Baghdad: Memory of a City

Baghdad – A Hymn to Eternity from the Cloak of History

In the heart of geography, where legends lie beneath the soil of the Tigris and ancient alleys whisper the secrets of the ages, a city unlike any other arose. Baghdad did not emerge from nowhere; rather, it was built on the ruins of previous civilizations, a polished version of the memory of Mesopotamia.

Before Abu Ja'far al-Mansur thought of founding it, the land was alive with memories of al-Mada'in, the Sassanid capital; the Ziggurat of Aqar Quf, which has towered over the sky for thousands of years; and the Iwan of Khosrau, which remains a testament to a time clinging to eternity.

Baghdad... A City of Light and Planning

When Caliph Abu Ja'far al-Mansur decided to establish his new capital, he chose a high site on the western bank of the Tigris River. This decision was not random; the area was surrounded by fertile agricultural villages irrigated by streams branching off the Euphrates and the Tigris, which flows northward from the Tigris. These lands produced abundant crops and were surrounded by farms on all sides, even the eastern side of the Tigris was prosperous with the waters of rivers and canals that irrigated its lands.

Thus was born Baghdad, a city unlike any other. It was not just a new capital, but an integrated civilizational project. Al-Mansur intended it to be the center of the Islamic state, a symbol of power, organization, and progress.

From its inception, Baghdad inherited the spirit of history and witnessed multiple urban phases, each leaving its own mark. Since Al-Mansur laid its foundations, the city has carried rare cultural and human features. It was not only the seat of the Caliphate, but also a cradle of learning, a center of translation, and a meeting place for thought and life.

At the height of its glory, especially during the reign of Caliph Harun al-Rashid, Baghdad was mentioned in the tales of "One Thousand and One Nights" and was known for its scholars, philosophers, and poets, its markets, and the warmth of its gatherings. The city was not only a political capital, but a center of influence for the entire Islamic world.

What distinguished Baghdad from its inception was its exceptional design. Al-Mansur chose a circular city, a unique idea rarely seen in the history of urban planning. Although some ancient cities in Mesopotamia, such as Hatra and Ctesiphon, were built with defensive circles, al-Mansur's work here combined beauty and meticulous planning.

The city's outline was initially drawn with lines of ash, then oil-soaked cotton balls were lit along the wall in a symbolic ritual marking the beginning of construction. Engineers and workers then began digging the foundations, using bricks baked in the sun or fire, as stone was unavailable in the area.

Under the leadership of al-Mansur and a group of engineers, the city was laid out as overlapping circles, starting with the defensive moat, then the two great walls, and reaching the great courtyard at the heart of the city. At its center was a massive square palace, 240 meters on each side, featuring a magnificent iwan topped by a towering green dome visible from afar.

This palace was the seat of the Caliphate and a center of administration. Its interior was decorated with rare woods and exquisite gold engravings, earning it the nickname "The Golden Palace."

Al-Mansur did not neglect the city's gates, creating four large gates, named according to the directions they led to: Bab al-Sham, Bab al-Kufa, Bab al-Basra, and Bab Khurasan. Above each gate was a dome, and each entrance was fortified with a massive iron gate that closed tightly.

The streets within the city extended straight from each gate toward its center, like arteries pulsating in the heart of Baghdad, connected to its circular body in a wonderful harmony between concept and execution.

When Al-Mansur laid out his city in 145 AH (762 AD), he was not establishing a fleeting capital, but rather creating a world. A circular world, with a center as its starting point and circles like the waves of a stone falling into a still lake.

A city built not only with stone, but with imagination, with a delicate design that combined military acumen with the beauty of engineering. A palace in its heart, a green dome towering like an eternal star, and markets intertwining like a musical piece between Bab al-Sham and Bab al-Basra, between Kufa and Khurasan.

But Baghdad, like a majestic woman, was not satisfied with what it was given. It expanded, expanded, and gave birth to Rusafa. There, on the other bank of the Tigris, al-Mahdi established his second city, as if Baghdad was gazing at itself from the opposite side, smiling at its own image in the river.

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

During al-Rashid's reign, Baghdad rose like a poem; bragging about the tales of the One Thousand and One Nights, brimming with the fragrance of gatherings, the warmth of manuscripts, and the echoes of poets. It would never sleep, only to wake up more beautiful.

But glory is fragile. When Rashid was absent, the city fell into the trap of conflict between his two sons, Al-Amin and Al-Ma'mun. The siege of the Round City and its bombardment with catapults was not just a war; it heralded the beginning of cracks in Baghdad's golden armor.

With Al-Ma'mun, the city's pulse moved to Rusafa, where the caliphate was established, along with councils, jurisprudence, debate, books, and the House of Wisdom. All of Baghdad was writing, translating, and debating... a city not just walking on the ground, but hovering on the shelves of its libraries.

But that great light could not withstand the Mongol darkness. When Hulagu invaded the city in 1258, the Tigris was overflowing not just with water, but with ink and blood. Black and red rushed together in one wave, wiping out libraries, killing minds, and transforming Baghdad into a groan heard only by those who had known it before.

For seven centuries after that, Baghdad continued to slumber and awaken under the weight of invaders: Tamerlane, the Persians, the Ottomans... but none of them were able to completely extinguish its flame. It was a city that was shrinking, but not dying; in decline, but not erased.

Toward the end of the Ottoman era, the pens of European travelers came to document what remained. Niebuhr, Felix Johns, and others drew its map, counted its shops, and recorded its alleys. They saw it with roofed markets and narrow streets, yet still pulsating with a hidden spirit, like a flame that never goes out no matter how much dust gathers around it.

Then came the governor, Midhat Pasha, and breathed some of the air of reform into the city. He established a municipality, a newspaper, schools, and a tramway. But he also tore its old garments when he ordered the demolition of parts of its wall, as if the city had begun to shed its skin with one hand and cling to it with the other.

Until 1917, when Baghdad exploded from within, with Ottoman gunpowder destroying the "Talisman Gate"—the last remaining gate of Abbasid memory. It wasn't just a door. It was an architectural talisman, engraved with a man and a dragon, and shrouded in its shadow were tales of villains and poets.

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

*This text is part of a series of articles I publish periodically, inspired by chapters from my book "Baghdad: Memory of a City," which explores the transformations of the Iraqi capital from its Abbasid origins to the period of major transformations in the twentieth century.

Through this series, I aim to revive its forgotten landmarks and reconstruct its vibrant image as documented in texts and preserved in memory.

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