T he trip to Qasr Al-Amir Taz, or Prince Taz Palace, in mediaeval Cairo, can be a terrible ordeal. But it is well worth it. Built in 1352 by Seifeddin Taz Al-Nasiri, one of Sultan Al-Nasir Mohamed Qalaoun's Mamluks, who eventually rose to power, becoming chief of council, this grand, ancient palace, with its complex of buildings, annexes and courtyards, its arches and richly decorated portals, is a magnificent specimen of Mamluki architecture at its best and most elegant. That the said Amir Taz who built this splendid palace to celebrate his marriage to the sultan's daughter, Khwand Zahra, was not destined to settle down in it and peacefully enjoy it, but soon fell victim to a series of malicious conspiracies that sent him into prison several times and finally into exile where he died in 1362, is a sad story that gives the place a touch of romance, adding to its old-world charm. Last week, I was back at the Taz Palace after many years. I had visited it a few times before during the Cairo International Festival for Experimental Theatre when, after its restoration was completed in 2005, it served as one of the festival's venues. Particularly memorable was my first visit there in 2006 when I watched Intisar Abdel-Fattah's ritualistic Coming out into the Daylight, a quasi-Pharaonic musical piece based on The Book of the Dead. For his performance space Abdel-Fattah had chosen an area in the main courtyard, facing a dark, vaulted passage of neutral architecture, using the vault to suggest a burial chamber out of which the dead walked out into the light of eternity, and placed his singers and musicians on one side of the audience, under the few palm trees which fringe the fountain in the middle of the court. I remember little of the text, the songs, or the action; a few snatches here and there, and some silhouettes and floating images. But the whole mood of the evening, the ambiance of the place, the music, the night breeze, the sense of deep, unruffled serenity enveloping everything have left an indelible impression. I did not think I could experience again in that place that kind of magic — that sense of timelessness, almost weightlessness, of ethereal peace and joyful buoyancy. I had watched other shows there, performed in different parts of the courtyard, but none of them touched me in that same way. It took an imaginative trip back to 11th Century Andalusia and a dip into Ibn Hazm's treatise on the art and practice of love, called The Ring of the Dove, to recapture that same magical spell or, rather, one similar in force of impact, but different in cultural source, emotional texture, intellectual orientation and overall mood. Like Coming out into the Daylight, Hani Afifi's An Al-Ushaq (About Lovers) took us back to a distant past and was inspired by an ancient literary text upon a universal theme. But this time, the past was nearer than the Pharaohs' times, and rather than death and resurrection, the theme was love in its many varied forms and aspects. Born in Cordova, on 7 November 994 (he died on 15 August 1064), Abu Mohamed Ali Ibn Ahmed Ibn Said Ibn Hazm, to quote name in full, belonged to a notable family, reportedly converted from Christianity several generations before. His father was a high official in the service of the Umayyads whose reign was then nearing its end. Their weakening hold on power plunged Andalusia in a state of anarchy, splitting it into numerous independent principalities, and thus preparing the way for the eventual Reconquista and the fall of Granada in 1492, which drove the Moslems from their last foothold in the Iberian Peninsula. Though his childhood was a happy, secluded one, and gave him the advantage of an excellent education (the early stages of which were mostly undertaken by women, as he mentions in one part of The Ring), Ibn Hazm was destined to lead a turbulent life, involving exile and imprisonment. The fall of the Umayyad dynasty in Cordova led to the dismissal and house arrest of his father, who died four years later, on 22 June 1012, and in 1013, the Berber insurgents seized and sacked Cordova, forcing Ibn Hazm, then only 19, to flee it and set out upon extensive wanderings. Ibn Hazm's first refuge was Almeria, where he lived quietly and in comparative security for a time. But in 1016, he was caught up in the political turmoil, accused by the governor of that city of harbouring Umayyad sympathies, imprisoned for some months and then banished. After a brief stay at Aznalcazar, he betook himself to Valencia, where the Umayyads were in power and where further trouble awaited him. After serving as a vizier, as his father had done in Cordova, and marching with the Umayyad ruler's army to Granada, the cause he championed failed and he was captured and jailed. But he could not have remained long in prison, for in February 1019 he returned to Cordova, after an absence of six years, and once more was appointed vizier when the Umayyads again seized the Caliphate. However, after only seven weeks in office he found himself in jail once more following the assassination of the Umayyad Caliph. How long he stayed in prison, no one knows. We only know that in 1027 he was in Jativa, where he composed The Ring of the Dove. From then on, he seems to have finally realized that the Umayyad Caliphate was a lost cause and to have kept clear of politics. But even so, his life was far from peaceful. Dedicating himself to scholarly writings, he developed religious views — namely the Zahiri School of Islamic thought — in conflict with the prevalent orthodoxy, expending his combative energy on theological disputes which eventually led to the public burning of his writings in Seville. This accounts for the fact that of the 400 works he is reported to have composed, only 40 have survived. Of these, The Ring of the Dove: A Treatise on the Art and Practice of Arab Love, is the only venture in the field of literature; the others cover a wide range of topics such as Islamic jurisprudence, logic, history, ethics, comparative religion and theology. The survival of The Ring, as A.J. Arberry tells us in the introduction to his eminently readable English translation of it, (publ. Luzac & Co. Ltd., http://www.muslimphilosophy.com/hazm/dove/ringdove.html), “hangs upon the tenuous thread of a single manuscript, itself in fact an epitome rather than a complete transcription of the original. This precious codex, which is dated February 1338… is preserved in the fine Leiden collection, and was first studied by R. Dozy, the eminent historian of Moslem Spain. In 1914 the Russian savant D. K. Petrof published the text, which was reprinted as it stood, at Damascus in 1931.” For a description of the sources, content and arrangement of the book, we can do no better than quote Ibn Hazm himself, using Arberry's translation (to which I am also indebted for the rest of the quotations from The Ring). In his author's preface, Ibn Hazm declares that his intention is “to compose… an essay describing Love, wherein I should set forth its various meanings, its causes and accidents, and what happens in it and to it, after the way of truth”. Of his sources, he says: “In performing this task… I must perforce relate such things as I have personally witnessed, or what I have discovered by diligent research, or matters communicated to me by reliable informants of my own times.” Of the content and arrangement he says: “I have divided this treatise into thirty chapters. Of these, ten are concerned with the root-principles of Love, the first being the one immediately following chapter on the Signs of Love. After this comes a chapter on Those who have fallen in Love while Asleep; then a chapter on Those who have fallen in Love through a Description; next a chapter on Those who have fallen in Love at First Sight; a chapter on Those whose Love has only become True after Long Association; a chapter on Allusion by Words; a chapter on Hinting with the Eyes; a chapter on Correspondence; and lastly (of these first 10 a chapter on the Messenger. The second section of the book comprises twelve chapters on the accidents of Love, and its praiseworthy and blameworthy attributes… This section is made up first of a chapter on the Helping Friend, then a chapter on Union, then a chapter on Concealing the Secret, and after that chapters on Revealing and Divulging the Secret, on Compliance, and on Opposition; a chapter on Those who have fallen in Love with a certain Quality and thereafter have not loved any other different to it; and chapters on Fidelity, on Betrayal, on Wasting Away, and on Death. In the third part of the essay there are six chapters on the misfortunes which enter into Love. These chapters deal respectively with the Reproacher, the Spy, the Slanderer, Breaking Off, Separation, and Forgetting. Two of these six chapters are matched each with a corresponding chapter (of those already mentioned) on an opposite subject: the chapter on the Reproacher is paired with the, chapter on the Helping Friend, and the chapter on Breaking Off complements the chapter on Union. The other four have no contrasting themes in Love's repertory… Finally come two chapters to terminate the discourse: a chapter discussing the Vileness of Sinning and a chapter on the Virtue of Continence.” Though Ibn Hazm concludes his description of the book on a somewhat defensive, apologetic note, presumably intended to conciliate the austere among his fellows (he was a theologian after all), declaring: “I have planned the matter thus so that the conclusion of our exposition and the end of our discussion may be an exhortation to obedience to Almighty God, and a recommendation to do good and to eschew evil,” these two final ‘erudite and ethically irreproachful chapters” display the same “blend of sacred learning and profane delectation” that characterizes the whole book and even “contain a shocking anecdote or two”, as Arberry points out. One such anecdote concerns a woman called Hind who “had performed the pilgrimage five times and was a most pious and zealous old lady.” She is reported to have said: “I took ship many years ago now, returning from the pilgrimage, for I had already renounced the world; with me on the same vessel were 14 other women, all of whom had likewise been to Mecca. We were sailing through the Red Sea. Now one of the crew was a fine upstanding fellow, tall, slim, with broad shoulders and a splendid physique. On the first night out I saw him come up to one of my companions and show off his virility to her. She surrendered to his embraces on the spot. On the following nights each of the rest accepted his advances in turn, until only I was left. I said to myself, ‘I will punish you for this, you scoundrel.' With that I took a razor, and grasped it firmly in my hand. He came along as usual that evening, and behaved precisely as he had done on the preceding nights. When he approached me I brandished my razor, and he was so scared that he would have run off. I felt very sorry for him then, and grasping him with my hands I said, ‘You shall not go until I have had my share of you.' And “he got what he wanted, God forgive me”, the old lady concluded. Though Hani Afifi's version of The Ring of the Dove seeks to vindicate love and lovers upon classical authority, to prove in defiance of the Salafis of today that even theologians could sympathetically and even playfully discourse on human passions, and features many of the delightful narratives which Ibn Hazm included in his book, this particular episode concerning Hind was, of course, decorously avoided. Afifi and his dramaturge, Karim Arafa, opted for safer, less salacious ones, like the story of “the poet Youssef Ibn Haroun, better known as Al-Ramadi,” who, “one day, passing the Gate of the Perfumers at Cordova, a place where ladies were wont to congregate… espied a young girl who, as he said, ‘entirely captured my heart, so that all my limbs were penetrated by the love of her'”, and “therefore turned aside from going to the mosque and set himself instead to following her” (from the chapter on Falling in Love at First Sight); or the story of “Said Ibn Mundhir Ibn Said, who used to lead the prayers in the cathedral mosque of Cordova.” He “had a slave-girl with whom he was deeply in love. He offered to manumit and marry her, to which she scornfully replied — and I should mention that he had a fine long beard — ‘I think your beard is dreadfully long; trim it up, and then you shall have your wish.' He thereupon laid a pair of scissors to his beard, until it looked somewhat more gallant; then he summoned witnesses, and invited them to testify that he had set the girl free. But when in due course he proposed to her, she would not accept him. Among those present was his brother Hakam Ibn Mundhir, who promptly said to the assembled company, ‘Now I am going to propose marriage to her.' He did so, and she consented; and he married her then and there. Said acquiesced in this frightful insult; for all that he was a man known for his abstinence, piety and religious zeal (from the Chapter on Compliance). About Lovers also incorporates the story of the “young slave-girl who was ardently passionate for a certain youth, the son of a noble household, but he was ignorant of her sentiments.” On the advice of her old nurse she tried “to hint at her feelings to him in verse time after time, but the youth paid no attention whatsoever… Finally the girl's endurance was at an end; her emotions were insupportable. One night she was seated with him, and finding she could no longer control her feelings, when she stood up to leave him she suddenly turned and kissed him on the mouth, then, without uttering a single word, coquettishly swaying she withdrew… Such was the beginning of a love between them” (from Allusion by Words). Other narratives used in the show include one on Betrayal, which tells of “a certain slave-girl belonging to one of the great houses, who was passionately loved by a young man of high culture and princely blood. She reciprocated his feelings, and the two corresponded together, their messenger and postman being one of his companions of a like age, who had ready access to her. In due course the girl was offered for sale, and her royal lover desired to purchase her; but he was beaten to the bargain by the youth who had been his envoy.” One day that perfidious youth found his newly wed wife “opening a casket belonging to her, and searching for some personal effect. He came up and began turning out the box with her; and a letter fell out which was written in the hand of the youth who had been in love with her… He cried angrily: ‘Where did this come from, strumpet?' ‘You yourself conveyed it to me', she answered…It's one of those old letters, which you know all about.' It was just as though she had popped a stone in his mouth. He was utterly confounded, and could not utter another word.” Another funny story which came across very well in the performance occurs in the chapter on Divulging the Secret and tells of Moussa Ibn Assem Ibn ‘Amr who, while writing a letter for his father at his behest, suddenly “caught a glimpse of a slave girl with whom” he was “infatuated”; “unable to master” himself, he “threw the letter away and started after her”. This behaviour, rendered comically in the performance, is censured by Ibn Hazm who chides to the young man, saying: “You should know that this kind of behaviour is enough to scare the beloved away; it is a poor way of managing things, and betrays incompetent statesmanship. In every enterprise there is a proper way to begin, and an appropriate course to follow after.” These stories and others, including a particularly poignant one about a young, beautiful lute player whom Ibn Hazm loved in his early youth, but whose beauty was sadly ravaged by time, war and want, were delightfully enacted by Ahmed Zakaria, Sara Adel, Sara Haridi and Maher Ismail, with the dialogues rephrased in colloquial Arabic to bring them nearer today's audience and were introduced, linked together and commented on by Hamza Al-Alali, bearded and in period costume as Ibn Hazm, in the classical Arabic of the original text. Interlaced with the stories were many of Ibn Hazm's views, reflections and personal memories, rendered in his own language and either confided to the audience in the manner of talking to a friend, or directly addressed to the actors with gentle authority, as if by a wise old man to the young and inexperienced. Indeed, at many points, the young cast elicited these views by asking questions or soliciting advice. By alternating Ibn Hazm's classical Arabic with the Egyptian dialect and narration with dramatic impersonation, the performance moved freely between the past and present, smoothly swinging from old Cordova to modern day Cairo. Karim Arafa's excellent dramaturgy not only uncovered the beauties and relevance of this old, rarely perused treatise and culled from it the many reflections, entertaining narratives, poignant remembrances and humorous comments which made up the material of the performance, but also strung them together seamlessly, verbally updating many of the situations cited by the author. Moreover, it brought out the gentle humanity, urbanity, humour, and joie de vivre of the author. How disarmingly charming actor Al-Alali sounded when, impersonating Ibn Hazm and quoting from the chapter on Union in The Ring, he boasted: “I have never drunk deep of the waters of amorous union without my thirst raging all the more fiercely… I have enjoyed such exquisite pleasure a long while, and never experienced weariness nor been overtaken by lassitude,” or when he candidly confessed: “I have tasted all manner of pleasures, and known every variety of joy; and I have found that neither intimacy with princes, nor wealth acquired, nor finding after lacking, nor returning after long absence, nor security after fear and repose in a safe refuge… so powerfully affects the soul as union with the beloved, especially if it come after long denial and continual banishment”, adding that it is “life renewed… and a grand mercy from Allah.” How refreshing and invigorating it was to hear him loudly assert, quoting from Ibn Hazm's discourse on The Nature of Love: “Love is neither disapproved by Religion, nor prohibited by the Law; for every heart is in God's hands.” How wise and knowing he sounded when he described loving two people at the same time as an illusion “springing out of carnal desire, called love only metaphorically, and not in the true meaning of the term”, when he warned against falling in love through description, when he mentioned as one of the signs of love “that you will see the lover loving his beloved's kith and kin and the intimate ones of his household, to such an extent that they are nearer and dearer to him than his own folk, himself, and all his familiar friends”, or when he said: “Opposites are of course likes, in reality… Thus, when ice is pressed a long time in the hand, it finally produces the same effect as fire… Similarly with lovers: when they love each other with an equal ardour, and their mutual affection is intensely strong, they will turn against one another without any valid reason…When you see a pair of lovers behaving in such a fashion… you may be sure without hesitation… that there lies between them a deep and hidden secret — the secret of true love.” And how hilariously, deliciously naughty he was as he enumerated among the outward signs and tokens of love: “much clandestine winking; leaning sideways and supporting oneself against the object of one's affection; endeavoring to touch his hand, and whatever other part of his body one can reach, while engaged in conversation and drinking the remainder of what the beloved has left in his cup, seeking out the very spot against which his lips were pressed.” It is to the credit of the dramaturge that each of the above pronouncements was rendered more vivid and lively by being prefaced and/or supplemented by a short, often comic dramatic sketch in the Egyptian vernacular. Complementing the dramaturgy were Ayman Al-Zorkani's exquisite costumes and accessories which combined the modern and simple with the historically ornate and sumptuous, displaying in all a harmony of design and colour and an accuracy of detail rarely seen in Egyptian performances. Both the dramaturgy and costumes were part of a complex, inventive directorial conception which replaced the verses Ibn Hazm regularly inserted in his text to illustrate the theme in hand — verses which not only are often mediocre, but would also fall heavy on the ears of ordinary modern audiences and baffle their understanding — with appropriate excerpts from popular love songs by Umm Kolthoum, beautifully delivered by Nada Moussa, accompanied by two lutes, a qanoun and a cello, played live by members of the House of Arabic Lute, and punctuated the performance with modern dance sequences, choreographed by Hani Hassan, who also performed them in company with Martina Adel. Essential to Afifi's conception too was the natural set provided by Amir Taz Palace. Afifi placed his performance in the main courtyard, in front of the loggia, or Maqad, a later Ottoman addition to the palace constructed in the 17th century, in the same architectural style as the palace, using its magnificent tri-lobed portico, the staircase on one side of it, which leads up to a door, and its two ground level doors and barred window as parts of the performance space. The musicians and singer were placed at fixed points and different levels around the space, while the actors had the whole use of it as the scenes demanded. With the help of Yasser Shaalan's lighting design, Afifi produced a series of compelling images of haunting beauty, images that seemed intimately familiar, yet deeply buried in the memory of a distant past and only momentarily floating up to the surface. The performance merged with the space creating a magical spell in which the actors seemed like the ghosts of the place, momentarily sprung out of its walls to recreate a long-vanished, fascinating past.
