For many people, the Alhambra conjures images of moonlit courtyards on star-studded nights where fountains trickle and the scent of orange blossoms wafts through the air. After two visits to this Andalusian palace, I can certify that it is indeed a vision straight out of “Aladdin”—although I have yet to see any blue genies or flying carpets. On my second visit there, I did notice something else surprising: irony.
As the tour guide led my group through the intricately decorated apartments, courtyards, gardens and streets of this Moorish city, he continued to point out the Islamic significance of the architecture.
"Notice that in each courtyard there is a fountain bubbling in the center. Observe that this fountain is fed by four 'rivers'—engineered marble canals that flow from four distinct directions. These 'rivers' signify the four rivers of paradise in Islam," he said.
As we followed him from the courtyard into the throne room, he explained more Islamic details.
“If you look up at the ceiling, you’ll notice elaborately carved woodwork. You’ll also see there are many levels‚—eight to be precise—until the top. These levels are representative of the eight heavens of Islam. The throne of Allah was believed to be on the final, eighth level.”
As we continued to follow our guide through the maze of rooms, I began to consider the Alhambra’s history. Built in the 13th century by the Nasrid Moors, who once reigned within southern Spain, its architecture clearly held deep symbolism. I noticed how the crisscrossing buildings and the explosion of sensory detail within them—colorful mosaics, flowing canals, heady flowers—were designed to evoke the Arab nomads’ desert tents. I walked through rooms with quotes from the Koran, praising Allah, etched into the walls. I strolled through garden courtyards filled with fountains and streams, alluding to the Koran’s description of paradise.
But the Alhambra was far from paradise for its Nasrid rulers. On Jan. 1, 1492, the last Moorish ruler surrendered to the Spanish king and queen, Ferdinand and Isabella. The king and queen were so in awe of the beautiful palace that they chose to reside there for a time. Instantly, the Islamic palace did a 180-degree turn and became a Catholic court.
This is where the irony appears. Two fiercely devout, Catholic monarchs made a palace steeped in Islamic significance, their home. They enjoyed the beauty of the Alhambra, ignored the fact that they were surrounded by architecture alluding to elements of Islam and forced the Moors—as well as Jews and Protestants—to convert to Catholicism under the Spanish Inquisition.
And it doesn’t stop there. Two days after my visit to the Alhambra, I visited the cathedral in Seville, only to learn that it was built on the base-plan of what was once a mosque. It makes sense to me that in the Spaniards’ minds, a cathedral built on what was once an Islamic space of worship, demonstrates dominance of religion. Except the Spaniards decided to keep some of the original mosque’s design, including the “Patio de los Naranjos”—a courtyard of orange trees with a cleverly-designed irrigation system—and the “Giralda”—what was once the minaret of the mosque. The Moors loved the Giralda so much they wanted to break it before the Catholics arrived in 1248. Yet, they never got the chance to do so. Instead, the Spaniards kept the Giralda. They preserved parts of what was once a mosque, for their own use, in a cathedral of all places. Is there not something very wrong with this picture?
The more I reflect on my travels through Andalucía, the more I realize how ironic history can be. And not just Spanish history. The world seems to me a spiderweb of finely-woven irony, often so intricately spun together it's practically invisible. The Pilgrims sailed to Massachusetts to escape religious persecution but their descendants burned "witches" at the stake if they were not devout Protestants, mirroring the paradox hidden within the Alhambra. The Founding Fathers wrote how "all men are created equal" in the Declaration of Independence but kept slaves and did not permit women to vote until 1919. At the Democratic National Convention, President Bill Clinton gave a 40-minute speech about his love and admiration for Hillary Clinton with no mention of his affair in the Oval Office. Donald Trump promises to “Keep ‘em out!” but meanwhile his wife, Melania, is an immigrant from Slovenia.
Even Duke University sits in the spiderweb. The African-American architect of West Campus, Julian Abele, was hired to design a university he himself could not attend due to his skin color. And it definitely does not stop there.
How come we let such irony occur in the world? And how can we begin to better acknowledge the ridiculousness of it all?
Perhaps it takes traveling to an unfamiliar place to unveil some of history’s paradoxes. Or simply a look-around. It’s harder to notice irony when you’re living in it, but it’s worth a shot. Keep your eyes peeled and your brains active—and retroactive, too—and the next time you stumble into the microscopic threads of the spiderweb, ask yourself: “How in the world?”
Katherine Berko is a Trinity junior studying abroad in Madrid. Her column, "how in the world," runs on alternate Thursdays.
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