Bosnian Kafa

One of the things that I continuously enjoyed during our ten-day trip through Bosnia, was the cup of freshly ground coffee we could sit down and sip through as we relaxed practically anywhere along the road. The scenes and backgrounds would change, the company and setting would change, the air around us would also change, but one thing was guaranteed to be the same - an exceptionally delicious finjan of bosnia kafa. The experience of a Bosnian coffee - or kafa as they call it - is a trip through the whole of Bosnia itself.

When you ask for a coffee, you are served a small brass/silver coffee pot that holds just the right amount for one serving or maybe two, an empty ceramic coffee cup embedded in its matching brass holder, a spoon and a tiny platter of colourful turkish delights, all neatly arranged on similarly ornate circular tray. A small container of sugar may be included, but its usually the turkish delights that have traditionally taken the role of sweetening the pallets of a kafa drinker.

Naturally, you take the brass pot that is beautifully hand-crafted and pour the dark, fragrant drink into the ceramic cup. A sip of bitter coffee, accompanied by a small bite into a cube of sweet turkish delight, makes it just right.

The intensity and bitterness of the coffee is overwhelmingly filling to my senses. Bosnian coffee is unique in its taste, just a little strong and bland with none of the added flavors of cardamon or mistik in Arabic coffee. But its blandness has such a powerful savor that seems to carry the essence of this country. Bosnia is layers of history; its authenticity, tradition and culture are as profound as the curdling thickness of its kafa. The blandness of its taste reflects the solemn faces of its people, its bitterness the sadness that envelopes them so heavily. Yet that small bite into a cube of turkish delights, brings a rush of sweetness that mixes in to bring out the vivid beauty of this country's lushus nature. It is a sharp experience no doubt that is carried by the strong hearts of its people. Bosnia is exactly this; a mixture of happy and sad moments so acutely intertwined that they become inseparable.

Srebrenica July 11, 2010

I write this in memory of the martyrs of Srebrenica who lost their lives in the genocide of July 11, 1995.

The Serb army staged a brutal takeover of the small town and its surrounding region. Over a period of five days, the Serb soldiers separated Muslim families and systematically murdered over 8,000 men and boys in fields, schools, and warehouses.

The weather is hot and humid. The air around me hangs heavy with unexplainable grief. As far as my eyes can take me, I see faces carrying a lifetime of pain and sorrow.

We have been walking for three days through dense woods from Tuzla. The trek we followed marks the path thousands of Bosnians took as they tried to escape the Serbian army who had vowed to erase any signs of life from this land. We are finally approaching the place that has witnessed one of history’s greatest atrocities - we are now in Srebrenica.

Everyone is rushing towards the dug up hills spotted with green, so many green coffins that carry morsels of remaining bones. I believe were are about 40,000 people gathered in an area that is not much bigger than a few kilometres apart. There is a stage built up in the middle of the area; several government representatives are here to deliver speeches in commemoration of the martyrs. It is nearly duhr and we have to make it between thousands pushing ahead of us, to the top of the hills before prayers begin.

I turn to a girl struggling beside me and ask in a mixture of broken languages, “What time do the funeral prayers begin?” Before her muffled answer reached me, I heard the call for prayers sound through the hills and everyone started positioning themselves in unaligned rows to face the qibla.

From that moment on, every single second of this day has been engraved in my heart and soul forever.

I want to share with you a few incidents that were especially touching:

I looked around me as we stood to pray, few knew that they should face the qibla. We went thorugh the prayer, and only a number actually knew the steps. The families gathered here today had all been massacred because of their religion, yet only a minority of them actually understood any of the basic tenets of Islam. Isn't that sad?

The Imam started a short duaa during “صلاة الغائب” in Arabic. All the speeches had been in Bosnian, expect for one in French and another by President Erdogan in Turkish, the only two which I could slightly understand. I was so happy I could follow the duaa. The Imam sounded words that went straight to the heavens.“االلهم إليك نشكو ضعف قوتنا وقلة حيلتنا وهواننا على الناس يارب المستضعفين أنت ربنا يارب المستضعفين أنت ربنا يارب المستضعفين أنت ربنا إلى من تكلنا...”. His voice was shaking. Tears rolled down my cheeks; I began to weep loudly, I could no longer keep my lament in silence. Everyone around me turned to look at the crying foreigner. The voice of this imam, his complaint to Allah, the injustice his people had suffered.. had struck me in the heart.

The prayers finished and each family started lowering coffins covered in green cloth into the earth and pouring mounds of soil over them. Women hugged one another, rocking back and forth as they cried; it looked like an intense attempt to release their remorse for loved ones that had been lost forever. As I looked on at each family around me, I knew that no matter how sincerely I felt for their grief I could in no way share the agony in their hearts. We dug 600 fresh graves today; thousands and thousands of older ones looked on at as we did. I roamed the sad hills with my eyes and wondered if a proper burial for these families' loved ones would actually bring them any peace now...?

We visited some warehouses and factories where men and young boys were stood in lines and shot in cold blood. Some of the walls were still covered in a deep reddish-black splattering all across. Bullet holes pierced the walls and floors. Chills went up my spine as I realized that this very ground I stand on, these very walls witnessed a horrific genocide.

I cannot even being to relay the many stories of widowed women and orphaned children who came today. We listened to so many agonizing tales. I cannot relay the loss they feel for leaving behind their loved ones. I cannot convey the sadness that clings to the whole of Bosnia because of the injustice it has suffered.

I know that Bosnia has become part of my heart forever. I know that every year I will join my brothers and sisters here in Srebrenica, to follow the trek and bury the bones, to share their grief and their loss. I know that I will join them every year on July 11, if not in body, then in spirit. I will join them until they regain their right to justice. I will wait for they day when this land becomes a place of rebirth for hope and a new future for the lives of its children.