A Muslim Minority in Turkey: Migration, Ethnicity and Religion in a Bosniak Community 9781350985124, 9781838607975

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Lejla Voloder is a teaching associate in anthropology at the University of Melbourne and former visiting research fellow in the Department of Sociology, Bog˘azic i University, Istanbul. She is the author of A Muslim Diaspora in Australia (I.B.Tauris, 2017) and co-editor (with L. Kirpitchenko) of Insider Research on Migration and Mobility: International Perspectives on Researcher Positioning (2014).

‘Voloder brings us a superbly rich anthropological account of an overlooked minority in Turkey. With great attention to detail, she offers a fine-tuned reflection on the day-to-day experiences of Bosniaks in Turkey. This is a pioneering work and hopefully will encourage more to follow.’ – Professor Ibrahim Sirkeci, Director, Centre for Transnational Studies, Regent’s University London, UK ‘While far, far more Bosniaks or Bosnian Muslims live in Turkey than in Bosnia-Herzegovina, there remains scant knowledge, and few studies, of this large population in Turkey and its melancholic relation to Bosnia. Lejla Voloder’s penetrating ethnography into a small Bosniak community in Istanbul recovers lost kinships and shared folklore, bearing witness to the persecution and waves of forced migration of Bosniaks from Yugoslavia, and then recounting the collective trauma of that history. Most importantly, the research depicts the cultural significance of being Bosniak in terms of both the Islamic faith and social identity. This restorative study bridging Bosniaks in Turkey and former-Yugoslavia opens the door to future research on this very crucial subject for all Balkan scholars.’ – Keith Doubt, Professor and Chair, Department of Sociology, Wittenberg University, author of Through the Window: Kinship and Elopement in Bosnia-Herzegovina (2014)

A MUSLIM MINORITY IN TURKEY Migration, Ethnicity and Religion in a Bosniak Community

LEJLA VOLODER

Published in 2018 by I.B.Tauris & Co. Ltd London • New York www.ibtauris.com Copyright q 2018 Lejla Voloder The right of Lejla Voloder to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or any part thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher. References to websites were correct at the time of writing. ISBN: 978 1 78831 183 0 eISBN: 978 1 78672 589 9 ePDF: 978 1 78673 589 8 A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library A full CIP record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available Typeset in Garamond Three by OKS Prepress Services, Chennai, India Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

For Selma Selmanovic

CONTENTS

Note to the Reader

ix

Introduction The Sandzˇakli Household Hos¸geldiniz – Hos¸ Bulduk Acculturation Language Sandzˇak: The Region from Which Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba Emigrated Religion

1 7 10 12 14

1.

Muhajirin Is Turkey a Muslim Country? A Meeting of Muhajirin Is Turkey a Muhajir Country? Muhajirin in Islamic Teaching Merhamet as the Compassion of Muslims Muslimhood in the Neighbourhood The Politics of Compassion

19 27 33 42 46 48 50 56

2.

Rahman’s Business and Abla’s Illness The Crisis in Turkey The Crises in the Sandzˇakli Household The Business of Rahman’s Enterprise Talk in the Shop The Worth of Industriousness

58 61 62 67 70 75

15 17

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Belief in Curses Envy, Not Jealousy Seeing through Envy Abla Had Cancer

78 80 84 86

3.

‘Let It Not Be Called!’ Is the Abla Who Cleaned, a Clean Woman? Morning Tea at Arminka’s Moving from Homeland to Homeland Of Not Calling the C Word Q&A Arminka and Her Mother Reveal They Are Not to Blame Mixed Emotions

88 90 92 93 98 102 107 109

4.

Beliefs of a Faith Healer Coffee and Crescents Seeing through Islam Eyu¨p Sultan Mosque Efendinica Tells Us the History of the World The Migration Ritual of Faith Healing The Social Work of a Faith Healer

111 114 115 118 119 123 127 130

5.

Visiting Nationalists A Metaphorist Nationalist Language in a Village Language out of the Village Numbers The Tone of a Nationalist

134 137 143 145 147 150

Conclusion Explaining the Circumstances of Another’s Life

156 157

Notes Bibliography Index

163 179 189

NOTE TO THE READER

This book presents an original work comprising data, notes of observations and transcriptions of audio recordings made in the course of postdoctoral research conducted in Australia, in Bosnia and Herzegovina and in Turkey. I conducted the fieldwork in 2010 in Turkey. For six months of that year I resided in a number of households in which I observed and participated in the daily life of the householders – some of these householders and some of their visitors agreed to be research participants and it was these whom I interviewed about their migration, their engagement with questions of identity, and their belief and practice of Islam. This book centres on the time I spent within one household, and some select notes and transcriptions of recordings are offered here. The householders and I spoke to each other in the Bosnian language. The reader will note inconsistencies in the manner in which some people referred to themselves: at one point they would say they were Yugoslav, at another point they would say they were Bosnian and then, later, they would contest that and assert that they were of Sandzˇak and not Bosnia; and yet later again they would refer to themselves as part of the Bosniak ethno-linguistic religious group. These are not errors per se: each of these modes of identification is voiced in order to relay something about a relationship to a country or countries, to ethnic communities or to other individuals. When I have considered it necessary, I have clarified the meaning in the body of the text; at other times elaboration is provided in the notes. In honouring the agreed-upon terms for confidentiality, I refrain from providing details about the specific neighbourhoods in which the

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research participants and I resided. Again, for reasons of confidentiality I do not use the real names of research participants. I was the recipient of an Endeavour Award Fellowship, which funded my fieldwork in Turkey. Staff from the Anthropology Department at Monash University in Australia helped with my application for this award. Staff from the Department of Sociology facilitated my Visiting Research Fellow status at Bog˘azic i University in Turkey. Research and writing were supported by many people. I am indebted to all who, each in their own respective way, made a contribution facilitating the production of the manuscript. I affirm that all citations within this text are, to the best of my knowledge, properly acknowledged.

INTRODUCTION

‘My dear! You’ve come!’1 Abla2 beamed as she stretched out her then strong arms, wrapped them tightly around my neck and planted countless kisses on my cheeks. ‘You are my sister! You are my kin!’ she told me excitedly and blushed as she gazed into my eyes and then searched my face looking for a resemblance. She had embraced me as ‘sister’ even though my status was that of a relative stranger, and a stranger who was a distant relative. Abla and I, we had been told, were distant cousins. This was our first meeting and at this first encounter she embraced me emotionally and physically because we were kin. ‘You are staying with us – there is no question about it!’ she said. When I replied that I had made arrangements for accommodation, she raised her nose in the air dismissing my explanation, for she did not want to accept or hear anything that was to the contrary. Abla was still holding onto me as we spoke and in an instant she gently pushed me away from her while holding both my shoulders so that she could look me up and down. After a seeming nod of approval, she grabbed the suitcase from my grasp, flung it to her husband, Rahman,3 and then interlinked her right arm with my left, and led me out of the airport toward the parking lot and their car. This greeting took place at Istanbul Atatu¨rk airport after my 20odd-hour journey out of Australia. I was in Turkey to do research. My research concerned the migration of people who constituted the Bosniak4 ethno-linguistic minority in Turkey. The conditions of my research funding stipulated that I needed to be welcomed at the

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airport – a more heart-warming welcome could not have been arranged nor anticipated. After the flight, I felt exhausted and dishevelled. My eyes were drawn in admiration toward the flight attendants who walked past and who, even after a long-haul fight, continued to look elegant and even flamboyant. My eyes and attention were drawn also to the depictions of Mustafa Kemal Atatu¨rk. Despite looking neither flamboyant like the flight attendants nor commanding like the Ghazi, Abla had her own charm. Abla’s buoyant stride and interest to talk, that is, the vitality of her being, shook me from my lethargic condition. Abla held onto me tightly as we walked toward their car and she told me how she had been waiting excitedly for my arrival. She told me then, and was to repeat it numerous times throughout my stay, that I was the only blood-related kin she had seen in years. Since migrating to Turkey from the then Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia some 20 years earlier, contact with her sisters and kin who remained in Yugoslavia had been limited. She was part of a household that comprised her husband, Rahman’s parents, his brothers and their respective spouses and children. She said that she had longed for someone who would be exclusively her own. I was surprised that she created such distinctions between blood- and nonblood-related kin and that she expressed such closeness toward me. At that time I did not know what it meant for Abla to have someone of her own. Our relationship and her expectations of me unravelled over time. We settled into the car: Rahman in the driver’s seat and Abla in the front passenger’s seat. I and Jardin,5 who had accompanied me on the journey, settled into the back seat. Abla and Rahman completely ignored Jardin. Abla did not shake his hand, she simply said, ‘Welcome’ and turned away from him. Rahman did shake hands with Jardin but did not engage in any conversation. They both seemed to focus their attention and affection on me. In the car, despite her fastened seatbelt, Abla kept turning around, looking at me and smiling. At one moment it was as though she could not contain herself any longer: she said something that once again she would repeat and which many others would say also: ‘You do not look Bosnian. We thought you would be tall with blonde hair and blue eyes. That is the appearance of genuine Bosnians.’ It was a strange comment, a racialised one and one that I had never heard before.6

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This was one detail of the myths about Bosnians and Bosniaks that I would hear. While I contemplated how to respond, Rahman, who had been a silent observer since our initial greeting, explained how both he and Abla had been uncertain that they would be able to find and recognise me amongst all the other passengers. Abla interjected. In her protest to Rahman’s admission she declared that she was certain that she would be able to recognise me. After all – we were kin. In order to ensure that we would locate each other, Rahman explained that they wrote their names on a piece of cardboard so that I should locate them rather than their burden being trying to identify me from the crowd. After some time they had changed their minds, and written ‘Looking for Lejla’ (in the Bosnian language) on the other side of the piece of cardboard they had brought with them to the airport. They stood in the reception area of the airport with the sign, waiting. After directing the sign to some women with blonde hair without success, they crossed out ‘Looking for’, reasoning that those extra words would be confusing. They were right: my initial reaction upon seeing the sign was confusion. I had found them: Rahman, a short and heavy-set fellow, in jeans and a dark jacket, whilst Abla had a cream shawl covering her hair and matching raincoat. Each was holding a side of the cardboard sign inscribed with ‘Looking for Lejla’ in front of them. They had looked bored and tired but Abla’s face immediately beamed once I approached and introduced myself and we confirmed each other’s identity. Looking at me from the passenger’s seat of the car, Abla’s comments relayed that even though my appearance was an initial disappointment she ultimately thought it good that I was there. It seemed that Abla was prepared to forgive that I did not look like a proper Bosnian and asserted that blood was more important than meeting the standards of phenotype for a racialised version of ethnic identity. They told me to rest, for it would take us more than one hour to reach their home since the traffic at that time of day in Istanbul would be heavy. Hos¸geldiniz, welcome in the Turkish language, was the sign I saw as we left the airport car park and, almost an hour-and-a-half later, it was those same words that were used to greet me twenty-fold upon our arrival at their home. Rahman made a call from his mobile phone as we drove through the small streets toward their home. The call was to announce to the householders our imminent arrival. As soon as the car turned from one

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street into theirs we were able to see, in front of a concrete three-storey house,7 a gathering of some 20 people. Rahman’s sisters and their respective husbands, his brothers and their respective wives, and all the children from the toddlers to teenagers, stood outside in front of the house. ‘Welcome. Welcome,’ the voices said. The women hugged and kissed me, a toddler jumped into my arms; the men in a more reserved manner shook my hand briefly and told me in the Bosnian language that I was welcome to their home. From there, I and Jardin were ushered into the ground-level apartment in which resided the matriarch and patriarch of the household: Rahman’s parents. Both were old and frail. Rahman’s father, Bu¨yu¨kbaba,8 was ill and asleep, covered with blankets on the sofa. Rahman’s mother, Bu¨yu¨kanne,9 was more mobile and sat in an armchair awaiting my arrival. She wore a shawl covering her hair; it was black with a floral design. ‘Eselamu alejkum,’10 I said, and I approached, kissed her on the cheek and introduced myself in a hushed tone for fear of waking the sleeping old man. ‘Thanks be to Allah you have arrived safely!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne exclaimed and she grabbed my face with her frail and trembling hands to look at me. She kissed me on each cheek and, as I moved away, she pulled me back to kiss me again – the typical wet kisses of an old woman such as an aunt or grandmother. Bu¨yu¨kanne was not my kin and I felt humbled by the greetings extended to me. The reception did not permit me to feel unwelcome. For Jardin, however, it was another matter. Bu¨yu¨kanne motioned with her hand that I sit in an empty armchair next to hers. I sat. As soon as I had done so, she reached for and took my hand, put it under her own and she stroked the top of my hand while asking of my personal circumstances. ‘Are your parents alive? Where do they live? How old are they?’ She nodded her head as I answered and she responded to each of my answers with, ‘It is as Allah decreed’. Bu¨yu¨kanne continued to direct the conversation and then asked some questions concerning the intended purpose and duration of my stay in their household and in Turkey. As she posed these questions and elicited my answers, the members of the family entered the living room. They, too, were interested to know the purpose of my stay and what my presence was to bring to them. I felt uncomfortable. Too much attention was being directed toward me and, instead of elaborating upon my answers to the questions about

INTRODUCTION

5

my stay and of my intended research, I asked Bu¨yu¨kanne about her health and that of her husband and of the other householders. These questions were met with hesitation. Bu¨yu¨kanne mumbled something incomprehensible to me but I heard her say and repeat, ‘Thanks be to Allah he has brought you here’, as she looked at me and then darted her eyes to Abla and then returned to look to me. I did not know whether tiredness was once again encompassing me. I was feeling humbled and confused. I did not understand why so many thanks were being accorded to Allah for my arrival. I questioned myself whether it was Bu¨yu¨kanne’s standard manner of speech to use praises through phrases like ‘Thanks be to Allah’ as interjections to mark the beginning and end of sentences, or whether these were intercessions. If these were indeed intercessions, I asked myself, why so? Was it that praises and thanks were required at this point in time because of my safe arrival, or whether it was that she accorded praises and thanks to Allah at all times for she accepted that Allah was omnipresent and was the one worthy of continual aggrandisement and appeasement? The continual references and gratitude being expressed suggested that Bu¨yu¨kanne was communicating directly with Allah. I wondered whether she received any communications in return. With my stay in the household, and with further interaction with Bu¨yu¨kanne, I was to find answers to my questions, one of which included that the communication from Allah was understood through one’s own interpretation of deeds and events as being caused by Allah – as favours, rewards and punishments. Bu¨yu¨kanne avoided speaking about the health of the householders. Instead she redirected the conversation to the topic of my arrival and purpose of my stay, and this had everyone interested. ‘What do you want to know from us?’ Rahman’s youngest brother added, injecting a crude clarity to Bu¨yu¨kanne’s questions. ‘What will you do with your findings? Is the Turkish government paying you?’ ‘One of the things I want to know is how it is that we are now speaking in the Bosnian language here in Turkey,’ I replied, alluding to my interest in migration and in ethnic identification. ‘Because it is Allah’s will,’ someone responded. ‘Because we are Bosnians who have not forgotten who we are,’ another added. ‘Not of Bosnia, of Sandzˇak, Bosniak!’ another objected.

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These answers related directly to the research questions I had in mind. I told them I was interested in hearing of their individual experiences and in making contacts with other speakers of the Bosnian language who wanted to tell their stories to me. I elaborated and told the householders something about my research interest, my qualifications, my funding situation and my affiliation with a local university. I looked around the room and noticed all eyes were on me. Bu¨yu¨kanne looked at me with a gentle expression on her face and continued to hold onto my hand. One of Abla’s sisters-in-law honoured me with some fruit, which she placed in front of me. Another of Abla’s sisters-in-law ran outside after a crying toddler. The men nodded their heads; one rolled a cigarette. Abla looked at me penetratingly and I thought she was motioning to me that we should leave. Once I had finished speaking, a number of simultaneous conversations ensued: one about Bosniak migration, another about the status of the university with which I was affiliated, and yet another about my qualifications and whether I had contacts with physicians in Istanbul. I was unable to follow fully the various conversations and questions directed at me. Bu¨yu¨kanne grasped my hand tightly, seeking my attention, and when I turned to her she began speaking about her and her husband’s emigration from Yugoslavia to Turkey that had taken place shortly following the conclusion of World War II. It was then that Bu¨yu¨kbaba woke. ‘Bu¨yu¨kbaba, the Bosnian has arrived. She wants to hear about how we came to Turkey as muhajirin,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne announced to her husband. Bu¨yu¨kbaba raised his head and extended his hand to me and then to Jardin. He voiced his thanks to Allah. He was too tired to talk much more. Bu¨yu¨kanne invited me to visit them again the following day so that they could tell me something of their migration and resettlement to Turkey. Abla escorted us up the stairs to the first floor of the house and to her apartment. She prepared a bed for each of us on the two sofas in the living room. That night I thought about Bu¨yu¨kanne’s manner of speech, the words she used when speaking to me, and how she referred to herself and her husband as muhajirin; and with this simple utterance, Bu¨yu¨kanne revealed to me the pain associated with her migration, that is, her migration had been forced, that she, as with other refugees, faced a fear from which and because of which she had left her home in

INTRODUCTION

7

Yugoslavia, and that her religion played some role in this forced migration. As they had promised, the following day Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba told me of their migration.

The Sandzˇakli Household The location of Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s household, which I refer to as the Sandzˇakli11 household, was in one of the residential districts of Istanbul, distant from the prized tourist attractions and the monuments from the Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman eras, and distant from the breeze of the Bosporus Strait and Marmara Sea. In his extensively researched book, and for which he drew on a range of Yugoslav and Bosnian documents – both primary and secondary sources – Bandzˇovic´ (2006:637) has written that the post-World War II emigrants from Yugoslavia, and those from the region of Sandzˇak especially, settled exclusively on the outskirts of Istanbul, Izmir and Adapazar, and not in villages. In characterising the journeys of early post-World War II migrations, Bandzˇovic´ has written (2006:539): It was a long train journey that led to Thessaloniki from where upon arrival and transfer, a train would be taken to Turkey. The journey via Bulgaria, even though it was shorter, was not possible, and that was until the 1960s because of tense relations with that country. Emigrants received Yugoslav passports for single-use and in them it was denoted ‘without citizenship’.12 Because emigrants were not allowed to carry with themselves valuables, they were thoroughly, along with the things they carried, searched at the Yugoslav-Greek border. At the border, real dramas unfolded. It occurred that travellers due to border controls would be detained, and because it was an international train line, the train would continue without them. The things they carried were much cheaper than the train ticket. The right to return and visit Yugoslavia they acquired upon five years of residence. The letters they sent to Yugoslavia needed to be opened. A similar ‘treatment’ was received by the letters that arrived to Turkey. Since this concerned mostly uneducated and ignorant residents the majority did not know about inter-state

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problems of the time, of the ‘Cold War’, of periodical GreekTurkey tensions, or of the suspicions provoked by their crossing from a socialist country into a country with a capitalist social order. The migration paths shifted for the latter post-World War II emigrants. Bandzˇovic´ (2006:565– 6) drew upon a range of primary and secondary sources, some of which are cited within this passage, to characterise the journey in the following way: Emigrants travelled by bus from Novi Pazar to neighbouring Rasˇka, from where they travelled by rail via Nisˇ and Bulgaria to Turkey. ‘Every morning at the bus station the same scene repeated: weeping and screams from those who were departing to a foreign world.’ Among the emigrants were numerous oldrooted families. People paid one and a half million dinars for the transport of their belongings, belongings that in themselves were not worth even half a million dinars. Others sold belongings literally for a pittance. ‘Many remember processions of emigrants that resembled a funeral procession. There were those who collapsed in the middle of the market-place.’ Emigrants brought things that they could cash-in in Turkey: household appliances (vacuum cleaners, refrigerators) and because they were muhajirin, they were freed from customs-duty. They carried with themselves many rugs ‘new never-used double woven rugs and plucked rugs, so that they can earn a dinar with them until the family finds their bearings, until someone becomes employed and starts earning an income.’ There came full wagons of people from villages to see off the emigrants. The journey by rail went from Rasˇka to Belgrade, then from Belgrade to Nisˇ and via Bulgaria to Turkey. Their goods were transported by trucks to Rasˇka where they were loaded into leased rail wagons. People used various methods to finagle transport because there were not many buses or bus lines. For the family members who remained a general sadness reigned, as though someone had died and for some period people would not leave their house. To that house neighbours and family friends would visit and would try to comfort the depressed hosts.

INTRODUCTION

9

It was among the masses of people who relinquished their Yugoslav citizenship and travelled to Turkey that Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba would have been. Their children had not yet been born and they had travelled with Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s brothers. All that had been almost 60 years earlier. In 2010, they lived in a house that comprised their sons and daughters-in-law and their grandchildren in a district of Istanbul. Some of the residents of that district referred to it as a Bosniak area. There were other residential areas in Istanbul that were also described to me as Bosniak areas. In some areas there was graffiti and in others there were municipally approved and constructed landmarks that demonstrated a Bosniak and/or Bosnian connection. In Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s area there were local shops servicing immediate needs, a bi-weekly market, mosques, playgrounds, schools, all within easy walking distance. It was not particularly run down nor was it a particularly attractive area. It was neither known for its crime nor was it a place of status and wealth. It was not a place one would choose to visit on a tour through Istanbul but neither was it a place one would actively avoid – it served its purpose as a residential area and as a locus of enterprise. A three-storey concrete building that consisted of five apartments and a basement was the residence of the Sandzˇaklis. Each apartment comprised two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and separate WC and a large living area. The windows were large and accordingly the rooms were well lit with sunlight. The view from the first- and second-floor apartments captured the vastness of the urban sprawl. The basement was used as a work space for manufacturing apparel. I noticed a number of other buildings in the area in which the basement or ground floor was the dedicated space for textile or apparel production. The presence of such work spaces has led Grabolle-C¸eliker (2013:138), when describing a district of Istanbul in which she did research, to write that the neat distinctions between a residential, commercial and industrial area become blurred when one notices that many of the basements of ‘apartment blocks housed badly-lit workshops, either for carpentry or textile work’. The basement of the Sandzˇakli house, and the work that was conducted therein, was not visible from the street or to passersby. Bu¨yu¨kbaba had built the house in order to accommodate his sons and their respective spouses and children. Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Bu¨yu¨kanne lived in the ground-floor apartment. Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Bu¨yu¨kanne’s eldest son,

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Rahman, and his wife Abla and their children13 lived in an apartment on the first floor. The other three apartments were occupied by Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Bu¨yu¨kanne’s other sons and their respective families and that was across the first and second floors. Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Bu¨yu¨kanne’s daughters lived within their respective husband’s family’s households in other districts of Istanbul. What made this house and its inhabitants one household, rather than a building comprised of apartments of separate families, that is, of separate households, was that various household duties – such as caring for children, cleaning and cooking – transgressed the thresholds of each apartment. People moved from one apartment to another carrying children, dishes and meals, or vacuum cleaners, mops and buckets. Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Bu¨yu¨kanne were the primary recipients of extra-apartment care: their meals were cooked and delivered daily from the kitchen of one of the other apartments. The shared vegetable garden and hen house located at the rear of the building provided some of the basics for the kitchens and its upkeep was a task shared by the daughters-in-law. The house was a hub of activity. There was almost a daily arrival of visitors, and it was through the householders that I was able to meet others, who spoke in the Bosnian language about their migration.14

Hos¸geldiniz – Hos¸ Bulduk I understood that my welcome to the household was due to my kin connection with Abla. In his ethnography, The Zaza Kurds of Turkey: A Middle Eastern Minority in a Globalised Society, Kaya (2011:15–16) has written of the importance that strangers, when meeting for the first time, place upon situating an individual within a kinship connection: It is extremely seldom that people present themselves as individuals if they do not hold authority or power. These people do not need to connect themselves directly to their kin because they are already well known. If you present yourself as an individual and are not known already, you are immediately asked to whom you are related. Alternatively, if you are known rather positively and have some reputation, you get the two following types of reactions:

INTRODUCTION

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Yes, I know who you are or have heard about you. You are known for that and that. Your honour is intact and so forth, because you are the son, nephew, uncle of, are related to that honourable, brave, fearless, honest or famous person or kin. The other type of reaction will be of this kind: I do not know you or knew not much about you, but I know or know about that person or those among your kinsfolk. They were and are such and such, they are known for it. They are occupied with this and that. The point is that one is always identified with one’s kin. You are nothing without your kin but exist by virtue of being related to somebody. If you have been successful on your own so that you do not need to be recognized by help of someone among your kin, the kinsfolk receive the honour because, without them, you could not achieve anything whatsoever. I was introduced to the visitors to the household as ‘Abla’s kin’. Abla’s reputation within the household was under scrutiny but I did not experience sentiments of hostility toward me. It was Jardin, who had accompanied me, who was a recipient of hostility and the householders mostly ignored him. On that first day, and in the time that followed, I was welcomed to stay in the household and to participate in the daily happenings of the householders. I understood that it was other than kinship that enabled us to connect. In introducing me to Bu¨yu¨kbaba, Bu¨yu¨kanne referred to me as ‘the Bosnian’. We spoke the Bosnian language with each other and, from the day of my arrival, Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba spoke with frankness to me about their experiences. Bu¨yu¨kanne extended a merhamet – a compassion – toward me. It was in the house that Bu¨yu¨kanne and her daughter-in-law, Abla, spent most of their time and I with them. Bu¨yu¨kanne spent most of her waking hours in a chair in the living area of her apartment. Abla spent most of her waking hours within the walls of her own apartment. She would walk, and I with her, to the local market once a week. The attractions of the Istanbul of the tourist brochures were nonexistent in these daily routines and the more time I spent in the house the more they seemed like another world away. At times I felt trapped. Within the white walls of the house, I felt like in an asylum. The manner

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in which Bu¨yu¨kanne was to speak of her house and the neighbourhood in which it was located, confirmed that it was an asylum – the place in which she was at peace. I experienced some freedom when I travelled to the university campus and saw familiar sights – people walking around wearing jeans and sneakers and t-shirts. Of course I saw people in other types of attire: military uniforms, police uniforms, school uniforms, clothing that relayed the wearer’s religious affiliation but it was the university campus that was my asylum away from Bu¨yu¨kanne’s asylum. In as much as I observed the happenings in the household, the householders made their own observations and comments about me. My understanding of their observations and judgements, and of the associated symbolisms, was predicated upon my acculturation of the patterns of thought of the householders.

Acculturation The household was one community – a group of people living together in a house and connected in a kin relationship. More than a sum of individuals who recurrently interacted, they constituted a community through a decision to unite on the basis of attributing importance to a set of ‘things in common’. The referential points of their unity were linked to language and religion but not exclusively so. That they agreed upon these points meant that they participated in constituting a household culture. Upon what points they agreed and upon what points they disagreed was the point of my research. In my stay in the household, I sought to learn about this household culture, that is, to acculturate (Herskovits 1958). At the same time of my own acculturation, I learned about the other ‘things’ that set people apart and that each individual householder used other referential points in order to conduct and understand their respective life. If a household can be considered as constituted through ‘cultural solidarity’ (Herskovits 1958:13), then it could be said that other communities are constituted according to the same principle. In my time within and outside the household, I sought to understand to what ‘things in common’ people attributed importance. If one was to think according to the discourse that prevailed among state ministers at the time of my stay in 2010, the Sandzˇakli

INTRODUCTION

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householders were to be considered constituents of both the Turkish national and the ‘Bosnian’ ethnic community in Turkey. This nationalist way of thinking about cultural solidarity informed the speech made by the then Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ahmet Davutog˘lu, delivered at the 28th Annual Conference on US– Turkish Relations in Washington, DC in June 2009: Turkey is a society of migration as well. Not because we migrated from one continent to another, but because of the fall of the Ottoman Empire, many ethnic groups moved to Anatolia. Therefore, today we have more Bosnians in Turkey than in Bosnia, more Albanians than in Albania. The biggest Bosnian city is not Sarajevo, it is Istanbul . . . But inside Turkey, an Azeri, an Albanian, a Bosnian, a Central Anatolian Turk like me, are living together. Again in 2010, the same Minister of Foreign Affairs, wrote (mfa.gov.tr): Turkey’s unique demographic realities also affect its foreign-policy vision. There are more Bosnians in Turkey than in BosniaHerzegovina, more Albanians than in Kosovo, more Chechens than in Chechnya, more Abkhazians than in the Abkhaz region in Georgia, and a significant number of Azeris and Georgians, in addition to considerable other ethnicities from neighboring regions. Thus, these conflicts and the effect they have on their populations have a direct impact on domestic politics in Turkey. The same discourse may be noted in an interview which Turkey’s President Erdog˘an gave on a television program in 2015: We must revive and develop every inch of the 780 thousand square kilometres all together. For me, there is no difference among Turks, Kurds, Lazs, Circassians, Georgians, Abkhazians, Bosnians, Ramanies. I love the created because of the Creator. I am obliged to love, I am a servant of that path. As I always say, we should grasp the awareness of one nation, one flag, one country and one state very well. We cannot allow those, who want to operate on Turkey.

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78 million individuals of this country should live together in solidarity as brothers. In the Turkish language variants of statements made by these ministers, they used the word ‘Bos¸nak’, which has then been translated as ‘Bosnian’. That Bosnian was used as an ethnonym was made clear in Davutog˘lu’s speech. This translation is adopted in academic texts and one example can be found in the work of Danis¸, Taraghi and Pe´rouse (2009: 480), who in their description of a district in Istanbul have written: Laleli is like a Tower of Babel, where one can encounter all kinds of migrants in its streets and shops. Bosnian and Bulgarian muhacir [italics in original], Arabs from Mardin, and Turkmens from Iraq are the most easily detected amongst the shop owners. This translation might be based upon identifying ‘Bosnians’ as a language group, but the reasoning that was used for the translation has not been made available.

Language In referring to themselves and to others, Sandzˇakli householders used the Bosnian words Bosanac, Bosˇnjak, Bosanski and another phrase in which they used both the Turkish and Bosnian language to say, ‘the language of the Bos¸naks’. In doing so they demonstrated a nuance in understanding the different ways that people can identify and create communities. With this nuance comes complexity and even confusion. For example, that they said they spoke the language of the Bos¸naks – that is, the language of the Bosnians – was not a means for creating an equivalence and saying that they themselves identified as Bosnians, which in the Bosnian is Bosanac. Instead, they might say that they identify with some of the Muslims from Bosnia and, in doing so, use the word Bosˇnjak. In doing so they are involved in creating distinctions between language, regional and ethno-religious communities – distinctions not made in the statements of the ministers quoted earlier. The Bosnian language, Bosanski (in Bosnian), is one of the administrative languages of the present-day republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. It is also spoken by people in the states neighbouring

INTRODUCTION

15

Bosnia and Herzegovina, that is, in Croatia, Montenegro and Serbia. With emigration, through inter-generational transmission, that is, by learning to speak the language within a household, and through attendance in extra-curricula lessons, speakers of the Bosnian language can be found settled across many states, including the present-day Republic of Turkey. The cultural referents evoked by the Sandzˇakli householders were different to those of the ministers. In those first brief exchanges with Abla and her householders, I heard about the distinctions they made between ‘Bosnians’, ‘Bosniaks’ and of the import of Sandzˇak. By distinguishing between ‘Bosnians’ and ‘Bosniaks’ one can refer in the first instance to speakers of the Bosnian language, or to current or former residents of Bosnia and Herzegovina, or to the Bosnian diaspora whose constituents conceptualise Bosnia and Herzegovina as a homeland. Of ‘Bosniaks’ the reference can be to Muslims who speak the Bosnian language who do or have resided in Bosnia and Herzegovina and consider themselves a distinct ethno-religious group vis-a`-vis the Croats and Serbs of Bosnia and Herzegovina; or it can refer to Muslims in Bosnia and Herzegovina and in the neighbouring states of Croatia, Montenegro and Serbia who consider themselves a distinct ethno-religious group; or it can refer to a racialised conception of Muslims of the region of the former Yugoslavia vis-a`-vis other Muslims. The distinction between the words Bosnian (Bosanac in the Bosnian language) and Bosniak (Bosˇnjak in the Bosnian language) was not made by the Turkish-speaking ministers. Rather than using generic nationalist referents in order to speak of community, the Sandzˇakli householders drew upon their own experiences, that is, their personal history, and they drew upon information that was accessible and meaningful to them to make sense of identities. At the time of Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s emigration from the then Yugoslavia, the word Bosniak, Bosˇnjak, was not in use in official state discourse – but it was evident that conversations about this ethnonym and its relationship to other identities were had in their household.

Sandzˇak: The Region from Which Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba Emigrated Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba emigrated from a village on the outskirts of the urban centre of Novi Pazar that is in the present-day Republic of Serbia. At the time of their emigration, the now Republic of Serbia had

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been a constituent republic of Yugoslavia (then the Federal People’s Republic of Yugoslavia, later renamed the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia). Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba, rather than referencing their home village or Novi Pazar or Serbia or Yugoslavia, overwhelmingly spoke of the region Sandzˇak. Sandzˇak is a proper noun used to refer to the regions in Serbia and in Montenegro in which Bosniaks are resident. According to the latest census figures available (2011) for the Republic of Serbia, of the total population 2.02 per cent self-identified as Bosniak.15 Bosniaks are ‘predominant ethnic communities’ in the urban centres of Novi Pazar, Sjenica and Tutin. According to the 2011 census data for Montenegro, 8.65 per cent of the population self-identify as Bosniak.16 The majority of the residents in the municipality of Rozˇaje self-identify as Bosniak, and Bosniaks account for a significant proportion of the population in the municipalities of Plav and Bijelo Polje. Neither of these publications uses Sandzˇak as a name to refer to a municipality or region for these statistical purposes nor do they identify Sandzˇak as the basis of a claim for a separate ethnic identity. Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba and other emigrants from villages near or from the urban centres mentioned above referred to Sandzˇak as a distinct region. While not a distinct administrative region from a state perspective, for many, Sandzˇak is, in their imaginations, a separate entity. According to the Republic of Turkey’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs (2011): Sancak region, where Bosnians having many relatives in Turkey live, is viewed as a ‘bridge of friendship’ by both countries. The region plays an important role in the context of bilateral relations between Turkey and Serbia. Through an historical reading, Ahrens (2007) has written that this de facto distinction stems from the region known as Sandzˇak having been conjoined with Bosnia and Herzegovina during a period in which the Balkans were part of the Ottoman Empire and that present-day Bosniaks evoke this history and their connection to Bosnia through their use of the word, which treats Sandzˇak as a distinct entity.17 Ahrens makes this claim even though more than a century has passed since the region was

INTRODUCTION

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divided between Montenegro and Serbia,18 and remained so during the period that the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia was in existence. Even though Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba used the word Sandzˇak in reference to the region from which they had emigrated, they did not at any point speak of support for any separatism or express hope that the region of Sandzˇak be once again conjoined to, or be part of, the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina, nor that all Bosniaks19 should to live in the one nation state. In my conversations with Sandzˇakli householders, their visitors and others with whom they created communities, they made references to a range of ‘things in common’ in order to speak of their identity. Sometimes it was language, sometimes it was Sandzˇak and at other times it was religion.

Religion In this book, especial attention is given to the way that references to morals, belief, language and migration histories contribute to social relationships and community. With morals and belief, Islam serves as an important referent. The import attributed to religion – Islam in this case – as the basis of community is because it provides guidance on questions of moral conduct and standards of right and wrong; it provides a belief in relation to questions of human existence, illness and mortality, and to questions about human relationships with the spiritual realm, deities and, in this instance, Allah. Of the relationship between religion and culture, Geertz (1973) has written that religion can be understood as a culture, that is, a branch of knowledge. As with most knowledge, the branch of knowledge espoused through the Qur’an and by Islamic scholars and laity is open to interpretation and contestation and consequently it is not understood in a singular manner. The Sandzˇakli householders and their visitors deferred and referred to Islam as a branch of knowledge when seeking answers for a range of questions. For example, in explaining their own or another’s migration, some spoke and used concepts from the Qur’an, some considered migration a religious obligation, and others spoke with reference to the Prophet Muhammad’s migration. Of Muslim identities, Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba related to me as a fellow believer. Whether I believed was not in question. Perhaps it could

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not be questioned and it would not be accepted as a question. In their household, Allah was present. Allah was evoked when they spoke, to Allah they directed appeals and praises. How they believed in Allah was a point of interest for me. In the pages that follow, I have detailed how people constituted their communities and how references to kinship, household, language, ethnicity, nation, region and religion were made in the pursuit of cultural solidarity.

CHAPTER 1 MUHAJIRIN

On the second day of my stay in the Sandzˇakli household I visited Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba. When I arrived at their apartment, once again Bu¨yu¨kbaba was asleep. Bu¨yu¨kanne smiled at me when she saw me at the door, and she waved me in with her arm. I felt a sadness. Its source I could not determine precisely but it was probably on account of my realisation of their mortality. I walked in tentatively. I looked around the room. There were no paintings hanging on the walls. I did not notice any depictions of Atatu¨rk, nor of Tito, nor portraits of family members alive or deceased. Whether it was because they had pawned most of their valuables in the preceding years I did not know: we did not get the chance to speak of the philosophy that guided their furnishing preferences. There was, however, an Islamic inscription, that is, a verse from the Qur’an, inscribed into a copper sheet, which hung on the wall above the sofa on which Bu¨yu¨kbaba slept. Bu¨yu¨kanne pointed to the chair on which I had been seated the night before and gestured that I resume my place. She asked how I had slept and whether I was hungry. She told me she had had a restless night. My chair faced the window. The window looked out on the side wall of their neighbour’s house. The curtains had been drawn to the side so that we sat in the sunshine. A little wooden table in front of us was prepared with popcorn and some other savoury nibbles. I placed my dictaphone on the table and Bu¨yu¨kanne looked at it, smiled and relayed some pride that she was able to tell me something of her life and that it would be recorded and would receive a reception beyond those concrete walls. She spoke while she continued with her knitting.

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‘What can I tell you, my dear child?’ she asked. ‘Please tell me how is it that you have come to be in Turkey. How is life for you here, Bu¨yu¨kanne?’ ‘Praise be to Allah, Turkey has accepted us. As Kemal Atatu¨rk said. You must know who he is?’ Bu¨yu¨kanne looked over to me inquisitively. I nodded in the affirmative and this gave Bu¨yu¨kanne the prompt to continue: ‘As the great leader, Kemal Atatu¨rk, said, happy is he who is a Turk.1 And like that, child, thanks be to Allah we are happy here. You see? This is our house.’ Bu¨yu¨kanne motioned with her hand around the room and she said: We built this house, thanks be to Allah, when there was nothing on this land. But our neighbours are good Muslims, thanks be to Allah we do not have any problems with them. They are Kurds’, she said pointing to one direction. ‘And Macedonians’, she said pointing in another direction, that is, in the direction of the neighbour’s wall that I faced. ‘And Albanians’, she said pointing in a third direction. ‘And that is no problem because we are all Allah’s children. We do have some Bosniaks and with them we have married our children. Thanks be to Allah they are all now married and have children. Do you have children? I replied to Bu¨yu¨kanne’s question and asked her to explain the basis of her claim to happiness. ‘Safety,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘We are safe here. We have this house. We have a good neighbourhood. And all my children are provided for.’ Bu¨yu¨kanne continued: And like that, Allah has looked upon us with sympathy. Yes, now Bu¨yu¨kbaba is ill and poor Abla, you can see how she is. And Rahman’s enterprise is not well. But if it be Allah’s will,2 things will improve. I did not yet know that Abla was ill and had not yet heard of Rahman’s enterprise. At that point I did not understand the gravity of Abla’s illness and the effects upon the entire household of Rahman’s enterprise’s failing.

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I was to find out later the different explanatory schemata imagined by householders to interpret and link these two circumstances. I did not ask for clarification and at that point listened to Bu¨yu¨kanne speak and took notes. We came here as muhajirin. Thanks be to Allah, he gave us the strength to make the journey. It was hard travelling, it was as Allah decreed, we travelled through Belgrade and then down through Skopje until we received approval for travel and then were able to arrive here to Istanbul. We came to Turkey because, thanks be to Allah, here there is Muslimhood. We are muhajirin and that is because of the Serbs, may Allah help them. They drove us away from our homes. But, it was Allah’s will that we come here, because did you see what those Serbs did to Bosnia? Allah! Allah! When I remember those scenes. Bu¨yu¨kanne grimaced. It seemed that she was in physical pain. I did not know whether it was because of the memories she was evoking. She continued: We watched it over the television how they damaged the mosques and drove out women and children from their homes, all praise be to Allah. And what they did, the damage in Srebrenica.3 Were any of your kin killed? I told Bu¨yu¨kanne some of what I had been told of the experiences of my relatives: how they sought protection from bombing in atomic bomb shelters and how they spent months with limited access to food and water and electricity. I knew more about how we who were distant from them dealt with lack of information and contact; how we tried to send packages to them; and how we made promises to ourselves and to Allah about what we would do if peace could be achieved and they could get through the war alive. ‘It was as Allah decreed. But pity be to the people who suffered’, Bu¨yu¨kanne responded, and then continued: We helped. We did all we could. Rahman started with some activism and we sent money. The Bosniak centre organised donations, if it be Allah’s will, Rahman will take you there to see

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all their activities. The Turks, there are some who are good Muslims, they gave. Women gave gold, may Allah reward them. Like that, [Bu¨yu¨kanne mimed the action of someone sliding bracelets off of their arm] they gave gold from their hands. All of the gold they were wearing! They would put that into the donation bucket. Turkey accepted some muhajirin and they were settled in a refugee camp. Rahman and the Bosniak centre organised and provided them with clothing and food, may Allah reward them. And when the war ended, not many stayed. Rahman said he saw the conditions in the camp were not good and it was not a surprise that they did not want to stay. That is their fate, only Allah knows what is to become of each of us. Our Bosnia is a beautiful country but there, there will never be peace. Turkey is a good country and I do not have anything to complain about, thanks be to Allah. Bu¨yu¨kbaba stirred in his sleep. He coughed. Bu¨yu¨kanne looked to him and then back to me. She continued: One day Bu¨yu¨kbaba came home and, may Allah reward him, he said we are going to Turkey. He told me to pack what I could. Of course, I did but who knows what one can take?! His brothers, may Allah be compassionate to their souls, were arranging the documents. The older one knew someone in the commission and they, may Allah reward them, fixed that all for us. I asked Bu¨yu¨kanne about the date of their migration. She was unable to recall such details and said she might be able to locate some documents for me at another time. She continued talking and established the temporal context by speaking of their migration in relation to Word War II: From the date the war had ended, the Serbs continued to give us trouble. Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s cousin, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, was beaten. While he was working in his field, a band of Serbs approached him. They said, ‘You, Turk, you must leave this land, this is Serb land.’ He said to them, he was a brave man, praise be to Allah, that he would not leave, that that was the land from his grandfather. Those Serbs took the tool from him and beat him with it, may Allah punish them, but dear Allah had let him live.

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They threatened us. And like that, Bu¨yu¨kbaba decided we were to abandon our property. Some things we sold. Some things we gave to our kin, let Allah protect them, some remained in Sandzˇak and are still there. Bu¨yu¨kanne stopped talking. In her silence, she looked to me and then to the clock that hung on the far wall. ‘It looks like the time for us to eat something, what do you say!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne did not wait for me to respond. She rose slowly from her chair and walked over, hobbling on her thin legs, toward Bu¨yu¨kbaba and tapped his shoulder to wake him. Bu¨yu¨kbaba sat up on his sofa. He reached for his spectacles that were on the wooden side table next to his sofa. On that table was a copy of the Qur’an in the Arabic language. It was not a cold day but Bu¨yu¨kbaba was covered with a number of blankets, he was in pyjamas and wore a beanie on his head. He was a man in his eighties who wheezed when he spoke. Bu¨yu¨kbaba took his medication and, after our meal, it was Bu¨yu¨kbaba who spoke of their migration: What you must understand is that we came here as muhajirin. It was Allah’s will that brought us here and for that we must be thankful. Thanks be to dear Allah we escaped the war and the fate that awaited so many to suffer brutality from the Serbs. Turkey is a good country, she has accepted us and we have accepted her. Here there is Muslimhood. We try to be good Muslims, and Allah will judge us accordingly. As Muslims we must help each other. I always say, may Allah reward those who helped us when we came without anything. And about that how we came here, well, there I must tell you that it was not easy. There was a lot of paperwork that we needed to complete and there were some problems. But there, thanks be to Allah, that was all sorted. Bu¨yu¨kanne prompted him: ‘Tell her how the Serbs drove us away.’ Bu¨yu¨kanne continued: Back then were hard times. Even though Tito had said the war had ended it had not for us. I do not have anything against Tito – he led the resistance and for many he was a good man who united

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Yugoslavia. But peace did not come. Serbs did continue to torture us. They killed many of our neighbours who were good Muslims. They went into houses as though those houses were their own property and killed men as though they were animals. They had that freedom to do what they wanted. From where did they get such freedom? Bu¨yu¨kbaba gestured with his hands – they were almost in the position of a prayer – pleading for an answer. He looked at me and continued: Safet, he was one. One night, when darkness had fallen, they came knocking at his door. He opened it thinking there must be some trouble because no one would come like that knocking on someone’s door unannounced at that late hour. They jumped into his house and slit his neck. Just like that. Bu¨yu¨kbaba mimed with his finger how a blade would run from one side of a neck to the other lacerating the skin. There he bled to death. The funeral was the following day. Everyone knew who the Serbs were, they were not from the area but they were not caught. May Allah care for his soul, Safet was one of the first to be killed. It was those same Serbs who like that attacked Himzija. They were calling for him, ‘Himzija, Himzija, come outside. We will not do anything we just want to talk with you.’ Himzija’s wife warned him not to go outside but he would not listen. I do not know where his brothers were, maybe they were travelling?! I do not know. He went out alone to face them. He was a brave man but even he could not deal with a band. As soon as he took one step outside, they jumped on him from all sides and killed him. Him too – they slit his neck. Meho’s was another circumstance. But that is a different one. Bu¨yu¨kbaba shifted in his seat and then continued: Meho could justifiably be referred to as a true Bosnian – he was tall and wide. Actually, he is related to me on my father’s side. His

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father married the daughter of my father’s aunt on his father’s side. Do you understand? That aunt was my grandfather’s sister. ‘The daughter of the aunt, well, that would be your father’s cousin?’ I asked. ‘Yes. Yes. But on my grandfather’s side, my father’s father,’ Bu¨yu¨kbaba insisted. Patrilineal and matrilineal lineages were not treated equally, it seemed. ‘And so their daughter, as you say, “cousin”, married Meho’s father,’ Bu¨yu¨kbaba said. ‘Was it not that Meho married the cousin?’ I asked. ‘No, it was Meho’s father.’ Bu¨yu¨kbaba seemed to understand what I was asking and added: It was common for a man to be older than his wife. Ten years, fifteen years, sometimes twenty. But you see it is not common with my children. It is only Rahman who is older than Abla and not by too much – fifteen years, is that right? Bu¨yu¨kanne nodded. I looked at her and then at Bu¨yu¨kbaba and tried to work out the number of years that separated them in age. Bu¨yu¨kanne correctly interpreted my movements and said: He is older than I am by twelve years. When he saw me the first time, he said to his friends, ‘Once she is sixteen I will marry her.’ And, it was as Allah decreed: he did. And we have been together all this time, thanks be to Allah, we have seen our children marry, and now we have however long Allah has prescribed. Bu¨yu¨kbaba did not elaborate on his youthful ambitions to marry Bu¨yu¨kanne nor was he interested in speaking about his own mortality and returned to telling his story about Meho’s: They attacked Meho when he was working in his field. He was a huge man, tall and strong as a mountain. Not anything would be able to knock him down. He was cutting the grass.

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Bu¨yu¨kbaba mimed how a sickle would be swung to cut grass. And like that they snuck up on him. When they came close he tried to defend himself but they cut open his stomach. They left him bleeding thinking that they had killed him. All the grass around him was covered in his blood. Bu¨yu¨kbaba motioned with this arm to describe a vast area that was the field, drenched in blood. But Meho is a stubborn Bosniak, like all Bosniaks: he did not allow them to kill him and he collected his intestines in his arms. Bu¨yu¨kbaba mimed how someone would use their arms as a cradle on the lower part of their abdomen. ‘And he came to his house where they stitched him up. It took him a long time to recover,’ he said. The details that Bu¨yu¨kbaba was providing were disturbing and grotesque. By this time the room in which we sat was dark. The setting and the words caused me to feel dizzy. I had started to imagine the events in my mind. I looked toward the door and contemplated leaving for reprieve and fresh air. I then looked at Bu¨yu¨kanne as Bu¨yu¨kbaba spoke and noticed that she sat nodding her head. Her eyes were distant. I immediately thought of her characterisation of herself as a muhajir and I could feel how the emotional trauma evoked could be so potent even after so many decades. These were painful memories and through their words, I suspected, they wanted me to feel and understand, at least a little, the fears that had impelled them to emigrate. I stayed and listened. Bu¨yu¨kbaba continued: When he returned to strength, he went again to his field and they again came. This time he was prepared. He knew that they would come and he pretended that he did not hear them approaching. They said, ‘Did we not kill you, Meho?’ and they tried again. Meho used his sickle to cut one across his stomach and his intestines fell out. As he swung, Meho cut the second one on his legs but that one and the third one were driven away.

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They came a third time but this time they brought a gun. Meho defended himself but what can a man do against a gun? When Meho was lying dead on the ground, they cut him open to see what was inside him. They thought he must be some kind of monster because they could not believe that he was just an ordinary man. They had to come three times to finish him! With the final sentence, Bu¨yu¨kbaba held his index finger up in the air and it seemed to serve as an exclamation point. Perhaps, in all this horror there was some satisfaction to be gained by identifying with the idea of heroic martyrs: the Bosniaks who fought against and suffered injustice and even though they were mortal, their battles and strength lived on in such stories. The stories left me feeling wasted. The local police did not do anything. Whether they did not want to or could not, Allah only knows. We had to help ourselves and my brothers and I decided to sell something of our property and what else that we could and to resettle here in Turkey. We spent some time in Macedonia until we received the documents to travel. At that time we had to abandon our Yugoslav citizenship, that is how the authorities determined those things. Bu¨yu¨kbaba seemed to be tiring, or he noticed that I was tiring, and he ended his account with the following: Here there is Muslimhood. We are safe. There are good Muslims here. Now my dear young Bosnian, tell us how are our Muslims in Yugoslavia. Are the Serbs giving you trouble? We saw what happened with the war, may Allah be compassionate to us. Is there peace now? I pray to Allah to give us all peace.

Is Turkey a Muslim Country? These were the first stories I heard and they had an impact upon how and what I would hear in subsequent stories that people told to me. The concepts of muhajirin and Muslimhood were introduced to me in those first days by Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba when they spoke of their emigration. These concepts were, I was to find, used readily by many

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other interlocutors when speaking of their emigration and subsequent settlement in Turkey. Bu¨yu¨kanne had commenced her account with a reference to Atatu¨rk and had alluded to a nationalist principle that, regardless of ethnicity, Bosniaks, her ‘Albanian’, ‘Kurd’ and ‘Macedonian’ neighbours, were united and equally identified as Turk. This same idea was expressed earlier in the passages cited from the President and the Minister of Foreign Affairs. Bu¨yu¨kanne had made another related assertion and that was that Turkey is a Muslim country. This, too, was repeated by many other members of the Sandzˇakli household and by numerous others. From the force with which people made the declaration, I began to doubt what I thought I knew about Turkey’s secularism. Late at night, when the householders had retired, I took to reading through the documents I had brought with me in order to try to understand the basis for the assertion that Turkey is a Muslim country. I read through the Turkish constitution, I read through census results and I read journal articles that contained results of research conducted into matters of religious identity in Turkey. In reading and re-reading the constitution, I confirmed to myself that Turkey is not an Islamic republic. Turkey is constitutionally a secular state. In the Preamble of the Constitution of the Republic of Turkey, it is stated: That no protection shall be accorded to an activity contrary to Turkish national interests, Turkish existence and the principle of its indivisibility with its State and territory, historical and moral values of Turkishness; the nationalism, principles, reforms and civilizationism of Atatu¨rk and that sacred religious feelings shall absolutely not be involved in state affairs and politics as required by the principle of secularism. I thought that perhaps the trick was in the phrase ‘moral values of Turkishness’. I contemplated whether it was through that phrase that there was a hidden agenda to promote an Islamic morality through Turkishness. I looked again to the constitution. I found the following definition for Turk: According to Article 66 of the Constitution of the Republic of Turkey, ‘Everyone bound to the Turkish State through the

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bond of citizenship is a Turk.’ The bond of citizenship is a legal standing between an individual vis-a`-vis the state. The unity of the citizenry, that is, citizens vis-a`-vis each other, is stipulated in the preamble of the constitution in the following terms: That every Turkish citizen has an innate right and power, to lead an honourable life and to improve his/her material and spiritual well-being under the aegis of national culture, civilization, and the rule of law, through the exercise of the fundamental rights and freedoms set forth in this Constitution, in conformity with the requirements of equality and social justice; That all Turkish citizens are united in national honour and pride, in national joy and grief, in their rights and duties regarding national existence, in blessings and in burdens, and in every manifestation of national life, and that they have the right to demand a peaceful life based on absolute respect for one another’s rights and freedoms, mutual love and fellowship, and the desire for and belief in ‘Peace at home; peace in the world.’ The claim that Turkey is a Muslim country could not be supported by the constitution. I looked to census data. In the recent censuses, there were not any tabulated results for religion and the ethnicity of the population. The claim that householders subsequently made – that ‘ninety-nine per cent of the Turkish population is Muslim’ – could not be substantiated by the data made available by the state’s Turkish Statistical Institute. Since the ethnicity of the resident population was not reported in the census, I could not find out how many people self-declared as Bosniak. In my search for figures, I found some private companies and nongovernmental agencies that made claims based on their own survey data about the proportion of Turkish citizens who identify as Muslim – but their reach cannot be as encompassing as a state-run census. I looked again to the official state statistics and found tabulated results to a question about happiness. Proportions were allocated to five categories in relation to a question regarding one’s general level of happiness: ‘Very happy’, ‘Happy’, ‘Neither happy, nor unhappy’, ‘Unhappy’, ‘Very unhappy’. Bu¨yu¨kanne’s recitation of the nationalist slogan ‘Happy is he who is a Turk’ rang in my ears as did her answer to

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my question into the basis of her happiness. Was it that only those who were happy, were Turk? Earlier censuses did provide data on self-declarations of religious orientation. According to the 1927 Census, 92.22 per cent of the population declared themselves to be Muslim. According to the 1935 census, 98 per cent of the population declared themselves to be Muslim. According to statements on the Republic of Turkey Presidency of Religious Affairs website, it is stated simply that the religion of Islam is the religion of the ‘majority’ in Turkey. Considered in this regard, the assertion that ‘Turkey is a Muslim country,’ is an unsubstantiated comment about the demographic composition of Turkey rather than a reference to the constitutional principles defining the organisation of the state apparatus. States are considered to be organised according to secular principles when religious institutions are legally subordinated to state institutions. Scholars writing about secularism have identified differences between ideal and real cases. The ideal scenario, according to the dominant secularisation thesis, is that with the marginalisation of religion from state institutions and its privatisation into the domestic realm, secularisation would eventually result in people becoming irreligious (Casanova 2001, Asad 2003). An interpretation along this line of thinking is offered by Daver (n.d.), whose work is published on the Turkish State website: The Turkish intelligentsia led by Atatu¨rk sought secularism as a modernizing principle as well as a progressive idea covering not only the political and governmental life but a whole social and cultural milieu which was, by its very nature, dominated by superstitions, dogmas and ignorance. Those factors prevented the Turkish people from becoming a modern and prosperous nation. Real-world cases reveal that secularisation has produced different results and that often religious influence has moved from direct influence on institutional workings into normative understandings of the basis of national unity in a desacralised sense (Hefner 1998, Gellner 2001, Thomas 2005, Anderson 2006, Keyman 2007). That religious identities and symbols are employed by politicians and various lobby groups within secularised states means that secularisation does not result in areligiousness among the polity. References to religion continue to be used within projects intended to unify citizens and promote cultural solidarity.

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From 1923 when Turkey was declared an independent republic, secularisation was pursued in Turkey. In undertaking an historical analysis, academics interested in the Turkish secularisation process have written that since Turkey was the successor state to the Ottoman Empire, state leaders were especially conscious to distance the new state from the imperial predecessor. During the years of the 1920s and 1930s, a number of reforms was implemented, which included: adopting European models of civil legislation and abolishing the Islamic legal system; abolishing the Caliphate; reforming the official language, which included changing from the Arabic script to the Latin script and eliminating foreign words from the lexicon; closing religious orders and Muslim schools and ensuring that the availability of religious education was controlled by the state. Academics concerned with secularisation in Turkey note that references to religion have been employed by state actors in nationalisation processes and have been used to inform policy. Through their critique, academics have identified the manner in which ethnicity and religion continue to play a role in both formal and informal invocations of nationhood in Turkey and that references to Islam and Muslim identity continue to circulate in the political realm (Ic
duygu et al. 1999, C¸agaptay 2004, Yeg˘en 2004, Senay 2008, Aktu¨rk 2009). In the year of the establishment of the Republic, prior to pursuit of secularisation measures, the forced expulsion of people of the Greek Orthodox religion from Anatolia in ‘exchange’ for people of Islam from Greece is one example of religious bias. The expectation that secularisation would result in a different approach to immigration policies was suggested by Pallis in 1938 (Pallis 1938:444): In the days of the Ottoman Sultanate, when the prevailing spirit of the Government was Islamic rather than Turkish, all Moslems irrespective of their racial [sic] origin or speech, were welcomed as settlers within the Empire. The new Turkey which is a secular and nationalist state imbued with the idea of racial and linguistic homogeneity, is much more exclusive in its immigration policy. Kiris¸ci (2000:4) has written that the ‘Turkish immigration and refugee policies have been biased in favour of people of “Turkish descent and

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culture” and then only those of Sunni-Hanefi background.’ C¸olak (2006:591) has written: ‘Muslim migrants from the Balkans (Bosnians, Albanians) and the Caucasus were easily naturalized and accepted as part of the Turkish nation’ in contrast to non-Muslims. Such policies, if they were biased in the manner that has been suggested, worked in favour of the non-Turkish-language speaking emigrants from Yugoslavia who sought to resettle in Turkey. The declaration made by my interlocutors that, ‘Turkey is a Muslim country!’ could be a commentary of the continuing privilege accorded to Muslims in secular Turkey. I meditated on this idea as I reflected on the conversations I had had with participants of my previous research. My previous project was embedded within the discursive reasoning of ‘Muslims in the West’ and through my work I detailed how immigrants themselves engaged with the supposition that the integration of Muslims in the secular West is a priori problematic. For that research, I had spent time with Australian-Bosnian Muslims and had listened to debates they had about what kind of country Australia was, should be and how in response they were to find belonging. In the debates that Australian-Bosnian Muslims had, some people argued that Australia is a Christian country, whilst others sought to be more precise and declared Australia to be a Catholic country. Yet others contested such definitions and asserted that, according to the constitution and the freedoms that were enjoyed by ethno-religious groups, Australia was a secular country and laws accorded equal rights to citizens. Others argued that Australia needed to be more secular, that secularisation had not been fully completed and made this argument on the basis of comparisons, notably from their experience in Yugoslavia. The example of public holidays was frequently noted to critique Australia’s claim to full and proper secular status: comparison was made between Yugoslavia and Australia, where, in the latter, Easter and Christmas were designated as public holidays and this was noted as one example of the religious bias that had become subsumed within the secular and civic organisation of the state and imagination of the basis of the cultural solidarity of the nation. Such examples and associated debates were part of the concern Australian-Bosnian Muslims had about their belonging. In their quest to achieve belonging, Australian-Bosnian Muslims debated the conditions in

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order to understand the requisite action to take. I had accepted that to be not only the condition of immigrants but the condition of social life, that is, that people were involved in continually assessing and in the process working out the social mores that governed conduct. For interpretations of the world and of social contexts inform conduct. The discussions in Turkey were different – people were not involved in debating the religiousness of Turkey. They made statements with confidence and it seemed that they had resolved their worldview and part of this included declaring ‘Turkey is a Muslim country!’ On the basis of the discursive reasoning that was voiced in my previous research, I supposed that the statement about Turkey being a Muslim country was not a statement about demographics per se but a commentary of the national imagination in which their presence, that is, the presence of ‘Bosnians’ – Bosnian-language speaking Muslims, Bosniaks, was not questioned and not, in political discourse, considered problematic.

A Meeting of Muhajirin One morning I sat with Bu¨yu¨kanne and she told me of the herbs she had planted in the garden behind the house and of their various uses. It was a cold morning and she did not feel strong enough to go outside and point out the plants to me. She placed some dried leaves she had from her kitchen on a table and told me of their healing properties. It was after she had spoken of the properties of stinging nettles that she mentioned it was her mother who had taught her about leaves. Then she digressed: Pity be to the mother who is separated from her children. I left my parents’ home and my mother, may Allah be compassionate to her soul, when I married. I moved to Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s house and lived there with my mother-in-law. Allah knows that I have never said anything bad about my mother-in-law, may Allah be compassionate to her soul. She was a good woman, may Allah be compassionate to her soul. I did not have the troubles that many women are afflicted with with their own mother-in-law. But a mother-in-law can never replace the love of one’s own mother. And like that, soon after [marriage], as Allah decreed, we came here into Turkey. I never again saw my mother.

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‘You never returned even to visit?’ I asked, surprised by the rupture. ‘No,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne replied. She then continued: For some time we received and sent letters. Because we could not read so we would go to someone. There was a woman, and she would read to us and would write our letters. But since we came here, I did not see her again. It is different now here for us in Turkey. Many of the children move into their own house once they marry. It is not for everyone how it is for us to have our children under one roof. We, praise be to Allah, could afford to build this big house. My daughters who are now in with their husbands are close and can afford to visit, praise be to Allah. But it was very hard when we came here. It was then that three smiling faces appeared at the threshold to the living room. The front door was open during the daylight hours. ‘Peace be unto you’ the three visitors called out and Bu¨yu¨kanne went toward them. They hugged and kissed each other. All three of the visitors wore shirts and cardigans and dark-coloured long skirts that reached their ankles. They each wore a shawl over their hair. They did not remove them, even when they had entered the room. I was aware that there were politics around head covering but the manner in which they tied their shawl did not convey to me any meaning regarding their political orientation, and about their shawl-tying preferences we did not speak. Bu¨yu¨kanne invited them in and motioned that they sit. I stood, for according to the household culture in which I was raised, one stands when greeting elders. ‘This is our guest,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne said, introducing me to the visitors. ‘She is Abla’s kin. She has come all the way from Australia to hear of why we came to be in Turkey.’ ‘Praise be to Allah,’ said the women and smiled at me. Bu¨yu¨kanne and her friends, Aunt4 Ismeta and Aunt Husnija and Aunt Behka, inquired into each other’s health and spoke for some time about matters that were pressing to them. ‘Are you Bosniak?’ Aunt Behka began. ‘Yes, she is from Bosnia,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne answered for me.

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Aunt Behka resumed: ‘I, too, am a Bosnian. My grandparents, may Allah be compassionate to their souls, emigrated from Sarajevo. They lived in a village near Bursa. Then my grandfather was killed in C¸anakkale leaving his wife and children. My parents were born in Turkey. I moved here to Istanbul with my husband and children. We are careful to marry our children to other Bosniaks. But not to kin!5 That is what some Kurds do! We do not do that! In Bosnia do they give their daughters to marry non-Muslims?’ ‘Of course they do not!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne answered instead of me. From then on Aunt Behka, who was the eldest amongst us, sat silently. ‘Praise be to Allah, from where did you say you have come to us?’ Aunt Ismeta began looking to me. ‘Austria is it?’ she said without waiting for my response, and then continued: ‘Yes, there are many Bosniaks working in Austria, let Allah help them.’ ‘No, not Austria, Australia, is it?’ Bu¨yu¨kanne corrected Ismeta while looking to me for reassurance. I nodded. ‘Australia is a country that is far,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne announced. ‘It would be dark there now. Is that right?’ I nodded. ‘All praise be to Allah. All the wonders of this planet! And all the gifts of Allah! Can you imagine that here it is day and over there dark?’ Aunt Ismeta exclaimed. ‘Over there, there are kangaroos, is that right?’ Aunt Ismeta asked. I nodded. Aunt Ismeta beamed but Bu¨yu¨kanne looked confused. ‘Kangaroo. Kangaroo,’ Ismeta repeated. For Bu¨yu¨kanne’s sake she motioned with her hand the curve of the animal’s back and the extension of its tail. Bu¨yu¨kanne did not respond. ‘That kangaroo is something like a mouse. It has a long tail. It jumps,’ she said and mimed the jumping movements of the kangaroo. Bu¨yu¨kanne’s face lit up and she looked to me as now she was able to place the kangaroo in relation to its native country and to me. Aunt Ismeta continued, correcting her earlier gaff: ‘Yes, I know, Austria is here. In Austria and Germany many Bosniaks go to work, my daughter is there now. What work is it that you do, child?’

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Bu¨yu¨kanne took it upon herself to explain who I was and how she had spoken to me of her emigration. Aunt Ismeta did not immediately speak of her own emigration: instead she directed a series of questions to me. ‘Are you parents alive? Where are they? So you are here without your parents?’ Aunt Ismeta was silent for a moment. ‘Pity for you that you have not parents here. You can come be a guest with me in my house.’ ‘No. Praise be to Allah, she is our guest. She will, if it be Allah’s will, go where she has her family when she finishes her work here,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne replied to Aunt Ismeta. ‘Praise be to Allah you have journeyed safely and if it be Allah’s will you will return to your family in far away Australia.’ Aunt Ismeta’s intercession was on my behalf. Aunt Husnija, who had been silent up until that point, asked: ‘How do they treat Muslims in your country?’ I replied with a summary of the work I had been doing in Australia: Muslims in Australia are a minority, that is true. Australia is a country with a multi-ethnic and multi-religious population. For example, a quarter of the residents were born elsewhere and have migrated to Australia from more than 120 different counties. In the last census, about two per cent of the population declared themselves as Muslim in Australia, and according to some of the reports I have read, there has been an increase in Islamophobia and an associated rise in physical attacks, especially Muslim on women – that is, women who wear the shawl and niqab. The orientation point of those reports is since 11 September. There are similar reports in the UK and USA about such physical abuse. Much of my research has concerned the experiences of Bosnian Muslims in Australia. The people with whom I spoke for my research did not speak of suffering physical abuse. Many are concerned with the words being used to describe Muslims and how Muslims are presented in the media and the associations made with terrorists. People take various courses of action in response. Some speak to their neighbours about Islam and explain that Islam is a religion of peace. Others bring in sweets to their workplaces

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when it is Eid in order to share their celebrations. And they say that that has a positive impact. They explain that they find that discrimination stems from ignorance and they express optimism that knowledge will shatter the stereotypes. Of course, others are frustrated that they have to talk and explain and distinguish Muslims from terrorists in the first place. A grim expression overtook Aunt Husnija’s face and she replied in a sombre tone: ‘You see, that is why we moved to a Muslim country.’ ‘Praise be to Allah! Praise be to Allah!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne exclaimed, clasping her hands and directing her eyes to the ceiling. Aunt Husnija continued: In my time I have seen many things, and things that you cannot believe a man would do to another of Allah’s creations. It was the Serbs who drove us out of Sandzˇak. It was they, Serbs, who brought suffering, may Allah punish them. That which they did started in the war and like that continued until we abandoned our home. How many people had suffered at their hands? But they will get theirs, Allah sees all, Allah knows all, and he will punish them. He will punish them. ‘Serbs continued what they wanted to achieve in the Second World War in this war,’ Aunt Ismeta added ‘Driving away Muslims was the aim of the Serbs. They started that in that war and continued all until this war that has just happened. We came here because of them,’ Aunt Husnija said. ‘Yes, it was like that. Yes, it was like that,’ Aunt Ismeta confirmed. ‘The wars in Yugoslavia in the 1990s?’ I asked. ‘Yes, this one that has just happened,’ Aunt Ismeta said and Aunt Husnija confirmed by nodding her head. The plasma television that flickered in front of us, the internet modem that flashed on the other side of the room and the smartphone in my bag all assured me that it was the twenty-first century. The war of the 1990s was not as temporally close for me as it seemed to be for Aunt Husnija and Aunt Ismeta. Their manner of speech suggested that their temporal referents were much longer than mine and that in the span of a life that was 70 – 80 years long, a war that had occurred

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15 – 20 years ago was treated by them as something ‘that has just happened’. I was reluctant to ask who the Serbs were and what the Serbs did to create urgency for their emigration in the years following World War II. Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s graphic descriptions were still in my mind. In prefieldwork workshops, I had been warned of the re-traumatisation that interviewees can experience when speaking about, and in a sense reliving, past pains. From the stress that these interlocutors were placing on such pre-migration experiences, I understood that those terrors were being voiced as an important factor for their migration and, as such, could not and should not be dismissed and politely ignored. I sat silently, feeling awkward and indecisive and unable to take the conversation further. For a few minutes we sat silently, until Aunt Husnija began: You could say that for us, it was like it is for ants. Do you know how it is for ants? As Allah has decreed, their life is sustained by building their nests together. And cooperating! My Allah! Have you ever watched how one ant passes what they are carrying to the next one? My Allah! There are many things of wonder that Allah has gifted in this here world! When it is that they feel a threat, they go. And what is, for ants, a threat? It is moisture. They can feel rain. And when they feel that it will rain they go. And they make their nest elsewhere. And as it was Allah’s will, that is how it was for us when we felt a threat. We packed up our things and moved and came here. It is like that for us muhajirin. It was Huso, may Allah be compassionate to his soul,6 who felt the threat. He was the eldest of his brothers. He decided to sell everything. And that was how it was. He sold everything. And we came here. Huso, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, was a good husband. He did not lay a hand on me. There are some women who complain about their husband and say that their husband beats them. Praise be to Allah, Huso, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, did never lay a hand on me. I can tell you there were times when maybe I did deserve for him to hit me. But he never did. He would exhale and go outside into the field. And when he cooled down he would come back and act like nothing happened. He was of the patient kind. But like that he left us. He died of diabetes,

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too much sugar in his blood. His leg started to rot. And, like that, the doctor said he needed to lose one leg. And then the other. That does impact a man’s dignity. Especially for one, like my Huso, who was industrious, always keeping himself busy with some work. And like that, one night he went to sleep and did not wake. Thanks be to Allah he did not suffer. I pray to Allah for a peaceful death without suffering. I am now waiting to go. He always used to say, there will never be peace with the Serbs. And you see?! He was correct. He was an intelligent man, may his soul be in peace. ‘My husband was Huso’s cousin, may Allah be compassionate to his soul,’ Aunt Ismeta started. Husnija and Huso arranged that for me, thanks be to Allah, they always looked after me. I was already an old maid. Huso knew that Izet wanted to marry. And he organised that we meet. It was not like it is now. Young people see each other and try out each other for years before deciding to marry. We met, I liked the look of him. He was tall, with black hair and he had broad shoulders. He liked the look of me, but he said to Huso I was too skinny. Aunt Ismeta laughed as she looked herself over. It was when Huso decided to undertake the journey to Turkey that Izet submitted the papers for us. He asked me if I wanted to. It meant leaving my mother, may Allah be compassionate to her soul. But what could I do? Izet said he was going and told me to decide. If I did not go, he would have left me and the children. He had heard that the Serbs were planning something and that life was better here in Turkey. I trusted his decision. And you see it was true. When Izet was watching the news and saw the bombing in Sarajevo. May Allah help them, those poor people. When Izet saw that, he said, ‘It is better for us to be in a Muslim country. It is better for all Muslims to be together. You can never know what an unbeliever is thinking and what kind of harm they want to inflict upon you.’ He had a right to say that. It was not long after that that Izet became sick. His heart failed him. The doctors said it was because of his smoking. But he would

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not stop. He smoked in a day two sometimes three of these packets. Aunt Ismeta pointed to a cigarette packet that was on a side table. She continued: He used a pipe before, but then when these cigarettes became available he began to smoke them. He was a good husband, may Allah be compassionate to his soul. He provided for me and for our children. Yes, he was explosive. He would become angry. But he was a good man, I know that. He wanted everything just so. May Allah be compassionate to his soul. We all became silent. Ismeta’s inferences prompted Husnija to look away. I looked to the television. It was a diversion from a troubling conversation that hinted at domestic abuse. If Izet had been an abuser, Ismeta’s intercessions on his behalf and her calls for compassion were a suggestion of her merhamet, that is, her clemency. Aunt Husnija took the lead and redirected the conversation away from the topic of deceased husbands to the reasons for emigration: I was young during the war and I remember my mother, may Allah be compassionate to her soul, waking us up in the middle of the night. We would run and hide in the fields away from the house because they heard that the Serbs were coming to the house. She, may Allah be compassionate to her soul, would put her breast in the baby’s mouth so that it would not cry and give us away. I heard that in a neighbouring village a mother put her baby in the snow to freeze. The baby was putting everyone at risk and the others said, ‘Do something about the baby, they will kill all of us.’ Pity for that woman who made that decision. ‘It was the Serbs who drove us away,’ Aunt Ismeta said. ‘The Serbs committed so much evil, may Allah punish them. In the war, they would cut a woman’s stomach and out of the womb take out the baby.’ ‘All praise be to Allah,’ Aunt Husnija said.

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The muhajirin were reliving past pain and recalling their fears for my sake. Aunt Husnija and Aunt Ismeta were calm as they spoke about the brutality and injustice. How they felt later and whether they had nightmares and restless nights after having recalled these details, they did not tell me in our subsequent meetings. Gratitude was the sentiment that I sensed from them, their continual praises may have had something to do with my interpretation. Aunt Ismeta’s narration concluded with the following: They would cut off a woman’s finger to take her ring. They did that to one of my aunts, may Allah be compassionate to her soul. She is an aunt on my father’s side. She was married to a man from a village some kilometres away and had two children, both boys. My aunt was pregnant with her third child, a girl, and, may Allah protect us, they came and cut and opened her stomach. They killed the baby. Pity be for my aunt, who watched all this. Like that she bled to death, may Allah be compassionate to her soul. It was then Aunt Husnija who spoke: Nothing happened in our home, thanks be to Allah. But a lot of similar incidents happened in the war. When it calmed down, there was peace but the Serbs wanted to drive us out. They would steal livestock in the middle of the night.7 They killed, may Allah help them. There was our neighbour, may Allah be compassionate to his soul – he was out in his field and they came to the house looking for him. His wife, I do not know what has happened to her but may Allah be compassionate to her soul, was milking the cows in the barn and she heard them. She, pity be to her, did not know what to do: if she should hide in the barn or to confront them. Then one of them heard her and went into the barn. They asked her for her husband but she, who was a loyal wife, she did not tell them. They told her that he was wanted by the police and that he should go to the station to register himself. When her husband came home she told him. He did not go to the station because he knew that it was a set-up and that they would imprison him or ask for money. That was a common trick they used. See how cunning there are! They came again the next night. This time he was hiding in the barn. Those Serbs banged on

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the door and his wife again told them that he was not home. But one of those Serbs must have heard something because he went into the barn and found him there. They caught him and hung him. And there were so many incidents similar to those. Thanks be to Allah that we did not live to see that happen in our home. But you see it was not a good situation. My husband, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, organised that we leave. And like that, we came here. Turkey is a good country, thanks be to Allah. ‘Amen,’ said Aunt Ismeta. ‘Thanks be to Allah, and the good people here.’ Then Aunt Husnija spoke: In Bosnia there never will be peace with the Serbs. We saw what happened in this war. It is like that: those Serbs wanted to continue and finish the programme they had started. Here it is safe, apart from the problems Kurds cause in the south. Here in Turkey is Muslimhood. Yes, here is Muslimhood. Here we are safe. It is important to be in a Muslim country. If it be Allah’s will, do you want to move to here to join us? Aunt Husnija directed the question to me and before waiting for an answer said: ‘Turkey is a Muslim country. Islam is everywhere, praise be to Allah. Just look outside.’ I looked toward the window. All I saw was the wall to the neighbour’s house. ‘Yes. Yes,’ Aunt Ismeta added.

Is Turkey a Muhajir Country? ‘Muhajir’ is the noun the women used for their specific ‘migrant identity’. The word identity can refer to formal designation and selfperception. Self-perception is an activity in which referents are important, the act of identifying is an act of aligning oneself with some, and distinguishing oneself from others. In using the word muhajir for themselves they were simultaneously conveying their identification with other muhajirin in contrast to others, so, who are muhajirin and how do they differ from other migrants?

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‘Muhajir’ is word that has currency in the Arabic language, in the Bosnian language and in the Turkish language, amongst other languages. Of course, the translations and connotations to the word vary contextually. ‘Muhajir’ is commonly translated into the English language as ‘emigrant’. From Turkish, ‘muhajir’ is often translated into the English language as ‘migrant’ and can also be translated to the English as ‘refugee’. Muhajirin (sometimes spelled as muhajirun) is the plural of muhajir, and from the Arabic tends to be translated into English as ‘the exiles’ or ‘refugees’ and is in reference to one who has performed the hijra. The hijra can refer to a specific event – the departure of Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina (this story is relayed by Efendinica in Chapter 4); it can refer to the departure of Muslims from a country that is under the governance of non-Muslims; and it can refer to the departure of those from that which Allah has forbidden. If the reference point for muhajir is the hijra, then clearly a connotation of the word muhajir is Muslim – thus, a Muslim migrant/refugee/exile. Yanardag˘ (2009), who interviewed ‘Yugoslavian migrants’ who had resettled in Turkey in the 1950s, has written that these interviewees referred to themselves as muhacir and that this translates from Turkish into English as ‘immigrant’. In another study concerning immigrants to Turkey, Ko¨ber and Keskiner (2004:194) explain the reasons for their use of the word muhajir (in the Turkish spelled muhacir) rather than the word go¨
men, c which is another word in the Turkish language that can be translated as ‘migrant’. They have written: Throughout the paper two Turkish words are used to describe a newcomer to Turkey: muhacir and go¨
men. c While certainly one of the meanings of both words is ‘migrant’, to give precise and exhaustive definitions is made difficult by the fact that their meaning has changed over time, and from place to place. However, two points are beyond doubt: firstly, only muhacir can have connotations of flight, and secondly, go¨
men c is a neologism that did not exist at the time of the exchange. Interestingly, while Leyla˜ Keskiner was gathering information in Muradiye Town Hall, the employees had a discussion about who is a muhacir and who is a go¨
men. c A so-called go¨
men c employee insisted that there was no difference, the word muhacir being a borrowing from Arabic and

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go¨
men c being the modern Turkish substitute; whereas a so-called muhacir employee claimed that the difference lay in the period of arrival: muhacirs being the immigrants of Atatu¨rk’s presidency (1923– 38) and go¨
mens c those of Ino¨nu¨’s (1938– 50). In Ko¨ber and Keskiner’s (2004) explanation we find recognition that the use of the term is debated within the Turkish context but that according to their understanding muhacir connotes migration with ‘flight’, that is, urgency rather than mode of transportation, and with that we can suggest that that meaning relates closer to the English word ‘refugee’. Danis¸, Taraghi and Pe´rouse (2009:459 – 60) have also used temporal context in order to distinguish muhajirin from other immigrants to Turkey and they draw upon Erder (2000) to write that muhajirin were those immigrants who were welcome and ‘government supported’, in contrast with ‘irregular migrations into Turkey’. Koufopoulou (2004:210) adds another dimension to this and suggests that within the Turkish context, the term ‘muhacir is associated with poverty and misery’. The use of muhajir to mean Muslim refugee but with temporal restriction is found in the work of Blumi (2013), who has used the word muhacir almost as a synonym for Ottoman refugee, that is, those who moved in relation to the Ottoman Empire’s withdrawal and loss of power in the years 1878 – 1939. Blumi’s restriction of the word muhacir in reference to those moving toward the Ottoman Empire we can understand to be a referent to the movement of Muslims. The Ottoman Empire was an Islamic state and the seat of the Caliphate. The Ottoman government promoted the idea that all territory within the bounds of the Ottoman Empire was the homeland for Muslims (Fuhrmann 2011). Pallis (1938) offered an additional layer of interpretation, similar to Blumi’s but not restricted to time period, and has written that muhajirin are Muslim refugees or emigrants from a non-Muslim country who migrate to a Muslim country – as with one of the Arabic connotations noted earlier. It is this connotation of religious identity, of people and of places, that the word muhajir carries in the Bosnian language. Suljic´-Bosˇkailo (2014) uses the term muhadzˇir – muhajir – to refer to emigrants from the territories of Bosnia and Herzegovina of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century but not so when referring to emigrants of the late

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twentieth century – similar to Blumi’s use. It is clear that through the use of the word muhajir a range of connotations can be evoked and that these differ from the connotations evoked through the use of other words describing migration. From the Bosnian language the word seoba can be translated into English as ‘migration’, and this can be understood as a movement by which one changes one’s place of residence. Emigration – iseljavanje – is the act of moving out, and immigration – doseljavanje – the act of moving to or in – in relation to a house, place, region, country. It might be significant for the reader to remember that Aunt Husnija used her own parable of ants rather than that of seasonal migratory birds to explain the impetus for her movement from one place of residence to another. Hers was a forced movement, impelled by a sense of fear, and the words noted here – seoba and iseljanvanje – do not convey forced migration. A bjegunac, or izbjeglica, can be translated from the Bosnian language to English as ‘refugee’, that is, someone who has been forced to migrate. These words in the Bosnian language, however, do not carry the same connotations of seeking refuge, protection and shelter, that the word ‘refugee’ does in the English. In English, a refugee is understood as someone who flees in a time of war, or from persecution or some other disaster and danger, for refuge and safety. The official definition of refugee provided by the United Nations places emphasis on persecution.8 According to the Convention relating to the Status of Refugees, adopted by the United Nations on 28 July 1951 and amended in 1967, a refugee can be defined: owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is outside the country of his [sic] nationality and is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country; or who, not having a nationality and being outside the country of his former habitual residence as a result of such events, is unable, or owing to such fear, is unwilling to return to it. The words in the Bosnian language carry stronger connotations of being on the run, and of escape. Bjegunac can be used to refer to a fugitive. Izbjeglica is used more commonly to refer to forced migration due to war.

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In conversation with Australian-Bosnian Muslims, I heard them speak about not wanting to identify as an izbjeglica because of their want to avoid the connotations of escape and of running away. Instead, they used a neologism, istjerenici, to convey that they were forced out or expelled, deriving from the Bosnian language verb istjerati, that is, to expel. The use of this word, muhajir, rather than the word izbejeglica or istjerenici connotes more than that one was forced to migrate: muhajir carries the connotation that the forced migrant, or refugee, in its normative rather than UN definition, is/was Muslim.

Muhajirin in Islamic Teaching Scho¨ch (2008:10), who in writing about the experiences of Afghan refugees and their identification as mujahideen, suggests that a related concept is muhajirin as it can be considered to refer to those who move for the purpose of maintaining their religion. Another point that Scho¨ch (2008) makes is that one’s own identification with muhajirin could be motivated because of its association with the Prophet Muhammad’s flight from Mecca to Medina to escape persecution. Trix (2017:14) has written that the word muhacir means ‘emigrants’ and that it has ‘positive associations for Muslims’ because of its link to Muhammad. Identification with the prophet is, among believers, not taken lightly. The way Prophet Muhammad lived is conceptualised as an example to which one should strive. I have yet to meet a person who, when in a normal as opposed to an ecstatic state, would make the claim for themselves that they are to be regarded equal in status with Muhammad. It is possible that interlocutors referred to themselves as muhajirin because of an intention to identify themselves, at most, with Muhammad’s followers. Of the duty for Muslims to migrate that Scho¨ch mentions, Yucel has explained in more detail. From readings of the Qur’an and Sunnah, and from drawing upon Turkish language interpretations, Yucel (2015:194– 5) has written: Immigration is encouraged or even commanded when a Muslim is oppressed in the country of residence (16:41, 29:56), does not have the freedom to practice religion (22:40), is not given opportunities to worship comfortably (29:56, 39:10) or lives in a place where

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there are strong negative influences that may cause spiritual loss in this world and eternal punishment in the hereafter (4:97). On the positive side, a Muslim is encouraged to migrate to seek spiritual benefits (2:218) or worldly benefits such as marriage or economic benefits (4:97– 10). Within this interpretation, Yucel did not mention the word muhajirin but the connotation that these religious imperatives align with the story of the migration of Prophet Muhammad and his followers because of persecution and for reasons of religious freedom is clear. That there are different meanings and connotations attributed to the same word can be considered in relation to the different translations made of the Qur’an. With the different translations of the Qur’an there are different meanings ascribed to the word muhajirin. In Dawood’s (1997) English-language translation, there is a distinction made between ‘refugees for cause of God’ also referred to as ‘fugitives’ and the ‘muhajirin’ and this term is reserved to refer to ‘Muhammad’s early followers who fled with him to Medina’. Those whom Dawood referred to as muhajirin, in Khan’s (2009) English language translation are referred to as ‘emigrants’. In Khan’s translation muhajir is not used, nor identified as a separate concept. In Korkut’s (n.d.) Bosnian-language translation, muhadzˇiri appears where it does in Dawood’s, in reference to those who fled with Muhammad and in the footnotes ‘muhadzˇiri’, muhajirin are translated to ‘izbjeglice’ refugees. The use by my interlocutors of the word muhajirin, rather than any other word, for migrant or refugee, that is, from the other Bosnian and Turkish words that were available to them, is a way of expressing their identification as Muslims, forced migrants and refugees, that is, people seeking refuge and safety. I understood that Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba, and now Aunt Ismeta and Aunt Husnija, stressed that they became refugees because they were Muslim. Serbs, they said, had terrorised them, their kin and their neighbours, forcing them to abandon their homes. They ascribed the identity of muhajir to emigrants from Yugoslavia and to other migrants to Turkey who had come from the Balkans. My interlocutors did not restrict their use of the term according to time period, that is, they did not limit it to ‘Ottoman refugees’ – those who moved, when the Ottoman Empire’s reach decreased, in order to

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remain within the state of the Caliphate. They themselves were not Ottoman refugees. Favourable mentions are made in the Qur’an of those who offer refugees and muhajirin refuge.9 While the UN definition of refugee stresses fear and persecution, Nicholson (2013:7) writes that muhajir is a broader concept, for the relationship is not only about the victim and the offender but it is about the relationship between the victim and those who meet them and who offer them ‘hospitality’. According to this conceptualisation, the refugee is to be accorded refuge not only by state institutions and non-state institutions: it is incumbent upon individuals to do the same. In the definition of refugee adopted by the UN, refuge is conceptualised in terms of ‘protection of that country’, that is, in a statecentric manner. In the Qur’an, protection of the refugee is conceptualised in terms of that which individuals accord, and it is the reception that they received from their neighbours about which the muhajirin spoke that day. An expectation to extend care, refuge, is another connotation that muhajirin carries in the Bosnian language.

Merhamet as the Compassion of Muslims ‘It was all very hard. Very hard. Very hard,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne repeated, shaking her head from side to side. It was now she who had a distant look in her eyes. She continued: Yes, all praise be to Allah, the journey was difficult. We got out of it, thanks be to Allah. We travelled by wagon and even had to walk some distance. When we arrived, it was Friday,10 thanks be to Allah, we arrived and we prayed and thanked Allah that we were safe. At that time we did not know anyone, we did not know our neighbours. We did not have anyone to explain to us how things are here. Bu¨yu¨kbaba and his brothers, may Allah be compassionate to their souls, organised for us a house. We were then guests. It was our neighbours who helped us, may Allah reward them. One gave us bread, the other a chicken. Some others, milk from their cow. It was like that. Those neighbours had been muhajirin. They understood how it was for us. Some were from Macedonia. We were guests until we were able to settle and sort things out for ourselves. Until we had our own chickens and cows it was very

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difficult. Thanks be to Allah, we have this house now. But then, those people could justifiably be referred to as Muslims, may Allah reward them. They have merhamet. They extended to us and helped us when we had nothing. ‘That is something. Here, there are people with merhamet,’ Aunt Ismeta confirmed. Merhamet is a word that has currency in the Bosnian language and in the Turkish language. Through its use one can evoke a number of meanings. It can be translated to mean pitiful, compassionate and charitable. That ‘Merhamet’ is the name given to a ‘Muslim Charitable Institution’11 in Bosnia and Herzegovina, and to many associated Bosnian Muslim, Bosniak, charitable organisations across the globe, attests to the word’s association between a religious orientation and work of charity with its associated sentiments of pity and compassion. When translated from the Turkish language into English, merhamet can mean pity and mercy. Similarly, when translated from the Bosnian into the English language, merhamet can mean mercy, compromise and forgiveness. Victims and survivors of the war of the 1990s in Bosnia and Herzegovina have been asked to display their merhamet toward the perpetrators of violence, that is, to be merciful, to forgive and to not seek revenge (Weine 1999). The connotation with this usage of the word merhamet is that a Muslim does not seek retribution because messages of being merciful are relayed in the Qur’an, as is the warning that it is Allah who punishes. With its range of meanings merhamet can mean pity and compassion and charity, and that is conveyed in Bu¨yu¨kanne’s use of the word. One who demonstrates this disposition is lauded – the highest praise being that one is a ‘true Muslim’. The opening words of the Qur’an are: ‘In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful.’ Merhamet was evoked by Bu¨yu¨kanne and with it she described the pitiful position in which she and her household found themselves and the compassion that was expressed toward them by their neighbours. Taking pity and expressing compassion and acting charitably to strangers is one thing, but taking pity and expressing compassion and acting charitably toward muhajirin is another. According to the reasoning that was suggested to me that afternoon, the relationship of merhamet being extended to muhajirin, something

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like an equation, seemed to result in the creation of a community of Muslimhood. By defining actions as those befitting a Muslim, Bu¨yu¨kanne and the aunts were engaging in a process of defining their neighbours as Muslim. I did not have the opportunity to find out whether those neighbours did or did not identify as Muslim. For Bu¨yu¨kanne, enacting merhamet was an indication of one’s identity as Muslim – one’s self-perception and of one’s identification with others. Actions were considered to express identity. If one acts as a Muslim should act, then one is a Muslim. This concept of merhamet was important in the constitution of Muslimhood, a concept that Bu¨yu¨kanne already had introduced and which Aunt Ismeta would confirm as important for their settlement in Turkey.

Muslimhood in the Neighbourhood ‘It was no quite so, when we arrived to Turkey,’ Aunt Husnija countered. ‘That was a long time ago. And much has changed since. I am an old woman. It is Allah’s gift that I have lived so long. I have outlived my husband, may Allah be compassionate to his soul. I have outlived my brothers. I do not know what I have done to deserve to live this long.’ ‘Praise be to Allah you are in good health,’ Aunt Ismeta interjected. ‘Amen. May you, too, live to see old age,’ Aunt Husnija added looking to me. ‘If it be Allah’s will,’ Aunt Ismeta added. Aunt Husnija continued: When we came here, not here but in a different part of Istanbul. Not too far away. It was that some of our then neighbours thought we were not Muslim, praise be to Allah. That was those uneducated Turks who did not know that Bosniaks are Muslims.12 One neighbour said to me, ‘You are communists. You are not believers. Communists are not wanted in Turkey. Go away.’ I said to her, ‘Thanks be to Allah, I am Muslim.’ But she would not believe me. It was like that, when she would step outside and see me also outside she would spit. It was like that until the war in Bosnia and then they saw we are Muslim.

MUHAJIRIN

Because we did not speak Turkish they thought that we are not Muslim. You know that in Yugoslavia in the villages even the Christian women wore the shawl? But when the communists came they did not want us to wear it. And they wanted us to uncover ourselves. Some did. In the holy month of Ramadan, thanks be to Allah, he gave me the strength to fast. Even though I worked hard in the field, I fasted. I wanted them to see that we are Muslim. But when the war came and they saw what the Serbs were doing to the Bosniaks, then they saw we are Muslim. One neighbour here said to me, ‘I did not know you are Muslim.’ Aunt Ismeta continued with the same theme: Ramadan is a special month. Before Ramadan, we clean the house. We scrub the walls so that everything is clean. Of course, in my age that is no longer what I do, that is the work of my daughters-in-law. Praise be to Allah, they are industrious. Our neighbours would see that we would clean everything – the windows, everything. We would clean more than them. Muslims need to be clean – that is important in Islam. And when they would see us cleaning, they would ask, ‘Why are you cleaning so much?’ And I would say, ‘Thanks be to Allah, Ramadan is coming.’ And when it was Eid’al’adha, my husband, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, he butchered one of our calves, one that we had raised especially for Eid. And he went and shared some meat with these neighbours here. And he came home, and told me, that they asked him: ‘Why are you giving us this meat?’ And he replied to them: ‘Thanks be to Allah, we have enough to make a sacrifice. It is qurban for Eid.’ That is the obligation of all Muslims. And some neighbours here, they would share with us their qurban. At the time of Eid, I would sew new clothes for us. The children would each have a new outfit. New skirts and blouses. A new shirt for my husband. And in the morning, my husband, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, he would visit the Bosniaks, as is our custom: the head of the household visits family and neighbours to share in Eid with them. And I would make baklava, and I would

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send one of the children over with baklava to the neighbours. And they would ask: ‘Why are you giving us this?’ And he would reply, ‘It is Eid for us.’ And then they would give some sugar to my son. ‘That was the uneducated Turks,’ Aunt Hunsija added. ‘They knew we came here from Yugoslavia and because of that they thought we are unbelievers.’ ‘And communists!’ Aunt Ismet added and continued: ‘In Sandzˇak when I was young but even more in my mother’s day, may Allah be compassionate to her soul, there was Muslimhood. My grandmother wore the niqab. When the communists came, they prohibited that women may wear the niqab. Maybe that was not a bad thing altogether.’ As the muhajirin spoke, Abla appeared at the door. She had brought lunch for the elders and visitors. Without formality she joined the conversation: ‘I can tell you why it was good that the communists banned the niqab.’ Aunt Husnija lifted her hand, seemingly to protest but Abla did not let her speak. ‘I will tell you why it was not an entirely bad thing. Once there was our neighbour who was tricked into marrying a woman. Yes. Yes. It is true,’ Abla said, nodding her head to Aunt Husnija and the rest of us. ‘No man can be tricked into marriage,’ Aunt Husnija objected. Abla placed the dishes she was carrying on the dining table and, while standing, with one arm on her hip, told the following story: It was like this. He was a neighbour of my uncle. On my father’s side. They said he was a handsome man and had his own property and was still a bachelor. They said that once he had been betrothed but the woman fell ill and died. After that he thought he was cursed and refused to look for a wife. That was until another neighbour, surely one who was jealous of his property, organised a wife for him. They said that neighbour told the man to go with him to visit with some people from a neighbouring village and that there would be a prospective bride. He told the man that the woman was beautiful and was from a good family. And somehow this neighbour convinced him and they went. They said they were

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well received in the village and the hosts immediately brought before him some refreshments and served him grilled meat. In those days [Abla looked to me], in the living room there would be a curtain dividing the area in which guests were received from the rest of the house so that the women could move around freely and not be in danger of being seen without their niqab. And they talked about what he would give to the bride. And he said, he would not talk about his wealth until he saw the bride. And they brought out one who they said was the prospective bride out into the living room. And she stood there in front of him and she quickly flapped the niqab from her face so that he could see her. They said he saw that she was beautiful and he agreed to marry and then they arranged for how much he would buy her, and, of course, they said because she is so beautiful she is worth much more. He agreed. They organised the day and everything else that was needed. And like that, pity be for this man, at the wedding and all that time the bride wore the niqab. It was when the celebrations were over and he took her home and took off her niqab that he saw it was a different woman. They said later they said it was the woman’s sister who was much older and could not marry. Pity be to him: it was too late for him to do anything. And that is why I say that it is better that women do not wear the niqab. Bu¨yu¨kanne nodded and added: ‘The niqab, it is not necessary. It is important, that a woman in Islam be modest – and she can be when she wears a shawl.’ Aunt Ismeta interrupted and continued: Like that the communists came and prohibited the wearing of the niqab. And they closed the mosques. There were mosques barricaded with planks of wood. Ours was not. Our imam did not allow it. He said, ‘You will have to kill me before you can deny our entry to the mosque!’ And like that [the mosque was not closed and hostilities ensued], that one time, my husband, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, was beaten by the Serbs when he went to the mosque. They targeted him with rocks. He came home and he was bleeding from under his ear. He said to me that the Serbs struck him with rocks that they were throwing at the congregation.

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My children at that time attended school. They wanted to close that down also. The imam continued to hold classes for the children who wanted to attend. My daughter came home crying – she said that the Serb children threw stones at them when they were returning home. They did not close the mosque but one day they silenced the muezzin’s call to prayer. Here we hear it every day. That is the most beautiful sound, praise be to Allah. Here there is Muslimhood. Muslimhood is a concept that was introduced to me by Bu¨yu¨kanne. It was referred to by Bu¨yu¨kbaba and by Aunt Ismeta and Aunt Husnija. It was a concept that I would hear of again in other conversations. It was referred to by my interlocutors in a dual sense: it was referred to as an individual virtue related to an individual’s actions, and it was referred to as a characteristic of a community. It seemed that they understood that an individual acts according to their Muslimhood and that a mass of individuals who act accordingly in this manner create a community, not the sum of individual Muslims but a community in which the individual Muslims create a ‘cultural solidarity’ through Muslimhood. Muslimhood can be understood to differ from the concept of ummah:13 a community of globally dispersed Muslims. Perhaps Muslimhood could be considered closer to the idea of neighbourhood in which the behaviour of neighbours is defined by their adherence to the contextually specific interpretation of the doctrines of Islam. Bu¨yu¨kanne and the muhajirin of that afternoon had spoken of how their neighbours in Istanbul had acted toward them with merhamet, that is, they had taken pity on them and the respective households and had acted charitably. We could put it another way and say that the neighbours had expressed compassion and that was their ‘thing in common’. According to Bu¨yu¨kanne her neighbours, too, had migrated as muhajirin and this was one reason for their compassionate conduct. Their conduct, and hers and her householders in return, was that which constituted the Muslimhood of their neighbourhood.14 One of the questions I asked of the company of muhajirin that afternoon was: ‘Is a Muslim defined by how they conduct themselves?’ Aunt Husnija began: ‘Who is a Muslim?’

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‘I guess you could rephrase the question to that.’ I said. ‘No, no, you misunderstand. Who is a Muslim? What does someone need to say to be a Muslim?’’ ‘Are you referring to the shahada?’ ‘Yes. What is it?’ ‘It is a creed.’ ‘Do you know to say it?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Go on.’ ‘La ilaha ilallallah, Muhammadu rasulu-llah.’ ‘What does that mean?’ ‘There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad is his messenger.’ ‘That is the beginning of being a Muslim.’ ‘It is what one says?’ I asked. ‘It is not easy to be a true Muslim. To say one is a Muslim is not a small thing and that is where one begins.’ The conversation continued and the muhajirin agreed that by striving to be a Muslim – through charity, compassion, care for one’s family – that Muslimhood is created in the family and in the neighbourhood. They again praised Allah that they were in a place in which Muslimhood prevailed. I understood that victimisation, fear and the urgency to migrate, were the emotions that united the experiences of muhajirin. Gratitude, empathy and pity, were the emotions that united the experiences of belonging in a neighbourhood in Turkey, and this was conceptualised through the concept of Muslimhood. That afternoon, I think I received an answer for why Turkey is declared a Muslim country. None defined Turkey as a sacred country, that is, a country chosen and especially favoured or protected by Allah. Rather, they drew upon their own engagement with neighbours and abstracted that to a national level. The Muslimhood of the nation was garnered from a number of sources but, of course, one important source was interpersonal interaction. Muslimhood is not a statement of fact about the religious orientation of a population but, rather, it is a conceptualisation of an emotive response. That the muhajirin received refuge, safety and compassion in Turkey meant a lot. They moved to a place in which they felt that as Muslims they were not part of a minority.

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The Politics of Compassion Wikan (1990) has written of the concept of ‘feeling-thought’ to relay the idea that we label and think our emotions as much as we feel them, that is, in order for emotions to be understood, they are named. In contemporary popular psychology the concept is identified as ‘emotional intelligence’. When placed within a cognitive framework, emotions are, then, related to systems of knowledge, which in turn inform actions. In an explanation of her own dis/connection with her interviewees, Ozkul (2014:118), in drawing upon her reading of Kleinman and Kleinman, has written: ‘I argue that the emotive and sensory proximity of the researcher to research participants generates bodily effects, which vitalize or alienate the research within the research process.’ In addition to ‘bodily effects’ and senses which connect people, for I certainly did feel anxious, sick and fearful when hearing the elders speak of their emigration, the manner in which people label emotions is significant to how they connect with others. For the muhajirin, by bundling a number of emotions and labelling them as merhamet they configured their neighbourhood as a religious community. To use the word merhamet – a word used in both the Turkish and the Bosnian languages – rather than, for example, saosjec´anje – a word used in the Bosnian and the Serb-Croat languages that when translated into the English language means compassion – can be another means by which one, as Aunt Husnija suggested, starts to ‘say’ they are Muslim. It was not only that the muhajirin selected their words carefully in order to convey their individual identification as Muslim and collective identification with Muslims: rather, I understood that the muhajirin were suggesting that merhamet is an emotion with associated actions that is exclusive to Islam and Muslims. If it was simply a matter of carefully selecting one’s word, then the supposition would be: compassion is a universal human emotion and all humans can act compassionately and that people use different words to express the same emotion. However, if one says that compassion can be expressed exclusively by people who live by Islam, well that is an explicitly political, and even hostile, statement.

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Another example can be used to illustrate the point. Drawing upon the work of Islamic scholars, Yucel15 (2015:194) has written that there is a number of ways by which Muslims relate to the country to which they have emigrated, and identifies ‘service’ as a marker of a Muslim: Muslims have a religious obligation to serve people . . . In stating this principle Nursi and Gu¨len have rediscovered one of the principles of Sufism. The great Sufi Master Ali Hujwiri (990– 1077) stated that a person should view everyone as his or her master and be ready to serve. Practices of service and hospitality can be identified in a range of philosophies. Sivric (1982:27) has written of the practices of hospitality of Catholic peasants in Bosnia and Herzegovina: A practice of their rule exhorted these religious men to see Jesus Christ in every human being and to treat them accordingly. This practice may account for the hospitality experienced in these regions today. The people will give their guests, no matter who they are, the best that that they have in their homes even if they have to suffer deprivation themselves. To say that how one demonstrates compassion, service or hospitality varies contextually is one thing, but to say that compassion is an emotion and that service or hospitality are actions exclusive to one religious or philosophical group is another. It seemed to be this latter approach that the muhajirin were adopting that afternoon – they were interpreting and defining behaviours in an exclusive manner as markers of a true Muslim and of no one else. Perhaps it was the feeling of safety inspired by thinking that they were part of a dominant and privileged group that enabled them to take this position. That day, merhamet as pity and compassion, fear of Allah, as well as gratitude, were treated as defining characteristics of a Muslim. Identification as a Muslim refugee was relayed through the word muhajirin – a word potentially known by all Muslims for whom the Qur’an was a point of reference.

CHAPTER 2 RAHMAN'S BUSINESS AND ABLA'S ILLNESS

Within those early days of my stay I had spent a lot of time with the elders and one night Abla and Rahman gently complained that, since my arrival, we had spent little time getting to know one another. They invited me to sit and talk. As we did, I showed photos of my family. Upon seeing a photo of my father, Abla said, ‘Oh, he looks serious’ and turned and looked me over. ‘You look like him.’ Then I showed photos of my mother. Abla was particularly interested in this for it was on my mother’s side that our kin connection was traced. ‘She looks young. You look like her, too,’ Abla said. Then I showed photos of my siblings. ‘Your sister is pretty, praise be to Allah,’ Abla remarked. As night set in and the muezzin calls to prayer were heard from the nearby mosques Abla said that we should rest for she had the following day’s activities planned for us. I disappointed Abla by telling her that I had my own plans for the following day: I had meetings scheduled with colleagues at the university to which I was affiliated. Abla posed a number of questions without waiting for my full response. ‘Why do you need to go to the university? Will you be teaching students? Are you a doctor who can prescribe medicine? What do you have to talk about with colleagues? Are the colleagues men? Are you meeting them alone in their office? Will the door be closed?’ I could not gather whether it was only her disappointment that I would not be able to spend time with her that prompted the outburst that was intended to hurt me. Or whether it was that she was genuinely

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concerned that my un-chaperoned attendance at a university could be considered disgraceful for me and, by extension, for her. Later I contemplated the gender dynamics in the household and questioned whether she was envious that I had a freedom of movement away from the household that she did not have: each time she departed and returned she needed to report to Bu¨yu¨kanne. For each outing, she needed to be escorted by either her husband, her eldest child or one of her sisters-inlaw, or, while I was there, by me. Abla’s questions and her reactions unsettled us both. I told her that I was planning to move to another apartment. This information unsettled her even more. She left the room flushed and we did not see each other again until the following afternoon. Rahman apologised to me and asked me not to be angry with Abla. He said that she was carrying many burdens and that she, despite her outburst, was glad to have me stay with them and that all she wanted was to spend time with me. The following evening when the tensions had subsided I learned something of Abla’s migration and of her marriage to Rahman. It was after the children had gone to sleep that Abla, Rahman and I sat in the kitchen and talked. Beyond the windows behind us, the lights from distant apartments shimmered across the Istanbul hills. It was a picturesque view. Abla and Rahman reminisced about their wedding. I sat looking at them. Rahman was 15 years Abla’s senior and his age showed on his face in the form of wrinkles. Rahman had brown hair cut short. He did not carry a beard but as soon as he shaved it seemed that within a few hours stubble would appear. That made him look messy. He had dark rings under his eyes. Abla was chubby. She had a round face and rosy cheeks. Within her house she did not wear a shawl – she had short hair which, at that time, I thought was her preference. They explained that their introduction was brief but even though, they said, they knew the marriage would work. ‘We joke around with each other,’ Rahman said. Abla laughed but, with something of an air of hostility, said, ‘He is always ready for a laugh. But always at my expense!’ ‘Yes, you are funny. You are always angry.’ He laughed and nudged her with his elbow. She smiled at him and the tension that had been there seemed to diffuse immediately.

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Abla’s migration to Turkey had followed a trajectory that differed from that of Bu¨yu¨kanne, Bu¨yu¨kbaba, Aunt Husnija and Aunt Ismeta. She had migrated from the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia to Turkey in order to marry Rahman. Theirs was an arranged marriage. Abla said: It happened very quickly. One day I came home and my sisters told me that they had found a bachelor for me to marry. They told me that he lives in Turkey. I had never been to Turkey. And I had never met him. They said he is a good man and he is looking for a wife so that he can have children and have his own family. ‘I saved her life,’ Rahman interjected. ‘That was right before the war.’ ‘The one of the 1990s in Yugoslavia?’ I asked, by way of confirmation. ‘Yes, this war that has just happened.’ ‘I saved her from the war.’ ‘Your sisters?’ I asked. ‘They stayed on. Also my brother,’ Abla replied. Rahman began: I was an old bachelor.1 I had almost 35 years when I married. It was not that I did not want to marry. Simply it was that I did not have the time. I had thought that I would find a wife when I was at university but in my faculty mostly they were male and the few females that were there were picked up quickly. I studied in Yugoslavia. In Turkey, it is very difficult to get a place. The entrance exams are difficult to pass and there is a lot of competition. I went to study in Yugoslavia and there I thought I would find one of our women to marry. But there were not many Muslim women at the university. That was in Serbia. When I finished studying, I returned and immediately started on the private enterprise. It took a lot of time to build it up. But, thanks be to Allah, we made it successful. Yes, now, it is difficult, the crisis has undone much of what we built, but if it be Allah’s will, we will be bigger than before. This was the only occasion on which I heard Rahman speak with some optimism.

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The Crisis in Turkey ‘The crisis’ to which Rahman referred was, of course, in the year 2010, known in the English language as the ‘Global Financial Crisis’ or the ‘GFC’. The phrasing has changed subsequently to accommodate a number of related ‘crises’, that is, the GFC of 2007 – 8 and the subsequent recessions in countries’ economies and the evolution of a Europespecific debt crisis. The effects of the global economic downturn in Turkey translated into a drop in consumer confidence over the years 2007 –9. The numbers registered as unemployed in the years 2007, 2008 and 2009 increased and there was reduction in foreign trade with a drop in exports across the years 2008 and 2009. Germany was the primary destination for exports from Turkey and, in 2009, exports decreased by 24.4 per cent compared with the previous year. In dollar terms this meant that, for 2008, exports to Germany amounted to more than US$12 billion but, in 2009, exports to Germany fell to less than US$10 billion (Turkish Statistical Institute 2017a). Rahman and the Sandzˇakli householders carried on a private enterprise. Rahman worked for the household enterprise and that meant long hours, no job security and no assurance of regular income. Their business was in the textile industry – manufacturing and exporting clothing. In the year 2008, of the total exports from Turkey that amounted to US$132,027,195.626, ‘articles of apparel and clothing accessories’ were worth US$13,589,400.434. With the GFC, exports dropped: for 2009 total exports from Turkey amounted to US$102,142,612.602, of which ‘articles of apparel and clothing accessories’ accounted for US$11,553,511.153. The figures for 2010 and 2011 show an improvement. In 2010 total exports from Turkey amounted to US$113,883,219.184, of which ‘articles of apparel and clothing accessories’ amounted to US$12,745,640.5. For the year 2011, total exports from Turkey were worth US$134,906,868.83, of which ‘articles of apparel and clothing accessories’ amounted to US$13,945,010.196 (Turkish Statistical Institute 2017b). The Sandzˇakli enterprise was effected by these broad downward trends and at the time we spoke it had not been caught in the upward recovery cycle.

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The Crises in the Sandzˇakli Household ‘We lost over a million US dollars! Our clients in Germany did not pay us! Can you believe it? They said they did not have the money to pay!’ Rahman’s words exploded from his mouth and he flushed red with anger. ‘We tried to get our goods back but they would not return them. We were at a double loss. They did not pay and kept the goods. I went to Germany to speak with them but they were firm in claiming that they did not have the money.’ ‘Why did they not return your shipment?’ I asked. ‘Why? Why? Because they are thieves!’ Rahman looked up to the ceiling with exasperation. Abla remained silent. ‘What are you manufacturing and exporting to Germany?’ I asked. Rahman went out of the kitchen and returned moments later with a bundle of fabric. He tossed it to me and said, ‘That should fit you.’ It was sports wear, a tracksuit with the insignia of a brand with global reach embroidered into the fabric. My powers of observation could not help me identify whether it was genuine or counterfeit branded clothing. I noticed that no one in the house wore such tracksuits. Rahman continued: When they refused to pay we were in shit. We could not pay our suppliers. When you do not pay your suppliers then you cannot order more fabric. And when you do not have the fabric you cannot make anything for your clients. One bad thing became two bad things, then three and then it went out of control. I tell you that I am a cursed man. Rahman shook his head in anger and frustration. ‘Tell her how it came that you married me,’ said Abla, redirecting the conversation. Rahman responded: I was telling her. As I was saying, when I came back from studying at university, I agreed with my old man that we should start our own private enterprise. It was difficult in those first few months. And years. Establishing contacts is actually the most difficult.

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People need to trust you. When they do not know you, they cannot trust you. Even though it was difficult, I did not abandon the idea. I worked hard. Success can be achieved if one works hard and I did work from morning until twilight. I travelled to and from Serbia, where I had studied, looking for clients and so I was always on the move. I did not have time to be courting a girlfriend. One day, my father sat me down and said, ‘A man’s life cannot be fulfilled if he does not have his own family.’ He said, ‘There is more to life than money’ and asked me whether I wanted a wife and children. He was so serious, you could not imagine that that old man downstairs who is so pitiful now could instil fear in me. I was a grown man yet he scared me. I said, ‘Yes, of course, I want to marry.’ I did not have the time nor the strength to find myself a wife. After he spoke with the old woman, a few days later, he asked again whether I was serious in wanting to marry. He said that a man has special duties to fulfil. He has to provide everything for his wife and children. He asked me if I was ready to accept the duties that come with marriage. I said, ‘Yes.’ And then he asked if they could arrange a wife for me. I said, yes, if they can find one who will want me. Rahman laughed and looked to Abla. She did not reciprocate. Rahman continued: It was some time until I got married. Between then and the time Abla came I had started to worry. I realised that my friends were married. And I was getting old. One night on a journey to here from Serbia I visited a fortune teller. It was for some laughs. And she told me that I need not worry. And that I would be married and the woman would be younger than me. Some months later, my parents sat me down and told me that they had found the right wife for me. Abla was young. The fortune teller was right. I do not usually believe those ‘abracadabra’2 things but Abla was a lot younger than I, just as the fortune teller told me that my wife would be. My parents made the arrangements and we married. Abla was

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young and full of energy then. She was a good wife. Yes, she is immature sometimes and she gets angry and she gets jealous. Rahman looked to Abla, who gave an angry smile. Rahman continued: ‘That was a long time ago. Now we have the children. And now . . .’ Rahman hesitated. He looked to Abla. She was not smiling. I could not anticipate what either was thinking or wanted to say. Abla got up from her seat and went to the cabinet in the far corner of the kitchen and pulled out some sheets of paper and three pencils. She distributed a sheet and a pencil to each of us and sat down. ‘Come on, let us play,’ she said. I frowned, not understanding what was happening. ‘Do you not know the game of words and cities?’ she said as she drew vertical lines on her sheet. ‘Did you not play that as a child?’ she inquired. I knew the game to which she referred. ‘I always used to play this before I got married,’ she said. We played for an hour or so. Rahman then excused himself. As Abla and I continued to play the game she spoke: My sisters and brother are still in the village where I lived before I got married. I say to Rahman, ‘I am going to visit my village.’ Then I close my eyes. And then after my nap, I tell him, ‘I have been visiting my village and everyone sends their greetings.’ Mostly I remember the karst mountains. There is something special about those mountains. There is something special about them. Not much can survive there except for the hardy wildflowers and some other plants that grow between the rocks. Abla exhaled deeply. ‘Sometimes my sisters climb the mountain to collect the flowers and herbs. And I used to do that. But since the war it is not safe. They have to be careful of themselves because of the unexploded mines.’ ‘And yet they go?’ I asked. Abla replied: They are careful! They jump. Like goats. From rock to rock to avoid touching the soil. They send me dried herbs for tea.

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And for you I will make tea. I will make tea for me and you from those herbs tomorrow. You will see that it is unlike manufactured tea. This tea is full of health. Actually that there is a healthy part of the world. And that is because the air is clean. This here air in Istanbul is heavy. It is full of moisture. No, no, the air here is not good. And so it is no wonder there are many ill people. The air, here, is not good. Here in Istanbul there is too much activity, it is crowded. But I had to grow up. My sisters never did marry. They said they did not want the same to happen for me. They are a lot of years older than I. They said they wanted me to have the satisfaction of having my own children. They never did have children. And now they are too old to have children. My brother married and he has children. His youngest is a little older than my youngest. It is hard for children not to have their mother alive. My mother, may Allah be compassionate to her soul, died when I was a child. She became sick. She was in her deathbed for months until she died. I cannot remember much of her. My sisters used to send me outside so that I would not see her being sick. I would play outside in the field. There was a tall walnut tree in my field. I would climb the tree and play in it for hours. From there I would look up to the mountains and to the old fort. I would imagine what it would have been like to live in that old fort. I would imagine the elegant silk baggy trousers the women wore, and the woollen rugs they would have had decorating their home and all the gold they must have had. ‘Do you know from what she died?’ I asked. ‘I do not know. I was young. They did not tell me. She was in her deathbed for some time,’ Abla replied. ‘How old was she? Maybe in her forties?’ I asked. Abla shrugged her shoulders. I did not yet know that while Abla was speaking about her experience of losing her mother when she was a child, she may have been thinking that that was a future that her own children would soon face. Abla continued:

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That was before I started school. When I started school, my sisters cared for me. They dressed me and ensured I had school books. My father was a strict man. He had not let my sisters continue with their education. When they had reached secondary school, he said that for girls there was no need for education. They protested. Somehow they managed to convince him and they finished school. They both are employed. Because I was younger than them they looked after me and sent me to school with everything that I needed. For that I thank them. ‘What did you finish in school?’ I asked. Abla replied: I completed only the mandatory eight grades. I did not go to technical secondary school. I was thinking about enrolling in medical college. My friends said that it would be good if we worked as airline stewards and travelled across the world. My two best friends went into technical college. We slowly lost contact. They stopped visiting me. ‘Why did you not go? Did your father not let you?’ I asked. ‘He died, may Allah be compassionate to his soul. Then I lost the will for everything. It is normal to mourn 40 days, but I mourned him for a year. I stayed home.’ Abla was silent for a moment. ‘What then? What happened after a year.’ I asked. ‘I stayed home. I cleaned the house. I cooked the meals so that when my sisters came home from work they would have something to eat. I ironed their clothes. And then I got married.’ Abla summarised about seven years of her life in those sentences. Abla resumed talking: The wedding was nice. But when I came here all I heard was the Turkish language. Turkish language. Turkish language. Turkish language. Turkish language. I just wanted to hear some Bosnian language spoken. I wanted to speak the Bosnian language to someone so I could empty myself of my thoughts. But I have become accustomed. It was a must.

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I want to tell you that I have had a sad life. I cannot tell these things to people in this household. I lost my mother when I was a child. Here I have had children. Other things have been a disappointment. Here everyone is serious. They always look to see what you are doing. They do not want to play any games. When I was young always we played games. On this sad note, we left for bed. The following day, Abla and I walked arm in arm to the local market. On the way back to the house, she tired. We stopped so she could sit on a park bench and could catch her breath. She dismissed my questions about what was wrong. She held on to me for stability as she walked up the stairs to her apartment. Abla was weaker still the following day and suggested that I did not stay in the house and that I and Jardin accompany Rahman as he attended to his business.

The Business of Rahman’s Enterprise Rahman, Jardin and I settled into his car. They in the front and I in the back. Rahman, I had started to learn, did not care for Jardin. Jardin was not part of the research – he was in Turkey on holiday. Rahman wore dark jeans and a dark jacket – it seemed to me he wore variations of the same each day. As I listened to Rahman talk I thought about the fact that he had studied and completed his tertiary education in the then-socialist Yugoslavia and yet did not critique the mass consumption industry in which he was involved. He seemed to operate willingly within a culture of mass consumerism. As we sat in his car, Rahman began in an apologetic air: You should have seen us five years ago when we had cars and houses and our women [Rahman looked to Abla, who stood in the window to see us out] had valuable jewellery. Then ‘the crisis’ happened and we lost everything. This house and the one holiday house is all that remains. We had to sell everything else. We sold furniture. We sold jewellery. We sold some of the children’s toys and their computers. It was so we could keep paying the bills. ‘I am sorry for your troubles,’ I said.

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‘No need for you to be sorry. I want you to understand that this now is not who we are,’ Rahman responded. Rahman talked about his work as we drove from the house to another part of Istanbul to visit his business contacts. Rahman spoke: The one thing I have tried not to sell are the sewing machines. Did you see them? I will show you once we return. We keep the sewing machines in the basement. If I have to sell the sewing machines, then we are done. At least, now, when I can get some clients, we have our own sewing machines and our own workers. I studied economics in Yugoslavia. When I came back here, I was ready to begin my own private enterprise. My father invested. With growth, then my brothers became the next partners. I divided the tasks. The problem to begin with of course was sewing. I did not know how to sew. My mother sat me down at the sewing machine and taught me. Of course, I made many mistakes. I tried, on many pieces of fabric. But that is a technical skill that one learns through repetition. She and I sewed those first orders. First we had one sewing machine. Then two, then three. Then ten. It expanded so much that we, at one stage, had 100 sewing machines and employed 100 workers. Can you imagine?! Have you seen our basement? Remind me to show you once we return. We had 100 workers in our basement! When Abla came, she too worked. When we had the most workers, she cooked meals for them. She would cook the breakfast and the lunch. And when we had big orders and workers stayed late, she would cook dinner. And like that we had contracts first in Turkey. I tried to organise some in Yugoslavia after the war but the level of consumption there does not make it worth anyone’s while. We made some contracts with companies in Germany and that is when we were doing the best. The profits were good. It was always growing. New contracts were being fulfilled and we made quality and our clients recognised that. We had a good reputation. When we expanded we were always looking for workers. My brother’s wives sewed but that was not enough. And they could not sew and look after the children at the same time. We employed Bosniaks. Everyone knows someone. Even though I or my brothers

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do not know these workers personally, they are friends of some friends, and if they recommend them then it is known that they can be trusted. This first fellow we will see, I employed his brother-in-law for a time. I employed his brother-in-law because of our bond. He is my retailer and I felt a duty to help his kin. So, one day his brother-inlaw comes to work and I receive him like a brother, I trust him. But soon I found from my brother [Ali] that he was coming late to work. Not only that: his workmanship was not precise. Now it would be shameful for me or Ali to send him away. It would be shameful to him as a man who has a family to look after but it would be even more shameful for the retailer. Can you imagine if I sacked him and how ashamed the retailer would be for recommending him? It would mean that he lied to me because he said his brotherin-law would be a reliable worker. ‘What did you do?’ I asked, curious to understand how Rahman configured labour relationships. ‘I told the retailer that he should talk to his brother-in-law. So, he did not talk to him directly but he told his own sister,’ Rahman replied. ‘Whose sister?’ I was getting a bit confused. Rahman explained: The retailer’s sister. The worker was his brother-in-law, he was married to his sister. And things improved for a time. But again he started to arrive late to work. And when my brother checked his work he noticed that his stitching was not precise. Do you know that it is very important for stitching to be consistent? I told the retailer again that he should speak to him again. Of course, I continued to pay him and act like everything was fine. I did not want to shame the man in front of the other workers. And I could not fire him – it is shameful for a man to be out of work. It was all sorted when the worker found another job. I heard Rahman speak of the value of work, of shame and their association with gender. It was not only I who was the intended audience for his message about the importance of work.

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Talk in the Shop In the pursuit of rebuilding his enterprise, Rahman spent his days visiting his business contacts, both suppliers and retailers. Suppliers with whom Rahman had dealings were based in Istanbul. He sourced the fabric, the buttons and the zips from traders in Istanbul. He put all these pieces together, of course, with the crucial branded badges and tags and then sold them to retailers in Germany and Turkey. The first shop we visited that day was a retailer who stocked some of Rahman’s apparel. Rahman inquired into the sales numbers and asked the retailer whether a resupply was needed. The retailer answered in the negative. We left. Rahman seemed indifferent. Rahman drove us to the next retailer and there Rahman received the same reply. Rahman explained that the next shops he wanted to visit were in the historic quarter of Istanbul where finding a spot in which to park his car was notoriously difficult. He said we would resume our journey travelling by tram and then walk the rest of the way. We walked to visit traders and suppliers in the streets of Eminonu, Gulhane, Sultanahmet, Cemberlitas and Beyazit. As we did, I gazed toward the minarets of the Sulemaniye mosque, the walls of Topkapi Palace, the dome of the Haghia Sophia museum and the birds that flew above the Sultanahmet mosque.3 By the time we reached the streets around the Grand Bazaar my feet ached and my eyes were tired from trying to observe all the monuments and all the human activity that occurred around them. Rahman suggested I rest in the quiet of his cousin Kemal’s shop. In the shop were his ‘uncles’,4 Mustafa and Hajji Bakir. Rahman introduced me as Abla’s kin who was recording the stories of Bosniaks in Turkey. Kemal and the uncles first thought it was Jardin who was doing the recording. Once I explained that that was my work, they redirected their attention to me. Kemal sent for some tea and there, in amongst the leather jackets and the strong smell of sheep skin and cow hide and cigarette smoke, while I rested my feet I listened to further talk of migration and of work. The two uncles, Jardin and I sat on stools in the corner of the shop. Rahman and Kemal stood at the cash register, close enough to hear our conversation but far enough to have their own conversation without interruption.

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Uncle Mustafa was the first to speak. He was an old man with huge dentures that looked too big for his mouth so that his mouth was always contorted into a smile. He began: I moved to Turkey in 1968. I did not know the language and that was the most difficult part. The area where we settled, which is some kilometres from here, was poor. What I mean by that is that is was undeveloped. There was not any electricity, nor running water. No roads. No pathways. Nothing. Those then were difficult times. But there was plenty of work. Children went to work in the factories at the age of twelve and were able to get pensions when they were in their forties. They were able to buy blocks of land and build houses with four or five storeys. For me it was different. Later I had a government job and that paid well. Either way it is important to be industrious. A man’s value is in his work. Hajji Bakir interrupted, wanting to concur. Hajji Bakir had thinning grey hair that he combed over his forehead. He wore a suit jacket over a grey cotton-looking shirt and a woollen vest. One end of a pair of glasses and one-half of a comb poked out from his suit pocket. None of the men, not even Kemal in whose leather goods shop we sat, wore a leather jacket. He said: When we arrived, there was a lot of work. People went to work in the factories. And children like mine did not get educated. They thought ‘Why get an education when you can earn just as well in the trades?’ It was good before, there was a lot of work. But now there is not so much work. How can a man say his sons are doing alright? They all live in the one house that his father built. They cannot afford to build their own. I built my own home with my brothers, we all have one floor. They now cannot build their own. How can they say things are fine? In the factory where I worked, there were many Yugoslavs and we when we would get together we would speak Yugoslavian. And they, the Turks would say, ‘Speak Turkish.’ They did not know what we were talking about and what we were doing.

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Uncle Mustafa accepted the digression of the conversation away from work to their position as part of a non-Turkish-language speaking migrant group in Turkey and said: The Turks did not laugh at me when I did not know how to speak the Turkish language. The Macedonians and Albanians were worse, they would laugh at me. At my work, the other people were all Turks so I had to speak the Turkish language. And I learned how to get by. I did not know how to speak with proper grammar like the youth today. But I knew enough to get by. I knew enough not to remain hungry. Hajji Bakir took over: When I went to army duty, that is where I learnt to speak the Turkish language. There were some problems but that was mostly with the uneducated. The educated knew who we are and where we had come from but the uneducated thought we were not Muslim and laughed at us. Then a question was put to me, ‘So you are from Australia? Have you been to C¸anakkale? All the Australians want to go to C¸anakkale.’ ‘It is not something I have yet planned,’ I answered. ‘Tell me truthfully, are you for or against Atatu¨rk?’ The old man surprised me with his question. He continued: ‘I see that you do not wear the shawl. Many Bosnians do not wear the shawl. I guess you are a secularist.’ Neither my powers of observation nor the explanatory schema I adopted as an anthropologist enabled me to draw such conclusions about another’s political allegiances on the basis of observing people’s attire.5 Hajji Bakir continued: I will tell you. Atatu¨rk is like Tito. Tito saved the Muslims and that you must know. If it was not for him all of the Muslims would have been killed in Sandzˇak. The order was in place by the Serbs but he intervened and saved them. He was good for us but the Muslims did not want him.

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Atatu¨rk saved and united Turkey against seven different foreign armies. Gallipoli is an important peninsula where violent battles took place during World War I. The English, who had the strongest army at that time, and the French and Italians, invaded Turkey. The Australians were there, too, because they were under the English crown and that you would know. In the battle of Gallipoli in 1915 a lot of Turks died, over 250,000 people, maybe that you do not know. It was an important battle because with it the Turks defended their land. If we had lost, Turkey would not exist, it would have been divided into territories to be controlled by the English, French and Italians. The same number of Bosnians died in this war, 250,000 people. Bosnia’s battle for independence is very similar to the Turkish War. But it was really after World War I that the English led the attack and sought to divide Turkey.6 They occupied Istanbul and they wanted to take control of the main waterways of Bosporus, Marmara and Dardanelles because if they did that they could control the route to the Black Sea. You see? That was an important strategy for the military. They also took Izmir, which is further south in Turkey and an important port city. The sultan who was then in power sold out to the English and signed a treaty which gave much of Turkish land to the Westerners.7 But Atatu¨rk did not accept that. He is a military hero and he organised the army and he fought a number of battles until they cleaned Turkey of the invaders. In 1923, the Treaty of Lausanne was signed and it confirmed the borders of Turkey. A lot of Bosniaks served in the Turkish army and died. Because Bosniaks were willing to give their lives to protect their home, they considered this their home. They are loyal. Bosniaks as a nation never betrayed their country. They were loyal to the Ottomans and in Turkey served loyally, protecting the state and the flag. Yes, Bosnia is in our heart. Bosniaks have strong nationalist feelings and have much respect and acceptance of the principles of Atatu¨rk. But let me tell you this: Izetbegovic´ is applauded by some. But I know he was a thief. He had seven properties in Turkey. He wanted to create an Islamic state and with that he did a disservice to Bosnia. He visited Turkey seven times and for none of those visits did he

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visit Atatu¨rk’s tomb. All foreign dignitaries visit the tomb and he did not. Hajji Bakir’s tour de force – the history lesson that he provided, his character assassination of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s president Izetbegovic´, and the curious connection he made between Tito and Atatu¨rk – left me speechless. The talk of Muslimhood, merhamet and of muhajirin that were such prominent topics in the Sandzˇakli household were not matters of interest. Instead, language, loyalty and nationalism were what got the two retirees excited. ‘Let me tell you something,’ Uncle Mustafa began: You see this man? He is his own enemy. He treats Bosniaks like the enemy. He does not know what happened. He does not know the difference between Bosnian and Bosniak. All he knows about is his village. He even speaks with a Serbian dialect, not the proper Bosnian language. But after all we are of the same nation: Bosniaks. Here we are free to say we are Bosniak. It is something that sticks in your blood. We know who we are and where we are from. Kemal then approached, leaving Rahman standing at the register. He put his hand on Uncle Mustafa’s shoulder and said, It is easy for two old men to spend their time talking about politics. Thanks be to Allah, they have raised their families and now they have the time to relax. For us people with family duties we do not have the time to waste with talk of politics and not of Izetbegovic´’s properties. I have my own properties I need to think about. Kemal found a stool and sat. Kemal was thin. He was in his fifties and had amber-coloured hair. He wore jeans and a sweater and a jacket similar to Rahman’s. He began: I have worked hard all my life. When the teacher threw me out of school, I worked as a runner at the Bazaar. I did not have my own shop then. I learned some Russian, some French, some Italian and

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I would find customers and take them from shop to shop and I would make a commission from each sale. That is how I made my way. I have worked in Germany.8 When I was there, I met Bosnians, we became friends. One day I was working in a factory and a man came up to me and asked what I was and I answered, ‘I am a Turk.’ I looked at him and I thought he looked Bosnian but I did not know for certain. I asked him, ‘Where are you from?’ And he replied, ‘Yugoslavia.’ I was not sure whether he was Serb, Croat or Muslim so I asked him his name. He said, ‘Ibro.’ I asked, ‘Are you Muslim?’ Then he said, ‘Praise be to Allah.’ Then I said, ‘I speak Bosnian.’ He looked at me and laughed, ‘A Turk who speaks Bosnian, how can that be?’ I told him I am Bosnian but I was born in and lived in Turkey. He grabbed and embraced me. The next day he gathered all the Bosnians together to meet me and we all became friendly. We worked hard and, of course, we drank hard, too. But it is important for a man to have character, and a man shows his character when he is industrious. Kemal looked toward Jardin with a provocative eye. ‘Yes, a man needs to be industrious!’ Rahman added from the other side of the shop.

The Worth of Industriousness The conversations in Kemal’s shop were conducted in the Bosnian language. Uncle Mustafa, Kemal and Rahman all used the word ‘vrijedan’. When translated from the Bosnian language into English vrijedan can mean: valuable, worthy, diligent and industrious. It is noteworthy that in the word vrijedan there is a conflation of meaning, of virtue and activity. I have translated the word vrijedan as ‘industrious’ in relation to the context is which the word was spoken. For example, Uncle Mustafa had said, ‘Either way it is important to be industrious. A man’s value is in his work.’ There was a clear theme developing that day – from the time we sat in Rahman’s car, to the exclamation that Rahman made in his cousin’s shop. Jardin’s presence worked as a provocation and Rahman sought to make a point. Without prompt, as far as I could observe, Uncle Mustafa

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and Hajji Bakir concurred that working was a virtue. Although the men spoke about work in gendered terms, and, earlier, Aunt Husnija described her deceased husband as industrious, industriousness is not a virtue and activity used exclusively to describe men. In subsequent conversations, industriousness would be a comment and compliment that Bu¨yu¨kanne would make of her daughters-in-law. The worth of industriousness was not only a comment about a person’s ‘character’ as Kemal put it: industriousness resulted in accumulated material worth, and of that Kemal also spoke: I own a lot of property but I never buy the most expensive. It is important to be modest. I buy something mid-range so that the others do not speak about me. I do not want people to speak about how much money I have and about what I have bought. People do not need to know how much you have and it is not good to be showing your money around. When you are drunk and you give someone some money, they say, ‘Look at how easily he gives it away’ but when you are sober and you lend someone some money they say, ‘He has so much that he can just give it away.’ Do not get me wrong I have given money when the muhajirin came. I helped them to settle, I gave them loans and I told them they do not need to return anything. That was about 65,000 lira. The muhajirin to whom Kemal referred were the refugees from Bosnia of the wars in the 1990s. Mention of the ‘muhajirin’ prompted Uncle ¨ zal in Mustafa and he blurted out: ‘I tell you if it had been Turgut O power, there would have been greater action in the war in Bosnia!’9 No one was interested in developing his assertion. Kemal continued: I have a house at the sea. You can see a lot of nakedness on the beach. But I do not look. It is a test for my character to be there and not look. When I was in Germany – that is where I started drinking a lot of alcohol. I have two sons. The youngest is against my drinking and will never buy me beer when I ask him. The older also does not approve but he will buy it for me when I ask him. My son-in-law prays five times a day and does not drink. At least my daughter can go to bed at night and not worry about him. I like that [about him] because of her and her peace. I like that he is

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industrious. I would like to see my sons be more like him and to build up a factory and then have workers. Our Rahman here, he had many workers. He is industrious. But because of the crisis he is now in trouble. It was then that Rahman approached and said it was time we left. Kemal and the uncles wished us well and said they would be waiting for me to visit and talk with them again. The next place we visited was the warehouse of a fabric wholesaler. The wholesaler greeted us warmly, shook our hands and immediately sent a junior to fetch tea for us. Once we had teacups in our hands, the manager excused himself and said he had a client waiting for him and would attend to Rahman soon. While we sat waiting in one of the wholesaler’s meeting rooms, surrounded by swatches of fabric, Rahman spoke of his sewing machines and repeated the point that a man is to be industrious. The wholesaler returned and then the two traders talked trade. In the car, on our way back to the house, Rahman revealed the burden that he carried: Each day I come home with empty hands. I have nothing to show. [He lifted his hands up from the steering wheel, gesturing that his hands were empty.] I have this family to look after and how am I meant to do so? Abla was a good wife, really she was. I do not now accept that she has done anything to deserve this. I am a cursed man. We had developed a momentum, with each success building upon the next. And then at once we sunk into a black hole. I responded: Yes, this GFC, as it is called, has hit a lot of people. Consumption levels are lower, people are wary to buy – they are saving instead. In Australia the government has been attempting to stimulate consumer spending by providing one-off payments, something like a tax return.10 A stern look came over Rahman’s face. I thought that contextualising his personal predicament and giving information about what

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others had experienced might offer him some comfort. Rahman continued: It must be that I am a cursed man. I must be cursed. My existence has been cursed from the beginning. Someone must have cursed me. They could not accept our success and had to wreck it, to turn it into nothingness. And now Abla. We then travelled in silence until we reached the house. When we arrived I did not ask to see the basement and it seemed that Rahman did not remember to volunteer to show me. The basement, I feared, would not prompt Rahman to speak of past successes and instead would provoke him to dwell on the present failings.

Belief in Curses ‘Do you believe that someone can be cursed?” I asked Abla the following morning.11 Abla’s two elder children were playing outside with other household and neighbourhood children and Abla, her youngest child and I were in the kitchen. Abla was attending to the dishes whilst I tried to feed the little one a breakfast that consisted of bread and warm milk. The child and I sat on the seats that had been occupied by Abla and Rahman when they had spoken of their marriage and of Rahman’s enterprise. Rahman had said then, and had repeated on our outing, that he was cursed and that this was one of the reasons to explain his and Abla’s predicament. I wanted to know what Abla thought. ‘Yes, people can be cursed,’ she said immediately and in a manner that suggested cursing and being cursed was a simple and straightforward matter that was not open to debate. Once the little one was fed, Abla spoke to me about her own understanding of the chain of events that contributed to the downfall of the enterprise. As part of this she spoke of her illness to me for the first time. ‘We lived well,’ Abla began. ‘It is easy to understand why people would have been envious of our standards. I did not dress like now, I wore nice outfits.’ Abla walked over to a cabinet from which she produced a photo album. We moved into the living room, sat on the sofa, and she flipped through

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the pages pointing out the photographs of her and Rahman at dinners, banquets and weddings at which they occupied the status of, and looked like, according to Abla, ‘rich people’. Her hair was dyed and shaped precisely, sometimes in a bob and in other photos in other styles. She wore outfits with furs (‘real’ she insisted), oversized handbags and shoes in a matching colour, her makeup obvious and bold. Abla pointed to these photos as evidence of the economic standing they had had and which had, over the intervening years, crashed. From the photos that Abla showed me, it appeared that the attendees of parties and banquets had been similarly dressed. To me there did not appear to be an ostentatious difference in standing between them and the other attendees. As we looked through the photos, Abla spoke: In those days we had friends. We would always socialise with people who also were in apparel manufacturing. When their profits started to sink, Rahman’s continued to grow. He was getting contracts from Germany, big contracts. It was soon that these friends became the ones who were envious. Then, when Rahman lost everything, their profits grew. Then they stopped being our friends. You see what kind of people there are? When you have things, they want to be your friends, but when you have nothing to give them, then they throw you away. Envy is the worst thing.12 When people see you have something more than them, they want it from you, even are willing to do you harm. They look at you in a strange way with their eyes, and they show they want to do you harm. Envy comes, then it takes what you have. Envy is the worst thing. You must guard yourself from envy. Abla recounted the money and various items that they had owned, such as gold, technological devices, vacation homes and which then, with their financial troubles, they had pawned, sold and traded. ‘So you really believe in curses?’ I asked crudely. ‘I do not need to believe it. I see it. I see what has happened to us in these years. We have fallen from a very high level to this.’ She said motioning to her room, which she used as an indicator of failure. ‘First, Rahman lost everything. You do not know all the details but he lost millions. It was millions of euros, not Turkish lira,’ Abla said

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almost in a whisper. ‘That is a lot of money. A lot of money. He has not been the same since.’ She shook her head with concern. She looked down toward her pelvis, pointed and said, ‘And now I have this and who knows where all of this will lead!’ ‘You speak of envy as though it is a being that can come and intervene in a person’s affairs – family life, health, finances.’ Abla looked at me with a quizzical expression on her face. ‘Like a green-eyed monster?’ I volunteered as an attempt at an explanation, but this imagery did not seem to translate to the cultural references with which Abla was acquainted. I was thinking of jealousy manifest in the green-eyed monster. Abla continued to explain her conceptualisation of envy, and its association to cursing.

Envy, Not Jealousy In her explanations, Abla used the word zavidjeti, which, when translated from the Bosnian language into the English language, can mean ‘envy’. Abla did not use the word ljubomoran, which, when translated from the Bosnian language into the English language, can mean ‘jealous’. Abla did not use the word imrenmek, which, when translated from the Turkish language into English language, can mean ‘envy’. Although sometimes used as synonyms, Schoeck (1969:8), in his extensive work on envy, has written that envy is different from jealousy because the former connotes a destructive drive. He has offered the following as a definition of envy: the state of mind of a person who cannot bear someone else’s being something, having a skill, possessing something or enjoying a reputation which he [sic] himself lacks and who will therefore rejoice should the other lose his asset, although that loss will not mean his own gain. In tracing the etymology, Schoeck (1969:12) has written that envy in contemporary English is derived from the Latin invidia and that in the Latin the word had connotations of hostility, spite and ill-will, such that envy would be considered present when there is ‘mortification and illwill occasioned by the contemplation of superior advantages’ (ibid.).

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The Latin invidere means to look with enmity, and the literal translation of the Latin word invidere is such: ‘in’ means against and ‘videre’ means see. In the Bosnian language, the literal translation of zavidjeti is similar to the Latin. The word zavidjeti can be divided into ‘za’ and ‘vidjeti’: ‘for’ and ‘to see’. Vid in the Bosnian language can be translated to mean: aspect, sight, vision. When Abla spoke of envy, she explained it as preceding cursing, that is, the want to inflict harm. It is not a great stretch of the imagination to grasp the link between seeing and desiring and the concept of the ‘evil eye’ as a descriptor for one who sees with the destructive emotion of envy.13 Of the supposed universalism of the evil eye, Freud [1919] (2003:146– 7) has written: One of the uncanniest and most widespread superstitions is the fear of the evil eye, which has been thoroughly investigated by the Hamburg ocultist [sic] S. Seligmann. It appears that the source of this fear has never been in doubt. Anyone who possesses something precious but frail, is afraid of the envy of others, to the extent that he [sic] projects on to them the envy he would have felt in their place. Such emotions are betrayed by looks even if they are denied verbal expression, and when a person is prominent owing to certain striking characteristics, especially if these are of an undesirable kind, people are ready to believe that his envy will reach a particular intensity and then convert this intensity into effective action. What is feared is thus a covert intention to harm, and on the strength of certain indications it is assumed that this intention can command the necessary force. The ideas that Abla was presenting were foreign to me and in responding to my questions of her own predicament, Abla replied with the following: About that later. First I want to you understand curses. You in the West do not know much about such things. I can see that by the questions you are asking. You need to know, you need to understand so that you can be careful about such things.

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In Turkey, here, they refer to such as the evil eye. You will see, I will show you the beads that Turks wear. And they wear beads around their neck or have a bead in their car. We did not have that in Bosnia. We do not believe in that. But it is true. I will admit to you that I hoped you would have blue eyes. When we were waiting at the airport I was imagining how you looked. I recalled that she had expressed some disappointment at the airport on our first meeting and she had mentioned that I did not embody a Bosnian in the manner in which she had expected, that is, tall and with blue eyes. This time she offered an explanation: People with blue eyes are always protected and no one can cast a curse on them. It is good for them and for those around them. It is a natural protection. ‘If I had blue eyes, would my blue eyes protect you?’ I asked. She nodded and looked away. I felt disappointed that I could not at least give some hope to Abla. Someone can look at you with envy and they can cause you harm. Sometimes they do not intend it, sometimes it can happen just like that. When it is unintentional it is often by a young person who does not know how to control their emotions. And when it is from a young person then the harm that comes is often minor. But what I am talking about is intentional harm. And that is when someone casts a curse. A curse can be cast by anybody. And there are people who specialise in such things. ‘When someone is cursed is there anything they can do about it?’ I asked. Abla replied: It is hard to rid oneself of a curse, especially when it is cast by an experienced person, often that is a women. Some see an imam who can heal through prayer. Not all imams will do this. Some say that these are folk superstitions and they do not want anything to do

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with them. But there are some imams who accept that curses exist and heal by making special amulets with verses of the Qur’an and through prayers. ‘And have you seen an imam who could help you?’ I asked. Abla dipped her head back to gesture that she had not. ‘Do you want to see an imam and seek intervention?’ I asked. Abla looked up at me. ‘It is too late for me.’ She spoke calmly and fluently, not allowing me to interject with any kind of opposition to her statement. Abla continued: The curse that has caused Rahman’s enterprise to fail and has given me this illness is a result of my actions. I am to blame. It is different when envy is unprovoked. Those curses are easier to lift. The curse that has been cast on me has come from a number of people. I can feel it. I do not know who but it is from many. It is hard to lift a curse that is cast by a number of people. I told you that this curse is because of envy that I provoked. I wore jewellery on my fingers. I wore expensive costumes. I provoked envy in all those people and some ill-willed people have put this on me. They wanted all that we had.14 Only God15 knows what will become of us. All I can do is wait if God takes pity on me and heals me for the sake of my children. I had not noticed that Abla prayed. She did stress that she believed in the power of people to curse other people but she had not stressed a belief in an interventionist god. ‘Is envy from a person or from a spirit?’ I asked. Abla replied: Ill-willed people cast curses on others. They can seek that they become ill, or that their children become ill. Thanks to God that I am ill and that they did not make one of my children ill. They can seek that someone loses their riches, that they have and then not have. It is harder for someone to have lost their possessions and become poor than it is for someone who has always been poor to deal with their poverty.

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I was not in command of my behaviour. It is as though the devil impelled me to show what I had and I wore my jewellery and expensive clothes. I showed what I had, I did not think that my friends would be envious of us – I thought they would be happy for us. That is why you need to be modest. I see you are good at that. You wear ordinary clothes. You do not wear high fashion labels like the young people here – once they have money they want to show it off to everyone but that is no good. I do not know how much money you have – you must have a lot coming from the West – like the Americans – but you wear jeans and sneakers – like an adolescent and maybe that is the best way. I lived a life of luxury and now I am paying for it – I deserve ‘it’.16 ‘It’ was cancer. ‘How could you possibly say that you deserve to be ill? According to what you are saying, were you meant to hide that you are healthy in order to avoid envious looks?’ I asked in frustration. Abla did not reply.

Seeing through Envy In speaking about curses, Abla evoked envy and cursing and used them as an explanatory schema for two unrelated events: Rahman’s enterprise failing and her illness. To a lesser degree, Rahman did the same and attributed both events to his circumstance of being cursed. Rather than thinking that the ill-health and enterprise failings that afflicted them at that point had each a distinctly different set of causes, Abla adopted a schema to imagine that the two coincided. The source was envy. The manner that Abla adopted when explaining the relationship between envy and cursing was not ironic. It did not seem to me that she was wanting to tease me. Abla conveyed these ideas as a reasonable way of explaining events, that is, failings in health and finances. Envy and cursing were concepts and practices that were unfamiliar to me and so I deferred to my own explanatory schema to make sense of what she was saying. Rather than accepting envy and cursing to be ‘real’ phenomena of spiritual intervention, I considered that perhaps hers was a misdirected hurt at the loss of friendship, and fear of death, and a want to blame

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something for the predicaments in which she and her family found themselves. I meditated that she used envy and cursing and evil eyes as an accessible and neat explanatory schema in order to account for events and as a means to vent her hurt and fear and as a means to attribute blame. Abla evoked the concept of modesty. Ideas of ‘modesty’ had been mentioned by Kemal when he had spoken of the worth he accumulated through industriousness. Modesty, however, had not been mentioned by Rahman when he had spoken of the worth he had accumulated and subsequently lost as a result of ‘the crisis’ and of his own cursing. In fact, Rahman, when speaking to me, sounded boastful. According to Abla’s reasoning, modesty was a protective measure that one could take to prevent provoking envy and, by extension, being cursed. That she said she had not acted modestly prior to the enterprise’s downfall and prior to being diagnosed with cancer suggested to me that envy had not been a concern. This suggests to me that envy is not, as Schoeck (1969:2) has written, ‘the great regulator in all personal relationships: fear of arousing it curbs and modifies countless actions’, and that for Abla envy was employed subsequently as a neat explanatory schema for a painful situation. In arriving at this explanatory schema, Abla, it appeared, deferred to cultural references that had meaning for her in Turkey. She had said: In Turkey, here, they refer to such as the evil eye. You will see, I will show you, the beads that Turks wear. And they wear beads around their neck or have a bead in their car. We did not have that in Bosnia. We do not believe in that. But it is true. We could say that this is an instance in which Abla reveals how she had acculturated, that is, learned of a different branch of knowledge. Upon migrating to Turkey, she had access to different branches of knowledge, in this case ideas about the evil eye and the associated use of blue-eye amulets. Abla did not use the Turkish words to refer to the evil eye nor to the blue-eye bead – rather she described all of this to me in the Bosnian language. Later, when we visited a faith healer, Abla was challenged with an alternative way of reasoning. Rather than considering her illness to be the cause of envious mal-intent, and rather than it being a punishment

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from Allah, her illness was placed within an explanatory schema that deferred all to Allah’s will. How far Abla accepted this other explanatory schema I could not know. Nevertheless, Abla was introduced and then challenged and needed to decide for herself what she accepted and internalised and used to reason the circumstances of her life. As with all people, and not just migrants, she was accessing new branches of knowledge, gaining new perspectives, and deciding what to do with them. In doing so, one starts to access a greater range of cultural referents and opportunities for cultural solidarity. That day, Abla sought to assist in my acculturation of ideas regarding envy.

Abla Had Cancer Abla spoke of her illness. In a hushed tone, she told me she had cancer. She did not articulate clearly what kind of cancer had afflicted her. Instead, she pointed to her pelvis and said it was a womenspecific ailment. Abla kept her illness as much of a secret as possible. All of the adults in the Sandzˇakli household knew. Abla, however, refused to tell her two sisters who lived in Bosnia and Herzegovina and with whom she was in telephone contact every fortnight. Partly because the cancer afflicted the female reproductive organs, Abla’s condition was not discussed in the household in mixed company, that is, when both women and men were present. Within her family’s apartment, another reason for the hushed tone was because she sought to keep the illness away from her children’s awareness. To and for them, Abla sought to maintain an image of herself as a healthy and vibrant mother, who was able to attend to all of her children’s needs and wants. That day, when Abla’s child cried out, that was the end of that conversation. Abla told me that she was due to visit the doctor the following day and asked me to care for the children and to take them to Bu¨yu¨kanne’s when it was time for lunch. I agreed. She then asked my blood type. She was disappointed in my answer. Our respective blood types did not match. I did not know then, but was to find out later, that she needed a blood transfusion. Abla was diagnosed with cancer – a malignant neoplasm of the uterus. In 2009, 21 per cent of deaths in Turkey were attributed to cancer (Ministry of Health 2016:32). According to the Turkish

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Statistical Institute, in 2008 in Turkey, of 215,562 recorded deaths, 83 women are recorded to have died of malignant neoplasm of cervix uteri and 236 of other malignant neoplasm of the uterus. The latter is more common among older women. Abla was in her early forties. According to the World Health Organization (WHO 2017), on a global scale cancer is the second leading cause of death. The WHO reports that a third of deaths from cancers can be attributed to five ‘leading behavioural and dietary risks: high body mass index, low fruit and vegetable intake, lack of physical activity, tobacco use, and alcohol use’. From the same, it is reported that, on a global scale, the major types of cancer causing death are: lung cancer, liver cancer, colorectal cancer, stomach cancer and breast cancer. According to a Republic of Turkey Ministry of Health report (2016:18–24), evaluation of their 2012 data revealed that 175,000 new cancer cases appeared in one year. The most common cancers in Turkey among women were identified to be: breast cancer, thyroid cancer, colorectal cancer, corpus uteri cancer and lung cancer. Abla did not speak of her therapy in much detail. She did receive radiotherapy and she received blood transfusions. Her cancer had evidently spread to her bowel, for later she had an ostomy pouching appliance17 attached. According to the above-mentioned government report, in Turkey it was cervical cancer that was considered the illness that created orphans. This fear of leaving her children motherless was that which Abla subsequently relayed.

CHAPTER 3 ‘LET IT NOT BE CALLED!’

‘Praise be to Allah, having children is a woman’s greatest gift,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne began the following day. As Abla had requested, I had taken her children to Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s apartment for lunch. Once the meal was over, the elder children left to pursue their own interests and the youngest child and I remained with Bu¨yu¨kanne. Bu¨yu¨kanne continued: You must know that we have looked after Abla and accepted her as our own daughter. Thanks be to Allah she has three healthy children. As a mother she has raised them. Rahman was satisfied with her as his wife. Thanks be to Allah they have been a good couple. One can never know until the marriage is contracted and then it can be too late. Thanks be to Allah she has been a caring wife and has looked after Rahman and the children. Abla’s duty as a wife was to give Rahman children. They have three! Thanks be to Allah! When she came to us she was young. She lived with her sisters, they were older and they looked after her. Pity for her she lost her mother when she was a child. Now, may Allah prevent it, her children may lose her. It is especially difficult for a daughter to not have her mother. Her father was strict, may Allah be compassionate to his soul. I accepted her as I would my own child. You should have seen her, she was industrious when the enterprise grew. We had over 100 workers! You should have seen her then! She was industrious! Praise be to Allah! She looked after her children and prepared so

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that the workers may eat. She was energetic, praise be to Allah! And she managed her own apartment. It was clean, she cleaned so much. Pity for her that she cannot clean now and her apartment is the way it is. You must understand that now she is ill and she does not have the energy. You must not harbour resentment toward her. I accepted her like she was my own daughter. She was innocent. It was my duty to look after her and Allah knows that I did the best I could. You must not have resentment toward me. I did not wish her any harm. I wished her all the best like I have for my own children. This illness has not come from us. You must accept that. You must understand that we did not have any tension. I know how it is. I know how it is. Daughters-in-law are not treated well by their mothers-in-law. I know. But it was not like that with us. I accepted Abla as my own child. Allah alone knows that I have never had a bad thought about Abla. I do not know what we have done to deserve this! May Allah help us, what have we done? Bu¨yu¨kanne looked up at the ceiling, her hands in prayer. She shook her hands as though willing an answer to drop in to them from above. Bu¨yu¨kanne said sorrowfully: Yes. Abla is like my daughter. You should have seen her before when she was so energetic. My Allah, she would run up the stairs and then down to the basement carrying saucepans. She does not speak much of it but I can see she is in pain. I notice these things, it is in the way she moves. It is not easy for her, may Allah take pity on her. Bu¨yu¨kanne arose from her seat and went over to cover Bu¨yu¨kbaba, who slept on the sofa and was covered with a number of blankets. Bu¨yu¨kanne returned and sat opposite me and looked over my shoulder toward her husband. All of this has happened to us. First, troubles with Rahman’s enterprise. He lost his contracts in Germany because they would not pay. He says he may take them to court but only Allah knows if anything will come of that. In the meantime, we struggle because we all relied on the income of the enterprise. We were all organised

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in it. As Allah decreed, from the oldest to the youngest, everyone had a job to do. We did not live in these conditions. Praise be to Allah for the way we lived. We had cars and televisions. All of the luxuries one could imagine, praise be to Allah. Every year the children took a vacation. Only one of our holiday houses remain. They had to sell the cars and the houses they had down there on the sea. We lived in a grand style. Look at us now! May Allah help us! My daughters-in-law did not need to work outside because we had plenty. But now Rahman does not have any clients. Pity for him. He tries everyday and returns home with nothing to show. Then Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Abla. All of this has come for some reason. This is because of Allah’s will. Only dear Allah knows why he has done this to us. Bu¨yu¨kbaba is an old man. Thanks be to Allah he has had a long life. He has witnessed his sons grow. And he has built this and provided for his family. Praise be to Allah, we all need to die of something. For each of us, our time will come, as it is written. But young people do not contract an illness from nothing. There must be a cause. I can tell you that, when she came into my home, she was clean and I did all in my capability to ensure that she remains that way. But this with Abla, I cannot understand it. How can a young woman who is healthy become so ill? I pray to Allah every night. I pray that she may recover. May Allah forgive me, I fear that she may have done something. Can you tell me something?

Is the Abla Who Cleaned, a Clean Woman? In her attempt to find a schema that was acceptable to her to explain the predicament in which the householders in general, and Rahman and Abla specifically, were in, Bu¨yu¨kanne’s statements included referring to predestination, cursing and punishment. Of predestination, she said it was Allah’s decree. Of cursing, Bu¨yu¨kanne sought to reassure me that it was not she who had wished harm upon Abla. Of punishment, she questioned who had committed a transgression and thus who was to be blamed, and this involved reflecting on her own conduct and questioning Abla’s conduct.

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When speaking of Abla, Bu¨yu¨kanne shifted between complimenting her industriousness and questioning what sin Abla had been able to commit without Bu¨yu¨kanne’s knowledge. References to Abla’s cleanliness were made by Bu¨yu¨kanne. That industriousness, that work of some kind – either paid or unpaid, domestic or otherwise – is a means for judging morality had been introduced to me by Rahman and the conversations in Kemal’s shop. It may be understood that in making an assessment of Abla’s moral worth, Bu¨yu¨kanne appealed to the same cultural referents as did Kemal when he spoke in his shop. Bu¨yu¨kanne used the feminine form of the word that Kemal used. Kemal had used the masculine form, vrijedan, and Bu¨yu¨kanne used the feminine form, vrijedna, which when translated from the Bosnian language into English can mean ‘worthy’, ‘valuable’ and ‘industrious’. In constituting a community, people agree upon cultural referents and agree upon the practical and moral worth of ‘things’. It was through repetition that they confirmed to themselves what practices were to be valued. I heard much repetition about the judgements of industriousness. There were gendered aspects to this and so I had heard repeated the idea that a good woman is a woman who is, and does, clean. It is not hard to imagine that since the householders had welcomed me to their house, this repetition may have been part of an intention to tell me with which activities I should be involved. It could be suggested that Bu¨yu¨kanne’s characterisation of Abla as ‘valuable’ and ‘energetic’, and that she had kept a ‘clean’ apartment, were made in reference to – as Grabolle-C¸eliker (2013:200) has written based upon research in a village in Turkey – ‘a discursive construction of a “good” wife’ that is ‘embodied in the housework she does’. Bu¨yu¨kanne used the word ‘clean’ to refer to the condition of Abla’s apartment and to refer to the condition of Abla’s own body – her virginity. According to Bu¨yu¨kanne, Abla had been ‘clean’ when she had arrived to the household, then she had been industrious and cleaned her apartment along with doing other work. But did she continue being ‘clean’ – moral?1 It was to this question that she and other householders sought an answer. The leaps that Bu¨yu¨kanne was making suggested to me that Bu¨yu¨kanne worried both about a possible transgression that Abla had made, and how she – as matriarch – had not prevented such a

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transgression from happening. It seemed that the roles of the matriarch as Bu¨yu¨kanne was defining them included controlling and caring for the moral condition – the cleanliness – of her daughters-in-law, whom Bu¨yu¨kanne had said she had accepted as her own children. Through the tone of this conversation and at the next occasion that Abla’s illness was mentioned, Bu¨yu¨kanne’s inferences and the manner in which she attempted to understand the situation were revealed: though they were accusatory, Bu¨yu¨kanne also seemed burdened with guilt and sorrowful. As the matriarch responsible for her daughters-in-law, any ill that befell them was her responsibility. The politics in the household were about the work of governing a household. In her role as matriarch, Bu¨yu¨kanne positioned herself as one able to make such assessments.

Morning Tea at Arminka’s On one day of each week a daughter-in-law of the Sandzˇakli household would host a morning tea – a socialising event exclusively for women. It was when it was Arminka’s turn to be host that questions about Abla’s morality were posed. Arminka was the youngest of the women in the household and was married to the youngest of Rahman’s brothers. Arminka invited me to attend and Abla insisted that I attend without her. When I arrived, I was received by Arminka and then introduced to her mother, Hanuma, and her two sisters, Derya and Pinar. I was introduced by Arminka as Abla’s kin who was writing a book about migration and the life of Bosniaks in Turkey. Bu¨yu¨kanne and Hena, one of the other daughters-in-law who lived in the Sandzˇakli household, were in attendance. I took my seat on a cushion on the floor next to one of Arminka’s sisters. Aunt Hanuma turned her attention toward me and provoked: ‘They tell me you are a doctor, so why do you sit on the floor like that? You are educated, you should sit on a chair. You should sit straight in a chair, with your back straight and with pride, to show who you are. You should not sit there under us. You should sit above us.’ A few moments later, Aunt Hanuma again turned her attention toward me and said, ‘I can tell you something of our migration if you want to listen?’ ‘Please tell me when you moved to Turkey. And why Turkey?’ I asked.

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Aunt Hanuma began: I was born in 1948 and we must have moved when I had finished second grade. I had not finished but I was close to finishing. And about your question, why Turkey? I cannot tell you what my parents, may Allah be compassionate to their souls, thought. It was the done thing. People were moving to Turkey. The paths were open and people, like that, my parents, may Allah be compassionate to their soul, decided to go. Bu¨yu¨kanne added, ‘Yes, affine,2 we moved from Sandzˇak to get away from the Serbs. They behaved like wild animals.’ Aunt Hanuma continued: Yes, my parents, may Allah be compassionate to their souls, spoke much of the Serbs. Much the same, my father, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, thought life would be easier here in Turkey. Easier to become rich. We saw that that was not how it eventuated. Turkey was not a developed country when we arrived. My father was a schooled man. He was a master in construction. Construction is a noble industry. Do you know why? Because those men make homes for people! How can there be more noble work than giving someone a roof over their head? He always had work and he was industrious, praise be to Allah! When we came here, it was all fields. There was not much machinery and about that he complained. And they did not have any educated people. My father, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, used to say: ‘I left to get away from the animals but when I came here I found animals.’ Here there are too many uneducated people. It is good to know educated people. Bu¨yu¨kanne added, ‘Yes, affine, praise be to Allah, our children are being educated.’

Moving from Homeland to Homeland Aunt Hanuma continued speaking about the kind of schooling completed and qualifications attained by her kin. At one point she spoke of the topic of learning about Islam.

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‘I yet do not know how to speak the Turkish language,’ Aunt Hanuma said. ‘I know to say some sentences when they call me on the telephone and then I give the telephone receiver to one of my daughters. These are not yet married but if it be Allah’s will they will marry and have their own children.’ ‘If it be Allah’s will,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne repeated. ‘Mother, because you speak the language of the Bos¸naks, do you feel that Bosnia is your true vatan?’ one of Aunt Hanuma’s daughters asked. Aunt Hanuma sat silently for a moment, during which time Pinar offered her own opinion: I was born in Turkey but I am Bos¸nak also. You see, we speak the language of the Bos¸naks. We have not forgotten it. We are Bos¸nak because that is our heritage and we accept Turkey because here is where we live and work and it has provided safety to our parents and to the other muhajirin who migrated 100 years ago and some who migrated 50 years ago and some who migrated 150 years ago. We have two places that are ours. Aunt Hanuma began: I speak the language of the Bos¸naks, that is true. My parents and grandparents, may Allah be compassionate to their souls, spoke this language. If I was younger I would learn to speak the Turkish language. It was as Allah decreed that I did not continue going to school when we came to Turkey. But, we came from Yugoslavia and that country has its good and bad. Turkey. This is a good country. You must know that we have learned a lot about Islam. You must know that we came from a socialist system and it is here that we learned about our religion. Here all fast when it is Ramadan. Everybody looks to see if you are fasting and so you cannot hide it. That is the way we are all sure we are holding on to Islam. You cannot eat when your neighbour is counting all of your bites. ‘In Turkey, Islam is strong. Thanks be to Allah, we are here,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne said concisely.

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‘Yes, affine, it is true. And thanks be to Allah, we are here,’ Aunt Hanuma responded. Arminka then sought to continue with the theme: In the two months before Ramadan that is when we organise circumcisions. You will see on the streets the boys being shown off: they will be dressed in costumes. It is a special time for them. They are taken to the zoo and made to feel important. They did not do such things in Yugoslavia. You must know, you have lived there, that in Bosnia Islam is not strong. In Bosnia they have forgotten Islam. Thanks be to Allah, here we keep to our own religion. Aunt Hanuma did not agree with Arminka’s characterisation and said, There I went to school. But, there we were free in the manner of our dress. And in the manner of our communication. You may have noticed that here in Turkey, just like with the Albanians, they make strict divisions between men and women, so when there is a festivity the men will be in one room and the women in another. It was not like that for us, we were more free. The gender divisions that Hanuma was characterising as ethnoreligious differences were followed in the Sandzˇakli household. Within the Sandzˇakli household, Abla did not have unchaperoned contact with other men. Indeed, other men, if Rahman was absent, would only enter the apartment if at least two women were home – a man would never be alone in an apartment with Abla. A man would not cross the threshold of an apartment with Abla alone inside. It was the same with the other daughters-in-law in the household. A man would not cross the threshold of the front door entrance if an unaccompanied woman was in the apartment. He would relay a message from the front door to the woman, or would wait in the hallway until the husband arrived home. In Bu¨yu¨kanne’s apartment female and male guests both sat in the living room and the gender divisions, that is, the separation of male and female socialising, did not appear to be followed as strictly by the elders as it was by the younger of the household.

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Aunt Hanuma was prepared to make statements about the differences between the ‘cultures’ within and of countries. That Aunt Hanuma was not prepared to voice that she preferred one country over another, she expressed concisely with: ‘Bosnia is my vatan. Turkey is my anavatan.’ Vatan, when translated from the Bosnian language into the English language, can mean ‘homeland’ and ‘fatherland’. In the Bosnian language, the noun is masculine, and so the connotation is fatherland. Vatan, when translated from the Turkish language into English, may mean: ‘native country’, ‘homeland’, ‘motherland’ and ‘fatherland’. ¨ zyu¨rek (2006:67–8) has written that the national polity is imagined O as masculine and, through a reading of Najmabadi, that vatan – homeland – is feminine. The word ana, when translated from the Turkish language into English, can mean: ‘mother’, ‘main’, ‘principal’. The word anayurt in Turkish means ‘mother country’. Accordingly, Aunt Hanuma’s statement can be translated as: ‘Bosnia is my homeland. Turkey is my homeland.’ It could also be translated to mean: ‘Bosnia is my fatherland. Turkey is my motherland.’ With this latter variant, it could be interpreted with family relationships in mind and acknowledging the fact that a child is often reticent to voice whom they love more – their father or mother, should they have both alive and in their life – and that the child would assert to love both parents equally. In this case, Aunt Hanuma can be considered to have voiced that Bosnia and Turkey were equal in her affection. Watan is a word related to vatan. When translated from the Arabic language into English, watan can mean ‘homeland’. Bringing together the ideas of a number of ‘Islamic jurists’ Yucel (2015:194) has written of four different conceptualisations of homeland: First, there is watan al-asli, the country of birth, the country of one’s spouse or the place of permanent residence. Second, there is watan al-suka, the country of temporary residence and employment. And finally there is watan al-safari, the country that is traveled to and through. According to Islamic jurists, if a person leaves his or her country, immigrates to another country and finds a source of income, livelihood or marries there, and/or intends to live there permanently, then the new country becomes

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watan al-asli, the country of origin. Contemporary scholars Said Nursi (1877 – 1960) and Fetullah Gu¨len add a fourth category to this list, watan al-khidma, the country where one serves the people. Muslims have a religious obligation to serve people by meeting their needs without expecting rewards, material or otherwise, because the world is an ‘abode of service, not the place of pleasure, reward, and requital.’ In stating this principle, Nursi and Gu¨len have rediscovered one of the principles of Sufism. The great Sufi Master Ali Hujwiri (990 – 1077) stated that a person should view everyone as his or her master and be ready to serve. Interpreting Aunt Hanuma’s statement through the range of connotations written of by Yucel, we can identify Yugoslavia as a homeland partly because it was Aunt Hanuma’s place of birth, and Turkey as a homeland partly because it was the place of permanent residence and the place in which her father and then husband worked and provided for their respective household’s income. Other points that Aunt Hanuma made were made in relation to education. Yugoslavia was the country in which she attended school, and Turkey was the country in which she learned about Islam. Perhaps it could be considered that because it was in Turkey that she learned of Islam, it was in Turkey that she was of service, for she became a ‘slave of Allah’ (as it is spoken in the Bosnian language when one submits to Allah). Aunt Hanuma spoke of a ‘freedom’ in Yugoslavia. At that time, I did not note the tone with which Aunt Hanuma made this statement and my recordings did not give me any further insight. Freedom, from my cultural position, prompts me to think that it is a ‘good thing’. Was being, ‘free in the manner of our dress. And in the manner of our communication’, as Aunt Hanuma said, interpreted as one of the positives of living in Yugoslavia? If one, through Islam, adopts the position of being a ‘slave’ then certainly freedom is not that which one would desire or consider a ‘good thing’. Her later comment – that the social pressure to fast during Ramadan because, ‘You cannot eat when your neighbour is counting all of your bites’ – is a comment about freedom or lack thereof. Through a collective effort to regulate individual conduct, each, as Arminka said, is able to ‘keep to our own religion’.

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Of Not Calling the C Word Arminka continued serving various dishes. She interpreted the spread on the table to me as a ‘traditional Turkish breakfast’. There were boiled eggs, cucumber slices, fetta cheese, olives, salami, tomato pieces, jam and pastries filled with cheese. With the food being served, the primary conversation was overtaken by a number of smaller conversations. Some of the women complimented Arminka’s cooking, others spoke of their husband and children, until somehow a side conversation became a group conversation about Abla. ‘Thank Allah for bringing you here. She is in need of family. Pity to her with all that she is going through,’ Aunt Hanuma began. She did not say Abla’s name but she said these words while looking and directing them to me. The other women looked at each other and remained silent for a few minutes, until Aunt Hanuma spoke again: ‘Pity to her. How is it that someone so young can fall ill from, “Let it not be called!”?’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ All the women repeated. Some shifted in their seats, others tugged at their blouses and forcefully exhaled three times. That which was not to be called was, of course, Abla’s cancer. All the women knew that Abla had been diagnosed with cancer and, because they knew, they called out, ‘Let it not be called!’ That I had heard people speak of diabetes, pneumonia, cholera, suggested to me that the phrase, ‘Let it not be called!’ was used exclusively when referring to cancer. Cancer, it seemed to me, was considered the worst illness from which one could suffer, and it was an illness whose name should not be voiced.3 Cancer in English-speaking contexts is, in some cases, treated of similarly in that it is referred to as the ‘C word’, that is, it is something so bad that it creates such a fear that it is unmentionable. Mention of cancer evokes fear: the fear of pain, the fear of suffering and the fear of treatment, because it is sometimes considered that the treatment creates more pain and damage. For these women, cancer was fear-inducing, and may be because its occurrence was considered something almost inexplicable.

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In this case, ‘Let it not be called!’ was said for the purposes of avoidance and, by extension, protection. The understanding, as it was explained to me, was that they were protecting themselves by not evoking the power of the illness through its name. With the phrase, I imagined the illness being dormant and by not being called it was not roused from its slumber and it was not being invited to the present company. They were not protecting Abla for Abla already had the illness. Rather they avoided any direct verbalisation of the illness lest it attach to themselves – thus each woman was to voice these words, ‘Let it not be called!’ as a prayer of protection for herself. Susan Sontag (1978:6) has written about this after she was diagnosed with cancer: Any disease that is treated as a mystery and acutely feared will be felt to be morally, if not literally, contagious. Thus, a surprisingly large number of people with cancer find themselves being shunned by relatives and friends and are the objects of decontamination by members of their household, as if cancer, like TB, were an infectious disease. Contact with someone afflicted with a disease regarded as a mysterious malevolency inevitably feels like a trespass; worse, like the violation of a taboo. The very names of such diseases are felt to have a magical power. In Stendhal’s Armance (1827), the hero’s mother refuses to say ‘tuberculosis,’ for fear that pronouncing the word will hasten the course of her son’s malady. And Karl Menninger has observed (in The Vital Balance) that the ‘very word “cancer” is said to kill some patients who would not have succumbed (so quickly) to the malignancy from which they suffer.’ That morning, when I did not voice, ‘Let it not be called!’ Arminka’s sister, Pinar, nudged me with her elbow to remind me to do the same. She looked to me and repeated the action of pinching her blouse with her thumb and index and middle fingers, three fingers of her right hand, to demonstrate to me what I also should do whilst saying those words of protection. ‘Let it not be called!’ served like an intercession rather than a euphemism. Each of the women seated in Arminka’s living room called

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out aloud, ‘Let it not be called!’ and in doing so confirmed their belief in the power of words, that is, power of, and from, the voiced word. The idea that there was an almost magical power that circulated from voicing certain words had been introduced to me earlier in my stay and in my conversations with Abla and the other daughters-in-law of the Sandzˇakli household. Their ideas were not the same but did have some similarity to ideas that I had heard people speak of during my research with Australian-Bosnian Muslims. There, in a palliative care unit of a suburban hospital, kin were gathered around their dying grandfather, father, uncle. Death was imminent. The gathered kin took turns reciting passages from the Qur’an. I was told it was for the purpose of assisting the dying person’s death. One of the elders explained that such passages were intended to soothe the soul and assist its transition. They understood that a difficult and painful death is the result of the soul not wanting to leave the body – this internal struggle of the soul within the body is that which causes both the physical and psychological pain in the dying. To ease the transition they recited verses from the Qur’an in order to direct the soul to the right path. The dying person did not verbally nor physically react to these recitations. If he had heard and was conscious of the sounds, he must have known their purpose and must have understood that the people around him were anticipating his death and, in a sense, willing it. When it was my turn to recite, I stood beside the bed and recited the words almost inaudibly. The elders scolded me. They told me there is no purpose in thinking the words and that the prayers only have significance and impact when voiced – it was only then that the words could evoke the soul and appeal to Allah. While in the Sandzˇakli household, it was when Abla had sought to explain the link between cursing and envy that she drew my attention to her acceptance of the power of voiced words. She had spoken of envy and of evil eyes and of the casting of curses. She explained that curses were cast with looks and with associated words. I had asked her whether it is sufficient for one to think the curse and her answer was that words needed to be spoken, that is, voiced, in order to cause injury to another. This power of the voiced word was further emphasised to me when Abla and her sisters-in-law talked about the importance of saying ‘Praise be to Allah’ when complimenting someone. I was told:

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You need to say, ‘Praise be to Allah’ when you compliment someone. You say it so that you praise Allah. The thing of beauty is not from the person. It is not that a flower is beautiful and you praise the flower. The flower or the person has nothing. It is all from Allah. It is Allah’s gift. Allah has willed it. And when you praise Allah you also protect that person from envy. Another offered a different view: When the person who is praised hears their praise of them, they should say ‘Allah do not punish me for what they say. Forgive me for what they say because they make compliments without proper wisdom.’ All praise is to Allah. ‘Is it not enough to think it?’ I asked. ‘No! The words need to be spoken. Allah hears all we say and he needs to hear the words,’ I was told. Carefully choosing which words to voice and which words to avoid was a means for one to protect oneself in a world considered to be filled with seen and unseen dangers. Beauty, among other things that were valued, was treated like a gift as well as a burden. The explanation was that by praising Allah, the person giving the compliment was protecting the recipient from their own inadvertent envy. Their reasoning posited that all that was recognised as beautiful and worthwhile was a gift from Allah, and thus Allah was the source who was to be praised. By voicing praise, one declared their intention not to curse the recipient of Allah’s gifts. Here, focus was on the envy of people, rather than a measure against the envy of a god. Tambiah (1968) has written that it might be useful to consider how the magic of words is more often found in their effect on the social rather than supernatural world, and if considered from this perspective, by voicing the praises of Allah the one who was receiving the compliment could be comforted that they were not being treated with envy. On that occasion, at Arminka’s morning tea, it was not Allah to whom direct appeals were being made. Perhaps cancer was that which could not be called because its name was not understood. Through the act of naming, we define, we delimit and we reveal that we have some knowledge about the ‘thing’ – animal, person, disease – in question. The discussions about ethnic, national and religious

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identities are about establishing limits – who is, and can be in, and who is out of, the group in question. In that regard we can understand names as signifiers that express information about one’s own identification in relation to some referent – Allah, kin, language group, class and socioeconomic standing. That cancer was not named could suggest that there, at that point in time, they did not yet have a referent with which, and from which, to distinguish the disease. That cancer was not named reveals that they did not have a referent through which to understand the occurrence and progression of cancer. They did not know what they should or should not call. We can compare the earlier conversations with the muhajirin aunts when they named the disease that afflicted their respective husbands and then added a sentence to explain. Aunt Husnija had named the disease and explained the manifestation and progression: ‘He died of diabetes, too much sugar in his blood. His leg started to rot. And, like that, the doctor said he needed to lose one leg.’

Q&A ‘How is it that someone so young can become ill from, “Let it not be called!”?’ Aunt Hanuma repeated. Aunt Hanuma shook her head. She appeared sorrowful for Abla’s predicament and perplexed by its occurrence. ‘Such illnesses do not arise for no reason,’ started Hena. ‘I am sorry and may Allah forgive me but I must say the truth: Abla must have done something to deserve it.’ No one interrupted. She continued: There is one woman who suffered from the same. It was known in the neighbourhood that she had children from her first marriage. I am not saying that it is not permissible to divorce and remarry. But . . . Bu¨yu¨kanne interrupted: ‘It was as Allah decreed, Abla came to us innocent. I am certain.’4 ‘Has she ever had an abortion?’ Hena asked. Arminka responded: When could she have had an abortion? She married when she was young! They had their first within a year. Then the next was born

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two years after the first. There has been a break between the second and the third. Yes, yes, there was time. But why would she if she wanted children? She did have the third child. It was then Aunt Hanuma who spoke: Once, a man visited an imam and he confided to the imam that his wife was pregnant and that they were unsure whether they wanted to keep the child. The imam said to him, ‘How many children do you now have?’ And the man responded, ‘Three, thanks be to Allah.’ The imam then asked him, ‘Would you allow someone to kill one of your three children?’ ‘No, may Allah protect us,’ responded the man. Then the wise imam said to him, ‘Then why would you then allow someone to kill that unborn child? That unborn child is your child. It is a human. It has a head and fingers and a brain and a heart. It is not for you to decide. You must thank Allah you have been given this gift.’ The man understood and when the child was born, they gave him a name in honour of the imam who saved them from committing a great sin. I started to understand that the company of women with whom I sat conceptualised Abla’s illness not simply as a physical condition but a condition that was implicated – or even caused – by the condition of Abla’s morality. Abla was being depicted as responsible for her own illness. The women then sought to identify what Abla had done, that is, what transgression she had committed, that would have caused retributive intervention from Allah. Abortion, it seemed, was conceptualised as one transgression for which one could be punished by Allah. I felt that, as their conversation continued, their attitude did not convey merhamet, that is, compassion, about which Bu¨yu¨kanne had spoken. Although for Bu¨yu¨kanne merhamet and Muslimhood existed in the neighbourhood, that morning merhamet was not fostered within her own household. The tone was accusatory. When I was offered the opportunity, I introduced a different perspective from which the topic of causes could be discussed. The willingness of the women to consider the illness from a medicalised

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perspective meant that they were not non-receptive to perspectives that differed from their own. In this regard, I would suggest that the intersection of literacy and access to information plays a significant role. Bu¨yu¨kanne, Aunt Hanuma and Hena, one of the Sandzˇakli household’s daughters-in-law, were illiterate.5 Arminka was literate – she had had some years of secondary education. Her younger sisters had completed secondary education. For the illiterate women their sources of information were those that came from conversations, and from media outlets such as the radio and television that did not require any reading ability. The result of this was that the sources of information they had at their disposal were limited. This, of course, does not mean that they did not acquire new information and did not learn: rather, it means that, as for the illiterate in all societies – they rely upon oral transmission to gain information. How readily they accepted new information and explanatory schema would vary from circumstance to circumstance and about that I cannot comment. That morning they did not dismiss the scientific discourse that was being put forward. It did not seem that either explanatory schema took precedence and none was considered more or less reasonable, and they did not convey that they found a conflict between these views and practices. Instead, the women sought to inform themselves from various sources and to incorporate these various forms of knowledge in order to take preventative measures. Aunt Hanuma, looked to me. ‘Thanks be to Allah, you are a doctor. What do you have to tell us?’ After Abla had told me she had cancer, I had started to read about it and had taken some notes. That morning I took out my phone from which I read some of my notes: Cancer arises from the transformation of normal cells into tumour cells and this occurs in a multi-stage process. Although there is a large group of diseases that afflict the body and cancer is the generic term used for them all, one defining feature of cancer is the rapid creation of abnormal cells that grow and spread to adjoining parts of the body and other organs. There are a number of causes for cancer. The risk factors are smoking, that is, tobacco use, alcohol consumption, unhealthy

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diet, that is, a diet low in fruit and vegetables, and obesity. Hepatitis B and C virus and other viruses and infection can increase the risk of cancer. I stopped at that point. There was silence in the room. ‘Food? Food? We all eat the same food. How is it that she is ill? What could she have eaten that we have not?’ Hena asked with anxiety in her voice. Hena used the Bosnian word ishrana, which, when translated into English, means ‘food’. In the Bosnian language, the connotation is the nutrients that the food contains. Pinar commented: All of our fresh fruit and vegetables here are poor quality. I know that all of the good quality food is exported to Europe. All of it goes to Europe! They get the best fruit and vegetables but they pay for it. All that we have is what is left over. That is why this is an illness of this generation. Our old folks, they did not have these illnesses. That is because they grew their own produce, they grew it in quality soil and did not use these chemical fertilisers. Only Allah knows what they put in our food!6 ‘Yes it is so. When we came we grew all we needed in our garden,’ commented Bu¨yu¨kanne. ‘May Allah help us what they feed us here. I do not eat Turkish chocolate. I am sure they put into it pork fat,’ Hena said. ‘This is a Muslim country. Of course they do not.’ Arminka dipped her head back to gesture to me that the chocolate on the table in front of us did not contain pork fat and was permissible to eat. ‘I do not trust them. And I will tell you another thing, I do not eat chicken. Chicken is poor-quality meat. That is a poor person’s meat. My parents, may Allah be compassionate to their soul, said to me that they never ate chicken in Yugoslavia and I am not going to eat it here!’ said Aunt Hanuma. ‘Mother,’ Arminka responded, ‘it is also about the meals we cook, and Bosnians eat a lot of red meat. Look at the Turks, what do they eat? They have a lot of salads and vegetables. But Bosnians? All they want is meat. They have an entire lamb for breakfast. Meat. Meat. Meat. The more

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meat the better, is what Bosnians think,’ Arminka said as she gestured, miming with her hands a platter full of meat. Arminka continued: All that meat is oily and difficult for digestion. I am sure that is how she cooked. She is a real Bosnian and that is how she would have eaten. Rahman would have had different expectations but she is the housewife and it is her kitchen and she decides. The recommendation is for light foods, salads and soups. ‘You tell me how is one to work with a poor diet of salad and soup?’ Aunt Hanuma responded, unconvinced by Arminka. ‘What about smoking and drinking alcohol? She said that is a cause,’ Derya said, redirecting the conversation. ‘It could not be that. She neither smokes nor drinks alcohol, as far as I know,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne responded. ‘I have heard fabric softener can cause it. Do you know anything about this?’ Hena said looking to me. ‘There was a professor on the television and he said we should stop using fabric softener. He explained that there is something in the fabric softener that is picked up by the clothing and enters our organism because of the close contact of fabric and skin.’ ‘What could we use as an alternative?’ someone asked. No one had any suggestions. ‘I have simply stopped using it but I need extra time for ironing,’ Hena added. The search for causes shifted between spiritual and scientific discourses and back again. ‘What is done is done. It could be that those children will be left without a mother. It is not easy for her, may Allah help her,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne said. ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ ‘Let it not be called!’ The women repeated, flicking their blouses three times and shifting in their seats.

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Morning tea concluded and Bu¨yu¨kanne said that she needed to return to Bu¨yu¨kbaba. Arminka’s sisters and Hena said they needed to attend to their own tasks and departed to their own respective apartments. As I sought to leave, Arminka held me back. She said that there was something important she needed to tell me and she requested my patience that I should wait until she had sorted the dishes in the dishwasher. Arminka requested that my dictaphone remain switched on.

Arminka and Her Mother Reveal They Are Not to Blame Arminka, her mother and I sat in the living room. With the departure of the others, the room felt empty and quiet. Arminka prepared a fresh pot of coffee for us. ‘Did you hear how Bu¨yu¨kanne’s speaks?’ Arminka said rhetorically as soon as she returned from the kitchen with a pot of coffee. ‘She speaks as though all of us daughters-in-law are her property. She wants to control us!’ I had understood that Bu¨yu¨kanne’s role involved exerting control but I did not know to what Arminka referred. I looked at her indicating my confusion. ‘She speaks of Abla’s innocence. How dare she?’ Arminka continued: Anyway, I want to tell you that I do not have ill-feelings toward Abla. Neither does my mother. We have always wished her well. I know that she is your kin and you must know that none of this has come from us. I have my own sisters and I cannot say that I have accepted Abla as my own sister. That is true. But neither have I said any words of harm. I made sweets when it was the eldest of her children’s birthday and I took them over. And she said to me, ‘The birthday party has not started yet, come back later.’ Can you believe I was turned away from the door? But I have looked after her children when she has asked. Rahman has caused much of this. He was irresponsible with our enterprise and now we all live like this. You must know this is not how we lived. You must visit my mother’s house and you will see that I have no reason for envy. I had much more in my mother’s house than I ever had here. My mother it is who helps us, otherwise I would not be able to feed my children. You see, that is

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how poor the condition is in which Rahman has brought us all! He was careless with the money. When the crisis hit, Abla had just given birth and had returned home from hospital and she came back to a home in which the electricity and gas had been cut. Debt collectors started arriving and taking away valuable items. They took cars. We were in financial ruin and we sold three of our houses. The one at the Black Sea is the only one that remains. Because of the situation, the women in the household looked for work. One sister-in-law went out every day looking for work. She would knock on the door of a different factory every day asking for work. Until she found a job, she would do all sorts of work from home, like assembling clothing labels and knitting children’s clothing to sell at the local markets. That sister-in-law looked at me with resentment. But I said, ‘I did not work for my father and I am definitely not working for my husband.’7 He sleeps until noon. I told him, ‘Do something to bring in some money. You need to feed these children of yours!’ Arminka’s narration did not have a clear direction. It seemed as though she wanted to tell me about all the things that had troubled her, her family and the household. Aunt Hanuma focused on the point they wanted to relay to me: Thanks be to Allah you have come. Abla is in need of support. As you can see we are all worried with our own concerns and do not have the time to spend with Abla. We do not have the time to give, the time that she deserves. Abla has been a good wife and a good mother, you must know. Arminka is the youngest here and she came to the house later. Abla was already established here as a wife and mother. Arminka tells me that Abla received her nicely and helped her with some meals when she was a new wife. Arminka has never said a bad word about Abla, I can assure you. This, this, which has afflicted Abla, has nothing to do with us. Our circumstances are different. We have our own home. The crisis has not ruined us. We have our home by the sea, you are welcome to come, please come when the warmer weather

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arrives and the vacations begin. Come with Arminka, she will bring you. As I stood at the door to leave, they both said, ‘Relay our call to peace to Abla. She does not deserve her illness.’

Mixed Emotions That envy was understood as a destructive drive and that one could fall ill because of a curse being cast were cultural referents in the Sandzˇakli household that I acculturated when Bu¨yu¨kanne and Arminka had spoken to me and professed their innocence. Arminka’s declaration of her innocence was relayed in this private setting but envy and cursing were not the only explanatory schema that Arminka used. Earlier she had participated in the discussions in which punishment from Allah as well as medical referents were made in order to attempt to understand the reason for Abla’s illness. She had participated in the ‘Let it not be called!’ ritual. Bu¨yu¨kanne’s attitude toward Abla was not simply hostile nor was it simply accusatory. Rather, her attitude appeared to be a mixture of sorrow, resentment and curiosity. Sorrow seemed to be a result of her witnessing Abla’s pain and slow physical deterioration. Over the months Abla’s vitality waned, her rosy cheeks turned pale, and her eyes and skin looked jaundiced. As a result of tiring easily, Abla turned to Bu¨yu¨kanne and to her sisters-in-law for help in caring for the youngest, who was a toddler and in greater need of personal attention than her elder children. This appeal for intervention into daily domestic tasks was received in a mixed manner: sometimes it was a source of resentment from Bu¨yu¨kanne and the other women. They had their own duties, their own children on whom to attend, meals and laundry and cleaning that required daily attention – they acquiesced to the request to look after another child but did so grudgingly. The sisters-in-law struggled with their own financial circumstances, meaning that if their husband did not work regularly then they looked for paid labour, and they too were tired, even though they were in generally good health. Bu¨yu¨kanne had an ill husband – he moved little but also complained very little. The presence of the child would disturb the quiet that she sought to maintain for her husband – who she thought was not far from death. His illness was not

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considered shameful, it was considered inevitable – he was well into is eighties, and it was said, ‘He needs to die of something.’ Abla was a relatively young woman, in her early forties, and so the source of her illness was sometimes considered a curiosity and at most times it was thought to be punishment. The perspective that illness was a punishment meant that Abla, as a tainted-unclean person, was distanced from the other women in the household. Being in the company of one with cancer was not desired. None of the women complained that Abla was absent from the weekly gatherings – their silence on this point was meaningful to me. Each time a gathering was organised by one of the sisters-in-law, Abla would send me along, telling me that it would be good for me to meet them and to socialise. Sometimes she would stay for five minutes and produce an excuse to leave, or she would not go at all, excusing herself with the explanation that she needed to attend to the littlest one or some other concern for her children. When she would not attend, she would push me out the door of her apartment toward one of her sisters-in-law’s apartments and warn me against gossiping. Gossip, she said, was something Allah did not like. On that occasion it had been she who had been the object of gossip. It appeared that the women that day did not conceptualise their talk as gossip, that is, as idle talk. Illness and death and Allah’s retribution were topics of significance.

CHAPTER 4 BELIEFS OF A FAITH HEALER

Questions of morality had underpinned much of the discussion at the morning tea at Arminka’s and it was deemed that once an act of transgression had been committed nothing could be done to undo the punishment. For Abla, this meant that cancer was the punishment and a punishment that could eventuate in death. The sentiment conveyed by the women was that Abla was either in part, or in its entirety, to blame for her predicament and in some way was deserving.1 Abla was not so resigned to the idea that nothing could be done to intervene in the circumstances and seek redress. She sought medical treatment. She also asked me to accompany her to visit a faith healer. Efendinica2 was an imam’s wife. Whilst not an officially registered religious leader,3 Efendinica was regarded with esteem, for she was considered learned in matters religious. Efendinica was invited to homes to lead prayers for the deceased and she would be called upon to create amulets for purposes of healing and protection. Our visit was for the purpose of having an amulet produced. ‘I am going to see if she can remove this curse,’ Abla told me as we sat in the back of a taxi on the way to Efendinica’s house. ‘How so?’ I asked. Abla replied: I have not been before. I have been told that she voices prayers, special prayers from the Qur’an, and that she makes amulets. How it has been explained to me: with the prayers she removes the curse from the person. The amulets are protection so that the curse does not return. And she might give some amulets for protection of the

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house in case a charm is present in the house. If the charm is in the house it would be best to remove it but you never know where it can be hidden. And it could be the size of a grain of rice – they do put curses on such things as that. ‘How do you know of this faith healer?’ I asked. Abla replied: It was told to me from some friends. There were some cases when someone has been ill. And there are some other cases when someone has had a curse cast upon them and they have gone mad. Like that, she knows how to remove curses. She has a gift from Allah. Faith healers can be defined as those people who are considered able to ‘operate in the plane of the supernatural’ and related terms are diviner, soothsayer, sorcerer, witch (Howells 1948:125). Those who are accepted as faith healers may be considered to have direct contact with the spirit world through entering alternative states of consciousness by using techniques of breathing exercises, dancing, drumming, fasting or through the use of hallucinogens. Faith healers may be called upon so that they can intervene between the human and supernatural world to appeal to, appease and seek answers from deities for worldly ailments. Since Abla spoke of her illness as caused by a cursing, and since Bu¨yu¨kanne spoke of Abla’s illness as being a punishment inflicted by Allah, then seeking the intervention of a faith healer who engaged with deities could be considered a reasonable pursuit. It is somewhat inconsequential whether Abla had a belief, or whether it was a mild or strong belief in the ability of these amulets; instead Abla reached out and sought intervention from sources that were made available to her. She lived in a household in which two understandings of Abla’s condition prevailed: one was that the illness was caused by a curse, the other was that the illness was punishment from Allah, who was understood as both a punisher and a healer. For both of these Efendinica was understood to be knowledgeable and skilful in communicating and appealing in the spiritual realm to intercede for her condition. My capacity to adopt a relativistic mindset was tested that day. I had to stop myself from asking other questions about amulets and evidencebased rational thinking. I kept asking myself: what sustains belief? Efendinica provided some answers but not in the manner I had expected.

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On that day, I resolved that I would understand Efendinica to be a faith healer from the perspective that she gave people hope. My understanding, however, was challenged and I found that instead Efendinica sought to give and sustain people’s belief. When we arrived at the front gate, Abla rang the bell. Efendinica appeared at the gate. She greeted us with, ‘Praise be to Allah you have arrived. Peace be unto you. Welcome. Welcome. Come in. Come in,’ and motioned that we follow her to the house. Efendinica’s was a single-storey house that stood behind a large gate. Once we entered we immediately entered the living room – the house did not have an entrance hall. The problem with that was that we stepped into the hall with our shoes still on our feet. I had expected an entrance hall in which I could take off my shoes, and it seemed that Abla did also because we stood there momentarily unsure whether to go outside to take off our shoes or to do so there in Efendinica’s living room. Efendinica noticed our confusion and said that we could take off our shoes in the living room. Abla nudged me that we go outside and apologised to Efendinica that she did not want us to soil her carpeting. Once we were back in the living room Efendinica invited us to sit. The room was large and had a large mustard-coloured fabric corner suite, a wooden coffee table, a number of side tables with books piled on top of them, and a cabinet containing crockery and books. A photograph of Mecca depicting pilgrims taking the Hajj4 adorned one wall and on the other were embroideries of passages from the Qur’an. Underneath our feet was a thick, light-green-coloured carpet. The air smelled spicy. Efendinica wore a black blouse with a floral design and black baggy trousers with a different floral design. The baggy trousers that Efendinica wore carried strong symbolic value in Bosnia and they were often considered part of traditional national costume.5 Variations of such baggy trousers had entered into contemporary fashion wear and were marketed as ‘harem pants’. I thought that Efendinica wore them not for fashion reasons, because according to my assessment based on the aesthetic codes to which I was accustomed, the two different floral designs that Efendinica wore were a mismatch and did not create a coherent outfit. While in my mind I critiqued Efendinica’s attire, Efendinica and Abla exchanged pleasantries. While they spoke Efendinica took off the shawl she had placed on her head when she had stepped outside to open

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the gate to us, and revealed a head of grey hair that she tied into a bun. Then Efendinica turned to me: ‘Praise be to Allah, who are you? Are your parents alive? Where do they live? Are you married?’ I answered hesitantly, unsure whether I could truthfully say that they were alive. The question from a faith healer about my parents’ mortality created an anxiety in my stomach and I made a mental note that I needed to contact them as soon as possible to check if in fact they were alive. ‘Praise be to Allah, may Allah give them health. And many grandchildren,’ Efendinica responded. I inquired into Efendinica’s own health. ‘Praise be to Allah, as you can see in my old age, how I am. Praise be to Allah that I am on my feet,’ Efendinica said while she was seated on the far end of the corner suite. Her phrase was a way of saying that if she was unwell she would be bedridden and hence not mobile and not on her feet. ‘It is Allah’s will that I am able to receive guests and praise be to Allah that I have the strength to help them.’

Coffee and Crescents ‘Dear guests, shall we have Bosnian coffee or Turkish tea?’ She looked to me. ‘I can see that you want Bosnian coffee. Bosnians only want coffee.’ Efendinica left us in the living room briefly while she prepared coffee. Abla sat wringing her hands. Efendinica returned and resumed her seat and turned to me: ‘You are a Bosnian, tell me this, why is it that Bosniaks drink their coffee from demitasse cups that do not have handles?’ She lifted one of the cups and pointed it in my direction. ‘I have drunk coffee from demitasse cups that do have handles and from cups that do not have handles. When I was doing research with Australian-Bosnian Muslims, I met one woman, Sadika, and she told me her thoughts. She said that coffee cups that do not have handles, for her evoked a connection with Turkey and that they are traditional cups, whilst the cups with handles are more contemporary.’ The answer that I provided was based upon the politico-nationalist interpretations of consumption with which I had become familiar through my prior research. My response did not include relaying the

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potentially offensive orientalist baggage that had preoccupied Sadika’s explanation.6 Efendinica, however, was not interested in such nationalist interpretations: hers were of a different kind. She replied: Praise be to Allah, we have demitasse cups that do have handles and demitasse cups that do not have handles. It is as Allah decreed that it is that these cups without handles have a special meaning but that is only for those who care to observe. What do you see when I hold the cup like this? Efendinica held the cup in her right hand with two fingers – her thumb and her index finger. ‘Look! Look!’ Efendinica prompted. All I saw was a cup held by two fingers. My mind could not create any symbolic meaning to the pose. Efendinica continued: Praise be to Allah, he has gifted us with eyes and hands and a mind that helps us to understand the world. We do not live like animals, who live by instinct. They eat and drink and fornicate according to their instinct. They are not discerning in what they eat and when they fornicate. We have reason. Think about the manner by which I hold this cup. If you look you will see that my fingers make the shape of the crescent moon. And if you look inside the cup you will see the imprint of a star. You can now see the combination that is made? I nodded. ‘Every action, every gesture, every voiced word is important for Muslims,’ Efendinica added.

Seeing through Islam Despite all the notes and observations I made, I knew that, without her guidance, I could not ‘see’ the interpretations that Efendinica made. It was not a matter of my physical capacity to see: rather, it was about how that which is within one’s sight is interpreted (Merleau-Ponty 1968, Brighenti 2007). Brighenti (2007) has written that the act of seeing reveals a relationship between the object that is being viewed

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and the viewer. How the object that is viewed is ultimately interpreted is contingent upon cultural referents and expectations and desires and fears. To see, that is, to interpret Islam in everything, required a special type of immersion, one that was akin to a single-minded determination. To impose one’s interpretations upon others – well, that would be an exercise in power. If seeing Islam in everything is a matter of free will then maintaining such an immersion for oneself must require strength in resolve. Efendinica’s words reminded me of Samir, a Muslim whom I met in Australia, who had spoken of a Muslim mindful presence and who sought to foster his resolve to see Islam in everything. Efendinica had introduced me to this curious interpretation of coffee and crescents and I encountered it later in my visit to an exhibition in a museum in the town of Inegol. There my guide pointed to the demitasse coffee cups that did not have handles, which were on display, and then relayed the same reason as did Efendinica for why ‘speakers of the Bosnian language’ drank coffee from such cups. The intent of such stories was to relay that ‘speakers of the Bosnian language’ were vigilant in maintaining their belief – and this was to be pursued by seeing Islam in everything. This same reasoning has been written of in a publication produced by a Bos¸nak cultural association in Turkey, one that has as one of its stated aims as to introduce Turkish citizens to Bos¸nak history. In the publication, they have written of the same symbolism of demitasse cups that do not have handles and conclude with the following: this can only be a production of a very sensitive and thoughtful mind. This is the concrete implication of an approach and a perceiving that transforms what how they think and how they apply their beliefs on their lives (Tasamari et al. 2007:102). This symbolism of the demitasse cups was first introduced to me by Efendinica. That day in Efendinica’s living room, Efendinica voiced ‘In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful’ and then poured the coffee. I lifted the cup that was placed in front of me, to observe the shape of my fingers and wondered what I would need to do to develop the sight that Efendinica advocated. The shape that my fingers made around the curve of the cup could also be considered the shape of a

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backward letter ‘c’, maybe c for cancer, but in Efendinica’s explanation the ‘c’ was for the shape of the crescent moon. It was then that Efendinica began to speak. Her voice startled me, so that I fumbled with the cup and it fell and its contents spilled onto the carpet. ‘It is as Allah decreed! That is a divine message of fortune!’ Efendinica exclaimed. Of course, I felt terrible for soiling Efendinica’s luxuriously soft carpet and Efendinica used a platitude that I had heard numerous times to ease my discomfort. ‘That is a divine message of fortune!’ had been voiced by many other Bosnian-language speakers to me on the numerous times I had spilled coffee on their carpet. On this occasion, the words were spoken by a faith healer and I hoped that they would be more significant. Efendinica brought some baking soda and water and a tea towel from the kitchen and handed them to me so that I might clean up the mess. As I attended to the carpet, Efendinica and Abla spoke. Efendinica asked about Abla’s illness. ‘Yes, child, I know. May Allah prevent anyone from suffering the same,’ she said and then asked, ‘Have you done anything to deserve the punishment of Allah?’ Before Abla was able to respond, Efendinica said: Think carefully before you answer. Nothing will be hidden from Allah or be a secret to him. He knows every word that comes from our mouth. He knows each feeling in our heart and each thought in our mind. Everything will eventually be revealed. Nothing can remain a secret. Our task is to be a rightful slave of Allah and to pursue the right path. Our task is to refrain from evil with all of our being. And that means we must strive to speak the truth at all times. It is difficult and that is why I say that we must strive to speak the truth. There are some cases when speaking the truth will cause our death. But that is a decision that should not be taken lightly and that is of course in extreme cases. Now, think carefully before you answer. Inspect your heart. ‘No Efendinica, I have not committed any sin. Dear Allah will judge me. I fear that sin has been committed against me.’

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Abla did not mention curses, nor envy. I did not know whether Efendinica understood what Abla meant. Efendinica said: There is no god but Allah and Prophet Muhammad is his messenger. We are all Allah’s slaves. We are helpless against his might. Some men seek the help of spirits but they are mistaken. No one can escape Allah. We are all in need of his help, mercy and forgiveness. He is our only sanctuary. He is the only support in this world. He is the one who gives and takes life. He is the sustainer of all existence. All is Allah’s doing. Abla nodded. Then Efendinica said to Abla, but also looking intermittently at me, ‘Remember Allah and dedicate yourself to him utterly. Remember Allah when standing, sitting, and lying down. Allah has sovereignty over the heavens and the earth. Allah has power over all things.’ Then Efendinica ended our meeting by saying that she would pray for Abla that evening and that we should return the following day to collect the amulets.

Eyu¨p Sultan Mosque In our journey from Efendinica’s house to the Sandzˇakli household, we made a detour to the Eyu¨p Sultan mosque so that Abla could pray at the tomb. Abla explained that Eyup Ensari (Ayoub al-ansari in Arabic), who was a friend of the Prophet Muhammad, was there entombed. Ansar is a word used in the Qur’an to refer to the supporters of Muhammad. Abla told me that Eyup Ensari died in a battle outside the walls of the then Constantinople during an attempt by the Caliphate to take control of the city from 674 to 678. A mosque was built in honour of Eyup when the Ottomans seized Constantinople. The original mosque was destroyed by an earthquake in the eighteenth century and the present one built in its place with construction completed at the beginning of the nineteenth. Praying there, Abla said, would result in extra rewards from Allah and that the soul of the deceased could also be evoked in order to grant wishes to devotees. She prayed and wished for health. Maybe Abla expected that I would do the same. Instead, my attention was drawn to

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the line of pilgrims, each walking in front of the tomb and making their own invocations. Before I got my senses together I was moved along by the stream of people. Abla had finished her prayers before me and waited for me beside a trader’s table. The trader sold miniature copies of the Qur’an that were the size of matchboxes and were attached to key rings to serve as amulets. They were placed on a table that also had blue-eye amulets. Abla did not buy either of these ready-to-go amulets: instead she sought the intervention of Efendinica. As we sat for a cup of tea and ate the local pretzel – simit – in the square outside the Eyu¨p mosque, I asked Abla what she thought about that of which Efendinica spoke. ‘Efendinica is a learned woman. She is the wife of an imam and I pray to Allah for her health.’ ‘When you said that you thought someone had committed a sin against you, she replied that it is all Allah’s will.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You explained to me that a curse had been cast on you.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You said that one can make wishes to the soul of Eyup and to Allah.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Can the soul of Eyup operate independently of Allah?’ Abla flicked her head. I rephrased my question. ‘If you are cursed and everything is Allah’s will, then Allah permitted for you to be cursed? Or can it be said that Allah cursed you?’ ‘Yes.’ The following day we returned to Efendinica. Abla rang the bell and Efendinica appeared at the gate. ‘Praise be to Allah you have arrived. Peace be unto you. Welcome. Welcome. Come in. Come in.’ Abla and I followed Efendinica to the house and took our shoes off outside and entered. The aroma of freshly baked pastries filled the room. We sat in the same positions we had occupied the day before.

Efendinica Tells Us the History of the World ‘Thanks be to Allah that you have come to visit us. It is always dear to me to have a young educated person visit. With the name of Allah I want to tell you some things that it is important for you to know. With the name of Allah I want to tell you of the muhajirin that you must record.’

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‘Thank you Efendinica, we are here because of Abla. May I return another day? Today we are expected home soon,’ I said. Abla tapped my arm and said, ‘Thank you for receiving us Efendinica. We have the time. We have the time. We are not in a hurry. We are grateful for the time you have for us.’ Efendinica began: In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. It was fourteen centuries ago that Allah gave the gift of the Qur’an, a book that serves as a guide to people. This is the gift to all of humanity. All of humanity is invited to adhere to the norms that are written in this book so that they can find their salvation and liberation. This is the last of Allah’s proclamations and the only guide for humanity from the moment it was proclaimed all until the day of judgement. Because the Qur’an is Allah’s word it contains the truths of the world. The Qur’an is not written by man. The Qur’an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, by the angel Gabriel. The Qur’an is the word of the all powerful Allah, he who knows all and he who created all from nothing. There are not any contradictions in the Qur’an and all the data and information that are quoted in it are constantly being confirmed by the scientists of today. All the information in the Qur’an is completely correct and it presents scientific facts, events from the future and mathematical codes that were inaccessible to man at that time it was revealed. It was impossible for man to prove those facts at the time because they did not have the scientific knowledge or technology in order to do so. But the knowledge and technology of today’s time prove that the Qur’an is the word of Allah. Efendinica’s eyes shone. She looked in our direction but it did not seem that she was looking at us. To me it seemed that she was in a semihypnotic state, reciting a knowledge about the world that she had spent her own lifetime gathering. Efendinica continued: We can take as an example what the Arabs thought of the cosmos before the Qur’an was revealed. In that time, the Arabs believed in countless superstitions and in baseless ideas. The Arabs did not

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possess the technology for researching nature and the cosmos and they believed in legends that were passed on from generation to generation. One of their beliefs was that the sky is upheld to where it is due to mountains. According to their belief at the time, the Earth is flat and at two ends of the Earth are mountains which uphold the sky. Thanks be to Allah, the arrival of the Qur’an destroyed such primitive ideas because it was revealed that Allah lifted the sky without the need for columns for support. The Qur’an revealed many truths at a time when humanity had little knowledge in astronomy. The Qur’an gives us answers to questions about the creation of the cosmos and the beginning of man. In the Qur’an it is written that Allah does have power over the heavens and the earth. Allah has power over all things. You must have heard about the theory of the ‘Big Bang?’ Today’s scientists inform us of the fact that the whole cosmos, together with material and time, originated with one large explosion. The ‘Big Bang’ proves that the whole cosmos originated from nothing with an explosion from one point more than ten billion years ago. Before the ‘Big Bang’ nothing called matter existed. Matter, energy and time were created. Of this huge fact and discovery, to which modern physics has just arrived, the Qur’an revealed 1400 years ago! It is also written in the Qur’an that the cosmos is expanding. That is a fact to which only now science and scientists have come. Just now! In the previous centuries, scientists had thought that the cosmos has one static and immovable structure. Now that the technology is available, scientists prove the cosmos had its own beginning and that it is continually expanding. These facts were known centuries ago because they were revealed in the Qur’an. They were revealed in an historical period when not a single man knew absolutely anything even close to this knowledge. This knowledge was made available in the Qur’an but it is only accessible to those who believe. It is only accessible to those who take heed. The Qur’an is the word of Allah, the creator and lord of the whole cosmos and of all knowledge. Efendinica’s lecture continued for some time. She mentioned discoveries and theories in the fields of astronomy, astrophysics, biology and marine biology and each she related to a section of the Qur’an.

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She did not pose questions, nor did she pause in order for us to ask questions. Unlike other believers with whom I had spoken, she was not looking to provoke our reactions. Unlike others, she did not want, from us, intellectual sparring partners who would challenge her statements and who would prompt argumentation and debate through which she would confirm the accuracy of her intellectual position and the accuracy of the Qur’an and of Islamic doctrine. I understood that for some, one manner of strengthening their belief in Allah was through such intellectual reasoning. At one point, Efendinica said: Yes, that is right. You do not study physics, you are more interested in humans. Let me tell you this. Humans have not come into being through the so-called evolution. If that theory was correct we would continue to see humans coming from gorillas and walking out of the jungle. Let me tell you this: evolutionism is an ideology that endeavours to distance man from Islam and the facts of creation. As I have said, Allah is he who created the cosmos and is he who has ordered it even in the most minute of details. Therefore it is absolutely impossible to accept the foundation of the theory of evolution that, therefore, considers that live beings were not created by Allah and that they are simply the result of coincidence. Scientists, even those who are believers in Darwin’s theory, accept that live beings appear on Earth unexpectedly and fully formed. Fossils prove that all live beings have appeared unexpectedly and in perfect form without a transitory form. This scientific fact is the complete opposite of Darwin’s imagination. This is very strong proof that all live beings are created. Creation is the only explanation for how live beings can appear without a being from which they have evolved, instantaneously and in perfect form. All live beings are the result of the creator, who has unlimited power and wisdom. That creator is Allah, he who created the entire cosmos from nothing and who has created everything and given it shape and who has ordered the world in perfect form. Efendinica spoke of the Qur’an as her reference but it was clear that her interpretation of the Qur’an was that of a creationist. Efendinica was putting forward to us an Islamic version of creationist theory. She was

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aware of some of the arguments put forward by evolutionists and rehearsed those arguments before us. Efendinica revealed that in addition to argumentation, repetition was a method that could be employed in order to affirm one’s belief. I guessed that Efendinica would have repeated and heard repeated the ideas she was putting forward to us in the company of her husband, an imam, and the other guests and patients who visited. Belief was not like cultivating a fragrant rose in a garden for the sensual pleasures it provided. Belief was cultivated through prose, that is, by narrating life through continual references to Islam. Efendinica ‘saw’ Islam in everything. Efendinica also confirmed her belief when speaking across topics. At one point she came to the topic of migration.

The Migration When Efendinica started to speak of the story of the migration of Prophet Muhammad and of the muhajirin her tone was more emotional than her earlier recitation: In the year 620, according to the birth of Jesus, may peace be upon him, died Abu Talib, Muhammad’s, may peace be upon him, protector. And in three days died his wife Hatija, a very smart and courageous woman, who had provided Muhammad, may peace be upon him, with support and comfort. Following the death of these two significant individuals, the idolaters began to attack with greater violence Muhammad, may peace be upon him, and the Muslims. That same year, Muhammad, may peace be upon him, decided to extend the call of Islam to tribes outside of Mecca. First he directed the call to the leaders of the tribe Saqif7 but they sharply rejected him and he returned to Mecca saddened. Following the unsuccessful attempt with the Saqif, in the same year, Muhammad, may peace be upon him, met six pilgrims from Medina who before him accepted Islam. They arranged a meeting for the following year. They were the first to carry the news about the new belief and about the messenger Muhammad, may peace be upon him, to Medina. Medina then was called Jathrib. In the following year, 621, from Medina came 12 people who met with Muhammad, may peace be upon him, with whom he held a meeting and whom he taught the foundations of Islamic belief.

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They pledged to uphold what they were taught. Muhammad, may peace be upon him, took the opportunity to send with them to Medina, Musa Ibn Umair to call the inhabitants of Medina to Islam. Islam quickly spread throughout Medina, and already the following year, 622, from Medina came 70 Muslim men and two Muslim women to do the Hajj in Mecca. With these Muslims from Medina, Muhammad, may peace be upon him, held a meeting during which he taught and interpreted the Qur’an and taught them the most important questions about belief. These Muslims from Medina called Muhammad, may peace be upon him, to move with them to Medina. Muhammad, may peace be upon him, promised he would move but he asked of them to make an oath that they would protect him. They gave their oath and with that they departed. Immediately following this meeting, Muhammad, may peace be upon him, ordered the Muslims of Mecca to move to Medina. The movement began in the month of Muharem in the year 622 according to birth of Jesus, may peace be upon him. When the idolaters found that Muhammad, may peace be upon him, had a large number of supporters in Medina and that Muslims from Mecca were moving in groups to Medina, they feared that should Muhammad, may peace by upon him, move to Medina that his supporters would strengthen and they would jeopardise the idolaters’ own belief and privileges. Following Abu Jahal’s suggestion, the idolaters made the decision to kill Muhammad, may peace be upon him. It was decided that a group would one night lay siege around Muhammad’s, may peace be upon him, house and they would kill him when he stepped outside. When Muhammad, may peace be upon him, found out about their intention, that same night he left his house and met up with Abu Bakr so that they could continue on their journey to Medina and evade the pursuers. Abu Bakr ordered that two camels be prepared for their journey and that they would collect them at the Sevr/Thawr mountain. Muhammad, may peace be upon him, and Abu Bakr walked the way to the Sevr/Thawr mountain and once they arrived they hid in a cave should the pursuers be after them. Once they entered the cave, spiders weaved a thick web and two pigeons made a nest. The female pigeon laid eggs and nested them. Upon walking past the cave, one of

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the pursuers suggested to the others that they search the cave. The others rejected the suggested saying that the thick spider’s web was weaved before the birth of Muhammad and that that was evidence that the cave did not contain anyone, not even Muhammad. The pursuers returned to Mecca not having fulfilled their aim. After three days in the cave, Muhammad, may peace be upon him, and Abu Bakr left the cave, collected their camels and headed toward Mecca. On the eighth of the month of Rabi al-Awwal in the year 622, they arrived at the village of Quba on the periphery of Medina. There Muhammad, may peace be upon him, stayed four days and laid the foundations of the first mosque to whose construction he himself contributed. Following that, he with Abu Bakr went toward Medina where they arrived on the fourteenth of Rabi al-Awwal in the year 622. They were welcomed with great celebration in Medina. All the residents of Medina wished that he be their guest, so they grabbed the rein of his camel to take him to their home. He then told them to leave the rein and that he would be a guest wherever his camel sits. The camel then went into Abu Eyup Ansari’s yard to rest and that is where Muhammad, may peace be upon him, remained a guest for some time. From Abu Eyup he purchased land on which he built the first mosque and with that his own residence. That same Eyup Ansari made his way here to the walls of Istanbul. When the Ottomans arrived, the sultan prayed at Eyup’s grave and he decided that there a mosque would be built. Eyup was Muhammad’s, peace be upon him, friend. We do not know the ways of Allah. Much is hidden from our eyes and our understanding, but all is part of Allah’s infinite wisdom. If we look closely sometimes some wisdom is revealed to us. We can see what links Bosnia to Turkey and how the Bosniak muhajirin arrived to seek safety in Turkey. It was the Ottomans who brought Islam to Bosniaks. Sultan Fatih, may Allah be compassionate to his soul, was the messenger of Islam who brought Islam to Bosniaks who had until that time been Bogomils. That was long ago in the fifteenth century and I am thankful to Allah that he sent this messenger so that my, our, ancestors could learn of the gift of Islam.

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Bosnia was conquered by the great Ottoman Sultan Mehmet in 1463 and they brought a new civilisation. Thanks be to Allah, our people accepted Islam because they recognised Islam to be the true religion. Bosniaks were loyal to the sultan and defended the borders of the state with many giving their lives as martyrs. Sokullu Mehmet Pasha8 was one who was born in Bosnia. Although he was not born a Muslim he accepted Islam and became an important political figure in the Ottoman government. So much was he respected and trusted that the great Sultan Suleyman permitted him to marry his grand-daughter. His tomb is here also, near Eyup. Over there in Sultanahmet, near the Blue mosque, there is the Sokullu Mehmet Pasha mosque. When the Ottoman government started to lose its central authority the muhajirin looked for salvation in Turkey. Attacks and massacres against different cultures and Muslim communities in the Balkans increased in the year 1877. The most muhajirin arrived in 1877–8, when the Turks fought against the Russians. Then it was about 120,000 Bosniaks who moved. The conflict between the Serbs and the Bosniaks arose because of the inequality. Serbs were serfs in the feudal system of the time, while the Bosniaks were the landowners and urban elite. The Serbs were peasants mostly, and poor. They could rent the plot of land and could earn from the yield but there were taxes that they were required to pay. It was due to their subservient position that the Serbs were against the Muslims. It was when the Serbs organised into nationalists that they sought to activate the peasants against the Muslims and the warring began. That is when the movement of muhajirin began. When the Austrians fully took the government of Bosnia is when my grandparents, may Allah be compassionate to their soul, came to Turkey and found salvation. Muhajirin have continued to come to Turkey whenever the Serbs have turned toward them. And also when they have not been free in their belief. Another great movement occurred in 1912 with the Balkan Wars and the formation of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia. In Tito’s time also muhajirin moved. And more recently, it was once again the Bosniaks found their peace in Turkey. Thanks be to Allah the path for Bosniaks leads to Turkey. It is Allah’s will that has brought Bosniaks to Turkey to find

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their salvation. It is because it could not be any other way, Allah is the all-knowing. Throughout history we can see there have been many cases of violence against Bosniaks. Yes, Bosniaks have suffered much but Allah gave them strength. We watched the war on the television. Pity for the people of Srebrenica. Srebrenica, our leaders here, said they will never forget. Our leader, Erdog˘an, has said that he will never forget Srebrenica. Srebrenica is a holy land full of martyrs. May Allah help the mothers of Srebrenica.

Ritual of Faith Healing Efendinica shook her head as she mentioned the mothers of Srebrenica and then looked to Abla. She remembered the reason for our visit, and voiced an intercession, ‘May dear Allah help our sister here heal from her illness.’ Then she turned to Abla and told her to repeat the following: In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. Allah, separate me from my sins as you have separated the East from the West. Allah cleanse me from my transgressions as the white garment is cleansed of stains. Allah wash away my sins with ice and water and frost. I have wronged my own soul and confess my sin. Forgive all of my sins. Guide me to the perfection of my character. Protect me from the evils of my character. Allah you are the most blessed, most exalted. I seek forgiveness and repent to you. Once Abla had repeated these words, Efendinica asked with a gentle expression on her face, ‘Sister, what is it that you want from me?’ ‘I seek protection from evil.’ ‘Yes?’ Efendinica prompted. ‘I seek protection from evil for myself and for my children.’ ‘Pray to Allah regularly for protection. Allah’s protection is all that we need,’ Efendinica replied. ‘Amen,’ Abla said. ‘I am simply Allah’s slave. I do not have any power outside of Allah’s will. This gift I have is Allah’s will – he can remove it as easily as he has given it, may Allah pardon my offences,’ Efendinica added.

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‘Older sister, please include me in your prayers,’ Abla said. ‘Tell me, what is it you seek?’ Abla responded: I am here seeking your help for the sake of my children. There is nothing worse than to grow up without one’s mother. My children need me and I want to be alive and healthy to raise them to be on the right path, on Allah’s path. Every mother wants to see their children marry and have their own children. I fear I will not live long enough to see my children marry. I am not doing this for myself, it is all for them. May Allah give you health, older sister please help me. Efendinica replied: Allah is the only source of knowledge and truth. Nobody can harm us except with his permission. What gives us value in the sight of Allah are our good deeds and our faith, submission and loyalty to him. Our duty is to stay true to our pact of faith to our lord. It is to submit to his approval only our good deeds, our penitence and prayers. Efendinica walked slowly and quietly from the room and returned with a silver drinking cup filled with water. When she had returned she put a shawl on her head. Abla had already a shawl, she always wore one when she left the house, and she did not remove it in Efendinica’s house. Abla looked to me and then to my bag to indicate that I should take out my shawl and put it on my head. Before we left the house, she had reminded me to pack a shawl. Efendinica handed Abla the cup. In the water was a folded piece of paper on which, I suspected from my reading about faith healers, some verses from the Qur’an would have been written. Abla voiced, ‘In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful’ before drinking the water. Efendinica resumed her seat and started reciting some passages in the Arabic language from the Qur’an that she held in her hands. Abla and I mimicked Efendinica. We held our hands in the same position, simulating that we, too, each had the book in our hands. Abla intermittently said, ‘Amen.’

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After these supplications, Efendinica placed the Qur’an on the coffee table. With prayer beads in her right hand, she invoked Allah numerous times. I had lost count but she would have kept track with her prayers beads, for that was their purpose. I guessed it must have been 99 repetitions. Then Efendinica voiced the Prophet Muhammad’s name and some select Arabic phrases. As she did she closed her eyes and rocked gently back and forward in her seat. Whether she entered an altered state of consciousness during these repetitions I was not able to assess but I doubted that she did because the repetitions only lasted for some ten minutes. I looked to Abla and saw tears flowing down her face. I felt sick when I thought that Abla might die because of her illness. After some moments of quiet, Efendinica left the room and returned with three triangular packages half the size of matchboxes. She informed Abla that she should wear one and explained where in her apartment she should place the other two: one above the architrave of the front door of her apartment and the other above the architrave of the door to her bedroom. Some mention was made of the protective role of the amulets and no promises were made of Abla being healed. Abla placed an amulet into a leather pouch that Efendinica gave her, then put the pouch around her neck and nestled it beneath her blouse. The pouch’s thin strap was not visible – it was obscured from view by her blouse’s collar. She placed the other two amulets delicately into her handbag. Then from her handbag she produced an envelope. As she stood and embraced Efendinica, Abla placed the envelope into the pocket of the vest that Efendinica wore. The vest was in the colour green. ‘May Allah help you and your family. May Allah help you recover for the sake of your children,’ Efendinica said to Abla. ‘May you be in Allah’s care,’ Abla said to Efendinica by way of goodbye. When Efendinica was embracing me, she asked me not to harbour ill will toward her and that I forgive her if she had offended me. We stepped out from Efendinica’s house into the bright sun. I sheltered my eyes from the sun and from Abla’s looks. I did not want her to ask me what I thought about Efendinica because I did not want to say anything that might undermine any hope that the visit may have garnered in her. I did not feel hopeful. Efendinica had spoken of belief that afternoon: belief in the existence of Allah and of his power, belief in the accuracy of the Qur’an and,

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through the stories of muhajirin, belief in Muslim solidarity. It was not simply belief, that is, an acceptance that something is true without evidence, it was about interpreting events with the will and willingness to ‘see’ and think Islam in everything.9

The Social Work of a Faith Healer ‘Thanks be to Allah. Thanks be to Allah. Look who it is!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne called to me as I peered in to their apartment to greet the elders. I was on my way up to Abla’s apartment after spending the day at university. ‘Welcome. Come in. Come in,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne insisted. Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba had a guest sitting with them – it was Efendinica. Bu¨yu¨kanne introduced me to Efendinica as Abla’s kin and their guest who was visiting from Australia to write a book about Bosniaks in Turkey. Bu¨yu¨kanne introduced Efendinica to me as the wife of a respected imam of a mosque from a different part of Istanbul. The manner in which Bu¨yu¨kanne introduced us was one by which two strangers would be introduced to each other. Empty plates, glasses and coffee cups on the table indicated that Efendinica had been there for a while. I sat and the women continued a conversation they were having about the impending marriage of a daughter whose parents they both knew. The talk of marriage then turned to talk of children and then motherhood. Bu¨yu¨kanne then said: ‘My dear Efendinica, I worry about my daughter-in-law Abla. May Allah prevent that her children lose their mother.’ Efendinica nodded. Bu¨yu¨kanne continued: ‘Praise be to Allah, she has been a good wife to my son Rahman. And she has been a good mother to her children.’ Efendinica nodded. Bu¨yu¨kanne continued: ‘I can confide in you my dear Efendinica, she suffers from, “Let it not be called”. How can a young person become sick from, “Let it not be called?”’ It was then that Efendinica spoke: There is no god but Allah. We are all Allah’s slaves. We are helpless against his might. Allah is the one who gives and takes life. We are all in need of his help, mercy and forgiveness. Our task

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is to live our lives conscious that our lives here are limited. Allah knows and commands our every moment and our every action. When we are conscious of Allah in all our actions, we do not waste our precious time on activities that cause others hurt. Allah is the one who punishes. Allah is the one who judges. As members of a family we are to help each other. How can a person live their life if in their own family they are hindered? Pray to Allah. Pray to Allah. Our duty is to stay true to the straight path. ‘Amen,’ replied Bu¨yu¨kanne. Efendinica looked to me – there was a gentleness I felt from her. Bu¨yu¨kanne looked at me and I followed her gaze, which then moved to the empty dishes on the table and then back to me. Cleaning became one of my activities. I excused myself from Efendinica and Bu¨yu¨kanne and took the dishes with me. That was the last time I saw Efendinica. The intervention that Efendinica made in Abla’s life could have been in the plane of the supernatural and about that I cannot comment. Efendinica’s intervention was also on the plane of the emotional. The hope that Efendinica may have given Abla may have come from her repetition that all was determined by Allah’s will. Neither Abla nor Efendinica spoke about causes, nor of envy. Rather, the current predicament and future outcome, whatever it was to be, were spoken of in terms of Allah’s will. The idea was that the joys as well as pain and disruptions to plans in life were the result of Allah’s will. Efendinica had stated that all is as it should be and that it could not be any other way. This can be understood as resignation. When translated from the Arabic language into the English language, the word Islam can be understood to mean a state or condition in which one becomes ‘resigned’ to the will of Allah. In the English language, one meaning of resignation of course is to give up a job or a position. Another meaning of resignation is patient acceptance. A Muslim, then, is one who is resigned, or even one who has ‘re-signed’ themselves, that is, in relation to Allah. By adopting a belief in Allah and accepting resignation and that one is continually being overseen by Allah, Abla potentially could experience comfort and hope. The noun vjera, when translated from the Bosnian language into English, can mean ‘religion’, ‘belief’, ‘faith’, ‘trust’. The adjective vjeran can be translated as ‘faithful’, ‘true’, ‘loyal’. Efendinica was encouraging

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Abla to remain true to the belief and that on the occasion of a difficult life circumstance she was to accept and resign herself and defer to Allah. Furthermore, in terms of Efendinica’s intervention on the emotional plane, the visit to Efendinica provided Abla with the opportunity to voice and have heard her concerns, fears, as well as her hopes and desires. As in the case of a visit to a psychologist, the patient can be heard, and their troubles or ideas can be validated, and cognitive strategies can be provided for thinking differently about emotional responses. It was that day that I heard for the first time Abla speak of her fears. She did not speak about fear of pain, suffering or fear of death. She spoke about her children and of her fear that they would be left without their mother. The cognitive strategy for coping that Efendinica provided was resignation. In voicing her desire to live, Abla declared she was a mother and that her desire to live was not solely for her own individual benefit but so that she could fulfil her duties as a mother toward her children. Abla phrased her desire to live as a moral and social obligation. From the brief exchange I observed between Efendinica and Bu¨yu¨kanne, I gathered that Efendinica intervened in the social world and that she occupied a role akin to social worker, promoting peace in social relationships in addition to appeasing vengeful deities. I understood that Efendinica had made an intervention to the morality politics that were played in the household. Within the Sandzˇakli household, Abla’s illness was conceptualised as a punishment. Abla did not speak to me about feeling shamed by the householders. Her acts of avoidance, that is, the fact that she did not socialise with her sisters-in-law, meant that she did feel the burden of their perceptions. Efendinica’s intervention had the potential to rectify the spoiled perception that her household members held of her. Whether Efendinica had revealed to Bu¨yu¨kanne that Abla had visited her, and whether she had revealed that Abla had declared herself a devoted mother, I do not know. Abla did not speak of our visit to Efendinica to me, nor did she mention it to other householders in my presence. Efendinica’s visit gave me some hope that Abla’s social burden, if not her physical ailments, would be lifted. With this reasoning, I made Efendinica’s role acceptable to the worldview that I had. My profane and, more specifically, my sociologically conditioned manner of thinking, meant that I did not adopt the explanatory schema that Abla offered about the cause of her illness and the spiritual intervention that Efendinica was sought to make

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on her behalf. With a functionalist mode of thinking I was ‘looking’ for the social roles people had and how they each contributed toward sustaining a social group. As part of this, I was ‘looking’ to identify the hierarchies and power dynamics in social relationships. With this manner of thinking, I identified Efendinica as a person with considerable social esteem and with this power she could exert an influence on the interpersonal dynamics within discrete households. With this manner of thinking, I identified Efendinica not as a spiritual guide but a religious figure, one intent on sustaining a hierarchy of belief and a particular religious perspective on social organisation – in this case one in which duty to one’s family was thought to be of critical social and moral importance. With this manner of thinking, I did not adopt Efendinica’s approach by which she identified and/or projected references to Islam in everything.

CHAPTER 5 VISITING NATIONALISTS

Zaova1 was one of the daughters-in-law of the Sandzˇakli household. She lived on the first floor in an apartment across from Abla and Rahman’s, with her husband and their children. She was almost 50 years in age and was the eldest of all the daughters-in-law. Zaova’s husband was younger than Rahman. Rahman was the eldest son and according to the logic that I understood governed the household structure I anticipated that he would be the patriarch of the family following his father’s, Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s, death. Zaova and her husband had been, like most of the householders, part of the productive labour force of the family’s enterprise. Following the enterprise’s downturn, both she and her husband worked elsewhere. Zaova worked as a factory hand for a cosmetics manufacturer. Her shifts varied and this meant that sometimes she worked during the day and at other times in the evening. It was when she had a day off from the factory work that she invited me to spend some time with her, her daughter and her parents, who had travelled from their home in a village some hours drive from Istanbul, when they visited Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba. Zaova introduced me to her parents – Aunt Sevda and Hajji Refik – as Abla’s kin who was recording the stories of Bosniaks in Turkey. I shook Aunt Sevda’s hand when I greeted her. Hajji Refik did not touch my outstretched hand. He said that he had undertaken the hajj and since earning the title ‘Hajji’ he did not shake hands with younger women. Instead of shaking my hand, he put his right hand on the left side of his chest, that is, in the direction of his heart, and said, ‘Peace be unto you.’

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Zaova’s daughter almost immediately brought out a tray with coffee and cups and placed the tray in front of her mother. As Zaova prepared to pour the coffee, she asked me, ‘How do you drink your coffee?’ My mind was preoccupied with the memory of Efendinica’s story, and in that moment I noticed that the demitasse cups that were on this tray had handles. Zaova asked again, ‘Do you drink with milk or black?’ ‘She drinks it with milk in accordance with her cheek,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne answered, looking affectionately toward me. Bu¨yu¨kanne’s use of the word ‘cheek’ was a synonym for shame. By saying that I had a creamy beige cheek she sought to convey that I was unblemished – I had not committed anything that would make me ‘shamefaced’, that is, in accordance with the cultural logic, having a black cheek. Sivric (1982:63) has written of a similar metaphor among Catholic peasants in Bosnia and Herzegovina: Whenever the peasants believe someone to be in possession of a clear conscience they will say: ‘He has a clear soul.’ What is more, in their way of speaking, all the ethical, moral, and human values are mirrored on the person’s face. They have a saying which designates this: ‘Everything for the countenance, but the countenance for nothing.’ When someone is doing wrong they will say: ‘Let his face become black,’ or ‘May my face become black if I am not telling you the truth.’ Bu¨yu¨kanne’s intention was jovial and her response to Zaova’s question roused some laughter. Despite the laughter, my mind continued to think about the possible symbolisms around me and how much of what was happening around me I could not observe and ‘see’. Theoretically, I was well aware that, through consumption, as one example, one could convey moral status, kinship and other political allegiances, but when those meanings were in play – regardless of whether they were evoked for the purpose of a joke or as a serious remark – I could not always ‘see’. Then Zaova asked her next question: ‘Do you drink your coffee in the Turkish or Bosnian manner?’ ‘She drinks her coffee in the Bosnian manner.’ Bu¨yu¨kanne again answered for me. This time laughter did not follow.

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Zaova placed the sugar cube on the platter to the side of the demitasse coffee cup that had handles and placed the coffee in front of me. Hajji Refik then said: ‘It all ends up being the same. I do not understand why Bosnians drink their coffee in that manner. They mix the sugar and coffee in their mouth. Is it not easier to put the sugar into the coffee in the first instance?’ Hajji Refik had a big round face and red cheeks. His ears, I assessed, were disproportionately large. He had thinning grey hair and sun spots on his forehead. He wore a cotton-looking white buttoned shirt, a blue woollen-looking cardigan and black cotton-looking trousers. Hajji Refik was an old man and wore an outfit similar to that which many other men of his generation wore. If there were nuances to his selection of colours, patterns and fabrics, my powers of observation were not attuned to them. What I found more telling about Hajji Refik that day was that he had a stern countenance and did not smile. ‘What would you say if I tell you I drink my coffee without sugar?’ I asked. No one responded to my question. ‘What can you do?! That is the manner of the Bosnians,’ Aunt Sevda rejoined. Aunt Sevda sat on the sofa, her legs also on the sofa and bent to the side of her body so that her feet rested on the right side of her torso. She wore a white cotton-looking blouse, black woollen-looking vest and blue baggy trousers similar to that which Efendinica wore. Aunt Sevda was an old woman from a village and wore an outfit similar to that which many other women wore. That Aunt Sevda imbued nationalistic meaning to her attire was possible, considering the remarks her husband and daughter had already voiced, but about her specific interpretation we did not speak. Aunt Sevda’s hair was covered with a floral-patterned shawl and her hands were busy knitting. Bu¨yu¨kannesat next to her, also with knitting needles in hand. That industriousness was a virtue in the Sandzˇakli household, I had already learned. Zaova, who served the coffee, sat on an ottoman – a cushioned footstool – at the coffee table. Zaova had a head of blonde-coloured curly hair that reached her shoulders. She had blue eyes and her mouth was almost always positioned in a smile. She wore a long white buttoned shirt that reached the middle of her thighs and she wore blue denim jeans. When she poured us each a cup of coffee, I noticed her hands were muscular and veined – I guessed they were so from the manual labour

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she did in the cosmetics factory. Her nails had been cut short and were not adorned with nail polish. I remembered that Arminka had told me that a Muslim woman should wear nail polish only when menstruating. About Zaova’s menstrual cycle we did not speak that afternoon.

A Metaphorist Nationalist ‘Where were you born? Where do you live? Are your parents alive? Where do they live?’ Aunt Sevda asked me a series of questions. As I provided answers to her questions, Hajji Refik exclaimed: ‘Do you hear the manner in which she talks? She talks the Bosnian language as though it flows from her mouth like honey.’ Hajji Refik’s nationalistic metaphors continued: ‘Let me tell you this,’ Hajji Refik sought to prognosticate, ‘Bosnia is a troubled country in which there never will there be peace. There, Serbs are always digging. But even though Bosnia and Sandzˇak no longer are in the borders of Turkey, Bosniaks are in the hearts of many Turks!’ He continued: Radovan Karadzˇic´ is one man who is part of a broader Serb machinery intent on erasing Muslims. Milosˇevic´, Mladic´, Karadzˇic´, they are at the same time leaders and pawns. They lead a blind nation and similarly they have been taken in by the idea of a large Serbia. That idea exists for centuries. Serb nationalists assert that Bosniaks did not exist as a nation and that Bosniaks are Christians who adopted Islam when the Ottomans came. ‘Not only Serb nationalists, Croat nationalists also,’ Zaova interrupted. ‘Yes and Croat nationalists.’ Hajji Refik momentarily accepted Zaova’s correction and continued: They want to say that Bosniaks are Serbs and that Bosnia belongs to them. But they do not want to accept that Bosniaks had their religion and their own language and even their own alphabet and that says that we were distinct from the Christians. Even the Christians considered the Bosniaks heretics. ‘They were Bogomils,’ Zaova whispered to me.

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Hajji Refik continued: Do you know that even the Vatican sent their own missionaries to Christianise the Bosniaks? But instead of Christianising the Bosniaks, they themselves were converted! ‘Allah! Allah!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne exclaimed. Hajji Refik slapped his knee, evidently amused by his own story. He continued: Of course, some were not converted and they returned and reported to the Pope that Bosniaks are a hard-headed people who will not accept the cross. In 1463, when Sultan Mehmet came, it was then the Bosniaks accepted Islam. Against Islam they did not fight. They accepted Islam in their heart. Bu¨yu¨kbaba sat silently. He nodded. ‘It is as Allah decreed,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne said. Aunt Sevda continued with her knitting, unresponsive. I guessed that she must have heard Hajji Refik’s lecture numerous times. ‘It was like this.’ Hajji Refik looked to Bu¨yu¨kbaba and continued: Bosnia was part of the Ottoman Empire until the Congress of Berlin, when the world powers brought a decision how to parcel the lands. The losers were the Ottomans and with them the Bosniaks. The Ottomans were not the power they had been. Nationalist movements had started to challenge the Empire. The Austro-Hungarians had Bosnia from 1878 until 1908. In that time, Bosniaks moved out to Turkey. For them it was a decision about whether they wanted to live under Christian rule and serve in the Christian army. Many decided that they wanted to continue to live under the Turks. And like that, they moved themselves. Those who were in good standing could afford to continue moving all the way to Istanbul but those who could not settled along the way – that is why there are Bosniak settlements in Macedonia and Albania. Those who could afford it, travelled by boat. In Turkey they used donkeys and horses to reach the

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destinations where they settled. Now Bosniaks are settled all over Turkey. That is what the government here wanted: they wanted to put Bosniaks all over to educate the local populations in their ways. But you see that is a sword with two sharp ends. What was good for some families was not good for others. Those early muhajirin saved their own lives but they left Bosnia to the Serbs. Bosniaks have been the victims of Serbs for centuries. In this war, the holy men from Serb’s Church supported the Serbian aggression in Bosnia. Those Serbs aimed to eliminate everything that tied Bosniaks to Turkey. Mosques and buildings from the Ottoman age were targeted. Aunt Sevda interrupted: We came here. Our grandparents came here, they were able to come here, they had somewhere to go and to save themselves and their families. But when the war started here, they knew they had nowhere else to go and so they needed to fight and protect this land. That is why my grandfather sent his sons to the army. Hajji Refik continued without commenting on his wife’s interruption: Many people think that genocide is killing. Yes, genocide is about killing but it is more than killing. Genocide is the intention to erase a nation. How can a nation be erased? They can be killed. Another method is more cunning. And that is that they can be lost. ‘Lost?’ I asked. ‘Lost. Lost.’ Sevda repeated and gesticulated. She waved her knitting needles in the air as though motioning that they had become dissolved and invisible. ‘That means that they forget who they are. We who are in Turkey are not lost! We remember our language! We have continued with our

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traditions. We are more Bosniak than the Bosniaks in Yugoslavia. But even so, even here a lot of Bosniaks have lost themselves. They are the intellectuals, they work in the cities and are lost among the Turks and have forgotten the language,’ Zaova said. ‘What do you mean lost and forgotten?’ I asked. Zaova said: Simply they are lost. No one knows about them. They do not visit the picnics and festivals organised by the community associations. No one knows who they are. Although one can tell by appearance and identify those who are Bosnian.2 Bosnians are tall people, praise be to Allah. They are tall and strong. Have a look at the Turkish national basketball team. Most of them are Bosnian! They are people who have forgotten the language. They have forgotten their mother tongue. Hajji Refik continued: Yes Bosnia and Bosniaks in Sandzˇak suffered physically. But their soul suffered and that is because they were denied their history. They distanced themselves from Islam. They were taught that they are Yugoslav and they turned their back on their ancestors and their religion. You must know that Bosniaks were not recognised as a nation until 1973. That was a conceived programme intended to erase the Bosniaks as a nation. They were embarrassed to say they are Muslim. They stopped going to the mosque. They stopped honouring their ancestors. They wanted liberation but they were trapped. They wanted to walk around naked but that is not freedom. They regarded that it is primitive to be Muslim. Allah! Allah! What kind of men could conceive such arrogance that they know better than Allah! We did not have our history denied. Do you see? I have not forgotten to speak the language of Bosnians!3 Hajji Refik urged me to see that he was speaking the language of the Bosnians. I did hear that he was speaking the language of the Bosnians. As I watched Hajji Refik speak, I did see that he spoke passionately. I saw

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that he was riled with anger and enthusiasm and that he, when speaking the language of the Bosnians, was wanting to teach the Sandzˇakli householders about Bosniak nationalism. Zaova, Aunt Sevda and Hajji Refik spoke of some Bosniaks being lost. They used the word izgubljen, which when translated from the Bosnian language into English can mean ‘lost’, ‘misplaced’. It could be that they were wanting to relay that each individual who had not followed the correct path, who had meandered and was misdirected, had become ‘lost’ both from their origin and their intended destination. It could be that they considered that each individual who did not speak the Bosnian language was a ‘loss’ for the collective of Bosniaks. That there was a collective of Bosniaks, and that there was one proper path, was presupposed by Hajji Refik’s statements. If a person who could have, on the basis of an ancestor’s migration, claimed a link to Bosnia or Sandzˇak and identified as part of a Bosniak minority in Turkey but did not – maybe according to Hajji Refik such people were considered ‘lost’ and that was equivalent to death. It could be that ‘lost’ was a commentary about presence and about (in)visibility. The idea that people can become invisible is often relayed in the migration literature with the term ‘assimilation’. Within the natural sciences, the term assimilation refers to a process by which one property changes into another: for example, the process of assimilation involves food changing into living tissue. For a metaphorist nationalist, people – migrants in particular – are spoken and written about as being, or not being, assimilated. The process of assimilation according to such reasoning involves a migrant who is considered to have, and identify with, one exclusive national culture, changing so that they identify with a different national culture and identity. In their interpretation of immigration policies in Turkey, Ic
duygu and Kiris¸ci (2009:10) have written: Exclusive priority was therefore given to encouraging and accepting immigrants that were either Muslim Turkish speakers, or who were officially considered to belong to ethnic groups that would easily melt into [my emphasis] a Turkish identity such as Bosnians, Circassians, Pomaks and Tartars from the Balkans.

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It is confusing when social scientists adopt the metaphors of nationalists to claim that a group of people can ‘melt’, ‘disappear’ or transform chemically. To ‘see’ a person speaking the language of the Bosnians was possibly a statement by Hajji Refik about the importance of continuing to be a ‘visible’ Bosnian and/or Bosniak. One may be considered not to have ‘melted’ or ‘disappeared’ and one can be considered to maintain one’s ‘visibility’ through activism.4 The difference between a language group and an ethnic group is that the latter is political. An ethnic group can refer to language as one of the ‘things in common’ that unite, but it is when language and other references are referred to for the purpose of differentiation and a claim to power, that the collective is a political group. Hajji Refik spoke of the ‘language of the Bosnians’ – in this instance, his use of the word Bosnian could have been a referent to a language group, a group within a particular region, in this case, a country, Bosnia and Herzegovina, or it could have been a reference to a national polity. When Hajji Refik spoke of Bosniaks he spoke with the assertion that they were a ‘nation’ and one who throughout history had been denied justice and recognition – different manifestations of dis/empowerment. Hajji Refik used the word narod. When translated from Bosnian into English this word can mean: ‘people’, ‘folk’, ‘crowd’, ‘population’, ‘nation’. The word ‘ethnic’ can be translated from English into Bosnian as narod. The neologism for ethnic, etnicˇki, was not used by Hajji Refik, nor by the other interlocutors of that afternoon’s conversations. In the English language, the words ‘nation’ and ‘ethnic group’ are sometimes used as synonyms. Both are used to refer to a people who constitute a political community. The point of differentiation is that which they draw upon to define their ‘things in common’. Both a nation and an ethnic group can refer to a language, a religion, a heritage, and a link to a specific territory, as that which unites individuals. An ethnic group is almost exclusively defined in relation to some if not all the noted referents. There is greater flexibility with the word nation, and a nation can be defined in relation to the authority of a nation-state, that is, the constituents of the nation are citizens of a nation-state, regardless of an individual’s religion, heritage, language. The ideal scenario in the case of a de-ethnicised nation is that the ‘thing in common’ that unites individuals is their deference to the principles of the nation-state’s

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constitution and associated laws. That nation-states have an official language and a standard narrative of history is a means by which the state apparatus promotes other ‘things in common’. To put it another way, we can refer to Kymlicka (1998:26), who has written of the difference between civic nations and ethnic nations and that civic nations are ‘neutral’ with respect to the ethno-cultural identities of their citizens, and define the nation in reference to each citizen’s adherence to certain principles of democracy and justice. Kymlicka (1995) has written that all nations are to some extent ‘ethnic’ nations because the institutions of the nation-state tend to refer to, or have, an ethno-cultural bias. Observations that a privilege is accorded to Muslims in Turkey could explain why the muhajirin of whom I wrote earlier declare that Turkey is a Muslim country. Hajji Refik was defining Bosniaks in relation to a language, a religion, a heritage and territories. Of territories, he referred to preOttoman Bosnia, then the Ottoman Empire, Yugoslavia and to Turkey. He spoke of the non-recognition of Bosniaks as an ethnic group in Yugoslavia5 and of Bosniaks as a language group in Turkey. What it was that he wanted through his activism I do not know. That day, the manner in which he spoke it seemed he was giving a lesson, teaching those present a version of Bosniak history which affirmed that a Bosniak identity was a genuine identity. Whether he thought about possible recognition within Turkey and how that would transpire and in what it would result, I cannot know. We did not talk about his personal ambitions.

Language in a Village Of the empowerment of Bosniaks in Turkey and in sustaining the myth that Bosnians and Bosniaks as strong, Bu¨yu¨kbaba told the following story: Yes, Hajji, praise be to Allah, we have kept our language. It is as Allah decreed, that Bosniaks are a strong people. In the early days some Turks tried to forbid the Bosniaks from speaking their language. But those early Bosniaks were stubborn people. They told me how it was. In the village in Anatolia, south of C¸anakkale, was a village in which only Bosniaks were settled.

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‘You should go there, maybe Rahman and Abla can take you there,’ Bu¨yu¨kbaba said to me. He continued: There you will meet real Bosnians.6 In that village, praise be to Allah, they all speak the Bosnian language. If you go there and walk down the street, all you will hear is the Bosnian language being spoken! In the villages, they have preserved7 the Bosnian language. Yes. And in that village there was one Mujo, who was the local chief. Mujo was big and strong like a lumberjack, like all real Bosnians.8 ‘Yes. Yes, like a lumberjack,’ Hajji Refik repeated. Bu¨yu¨kbaba continued: In his duty as local chief Mujo would settle government business and would meet when foreigners came to the village. And like that one day, as Allah decreed, a group of Turks came to the village. They were from a neighbouring village and they came with tools – some might say that they were looking for trouble. Mujo met with them and they said to him, ‘You are now in Turkey, you must speak the Turkish language.’ But Mujo simply sent them on their way. Some time later they returned and Mujo met with them and they said the same thing, ‘You are now in Turkey, you must speak the Turkish language.’ Mujo sent them on their way again. They came a third time and this time they threatened to use their force and they said, ‘You are now in Turkey, you must speak the Turkish language.’ Mujo stood tall and proud and said to them, ‘You will have to kill us to stop us from speaking the Bosnian language.’ Praise be to Allah, the Turks became scared of him because of how direct and brave he was, that they never came back. They used to say, ‘That is the Bosnian village.’ And later they wanted to marry their daughters with the Bosnians. And like that they had their freedom to live according to their own ways. To that village the first muhajirin came 100 years ago. Bu¨yu¨kbaba did not mention and situate his story in relation to specific nationalising programmes in Turkey intent on pressuring people of ethno-linguistic minorities to speak the Turkish language.9 No one in the room mentioned anything about such pressures.

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Language out of the Village Aunt Sevda began: It is as Allah has decreed. Once they started moving from the village, then they stopped speaking the language of the Bos¸naks. Praise be to Allah, my daughters each married into a Bos¸nak family and their husbands speak the language of the Bos¸naks. ‘Praise be to Allah, you have given us10 your industrious11 daughter,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne interjected. ‘May Allah give you health,’ Aunt Sevda responded to Bu¨yu¨kanne and then continued: My children of my sister do not speak the language of the Bos¸naks. In the villages, the language of the Bos¸naks continues to be spoken. I, too, am from such a village. May Allah be compassionate to their souls, my parents taught me to speak the language of the Bos¸naks. But it was my grandmother especially with whom I spoke. But I understand children want more than life in a village. That is where life is hard. Istanbul is a world city. There are opportunities for smart people. All educated people speak Turkish. That is the language of Turkey and they must speak it to be able to work and succeed. That is how it is. The son of my sister, praise be to Allah, was the top of his class. He was accepted into university with the best of grades, praise be to Allah. I do not know how the university standard is where you live but here in Turkey it is very competitive. ‘Very competitive,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne repeated. ‘Pity be to the students, they must sit hours long exams,’ Aunt Sevda said. ‘Pity be to the students,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne repeated. Aunt Sevda continued: And a small number get a place at university. The son of my sister is industrious, praise be to Allah. He prepared well and praise be to

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Allah, he has a natural talent. He is very smart, praise be to Allah. He got a place at the top university in Istanbul. ‘Praise be to Allah,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne interjected. ‘My daughters, praise be to Allah, have completed some school.’ Aunt Sevda looked to Zaova. Bu¨yu¨kanne stroked Zaova’s muscular hand. ‘My grandchildren can choose to if they want to study further. But, I always say, it is not good to study too much. It is not good to think too much. A person can go mad.’ Aunt Sevda paused for a moment and then continued: The son of my sister finished his studies at university in Istanbul. He was so good in his studies that they offered him to continue studying in America. Over there he finished to become a doctor. And when he finished, praise be to Allah, they offered him a job at the same university. He has married a Turkish woman. She is a beauty, praise be to Allah. They courted while in university. They married after their graduation. It was a big wedding. They had the henna ceremony.12 We gave her gold and dresses, we did not embarrass ourselves. Her parents are nice people, praise be to Allah, they live in Izmir. Praise be to Allah, his talent was recognised by the Americans. They want the best, they gather the best from all over the world. When he finished his studies, they gave him a job immediately. He is a university professor, praise be to Allah, and lives in an area in which there are many professors. Their house is like a fantasy. They have cars. And the children have all the newest toys. They have a cleaner who comes to clean the house every week. Praise be to Allah. Praise be to Allah. Back to what I was saying, the son of my sister speaks Turkish. And English. His wife has learnt some words of the language of the Bos¸naks – she asks me, ‘Would you like coffee?’ Their children, praise be to Allah, are attending American schools and they speak English. They explain that they need to speak English at home with the children because the schools there are very competitive. They say that when the children come to visit us here in Turkey

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they can learn Turkish. When the grandparents are not involved, children do not learn their language and do not know about their ancestry, may Allah protect them. I see that difference with my daughters. Both have married, thanks be to Allah. Zaova here in Istanbul and the other close to the Black Sea. They have married into Bos¸nak households and live in the house of their parents-in-law. And when it is like that, the children will speak the language of the Bos¸naks. Hajji Refik looked to Aunt Sevda. He said: When I hear that one of our Bosniak sons has married a Turk woman. And when I hear that one of our Bosniak sons does not teach his children to speak in the Bosnian language. And when that same Bosniak, who is a professor, does not teach his children about his ancestry, then I think that Serbs will succeed in their aim to erase Bosniaks. As I was saying, since the Berlin Congress until now due to torture and massacres muhajirin from Sandzˇak have continued to arrive to Turkey in big numbers. Those muhajirin were the first to arrive from the violence of the Serbs and it continued like that to this war. Hajji Refik was riled when he spoke. His fervour for speaking about violence and war did not motivate Bu¨yu¨kanne or Bu¨yu¨kbaba to speak of the violence about which they had spoken of to me. They were silent.

Numbers Zaova turned the attention to me: ‘You are here. What have you discovered about us Bosniaks? What is our origin?’ ‘Have you discovered how many Bosniaks are in Turkey?’ Hajji Refik inquired. ‘They say there are six million Bosniaks in Turkey,’ Bu¨yu¨kbaba responded. Hajji Refik looked to me and lifted his eyebrows as a gesture of curiosity.

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‘That is something I cannot know. The tabulated results of the Turkish population census do not show results for ethnic identity,’ I replied. ‘Yes it does!’ Hajji Refik countered. ‘I have looked at the latest census and the number of people who declare themselves as Bosniak is not in the tabulated results.’ ‘They say there are six million Bosniaks in Turkey,’ Zaova repeated. ‘From where did you get your information?’ I asked. ‘They say there are six million Bosniaks,’ She repeated. ‘Who says?’ I asked. ‘That is what I have heard,’ Zaova clarified. ‘There must be about six million Bosniaks in Turkey,’ Hajji Refik said, agreeing with his daughter. ‘What have you found?’ I told them I could show them some of my notes from my research. Hajji Refik nodded. I dashed up to Abla’s apartment for my laptop. ‘I have looked and have found no results tabulated about ethnic identity. The contemporary Turkish census of the population does not ask respondents about ethno-linguistic identification,’ I said. I showed them tabulated results. Hajji Refik looked and nodded. Bu¨yu¨kanne looked at the screen and then back at me without comment. The others voiced some sounds. I continued pointing to the figures and offering commentary: In 1935 when the question about mother tongue13 was posed, the following figures are available: of a total population of 16,157,450 individuals in Turkey, 24,613 answered that their mother tongue was the Bosnian language, and another 4,369 answered that the Serbian language was their mother tongue. In the same census of that year, 158,145 individuals declared that Yugoslavia was their birth place. In trying to find migration figures, one scholar writes that in comparison with the migrations from other countries the movement of Bosnians at the end of the nineteenth and early twentieth century to Turkey was relatively small.14 But now, of course, since 1935 there have been migrations from Yugoslavia to Turkey. In a book written about movement to Turkey,15 one author writes that according to Yugoslav statistics, between the period 1953 and 1961 from Yugoslavia 291,297 persons

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moved. Another scholar gives the figure that 150,659 individuals moved to Turkey from Yugoslavia between 1954 and 1960.16 The point is not to sum up all these figures and make the claim that there are X number of Bosniaks in Turkey.17 It can be a form of violence to impose an identity upon another and I do not know whether and how many of these people identified as Bosniak; one cannot know based on such documents. And because the significance of any form of identification can shift across a person’s life, such a retrospective question cannot reveal much about present circumstances, and so the number of Bosniaks is something I simply cannot know. I do not have the resources to do that kind of research. If it is not asked in the census, then I cannot have an answer. Hajji Refik responded teasingly: About that I do not know. But it is important for you to say in Turkey there are a lot of Bosniaks. If you find there are two million Bosniaks, you write that there are four million Bosniaks. But if you find there four million Bosniaks, then you write that there are eight million Bosniaks. What will our president Gu¨l think when he reads your book? He needs to know that Bosniaks are a strong nation!18 ‘If those people who you say are “lost” do not identify as Bosniak, then I cannot say that they are Bosniak,’ I said. ‘You must say they are Bosniak!’ Hajji Refik responded angrily. ‘Serbs have intended to commit genocide of Bosniaks. They have tried many times to bring their aim to completion.’ Hajji Refik continued: I will tell you this: My father came here when he had five years. My grandfather moved here. That was in 1925. My father went back to Yugoslavia but with World War II and the ruin that happened he settled us here. He said he had seen such horror there he cannot live there. I can tell you that I was young when my parents came to Turkey and so there is not much I can tell you of my own experience. I did

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not have any contribution to make to the decision of moving. They wrapped me up in a blanket and brought me here. We can say that every Bosniak who is in Turkey is a victim. Excuse me, let me correct myself, we can say every Bosniak who came to Turkey as a muhajir is a victim. Those who were born here are not victims. They did not escape war. But those who moved here are victims. I can say that with certainty. My parents left Sandzˇak because they were targets for Serbs. They would not have left the land of their ancestry and they would not have given away their land had not the conditions been as they had and they would not have gone as muhajirin if they had no reason. So, then, we can say they had a reason. But what was that reason?! Some say that they were gone for financial reasons. And we cannot deny that is an important reason. But the major reason is genocide! Serbs intended to commit genocide of Bosniaks. They have tried many times to bring their aim to completion. Listen! Do you know how many Bosniaks abandoned their homes in Bosnia? I will tell you! It was 200,000! Find that in a book! Do you know how many Bosniaks were killed in this war? 200,000! Can you not see? They have a programme to cleanse the area of Bosniaks. They have had this programme for centuries.

The Tone of a Nationalist I understood Hajji Refik to be a nationalist intent on perpetuating a line of Bosniak victimisation. The tone with which he spoke that day differed from the tone with which the Sandzˇakli matriarch and patriarch and the visiting muhajirin aunts had when they had spoken of their migration. The Sandzˇakli matriarch and patriarch and the visiting muhajirin aunts had spoken of grotesque acts with detail, and in so doing they relayed a fear, as I understood and labelled it, that had impelled them to emigrate. Hajji Refik spoke with what seemed anger. This kind of anger I had seen and felt and labelled as such when I had spoken to nationalists intent on imposing their interpretation of history and identity. That afternoon, I considered Hajji Refik to be a nationalist intent on protecting the integrity of Bosniak nationhood and intent on promoting an idea of ancient ethnic hatreds.19

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When I observed him speak, he spoke with the excitement of a nationalist seeking to arouse his audience. As with most nationalists, in his version of history complexity was censored. He referred to the religion of Islam and the Bosnian language to define members of the Bosniak nation. Nationalism can be understood as social engineering led by elites and state institutions intended to create a sense of unity amongst a polity (Hobsbawm 1990, Anderson 1996). Hajji Refik, whilst not a leader per se, was literate and a Hajji, and with this held some position of esteem among the people in that room that afternoon. In wanting to rouse a sense of unity, that is, feelings and devotion to one’s nation, he spoke of the actions and violence of antagonists, who in this case were identified as Serbs, atheists and communists. Unlike Bu¨yu¨kanne and her fellow muhajirin, who spoke of merhamet and Muslimhood, Hajji Refik sought to unite a people through a story of collective suffering and perpetual victimisation. Nationalists are concerned about the collective. Within this collective, individual experiences matter less than do aggregates of experiences. In speaking about suffering and victimisation, Hajji Refik spoke of the total number killed. He did not speak of individual experiences. In this, he differed from the manner in which Sandzˇakli householders and their visitors spoke of individual devastation, fear and the urgency to emigrate. Since the point for nationalists is to speak about masses of people, with the aim of rallying the support of masses of people, in their speech and in their texts individual suffering is undifferentiated. I was aware that the Sandzˇakli elders had limited access to information and that they, Bu¨yu¨kanne in particular, who was illiterate, relied on the stories that people told them when they visited them in order to gain new information – which they then decided whether to embrace or dismiss. I read them some passages from books written about migration from Yugoslavia to Turkey. What I read to them included the following: The reasons for migration are not that simple. One researcher who looked at archived government documents found the following among the reasons why people moved out from Bosnia in 1882: opposition to army duty, hope for a better life in Turkey, love and desire to live in Turkey, religious fanaticism, nationalist sentiments, movement of one’s family and kin, economic conditions, schooling of children, trade, search for fertile agricultural land.

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I stopped and asked: ‘I can read you a passage from another book20 about Sandzˇak specifically, and about a more recent movement?’ I continued: Sandzˇak was, at the end of World War II, with destroyed and burnt out houses and villages, with towns filled with refugees, with chronic poverty followed by contagious disease. The territory that in the interwar period was characterised as amongst the most backward, during the war was even more devastated and impoverished. A new fear entered the people as measures for requisition were severely observed. At the end of December 1944, the authorities in Novi Pazar divided the resolution for 550 citizens concerning the requisition of grain and money. On the basis of this resolution until the end of 1945 more than ten wagons of grain and more than 8,000,000 dinars were collected. The requests made by citizens for the reduction of requisition were generally denied. Rather, upon objections that some citizens had smaller requisition contributions, requisitions were increased. Citizens were, on the decision of the authorities, classified into groups according to the amount of grain and sum of money they needed to give. That same author21 writes that in the immediate postwar years, the most interest for emigration was expressed by villagers, the once owners of large estates, and traders, whose property was nationalised – who with the abolition of the private sector were left without work. Peasants confronted loss of value of their property and the loss of value of their produce.22 Another author23 also writes that the poor economic development of Sandzˇak was a strong motivator for emigration. The lack of opportunity meant that people across socio-economic divides emigrated, including peasants, traders from the urban areas whose property had been nationalised under the socialist agrarian reforms, as well as intellectuals such as doctors, professors and engineers, who were unable to find employment. It need not be understood that agrarian policies in Yugoslavia were altogether harmful, rather some interpreted the reforms as harmful or an unnecessary disruption and unwanted. Sivric (1982:17) has written: ‘. . . the Communists inaugurated

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campaigns in quite a few counties to reforest the barren hills and mountains. For a couple of years they forbade the peasants to plant their favorite farming products: tobacco and corn. This was in keeping with one of the foremost characteristics of communism – constant and continuous experimentation in all fields of human activity regardless of cost or certainty of effectiveness. The Communists employed this tactic to lull the peasants into acquiescence. They were commanded to grow cotton instead and were supplied with the seed by the government. The old and young alike were compelled to do it. As a result the planted seedlings were frequently destroyed. The peasants would even cook a portion of cotton seed in boiling water to make sure that it would not sprout.’ This suggests to me that maybe people moved, somewhat ironically, because they wanted things to remain the same. I looked up from the screen of the laptop. No one had interrupted me while I read my notes. Bu¨yu¨kanne looked at me with a gentle expression. Bu¨yu¨kbaba’s eyes were closed. Hajji Refik asked me, his face red with anger: ‘Why do you live in a place with crosses and churches? Why do you not live in a Muslim country?’ ‘In Turkey there are mosques and there are churches and there are synagogues. There is the house of Mary, there is the Temple of Artemis.’ Zaova interceded, ‘That is the difference with Turkey, other religions were provided protection. The Serbs do not have such merhamet.’ Zaova’s use of merhamet was intended to convey the meaning of mercy, that is, kindness shown to an enemy or offender, and with that meaning to suggest that religious freedom was accorded to non-Muslims in Turkey. By speaking of merhamet, that is, the disposition toward mercy as a specifically Muslim trait, Zaova was engaging in a political act, that is, defining who was and who was not a Muslim and with this she positioned Muslims on a higher moral ground. The lines of division were made to be very clear, and differences within Muslim groups, discrimination against others,24 were to be disregarded so that they could make a point about unity. ‘Who are Serbs?’ I asked.

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Silence overtook the room. It sounded like a ridiculous question. ‘You know who are the Serbs. They are the ones who drove out the Bosniaks,’ Hajji Refik answered. ‘Serbs’ were defined by their violence. They were defined as those who were without merhamet. They were those who instilled fear. It might be that Hajji Refik did not consider Serbs as constituting an ethnolinguistic group, and that it did not matter to him what language they spoke, in which god they believed or what food they consumed; rather, it mattered that it was they who were considered a group of warmongers. Thus, the thing that they had in common with each other, and that which differentiated them from Muslims, was that they were not for merhamet and peace. ‘Serbs’ in this case could have been referred to by any other name – they were the people who would not accept the call to peace. If Turkey was for my interlocutors a Muslim country, maybe it was because it was a place in which they had experienced, and which they prayed they would continue to experience, peace. It was not an antipathy toward the ethnicity per se that Hajji Refik relayed, it was an antipathy based upon an understanding demonstrated with reference to numbers killed, that ‘Serbs’ were those who did not want to live in peace with Muslims. That afternoon, however, it was Hajji Refik who was not at peace. ‘I see what you wear. You wear the colours of the Serbian flag.’ I wore a red shirt, blue jeans and white socks. Much like Efendinica’s ability to ‘see’ Islam in everything, Hajji Refik was introducing me to his ability to ‘see’ nationalism in everything. The attention and interpretation made of coffee colour, sugar cubes, the colour of shirts, was beyond my powers of observation. In characterising the behaviour of peasants in meetings in Bosnia and Herzegovina, among whom he spent time, Sivric (1982:18) has written: ‘They are not as a rule, gullible. They measure, weigh, and analyze every word that is said and every gesture made.’ It was not Sivric’s words in my mind at that moment, it was Efendinica’s and her assertion that, ‘Every action, every gesture, every voiced word is important for Muslims.’ It need not be necessary to label such awareness as a result of a peasant trait or a Muslim trait: rather, I think it is more important to recognise the level of awareness and the cultivation of that awareness that Hajji Refik and Efendinica fostered.

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Those two people were highly attuned to the forces around them and projected and expected that the people around them also had that same level of awareness to symbolisms and the same interpretation. The tension in the room was ultimately eased by Zaova’s daughter, who brought saucepans with hot food to the apartment. She placed the plates and dishes onto the coffee table. ‘Come eat!’ Bu¨yu¨kanne said to Aunt Sevda and Hajji Refik. She pointed to the table, indicating that they should serve and help themselves. ‘We will not eat,’ Hajji Refik said. ‘Come eat. You must be hungry, you have driven a long way from your village,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne said. ‘Sevda can eat if she wants. I will not eat,’ Hajji Refik said. ‘Take at least a little. Try something,’ Bu¨yu¨kanne insisted and moved toward the table as though she was going to fill a plate for Hajji Refik. ‘Yes, just a little,’ Hajji Refik said. He moved closer to the table. The others also moved closer to the table and filled their plates. The feeling in the room changed, or at least I felt less burdened by what I had said and the provocations I had made. Hajji Refik and Bu¨yu¨kbaba talked to each other. Bu¨yu¨kanne and Aunt Sevda spoke to each other, and Zaova and I had our own conversation. When the muezzin’s call to prayer was heard, Hajji Refik excused himself and went to the mosque. Upon his return, he asked: ‘Do you know if my son who was born here can get Bosnian citizenship?’ He explained: ‘There are many Muslims in Turkey who wish to do the Hajj and that means we must wait a long time before our application is received. There are less people doing the Hajj from Bosnia. He could go as soon as he applied. The problem is he does not have Bosnian citizenship. Can you help in that regard?’ Following a conversation about citizenship eligibility, he and Aunt Sevda prepared to leave. Just before they left the room Aunt Sevda handed to me a sheet of paper with the details of an herbalist who, she said, Rahman should contact to arrange a consultation for Abla.

CONCLUSION

Toward the end of my time in Turkey, Abla was taken in to hospital. I did not want to go to the hospital, for I feared what I would see. I went. As I travelled on the tram toward the hospital, I was surrounded by tourists who were speaking a range of languages. I was prompted to think of the ‘loss’ of Bosniaks and of the counter position when people claimed that the ‘language of the Bosnians’ had been ‘preserved’ across generations in Turkey. When I saw Abla I had no words for her. I thought of the loss of her and the loss that her children would experience. When I looked at her in the hospital bed in a light-blue hospital gown, I noticed that the amulet Efendinica had given her was not around her neck. It was then that I became aware of the extent of her physical deterioration. There, too, was the deterioration of vitality: the person who had been jovial when she had greeted me at the airport was weak and lay still on the bed with her eyes closed. She looked to be in peace but I do not know of her internal struggles at that particular moment. I did know that she had experienced physical suffering and that that was an expected accompaniment to her illness. There had been the social suffering through shaming, the maternal pain of foreseeing her children’s future and her own existential crises in thinking about her own mortality, all of which intersected to produce a profound impact upon Abla in the time that I spent with her. I sat on a chair next to her bed, with my back to the window. At one point, Abla pointed to her bag, which was placed on a side table, and when I gave it to her she reached for a book and gave it to me. The book

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had a green cover and was written in the Bosnian language. Green is the colour of Muslims, I remembered that I had been told; such remembering of symbolisms was a momentary distraction from an emotionally tiring circumstance. The book contained lessons for those learning about Islam. Abla asked me to read it to her and opened the page that she wanted me to read. On the page she chose were prayers for the ill. On the following page were prayers for those whose soul was to depart from their body. I read and, when I finished, Abla asked me to read again from the beginning. I continued to read the prayers until Rahman entered the room and it was time for me to leave. Later, when I travelled to Bosnia and Herzegovina, in a town near the village in which Abla lived when she was a child, I met her sisters. They asked me what I could tell them about Abla.

Explaining the Circumstances of Another’s Life A range of schema can be used in one’s attempt to understand the world in which one lives and to explain the circumstances of one’s life. The story tellers cited here made references to a range of schema in order to explain their migration, to explain the causes of illness, to explain the failings of an enterprise, to explain their relationship to different communities, which included language, religious and national groups. Some provided powerful personalised stories of injustice and of local terrorism that preceded their migration. They placed emphasis upon personally being at threat from Serbs. For some the impetus for forced migration was abstracted and spoken of in a de-personalised manner: they spoke of broad inter-ethnic and inter-religious rivalries. The forces beyond one’s control, according to such explanatory schemata, were not those on the spiritual plane but rather were those in the army and those sitting in ministerial offices that enabled or encouraged violence against civilians. The details of violence about which Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba and many others subsequently spoke moved me. I was moved to tears because of the hurt caused, to anger because of the injustice, and to fear because of the ramifications of such stories. This fear was in response to the depersonalised stories that Hajji Refik and others told. This was an academic concern and related to the manner in which people created links, longitudinal correlations between time periods and events.

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That ‘Serbs’ were treated as the perpetrators of violence was one thing when situated within a specific context. That ‘Serbs’ were identified as the aggressors and perpetrators of violence in vastly different periods and that the ambitions and actions were the same across the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was, it seemed, a way to perpetuate the notion that there were and will continue to be hatreds and violence. Such a schema was used to explain the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina in the 1990s, and many said that they thought the war inevitable. Inevitability was attributed to more than human activities: inevitability was spoken of, also, in deference to Allah. Predestination was evoked as another schema through which to understand and explain one’s migration – and so by extension they thanked Allah for their migration. By thanking Allah, they suggested that they had been directed or had ‘read’ the signs that Allah had communicated/given to them prior to their migration. By accepting the idea of predestination and of a compassionate and retributive god, they gave themselves hope that justice, if not served in this world, would be in the next. Efendinica spoke and taught me about ‘seeing’ Islam in everything, and by adopting a religiously inspired schema of migration one could suggest that, by referring to oneself as muhajirin, one could be comforted by conceptualising migration in reference to a religious obligation. In terms of understanding other crucial events, Rahman introduced two schemata that were meaningful to him through which he could make sense of economic downturns and the failure of his private enterprise – he attributed the cause to curses or to a ‘crisis’. Within the first explanatory schema, the cause was attributed to an intersection of the social and the spiritual. In the latter, the cause of the ‘crisis’ seemed beyond his or my cognition and discursive realm. Rahman did not speak of the ‘crisis’ with reference to his economic training: instead, he equated it with the supernatural and with that he impelled himself to defer to the first explanatory schema. In explaining one or another’s ill-health, a range of schemata were mentioned: curses, punishment by a/the retributive power, poor diet and one’s limited access to fresh air. With the first of these explanatory schemata, the cause was attributed to an intersection of the social and the spiritual, and by Abla this was related to the power of envy. It was envy, with its destructive drive, that was privileged in Abla’s explanation: it was because of the arousal of envy in their ‘friends’ or competitors in the

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garment manufacturing industry that she was inflicted with ill-health. That envy was an explanatory schema and not a regulator of conduct for Abla can be understood by her own assertion that, prior to being ill, modesty was not her concern. What principles guided Abla’s conduct prior to becoming ill, and whether at that point in time she would have considered envy and the evil eye as a serious means of explaining the things that happen that are beyond one’s control, I cannot know. Indeed, the purpose of explanatory schemata, quite often, is to explain things after they have happened. Abla acculturated and referred to a branch of knowledge concerned with the spiritual rather than other branches of knowledge about her illness. In relation to the second explanatory schema relating to ill health, the cause was attributed to one’s moral transgressions, and with that the idea that all of one’s actions are seen and judged by an omniscient god is sustained – it can be considered ironic that with punishment and the associated pain, one’s belief is strengthened. This is when belief and loyalty, or vjera and being vjeran, intersect. The task for those who utilise such a schema is then to pinpoint the transgression that was committed and to use that as the basis of a message of warning for others. In doing so, one also has a basis for claiming that they themselves have received direct communication from a/the god. Whilst Sunni Muslims are considered to be believers in predestination and of the associated idea of no, or limited, free will, this explanatory schema which presupposes one’s ability to act and transgress and commit sin suggests that Allah has given humans the power to do, and not to do, an act. The consequence of accepting this reasoning is that individuals are understood to be responsible for their own actions. For those afflicted and identified as the transgressors, the social punishment of shame follows. The third explanatory schema that attributes the cause to poor diet and poor air can lead one to find intersections between residential location, consumer purchasing power and one’s economic position. While Abla made mention of this, as did Arminka, the discursive capability for this sort of reasoning at that point in time for them was limited, as was their access to information and their willingness to challenge established ideas. One can voice intercessions, seek interventions by faith healers, consume teas from the herbs provided by herbalists and receive

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treatment based on the advice of oncologists with the aim of restoring one’s health. All of this was pursued by Abla and this meant that she did not adopt one explanatory schema. In the pursuit of recovery, all options were embraced and were not considered at odds with each other. Through intercessions Abla and householders appealed directly to Allah for assistance – suggesting that each individual had a direct line of communication with the Omniscient. By appealing to Efendinica to intervene on her behalf, Abla suggested that she accepted that there were other deities in operation and that a specialist had access to supernatural planes and possibly that she was a privileged audience of the Omniscient. By consuming teas provided by an herbalist and by receiving treatment in a hospital, Abla suggested that she accepted there were other branches of knowledge in which she was not versed but, to those who were, she submitted her trust. It has long been noted that religion is a branch of knowledge that specialises in death, and a many have written that a dominant response to feelings of insecurity is turning to religion, for it provides answers on how to understand and continue to live when change becomes disconcerting. A religious community is not defined simply by what its members believe about the existence of another world and afterlife. Morality can be defined with reference to religious doctrine. Morality and the valuing of specific actions and emotions are the basis by which we create connections with some people, and distance ourselves from others. Merhamet, for example, was spoken of as a disposition of a Muslim, and a community of Muslims was considered to have been created by the reciprocity of compassion. Words such as merhamet, muhajirin, Bosniak, Bosnian, were used to define the identities and actions of people. Cancer was something that was not named. People were careful about the words they voiced and did not voice – sometimes it was because words were understood to operate on the spiritual plane. That words were important for the social plane and for one’s own spiritual condition was revealed through a number of examples. One example was the continual intercessions of Efendinica and the elders of the Sandzˇakli household. By voicing intercessions they were reminding themselves and others about the presence of something that can be overlooked and defining themselves as believers. Apart from my in situ challenge to Hajji Refik, the reader may have noticed that I have not included footnotes to confirm or to correct the

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statements made by interlocutors when what they claimed did not align with established facts – such as the figures in the migration of masses of people – or when their claims differed from the standard narratives of national histories. This is because these were the stories that were told and it was these stories, as they were, that mattered to my interlocutors. Such stories, as Jansen (1998) and Halilovich (2013) have written, can be understood as a way for people to create continuity and make statements about their position in the world; a world that is composed of kin and neighbours, and laudable acts and despicable acts, of villages, of cities, of countries, of leaders and citizens, and nations, and religions and so on. It is in their telling that the people reveal how the world is composed for them. In reading and rereading these stories we can continue identifying a range of cultural referents.

NOTES

Introduction 1. These words, and most of the conversations and transcriptions of interviews in this book, were spoken in the Bosnian language and I have translated them into the English language. In some passages, Arabic, Bosnian and Turkish words are used in the body of the text and translations are provided in parentheses; on other occasions elaborations are provided in the corresponding notes. 2. Abla is a Turkish word and when translated into the English language means elder sister. Abla is used as an honorific in Turkey when a younger person speaks to a girl or woman who is their elder. Some Muslims use brother and sister as an honorific when speaking respectively to men and women who are not their siblings nor their kin, and they do so seemingly to express religious solidarity. A similar sentiment of abstracting family relations to non-kin and suggesting that other ties bind people as closely as do family relationships is found in nationalist texts. Motherland is often used as an epithet for nation state and this is found in the Preamble of the Constitution of the Republic of Turkey (p. 2): ‘. . . Has been entrusted by the TURKISH NATION to the democracy-loving Turkish sons’ and daughters’ love for the motherland and nation’ [capitalisation in the original]. 3. Abla’s husband told me he would prefer that his pseudonym in my book should have a Qur’anic reference and he cited the following as the source from which I should select it: ‘Bismillahi Rahmani Rahim’. I selected Rahman. 4. Bosniak, rather than the sometimes-used variant Bosniac, is the spelling used in this book because it has become the prevailing English-language translation of the ethnonym Bosˇnjak as it is spelled in the Bosnian language. 5. Jardin was not a researcher, nor a participant of the research. Jardin and I travelled together from Australia to Turkey. Jardin’s intention was to holiday in Turkey.

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6. In my research with Australian-Bosnian Muslims, I had heard people comment how one may or may not look like a ‘real Bosnian’ but the physical features they used to define Bosnians were never articulated. Colic-Peisker (2005) has written about references to skin colour made by Bosnian refugees in Australia. Hodzˇic´ and Kalajdzˇic´ (2014:14), writers from Bosnia and Herzegovina, who in documenting their travels in Turkey and their want to identify and then meet with Bosniaks, commented on the appearance of people and used skin colour as one distinguishing feature. Regarding an occasion in a coffee house in Ankara they have written ‘[some] in appearance remind us of Bosniaks’. They did not articulate what they used to define the appearance of Bosniaks. Such racialising discourse is essentially biological determinism. Arguments based upon biological determinism are often challenged by social constructivist discourses that place emphasis on the historicity and contestability of social categories and with such approaches, matters of ethnic and national belonging are considered social phenomena that are formed by historically situated language groups and contemporaneous economic and political interests. 7. A three-storey house, comprising a ground floor, a first floor and a second floor. 8. Bu¨yu¨kbaba is a Turkish word. The English-language translation is grandfather. I employ Bu¨yu¨kbaba as a name, that is, as a pseudonym to honour the terms of confidentiality agreed with research participants and I use it as an honorific in order to reflect the household structure and demonstrate the manner in which the householders accepted me as a member of the household during the time I spent in their home. 9. Bu¨yu¨kanne is a Turkish word. The English-language translation is grandmother and, as noted above in relation to the use of Bu¨yu¨kbaba, I use it here as an honorific. 10. Eselamu alejkum is a greeting which, translated from the Arabic language, can mean ‘Peace be unto you.’ The variant and spelling here is how this Arabic greeting is transliterated in the Bosnian language. Eselamu alejkum for Bosnian-language speaking Muslims is considered an Islamic greeting, a means through which one voices Muslim identity and solidarity. Although this greeting is used widely among Arabic speakers and does not signify one’s religious orientation, for Bosnian-language speakers this greeting holds much symbolic value and is considered a greeting voiced exclusively by Muslims. Bosnian-language speaking Muslims recognise the importance of the Arabic language to Islam and many consider Arabic a sacred language because it is the language of the original Qur’an. Based on my prior research experience I was aware that politics and offence can emerge from the use or otherwise of this specific greeting. The calling of this greeting is understood to convey one’s deference to the rules of the house defined by its elders and of one’s submission to Allah. 11. I have chosen to distinguish this household from others by using Sandzˇakli like a surname. Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba said they had emigrated from Sandzˇak.

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12. Relinquishing citizenship was part of the deal that emigrants made when leaving Yugoslavia. In order to relinquish citizenship, a stipulation was that the emigrant needed to provide evidence that they were guaranteed another state’s citizenship. 13. Since children – that is, those under the age of 18 – are, according to academic protocol, considered unable to provide the independent informed consent needed to be considered a participant of research, my conversations with them are not part of the detail provided in this book. 14. This is referred to as the snowballing method. 15. In the same census, the other ethnic classifications tabulated were: Serbs, Albanians, Austrians, Askalije, Banjasi, Belgians, Bulgarians, Bunjevci, Vlachs, Goranci, Greeks, Danish, Egyptians, English, Italians, Jews, Armenians, Yugoslavs, Chinese, Hungarians, Macedonians, Muslims, Germans, Norwegians, Poles, Roma people, Romanians, Russians, Ruthenians, Slovaks, Slovenians, Torlaci, Turks, Ukrainians, Finns, French, Croats, Cincari, Montenegrins, Czech, Swiss, Swedes, Sokci, Sopi. Other responses were tabulated under the classifications: Other, Did not declare pursuant to art. 47 of the Constitution of the RS, Declared themselves in terms of regional affiliation, Unknown. 16. In the same census, the other ethnic classifications tabulated were: Montenegrins, Serbs, Albanians, Muslims, Croats, Bosnians, Bosniak-Muslims, Montenegrins-Muslims, Montenegrins-Serbs, Egyptians, Gorani, Italians, Yugoslavs, Hungarians, Macedonians, Muslims-Bosniaks, Muslims-Montenegrins, Germans, Roma, Russians, Slovenians, Serbs-Montenegrins, Turkish. Other responses were tabulated under the classifications: Other, Regional qualification, Does not want to declare. 17. The Bosniac National Council is a representative body, a lobby group, concerned with the rights of Bosniaks as an ethnic minority in Serbia. In 1999, the council’s committee adopted a memorandum of the autonomy for Sandzˇak and declared its special relationship with Bosnia and Herzegovina. From the year 2000, the council has been less oriented toward separatism and more concerned with participating in, and supporting democratic processes within, Serbia and, as part of this, advocating Bosniak unity in the pursuit of collective rights (Bosniac National Council 2017). 18. This division was formalised following the Balkan Wars. 19. Bosniaks are enumerated, according to the 2013 Census of Population, Households and Dwellings in Bosnia and Herzegovina, to be the dominant ethnic group, for 50.1 per cent of respondents self-identify as Bosniak.

Chapter 1

Muhajirin

1. ‘Ne mutlu Tu¨rku¨m diyene’ is this nationalist slogan in the Turkish language. 2. Bu¨yu¨kanne said: ‘insha’allah’. 3. Annual commemorations of the events that occurred in and around Srebrenica, Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1995 are held in Turkey. From the office of the

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Presidency of the Republic of Turkey a statement is issued – at the time of writing, the most recent statement was the one issued on 11 July 2017: We commemorate today with great sadness and grief the 22nd Anniversary of the Srebrenica Massacre perpetrated before the eyes of the troops of the UN Protection Force on 11 July 1995 in Srebrenica which was announced as a “safe zone” by the United Nations. On this occasion, I wish Allah’s mercy upon our sacred martyrs who lost their lives in this massacre, one of the most disgraceful incidents in the recent period of human history, and wish patience to their relatives and all Bosnian people. The Srebrenica Genocide will pursue those who killed 8,372 innocent people disregarding woman-man, young-old, as well as the cowards who delivered the civilians seeking protection from them to the blood-thirsty murderers by trampling on the most fundamental of human rights. In order to avoid the repetition of such inhumane episodes, first of all, it should be ensured that everyone who was involved and negligent in the Srebrenica massacre, get the punishment they deserve. In addition, the spread of racist, Islamophobic ideologies as well as those inciting ethnic hatred, which cause conflicts among the people living in the same street, city and country, should be prevented. Initiatives aimed at making people forget, underestimate or deny the genocide perpetrated in Srebrenica, should never be allowed. On the other hand, it deserves great admiration that the people of Bosnia-Herzegovina exert devoted efforts in order to live together with their neighbours in peace and serenity despite the sufferings, injustices and unlawfulness witnessed in the past. We consider that the best response to those trying to cast a shadow upon peace is the preservation of the ethnically and culturally rich structure of Bosnia-Herzegovina. We also believe that looking at the future with hope can be achieved by encouraging trust, friendship and cooperation as well as keeping the sufferings in mind. On this occasion, we call upon the international community to support the independence, territorial integrity and sovereignty of Bosnia-Herzegovina with concrete steps and also facilitate its efforts to integrate with European and Euro-Atlantic institutions. In the year 2017, one could argue that there was bipartisan recognition for the victims and survivors of genocide, for expressions of sorrow in relation to Srebrenica were made by Kemal Kıliıc darogˇlu, the leader of the main opposition in Turkey, on his Twitter account page. This public statement was then re-posted on the Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi’s website at: www.chp.org.tr. 4. Aunt is an honorific used to refer to women of my mother’s generation and older, and does not indicate a kin or bloodline relationship between them and myself. 5. That marriage between kin occurs in Turkey, and that this is a matter of interest and concern and debate, is demonstrated by the fact that surveys about this are conducted and results reported and made available by the Turkish Statistical Institute.

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6. ‘May Allah be compassionate to his/her/their soul’ is an intercession used when speaking of the dead. Ismeta, Husnija and others when speaking of their dead family members would say that they had ‘resettled to ahiret’. To say someone has ‘resettled to ahiret’ is to say that they have died and moved on to the next world. This phrasing relates to the conceptualisation that there are two worlds: this first world is the world in which human beings are born and die. Upon death, the soul separates from the body and continues to live in the second world, an eternal world that Muslims in the Bosnian language refer to as ahiret. 7. It might be easy for one to reason that the violence was perpetrated due to ‘ancient ethnic hatreds’ or ‘ancient religious hatreds’ and the manner in which the narratives were being told might lead one to such a conclusion. We can consider the conditions in Yugoslavia at the time. World War II had just ended, retribution may have been sought for continuing local rivalries. The state had not yet exerted its control over armed bands, and wartime destruction – physical and economic – was rife. 8. This definition does not encompass all those who are forced to migrate, such as those leaving areas afflicted by a range of disasters. 9. In 59. Al-hashr of the Qur’an, it is written: It is for the poor refugees who were driven from their homes and possessions, desiring the favour and the pleasure of God and supporting God and His Messenger. Such people are the truthful. Those who were already settled in the city [Medina] and firmly rooted in faith, love those who migrated to them for refuge, and harbour no desire in their hearts for what has been given to the [latter]. They give them preference over themselves, even if they too are needy: those who are saved from their own soul’s greed are truly successful. In this passage one can note the message about refuge offered to refugees and the message against greed and of envy or jealously over what the refugees possess. The above is the translation of the Qur’an made by Khan (2009). Dawood’s (1997) translation of this passage differs from Khan’s. Here is a message about the refuge provided specifically to ‘muhajirin’ – for remember that Dawood treats ‘muhajirin’ as a distinct concept: A share of the spoils shall also fall to the poor among the muhajirin who have been driven from their homes and their possessions, who seek God’s grace and bounty and who help God and His apostle. These are the true believers. The men who stayed in their own city [Medina] and embraced the Faith before them love those who have sought refuge with them; they do not covet what they are given, but rather prize them above themselves, though they are in want. Those that preserve themselves from their own greed shall surely prosper. In the Bosnian-language translation of the Qur’an made by Korkut (n.d.), the translation is closer to Dawood’s English-language translation. Here also the concept of muhajirin is used.

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10. Friday is often spoken about as an auspicious day but Bu¨yu¨kanne did not mention whether this was the reason she mentioned the day of the week. 11. Merhamet Muslimansko dobrotvrono drusˇtvo. 12. Hodzˇic´ and Kalajdzˇic´ (2014:21) provided an account from one of their interviews conducted in a village on the outskirts of Ankara. The interviewee spoke of Turks who thought that Bosniaks were not believers and whom because of this were treated with distrust. In the story, it was only after a Bosniak imam demonstrated his knowledge and led a prayer that these Turks ‘trusted that these new residents were Muslim’. This valuing of the Bosniaks’ knowledge of Islam and ability to lead prayers in Arabic may be considered in relation to the debates concerning whether it is more valuable to pray in Arabic. See Aydar and Go¨kkir (2007) for an example of these debates. 13. Ummah, when translated into the English language from the Arabic and Hebrew languages, can mean: people, nation, sect. 14. Yanardag˘ (2009), whose study focused on the experiences of ‘Yugoslavian migrants’ who had migrated to Turkey in the 1950s, has argued that attachment to locality and identification with the nation are intertwined processes. The argument put forward is this: by engaging with the local, one positions oneself in relation to the nation and so the author describes how migrants create attachments to their municipality and how this correlates with their attachment to the nation. 15. Yucel’s passage is cited at greater length in a subsequent chapter.

Chapter 2 Rahman’s Business and Abla’s Illness 1. Rahman said ‘momak’, which, when translated from the Bosnian language into English, can mean: boy, young man, bachelor, boyfriend. I have translated momak as bachelor because of the context of Rahman’s narration. Rahman was talking about his transition from the status of a momak – a bachelor – to that of a cˇovjek. Cˇovjek, when translated from the Bosnian language into English, can mean: man, guy, human, person. Upon marriage, Rahman, regardless of age, would no longer refer to himself as a momak. Abla’s transition would have been from a djevojka, which, when translated from the Bosnian language into English, can mean: girl and unmarried female. Perhaps the closest word in the English language would be ‘maid’, with its connotation of virgin. Upon marriage, the djevojka transitions to a zˇena, which, when translated into English, means: woman and wife. Although one might be tempted to suggest that, according to a linguistic-cum-cultural logic, one attains the status of an adult only upon marriage, that would be crude. Marriage is a rite of passage and Rahman’s subsequent narration reveals that he was not living the life of a child. He says that upon marriage he accepted the duty of care for other humans that extended beyond his own person.

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2. ‘Abracadabra’, a word said by magicians when performing a trick. In the Bosnian language the equivalent is c´iri ba, c´iri bu, and that – like a performer – is how Rahman spoke of the fortune teller. 3. Sulemaniye mosque, designed by the famed architect Sinan and commissioned by Sultan Suleyman. Topkapi Palace was built during Sultan Mehmet’s reign and was used as the sultans’ residence between the years 1465 and 1830. The Haghia Sophia museum is built on the site of two earlier churches. Its construction was completed in 537. Sultanahmet mosque, also known as the Blue mosque, is iconic for its six minarets. 4. Uncle is an honorific used to refer to men of my father’s generation and older, and does not indicate a kin or bloodline relationship between them and myself. Rahman used this same honorific when speaking of these men to me. 5. Of the use of superficial markers to inform one’s own superficial assessment of another’s political orientations, O¨zyu¨rek (2006:99) has written: My own mother, a staunch Kemalist activist living in the predominately secular and upscale Istanbul neighbourhood of Erenko¨y, told me that she started wearing an Atatu¨rk pin after Islamists gained power in the 1994 local elections. She said, “When I am walking on the street, I want to show that there are people dedicated to Atatu¨rk’s principles. Look, now there are veiled women walking around even in this neighbourhood. I push my chest forward to show them my pin as I pass them. I have my Atatu¨rk against their veils.” My mother utilizes her own body to display pictures of Atatu¨rk in a neighbourhood in which there is no scarcity of Atatu¨rk statues or busts erected by government funds. As she encounters symbols of the Islamic lifestyle, she feels a personal responsibility to display state symbols as her individualized political position. 6. In 1919 Turkey as a state was not yet in existence. 7. In 1920 the Treaty of Se`vres was signed by the Ottoman government with the Allies. It reduced the size of ‘Turkey’ considerably. According to the treaty, parts that had been under the control of the Ottoman Empire were given to the Allied powers. 8. Castles and Miller (2009:100) provide an overview of the German guestworker system: The German Government started recruiting foreign workers in the mid-1950s. The Federal Labour Office (Bundesanstalt fu¨r Arbeit, or Bfa) set up recruitment offices in the Mediterranean countries. Employers requiring foreign labour paid a fee to the Bfa, which selected workers, testing occupational skills, providing medical examinations and screening police records. The workers were brought in groups to Germany, where employers had to provide initial accommodation. Recruitment, working conditions and social security were regulated by bilateral agreements between FRG and the sending countries: first Italy, then Spain, Greece, Turkey, Morocco, Portugal, Tunisia and Yugoslavia. The number of foreign workers in

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the FRG rose from 95,000 in 1956 to 1.3 million in 1966 and 2.6 million in 1973. 9. O¨zal, who was the Prime Minister of Turkey between the years 1983 and 1989 and President between 1989 and 1993, is described by C¸olak (2006:587) as one Turkish politician who evoked memories of the Ottoman Empire in the Balkans as a means of promoting a notion of shared culture to unify peoples within Turkey and as an orientation for Turkish foreign policy. 10. In 2009, select citizens of Australia were provided with ‘payments’. The rationale was that ‘These one off cash bonuses reflect the weight of economic authority – including the advice of the International Monetary Fund – that targeted one off payments rather than generalised tax cuts spread over a lengthy period are more likely to be consumed, and thus provide a more effective economic stimulus and provide more support for Australian jobs’ (Australian Government’s Treasury Website 2009). 11. I did not ask about the conditions in which Rahman’s workers worked. For example, I could have asked and sought to find out whether it was a sweatshop that he had in his basement and how he reasoned that the working conditions were acceptable. If I had done so, my research focus would have differed. The previous day Rahman introduced me to people and to his ideas about bonds, shame and trust. He had introduced me to the idea of cursing, had repeated it as a means of explaining his circumstances, and that was something about which I sought more information, for as Edgerton and Langness (1974: 58) have written: ‘the anthropologist notices and records some things while ignoring others . . . He [sic] does so . . . because of his personality, his training, and his theoretical interests.’ As with all representations of people’s lives, this representation of the lives of the Sandzˇakli householders is limited. 12. Schoeck (1969: 26) writes: ‘No system of ethics, no religion, no popular wisdom recorded in proverbs, no moral fables and no rules of behaviour among primitive [sic] peoples have ever made a virtue of envy.’ Neither jealousy nor envy is mentioned in many passages in the Qur’an. In one of the passages envy is associated with evil, from which one should pray for protection. See Daybreak (Al-Falaq) 113: 1. ‘Say, “I seek refuge in the Lord of the Daybreak 2. from the evil of what He has created 3. from the evil of darkness as it descends 4. from the evil of those who blow on knots; 5. and from the evil of the envier when he envies.”’ 13. Of the presence of such ideas in a different context, of followers of Sufism in England and Pakistan, Werbner (2003:223) has written that fear of the evil eye is ‘all pervasive’ and that the evil eye is associated with envy and can be caused ‘by a complete stranger or a close relative. It is sometimes inadvertent, and is directed especially against children who appear particularly beautiful.’ 14. It was not clear, and I did not clarify, whether the envious wanted Abla’s possessions or whether they wanted to have similar items but not necessarily those she possessed. In characterising enviers, Schoech (1969:5) contended that, ‘the envier has little interest in the transfer of anything of value from the other’s

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possession to his [sic] own. He [sic] would like to see the other person robbed, dispossessed, stripped, humiliated or hurt, but he never conjures up a detailed mental picture of how a transfer of the other’s possession to himself [sic] might occur.’ 15. Abla said ‘Bog’, which from the Bosnian language is translated into English as God. I have used the word Allah when interlocutors used specifically the word Allah rather than any other equivalent to the word God. 16. Abla’s self-criticism did not appear to be a condition that aligned directly with expectations of ‘retributive catastrophe’ (Schoeck (1969:119–26), which accounts for a balance in good and bad fortune. Here, her statement was about her not abiding by expectations of modesty and possibly secretiveness and self-abasement against ostentatious display of wealth, which then serves as a protection. 17. Also known as a colostomy bag.

Chapter 3 ‘Let It Not Be Called!’ 1. There are numerous ways that cleanliess can be imbued with political meanings. Of reference to cleanliness for the purpose of exerting dominance, Ozkul (2014:119 –20) has written, of assessments of cleanliness being used as means for expressing ethno-religious superiority: Until I started high school I spent most of my time after school in this store witnessing the interactions between women through my mother. Although conversations would last for hours and all enjoyed my mother’s seemingly neutral position, things were not always as rosy as one idealizes multi-ethnicity and multi-religiosity. I remember many did not trust Alevis among us on the basis that they might be dirty and suggested that it would not be good to drink Turkish coffee prepared by them because “one would not drink or eat from Alevi hands” [italics in original]. In relation to research conducted with emigrants from Greece in Australia, Bottomley (1979) has written of the references made by her research participants to their own cleanliness and that such references were made for the purpose of distinguishing themselves from, and claiming a higher moral ground in relation to, ‘Australians’. 2. Bu¨yu¨kanne used the word, prijatelju. Prijatelj, when translated from the Bosnian language into English, means ‘friend’. Doubt (2014), in his study of marriage practices and kin relationships in Bosnia and Herzegovina, prefers to translate ‘prijatelj’ as ‘friend’. I have translated it as ‘affine’ because that is the intended meaning. Prijatelj in this context is an indicator of a kinship relationship, a relationship by marriage, much like the word ‘affine’. In English, the link between ‘affine’ and ‘friend’ may be noted in the word ‘affinity’, which can mean ‘attraction’ and ‘relationship’. The Latin affinitas means kin by marriage.

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3. Werbner (2003:221) has observed the significance of naming among some Pakistani Muslims: ‘Some illnesses, the khalifa explained, are named – such as heart attacks. These are not regarded as having been caused by a supernatural agent, either intentionally or accidentally.’ 4. Bu¨yu¨kanne’s comment that Abla had been ‘innocent’ was intended to convey that Abla had been a virginal bride. A common practice meant that the stained sheets from the first-night’s consummation of marriage would be collected by and viewed by the mother-in-law. Blood on the sheets – blood from the broken hymen – would be considered assurance of the bride’s virginity. 5. Globally, according to data from the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (2016), the global literacy rate is 85.3 per cent. Of the illiterate, 63 per cent are women. Illiteracy is defined as a lack of basic reading and writing skills. According to censuses in Turkey, in 1975 65.63 per cent of the female population aged 25 years and over were illiterate. In 2000, 27.39 per cent of the female population aged 25 years and over were illiterate. In 2000, of the male population aged 25 years and over, 7.02 per cent were illiterate. In the year 2000, 5.39 per cent of the female population in Turkey aged 25 years and over had completed higher education, 9.12 per cent had completed high school or vocational school at a high school level of education, 5.31 per cent had completed junior high school or vocational school at a junior high school level of education (Turkish Statistical Institute 2017c). 6. In that year – 2010 – of the total exports from Turkey that amounted to a monetary value of US$113,883,219.184, the total export of food and live animals was valued at US$10,498,627.863, with the export of fruits and vegetables valued at US$6,152,500.651 (Turkish Statistical Institute 2017b). 7. As mentioned earlier, cleaning was an activity that adult women in the Sandzˇakli household were expected to complete. Paid work was that which each husband was expected to do but, as Arminka notes, there were challenges to, and debates about, these gendered divisions of labour. For an interpretation of the sentiment similar to that expressed by Arminka, see Parla (2009).

Chapter 4 Beliefs of a Faith Healer 1. In Sontag’s (1978:57) observation: ‘Patients who are instructed that they have, unwittingly, caused their disease are also being made to feel that they deserved it.’ 2. ‘Efendinica’ in the Bosnian language is used as a title to refer to an imam’s wife. Here, I use it both as a pseudonym and a title. ‘Efendi’ in Turkish, and ‘Efendija’ in Bosnian, means ‘gentleman’. In the Bosnian language the use is often reserved as an honorific title when referring to an imam. ‘Efendinica’ in the Bosnian language is, then, the gentleman’s, that is, the imam’s, wife. The English-language variant – ‘effendi’ – means master and is a reference to the Turkish context. 3. Mosques, and the people who run them, are overseen by the Republic of Turkey’s Presidency of Religious Affairs. This structure can be considered as

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affirming Turkey’s secular status because religious institutions are subordinated to the authority of the state. A pilgrimage that Muslims make to Mecca (located in the present-day Kingdom of Saudi Arabia) in the twelfth month of the lunar calendar. Bringa (1995:240) has written that baggy trousers – in the Bosnian language, dimije – were a Turkish fashion introduced to Bosnia during Ottoman rule and that Muslims and Christians alike wore them; and that, in the late eighteenth century, colours were introduced to distinguish Muslims from Christians. While Muslim women could wear a range of colours, Christians were restricted to wearing black and blue. In the late twentieth century, when Bringa conducted her research, she wrote that: ‘the dimije were imbued with strong symbolic value; they epitomized “muslimness” and were a sign of backwardness and “orientalism” in the minds of Christians and urbanized Muslims’ (Bringa 1995:65). In the post-1995 context, Bosnian nationalists have promoted reevaluations of the symbolic meaning of material items such as clothing. Bakic´-Hayden and Hayden’s (1992) analysis of political discourse of the 1980s and early 1990s found that concerted effort was directed at constructing certain populations within Yugoslavia as primitive. People and regions were distinguished on the basis of their ‘European-ness’, for example. Croatia and Slovenia were differentiated from other regions of the former Yugoslavia due to their former inclusion in the Habsburg Empire, which was considered to have imbued them with a greater ‘European’ character. This was contrasted with the backward legacies of the Ottoman Empire, which left its imprint on the other regions and peoples of the former Yugoslavia, particularly Bosnia. Similarly, throughout her research in pre-war Bosnia, Bringa (1995) observed that Muslim identification through dress, religious expression and speech were often regarded as backward. Baggy trousers and coffee cups without handles became markers of the Ottoman influence on Bosnian culture and suffered devaluation, reflecting the Orient and primitivism. Sadika employed this type of symbolic differentiation to explain the difference between the Turkish traditional cups and the contemporary cups with handles. Saqif can also be spelled Tahqif. Sokullu Mehmet Pas¸a in the Turkish language and Mehmed-pasˇa Sokolvic´ in the Bosnian language. Different myths and representations circulate about this figure. Efendinica’s treatment differs from the variant told to and relayed by Sivric, who had spent time with peasants in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Sivric (1982:142) wrote the following: ‘The Turks were often quite brutal. For instance, they kidnapped infants from their Christian mothers and sent them to Istanbul to be reared. Later, many infants held high positions in the Ottoman Empire; as, for example, Grand Vizier Mehmed Pasha Sokolovic, the Islamized Croatian from Bosnia.’ C¸olak’s (2006:594) characterisation of a general public opinion, to me is reminiscent of Efendinica’s manner of thinking: The Serbian nationalists’ attempt at ethnic cleansing of the Bosnians and later the Albanian minority in Kosovo (by equating the terms

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Muslim/Turk/Ottoman), attacks on Ottoman monuments, and rising ethnic conflict in Macedonia were tragic events that reminded both the Balkan Muslim population and Turkish citizens of their common Ottoman ancestors, of their knowledge of a common Ottoman culture. (Those incidents seemed to show us clearly that the Ottoman vision, with its multicultural characteristics, looks better than nationalist ideologies that appear more modern.) This “rediscovery of the country’s heritage”, its “historical responsibility”, engendered in the Turks’ wide public support for Bosnian Muslims, as attacks on the Bosnians, made the past a part of daily life. One might equate the Bosnian war and the rise of Ottoman consciousness among Bosnian Muslims and Turkish citizens; in fact, largely because of the Ottoman past and a common heritage, Bosnian leaders looked to Turkey and tried to enlist its support in their resistance. In that public support for the issue of Bosnia, both historical (Ottoman) and religious (Islamic) motives played a significant role.

Chapter 5 Visiting Nationalists 1. Zaova is a word in the Bosnian language, which, and when translated into English, means sister-in-law. 2. The myth here is that there is a physical-cum-racial difference embodied by ‘Bosnians’. The ’loss’ about which the interlocutors subsequently spoke did not include such references to race and racialisation. 3. Hajji Refik used the Bosnian word ‘Bosanaca’, which can be translated into English as ‘Bosnians’. The reader will note that his spouse, Sevda, subsequently uses a different phrase and she refers to ‘the language of the Bos¸naks’. The reader will remember that Bos¸nak is the Turkish word that tends to be translated into English as Bosnian. The distinction between the ethnonyms Bosniak and Bosnian tends not to be made by speakers of the Turkish language. 4. The reference here is to a political visibility and not a physical-racial visibility. 5. Bosniak nationalists often argue about the symbolic violence enacted through state institutions which denied Bosniaks official recognition as an ethno-nation in Yugoslavia. Within Yugoslavia, the words – ethnonyms – that were acceptable in the official categorisation of people included Croat, Macedonian, Montenegrin, Serb and Slovene. It was in 1971 that Bosnian Muslims (later again to adopt the ethnonym Bosniak) received official recognition as a constituent ethnic group. Recognised minority groups in Yugoslavia included Albanians, Germans, Hungarians, Slovaks and Turks. The standard narrative is this: the post-World War II state of Yugoslavia was formed as a multinational federation of six republics – Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia and Slovenia – and five nations: Croats, Macedonians, Montenegrins, Serbians and Slovenians. These nations were to identify with their respectively identified republic, such that the Croatian nation was to identify with Croatia, Macedonians with Macedonia and so on. Within this

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schema, Bosnia and Herzegovina was an anomaly; Bosnians had not in the early postwar years been identified as a nation. Bosniak was not a category either. Muslims, then, in Bosnia and Herzegovina and elsewhere, such as in the region of Sandzˇak, that is, in Montenegro and Serbia, who may have considered themselves a distinct ethnic group, did not have an officially recognised category such as the ethnonym Bosniak through which to declare themselves. Irwin (1983) has written that the majority of Muslims in Bosnia and Herzegovina at the time of the 1948 census declared themselves ‘nationally undetermined Muslims’, that is, Muslims without a national identity. Dyker (1972) has written that there was pressure exerted upon Muslims within Bosnia and Herzegovina to identify as either Croat or Serb. In this paragraph the distinction between Bosniaks and Bosnians is being made, the former referring to an ethno-linguistic group in Turkey and the latter referring to people whose ancestors migrated from Bosnia and Herzegovina rather than from Sandzˇak or other areas. Bu¨yu¨kbaba used the word sacˇuvali, which when translated from the Bosnian language into English can mean ‘preserved’, ‘conserved’, ‘retained’, ‘maintained’, ‘kept’. I have translated it as ‘preserved’ because the context of the story reveals that the Bosnian language was kept from harm. Continuation of the racialisation. Ince (2012:60) has written that in the decade of the 1920s the Turkish Hearth association was active in this regard: In Parliament there was an attempt to pass a law making Turkish compulsory and not speaking it punishable by a fine. Even as these assembly debates were going on, some municipalities, Bursa, for example, in 1925, followed by Balıkesir and Bergama in 1927, took the initiative, and began to impose fines for failing to speak Turkish in public areas. Izmir was also sensitive about Turkish being spoken in public areas. Owing to its cosmopolitan character, there were many non-Muslims speaking different languages in Izmir. The local branch of the Turkish Hearth put up Turkification signs around the city, conducted campaigns and offered courses to spread the use of Turkish among Izmir’s non-Muslims. The ‘Citizen, Speak Turkish!’ (Vatandas¸ Tu¨rkce Konus¸!) campaign was not peculiar to Istanbul or Izmir: it was found in other cities with minority populations such as Edirne, where one could find threatening words written beneath the campaign’s posters. On 13 January, 1928, it organised a campaign aimed at preventing the use of languages other than Turkish in public places. Signs were hung and people speaking foreign languages were scolded. Of the experience of Arabic-speakers in south-central Turkey, Dog˘ruel and Lehman (2009:599) have written, not of institutionally supported campaigns, but of social pressure. One of their respondents stated: ‘In any national activity if you try to speak Arabic they say this is Turkey, so speak Turkish (Arab Alawite, 50, M, high school)’. Another of their respondents understood this to be a form of ‘voluntary assimilation’ (p. 599) and with

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this the authors write that parents speak Turkish with their children ‘as a strategy of integration into the dominant Turkish culture and official Turkish language, and particularly for the sake of their education. Speaking Arabic is seen by many as an obstacle to successful education, and to fluent and native knowledge of Turkish’ (Dog˘ruel and Lehman 2009:599 – 600). 10. One might be tempted but I cannot argue that the phrasing of ‘giving’ automatically reveals an intentional or otherwise objectification of daughters. In an earlier conversation with Bu¨yu¨kanne, some of which was transcribed in Chapter 2, Bu¨yu¨kanne conveyed that she had a duty to look after her daughtersin-law as though they were her own children and that she was to care for their physical and moral condition. 11. Bu¨yu¨kanne used the word vrijedna, which was discussed in an earlier chapter. Zaova was a mother of two children and completed most domestic tasks in her own apartment. She was in paid employment outside the household and in so doing contributed to the household finances. 12. The henna ceremony is an elaborate celebratory event during which the bride’s hands and feet are dyed with henna. This occurs in the day(s) or night(s) preceding the wedding ceremony. 13. ‘Mother tongue’ is the phrasing used in the census. 14. I spoke, drawing upon Karpat’s contribution to Koller and Karpat (2004). 15. Here I was referring to and reading in the Bosnian language from Safet Bandzˇovic´’s book (Bandzˇovic´ 2006). 16. Here I spoke drawing upon Kemal Kiris¸ci’s research articles (Kiris¸ci 1996, 2000, 2007, 2009). 17. Kiris¸ci (2009:283) attempts this task and estimates that there are four million ‘Bosnians’ living in Turkey. Kiris¸ci’s estimate refers to not only those who were born in Bosnia or in the states of the former Yugoslavia and thus he participates in imposing an ethnic identity. Bosniak, Bosnian and Sandzˇak cultural associations in Turkey are conducting their own surveys in order to establish figures and perhaps these were the ‘they’ to which Bu¨yu¨kbaba and Zaova referred. 18. Hajji Refik used the word narod. As explained earlier, when translated from Bosnian into English narod can mean ‘people’, ‘nation’, ‘crowd’, ‘population’, ‘the common people’. I have translated narod as ‘nation’ in this context because Hajji Refik was at that moment referring to a demonstration of power in numbers. 19. The ‘ethnic hatreds thesis’ is an explanatory schema that posits that wars, such as the wars in the 1990s in the then Yugoslavia, can be explained to have occurred because the belligerents are, and have been for centuries, enemies and that the war occurred when conditions allowed for the manifestation of latent, that is, existing yet temporarily subdued, enmities. Years of co-existence and solidarity expressed by people across religious and ethnic affiliations, and shifts in individual and collective identification, are disregarded in order to make an argument. It seemed that Hajji Refik was adopting such reasoning in order to make the argument for a cross-generational intention of Serbs to kill Bosniaks. Hajji Refik appeared fully convinced of his argument and would not accept

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anything that was presented to him that was to the contrary. Of a variant of this thesis, Todorova (1994, 1997) and Sells (1996) have written and noted that people of Eastern Europe, the Balkans and the former Yugoslavia have been characterised as barbaric and especially enthusiastic to engage in killing. This is a reference to the work of Bandzˇovic´ (2006:482). Here I referred to Bandzˇovic´ (2006:530). Bandzˇovic´ (2006:568) has written that from the municipalities of Novi Pazar, Sjenica and Tutin, some urban centres of the region known as Sandzˇak, the former being the urban centre from where Bu¨yu¨kanne and Bu¨yu¨kbaba emigrated, between the years 1945 and1967, emigrants who relinquished their Yugoslav citizenship amounted to 9,316 people. Bandzˇovic´ (2006:574) refers to an ‘exodus’ of Bosniaks from Sandzˇak and that mass emigration occurred especially from the municipalities of Bihora, Bistrice, Koria, Novi Pazar, Rozˇaje, Sjenica and Tutin between the years 1950 and 1970. Here I referred to Hadzˇisˇehovic´ (2003:133). That religious freedoms are not accorded to all Muslim groups in Turkey has been noted by scholars. Mandel (2008:262) has written that there is an implicit hegemony of state-controlled Islam, which makes Sunni Muslim practices and beliefs unremarkable and unmarked and, because of this, other Muslim groups such as the Alevi and Shafi Sufists experience discrimination. Ozkul (2014:119 –120) has written of remembering such discrimination: My fourth generation relatives migrated to Istanbul from the Balkans in the 1930s to be protected under the newly established Turkish Republic. They were so grateful to the republic that they soon acquired the ideas of the newly formed nation. They were identified as Sunni Muslims, privileged in the lands of Turkey regardless of their ethnicity. However, they did not practise the compulsory requirements of Sunni Islam, such as praying five times a day, going to mosque or Hajj [italics in the original]. Yet, coming from the Balkans with a desire and a need to prove they were good Sunni-Turks, they were afraid of being identified as heretics, a common epithet directed toward Alevis in Turkey.

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INDEX

abortion, 102– 3 acculturation, 12, 85, 109, 159 affine, 93, 171n.2 ahiret, 167n.6 Ahrens, Geert-Hinrich, 16 Albanian, 13, 20, 28, 32, 72, 95, 165n.15, 173n.9, 174n.5 amulet, 82, 85, 111– 12, 119, 129, 156 ansar, 118 army service, 72, 126, 139 assimilation, 141, 175n.9 Atatu¨rk, Mustafa Kemal, 19, 20, 28, 44, 72, 73, 74, 169n.5 atheist, 50, 151 Australia, 32, 36, 77, 170n.10 Australians, 46, 72, 73, 100, 114 Austria, 35, 36, Austrians, 126, 165n.15 bachelors, 52, 60, 168n.1 Bandzˇovic´, Safet, 7 –8, 176n.15, 177n.20, 177n.22 belief, 78, 100, 111– 13, 116, 121, 122– 3, 129– 30, 131, 133, 159 Belgrade, 8, 21 belonging, 32, 55, 137, 164n.6 blue eyes, 2, 81 – 2, 85 Blumi, Isa, 44 body language, 1, 82, 92, 99

Bogomil, 125, 137–8 Bosnia and Herzegovina, 13, 14– 15, 16, 44, 49, 142, 158, 165n.19, 165n.3 Bos¸nak, 14, 94, 145, 174n.3 Bosniak nationalism, 15, 138– 40, 142 numbers, 13, 16, 147– 8, 149 stereotype, 26, 143 village, 143 Bosnians ethnic group, 13, 15, 142, 143, 174n.5 ethno-religious group, 14, 142, language group, 14, 142, 143 racialised identity, 2, 164n.6 regional identifier, 14, 15 stereotype, 140, 173n.6 war, 21, 23, 37, 42, 51, 60, 73, 127, 139, 150, 158, 165n.3 Brighenti, Andrea, 115– 16 C¸anakkale, 35, 72, 143 cancer, 84, 85 – 7, 98 – 9, 104, 160 Catholic, 32, 57, 135 census, 16, 29, 30, 36, 148– 9, 165n.15, 165n.16, 165n.19, 172n.5, 174n.5 charity, 49, 55

190

A MUSLIM MINORITY

citizenship, 7, 27, 28 – 9, 32, 165n.12 cleanliness, 51, 65, 89, 90– 2, 110, 171n.1 clothing apparel manufacturing, 9, 68, 69, 70 dimije (harem pants), 113, 136, 173n.5 export, 61 symbolism, 72, 83, 136, 154, 169n.5, 173n.6 coffee, symbolism, 114, 116, 135, 154, 173n.6 communists, 50, 51, 52, 53, 151, 152– 3 community ethnic, 13, 16, 29, 31, 142 household, 12, 91 linguistic, 13, 14 Muslim, 50, 54, 55, 56, 160 nation, 13, 142 compassion, 11, 48, 49, 50, 54, 55, 56, 57, 103, 160 creationism, 122 Croatia, 15, 173n.6 culture, 12, 17, 96, 109, 141 curse, 52, 62, 77, 78, 79 – 84, 100, 109, 111– 12, 119, 158 Davutog˘lu, Ahmet, 13, 14 death, 24, 39, 65, 84, 86, 100, 110, 111, 141, 167n.6 decree, 90 dehumanisation, 24, 93 dimije (harem pants) see clothing education, 7, 50, 52, 60, 71, 93, 104, 119, 145, 146, 151, 172n.5 Eid, 51, 52 emotional intelligence, 56 envy, 79, 80 – 5, 100– 1, 107, 109, 158, 167n.9 Erdog˘an, Recep Tayyip, 13, 127, 165n.3

IN

TURKEY

ethnic hatred, 150, 158, 165n.3, 167n.7, 176,n.19 ethnicity, 13, 15, 29, 31, 142 marriage preferences, 35, 60, 126, 144, 145 minority, 141 evil eye, 81, 84, 85, 100, 159, 170n.13 exile, 43 Eyu¨p Ensari (Ayoub al-ansari), 118, 125 faith healer, 111 rituals of, 127 social work, 130– 3 faithful, 131 fasting, 94, 97 foods, 51, 52, 98, 105, 106, 141, 172n.6 qurban, 51 see also coffee, symbolism fortune teller, 63 Freud, Sigmund, 81 Gallipoli, 73 Geertz, Clifford, 17 gender, 59, 69, 91, 95 genocide, 139, 149, 150, 165n.3 Germany, 35, 61, 62, 75, 76, 169n.8 GFC (Global Financial Crisis), 61, 62, 77, 170n.10 Grabolle-C¸eliker, Anna, 9, 91 gratitude, 5, 20, 41, 55, 57, 158 greetings, 4, 34, 113, 164n.10 guilt, 92 Halilovich, Hariz, 161 hijra, 43, 47, 123 Hodzˇic´, Amir, 164n.6, 168n.12 homeland, 15, 44, 93, 96, 97 hos¸geldiniz (welcome), 2, 3, 4, 10, 113, 119, 130, hospitality, 10, 48, 57, household, 12, 91, 92 location, 7 structure, 4, 91, 92, 134

INDEX housework, 91, 109, 176n.11 husband, 38, 39, 40, 41, 59, 63, 97, 108, 172n.7 illness, 17, 58, 84, 85 –7, 98– 9, 102, 104, 110, 112, 117, 132, 156, 160, 172n.3 industriousness, 71, 75, 76, 90 – 1, 136 intercessions, 20, 50, 119, 129 invisible, 139, 141, 142 Istanbul, 7, 9, 11, 13, 14, 65, 70 Izetbegovic´, Alija, 73 – 4 Izmir, 7, 73 Jansen, Stef, 161 jealousy, 80, 167n.9 Jesus Christ, 57, 123 Kalajdzˇic´, Mirsad, 164n.6, 168n.12 Kaya, Mehmed, S., 10, Keskiner, Leyla˜, 43, 44 kinship, 10 – 11, 34, 135, 171n.2 Kiris¸ci, Kemal, 31, 141, 176n.16, 176n.17 Ko¨ber, Tolga, 43, 44 Kurds, 10, 13, 20, 28, 35, 42 Kymlicka, Will, 143 languages, 14 Arabic, 31, 43, 96, 128, 131, 164n.10 Bos¸nak, 14, 94, 146, 147, 174n.3 Bosnian, 14, 140, 143– 5 Latin, 31, 80 linguistic group, 14, 15, 102, 142, 143, 164n.6 literacy, 104, 172n.5 loss, 47, 80, 139– 40, 141, 152 Macedonia, 27, 48, 138 Macedonians, 20, 72 magic, 99, 101 marriage age of, 25, 59

191

arranged, 52, 59 – 60 duties toward spouse, 63, 88 – 9, 108, 168n.1 and ethnic identity, 35, 60, 126, 144, 145 with kin, 35, 166n.5 matriarch, 91, 92, 107 mercy, 49, 118, 153 merhamet, 11, 40, 48 – 50, 54, 56, 103, 151, 153– 4, 160 migrant identities go¨men, c 43, 44 muhajirin, 42, 43, 46, 47 refugee, 45, 47, 48 migration, 93, 96 doseljavanje, 45 iseljanvanje, 45 as a religious imperative, 17, 46– 8, 158 seoba, 45 minority, 1, 36, 55, 72, 141, 165n.17, 174n.5 modesty, 53, 76, 84 –5, 159, 171n.16 Montenegro, 15, 16, 17, 174n.5 morality, 17, 28, 33, 75, 91, 92, 99, 103, 132, 135, 153, 159, 160 motherhood, 33, 39, 65, 86, 88, 128, 130 muhajirin (muhacir, muhadzˇiri), 14, 19– 57 Muhammad, 17, 43, 46, 47, 55, 118, 120 migration narrative, 123 Muslim country, 27 – 33, 37, 39, 42, 45, 55, 105, 143, 153, 154 Muslimhood, 21, 23, 27, 42, 50 – 5 naming, 101– 2 nation, 142– 3 nationalism, 74, 140, 150 metaphors of, 137 neighbourhood, 20, 50, 54 – 5, 56, niqab, 36, 52 – 3 Novi Pazar, 8, 15, 16, 152, 177n.22

192

A MUSLIM MINORITY

Ottoman Empire, 13, 16, 31, 44, 47, 138, 143, 169n.7 Ozkul, Derya, 56, 171n.1, 177n.24 ¨ zyu¨rek, Esra, 96, 169n.5 O patriarch, 9, 134 peace, 12, 21, 22, 23, 27, 29, 37, 39, 42, 109, 126, 132, 137, 154 pity, 33, 49, 54, 55, 83 praise, 101 predestination, 21, 90, 158, 159 prijatelj, 93, 171n.2 punishment, 5, 47, 49, 85, 90, 109, 117, 132, 159 Qur’an, 47, 48, 49, 83, 100, 111, 120– 1, 128 racialisation, 2, 3, 15, 140, 144, 164n.6, 174n.2 Ramadan, 51, 94, 95 refugees, 6, 22, 31, 57, 76 definition, 43, 44, 45, 46, 48 fugitive, 47 izbjeglice, 47 Muslim, 6, 20, 44, 47, 57 religion, 17, 18, see also community; Muslimhood; resignation; ritual; Sunni resignation, 111, 131, 132 ritual, 98 death, 100, 157 healing, 127 Sandzˇak (Sancak), 15– 17 Sarajevo, 13, 35, 39 Scho¨ch, Ru¨diger, 46 Schoeck, Helmut, 80, 85, 170n.12 secularism, 28, 30, 31, 32, 72, 169n.5, 172n.3 seeing, 81 – 6, 115, 130, 135, 142, 154 Serbia, 15, 16, 17, 165n.17, 174n.5 Serbs, 15, 21, 39, 47, 126, 151, 153, 154, 158, 165n.15

IN

TURKEY

servitude, 57, 97 shame, 69, 110, 132, 159 shamefaced, 135 shawl, 34, 36, 53, 59, 72, 113, 128 Sivric, Ivo, 57, 135, 152, 154, 173n.8 Sokullu Mehmet Pasha, 126, 173n.8 solidarity cultural, 12, 13, 30, 32, 54, 85, 130 national, 14, 30, 176n.19 Sontag, Susan, 99, 172n.1 Srebrenica, 21, 127, 165n.3 stereotype, 26, 140, 143, 173n.6 submission, 97, 128, 164n.10 suffering, 57, 102, 117, 127, 151 Sultan Mehmet, 126, 138 Sunni, 32, 159 terror, 36, 37, 38, 47, 157 threat, 22, 38, 144, 157 Tito, Josip Broz, 23, 72 Turkey citizenship, 13, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, Constitution, 28, 29, 30, 163n.2 language, 72, 94, 143– 5 Muhajir country, 42 – 6 Muslim country, 27 – 33, 37, 39, 42, 45, 55, 105, 143, 153, 154 war, 8, 35, 72, 73 Turkishness, 28 ummah, 54 unbeliever, 18, 39, 51, 52, 151 uneducated, 7, 50, 52, 72, 93 United Nations, 45 victimisation, 55, 139, 149, 150, 151 violence, 24, 25, 26, 27, 41, 49, 147, 149 visibility, 84, 115, 130, 135, 142, 154 war, 7, 37, 42, 60, 73, 139, 149, 150, 152 watan (vatan), 94, 96, 97 fatherland/motherland, 96, 163n.2

INDEX homeland, 15, 44, 93, 96, 97 wealth, 9, 76, 78, 83, 93, 171n.16 wife, 25, 60, 63, 64, 77, 88, 91, 106, 108, 109, 168n.1 Wikan, Uni, 56 will Allah’s, 20, 21, 36, 85, 119, 126, 127, 131 individual, 116, 127, 159 words power of, 83, 98, 99, 100, 116

193

work, 9, 36, 39, 51, 61, 66, 68, 70, 71, 72, 74, 75, 93 gendered, 51, 69, 75, 90, 108 guestworker programme, 75, 169n.8 Yucel, Salih, 46, 47, 57, 96, 97 Yugoslavia, 7, 15, 16, 32, 47, 51, 52, 67, 75, 94, 95, 97, 105, 139, 143 citizenship, 7, 9, 165n.12 war, 37, 60 Yugoslavian, 71