Why Did They Become Muslims

firmament that was hardly illuminated by the half moon. The
people, the dresses, the houses, the houseyards were entirely
different from those in Europe. As far as I could figure out from
the writings under the picture, the picture was an illustration of
some Arabs listening to a public story-teller in a small Arabian
town. I was sixteen years old then. As an hungarian student seated
comfortably in an armchair in Hungary, I looked at the picture
and imagined myself being there, among the Arabs, listening to
the mellow and at the same time strong voice of the public storyteller,
which gave me unusual pleasure. This picture gave a
direction to my life. Immediately, I began to study Turkish. For
the orient had already entered my periphery of concern. As I
improved my Turkish, I observed that the Turkish language
contained very few Turkish words and that the Turkish poetry
had been enriched with Persian and its prose had been reinforced
with Arabic. Then, learning both these languages was prerequisite
for a wholesome understanding of the orient. As soon as I took
my first vacation I decided to go to Bosnia, which was closest to
Hungary. I set out immediately. When I arrived in Bosnia, I
checked in to a hotel, where the first question I asked was: “Could
you tell me where to find the local Muslims?” They directed me
to a place. I went there. I had picked up only a smattering of
Turkish. Would that be enough for me to communicate with
them? The Muslims had come together in a coffee-house in their
quarter, basking in the relaxation of a peaceful environment.
They were grave-featured, big-bodied people wearing baggy
trousers belted with sashes and carrying bright-sheathed daggers
tucked into their sashes. The turbans on their heads, their ample
baggy trousers and daggers gave them a somewhat weird
appearance. Bashful and timorous, I stole into the room and
skulked into a corner. Sometime later, I noticed that they were
talking secretly and softly among themselves and casting quick
glances at me. I was sure they were talking about me. I recalled
the stories we used to hear in Hungary about those Christians
killed by Muslims. Frozen with fright, I helplessly awaited the
time when they would “slowly stand up, stride towards me,
unsheathe their daggers, and slaughter me.” I began to make
plans of escape, yet I was too frightened to move. Minutes passed,
I do not know how many. At last, the waiter sauntered towards
me with an odorously steaming cup of coffee. As he gently placed
the coffee on the table before me, he politely gestured with his
head towards the source of the offer: the very Muslims who were
– 97 –