When Czechs and Slovaks still lived under a single flag called Czechoslovakia, there was a young man named Václav Havel. He wrote plays that quietly defied the Communist regime. His texts appeared simple on the surface, yet beneath them lay a sharp exposure of the absurdity and cruelty of power. Prison was, of course, his reward. But because he was stubborn and unyielding, he continued his struggle even after release, until communism finally collapsed—and he emerged as president of his country.
I remembered Havel when I remembered Ali. The two men shared much: both were imprisoned for their writings, both emerged from prison to the presidential chair, and both insisted that politics must be rooted in ethics—contrary to the prevailing maxim that “politics knows no morals and interests are the only compass.” Both believed in pluralism and public freedoms, and both stood firmly against totalitarianism and tyranny.
Neither came from a military background nor from a rigid party apparatus. They were men of thought and of the written word. And both were haunted by the same question: How can a human being preserve his dignity in the face of a power that seeks to crush him?
Havel, a playwright, believed that words had no worth unless they resisted oppression. Ali Izetbegović, a thinker, believed that the soul was the essence of humanity, and that losing it was far graver than losing land. Neither man was jailed for carrying weapons, but for carrying an idea. And from behind bars, each wove words that later became roadmaps for nations.
Havel wrote The Power of the Powerless.
Izetbegović wrote Escape to Freedom.
The difference was that Havel emerged to lead a peaceful revolution that toppled communism in Prague, while Izetbegović emerged to find his homeland on the brink of genocide. He was compelled to embody, at once, the philosopher and the statesman.
Despite the different contexts, they converged on one conviction: politics without values becomes blind cruelty, and thought without responsibility degenerates into cultural luxury. Yet they diverged in their sources—Havel’s was secular and existential, while Izetbegović drew his vision from Islam.
At times, Izetbegović reminds me not only of Havel but also of Nelson Mandela. For both men, prison was not merely a place of punishment but a school for the spirit and a crucible for leadership. Each spent long years behind bars, and each emerged stronger and calmer than when he entered.
Mandela transformed from a hunted activist into a national symbol who carried the dreams of an entire people. Izetbegović emerged from his cell with a deeper vision of justice and the soul in state-building. The similarity between them lay in their refusal to become the distorted images their jailers wanted to imprint upon them. Neither came out broken, nor thirsting for vengeance. Both came out with hearts seeking reconciliation, and with minds determined to chart a path toward justice.
Mandela left prison to guide South Africa into a great national reconciliation after apartheid, with the whole world watching in solidarity. His liberation carried the spirit of collective victory.
Izetbegović, however, stepped out into a Bosnia poised for mass slaughter. Each day, he had to balance the duty of defending a massacred people against his commitment to moral principles.
Mandela showed the world that forgiveness could reshape a nation. Izetbegović showed that values could survive even amidst the fiercest wars, and that holding onto one’s humanity amid massacres can be harder than any military triumph.
Izetbegović also calls to mind Muhammad Iqbal, the Indian poet-philosopher who wrote verses as a call to awaken the Muslim ummah from its slumber. In his poetry, he celebrated the spirit—the true source of power and vitality. To him, a human being was not measured by what he owned, but by what he dreamed. His words helped inspire the birth of Pakistan.
Decades later, Izetbegović wrote his most celebrated book, Islam Between East and West, in which he sketched a balanced vision: Islam not as a relic preserved in museums, nor as mere rituals, but as a holistic view of life and humanity.
It is as though Iqbal breathed the spirit into words, and Izetbegović later embodied that spirit in the leadership of a nation struggling for independence. Both converged on the same central point: Islam is not just a past to be narrated but a project for the future. Iqbal bore the burden through poetry and philosophy, awakening Eastern souls to their dignity and selfhood (khudi). Izetbegović translated that idea into a coherent intellectual discourse and then carried it into politics as he led a people fighting for survival.
The resemblance lies in their fusion of philosophy with spirituality, addressing Muslims not as prisoners of history but as makers of it. The difference is that Iqbal remained in the realm of dreams and inspiration, a distant herald of Pakistan’s birth, while Izetbegović found himself in the brutal arena of war and statecraft—forced to reconcile lofty ideals with the grim reality of blood and ruin.
Ali reminds me of many men, yet he has his own uniqueness. His writings are remarkable, but his honesty is more remarkable still. Many write, but few are truthful. Come close to Ali and you will see two defining traits: steadfastness and perseverance. He often wrote that history is not made by those who rush forward with sudden bursts only to stop, but by those who quietly and persistently continue the journey. That true greatness is not in a bright beginning, but in the strength to stand firm when the lights fade. That freedom needs patient men more than it needs impulsive rebels. That victory is not measured in moments of passion, but in the ability to endure the entire path to its end. And that the road to God is long, where the secret is not speed but constancy.
Ali remained faithful to his convictions from his youth until the day God took him. He embraced the same principles throughout his difficult life, giving generously for what he believed in, never making a single concession. He was simple to the point of astonishment—he once noted in his memoirs his surprise that a man could be thrown into prison merely for what he wrote or believed. And when he became president, he kept in his team men who opposed his ideas, and not a single dissenting voice was harmed.
Had you met him, you would have found him exactly as he wrote himself to be—before the camera and behind it, in the presidential office and in the prison cell, as a common citizen or as a leader. The same principles, the same ideas. He never betrayed them.
Of course, he was not perfect—for no human is, save those whom God has chosen as His messengers. But while some imagine that philosophy has no place in times of war, the experience of Izetbegović proved the opposite: the greatest weapon is to remain human when others want to turn you into a beast.
Ali reminds us of men, of principles, of steadfastness and perseverance. And when we recall his passing each year on October 17, we do not only remember a Bosnian president or a political leader. We remember a human being who tried to prove that ideas can defeat cannons.
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If there were ever a time to join us, it is now. Every contribution, however big or small, powers our journalism and sustains our future. Support the Dawat Media Center from as little as $/€10 – it only takes a minute. If you can, please consider supporting us with a regular amount each month. Thank you
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