Blagaj Buna - The Sufi Tekiya

The next morning, Semir did bring us honey from the bees in his field and we all sat down to a big breakfast of freshly baked bread, jam, cheese, coffee and fruit tea. The area surrounding our cottage is picturesque. Several streams run through the fields behind the cottage. The cottage itself is is built of stone and its courtyard grows a few fruit trees.



"The kiwi will be ripe in September," said Semir as he pointed above our heads to a network of vines that resembled those of grapes. We could see lime-colored, oval shaped fruit with little colorful flower blossoms above our heads. "Wow," we gasped; I don't think any of us had really seen kiwi as it grows before.


Before taking off to our next destination, Abosondos promised to take us to a Sufi Tekke next to the big river - Buna River- running in the area. We packed our bags in the van and took off on what was supposed to be a 15 minute walk.


A tekiyya or zawiya refers to a place of isolation and worship used by sufi orders to close themselves off from the demanding world outside and dedicate themselves to worship and meditation. This place is usually a little room or it could be as big as a house. It is usually simply furnished to reflect the value of zuhud practiced by man sufis.


It was more like half an hour before we finally met the large wooden gates of the tekiya, but it was an enjoyable stroll. The river splashed our clothes as we walked on a hilly path. Fruit vendors were everywhere and we picked up some ripened peaches and figs to keep us entertained on the way. Oh and figs here are a bright green, even when they are perfectly ripe :)


The zawiya/tekiya we are visiting belonged to the Khalwati Order and before that to the Bektashi. Today, most pople who go to Blagaj Buna belong to the Naqshbandiyya Order. I've been reading about the Naqshbandi Tariqa in Turkey and Syria and so I was especially excited to see the place. Sufi orders played an important role in spreading and maintaining the Islamic faith across the Islamic world. Especially in Turkic and Caucasian states , Sufism remains one of the strongest spiritual inclinations among practicing Muslims. I am personally impressed by this particular order, specifically in the Ottoman lands during the 17th and 18th centuries. It's very interesting to see the extreme divergence between Sufism during those eras and Sufism today; and the difference between turuq in Turkey or the Caucuses and the Arab world.


I asked to have a look at their thikr booklets which would include all the awrad that are read on a regular basis by the followers of the order, but they told me the booklets were looked up! I didn't really believe what the man said, but I decided I wouldn't push my luck any further.


We took off our shoes and climbed a wooden staircase. The place had this airy feel to it; all the walls were white and the glass windows looked over the placid, blue-green river. As we entered the rooms, we came across the grave of an important wali related to the tariqa. The place was old. I can imagine how strategic the location was. The tekiya was at the mouth of the river, in an extremely isolated yet miraculously beautiful and serene surrounding. Worshipers looking for a quite place to meditate could not have found a better place.


Downstairs there was a busy little bookshop that sold some souvenirs for the tourists. Among prayer rugs, rosary beads (sibhas) and prayer hats, there was an interesting collection of books. Only a few were in Arabic, fewer were in English but of course the rest were all in Bosnian. I could only understand the transliterated titles; al-Risala al-Kusayria, Risal-e Nur for Said Nursi, a book for the Syrian Said Hawwa and most surprisingly, several books translated from Amr Halid's (Amr Khaled) writings!! I picked one up and went to the shopkeeper, who already did not seem to like me much because of my intrusive questions. I said in a mixture of broken languages, "What do you think of Amr Halid from Egypt?"







He answered back with a very positive expression; it was quite interesting that Amr Khaled's books are being read in Bosnia! I began to become slightly convinced of my supervisor's comparisons between Amr Khaled and Fethullah Gulen of Turkey and of his ideas on the supremacy of televangalist sufi spirituality across the Islamic world today. It is ironic to me however that the success of this phenomenon is tied to a commerciality that should be totally isolated from the non-materialistic concepts of spirituality and sufism.


The walls were all decorated with paintings of the Arabic word, 'HUWA', which is used in many Sufi texts to refer to Allah. I once read an old scripture written about a 1000 years ago. It was dedicated to explaining the meanings of "هو". I sat in Al-Azhar's library in the Mashyakha's premises, barely grasping any of the content because I was struggling to read the intricate Arabic script.







I love the scenery here. We are sitting on a flight of stone steps. The river has disappeared into a cave which makes us so keen to swim into it, just for the adventure. I drifted away into thought and contemplation; I could feel my spirit connect to the peaceful worshipers who once tread these footpaths centuries ago.


8/7/2010
8.20 am
Blagaj Buna
Mostar, Bosnia

Sarajevo

We are in Sarajevo, the city I had longed to visit throughout my life. People who know me well, have definitely heard me say, "I want to visit Sarajevo." Someone did once tell me, "You'll make it there one day"...

It felt quite surreal to be finally entering this historic city. On June 28, 1914, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and his wife were murdered on the infamous bridge here in Sarajevo; the incident that sparked the beginning of World War I. In 1984, the whole world assembled here for the Olympic Winter Games, one of the most magnificent olymics in history. This city witnessed many important battles when it was part of the Ottoman Empire, during the 16th century and into the 19th. Finally, in 1992 Sarajevo become the longest besieged town in world history.

As soon as we entered the city, we headed towards the mass graveyard where the late President Alija Izzet Begovic is buried along with thousand of soldiers who died as martyrs during the war. It was a sunny day; the grass was green across the hills and flowers were blooming with color. It could have been a very pretty site; for as far as our eyes could take us, we saw lucent white slabs with fine Arabic and Latin script, neatly dug into a carpet of greenery and blossoms of color. Looking more closely at the engravings however, we read names and years; the grave reality was unescapable. The journey between many of the birth and death dates on the white slabs, were so short . Many of these men were younger than myself I realized. We had stood ourselves in a half circle around Begovic's grave and put our hands together to read الفاتحة and a small prayer for the heroes. It was a solemn moment and the air seemed to stand still and heavy upon our shoulders as we recited holy words from the Qur'an and Hadith.

After we packed ourselves back into the van, we were on what seemed like an endless spin. We drove in an upward circle until we finally came to a halt and Abosondos shouted, "Get out everyone!"

The scene was breathtaking. We stood above the whole city and I could now understand how Sarajevo was besieged during the war. Below us in a deep valley lay the city with the Milijaka River running through it; it was surrounded by the towering Dinaric Alps from every corner.

"The Serbs stood with their snipers on these mountains," said our group leader as he pointed with is finger and twirled around himself in a full 360 degree spin. "For three years, people could not get in or out of the city except through the tunnel of hope," he reminded us.

I could have spent the rest of the day just sitting on top that hill, looking beyond the green mountain tops and down into the valley. I don't think I would have felt time pass; Sarajevo is a beautiful city indeed.

Not only is Sarajevo a city of natural beauty, it is also a cradle for several historical eras, cultures and faiths. As we drove along the roads taking us from the new city to the old, we passed by buildings of different styles and architecture. The new city has a clear European imprint. The older buildings are of magnificent Victorian architecture, like the national museum and the school or art and dance. The newer buildings are quite dull however and as I pass them by, I feel that I travelled back in time into Soviet Russia. Although I've never been to Russia, the novels I've read and movies I've watched make me feel that if I ever were to visit this country, I would find many similarities between it and this part of Bosnia that I am seeing now. We passed by a block of tall apartment buildings; their plainness, lack of beauty or elegance and practicality are overwhelmingly sullen.

Sarajevo still bares the scars of the war. More than any other city we've been through so far, bullet and shrapnel holes are everywhere; they still decorate all the buildings. "There it is, Holiday Inn," someone shouted in the car while pointing at a hotel as we drove. On our left was the yellow and white Holiday Inn, which was brutally bombed down and lit to fire during the war. Flash backs from TV news reports, nearly 15 years back, rushed through my head. It was surprising to me that I could still remember seeing this hotel in flames; it was so long ago. Today, Holiday Inn still stands, and the bullet holes and damage is quite visible on its edifice. I wonder if the owners have decided to keep this memory alive for their visitors...

Walking in the old city, was like walking through a story book. The cobble stone on the footpaths, the small Ottoman style buildings, the authentic feel to the city centre was a dreamy experience. We visited a big cathedral and then we went to the a synagogue built by one of the Ottoman sultans to provide for the city's Jewish citizens. They were preparing for a concert later that evening so we could not visit. The mosque was peaceful and pretty inside; it resembled the mosques of Istanbul a lot. We made friends with some Bosnian girls who speak Arabic quite fluently. They helped me buy a traditional pair of harem trousers and a copper coffee set for my mother.

The shops are small and they sell old fashioned clothes. Vendors insist on talking to me in Turkish, assuming that I am one of the many Turkish students studying in Sarajevo. Most of the covered women in the city center are Turks studying at the University of Sarajevo because of the Hijab issue at public universities in Turkey. Turks and Bosnians can enter each others' countries without a visa, one of the reflections of the tight relations between the two countries.

The sun is now setting and the dim lights of the wooden sebil/fountain built by the Ottomans in the Bascarija Square are beginning to become clearer. I am sipping at another cup of Bosnian kafa and I can hear Bosnian music in the background. I am at a crossroads of several civilisations, histories, religions and cultures. The richness of this moment will stay in my heart forever.

8/7/2010

8.20 pm

Bascarija Square

Sarajevo

The Tunnel of Hope

The airport of Sarajevo is on our right. We can see the planes a couple of a hundred meters away from us. We made it to the destination that I have heard so much about since I was a little girl. The tunnel of hope... we made it to the tunnel of hope.

Today, this tunnel is a tourist attraction. Everyone who passes by Sarajevo makes sure to come by. During the war, Sarajevo was surrounded by the Serb and Croat armies. No people nor supplies could enter or exit the city. The UN decided it would throw packages of food and clothing from the air space above. But even that, the Serb army wouldn't allow the Bosnians to have to themselves. The Serbs made an agreement with the UN that they would only allow for these supplies to be delivered to the people of Sarajevo, under one condition: That the Serb Army take half the supplies and give the Bosnians the other half. The siege continued for three years nearly; the people of Sarajevo grew hungry, their clothing had worn out, the sick had no medicine to treat their wounds.

Bosnians are fighters I know that. I can see it in their faces until today.

To save the city from dying, the people of Sarajevo built a tunnel under the grounds of the airport. It started here, under the house of an old woman. 800 meters long, 1.6 meters high, and 1 meter wide.. it ended just outside the city in another house like the one we are standing in now. This was the only way they hoped the Serbs would not take notice of tunnel.

During the siege this tunnel was used to bring supplies of food, medicine and clothing into Sarajevo. It was used to take the wounded and the sick outside of the city which eventually had no electricity and no water.

I cannot explain how it feels to be standing here in this old woman's house. There is a lump in my throat and I cannot seem to be able to let out a single word. I cannot express to her the amount of reverence I carry towards her. The old woman's body is weak now and her face is crinkly, but her eyes show the strength of a thousand soldiers. I bent down and kissed her hand. She is a warrior too...

She risked her own family's safety by allowing the tunnel to start from her house. The Serbs eventually knew about it, and every day people were killed here, right where I stand.

With the rest of the group, I went into what still remains of the tunnel. I looked under my feet and saw a railway that was used to push carts of supplies on. Sometimes these carts carried the wounded too. I touched the wooden slabs on the walls of the tunnel. The wood had stopped the soil from toppling in... I put my hands where it happened ... and it all came back...

Many of the Bosnian refugees I had met when I was a young girl had passed through this tunnel. I had heard their frightening stories of how they made their way through the dark, damp underground passageway in hope of freedom. I woke up to night mares when I was six years old. In my sleep, I was with them, running away from the Serbs, I could hear the shot guns and the bombs on the ground above. But I had to keep running in that dark, tight tunnel. I was afraid that they would catch me, but I had to keep running. I could feel my legs getting weaker and weaker, but I had to keep running. I could see men with no legs and no arms. I could see young boys and girls crying for their lost fathers and mothers..I wanted to stop and cry with them too... but we all had to keep running.

2.20 pm

8/07/ 2010

The Tunnel of Hope,

Sarajevo

Mostar

It seems that every part of Bosnia is inhabited. As we have been driving through farmlands, houses are everywhere on the plots of land. That is a positive in my opinion. I hate how in many Arab countries, everyone seems to be living in the few big cities. Everywhere else is just empty lands that are never tended to, never developed or lived on. Maybe we could learn to spread out the population a little. I am sure it will help with the over crowdedness in the cities!

The amount of wood cut up and placed in piles everywhere we go has also caught my attention. Even the simpler houses have impressive wood work. Door and window frames are made of strong, beautiful wood. I am sure my mother would appreciate Bosnia’s wood wealth.

As we entered Mostar, may be the third biggest city in Bosnia, we were greeted by a hugely out sized cross on top of one of the mountains. It stood there overlooking the whole city below and giving a very powerful statement, “This city is still Christian.” As we drove through the city, I saw many churches and mosques built side by side. It reminded me of driving through Abbassia, Cairo. It seemed to me that religion was a fierce denominator in the demography of this city.

We headed towards the town center. It was so beautiful. The whole place was a bazaar of colourful little shops, selling all types of attractive souvenirs. The ground was built of cobbled stone placed neatly into the ground hundreds of years ago. This city is full of tourists... I did not like that. Although the metal handwork and scenic paintings in the market caught my attention, they were too overpriced; I did not allow myself to delve into a shopping spree. That was a good decision.

Instead, I walked through the old city until I came to Mostar Bridge. This bridge holds an important story. It was built in the 16th century by the Ottomans, connecting between the two sides of the city. The city is named after this bridge; Mostar comes from Stari Most or Old Bridge. During the war, this bridge was systematically bombed by the Croatian Army from 1992 to 1995 until completely demolished. After the war, UNESCO funded a 12 million Euro project to rebuild the 1,088 stones of the bridge to their original form. The bridge was reopened in 2004.

A photo museum had been dedicated to the bridge. I walked past the dated photos and let them tell me the story. I stared at the first photo dated June 1992. The first bomb had ripped off a significant portion of the bridge. It made me tear as I wandered past the pictures and the saw the bridge fall, bit by bit, in front of my eyes. In the last photo dated in 1995, the whole city had turned from a sun light green oasis into a grey, destructed piece of abandoned land. “How do the people of this country feel?” I asked myself.

We have been to another waterfall called Kravic. Then we stopped to pray in the mosque of another Ottoman fortress called Pocitelj. It was dark by the time we arrived and so we could not really appreciate much of it. The boys ran into a little coffee shop and tried to follow the remainder of the match. I think Germany was winning.

We are spending the night in an old Ottoman house. I like the house very much; it is full of old artifacts that have been kept throughout the years. Old ottoman rugs are covering the wooden floors, a wooden cradle for a new born is in the corner of room, and hand-made metal works are covering the walls. Outside, fruit trees are growing among the flowing streams. The only thing I cannot stand is the toilet. It smells and I decided I will have to wait until our next destination to use the bathroom!

The house belongs to an aristocratic family of Hungarian origin, called Velagic. They have maintained a complex of 7 houses as well as the surrounding lands and streams that run through them for over 400 years. Semir, the young man who owns the house we are staying at, has been talking to us for two hours now about tourism in Bosnia. He is studying tourism in Lyon, France and intends to finish his exams in September and come back to apply what he as learned to develop his country. His keenness on Bosnia and on its development is a rare trait in the young generation that has outlived the war. He stood at the door as he left us to go to sleep. “I will bring you honey from our bee hives for breakfast in the morning,” he said in french-accented English.


11.32 pm
7/7/2010
Mostar, Bosnia

Rafting in Konijc

Today was definitely the most entertaining day of the trip so far. Rafting was simply a superb experience. We rowed down Nertavi River for 4 hours. I insisted on swimming in a calm part of the river. Although I had a full body suit on, the water felt freezing. I got back onto the boat after only a few minutes. I can’t imagine how cold these waters are in the winter?!

Bosnia is a land of untainted beauty. Its nature envelopes you, wholly and truly. It has a unique combination of warm, sunny Mediterranean weather (only during the summer of course), lush green forests and mountains, and plenty of water running in rivers and lakes. The colour of the river is a unique shade of bluish-green. I remember once when I was younger at school, a Bosnian boy, a refugee from the war, had painted a scene from Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia. The river he painted was green. We all laughed at him and told him, “Adis! Rivers are blue!” He turned to us confidently and said, “No, this is Sarajevo,” as he pointed at his painting. I only understood this incident when I came to this beautiful country. Yes Adis, you were right. The water in Bosnia is not blue.

As the boat swam down the river, I looked up at the towering green mountains on either side of us. There was no one and no thing to disturb the peace. It was only the wild animals in the water and on either side of the shore, that could share with us the beauty of our surroundings. I turned to our skipper and I said, “You have such a beautiful country.”

This one statement triggered a long conversation. Salko (a reformation of the name Salih – this was a common practise during the Communist rule over Bosnia, where Bosnians had to hide their Muslim identity by altering their names in order to get jobs and avoid discrimination. Today, you will find that most of Bosnian last names begin with an Arab name and end in ‘vic’ to give it a Slavic/Russian tweak – Hassanovic, Adilovic, Husseinovic, Alijavic etc). So, Salko the skipper was one of the first young Bosnians I had a chance to speak to. He replied to my statement by saying, “Bosnians do not appreciate Bosnia’s beauty; we do not feel it is our country.” I did not fully understand that statement until much later on during the trip, and so I will leave it at that for now. But for the rest of our ride down the river, Salko the skipper told me about Bosnia, about the war, about the young generation, about the economy, about religion ... a volcano of dilemmas had erupted in front of me. I was beginning to see the real side of Bosnia... the dichotomies it lived in.

After our rafting trip, we made our way to the cottage we would be spending the night at. The whole group sat around a pot of home cooked vegetable soup and freshly baked bread. We are on a mountain and a fresh water stream is running beside us. The garden is candle light and Bosnian music is playing in the background. I would not necessarily say I have come to like Bosnian music much. Even its young people keep repeating how bad it is. We also have a huge pot of freshly brewed Bosnian coffee. Abosondos is telling us stories about his first trips to Bosnia.

I have given up on trying to find normal English tea in this country. The only tea they have in Bosnia is fruit tea, such as berries or apples etc. So from now on, I will stick with Bosnian coffee, or kafa, as they call it. Kafa here is an experience in its self. You are served a coffee container/pot, what we call كنكة in Arabic, with small coffee cups and cubes of sugar or Turkish delights on a copper or silver circular tray. Bosnian coffee is not made with sugar. Instead, you put a piece of sugar under your tongue or you eat some sweet delights along with your coffee to take away the bitter taste. I prefer it just plain or with a little milk. Bosnian kafa is good … and I have had at least three cups already! I am not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Konijc, Bosnia
11.05 pm

6/07/2010

From Jajce

We have already made our way to several destinations in Bosnia. After leaving Kladusa, we headed to a town called Kropa to meet some people and have lunch. We stopped at a mosque to pray Duhr. The first man who met us was a fair man, in his thirties probably. His face was light up with huge smiles. He took the boys in big, welcoming hugs. “As-salam Alaykum,” he greeted us and spoke a few sentences in fluent Arabic. Many people who are practising Islam here, try to learn Arabic. Those who attempt, do a pretty good job. One arm of his was missing. Just like many others, he lost his limb during the war. He told us about his five girls: Sabila, Madina, Amina(the three names I could remember) which we later met. Amina was feisty and she was also the youngest. Amina, among her sisters, definitely left the biggest little imprint in my heart.

“She is strong like her father,” her mother told us as the little girl’s blond hair bounced up and down while she tried to catch trout in the river beside us. Amina’s mother told us stories about the war in her broken Arabic. Those of us who spoke Arabic, translated to the rest of the group. People here had to be strong I thought to myself.

The younger boys had already finished lunch and left the older men chattering away at the table about politics and all its complications. They had taken off their shoes, rolled up their trousers and were taking a dip in the river. “It is so cold,” they screamed out to us in muffled laughs.

While we had gathered earlier in front of the mosque, an old woman walked out. She poured on us kisses and hugs. She looked a bit like the old Turkish villager women, similar clothing and a head scarf. Yet, it would be hard to mistaken a Bosnian for a Turk, the people here look significantly simpler and poorer. A man explained that she was happy to see young women like us wearing the head scarf. It was true. It had been our second full day in Bosnia and I had not seen any women (other than the very old) wearing a scarf. Few of the people praying at the mosque were from our generation. I could not see many signs of Islam in the towns and cities we passed through. I had heard stories from people before I came. “The Bosnians know their religion more now after they were discriminated because of it during the war.” It does not seem very true so far I thought to myself.

Soon enough we left Kropa and we stopped at a little farm to see some bee hives. Biscuits, cakes and coffee came out to greet us. Some Bosnians are so generous really. I liked the experience of the farm. The animals were all around us. In most countries today, farmers no longer live like farmers because of modernity and globalization. Not in Bosnia though; a farm is farm, a farmer is a farmer. That is what I am liking about Bosnia. It has not been hit by the sweeping capitalist markets and globalization which seem to make all traditional ways disappear and all things that last, a carbon copy of the rest.

The day was slowly coming to an end, but we still had more to see. We went to our final stop, Jajce, where we spend the night. Jajce, is one of the oldest and biggest cities in Bosnia. We saw the most amazing waterfall that ran into Portovo River, one of the main and most beautiful rivers in Bosnia. It was running on our right as we drove during the day. We walked through the old city and climbed up to a fortress by the Ottomans. Ottoman influence over Bosnia is profound since Bosnia had been part of the Ottoman Empire since 1463 for three or four centuries. Most of the Bosnian mosques were either built by Ottomans or resemble their same architecture to a great extent. I passed by houses built on top of high mountains that only had a foot path to reach them. I lost track of time as I sat on top of the walls of the fortress. I could see the whole city from above... it was breathtaking. I cam back to the world as I heard the call for Maghreb prayer; it had gotten dark and I realized I was alone. I got lost from the rest of the group that day and I delayed them for maybe half an hour as they looked for me. I’m lucky our group leader did not get too cross with me. But, I learned my lesson and stuck close to the rest of the group from then on.

Our day was only tainted by the Bosnian police who gave us a ticket for apparently parking in the wrong place! This is the second time we deal with the police here. We were given a ticket earlier during the day for speeding. All I can say is that Bosnian police is as corrupt as the Egyptian police! We gave him some money and he decided he’d be nice enough to waive the ticket.

Jajce, Bosnia
10.35 pm

5/07/2010

Kladusa

I woke up to so much beauty. I feel like I am in a story book. Neat houses, green hills, and flowers of all colours. Sunshine and a fresh, welcoming, morning breeze. “Dobro espocino” – well-cooked , we all repeated at the breakfast table as we ordered our omelettes. Most people only speak Bosnian and so Sophia was clever enough to bring along a few handy quotes!

We slept in small cabins built by a Bosnian industrialist. The area is beautiful and on top of its highest hill sits a big stone castle. Today, it is used as a hall for occasions. And today, the man who once owned this whole area is in prison for betraying his people and siding with Serb and Croat armies during the war.

We are on the road again. All the girls are in the big van, while all the boys except for Jaina with her husband Bret are in the seven-seater. I feel sorry for her. Boys tend to have farting contests and their car is going to seriously stink soon. The roads and the scenery have dramatically changed from what we were seeing out of our windows yesterday. I look out of the window and I see lush green mountains and forests that never seem to end. Driving from Italy-Slovenia-Croatia, it was mostly flat farm land. I look down and find green-blue rivers running under us. The roads are windy, mountainous, and tight (one lane for each direction); unlike the wide, straight motorways that took us from Italy to Croatia. Abosondos, our group leader, is driving fast and overtaking too... some people are already nervous and I am not sure the guys are going to be able to keep trailing us easily

Kladusa Bosnia
11.30 am

5/07/10

Postojna Caves in Slovenia

The largest cave in Europe is here. We have already driven for two hours and should be making it through the Croatian borders and into Bosnia by tonight. We visited the cave; it was an interesting experience. We were in there for more than three hours and we had to ride a train to get into its depths. The cave is 3 million years old and it has sedimentary formations – stalagmites and stalactites- of all shapes and sizes that have formed over hundreds of years. This cave was formed by a river eating into the soft limestone. It is at a constant temperature of 8 degrees Celsius all year round. A river runs under it and above it as well. It is one of nature’s wonders... Subhan’Allah.

A large tourist group with us in the cave came from Israel. Many of the women wore knee length skirts and small head scarves. Half the men wore skull caps. They twittered an Arabic-like sounding dialect, it was however incomprehensible to me and it had too many ‘kha’ sounds in it - Hebrew of course.

We talked to a friendly couple from Yemen. The man spoke Arabic fluently, his wife could only understand. We were both happy to speak to each other. They pretended not to know the meaning of the word Mizrahim- Arab Jews – as they told us they were forced to leave Yemen because of their religion. But then, they told us the “Ashkenazi” Jews – from Eastern European origins such as Poland and Russia who are also the bearers of the Zionist project – still treat them so badly because they are from Yemen. Yes, a contradiction in their narratives... but here it is from their own mouths: There is so much racism inside Israel among its different Jewish ethnic communities.

I saw a group of Mexican dancers at the entrance of the cave just before we entered. They were all dressed up in fancy clothing and so I asked them for a photo. As I thanked them and turned around to leave they held onto us. “We want a photo with you too,” they conveyed in broken English and sign language. They pointed at our scarves as they posed for the photo. I smiled to myself. I realized not all attention attracted by our scarves would be negative.



Postojna, Slovenia
6.22 pm

4/07/10

*it is Independence Day in the US today!