To me, the most beautiful part of Marrakech weren’t the souqs, which, for all the flurry of activity in the narrow, winding streets, proved to be a little noisy after a while. Of course, I know that’s how all marketplaces are. You can read more about it here in part 1.
But entering these few buildings that I’ll be writing about in this post gave such a calming respite from all that buzz. In contrast to the constant chatter of the souqs, the walls of these buildings seemed to almost whisper their welcomes to you, and every inch of space was permeated with a sense of understated elegance, beauty, and radiance.
If the souqs demanded of you to partake of their hustle and bustle, these buildings silently enveloped you in a tranquil embrace that compelled you to delve deeper into the buildings themselves, and perhaps more symbolically, to delve within yourself.
Kutubiyya Mosque (~45 mins)
The largest mosque in Marrakesh, it was also built in the 12th century. Its name comes from the root word kutub (plural) or kitab (singular) in Arabic, meaning “book”, because of the fact that it used to be a hub for book-lovers and booksellers in Marrakesh. In the past, book auctions were held within the grounds of the mosque on Friday afternoons.
Its minaret is the tallest structure in Marrakesh, being the only exception to the municipal law that no building should be higher than 5 storeys. Fascinatingly, the minaret itself was built wide enough to ensure that the muezzin, who holds the responsibility of making the azan or the Muslim call to prayer 5 times a day, could ride his mule up to the top of the 77 metre-tall minaret.
Fountains, orange trees, rose bushes and palm trees of various types dot the gardens surrounding the mosque itself. Marrakesh’s traditional “water men”, clad in garbs of bright red and sporting wide-brimmed hats, stroll through the gardens, offering water to anyone willing to pay a small fee. I tried to be discreet in taking a picture of one of them, but was spotted and asked for money before I could take a good picture.
Bahiya Palace (~1-2h)
This was my favourite stop in Marrakech. It is a beautifully preserved palace built in 1890 by the Grand Vizier of the time, and it is a perfect example of Arabo-Islamic architecture. I found it especially fascinating, not only because of the overall sense of tranquility that the architecture invoked within me simply from strolling through the complex itself, but because of the way the structure and design of the complex masterfully united geometrical symmetry and intricate ornamentation, practicality of purpose and aesthetic variation, light filtering and closed spaces.
The entire palace was built as a testimony of the Grand Vizier’s love for his favourite wife, Bahiya, whose beauty was said to be so radiant that she shone like diamonds, and the palace itself reflects this exquisite beauty. The complex consists of individual riads that are linked together by a network of corridors and gardens.
Past the outer gardens surrounding the palace, one passes through a simple riad painted in white and blue reminiscent of the blue city of Chefchaouen, before entering a breathtakingly beautiful riad built around a central courtyard garden overflowing with lush greenery. The courtyard is divided into four segments by four marble-tiled walkways painted in the traditional Moroccan colours of blue, green, yellow, turquoise and white. A marble fountain stands in the centre of the courtyard, within an eight-pointed star motif on the floor.
Trees and all manner of greenery sway lovingly together in this garden, and the walls of the riad facing the garden are lined throughout with intricate Islamic calligraphy. Every entrance into the rooms flanking the garden on each side is framed by an archway adorned with muqarnas and heavy wooden doors painted in red, yellow and green in various geometrical patterns.
Everything came together so beautifully, almost perfectly, and I’ve come to realize, I suppose, that structural and aesthetic unity is one of the hallmarks of Islamic architecture, in homage to the Oneness of God (tawheed) and the spiritual reality of the phrase “There is no god but God.” There was symmetry everywhere: on the floors, walls, ceilings, building layouts, gardens, floorplans, everywhere, and perhaps this reflects another important concept within Islamic spirituality, that everything in the universe exists in pairs, each complementary to the other, and so in her natural state, the universe itself is in equilibrium. Similarly, in his natural state (fitrah), Man himself is in equilibrium: physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Essentially, he is tabula rasa: a blank slate, which is the reason why I chose blancslates for the title of this blog, but more of that in the future, perhaps 😉
Or perhaps the symmetry was to reflect the primacy of the mirror as a concept in Islamic spirituality as well—no two patterns are the same, but regardless of the pattern itself, true beauty is only achieved when both pattern and “mirror-pattern” reflect one another seamlessly. Similarly, no two individuals are completely identical, but each person only unlocks the fully bounty and beauty of the Divine Secret when the heart becomes a mirror to the soul. But these are only my conjectures and perhaps, reflections, on the deeper meanings of the patterns I observed.
Another principle was the diffusion of light. Despite the fact that each of the walls of the complex was purposefully tall, in deference to the Islamic notion of hijab that clearly delineates public and private life, none of the rooms felt dim or even stuffy. Somehow, the craftsmen, architects, and builders of the palace introduced specific designs to each room to ensure that each room always remained cool and well-lit. This particular fact amazed so much, because it showed the thoughtfulness, subtlety, and practicality of Islamic architecture. Maybe it’s a little lame to say this, but coming from tropical Singapore, where we need and have air-conditioners to cool us down everywhere we go, the idea of staying cool and comfortable in blazing-hot weather without any need of air-cons or even fans, was quite fascinating.
Medersa Ben Youssef (~30mins – 1h)
Hidden deep within the maze of alleys within Marrakech’s old medina, this complex was a Quranic school that was constructed in 1890 for the instruction of students in traditional Islamic sciences. Here, the same principles of symmetry, light, water, and overall unity permeate the architecture and ornamentation of the first floor, whilst the upper floors are marked with aesthetic austerity, without compromising on structural unity.
Upon passing through the heavy wooden doors of the entrance to the madrasa, one finds oneself in a long corridor lined with marble tiles halfway up its walls, on top of which are carved lines of Islamic calligraphy throughout the length of the corridor. The ceiling is interspersed with intentional gaps which allow sunlight to filter through.
At the end of the corridor is a square room, to the left of which are stairways leading up to the rooms on the second floor of the Medersa, and to the right, it opens up to the main inner courtyard of the Medersa. The centrepiece of this courtyard is a long, rectangular marble pool, and at the upper end of the courtyard is the main prayer hall and the mihrab, which points to the direction of Mecca. Again, the entire courtyard is lined throughout with Islamic calligraphy. Today, most people can’t read the Islamic calligraphy, but in the past, they used to be able to. I’m guessing that the calligraphy is of poetry, which is often the case in Islamic architecture.
It’s interesting to think that the students of the medersa used to walk through these same ornately decorated walls, in sharp contrast to the often purely functional and minimalistic designs and structures of modern-day schools, including modern-day madrasahs back home in Singapore. They were literally surrounded every day by beauty which came to life from the yellowed pages of the texts they studied. At the very least, they could physically witness the beauty of the Islamic tradition which they belonged to; being able to run their fingers across the intricate calligraphy on the walls, feel the coolness of the marble underneath their feet in the main courtyard, and, in some of the other medersas, make wudu’ with the fresh mountain water that ran through the medersa through an ancient irrigation system that serviced the entire medina.
Upstairs, there are 330 rooms that were used by the students of the Medersa as their dormitories. Despite being of different sizes and layouts, the rooms themselves are remarkably austere, painted completely in white and often with wooden stairs leading up to some narrow sleeping quarters. Each room typically only had either one large window, or two or three smaller ones.
The general sense that you get when you walk through the upper level filled with these humble white rooms is that of the rigour of the Quranic education system. Perhaps the reason why the rooms were so austere was because each student was expected to focus all of their energy and attention on their studies, and the barrenness of the walls seemed to attest to this intense focus. Even though we were told that the school itself stopped functioning as an educational institution in 1962 under the French, I think the spirit of such a system still exists today, although it’s much more hidden. Certainly, the same sense of focus and austerity enveloped me when I entered the Zawiya Tijani in Fez later on.
Perhaps that is beauty in itself: the greatest gems and scholars of our time tend not to make themselves readily known, such that when you do discover them, it feels as though you chanced upon a secret that was for some reason made known to you and only a few others. The sense of intimacy that it gives you with what or who you discovered, and the One who guided you to that discovery, is immeasurable. It’s a truly incredible feeling. Maybe I’ll write more about Fez next time. We’ll see.
Till next time. 🙂 Stay gold.
