On today’s date in 1169, Salah ad-din Yusuf ibn Ayyub became the Emir of Egypt.

Last month, our World Religions class learned much about this notable Muslim leader.

His name came up in two different contexts.

The first was during our foray into the life and accomplishments of Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon, otherwise known as Maimonides.

When I visited Cordoba, Maimonides’ hometown, I made a pilgrimage to the Juderia (“Jewish Quarter”) to walk the streets that (allegedly) one of Jewish tradition’s greatest thinkers strolled as a child.  The Juderia boasts one of only three medieval synagogues to survive in Spain. (The other two are in Toledo.) This synagogue was built in 1305. It is located 3 minutes away from Maimonides Square, past the Bull Fighting Museum. (I always root for the bull…)

Located on Judios Street, the exterior of the synagogue is unimpressive, and its interior is no bigger than the average suburban living room, but its high walls are covered with Hebrew inscriptions dating from 1350. 

Less than ten minutes from there by foot is the Eurostars Maimonides Hotel, a luxury hotel. I went in to search for a bathroom, and after finding out from the concierge where it was, I decided to ask about the namesake of the establishment.  “He is a very important man,” the concierge told me. “A general perhaps.  And definitely a Muslim!”  

Though Cordoba makes great hay out of their famous native son, Maimonides and his family were actually forced to flee the city on the heels of the edict from the new fundamentalist regime in Andalusia.  The Maimoni family emigrated to Morocco in about 1160.  In 1165, the Maimoni family set sail for Palestine. After a brief yet formative visit to the land of Israel, then under Crusader rule, they finally settled in Egypt in 1166 — first in Alexandria, and eventually in Fustat (which is located in “Old Cairo” today).

In Fustat, Maimonides was supported by his brother David, a merchant who imported diamonds from India. David’s financial success afforded Maimonides the time to devote himself to his intellectual pursuits. On one trip, the family gave their savings for the entrepreneurial son to procure goods in the Sudanese port of ‘Aydhab.  David arrived at the port after a long journey through the desert, and unimpressed, got on a ship for India to make some money in the East. David drowned at sea.  His death devastated Maimonides.  As he described in one of the letters found in the Cairo Genizah:

On the day I received that terrible news I fell ill and remained in bed for about a year, suffering from a sore boil, fever, and depression, and was almost given up. About eight years have passed, but I am still mourning and unable to accept consolation. And how should I console myself? He grew up on my knees, he was my brother, [and] he was my student.

Without the support of his brother, he began practicing medicine and struggled to support himself and his brother's family.  Around 1171, Maimonides was appointed “Nagid” of the Egyptian Jewish community. His medical expertise garnered much attention. He was soon appointed court physician first to the Grand Vizier of Egypt, then to the Sultan Salah ad-Din Yusuf Ibn Ayyub, the first Sultan of Egypt and Syria.

In the second instance, Salah ad-Din came up in the context of the Crusades.

We spoke much about how the terms “Crusade” and “crusader” have positive connotations in the present, usually in connection with acting on deeply-held beliefs and sincerely campaigning for change. However, we quickly came to understand after perusing numerous primary sources that the Crusader slogan of “Deus Vult!” (“God wills it!”) served as cover for base savagery and bloodshed.  The mobs that made their way across Europe to answer the Pope’s call may have been motivated by deeply-held belief, but their willingness to go crusade was also fueled by self-aggrandizement (i.e., the Pope promised to forgive the sins of all who volunteer, and in many jurisdictions, the authorities promised to forgive the debts of those who went to recapture the Holy Land from the nonbelievers).

Jewish historian David Nirenberg observed that the violence unleashed on the Rhineland’s Jews "occupy a significant place in modern Jewish historiography and are often presented as the first instance of an antisemitism that would henceforth never be forgotten and whose climax was the Holocaust.” The total number of Jewish casualties from the First Crusade is estimated at about 10,000 – a far cry from some of the later tragedies. However, the population of Europe in 1096 was less than 10% of what it is in recent decades, and the number of dead included whole communities across Ashkenaz.

In short, Crusaders were not heroes by any stretch of the imagination.

So, in the context of the Second Crusade, in 1187, we learned how Salah ad-Din defeated a different generation of “heroic” Crusaders and conquered Jerusalem (which, incidentally, prompted Pope Gregory VIII to call for a THIRD Crusade.) We also learned how Salah ad-Din comported himself - in stark contrast to how the Crusaders behaved when they were the victors in First Round.  We came across this lesson through various representations of Salah ad-Din in Western literature and art.

In Dante’s The Divine Comedy, Salah ad Din merited a spot in Limbo, reserved for the virtuous pagans along with Plato, Aristotle and Ibn Rushd (a philosophical inspiration for Maimonides!).

He was also a hero in 19th century Victorian romantic novels like Sir Walter Scott’s The Talisman, in which he, in disguise, heals an ailing Richard the Lionheart.  We read excerpts from a biography of Saladin published by Stanley Lane-Poole in 1898 which fawned endlessly over its subject - but more importantly, drew upon Arab sources for the work - a first!

We admired Salah ad-Din in Romantic paintings like Philip James de Loutherbourg’s “The Battle between Richard Coeur de Lion and Saladin in Palestine,” Alexandre-Evariste Fragonard’s “Saladin à Jerusalem,” Solomon Alexander Hart’s “King Richard I of England and Soldan Saladin” and Gustav Dore’s “Saladin the Victorious.”  

We also looked at modern examples, most notably 2005’s Kingdom of Heaven directed by Ridley Scott.  We were particularly mindful of scenes that portrayed Crusaders both as honourable men (i.e., King Baldwin IV, Godfrey of Ibelin, the Hospitaler, and Tiberias) as well as venal, bloodthirsty fundamentalists (i.e., Raynald of Chatillon and Guy de Lusignan).  What were even more compelling were the scenes set in Salah ad-Din’s camp.

In the climatic moment in Salah ad-Din’s siege of Jerusalem, the walls have been breached.  It seems the end is near for the defenders. Salah ad-Din summons Balian of Ibelin (portrayed by Orlando Bloom) who comes out to discuss terms.

As you can see in the clip below, Balian does not seek terms.  “Before I lose [the city], I will burn it to the ground. Your holy places - ours. Every last thing in Jerusalem that drives men mad.  Salah ad-Din ponders then replies: “I wonder if it would not be better if you did.”

Salah ad-Din repeats his offer of safe passage for all who surrender. Balian reminds him that when the Christians took Jerusalem they butchered every Muslim within its walls.  Salah ad-Din replies emphatically: “I am NOT those men. I am Salah ad-Din.  Salah ad-Din.”

It is clear from Balian’s reaction that he understands what Salah ad-Din means and who he is.

Even in 2005, when many an historic figure has undergone review and revision, Salah ad-Din is still portrayed in a noble, heroic light.  Why?

One of the more telling explanations is a theological one. If the Crusaders, fighting a war blessed by God, met defeat at Salah ad-Din’s hands, then it is clearly God’s will and love for Salah ad Din that made it so.

Salah ad-Din was arguably the last Muslim leader who would be portrayed as positively or idealized by Western culture. Was it because of the perfect convergence of historical timing, personal character, and narrative necessity? Was it because his chivalry, mercy, and wisdom served as a necessary counterpoint to the brutality of the Crusades? Or was it because in venerating Salah ad-Din, Western historians could both acknowledge defeat while preserving moral dignity through association with such a worthy opponent?

As the centuries progressed and colonialism, Orientalism, and “civilizational conflict” post 9/11 hardened attitudes, the West increasingly required "othered" representations of Muslim leadership to justify its actions and cultural superiority.

The idealization of Salah ad-Din served a psychological purpose: he became the exception that proved the rule, the "good Muslim" against whom all others could be unfavourably compared.

The remarkable longevity of his positive portrayal—from Dante to Ridley Scott—suggests that Western culture has continuously needed this noble Muslim archetype, frozen in medieval amber, even as it struggled to extend similar generosity of character to contemporary Muslim figures.

In Salah ad-Din, the West found a Muslim leader it could admire without threatening its own narrative of Western supremacy—a safe historical figure whose virtue could be celebrated precisely because he was perceived as an exception rather than the rule.

This article shares INSIGHTS into the types of topics we teach in our online high school courses.

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