Embattled Innocence: Reflections of a Muslim Relief worker by Suleman Ahmer has been published in Pakistan.

Embattled Innocence has been published in Pakistan and is now available in a beautiful hard cover. The book is about personal experiences of Suleman as a relief worker in a number of Muslim countries.

Here are some glimpses:

Preface to the second edition

In 2002 I quit relief work. It was a sad decision. It was time to move on. The past 10 years—though turbulent—had been the best of my life. A lot also happened after the publishing of the first edition: stories which will have to wait for now. Read more

Preface to the first edition

In my travels to war-torn areas, I have seen the best and the worst that life has to offer. Where I witnessed war, destruction, death, suffering, captivity, hate and rage, I also saw compassion, love, self-sacrifice, altruism and dedication to Allah (swt). While I came across devils incarnate, I also met the finest people that the Muslim Community has produced in these times.

This small book is a collection of some of those experiences. Read more

About the Author

During his graduate studies in the US in 1992, Suleman volunteered for relief work with the Bosnian refugees in Croatia and delivered supplies to the Bosnian city of Mostar. He returned to his studies in the fall of 1993. Read more

Excerpts from the book:
The City, The Girl, And the Little Rag Doll

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. Read more

In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful

To The First Edition

In 1992, by the grace of Allah (swt), I bid farewell to Engineering to volunteer in Bosnia. In my travels to war-torn areas since then, I have seen the best and the worst that life has to offer. Where I witnessed war, destruction, death, suffering, captivity, hate and rage, I also saw compassion, love, self-sacrifice, altruism and dedication to Allah (swt). While I came across devils incarnate, I also met the finest people that the Muslim Ummah has produced in these times.

This small book is a collection of those experiences.

I used to meet Muslim students while speaking at Universities, their faces radiating the passion for Islam. More than that, I saw in them a promise for the future. I decided to keep in touch by sending them e-mails about my experiences.

The first story ‘The City, The Girl and The Little Rag Doll’ drew responses from people I had never met. I was amazed. Writing is not my forte but as long as people were willing to listen, I had stories to tell.

Thus started a series of stories and essays through which I recruited people and raised funds for our projects overseas. Though written at different times, I have grouped them under headings like the Balkans, the Caucasus and Central Asia. The approximate date of writing appears under each title. Although these are true stories, the statements quoted–because of being constructed out of memory–are a close approximation of the actual conversations.

I dedicate this book to Allah (swt) to Whom I owe everything. My thanks are to those who encouraged and helped me to put it together. Special thanks are reserved for Syed Sarfaraz and Irum Sarfaraz for their help with editing the manuscript.

Through this book, may Allah (swt) give you an insight into the lives of Muslims afflicted by wars and the Muslims who chose to work with them. I dream of the day when you will join us in our journey and this little book would have mattered in your decision.

Suleman Ahmer

July 8, 2000

Preface To The Second Edition

In 2002 I quit relief work. It was a sad decision. It was time to move on. The past 10 years—though turbulent—had been the best of my life. A lot also happened after the first publication of the book: stories which will have to wait for now.

It was now time to share the fruits of my experiences with others: the lessons that I had learnt the hard way so that others may not have to suffer. With this started Timelenders, a training and consulting firm which helps individuals and organizations come up with powerful and worthy visions.

Since then, over 6,000 people, belonging to over forty nationalities, have gone through my courses. And as I see lives transform, I thank Allah (swt) that my bitter experiences were not all in vain.

For this edition, I again thank Allah (swt). Special thanks are also reserved for my dear friend Syed Abu Ahmed Akif, who not only encouraged that this edition should come out but did extensive editing of the manuscript.

I have not altered the contents of the stories, some which were written fifteen years ago. A lot has changed then. The world has changed. I have changed.

Now looking back, I think there are things that I would have done differently, thought differently and dreamt differently than the emotional and idealistic young man that wrote at that time. Similarly, that young man may also not agree with the person who is writing this preface today.

But that is life. The journey continues. Alhamdolillah.

Take care,

Suleman Ahmer
[email protected] March 6, 2008

About the Author

During his graduate studies in the US in 1992, Suleman volunteered for relief work with Bosnian refugees in Croatia and delivered supplies to the Bosnian city of Mostar. He returned to his studies in the fall of 1993.

In 1994, he joined Benevolence International Foundation (BIF), a Chicago-based relief agency and served in six countries.

Deciding to change the focus of his efforts from relief to long-term strategic work, he left BIF in 1999 to join Nasr Trust which primarily focused on educational projects.

In 2002, he founded Timelenders, a management consulting firm where he has taught the power of visions as a basis of individual and organizational transformation to thousands of people from over forty nationalities.

Suleman has a bachelor’s of Electrical Engineering from the University of Nebraska. His research on Solid State Physics commissioned by the US Air Force culminated in published work.

He has traveled to over 25 countries including Azerbaijan, Bosnia, Croatia, Chechnya, Russia and Tajikistan.

Aida

The City, The Girl, And the Little Rag Doll
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.

Aida's father was a young and aspiring architect before the war. Edin Batlak or Edoo had never called any other city his home. “Look”, he said as we once walked in East Mostar, “my grandfather built that mosque.” As I looked up I saw a small mosque with a gaping hole in the roof, a victim of Serb shelling. “Inshallah , we shall rebuild it after the war with your help.” I nodded. But as we walked away staring into nothingness, we silently shared the conviction that peace was far, far away.

It was its sons such as Edoo that Mostar had called upon when confronted by the Serb siege. Educated and experienced, Edoo became the chief of logistics for the Muslims and was the one to receive the supplies that we brought to Mostar from Krilo, a small Croatian village on the coast of the Adriatic. It was Edoo whose regular messages and faxes informed us when supplies ran low. As Mostar warmed up to its guests, Edoo happily filled the role of a perfect host, providing home-cooked food and putting us up for the nights. One evening he introduced us to his daughter.

Aida could not understand the strange language that we spoke. Her nine years of life had not awarded her the luxury of learning a foreign language. We tried to get by in broken Bosnian. Children are expressive and so was Aida. Soon we started understanding each other.

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.

The relations between the Muslims and the Bosnian-Croats started deteriorating. Seeing the world stand by as the Muslims were being massacred and their land dismembered, the Croat nationalists grew aggressive. They also wanted a share and Mostar, a historic city of Herzegovina, was a prize.

River Neretva divides Mostar into the east, which was predominantly Muslim and the west, which had both Muslims and the Croats. The Serb front lines were a few miles east of the city, cutting off the Muslims from their strongholds in central Bosnia. West Mostar was linked through Croat-held Bosnia to Croatia. Sandwiched between the Serbs and the Croats, East Mostar was vulnerable, a fact that the Croats knew very well.

As our affair with Mostar stretched from days into weeks and then months, the town and its Muslim dwellers endeared themselves to us. As I walked the streets of Mostar, I had to remind myself that I was not a Bosnian and that one day I shall have to return to Nebraska. With time, my bond with the town grew stronger, strengthened by memorable incidents and events.

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)?’

Many months thus passed. Once Mustafa, Edoo's interpreter, smiled when we said good-bye. “You may not find us on your return. The Croats will not wait for long!”
“Never mind," we said, "we belong to this city now. If we go down, we go down together.”
“It is easier said than done, you know,” he said.
“We have been with you all these months, we would not desert you in the end.” We promised.

The Bosnian Croats struck in the early hours of May 18th, 1993. The Muslims were outnumbered, outgunned and taken by surprise. The attack was so vicious that the Muslim defenses on the west quickly melted away. Hundreds of Muslim men, women and children were forced to walk in front of the Croat columns to prevent the Muslim army from firing back. By the evening, the Muslim presence in west Mostar was reduced to ashes in the fires that engulfed their homes, their belongings and their mosques. Hundreds, if not thousands, perished. The Muslims were pushed to the east side where they stood their ground and prevented the Croats from crossing the river. So began a nine-month siege that would later claim thousands more lives, inflicting pain and devastation of unimaginable proportion.

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.

As details of the fall started filtering out, we started asking about the people we knew. Some had survived. Some were in concentration camps. Of some, there was no news. What happened to Edoo? Did he make it? How was Aida?

Then the story came out. Edoo lived above the offices of the Muslim army, which were the first to be targeted. A huge fire had erupted catching all by surprise. Edoo and his wife, we were told, had made it out but Aida had gotten trapped. I shudder with the thought of the painful last moments of the young Aida, trapped in the fire of a war she never fully understood; punished for a crime that her enemies are still not ready to forgive–Islam!

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.

Whenever I am down with despair and hopelessness seems to prevail, I thank Allah (swt) for giving me such treasured memories. As I look back and see a little town with a little girl with a little rag doll, I know that I have reasons to continue.