Description: The Mosque of
Ibn Tulun is an appropriate place to start any exploration of Islamic Cairo, as it is the earliest surviving mosque in Egypt. Ahmed Ibn Tulun was appointed governor of the settlement of Fustat in 868 by the Iraqi Abassids. In turn Ibn Tulun declared his independence, and his Tulunid dynasty ruled his new city of al-Qitai until 905. This mosque, based upon that of Samarra in Iraq, was the devotional heart of his regime.
South of the Citadel, the Mosque of Ibn Tulun seems rarely visited by the tourist swarms that clog the arteries of
Khan el-Khalili. Indeed, my taxi driver did not particularly know where it was. He had to ask passers-by for directions five times as he drove through slums of ruined buildings, tents pitched in middens, and bearded and robed men selling cauliflowers from the back of horse-drawn carts. The lack of tourists is in many ways a shame, as the brutal austerity of Ibn Tulun's mosque is quietly impressive.
From the street there isn't much mosque to see. You are confronted with a long blank wall, topped with a lacy frosting of geometric designs. This is the 'ziyada' (enclosure) - it separates the holiness of the mosque from the bustle of the material world. Up the steps you come across a vast courtyard encircled by a ninth-century portico. This courtyard, 92m square, was designed to enable the entire (male) population of al-Qitai to worship at once. This is a mosque of the desert tribes, austere, open to the fierce sun which bleaches everything to bone. Centred at its heart is a later (thirteenth century) fountain under a squared dome. Entrance is free, though you are expected to head over to the left, where you are required to exchange your shoes for felt slippers. This is also free.
Leaving, I was approached by the smart white-uniformed policeman who started chatting to me. Taking me around the side of the mosque (to the right as you approach it from the road) he showed me the mosque's unusual
minaret. It is unusual in that its spiral staircase encircles the outside of the minaret. From the top of the minaret, an exposed canopy with not much in the way of guard rails (so parents with kids, maybe look for another minaret to ascend!) you can see down into the polo-field of the courtyard. Lone figures walking across are dwarfed by its immensity, their movements an affront to its purpose. Indeed, earlier I had felt nervous venturing out from the shade of the portico across the stark expanse of open ground to reach the central fountain. You can also see across to the much-later Mosque of Muhammed Ali atop the
Citadel to the east. A spot of bakseesh is expected for this guidance.
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