growing painful tears of mother Mary. Did I cry!? Of course I cried! Because I have a heart of a mother. How could I not!? But my tears were of despair and hopelessness. They were tears of eternal pain and sufferings. They were ugly tears that burned my heart and soul dry. There were tears of no redemption no baptism to cleanse my body and restore my soul alive to see Truth. I could not utter…to salve me… my heart’s tongue heavy, falling numb… then dead. To whom shall the prayers toll!? To the ones who need prayers most!?!…Aameen
