Critical Review Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

Critical Review Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree

This was a book that, by chance, I had stumbled whilst browsing a local bookshop. Ashamedly, this is no new publication of which I should have known. Even more ashamedly, I brought the whole collection of Tariq Alis’ novels in one purchase. And why not?

Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree is the start of what Ali calls the “Islam Quintet” – a series of novels based on stories revolving around Islamic-based eras, cultures, countries and regions. The first of the collection, set in Granada, southern Spain, brings together the stories of different members of a family – the clan of Hudayl – as they cope with the fall of their city, culture and the demise of religious co-operation by an Inquisition intent on destroying a culture where Muslims, Christians and Jews produced an exquisite civilisation.

This is a novel which starts in tragedy, with the burning of literature, science and arts of the last Muslims in Spain – a painful irony whilst reading that brings to light how important literature is in the formation of culture. Equally, it is a reminder that despite of the vast quantity of publications at our disposable nowadays, scripture has a divine source, an elevated quality which we mustn’t forget.

Of course, this comes from an Islamic point of view where scripture, knowledge, the arts and the sciences are part of “living” faith. With all this literally burnt to the ground by the Castilian Church, we see start of a people grieving for their past and confused about the future, turning their attention to simply surviving. Without giving the plot away, Shadows of the Pomegranate Tree has a heart wrenching ending to a novel that brings about a sensuous, impeccable feeling to all kinds of senses.

No detail is spared, but without the endless waffle of other novels. Just like the best books that transport us to another culture/era, Ali substitutes names of places with a linguistic accuracy that makes the story even more believable; the characters refer to Spanish towns in their Arabic names or a tone that sounds like so. Sevilla is called Ishbilya, Cordoba Qurtuba and Granada is referred to as Garnata. We learn about the stores of scientific and poetic literature stored in the magnificent house of Umar and Zubayda, the cultivated streams of water aiding the innovative bath-houses and chess pieces carved with the monstrous faces of Isabella and Ferdinand. And of course, the tress aligned with pomegranates. The last of these little details act as a glue between the individual stories of loss and love, a sigh of a past that the reader can almost taste. This is not to embellish the mysticism of the once glorious Moorish Spain, but is added as a real, potent symbol of the loss of such a civilisation from the viewpoint of ordinary families.