Baghdad – Anthem of Immortality from the Cloak of History*

In the heart of geography, where myths lie beneath the soil of the Tigris and ancient alleys whisper the secrets of ages, a city unlike any other was born. Baghdad did not emerge from nothingness—it was built upon the ruins of past civilizations, as if it were the polished version of Mesopotamia's memory.

Before Abu Jaafar al-Mansur conceived its foundation, the land pulsed with the remnants of Ctesiphon, the Sassanid capital; the ziggurat of Aqar Quf, which has gazed at the sky for millennia; and the Arch of Khosrow, still standing as a witness to an era clinging to immortality.

When Caliph Abu Jaafar al-Mansur decided to establish his new capital, he chose an elevated site on the western bank of the Tigris. This decision was not arbitrary—the area was surrounded by fertile agricultural villages irrigated by canals branching from the Euphrates and the Dujail River, which drew its waters from the Tigris further north. These lands yielded abundant harvests, with farms stretching in every direction, even on the eastern side of the Tigris, which flourished with rivers and canals nourishing its soil.

Thus, Baghdad was born—a city unlike any other. It was not merely a new capital but a comprehensive civilizational project. Al-Mansur envisioned it as the center of the Islamic state, a symbol of power, organization, and sophistication.

From its inception, Baghdad inherited the spirit of history and witnessed multiple urban phases, each leaving its mark. Since al-Mansur laid its foundations, the city carried rare civilizational and human characteristics—it was not just the seat of the caliphate but also a cradle of knowledge, a hub for translation, and a meeting point for thought and life.

At its peak, especially during the reign of Caliph Harun al-Rashid, Baghdad became the setting for tales from *One Thousand and One Nights*, renowned for its scholars, philosophers, poets, bustling markets, and the warmth of its gatherings. It was a political capital and a beacon for the entire Islamic world.

A City of Exceptional Design

What distinguished Baghdad from its birth was its extraordinary design. Al-Mansur chose a circular layout—a unique concept rarely seen in city-building history. Although some ancient Mesopotamian cities, like Hatra and Ctesiphon, had defensive circular walls, al-Mansur achieved a blend of beauty and meticulous planning.

The city's outline was drawn with lines of ash, then cotton balls soaked in oil were set ablaze along the perimeter in a symbolic ritual marking the start of construction. Engineers and workers then dug the foundations, using sun-dried or kiln-fired bricks, as stone was scarce in the region.

Under al-Mansur's leadership and a team of engineers, the city was designed as concentric circles, starting with a defensive moat, followed by two massive walls, leading to the grand courtyard at the city's heart. At its center stood a colossal square palace, each side measuring 240 meters, featuring a majestic *iwan* (vaulted hall) crowned by a towering green dome visible from afar.

This palace, known as the "Golden Palace," served as the caliphate's seat and administrative center. It was adorned inside with rare woods and dazzling golden engravings.

Al-Mansur did not neglect the city's gates—four grand entrances were built, each named after the regions they faced: Bab al-Sham (Gate of Damascus), Bab al-Kufa, Bab al-Basra, and Bab Khurasan. Each gate was topped with a dome and fortified with massive, locked iron doors.

The streets inside the city radiated straight from each gate toward the center, like arteries pulsing through Baghdad's heart, seamlessly connected to its circular body in a perfect harmony of vision and execution.

A World, Not Just a City

When al-Mansur designed his city in 145 AH (762 CE), he was not merely founding a transient capital—he was creating a world-rounded world with a central point like a beginning and circles like ripples from a stone cast into still waters.

A city built not just of bricks, but of imagination. Of refined design that combined military prudence with architectural beauty. A palace at its heart, a green dome towering above like a permanent star, and markets intertwining like a musical composition between Bab al-Sham and Bab al-Basra, between Kufa and Khurasan.

But Baghdad, like a majestic woman, was not content with what it was given. It expanded, giving birth to Rusafa. On the opposite bank of the Tigris, Caliph al-Mahdi established his second city, as if Baghdad were gazing at its reflection in the river and smiling.

Al-Karkh, once a suburb, became another heart of the city. Markets were relocated there, life seeped into its alleys, and it became a commercial hub teeming with scholars, merchants, and jurists.

During Harun al-Rashid's reign, Baghdad rose like a poem, proud in the tales of *One Thousand and One Nights*, alive with the fragrance of gatherings, the warmth of manuscripts, and the echoes of poets. It was a city that never slept, only to awaken more beautiful.

The Fragility of Glory

But glory is fragile. When al-Rashid passed, the city fell into conflict between his sons, al-Amin and al-Ma'mun. The siege of the Round City, bombarded by catapults, was not just a war—it was the first crack in Baghdad's golden armor.

Under al-Ma'mun, the city's pulse shifted to Rusafa, where the caliphate, its councils, jurisprudence, debates, books, and the House of Wisdom thrived. Baghdad became a city that wrote, translated, and debated—a town that did not walk on earth but soared on the shelves of its libraries.

The Mongol Darkness

Yet that great light could not withstand the Mongol darkness. When Hulagu invaded in 1258, the Tigris overflowed with water, ink, and blood. Black and red merged in a single wave, erasing libraries, slaughtering minds, and turning Baghdad into a lament heard only by those who had known it before.

For seven centuries afterward, Baghdad slept and woke under the weight of invaders—Timur, the Persians, the Ottomans… Yet none could fully extinguish its flame. The city shrank but did not die. It retreated but was never erased.

The Final Blows

In the late Ottoman era, European travelers documented what remained. Niebuhr, Felix Jones, and others mapped its streets, counted its neighborhoods, and recorded its alleys. They saw a city with covered markets and narrow lanes, still pulsing with a hidden spirit—a flame that refused to die, no matter how much dust piled upon it.

Then came Governor Midhat Pasha, breathing some reformist air into the city. He established a municipality, a newspaper, schools, and a tramway. But he also tore at its old fabric, ordering parts of its walls demolished, as if the city was shedding its skin with one hand while clinging to it with the other.

Then came 1917. Baghdad exploded from within, as Ottoman gunpowder blew up the "Bab al-Talism"—the last remaining gate of Abbasid memory. It was not just a gate. It was an architectural talisman, carved with a man and a dragon, shrouded in the tales of rebels and poets.

That was when General Maude entered Baghdad, holding a flag in one hand and a new chapter of history in the other—a chapter written not in gold, but in occupation.

*This text is part of a series of articles I periodically present, inspired by chapters from my book titled **"Baghdad: Memory of a City,"** which explores the transformations of the Iraqi capital from its Abbasid founding to the significant shifts of the 20th century.

Through this series, I aim to revive forgotten landmarks and reconstruct the city's vibrant image as preserved in texts and memory.

For those interested in further details or an electronic copy of the full book, I would be delighted to connect and send it with my utmost appreciation.*