Andalusia: Stones That Remember
I came to Spain thinking I was traveling for beauty, history, and a change of scenery. I left realizing I was walking through memory—some preserved, some erased, some stubbornly whispering through stone.
Madrid | December 21
My first real encounter was at the Royal Palace of Madrid. Luxurious. Opulent. Grand. And yet—surprisingly restrained. As ornate as it was, it felt almost modest compared to Dolmabache Palace in Istanbul, whose excess overwhelms the senses. Here, the grandeur was disciplined. Controlled.
One room, however, broke that restraint entirely. The walls—were they wallpaper or hand-painted? —were so richly adorned that the space felt alive, as though it had something urgent to prove. The gallery of royal carriages spanning three generations fascinated me; power, after all, loves continuity.
But I realized something important that day: I am far more moved by exteriors than interiors. Walls that face the world intrigue me more than rooms designed to impress those already inside.
That evening, flamenco.
Exhilarating. Raw. Explosive. I didn’t understand a single word of the lyrics, yet I felt them—sadness braided with defiance, grief carried on a spine of determination. Much later, I learned that flamenco traces back to Falah Menko—an Arabic-rooted resistance music of the Moriscos, forced from their land. It was the Blues of Andalusia. Suddenly, the emotion made sense.
Madrid | December 22
This day was about wandering. No checklist. No urgency. Just walking.
There was a quiet sadness in having no one to share the moments with—but also a deep joy in the freedom of it. Outdoor spaces. Markets. Streets that invited you to get lost. I bought handmade pendants I’m still excited to wear, small pieces of memory I could carry home.
A recurring frustration: people taking photos. Cropped horizons. Missed backgrounds. Partial views. I noticed children dragging their feet behind bored parents, uninterested in centuries of history. I wondered how much wonder we lose when we don’t know what we’re looking at.
Retiro Park felt like Madrid’s answer to Central Park—familiar yet distinct. That evening, I made my way to the Temple of Debod—an ancient Nubian temple now improbably standing in the heart of Madrid. Originally erected in the early 2nd century BCE, about 15 kilometers south of Aswan, Egypt, it was gifted to Spain by the Egyptian government in 1968. As the sun dipped below the horizon, I stood among its stones, watching the sky soften into gold and rose. There was something profoundly disorienting and moving about witnessing a Mediterranean sunset beside a structure born of the Nile. Empires shift, lands exchange guardianship, yet sacred stone endures. I caught the sunset quietly, feeling history fold in on itself—Africa, al-Andalus, Madrid—layered in one still moment.
And then came the holiday lights. Nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for them.
Rockefeller Center? Magnificent Mile? Please. Madrid humbles them effortlessly. Every street, every corner, banners of light stretching as far as the eye could see. The city didn’t decorate—it committed.
That night, I found a halal food spot just around the corner from my hotel. I preferred taking my sandwich upstairs. The one time I ate there, the two Bangladeshi brothers who seemed regulars - one louder than the other - were enthusiastically debating something important, punctuated by irregular burps that somehow became part of the conversation. A memory I won’t forget and thankfully don’t need to relive.
Toledo | December 23
The train station buzzed with early-morning urgency. I arrived early, seated comfortably. Across from me sat a mother and daughter, adjacent to the aisle, the father and son. I offered to switch so they could sit together. The mother was deeply appreciative. They were from South America, now living in “Anda’lu’sia.” The way she pronounced it stopped me. Arabic in cadence. Familiar. That was the first day I consciously began noticing linguistic echoes - sounds that history had not entirely erased.
Then Toledo.
WOW.
It felt like stepping onto the set of Ertuğrul. Narrow streets. Stone walls. I half-expected a Byzantine soldier to chase a Turk—or the reverse—around any corner. In the town center stood a church, a synagogue, and an old masjid, side by side. None functioning now except the church. Isabella had done her work well.
Arabesque tiles peeking in between baroque statues - whispering a past impossible to fully erase. I barely took photos; the wonder demanded my full attention. 16,822 steps. And I would have walked double.
Barcelona | December 24–25
My last morning in Madrid felt heavy, though excitement pulled me forward. The hotel staff were exceptionally kind - a warmth that lingered.
Barcelona arrived swiftly by high-speed train. The signage looked familiar yet foreign. A different dialect, I learned. Same roots, different rhythm.
My hotel was near the airport - strategic for Málaga - but far from the city center. I fumbled through buses and trains, once riding in the wrong direction all the way to the end of a line, stranded for an hour. Thank God for Uber.
The waterfront buzzed with carnival energy. Christmas Eve felt alive. A halal burger capped the night, and somehow the bus dropped me right in front of my hotel—small mercies.
Christmas Day was quiet. Most places closed. Transit, thankfully, ran smoothly.
Sagrada Família was breathtaking. Towers crowned with sculpted fruits—faith and abundance intertwined. Somewhere along the way, a police officer confidently sent me in the wrong direction, despite maps and gestures. A universal truth, apparently.
But I made it.
Park Güell.
A fairytale. Pure magic. Every curve, every color, every line alive with imagination. Rain dampened the ground but not my spirit. I could have stayed all day.
Churros and coffee rounded out the afternoon—simple, perfect.
Andalusia Begins | December 26
Málaga marked the true beginning of Andalusia.
Meeting Halal Getaways, Tariq, and Ustadh Adnan transformed the trip. Each night brought context—history layered upon history. I had grown up hearing “600 years of Muslim rule” from Baba. The truth is far greater.
The Umayyads arrived in 711—easy for Americans to remember. The last dynasty fell in 1492. Nearly eight centuries later.
Córdoba—Qarṭaba—the first capital. Built by ʿAbd al-Raḥmān I. The masjid still stands, its horseshoe arches echoing faith, even if prayer no longer fills the space. The black and pink columns lined diagonally to mark the Qibla direction as the original foundation was a Visigoth church. I imagined the days filled with Musaleen – faithful bowing in unison.
Then a city built by ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III, just five kilometers away—now mostly ruins. It lasted barely eighty years. A lesson etched in stone: what is done for Allah remains; the dunya is fānī.
Seville. The Murābiṭūn from Morocco. Then the subsequent Columbus expedition started and ended in Seville. There’s even a statue depicting Isabella signing permission for him to sail. I cringe thinking of his great atrocities in America.
And finally Granada—Gharnāṭa. Al-Qalʿat al-Ḥamrāʾ. The Red Fortress.
Every wall, every corner inscribed with wa lā ghāliba illā Allāh—there is no victor except Allah. Over and over. As if reminding history itself.
We returned to Málaga tracing the path of the Moriscos—Muslims forced to convert or flee. Some made it to Morocco through narrow channels. Most—millions—vanished. Erased.
And yet.
“Travel throughout the land and see what was the end of those who denied the truth.”
Qur’an 3:137
Stones remember.
And so do our souls.