Yehudah HaLevi was born in Toledo in 1075 (d. 1141). He lived in several towns both Christian and Moslem, but much of his life was spent in Cordoba. His earliest writings were poems of love, friendship, nature, mostly secular themes. But, by the time he came on the scene, the idyllic days of Moorish sovereignty had passed, and Spain was now torn between Moslems and Catholics vying for suzerainty with Jews caught in the middle and suffering from both. This change in real politics had a deep affect on HaLevi. He began to focus intently on his religious identity, and his poetry changed. He began to create piyutim, poems for the synagogue, to be woven into the worship service itself. His works showed a concern over the question of God's ultimate redemption and a yearning for a return of the Jewish people to Israel.
Shortly before he left for Israel, HaLevi wrote The Kuzari in Arabic. In this work based upon the Hasdai ibn Shaprut accounts, HaLevi imagines the king of the Khazars calling upon representatives of Islam, Christendom, and Judaism to debate before him, so as to convince him as to which is the true religion. Based on this debate, Judaism emerges as the most sincere and honest religion, and Bulan, king of the Khazars, brings his people to it.
HaLevi's works have been rich in religious meaning to Jews through the centuries, and his philosophical constructs have influenced numerous thinkers. As so many Jews were in those days, he was a physician, rich in wealth, friends, and prominence. In 1139, Judah HaLevi set out for Palestine. Enroute, he penned the famous poem, "An Ode to Zion," which contains this heart-felt yearning to be in Israel:
O city of the world, most chastely fair;
In the far west, behold, I sigh for thee.
O had I eagle wings, I'd fly to thee;
And with my falling tears make moist thine earth.
These were not quiet times. HaLevi arrived for certain in Alexandria, Egypt, where he resided for two years. Then he set out for Israel to realize his life-long dream. Some say he never went to Israel. Others claim that just after arriving in Jerusalem, he was standing at the Western Wall deep in prayer when he was struck down by an Arab horseman.
I was reflecting on some of the bits and pieces of this chapter in Jewish history over lunch in the Juderia of Cordoba at a outdoor restaurant named, fittingly, the Judah HaLevi. The effect was chilling. The food was ... also chilling. Judah HaLevi would never have eaten here. The bread was good, and so was our lettuce, tomato, and feta salad. Others were sampling the copious selections of ham and mariscos – glatt treif. As we sat around a table shaded from the early afternoon sun, an elderly gentleman took up a position at the far end of the tables filled with afternoon diners and removed a guitar from a battered case. "Yes!" my every instinct cried out; an old guitar and a wizened old man ... this was to be a treat. A Spanish song, perhaps flamenco, olé. But the guitar had only three strings, and the old man had a distant glazed look. With enthusiasm born of incipient madness, he strummed meaningless notes to accompany himself in a monotone rendition of an unrecognizable Spanish song. Those who were at tables near him dropped coins into his case in the hope that he might receive enough to wander on toward some other restaurant. It was the saddest non-Jewish sight we were to see in Spain.
Lunch over, it was time to move into the Juderia in earnest. Occupying the entire area of the city west of the mosque, this long ago must have been the most significant and important place in all of Cordoba. Especially so since the entrance from the far west side was marked by Seneca's statue. The opening to the Juderia, destroyed in 1903, was once called the Bab el-Yahud – Gate of the Jews. Today, it is called La Puerta de Almodovar. One wonders whether the Jews seemed always to live next to the Cathedrals and the mosques because they got there first and grabbed off the best place in the city, or whether the rulers wanted them right there under thumb, so to speak.
In any event, the streets of the Juderia were narrow, but not so narrow as the streets in the Barrio de Santa Cruz in Seville. There was a cheery whiteness to the walls, and the balconies featured potted flowers growing out through decorative grille work. We must have walked for about 20 minutes through the maze of streets looking for the only remaining synagogue in Cordoba.
After several detours into pastry shops, which cruelly for the diet challenged displayed amazing offerings in their windows, we blundered onto Los Judios Street, and there it was, "La Sinagoga." We entered into a small, high walled courtyard open to the sky, sporting a few trees and some nondescript flowers. Had there been no sign on the courtyard wall, one might have walked right past without a clue as to what was within. We went to the caja where admission fees were paid. I was just getting used to paying to get into churches, but a synagogue? It felt so ... un-Jewish.
An inscription in Hebrew proclaims that the building was completed in 1315. History records that it was built by Isaac Mohab ben Ephraim. The synagogue consists of a ground floor sanctuary and a women's gallery upstairs. About 35 feet square in size, the walls of this cozy space were decorated in multi-colored Mudejar alabaster with plant motifs in the upper plaster near the ceiling along with quotations from the Psalms in Hebrew. The original ornate ceiling was replaced in the 1700s by the current plain vaults; the lower plaster work has been largely eroded. The niche for the Ark is semi-circular and obscenely empty. But, at least, this is still a synagogue – one of the very few left in Spain. The neighboring houses are thought to have been annexes to the synagogue – the school, the home of the Rabbi, etc. Moses ben Enoch had established the first Talmudic academy in Cordoba in 972. It was probably housed right here, in this very neighborhood.
There were a few others visiting the synagogue when we arrived, including a group of tourists from Japan. But the man taking the tickets seemed more than willing to talk with us, maybe because we were the only men wearing yarmulkes.
"There used to be 23 synagogues in Cordoba," he informed us, "and as many as 50,000 Jews. But they are all gone now. Today, there are only three Jewish families in Cordoba. But one of them is the wealthiest family in town. They are building a million dollar home not far from here."
"And do they use this synagogue for worship?" I asked.
"Oh, no, they go to Seville or to Madrid," he answered.
I wanted to ask the man if he was Jewish and if his was one of the three Jewish families, but I didn't. I suspect so, however, because I had asked if they had a minyan here ... and he didn't hesitate in his answer: “No, unfortunately.”
"What did the Jews do for a living?" I asked, not expecting much of an answer.
“They were in the textile business – spinning, manufacturing, dying, importing, marketing – and in metals and jewelry. You can tell by the names of the streets here in the Juderia – Calle de la Roperia (clothiers), Alcaiceria (silk), Curtidoria (tanners), and Plateria (silversmiths). This synagogue had been converted to a church for a time. After the expulsion in 1492, it became San Crispin and later on it was called Santa Quitera.” The ticket taker had been most helpful.
With the death of Hisham II and his vizier Al-Manzor, the Caliphate began to decline. In 1002, it was broken up into many petty states ruled by Moorish kings. Cordoba, the erstwhile capital of Spain, came under the rule of the king of Seville. Yet the Jews remained important still and cultural development continued. However, in 1148, the Almohads, a fundamentalist Moslem group from North Africa, displaced the Umayyads and insisted on the conversion of all non-Moslems. This marked the beginning of the end for cooperation between Jews and Moors in Spain, because most non-Moslems took flight toward cities then under Christian rule.
Among the Jews who fled Cordoba with the arrival of the Almohads was Joseph ben Jacob ibn Tzaddik (1075-1149) who was Dayan (judge) in the city from 1138. One of his books survives. Entitled Olam Katan (microcosm) it is a philosophical study in which he maintains that the soul is a microcosm of the universe and in order to attain an awareness of the Divine, one must first honor one's own unique self. This is one of the earliest awakenings of Spanish mysticism.
The most famous refugee was, of course, Moses ben Maimon, a.k.a., Maimonides or the Rambam. Maimonides was born in 1135, so he was barely 13 when the Almohads invaded, yet his name is inextricably connected to this city of his birth. It was quite a pleasant surprise, then, that when we left the synagogue and continued down Los Juderios Street, we immediately came to a smallish area called Plaza de Tiberiades. There in bronze, on a pillar that stood chest high, was the life sized, seated figure of Maimonides – turban wrapped head, scroll in hand, that very face being the one replicated countless times on everything from books about him to Machberot – writing workbooks for beginning Hebrew students.
We took the necessary pictures, but I was loathe to leave. Memories of the hours spent in philosophy classes studying his Guide for the Perplexed – an attempt to square Judaism with classical rationalism; memories of the generations of Jews who have relied on the Rambam's Mishnah Torah for guidance in areas of Jewish law and norms; memories of the clear, masterful commentary called The Siraj that he wrote on the entire Mishnah; memories of his Responsa and of his letters about his life in the court of the vizier of Egypt where he served as physician – all this flooded in. It was the Rambam who was invited by King Richard the Lionheart, returning from Crusade by way of Egypt, to come to England to serve as physician in his court. True or legend, Quien sabe? Suffice it to say that Maimonides was never in England. It is also said that before he died, he made his way to Israel. Others say that he left instructions to be taken to Israel after he died. In any case, he was buried in the land of his ancestors, in a small, out of the way area in the city of Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee. And, that is why the plaza in which his bronze figure now sits is called Plaza Tiberiades – Courtyard of Tiberias, after the city in Israel in which Moses ben Maimon lies buried.
Before leaving the statue of the Rambam ... a sweet story. I was told, in passing, that before taking an exam, it is the custom of students in Cordoba, most of whom are Catholic, of course, to pay a visit to this statue and to rub the slippered foot of the great Jewish sage and teacher. In this way they hope that a bit of his wisdom will rub off on them. With such an act they show that they are already wiser than their forebears who obviously “rubbed the sage the wrong way.”
In 1236, a hundred years after the Almohad takeover of the city, the King of Castile, Fernando III (we remember him from Seville as El Santo or, as Californians prefer, as San Fernando) captured Cordoba. By now, the city had long passed its cultural and intellectual prime, but was still of enormous strategic value. So, the Catholic kings used it as their sure base during the next 250 years while they waged a war of attrition against Granada and the rest of Moorish Spain.
Naturally, many Jews returned to Cordoba after the Reconquista in 1236. They lived there under peaceful conditions for about a century and a half, a long time as Jewish history goes. But when the tide changed, it changed quickly and brutally. In 1391, the populace was whipped up against the Juderia and massacres were the result. Still the Jews remained. By 1473-1474, the church had become hardened in its attitude toward non-Catholics, and especially concerned about the fidelity of those who had converted to Catholicism. Attacks now focused on these Conversos, many of whom had to flee for their lives. In 1482, the Inquisition came to Cordoba spelling the end for all the Jews there. By 1483, there were no Jews left in the city. By 1492, there were no Jews left in all of Spain.
To be angry with the church over its treatment of the Jews, is our entitlement. How can we forget what was taken away from us? Century upon century of cultural, social, religious, economic, and intellectual history was cut off in a most brutal and calculating manner. Our property was confiscated without compensation, our people were forced to convert without recourse, were burned at the stake without remorse, were chased from the land with unrelenting glee. Forget, never! Forgive? As a people, we've had so many enemies and false friends. Without letting go of the anger, we can't move on. It is within our purview to forgive as soon as we hear the apology. An apology of sorts has been received from King Juan Carlos of Spain. The church in Rome, however, remains strangely silent.
But one need not be a Jew to be outraged at what the government and the church wrought with respect to the magnificent shrines built by the Moors during their 700 years of hegemony in Spain. Forget the fact that every synagogue, bar none, was turned into a church without apology and without restitution. Forget that almost every mosque was turned into a church, and as far as I know without restitution. But what is impossible to forget is how the grandest and most elegant of the shrines left behind by the Moors were debased.
It is an understandable and recognized fact of history that to the victor go the spoils. So, when Los Reyes Catholicos took The Alhambra in Granada on January 2, 1492, it was understandable that they would co-opt it for their own uses and purposes. I would find no fault in taking the entire palace and turning it into the new court of the Catholic rulers. I could even understand using some if not all of its rooms for church purposes. I would have no problem with that. Likewise, take La Mesquita in Cordoba and use it for church or administrative purposes. I'd be saddened, but certainly understanding. That is not what was done, of course.
To put it simply, The Alhambra was violated. Just a few decades after his grandparents captured La Alhambra, Carlos I (also, Charles V of the H.R.E.) hired the architect Pedro Machuca to build him a palace. A pupil of Michelangelo, Machuca built the structure in Italian Renaissance style – a circular open patio replete with Doric and Ionic columns set in the middle of a two story shell about 150' square. And he plunked this square palace right smack in the middle of this elegant Moorish complex!
Students of architecture will rave about its purity of design and clarity of focus. Pragmatists will praise this “addition” as a fine museum, housing the fabulous vases of La Alhambra as well as other artifacts and fine art. But anyone who has the least bit of interest in preserving the best of the culture of the past can surely see that this building should not have been put where it was. It could have been built in downtown Granada. It could have even been built on the empty spaces available in abundance right on the grounds of The Alhambra itself. It could have been built anywhere else, but not ... right smack in the middle of La Alhambra – right in amidst the elegant and delicate Moorish designs of the Court of the Cypresses, right next to the majestic Ambassador's Hall, right next to the Lions' Court ... which is exactly where this out of place, 16th century chaleriah was placed.
Worse yet, Machuca's square palace actually cuts into and, therefore, destroys something that was already there. This massive block of Renaissance granite imposes itself right in the middle of an alabaster Moorish masterpiece.
I cannot tell you how angry I was when I saw what Carlos had done. Aside from his dealings with his mother, Juana la Loca, I had developed a good deal of respect for this leader, warrior, statesman – this builder of the new Spain. Yet, what he had done to The Alhambra ... grrr!
But that was Granada. We were now in Cordoba ... and we were standing in the magnificent (words cannot describe) La Mesquita – the mosque of a thousand columns and arches, of light and space, of awesome mihrab with 35 tons of inset mosaic stones. That mosque! It took me several minutes to really get my bearings inside. We had passed through the Doors of Perdition and entered the courtyard of the orange trees. We had paid the requisite admission fees. We had entered into the mosque itself. We were stunned breathless from the first view of a forest of columns. We were strolling slowly in and out among the columns, under the red and white and black and white arches. We were wandering down the aisles and checking out the perimeter of the shrine, wondering just how blown away Moslems must have been to enter and pray here in the 9th, 10th, and 11th centuries.
We had just visited the mihrab and saw the maqsurah facing the qibla or Mecca pointing wall, when my eye caught sight of ... it. What in God's name is that, I thought. I had read about it, of course. The guidebooks all herald its beauty and grace. Pages are written about it extolling the Mudejar decorations; the two pulpits by Verdiguier in mahogany, jasper, and marble in the shape and size of a lion and a bull; the neo-classical reredos made from red marble by Alonso Matias along with the five master works of art by Antonio Palomino. The list of objects d'arte goes on and on. Here in the center of this Moorish monument to art and faith, the Catholic kings of Spain had constructed … a Cathedral!
The Cathedral was initiated just after Alfonso X captured Cordoba in 1236. Hernan Ruiz began the Capilla Real in the Gothic style; then came Renaissance influences in the vaulting; then Italian stucco work was added to the décor in the form of countless cherub figures; and the final touch of impropriety, Baroque choir stalls of heavy, ornate, dark mahogany. The whole becomes a sort of hectic eclectic. And to think, work on this Royal Chapel lasted over 234 years, during which time, the Catholic kings gave their blessings to destroy more and more of what was ... in order to erect more and more of what wasn't at all necessary.
When he first came to visit what he had authorized to build, King Carlos I took one look at the enormous vaulted ceilings of the Cathedral that soared above the spectacular mosque and imposed itself on its center – its very heart – and said: "You have destroyed something unique in order to build something commonplace."
My respect for Carlos I, nee Charles V, returned with that comment. Not only did it summarize my sentiments for what had been done to La Mesquita, it also summarized my sentiments for what the church did to the history of this special land. For in driving the Jews and the Moors from Spain, she replaced that which was rich and unique with a monolith of little substance and of suspect vitality. It is small wonder that the Spanish empire lasted only until the shiploads of gold stopped arriving at the Torre de Oro on the Guadalquivir in Seville ... only until its total exploitation of the new world had run its course and came to an end. The condemnation of the Spanish church is written in the middle of The Alhambra in Granada and in the middle of La Mesquita in Cordoba – in conquest, she could not or would not incorporate and assimilate; in building, she just had to destroy.