The tradition of Islamic water gardens has survived for centuries – no wonder when they offer tranquility and a window to our souls, says Emma Clark
“The spirit of the garden paradises of Europe hides in the flowers, the grass, the trees, but the soul of the Eastern garden lies in none of these,” wrote the pioneering author and water-colourist Constance Villiers-Stuart in her Gardens Of The Great Mughals in 1913, one of the first serious histories of Mughal gardens. “It is centred on the running water, which alone makes its other beauties possible.”
The garden historian’s conclusion is borne out even in the 21st century, in Cairo’s new Al-Azhar Park, begun in 1984 and completed 20 years later following a US$30 million gift from the Aga Khan Trust for Culture. The 30-hectare park is the largest created in the city for more than a century – built on the site of a 500-year-old rubbish dump. For Cairenes used to the city’s tangle of streets and resigned to one of the lowest proportions of green space per inhabitant in the world, the result is a revelation.
Visitors to this park in Darb Al-Ahmar, one of Cairo’s poorer districts, can enjoy green lawns, shaded orchards, historic architectural remains and magnificent views over the city. But best of all are the park’s water features – fountains and channels incorporating elements of ancient Islamic water gardens. The hilltop restaurant has been inspired by traditional Cairene architecture and is designed around a courtyard with a small fountain at its centre; elsewhere, white pavilions floating on an artificial lake, designed by French architect Serge Santelli, offer requisite tranquility.
There is no doubt water is the supreme element in the Islamic garden, both physically and symbolically. The obvious reason is that Islam is a religion born into a baking-hot desert climate, in which water was long considered sacred and a blessing. Indeed, so precious is water in such a climate that the Bedouin nomads of Arabia developed a whole vocabulary of special terms to indicate the intricate movements that water makes.
The concept of the paradise garden with water and shade as its two key elements goes all the way back to the Sumerian period (4000 BC) in Mesopotamia. The concept of paradise being a garden of green shade and running water, central to Muslim belief, was a confirmation and renewal of what the Arabs knew to be true already – water was to be revered as a gift from God and, without it, life on earth could not exist.
The quintessential Islamic garden is the four-fold design, or chahar-bagh
(from the Persian meaning “four gardens”), with a fountain in the centre and four rills or channels flowing from it towards the four directions of space; sometimes, as in the Court of Lions at the Alhambra, there are also four smaller fountains, one on each of the four sides of the garden, with water flowing from them towards the centre. The central fountain – often a circular basin set within a square base, and often a double square – is the main source of water flowing through the garden: not only does it represent one of the fountains in paradise, but it is also a reflection of the source of all life.
The four-fold plan is found – with many inventive variations – across the Islamic world, often with paths taking the place of the water-channels, for example at the gardens of the Al-Batha Palace in Fez and the gardens of Alcazar in Cordoba. This design, inherited from the ancient Persian prototype, is not only the best method of irrigation, but, importantly, encompasses a timeless and universal spiritual symbolism. The number four represents everything associated with earth – for example, the four cardinal directions, the four elements and the four seasons.
Water is present in most gardening traditions, from the Japanese and Chinese to the medieval Christian and the Italian Renaissance, each emphasising certain qualities of this precious element. In the Islamic garden, as with the monastic garden, water is practical and spiritual: it is used not only to cleanse ourselves of physical dirt, but also to wash away sins.
Why is it we are so drawn to water? The answer lies deeper than the requirements of irrigation, ablutions and drinking, or than the sensuous pleasures of dipping one’s fingers in a flowing stream and feeling the cooling atmosphere engendered by it: there is a profound beauty and mystery that draws us towards water in a garden, in whatever form it may take, whether it be a fountain, a large still pool, a cascade or a narrow rill. Centuries ago, this was understood very well by garden-makers in Iran, Mughal India, Moorish Spain, north Africa and Syria, where some of the most spectacular, but intimate Islamic gardens are still to be found, all with water as their central element.
The possibilities of channelling water in varied ways are rarely more in evidence than in an Islamic garden. The water trickles gently, cascades down small waterfalls, sprays from fountains, runs along channels or streams, or remains still in pools, reflecting the sky above. Constant movement and stillness, and the interplay between the two, creates a harmonious environment, which soothes and mirrors the soul. Water is also channelled to fall down carved stone slabs (chadors, literally “shawl” of water) to create patterns, causing sunlight to sparkle on the moving surface, apparently merging the water with the stone and breaking up any reflected images.
The fluidity of water and its constantly purifying aspect – the closer to the source it is, whether it be a spring, melted snow or rain, the purer it is – is symbolic of the soul’s ability to purify and renew itself. In spiritual terms, this purification of the soul can only take place through the constant and sincere remembrance of God through prayer and meditation.
The apparently endless flowing water in the courtyard gardens of Damascus, Fez, Marrakesh, the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, the mosques of Isfahan and, most especially, the courtyards and gardens of Granada’s Alhambra and Generalife are some of the most evocative representations of the Islamic gardens of paradise anywhere in the world. The sound of water not only muffles the voices of other people, but it has the miraculous effect of silencing one’s own thoughts; one’s heart and soul become still and calm, and we are given a foretaste of the peace of the true paradise gardens, where the word “peace”, salaam, is the only word spoken.
Emma Clark specialises in designing Islamic gardens, as well as writing and lecturing about them; her book The Art Of The Islamic Garden is published by the Crowood Press
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