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.

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