Journey to Bosnia (7)
(7)
Saturday, 6th Dhu al-Hijjah 1447 AH
This is my second journey to Bosnia. I had previously shared my memories of the first trip in six articles, where I documented the conditions of the country, the people I met, and the enduring emotions that journey left within me. It seems that when a person returns to a beloved place, they carry with them two images: an old one stored in memory and a new one ready to be discovered. Thus, they live between memory and anticipation, between what they knew before and what they hope to see anew.
We departed from —myself, my wife, and my daughters Aisha and Hala, along with Hala’s children: Amani, Osama, and Maryam—at a time of night when the darkness softens and dawn begins to breathe gently. It was a quarter to three in the morning. We performed the Fajr prayer before leaving, then proceeded quietly to the road, as if the entire city was submerged in a deep sleep from which it did not wish to awaken. was unusually still, with only the sound of passing footsteps or a car fading into the distance, making it seem as though this ancient city was indifferent to those who leave or return, for it is older than all its people and more enduring than their fleeting journeys.
We boarded a large vehicle that accommodated us all, and it began to carve its way through the long road to Luton Airport. The road stretched before us in monotonous silence, flanked by dark trees that appeared in the dim light like silent phantoms, under a calm gray sky that was neither bright enough to bring joy nor rainy enough to evoke sadness. It was the typical English sky that invites silent contemplation and evokes a vague sense of estrangement.
Upon reaching Luton Airport at four o’clock, we were joined by my daughter Fatima, her husband Dr. Imran Nawid, and their young daughter Aisha. Later, my daughter Sumayya arrived with her children: Asim, Asiya, and Ibrahim, accompanied by her husband Abu al-Farhan and a group of students from the Peace Institute. We encountered a crowd we had not anticipated. The airport, though small and limited in space, was bustling with people, as if the entire world had gathered there. The school holidays that had just begun seemed to have prompted families and students to travel, mixing faces and languages, with children’s voices rising and long queues stretching before the inspection and passport windows, inducing a sense of weariness and fatigue. The travel procedures took a full hour, during which I moved between windows and inspection points with a sense of suppressed exhaustion, as the effects of sleeplessness and travel weighed heavily on both body and soul.
I then sat in a corner of the airport, intending to engage in some work, as I always carried papers and books with me, whether traveling or at home, believing that it was always possible to seize an hour for reading or review. However, fatigue was stronger than me that day, overwhelming my resolve, and I sat in a daze, looking at the people around me without truly seeing them, hearing voices echoing in the vast hall as if coming from a distant place. I felt a deep exhaustion that carried no apparent pain but weighed down both spirit and body, and only sleep could remedy it.
When the clock struck half-past six, we boarded the plane, and as soon as I settled into my seat, I surrendered completely to sleep, as if my body had been drained of all strength, and the past hours had exhausted whatever energy remained. I was unaware of the journey or what transpired around me on the plane until the flight attendant awakened us, announcing our descent into Sarajevo Airport, which was at a quarter to eleven in the morning.
The first sensation upon opening my eyes was a return to a land that was not foreign to my soul, despite the long absence. Some places, once visited, leave an indelible mark on the heart, and upon returning, one feels a sense of old familiarity, as if there is an enduring acquaintance between them. There, we met others from our group who had come from various countries, exchanging greetings and salutations with a joy mingled with fatigue. The faces bore the marks of long travel, yet they also displayed the cheerfulness of reunion after separation.
I entered my hotel room close to noon, while most students went out for lunch and conversation. I preferred solitude and quiet, having a light meal in my room, then performing the Dhuhr and Asr prayers combined and shortened. The fatigue within me drove me to flee from everything to the bed, surrendering to sleep, as if sleep was a blessing sent by Allah to the weary, a mercy for their exhausted bodies.
I awoke around five o’clock, feeling more at ease and relieved of some of the fatigue, and I immersed myself in reviewing my book on Tafsir. This habit was my favorite refuge during travels, as I found in knowledge a unique companionship unmatched by anything else. As I turned the pages and reviewed meanings, I felt my soul regaining some of its tranquility and balance, as if reading restored order to the heart after the chaos of travel and movement.
As evening approached, we descended to the hotel restaurant and dined together. There, I met my senior students who had come from the United Kingdom, Europe, America, and Australia. They were all joyful and optimistic, their faces reflecting the joy of reunion after a long absence, and their eyes filled with the clarity that sincere love and true companionship create. The gathering was filled with conversations and memories, voices and laughter intertwined in an atmosphere of intimate camaraderie. As I looked at them, I realized that knowledge not only unites minds but also hearts, and these journeys, despite their fatigue and hardship, leave in the soul a sense of affection and clarity that makes all the toil worthwhile.
The Peace Institute held its first meeting in the hotel’s conference hall at half-past eight after the Maghrib prayer. It was a spacious, calm hall, filled with attendees from various countries, each carrying something of their experience, hopes, and the questions that drive people to travel and seek knowledge. Though fatigue was still apparent on the faces, there was also a hidden energy in the souls, fueled by the excitement of a new journey and the anticipation that always accompanies beginnings.
The esteemed Abu al-Farhan, the director of the institute, addressed the attendees with a calm and composed speech, outlining the purpose of the journey, its daily programs, and the planned visits, lectures, and meetings. He spoke with simplicity and clarity, yet through his words, one could sense that this was not merely the organization of a transient trip but an endeavor to transform the days we would spend in Bosnia into an intellectual, spiritual, and human experience.
Participants then took turns speaking, each introducing themselves, their interests, their connection to the Peace Institute, and the impact and experiences of previous journeys they had participated in. It was remarkable to see the vast differences among people in age, country, and specialization, yet all converged on a single desire: the pursuit of learning, the quest for meaning, and the attempt to understand life more deeply than ordinary, repetitive days allow.
Some spoke with hesitation and modesty, while others spoke with confidence and enthusiasm, but what united them all was the simple sincerity that emerges from the soul when discussing the things one truly believes in. As I listened to them, I felt that no matter how distant lands and cultures may be, the human soul remains tethered to the same profound questions: Why do we live? How do we find guidance? What gives life meaning and value?
When it was my turn to speak, I talked about the meaning of traveling through the earth. I said that many people believe that journeys are merely transitions from one place to another, or a collection of stories, events, images, and memories, as if a person is a tourist passing through places fleetingly. However, when the Quran invites us to travel the earth, it does not intend this superficial, limited meaning. Instead, it seeks a deeper, more significant understanding; it seeks admonition and reflection, observing the fates of nations, and understanding the laws that govern the lives, destruction, and salvation of people.
I then recited the verse: “Those are the towns whose stories We relate to you. Their messengers came to them with clear proofs, but they would not believe in what they had denied before. Thus does Allah seal the hearts of the disbelievers.” I paused at the phrase “in what they had denied before,” explaining that this phrase is not directly related to “they would not believe” as it might initially seem, but rather it is a reason for it; they did not believe because they had previously denied and persisted in their denial until denial became a habit of both mind and heart. A person does not go astray suddenly; it begins with neglecting the truth, then hesitating about it, then turning away from it, until they become incapable of seeing it even when it is clear before them.
I told the attendees that the most dangerous affliction for a person is not ignorance alone, but the disabling of the intellect, for Allah has endowed humans with the ability to observe and discern. If they neglect it, their hearts become sealed, and they hear without benefiting and see without taking heed. I then recited the verse: “That is from the news of the towns which We relate to you; of them, some are standing and some are mown down. We did not wrong them, but they wronged themselves, and their gods whom they invoked besides Allah availed them nothing when the command of your Lord came, and they added to them nothing but ruin. Such is the seizure of your Lord when He seizes the towns while they are doing wrong. Indeed, His seizure is painful and severe.”
I explained that when the Quran narrates the stories of nations, it does not aim to fill the memory with events but to awaken the conscience and teach that when injustice takes hold of a nation, and it turns away from the truth after recognizing it, its apparent strength does not benefit it, nor does its civilization or idols or what it imagined as a source of pride and protection.
I then mentioned the verse: “And most of them We found not true to their covenant,” linking it to the verse: “And they swore by Allah their strongest oaths that if a sign came to them, they would surely believe in it…” to the verse: “as they did not believe in it the first time.” I said that often a person deceives themselves, thinking that if they saw a sign, they would believe, or if circumstances changed, they would be upright, while the root of the problem lies within, in their perspective on the truth and their readiness to accept it. Those who reject the truth the first time are likely to be deprived of success afterward, for when the heart becomes accustomed to turning away, returning becomes burdensome.
I also mentioned Pharaoh’s words: “O Haman, build me a tower that I may reach the ways,” explaining that Pharaoh did not need to ascend to the heavens to know the God of Moses; he needed to look at the signs surrounding him from every side and within himself. The truth does not elude a person because of its distance but because they turn away from it. Even Iblis was in the heavens, yet he did not find guidance; instead, he became more distant and expelled because proximity of place means nothing if the heart is corrupt.
The hall was extraordinarily quiet, with people listening in calm reflection, as if each person was reviewing something within themselves. As I spoke, I felt that the journey had truly begun, not from the moment we boarded the plane, but from the moment people began to view life with contemplation and responsibility.
I concluded my talk by telling the students that we must approach life with seriousness and reflection, not with frivolity and heedlessness, and observe the events and experiences around us with the perspective of a thoughtful learner, not a passerby who sees things and then forgets them. Life is too short to waste in heedlessness, and the world is full of signs for those who wish to see.
The meeting ended around half-past ten at night, with fatigue evident on the faces after a long day that began before dawn and only ended now. We returned to our rooms quietly, each carrying with them some reflection and thought, then surrendered to rest, preparing for a new day of this journey.
