With leafless trees, herds of tourists with heavy overcoats and crowded outdoor markets, Ankara was having a typical November. Traffic was slower than usual for their own good because of the invisible layer of ice on the roads. In the heart of the city, sun was just about to flex its muscles in the morning when a long screech of tires followed by a loud crash was heard. All the shopkeepers and pedestrians gathered around the crash site like moths to a lamp. Smartphones and cameras surrounded the area of interest. A luxury car had driven into a motorbike or vice versa. A fancily dressed businessman wearing a visibly expensive suit, clutching a cellphone in his hand, possibly putting the partner to the conversation on hold, emerged from the car and hurled profanities and threats at the biker. The biker didn't respond temporarily and the crowd seemed to take him for a monk for a moment or two. But as soon as he recovered from the shock, he returned the insults after adding salt and pepper to them. The affair was restricted to words until he owner of the car grabbed the collar of the biker. The businessman was a middle-aged man but the biker was a hot-headed teenager. He grabbed the helmet from the strap and started swinging it at the older man. The businessman's road rage quickly evaporated and he ducked for his life. The crowd was getting what they came for: Entertainment. All the circus was taking place in front of the Murad mosque and the students of the school of the mosque were also present among the sightseers.
"Enough!", a stern voice emerged from behind the cameras. A number of people recognized him by the voice, the rest, by his presence. Hikmet Hoca stood six feet tall, wearing a black long coat on a white kurta and a red fez cap. His footlong white beard struck fear in the hearts of those who didn't know him from close enough to see his soft and tolerant nature. Either way, people respected him. The smartphones were quickly downed and hidden. The crowd was in awe to see Hoca because it wasn't every day that people got to see him from this close because he was hardly ever found in Turkey, let alone outside on the streets. The brawlers froze in an instant, embarrassed by the fact that one of the country's most respected scholars had to intervene to stop their catfight.
"Nice example you are setting. Is this what it means to be a Muslim? Fighting like clothed apes in the streets?", he bluntly inquired with visible disappointment on his face. The owner of the car tried to argue, "But he broke my…"
"Did you have that in mind when you jumped out of your car yelling god knows what and grabbed him by his collar?"
"No", the man uttered as he understood what Hoca was trying to say.
"There was no better reason in your head. It was all Pride, the very sin that got Satan kicked out of heaven. Satan must be laughing at you right now. Even when he doesn't try to, we lift him up on our shoulders and make him win. Now dust yourselves up and go home!", he appealed and turned to go back into the mosque. He saw Mustafa Avci with his students standing in the crowd. Hoca looked back one last time to take a look at the sightseers, he sighed and went inside. Soon the crowd dispersed. Mustafa and the students returned to their classes.
Murad mosque was as elegant of an architecture as the Blue mosque but significantly smaller in size. The structure was of traditional ottoman theme which made it look ancient and well preserved though it was not more than a century old. Everything in the structure was pale white. The architecture contained a mosque and a full-fledged religious school with special emphasis on scientific and technical subjects. The mosque opened with a large arch leading to a vast roofless open expanse for congregational prayers which led to a large indoor prayer area that had a huge marble dome and two matching minarets on its roof. On either side of the open area were two double story structures containing dozens of spacious rooms. One served as the school and research center while the other was used as the dorm rooms for the students and offices for the teachers. The office for the principal was in the domed prayer area because he also happened to be the Imam of the mosque. Hikmet Hoca walked through the arch onto the heavily carpeted open expanse trying to remember what he was doing before he was disturbed by the ruckus outside. From either side of him, he could hear the synchronized voices of students recite the Holy Quran to memorize it. The roofless expanse of the mosque, that saw a huge mass of people every Friday, was deserted as the nearest time for prayer was at least three hours away. He strolled through the sunbathing cats into the domed area where the muezzin greeted him.
"Assalamu alaikum, what happened outside?", he asked.
"Take a guess!", Hikmet Hoca jokingly fired back.
"Another reminder of how stupid people really are?"
The chuckle let out by Hoca was enough of an answer for him and he laughed back. Hoca entered his office and hung his long coat on the coat hanger. His office was filled with the photos, medals, certificates and souvenirs from the places he had visited for preaching. He went back to rechecking the tests graded by the teachers. Most of the tests were perfectly graded and only a few stood out as faulty. The number of faulty ones wouldn't normally had been alarming but in this batch, all the faulty ones were checked by one person. Mustafa Avci. This was not the first time Mustafa had shown carelessness but Hikmet Hoca wanted it to be the last.
"Mustafa Avci, please see me in my office", he said on the mic on his table that was connected to every speaker in every class of the school. He went back to finishing off the batch of tests on his table. Mustafa Avci's family had a rich history in the service of the religion. His father had preached in different regions of the USSR while his grandfather, in China. The tales of the family touched the palaces a few generations ago as his ancestors used to work on the parole of the Ottoman Empire. Mustafa had huge shoes to fill and not a day went by when he didn't feel the weight of that responsibility crush him.
Moments later, Mustafa arrived in the office showcasing as least enthusiasm for the summon as possible. He entered the room clearly in a world of his own. He didn't look Hoca in the eye and announced his arrival by the thud of the door automatically closing behind him by the metal contraption fitted on it to do so. Eventually came the moment when he greeted the principal but still no eye contact. Hoca looked at him expecting an initiation of a conversation but he knew better than to wait for a miracle so he broke the ice.
"Walekum assalam Mustafa, how are you doing?", he asked in a soft tone with a smile. Hoca was not an expert in psychology but he didn't need to be one to figure out that Mustafa was in the room but only bodily. "What is on your mind Mustafa?", Hoca pressed him only to receive a poker-faced shrug and a "Nothing" in response. "Look at me", Hoca commanded, his voice picking up a fatherly sternness. Mustafa instantly came back to the earth entirely and stood up straight. Hoca gave him a questioning nod as he knew that Mustafa had heard him and he didn't need to repeat. "Nothing", Mustafa said, this time a bit more convincingly. Hoca grinned. "Eyes are windows to the soul. They say enough to let me know that something is troubling you. But what exactly?"
Mustafa knew that there was no escaping this conversation so he decided to talk, "Is it about the test results?", he asked. He could see the sheets piled up in front of Hoca. "I'll be more careful next time. It won't happen again", pleaded Mustafa.
"The issue with the test papers is just a symptom. I want to know the disease. What is making such a bright and intelligent person like yourself commit so many errors?", Hoca calmed Mustafa. Mustafa was clearly restraining himself from speaking his mind which was obvious to Hoca. "Come on son! Put down the bucket before it slips out of your hands and makes a mess", Hoca pushed him.
"Why do I keep revisiting the places that already know about Islam? Years ago, you said that you saw a preacher in me and that I only needed to be honed for a brief time before I was ready to be dispatched to do what I was capable of. But whenever we send a team it is always to someplace where a minority of Muslims already exists. What is the point of being a preacher if I am only allowed to teach the people who have already been taught? I wanted to be the torch bearer that spreads the light onto the places that were oblivious to it. But whenever I am sent on a journey, it is always domestic", Mustafa implored. "Ya Allah! This again?", Hoca groaned in agony. Mustafa continued, "If I really am as talented as you think I am, I should be out there making full use of my skills, not wasting my life preaching those who already know what I tell them. Another preacher group departed last week but again to a country that already has millions of Muslims in it".
The latter part of his complaint was met by Hoca with his face buried in his hands. "Remind me Mustafa, how old are you?", he inquired with an unexpected calm in his tone. "I will be twenty-three next month", Mustafa replied as if it was about to go in his favor. "So, in a month, you will be two years older than how old Sultan Mehmet was when he conquered Constantinople yet you waste your energy on such miniscule issues", Hoca almost laughed. He continued, "Being a travelling preacher is not just a matter of utilizing the opportunities and gaining honor but it also carries a load of responsibilities that can prove to be matter of life and death for one and all".
"And besides, there is no place as of today that hasn't heard the word of Allah", Hoca tried to rest his case. For once Mustafa stood still, fully present and listened with utmost attention. He stood deflated after letting it all out.
"Why are we pretending to forget the African villages that were just recently discovered?", Mustafa fired back.
Hoca was stunned for a moment. "That's because nobody knows who or what lives there. This may very well turn out to be suicide mission if we don't do our homework first", Hoca responded trying his best to keep calm.
Hoca added, "Our research teams are already working day in and day out to find out any new or old information that had ever surfaced about the inhabitants of the villages".
"They will take months and someone else might step in before we do", Mustafa already regretted saying that.
"Is this all a matter of victory and glory to you? Innocent, resourceful and capable people may lose their lives and your priority is to be the first to arrive there?", Hikmet Hoca was disappointed but then again, he knew Mustafa had these shortcomings and worked to remove them, that's why he always sent him along with the more mature preachers.
"The way you are thinking, I am afraid you might end up getting your men killed", he added. He greatly valued Mustafa's skills and intellect thus the conversation extended. No other teacher or student dared to confront Hoca like this.
"Don't you mean 'Martyred'?", Mustafa muttered, his mouth obviously running faster than his brain.
"Diving head first into a volcano is not martyrdom, it is suicide", Hoca responded rather calmly. Hikmet Hoca knew he had to break it to him.
"To be a traveling preacher, we must make sure that one is mentally and physically sound enough to be a part of a group where the men trust each other's decisions with their lives. And you my son, still have a long way to go".
Mustafa's eyes welled up and he stormed out of the room. Hoca wanted to comfort him but he knew what he had done was the only way to make him slow down and learn with time.