The Mosque Renovation | ترميم المسجد
"A historical preservation expert restores a crumbling mosque in Bosnia. The imam who fights her at every turn becomes something else entirely."
The Mosque Renovation
ترميم المسجد
The Ferhadija Mosque was destroyed in 1993.
Serb forces blew it up. Now, thirty years later, we're rebuilding. I'm leading the restoration.
Imam Haris thinks I'm doing it wrong.
I'm Sophia.
Forty-five, Greek-American, historical preservation specialist. I've rebuilt Ottoman structures across the Balkans.
Haris questions everything.
"The mihrab is two centimeters off original."
"The original was two centimeters off Ottoman standards."
"This is a mosque, not a museum."
"It's both. That's the point."
Our arguments are constant.
About materials, techniques, whether historical accuracy trumps practical worship. The community watches, amused.
"You're impossible," I tell him.
"You're stubborn."
"I'm an expert."
"Expertise doesn't mean understanding."
Months pass.
The mosque rises from rubble. Our fights become less hostile, more... energetic.
"You pushed back on the minaret design," he observes.
"Because you were wrong."
"I was. Thank you for fighting me."
"...Did you just admit I was right?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
We work late one night.
Everyone else has gone. The mosque is quiet, almost finished.
"Why do you really care so much?" I ask.
"Because this building saw my parents married. I was circumcised here. My grandfather prayed here the day he died."
"It's memory."
"It's identity. And you're helping rebuild it."
"I'm sorry I didn't understand before."
"I'm sorry I didn't explain." He steps closer. "You've done beautiful work, Sophia."
"We've done beautiful work."
"We."
The first kiss happens in the unfinished prayer hall.
Where the congregation will stand, where history will continue. His beard scratches; I don't mind.
"This is unexpected," I say.
"Most good things are."
"I'm Greek Orthodox."
"I'm aware."
"This is... interfaith complications."
"Ibrahim married Hagar. Moses married Zipporah. Complications have precedent."
We make love in the imam's office.
While the mosque waits, patient, to be finished.
"Beautiful," he says.
"Haris—"
"Let me worship you the way I'll worship here."
He worships me with prayer-like devotion.
Every touch a verse, every sound a response.
"Ya Rabbi—Sophia—"
"Right there—"
"Alhamdulillah—"
One year later
The mosque opened to acclaim.
International recognition. Community celebration. And a quiet wedding in the space we'd both built.
"Happy?" he asks.
"I built something that will last centuries. And found someone to spend my years with."
"Just years?"
"As many as we get."
I converted.
Not for him—for myself. The faith I helped rebuild became my own.
"Bismillah," I say before meals now.
He smiles every time.
Alhamdulillah.
For mosques that rise again.
For imams who challenge.
For restoration that includes the heart.
The End.