Food and memory are funny things. They are two distinct entities, yes. But memory is so tied up in the things we eat, and the things we eat have so many memories.
When I look at an orange, when I eat an orange, when I drink orange juice – occasionally, I think about my childhood. When I was growing up, oranges and tangerines always seemed to be in stock at my parent’s house. But in recent years, through my work and my travels, oranges have come to hold entirely different memories for me – some of which I will admit, are not even my own.
These days the orange reminds me of an Islamic prince named Abd al-Rahman. A man who lived over a thousand years ago, on the other side of the world.
Abd al-Rahman was a member of the Umayyad royal family, the caliphate that ruled over the Islamic world from 661 to 750 CE. Under Umayyad rule, Islam spread from Arabia, to the rest of the Middle East and North Africa – making the Islamic Empire one of the largest land empires in history.
But as so often happens with very large empires, they tend to fall apart. In 750 the reign of the Umayyads came to an end with the Abbasid Revolution; a years-long, spectacular and bloody fight for power that saw the establishment of a new caliphate, the Abbasids (which of course, did not mean the end of the Islamic Empire, just another form of it).
Most of the Umayyads had been killed during the revolution, but in the spirit of peace, the Abbasids decided to invite the 80 surviving members of the former royal family to a banquet in the Palestinian town of Abu Futrus.
However, this meal held none of the characteristics of a conciliatory dinner, and looked a lot more like the Red Wedding from the Game of Thrones. Once guests had finished their food, Abbasid guards descended upon the remaining Umayyads – and slaughtered them.
Somehow in the chaos, a young prince named Abd al-Rahman managed to escape.
Seven years later, al-Rahman pops up in North Africa, his mother’s homeland. He appealed to his mother’s people, amassed an army of Berber tribesmen, sailed across the Straits of Gibraltar and conquered Spain (this man was no slouch). He established the Umayyad Caliphate of Al-Andalus, the first and only European-based Islamic Caliphate in history. Islamic rule in Spain would last from the 8th century until 1492 (that pivotal year which would change the history of the world).
At this juncture you might be thinking, “what does this have to do with oranges?” But stay with me here.
Abd al-Rahman built his new capital city in Cordoba. He built a palace and a grand mosque (which still stands today, though it does have a Baroque cathedral at its center). Libraries and universities were constructed. Art and poetry flourished. The cuisine of al-Andalus represented its incredibly diverse population: Christian, Jewish, Muslim. European, North African, Middle Eastern. Cordoba became famed throughout Europe – here the streets were paved and lit up at night. The city was written about as far away as Gandersheim, Germany, where a nun named Horswitha described it in 955 as, “the ornament of the world.”
Al-Rahman had achieved a pretty incredible comeback. His entire family was overthrown and murdered, and he somehow not only survived – but went on to create a new powerbase, a new dynasty, in a new corner of the world.
But al-Rahman missed his homeland. He missed the palm trees and mulberry trees. He missed the citrus fruit, the almonds, and the apricots – none of which yet grew in mainland Europe. Though al-Rahman could never return to the Middle East (he would surely be murdered by the Abbasids if he did) he could attempt to recreate his old home. Palm trees and orange trees were planted all over his new capital.
In November of 2021, I was writing a book, recovering from heartbreak, and in desperate need of a change of scenery. I was in the midst of writing Chapter 6 of said book (which just so happened to be about al-Andalus) when I received a notification from United Airlines that my credit for a flight that was canceled in March of 2020 (the month the world shut down) was about to expire. What better way to learn about a place, than to go to the place itself? Off to Spain I went.
I spent a month traveling around southern Spain; the lands that had once been ruled by Abd al-Rahman. The amount of architecture from this period that still survives is honestly, incredible (especially given the whole Inquisition thing). I walked through the ruins of al-Rahman’s palace on the outskirts of Cordoba, and then through the mosque he had built in the center of town; endless row after row of red and white brick arches, stretching as far as the eye could see. I walked along the orange tree lined streets – and I felt like I was time traveling.
One afternoon, as I was leaving the Alhambra (the Isalmic palace complex of Granada) I got incredibly lost. Google maps will not save you from the ancient winding streets of Granada. I was starving, I was dehydrated, and I was sweating from the hot afternoon sun. I was trying to get to a restaurant that had been recommended to me by my Airbnb host, but for the life of me, I could not find it. I kept turning, corner after corner, only to somehow end up in the wrong direction, or back where I started. I was growing increasingly frustrated, when suddenly I emerged, panting (Granada hills are no joke), at the top of a street that had the most breathtaking view of the city.
It was at this point that I burst out laughing. Maybe also crying (really a bit of both).
Here I was at 2pm on a Wednesday, wandering around by myself, in a foreign city, in a foreign country, completely and utterly lost. And at that moment, I felt so very much alone.
I went to stand underneath the shade of a nearby tree to try and collect myself. When I suddenly looked up, and saw oranges. It was the most beautiful orange tree. Perfect round fruits, here and there between the dark green leaves. Sparkles of sunlight peeking through.
As I looked out over Granada, I thought of Abd al-Rahman and how he must have felt when he arrived in this strange new land after he lost everything. I wondered if he had ever stood where I was standing, and felt that same deep pang of pain you feel when you know something is over. Through the centuries, I felt comforted by al-Rahman that afternoon underneath the orange tree. Orange orbs from his former life, dangling over me like lucky amulets. I forged ahead.
Eventually, I found my way to a square, and more importantly to a cafe, where I immediately ordered lunch for two, for one. I ate lightly stewed fava beans with little chunks of deep purple Iberico ham. I ate thick crusty bread dipped in olive oil that hits the back of your throat and makes you cough. I ate rough chunks of tomato, drizzled in more olive oil. I ate lightly fried little fish. Blood sugar no longer crashing, I pulled out some of my research books and began to do some reading.
Because fate is fate and magic is real, I happened to open to a page containing a poem written by al-Rahman himself. Through one thousand two hundred and twenty-four years of time, his words reached me:
A palm tree stands in the middle of Rusafa,
Born in the West, far from the land of Palms.
I said to it: How like me you are, far away and in exile,
In long separation from family and friends.
You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger;
And I, like you, am far from home.
Islamic rule came to an end in al-Andalus in 1492, after the successful Christian “reconquest” of Spain by Queen Isabella and King Ferdinand (though arguably Spain wasn’t really Christian when it was conquered by al-Rahman in 756, it was just the pagan shambles leftover from the collapse of Rome. But I digress). We know that something else quite eventful took place in 1492 – Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue.
And just like that, all the treasures brought to Spain by al-Rahman – the palm trees, the lemons, the sugar cane, the rice, the oranges – were brought to the Americas by the Spanish. Where they would reincarnate once more, for a new life in the New World. They would become a part of new landscapes. New cuisines. New stories.
Florida and California have a lot to thank al-Rahman for. The citrus industry for one. Palm trees are another. Likely, someone who grew up in L.A. probably wouldn’t associate their childhood memories of drinking orange juice before school or the palm tree lined streets of their youth with a 10th century Islamic prince. But maybe they should.
Personally, I couldn’t possibly look at an orange (or a palm tree for that matter) and not think of Abd al-Rahman. The Emir of Cordoba. The conqueror of al-Andalus. And a wonderful poet, in whose words, we may find comfort.
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I really loved this now I can’t think of oranges without thinking of Abd al-Rahman! :-)
Not only can one learn history from your writings but we can become one of the most interesting person at the dining table too!!
Beautiful story. Cordoba is a melting pot of cultures.