he chilly March afternoon greeted me as I stepped into Córdoba, the city I had dreamed of for long. The arrival was the culmination of a bus ride of about 16 hours from Barcelona. The sky was cloudy, with a chance of rain in the evening. I had spent most of the journey gazing out of the window, my mind wandering to the stories I had heard about Córdoba—a seat of knowledge and the caliphate of the Umayyad dynasty for hundreds of years in the Andalusia province of Spain.

The journey from the bus stand to my pre-booked youth hostel took much longer than expected. By the time I reached my destination, it was already 4:30 pm. A young female receptionist greeted me with a smile. I asked her for directions to a place for which the city is famous.

“Don’t go now; the entrance ticket will cost you €8.50. You may plan your visit for tomorrow morning. The entry is free for worshippers,” she suggested helpfully.

The hostel receptionist was earnest in her suggestion, urging me to rest and save both money and energy for the next day. I smiled and murmured, “The €8.50 ticket is okay. I must go right now.”

I could not wait any longer; every minute felt like an eternity now that I was so close. The receptionist raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by my insistence. I forced a smile, my heart racing as I glanced at the clock. Time was slipping away.

“Is someone waiting for you?” she asked, her tone tinged with curiosity. “At this hour? Please don’t let me keep you. Simply drop your bags and go.”

I thanked her and hurried upstairs, my backpack bouncing against my shoulders. The room was simple, with four bunk beds and a faint smell of fresh linen. I tossed my bag onto the nearest one, barely pausing to catch my breath.

As I stepped back into the cool evening air, a surge of anticipation coursed through me. The city was waiting – and so was someone, or something – I couldn’t afford to miss.

As I walked through the narrow streets of Córdoba towards the Córdoba Mosque, or Mezquita-Cathedral, I couldn’t help but reflect on the layers of history beneath my feet. The name carries a legacy – after being revered as a mosque for nearly five hundred years (784–1236 AD), the building was officially converted into a cathedral in the 16th Century, undergoing significant alterations to accommodate a full-fledged church.

According to historical accounts, when Charles V, the king of Spain, was invited to the church’s inauguration, he stood outside the building and remarked: “What you have constructed could have been built anywhere else, but what you have destroyed can never be rebuilt.” With that, he turned away, refusing to give his blessing.

Despite his disapproval, the construction of the church within the mosque continued until the 18th Century, forever altering the architectural and religious purpose of the site.

Soon I was near the mosque. I could sense its presence, like a mine detector senses the presence of landmines, even when they are buried deep in the soil. My heart began to pound. A few raindrops tapped lightly on my jacket, grounding me in the moment – I was not dreaming.

I reached the Roman Bridge, knowing from my readings that it led directly to the mosque. For several years I had been reading about Andalusia. Seeing my keen interest in the region, my father had once offered to fund a trip for me.

“You are always lost in books about this place. Plan a trip, and I will sponsor your visit. You will be at peace then.”

I thanked him, smiling at his concern and assured him that the day would come.

Now, standing on the Roman Bridge with the mosque within reach, I felt a surge of gratitude – not just for my father’s support also but for the journey that had led me here, to the threshold of a dream.

History is written by the victors, who determine not only how a place is ruled but also how it is remembered.

I kept walking in the opposite direction, my head bowed. At the end of the bridge, the façade of the mosque came into view, stunning in its beauty. I recalled words from a travelogue I had read years ago.

After a few steps, I held my breath, turned back, and pivoted on my heels with my eyes closed. “It’s time, Yasir,” I whispered to myself as I lifted my gaze.

The mosque stood before me – timeless and grand.

Standing there, I imagined the city’s past unfolding before my eyes: the siege, the conquest and the rise of a new dynasty. Muslim general Mughees al-Rumi had conquered the city from the Visigoths in October 711 after a siege of two and a half months. The city later saw many Muslim rulers until the arrival of an Umayyad prince, Abdul Rehman I, in 756. He became the new ruler of Spain and the founder of the Umayyad dynasty in the Iberian peninsula. In 784, he laid the foundation of this grand mosque, having purchased the land from Christians – some chronicles suggest that it was originally the site of a church.

Successive rulers, known as emirs, expanded the mosque over time. The Umayyad dynasty in Spain reached its pinnacle when Abdul Rehman III declared himself caliph in 929 AD. The mosque’s expansion continued until 988, under the rule of Al-Mansur, the powerful right-hand of Caliph Hisham II.

Córdoba flourished, becoming a thriving centre of knowledge, attracting Europeans from various countries to study sciences and learn the arts. This golden era endured until the city fell to the Christians in 1236 AD during the Reconquista – a series of campaigns by Christian states to reclaim territory from Muslim rule.

My mind raced as I approached the mosque. “It’s time to enter,” my inner voice urged. I hurried to the ticket counter, my heart pounding with anticipation. Before me lay the Courtyard of Oranges – a surreal sight that confirmed I was not dreaming. I was truly in my dream place.

I stepped forward, my heart soaring. Just a few more steps, and I would be inside. But then, a guard’s voice halted me.

“You are Muslim, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Hmmmm,” I hesitated.

“You are not allowed to pray here,” he stated firmly.

A lump formed in my throat. I knew this rule, yet hearing it spoken aloud – at the very threshold of history – made it feel heavier.

“Oh yes, I know,” I replied, though my heart ached.

At 6:50 pm, I stepped inside. My heart pounded so fiercely that I could hear it in my ears. My first glimpse of the mosque’s interior froze me in place: the towering columns, the rhythmic arches, the intricate double horseshoe arches, and the hanging lamps. The atmosphere and grandeur surpassed the expectation after all the reading.

I looked to my right, then to my left. There was symmetry and chaos, silence and noise, light and darkness. The experience was beyond description. Rows of columns stretched before me, endless yet orderly. Some 850 pillars divided the space, their arches rising tier upon tier, forming a mesmerising labyrinth of light and shadow.

I spent two hours in the mosque before stepping out into the Courtyard of Oranges. A tour guide was explaining how the mosque had been turned into a cathedral, though visitors still referred to it as the Mezquita or Mosque. The Council of Córdoba had officially named it Mezquita-Catedral de Córdoba.

All places of worship are sacred, but animosity can be quite unethical. History is written by the victors, who determine not only how a place is ruled but also how it is remembered.

The writer teaches engineering management at the National University of Science and Technology. He can be reached at yasir299@gmail.com.