They sent heart-rending despatches to Fez. Brothers, ran one of their letters, if, at the time of the fall of Granada, we failed in our duty to leave, this was simply because of our lack of resources, because we are the poorest and weakest in the land of Andalus. Today, we have been obliged to accept baptism in order to save the lives of our women and children, but we are afraid of incurring the wrath of the Most High on the Day of Judgement, and of suffering the tortures of Gehenna. Thus we beseech you, our exiled brothers, to assist us with your counsel. Enquire on our behalf of the doctors of the Law what we should do, our anguish has no end.
Deeply moved, the Granadan exiles in Fez held a number of meetings that year, some of them in Khali’s house. These were attended by both notables and common people, but particularly by ‘ulama’ learned in the Law. Some came from far away to deliver the fruits of their research and their consideration.
I remember having seen the mufti of Oran arrive one day, a man of about forty, with a turban only a little less impressive than that of Astaghfirullah, but worn with a good-natured air. More deferential than usual, my uncle came out to the end of the street to welcome him, and in the course of the meeting those present simply put questions to him without daring to argue with him or to challenge his answers. Of course the problem as it presented itself required great mastery both of the Law and of the Traditions of the Prophet, as well as great daring in interpretation; it was impossible to accept that hundreds of thousands of Muslims should forsake the faith of the Prophet, yet it was monstrous to expect an entire people to go to the stake.
I still remember the first words of the man from Oran, delivered in a warm and serene voice:
‘Brothers, we are here, may God be praised, in the land of Islam, and we bear our faith with pride, like a diadem. Let us be wary of condemning those who have to bear their religion like a burning ember in their hands.’
He continued:
‘When you send messages to them, may your words be prudent and measured; remember your letter may light their pyre. Do not seek to blame them for their baptism; ask them simply to remain, in spite of everything, faithful to Islam, and to teach its principles to their sons. But not before puberty, not before they are old enough to keep a secret, for a child may, with an incautious word, reap their destruction.’
And what if these unhappy ones should be forced to drink wine? And what if they are invited to eat the flesh of swine, to prove they are no longer Muslims?
‘Then they must do it, if they are forced to do so,’ said the mufti, ‘but they must protest in their hearts.’
And what if they are made to insult the Prophet, may God surround him with His prayers and His salvation?
‘Then they must do it, if they are forced to do so,’ repeated the mufti, ‘but they must say the opposite in their hearts.’
To those who, through having not left their land, had to endure the cruellest tortures, the mufti gave the name of Ghuraba, Strangers, recalling the words of the Messenger of God: ‘Islam began as a religion for outsiders and it will become once again a religion for outsiders just as it began. Blessed are the outsiders.’
To launch an appeal to Muslims of the world to save these unfortunates, the Granadan community of Fez decided to send emissaries to the great sovereigns of Islam, the Grand Turk, the new Sophy of Persia, the Sultan of Egypt and several others of lesser importance. Because of the functions which he used to exercise at the court of Alhambra, Khali was chosen to compose these letters, using the customary formulae; he was also charged with carrying the most important of these messages, the one addressed to the lord of Constantinople the Great. After he had been sounded out about this mission, my uncle paid visits to the Sultan of Fez and to Boabdil, and obtained letters of recommendation and credit from them both.
Each time that I recall that journey, I feel the pain of anguish, even today, although I have since then come to know the strangest lands and the most inaccessible places. I had always dreamed of Constantinople, and on hearing that Khali was to go there, I could scarcely contain myself. I turned it round and round in my head, asking whether I could possibly hope, at the age of ten, to take part in such a journey. Rather diffidently, I confided in my uncle. Great was my surprise when he replied, his arms open wide in welcome:
‘Where could I find a better travelling companion?’
In spite of his ironical tone, he was clearly captivated by the idea. It only remained to convince my father.
That year again, Muhammad was often away from the city, still looking for a plot of land to rent where he could live peacefully away from noise, gossip and reproachful eyes. For two long weeks I waited for him every day, asking Warda and Mariam incessantly for news of him, although they knew nothing. Like me, they were waiting.
When he finally returned, I threw myself upon him and began to talk so fast that he had to make me start again several times. Alas, he refused immediately in a manner which brooked no further questioning. I should perhaps have waited for Khali to broach the subject of the journey in his own way, as he would have known how to extol the advantages of such a journey with eloquence. Perhaps Muhammad would have agreed so as not to annoy my uncle, with whom he had just become reconciled. But to me he could say ‘No’ straight out. As a pretext he pointed out the dangers of the journey, told me of people who had never returned, mentioned my studies, which I would have had to interrupt if I went away. However, I think the real reason was that he felt that I was too close to my uncle, and to my mother’s family in general, and that he feared that he would lose me. Unable to argue with him, I begged him to talk it over with Khali, but he refused even to meet him.
For a whole week, I woke up each morning with my eyes bloodshot and my pillow damp. In an effort to console me my uncle swore that I would accompany him on his next journey; he would keep his word.
The day of his departure came. Khali was going to join a caravan of merchants which was leaving for Oran, where he would take ship. From first light the Granadans came in great number to wish him luck on his mission and to contribute several gold pieces for his expenses. For my part I was moping in my corner until an old man with impish eyes came and sat down next to me. It was none other than Hamza, the barber who had circumcised me. He asked for news of my father, and lamented the death of the deliverer whom he had seen for the last time in our house in al-Baisin. Then he asked after my studies, about the sura which I was studying at the time, and even began to recite it. It was pleasant to be in his company, and I chatted to him for an hour. He told me that he had lost the bulk of his fortune by going into exile, but that by the grace of God he was still able to look after the needs of his womenfolk. He had begun to work again, but only as a barber, because his razor was no longer sure enough for circumcisions. He had just rented a part of the local hammam in order to ply his trade.