iving in Islamabad has its benefits: within a couple of hours’ drive, one can reach numerous tourist attractions to the north or south of the city. Old buildings and archaeological sites have always fascinated me. I don’t visit them just once; I keep returning to them. Each visit offers a fresh perspective shaped by a different lens and mindset.

Recently, in the early hours of the day, I found myself in Taxila, visiting Sirkap – a renowned ancient city dating back to the 2nd Century BC. There’s a story about that particular morning visit, but I’ll leave it for another time. What I want to share instead are the thoughts that surfaced during my walk through Sirkap.

Much like in the Hollywood film Jumper, my mind suddenly leapt across continents and centuries, landing in Córdoba – a Spanish city I visited a few years ago that had been the seat of Umayyad power from 756 to 1031 AD.

It was early in the morning in March; and tourism in Córdoba was in full swing. I was staying at a youth hostel, where breakfast was served on the ground floor. Several tourists like me had gathered to enjoy their morning meal before setting off to explore the city. While they chatted and planned their day, I sat quietly in a corner, eyes closed, soaking in the sounds and the atmosphere of the café. From time to time, I opened my eyes, just to reassure myself: Yes, I was truly in Córdoba.

“I’m not dreaming,” I whispered, and the thought filled me with quiet excitement.

“Hey, it seems you’re tired,” one of my roommates chuckled, handing a cup of coffee to his girlfriend.

“No, I’m fresh like never before,” I replied, slightly opening my eyes.

My mind had drifted to a place that has long captivated both historians and tourists – a city that took forty years to build, the dream project of a ruler: Medina az-Zahara (the city of Zahara), located about 10 kilometres from Córdoba. I had already booked a guided tour to visit it. The itinerary included a trip to the walled city of Córdoba and a royal bath that had survived the destruction wrought by hardline Christians during the Spanish Reconquista.

The bus was scheduled to pick us up near the Roman Bridge over the River Guadalquivir. It was a ten-minute walk from my hostel. I was lost in the thoughts of that splendid city, once the jewel of Spain. The sky was overcast and a light rain was expected later in the day. After grounding myself in the moment again, helped by the soft hum of Spanish music in the café, I left the hostel to catch the bus.

A few tourists had already gathered nearby. A middle-aged, grey-haired guide stood ready to share the stories of Córdoba. Though his English wasn’t fluent, he did his best to ensure that everyone could follow along and appreciate the history he was so eager to speak about.

We began our journey from the Roman Bridge. The guide pointed towards the Córdoba Mosque, proudly announcing, “You are looking at one of the most visited sites in Spain; worshippers from far and wide come here to pray.”

I couldn’t help but smile, recalling the previous day when a guard at the entrance had stopped me and said, “You are not allowed to pray here.” Since the Christian conquest of Córdoba in 1236 AD, Muslims have been barred from praying inside the mosque.

The guide continued speaking, his voice amplified by a small loudspeaker installed in the bus. I gazed out of the window, my mind drifting back to the time when Muslims first came to rule the city, following its conquest in 711 AD. I imagined the foundation of the Córdoba Mosque being laid by Abd al-Rahman I, the Umayyad prince, in 785 AD.

Immersed in these historical reflections, the title of a book came to my mind: The Rise of Cordoba by Agha Ibrahim Akram. It explores the city’s golden age, which reached its peak under the rule of Abd al-Rahman III (912–961 AD). At the height of his power, he declared himself caliph in 929 AD – a title traditionally held by a single Islamic ruler, and at the time also claimed by the Abbasid and Fatimid leaders.

An even bolder step followed: Caliph Abd al-Rahman III announced plans to move his palace about 10 kilometres away from Córdoba. Although historical accounts vary regarding how the new city was named, it is widely believed to have been named after one of his concubines. The caliph tasked his courtiers with building a city that would surpass Baghdad, Cairo and Constantinople – a marvel of engineering, aesthetics and architecture: Medina az Zahara, the City of Zahara.

After around 30 minutes, the bus came to a stop, having passed through grassy fields on the outskirts of Córdoba. A signboard nearby offered a brief history of the site. The guide kept talking, his words blending into the hum of my thoughts.

The city had been built across three levels. The first housed the royal quarters and palace. The second was dedicated to botanical gardens and a royal zoo. The third level included living quarters for courtiers, dignitaries and servants, along with the royal reception area.

Standing once again on high ground, I looked at what was once called paradise. Now there were only ruins.

I was in awe – but as I caught my first glimpse of the city, all I could see were ruins: broken walls and layers of weathered bricks. I was looking at the part of Medina az Zahara that had been reclaimed through careful excavation over the years.

The guide invited us to follow him so he could point out key landmarks. I joined the group. Soon we were standing before a wall that still bore traces of Moorish arches. In front of it stretched a vast open ground.

“This was the royal parade ground,” the guide explained. “Here, the caliph would receive the guard of honour and address his army before dispatching it on military campaigns.”

As he described the architectural features, I imagined the site in its prime: four thousand pillars, five hundred ornate doors, endless Moorish arches and a tapestry of intricate geometric designs.

After a while, the group moved on and I found myself alone. A few drops of rain pulled me gently back from my thoughts. I glanced around and followed my instinct in one direction. From higher ground, I spotted a lone date tree standing quietly among the broken walls below. A small steel sign, marked with the words “The Mosque” and an arrow, pointed towards the area.

This was once the site of a grand mosque. Now, all that remained was that solitary date tree – a silent witness to a distant past.

Turning onto another path, I followed a marked trail that led to a hall, one of the few parts of the city still covered by a roof. The Spanish archaeological department had managed to partially reconstruct it after years of painstaking work. This was the throne room. Moorish arches still adorned the walls, though the delicate stucco work and muqarnas had long since vanished.

At the height of its glory, this hall had represented the pinnacle of ornamentation: its walls encrusted with gems, stones and decorative plaster. The ceiling was crafted from wood and inlaid with mirrors. At its centre stood a large marble pot filled with mercury. When sunlight struck the surface, even the faintest ripple would send shimmering reflections dancing across the jewelled walls. What a spectacle it must have been.

I stood there, gazing at the remnants – stucco fragments and carved stones now scattered across the floor. An archaeological team worked nearby, restoring what they could. Still, I couldn’t help but feel that even decades might not be enough to bring it all back.

Soon, I found myself in front of a large pool where, according to ancient chronicles, fountains brought in from Constantinople and Syria had once stood.

The city had taken forty years to build. The visiting ambassadors and dignitaries were often left speechless by its splendour. One such moment occurred when a delegation from Catalonia came to visit the caliph. The road from Córdoba to Medina az Zahara had been lined with curtains and carpets. Soldiers stood on either side, forming arches with their swords under which the guests passed – a true corridor of grandeur. At every turn, elegantly dressed officials welcomed the delegation.

Overwhelmed by the display, the envoy eventually entered the palace, where he found – in one of its many rooms, a man dressed simply, seated on the sand. The Holy Book lay before him, a sword on one side, and a coal heater on the other. It was the caliph. With this quiet but powerful scene, he made his message clear: if his demands were not met, he was ready to fight.

For the stunned envoy, no further persuasion was needed.

I stood in a city that had witnessed such moments of power time and again during its golden age.

Medina az Zahara thrived for only sixty years. Al-Hakam II, the son of Abd al-Rahman III, was the last ruler to reside in this dream city, and he spent just two years here. Between 1010 and 1013 AD, a revolt broke out, and the Berbers set the city ablaze. The jewel was lost to the flames. The dream of Abd al-Rahman III was gone forever.

Standing once again on higher ground, I looked out over what was once called paradise. Now, there were only ruins. Like the city of Sirkap – destroyed by the Huns around the 5th Century AD – Medina az Zahara never recovered. The stories survive. Indeed, to every rise, there is a fall.

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