docdavesvoice

Samuel Ha-Levi ibn Nagrela, known as Ha Nagid, lived from 993-1056 AD. Raised in Cordoba he became the Prime Minister of the city/state of Grenada, the General-in-Chief of its armies, and the head Rabbi of all of Andalusia. As a General he never lost a war. He wrote and published books on Jewish law and poetry in both Arabic and Hebrew. He was fluent in Arabic, Berber, Aramaic, Latin, Greek, and Ladino, the Romanized precursor of Spanish. He conducted an active correspondence with Jewish communities throughout the Diaspora reaching as far north as England and Ireland and as far east as India and the Khazar Empire. Much of his poetry, some of his legal writings, and a bit of his correspondence has survived. The events in this novel all happened.

Chapter 2: Ha Nagid’s journal:

14 Tishrei, 4784 (September, 1035)

My son Joseph was born at exactly three hours, and four fifths of an hour, and two thirds of a fifth of an hour, before dawn on the third day of the week, on the eleventh day of Tishrei 4784, 426 years after the Hejira, according to the reckoning of our Muslim masters, and 1035 according to the Christians.

My wife and my son, God be blessed, are both sleeping comfortably this evening.

This day I am very happy here in Granada, the city built on, and around, a large rocky hill dominating the river valley. The top of the hill is flat and forms a natural fortress with steep cliffs on three sides. The Romans used the site to build a fortress of stone. My house is in the Jewish community of Granada, in reality a separate city, more than a neighborhood. It is called; “Gharnatat-al Yahud.”

In 4781 (1026) after his Vizier of Finance, Abu l-Abbas, died, King Habbus brought me to his palace, within the fortress, and appointed me in Abu l-Abbas’ place. Shortly after my appointment, the king also commissioned me to manage the renovation and additions to the palace and the fortress. The city, built on the slopes of that same hill, also grew because of the influx of skilled workers and laborers, followed by tradespeople to support them. I decided that all the bricks used in the new construction should make use of the local bright red clay. The palace and fortifications became known as The Red Fort. The new Alcazaba was designed to be a cultural show of force and power.

My son Joseph will be my legacy. With God’s blessing he will be a better than good student and a fast learner. As soon as he is capable I will begin his education. I will engage expert teachers in Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, and even Ladino. When he has progressed I will add teachers for Latin and Greek, and for mathematics and science. He will need all of this knowledge to take my place when I am gone.

I am fast becoming an old man. I am the first Jew to attain so high a position in government since Hasdi ibn Shaprut, of blessed memory, who served the Caliph of Cordoba when that king ruled of all of Andalusia. That Caliph was Abd al-Rahman III and he relied on Hasdi ibn Shaprut for many years.

Someday Joseph will read this journal. By then he will know that Abd al-Rahman III was the grandson of Abd al-Rahman the half-Berber, half-Syrian exile, who founded the Umayyad caliphate in Cordoba. Abd al-Rahman arrived about fifty years after the first Muslim armies came across the Strait of Gibraltar. Those were the forces that conquered nearly all of the old Visigoth territories of Spain, known as Al-Andalus, as far north as Narbonne. Because of the long reigns and orderly successions of Abd al-Rahman’s sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons, Cordoba, where I was born and raised, prospered economically and culturally, as does Granada today, with my help.

The number of Muslim soldiers and settlers that came to Andalusia were few, in proportion to the existing population of the peninsula. They probably represented only one percent of the overall population. They soon discovered the Jewish communities were a source of educated, capable men who made ideal civil servants. Within a few generations, due to vigorous efforts to convert the population to Islam, the Andalusian Muslim population was vastly larger. Much of this came about when the Muslim invaders intermarried with the original Christian and Pagan populations. Even a few Jews converted, not many. The Muslim community was and still is, on the whole, very tolerant of the dhimmi, the protected “Peoples of the Book”, Jews and Christians who share their Abrahamic monotheism and scripture.

The adventurous and energetic Muslim culture treasures the written word, and Cordoba’s libraries represented both the scholarly and social wellbeing of the society. During my childhood, there were many libraries in Cordoba, housing as many as 700,000 books, all laboriously written by hand. Essential to the library culture was a paper factory in Jativa, a town near the coastal city of Valencia. Paper was significantly cheaper and more plentiful than parchment. Because of this a positive attitude towards learning developed along with the duty to transmit knowledge from one generation to another. There also evolved a remarkable understanding of the differences in the way people learned. All of this was embodied in this wonderful culture of libraries and learning. It was an ideal setting for the migration of Jews from all over the diaspora.

Samuel Ha-Levi ibn Nagrela known as Ha Nagid lived from 993-1056 AD. Raised in Cordoba he became the Prime Minister of the city/state of Grenada, the General-in-Chief of its armies, and the head Rabbi of all of Andalusia. As a General he never lost a war. He wrote and published books on Jewish law and poetry in both Arabic and Hebrew. He was fluent in Arabic, Berber, Aramaic, Latin, Greek, and Ladino, the Romanized precursor of Spanish. He conducted an active correspondence with Jewish communities throughout the Diaspora reaching as far north as England and Ireland and as far east as India and the Khazar Empire. Much of his poetry, some of his legal writings, and a bit of his correspondence has survived. The events in this novel all happened.

CHAPTER ONE: JOSEPH’S JOURNAL: 

9 Nissan, 4806 (April, 1057)

It’s early spring. The wind still blows hard off the snows of the Sierra. I am writing everything down to provide a true record for the Jewish community of Granada. Many of you may think you remember and knew my father. I doubt it.

It was just before Passover, sixteen years ago, I was six years old. My father instructed my mother to send me to his study. I pushed aside the substantial rug covering the doorway to this room of contemplation, study and power. I clearly remember the rug, dark blue with yellow and red Arabic calligraphy and geometric designs. I can’t remember when my father replaced the rug with the solid oak door that now protects the room. It must have been years after that evening.

I rapped my knuckles lightly on the thick oak door jam. My father was bent over his desk, writing. He did not respond. I knocked again, harder. He lifted his left hand and extended his index finger. I waited, accustomed to him finishing a thought before responding to my interruptions. After more than a minute, my father looked up from the paper he was working on and laid his pen down. He reached over and slid one of three stacks of books cluttering the top of his desk to the side, took the top book off the pile and placed it over the document. He didn’t want me to read what he was writing, but I could see from where I stood it was in Arabic.

His desk dominated the room, no less so than he did. He had been away almost a year earlier and I had crept into the room, curious. I lay on the floor beside the desk to measure its length against mine. It took up two of me. My father was already old. I wondered if that desk would be mine someday.

On each corner is a ponderous leg, cut from the same cedar tree as the desk, hand carved to resemble the leg of an elephant. The table, then and now, represents study, learning, creativity and power. Mostly power.

This same room where I now sit was then a place of mystery and awe. It is still permeated by the smell of old books and ink. Only those specifically invited are ever allowed inside. Almost all is the same as it was on that day, the chair, the table, the stool, the deep red Armenian carpets on the floor, the purple and brown rugs on the walls, the expensive brocade pillows thrown carelessly on the mattress against the south wall. The shelves are still the resting place of the keepsakes of so many years of serving two kings. Books crowd the shelves on every wall. All his things remain as if he were still the master of this house.

That evening when I was six my father spoke softly; it was not always so.

“Yes, Joseph, my son, come in,” he said.

“My mother said you wish to see me, Papa.”

He pushed his heavy wood chair back from the table. The same chair in which I now sit. Extracted from the same giant cedar as the table, adorned with carvings of leaves and flowers and trees.

He bent over and patted the small stool upholstered with the remnants from an old silk rug.

“Sit Joseph.”

He had been using the stool to prop up one of his slipper-covered feet. I remember the slippers too. They were soft lambskin, dyed yellow.

As was his habit, he was wearing white silk clothing. Since the early spring evening was cool, he wore one of his white silk brocade cloaks, a gift from the king. The cloaks were valuable, but minor compared to the other gifts given him as a sign of honor and respect over the years by our Muslim kings, Habbus and later his son Badis. All of his cloaks were trimmed on the sleeves and collars with gold thread. The thread was a product of one particular Jewish goldsmith, I don’t recall his name, but he was renowned for producing the most pliable gold thread produced in all of Andalusia. Father’s head was covered with a high silk gauze kalansuwa rather than his usual turban.

Samuel ben Joseph Ha-Levi ibn Nagrela, Ha Nagid, was my father. He was forty-two years old the year I was born. His intent was to groom me to take his place. I came to dread that responsibility.

Ready for pre-order now.

A Mexican Adventure, will be published July 4, 2017.

In the spring of 1967, I was accompanied by my wife and four- and six-year old sons as we travelled to Mexico City, where I spent a year working for the United Nations at the Veterinary School of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. My job was to provide practical experience with large animals for the veterinary students. My experiences with the students, the animal patients and their owners, and with my international colleagues, comprise this story. My family’s discovery of Mexican culture and history is central to the tale. Everything takes place within the backdrop of societal upheaval that resulted in the student riots associated with the 1968 Olympic Games. A Mexican Adventure, highlights my family’s enlightening experiences in one of the world’s most storied civilizations.

electronic version:

print version: