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.