It has become a cliché of just proportions, hemmed in equally by the Left-leaning and the Right-righteous, that Islam lacks moderation. Some, like The New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman, get hoarse pleading for the moderate voices of the Middle East to rise and be counted. Others, such as Tariq Ramedan, meanwhile advocate a Western Islam (much as there are African and South-Asian Islams), one influenced by and reflecting the European system of social mores in which it exists. Amidst the noise that passes as “the way forward,” perhaps it is best to look sideways, towards the margins, to acknowledge—even praise—certain scarce precedents for compromise.

Tucked deep inside the eastern stretches of Poland, less than a half hour from the Bielorussian and Lithuanian borders, are two villages whose cultural tenacity has given the region at large the otherworldly moniker of “Polish Tatarstan.” This fairy-tale demographic—a collision of Catholic Poles and Muslim Tatars—came to be when the latter arrived came to the region as refugees in the early 14thth century; in very little time, they were invited as titled nobility by the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and what later became the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. These Polish Tatars (also known as Lipka Tatars or Lithuanian Tatars) were known for their battle skills: They fought alongside the Poles in every major armed conflict from the 1683 Battle of Vienna against the Ottomans to the second Second World War—an unthinkable occurrence in today’s politically toxic climate.

Roughly 600 years after the first Tatar settlers arrived to Europe, on a recent foggy Sunday morning, we set out for the villages of Bohoniki and Kruszyniany to experience the cultural and historical exception that is Polish Tatarstan. One could be forgiven for entering the mosques of Bohoniki and Kruszyniani in search of Christian sanctuary: Except for a discreet crescent on the roof, from the outside, these mosques look like village churches or traditional log houses (izba). Their interiors, though, would shatter any architectural compass. Traditional Islamic paraphernalia (liturgical, pictorial, symbolic) hangs on the polished wooden planks serving as walls, the bright colors and calligraphic curves standing in stark relief against the beige backdrop. Turkish rugs overlap to cover the floor, as if a consistent motif would have been too minimal and mundane for a place of worship. Instead of being set into the walls of the mosque, the mihrab pointing in the direction of Kaaba, towards which one prays, is made of wooden stairs and a canopy, like an ecumenical altar.

The creolized architecture of the Bohoniki and Kruszyniani mosques stands as a reminder of a lost heritage when Poland was not the homogeneous nation it is today—when Jews, Muslims, and Christians made up a cosmopolitan national identity not only in Warsaw, but also in other large cities such as Lódz or Bialystock. The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was renowned for its progressive politics: With an elected parliament, decentralized government, and religious tolerance, the system known as the Golden Liberty was the foundation for what would later become the second oldest national constitution in the world (after the United States’).

As part of MiastoProjecktWola in Warsaw’s historic Wola District, Slavs and Tatars submitted IDZ NA WSCHOD! (“GO EAST!”), a billboard advertisement of Charles Bronson (who was of Lipka Tatar heritage) inviting Poles on a full-day trip to Polish Tatarstan.