Catholic-Muslim turf war still resonates at Cordoba cathedral
The scuffle over La Mezquita is echoed throughout Spain these days as members of each faith tests the other's tolerance.
By Tracy Wilkinson, Times Staff Writer
March 28, 2007
CORDOBA, SPAIN — Mansur Escudero knew the answer before he asked.
Approaching the guard at Cordoba's majestic once-a-mosque, now-a-cathedral, Escudero posed the question: May I say Muslim prayers inside?
The slightly startled Spanish guard gave an emphatic no. This is a Catholic church, he said, and as such it is absolutely prohibited to pray in any other faith. Escudero persisted, but the guard was firm.
This is a cathedral, the guard repeated, growing more agitated: "A CA-THO-LIC CHURCH."
The 1,200-year-old architectural wonder that is one of Spain's most renowned landmarks is at the center of a turf war over religious space, cultural recognition and rivalries that are both ancient and contemporary.
Known as La Mezquita in Spanish and the Great Mosque in English, its spectacular forest of striped arches and jasper-and-marble columns constitutes one of ancient Islam's most iconic legacies. But La Mezquita has served as a consecrated Catholic church for nearly 800 years — ever since Spain's Catholic monarchs ejected Islamic forces that had ruled most of the Iberian Peninsula for more than five centuries.
The scuffle over La Mezquita is echoed throughout Spain these days as members of each faith tests the other's tolerance in this overwhelmingly Roman Catholic country with a fast-growing Muslim minority. Tensions were further inflamed when Islamic militants blew up commuter trains in Madrid three years ago, killing nearly 200 people.
The dispute has special resonance in Cordoba, an Andalusian crossroads that beginning more than a millennium ago was the capital of Moorish Spain and one of the Western world's greatest centers of intellectual and artistic culture.
Some of today's Muslims may long for Islam's glorious past, but Mansur Escudero insists he just wants a place to pray.
"We could be an example for the world," he said, "awakening the consciences of both Christians and Muslims and showing it's possible to put aside past conflicts."
Inspired by the pope
Escudero, a Spaniard who converted to Islam 28 years ago, has been fighting to gain prayer rights here for much of his life. He decided to try again, inspired by the journey to Istanbul last fall of Pope Benedict XVI, who stood alongside an imam in that Turkish city's famous Blue Mosque, faced Mecca and prayed.
Escudero and the Islamic Council of Spain that he heads took the case straight to the Vatican, writing the pope to suggest that the site in Cordoba become a "singular and unique ecumenical space" in which both Christians and Muslims could pray.
The pope did not write back.
However, the bishop of Cordoba, Juan Jose Asenjo, was more than happy to respond. Far from fostering peace, he said, the sharing of places of worship would only "generate confusion" among the faithful.
The stone compound that embraces the cathedral, with courtyards and fragrant orange trees, abuts Cordoba's old Jewish Quarter, testament to a community that flourished and lived in relative peace under the Muslim caliphate. A few narrow, winding streets away is one of only three medieval synagogues that have survived in Spain.
Muslims are not allowed to pray inside the Great Mosque, with its ornate, golden mihrab, or prayer niche, that points to Mecca. But Catholics can attend Mass every day. On a recent Sunday, soon after Escudero made his quixotic pitch to the guard, Cordoba's clerics donned purple robes and led a morning service for about 50 parishioners.
There is something a bit incongruous about a Catholic Mass inside what still looks like a mosque: a life-size crucifix hangs under a horseshoe-shaped Moorish arch; arches also frame the priests' red velvet chairs.
Christian elements were added as a church was in effect erected inside the mosque during the 16th to 18th centuries, including giant mahogany choir stalls and altars, numerous gated chapels along the walls, Gothic crosses and a baroque bishop's throne.
On this particular Sunday, perfumed smoke floated from silver censers toward the cathedral's vaulted ceilings while parishioners recited the Lord's Prayer and took Communion.
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