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!