In northwest Tunisia, amongst the fertile green plains and rows of poplar trees, the small agricultural town of Testour nestles on the south bank of the Oued Medjerda. Wandering through this pleasant and laid back town, it looks and feels very different to other traditional Tunisian towns. Absent are the narrow, mazy alleys bustling with vendors and energy. Instead, the heart of Testour is a tranquil open square from which the main street runs off, lined with blue and white shop fronts. In the mid morning sun as men sit in the shade of trees sipping thick black coffee, the scene wouldn’t be out of place in most southern European towns.
As it transpires — this is no coincidence. Testour owes much of its character, indeed its existence, thanks to the forced migration of Muslim communities from al-Andalus under the Spanish Reconquest. From the end of the 11th century North Africa received wave after wave of displaced Muslims, the definitive expulsion coming under Philip III in 1609, a few years before Testour’s foundation. Renowned artisans and merchants, the Andalusian newcomers also brought with them novel agricultural methods as well as distinctive architectural and decorative techniques that are clearly Spanish in origin.
Aside from the town’s typical European styled plaza, Testour’s most impressive and visible indication of its roots is the Grand Mosque. The minaret, formed of a lower square base with an octagonal upper section, is reminiscent of a Spanish bell tower while its tiled roof and use of rubble-stone in the walls are characteristics originating in the medieval buildings of Toledo. But by far the most eye catching feature is the clock that is set on the south-western face — a unique phenomena in minarets– made even more unique by the fact the clock hands turn backwards and the numbers on the face are reversed.
Having circled the minaret a few times and eager to find out more about this intriguing building, I head to the square where, by a good piece of fortune, I am introduced to Rashid Soussi, the President of the Association Safeguarding Testour no less. Rashid, wispy white hair and immaculately dressed, is a proud son of the town, eager to highlight the strong tangible and intangible connection with Andalusia.
‘For the first 100 years of the town’s history, Spanish remained the dominant language, it was only after a few generations of intermarriage that it disappeared and Arabic became the common language used at home’, he says.
‘You can still see people in Testour wearing traditional clothing introduced from there. Even Spanish bull fighting was once popular here’ he explains excitedly.
Ushering me towards the mosque’s grand entrance, Rashid starts to highlight the primary architectural features — the lack of windows, the elaborate domes, the semi-circular arches, the spiral staircase. A solitary man sits cross-legged on the floor fingering his rosemary beads, his back leaning against one of the 48 limestone columns that forms the mosque’s main prayer room.
We end up in the courtyard directly below the minaret, gazing up, shielding our eyes from the midday sun.
‘It is the only minaret like it in the world’ Rashid says proudly.
In stark contrast to its bare square base, the upper, octagonal section is highly decorated, displaying pastel green and blue geometrical tiled patterns, twinned window openings and two Stars of David that, according to Rashid are an acknowledgement of the Jewish community who, like the Muslims, were also forced to flee al-Andalus and are said to have helped in the construction of the mosque. Directly underneath is the unusual clock.
‘No one really knows why the clock is reversed, he muses.
‘There are several theories but nothing written down. The story most people like to tell is that the clock goes backwards revealing the refugees’ desire to turn back time and return to their homeland in al- Andalus.’
Admiring the minaret in silence I start to sense Rashid’s desire to re-join his friends in the square and thank him for his time.
As I make my own exit I look back at the minaret with this newfound knowledge. Despite being a beautiful piece of workmanship I cannot escape the sadness of what it represents. Inevitably thoughts of the recent tragic events in the Mediterranean surface — too many will never get the chance to build a new beginning or to experience or express the nostalgia of wanting to return.
