Acceptance and integration

It was not until much later- we're talking months- that I discovered and witnessed for myself that many Arabs, above all other races, have settled down in Bosna since the day Dayton Accord was made effective. These Saudi Arabians, Palestinians, Jordanians, Sudanese, etc came during the war to help in military and charity organisations, not wanting to close an eye to the oppressions their brethrens in faith were suffering then. Many of them I met in Kralj Fahd Džamija (King Fahd Mosque) and Čaršijska Džamija (the mosque closest to Sebilj), all of them very nice and friendly. Most of them, though not all, felt themselves as Bosnian-Arabs, and spoke of Bosna with a sense of belonging, in the strongest meaning of the word.

Bosnian Muslims are arguably more integrated and multi-racial than the Malaysian Muslims. If it was easy to observe them mixing smoothly and in harmony, the situation in Malaysia differs. Islam is largely kept to the Malays, other Muslims are never truly accepted into the society. I realise this statement might invite some huge arguments but this is exactly what we can discern from the same atmosphere in many- thankfully not all- mosques even in large cities; universities excluded. It is difficult for a Bangladeshi, Pakistani, or Indonesian to pray in our mosques without being perceived as one from a lower strata of the society. They might be lucky to be able to squeeze unnoticed into the front-most row, but to play some role in the congregation will be out of question. Once in a blue moon, some freshly educated vigorous young men would go shake hands with them, ask about their well-being, make them feel important; accept and acknowledge their presence- a passing moment of rejoice for these 'sideliners', made so by the community.

In truth, without holding strongly to the teachings and spirit of alQuran (both equally important), a man can easily buy the tempting whispers of the devils. A man can be as proud and boastful as anyone, his thoughts malicious, and his actions evil- a perfect corruptor of the society. Is it not true that we always complain of the 'racist West'; that they are too proud, seldom listen to us, belittle our potential, and misprize our abilities? At the same time, we ourselves- knowingly or unknowingly- misuse every bit of superiority given to us. We generalise and stereotype other people, we see some as inferior, others as unworthy of attention. Shame on us, when we could have taken- and definitely still can do- a better turn, as advised in the Quran;

"O mankind! We created you from a single (pair) of a male and a female, and made you into nations and tribes, that ye may know each other (not that ye may despise each other). Verily the most honoured of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you. And Allah has full knowledge and is well acquainted (with all things)."
(al-Hujurat ; 13)

Harun

If you're excited about Sebilj, which is world-famous as an important landmark in Sarajevo, it won't take one minute of your time to walk up from there to Harun's coffee shop. You would have to cross the almost-always-busy traffic and tram rail to reach a fast-selling 'pekara' (bakery) and continue walking 6 metres to your left. I'm the type that would never pass a bakery without getting anything, so personally I would stop there first- as it was then the coffee shop didn't serve anything not drinkable. My love for bread has been especially and directly trained by my loving Umi, helped by the daily demands of my younger brother who then ate nothing but bread.

The three of us walked into the coffee shop, and a fine handsome young man greeted us with unceasing smiles. He is brown-eyed, dark-haired, with a complexion only unnoticeably more tanned than the average Bosnians. Sanadin gave him a warm brotherly hug and for a while they spoke in the language I was yet to learn. Harun was quick not to let us feel unattended hence unimportant; he left from behind the counter to make sure that we were given the warmest welcome. I immediately noticed two things- he might not be a pure Bosnian; and his english was superb.

A few things about Harun marvelled me. First, he made us feel like we were old friends- at first sight. His greetings, his manners, his hospitability, and his interest in our details and journey were genuine and exceptional. We were like his royal guests, even his counter was not of bigger priority. During our stay, it must've been around half a dozen times that I heard him reiterating about how Islam regards it important to serve or at least help fellow travellers. We asked about his background and it turned out that he's a mixed Palestinian-Bosnian; fluent in Arabic, Bosnian, and English (how I wished to be born a polyglot). Meanwhile I looked around the medium-sized, four-tabled premise- it was fitted with a well kept toilet and a stairway to an underground room was hiding itself on the other side. I was all the more shocked- almost in an insulting manner- when told that the very coffee shop I was sitting in was only in its third day of operation.

The three of us sat down at a glass table, at about the knee's level, and began ordering our drinks. I can't remember what the others had, but I wanted to try an original Bosnian čaj (tea). We were then served- and joined- by the likeable shop owner himself, Harun, still unfinished in his making-us-warmed business.

Entering Baščaršija square

That night when I walked around in Baščaršija, I didn't know where to lay my eyes on. I looked at its shops, glanced at its people, glimpsed at its bright full moon, and stared hard at its mosques. The lights coming from everywhere along our path made the scene overwhelmingly pleasing. Putting pieces together, I can only conclude that if Rijeka Neretva in Mostar was the most beautiful, this old town was the most exotic.

Knowing that we would come here again tomorrow with Adnan, we didn't bother ourselves to look for any souvenirs. This walk tonight was intended to give us the opportunity to enjoy the beautiful night scene of Baščaršija- which we really did. However, being mortals, after a while we were overtaken by exhaustion, made worse by the oversized bagpacks we were carrying behind our backs. Sanadin had a plan, a 'final one' I secretly hoped- a stop at his friend's coffee shop.

At that time, I thought Sanadin wasn't acting in our interest- a thought that I would very soon regret and ashamed to have. First I wasn't a big fan of coffee, but that wasn't of too much concern. Neither Nubli nor myself had known him for long, we knew we should be prepared for anything slightly less preferable should it happen. I mean we should trust people because trust is nice and it holds us together firmly, but that shouldn't ease our vigilance and preparedness of unexpected, insidious circumstances when they develop. I didn't think too far as to being robbed or kidnapped, no those are too extreme and very much unachievable in the midst of the busy Baščaršija. The worst I had was,"Is he using us clueless tourists to enrich his own network of friends, while assuming all tourists are men of means?"

On our way there, we passed the Baščaršija square marked by Sebilj, a wooden-concrete fountain standing firmly and conspicuously in the middle of it. The structure was erected on a raised ground, giving it a slightly more majestic appearance. Water, as the word 'fountain' denotes, was flowing undisturbed from its two sides simply waiting for anyone to come for thirst-quenching. If my memory is correct, Nubli climbed the stairs to the Sebilj and drank from it, while I passed it thinking 'there is always tomorrow', if God so willed. Interestingly though, there is a legend behind this fountain. It is said that once you drink from it, you can never leave Bosna for too long- well let's see how Nubli copes with that!

When nothing goes into the bin, something goes into the soul

Sanadin took us to a restaurant for dinner. It looked pretty much like those mini restaurants in Dublin, where my friends often take me to, except that this one was worryingly empty. 'Worrying'- because, in cities like London and Manchester (and in fact Selangor too), consumers know very well how to communicate messages amongst each other. A simple rule of thumb; less-frequented restaurants reflect the quality of food it serves. It immediately reminded me of Babah, who at his best, when taking us for a family's night out, has always avoided places of this like. Instinctively memories of Dr Asri taking us to an empty restaurant in London flashed vividly- I smiled thinking how I forced myself to enjoy the food, in respect of the ex-mufti.

Don't ask me what I had that night- I certainly had had enough of new, unfamiliar, intangible words digested, processed, and repeated in the last 24 hours. All I can remember was that I didn't finish my meal, and tried to push my plate to Nubli who also resisted. Not knowing his culture very well, I hesitantly asked our Bosnian friend's help; to my astonishment Sanadin graciously accepted my left-overs and finished it in a matter of minutes.

This incident might be overlooked by many, if not most of us. However I can't help but to think about its potential underlying causes and effects. As my story unfolds, if God had willed, it will become clear to readers that this culture- the abhorrence to wasting- is in no way exclusive to Sanadin. In fact it was too extensive that I sometimes worry about infectability issues! It can be said that Muslims in general find its roots in the verse in the Qur'an that relegates and degrades a person who wastes to being a close sibling of the devils. When put into practice, anyone would quickly realise that it demanded more values to jump into the scene- e.g. love, togetherness, aid, selflessness, and humility; to name but a few. As an example, without humility, one can never imagine himself proudly eating the left-overs of another- not unless if the person was someone special and loved!

When everyone finished, we payed the bills and walked out. It felt so different- that I was so refreshed by the meal. Taking the first few steps into the fresh air of Sarajevo again, I reconfigured my previously exhausted self- which almost turned to hibernation mode- back to the vigilant, alert Safwan. So we set off to experience the exotic "moon-lit Baščaršija".

Lingual reflections from 'Baščaršija'

Having had some part of Sarajevo uncovered, and the BBI shopping complex explored, we resorted to rest at the concourse in front of the complex, not knowing anything else to do. Fortunately we didn't have to wait long, after a few minutes Sanadin appeared from the direction opposite to which we came from. He hugged us, giving a warm welcome to his two guests of the same faith.

I learnt that my facebook profiling skills was not so bad- Sanadin is a walking proof. Although his english is not very fluent, he has in his heart the warmth ever-ready to be extended to his guests. He is a man of extraordinary valour- indeed we were not the first tourists he has attended to. He mentioned his regular experience working as a group tourist guide in Mostar, from which he aims to improve his english and spread the beauty of Islam. Only recently, he brought some non-muslim tourists to sleep in his house, another of his not uncommonly done deeds. At his age, only a year younger than me, I would think that many other youths would prefer to busy themselves doing something else. Something most probably less productive than this.

Our unofficial guide had plans. He wanted to walk us through the very heart of Sarajevo tonight, in the difficult-to-pronounce Baščaršija, a Turkish derived word. In fact, I would later come to know that in Bosnian language (and culture; with limitations), elements of Turkish are quite widespread. Sanadin explained that in Turkish, Baščaršija simply means 'main marketplace'. I had to have him repeat this word a number of times that I was afraid I might offend him; his language and culture at the same time. It couldn't be helped, I needed it to be transcribed somewhere, I need to see its written form before I could appreciate it better. It was not until I came back to England that I actually learnt this word without the same difficulty.

Language is simply a marvel to me. It is something everyone- without exception, not even the deaf or dumb- uses everyday, but many would ignore its exquisite intricacies. If only languages were like stamps or coins, I would have collected every variant of it that ever existed between east and west. Much of the words of any one language are intermingled with at least three other completely different or even ancient languages (I'll leave history, there will be no end to its facts, interrelation, mystery, and excitement). Some languages have words distinct from each other, but their verb conjugation structure might be somewhat alike. Compare any two languages in the world, little do I doubt the possibility to find some similarities in the most starkly different languages. In that way, if you have mastered a language, and I suspect everyone has had at least one, you will never have to learn another language from scratch. Rather ironically, there must be something that you have known about the yet-to-be-known language.

Another thing about language, perhaps obvious but the most noteworthy; it connects people.

How history still plays a role

From one end of the world to the other, no sane man can escape needing the toilets as part of their daily routine. Our roles can shift from a guest to a host, a buyer to a seller, a believer to a non-believer, a traveler to a local dweller- but the basic needs stay and do not change. Our preferences and circumstances do though; they can vary greatly, making us think that we are in need of certain facilities more- or less- than other people around us.

More notably for travelers, toileting is far above 'facility'- it is an absolute neccessity. In every stop and destination, and in the time between them, our minds would now and again be stormed with at least a touch of worry on the type of toileting in store for us in the next halt. Timing is a major issue, because we travelers are bound not only to our journey but also the toilets' operational hours. To some people with a greater degree of fussiness, this can be a thoroughgoing preoccupation.

Fortunately for the two lost Malaysians in a regular night of Sarajevo, the toilets in BBI shopping complex were luxurious. We were very satisfied with the facility, a service which we dont have to pay a penny for. Up until then I have failed to observe a very starked reality, depicting marked difference between two countries which shared a common political and social identity. The difference is probably theological in origin; one party viewing water as a basic individual right and charitable means, the other sees it as a door to economical gain. To put it simply, as far as our legs have taken us, every working toilet in Croatia- from the unattended to the lavish- demands payment from its users. In contrast, not a single toilet (and for that matter any other water facilities) in Bosna is not free. We walked across Mostar and in the middle of Sarajevo, and have used toilets in reputable hotel and shopping complex without having to worry about keeping a spare change to be given away at the counters. Nothing less to expect from a country in which Islam can be found in the roots of its traditions.

At this point it is almost an obligation for me to include the observations from Al-Djazairi, my all time favourite author on medieval history of the Orient vis-à-vis the Levant, who maintained that such phenomenon is not new, and has existed for almost a century now, if not more. While Islam regards water as clean and purifying, its opponents see it as unclean, loathsome, and dishonorable. While Muslims are proud to 'bathe' certain parts of their bodies five times a day, their adversaries would avoid water as much as they can, until that we can find in their history a laughable quote from a royal queen who was proud to have not touched even a single drop of water for as long as she had lived. Just to be sure- she was, at that time, in her age of frailty.

Now it shouldn't be a wonder to us that Bosna treats "the need of water" with high regard, ensuring that everyone is given his right to such basics. It is a religious duty, in which God's extensive mercy is earned.

Observer bias

Our estimation of the distance we covered can often be inaccurate; especially when our limbs have weakened, stomach rumbling, and the hopes and excitements for finding the 'legendary' Katedrala was slowly diminishing. At such a time, after (what we felt like) a long hour of walking, we stopped at, and were stopped by, a big shopping complex under the name Bosna Bank International (BBI). Being in the middle of the city's concentration, it easily stood out from the rest of its neighbours and surroundings. A concourse is spread and extended almost unrestrictedly before its entrance, inviting a massive crowd of shoppers to gather, break, and enjoy the fresh air before or after their needs are fulfilled.

We, the lost travelers, were among its benefitors. We might have refreshed our spiritual states at Alipašina džamija- which was something we appreciated and needed very much- but as Muslims we remain practical. Prayers won't change our dear future without effort, it won't bring about a map of Sarajevo in a piece of paper to us, it won't cause the sky to rain golds and diamonds, neither will it build a roof on top of us for shelter. At that time we needed to relieve ourselves, to answer the call of nature in an appropriate setting, if not luxurious. We needed some digression, and BBI shopping complex was the right place for that purpose.

Inside the building, there were throngs of people walking in an almost random, unregulated manner. As in other shopping complexes the noise was maximal, everyone was speaking at the top of his voice. I was looking, glancing and turning my head round to look for Bosnian women in hijab, but unfortunately it was a rarity. There were only two or three of them that I managed to get a glimpse on, and that was for the whole hour or so I spent in the complex. Often I was told and reminded over and over again by proud Bosnians in Mostar that in this city, Muslims account for more than 90% (many even said 99%) of the population. "So where is Islam? Is this as much as it can give me?" I tried to reason this, doing brain-storming to find for reasons or at least excuses.

In reality, it was almost Isha' time- about 9 o' clock in the night- and it was not fair for me to expect to see many Muslim women in hijab around this time, especially in such places. My family and I ourselves would only very very occassionally do so, when there is real need. Otherwise, we prefer to spend our time at home together as a happy family; reading hadith, discussing Qur'an, watching the news or family movies over dinner. We see it as a time of rest, after a long day of school and work. It is a time of togetherness, of love and understanding, and of smiles and laughters- a time I appreciate most in the many times I spent at home. It is a time of pure happiness for the whole family, a time much needed by every one of us without exception. Thank you Babah and Umi, for I wouldn't have grown up to be this same Safwan if we hadn't spent much time of this like.

Now I understood better on how biased can obersvations be, even if the observer tries very hard to be honest, critical and contemplative. I came here as a tourist, but that wasn't the whole picture. I couldn't help but bring with me the expectations I have on Bosna- in the way I hoped to see it as. In fact, these were very skewed, gathered only by limited exposure to this country's unlimited reserve of culture. It will be worse if I was not willing to learn from my own weaknesses, and continue to think that I'm making an infallible, unbiased judgement of a culture I hardly even know.

Start with asking around

In my journeys, I don't only like to take risks, but also creating them. A lot of my friends will not agree to this, and I respect their opinion and sometimes heed their advices. However, inside me, I have failed to extinguish this burning desire to grab whatever chances that pass by. In several circumstances, if none does, I will drag them to my feet. I believe in encounters and challenges. I believe in the amount of experience that comes with it. I believe in circumstantial learning and practical self-development. Because "we only get what we put in".

My life is a witness to this, although it is also the main fuel contributing to such attitude. At the age of 14, I taught myself to break the chains that have kept me from giving public speeches. A few years later I learnt to stand up for what I believe is right, paying the least attention to popular support. I was once labelled 'strange', when in fact I only did things other people are not yet brave enough to do. At times I was seen as 'unexpected', because I share my opinions with honesty what others still feel reserved to disclose.

It should therefore not be a great surprise for anyone in my company, that I like to ask around whenever there is opportunity- even if we're not exactly lost. It is also not uncommon for me to use every opportunity to create an opening, initiating a conversation between two strangers. So there I was, looking for Katedrala in an unfamiliar Sarajevo, stopping pedestrians and officials alike, asking for directions.

There was so much to learn, even in doing something as basic as asking for directions. An obvious gain would be that we could randomly- although not quite accurately- assess the availability of English as a language of communication. In a city like Sarajevo, which hosted Commonwealth games before I was even born, very well heard of to the world (although little do we know about it), some degree of prevalence of English would be useful. From another angle, quite oppositely, it is also rather easy to grasp and appreciate a community's pride for its own language, which is also a veritable reflection of their culture. Their attitude towards foreigners would also be transparent, and we could see how much or little effort would they put to ensuring our safe arrival- not to mention the different instructions we got! Such a simple thing to do, yet so many things revealed and disclosed, allowing some degree of familiarity in a relatively short span of time.

So if we are not ready to do anything else, let's start with asking around for directions. So little we give, yet so much we get!

This life we live, this same life they are missing

In our direction, I hoped, would appear the Katedrala that Sanadin made our mission to look for. Behind us was the mosque where we were forced to pray on its paved corridor, an experience I value more than my writings would read. With a few more passers-by, we performed our act of submission to the one and only God, consistently declaring His unity without a flinch. It was indeed amazing to think and rethink about; that half a dozen men, strangers to each other, could congregate, organise, and arrange themselves with full discipline and linearity in a matter of seconds. Their legs walked them to the mosques with an appointment- one and the same; a quick but special moment with their common and only Creator, the Sublime, worthy of all praise.

As we walked leaving the mosque, its environ nevertheless was still shrouding us. I might have set my eyes to look for the Katedrala, but my ears were still hearing splashes from the continuously flowing water we used to complete our ablution. Even at times when the mosque was locked, its refreshing water did not stop to flow, like a river during a pitch-dark night. I wonder if it was an act of wasting which the Prophet abhorred us much from doing, or was it merely an extension of the Rijeka Miljacka, running only two dozen metres away from Ali Pasha's tomb.

To spend a moment with God out of the many hours He gave us in a day is something the proud can not appreciate- neither will they. I might have not travelled as far to comment much on this, but Allah has granted me vigilant senses, enough to notice a common trait in remarkably many non-Muslims. At home, when Muslims busied themselves with performing the obligatory evening prayers, they were restless. During long flights, when Muslims went one after another to the lavatories to make ablutions, they stared at the empty air. Muslims schedule themselves to a 5-daily appointments with God, and they wait for a once-weekly 'de-stressing' on a Friday night. Every now and then their hearts lurch, demanding its right from them, but they ignored and neglected it. They could have tuned their ears to listen to the reminders from the Quran, or task their eyes to observe a Muslim, or work their brains to appreciate this way of life- but they tune, task, and work not. Their hearts are blind, sitting in a veil they themselves created- and incessantly defended. They don't dare to walk out of their pride, lest they will lose the sovereignty they wrongly awarded for themselves.

“And We remove whatever rancour may be in their hearts. Rivers flow beneath them. And they say: The praise to Allah, Who hath guided us to this. We could not truly have been led aright if Allah had not guided us. Verily the messengers of our Lord did bring the Truth. And it is cried unto them: This is the Garden. Ye inherit it for what ye used to do.” (al-A'raaf: 43)

Alipašina džamija- where the brave fought

Ali Pasha džamija, the mosque standing proudly at where the roads meet, has a history to boast. Built four years after the death of Ali-pasha, it is claimed to be one of the most beautiful cupolaed mosques in Sarajevo. The man from whom the mosque adopted its name died in 1557 on his sickbed, whereby he asked for a mosque to be built next to his grave, using the money from his foundation.

That was a black and white historical fact that anyone can get by visiting this mosque, or even sitting in front of his computer and google the name. But there was something else that makes traveling different- you are exposed to informations that are well spiced with more of its histories, cultures, beliefs, or even prejudices. I walked with Adnan the next day, a native of Sarajevo, and was told that from this very mosque, on its single tall minaret, Muslim women used to participate in the war against the aggressors. They defended their position until the last trace of hope vanished and never returned. That was when they threw their bodies to drown into Rijeka Miljacka, the river that witnessed their ever unfolding history. Hadn't they done what they did, God knows how those beasts would've treated them..

The night had a full moon which magically floated next to the mosque's historical minaret. Perhaps it wanted attention- and attention was what it got. For some reasons, even before I knew what a native would know about this mosque, I felt there was something attractive about it. Something historically unique and deserves more than just a passing-by. For all we know, the bright moon wanted us visiting worshipers to know and not to ever forget the sacrifices these extraordinary women made here, and the exemplary valour they exhibited. "Be faithful and brave, stand for truth and justice, men and women alike!" May we take heed, amin.

We walked into its compound and approached the main door. It was locked. From our experience on the mosques in Mostar, we were not at all surprised, but I admit feeling a little frustrated. Isha' was a bit too long a wait; we had no choice but to pray in its compound.

Gdje je Katedrala?

As we left the bus station, we made our way to the Katedrala, a meeting point agreed earlier with Sanadin, our contact in Sarajevo. I hardly knew him, all I could gather was that he had an Islamically-inclined facebook profile. Communications between us didn't go quite well either, despite him being a busy man, I sometimes found it hard to make sense his sentences. The last time he rang me was when we were in the bus, on our way to this historic city. I thought I heard him mention 'Katedrala' as our meeting point. I was surprisingly pretty sure of it, perhaps because we had no other options- we had no one else to rely on.

On route to this ambiguous Katedrala, which we assumed to mean Cathedral, we unavoidably had a few indecisive moments. At one point we stopped at a massive church, and I was pretty sure that it was our Katedrala, only to be told that it wasn't. At another, we almost lost hope when it was communicated to us that our destination was impossible to reach by walking. The tram was there for our use, but several circumstances made it less favourable. We were new to Sarajevo, and a little bit of a walk will hopefully unravel the town's culture, environ, arrangements and make up. We could have used the tram to reach there earlier, but we were not in any way in a hurry, and had plenty of time before our appointment with Sanadin. Besides, it needed a little extra of knowledge in Bosnian language to get the tram tickets- it was precisely this that I wasn't quite ready for. At such a crucial time, a quick glimpse of the city's map would have been useful, I quietly thought.

The decision was made- on foot we continued. We were put in one direction by some helpful Samaritans, and were fortunate enough that the long road had little divergences. After a while, where the road ended, we found ourselves in a big traffic junction, which needed a few 'reds' on the traffic lights to cross over to the other side. I was ready to admit to Nubli that we were in the constellation of being hungry, tired, and lost, when suddenly the figure of a dimly-lit mosque appeared in front of our eyes. All we needed to do was to cross to the other side, and there we will find respite.

Sarajevo, Sarajevo

Sarajevo, Sarajevo. Out of the many exciting places in the Balkans, this city is most familiar to my ears and imagination. I use to think, when I just finished pre-school, that Sarajevo was a wicked city ruled by the bestial Serbs, due to overwhelming reports about the Bosnian war in the news at that time. As a kid- a very small kid- I couldn't yet relate places to its circumstances, let alone histories. I never understood what war was. And I guess I never wanted to know. So when I heard "Sarajevo" and "Serbs", I made my conclusion, not too irresponsibly, considering my age.

Today, as I hopped into the bus to Sarajevo, my understanding of it was still noticeably shallow. There wasn't much that I could boast on my knowledge of Bosna or any cities in it, but about the war. Brushing the war aside, Sarajevo is to me a city of tradition. I could already see, in my outstretching imagination, traditional Bosnians walking and hustling in and around the city. Bosnians with their tall hat, long skirt, and simple scarf. I could also see cities and hills, and I could see large busy markets of hundreds of years old. The only problem was, I wondered if any of these imaginations are well-founded.

Although Nubli understandably chose to dream away again, my eyes would never give in, perhaps due to the excitement that I myself couldn't explain any better. Rijeka Neretva, the green river from Mostar seemed to want to send me off- it flowed calmly beside our bus as we left our trail. So, for the next two hours before its disappearance my neck was locked into looking to the left, with my lips whispering praises to the Almighty, and my eyes washed by His awe. In between those, I was unduly entertained by a cute 7 year old english speaking boy who found so much interest in me. Nothing better, from Allah, to fill my time.

As the sky turned darker, I began to notice some changes in the terrain of our surrounding. The road curved and turned more vigorously, and on our right a valley filled with lights became more and more visible. In a matter of minutes, before I could decipher our position, we entered a main road and started to drive along with an old tram, sliding by our side. "We're in Sarajevo", I whispered to Nubli.

Leaving Mostar

Beautiful city, friendly people. Nothing motivates us more to continue our journey to the glamorous Sarajevo, which is next on our list. We can't thank our new friends enough for the hospitality and tourist-guidance they provided. Above all, it was the mercy of God Almighty, which translates into a form we could appreciate most. The prayers and supplications we made before and during the travel were certainly heard and answered by Him, Who loses nothing upon granting His needing slaves everything.

Praises be to God, our short visit to Mostar was nonetheless very educating. We spent less than 7 hours there and have seen much of its beauty, culture and underlying history. That was not all- we saw, and were given lectures on other aspects which will not be apparent to just anyone, i.e. Islamism. Our brother Nurudin took us to their main Islamic Centre, Darul Kuran, within which the movement is organised. Classes of al-Quran and ahadith are held regularly to feed the growing need of Mostar's Muslim community. True, everywhere in the world, people are turning to Islam. And Mostar hates to be left out.

Despite the many occasions where Mostar has won my heart, I was still short of its dakwah experiences. I wanted to see for myself the type of circles and classes they utilise. I wanted to listen to the depth of Arabic they integrate into their learning, analyse the class of audience they attract, the extent of al-Quran and ahadith they cover, their approach to the holy sciences, their attitude towards men-women relation, their fraternity and love for each other, and many more. The nature of my visit steered me away from these, but I wasn't frustrated. It was all the will of God, and He knows what is best for everyone. Perhaps, for me, there is a 'next time'. Again, such matter is only within Allah's boundless knowledge.

Our tour with Nurudin started from Karađoz Begova Džamija, and it was at the same point where we ended. In the quick farewell, I promised to find a man from Malaysia, an Islamic activist, to help strengthen Mostar's Islamic propagation. The idea might sound big, but without trying, we can never test its feasibility.

Just before asr, the afternoon prayer, we set off on foot to the bus station. A simple city with several parallel roads, Mostar is a hard place to be lost in. It didn't take us long to reach there, and soon after that it was time to wave Mostar a goodbye.

The oppressor died, but his legacy remains

The walk with Nurudin, despite us being tired, was definitely a fulfilling one. We passed no building or monuments without its history unearthed. The running commentary our new friend was giving us didn't seem at any point to want to expire. On foot we walked and hiked from one place to another, in the challenging hilly terrain of sunny Mostar.

Mostar is definitely a city of memories, be it pleasurable or painful. It could be, to the many tourists, a memory of the former nature, but it is less so for me. Much of the memories that remain are the painful ones. There was a point where we stopped at and saw a flat ground with only some geometrical markings if anything- and guess what; it used to bear the weight of a triumphant mosque. This was an immediate doing of Tito, right before my eyes; a mosque, demolished and unheard of. Nevertheless his name and recognisable face (criminal-like to me) could be seen almost everywhere today- on posters, t-shirts, hats, army knives- you name it. His lavish residence by the river is now a symbol of pride to some, ignorant of the hidden, perpetual damage he has done to Mostar. Too much love is given to this undeserving villain, that at some point I must have heard some people chanting, "Live Tito, live!"

Perhaps this ancient city, in the face of modernism, is divided. It simply does not know how to react, and hence everything is still experimental. On one hand we have a group of people working their nerves to ensure the elimination of God and religion. They claim that religion is a form of opiate and addiction, but in replacement of it they feed the masses with alcohol, sex, and destructive, unrestrained entertainment. On the other, another group burn the candle at both ends to maintain God's sovereignty in their land. They revive the mosques, spread good words, exchange advices, mark the boulders, and erect memorials of the martyrs- this, we came across at the very end of one of the bridges; there was a display of its architect-turn-martyr's name, with a brief explanation on how he was killed in his 20's. The fact that it was all in Bosnian convinced me that it was for them indeed (not us tourists). It is their memory, it is for their revival, and God willing it will one day become their reality.

By now I noticed the signs of terminal exhaustion in Nubli's face. His expressions turned solemn, his participation minimal, his words- if any- could be well mistaken as whispers. Often he lagged behind when his two unrelenting friends were still so deep in their boring discussions. Without waiting for anything serious to happen, we stopped at the nearest cafe for refreshments.

Ahl al-Masjid (People of the mosque)

The man turned out to be a professor (a word loosely used for teachers/lecturers in Bosna) of Arabic at a local University. As if Arabic was the common spoken language in the contemporary Muslim world, he continued to address us in Arabic- to which I had to tune my language box before I could respond. My Arabic was very much deficient, a product of informal learning for over 18 years. Nevertheless, the conversation seemed to go without as much difficulty as one would expect, until we were interrupted by the many other Muslims who wanted to share their hospitality to us.

I've been a foreigner in many other mosques, but had never been received so warmly as I had here in Mostar. It was in the middle of a busy wednesday, but everyone seemed to have some time to give. It is not too much to say that we felt being in the middle of the attention, in a positive way. We had a salesman working in a mobile company from whom we could get some advices on getting a new SIM card. Even the busy President of Darul Kuran Foundation, Džewad Gološ, stopped by to ask about us. He, who had earlier agreed to show us around, found Nurudin Pajević to replace him doing this totally voluntary work. How then, can we complain? Mostar had welcomed us.

Nurudin was a tall, married, 23 year old man who keeps a decent beard. Without a pause he started his tour-guiding, providing us with loads of details as we walked pass whatever was on our sides. Nubli did not wait to take his notebook out and jotted much of it down, at times making himself looked like a journalist, albeit an amateur one. I, on the other hand, focused my faculties to memorise and appreciate them, only to later admit my limitations. Nurudin surely knows much about his hometown. What a perfect guide, just as we needed.

Inevitably, the whole thing got me thinking again. The fact that Nurudin knows practically everything about Mostar, if this is not exclusive to him, is a wonder. So far there wasn't any one question we posed that he didn't answer satisfactorily- this phenomenon is hard to find amongst the youths of my country, and less so in my current country of residence. If- and it hasn't been tested yet- this same knowledge and acquaintance about one's own country is to be found in the larger general public, then it must've been a product of either of these two: the formal/informal institution, or the recent war- either way, it is still commendable.

Regardless, history does most in preserving identity. And with identity comes everything else.

Beautiful submission

It turned out that the young and youthful Izzudin was the muezzin in Karađoz-Begova Džamija (mosque), much like an MC in a ceremony. Before and after the prayers, he read out a few relevant verses of the Qur'an to invite the mosque-attenders to a beautiful rememberance of God. In fact the soothing call of prayer I previously described was a product of his sheer effort. It automatically prompted me to recall the sayings of the Prophet about the virtues of a sincere muezzin- a massive reward awaiting.

We waited with the whole congregation to finish an imam-led supplication, from whose tone and choice of words I could fairly recognise his mastery of arabic language. Well, the secret lies in him pleading- not just reading- to God. In this respect, our imams in Malaysia might need to learn from their Bosnian counterparts. Then, with the men dispersing, Nubli and I took to a silent corner to perform 'asr, the next obligatory prayer, a lenience allowed on us travelers. Our extra prayers were however almost indistinguishable, especially when the rest were also performing their additional, optional, supererogatory after-zuhr prayers- and the whole mosque was occupied with scattered worshippers.

Again, in a country distant to other self-declared Islamic giants, I would have expected a deep penetration of cultural practices into religion, if not a complete irreversible mixture of the two. But as much as my senses could gather, there was little of it, if any. Apart from the reading of the Qur'an by the muezzin before and after prayers, which is, while not recorded as the practice of the Prophet, justifiable, there was nothing else to note. What could have maintained this authenticity? I can be reasonably sure that if much of the circumstances are applied to the Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Malaysian, Indonesian, or many other communities, religion will be so intermixed with culture that it will no longer be distinct. Worse, they are taken as one and the same. Anyone who has his senses alerted can not miss coming to this same conclusion; take the majority of the Pakistani and Bangladeshi mosques in the UK- they are so culturally shaped and imbibed that often an 'outsider' will find it hard to adapt. This, I promised myself, is a question I have to answer before leaving Bosna.

After replenishing the spiritual needs, we felt fresh and somewhat anew. Our journey had to continue. Taking our bags (alhamdulillah nothing happened to them) and shaking hands with some random locals, we headed for the door. That was when we bumped into a smartly dressed man in his 60's, who first greeted us with the universal Islamic greeting; salam. Peace be to you!

A man with faith is a man without filth

Just after midday, in the streets of this beautiful city, the call of prayers echoed. Thus God is glorified and praised, His unity is declared open and unreservedly; these constitutes the meaning of the enchanting arabic melody of perfectly arranged proses. Since leaving my country last year, this was my first time walking in such atmosphere that gives undescribable experience- the ambience of communal submission and complete humility to the One and only Creator.

We made our ablutions, the ritual washing of our faces, arms, heads and feet before entering the state of prayers. Under the blazing sun, nothing could have been more refreshing. Now that we were physically clean, came the big part of preparing and purifying our souls and innerselves. I stood in the mosque compound contemplating and focusing my mind for these cherished moments with God I've longed for since the last prayer we made early in the morning. The soothing sound of another call of prayers from a mosque somewhere not too far away adds to the serenity already packed in my heart, as if it was also claiming its right to be there. As it happened, more and more people came answering the sublime call they have heard, passing almost unnoticed on my right and left. "We heard, and we submit. We heard, and we follow."

The next few minutes can never be described by words, not even with the most beautiful language ever existed on earth. About a hundred people filled the prayer hall in perfect lines, moving in complete order while expressing their uttermost adoration to the Owner of the heavens and earth. It is still a wonder to me that a land so disconnected from many other thriving Muslim communities could have the exact same practices, in great detail, with the ones I was taught since I was small. These people are Europeans, Slavs in origin, but their hearts are Muslims. They are as humble and submissive to God as other Muslims are.

Deep in the prayers, it was all too emotional for me. This opportunity, this one that God has granted me, was a golden one, if not anything better. To be with souls that are- not just willing- but want and feel the need to connect themselves to their Lord; nothing can be more fulfilling. I couldn't help asking myself; Why would they choose to believe in God, when the (majority of the) rest of the West don't? Why would they want to make God central, when they could have simply chosen alcohol, gambling and fornication? Why submission, when there is this widely publicized 'freedom'? Why choose Islam as your garment, when you can be a proud agnostic European?

Could it be that the answer lies in faith? They say that a man who has faith is a man without filth.

Is this meat halal?

It was one hour to Zuhr and we were exhausted. Nubli, who had no real breakfast in the morning, was now starving, insisting that we should make our way to a restaurant as soon as possible. We stopped at a restaurant Izzudin recommended, found ourselves seats, and started scanning the menu. I read it again and again. Unfortunately, at no point did it make me any sense.

We were attended by the same man who was at the cashier desk, who seemed very polite at first. However, as I should warn all other Bosnian shop-owners, Nubli and I make a very challenging pair to any businessman who wishes to sell us anything. We loved to take our time before making up our minds, and that could take ages to these people- indeed it is a test of patience! It is even worse if we first needed to exactly know what we were getting. The man at first stood beside us and tried answering our questions to no avail, because he knew no English (or rather, we understood no Bosnian!). When he had had enough, seeing no hope in helping us read through the menu, he simply walked away. His strategy worked.

"Iz-vini-te.." The word came out of my mouth inconfidently. It was supposed to mean 'excuse me' in English, but I really had no idea whether or not I pronounced it correctly. Usually my brain could appreciate and store words better if I've seen and heard its pronunciation back-to-back. I gathered my senses to detect any response from the waiter, but found none. Maybe I wasn't loud enough. Or perhaps it wasn't the right word. "Excuse me!" I raised my voice slightly. This time it did not fail me.

While 'enjoying' our lunch (a word that seemed to fit Nubli better for this occasion), we couldn't help but discuss about the issue of halality in Bosna. If you're not familiar with the word yet, you are going to be now. Halal food, as far as I'm concerned, always finds its way to make itself a key issue in any thriving Muslim community. From a majority Muslim-led country like mine in the East, to the minorities in the West, this issue receives unabated attention. For a meat to be halal, or simply permissible, according to traditional rulings, the animal has to be slaughtered by a believer in the name of God, with some specific methods as authentically traced back from the Prophet's exemplary practices. The codes of conduct in such action can be very detail, which includes an admonition from sharpening one's knife in front of the animal to be slaughtered, not to mention slaughtering one in front of another or using a not-sharp-enough knife. Its cutting through the arteries in the neck, a major requirement, diminishes the chance of systemic contimation after the animal becomes lifeless. Most importantly though, it is an act of obedience to God, a humble servitude, and a great show of thanks to the bounty He has provided His creation.

Obviously, there is a 50-50 chance of our source of meat to be from the non-Muslims. When talking to Izzudin earlier, Nubli asked him this question, wanting to know the Bosnians' attitude towards halality issues. Izzudin simply replied, "What is halal can be found in alcohol-free restaurants. Indeed, how can you say its food is halal if the restaurant sells alcohol?" We nodded. I smiled.

11th July: Srebrenica genocide- the fault of modernity

In commemoration of the genocide of at least 8,000 innocent Muslims exactly 14 years ago, mosques around the world had taken the initiative to word the khutbah on Bosna. Thus, yesterday، here in Sunderland Royal Hospital, I had the opportunity to deliver the following text;

ان الحمد لله، نحمده ونستعينه ونستغفروه، ونعوذ بالله من شرور انفسنا، ومن سيئات اعمالنا، من يهده الله فلا مضل له، ومن يضلله فلا هادي له، واشهد ان لا اله الا الله وهده لا شريك له، واشهد ان محمد عبده ورسوله. قال الله تعال في القران الحكيم

رَبَّنَا وَآتِنَا مَا وَعَدتَّنَا عَلَىٰ رُسُلِكَ وَلَا تُخْزِنَا يَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ ۗ إِنَّكَ لَا تُخْلِفُ الْمِيعَادَفَاسْتَجَابَ لَهُمْ رَبُّهُمْ أَنِّي لَا أُضِيعُ عَمَلَ عَامِلٍ مِّنكُم مِّن ذَكَرٍ أَوْ أُنثَىٰ ۖ بَعْضُكُم مِّن بَعْضٍ ۖ فَالَّذِينَ هَاجَرُوا وَأُخْرِجُوا مِن دِيَارِهِمْ وَأُوذُوا فِي سَبِيلِي وَقَاتَلُوا وَقُتِلُوا لَأُكَفِّرَنَّ عَنْهُمْ سَيِّئَاتِهِمْ وَلَأُدْخِلَنَّهُمْ جَنَّاتٍ تَجْرِي مِن تَحْتِهَا الْأَنْهَارُ ثَوَابًا مِّنْ عِندِ اللَّهِ ۗ وَاللَّهُ عِندَهُ حُسْنُ الثَّوَابِ

Europe belongs to all

The arrival of Islam in Europe is as natural as the arrival of both Judaism and Christianity. None of the messengers of God are of the European origin. Hence, no one has the right to claim the priority of his/her faith of the land of Europe. All three Abrahamic traditions – Judaism, Christianity and Islam belong to Europe and thus Europe has the right, nay, an obligation to treat them as its own. The arrival of Islam into Europe has come via two main gates: the gate of the Iberian Peninsula in the 8th century and the Balkan Peninsula in the 14^th century. Eight centuries of the Islamic presence in Andalusia, Spain, have produced a unique tradition of religious and cultural tolerance as well as academic freedom which has greatly helped Europe on its way to humanism and renaissance. Unfortunately, the idea of the Andalusian tolerance did not survive in the European history.

Srebrenica genocide of Muslims

By the grace of Allah, Islam did survive in the Balkan Peninsula despite the hardship which the Muslims have witnessed over the last century. The most difficult one being genocide in July 1995 in the Bosnian town of Srebrenica, which was at that time a Protected Zone by a United Nations Security Council Resolution. During several days of carnage more than 8,000 Muslim men and boys, who had sought safety in this area under the protection of the United Nations Protection Force (UNPROFOR), were summarily executed by Serb forces commanded by General Mladić and by paramilitary units, including Serbian irregular police units which had entered Bosnian territory from Serbia. Nearly 25,000 women, children and elderly people were forcibly deported, making this event the biggest war crime to take place in Europe since the end of the Second World War.

Therefore, the European Parliament thought it appropriate that the institutionalisation of the 11th of July as a day of remembrance is the best means of paying tribute to the victims of the Srebrenica genocide. Thus, with the majority vote of its 565 members the European Parliament has adopted the resolution of 15 January 2009 on Srebrenica whereby it commemorates and honors all the victims of the atrocities; expresses its condolences to and solidarity with the families of the victims, many of whom are living without final confirmation of the fate of their relatives; recognizes that this continuing pain is aggravated by the failure to bring those responsible for these acts to justice. Also, the European Parliament calls on the Council and the Commission to commemorate appropriately the anniversary of the Srebrenica-Potočari act of genocide by supporting Parliament's recognition of 11 July as the day of commemoration of the Srebrenica genocide all over the EU, and to call on all the countries of the western Balkans to do the same. The victims of Srebrenica genocide are aware that the past cannot be changed, but they appreciate the recognition of their pain by EU as a good sign that genocide will not be repeated in the future to anyone. Not only Muslims in Europe, but all people of good faith are also appreciative of the fact that the lives of innocent boys of Bosnia were not in vain. It is exactly what the Holy Qur’an teaches us to say:

"O our Sustainer, grant us that which Thou hast promised us through Thy apostles, and disgrace us not on Resurrection Day! Verily, Thou never failest to fulfill Thy promise!"

"And thus does their Sustainer answer their prayer: - I shall not lose sight of the labour of any of you who labours [in My way], be it man or woman: each of you is an issue of the other. Hence, as for those who forsake the domain of evil, and are driven from their homelands, and suffer hurt in My cause, and fight [for it], and are slain - I shall most certainly efface their bad deeds, and shall most certainly bring them into gardens through which running waters flow, as a reward from God: for with God is the most beauteous of rewards" (Asad, 3:194-195)

الحَمْدُ ِللهِ الَّذِى تَتِمُّ الصَّالِحَاتِ , وَأَشْهَدُ أَنْ لا إِلهَ إِلا اللهُ وَحْدَهُ لا شَرِيْكَ لَهُ وَأَشْهَدُ أَنَّ سَيِّدَنَا مُحَمَّدًا عَبْدُهُ وَرَسُوْلُهُ , اللّهُمَّ صَلِّ وَسَلِّمْ عَلى عَبْدِكَ وَرَسُوْلِكَ مُحَمَّدٍ وَعَلَى آلِهِ وَصَحْبِهِ أَجْمَعِيْنَ أَمَّا بَعْدُ فَيَا أَيُّهَا المُؤْمِنُوْنَ اتَّقُوْا اللهَ أُوْصِيْكُمْ وَإِيَّايَ بِتَقْوَى اللهِ وَطَاعَتِهِ فَقَدْ فَازَ المُتَّقُوْنَ

It was only 14 years ago that these killings of unbelievable cruelty and atrocity happened. Many of us were old enough at that time to have memories on our own life; some of us were in our primary school, some high school, and university even, or had jobs, and we were busy with our own life. At that time, at the time when each of us thought that our hardship is the worst one can get, our brothers and sisters in Bosna were slain like they were never human beings. It was a genocide of a modern era, and it happened right in Europe, with so many so-called civilisations just watching it happen. The blood of Bosnian people spilled into their cup of tea and they took no bother. In this one-sided Bosnian war, when they intervened, they only did so to benefit the aggressor. When the Dayton agreement was signed in 1995, half of Bosna was given to the Serbs, as if they were rewarded for attacking the Muslims. Thus Bosna is forever a witness to the failure of contemporary modern civility.

They sought to extinguish the light of Allah, but Allah will complete His light, even if they don't like it. I was given by Allah the opportunity to visit our brothers and sisters in Bosna in Easter, and by Allah it was a wonderful experience. Islam, after being repressed for so many years, is now gaining momentum. You may wonder how, a land of absolutely European people, would choose to live Islam despite so many challenges on their right and left. In 1950s, under the communists, no one would have thought that Islam would survive in the land. In 1990s they were killed for being Muslims. But now in the 21^st century, more and more people are turning to Islam. This is the will of Allah, done by the works of the Muslims who spread good news and do righteous acts.

With or without our involvement, Islam will continue to have a future that it has been destined for by the Most Merciful. We have seen this in Bosna, and we will see the same everywhere else. Palestine, especially, should be our priority. Whether we remember them or not, they will soon be freed- only Allah knows when. Whether we help them or not, they will have victory. Whether we give donations and contributions to them or we keep our money to ourselves, Allah will eventually make their path glorious. The choice is on our own shoulders. If we participate, it is us who will benefit from it. And if we don't, it is us who will be left out, and no one else.

اللهم اغفر للمسلمين والمسلمت والمؤمنين والمؤمنات الاحياء منهم جميعا والاموات، اللهم اعز الاسلام والمسلمين واذل الشرك والمشركين والظلم والظلمين اللهم انصر الاسلام والمسلمين في كل مكان وفي كل زمان

Let's return Islam its real beauty

This was somewhere I wanted to be so badly since my first time reading about Bosna. Its water, its weather, its terrain- everything seemed to have been maintained in perfect order. Its history, on top of that all, was heart-touching, and it was still alive. Having reached here after so many hours of traveling, we wouldn't want to just pass by. It was our opportunity to spend more time exploring, contemplating, and learning from this ancient antiquity.

I, however, was still perturbed by how Islam is lagging behind social advancements, as demonstrated by this much of Mostar we have seen. Modernism is seen almost exclusively in the practices of the West, while Islam is associated with incivility and backwardness. Practising Muslims are often branded narrow-minded if not blind or ignorant. Usually if a man adopts the western culture, he will to one degree or another feel superior to the believers of 'Mohammedan' ideologies. This attitude is not only a phenomenan of the past, for I've seen much insults and hatred in the discussion threads I follow through some main news agencies' websites.

Maybe it's time to return Islam the real, beautiful image of itself. It's time to make it appealing to the masses once again; time to change its presentation. We have on one hand ceaseless efforts to paint a dark image on us, so hopefully, on the other, some counter-efforts are already in place. The late Professor Ismail Faruqi's idea for islamazation of knowledge is, to me, commendable. It has contributed to the philosophical growth of many universities including our own international Islamic university, IIUM. Another domestic example is the much respected ISTAC founded by Prof Faruqi's accomplice, Syed Muhammad Naquib al-Attas. Forget about the critics it had received- the achievements are real and tangible. Islam has to be emphasised and made central to the teachings in academic and non-academic institutions. Knowledge is to be used under the directives of the Divine- the sole Possessor of the universe, before it is manipulated by the ignorant proud and the greedy. Indeed knowledge is light, but it has to be itself guided by the Creator of light.

Should this happen, Islam will no longer be seen as a force that impedes learning. Rather, it will become the proponent and standard-bearer of scientific advancement, creating an esteemed and reputable civilisation on its own ground- a ground laden with divine teachings and earthly learnings, the former guiding the latter. This is the ultimate dream of us all, although obviously the routes are plenty.

Science must be coupled with gratefulness, not arrogance

The short advice from the boulder was funny in at least two ways. First, how would a Croat feel when walking past here? Mostar being a 50-50 town of Bosniaks and Croats, tensions will logically be very much retained. The other thing is that apparently the Bosniaks are losing (or giving up) more and more cultural influence here; their struggle in 1993 might have ended with victory, but I doubt this one is in any way similar. With every inch of infiltration from the Croat's western-like culture, Islam is slowly losing its grasp, unless serious measurements are taken.

Unfortunately however, this is not an uncommon situation in the Muslim world today. These forces have succeeded in entering into many cultures and 'private' lives, despite the countries declaring themselves Islamic. Alcoholism, sexualism, hedonism, and materialism are the commonly spoken ones. More dangerously though, but at the same time receiving less immediate attention, is atheism, which takes root more subtly. It started when materialism and hedonism were augmented by the study of the 'faultless', 'omniscient' secular sciences, with God totally ignored and shunned. Day after day more and more people decided that their lives revolve around this transient world, remembering God less with every earthly achievement. Soon after they became blind to any significance of God's presence, and later doubting its sheer existence. This, when aided by the shameless arrogance they have subconsciously bred for so long, proved fatal to their faiths. If they regress to this stage, the pristine words of "There is no god but God" will be cut short to "There is no god (at all)". As Murad Wilfried Hofman rightly said in his diary, the strength of Islam is insidiously sapped by the subtle and pervasive influence of Western technological civilisation. Now, why would we worship science but not the Creator of science??

Pressing a few yards further, we finally reached the much-dubbed Stari Most. It was suspended quite high above the river, with unmistakable concavity. Exclusively for this bridge, I would prefer to use the verb 'climb' to the usual 'cross'. In fact its floor was embedded with numerous stepping bars to prevent us hikers from slipping down. I could only appreciate it so much after knowing that this was a rebuilt version of the multi-decade old bridge, brought down and sunk into the river by the vicious, beastly enemies of 1993. Don't forget, as they say. Don't forget, said another boulder sitting very quietly at the other end of the bridge.

The view we had of Stari Most and Rijeka Neretva was an almost complete one- soothing to the eyes, astonishing to the minds. Building the picture from the bridge and then on a lower ground, we were absolutely amazed. It was impeccably in every way picturesque. Truly, one can never fully imagine the detrimental blows it received 16 years ago. Today here it stood proudly, continuously glorifying Allah in its own way, incomprehensible to our limited senses.

Arts and crafts

Not long after walking in the direction Izzudin put us, the atmosphere changed. The pavements disappeared, and out came the stones in its place. The streets were not unlike Durham city's at all, but Mostar's old city is further embellished with its distinguished people, weather, and shops. The nostalgic sound of blacksmiths hitting on their copper plates would put one a hundred years back into history. As I walked, I gathered all my senses to elicit this latent, forgotten spirit, so that I can experience an imaginary mid-day walk in a younger Mostar.

We stopped into a shop from where we thought the sound was coming from, and there was a man sitting diligently with his hammer, anvil, and an almost finished copper carving. Dzewad, as we came to know him, paid meticulous concentration on his artwork, to the point that he didn't mind a slight delay in greeting his customers. The shop was full of his and his wife's craft, each piece seemed so delicately done. I glanced through all of them with a sense of satisfaction- to be artistic is indeed a special gift from Allah! I recalled how I despised this subject in school so much that I didn't mind getting embarrassing marks. They say that a man without art is a man without heart- poor me...

This part of Mostar is inundated with souvenir shops, an understandable response to meet the demand (or actually being their source of income) of increasing number of tourists. Nubli stopped once in a while and bought the lucky ones that caught his attention, but I was indifferent; an attitude you should long trash before embarking on a journey. Maybe I didn't think that I would mind if I have or not any tangible memories from Bosna to be proudly displayed to other people. Also I didn't think that my loved ones back home would really mind if I hadn't brought anything in material back for them. What matters is my coming home, and the many things I learn from my travel to share and help build a better me. Luckily, that is not absolutely true though. It is always nice to know that people think about you, and that is what the souvenirs would bring along- beautiful memories.

Suddenly I noticed something sitting boldly but peacefully undisturbed in between two shops- a boulder. It was not just another boulder, I would think, because of its unusual placing and most intruigingly the writing-in paint- it had on its presenting surface. We went closer and read it out loud in our minds: DON'T FORGET '93

Karađoz-Begova Džamija

Karađoz-Bey's mosque stood roughly in the middle of Mostar, thus crowning itself as the main mosque in this historic city. As with other mosques, Karađoz-Bey's was proud to have a well-kept graveyard adjacent to it. Its fountain was working, and so was its toilets, but the small rooms in its compound seemed long-abandoned. I peeked into them and saw a great collection of books and old 'scriptures' shrouded- almost hidden- by the mesh of cobwebs and dusts.

Taking the whole story a few steps back, we actually weren't overjoyed at the first sight of this mosque. Nubli was very quick to notice that it wasn't hosting worshippers, but instead tourists. Men and women with hats and cameras walked into its main hall after paying 2 Mark at a post guarding its door. I could have done the same, but there was an honest aversion emerging from the very bottom of my heart. As a matter of principle, I don't walk into a mosque-cum-musuem and joyfully snap pictures to add into my photo collection. In fact, the last thing I want to do was to celebrate the loss of Islam, in this case as signified by a dysfunctional mosque.

Our interpretations and judgements again proved to be totally inaccurate. Izzudin, a tall clean-looking man who was selling the tickets quickly recognized our Islamic inclinations, probably from the very different attitude we were showing towards this 'museum'. He did try to sell the tickets to us, an act that rendered us speechless; a very wise reaction especially when you were feeling awkward already. "Muslim??" he thoughtfully asked, to which we quickly and happily nodded. What a relief!

As a record, maybe he was the first 'true', practising Muslim whom we spoke to in this entire journey. He proved to be very helpful, just as how we would find other Bosnian Muslims are. Unbelievably, his perfect English, according to Him, was acquired from watching english films. This fact is the most disturbing to me, for as far as I have tried, it has never worked on me! Soon the proud autodidact Izzudin was bombarded with questions we have always wanted to ask, but until then have never found a friendly, reliable person to speak to. He advised us to come back at 1pm for zuhr prayers, and promised to help us then. Oh, how I loved the idea! So this 'museum' is still a mosque after all.

Symbols often speak out loud

Things changed very markedly as soon as we crossed to the other side of the unbelievably beautiful river. First, the river; it was not only refreshing- it was cold and green. We stood on the bridge overhanging the river in a hot summer-like weather, and found respite there, where fresh breeze comes from below. Furthermore, it being green- my favourite colour- makes it unrivalled by most other wonders the world can offer. I can stand there for hours like a stone, watching the river as it gushes, letting the comfort flow smoothly into my heart, through the eyes. This was Rijeka Neretva- the Green River.

Now that we have crossed, we started counting. Slowly but steadily, the number of women in hijab that passed us escalated. Even the mosques sound a bit more lively than the one on the other side- there were evidence of them being used, and are still in use; the provisional sandals were in a disarray, and its floors were wet. Plus, one cannot walk for more than 5 minutes without bumping into another mosque- that is just not possible on this side of the spiritually-divided Mostar. And if you're thinking of it, no, they don't have alcohol-selling bars attached to them. Thankfully.

However funny it may sound, all over the world Muslims and Islam are judged by its symbols; hijab, mosques, and occassionally beards. This fact is almost always true, and is a case unescapable to many, including myself. More often than not, our idea of 'the extent of which Islam is practiced' in a particular area is derived from juggling these two or three factors. A friend who has visited a city in Turkey recently concluded that it is not very Islamic, because he saw very few mosques (and mosque-goers), downplaying the presence of many women in hijab there. Whether his remark was accurate or not is an altogether different matter, what bears weight here is the fact that mosques and hijab tend to have the upper hand in this particular conscience of ours. Some points need pondering: Is this method always valid? Or is it only used as a preliminary and immature measure, often favoured by judgmental toursists? Is there a better way of gauging such a delicate matter? This could be a favourite research question for those involved in social sciences.

We continued walking, wide-eyed, capturing every scene of the now Islamic environment into our memories. There was a man, presumably an imam, in their typical 'clergical' dark robe and had a high hat, in red, walking a few metres from us. Unfortunately I wasn't brave enough at that time to start a conversation with a completely random Bosnian stranger. I could be just another tourist to them. Was I not?

Mosque-bar cohesion

After a long walk from the bus station, and not seeing any woman in hijab, we were further attacked with this image of a mosque-cum-bar building. Yes, it was a mosque, and yet a bar has somehow found its way to intimately attach itself to the sacred place. For once I thought I saw alcohol displayed on the bar's racks. To this, one of my Bosnian friends later corrected me; that they were, despite the bottles, non-alcoholic drinks. Big relief..! Apart from that, there was nothing Islamic about the bar, and its intimate logistic vis-à-vis the mosque doesn't in any way help it look more so. If anything, it was depressing.

We did brave ourselves to walk into the mosque's compound, despite a thousand pairs of eyes staring at us when we were opening its rusted doorgate. Unsurprisingly, it looked deserted. The fountain wasn't giving out any water, there were rolled rags scattering at the mosque's front door, and its windows were so dusty that we couldn't see through them. The imam's grave lying at a corner of its compound added to its gloominess- maybe this mosque, the Lakišića Džamija, died along with his death. I tried the door, and- needless to say- it was locked. We had no choice but to walk out in dissapointment.

No hijab, no actual mosque, and yes bars- what else can this tell us about the growth and popularity of Islam in Bosna, or at least here in Mostar? For us travelers who specifically look for one, it was a big blow to take. The whole situation was harder to accept especially if you knew that in the pre-Tito era, the streets of Mostar were filled with muslim women in niqab, the face covering. Tito came and saw Islam as a threat, so almost nothing was spared. When mosque-incapacitating was deemed not totally effective, muslim dress was banned, forcing the women to turn their own houses into jails. Countless of them were sentenced for life, and many died not seeing much of the sun. However cruel it sounds to us now, it surely has served its purpose as far as Tito was concerned. With these approaches he succesfully curbed Islamic learning, propagation, and soon after, identity. When the new generation was born, Islam was no longer a familiarity.

Product of the past

We went further into the 'east', until the road diverged. At this junction on our right, we could see the Katedrala, a massive cathedral for the christian masses, which stood very proudly beside the aforementioned dividing road. "Whatever has happened 16 years ago here where I'm stepping, one thing is undisputed; it greatly affects the future", I thought to myself. We should never undermine or put down a resistance, for they have real reasons in so doing. The Muslims knew what was going to happen if their land was given up to these aggressors. They'd rather fight unequipped than die not trying. By protecting their land, freedom and identity, they essentially safeguard their religion.

Glancing to our left, the road sloped slightly down the hilly contours of Mostar, leading to a more conservative side of the town. Standing- or actually crumbling- at its forefront was a building, or what remained of it, with obvious destructions from shellings. 15 years and the scar is still visible- this, really, is something to be astonished about. I know some people who came here in 2004; they described all the fallen infrastructures in Mostar even then- but mind you, this is 2009! However, it seemed to receive no attention from the people driving and walking around it, as if it was never there. Perhaps the mighty Katedrala and a vibrant Gimnazija (high school) masked its sheer existence- together with the history it brings, the memory it may sustain, and the emotions it may evoke. Maybe, like Sarđan, they want to forget the past. Or maybe they simply don't want people to remember anything about it anymore. They want their atrocities to be left unchecked, unchastised.

Whatever was the case, it has helped us to decide on our next steps. It happened almost naturally; we were in Bosna not so much to worship the modernity, but to mull over its prized antiquity. We took to the narrow street, closed on both sides by rows of buildings, old and new. Before we could go any further, an image of a building came to our delighted sights- a mosque. It wasn't huge, but still I had all this imagination of praying in this first mosque we've been to in the whole of Bosna i Hercegovina. My brain started to come out with plans; if we want to pray a proper peaceful zuhr prayer, wherever we are by then, we have to make it back here. I mean why should I pray in the streets, in a country like Bosna?

As we walked closer to this dream, we saw the most disturbing phenomenon one could ever see. Oh no, there goes our plan, shattered to pieces. And I mean very small pieces.

Yesterday's massacres, today's divisions

In Malaysia, there are countless women walking around with hijab, yet we never have really appreciated it- at least not until we were sent to study here in the Europe. The case is not unlike of mosques, which we might take for granted for all these years- but I cried so profusely when I first found a mosque in my early days of studying here. Somehow the taste of Islam gives us serenity in our hearts; it soothes our eyes and gives us a new breath. I now know why I am always so delighted to go to London- not because of its fame or diversity per se, but the many muslim women in hijab and lively mosques that one can rarely find in other metropolitan cities. It feels warm and safe. Above all, it's a source of peace, and that is as far as words can describe.

The opposite remains true; here in the streets of Mostar we didn't- and couldn't- feel safe. We felt at lost, and we were lost. While looking for the grand Old Bridge, we secretly hoped to find these Islamic signatures manifest in hijab and mosques. Mind you, there wasn't even a sign of a single mosque then. The first one I saw was miles away, at the peripheries of the city, when we were still in the bus. Confused, we tried to reason out the situation. It's not surprising at all to find that the answer lies in its bloody history..

The Balkans were a single unified country before Yugoslavia broke in the end of 20th Century, consisting of Croatia, Bosna i Hercegovina, Serbia, Slovenia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Kosova and Vojvodina. After Tito's death, the Serbs tried to take control of the whole bunch of Republics, only to be confronted by secessions initially from Slovenia and Croatia. Insulted, the Serbs, who inherited most of the powerful JNA (Yugoslavian National Army) waged wars with these two whom they forced to remain as Yugoslavian Republics, but both assaults ended prematurely. It is extremely stupefying to learn that as part of the peace process, the Karađorđevo agreement was made between Slobodan Milošević and Franjo Tuđman in which they agreed to partition and share Bosna as they would a cake. Their brainless action was in every way similar to two men stealing and devouring another man's birthday cake, when shamefully they were not even invited to the party!

Bosna was soon attacked from both sides- from the very neighbours that they thought mutual relations can be peacefully maintined. Understandably Bosna was furious, but they had literally nothing- neither arms nor real army to resist. And yet brutal occupations and heartless massacres took place every so often. In fact, from within Bosna, the Bosnian Croats and Serbs in general overwhelmingly sided to the aggressors, which resulted in sheer disaster. Within towns polices turned against each other. Within villages neighbours burned their houses down. The war seemed to be external, between countries, but not even the streets where they lived were any longer safe.

Although Ahmići massacre was most atrocious, the siege of Mostar accorded more publicity in the history of Croatian offensive on Bosna. Roughly, its east region was fiercely defended by both the army of Bosna and the inhabitants of Mostar from the continuous assaults of their enemy from the west. There was even a road, which appeared to me like a motorway, that historically demarcates these territories until today. The defending party, with Allah's help, managed to stop the enemy advances and land incursions, but in 1993 the unsatisfied Croats resorted to shelling down the invaluable Old Bridge until its fall in November the 9th of the same year.

No wonder, we were still in the 'enemy territory'; a term that would become increasingly used as I continued my journey. At least now I'm satisfied, that I've got an explanation. Possibly..

Where is 'Islam'?

As we walked away from the bank with our wallets and pockets loaded, I recalled what happened during the transaction. At a first glance there was nothing particularly interesting, but when I thought about it again and again, its gem slowly unveils. It's another gift to human life, a dimension of Allah's infallibility, scarcely appreciated by our proud people of the modern day. The transaction involved quite a line of procedural details, including agreeing on a specific amount, emphasising the rates, informing the commission, signatures, etc.; moreover I had to do the whole cycle twice. Interestingly, neither of us spoke each other's language. My English was replied with their Bosnian, vice versa. At no point did we stumble, in fact, as far as I could tell the transaction went as smoothly as it would for a Bosnian customer. "If so, was language important at all?" I wondered.

Funny, after a few minutes wandering in the streets of Mostar we felt like home already. There was this undescribable similarity between Malaysia and some parts of Bosna. Perhaps it was the arrangements of its stalls and mobile kiosks (selling phone cards and magazines- how similar!) that resembles our country most. On top of that, the weather was gorgeous- we had to walk without having our coats on, another resemblance to Malaysia. One thing was nonetheless completely different- they drive on the left. However trivial it may sound, we had several times neared 'martyrdom' when trying to cross the roads. Since very small we were taught the formula of looking right-left-right before crossing, but it did us no good in Bosna. Nubli was worse in adapting to it; he persisted until the very last day we were in the Balkans. "It's left-right-left, not the other way round!" I reminded him to no avail. All thanks to Allah, we survived to the end- or did we really?

30 minutes deeper into the direction in the east, or what we thought was east, and there was no signs of any one of the two we expected to see by then. The first is of course the Stari Most, an old, historical bridge overflying Rijeka Neretva (Green River). I must admit that I became more and more impatient to see the bridge I've heard about so many times, but it wasn't too much of a worry. I assured myself that the bridge will not come and go or simply walk away from us; as long as the sun stood, there will be plenty of chance for us to find it. After all, I expected it to be big enough for our eyes to perceive. What concerned me more was the absence of Islamically-clad women, the second of the two 'phenomenon' I dyingly expected to see. Conversely, as far as our eyes could go, the women were all typical-European or Europeanized sect, coloured hair, blue to brown eyes, and most distinctively little clothing. Hang on a minute, we're in Bosna now, not Croatia or-God forbid,- Serbia!

Foreigners

Mostar. The bus stopped at its quiet and deserted terminal, at that time only very few of us had remained in the bus. In my mind there was only one thing then- Stari Most; what should be the world famous old bridge. At that time I did not know which word would have meant 'old', and which was 'bridge'. My Bosnian was practically zero. Using English as our medium, we got just enough indication to point us the direction in which Stari Most was. East. So east we walked.

To walk by ourselves- as foreigners- in another country, totally unknown to us, whose language we don't understand, made me feel humbled. In these there certainly were God's greatness and beauty, nothing but a fraction of His countenance. How we have all started with Adam, the first man of Allah's handiwork, we have grown into such diversity that we don't recognise each other anymore, even when we should be relatives, however far the degrees are. Traces of our origin has become so vague, it is especially unseen to those who would not contemplate, choosing to close their hearts to one of the great puzzling signs of Allah's unchallenged wisdom. Ignorance of this origin- of our own selves- will do no good but all harm. People fight and kill each other, inflicting lasting wounds that would stay forever as vengeance, only to flare up again, precipitating yet another war. Discrimination is rife, along with racism, oppression, violence and marginalisation- none of which would happen if our common origin is recognised, established and cherished upon.

In this aspect, as in many others, Islam offers a beautiful solution. Muslims live in cordial fraternity, reviving the concept of us being relatives; brothers and sisters for each other. It invariably shuts the door to hatred down, replacing it with kindness, hospitality, love, and altruism. Moreover, when Allah asserts that the best and noblest Muslim is judged based on taqwa, there was no room left for racism or any other forms of discrimination that inundates the modern world today. Surely these two verses from the Quran accord some reflection for the appreciative slaves of the Creator;

"And of His signs is the creation of the heavens and the earth, and the difference of your languages and colours. Lo! herein indeed are portent for men of knowledge."

(al-Rum ; 22)

"O mankind! Lo! We have created you male and female, and have made you nations and tribes that ye may know one another. Lo! the noblest of you, in the sight of Allah, is the best in conduct. Lo! Allah is Knower, Aware."

(al-Hujuraat ; 13)

We needed some Bosnian money. Some KM, or Mark, as some people called it. I understand that it is relatively new, developed three years after the tragic war. However little we appreciate it, currency is a sign of independence and sovereignty. Without one of our own, part of our unique identity will disappear. I learnt from my own reading that before KM was used, there are a variety of currencies in Bosna i Hercegovina alone. Their ethnic division is extremely deep; by and large the Croats and Serbs were using their own currencies, clearly not showing any intention to integrate with the more populous Bosniaks. At least now things have improved, I thought to myself. The Bosnian economy, reflected by its currency, is doing quite well in the merciless capitalist market today.

Stepping into a bank, we found so many eyes staring at us, perhaps they were quick to realise that we were not from this soil. There were whispers everywhere, some even almost pointed to our direction. Whatever they were talking about, I hope it wasn't anything bad. I hope we didn't look too brutal to be mistaken as robbers or men of such barbarity. There were two lines approaching the counter, so Nubli and I took one each, after some barely comprehensible consultations with the customers there. I waited for my turn patiently, but of course with my eyes wandering around. The people seemed very nice, smiles were not rare and their faces did not easily show frustrations. Suddenly I remembered the story of my dad, who in Beijing went straight to the counter, not minding the long queues behind him, because he needed help and did not know how to read their language! No I won't do that, I reassured myself, chuckling. I'm not that desperate!

A thousand Marks' worth of smile

In that fateful night, we arrived in Split at 0100 hours, and were immediately taken to our hostel by the patiently waiting woman, Elda, a polite and kind lady who was in her 50's. The plan is to catch the first bus to Bosna tomorrow, and that requires our already sleep-deprived souls to wake up at 5am. I had an even more detrimental idea- waking up at 4am, after only 2 hours of sleep to have some personal time with my Creator. This merciful Creator has however ruled against it; my phone went dead for no technical reason while I was sleeping, thus did not ring the alarm on time, letting me sleep through the quiet hours of the night. Perhaps He wanted me to have enough rest. I conceded.

Nothing particularly interesting took place in the 4 hour ride to Mostar that morning. I spent most of my time praising Allah and seeking forgiveness from Him, knowing nothing better to do. I made some prayers and supplications, mindful of the hadith in Sahih Bukhari singling out a traveler's prayers as special- lifted and answered by Allah. At times I got emotional and the eyes started to accumulate tears, realising that we are completely at Allah's merciful hands. We were both overpowered by sleep every now and then- clearly the three hour nap in Split was not enough. Outside the scene was notably picturesque, first half dominated by the calm Adriatic sea, and the marvelous mountains in the second half. Once in a while I threw my sight far over the sea, trying my luck to see any shadows of Italy, a land used to be the centre of the much spoken Roman empire. After a while I realised that it was an impossible dream- the sea was too wide for my sight to grasp its other shore.

Sometimes we fail to realise that our smallest actions can mean a lot to other people. It adds to the reason why a Muslim has to be careful in everything he does, from anything largely obvious to the most subtle and simplest acts. When the Bosnian officer gave us a hearty smile and a warm greeting that morning during the border checks, it stayed afresh in our memories for weeks or even months to come. It was nice to feel welcomed by the officials- it felt as if the whole Bosnian authority has humbled themselves to welcome us. It certainly did not take much effort to say such simple words as "welcome to Bosna", while pulling some strings of muscles to curve a smile. It cost the official nothing, but secured her some definite reward from Allah, in return to making other people happy.

We stopped for about half-an-hour in a place I think was Čitluk. I did not wait to jump out of the bus, knowing that we're already in the Bosnian soil. The moment of my first steps in this beloved country is still vivid to me, even the first breaths I took was encrypted into some form of indelible memory. It was sunny, yet it wasn't boilingly hot. Perhaps the weather was trying to do its best to welcome us too. There I learnt my first live Bosnian phrase, "Dobro Jutro"!

Aggressors and the aggressed

The bus journey to Split could have been so dull and boring if it was not for Sarđan. If you're wondering, he's the third Croat of the night that showed unreserved friendliness to us foreigners. Nubli again was immediately captured by his dreams as soon as he found a sit in the bus- he did not seem to be as excited as I was. To be so close to entering Bosna; indeed I couldn't conceal my happiness and excitement.

Nevertheless, still unsure of these Croats, we decided to keep our real destination secret. When we were asked by Sarđan and some other friendly croats, we made it sound like Split was our end destination- not Bosna. It was my idea- maybe I was a bit Croatophobic, but again the images of the Balkan war kept coming back to me, as if trying to remind me that these people are not my real friends, however kind they might seem to me. Furthermore I know some facebook friends who lost their fathers in the arms struggle; I imagined if it was to happen to me- it will be an unbearable test from Allah. I can't even bear the thought of any member of my family to have a broken finger, let alone facing death. These Muslims in Bosna have suffered much. They have tasted death and injustices, and they survived with the memory. They have learnt many things, and I believed that these have taught them a unique meaning of life. A meaning different from what the Muslims living in a peaceful Malaysia could comprehend.

Talking to Sarđan, a young shipworker who has traveled far, I braved myself to open the so-far untouched topic; i.e. the war. Sarđan was surprised that I know much about it, especially when Tuđman's name was mentioned. I tried to keep my smile as broad when talking about this murderer, although deep inside me I was burning with hatred. Next was the question of the night: "tell me about your feelings towards Bosniak now". To my astonishment, Sarđan totally see them as friends, and he told me that what has passed, has passed. "We have to live on, and the past should never dictate our future", he maintained. He further surprised me when he expressed that the Croats feel closer to the Muslims than to the Serbs. I liked and respected his view, but sensed something not perfectly right about it.

It is understandably easy for the aggressors to forget their aggressions towards others, but it is next to impossible for the aggressed to forget about it. These people received the heavy blow, and continue to live with the scar. The Croats assailed and harassed the Bosniaks, but when the war ended they wouldn't have suffered as much as the Bosniaks. The same principle applies when the Serbs attacked Croatia; this time the Croats as the transgressed retain the hatred towards their aggressors, the Serbs. This could be exactly why, as elucidated by Sarđan, the Croats feel closer to the Bosniaks than to the Serbs. Sarđan's words are less convincing when I found out that he was from Split, an area untouched by the calamitous war. He's simply not talking from experience. Nevertheless, it was good exposure to have talked to him. At least I now know that people of his kind exist.

'Croatophobia'

Zadar airport where we landed wasn't impressive. It was the smallest one I've been to in my whole short life, and we got through the passport checks rather easily, although the Croatian security officers weren't too friendly. This is maybe my biggest fault: I'm exceedingly judgmental to these people. How can I not do so when they have hurt my brothers and sisters so badly in 1993? However hard I tried to ignore it, I still appeared very vivid to me. Croats and their atrocities. Croats and their aggressions. Croats this, and Croats that..

Despite this self-celebrated phobia that I had, I managed to make friends with some Croats while waiting for the bus to Split. Ficky and Anna are both Anglicized Croats; they were born in the Balkans but prefer to spend their lives in English speaking countries, if not England. The four of us settled at a foodstall, with our luggages abandoned very untidily around us. After a short while the two Croats ordered alcohol- it quickly rang in my mind the belief in Malaysia that even sitting with drinkers is haram. I browsed through my mental library for a hadith to support such opinion, but in such an important situation, found none. The hadith prohibiting drink, sales or any help in selling alcohol was definitely there, and I didn't see how it would prohibit us from sitting with these Croats. After all I have all these worries about the Croats slaughtering us Muslims, and at that time wasn't in any way ready to give our Islamic identities up. Even then I was sure that they could 'smell' Islam from our reactions..

The night was getting late, and we haven't performed our obligatory prayers- an action that would announce to the whole residence of Zadar that we were Muslims. If we only refrained from drinking or eating pork, it doesn't make an absolutely clear indication of our religion. As far as I know, some strict Christians and many Jews would do the same. But praying is different. Only Muslims would pray at a time when nobody else does, only us would humbly set our foreheads on the ground. No sane men would perform such rituals just anywhere, especially in difficult times, or at times you do not know what to expect. We knew nothing about the Balkans except for the brutal, wicked war. We had two options; to obediently worship Allah there and then or wait until we reach our hostel in Split to pray there. On second thought, the second option itself is very vague and uncertain- we never knew what will happen in the middle of a 3 hour journey. And we never knew what was going to happen in Split, especially with us arriving in the deep hours of the night. Eventually we decided to brave the first option, and Allah did not make it hard for us. We could never be sure of our safety, but we were confident that Allah's protection is above any other powers the world could ever muster.

After the prayers, we rejoined the two Croats. It was easy to tell from Anna's eyes that she had suspected us to be Muslims. On the other hand, Ficky was oblivious. Maybe she didn't know much about Islam or the Muslims. But how could she not know, when the media has been shouting everywhere about these 'merciless terrorists'? I waited and waited for an immediate reaction from them, but nothing to that effect surfaced. In fact they continued to help us around to find the right bus to take, until we were safely on board. "Maybe everything about them was only my imagination", I thought to myself. "Hvala Anna and Ficky, and sorry for my ill thoughts," I said to myself quietly.