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Bismillahir-Rahmanir-Rahim

Sheikh Abu Talib, who had come from America, led us in the Eid prayer at half past six in the morning. There was a quality in his takbir that awoke in the soul meanings of peace and reverence, and a dignity in his presence that belongs to scholars who combined knowledge with purity of spirit. He is one of the well-known preachers who take the hearts of listeners before their ears, and one of the teachers of the Al-Salam Institute who have been known for their care of knowledge and their call to the path of Allah.

He delivered an eloquent khutbah in which he reminded us of the history of the building of the Holy Ka'bah. He spoke of Ibrahim ﷺ on the day he raised the foundations of the House, of that effort mingled with faith, and of that sacrifice that was not a single man's sacrifice but a sacrifice of an entire family chosen by Allah for trial and certainty. He paused long at the story of Hagar and her patience, and at Ismail and his obedience, so that it seemed to us those distant events were not taking place in the depths of history, but happening now before our eyes, with all their tears of hope, the trial of love, and the truth of submission to Allah Almighty.

Then I delivered a brief word after the prayer, in which I spoke of the meaning of the musalsal hadith and its specificity in the science of narration, how it bears in its words and form the trace of the chain and the spirit of reception — it transmits not only the words, but with them the image of delivery and the warmth of feeling. I told the attendees the musalsal bil-awaliyyah, the hadith that the muhaddithun used to begin their students' study with; then the musalsal bil-mahabbah, for the harmony of spirits and the gathering of hearts in love for Allah; then the musalsal bil-yawm al-eid, which had a special joy in this gathering, since the nobility of narration met the joy of the occasion, and knowledge mixed with delight, and remembrance with happiness.

When we had finished that, we embraced one another, congratulating each other on the blessed Eid of Allah. The faces overflowed with a pure gladness that had no affectation or pretence, as if the Eid had restored to the souls something of their original innocence. Then we went on to the hotel restaurant at a quarter past seven, where we took breakfast in an atmosphere of affection and contentment. The conversations of knowledge and religion and travel memories went around, and the laughter of the brothers mingled with the sound of coffee cups, while the morning sun had begun to spread its quiet threads over the place, heralding a day of Eid's days that would not be forgotten.

We went out at half past nine to the Kravica waterfalls — that natural jewel set in the heart of Herzegovina, where the waters of the Trebižat river flow at first quietly, then do not delay to fall from on high in a gentle violence, as if nature itself had gathered in them stillness and revolution, whisper and roar. When we drew near the place, we felt we had moved from the world of people to another world, where the only authority is that of water, greenery, and clean air.

The road to the waterfalls passed between poplar and fig trees, and those wild trees that grow on their own nature, knowing neither the gardener's hand nor the order of cities. The greenery covered the place so fully that one might think the earth had put on a green robe from which nothing of it showed. As for the limestone rocks down which the water descended, they were covered with mosses and lichens and tiny grasses, so that the waterfall itself seemed like a living, breathing thing, not silent mineral.

I did not see in this place any visible trace of civilisation's contrivance or the noise of construction: no tall buildings marred the view of nature, no machine-noise spoiled the soul's serenity. Rather, one saw the water flowing in its first freedom, and the trees standing in their ancient dignity, as if time had not passed over this place at all.

The height of the waterfall was about twenty-five metres, with the waters branching into twenty small drops, then all gathering in a round quiet lake, surrounded by sand and trees on every side. The waterfall's relative smallness is perhaps what gave it this intimate closeness to people: it is not the colossal that arouses awe alone, but a beautiful companion, inviting the visitor to come close, to sit beside it for a long while in companionship and reflection.

I saw the people there scattered between swimming and sitting on the lake's banks, some of them spreading cloths on the ground for food and conversation, others pitching their tents not far from the water. There was a small café where the visitors sat in quiet, talking in whispers as if they feared to interrupt nature's sacred silence. They told us about the boats and the rowing in summer, and about spring when the greenery reaches its peak, and the tables fill with grilled fish and local foods the people of those parts are famous for, and we took some ice cream and strawberries.

Then they pointed out to us a nearby cave where stalactites and stalagmites hung in strange beauty, and an old mill and a small ship moored at the river's edge, as if a trace of a distant age that refused to pass. The place needed no great decoration; the beauty in it was purely natural, with no contrivance and no pretence.

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