Journey to Bosnia (14)
The Bosnian Journey
Thursday, 11th Dhu al-Hijjah 1447 AH
We leisurely enjoyed breakfast at the hotel restaurant, as the gentle rays of the sun began to grace the city of Mostar, entering through the windows with a soft touch, as if gently awakening the place without any harshness. The people in the restaurant were either silently contemplating their new day or conversing softly, while the aroma of coffee and freshly baked bread rose, instilling a sense of comfort and tranquility. We sat at the table, eating our meal with the calm of travelers accustomed to wandering, never lingering long in one place, yet constantly reflecting on the conditions of people and lands.
After breakfast, I turned to some of my tasks, reviewing what I had written in the past days, responding to accumulated messages, and organizing the next leg of the journey. A traveler might sometimes think that travel is a break from work, but in truth, it is a transition from one task to another, from one fatigue to another. However, the fatigue of travel is eased by the renewal of sights and the diversity of faces and places.
We left the hotel in Mostar at nine-thirty in the morning, heading towards Sarajevo. The road stretched between mountains and rivers in serene beauty, imparting a sense of clarity to the soul. The bus wound its way up and down, revealing small villages and scattered houses on the slopes, with rivers appearing between the rocks like silver threads running through a vast green garment.
Our silence in the bus did not last long; my companions began asking me various questions related to family matters, marriage, divorce, and the intricacies of jurisprudence and its challenges. The conversation then shifted to issues of prayer, purification, and other matters essential for people’s daily lives and worship. Remarkably, these questions, despite their abundance and variety, were not contentious or ostentatious but were inquiries from those seeking tranquility, eager to find what they perceived as closest to truth and most considerate of people.
I answered them with what Allah had granted me, drawing upon the sayings and evidence of jurists, striving to balance the precision of knowledge with the ease of Shariah. For religion was not made to burden people or place them in hardship, but as guidance, mercy, and rectification for life. Some would follow up with another question, leading our discussions to branch out, transforming the bus into a small scholarly gathering, blending travel with contemplation, and the beautiful scenery with calm jurisprudential inquiry.
I observed the joy on the students’ faces upon hearing the answers, not merely because they received verdicts, but because they sensed that when knowledge is accompanied by gentleness and sincerity, the heart opens to it and the soul finds peace. Perhaps the greatest satisfaction for a teacher is to see the impact of his words on the minds of his listeners and to feel that knowledge still has the power to connect people in a time rife with division and turmoil.
The bus continued its journey towards Sarajevo, with conversations occasionally continuing and occasionally pausing. The mountains around us stood still and majestic, as if they too were listening to the discussions of religion and life taking place in the bus. We then stopped at the Tunnel of Hope near Sarajevo Airport, a site that at first glance appears to be a small, modest structure, but upon hearing its story, one realizes they stand before a poignant chapter of modern history, written by suffering, patience, and unyielding will.
With us was a retired Bosnian army officer, his beard grayed and years weighing heavily upon him, yet his voice retained the fervor of fighters who had lived through war and faced death firsthand. He spoke to us at length about the days of the siege, about Sarajevo when all its exits were sealed, turning it into a city besieged by mountains and fire, connected to the outside world only by an airport controlled by UN forces. People wishing to leave or bring in food and medicine had to sprint across the runway, under the watchful eyes of snipers who monitored movement from surrounding positions, making death there not an accidental occurrence but a constant presence in every step and glance.
He then recounted the bold decision made by the Bosnian army when all paths were blocked: to dig a tunnel under the airport connecting the besieged city to the outside world. The digging began from a small, humble house belonging to the Kolar family, in a quiet neighborhood where no one would have imagined that beneath its ground a lifeline for an entire city would be born. The work on the tunnel commenced from two directions: from Dobrinja and from Butmir, amidst falling shells, obstructing groundwater, and encircling snipers. Yet, the work continued for several months until the tunnel was completed in the summer of 1993.
The officer spoke to us not with the detached tone of a historian, but as someone who had lived those moments himself; he described how people passed through this narrow tunnel carrying food, medicine, and fuel, how weapons were secretly transported through it, and how electrical wires, telephone lines, and water pipes extended through it, turning this dark passage into a hidden artery sustaining the city amid death and siege.
He also mentioned that President Alija Izetbegović crossed this tunnel multiple times to leave Sarajevo for the world, carrying his people’s cause to the capitals of nations and peace conferences, while his city endured hunger, shelling, and isolation.
After this conversation, we entered the tunnel itself, and entering it evoked an unmistakable awe in our hearts. The tunnel was narrow with a low ceiling, barely allowing a person to stand upright, and the passage was long and damp, as if the earth had closed in above our heads. We walked only a few steps, but they were enough to feel something of what those who crossed this place in dark nights felt, carrying both their fear and hope.
The small rails remained in some places, reminding us of the carts that were pushed in that darkness to transport food and ammunition. The walls retained traces of moisture and age, as if preserving the memory of the weary hands and anxious faces that once passed through.
We then entered the Kolar family’s house, now transformed into a small museum housing war photos, some of its tools, and documents, where a documentary film about the siege and the tunnel is shown. The house itself had suffered the destruction that befell many of Sarajevo’s homes, yet it remained standing, a testament to the resilience and strength that can emerge from beneath the rubble.
When we emerged from the tunnel into the daylight, it felt as though we were stepping out of another time, a time when people fought not for luxury or expansion, but for survival itself. It occurred to me then that cities are not preserved by walls alone, but by the resolve of their inhabitants when the world closes in on them and they refuse to surrender.
We arrived at the hotel in Sarajevo shortly before two in the afternoon, the journey having taken some effort from us, yet our spirits were still occupied with the day’s scenes of war and its remnants, and the beauty of nature and the patience of people. Sarajevo welcomed us in the calm of the afternoon, the sun flowing over both its ancient and modern buildings, as if the city embodied both the fatigue of history and the hope of new life.
We entered the hotel, then gathered for lunch after the weariness of the road, and the meal at that hour had the pleasure of a traveler finding rest after long movement. We then performed the combined and shortened Zuhr and Asr prayers, feeling in the prayer a tranquility that follows much travel and the mingling of images in the mind; for no matter how much one sees of the world’s manifestations, there remains a need for a moment of solitude with one’s Lord, where the heart finds respite from the clamor of images and conversations.
I then retired to my room for a brief rest, the fatigue beginning to show in the body, yet the mind remained alert, recalling the day’s discussions of the tunnel and the siege, and the images of villages, mountains, and rivers. Travel may tire the body, but it awakens the mind, making one more sensitive to the vicissitudes of life and the diverse conditions of people. I descended to the hotel lounge at five in the evening, where some group members awaited individual meetings, seeking advice on various matters related to their educational and missionary work, and their family and personal affairs. It was heartening to see these young people, despite their different countries and experiences, united by a common concern for seeking knowledge and a desire for reform.
We sat and talked at length; one asked about teaching methods and how to make knowledge accessible to students without complexity or pretension, another lamented the challenges of calling to faith in a time of many distractions and weakened connections to reading and contemplation, while another shared family problems or personal concerns weighing on him, seeking a word of guidance or a reassuring opinion. I found in these private meetings a level of candor and sincerity not always present in public gatherings; for when a person is alone with someone they trust, they speak with the voice of their heart, not the voice of formality.
These meetings continued until seven, after which the students gathered in the conference hall, which had filled with eager faces and yearning hearts, enveloped in the stillness that precedes scholarly gatherings. There, I narrated to them the rest of the chains of transmission, reciting Al-Fatiha, and narrating the chain of its recitation, then the chain of reciting Surah As-Saff, the chain of handshaking, the chain of interlocking fingers, the chain of hospitality with the two black things, and the chain of grasping the beard, explaining the meanings, chains, and etiquettes of receiving these transmissions, and then granted them a general authorization.
Reflections on Knowledge and Patience
In those moments, there was a profound sense of connection with the knowledge passed down through generations. These chains of transmission are not merely words to be memorized; they are subtle links that bind the present of the Ummah to its past, connecting the student to their teachers, making them feel they are not isolated from the long, enduring history of knowledge.
I then delivered a lesson on the meaning of patience and its relation to the Abrahamic faith, illustrating how Abraham, peace be upon him, did not attain the rank of leadership except through trials, endurance, and submission. I spoke of Hanifiyyah, not as a mere historical term, but as the inclination of the heart away from all falsehood towards pure truth, and of that spiritual freedom that liberates a person from the bondage of habit, fear, and desire.
The students listened with evident interest, as if the discussion had touched something within them. Patience is not merely a theoretical concept preached by orators; it is the daily experience by which a person is tested in themselves, their family, their work, and their mission.
Then the floor opened for questions, and the topics varied widely, encompassing issues of knowledge and religion, matters of education and conduct, and some concerning the conditions of Muslims in this turbulent era. The session extended until ten at night, yet I did not feel the passage of time; for in sincere gatherings of knowledge, the sense of hours fades away, as minds are engaged with matters more enduring than time itself.
When the session concluded, the students departed quietly, many of them visibly deep in thought and reflection. As for me, I returned to my room with a sense of fatigue, yet it was a weariness accompanied by a hidden comfort, akin to what a traveler feels at the end of a long day filled with conversation, vision, and contemplation.
Sarajevo gradually settled under the cover of night, the sounds in the hotel and streets hushed. I spent a few moments reflecting on the day’s events—from discussions of war to discussions of knowledge, from the darkness of the tunnel to the light of the gatherings—before retiring to bed, my soul grateful to Allah for a day spent in travel, knowledge, and good company, hoping that what was said and heard would leave a lasting, positive impact beyond the journeys and days.
