For the Madrassa

Written by: Samaha Copyright © 2006
Blog: Samaha: My Veil Is My Heart
Location: USA

Whenever I recall my first trip to Bosnia, I tend to think about the airplane in which I sat replaying the little made-up adventures that I was going to have while at my grandmother’s home. I think about how eventually the 2 hour delay in flight had gotten on my nerves and thinking to myself, What is wrong with these people, how is a girl supposed to keep her sanity with the most annoying brother and sister getting on her last nerve? However, it’s not really my first memory of Bosnia. My first memory of Bosnia would be me and my cousin both throwing sand at this poor old mutt of a dog that just took it as long as he could before letting out one bark. My second and last memory of that trip would be sitting on the stairs in an old house waiting for my parents to wake, telling everyone how I was going home to America, and finally seeing my father and yelling “we’re going back to America!” It was later on that I found out that my parents’ intention was to leave me there to stay with family but couldn’t do it when they saw my excitement that morning. I often wonder if I should be offended that they even had the thought.

Who would have imagined that a decade later I would be smoking cigarettes on the veranda with my aunt Refia, telling her how I didn’t want to go back to America? Who would have thought that this 14 year-old girl speaking in her best broken Bosnian would want to live in a country in which most towns only carried two different types of jeans, if they even counted as jeans, and 3 or 4 different styles of blouses? Looking back though, I think I stayed for the shoes, if there was one thing that they did have, and one thing that they had even better, it was shoes, but that’s a whole other book for another time.

It would be that aunt, my twin as everyone liked to call her because we looked identical even if she was 14 years older, who would take me to Sarajevo to look into Gazi Husrefbeg’s Madrassa, as requested by my parents. Gazi Husrefbeg’s Madrassa was something that I wanted for myself. It just so happens that when I spoke of this dream, my parents did nothing but encourage it.

Gazi Husrefbeg’s Madrassa was built by Ghazi Husrevbeg in remembrance of his mother Princess Seljukia and was given the name of Seldjukia until the people renamed it Kurshumli, stemming from the Turkish word kursum for “lead,” its roof covered with lead. It is an Islamic secondary school that at one time was the pinnacle of education in which nothing compared to it from Sarajevo to Istanbul. It is said that it was the forerunner to the University of Sarajevo’s Faculties of Islamic Studies and Law.

To me though, it was just Gazi Husrefbeg’s Madrassa. Specifically, it was a myth that lay beyond the beautiful stone wall in Bascarsija; the stone wall which Refia and I were greeted in front of to discuss my enrollment for the following year. The same stone wall that heard the first news of my early stay in Bosnia. “She should stay this year to master the language, otherwise her chances of entrance will greatly reduce.” The same stone wall that would feel my heart quicken to the thought of not returning at the end of the summer.

Eight years later, it would be Refia and I smoking our cigarettes, leaning against the cold red brick Islamic Cultural Center in Northbrook, Illinois. Refia, who was teary-eyed, recalled her exile from our beloved Vlasenica. Choking on her tears as she spoke of signing documents that signed away any claims to the family estate. Speaking to me as if she owed me some sort of explanation, “They would have killed us . . . they said it was the last day to leave . . . we had to sign the documents to leave, to get papers for safe passage . . . if it were just me, I would never have left, but there was Melisa to think of and your grandparents.” There wasn’t any amount of “You did what you had to . . . any normal person would have done the same . . . you did nothing wrong.” These all registered in her mind. It was her speaking out loud, and not wanting to be consoled.

She went from a CEO position in an international company to running a machine at a local molding plant. Her worst moment of that was the realization when she was being handed a broom; it being her turn to sweep up before the shift change. She tells me, “I’m not too good pushing a broom, but at that moment, I realized that it was not only the home and material goods that were taken from me, it was my education, my experience, everything that I fought so hard to become were just taken from me. You have no idea what that’s like Samaha.” There was no greater humbling moment in my life than those words.

Refia and I returned to Vlasenica to find Nena’s (grandma’s) warm face awaiting us, her scarf drawn tight around her face by her smile. She sat almost on her knees, at least it so appeared. It was hard to tell with her dimiye, long Bosnian traditional skirt made up of an abundance of fabric that gets gathered at the top with a drawstring, and elastic cuffs at each leg that get pulled up the calf resulting in a slight puff at the bottom. I can’t quite remember what she said exactly but it would have been something teasing like; “Well, have you finished playing around? Idle hands won’t bring you husbands,” ending with her characteristic wheezy laugh due to her asthma.

“Nena, it looks like Samaha will be staying with us this year.” Refia said.

“Don’t tell me that, don’t even joke about it.” Nena said through laughter. Her eyes twinkling as she jested with me. “Come sit,” she said as she looked at me and patted at the floor next to her.

I ran over and sat next to her. I was still smiling. I don’t think that the smile left my face since the counselor suggested I stay the year. I could barely remain still, I was normally fidgety, but when emotions would peak, so would the fidgeting.

“Sit still girl, that is just so unattractive. Samaha, it is just not lady like!” Nena said as she squeezed my hand. Nena reached into the pocket of her knit button-down vest, which she never buttoned, another typical article sported by middle-aged and older Muslim women in Bosnia, and pulled out ten dinars. “Why don’t you go buy us some bread while Refia makes the coffee.

I had become the one responsible for running over to the store for certain items like bread and oil whenever needed, and each time I would get the change. However, I always first gave the change back to Nena, and she always gave it back. I was thrilled this time as the bread was going to cost about 2.5 dinars. I’d have enough change for 3 packs of cigarettes.

“You had 5 dinars” Refia noted

“Let it be,” Nena said waving her hand in dismissal of Refia’s comment.

By the time I had gotten back from the store, the coffee was ready and Nena was on the phone laughing. She quickly said goodbye and handed me the phone.

“Samaha,” my mother said softly on the line.

“Mom!” I exclaimed as the tears overtook my eyes and began to stream down my face. I gulped and held my breath.

I could tell that she was crying even before she said “I’m going to give you to you Babo (daddy).”

“Okay. Mom . . . I love you!” I said, making sure that “I miss you” didn’t slip out this time.

She barely returned the “I love you” through her sobs.

“Samaha!” my dad shouted through the phone. In contrast to my mother, he was very cheerful. “So, we talked to Refia and think that you should stay this year to learn the language better. Are you okay with that?” He asked genuinely.

“Are you kidding! I love the idea, I’m having so much fun here.” I exclaimed.

“You know this isn’t about having fun, when school starts, it is going to be so much more difficult than here. They are more advanced in their curriculum and you have a disadvantage with the language. You will have to devote yourself to school.” He said apprehensively.

I remember wondering if he was going to change his mind so I quickly chimed in with, “I know dad, I know. This is for the Madrassah.”