TWELVE
Memed and the Baron have an argument on Islamic history in which Memed is worsted; Iskander Pasha recovers his power of speech, but prefers to thank Auguste Comte rather than Allah
“I’M REALLY SURPRISED BY your lack of knowledge on this critically important aspect of the history of your religion and culture.”
The Baron sounded irate. The three of us were in the library, waiting for the others to arrive. Iskander Pasha, who had summoned the conclave, had decided to take a walk after dinner. It was beautiful and balmy outside, and with the windows of the library wide open the scents of the night were overpowering.
When I entered the room Uncle Memed and the Baron had been shouting at each other. They ignored my arrival, but lowered their voices. They were dressed today in cream-coloured shirts and white trousers, though Uncle Memed had, unlike his friend, responded to the weather and dispensed with his silk cravat.
“Well?” continued the Baron. “Do you still insist that the Ommayads and Abbasids were simply rival factions engaged in a power struggle and nothing more?”
“Yes,” replied Memed in a very stiff voice. “Your knowledge of Islam is taken from books, Baron. Mine is first-hand.”
“I see it all now. Everything is suddenly illuminated,” the Baron responded facetiously. “You were actually present yourself in Damascus during the eighth century. I can see you with your quill and parchment, noting down what the leaders of the rival factions were saying of each other and meticulously counting the number of dead bodies on the streets.”
“Reductio ad absurdum will not work in this case, Baron. Mock away if you like, but elevating the Ommayads and the Abbasids to the level of the world-spirit will simply not work. Feuerbach would have spanked you for resorting to sarcasm when argument failed.”
The Baron tapped his stick angrily on the wooden floor. “It is not your naïveté that amazes me, Memed, it is your obstinacy and arrogance. When knowledge of a particular subject has eluded you and an old and valued friend is attempting to dispel the clouds of ignorance that have descended on your raised eyebrow, you should, at least, do him the courtesy of hearing out his whole argument. It will help. Once you have been enlightened then, of course, you are free to disagree.”
Now it was Uncle Memed’s turn to sulk. “Have it your way, Baron. You always do.”
The Baron ignored the petulant tone. “Listen, Memed. They were rival factions. Of course they were, but what was the reality that underlay their hostility to each other? Power? Yes, but why? Let us not forget that thousands of lives were lost in this civil war. I see the entire struggle as one between the declining forces of the Arabs, who had monopolised Islam since the death of your prophet, and the, how should I put it, more cosmopolitan forces of Islam. Why were the Ommayad dynasty extinguished so mercilessly? Every surviving male except one was destroyed. I grant you that Abderrahman’s escape was a miracle of the imagination. He was an unusually gifted political leader and showed great initiative in heading for Spain. Once he was safe in Cordoba, the populace acclaimed him as the Caliph. But it was the acclaim of the soldiers that was decisive and they were loyal because they were Arabs. We agree? Good. I will continue.
“The battle for the Caliphate in the Arab heartland was between a Damascus-based Arab oligarchy represented by the Ommayads and the Abbasids who were backed by the Persians, the Turks, including your own ancestors my dear friend, the Kurds, the Caucasians, the Arameans and the Armenians and so on. These were the new converts, but their numbers were many and the arrogant refusal of the Ommayads to recognise this numerical superiority and share power in the greater interest of Islam, meant they had to be wiped out. A new legitimacy was needed because Islam had become a world religion. Arab vanity would not tolerate a compromise.”
Uncle Memed’s nose twitched slightly as he rewarded the Baron with a condescending smile. “Interesting, though, isn’t it, that the Cordoba Caliphate under the sway of the vain and short-sighted Arabs was far more advanced in many ways than your cosmopolitan Abbasids? The Ommayads in Spain were far more tolerant and far less susceptible to any nonsense on the part of the clergy. The Andalusian philosophers were continually being denounced in Baghdad as heretics. Scholars were discouraged from reading their books.”
“Very true,” replied the Baron, “but the conditions in al-Andalus were very different. The Ommayads confronted Christiandom. They were fighting on the borderlands of the two civilisations. They needed their philosophers to help them win new converts to Islam. There it could not simply be done under the shadow of the sword. The situation demanded intellectual triumphs. I am extremely partial, as you know, to the Andalusian philosophers. Without them the Renaissance in Europe might have taken a different form. But understand that they were allowed to develop their brilliant minds only because they were faced with a powerful intellectual enemy in the Catholic Church. When the Bishops decided that the enemy could not be overwhelmed by argument they backed a Holy War and the Pope gave Europe the Inquisition. All this proves, Memed, is that new ideas develop best when they are engaged in struggle against orthodoxy. The synthesis is usually original and exciting.
“The Catholic scholars were careful when they subjected Islamic culture to an auto-da-fé in Granada in the fifteenth century. They removed the manuals of medicine and other learned books, which they needed for their own survival, from the fire. Have I convinced you, my dear old thing?”
Uncle Memed looked at his friend and raised an eyebrow. I had always envied him this capacity. It was an art, he explained, that could not be taught.
“You may not have convinced me completely, Baron, but you have certainly compelled me to think.”
“It is these small victories that enrich one’s life,” muttered the Baron as my father, flanked on either side by Halil and Salman, entered the room.
Father and sons were followed by grandfather and grandson. Hasan Baba and Selim must have been waiting outside for my father to return before they entered the library. Hasan Baba could not overcome years of habit and still maintained the posture of a retainer. Selim suffered from no such inhibitions. He walked in with his head naturally erect. My heart quickened its pace as I saw him. He smiled. My eyes softened. I looked around the room casually to see if anyone had noticed. Father had taken his customary position in the armchair closest to the window. Petrossian entered with a large jug filled with the fresh juice of oranges. Glances were exchanged between the Baron and Memed, who could not believe that they were being deprived of alcohol for the evening. Their worries were premature. Petrossian’s grandson walked in with the champagne and wine glasses that I had never seen before in the house. The sight cheered the two friends.
“Well, Iskander,” began Uncle Memed, “why have we been summoned this evening? What delights await us today?”