On an afternoon in mid-October of 1852, nearly five years after he had given up his fight against the French, Abd el-Kader was strolling outdoors when he received an unexpected order. He was to appear immediately in one of the chateau’s formal salons. There he found Louis-Napoleon, President of the Republic, waiting for him.
“Abd el-Kader,” announced Louis-Napoleon, “I have come to tell you that you are set at liberty.” Then the interpreter Boissonnet, with much emotion, translated the President’s written statement. “For a long time, as you know, your captivity has caused me genuine grief, for it reminded me constantly that the government which preceded me had not kept its promises to an unhappy enemy. . . .”1
Abd el-Kader had already recognized one vital word— liberté, freedom. His long wait was now nearly over. Kneeling, he kissed the hand of the president.
In the ceremonies that immediately followed, the Emir’s mother Lalla Zohra was presented to Louis-Napoleon. Then the president and the Algerians sat down together to a dinner of couscous, the traditional North African wheat dish, served with vegetables and meat. In his gratitude Abd el-Kader is reported to have said, “Others have overthrown me and imprisoned me, but only Louis-Napoleon has conquered me.”2
What brought about this sudden change in Abd el-Kader’s fate? The first answer is that an interesting assortment of friends and supporters—Monsignor Dupuch, Lord Londonderry, Marshall Bugeaud and numerous others—had been working behind the scene for years, trying to persuade both the government and the French public that it was not only honorable but safe for the Emir to be liberated. The efforts of so many individuals, with widely differing backgrounds and concerns, were proof of the Emir’s remarkable ability to inspire loyalty and determination to work for justice.
There were other influences as well, and one was the character of Louis-Napoleon himself. In his own political career he had known imprisonment and discouragement, which helped him to sympathize with the Emir and the Algerian people. Another factor was the way Abd el-Kader’s fate so often hung upon the turbulence of the French political scene. During the sixty years up until 1852, the French people had lived under a monarchy, a revolutionary mob and its leaders, a republic, an empire under Napoleon Bonaparte, another monarchy, another republic, and then a republic ruled by a popularly elected president—who had just seized more power and added “prince” to his title.
And now Prince-President Louis-Napoleon wanted to be emperor! In the month just before his decision to release Abd el-Kader, he had been touring France to test public opinion. He was pleased to find that people were fed up with the instability of government “by committee.” They were ready to relinquish some of the freedoms and rights of a democratic form of government for a firm hand at the helm. And they were very eager indeed for a revival of national glory. In short, the French wanted to be an empire again under the rule of one man—especially a man from the family of their national hero, Napoleon Bonaparte.
Reassured of his popularity, Louis-Napoleon felt the time was right to carry out his country’s promises. It would be safe to set Abd el-Kader free.
Before leaving France, Abd el-Kader wanted to see Paris, learn more about French civilization, and express his appreciation for the support shown him by so many French people. On October 28, 1852, he set off for a red-carpet tour of the French capital.
He arrived to find all Paris rejoicing over the prospect of dramatic political change. Invited to the famed Paris opera that very evening, Abd el-Kader accepted when assured that Louis-Napoleon would be attending. It turned out to be an absolutely thrilling evening at the opera. The audience went wild when a musical piece was presented celebrating the new empire-to-come. “Empire is peace!” sang the per-formers. Louis-Napoleon invited Abd el-Kader to the royal box, where the two men greeted each other warmly for all to see.
The next day, at his request, Abd el-Kader’s tour started with some of the great churches of Paris. First on the itinerary was a huge monument resembling a Roman temple. The Madeleine had been built by Napoleon Bonaparte in honor of his army, but later turned into a Roman Catholic church. Standing beside the priest, Abd el-Kader prayed silently at the altar. The watching crowds were amazed, and Abd el-Kader is said to have been pleased that they could witness a Muslim worshipping in a Christian church. Then to the famous medieval cathedral of Notre Dame, where Abd el-Kader took interest in both the religious items and the robes that the first Napoleon had worn for his coronation as emperor in 1804.
And then to the National Artillery Museum, the Hippodrome to watch an aerial battle between two balloonists, the National Library, a hospital for war veterans, the tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte, theatrical performances and more opera, and the horse races. At the National Printing Works the Emir commented, “Yesterday I saw cannons with which ramparts are toppled. Today I saw the machine with which kings are toppled.”3 From his own experience he knew about the power of the press, for both good and ill.
Whenever he was allowed a little time at his hotel, all sorts of visitors poured in—more than three hundred in all. As usual Abd el-Kader, who always seemed able to think of the right thing to say to each individual, spoke graciously to women as well as men, to the modest as well as the powerful, scholars as well as society figures, common soldiers as well as generals. His old friend the former bishop of Algiers, Dupuch, arrived one morning in time for breakfast. The Emir was delighted, reminding his visitor that he, Dupuch, had been the first Frenchman to believe in him.
In the midst of all the acclaim and mutual admiration, the suspicions regarding the massacre of French prisoners in 1846 seemed to have faded away. But for a few people they lingered. One of the officers who had been spared when the common soldiers were killed, came to see the Emir in Paris and raised the subject. Once more, Abd el-Kader explained that he had neither known about nor approved of the deed. Then why, asked his visitor, did he not punish the culprits?
In a few words Abd el-Kader made clear not only the dire situation he had faced, but his steadfast principles. “I could not do so. My chiefs were in revolt and no longer obeyed me, my soldiers were embittered by defeat and had but a handful of barley to live on. Do not question me further—I do not wish to accuse another.”4 At last the French officer understood.
On Abd el-Kader’s final day in Paris he went to the famous palace at Versailles, home of French kings for centuries. On that occasion, seated on the white horse that Louis-Napoleon had given him, he watched the cavalry charges and other military routines performed in his honor. Then came a display of water works—elaborate fountains and jets in the famous formal gardens—and a huge banquet.
By all accounts, Abd el-Kader had taken Paris by storm. He was, as the newspapers said, “the lion of the day.”
Indeed, more than a lion: almost a Frenchman. When a popular vote was taken on November 22, 1852, to declare Louis-Napoleon emperor, Abd el-Kader wanted to cast his vote—as a French citizen. Along with thirteen of his Algerian men, he did so. By a curious coincidence, on exactly the same date twenty years earlier, Abd el-Kader had been declared Commander of the Faithful— against the French. He made another brief visit to Paris in early December to witness Louis-Napoleon taking his place in history as Emperor Napoleon III.
Back in Amboise, Abd el-Kader got busy writing letters thanking individuals who had helped him, with special gratitude for the nuns of the Dominican Sisters of Charity, who had taken care of the Algerian women and children. One of the sisters described him in this way: “Allowing certain exceptions of a theological nature, there is no Christian virtue that Abd el-Kader does not practice in the highest degree.”5 The townspeople of Amboise raised funds for the care of the small cemetery in the chateau’s garden. In turn, Abd el-Kader bought an elegant crystal chandelier from the chateau itself, to present to the parish church.
Finally the Emir and his family and supporters were ready to leave France. Once again their departure was a procession, marked by receptions and crowds along the way, to the busy port of Marseilles on the Mediterranean. There, on December 21, 1852, almost five years to the day after the Emir had stopped fighting, they boarded a large and luxurious ship for the eastern Mediterranean.
But what was Abd el-Kader’s destination? Not the Arab cities that he had been promised, Alexandria in Egypt or Acre in Palestine. Instead, once again the French government rearranged the Emir’s life. They sent him to the heart of the Ottoman Empire.
The Emir had been informed earlier of this decision. But why the change? Perhaps the emperor, for all his high regard for Abd el-Kader, still worried about allowing him freedom in the Arab countries. In Turkey he could be more closely observed and, if necessary, controlled. Perhaps the French government thought the presence of Abd el-Kader in Turkey could strengthen an alliance with the Ottoman government against Russian encroachments in the Middle East. Possibly, too, the French assumed it wouldn’t really make too much difference. One Muslim city, they may have reasoned, was as good as another, and at least the heart of the Ottoman Empire would be more interesting than the provincial towns of Egypt and Palestine.
In any case, as Abd el-Kader’s ship approached Constantinople, the Turks greeted it properly with a twenty-one-gun salute. Then, after the formalities of welcoming speeches, state dinners, and ceremonial visits, the Algerians were taken to the town of Bursa, a day’s journey from Constantinople. By now the Emir’s family included more than one hundred people—all his family, he insisted, whether related by blood or marriage, or neither.
The residence that awaited them in Bursa was a khan, a large building with a spacious open court, the sort of structure used for hundreds of years for the caravans that carried on trade in the eastern world. It was roomy and included baths, but was badly neglected. Fortunately, the French government had decided to provide Abd el-Kader with a generous annual allowance. He was able to fix up the khan adequately and also to purchase a more comfortable house in the nearby countryside. There he settled down, using any surplus money to help the local mosques and charities. The town of Bursa, near a mountain range, was scenic and colorful; the fruit was delicious, and the air clean. It was not a bad place to live.
But it had not taken Abd el-Kader long to note a definite coolness on the part of the French diplomats in Constantinople. In France he had been the emperor’s friend, welcomed everywhere. Here he still seemed to be regarded with suspicion. His new interpreter, Georges Bullad, a young man from a prominent Syrian Christian family, had grown up in France. Abd el-Kader liked him, but he was aware that Bullad’s duties included reading his mail and sending daily reports to the French ministry of war, which still maintained control over his activities. The Emir was no longer a caged hawk, but neither was he able to fly free.
Moreover, the attitude of the Ottoman Turks toward Abd el-Kader—even though they were fellow Muslims—was far from friendly. For a while, some of the Turkish officials worried that he might be politically disruptive and encourage nationalist ideas in the Arab world. For more than three hundred and fifty years the Ottomans had ruled the Arab lands, from what is now Iraq in the east to Algeria in the west. Thanks to their military might they kept order exceedingly well, but beyond that they did very little for the people and tended to consider the Arabs culturally inferior. For his part, Abd el-Kader had not forgotten the Ottoman sultan’s indifference to his struggle against the French conquest of his homeland. The fact that the Turkish and Arabic languages are totally different further blocked communication and added to the Algerians’ feeling that they did not belong in this new land.
The Emir endured his exile in Bursa as long as he could. In the summer of 1855 an earthquake badly damaged the town, and it looked to Abd el-Kader like a good time to make a trip back to Paris. He had more than one purpose in mind. Always eager for new knowledge and technology, he wanted to visit the Universal Exposition that was going on in Paris at the time, a huge event with twenty-four thousand exhibitors and five million visitors. He did visit it, again and again, looking closely at the new uses of steam power, modern printing presses, improvements in veterinary science, and not least of all the sewing machines—which reminded him of how he had stitched his own garments by hand as a youth. Modern technology, Abd el-Kader was convinced, was intended by God to serve the common good.
The Emir’s main purpose in visiting Paris, however, was to talk frankly—but tactfully—with Napoleon III. He feared that his request might not be received favorably, in view of the emperor’s decision to send him to Turkey in the first place.
Again, political conditions played a role in the Emir’s fate. France, Britain, and Turkey were at war with Russia in the Crimea, a peninsula that juts into the Black Sea. When he arrived in Paris in September 1855, Abd el-Kader found the French deliriously happy over their victory in one of the major battles. A religious service of thanks was planned at the cathedral of Notre Dame; and after inquiring whether it would please the emperor for him to be there, Abd el-Kader—although ill with cholera—agreed to attend. Weak, supported by a French officer, he was met with loud cheers at the cathedral.
Both the Emir and the emperor were high in popularity, which could only help prepare the way for Abd el-Kader’s request. When he was able to meet with Napoleon III, he asked whether his place of exile could be changed to an Arab country. He had Damascus in mind, which his translator Georges Bullad had been recommending. When the emperor promptly suggested Damascus, Abd el-Kader just as promptly accepted, and everyone was happy.
Napoleon III provided a steamship to take Abd el-Kader back to Turkey and from there transport him and his family to the port of Beirut. By then the Algerian colony in Bursa had grown to about two hundred individuals, as more and more of his countrymen were choosing to join the Emir in exile. Some had to travel by land to Beirut, where Abd el-Kader arrived on November 24, 1855.
The coast of Syria in that area—now the Republic of Lebanon—ran alongside a high and rugged mountain range known as Mount Lebanon. To reach Damascus, a traveler had to cross this mountain range by horse, mule, camel, and foot.
Abd el-Kader set out on his journey with an interesting invitation in hand: to visit the mountain home of a retired British army officer named Colonel Charles Henry Churchill. This adventurous, dynamic, and highly opinionated Englishman had served with a British military expedition to Syria in 1840 and liked Mount Lebanon so much that he decided to stay. He had visited Abd el-Kader in Bursa a couple of years earlier, and the two men had formed an instant friendship.
The route to Colonel Churchill’s home passed through an area inhabited mostly by Druze—followers of a religion related to Islam but with differing beliefs and a fiercely independent way of life. As he climbed the mountain road, Abd el-Kader was suddenly met with ferocious gunfire. Fortunately it was the gunfire of welcome, a wildly enthusiastic reception by the Druze chiefs and their men. They knew of his fame, had heard of his coming, and now they begged him to stay—if not for the night, then at least for coffee.
Abd el-Kader was pleased by the warmth of these Druze chiefs—formidable warriors when they needed to be—but he had to push on to Churchill’s home, actually an old palace. During their time together, Abd el-Kader and Churchill agreed that the Englishman would later visit the Emir in Damascus for a special project: writing the story of Abd el-Kader’s life.
Continuing on his journey, Abd el-Kader and his group descended the slopes of Mount Lebanon, crossed a flat, fertile plain, and ascended another mountain range, lower and less rugged. Finally they reached the valley of the river Barada, where the city of Damascus stood, one of the oldest continually inhabited sites on earth. All along the road the Emir was greeted with cheers of welcome. A group of horsemen rode out to meet him, including friends and former soldiers in his army who had migrated earlier to Syria. Then came throngs of ordinary people and, as he entered the city, a welcome by Turkish troops and military band.
Abd el-Kader had a special reason for wanting to be exiled to Damascus. It was the resting place of his spiritual and intellectual master, the medieval philosopher and mystic Muhyi ad-Din Ibn Arabi, whose works had greatly influenced Abd el-Kader. Ibn Arabi, considered possibly the greatest medieval Sufi thinker, was born in 1165 C.E. in Andalusia, Spain at the height of Islamic civilization. He traveled throughout his life, teaching and writing, and finally settled in Damascus. There he died in 1240 C.E. and was buried in a nearby village called Salihiyya. In his own time, Ibn Arabi had challenged orthodox religious ideas, and had criticized the entrenched religious leaders so much that they took revenge after his death by heaping garbage on his tomb.
The grave had long since been cleaned off and a tomb and shrine erected; but at the time of Abd el-Kader’s arrival in Damascus, Salihiyya was considered a shabby and crime-ridden place. Nonetheless, he insisted on visiting the tomb of Ibn Arabi even before entering the city. Salihiyya would play an important role in the Emir’s life later on.
In Damascus, a pleasant place edged by rocky heights and famous for its fruit trees, Abd el-Kader bought a very large house. It was located in the center of the city, conveniently close to both the Christian quarter of the old city and the Great Mosque, one of the oldest and most impressive in the whole Muslim world.
Actually, Abd el-Kader’s house was three very large houses joined together, making a structure about as long as a soccer field. Not only was it roomy enough for family and servants, followers and visitors, but it soon became something like a zawiya, a religious center open to all. People could come there to converse, seek help, or settle disputes. Every Friday, the Emir gave bread to the poor people of Damascus, who would line up at the house to receive it. Abd el-Kader’s huge house was a very wise investment—probably more than even he could have predicted—as events would prove within just a few years.
At last Abd el-Kader was able to step into what he regarded as his true role—a spiritual teacher. His daily classes at the Great Mosque were in constant demand. In particular he taught a group of scholars about the works of his master Ibn Arabi, which helped preserve these important writings for future generations. Abd el-Kader did not think of himself as a spiritual master but as a pilgrim still in search of truth and understanding. He regarded his students not as disciples or followers, but more like fellow seekers.
To be sure, there were pockets of resentment in Damascus. Just as the religious establishment had opposed Ibn Arabi six centuries earlier, the mufti and other Islamic officials of Damascus did not welcome this newcomer, whose superior knowledge and character tended to show up their small-mindedness. But for most of the Muslims of Syria, Abd el-Kader embodied three highly esteemed roles in Islamic culture: a marabout and descendent of the Prophet Muhammad, a scholar and teacher, and not least of all, a defender of Islam and leader of jihad.
Yet while he was thankfully returning to the intellectual and spiritual role that he felt God had intended for him, Abd el-Kader was also very much involved in the world around him. He kept up with the news through the Arabic press, and engaged in correspondence and conversation with many people. Moreover, now he could act upon his desire to improve people’s lives through modern methods and techniques. He bought tracts of farm land, undertook agricultural projects, promoted road construction, and built a toll bridge. Thanks to the pension that the French government continued to provide, he and his family could live comfortably and at the same time be generous to others.
As a community leader, Abd el-Kader played another important role in the world around him. He had found an Algerian colony already living in Damascus, including former fighters in the struggle against the French conquest. Some men, who had served with France in the Crimean War, came to live in Damascus rather than return to Algeria. Abd el-Kader bought more property, much of it in the center of the city near his large house, and more houses for family members and others in need. The colony grew into a community closely attached to the Emir for his leadership and counsel.
These Algerians, and especially the men since they could be active in public life, are often referred to in historical accounts as “Abd el-Kader’s Algerians.” Their place in the social and political systems of Syria, however, presented something of a problem, and the Turkish overlords had reason to wonder about them. Since they were partially supported by funds from France, did that make them French nationals? Or might they be an arm of imperial France, always reaching for more influence in the area? Or possibly an inspiration for Arab nationalist ideas? At the least they were a symbol of Arab resistance to foreign domination, which could include the Ottoman Empire. Even as Muslims in a predominantly Muslim country, therefore, the Algerians must have felt some of the uneasiness typical of minority status.
At the same time, every so often a brush with officialdom reminded Abd el-Kader that he was still not quite free. When he wanted to make a visit to Jerusalem, Hebron, and Bethlehem, cities that have profound religious significance for Muslims as well as for Jews and Christians, he found roadblocks in his way. Special authorization was needed—not from the Ottomans but from French authorities, who still had their doubts about his loyalty. In 1857 the Emir did succeed in making a short visit to Jerusalem and nearby sites, but only on condition that Georges Bullad should accompany him and report regularly to the French minister of foreign affairs.
Late in 1859 Colonel Churchill, whom Abd el-Kader had visited in Mount Lebanon a few years earlier, came to Damascus. The two men got started on the ambitious but inspiring task of setting down the details of Abd el-Kader’s life. Between the Emir’s noontime and sundown classes at the Great Mosque, he set aside time every day to talk with Churchill. Their efforts produced one of several nineteenth-century biographies of the Emir, although probably the only one in English.
But as they worked together, could they have had any inkling that a future chapter—perhaps the most dramatic of all—was about to open?