A Philosopher’s Journey to al-Andalus

A Philosopher’s Journey to al-Andalus

When I first saw the building while walking through Toledo, I didn’t even realize it was a mosque. It looked nothing like what I associate with the image of a mosque. It resembled neither a Seljuk nor an Ottoman mosque. Perhaps if I had heard the call to prayer, I might have guessed. Over time, my curiosity grew stronger. I began to ask myself how I could speak so passionately about the great Andalusian philosophers like Ibn Rushd, Ibn Tufayl, and Ibn Bajja in my lectures, and yet not know the cities they lived in or the mosques where they once prayed.

At the very least, I had told my students that Ibn Rushd once prayed in the Great Mosque of Cordoba with his son and was once forcibly removed from the mosque by zealous Muslims who accused him of heresy. That experience became a deep trauma for him. His view that the universe had no beginning was unsettling to some. Yet the image I had in mind when talking about that mosque didn’t match the historical reality of its interior. This gap between imagination and reality led me to do further research. Together with my colleague Prof. Dr. Hamit Coşkun, we wrote an article titled “Andalusian and Classical Ottoman Mosque Architecture,” published in Kalem International Journal of Education and Human Sciences.

While reviewing the literature for the article, two major works of Andalusian architecture caught my attention: the Alhambra Palace in Granada and the Giralda Tower in Seville. Most people, when given a choice, would choose Granada. I, too, preferred Granada. But after a quick search, I found that there were no direct flights from Turkey to Granada. So I decided to begin my journey in Seville, the current capital of the autonomous region of Andalusia, and I quickly booked my flight.

The plane departed from Istanbul at 10:30 in the morning and landed in Seville at 14:20 local time after approximately 4 hours and 50 minutes. As the aircraft descended over Seville, I saw that the city was spread across a vast plain, dotted with hundreds of agricultural irrigation ponds. After a brief passport check, I exited the airport and stood for a moment debating whether to take a taxi. Then I spotted the city bus I had read about online—the one marked with “EA.” Since I had learned that it headed toward the city center and had mentally labeled it as “equal weight” (a mnemonic in Turkish), I decided to hop on instead of taking a taxi.

Of course, I couldn’t help but recall how a taxi driver in Thessaloniki once charged me extra for an unsolicited city tour. While I was fiddling with my phone on the bus, it suddenly occurred to me that I should probably get off soon. I got off in a hurry, only to find myself in the middle of an unfamiliar city, feeling a deep sense of solitude. I started asking people for directions to my hotel, where I had already made a reservation. I speak Italian, but they responded in Spanish. They assumed, understandably, that if I spoke Italian, I could understand Spanish. But that’s not always the case. Just because someone has learned Turkish doesn’t mean they can understand Azerbaijani. That’s exactly the kind of situation I found myself in.

Still, despite the 40-degree heat, I kept asking “Dove si trova Hotel Cervantes?” until I found my charming hotel after a walk of about 30 to 40 minutes. Thankfully, my internet started working soon after. For the final two kilometers, I followed the GPS, navigating through the narrow streets. As I wandered those alleys, I softly hummed an old Turkish folk tune: “Narrow, narrow streets where Sevillian girls roll marbles,” and finally arrived at my hotel, which was tucked right into the middle of one such street.

The first person to greet me inside was a typically dark-haired Spanish woman. I handed her my passport and told her I had a reservation. She confirmed this with a quick “Yes, okay,” but immediately asked for my credit card. I reminded her again that I already had a reservation and asked why she needed my card. Was it for a tourism tax? I asked. She replied no. Then what is it for? I asked again. Do you think I’ll steal the towels? She smiled and said no again. Perhaps she hadn’t planned to explain, but felt obliged. She finally said it was for security. In other words, a kind of deposit or guarantee.

After receiving my room key, I went upstairs and rested for about half an hour. Then I headed back outside. Thanks to GPS navigation, I reached one of Seville’s largest squares, Plaza Nueva, after a 15-minute walk. When I arrived at the square, the sun was still blazing, and the entire area was wrapped in a heavy, almost eerie silence. Apart from the distant sound of church bells, there was little to be heard. It was clear that the few people present were not there to socialize, but rather to escape the heat by sleeping in the shade of palm and orange trees.

Most of the shops remained closed until nearly 5:00 p.m. After that time, the city slowly began to stir. Cafés and restaurants started to fill up. In a city famous for its oranges and lemons, the tables were soon dotted with bright orange and yellow drinks. After strolling around, enjoying the ambiance, and having dinner, I returned to the hotel around 9:00 p.m. and began planning my route for the following day.

One of the three historical sites I most wanted to see in Seville was the Seville Cathedral. On Friday morning, July 18, 2025, I left the hotel at around 10:00 a.m. and walked for about 15 minutes to reach the cathedral. It felt meaningful to visit such a place on a Friday. With that awareness in mind, I offered my prayers in a Muslim way inside the cathedral.

Before I even saw the doors of the cathedral, I encountered a long queue of people. I immediately realized how important this place was to the Christian world and how many Catholics visit it as a kind of pilgrimage. After paying the entrance fee of 14 euros, I entered the cathedral. The interior was indeed vast and awe-inspiring, filled with paintings, sculptures, and icons. Known in Spanish as the Catedral de Santa María de la Sede (Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See), this structure was originally built as a mosque during the Umayyad period and later transformed into a Gothic cathedral following the conquest of Seville by the Kingdom of Castile.

The cathedral contains dozens of chapels, and its ceiling features a golden altarpiece. One of the most striking features inside is the tomb of Christopher Columbus. Seeing his resting place in such a monumental setting brought together the threads of exploration, empire, and memory that still shape the identity of this region today.