Going to Mass in Sarajevo

Gazi Husruv-beg Mosque

I’ve always believed in God, but beyond that, I have no idea. A lot has changed for me over the past ten years. Lately, inspired by my devoutly Catholic brother and seeking comfort in an altogether too chaotic and sad world, I’ve been going to mass at a Catholic church on Pennsylvania Avenue, across the street from a Trader Joe’s. I now know the general rhythm of mass, have the Nicene Creed mostly memorized (I always say the part about the Father and the Holy Spirit, depending on the day, I don’t say the parts about the Son and the one holy Catholic and apostolic church), and I obviously don’t take communion.

The biggest Catholic church in Bosnia is the Cathedral of Jesus’s Sacred Heart, in central Sarajevo, near where the architecture starts to shift from Turkish to Austrian. For the biggest church in the country, it’s not very big at all, but it has hosted three papal visits (two from John Paul II, one from Francis) and is the seat of the Archbishop of Vrhbosna.

The Sacred Heart Cathedral

I decided to go to the English-language mass offered at noon on Sundays. I woke up late (jet lag, existential angst, and other factors all contributing to my oversleeping) and made it to the cathedral with a few minutes to spare. A teenage girl was taking a picture in front of the doors, so I slipped past her to go inside and was met with a nun who was clearly stationed there to keep out tourists during the mass. She let me in when she realized why I was there.

The service was reasonably well-attended. It was celebrated by one priest, reading the liturgy in thickly-accented English at breakneck speed. He handed out the Body of Christ in quick succession, chanted some things, spoke others (my brother says that which things a priest chants versus speaks are always kind of random), and mumbled his way through words like “consubstantial.” There was still a crying baby. The men who did the readings nearly jogged up to the altar. When mass was over, the priest wished “all the ladies” a happy International Women’s Day and then said “mass is finished, goodbye!” and speed-walked out of the side door.

This is not to say the mass wasn’t nice. The readings for that day included Jesus’ conversation with a Samaritan, and in the homily the priest remarked upon the fact that this conversation was happening across social boundaries, outside of a formal setting. This is how faith can grow, he said, through relationships, through meeting other people, through witnessing the faith of others. It’s certainly how mine has grown—although “evolved” might be a better word—through discussions with my brother and through observing how his faith has brought him greater peace and greater empathy.

Talking to other people is always a theme of traveling for me as well. On this trip, I’ve chatted about politics and religion with two teenage Bosnian girls in a coffee shop, over beers with an Australian woman, and over coffee and cats with a girl from Singapore. Isn’t that how any of us learn and grow? Isn’t that how respect and goodwill is spread?

But, back to religion in Bosnia. There’s a reason the cathedral isn’t very big: Catholics make up only about 15% of Bosnia’s population. Another 30% are Eastern Orthodox, and almost all of the rest are Muslims. Which religion a person is born into doesn’t depend on race or language: it depends on which religion their ancestors happened to convert to a couple centuries ago. Bosnians of different faiths share the same language, the same coloring, the same last names even. There’s no reliable way to tell which faith people belong to unless you ask them. Sometimes first names might give it away (Fatima versus Katarina, for example), but not always.

outside of a Sufi Dervish house in Blagaj

I was in Sarajevo during Ramadan, Islam’s holy month, during which devout Muslims abstain from food and water during daylight hours and pay special attention to prayers and charitable works. They break their fast with dates at sundown before enjoying a meal (Iftar) with family and friends. In some countries where Islam is the state religion, the fast is all but mandated. Restaurants may not operate during the day and eating in public during the day is forbidden. Not so in Bosnia, since, as we already discussed, it’s country of many different faiths and an officially secular government.

But Ramadan is visible. As sundown approached, I walked  through the streets of the Baščaršija and saw restaurant tables filled by people with dishes of dates and glasses of lemonade sitting untouched in front of them, patiently waiting for the sound of the cannon and the lights in minarets to come on, signaling sundown, to eat their dates and place their orders. The cannon is a holdover from Ottoman times—it did startle me the first time I heard it.

I was on a bus coming back from Mostar a few evenings ago, with a tour group that included several Muslims observing the fast. We passed a town near sundown, and all anxiously looked out the windows to see whether the minarets were aglow yet. Soon, we pulled into a gas station to buy coffee and food, and I stood next to the van, looking up at the mosque next to us as the ezan (the call to prayer) washed over me. Maybe it’s the tourist in me, but I really don’t think I’d ever get tired of hearing that sound.

Then I went to the bathroom in the gas station and got locked inside the stall. I made it out. Thank God!

The Baščaršija