Journey to Bosnia (10)

Title: Journey to Bosnia (8)
Author: Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم

Journey to Bosnia (8)
Sunday, 7 Dhū al-Ḥijjah 1447 AH

By: Dr Mohammad Akram Nadwi
Oxford

I awoke for Ṣalāt al-Fajr, though I was weighed down by a fatigue that had settled deeply within me. Having performed the prayer, I surrendered for a short while to rest, as though the body, burdened by the exertions of previous days, sought to reclaim for itself an hour of stillness. When the sun had risen a little, we descended to the hotel restaurant at half past seven. The food was abundant and varied, yet my soul found little inclination towards excess. I preferred bread, honey, and oil; for in such simple foods there resides a tranquillity that I do not always find amidst the elaborate varieties of luxurious fare.

Thereafter I returned to my room and resumed my review of my book on tafsīr, turning its pages in the calm of the morning and revisiting certain passages until the time for the lesson arrived.

My discourse that day centred upon the story of sacrifice. I began by speaking of the foundation of the Abrahamic religion (al-millah al-Ibrāhīmiyyah), namely rushd—that sound judgement guided by the natural disposition (fiṭrah) and illuminated by its light. I then explained the Divine statement:

> “And We had certainly granted Ibrāhīm his sound judgement before, and We were well acquainted with him.” (Qurʾān 21:51)

I clarified that the opposite of rushd is foolishness (safah), as Allāh says:

> “And who would turn away from the religion of Ibrāhīm except one who makes a fool of himself?” (Qurʾān 2:130)

I then proceeded to uncover for the students the subtle and hidden parallels between the story of sacrifice and the vow of the wife of ʿImrān. Both, in essence, revolve around sacrifice and surrender to Allāh; yet the former unfolds in the world of men, while the latter belongs to the world of women. I left them to exercise their minds in discovering these points of resemblance, hoping they would arrive at the meaning through reflection rather than mere instruction.

Thereafter we divided into two groups. One group set out to explore Sarajevo from morning until noon, contemplating its landmarks and historical remains, while the other remained at the Jordanian Mosque to train in the art of illumination (tadhhīb)—that ancient Islamic craft through which manuscripts and muṣḥafs are adorned with gold and intricate vegetal and geometric ornamentation.

The mosque itself was spacious and well organised. Its ground floor had been designated for men, while the upper floor was for women. It also contained rooms for Qurʾānic instruction and facilities for wuḍūʾ and bathing, all bearing witness to the care the people of this country have long shown for both learning and worship.

I belonged to the second group, and we arrived at the mosque at around ten o’clock. The instructor was a Bosnian woman residing in Istanbul, who had travelled by plane especially to teach and exhibit this art. For three hours we sat with her, sketching patterns, colouring designs, and learning the secrets of illumination that had for centuries accompanied precious muṣḥafs, poetic works, and miniature paintings.

To me, this art appeared to be more than mere embellishment. Rather, it seemed an effort to cast light upon the page, just as the Qurʾān illuminates souls and minds. Gold in this context is not simply ornamentation, but a symbol of spiritual meaning. It is for this reason that Muslims from the earliest times sought to surround the Speech of Allāh with the finest beauty the hands of artists could produce. The motifs of illumination drew inspiration from nature, yet beneath the branches, leaves, and flowers lay a precise Islamic geometry, hidden so subtly that one might imagine rational order itself dissolving into botanical beauty.

These illuminated manuscripts were not objects of religious reverence alone; they also became among the most precious gifts exchanged between kings and sultans. Their beauty extended beyond gold to rare pigments extracted from precious stones, such as lapis lazuli, from which that captivating deep blue was obtained. Nor did the art of illumination remain confined to the muṣḥaf. It extended into literature, history, and epic works such as the Shāhnāmah, becoming one of the four principal pillars of what came to be known as the “art of the book”: calligraphy, illumination, miniature painting, and bookbinding.

We had intended to pray Ẓuhr in the mosque, but an incident in the city disrupted the water supply to a third of Sarajevo. Consequently, we returned to the hotel to make wuḍūʾ and pray there.

Thereafter, the first group proceeded to the mosque to learn illumination, while my own group departed towards the city centre for sightseeing. As for me, I chose to remain at the hotel and rest, for I had already seen many of those landmarks during my first visit to Sarajevo. Yet their images returned to me in memory as though they had never departed from sight.

Sarajevo is not merely a city to be visited; rather, it is a city to be read, as one reads ancient books—page by page and line by line—until the visitor begins to feel that its stones preserve memory, and that its rivers, bridges, mosques, and markets speak in a subdued language heard only by one who listens with the heart before the ear.

One of the first features to capture the eye is the Miljacka Road, extending alongside the river that divides the city in two, as though history itself had been split between East and West, or between an old Ottoman age and a modern European one. The river flowed with quiet dignity, disturbed only slightly beneath the stone bridges that had endured the passing of centuries, while buildings of differing colours and styles rose along its banks. Here one sees Ottoman architecture standing beside Austro-Hungarian design in remarkable harmony.

The bridges crossing the river appeared not merely as passages, but as witnesses to the turns of time. Among the most famous is the Latin Bridge—small in size and modest in form, yet bearing a historical weight greater than that of grand palaces. It was here that the gunshots rang out which claimed the life of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in 1914, shaking Europe and propelling it into the First World War. Strange indeed that the place today stands calm and quiet, as though the city wishes to remind its visitors that the greatest events may begin in the humblest of places.

The road then extends towards Sarajevo City Hall, a grand structure overlooking the river with evident majesty. Built in the late nineteenth century in an Austro-Hungarian style influenced by Eastern ornamentation, it combines Islamic arches and Andalusian colours with the rigour of European design. Upon entering, one is captivated by decorated ceilings, stained-glass windows, and broad staircases gleaming beneath the light. Yet perhaps the saddest aspect of this building is that it was burned during the Siege of Sarajevo, resulting in the loss of thousands of precious manuscripts and books. It was later restored after the war, as though the city had sought to triumph over destruction through memory and beauty.

The visitor then enters the old market, Baščaršija, the Ottoman heart and enduring eastern spirit of Sarajevo. There, narrow stone-paved alleys weave between small shops from which emanate the scents of Bosnian coffee, polished copper, and aged wood. Craftsmen sit before their workshops fashioning copperware just as their forefathers had done for centuries, so that one imagines time itself has slowed in this place to grant the past another opportunity to remain.

At the centre of the market rises the Mosque of Gazi Husrev Bey, standing in serene dignity. It is the greatest mosque in Bosnia and among the finest surviving monuments of the Ottoman age. Visitors enter its spacious courtyard, where worshippers perform wuḍūʾ beside the fountain, before gazing upon white domes and a slender minaret rising into the sky. Within the mosque resides a remarkable tranquillity, as though the noise of the world ceases at its threshold, leaving only the gentle sound of footsteps and the recitation of Qurʾān. It was never merely a place of prayer, but throughout the centuries served as a centre of learning, justice, and communal life, becoming a symbol of the enduring Islamic identity of these lands.

Nearby stands the Ottoman clock tower, ancient in face and appearance, whose clock continues to observe the Islamic lunar system in a rare tradition still alive today. It stood like a dignified elder watching silently over the city, having witnessed the succession of states, wars, and generations.

A little further lies the Kovači Memorial Cemetery, where the city assumes an altogether different character. After the markets, bridges, and ancient buildings, one encounters rows of white graves standing in solemn silence, narrating without words the suffering Bosnia endured during its long siege. There rest the Bosniak martyrs who fell defending their city, alongside Alija Izetbegović, whose name remains bound to patience, faith, and struggle.

The city then stretches towards the University of Sarajevo, where the future seems to converse with the past. Students move through its spaces in various tongues and accents, reminding the observer that Sarajevo has always been a meeting place of cultures, religions, and peoples. As for the Museum of Revolution, within its walls are gathered long chapters of Bosnian history—from the Austro-Hungarian era to modern conflicts—through photographs, documents, and artefacts recounting an entire century of upheaval and transformation.

Perhaps what distinguishes Sarajevo most is that one never feels a rupture between past and present. Minarets rise beside churches, eastern markets stand near modern European buildings, and traces of war still appear upon certain walls, while cafés remain filled with youth, laughter, and life. It is as though the city, after all its suffering, learned how to gather sorrow and hope within one heart, transforming its wounds into a memory that does not fade.

As evening approached and the movement of the day gradually subsided, while Sarajevo prepared itself for the calm of night, we were honoured after Maghrib by the visit of Professor Nermina Baljović and Dr Naida Hota Muminović, Minister of Education and Upbringing in Bosnia and Herzegovina. These two distinguished women left a particular impression upon me, for they were not merely guests passing through a gathering, but represented a form of fidelity to knowledge and care for Islamic culture in this land, which had endured hardships nearly sufficient to sever it from its past, yet steadfastly clung to its roots with patience and quiet perseverance.

The meeting was rendered all the more delightful by the fact that both had participated in translating my book Al-Muḥaddithāt from English into Bosnian. As I welcomed them, I experienced that subtle gratitude known to authors when they witness their words crossing the boundaries of language and geography to find a new home in the hearts of people they have never previously met.

We gathered in the conference hall, joined by a number of male and female students. Upon their faces was that calm enthusiasm characteristic of Bosnian youth—an eagerness not expressed through loud speech, but manifest in attentive listening and thoughtful questioning.

The two distinguished guests sat before the audience with simplicity and dignity, and began speaking about Bosnian history—not in the manner of the dry historian who merely recounts events, but as those who had lived with history’s traces in the collective memory of the people and witnessed how a

nation may be wounded yet remain alive.

They spoke of Bosnia, over which empires and wars had passed, and of Islām, which had taken root there for centuries until it became part of its cultural and civilisational spirit. They then reflected upon the years of hardship and siege, and how people struggled to preserve their religion and identity amidst ruin and fear. There was no loud bitterness in their words, but rather a calm and profound reflection, as though prolonged suffering itself had transformed into wisdom.

The discussion then turned to Al-Muḥaddithāt, and they spoke of the intellectual matters within it deserving transmission to the Bosnian reader. They reflected upon the difficulties of translation, for translation is not merely the transfer of words, but the transmission of spirit, culture, and an entire context from one language to another. The students listened with evident interest, and questions followed concerning Islamic thought, language, and the role of books in shaping the awareness of young people.

After the gathering concluded, we went to a café. Night had cast its veil upon the city, and the streets had grown quiet save for a few passers-by and the glow of streetlamps reflected upon pavements dampened by the evening dew. We sat around a small table, sharing a light supper and hot tea, and our gathering continued until eleven o’clock at night.

There, away from formality and lectures, the conversation became closer to the daily realities of people’s lives. They spoke of Bosnian Muslim women and their regular attendance at mosques, though their attendance for Friday prayers and the two ʿĪds remains less common than that of men due to social customs. They also spoke of funerals in Bosnia, where women gather alongside recitation, supplication, and patient composure, in a manner where sorrow and faith are woven together in remarkable harmony.

What especially struck me in their remarks was that Islām in Bosnia does not always manifest itself through outward displays. Rather, it appears as a quiet and deeply rooted faith, living within daily customs, memory, and the manner in which people endure hardship with patience. More than once, as I listened to them, I felt that this people had learned from its long history how to conceal its pain beneath a veil of calmness and dignity.

At length, the gathering dispersed late into the night, and we returned to our rooms. I stood for a moment at my window, contemplating Sarajevo in the silence of night. It seemed to me a city of strange character: possessing the spirit of the East and the image of the West, carrying as much sorrow as hope. A city that emerged from war burdened with wounds, yet still retaining a measure of that human tranquillity which causes the visitor to grow attached to it swiftly, only to find thereafter that it cannot easily be forgotten.

Disclaimer: This article was translated by AI.

Disclaimer: This article was translated by AI. Original post: https://t.me/DrAkramNadwi/9239