The beginning of "The Embattled Innocence"

Ramadan 14, 1433 AH

Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
- Emily Bronte

I set out for the university at around 7.30 am this morning. One of the most pleasant morns in this Ramadan. Alhamdulillah. When I got on to the bus, I was reminded of the book on which I had spent around twenty minutes last night in order to convert and clean up its format to suit my kindle - The Embattled Innocence: Recollections of a Muslim Relief Worker by Suleman Ahmer. After paying my fare to the conductor, I pulled out my kindle from my handbag and started reading the preface and went on to read the first chapter, at the end of which, I was so moved to tears, that I had to shut my reading device off and give myself some time to think, and rethink. By this time, I saw the huge gates of the NED University passing by on my left hand side. I prepared myself to get off at the next stop - my university. In a dazed state of mind, I alighted the bus and started walking the path I have been walking for the past seven years now. The right hand side of the road, just next to the pavement that divides the wide road into two. I walked lazily because I wanted to give myself some time to think over all those things that I have lately been thinking obsessively about...

Just a few more months, or perhaps a year, and life will change for good. I sincerely hope and pray that literally too this change is for good. I will be moving away from so many people who define me. Who've made me into the person I am, and yet the reality remains the same for everyone: we have to part ways, no matter what. These partings are symbolic of the great parting that has to come one day, when the world will shut itself up on me; when I will alone embark on the journey on which even the dearest of my folks would not be able to accompany...

I have spent years now thinking about my life and how to make it meaningful. It has been a bumpy road throughout. Now, however, the words of a mentor, said to me a couple of years ago, resonate in my ears quite often: "we all try to make our lives meaningful. Do we think about what gives meaning to our death?"

The thought had been troubling me lately, and today, after I started reading The Embattled Innocence, I found myself in conversation with a man who has probably found out the answer to the question that was posed to me years ago. I had always felt my calling was somewhere else. The preface and the first chapter of this book made those questions resurface in my heart that my mundane existence has well taught me to put to sleep. Or probably it happens with everyone because of the kind of lives we are leading. Forgetfulness (or heedlessness?) characterises the modern life. The distractions are way too many to keep one away from thinking over one thing that can help change one's destiny.

In any case, the world of The Embattled Innocence is the world that I have always thought about, even if the thought process occurred at the back of my mind. It is a world that had always been there since childhood. It is a world beyond the muddied world of politics that divides my Nation (the Ummah) on the basis of geographical locations; that teaches people the lesson of nationalism, which has made living in this world unbearable for many. This morning, that world stared right into my face and asked me if I had found answers to the questions about my calling? I said, no, I had not. I am still travelling. Wandering in the wilderness...

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As I read along, I will reproduce some excerpts from the book here on my blog. The passages that I like not only because of the way they are composed, but because of how they give me a reason to keep on walking the path, even if it is in the wilderness at the moment!

1. 

 June 1996

The first time I came across her was in the winter of 1992 in the Bosnian town of Mostar. She had long black hair, hazel eyes and a smile that lit her face. I soon realized that her eyes refused to laugh. They held the look of bewilderment and the fear of an uncertain future. Girls as young as Aida had started understanding the misery that wars so easily delivered. They call war 'raat' in the Bosnian language, sounding like the 'night' in my native Urdu. I wonder how two languages continents apart would have the same word depicting darkness. For Mostar and its daughters such as Aida, the Balkan war meant exactly that, a never-ending darkness.

2.

The war had forced the Muslims to take a fresh look at their identity and religion. There was an eagerness, especially among the children, to learn about Islam. Wanting to learn the Salat, she had started learning Fatiha. We would teach Aida a part of the Salat in each trip with a promise of a 'Poklon' (gift) which would be candy, a rag doll or tits bits of that sort. The thought that a small girl eagerly awaited us in Mostar would warm our hearts many times over.

3. 

I remember one day as I hurried towards a town council meeting, some children stopped me and insisted that I accompany them. They took me to a school, which had been converted into a refugee camp. The lower floor hosted the office of the Merhamet (a Bosnian relief agency), the office of the Mufti of Mostar and some rooms for medical emergencies. I was led through the dark and damp hallways to the basement where some young girls were practicing Islamic songs for an upcoming festival. On seeing a stranger, they fell silent. I urged them to continue and left after a few minutes leaving behind my cassette-recorder.

With every spin of the recorder, the songs and the memories were electronically preserved. It was to become a prized possession and a great companion for many months to come. On our long drives in Croatia and Bosnia, Abbas and I would play the tape and sing along in Bosnian:

"O Allah, Bosnia bleeds today.
And we suffer.
But we have hope that you will deliver us. And we don't complain.
We know You will be with us forever."

A girl had burst into tears and before the tape could be shut off, her sobs had been recorded. On coming to this section, we would gently cry ourselves, the tears cementing our determination and pushing away thoughts of giving up. ‘How can we give up when children in Mostar are calling Allah and have their trust in Him (swt)?’

4. 

It was a typical day when the news came. We had delivered supplies to Mostar a day earlier and were preparing for the next trip. Never in our lives had four words held so much devastation: "West Mostar has fallen."

All roads leading to Bosnia were sealed. We frantically tried to find a way to get to Mostar, but to no avail. The memories of the town came flooding back: the faces, the long hours spent talking, the laughter, the mosques and the walks in the old town. The voices of the girls singing the Islamic songs and the words of Mustafa echoed, "You may not find us...” And then there was the sinking feeling of defeat and the heart-wrenching realization that we had failed Mostar in the final moments. Our promise of being with them had been broken. With the fall of west Mostar, we felt a part of us had died.

5. 

Had she lived, Aida would be in her teens. She would surely have completed learning her Salat.
Some say there is more to life than Bosnia. Some comment that I am hung up with all that went on. I wish they could have known that little girl and many others like her.

Aida may not be with us today, but the struggle for which she died so young continues. Bosnia is alive so are many Aidas and many lands like Bosnia. Our failure to keep our promise to Aida must not prevent us from making promises to others. For Aida, the help was too little, too late. It doesn't have to be the same for others. The understanding that we are Muslims is a promise to all the Aidas and all the embattled Muslim lands: a promise that we are with you and you shall never be deserted.

Excerpted from The Embattled Innocence: Recollections of a Muslim Relief Worker by Suleman Ahmer