Islamic Gardens: From Cambridge to Cordoba
Being outside has always instilled a calmness in me. From frolicking through play fountains as a child to meandering through a canopy of evergreen trees in college gardens. It was these simple moments where I felt nourished by nature. The elements of water and shade, which I found peace in, are no strangers to the Islamic garden tradition. They take inspiration from the Quranic descriptions of jannah, or paradise, as a garden.
Between lectures and late-night essays at university, I would roam to the gardens of Cambridge Mosque: a sweet refuge away from the Kings Parade commotion. A place where I was greeted by the lush greenery and where golden sunspots would skip on the benches before asr, the late afternoon prayer. I would try to seize pockets of time between the hectic terms and my travels soon expanded to the storied cities of Seville and Cordoba. Both Cambridge and Cordoba called to one another as I reflected on their timeless beauty. The gardens were a form of god consciousness (taqwa) for me as I am constantly reminded by the benevolence of Allah.
The first time I visited Cambridge Mosque Gardens, it felt familiar. The spritzes from the water fountain and the crab-apple trees were reminiscent of those I basked under as a child. Here, the water lulled me and it redefined what a spiritual retreat meant to me; it was a slice of serenity in an urban landscape. As I resided on one of the four benches around the octagonal fountain, the interplay of light and shadow would circle round like tawaf. This very act mimics the movement of the universe, from the ritual circling motions of small atoms to the orbiting moons. I felt a sense of belonging to something expansive, just gazing here. The four paths that lead from the central fountain are reflective of the ‘Chaharbagh’ layout, translating to ‘four gardens’ in Persian. Islamic gardens are often split into quadrants, signifying the four rivers in paradise. In Surah Rahman, the four gardens are also mentioned:
And for him, who fears to stand before his Lord, are two gardens. (Chapter 55: Verse 46)
And beside them are two other gardens. (Chapter 55: Verse 62)
The earthly space emulated the oases found in paradise. Traces of Islamic legacies lingered in Cordoba too. The Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos encapsulated the cultural fusion of Islamic, Christian, and Jewish bygone eras. The Mudejar influences intertwined with centuries-old architecture rendered me speechless. Despite being in a foreign land, it was the kind of beauty that transcended language. There was a tapestry of botanical delight. The delicate flower beds delineated the space creating an enclave. Though, this enclosure (a common concept in Islamic gardens), did not make the area seem smaller. It fostered a moment of reflection. Within its walls, I could be completely present and watch the world unfold around me. I noticed the cypress trees standing like guardians of the earth. The vibrant orbs of lemon and oranges diffusing a tangy aroma of citrus in the breeze. Such plants and their diversity are also celebrated in the Quran, as there are ‘gardens of vines, olives, and pomegranates, all so alike yet so different’ (Surah Al An'am). Each fruit tree and exotic plant is laden with its own healing properties. Their constant flourishing and withering is symbolic of life itself. It was the beauty and therapeutic scents that entranced me the most. It was a sweet tantalisation of the senses. The fragrance seemed to embody this promise:
Now if one happens to be of those who are drawn close unto God. For him shall be comfort, fragrance and a Paradise of Bliss. (Quran 56:88-89)
Each inhalation of the perfumed air became an act of dhikr, a spiritual remembrance where the aroma became a balm for my soul. Surah Nur 24:41 reminds us of the concept of dhikr and how:
[...] those who are in the heavens and earth praise God, as do the birds with wings outstretched. Each knows its [own way] of prayer and glorification: God has full knowledge of what they do.
And so, I joined the fluttering birds of Andalusia and blooming flowers around me, all in worship to God.
When returning home from the sensory wonders of Cordoba to the little oasis of Cambridge, something became apparent. The whole world was my garden. Beyond the Cambridge Mosque Gardens, echoes of this sacred space resonated in my daily life. During walks to my supervisions in Trinity College, the epitome of English grandeur, the ‘Chaharbagh’ design manifested here too. Being present in the everyday enhanced my spiritual connection and search for parallels to the Islamic gardens I dearly loved. It was as if these spaces were whispering to me about the gardens to come– the gardens of the hereafter.