Journey to Bosnia (11)
(9)
Monday, 8th of Dhul Hijjah, 1447 AH
That morning, I continued my lesson, reflecting and weighing the vision of Ibrahim (peace be upon him) when he was commanded to sacrifice his son Ismail, against the vow of the wife of Imran to dedicate what was in her womb purely for Allah, untainted by worldly ties or human connections. I explored with the listeners the subtle link that binds these two stories; a link of pure sacrifice and detachment that leads a person to offer what they love most as an offering to Allah. I paused for a long time at the significance of the firstborn in the history of sacrifice and selection, and how humanity, since ancient times, has seen the first fruits of its labor and the dearest to its heart as the most worthy to be raised to the heavens.
I then moved to the words of Allah: “You will never attain righteousness until you spend from that which you love.” I explained that righteousness is not merely a word spoken or a claim made, but a hidden test of the heart; for it is easy for souls to give from what is surplus, but difficult to offer what they are attached to and love. True spending is that which extracts a person from their stinginess and elevates them from the bondage of attachment to the expanse of altruism and contentment.
The discussion extended until ten o’clock, interspersed with questions from the attendees and my answers, making the gathering lively and flowing, as if thoughts were interlinked, and meanings were born from meanings, with one thought barely ending before another followed.
We then rose and boarded the bus at half-past ten, heading towards the cities of Travnik and Jajce. The road led us quietly through green fields that stretched as far as the eye could see, as if the earth had donned a green silk garment that morning, interspersed with the shadows of trees and the clear waters of streams. On both sides, majestic mountains rose, shrouded in a light mist that thinned and thickened at times, making it seem to the observer like the specters of a distant dream.
There was something of the tranquility of the Bosnian countryside in that road, and something of the sweetness of nature that does not speak much, but casts a long silent conversation into the soul; a conversation that prompts reflection and makes one feel their insignificance in the face of this ancient, serene beauty.
When we reached Jajce, the place appeared to us like a remaining page from a medieval book, not folded by the centuries, but wearied by wars and left as a witness to what had passed. The old city stands atop a great rocky hill, overlooked by a formidable fortress with its walls and towers, surrounded on its sides by the waters of the Pliva and Vrbas rivers, combining the beauty of nature and the majesty of history.
We first walked to the old fortress, which still stands after six centuries as if it were a silent guardian of the city, its stones narrating what books could not. The walls stretched long across the slope, interspersed with ancient towers and gates, making the visitor feel as if time had stopped there since the era of the Bosnian kings and their knights. Our guide explained how the fortress began as a small stronghold atop the hill, expanding over the ages; it witnessed the Bosnian state, then the Hungarians, then the Ottomans, with each nation adding something of its spirit, fear, and dreams to the stones.
What stirred the soul with awe was the tale of King Stjepan Tomašević, the last king of Bosnia, who sought refuge in this city fleeing from the advance of Sultan Mehmed the Conqueror, only to meet his end after the kingdom fell. As I contemplated those high walls, I felt that old cities do not only preserve the names of kings but also their fears, loneliness, and their final hours of waiting.
We then descended towards the great Pliva waterfall, where the Pliva River meets the Vrbas River in a breathtaking scene. The water cascaded down with a continuous roar, the white foam breaking around it on the limestone rocks, making the waterfall appear like a curtain of liquid light. We were told that its height was greater in the past than it is today, but earthquakes and wars altered its form somewhat, yet it retained its ancient grandeur.
The entire city seemed woven around this water; the walls descended towards it, the old roads led to it, and the ancient wooden houses overlooked it in a mournful silence. There, I felt that water in these lands is not merely a flowing river but a complete memory; it carries the news of fallen kingdoms, the echoes of soldiers, and the sounds of muezzins and church bells together.
We then visited the Pliva lakes, both large and small, stretching between the mountains and forests in captivating tranquility. The waters were so still and clear that one might think them a great mirror reflecting the sky and trees. We were told that these lakes were formed over distant geological ages and that nature continued to carve and reshape them until they reached the exquisite form we see today.
Near the lakes, we saw the small wooden mills, known as “mlinčići,” lined up over stone barriers in a remarkable order. These mills appeared like rural toys crafted by a humble artist’s hand, yet they were once the heart of the economic life of the surrounding villages. Built entirely of dark wood, standing on pillars of varying heights according to the slope of the land, and roofed with old wooden planks. They had no adornment or affectation, but their beauty lay in their simplicity and perfect harmony with the water, forest, and silence.
We walked between those mills on narrow wooden bridges, the water gently swirling beneath them, until I imagined I could hear the breaths of past centuries still lingering in that place. Some of the mills had been restored after the damage they suffered in the war, remaining illuminated at night like small lamps on the water’s edge.
Jajce was not merely a city of stone, but a meeting point of civilizations, religions, and eras; it held remnants of ancient churches, Ottoman mosques, Roman temples, and neighborhoods that still retained the spirit of Eastern markets. Every corner I moved to made me feel that the city did not belong to a single time but to overlapping eras, where East and West, Islam and Christianity, mountain countryside, and ancient military civilization coexisted.
We left the city as evening descended, carrying within us a longing for an era we did not live, yet it seemed close to us, as if those stones and waters could restore something of humanity’s earliest memory to the heart.
Our next stop was the city of Travnik, that small, quiet town resting between the mountains like a folded page from Ottoman history in Bosnia. As soon as we entered, we felt that the spirit of the East still inhabited its alleys and old markets; the minarets rose gently above the red roofs, and the ancient houses clustered on the slopes as if supporting each other against time.
Travnik appeared to me as a city that combined vitality and tranquility; it was not a bustling metropolis, but it pulsed with a quiet internal life, a life crafted by small cafes, old markets, and the sound of running water between narrow stone alleys. There was something of the fragrance of the Ottoman era in its air, making one imagine that governors, soldiers, and traders still silently traversed its paths.
In the heart of the city, we visited its famous mosque, known as the “Colored Mosque” or “Šarena Džamija,” located where the old market once bustled with artisans, vendors, and travelers. This mosque amazed me with its delicate beauty, different from the grandeur of larger mosques; its beauty lay not in its size, but in the colors, decorations, and intricate details that covered its walls inside and out. The intertwining floral and geometric patterns created a captivating harmony, making the mosque appear like a piece of ancient Eastern art, adorned with flowers and colors instead of words.
The tranquility that filled the place bestowed upon it a special spirit; there was no noise or crowding, only a small congregation of townspeople performing their prayers in peace and serenity, as if the mosque continued to fulfill its original mission for centuries, far from the world’s clamor.
We then ascended to the old fortress overlooking the city, one of the most beautiful and well-preserved fortresses in Bosnia. Its ancient walls rose majestically atop the hill, bearing witness to the kingdoms, conflicts, and armies that had passed over these lands. We were told that historians differ in identifying its builder; some attribute it to King Tvrtko II, others to King Stjepan Dabiša, but they almost unanimously agree that it was constructed in the late 14th or early 15th century.
The successive ages left their clear marks on this fortress; the old Bosnian architecture mingled with the Ottoman touches added by Turkish fortification engineers, making the fortress a living image of Bosnia’s history itself, a history that saw the succession of nations and cultures without the land losing its unique character.
From atop the walls, we stood contemplating the city below; the houses cascading down the slopes, the white minarets, the small rivers cutting through the greenery, and the mountains encircling the place in majestic silence. The scene at sunset inclined towards a kind of beautiful melancholy, the kind that old cities evoke when you feel that centuries have passed over them, yet they still retain their complete memory.
The townspeople reminded us that Ivo Andrić, the Nobel Prize-winning author, was born here, as if this small town had not only produced leaders and governors but also someone who carried the spirit of Bosnia to world literature. Indeed, there is something literary hidden in Travnik; something that makes the visitor feel that the places themselves are capable of storytelling, and that the stones, markets, and mountains hold within them thousands of untold stories.
Our day had stretched long between ancient fortresses, ascending and descending roads, and walls rising on hills then descending towards rivers. We were exhausted by the extensive walking, climbing, and descending, especially with the day’s heat that weighed on our breaths and wearied our bodies. Every time we drank water to quench our thirst, we found it warm, only intensifying the thirst in our throats, as if the summer heat had permeated even the water itself.
Yet, the beauty of those cities left us with something that made us forget some of the fatigue; the hardship becomes bearable when the path is filled with history, nature, and memories. Perhaps the most beautiful aspect of travel is that after a long journey, one feels that the places they have seen are no longer mere passing images but have become part of their soul, blending the body’s toil with the spirit’s delight.
We returned to Sarajevo at half-past nine in the evening, with darkness having settled over the mountains surrounding the city, and the roads quiet after the day’s bustle. I returned carrying within me intertwined images of water, stone, minarets, and walls, the sound of waterfalls, and the shadows of forests, as if our entire day had been a journey not only through space but through layered strata of history, memory, and beauty.