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.

The 2-hour flight

Contrary to what I thought, the plane was crowded with people, almost leaving no empty seats as it took off. Croatia is not an unpopular destination after all. I quickly realized that we were the only Asian in the plane. The rest were, as I would like to think, Croats and English tourists.

A few minutes after we left the runaway, Nubli muttered,"I have a feeling that something is going to happen whilst we're in Bosna. I don't know exactly what, but it's definitely not something good". I failed to disagree with him. There is so much about the history that makes us at risk of being harassed, and on top of that there are many more things we haven't learned. As much as we have submitted our lives, safety and future to Allah, the mortal instinct remains intact- and that makes us human. We are weak and incapable, but we have means to attaining strength and capacity. We are ignorant and foolish, but there is knowledge and integrity. In short we are helplessly powerless; and it makes a good reason for us to turn to our Creator. Thus, during this whole bus-plane-bus journey, I've decided to keep myself busy imploring and praising the Almighty.

We busied ourselves with the Bosnian history during the course of the flight; a revision and consolidation for myself, and a new learning for Nubli. Being in the holiday mood, Nubli dozed off a dozen of times while trying to digest the multitude of new names of men and places of importance in the Balkan war. He can never be blamed for that. The wikipedian version of Bosnian history he downloaded from the internet is repetitive and bland, the narrative was void of any attraction. Nevertheless I found it refreshing- indeed anything about Bosna is exciting to me.

Although being 20 pages thick, it is far from exhaustive. There was so much about Bosna that it has failed to tell. Reading an article is not sufficient to help me understand what is happening at the grassroots level. It needs a man to experience it himself to know and appreciate such complicated matters. It needs me to step on the Bosnian soil, breathe the Bosnian air, walk along Bosnian streets, and mingle with its community. This reality, I was overjoyed to know, is now only a few hours away. And while I had the chance, I did not stop asking for His forgiveness and protection.

Lessons from London

Having had everything prepared for the journey, I took a 7 hour bus ride to London. It wasn't my first experience in London, but so far in every such occasion, I was amazed. Northern and southern England is so distinctively different. Up north, there is very limited signs of multi-cultural and multi-religious society; I've always felt as if I was treated like a stranger who has unwelcomedly entered a local's house. Down here, the atmosphere is markedly in contrast. On the superficial level, there are so many variety of skin colours, religious symbols, and nationalities along any one street. In one particular area where Jews are abundant, surprisingly- but also very pleasing to know- a grocery shop can survive displaying the mighty name of Iran on its board. Maybe the world has much to learn from London per se.

However, this remark should never serve to mask the problems it brings along. I understand that my encounters are limited to my private sphere, but these are the impressions that will last in me, and I believe is worthy of being recorded. When my friend Nubli and I were half-lost, searching for the next shuttle to Stansted Airport for Bosna, we had to resort to the usual plan B; i.e. ask around for directions. I instinctively went to a bus driver, a woman, and posed a totally appropriate and polite question only to be replied with smears. Nevertheless I continued my very best to be polite, and said that she could've just refused to help without uttering the unpleasant words. To this she frowned and turned away, totally ignoring me. I was left standing in the bus in where she sat, buffled and looked stupid. It didn't take long for me to realise that there was no hope in pleading for her mercy, because she had none to offer. Thinking that it was all over, I walked out of the bus saying the courteous 'thank you', only to see the bus door closing up to me. If Allah had wanted to test me with a heavier ordeal, it would have slammed hard into my face..!

Praises be to Allah, we got on the bus on time, after some God-sent help from the good and well-mannered London samaritans. Our real journey was however yet to begin. We honestly do not know what to expect from the Bosniaks, Croats, and most importantly Serbs, of whom we've heard much of. Before anything, I again phoned my mum faraway in Malaysia to seek her blessings for the nth time. I was reassured. With her prayers, my heart felt as if surrounded by foolproof defenses that wouldn't allow a single touch of fear come close. Spiritual and materially equipped, I boarded the plane.

Systemic isolation?

The itinerary for my travel was not prepared without some hurdles. From this experience alone, I've learnt so much about how Europe is isolating their own people; ostensibly and only because they are Muslims. Despite Bosna being recognized as containing within herself world heritage as declared and 'protected' by UNESCO, there barely was any easy access into the country. The Balkans is famous for its natural beauty, but the Bosnian share seemed to be missing.

It is not my passion to blatantly accuse anyone of anything. However I at least have the right to voice out my concerns regarding what I see as inappropriate- of course my immature views can be accepted or refuted. As far as I can tell from my limited experience, there is no evidence of any active isolation of Bosna by the Europe. But I'm pretty sure that something is not right- I could almost smell it. If anyone browses through the web to look for inexpensive means to get to Bosna, he'll end up in disheartenment and despair. When there are so many flights that would land in Croatia, for some reasons Bosna was seemingly shunned. This is not the isolated case of England alone, but also for countries like Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia which are the closest neighbours of Bosna.

I admit that I can't complain much about it. After all, it is the nature of business. Services come after market appears. For all I know, maybe the tourism in Bosna is still in its infancy, maybe now slowly growing to meet the demands of posh tourists. This might also be related to my second complain, although I find it harder to comprehend and accept: not a single company, not even banks, is willing to prepare the Bosnian currency for exchange with pounds. Even if I were to tour the whole English island, there is little chance to obtain the unknown Konvertible Marka, currency of Bosna i Hercegovina. I resorted to buying some Euros and Croatian Kunas, the latter of which had to be ordered for procurement. I had to wait for 24 hours and that was fine to me. The issue is; it didn't seem fair, not to me at least. If Kuna can be ordered, why not Marka?

As if these were not enough, I was further hit by some unacceptably discriminative news. I phoned my mobile network provider to check, beforehand, for the availability of its services in Bosna. I was half-expecting it to be in negative, and I was half right. The operator spoke in a soft tone, telling me that my network is "unavailable in Bosna, unless I sign in to pay more. However it is perfectly okay to be used in Croatia". These words struck me hard. I thought to myself: so is it really unavailable, or is there something about Bosna?

How sad, there is a very strong stigma about being a Muslim. It is worse when you proclaim your country a Muslim country, and worst if the term Islamic is used. I remembered the words of al-Djazairi, who emphasised how Islamophobia today is not new for Muslims. It has happened to us since (and perhaps worst) in the era of the crusades, which started in 1095 when Pope Urban II in France preached hatred through all the lies he invented about us Muslims. In reality it echoes to this very day, when we can still hear the ugly slanders about us being barbaric, uncivilized, lustful, belligerent and aggressive, as oppressors, discriminators, preachers of hatred for other religions, and most infamously persecutors of women. These people, the slanderers, have blinded themselves to the truth, and sealed their hearts with hatred that it is impossible for any light to reach and illuminate the darkness they live in. True are the words of Allah,

"Allah hath set a seal on their hearts and on their hearing, and on their eyes is a veil; great is the penalty (they incur)" (al-Baqarah: 7)

Literary limitations in the face of sensual reality

True, we're not machines or robots. As much as I love books, and the voluminous knowledge they contain, I'm still merely a man. Computers can be loaded with copious of data with a single click and it will remain there as long as time can gauge. Conversely, more often than not a man can read a whole book but only manage to retain a few lines. More so, his memory dissipates as the clock ticks. This is so because computers are dull and vapid machines; they can store endlessly, but knows virtually nothing when it comes to practicality and appreciation. They have binary eyes, and that is all they could see. Simply, nothing have any real meaning to them.

God has created man with full complexity. Great neurologists studying the brain can scarcely explain the 'what' questions concerning it, let alone 'why'. For a man to sit home absorbing all information is a matter close to absurdity. In fact, knowledge means nothing without it being translated into practicality. Moreover it has to be doubted until proven to be true, well tested against all weather. In short, man essentially has to experience.

With this new understanding I embarked on my mission to exploring the post-war Bosna. I came across articles about the deeply-embedded hatred still existent between the Serbs and Bosniaks, suggesting little hope for the dissolution of Republika Sprska. Comments made by Bakir Izetbegović and Haris Silajdzić angered the Serbs under Milorad Dodik, who threatens secession. This, if it happens, is in no way going to benefit either side, for effectively it is an open invitation to another calamitous and disastrous war. Calamitous because of the potential civilian victims, and disastrous due to the disinterest of the world powers to help the Muslims, even when they are clearly and unjustly aggressed. Thus is a glimpse of how complicated the political situation is in the Balkan region.

No less important is our perception towards this war-torn country. I've heard nothing but bad reflections about the Muslims in Bosna; how until today they have abandoned mosques, with abundance of unrestrained men-women relations, widespread drinking culture, and utter disregard to the teachings of Islam, prefering the West's earthly paradise instead. It was also commonly accepted amongst the Muslims around the globe that the war in 1992-1995 was a God-sent punishment in response to their unmindful negligence and disobedience. Bosna is seen as a European country that is left with nothing else but the traces of Islam, which is only evident from the names of its people.

These, among many others, my journey seeks to clarify.

Facebook life

At that thought, I decided to join facebook. Whether it was a coincidence or not, it was only a matter of days before that Ustaz Maszlee emphasized on networking, and how facebook helps much in building one. I was convinced that it could help me prepare for my going to Bosna- and by the will of Allah, it surely did. Within days after opening up an account, I've managed to gather a handful of helpful friends that proved worthy in the days to come.

I strongly hold that in traveling, knowing the community is of utmost importance. A man can walk into, through, and out of any city and make judgements from what his eyes can see, the whispers his ears can catch, and the weather that crawls on his skin. Added together, these are still far less than what the same man can learn from mingling with the locals. The more people he meets, his learning opportunity increases, simply because each individual is different- and hence unique. Moreover, these individuals are not robots, they are the God-created human beings who fed on their past experiences to make them whoever they are today. Each and every one of them has a story to tell.

Undeniably, as has happened to many of its users, facebook costed myself a lot of my time. But I was prepared to sacrifice some time for a better return- a memorable and enlightening experience in a country I've loved as much as I do my own. This is a country whose people I've heard much of, whose history I've studied deep, and whose landscape and beauty is world-famous. This is Bosna i Hercegovina.

Never had the thought of holidays cheered me as much as this one did. I've spent more than a couple of years in the UK, and yet had not stepped anywhere far from it. I defied and resisted a dozen of invitations and persuasions from friends that I should come with them to see Europe, without a tinge of hesitation, let alone regret. While my friends embark on journeys to Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid, Marrakesh, Cairo, Prague, Berlin and Rome, I sat quietly in my room, curled myself with shelves of books. Holidays were to me my special moments with the books; there'll be no classes or tutorials to disturb our 'dates'. If anything, I 'traveled' with my books. I held that books could take me to all time and places, almost without any boundaries or limitations. In other words, I was unconvinced that traveling could give me anything better than these books can- and might have already done.

The Bosnian experience changed me starkly in this aspect, among many others. My friends were surprised, and to an extent puzzled, to see me being so excited for the holidays. It seemed like I could not stop thinking about it; Bosna will be my main preoccupation whenever I had free time. It was as if my eyes glowed and shined with every mention of the word. Some people couldn't understand the passion I have developed deep inside me, but there was one thing that they were invariably sure of: it was real.

The Balkan call

After a week out of Sunderland, I'm now back home. There is so much to tell; so many stories to narrate, countless memories to keep, and invaluable moments to share. I've always loved to write, but this time it's hard to get my thoughts organised. It's the feeling of wanting to write about everything at one go. However; as much as passion has to be appreciated, it also has to be moderated.

I'll start, before everything else, with praises to Allah the Almighty- but I can never praise Him enough. As a young man I realise that Allah is too kind to me; He answers to my prayers, protects me vigilantly, shows me the straight and guided path, showers me with His blessings, pours His love into my heart, embeds peace and serenity into my soul, grants me knowledge- the list will not end. But all I did was to remember Him only sparingly! Sometimes I questioned myself a lot; I'm sure that I don't befit these kind treatments Allah is giving me. I'm just another man, as sinful as one can be. I sin, and ask for forgiveness, only to relapse in sinning again. I'm not special, neither am I an angel, nor do revelations come down to me. Maybe I'm different in one thing- I am easily touched by Your kindness, and I'm not so good in holding my tears.

They say that the world is unfair. However I'm more worried that I'm being unfair to You. I try to make up for my weaknesses, just to ease myself. I'll wake up in the nights for You, I'll spend some good hours asking for Your forgiveness, I'll squeeze my eyes hard to weep for You. I'll let my lips light reading Your words in the Qur'an- but none of these can make up and be compared to Your grace. I'm doing all these in the hope that You accept me, in the Day of Judgement, as Your righteous slave...

I didn't just go to Bosna for sight-seeing. I doubt I would go anywhere for that purpose. I travel in search of life, truth, hope, faith, forgiveness, gratefulness, and taqwa. And these, I found much from my recent experiences in Bosna. Alija's book alone did not pull me to Bosna. It was more than that- the accumulated years of my short life hinted something about Bosna, as if saying,"Safwan, this is where you're going one day". I can never forget how the word 'Bosna' first visited me; I was only 8 years old. My dad ceaselessly prayed for Bosnians then, and I was amazed, except that my faculty at that time could not comprehend the issue. Dad told me more about Bosna when I was 9, and his story is still fresh in my mind. It continued to come to me when I reached 12, 13, and 19, almost like it was trying to assert and reassert its presence, and remind me in case I have forgotten. It wanted recognition. Until I turned 20, the Bosnian issue has visited me enough to help me decide in going there. And I did not regret it even to the very least.

When the year 2009 dawned, I've been thinking seriously about going to this much-longed country. Suddenly in on the 12th of March, my fingers moved almost as subconsciously clicking this and that to purchase the ticket. Accompanied by prayers and blessings from my understanding parents, it marked the beginning of a momentous chapter out of the many chapters in my life.