There are always some things about myself that I would not have ever noticed had I not persisted in reflecting. This must be the reason why I greatly enjoy meeting people, observing, learning and writing. It is as if I'm opening the rusty windows of my heart, letting some gentle breeze blow through it, sending a message of peace to the interconnected mind. It is an opportunity to know and understand myself better, the Safwan that I falsely thought I've known every single thing about. Early that morning, I gained another insight..
I was deep in my dreams when suddenly Sedin's voice entered into my realm without prior warning. I sat up with resisting eyes and peeked around- outside it was still dark, only not pitch-dark, but everyone in the house was already awake. There were a few movements in and out of the room, and shortly after one of them made the call of prayer. In a few minutes we were ready, standing in straight, well-disciplined rows with Sedin at the front most to lead us. The prayers definitely did not take more than 5 minutes, but to me it was deeply effective. Praising the Almighty, asking for His guidance, love and forgiveness- I would not have preferred any other ways to start my day with.
Yet again I was astonished- and went straight into contemplative mode. My religious background and upbringing are not flawless, there are many others who outdo us by significant distances. We don't frequent the mosque everyday, or strive in learning a large part, if not whole, of the Quran by heart, but we have our principles and certainly cover our basics. As the head of the family, our father taught us to focus on knowledge and togetherness- that we ought to learn and do so with each other's company. He set the example by teaching us the Quran and ahadith after the dusk prayer each day almost without a miss. As a result, I grew up prioritizing prayers in congregation, that I care about it so much, and have by far persuade many to share this same feeling. I've seen, from my primary school to university experience, how challenging it can be to get everyone from the same household to pray in congregation, not to speak of the dawn- early morning- prayer. You would have to treat each time as the first, convincing them of the same thing, bearing their same excuses, waiting for their predictable procrastinations- still there is no guarantee of full attendance. But these people prove to be different. These young Bosnian Muslims, every one of them made it into the congregation, and mind, it was hardly 5 in the morning.
I am not in a speck of doubt that there is more to be seen. There is something about this country and her people that I am yet to learn; something, I guess, simply different. On the streets, an average observer's eyes will not gather much of their spiritual penchant, but here, living with them in their houses, and from what I've seen in the mosques, it is not to be belittled. When the sun rises, I'm all set for a handful more of new discoveries!
Monday, 23 August 2010
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Hearing through the eyes?
It was already late in the night, and we needed to recharge ourselves for the thrills of the day called tomorrow. I almost couldn't wait to start relating about our walk in Sarajevo- under the bright sun-, but what we learnt that night must not remain untold.
Sanadin walked us along the still-foreign streets of Baščaršija until we arrived at where he wanted us to spend the night in. It was a flat in a shop-lot, almost like the flats I've seen in UK, Ireland, and in my own country Malaysia, where shop-lots are bifunctional. We were introduced to Sedin who appeared to be the 'person-in-charge' amongst the few students who shared the flat, and I immediately liked him. During the whole time we spent there, there were two things he never did- he never spoke a word of English, and he never dropped the broad smile he assumed. Undoubtedly the latter left a lasting impression on me..
People are intrinsicly thinking, contemplative beings. Through our senses we absorb our surroundings and depending on each individual's effort, these are digested as food for thought. If we care to make some further connections, those thoughts will translate into another form, be it written, lingual, or behavioural. When the Prophet (peace be upon him) said, "(what constitutes) the religion is good advice", he didn't say it for nothing. When one's contemplative-digestive-active connection is intact, we'd hope to see changes and improvements to kick-start. But we musn't limit it to only spoken words, because actions many times do speak out louder. Sedin might or might not realise it, but his smiles have taught me how much even a single honest smile can mean. His soundless smiles sounded to us like a 'welcome', a 'make yourselves home', a 'we're happy to have you over', a 'please come again anytime you want'- as if these words emanated from his smiles each time he turns one to us. I never knew my eyes could actually hear!
With the complete bedding handed to me, my eyes were almost tight-closed. On the broad, cozy sofa-turned-bed, I reclined like a tired traveller- indeed I was like nothing less. Wait a minute, where was Nubli? Or better still, where's the toilet in case I need to use it in the middle of the night? Communication was very limited between us and certainly their smiles won't give a shed of answer to these. Eventually my fatigue saved me from these trivials, for I was too tired I couldn't spend an extra minute awake.
Sanadin walked us along the still-foreign streets of Baščaršija until we arrived at where he wanted us to spend the night in. It was a flat in a shop-lot, almost like the flats I've seen in UK, Ireland, and in my own country Malaysia, where shop-lots are bifunctional. We were introduced to Sedin who appeared to be the 'person-in-charge' amongst the few students who shared the flat, and I immediately liked him. During the whole time we spent there, there were two things he never did- he never spoke a word of English, and he never dropped the broad smile he assumed. Undoubtedly the latter left a lasting impression on me..
People are intrinsicly thinking, contemplative beings. Through our senses we absorb our surroundings and depending on each individual's effort, these are digested as food for thought. If we care to make some further connections, those thoughts will translate into another form, be it written, lingual, or behavioural. When the Prophet (peace be upon him) said, "(what constitutes) the religion is good advice", he didn't say it for nothing. When one's contemplative-digestive-active connection is intact, we'd hope to see changes and improvements to kick-start. But we musn't limit it to only spoken words, because actions many times do speak out louder. Sedin might or might not realise it, but his smiles have taught me how much even a single honest smile can mean. His soundless smiles sounded to us like a 'welcome', a 'make yourselves home', a 'we're happy to have you over', a 'please come again anytime you want'- as if these words emanated from his smiles each time he turns one to us. I never knew my eyes could actually hear!
With the complete bedding handed to me, my eyes were almost tight-closed. On the broad, cozy sofa-turned-bed, I reclined like a tired traveller- indeed I was like nothing less. Wait a minute, where was Nubli? Or better still, where's the toilet in case I need to use it in the middle of the night? Communication was very limited between us and certainly their smiles won't give a shed of answer to these. Eventually my fatigue saved me from these trivials, for I was too tired I couldn't spend an extra minute awake.
Saturday, 23 January 2010
No, you are a traveler!
"No, you are a traveler!" was what Harun repeatedly said when I tried- and insisted- on paying the bills. It was unexpected, indeed it got me perplexed, that I was receiving such hospitality from a near-complete stranger. 10 minutes ago, I wouldn't have recognised him if we were to bump in each other in the streets, and now he is treating us like his closest friends. Nubli and I really didn't mind spending a little bit, for so far we haven't spent much except on bus tickets. Moreover, I have came to this country coupled with a sincere intention to help its economy in any way I could afford (that's what toursists normally do, knowingly or unknowingly). I later succumbed, but not without a safety net- "next time I come, I won't drink unless you let me pay", sounded my friendly warning to him. We smiled and exchanged hugs- deep inside me I really wished to see him again. Do bear in mind that this man was running a business, and his business then was nothing more than three days old!
It turned out that this one example of Bosnian hospitality and generous reception is in no way exceptional. I traced my thoughts back to Mostar earlier today, when Nurudin won't allow us to even take our wallets out, him instead paying the confectionaries we were feasting on. In fact, Nurudin's tour-guide service, which lasted over two hours and covering some couple of miles, was completely free of charge. I was fully aware that being treated is a great thing, but I certainly didn't want to be taking advantage of these peoples' incessant acts of kindness. As inherent Malays especially, we are accustomed to avoid being a bother to anyone, lest we might add to their burden. For a long time I had this attitude, which I thought was faultless and venerable, until the day when a Muslim-revert brother Lim Jui Soon challenged me in his words, "Do you want to open me an opportunity to do good, or don't you?"
Interestingly, a little insight into Islam would instantly disclose the origins from where this culture was nurtured. It is possible that this makes a perfect example of how the Quran lives within the society, glowing in peoples' hearts, spreading the light and serenity to their surroundings- benefiting a foreign traveler like me, oblivion- to say the least- at that time. A culture which its engines are fuelled by the meaningful, impeccable verses of God's final testament, stands out in the midst of hedonism not like a sore thumb, but like a red rose against a monochrome background. These Bosnians could have instead shed our skins, empty our pockets and fill their tummy, but they chose to starve and facilitate us. Their reason was, as I recall their own words, "the Prophet was very kind to travelers- so will we..."
"It is not piety or righteousness that you turn your faces towards east and west (in prayers); but it is the one who believes in God, the Last Day, the Angels, the Book, the Prophets and gives his wealth- in spite of love for it- to the kinsfolk, to the orphans, and to the poor, and to the traveler, and to those who ask, and to set slaves free, (and the pious person is the one who) performs prayers, and gives the in charity, and who fulfil their oath when they make it, and who are patient in extreme poverty and ailment and at the time of fighting. Such are the people of the truth and they are the pious."
(al-Baqarah ; 177)
Back in Sarajevo, I jokingly thought, "Poor Sanadin, he had to pay for his cup of coffee, while we walked out without losing a penny."
It turned out that this one example of Bosnian hospitality and generous reception is in no way exceptional. I traced my thoughts back to Mostar earlier today, when Nurudin won't allow us to even take our wallets out, him instead paying the confectionaries we were feasting on. In fact, Nurudin's tour-guide service, which lasted over two hours and covering some couple of miles, was completely free of charge. I was fully aware that being treated is a great thing, but I certainly didn't want to be taking advantage of these peoples' incessant acts of kindness. As inherent Malays especially, we are accustomed to avoid being a bother to anyone, lest we might add to their burden. For a long time I had this attitude, which I thought was faultless and venerable, until the day when a Muslim-revert brother Lim Jui Soon challenged me in his words, "Do you want to open me an opportunity to do good, or don't you?"
Interestingly, a little insight into Islam would instantly disclose the origins from where this culture was nurtured. It is possible that this makes a perfect example of how the Quran lives within the society, glowing in peoples' hearts, spreading the light and serenity to their surroundings- benefiting a foreign traveler like me, oblivion- to say the least- at that time. A culture which its engines are fuelled by the meaningful, impeccable verses of God's final testament, stands out in the midst of hedonism not like a sore thumb, but like a red rose against a monochrome background. These Bosnians could have instead shed our skins, empty our pockets and fill their tummy, but they chose to starve and facilitate us. Their reason was, as I recall their own words, "the Prophet was very kind to travelers- so will we..."
"It is not piety or righteousness that you turn your faces towards east and west (in prayers); but it is the one who believes in God, the Last Day, the Angels, the Book, the Prophets and gives his wealth- in spite of love for it- to the kinsfolk, to the orphans, and to the poor, and to the traveler, and to those who ask, and to set slaves free, (and the pious person is the one who) performs prayers, and gives the in charity, and who fulfil their oath when they make it, and who are patient in extreme poverty and ailment and at the time of fighting. Such are the people of the truth and they are the pious."
(al-Baqarah ; 177)
Back in Sarajevo, I jokingly thought, "Poor Sanadin, he had to pay for his cup of coffee, while we walked out without losing a penny."
Sunday, 27 December 2009
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)
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)
Thursday, 24 December 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, 12 November 2009
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".
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".
Friday, 30 October 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
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.
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.
Monday, 28 September 2009
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!
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!
Thursday, 20 August 2009
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)
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)
Sunday, 16 August 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Gdje je Katedrala?
As we left the bus station,
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.
Monday, 3 August 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
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.
Monday, 27 July 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, 25 July 2009
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.
Thursday, 23 July 2009
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!
Sunday, 19 July 2009
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.
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