Joan Fallon's Blog
August 29, 2014
Britain's lost children
This summer we have had a house full of children and watching them play and jump endlessly in and out of the swimming pool made me reflect on a book I published last year about three children who lose their home, their family, even their country. Their lives could not have been more different from the excited little grandchildren charging around our house.
A couple of years ago I came across an article about the children who had been sent to the colonies as migrants, many of them wrongly labelled as orphans and under the delusion that their families were dead. I was amazed, not only that such a thing could happen in Britain but also that it had been kept secret for so many years. If it hadn't been for a chance circumstance, many of those children, now adults, would never have been reunited with their families. A social worker, Margaret Humphreys, was assigned the case of a woman who claimed that she had been deported from Britain when she was only four years old. That was in 1986; since then Mrs Humphreys has discovered that as many as 150,000 children were sent abroad by the British government to start new lives. The last case being as recently as 1967. Director and founder of the Child Migrants' Trust Mrs Humphreys has worked tirelessly to help these children find surviving members of their families. Her book EMPTY CRADLES tells of the first seven years of her struggle to bring this knowledge out into the open and to help those involved.
The article that I had chanced upon inspired me to read extensively around this subject and in the end to write a book of my own. THE ONLY BLUE DOOR is fiction, a novel based on true occurrences and drawn from the real experiences of those immigrant children. It is the story of the three Smith children from Bethnal Green who, through a series of unfortunate incidents, find themselves on a boat to Australia in 1941. This is not a story of tears and recriminations but rather the story of how each child, in their own way, struggles to make the best of their lives and never gives up the hope of being reunited.
THE ONLY BLUE DOOR is available as an ebook and in paperback.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Only-Blue-Doo...
A couple of years ago I came across an article about the children who had been sent to the colonies as migrants, many of them wrongly labelled as orphans and under the delusion that their families were dead. I was amazed, not only that such a thing could happen in Britain but also that it had been kept secret for so many years. If it hadn't been for a chance circumstance, many of those children, now adults, would never have been reunited with their families. A social worker, Margaret Humphreys, was assigned the case of a woman who claimed that she had been deported from Britain when she was only four years old. That was in 1986; since then Mrs Humphreys has discovered that as many as 150,000 children were sent abroad by the British government to start new lives. The last case being as recently as 1967. Director and founder of the Child Migrants' Trust Mrs Humphreys has worked tirelessly to help these children find surviving members of their families. Her book EMPTY CRADLES tells of the first seven years of her struggle to bring this knowledge out into the open and to help those involved.
The article that I had chanced upon inspired me to read extensively around this subject and in the end to write a book of my own. THE ONLY BLUE DOOR is fiction, a novel based on true occurrences and drawn from the real experiences of those immigrant children. It is the story of the three Smith children from Bethnal Green who, through a series of unfortunate incidents, find themselves on a boat to Australia in 1941. This is not a story of tears and recriminations but rather the story of how each child, in their own way, struggles to make the best of their lives and never gives up the hope of being reunited.
THE ONLY BLUE DOOR is available as an ebook and in paperback.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Only-Blue-Doo...
April 14, 2014
The Samurai's Garden
The Samurai's Garden by Gail TsukiyamaMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
This delightful book transports the reader to the Japanese countryside in the years before World War II. The main protagonist is a young Chinese man, recuperating from TB in a remote part of Japan. While he is living there, Japan invades his country. He floats in a world of calm and serenity, blocking out the horrors that are occurring in China, and makes some unlikely friends.. The people that he meets change his view of the world. Gail Tsukiyama writes very evocatively in a slow, melodic style. Not for everyone but if you are someone who likes to savour your books slowly, you will enjoy this one.
View all my reviews
How much influence did the Moors have on Spain?
One of the advantages of writing books about Spain is that you have a great excuse to trot about the countryside investigating things. During the research for my novel THE SHINING CITY we visited Córdoba numerous times - not an arduous task and only two hours drive from Málaga. We made three trips to Madinat al-Zahra (my husband wanted to know why I couldn’t get it all down the first time) and made a couple of visits to Bobastro and Ardales.
10th century Spain was a period in history that I knew very little about and I was fascinated to learn just how much Spain owes to the Moorish occupation of the peninsula, even down to everyday items. It wasn’t just the type of food they ate that has been passed down but also the way they ate it: the Moors introduced menus and a series of different courses for each meal; they used tablecloths and cutlery and different plates for each dish. Some of their dishes were cooked exactly the same way they are today. There is a restaurant in Córdoba that has a lamb tagine on its menu that is identical to a 10th century recipe. For those of you that like churros, you’ll be interested to know that it was as popular then as it is now.
The Moors were a nation obsessed with water and cleanliness and had not only ornamental lakes and fountains but public baths, individual latrines and running water to wash in. They had an elaborate network of underground conduits for collecting rainwater from the courtyards and sewage from the latrines and kitchens.
Society was divided along ethnic and religious grounds but it was more egalitarian than one would suspect. There were four main divisions: the Arabs, the Berbers, the Muwallads and the Dhimmi (Christians and Jews). The first three were all Muslim. The Arabs made up a small percentage of the population but they were the ones with the power and they brought their language and culture to Spain. The Berbers were from North Africa and they mainly populated the countryside. The Muwallads were Muslims of Iberian descent; they adopted the language and religion of the Moors and by 10th century there was very little distinction between them and the Arabs. The last group, the Dhimmis was made up of Christians and Jews. The Christians were numerous but the Jews only made up 5% of the population.
Jews, Christians and Moors lived in harmony; they were all montheistic faiths, all people of The Book. The Jews and Christians were not persecuted by the Muslims and could hold important posts in society and even in government. It was a society with great social mobility and people could move from humble beginnings to positions of power. Muslim men could even marry Jewish women, but not the other way round.
Women too had more freedom than one would imagine; they did not have to cover their faces with a veil but wore a crotcheted cap instead. Many women were educated and worked as physicians, scribes and teachers. Some were wealthy in their own right and set up endowments for libraries and schools. They were often allowed to keep their own dowries and were allowed to inherit property. Those of you who have read my book DAUGHTERS OF SPAIN will see how different this was from women’s position under Franco a thousand years later.
It was a society that valued education and treated its scholars and artists with respect. Córdoba in the 10th century had more than seventy libraries, fifty hospitals and some of the best universities in the civilised world.
THE SHINING CITY
10th century Spain was a period in history that I knew very little about and I was fascinated to learn just how much Spain owes to the Moorish occupation of the peninsula, even down to everyday items. It wasn’t just the type of food they ate that has been passed down but also the way they ate it: the Moors introduced menus and a series of different courses for each meal; they used tablecloths and cutlery and different plates for each dish. Some of their dishes were cooked exactly the same way they are today. There is a restaurant in Córdoba that has a lamb tagine on its menu that is identical to a 10th century recipe. For those of you that like churros, you’ll be interested to know that it was as popular then as it is now.
The Moors were a nation obsessed with water and cleanliness and had not only ornamental lakes and fountains but public baths, individual latrines and running water to wash in. They had an elaborate network of underground conduits for collecting rainwater from the courtyards and sewage from the latrines and kitchens.
Society was divided along ethnic and religious grounds but it was more egalitarian than one would suspect. There were four main divisions: the Arabs, the Berbers, the Muwallads and the Dhimmi (Christians and Jews). The first three were all Muslim. The Arabs made up a small percentage of the population but they were the ones with the power and they brought their language and culture to Spain. The Berbers were from North Africa and they mainly populated the countryside. The Muwallads were Muslims of Iberian descent; they adopted the language and religion of the Moors and by 10th century there was very little distinction between them and the Arabs. The last group, the Dhimmis was made up of Christians and Jews. The Christians were numerous but the Jews only made up 5% of the population.
Jews, Christians and Moors lived in harmony; they were all montheistic faiths, all people of The Book. The Jews and Christians were not persecuted by the Muslims and could hold important posts in society and even in government. It was a society with great social mobility and people could move from humble beginnings to positions of power. Muslim men could even marry Jewish women, but not the other way round.
Women too had more freedom than one would imagine; they did not have to cover their faces with a veil but wore a crotcheted cap instead. Many women were educated and worked as physicians, scribes and teachers. Some were wealthy in their own right and set up endowments for libraries and schools. They were often allowed to keep their own dowries and were allowed to inherit property. Those of you who have read my book DAUGHTERS OF SPAIN will see how different this was from women’s position under Franco a thousand years later.
It was a society that valued education and treated its scholars and artists with respect. Córdoba in the 10th century had more than seventy libraries, fifty hospitals and some of the best universities in the civilised world.
THE SHINING CITY
April 6, 2014
The Writing Process blog tour
I have always been a reluctant blogger. I often feel that I am searching for things to write about that are not that important and would actually prefer to spend my writing time working on my novels. Not that blogs can't be interesting and worth reading - many of them are, especially when they are written by someone who knows what they are talking about. Others, however, can be repetitive and time-wasting. Nevertheless I have come to realise that if I want to let people know about what I write and why I write it, there is no better way than to write a blog. So I was pleased to get an invitation from Lorraine Mace, who also writes under the pen-name of Frances di Plino, to take part in the Writing Process Blog Tour. The idea is that each participant invites two or three other writers to join the tour and everyone answers the same four questions about their work. It's a bit like pyramid selling but no money changes hand. You can read Lorraine's blog on www.thewritersabcchecklist.blogspot.com
I have invited the following two authors to take part next week: Paul Anthony, a well-known writer of crime thrillers and Welsh writer and photographer,Jean Gill. The questions they will answer are:
WHAT AM I WORKING ON?
HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?
WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?
HOW DOES MY WRITING PROCESS WORK?
So now it's my turn to answer:
WHAT AM I WORKING ON?
I have just finished writing a novel entitled THE SHINING CITY and I'm at the self-publishing stage.
The novel is the story of a city, a city that is now in ruins and lies five kilometres outside of Cordoba in Spain: MADINAT AL ZAHRA. The story is set in the 10th century, a time when southern Spain was under the rule of the Moors. The ruler, Caliph Al Rahman III was rich, powerful and cultured. His caliphate was, at long last, at peace and the capital, Cordoba, was considered to be not only the most beautiful city in the civilised world but also the seat of learning and culture. Against this background we meet the artisan Qasim - he and his family have moved to Madinat al Zahra to make their fortune as potters.
Qasim is a good husband and father. He works hard, says his prayers and keeps out of trouble. But Qasim has a secret; his past is not what it seems. When a stranger arrives asking questions about him, and his youngest son falls in love with the caliph’s concubine, he realises that all he has worked for could be destroyed. He has to take action.
I have just finished putting the final touches to the book cover and published it as an ebook on Kindle. The paperback version is with the printers and I have other ebook versions to do, for Smashwords, Kobo etc. While I am waiting for the proof to come back from the printers I will start the marketing process again - and probably more blogging. I have a great idea for a new novel but that will have to wait for a bit. If only I had a marketing agent!
HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?
It's always difficult to categorise things exactly, especially something as wide-ranging as a novel. Some of my work could slot quite easily into Historical Fiction, but that in itself is a very broad category and doesn't tell you very much except that the story is set sometime in the past. If there is one thing all my books have in common it is their approach to women - they all have strong, female protagonists and the stories are about how they overcome adversity.
For many years I was a lecturer in Behavioural Studies and I am fascinated by the interactions between people of all ages and from all walks of life. My characters do nothing without a reason - I like to imagine what drives them to take the actions they do and show it to the reader.
Picture
WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?
This is an interesting question. When I bemoan my lack of sales, my husband says that I should start writing books that sell: crime fiction, stories about vampires and time shifters, fantasy. I just shake my head. I write what I write because I enjoy doing it. I write about women because I know women; I know how their minds work; I know the problems women face daily; I know the discrimination that has shaped women's lives and still does, to some extent, today.
They say that you should write about what you know and that is one reason that many of my books are set in Spain - a country I have come to love.
I also write about history because I enjoy it. I love doing the research - in fact I sometimes have to curtail my reading because I could spend all my time researching instead of writing.
"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."
George Santayana
There is a lot to be learnt from history that applies to the present day and I like to write books that say something meaningful.
HOW DOES MY WRITING PROCESS WORK?
My writing process varies according to the stage that I am at. For example, once I have an idea, I make a draft outline of how I think the book will be then I list the characters and start creating them. Then, depending on the story, I may break off and start doing some research into the background. For example, when I wrote THE ONLY BLUE DOOR, I got the idea from an article in the newspaper about child migrants who were trying to trace their families. I was fascinated and began to read as much as I could about what had happened. In that case, it was only when I had fully researched the history of these events that I began to sketch out my story. That's the point when I try to adopt a work routine: start writing at 10am and keep going until 2pm. The morning is the best part of the day for me to work creatively. I prefer to monitor my progress through hours rather than a word count. I am not a writer who starts at the beginning and goes right through to the end; I am constantly rewriting, editing, rereading, cutting out characters, bringing in new ones. For me a word count does not reflect the amount of work that I've done. Until the book has been professionally edited and proof-read, it is not finished.
SO ON TO THE OTHERS:
Paul Anthony is the author of a dozen books which include the Boyd series and the Davies King series. Specialising in crime fiction thrillers, Paul is a retired British counter terrorist detective who populates his stories with a variety of very intriguing characters.
HE WILL BE HOSTING HIS PART OF THE TOUR FROM ... http://paulanthonys.blogspot.co.uk/20...
Jean Gill is a Welsh writer and photographer living in the south of France with a very big white dog, a scruffy black one, a Nikon D700 and a man. She taught English in Wales for many years and her claim to fame is that she was the first woman to be a secondary headteacher in Carmarthenshire. She is the mother or stepmother to five children so life has been pretty hectic.
JEAN WILL BE HOSTING HER PART OF THE TOUR FROM www.jeangill.blogspot.com
Read what they have to say about the Writing Process.
Joan Fallon
www.joanfallon.co.uk
I have invited the following two authors to take part next week: Paul Anthony, a well-known writer of crime thrillers and Welsh writer and photographer,Jean Gill. The questions they will answer are:
WHAT AM I WORKING ON?
HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?
WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?
HOW DOES MY WRITING PROCESS WORK?
So now it's my turn to answer:
WHAT AM I WORKING ON?
I have just finished writing a novel entitled THE SHINING CITY and I'm at the self-publishing stage.
The novel is the story of a city, a city that is now in ruins and lies five kilometres outside of Cordoba in Spain: MADINAT AL ZAHRA. The story is set in the 10th century, a time when southern Spain was under the rule of the Moors. The ruler, Caliph Al Rahman III was rich, powerful and cultured. His caliphate was, at long last, at peace and the capital, Cordoba, was considered to be not only the most beautiful city in the civilised world but also the seat of learning and culture. Against this background we meet the artisan Qasim - he and his family have moved to Madinat al Zahra to make their fortune as potters.
Qasim is a good husband and father. He works hard, says his prayers and keeps out of trouble. But Qasim has a secret; his past is not what it seems. When a stranger arrives asking questions about him, and his youngest son falls in love with the caliph’s concubine, he realises that all he has worked for could be destroyed. He has to take action.
I have just finished putting the final touches to the book cover and published it as an ebook on Kindle. The paperback version is with the printers and I have other ebook versions to do, for Smashwords, Kobo etc. While I am waiting for the proof to come back from the printers I will start the marketing process again - and probably more blogging. I have a great idea for a new novel but that will have to wait for a bit. If only I had a marketing agent!
HOW DOES MY WORK DIFFER FROM OTHERS OF ITS GENRE?
It's always difficult to categorise things exactly, especially something as wide-ranging as a novel. Some of my work could slot quite easily into Historical Fiction, but that in itself is a very broad category and doesn't tell you very much except that the story is set sometime in the past. If there is one thing all my books have in common it is their approach to women - they all have strong, female protagonists and the stories are about how they overcome adversity.
For many years I was a lecturer in Behavioural Studies and I am fascinated by the interactions between people of all ages and from all walks of life. My characters do nothing without a reason - I like to imagine what drives them to take the actions they do and show it to the reader.
Picture
WHY DO I WRITE WHAT I DO?
This is an interesting question. When I bemoan my lack of sales, my husband says that I should start writing books that sell: crime fiction, stories about vampires and time shifters, fantasy. I just shake my head. I write what I write because I enjoy doing it. I write about women because I know women; I know how their minds work; I know the problems women face daily; I know the discrimination that has shaped women's lives and still does, to some extent, today.
They say that you should write about what you know and that is one reason that many of my books are set in Spain - a country I have come to love.
I also write about history because I enjoy it. I love doing the research - in fact I sometimes have to curtail my reading because I could spend all my time researching instead of writing.
"Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it."
George Santayana
There is a lot to be learnt from history that applies to the present day and I like to write books that say something meaningful.
HOW DOES MY WRITING PROCESS WORK?
My writing process varies according to the stage that I am at. For example, once I have an idea, I make a draft outline of how I think the book will be then I list the characters and start creating them. Then, depending on the story, I may break off and start doing some research into the background. For example, when I wrote THE ONLY BLUE DOOR, I got the idea from an article in the newspaper about child migrants who were trying to trace their families. I was fascinated and began to read as much as I could about what had happened. In that case, it was only when I had fully researched the history of these events that I began to sketch out my story. That's the point when I try to adopt a work routine: start writing at 10am and keep going until 2pm. The morning is the best part of the day for me to work creatively. I prefer to monitor my progress through hours rather than a word count. I am not a writer who starts at the beginning and goes right through to the end; I am constantly rewriting, editing, rereading, cutting out characters, bringing in new ones. For me a word count does not reflect the amount of work that I've done. Until the book has been professionally edited and proof-read, it is not finished.
SO ON TO THE OTHERS:
Paul Anthony is the author of a dozen books which include the Boyd series and the Davies King series. Specialising in crime fiction thrillers, Paul is a retired British counter terrorist detective who populates his stories with a variety of very intriguing characters.
HE WILL BE HOSTING HIS PART OF THE TOUR FROM ... http://paulanthonys.blogspot.co.uk/20...
Jean Gill is a Welsh writer and photographer living in the south of France with a very big white dog, a scruffy black one, a Nikon D700 and a man. She taught English in Wales for many years and her claim to fame is that she was the first woman to be a secondary headteacher in Carmarthenshire. She is the mother or stepmother to five children so life has been pretty hectic.
JEAN WILL BE HOSTING HER PART OF THE TOUR FROM www.jeangill.blogspot.com
Read what they have to say about the Writing Process.
Joan Fallon
www.joanfallon.co.uk
My latest novel: THE SHINING CITY
I loved researching the history behind my latest novel THE SHINING CITY. Besides reading a lot about the period, I made many trips to the archaeological site of Madinat al Zahra, just outside Cordoba. The ruins of this ancient city lie in the lee of the Sierra Morena mountains and face across the wide plain of the Guadalquivir valley.
They began the excavations in 1911 and up until now they have only excavated one tenth of the inner part of the city - and then there is still the part outside the city walls. As few contemporary written records remain one can only wonder at the size of Abd al Rahman III's new city.
Below you can read the prologue to my new book, which is set in the city in the early years of its construction. The year is 987 AD and Omar, one of the main protagonists is thinking back to when he first visited Madinat al Zahra, forty years earlier.
Picture
PROLOGUE
Córdoba
987 AD
The old man sat in the shade of the mosque wall. It was still early but already the heat was building with its usual summer ferocity. He loosened his robe slightly and fanned himself with the napkin he had in his hand. Omar was not a rich man but neither was he poor. His djubba was made of the finest white cotton, with long narrow sleeves and over that he wore his djellaba, a hooded cloak of the same material. It was light, cool and comfortable. He was of the generation for whom appearances mattered. Even his cap, crocheted in a green and white design, sat elegantly on his long, white hair. His beard was trimmed and shaped; once it would have been touched with henna but now it was as white as his hair.
‘More tea, old man?’ the waiter called from the entrance to his tiny shop.
Omar waved him away, irritated that he did not automatically come over and refill his cup. That was so typical. Standards were slipping all the time. He took off his cap and scratched his head.
‘There you are, uncle. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
It was his nephew, Musa, the youngest son of his brother Ibrahim. He was with his friend, Ahmad. Omar looked at them and smiled. Lanky youths, with their hair cut short in the latest fashion, they behaved as though life was theirs for the taking. If only they knew what vicissitudes lay ahead of them. Not that they would pay any heed. He certainly hadn’t at their age. The boys sat down beside him. The two were never apart; it was as if they were joined by some invisible rope. Where one went, so did the other. They reminded him of his own childhood; he had had a close friend named Yusuf. Just like these boys they had done everything together and were so similar in looks and mannerisms that they were often mistaken for brothers.
‘Drinking tea, uncle?’ Musa said.
‘Would you like some?’
The boys nodded and Omar waved across to the waiter, who still lounged in the doorway.
‘Another pot of tea and two more glasses, please,’ he said.
He turned to his nephew and asked, ‘So child, you have been looking for me. What is it that you want?’
He already knew the answer: nothing, just the opportunity to drink mint tea and listen to Omar’s stories.
‘We wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘And why wouldn’t I be?’
The boys looked at each other and giggled.
‘Is it true that you are more than a hundred?’ Ahmad asked.
‘No, it’s not true, although I certainly feel like it some days. Now what is it you want to know?’
‘Have you ever been inside the Khalifa’s harem?’ Musa blurted out.
‘The Khalifa’s harem?’
‘Yes, what’s it like?’ they both chorused.
‘Well ...’
The waiter arrived and set the freshly brewed mint tea on the table.
‘Maybe something sweet for the boys to eat,’ Omar said, looking at the waiter.
‘Churros?’
‘Excellent.’
Omar turned back to his eager audience.
‘So, what were you saying?’
‘The harem.’
‘Oh yes.’
The old man smiled; for a moment he let his thoughts drift back to when he was young. He sighed and turned back to the boys.
‘Yes, well, let me see. The harem you say?’
‘Yes uncle,’ his nephew said, barely keeping the impatience from his voice.
‘You do realise that no man is permitted to enter the Khalifa’s harem, other than the Khalifa himself. It is an offence punishable by death.’
The boys nodded.
‘We know that, uncle.’
‘Very well, as long as you do not tell anyone that I was once there, I will tell you about the most beautiful harem in the world.’
He paused and looked at the boys; their eyes were as round as moons.
‘Now, in the year 947, when I was not much older than you, my father took me with him to work in the new city, Madinat al-Zahra.’
The boys looked at each other and smiled. Omar’s stories always began in that way.
‘Our ruler, Abd al-Rahman III, wanted to build a city-palace worthy of the title of Khalifa so he sent his engineers and architects out to find the perfect location. And they did. They found a spot in the foothills of the Sierra Moreno, green, fertile, sheltered from the north winds, with as much water as you could wish for, yet set high enough above the plain so that you would be able to see anyone approaching. From there you could see across the valley of the Guadalquivir to Córdoba and beyond.’
‘He called it after his favourite concubine, didn’t he?’ Ahmed said with a smirk, urging him to get to the more interesting details.
‘His favourite concubine was certainly called al-Zahra and he lavished every possible luxury on her so it is possible that that was why he called the city al-Zahra. But do you know what else the name means?’
He looked at the boys, who shook their heads.
‘It means shining, glistening, brilliant. Possibly his concubine glittered and shone with all the jewels and beautiful silks he showered upon her but then so did the city. It was indeed the Shining City. When visitors entered through the Grand Portico, passing beneath its enormous, red and white arches, when they climbed the ramped streets that were paved with blocks of dark mountain stone, passing the lines of uniformed guards in their scarlet jackets and the richly robed civil servants that flanked their way, when they reached the royal residence and saw the golden inlay on the ceilings, the marble pillars, the richly woven rugs scattered across the floors and the brilliant silk tapestries, when they saw the moving tank of mercury in the great reception pavilion that caught the sunlight and dazzled all who beheld it, then they indeed knew that they were in the Shining City.’
It was a shame that his nephew had never been to Madinat al-Zahra and probably would never go. Soon the city would be as if it had never been, its stone buildings returned to the rock from which they came.
‘But they say that he loved his concubine more than anyone else,’ said Musa.
‘Maybe. Who knows what goes on in the hearts of men, even less in the heart of a Khalifa.’
‘They say she was the most beautiful woman in his harem.’
‘She was certainly very beautiful, but the most beautiful, no. There was another more beautiful than her, more beautiful than all his wives and concubines.’
‘Who was she? What was her name?’ asked Ahmed.
‘Jahwara,’ he whispered.
He could still feel the pain as he said her name. The boys waited, eyes wide in anticipation but Omar did not elaborate.
‘Did you ever see him? Did you see the Khalifa?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘What was he like? Was he big and strong?’
‘He was a bit on the stout side.’
He could see the disappointment in the boys’ eyes.
‘But he was a good-looking man, with white skin and blue eyes,’ he added.
‘White skin? Wasn’t he an Arab?’
‘Of course he was. Who else but an Arab could be Khalifa? But his mother was from the north. She was captured from one of the ruling families during the war and became his father’s slave and concubine. Abd al-Rahman inherited his fair skin and hair from her.’
‘I heard that he used to dye his beard,’ Ahmed said.
‘Yes, I believe he did. He wanted to look more like his subjects.’
The boys nodded wisely. Omar stifled a smile.
‘Tell us more about the harem,’ Musa insisted.
‘What can I tell you? There were hundreds of beautiful women, trained in all the arts of love and music; they knew a thousand and one ways to please their lord and master.’
‘The Khalifa?’
‘Of course, who else? Every woman who entered the Khalifa’s harem belonged to him and no-one else.’
As he said the words, he could hear the bitterness creep into his voice.
‘They were slaves?’
‘Indeed they were. Even if one of them wanted to leave she could not. The Khalifa would never permit it.’
Before the boys could start another stream of questions, he said, ‘Here, eat your churros and then you should be off. Is there no school today?’
He saw Musa blush. His nephew was a good boy and not able to tell a ready lie.
‘We’re going now, uncle. Come on Ahmed.’
The boys picked up the churros, doused it with honey and crammed it into their mouths.
‘Ma'a salama uncle,’ Musa said, honey dripping down his chin. ‘See you later.’
‘Goodbye, Hajj,’ Ahmed said, hurriedly eating the last piece of churros and following his friend.
Omar watched the boys skip down the road. If they hurried they would be in time for the first lesson of the day. He wished he had asked them what they were being taught these days. When he had been at school the curriculum was very strict: reading, writing, geometry, arithmetic, the Quran and the sayings of the Hadith. Everything in Arabic of course, although not many spoke it in the streets in those days; people retained the habit of speaking a variety of the local language among friends and family. That was normal. He signalled for the waiter to come over and paid him for the tea and churros. It was time he took some exercise. His doctor had said it was important to walk every day even if his knee was paining him. He would walk across the old Roman bridge and see if there were any fish in the river this morning. It was his favourite walk these days because he would stop half-way across and look back at the city of Córdoba and its beautiful mosque, towering against the skyline. This ancient city was once again the centre of power, his beloved Madinat al-Zahra abandoned and neglected since the young Hisham II had inherited the throne. Today the boy-Khalifa was isolated in Madinat al-Zahra, alone, living the life of a recluse, his city crumbling around him.
As he stood up a sharp pain shot through his knee and up his thigh. He grasped the ebony stick that he always carried with him these days and used it to propel himself forward. A wave of longing for his old home leapt to his breast. It had been years since he had visited Madinat al-Zahra yet there was never a day when he didn’t dream of its beautiful palaces and its fragrant gardens; when he closed his eyes he could still hear the sound of the fountains that fed the tranquil lakes and smell the orange blossom that used to grow outside his house. But he knew he could never return; the pain would be too great. The city lay only a couple of Arab miles to the west of Córdoba and yet it might as well have been in distant Arabia. Yes, there were many tales he could tell Musa about his days in Madinat al-Zahra.
They began the excavations in 1911 and up until now they have only excavated one tenth of the inner part of the city - and then there is still the part outside the city walls. As few contemporary written records remain one can only wonder at the size of Abd al Rahman III's new city.
Below you can read the prologue to my new book, which is set in the city in the early years of its construction. The year is 987 AD and Omar, one of the main protagonists is thinking back to when he first visited Madinat al Zahra, forty years earlier.
Picture
PROLOGUE
Córdoba
987 AD
The old man sat in the shade of the mosque wall. It was still early but already the heat was building with its usual summer ferocity. He loosened his robe slightly and fanned himself with the napkin he had in his hand. Omar was not a rich man but neither was he poor. His djubba was made of the finest white cotton, with long narrow sleeves and over that he wore his djellaba, a hooded cloak of the same material. It was light, cool and comfortable. He was of the generation for whom appearances mattered. Even his cap, crocheted in a green and white design, sat elegantly on his long, white hair. His beard was trimmed and shaped; once it would have been touched with henna but now it was as white as his hair.
‘More tea, old man?’ the waiter called from the entrance to his tiny shop.
Omar waved him away, irritated that he did not automatically come over and refill his cup. That was so typical. Standards were slipping all the time. He took off his cap and scratched his head.
‘There you are, uncle. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
It was his nephew, Musa, the youngest son of his brother Ibrahim. He was with his friend, Ahmad. Omar looked at them and smiled. Lanky youths, with their hair cut short in the latest fashion, they behaved as though life was theirs for the taking. If only they knew what vicissitudes lay ahead of them. Not that they would pay any heed. He certainly hadn’t at their age. The boys sat down beside him. The two were never apart; it was as if they were joined by some invisible rope. Where one went, so did the other. They reminded him of his own childhood; he had had a close friend named Yusuf. Just like these boys they had done everything together and were so similar in looks and mannerisms that they were often mistaken for brothers.
‘Drinking tea, uncle?’ Musa said.
‘Would you like some?’
The boys nodded and Omar waved across to the waiter, who still lounged in the doorway.
‘Another pot of tea and two more glasses, please,’ he said.
He turned to his nephew and asked, ‘So child, you have been looking for me. What is it that you want?’
He already knew the answer: nothing, just the opportunity to drink mint tea and listen to Omar’s stories.
‘We wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘And why wouldn’t I be?’
The boys looked at each other and giggled.
‘Is it true that you are more than a hundred?’ Ahmad asked.
‘No, it’s not true, although I certainly feel like it some days. Now what is it you want to know?’
‘Have you ever been inside the Khalifa’s harem?’ Musa blurted out.
‘The Khalifa’s harem?’
‘Yes, what’s it like?’ they both chorused.
‘Well ...’
The waiter arrived and set the freshly brewed mint tea on the table.
‘Maybe something sweet for the boys to eat,’ Omar said, looking at the waiter.
‘Churros?’
‘Excellent.’
Omar turned back to his eager audience.
‘So, what were you saying?’
‘The harem.’
‘Oh yes.’
The old man smiled; for a moment he let his thoughts drift back to when he was young. He sighed and turned back to the boys.
‘Yes, well, let me see. The harem you say?’
‘Yes uncle,’ his nephew said, barely keeping the impatience from his voice.
‘You do realise that no man is permitted to enter the Khalifa’s harem, other than the Khalifa himself. It is an offence punishable by death.’
The boys nodded.
‘We know that, uncle.’
‘Very well, as long as you do not tell anyone that I was once there, I will tell you about the most beautiful harem in the world.’
He paused and looked at the boys; their eyes were as round as moons.
‘Now, in the year 947, when I was not much older than you, my father took me with him to work in the new city, Madinat al-Zahra.’
The boys looked at each other and smiled. Omar’s stories always began in that way.
‘Our ruler, Abd al-Rahman III, wanted to build a city-palace worthy of the title of Khalifa so he sent his engineers and architects out to find the perfect location. And they did. They found a spot in the foothills of the Sierra Moreno, green, fertile, sheltered from the north winds, with as much water as you could wish for, yet set high enough above the plain so that you would be able to see anyone approaching. From there you could see across the valley of the Guadalquivir to Córdoba and beyond.’
‘He called it after his favourite concubine, didn’t he?’ Ahmed said with a smirk, urging him to get to the more interesting details.
‘His favourite concubine was certainly called al-Zahra and he lavished every possible luxury on her so it is possible that that was why he called the city al-Zahra. But do you know what else the name means?’
He looked at the boys, who shook their heads.
‘It means shining, glistening, brilliant. Possibly his concubine glittered and shone with all the jewels and beautiful silks he showered upon her but then so did the city. It was indeed the Shining City. When visitors entered through the Grand Portico, passing beneath its enormous, red and white arches, when they climbed the ramped streets that were paved with blocks of dark mountain stone, passing the lines of uniformed guards in their scarlet jackets and the richly robed civil servants that flanked their way, when they reached the royal residence and saw the golden inlay on the ceilings, the marble pillars, the richly woven rugs scattered across the floors and the brilliant silk tapestries, when they saw the moving tank of mercury in the great reception pavilion that caught the sunlight and dazzled all who beheld it, then they indeed knew that they were in the Shining City.’
It was a shame that his nephew had never been to Madinat al-Zahra and probably would never go. Soon the city would be as if it had never been, its stone buildings returned to the rock from which they came.
‘But they say that he loved his concubine more than anyone else,’ said Musa.
‘Maybe. Who knows what goes on in the hearts of men, even less in the heart of a Khalifa.’
‘They say she was the most beautiful woman in his harem.’
‘She was certainly very beautiful, but the most beautiful, no. There was another more beautiful than her, more beautiful than all his wives and concubines.’
‘Who was she? What was her name?’ asked Ahmed.
‘Jahwara,’ he whispered.
He could still feel the pain as he said her name. The boys waited, eyes wide in anticipation but Omar did not elaborate.
‘Did you ever see him? Did you see the Khalifa?’
‘Yes, once.’
‘What was he like? Was he big and strong?’
‘He was a bit on the stout side.’
He could see the disappointment in the boys’ eyes.
‘But he was a good-looking man, with white skin and blue eyes,’ he added.
‘White skin? Wasn’t he an Arab?’
‘Of course he was. Who else but an Arab could be Khalifa? But his mother was from the north. She was captured from one of the ruling families during the war and became his father’s slave and concubine. Abd al-Rahman inherited his fair skin and hair from her.’
‘I heard that he used to dye his beard,’ Ahmed said.
‘Yes, I believe he did. He wanted to look more like his subjects.’
The boys nodded wisely. Omar stifled a smile.
‘Tell us more about the harem,’ Musa insisted.
‘What can I tell you? There were hundreds of beautiful women, trained in all the arts of love and music; they knew a thousand and one ways to please their lord and master.’
‘The Khalifa?’
‘Of course, who else? Every woman who entered the Khalifa’s harem belonged to him and no-one else.’
As he said the words, he could hear the bitterness creep into his voice.
‘They were slaves?’
‘Indeed they were. Even if one of them wanted to leave she could not. The Khalifa would never permit it.’
Before the boys could start another stream of questions, he said, ‘Here, eat your churros and then you should be off. Is there no school today?’
He saw Musa blush. His nephew was a good boy and not able to tell a ready lie.
‘We’re going now, uncle. Come on Ahmed.’
The boys picked up the churros, doused it with honey and crammed it into their mouths.
‘Ma'a salama uncle,’ Musa said, honey dripping down his chin. ‘See you later.’
‘Goodbye, Hajj,’ Ahmed said, hurriedly eating the last piece of churros and following his friend.
Omar watched the boys skip down the road. If they hurried they would be in time for the first lesson of the day. He wished he had asked them what they were being taught these days. When he had been at school the curriculum was very strict: reading, writing, geometry, arithmetic, the Quran and the sayings of the Hadith. Everything in Arabic of course, although not many spoke it in the streets in those days; people retained the habit of speaking a variety of the local language among friends and family. That was normal. He signalled for the waiter to come over and paid him for the tea and churros. It was time he took some exercise. His doctor had said it was important to walk every day even if his knee was paining him. He would walk across the old Roman bridge and see if there were any fish in the river this morning. It was his favourite walk these days because he would stop half-way across and look back at the city of Córdoba and its beautiful mosque, towering against the skyline. This ancient city was once again the centre of power, his beloved Madinat al-Zahra abandoned and neglected since the young Hisham II had inherited the throne. Today the boy-Khalifa was isolated in Madinat al-Zahra, alone, living the life of a recluse, his city crumbling around him.
As he stood up a sharp pain shot through his knee and up his thigh. He grasped the ebony stick that he always carried with him these days and used it to propel himself forward. A wave of longing for his old home leapt to his breast. It had been years since he had visited Madinat al-Zahra yet there was never a day when he didn’t dream of its beautiful palaces and its fragrant gardens; when he closed his eyes he could still hear the sound of the fountains that fed the tranquil lakes and smell the orange blossom that used to grow outside his house. But he knew he could never return; the pain would be too great. The city lay only a couple of Arab miles to the west of Córdoba and yet it might as well have been in distant Arabia. Yes, there were many tales he could tell Musa about his days in Madinat al-Zahra.
