Al-Azhar Mosque

Slip off your shoes, and feel the marble under your feet. In the morning it is cool, almost damp. By midday it holds the sun like a warm stone in your hand. Around you, the courtyard is wide and open to the sky. Pigeons land and lift again. Somewhere under the arcades, a low voice is reading aloud, and another voice answers. This is Al-Azhar Mosque, in the old heart of Islamic Cairo. For more than a thousand years, it has been a place of prayer and a place of study.

The story begins with a new city. In the late tenth century, the Fatimids, a dynasty from North Africa, took control of Egypt. Their general, Jawhar al-Siqilli, laid out a royal city here, and he called it al-Qahira. That name means 'the victorious', and it gives us the modern name Cairo. Almost at once, the Fatimids built a great congregational mosque at the centre of their new capital. Work began around 970, and the first prayers were held a year or two later. So this mosque is almost as old as Cairo itself.

The name is worth a moment. Al-Azhar is usually translated as 'the most radiant' or 'the most resplendent'. Many historians link it to Fatima al-Zahra, the daughter of the Prophet Muhammad. The Fatimids traced their line back to her, and her title, al-Zahra, comes from the same root. Not every scholar agrees on this origin, but it is the explanation you will hear most often. Either way, the name carries a sense of light, which suits a courtyard as bright as this one.

Here is the first surprise. The Fatimids were Shia Muslims of the Ismaili branch. Al-Azhar was built to teach their form of the faith. Today, it is known across the world as a leading centre of Sunni learning. That change came with a new ruler. In the twelfth century, Saladin, the founder of the Ayyubid dynasty, brought Egypt back to Sunni Islam. For a long period, Friday prayers stopped here, and the mosque lost its royal support. It was later Sunni rulers who brought it back to life.

Study here started early. Within a few years of its founding, scholars were giving lessons in the mosque. Over the centuries, Al-Azhar grew into one of the oldest continuously working centres of learning anywhere. Teaching did not happen in lecture halls. It happened right here, under these arcades. A teacher sat against a column, and his students sat in a circle around him on the floor. The phrase 'to sit at the feet of a master' was a literal description of this place.

Look along the arcades, and you will notice that the arches are not simple round curves. Many of them rise to a gentle point, a little like the keel of an upturned boat. This shape is typical of Fatimid building in Cairo. The original prayer hall stands on the side of the courtyard that faces Mecca. Inside, rows of columns hold up the roof, and many of those columns were taken from older buildings. Some may be Roman or Byzantine in origin, reused here by the builders.

The mosque you see today is not the work of one century. It is a building made of many layers. Each ruling power in Egypt wanted to leave its mark here. Rulers added gates, schools, prayer niches, and minarets. They repaired and enlarged the halls. So when you walk around the edges of the courtyard, you are moving between different eras. A Fatimid arch may stand only a few steps from an Ottoman doorway. The building grew the way the city grew — piece by piece.

Now look up at the skyline. Several minarets rise above the walls, and most of them come from the Mamluk period. The Mamluks were a military class who ruled Egypt from the thirteenth century to the early sixteenth century. They were great builders. One slender minaret belongs to Sultan Qaytbay, famous for his elegant stone carving. Another, built for Sultan al-Ghuri, ends in two separate tops instead of one. This double-headed minaret is rare in Cairo, and it is easy to miss unless you look for it.

Here is the second surprise. Look for the main entrance known as Bab al-Muzayyinin. The name means 'the Gate of the Barbers'. According to the usual account, students once had their heads shaved here before they entered to study. The gate itself dates from the eighteenth century, when a powerful official named Abd al-Rahman Katkhuda added new building work to the mosque. He did a great deal to expand Al-Azhar, and his additions are some of the most decorated parts you will see.

Al-Azhar was never only for Egyptians. Students came from across the Muslim world — from West Africa, from Syria, from Central Asia, and from many other regions. They lived in shared quarters called riwaqs. A riwaq was a hall or set of rooms for students from one region or one community. People from the same homeland ate together, slept together, and studied together. For centuries, this made the mosque a meeting point of languages, accents, and traditions, all gathered around one courtyard.

The mosque was also part of the political life of the city. Its scholars were respected voices, and people listened when they spoke. At the end of the eighteenth century, during the French occupation of Egypt, Al-Azhar became a centre of protest against the occupiers. In later years, the institution grew into a modern university with many faculties, some far from this building. But this mosque remains its symbolic heart. The head of the institution, the Grand Imam of Al-Azhar, is one of the most senior religious figures in Sunni Islam.

Step back into the present for a moment. Al-Azhar is not a museum. It is a working mosque, and people come here to pray, to read, and to rest. You may see students with books open on their knees. You may see an older man asleep in the shade of a column. Dress modestly, keep your voice low, and give space to anyone at prayer. Women are usually asked to cover their hair. Outside the walls, the streets of the old city press close on every side.

Those streets are part of the experience. Just across the road lies the area around the Mosque of Al-Hussein, and beyond it the lanes of the old Khan el-Khalili market. The air outside carries the smell of coffee, spices, and car exhaust all at once. Traffic noise rolls in from the wide road nearby. Yet inside the courtyard, the sound changes. The walls soften it. The open sky above makes the space feel larger than it is.

Before you leave, stand still in the centre of the courtyard and turn slowly in a circle. Notice the pointed arches, the minarets against the sky, the marble shining where many feet have walked. For over a thousand years, people have crossed this same floor to pray and to learn. When you put your shoes back on at the gate, listen for a moment. The voices under the arcades will still be there, quietly reading, as they have been for centuries.