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Bismillahir-Rahmanir-Rahim

I awoke for the Fajr prayer, weighed down by fatigue that compelled me to perform the prayer and then surrender to a brief rest, as if the body had grown narrow with what it had borne in the previous days, and wished to claim for itself an hour of stillness. When the sun had risen a little, we went down to the hotel restaurant at seven-thirty. The food was abundant and varied, but my soul did not find any inclination toward elaboration, so I preferred bread, honey, and oil — for in these simple foods there is a peace I do not always find in luxurious spreads.

I returned to my room and took up my review of my book on tafsir, turning its pages in the quiet of the morning and reconsidering certain passages, until the time of the lesson arrived. My talk that day was about the story of the sacrifice. I began with a discussion of the foundation of the millah of Ibrahim — namely, the right guidance (al-rushd) — that intellect guided by fitrah, upright by its light. I then explained His saying, exalted be He: "We had certainly given Ibrahim his right guidance before, and We were of him well-aware," clarifying that the opposite of right guidance is foolishness (al-safah), as He, exalted be He, said: "And who would be averse to the millah of Ibrahim except one who makes a fool of himself."

I went on to disclose for the students the hidden and subtle parallels between the story of the sacrifice and the story of the vow of the wife of Imran: both rest on the meaning of pure giving and surrender to Allah, but the first operates in the world of males, and the second in the world of females. I left them to exercise their minds in drawing out the parallels, hoping they would arrive at the meaning through investigation, not through dictation. Then we split into two groups: one went out to tour the city of Sarajevo from morning to noon, contemplating its landmarks and historical traces, and one stayed in the Jordanian mosque to practise the art of gilding — that ancient Islamic art that adorns mushafs and manuscripts with gold and botanical and geometric ornaments. The mosque was spacious and well organised; its upper floor had been allocated for the gilding workshop, where they sat together in quiet.

After the lesson, we went down to the heart of the old city, then crossed the famous Latin Bridge — that modest bridge whose history bears no relation to its size: from it rang the shot that killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in 1914, shaking all of Europe and precipitating the First World War. The position today is calm and quiet, as if the city wants to teach its visitors that the greatest events may begin in the simplest places.

We continued to the Sarajevo City Hall building (Vijećnica), a magnificent edifice that overlooks the river with evident majesty. It was built in the late nineteenth century in the Austro-Hungarian style influenced by eastern ornamentation, so Islamic arches and Andalusian colours combined there with strict European precision. The moment one enters, the painted ceilings, the stained glass windows, and the broad staircases that gleam under the light hold one captive. What is perhaps most poignant is that this building was burned during the siege of Sarajevo, in which thousands of precious manuscripts and books were lost; it was restored after the war, as if the city wished to triumph over ruin through memory and beauty.

Then we entered the visitor to the old market, "Baščaršija" — the Ottoman heart and the lasting eastern soul of Sarajevo. There the stone-paved alleys narrow, and the small shops of coppersmiths and craftspeople press against each other, breathing the scents of Bosnian coffee, polished copper, and old wood. The artisans sit before their shops making copper vessels as their ancestors did for centuries, so the visitor might think that time has slowed in this place to give the past another chance to remain.

In the middle of the market rises the Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque, towering in quietness and dignity. It is one of the most magnificent mosques of the Balkans, built in the early sixteenth century by the famous Bosnian governor Gazi Husrev-beg, with a dome that soars with majesty, surrounded by a tall minaret that pierces the sky. The mosque was also damaged in the siege, but it was carefully restored and reopened for worship, and it still receives worshippers and visitors with the same serenity it has known for five centuries.

I performed the Zuhr prayer in this great mosque, and I felt — as I sat there in the cool of the shade, with the sound of water flowing from its fountains and the pigeons fluttering under its high dome — that I was in the presence of a layered history: Ottoman, Austro-Hungarian, Yugoslav, and modern Bosnian. And that Sarajevo, with all the wounds in its body, remained a city that refused to break.

I came out of Baščaršija to a coffee shop facing the river, where I met two of the most senior Bosnian female professors of Islamic studies — two women who carry Bosnia's scholarly memory with great distinction. They welcomed me with warmth, and we began a quiet conversation about the state of Islamic studies in the country, the challenges facing Muslim youth, and the role of women in revitalising religious thought. The conversation ran for nearly an hour, and it was rich in content and meaning, so I wished to extend it longer, but the time pressed us, and I had to continue my tour.

I returned to the hotel at half past five in the afternoon, after a long day that had begun before dawn. I sat in my room to rest a little, but my mind was still turning over what I had seen and heard, so I took up my pen and began to write down my impressions of the day. The evening came with the Maghrib prayer, after which I went down to the hotel restaurant with a group of my students for dinner. We talked about the day's events and what we had seen of the city's landmarks, and we all felt that Sarajevo was not merely a city we were passing through, but a city that left a deep impression in the soul.

After dinner, I held a public lecture in the conference room on the topic "The Role of Scholars in Reviving the Ummah in Times of Crisis." The lecture ran for about an hour and a half, after which the questions continued for another half hour, and I answered them with the utmost patience and detail. I sensed in the questions and in the faces a real hunger for knowledge, and a real desire to understand the religion of Allah correctly, away from the conflicts and divisions that have torn the Muslim world apart.

The lecture ended at nine-thirty at night. I went up to my room, and the city of Sarajevo lay before me from the balcony of my room, with its lights dotted along the mountains in the dark, and the river tracing its slow course in the dark valley. I stood there contemplating the city a while, then whispered a prayer of gratitude to Allah for the day I had spent, and for the lessons, the meetings, the conversations, and the impressions I had gathered. Then I went to sleep, exhausted, hoping that tomorrow would bring more lessons, more knowledge, and more blessings.

Sarajevo is a city of strange nature: it has the spirit of the East and the image of the West, with as much sorrow as hope. It is a city that emerged from war burdened with wounds, yet still retains a human tranquility that quickly endears itself to the visitor, making it impossible to forget.

Translation note: This article was translated by AI. View the original Telegram post.