The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb [1 ed.] 9781934536544, 9781934536124

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The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb

Baba Rexheb, 1990. Courtesy of Aslan Halim, photographer.

The Sufi Journey of

Baba Rexheb Y

Frances Trix

University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology Philadelphia

© 2009 Frances Trix First Edition All Rights Reserved Published for the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology by the University of Pennsylvania Press. Publication of this book was supported by a generous grant from Indiana University. Illustrations by Frances Trix unless otherwise specified.



library of congress cataloging -in-publication data

Trix, Frances. The Sufi journey of Baba Rexheb / Frances Trix. — 1st ed. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN-13: 978-1-934536-12-4 (hardcover : alk. paper) ISBN-10: 1-934536-12-1 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Rexheb, Baba, 1901–1995. 2. Bektashi—Albania—Biography. 3. Bektashi—United States—Biography. 4. Sufis—Biography. I. Title. BP80.R45T75 2009 297.4092—dc22 [B] 2008042345

frances trix is an ethnographer of Islam in Balkan immi­grant communities. Her books include Spiritual Discourse: Learning with a Muslim Master (1993), Albanians in Michigan (2001), and Muslim Voices and Lives in the Contemporary World (2008). She is an associate professor of linguistics and anthropology at Indiana University.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.

To those who follow in the Way of Baba Rexheb

C ontents Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . x Note on Names . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi Glossary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii

Prologue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 1. Welcome . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Meeting Baba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Baba Arrives in Michigan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Taping Talks with Baba. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19

2. Baba’s Bektashi Lineage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

The Inauspicious Event and Young Ali . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 The Return of Ali Haqi Baba. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Selim Ruhi Baba . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

3. Baba’s Balkan Heritage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Baba’s Hometown and Coming of Age . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Baba as a Young Dervish in a Young Country . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63

4. The Path of Exile . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Leaving the Homeland. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Displaced Persons Camps. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82

5. Waiting in Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97

At the Muqattam Tekke of Cairo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Gifts to Baba from the Saint . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 Leaving Egypt . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

6. Coming to America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

Founding the Tekke in Michigan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Securing the Tekke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

7. Early Decades at the Tekke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

Baba Bajram’s Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 A Dearth of Dervishes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160

8. Later Decades at the Tekke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167

Gentle Teaching . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Learning at the Tekke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 176

9. With Baba in the Beyond. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191

Baba’s Last Days and Journey Back. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 Baba’s Funeral and Our Journey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 199

Epilogue. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 207 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213 Index. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 219

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Preface This book is an ethnographic biography of a Balkan Muslim leader, Baba Rexheb, who founded the first Bektashi community in America. It is the account of a Sufi leader who lived through the 20th century, its wars, disruptions, and dislocations, and still at a profound level was never displaced. He lived his life as a dervish, sustained by the lifelong bond with his spiritual master. It is a book full of stories. Bektashis teach through lived example and through stories, or, more precisely, stories within stories within relationships, preceded by coffee and followed by a meal. As a linguistic anthropologist I studied with Baba Rexheb in his community for over 20 years. For 12 of these years I taped our weekly lessons in Turkish, Albanian, and Arabic. I draw extensively from transcriptions and translations of these lessons in telling Baba’s life story. Besides reconstructing the life story of a modern Sufi leader in his communities, this study also documents the 700-year-old Bektashi Order in the 19th and 20th centuries in the Balkans, Egypt, and America, through oral histories and lived accounts, supplemented with archival sources, traditional Bektashi literature, and published sources in Turkish, Albanian, and other European languages. At the very least, documenting such a Muslim mystic order in modern times contradicts simplistic notions of Islam. At the same time, our modern times impose expectations that will not be met. In Western culture, both popular and scholarly, to know another is to know his or her flaws. I would counter that to know another is to be changed by that knowing. For readers who have not been stretched across cultures, I can only request their trust that this is the way Baba’s story should be told. Most books on Sufism are based on Sufi texts—either poetic or theological. But despite excellent philological scholarship, there are many gaps in our knowledge of the sociocultural contexts of these works and how they were composed, performed, read, and understood. Sufi knowledge and relationships were passed on in oral settings, but these are often omitted or unknown. In contrast I focus on such oral settings and the central relationship with the spiritual teacher. I include Sufi texts of prayers, laments, poetry, exegesis, parables, eulogies, and life stories of babas and dervishes, but they are all richly

The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb

contextualized in particular historical times of particular communities. I also document Sufi practices and beliefs in narrative form, grounded in community across the liturgical year. Overall it is the personal dimension that distinguishes this work. Rather than compare beliefs or posit influence, I describe closely being with Baba in his communities. It is this firsthand experience of relationship with a Sufi master in his community over time that is this book’s signal contribution. At the same time it contributes to our understanding of social roles of Sufi centers in Islamic community life and their interaction with people of other faiths. Just as Baba worked to reach out to many people in his communities, so his life speaks to people widely.

Acknowledgments I acknowledge first and foremost the Bektashi community in Michigan for their kindness and unfailing hospitality over many years. I am most grateful to members of this community as well as to other Albanians in America, Canada, Albania, Macedonia, Kosova, Turkey, and Egypt for their generosity in sharing documents and memories of Baba Rexheb and his communities. In particular I thank Baba Bajram, Baba Arshi, Xhevat Kallajxhi, Zejnepe Çuçi, Nake and Hasan Premtaj, Shije Orhan Shahin and Hajdar Shahin, Nancy Adam Topulli, Qani Prespa and Zejnepe Adam, Shaban Shemsedini, Husni and Bukurije Aliko, Sally Negip, Hakki Gaba, Eqrem Stino, Sejit Chota, Shahin Çoçoli, Rudi Kiçi, Shaban Peshtani, Sejfi Protopapa, Eqrem Peshkopia, Karim Hadjiou, Fawzija and Amr Bekdash, Imam Vehbi Ismail, Dom Prenk Vashaj, Father Arthur Liolin, Ajnur Rakipi, Isnisha and Gani Muço, Myrvet Sula, Fadil Duro, and Dr. Bedri Noyan. I acknowledge Walter Andrews for his wise counsel on Ottoman poetics; Sholet Quinn, historian of Safavid Iran; and Robert Elsie, the finest Albanologist today. I also acknowledge university mentors, colleagues, and friends: Alton P. Becker, K. Allin Luther, James Stewart-Robinson, Ann Larimore, Siglind Bruhn, and John V. A. Fine from the University of Michigan; Barbara Aswad, Bernice Kaplan, and Guerin Montilus from Wayne State University. For illustrations, I acknowledge the work of professional photographers Linda Wan and Manny Crisostomo, and that of Ric Cradick, Indiana University Digital Specialist. I especially acknowledge the acumen of Walda Metcalf, Director of Publications at the University of Pennsylvania Museum. The National Endowment for the Humanities supported my transcription of the many tape-recorded dialogues in Turkish with Baba. A Career Development Chair from Wayne State University allowed interviewing of people on three continents and time to write the initial draft. A Fulbright Research Fellow-

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ship allowed the distance for further refining the manuscript. Indiana University contributed a research leave supplement and the Linguistics Department of Indiana University, subvention funds. And earlier, the International Research and Exchange Board supported my study of Albanian in Kosova and research on Islam in Albania. My son Ramsay accompanied me to the tekke for many years, my husband John supported my single-mindedness, my father trusted in my work, and my mother advocated clear writing. My debt to Baba Rexheb transcends all bounds.

Note on Names This is an anthropological study that draws heavily on oral sources in an immigrant Balkan Bektashi community. Besides English, there are five languages involved: Albanian, modern Turkish, Arabic, Ottoman Turkish, and Persian. In determining conventions of transliteration I have tried to minimize problems for the non-specialist reader, while still respecting conventions for Islamic terms, pronunciation of Bektashi terms, and how people spell their own names. I use the following principles: 1. Albanian spelling of names of Albanian places and people [with slight modifications by Albanian Americans]: Xhevat Kallajxhi/je-vat kal-a-ji/. 2. English spellings of Islamic terms where they exist. This is in flux but tends to derive from the Arabic forms: dervish, tariqat, qibla. 3. Standard transliteration without diacritics of central Islamic terms: Imam Husayn, Shari‘a, murshid. 4. Modified modern Turkish spelling for Bektashi terms, Persian Islamic terms, and terms for things and clothing: nefes, ashık, Haji Bektash Veli (not Hacı Bektaş Veli), Jenab-i Hak, tesbih, hırka. There is a different order of titles with names in Turkish and Albanian. Turkish puts the title after the first name, while Albanian puts the title before the first name. I have used the older Turkish order for Bektashi babas born before 1900, thus Ali Haqi Baba and Selim Ruhi Baba. For babas born after 1900, however, I use the Albanian order, hence Baba Rexheb. I also use the older Albanian titles Zoti (Sir) and Zonja (Lady) to show respect, as in Zoti Xhevat and Zonja Zejnepe. With the Albanian names in this book, the English reader needs to be aware of one unusual letter combination for a familiar sound (xh), two letters with diacritics (ç and ë), and two letters in Albanian (j and y) that are pronounced in unexpected ways for English readers. In alphabetical order, these Albanian spellings are pronounced as:

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ç as in English “child” ë as in English “uh” j as in English “year” xh as in English “jeans” y as the French vowel in “rue” A special example of an Albanian name is that of Baba Rexheb. From the above, you can see that it should be pronounced /re-jeb/ for the xh is an English /j/ sound. (One way to remember this is to note the American state “Nu Xherzi,” New Jersey.) There is an added complication in that Albanian names, like Greek names, can be made definite, in which case Rexhep becomes Rexhebi. I have simplified this by using Rexheb throughout; it is the way Baba signed his name on his American citizenship papers. Readers familiar with common Muslim names may find the following short list helpful. Albanian Bajram Hakki Haqi Hatixhe Hysejn Merjeme Nexhat Qemal Rexhep/b Sejfi Sulejman Xhevat Xhemal Xhemile Zejnepe

Turkish Bayram Haki Hâki Hatice Hüseyin Meryem Necat Kemal Recep Seyfi Süleyman Cevat Cemal Cemile Zeynep

Arabic transliteration Bayrām Haqqī Khākī Khadīja Ḥusayn Maryam Najāt Kamāl Rajab Ṣayfī Sulaymān Jawād Jamāl Jamīla Zaynab

Finally, translation of Sufi terms into English can be problematic. In particular, the phrase Baba used to refer to God was Janab-i Haqq (Cenab-i Hak in modern Turkish). The first term is used as a title of respect, while the second term is an all–encompassing word for God. I have translated this phrase as “the Lord of All-Truth,” drawing on how Baba translated it in Albanian. In an earlier work (1993) I translated it as “the Majesty of Truth.” Neither literary nor theological scholars whom I have contacted have been able to agree on how this should be rendered in English. Baba used it with reverence, humility, and intimacy.

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Glossary ashık, person/people drawn to a Sufi Baba but not formally initiated Ashura, an important Muslim holiday that commemorates the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, who was killed at Karbala in 680 baba, literally “father,” cleric who serves as head of a tekke; abbot bacılar, “sisters,” female Bektashi members dede, head of all Bektashis; Dede Baba, the “Grandfather” dervish, Muslim monk; clerical rank below that of baba divan, collection of poetry Erenler, brethren who have attained spiritual maturity; way of addressing a dervish and mode of address among dervishes gazel, lyric poem Geg, dialect; also speaker of the northern dialect of Albanian hadith qudsi, saying of God halife, the Bektashi clerical rank above that of a baba but below that of a dede hayderiye, a long-sleeved robe hırka, long sleeveless vest hodja, a Sunni religious leader ijazet, authorization, decree ijazetname, diploma kemer, a belt or cummerbund; for Bektashis a ritual garment levha, tablet or written banner or plaque mersiye, stirring lament for Imam Husayn meydan, ceremonial room in a tekke mihrab, prayer niche facing Mecca müderris, Islamic teacher muhabbet, general meaning of conversing among friends; also the special chanting of spiritual poems in a Bektashi tekke muhib, initiated lay member of the Bektashi Order murid, novice dervish murshid, spiritual master or guide nefes, spiritual poem or chant nefes evladi, a child from understood to come through the intercessory prayer of a dervish or baba Nevruz, a springtime Muslim holiday, understood by Bektashis as the birthday of Imam Ali, the Prophet Muhammad’s son-in-law, who brought spiritual understanding of the Qu’ran Pir, important saint and spiritual teacher of a community; for the Bektashis their first Pir is Haji Bektash Veli, with Balım Sultan considered the second Pir

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qibla, the direction people should face to orient their prayers toward Mecca rehber, assisting person or “guide” in private Bektashi ceremonies Shari‘a, Islamic law taj, cylindrical white headpiece tariqat, mystical order of Islam (while this is a plural in Arabic, modern Turkish treats it as singular) tasawwuf, Islamic mysticism tekke, a sort of Muslim monastery; teqe in Albanian tesbih, prayer beads Tosk, dialect; also speaker of the southern dialect of Albania türbe, mausoleum, often octagonal türbedar, keeper of the mausoleum veli, a title, similar in meaning to “saint”

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Prologue “Bring me my shoes, my daughter” It was May and I had brought flowers into the hospital from my garden. As I placed them on the thick tile window sill in Baba’s gray hospital room, Baba called out to me in Turkish, long our common language, “Bring me my shoes, my daughter.” But there were no shoes to bring. Baba Rexheb hadn’t walked for weeks. I could remember the last time he had slowly made his way down the stairs to the basement kitchen in the Bektashi tekke, a sort of Muslim monastery where Baba lived and which he had founded when he had come to southeast Michigan in the early 1950s. There were railings on both sides of the stairs, and he used them both, angling to one side and then the other as he descended. We had our lunch there as usual, with Baba at the head of the table. When he prayed at the end of the meal we could not know that he would never sit there again. Later that week he had taken ill and been brought by ambulance to the local hospital. From there he had been transported to the large university hospital where he had spent several weeks in Intensive Care and then in a regular room. The Bektashi communities in America and back in Albania were all praying for Baba’s life. The Bektashis are a seven-centuries-old Sufi or Muslim mystic order that spread from Anatolia to the Balkans in the 15th century. In the 20th century, Baba brought the Bektashi Order officially to America, specifically to the Midwest, to an 18-acre farm that Albanian American Bektashi families bought and, with Baba’s direction, transformed into a tekke, as Bektashi centers are called. Baba led the Bektashi community in America from this center for over 40 years until his illness in 1995. His illness came on suddenly, and while in Intensive Care he had had internal bleeding. A young resident wanted to do emergency surgery, but we held him off while Bektashis back in Albania prayed at the mausoleum of Baba’s own spiritual teacher, Selim Ruhi Baba, and the bleeding stopped. But there was other illness. Baba’s community was deeply devoted. People were always coming to the hospital to be with him or to bring him food. I remember Mynur exercising

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Baba’s legs and feet and Baba asking him why so much bother since he had no intention of running in the Olympics. Indeed, Baba had not walked in two months. So when Baba asked me to bring him his shoes, I knew it was time to return to the tekke. Baba wanted to go home to die. I informed the resident doctor in charge that we would be leaving that day. “How can I practice medicine,” he growled, “when the family keeps interfering.” “What more would you do?” I asked. “Why, we would do tests to see how long he has to live.” “And we would not believe you,” I responded. At the same time I wondered what the resident would think if he knew that we were not biological family. Baba was a celibate Muslim cleric. Celibacy is unusual among clerics in Islam, but the Bektashi Order has long had two branches. In one branch, the dervishes, like monks, and the babas, literally “fathers,” who serve as heads of tekkes, are celibate, while in the other branch, they marry. Once when a university class was visiting the tekke, an Arab-American Muslim student had questioned the celibacy of Baba’s branch, saying in English that Islam enjoins people to be fruitful and multiply. When I translated this to Baba, he had retorted quickly in our common language, asking whether the student thought that children were only of the flesh. Truly those in the community, including myself, a long-time student of Baba, considered ourselves Baba’s children. In Intensive Care, in order to be allowed in and keep vigil, we had all described ourselves as cousins. The doctors did not seem to notice; only the nurses remarked how many relatives Baba seemed to have. “In Albanian villages,” we acknowledged, “families are quite large.” The doctors did not know what to do with Baba. True, he was not young. Baba had been born in southern Albania in 1901, and he had had a pacemaker for several years. One day in Intensive Care I heard a doctor, leading a flock of medical students, stop by Baba’s chart and note that he did not speak English. I thought for a moment about telling them that Baba knew Albanian, Greek, Italian, Turkish, Arabic, and Persian and could write poetry in several of these languages as well as in Ottoman Turkish, for Baba had had a classical Ottoman education. Instead I told them, “Actually he understands much, but you need to talk clearly by his good ear.” The doctor did not expect commentary from “family.” He continued to his group that never would they see a larger heart. “You’ve got that right,” I interjected. Earlier a young doctor had come into Baba’s room and, standing off to the side and tapping his fingers on the side of his head, asked if Baba were “all there.” I looked at Baba lying there with his long beard and his shaven head. He looked back at me and chanted softly a couplet from a poem by Nesimi, a famous



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Turkish Sufi poet of the 14th century: Dünyayı istemem, Cenneti istemem,

virseler dahi göster Cemali.

I do not want this world, even if more of it were offered me. I do not want paradise; show me the Beauty of the Beloved.

After this I paused. There were hundreds of mystic poems that Bektashis have chanted as their distinctive way of “remembering” and praising God, many of which I realized were utterly appropriate to the situation. Only Baba had chosen one that he knew I knew, for we had studied it together. I turned to the young doctor and told him, “He is more together than you or I will ever be.” Throughout Baba’s long life, from his birth in Gjirokastra, Albania, his circuitous path to America and work here, to his passing from the world in 1995, Baba was indeed “all together.” Neither wars—and he lived through four of them—nor exile nor four years in Displaced Persons Camps nor offers to lead a famous tekke in Cairo nor 41 years on a farm on the outskirts of Detroit could distract him from his path. “Baba, what is most important to you in your life,” I asked him as he lay in his bed at the tekke several weeks before he passed on. From his window I could see the octagonal mausoleum, his türbe, where he would be buried, and where we would subsequently pray over his tomb, lighting candles in his name. Knowing that his mausoleum was there had given him quiet pleasure, for he knew once he was buried there the land would be sacred and could never be sold. “To tell the world about Bektashism,” he responded simply. In telling the story of Baba’s life, his journeys, his prayers, and his way with people, I hope to further Baba’s wish that the world know more about Bektashism. Baba taught by the way he lived. But how to shape and frame such a life? This I never asked Baba, for in my heart I could not imagine him no longer at the head of the table for meals or in the study or walking on tekke grounds. When I sat down to write it became clear. It is through my experience that I must introduce Baba, as that is what I know best. As I was not born a Muslim or an Albanian, bridging cultural distance should prove revealing. I also want to be able to comment and elaborate on Baba’s words directly instead of confining such voice to footnotes. For this not to be disruptive I cannot remain aloof. I have also chosen to portray Baba wherever possible through his communities, for these were central to the meaning of his life. The communities include the Albanian Bektashi babas that are his spiritual

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lineage, the Albanian tekke he served in his early years, the Displaced Persons Camps in Italy, the Kaygusuz tekke in Egypt, and the Michigan tekke he served in his later years. In this last tekke I describe as well the rhythms of daily life. What would Baba think of all this? He would distract me from such seriousness, but then would want me to be true to his vocation. Make it simple. As when his sister bought him a thick velour bathrobe, quite lovely magenta, to wear to the hospital for a routine procedure, he gave it back to her, saying, “I am a dervish.” He took his old blue terrycloth bathrobe. How can I fit the most beautiful Persian inspired poetry into terrycloth? This is my challenge. As Baba’s student I am deeply blessed. May this blessing reach through into the fabric of the telling.

Eyvallah

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1

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Welcome The Door Is Always Open Meeting Baba “How would you like to visit a Muslim monastery?” “Where have I seen that word before?” I was in the ark-like library of the university on a Saturday morning, reading an article in The Encyclopedia of Islam for a class, and as I came across the word “Bektashi,” I stopped. I had seen this word, but not in a book. But where? I had grown up on an island in Michigan and studied in Maine and Vermont. My family was from Detroit. How could I know this word “Bektashi”? I stopped reading whatever the article was for the class and went instead to the entry on Bektashis. There I learned that they were one of the Sufi tariqats or mystic orders of Islam, a Turkic order that had been founded by Haji Bektash Veli. Haji Bektash was a saint from Khorasan or northeastern Iran, who had come west on pilgrimage to the Muslim shrines in Karbala and Najaf as well as Mecca, thereby acquiring the title “haji” or “pilgrim.” On a larger scale, he was part of the movement of Turkic and Iranian peoples who moved westward in the 13th century to escape the Mongols who surged west behind them. Haji Bektash continued on to Anatolia, what is now modern-day Turkey. He settled in central Anatolia, his sainthood being recognized first by a woman, Kadıncık. Thus the other part of his name, veli, signifying a saint. Around him a Sufi or Muslim mystic order grew that became known as the Bektashi Order. I read on. The Bektashis had become chaplains of the new troops—the yeni çeri or Janissaries—of the Ottoman Sultan Orhan. The Bektashis were well suited for this role since most of these troops were former Christians and the Bektashis were known for their tolerance of other faiths. When the Ottoman troops were sent westward into the Balkans, the Bektashis went too, serving as Muslim missionaries to the local peoples. Especially among Albanians on the western side of the Balkans, they were well received. This was not unusual, as Sufi orders had

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often served as Muslim missionaries in other parts of the world. As I read further, I learned that Bektashis were known for their humor. That struck me as unusual. The Bektashis were also known for the beauty of their poetry. Humor and poetry, I ruminated, all most portable attributes. Finally, I learned that the Bektashis had long initiated women into their order, from the time of their recognition of Kadıncık in the 13th century to the present. As a woman I found this commendable, and all very interesting. But it gave me no clue at all as to how I knew this word “Bektashi” from my own life. The whole day the question gently gnawed at the back of my mind. That evening it came to me—it was on the way to the airport! That’s where I had seen that word, on a sign next to a brick farmhouse, on the way to Detroit Metropolitan Airport. But how was this possible? A Muslim mystic order in southeast Michigan? But I was certain. So I went to a metropolitan Detroit telephone book. I couldn’t find “Bektashi” there. But there had to be another source—the newspaper. If there were indeed a Bektashi center in southeast Michigan, The Detroit Free Press would have done an article on it. So I called the newspaper. Yes, they had published two articles on it. Would I like the telephone number? I called and asked if I could visit. An accented voice replied, “The door is always open.” I would learn later of the remarkable hospitality of Albanians, as this turned out to be a Bektashi center for Albanian Americans. As an example of this hospitality, after World War II Albania was the only country in Europe to have more Jews than before the war (Sarner 1997). Those Jews fortunate enough to make their way to Albania were taken in by Albanian families, largely Albanian Muslim families, including Baba Rexheb’s sister, Xhemile Budo, and her husband Shyqri (Kotani 1995:99). No German edicts or threats had a chance against the powerful Albanian canon of host-guest relations (Fox 1989). Back in Michigan, despite this central cultural value, I do not think the person who told me the door was open supposed this would be the beginning of a more than 30year relationship. More immediately I had no means to get to the Bektashi center. So I called my father and asked, “How would you like to visit a Muslim monastery?” My father’s only question was when should he come. The following Saturday morning he drove me to the Bektashi tekke (teqe in Albanian), a red brick farmhouse as I had remembered, but with a strange white and green cylinder on the roof. Later I would learn that the cylinder was the same shape and color as the baba’s or abbot’s formal headpiece, thus marking it as a tekke. We drove in the driveway, past a vegetable and fruit stand, to behind the main building in front of a large barn. Clearly this was still some sort of farm. We went to the back door, which indeed was open, and walked in. Muddy boots were lined up to one side with coats on hooks above them. A man came by and led us up a small flight of stairs, through a cozy sitting room with black and white photographs of men in strange



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headgear on the walls, around another flight of stairs, across a white and green linoleum floor, into a large carpeted receiving room. In its architecture alone, we were no longer in a Michigan farmhouse. Indeed, this was part of the first major addition that Baba had built onto the old farmhouse, made up of a ceremonial room or meydan, guest rooms along a dark hall, and this long receiving room. At the far end of the room I saw Baba Rexheb for the first time. People were seated on either side of him. When my father and I entered the long room, several stood up to give us their seats near him, moving to the sofas along the long side walls. Baba sat in a large chair in the far corner with one leg curled under the other. He had a long gray beard, a white taj or cylindrical headpiece, and dark clothing, although what stood out in my mind were his thick eyebrows and serious expression. This expression did not change when we came into the room, and the way people moved in deference to him also contributed to the formality of the situation. We shook hands, although I would later learn that most people greeted Baba by bowing at the waist, taking Baba’s right hand in theirs, kissing the back of it, and then bringing his hand to their foreheads. As we sat down in the places that had been vacated near Baba, we began talking. It appeared Baba’s English was not strong. Others answered us in accented English. Eventually coffee was brought on a tray by another baba, dressed similarly to Baba Rexheb, only he was shorter, and had a longer white beard. We sipped our coffee, and then a box of chocolates was passed to us—signaling, as I would later learn, an end to the visit. As the box of chocolates made the round of people present, Baba Rexheb said something to the other baba who was standing at the far end of the room. And to my utter amazement, I understood what he said! It wasn’t English and it wasn’t Albanian, which was what the others had been speaking among themselves. It was Turkish, a language I had begun studying the previous summer. “Baba, do you speak Turkish?” I asked him in Turkish. “Yes,” he said simply. At that moment I knew I wanted to study with him. It turned out that it was not unusual for an Albanian Bektashi baba of his age to know Turkish. Most of the spiritual poetry of the Bektashis was written in Turkish, and for most of its 700-year history, the main members of the Bektashi Order had been Turkish speakers (Birge 1937). Albanian lands had been part of the Ottoman Empire for 500 years, and Baba himself had attended an Ottoman Turkish school before the Ottomans had been forced out of the western and central Balkans. My asking him if he knew Turkish was thus somewhat akin to asking a Catholic priest if he had studied Latin. Yet despite my general ignorance, somehow I knew that I could not simply ask to study with Baba. As I left with my father, I knew I would return. And return I did, taking a bus from the university to the airport, and from there a taxi to the tekke. “Armenian center?” asked one taxi driver. “No,

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Albanian,” I said. The tekke didn’t seem all that well known. At the tekke, I would speak to Baba in Turkish and he would answer me in Turkish. It was still somewhat stilted, but at least we were no longer in the upstairs receiving room, but in the basement kitchen. The baba with the long white beard, Baba Bajram (pronounced “buy-rahm”), appeared to be the cook. As he prepared food for the main midday meal, Baba Rexheb and I drank coffee at the nearby table that was covered in red vinyl. I also was taken on tours of the entire tekke. The oldest part of the building was the original farmhouse, probably built in the 1920s, a two-story home with small rooms and low ceilings. Baba Rexheb’s bedroom, sitting room, and study were on the first floor, while Baba Bajram and others had bedrooms on the second floor. The recent addition to the farmhouse, added seven years after the tekke opened in 1954, included the long receiving room where I had first met Baba, the ceremonial room, and a basement area underneath that was used for large public gatherings on holidays. The ceremonial room, called the meydan or “city square” in Arabic, was so named after the square in Baghdad where the mystic al-Hallaj had been tortured and killed in 922 for saying in a time of mystic ecstasy, “Ana al-Haqq,” that is, “I am the Truth” (Massignon 1922, Ernst 1985). This was considered heretical by the non-Sufi Muslim leaders, for al-Haqq is one of the names of God. The room was serene. It was painted a pale green and had no furniture, only sheepskins placed on the floor at even intervals along three of the walls. The fourth wall, opposite the entry door, had no skins. Here a mihrab or prayer niche faced east, and to its left was a tier of graduated steps, each with multiple brass candlesticks filled with candles. The ceremonies in the meydan were only for the initiated among the Bektashis. On these early visits to the tekke people also drew my attention to maps of Albania; there was even a particularly large map of Albania from floor to ceiling. They were always pleased to tell me where in Albania they came from. Every village seemed to be marked, although the writing on the map was in German. Vienna and later Munich served as centers of scholarship on the Balkans. In the 1930s, Germans apparently had gone on careful map-making trips of the Balkans, no doubt partly prompted by political designs. In their own right the Albanians were an ancient people who, along with the Greeks, had been the early inhabitants of the Balkans, long before the more numerous Slavs arrived. Albanians had the misfortune to have been known by different names in their history, so their ancient presence was less acknowledged. Further, the Albanians had a clan system, still alive in the north, like the Scottish clan system. And like the Scots, they had been pushed into the mountainous regions by more numerous other peoples. Also like the Scots, they had been good soldiers, highly valued in the Ottoman Empire to the extent that one of the last Ottoman sultans, Abdul Hamid II, would trust only Albanians as his



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palace guards (Kinross 1977). The most famous comment of a European scholar on Albania is that of British historian Gibbon, who remarked in the late 18th century that Albania, just across the Adriatic, was within sight of Italy, although less well known than the interior of America. As someone hailing from the interior of America, I was always caught slightly off guard by Gibbon’s comment. People were also anxious to tell me about the Albanian patriots whose framed black and white photographs lined the walls of the long receiving room. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries they had resisted their lands being taken over by Greeks to the south and Slavs to the north and east. They had also worked against Ottoman policies that made Albanian lands vulnerable to their neighbors. I learned that these leaders were part of the Rilindja or “rebirth” in Albanian consciousness that marked the 1878 League of Prizren as a signal event (Skendi 1967). This league was made up of Albanians from the north and south, both Christian and Muslim—before World War II Albania was 70 percent Muslim, 20 percent Orthodox Christian, and 10 percent Roman Catholic—who had met in the city of Prizren to prevent more of their lands from being taken by their neighbors. There were also photographs of Ismail Qemali, the Albanian patriot and Ottoman statesman who had declared Albania’s independence from the Ottoman Empire in 1912. The photographs, all gifts to the tekke, reflected the pride of Albanian Bektashis in their history. Traditionally, Bektashi tekkes are furnished and decorated with gifts, thereby reflecting the concerns of their members, although in recent years, young Bektashi clerics from Albania have foisted a sort of “folklore décor” of their own design on the Michigan tekke. The importance of Albanian politics in the décor of the Bektashi tekke surprised me. Later, when I felt more at home there, I was able to ask Baba about this. “Hubb al-watan min al-iman,” he answered me in Arabic. “Love of country comes from faith.” And then he proceeded to tell me that in 1913, Greece had occupied southern Albanian towns including his own. One day Greek soldiers had prevented local Albanian Muslims from going to their Friday prayers at the mosque. When a group of these Muslims sought refuge in Baba’s house where a Bektashi baba was staying, that baba chastised them for their lack of political activism. If they wanted to be able to practice their faith, they needed to support their homeland. Thus, love of country comes from faith. But I was only able to ask this after I had studied with Baba for several years. That first fall, I traveled to the tekke four times before Baba Bajram, the white-bearded cook, who listened to us speaking Turkish in the tekke kitchen, finally said to Baba Rexheb, “I think she wants to study with you.” My eyes answered with gratitude. Years later, at a time when I was particularly frustrated with my inability to grasp something, Baba would tease me, saying that it was

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1. Dervish Arshi preparing apples for sale at Michigan tekke, 1958. Courtesy of Nake Premtaj.

Baba Bajram who had brought him this belâ, this “misfortune” of a student. We would both laugh, and go on refreshed. When I was able to secure transportation, my study with Baba became weekly meetings on Thursday mornings. I would come and often Baba would be walking along the road. I would look for him, and if he were still walking, I would walk with him too. We would return to the tekke, have our morning coffee, and then study Bektashi and other Sufi collections of poetry. Dervish Arshi, a younger Bektashi monk, would come up to Baba’s study na thirri për drekë, “to call us for the midday meal.” We would have a leisurely meal with other guests. At the end of the meal Baba would pray. After I left the university and began working, at each job I requested



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Thursday mornings off. Most jobs were not sympathetic, and since explaining the importance of study with Baba was not easy, for many years I would study with him instead on Saturday mornings which were less suited to focused study. When I returned to the university to do my doctorate, I would never schedule classes on Thursday morning. That was time for study with Baba. Much of what I know of Baba and his life, I first learned on these Thursday mornings, whose memory makes me sad and proud and grateful.

Baba Arrives in Michigan “Welcome, Dervish, to my home.” When I first began coming to the Bektashi tekke I had no sense of Bektashi holidays. The most important holiday, known as Ashura, was lunar and moved slowly backward around the year, coming eleven days earlier each year (Momen 1985). The other main holiday, Nevruz, was solar and therefore more predictable. I was grateful that the holidays came each year, as I gradually moved into appreciation of them. At first I focused on understanding the prayers and stories connected with them. Only later did I come to enjoy them more the way the rest of the community did as a time of coming together. Ashura commemorates the martyrdom of Imam Husayn, the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson, who was killed at Karbala in 680. Ashura draws its name from the Arabic word for “ten,” and it falls on the tenth day of the Islamic month of Muharram. These first ten days are known as Matem and are a time of fasting during which people do not drink water, do not eat meat or eggs, do not shave or shower, and refrain from sexual relations. At the tekke during this time we ate lentil dishes and drank a bitter yogurt drink, known in Turkish as ayran. In the fasting and abstentions, people remember the suffering of Imam Husayn and his family and friends, who were surrounded by the forces of Yazid, and who in the Iraqi desert did not have water to drink. Each day at the tekke during Matem we read aloud from Naim Frashëri’s 1898 Albanian poetic text, the Kerbelaja. This is a translation from the last section of Fuzuli’s 16th century Ottoman Turkish text, Garden of the Martyrs, on the suffering of the family of the Prophet, culminating in the death of Imam Husayn and the capture of his family. The tenth day was the official end of the fast, marked with the ceremony of the opening of the water in the meydan. On that day the muhibs or initiated members had a private ceremony, after which people who were not initiated went into the meydan to be blessed by Baba. This was followed by a meal for all, often lamb. A special food is so closely associated with the holiday that it is called by the same name as the holiday, ashura. It is a wheat-based dish cooked in

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immense cauldrons the day before. Zoti Xhelo, long the architect of this ritual food for the tekke in Michigan, started by filling the cauldrons with water. It would take several men to hoist them up on the burners, although in earlier days the ashura was cooked over fires outside. They poured restaurant-size bags of cracked wheat and sugar into the water and then began stirring. In order to stir you had to climb on raised steps to reach the top of the cauldrons and move the long wooden paddle around as the mixture heated. But it was more than physical labor. It was an honor to stir the ashura; when you took the wooden paddle for stirring, you kissed the top of the paddle and drew it to your forehead three times as a sign of respect. And when you finished stirring and were turning the task over to someone else, you also kissed the paddle and drew it to your forehead three times. Dried fruits including raisins and dates, along with nuts, were added to the food. At the tekke the public commemoration of the holiday of Ashura was sponsored by different families each year. They paid the expenses of the large meal and also planned and served the meal so the money that was collected at the door from tickets for the hundreds who attended would go to the tekke. I remember a particularly sad Ashura that was given by a family in memory of their daughter who had been killed in a car accident. The memorial for Imam Husayn thereby merged with an additional memorial for the daughter. At all public Ashura ceremonies we recited the Fatiha, the first chapter of the Qur’an, in memory of those who had passed away that year. Every year as Ashura approached Baba and I talked about aspects of the holiday in our weekly lessons. In one of these lessons with Baba—in the sixteenth year of our study together—I asked what seemed like a most simple question. “Baba, how was the first Ashura here?” Baba did not answer my question the way I expected. Instead of talking about the tekke, he began to tell me the story of how he first came to Detroit. Through this it became clear that the very founding of the tekke in Michigan was thanks to a particular Ashura ceremony. Baba first came to America in 1952 to New York City, where one of his younger sisters, Zejnepe Çuçi, had recently settled with her in-laws and daughter. Baba’s dream had been to found a Bektashi tekke in America, but New York was full of people who held different political affiliations, and Baba’s strong antiCommunist stand—he had been a leader against the Communists in southern Albania in the early 1940s—was held against him. Finally an Albanian in New York told Baba, then still a dervish or monk and not yet a baba or abbot, “Dervish, go to Detroit. They are more conservative there.” By more conservative he meant that they held more to religion than the newer social ideologies. It was a trait of Baba that he listened to people, whatever their affiliation. Baba traveled to Toronto, where he had some friends. Bektashi Albanians



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in Detroit were told there was a newly arrived Bektashi dervish in Canada, and they sent a car to bring him to Detroit. On the way Baba considered how his arrival would be understood. If he were to establish a Bektashi tekke it had to be for all Bektashi Muslim Albanians, not just a special group. He didn’t want anyone in Detroit to be able to question why he had gone first to one’s house instead of another’s. So he said to the young driver, “Take me to the coffeehouse, the Albanian coffeehouse.” It has long been a custom among Albanians, like other people from the Balkans and Middle East, for the men to gather in coffeehouses. All groups frequented them. Then whoever came and asked Baba to his home from the coffeehouse, he would go with him. And this is what happened. He arrived at the coffeehouse, went in, sat down, and as he was drinking a cup of coffee, Abas Myrteza came over to him. He said, “Welcome, Dervish, to my home.” And Baba picked up the yellow plasticized suitcase that he had been given in the Displaced Persons Camps in Europe and followed Zoti Abas to his car. There Abas’s wife, Fiqiret, and daughters, Nake (na-keh) and Drita, waited to meet the newly arrived dervish. They drove him to their house in southwest Detroit. In the house, after greetings and some rest, his host announced to Baba that his mother-in-law had recently passed away back in Albania. He wanted to hold an Ashura memorial in her memory. “Can you perform such an Ashura ceremony?” Baba answered that most certainly he could, and he began to prepare for it. Baba had not been able to carry any books with him out of Albania. Indeed he had been fortunate to get out with his life. There had been many books with Ashura prayers and laments in the Bektashi tekkes in Albania, but they had all been written in Ottoman Turkish. People in Detroit would want the prayers in Albanian. And so Baba composed the first Albanian Lutja e Ashuras or “Prayer for Ashura” in the Myrteza house on Lansing Street in southwest Detroit. He drew heavily, he would later say, on memories of earlier Ottoman Turkish Ashura prayers, with some additions of his own. For later Ashura ceremonies Baba would compose a stirring lament or mersiye for Imam Husayn. But for this first Ashura ceremony the prayer that was intoned over the Ashura food was the central prayer, as Baba related to me in 1984 and 1986, and as Nake Premtaj related to me in 1998. It has continued to be recited at Ashura ceremonies at the tekke. In the private home, the family and Baba, still known as Dervish Rexheb, kept the ten-day fast of Matem. Then on the day of Ashura, the hosts, Abas and Fiqiret, bought three lambs and cooked them for all the people who came. They also made one big pot of Ashura food on the stove. Their daughter, Nake, told how people came the whole day—Albanians of Bektashi background and others—all to meet the Bektashi dervish.

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Only twice before in history had Bektashi clerics come to America (Kallajxhi 1964). A Baba Kanber came just before 1920, collected funds in the Albanian community in Massachusetts, but then returned to Albania. Another Bektashi cleric came in the 1920s, but he had not stayed, either. For celebration of Bektashi holidays in the past, the Albanian Bektashi immigrants in Detroit had occasionally rented a hall and gathered, but with no Bektashi cleric. Suddenly, here in front of them in Detroit was a Bektashi dervish! He was dark bearded, serious, wearing glasses, and obviously learned. He wore the traditional white

2. Early photograph of Dervish Rexheb in Detroit, 1953. From top left: Fiqiret Myrteza, Der­vish Rexheb, Nake Premtaj, Abas Myrteza, Marion Seit Toptani. From bottom left, bridesmaids: Rosie Selfo Black, Aferdita Myrteza Kulla. Courtesy of Nake Premtaj.



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headpiece, the white overshirt, and the long sleeveless vest, the hırka, a garment given to the Prophet Muhammad on his miraculous journey from Jerusalem to heaven and back. As Dervish Rexheb stood up by the Ashura food, all fell silent in the immaculate but crowded room. And as he began to recite the prayer in Albanian, the Albanian immigrants were made aware of the rich tradition to which their families belonged but which they had not experienced this way for many years. They had come to America before World War II. Never had such a prayer been spoken by a cleric in Detroit. The prayer that Baba chanted that day is theologically rich and rhythmically evocative. It is composed of four parts. The first is an invocation presented in Baba’s slightly archaic Tosk or southern Albanian dialect: I lavdëruar qoft’ Ay Zot’i Math, që ndritoi zëmrat e kuptimtarëvet me dritën a kuptimit dhe të mëndjes, Ay që stolisi kraharorët e ndjekësvet të bindur me stolin e dijes, butësis dhe ndërgjegjjes, Ay q’udhëhoqi gjithë njerëzin ndën udheheqjen e Profitërvit të Tij e sidomos Profitit të Math Muhammed, paqja dhe shpëtimi i Tij qoftë mbi ne të gjithë. Praised be He, the Great Lord, who has illuminated the hearts of those who understand with the light of understanding and mindfulness, He who has arrayed the hearts of obedient followers with knowledge, kindness, and conscience, He who has guided all people under the leadership of His Prophets and especially the great Prophet Muhammad, may His peace and salvation be upon us all.

The second part of the prayer includes reference to five people known as Ahl al-Bayt, a sort of “holy household,” made up of the Prophet Muhammad, on whom be peace, his daughter Fatima, her husband Imam Ali, and their two sons, Imam Hasan and Imam Husayn. Baba adds a sixth person here, Khadija, the first wife of the Prophet Muhammad, who was also the first believer in him as a messenger of God. It is consonant with Bektashism to remember women. This is followed by a listing of the remaining imams or leaders of the Islamic community according to the Shi’a tradition that holds that the leaders of the Muslim community should be of the family of the Prophet. When I later asked Baba about this part of the prayer, he said that he could just have said “with the veneration of the twelve imams,” but it was better to say all their names. Following this, “the martyrs of Karbala” refers to those who died with Imam Husayn at Karbala in 680. The martyrdom of Imam Husayn is the focal remembrance of

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the holiday of Ashura. Yazid, who is vilified, is the leader whose soldiers fought against Imam Husayn, refused his family water, and then had him killed. O Lord Most High! May Your salvation and peace be upon the light of Muhammad, Ali, Fatima, Khadija, Hasan, and Husayn. And upon their holy descendents: Imam Zayn al-‘Abidin, Imam Muhammad Baqir, Imam Ja‘far al-Sadiq, upon Imam Musa Kazim, Imam Ali Riza, Imam Muhammad Taqi, Imam Ali Naqi, Imam Hasan ‘Askari, and Imam Muhammad Mahdi. That all be remembered throughout life, and Your salvation be upon them all, Amin! May the martyrs of Karbala, the saints of Karbala, the innocents of Karbala be forever remembered! May the moral strength of the prince of martyrs, Husayn the Most High, be forever our guide. May his holiness guide us on the way of sacrifice and of prosperity. May Yazid be accursed one thousand times while the innocent be commemorated. Amin!

The third part of the prayer is the most rhythmic, becoming a powerful incantation. It is the part where the Ashura food, “this nourishment of remembrance,” is actually blessed—it is the “this” in the refrain, “Bless this, O Lord!” It is also the part of the prayer that is most distinctively Bektashi. The first stanza refers to the way Bektashis read aloud and listen to the events of Karbala during the ten days before the holiday of Ashura. Several stanzas later there is a direct reference to Haji Bektash, followed by references to early Bektashi leaders and ranks of saints as the Bektashis understand them. Near the end is reference to “the nation of our people” and “its rescue from the misery and danger that besiege it.” This refers to Albania under the severe Communist regime of Enver Hoxha. In presenting this third section of the prayer, I have tried to write it in such a way that the rhythm and pauses are visible to the reader’s eye, interrupting once to show where people that day in Detroit were reportedly most affected. O Our Lord! For all those who recite the events of Karbala,



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For all those who listen, For all those who mourn, Bless this nourishment of remembrance, Amin! For the light of the magnificent Qur’an, For all the sacred books, For all Your gifts, Bless this, O Lord! For the sacred spirit of all the great Prophets, of the saints, of those who pray, and of all the martyrs, Bless this, O Lord! For the sacred spirit of your disciples, the cream of the saints, our venerable and holy Hunqar Haji Bektash, Bless this, O Lord!

On hearing this last stanza, people gasped. Baba told me this when we were discussing the prayer in a later lesson. It struck me that here the people at last saw Haji Bektash’s special place within the holy multitude. In contrast, when Baba first read these lines to me in Albanian, I had trouble with the Albanian phrase, ajka of the saints. Baba explained ajka to me in Turkish, that it meant “what is on top of milk,” that is, “the cream” or “the best part of something.” Then he teased me, saying that “the akja of the students is Frances.” To be honest, there was not a multitude of students, for not many were able to come weekly as I did to study with Baba. Still it was a high honor and deep pleasure to be cream in Baba’s eyes. For Pir Balım Sultan and those who came after: Abdal Musa Sultan, Kaygusuz Sultan, Sayyid Ali Sultan, and all followers of their way, be they celibate or married, For all saintly spirits, Bless this, O Lord! For the sake of all the servants, of their lighted candle, be they passed away or present, Bless this, O Lord! For the Pirs of Khorasan, the Abdals of Rum, For the messengers of Arabia, For the kalenders of Turkistan, For the trustworthiness of the three, the five, the seven, the twenty, and the three hundred and sixty-six thousand loyal ones,

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Bless this, O Lord! For the sake of the creators of this true way, along with its ceremonies, Bless this, O Lord! For the prosperity of this building and all tekkes of the benefactors of the world, Bless this, O Lord! For the holiness of this initiative, For the prayers of all those in spiritual need, For the fulfilling of their needs, For the acceptance of all gifts, For the curing of the sick Bless this, O Lord! For all the learned ones of the past, For all the learned ones of the present, For all clerics of the past, For all clerics of the present, For all humanity of the right way, Bless this, O Lord! For the nation of the States of America For the progress and flowering of this land Bless this, O Lord! For the nation of our people, For its rescue from the misery and danger that besiege it, For the prosperity and happiness of that land, Bless this, O Lord!

The fourth and last part of the prayer is a brief closing. Here Baba comes back to focus on the Ashura food and those who have imbued it with meaning, in particular “the servants of the way.” This phrase is a translation from the Albanian shërbestarëvet e rrugës, which is a translation from the Ottoman and Persian phrase ahl al-tariq, meaning “the people of the Sufi path.” O Our Lord! Increase and sweeten this nourishment of remembrance and offer, to all, Your gifts, Amin! May the servants of the way have the desires of their hearts fulfilled, and be given health and long life, that Your Great Name be lofted high and forever remembered! Amin! O Lord of All-Truth!



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Immediately after the prayer that day in Detroit, the Ashura food was ladled out in bowls and served to all present. As they were eating the warm food, they agreed among themselves that the reciter of this prayer was indeed a most fine dervish. Thus it was through this first Ashura ceremony that many Albanian Muslims in Detroit first met Baba Rexheb. Soon after, several of those who had been present that day for the prayer and Ashura ceremony suggested getting together to establish a Bektashi tekke in Michigan. “So we can keep this young dervish with us.”

Taping Talks with Baba “Baba, where does your name come from?” I have many lined notebooks from my first 15 years of study with Baba. During these years of lessons I would read aloud to Baba in Turkish from books of his choosing, largely divans or collections of poetry by different Sufi authors, from Shah Ismail to Omar Khayyam. Whatever book we began, we always read through to the end. Some were translations into Turkish, others were in the original Turkish with various levels of Persian and Arabic vocabulary, since the Ottoman Turkish language of the poets was deeply affected by Persian literature and the Arabic of the Qur’an (Andrews 1976, 1985). During these lessons I took notes, filling the lined notebooks. My notes were often lists of words from the poems we were reading—Turkish, Persian, and Arabic words whose meanings, or particular Sufi meanings, Baba explained to me. Interspersed among the long lists of words and meanings are occasional notes on interchanges at the tekke. This scant record keeping would change in the spring of 1983. By that time, I had heard the mersiye or lament for Imam Husayn that Baba Rexheb had composed for the first Ashura ceremony at the tekke. It was chanted every year just before the long Ashura prayer. The lament begins: O drit’ e syvet të Muhtarit O light of the eyes of Mukhtar [Muhammad],

Ja Imam Hysejn. O Imam Husayn

In discussion about his Albanian lament Baba told me that he had been inspired by an older lament in Ottoman Turkish that had been chanted by dervishes and babas in Bektashi tekkes in Turkey and the Balkans, as well as by the laments that Albanian village women traditionally composed and chanted. Sensing my interest, Baba asked if I would like him to read the older Ottoman Turkish lament to me. “Do you have a copy?” I asked incredulously.

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Baba rummaged on his study table that was always full of books in several languages, largely books in the Arabic script. Among my favorites were the volumes of the Ottoman Turkish encyclopedia, Kamus-e A‘lam, first published in 1889–1898 in Constantinople by Sami Bey Frashëri, the great Ottoman lexicographer who also happened to be Albanian. Baba located a thin dark book in Ottoman Turkish, by Ahmed Rifat, The Mirror of Intentions on the Refuting of Abominations, a defense of Bektashism published in 1863, and skimmed through it until he found the lament he was looking for. It was by a Sufi of the Mevlevi Order, a certain Shaykh Safi of Tokat in north central Anatolia. Baba proceeded to chant it aloud to me in Ottoman Turkish: Ey nur-i çeşm-i Ahmeti Muhtari O delight [‘light of the eye’] of Ahmad Muhtar

Ya Husayn O Husayn

The first stanzas of the Albanian and the Ottoman Turkish laments were almost identical in meaning. But by the second stanza the laments diverged. Baba’s Albanian lament was more dramatic and more narrative, although the narrative it recounted was not the killing of Imam Husayn, but rather the gradual discovery by the people of not knowing where the Imam had gone, of all Nature mourning, and then the people finding that the Imam had been killed. In contrast, the Ottoman lament was more panegyric, rich with metaphors of the beauty of the Imam, the evil of Yazid, and with mention at the end of dervishes and the particular dervish who had written the lament, but with no reference to the mourning of ordinary people. It was an earlier “in-tekke” text. But strangely, as Baba chanted the Ottoman lament, I heard an echo of his Albanian lament in some way other than simply content or emotional affect. Perhaps it was in the metrics or rhythm patterns of the two laments. The next week I brought a tape recorder to the tekke and Baba kindly chanted both the Albanian lament and the older Ottoman lament for me again, this time into the tape recorder. When I asked him about metrics, Baba explained that there were two main systems of metrics: aruz or vowel length–based metrics and hecaz or syllabic-based metrics. Turkish and Albanian folk poetry had long used the syllabic-based rhythmic patterns, but formal Ottoman poetry, building on classical Arabic and Persian models, had used the vowel length–based ones (Andrews 1976). Baba gave examples from the classical models: fa‘ilatun fa‘ilatun fa‘ilun. I did not realize it then, but this business of metrics would lead me nowhere. (Later I learned from Dr. Judith Becker, an ethnomusicologist at the University of Michigan, that the two laments had the same melodic contour.) Still I was persistent. I knew I heard something in common in the chanting of the two laments, and so the following week I again brought the tape recorder to



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the tekke. After a less than enlightening discussion on metrics, which I taped because Baba gave examples in languages I did not know, in frustration I asked a very different question, decidedly far from metrics. “Baba, where did your name come from?” To my surprise and pleasure, Baba quite comfortably answered with a remarkable narrative which I captured on tape. Thus began 12 years of weekly taping. The taped dialogues with Baba at the tekke, largely in Turkish with some Albanian and Arabic, are the backbone of this book. The taping freed me from the drudgery and the terrible incompleteness of the lined notebooks, although I still took some written notes. The tapes themselves allowed me to listen to Baba’s voice and teaching, years beyond his passing. The tapes also provided me with years of insecurity. What if something happened to them? So I made multiple copies that I kept in my parents’ bedroom and, when they moved, in the basement of a close friend, and when she moved, in a special container in another location. With new technology I had the tapes burned onto CDs, which I also duplicated. Here, as another guard against loss, is a translation of Baba’s first dialogue for my tape recorder. His willingness to allow our lessons to be recorded gave me the confidence to undertake writing the story of his life. And like Boswell in his famous biography of Samuel Johnson, wherever possible I use direct quotes from Baba, translated into English. In this earliest of taped dialogues, on April 7, 1984, there is a wonderful simplicity in Baba’s telling, a Sufi modesty that belies the drama of his life’s journey. The telling is his response to my question, “Baba, where did your name come from?” Baba responded in Turkish, which I have transcribed and translated in such a way as to keep the feel of the oral text. My name came from my murshid’s murshid [spiritual master]. His name was Ali Haqi Baba. My murshid’s name was Selim Ruhi Baba. He [said with emphasis] was Ali Haqi Baba. My mother had not given birth. She had been married for seven years but no child had come. Her mother, who was also Ali Haqi Baba’s sister, went to Ali Haqi Baba for help. He said [of her daughter], “You have no child. I will give you a pair of sons: One to serve us [in the tekke]; the other to take care of the household.” My grandmother said, “Very well, Erenler [Brethren who know God]. As you would render, may the Lord of All-Truth so do.” And in truth my mother was pregnant after these words. And he [Ali Haqi Baba] said, “Now in the month of Rajab, in that month Rajab will come into the world.” My spiritual guide [Selim Ruhi Baba] was drawn to this saying. And he wrote

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it—he wrote a poem. And in that poem of his it said [in Arabic], Summiya ’smuhu bi-Rajab al-Fardi. Barakahu ‘llahu wa-‘azzahu. “He was named with the name of Rajab, the Solitary. May God bless him and exalt him.” Through numerical calculation of its letters, this poem adds up to the date of my birth. Then in truth, when the time came, I was born. So, they were pleased—my mother, my father, my grandmother. Baba [Ali Haqi Baba] also heard the news, He too. At that time he said a couplet that goes [in mixed Turkish and Arabic], Bunun ismi “This one’s name

fi batni ummihi. was in his mother’s stomach.

That is, while in his mother’s stomach, his name—was given. This one is Rajab.”

At this point in the taping, I chuckled with pleasure. For Baba had just told me how he had been named “Rajab” by his maternal great uncle, Ali Haqi Baba, after the name of the Islamic month in which he was born. He had also told me how his maternal uncle, Selim Ruhi Baba, who would become his spiritual master, had, at that time, composed a couplet in Arabic that was also a chronogram of the date of Baba’s birth, another level of a poet’s artistry. As for the meaning of the phrase “Rajab the Solitary,” the particular month in which Baba was born, Rajab, is one of the four Muslim holy months, three of which come one after the other, while Rajab, the fourth, comes later and thus stands alone. The appellation “the Solitary,” or Ferdi, would become the pen-name that Baba would use and work into the last stanza of all his own poetry, as Middle Eastern poets have done for centuries. And he was given this before his birth. At this point I thought Baba had finished, for he had answered my question. But Baba did not stop here. Instead he went on to tell the full story of his life. This made me reconsider what he had understood by “name” when I had asked him where his name came from. It appears Baba understood his “name” in the fuller sense of his destiny. Baba continued. Well, in these circumstances, so I was born, I grew up. In truth I too felt happiness in his [Ali Haqi Baba’s] wish that I be a dervish. While still young, I went to school. I finished elementary school, I finished middle



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school, and then I went to madrasa, a religious school. I studied there. Baba [Selim Ruhi Baba], my murshid, had a special teacher brought to the tekke so that I would learn more readily and fully. He gave me lessons. He taught me the whole program up to when I earned my ijazetname [diploma]. They gave me the diploma later—a diploma in the high religious sciences. They called a meeting. The Mufti came, the local one, the Mufti of Gjirokastra, along with the ulema, the religious scholars. Thus according to the prescribed way, they did it. And after examining me, they gave me the diploma. My diploma was over there [motioned toward his bedroom in the tekke]. But who would bother with such things. In any case, this is how it was. Later I became a dervish. On becoming a dervish I stayed with Baba [Selim Ruhi Baba] for 20 years. It did not fall my lot that I should be there at the time of his death. The Communists came. Baba did not like the Communists. I made propaganda against Communism. So if the Communists caught me, they would have killed me. Of course I had to go. Baba knew this. I said to him: “Now there is no other way, I must be going.” “Very well,” he said. “Then may it go well.” I went from there, from Gjirokastra to Shkodra. From Shkodra, then by way of the sea I came to Italy. I lived there four years, in a camp.

Baba had summarized his education and stated that he became a dervish or Muslim monk. But he did not describe the process by which he was first initiated into the Bektashi Order as a muhib, and then after 1,001 days of service, initiated as a dervish. Baba went through yet a further initiation as a celibate dervish. He served his spiritual master, Selim Ruhi Baba, for 20 years. The last part of Baba’s dialogue above is the most restrained. A Bektashi should serve his religious master, including being present when that master leaves this world. That it did not fall his lot to be with his master when he passed on—Baba regretted this deeply for the rest of his life. During the time of World War II there were multiple factions in Albania including Communists and others. As the Communists were against religion, it was not surprising that Baba’s master had him speak out publicly against them. When the other main group lost out to the Communists, Baba had to take leave of his murshid and flee his homeland in the south of Albania, to the northern Albanian city of Shkodra, and from there to Italy. The four years he spent in Italy were in several different Displaced Persons Camps. Baba continued: Then, there was a tekke in Egypt. I said, “It is better for me to go to the tekke there. Naturally my place is there.” I went there. I stayed four years in Egypt. Then I saw that the tekke would be destroyed there. And it was not a good place for us because the Arabs didn’t like us [Albanians]. Naturally, being Sunni they did not like tekkes. And a day would come when

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they would destroy the tekke. As a matter of fact, that is just what happened. And besides I had friends here in America. I said, “I will go to America. Being ‘a person of the cloth,’ that is, not being able to renounce the ritual garments, I cannot work in the factories. But others will work. Out of consideration, they will give me food. For money or anything else I have of course no need.” Then that is what I did. I got permission from Sirri Baba [head of the tekke in Egypt] [to leave Egypt]. He wasn’t there then [he was temporarily in Turkey]. I wrote a letter. I said, “It is likely that the Communists will come here [to Egypt]. And then I will be a problem for the tekke. Both a problem, and it is not good that the tekke be tainted on my account. For this reason I have decided to go to America. And I can go there; I can live there. I don’t know, I said, what will become of me? Maybe my wish will come through? Maybe the grave—that the earth will take me in? Who knows? Only God knows this.” Then I came here. My sister, one of my sisters, had come there [New York] a year before. Through her, we had an understanding, she would make the guarantee for me. As a laborer, I went there. Not as a man of religion, because there was no tekke here then to send me as a man of religion. As a laborer, just some fellow or other, she made the guarantee for me. With that guarantee, I went there. I found friends there. Of course they helped me. And there were some older Albanians who also liked me. They were actually Bektashis. And they helped me. So, in these circumstances I lived a few months in New York. Then I could see that nothing would be done about a tekke. Communism had too deeply influenced them. They said, one of them said, “It will be better for you to go to Detroit. You will find it easier there.” In truth that’s how it happened. I came to Detroit. I held a gathering here. A person wanted an Ashura ceremony for a deceased person, he wanted a memorial Ashura ceremony done. “Can you do it?” he said to me. “Yes, I’ll do it,” I said. “Prayers and so forth, everything I can do them still,” I said. He called the gathering. His relatives came. They saw that it went well. At that time, I composed the mersiye.

Here for the first time during the telling I queried Baba. “Really?” I knew that Baba had not recited the mersiye or lament at that first ceremony in the private home. Meanwhile he had referred to the changes in Egypt in the early 1950s, at the time of the coming of Nasser, as not being good for the Albanians and their tekke there. Baba rightly predicted Egypt’s move toward neutral and then Soviet influence. He was afraid his anti-Communist past would then put the tekke in greater jeopardy in Egypt. As for my query, Baba explained that while he had written the mersiye then, he had not chanted it until they had a tekke.



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25

Before the tekke was set up, I composed it, but it could not be recited without a tekke. I only recited the prayer there. Where would I recite the mersiye there? So, then, in those circumstances they got started. Their wish was to slowly establish a tekke. Among them, some objections gradually arose. But through patience, explanation, and consideration, everything was settled. The tekke was ready. On May 15 it opened, and we came to live in the tekke. This was the first time that a tekke had opened in America, that is, in 1954. Then slowly, those who had been against it, they too came around. Slowly the tekke grew. The community grew. There was not much space at first. To initiate members, I did it up here [motioned upstairs]. There was no meydan. The meydan had not been built yet. In 1961, I made the meydan. All this side, the new part, I had done in 1961, because I had paid off the mortgage of the tekke here [initial mortgage on the farm]. I collected money and we started to build the new part. I reckoned—a library, a guest section with two to three bedrooms, a meydan, and a room for the person who took care of the meydan—that made four rooms. And that’s how it was done. Then slowly the tekke grew. What I had built held 200 people; we became more. We expanded it a little, for 300 people. Then again we expanded it. So it held 400 people. And even now it is not enough. Maybe, God willing, if the occasion arises, I will make a large hall outside that will hold 1,000 people. Well designed, as they do in the new way. And at that time the tekke will be complete. It will reach its perfection. To maintain the tekke and to provide revenues for it economically, we have built several apartments. These apartments turned out well. Praise be to God, the tekke can now get along. So, this has been the way of the tekke.

Thus Baba saw the founding and growth of a Bektashi tekke in America in the second half of the 20th century as fulfillment of his naming back in Albania, when it had still been part of the Ottoman Empire at the outset of the 20th century. The rest of this book will strive to fill out times and places and conflicts and communities that Baba has most fleetingly referred to. These times include the late Ottoman Empire to which Baba was one of the last living heirs, the time of the new Albanian state, for Baba loved his homeland deeply, and the changing times of the 20th century itself, several of whose ideologies tried to make religion obsolete. Baba lived through wars and foreign occupations, exile and years in Displaced Persons Camps. Through it all, at a deeper level, he was never displaced. To begin to understand this, let us turn to his “fathers [babas] in Bektashism,” to the line of his spiritual teachers.



2



Baba’s Bektashi Lineage The Strength of the “Fathers” The Inauspicious Event and Young Ali “Our Ali has come!” The way I learned about Ali Haqi Baba, the spiritual teacher of Baba’s spiritual teacher, was through Baba’s recounting of one incident here, and later another encounter there. We would be reading poetry, and a phrase would remind Baba of Ali Haqi Baba’s last couplet, the one he composed just before his passing, of how nothing remained to him except sighs and wails, yet he should still praise God for this. When I asked him about the couplet, Baba noted that all Ali Haqi Baba’s friends were gone. And then I remembered Ali Haqi Baba’s close friend, Mustafa, whom Baba had told me about at another time. Ali Haqi Baba and Mustafa had met in school, and when they had finished their schooling, they decided together that they should learn about mysticism. (See Mottahedeh 1985 for a student who, like Ali Haqi Baba, investigated mysticism in modern times.) When Baba told me this, it seemed perfectly natural. Their study had eventually drawn them to Bektashism, to initiation in the Bektashi Order, which they had performed together, and then their conclusion that the world had little to offer them so why not become dervishes. In retrospect this sounds medieval, but it took place in the 19th century when the Balkans were still part of the Ottoman Empire. Ali Haqi Baba went on to become a reviver of Bektashism in the 19th century, a century in which it was severely challenged. The 19th century was a time of difficulty for the entire Ottoman Empire. The Russian, Austro-Hungarian, British, and French empires actively sought territory and influence from the waning Ottomans. The Ottoman military that had once been the fear of Europe had become outdated. In an attempt to rectify this, or at least stem the tide of loss, Sultan Mahmud II, who reigned from 1808 to 1839, initiated many internal reforms, including reform of the military. The most dramatic part of his military reform led to a disaster for the

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Bektashi Order. By the 19th century the Janissaries, the elite troops that had been introduced by Sultan Orhan five centuries earlier, had become powerful in their own right, and at the same time they obstructed reform. So in June of 1826 Sultan Mahmud II provoked the Janissaries, who predictably marched on the palace. On the way they were mowed down by the Sultan’s artillery and then shelled in their own barracks. Four thousand were killed and the corps abolished. The next month the Bektashi Order, which had long provided chaplains to the Janissaries, was made illegal, some of its leaders were executed, and its tekkes burned or given over to other Sufi orders. In his account of the suppression of his order Baba told me how, after the Janissaries had been killed, people came forth blaming the Bektashis for the excesses and the recent sedition of these former elite troops. Hodjas, Sunni religious leaders, who had never accepted that the more Shi’a-like Bektashi should have a place in Ottoman society, spoke out publicly against them and their beliefs, insisting that they either disavow these beliefs or be executed. At this point, Baba quoted the famous Bektashi saying that had been the response of many Bektashi clerics to this pressure: Ser veririz, sırr vermeziz. We give our heads, never our secret.

Sultan Mahmud II issued a ferman, an official order, that Bektashi clerics had to return to civilian dress, meaning they had to take off the religious garb that they had vowed to wear from the time of their private initiation as Bektashi dervishes—or be executed. According to Baba, 400 dervishes were killed at this time rather than deny their vows. Turkish historians referred to the destruction of the Janissaries as vak‘a-i hayriye, “the auspicious event” (Kinross 1977:457). Baba’s description understandably referred initially to it only as “the event of Sultan Mahmud.” After the debacle of 1826, it took decades for the Bektashi Order to revive. Ali Haqi Baba played an important role in re-establishing and spreading Bektashism in Albania in the 19th century. So it is not surprising that Baba told me about different aspects of Ali Haqi Baba’s life many times, including six that I was able to record on tape in 1984, 1985, 1986, and 1993. The following, that I have translated from Baba’s words, recounts the first half of the life of this most memorable Bektashi baba. In the time of Sultan Mahmud, when the tekkes were to be destroyed, there was a tekke in Köprülü [southeast of Skopje] in the Balkans, led by one by the name of Salih Baba. Salih Baba was originally from Elbasan, but was then serving as the baba at the Köprülü tekke. There were many dervishes at that tekke. When Salih Baba received a



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sign that the Bektashi tekkes would be destroyed, he called the dervishes to him, and said, Look here, my children. According to a sign from the Pir, the Founder of our order [Haji Bektash Veli], our tekkes will be destroyed. It will be soon. There is nothing we can do. Until it happens, stay here in the tekke. When the time comes that they come here, you flee from here and go to Korça. Our muhibs [initiated members] are there in the nearby town of Plasa, among the notables there. As they are our muhibs, they will provide for you there. As for myself, I will take only Dervish Hasan with me and go to my relatives in Elbasan. This came to pass. With the event of Sultan Mahmud, the dervishes escaped to the notables of Plasa, and they stayed there. Salih Baba took Dervish Hasan and went to Elbasan to the home of a relative named Sulejman. Salih Baba stayed there at the house of Sulejman for three years. One day he said to Sulejman, “My child, I have been staying here for three years and I have not seen a child of yours. Do you not have a child?” “No, Baba,” he answered. “We have been married for ten years but Jenab-i Hak [the Lord of All-Truth] has not given us a child.” “Ahhh,” said Salih Baba. “In that case, would you consent to my praying to the Lord of All-Truth for a son to come to you? But he wouldn’t be for you, he would be for us.” “Very well.” responded Sulejman, “However you will it, may it be so.” So, Salih Baba prayed. And in truth, in time Sulejman’s wife was pregnant. And in time Ali was born. When Ali was born, Salih Baba himself named him. And he said, “Our Ali has come now!” And he too prayed, Dervish Hasan did. He was present there because he was Salih Baba’s dervish. And in time, the uproar of Sultan Mahmud passed.

In a later telling, Baba was more explicit about this “uproar.” He noted that after Sultan Mahmud II came to the throne, the “events” occurred: “Among the Bektashis, some were killed, some escaped, some had their tekkes burned, some converted, and some changed. The Naqshibandi Order was put in what had been the place of the Bektashis, because the Bektashis could not be officially recognized after this had happened. Those who remained Bektashi had to say publicly that they were Naqshibandi.” The Naqshibandi Order is the most Sunni among the different tariqats or Sufi orders, and so it was more acceptable to the Ottoman authorities, who were themselves largely Sunni, as are the majority of Muslims. The question of where the Bektashis should be placed in the rich variety of Islamic ways remains. Some in modern Turkey would ally them with the village Alevis (Noyan

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1998), and there are connections. Others would see the Bektashis as representing a remnant of an early Safavid form of Shi’a Islam (Babayan 2002). Indeed the Bektashis do celebrate the major Shi’a holidays of Ashura and Nevruz. But when I asked Baba Rexheb directly if the Bektashis were Shi’a, he responded in an old Turkish couplet implying that the Bektashis were misled neither by the Sunnis nor the Shi’a. Baba continued with his account of Salih Baba. Notice the importance of seniority in Bektashim at the outset of this account. In Albanian culture as well, older people are highly respected. People seat themselves according to where they place in the hierarchy of age and prestige in relation to the baba or host, and they should be greeted in this order. In Korça [a city in southeastern Albania] at that time there was an Abdullah Baba. And he wrote a letter to Salih Baba saying that since the agents of Sultan Mahmud had left, and it was peaceful there, why should he stay in Elbasan all alone? He invited Salih Baba to come stay with him and the dervishes in the tekke there. Both Salih Baba and Abdullah Baba were halifes [the next higher Bektashi clerical rank above that of baba]. But as Salih Baba was older, he served as the murshid, while the other baba, that is Abdullah Baba, served at the tekke as rehber [a secondary position of



The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb

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“guide” in private Bektashi ceremonies]. And they stayed there. As for Dervish Hasan, he went to Haji Bektash, the Bektashi headquarters in central Anatolia. Ali’s friend’s name was Mustafa. They were always together and their friendship grew. They finished middle school, known as rüshdiye, and then entered the madrasa. After finishing the madrasa, they said to each other, “Let’s get on with it, we should begin the study of tasawwuf [Sufism].” They decided that they should take lessons in mysticism. With this resolve, they went to those skilled in giving lessons in mysticism. They finished these, at which time they understood something about mysticism. Then they said to each other that in order to understand mysticism well, they should take initiation and become Bektashi. This they agreed to do. So they readied themselves to go to Korça to Abdullah Baba who was head of the Bektashi tekke there at that time. To go from Elbasan to Korça, you could only go by horse—there were no automobiles at that time—and it took three days. Ali and his friend Mustafa set out. On the third day, Abdullah Baba said to the dervishes at the tekke in Korça, “Dervishes, two candles will come to us from Elbasan this evening. Make well the food and prepare, for they will come.”

I asked Baba what he meant by “two candles” here. Baba explained that it referred to “two men who like candles would shine for Bektashism. For they are the learned of those who know.” In another lesson Baba said that one of the greatest losses of the event of Sultan Mahmud was the burning in 1826 of the main Bektashi library in Dimetoka, 40 km south of Edirne in what is now Greece. This, coupled with the outlawing of the order, diminished significantly the number of educated people who became initiates, dervishes, and babas. As in the past, people continued to bring orphans to the Bektashi tekkes, but the educated did not also come in numbers, so the overall level of education declined. In Baba’s own case, the education of his line of babas was reinforced by family structure in the form of avuncular descent, that is, from maternal uncle to nephew. Here the sister’s son studies under her brother, his maternal uncle. Learning is passed through maternal uncle–nephew relations. Mothers matter in this matrix, which fits well with the largely Balkan branch of the Bektashis since the babas themselves are celibate. Baba continued. Then evening came, but there was no one. A little later yet, and the dervishes saw two young men on horseback dressed like hodjas with turbans. The two students had come. The baba and the dervishes were pleased with them, and that night they took the baba’s hand in initiation. That is, they took part in the rite of initiation of muhib. And they celebrated much that night after the initiation. They stayed at the tekke with the baba and dervishes three days, and then they left. Each year after this, according to custom, they would go to the tekke to serve Abdullah Baba, their murshid. They would stay several days and then leave.

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The last time Abdullah Baba said to them, “You have done well in coming, my children. For this may well be the last time we find ourselves together. That is, the will of God may well come that I go from this world.” Ali and Mustafa were deeply sorrowed by these words. But Abdullah Baba said in response, “No, do not be grieved. Those who come, leave. The world is like this.” As they prepared to leave, Abdullah Baba gave Ali a closed book, a book that was sealed shut. In giving Ali the book, Abdullah Baba said, “You should not open this. When the time comes, then you will be able to open it. Now you should not open it.” They left. And later Ali and Mustafa decided, for they were together all the time, “What do you say? Shall we become dervishes? What will we gain in this world? May we follow through.” They decided to become dervishes. Mustafa said he would go to Haji Husayn Baba in Akçahisar [in north-central Albania] to become a dervish there. As for Ali, he said he would go to Haji Bektash, the Bektashi headquarters in central Anatolia, to become a dervish. They decided in this way and they departed. Ali Haqi Baba got ready and left for Turkey. Going step by step, about a six-month journey, he finally arrived at the tekke there. He stood outside while the door opened. There the dervishes greeted him and they were pleased by his coming. Then Dervish Hasan approached. It was that same Dervish Hasan [who had been with Salih Baba in Elbasan much earlier]. He had become the assistant of the Dede Baba [the “Grandfather,” head of all Bektashis]. The dervishes said to Dervish Hasan, “Someone has come from far away, from Albania.” Dervish Hasan came and spoke to Ali, “How are you my child?” Ali responded, “I am well.” “Where do you come from?” Dervish Hasan inquired. “From Albania,” answered Ali. “From what part?” asked Dervish Hasan. “From Elbasan,” answered Ali. “And whose son are you?” asked Dervish Hasan. “I am the son of Sulejman Kara,” said Ali. “Is your name Ali?” asked Dervish Hasan, with quickening voice. “Yes, Ali,” answered Ali with surprise. “Oouuoo!” said Dervish Hasan with triumphant voice, “Our Ali! Our Ali has come! The nefes evladi of Salih Baba has come!”

At that time I had not yet heard the phrase “nefes evladi.” Just as I was starting to ask Baba what it meant, Zoti Kaja arrived to trim Baba’s beard and shave his head. In the Balkans all religious leaders, Christian and Muslim, have beards. Once a high-ranking baba came from Turkey for a formal visit to the Michigan tekke, and being from secularized Turkey, he had no beard. The Greek cook at our tekke, Joanna, who was an Orthodox Christian, had difficulty recog-



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3. Baba Rexheb blessing a baby in the Michigan tekke, 1987. Photograph by Manny Crisostomo. By permission of The Detroit Free Press.

nizing him as a religious leader. “Shaving lotion!” she remarked with disgust, “He uses shaving lotion.” As for the shaved head, that is a custom of Bektashi clerics. And it was a great honor to shave Baba’s head. But Baba was able to put off the shaving just then and continued with our lesson until he brought it to a close. Immediately I asked, “What is a nefes evladi?” From my knowledge of Turkish, I understood the two words “breath” and “child,” but what did it mean in the Bektashi context? Baba explained. A nefes evladi is a child from a baba or a dervish or a saint. Someone goes to one of these and says, “Brethren who know God, I would like a nefes evladi from you. That is, you pray to the Lord of All-Truth to give me a child.” He prays, and when a child is born, they say it is a nefes evladi. That is, from the breath of the baba it came into the world, requested of the Lord of All-Truth. In his prayer, from his breath. From this breath, it came into the world. Thus it was received as a nefes evladi.



“That means that you, Baba, you too are a nefes evladi!”

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“That is so. Ali Haqi Baba’s,” Baba responded. I had been taping for three months since Baba had answered my question about his name and told me of how he had been prayed for by Ali Haqi Baba. I continued, “And you, too!” “Me as well,” acknowledged Baba. Now that I had a name for the phenomenon, I found that I already knew several young people at the tekke who were nefes evladi of Baba Rexheb. They named the girls Dhurata, which is “gift” in Albanian, while the boys had Muslim religious names. Later when I asked Baba more about this, he told me that when a couple came to him requesting a child, he first asked if they had seen a doctor. If they had done all they could, then he would pray. And if the Lord of All-Truth responded, that was good. If He did not respond, that was also fine, for it was up to Him. Baba saw himself as an artery of prayer, not a source of miracles. Returning to Ali Haqi Baba, their both being nefes evladi was just another way among many that Baba Rexheb, who was Ali Haqi Baba’s sister’s grandson, was connected to his great uncle. And just as Ali Haqi Baba was a reviver of Bektashism in Albania in the 19th century, despite the destruction wrought by Sultan Mahmud II, so Baba Rexheb would be a unique source of the Bektashi tradition at its best in that most inauspicious of centuries, the 20th.

The Return of Ali Haqi Baba “He whacked them with his staff and smashed their bottles.” When Baba took out his tesbih or prayer beads—33 beads so that three full circuits would be 99 for the 99 beautiful Names of God, the attributes found in the Qur’an—I knew that he would be settling into extended talk. During his telling of the rest of the story of Ali Haqi Baba’s life, the sound of the beads was most prominent. And when I hear their gentle clicking on the tape, I can see Baba sitting back in his chair in the study room, one leg curled under him, wearing his dark hırka with his everyday taj back on his head. Next to Baba in the study room, under the front window, was his table full of books and papers, encyclopedias and dictionaries, Qur’ans and commentaries on the Qur’an, and collections of Persian and Turkish poetry. To one side was a narrow bed, since the study room doubled as a guest room in a pinch. To the other side was Baba’s chair, large enough for him to curl up in. And for me, there was a folding chair so that I could sit close to the table as we pored over whatever books we were reading or consulting. But with Baba’s telling of the life of Ali Haqi Baba, I too sat back. Baba was a master of the art of telling stories, a skill appreciated by all generations in the Albanian community.



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Later I would analyze Baba’s tales of Bektashi babas of the Balkans. I would find that all the tales were based on interlocking patterns, triggered by a Bektashi baba giving some word or verbal token—a prayer, prediction, or vow— followed sooner or later by its validation (Trix 2001a: Ch. 3). For example, early on Salih Baba had prayed for a child for his relative Sulejman. The validation was swift, with the subsequent birth of the child. But there was another “word” or vow that had also been given by Salih Baba. This was that the child would “be for us,” that is, for the Bektashis, echoed when Salih Baba announced at the child’s birth, “Our Ali has come.” Only here the validation was much later when Ali showed up at the door of the Bektashi headquarters, desiring to become a dervish. Dervish Hasan emphasized the validation of Salih Baba’s earlier “word” in his delighted pronouncement, “Our Ali! Our Ali has come!” Overlapping this vow and validation pattern was Abdullah Baba’s “word” or prediction when he told his dervishes to prepare a meal for “two candles that would come that night from Elbasan.” There was validation that evening when Ali and Mustafa showed up in their turbans and when they requested initiation. But the fuller validation only came when both Mustafa and Ali became dervishes and then later babas, thereby serving as “shining lights for Bektashism.” In addition there is the “word” of the sealed book, given to Ali by Abdullah Baba, whose validation came much later. In the continuing tale of Ali Haqi Baba, these patterns of a baba’s “word” and its subsequent validation echo and intertwine, like some strong vine of Bektashi life, carrying us forward through the vicissitudes and tribulations of this most memorable personage of a still mistrusted Bektashi Order in the late Ottoman Empire. With his prayer beads in hand, and me in my folding chair, Baba continued. And there, at the Bektashi headquarters in central Anatolia, Ali Haqi Baba served for three years. In the third year [1854] he became a dervish. He earned the right of the dervish to wear the [ritual] clothes. And for four more years he completed his service as a türbedar [keeper of the mausoleum], which duty they had given him. As time passed, Mustafa too became a dervish at Akçahisar. He became Dervish Mustafa. In time, in Elbasan Haji Husayn Baba gave him the ijazet [authorization], and he was placed as a baba in the Elbasan Tekke where he stayed for seven years. Then from Gjirokastra a request came to Haji Bektash headquarters. They wanted a baba because the Husayn Baba who had been there had left. He had fled, not wanting to stay. Turabi Dede pondered. He would send Dervish Ali to Gjirokastra. [Dervish Ali was certainly Albanian, but he would be considered a Geg or northern Albanian, while Gjirokastra was in the Tosk or southern Albanian dialect region.] He called Dervish Ali to his side. He said to Dervish Ali, “I have decided to make you a baba, and to send you

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to Gjirokastra to be a baba. Two or three babas have not lasted. They have not been able to stay there. If you also cannot make it, I will close the tekke completely.” In response, Dervish Ali said, “Erenler, I do not want to go to Gjirokastra.” “Why do you not want to go?” asked Turabi Dede, somewhat taken aback. Dervish Ali responded, “First of all, I have come from so far away, and am most content to remain in your presence. I do not want to be separated from you. Second, I have heard from dervishes that there in Gjirokastra, they say, ‘Did the chicken make the egg? Or the egg make the chicken? Who made what? What came first?’ ” Turabi Dede laughed at these words. In response he said, “As for the first question that you asked, wherever you will be, there will I be, with you, together. For that matter, do not worry. As for your second question, open your mouth, and I will speak for you.” Then, as there was nothing that could be said, Ali accepted. Without wanting to go, he accepted. And he went. And Turabi Dede gave him his authorization to be a baba. Then he came to Gjirokastra. He stayed at the tekke outside town. It was the custom for a group of muhibs to have muhabbet [special chanting of spiritual poems] there. The initiated members would themselves bring meat and whatever else was needed for a meal. They used drink and so forth there. And the dervishes would prepare the meal. Meanwhile they, the members, would drink.

Baba’s repetition of “drink” here is said with approbation because it implies alcohol, probably wine, but the place of alcohol in Bektashi tekkes varies. The old tradition of muhabbet included drink as a ritualized element so that people drank small amounts in the context of chanting and eating. First a spiritual poem was chanted. After each poem, the food and drink were formally presented to each participant around the sides of the oval gathering by a special person, a saqi, or wine-bearer. Only small amounts were taken at a time. Many Muslims hold that alcoholic beverage is proscribed by the Qur’an, while some have argued for exceptions like date wine. Many Bektashis, because of their ritual practice, have understood the Qur’an to proscribe drunkenness, not all drinking. Tekkes varied in their policies, with some allowing alcohol, some not. In times of muhabbet in Michigan, Baba Rexheb drank Coca Cola. Baba resumed. They brought meat and everything for a meal that the dervishes prepared. Ali Haqi Baba was not with them; rather he was in another room. Other guests stayed with him on that side of the tekke. The larger group drank alcohol, and they ate while making muhabbet. The song they sang had a refrain, “Fatima, O my flower.” Ali Haqi Baba could hear the singing. As a newcomer, he thought it was a nefes [spiritual chant] for Her Excellency Fatima, the daughter of the Prophet. And so Ali Haqi



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Baba asked the others with him, “How does this nefes go?” They said in response, “Baba, this is not a nefes. This is a song that carousing men sing. There was a young woman named Fatima who went here and there, so they made up a song about her.” Ali Haqi Baba exclaimed. “So they sing songs about such women here, do they!” Ali Haqi Baba stood up, and taking his wooden staff in his hand, he went after them. He struck at them, saying, “This is not a tavern where you sing about such women!” And he whacked at them and smashed their bottles. They stood up. “What do you want?” they said. “Our tekke is ours!” “Yes,” Ali Haqi Baba said in response, “the tekke is yours. But the staff is mine. If you cannot stay within the ways of a tekke, I will beat you and send you packing.” And he continued to strike at them with his staff. They got up to leave, saying, “Oou, this must be a crazy one!” Baba struck at them from behind as they left. They all departed. The leader of the group was one by the name of Ali Zot Bey of Gjirokastra. He felt his honor had been impugned. “What a bad thing he did to us,” he exclaimed. “He came, this Geg came from the land of the Gegs to treat us so vilely in our own tekke. Let’s get rid of him. This should not be.” They decided to kill the baba. Ali Zot Bey gathered some men for this purpose. But others did not want this. “How should we kill the baba?” they said. “We want the baba.” And the majority were of this opinion. They sent some old men sympathetic to the baba to the tekke to keep him from going outside, to hold him there. The others of this same group, who constituted a sizeable crowd, agreed to fight against those who wanted to get rid of the baba. So several old men who were muhibs arrived at the tekke. A dervish came to tell Ali Haqi Baba that so-and-so had arrived. “Fine,” he said. “Bring them here. Let us talk and make muhabbet.” The dervishes brought them to the baba, and the baba began making muhabbet with them. Then the sound of a bullet was heard. Concerned, Ali Haqi Baba asked, “What was that?” “That is nothing,” the old men reassured. “A falcon, they have killed a falcon.” So Ali Haqi Baba gave it no importance, saying, “Maybe they have killed a falcon.” Then the crowd came nearer. “Vrrr,” there was a rumble. “Ahh,” said the baba. “This is not a case of a falcon. Something is going on!” At which point he stood up and took his staff in hand. The old men also got up and held the baba back. “For goodness sake, Baba, don’t go out!” they pleaded loudly. “Ali Zot Bey must have come here against Nazarım [polite reference to the baba],” they finally explained. “But our young men are more numerous and they won’t let them do anything. But we beg you, don’t go outside until they are

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driven away!” The baba wanted to go out. The old men would not let him go. In they end they prevailed and did not let him go out. At this time in Haji Bektash it was afternoon, just after the afternoon prayer. In Haji Bektash there was the custom that the Dede would call all the babas to drink coffee with him after the nap. And on this day he had called all the babas, and they sat there, making muhabbet. The dervish had brought the coffee for them to drink and had given it out in turn. Turabi Dede was drinking his coffee. When it was half finished, he broke off and was silent. He neither drank what was left in his cup nor gave it to the dervish. But he just stopped, without making a sound, not looking at anyone. The other babas began to worry. “What is it? Perhaps he is ill? What is there?” Then a little later still, Turabi Dede drank the rest of the coffee in a single gulp. He said to the dervish, “Take this cup away.” The dervish took Turabi Dede’s cup, and he also gathered up the cups of the other babas, and he left. At this time Turabi Dede said, “The situation of Ali Haqi Baba was precarious, but the Lord of All-Truth has saved him.” The others wondered at these words. What could this be? Word had come, without word coming, without talk. How had this come about? And then the pronouncement. One named Hasan Baba wrote down what Turabi Dede had said, “On such and such a date, while we were together, at such and such a time the Dede made this pronouncement.” Hasan Baba wrote this on a piece of paper and put the paper in his taj saying, “Let us see what will happen from these words.” And so, in time, Turabi Dede passed from the world. Much later, the halifes [highest Bektashi clerical rank below the dede] gathered there. And they brought Hasan Baba to the makam [level] of Dede. To this degree they elevated him. Then Hasan Dede wrote to Ali Haqi Baba because he knew him from the time Ali Haqi Baba had come into the world as a nefes evladi and been named by his murshid. Hasan Dede wrote Ali Haqi Baba a letter. In it he told him the dede has passed on. The halifes have left this task [of being the Dede] to me. I will be performing the ceremony for initiating new halifes at such and such a time. I would like first to grant to you the rank of halife. At that time Ali Haqi Baba had just finished building the tekke at Melan [in the extreme south of Albania]. He had no funds [for the journey to Haji Bektash]. He called one of the muhib, from a previous baba, one named Xha Malo. Ali Haqi Baba said to Xha Malo, “The dede has passed from this world. And the new dede has called me to him. I must go. But as I just built the tekke [of Melan], I have no money. I need 40 liras to go there, as a loan.”



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“Fine, Baba,” said Xha Malo. “I will bring it to you tomorrow.” And he left. Ali Haqi Baba then wrote a voucher that read, “I owe Xha Malo 40 liras that I have borrowed. If something should happen to me, if I should die, whoever comes in my place, I request that he repay this money.” The next day Xha Malo came, and he brought Ali Haqi Baba the money. He brought it in a handkerchief. Ali Haqi Baba took out the voucher he had written. “What is that?” asked Xha Malo. “There is the matter of my death between us,” Ali Haqi Baba answered. “I do not want that,” said Xha Malo. “If you die, then let my money be a sacrifice too.” And he tore up the voucher and left. Ali Haqi Baba prepared to go for the halife ceremony at Haji Bektash; he traveled all the way there. Then, according to custom, the rightful ceremony for initiating halifes was performed. Ali Haqi Baba became a halife. Afterward, when the table for muhabbet was spread, in the following talk, Haji Hasan Dede said to Ali Haqi Baba, “O Ali Haqi Baba, what happened to you at such and such a time?” “How do you know that?” Ali Haqi Baba asked incredulously. Hasan Dede responded, “You tell me, then I will tell you what I know.” Ali Haqi Baba recounted, After I went as a baba to Gjirokastra, some muhibs gathered there at the tekke. And while making muhabbet, they sang songs for a woman of the street. I would not stand for it. So I got up and threw them out, beating them with my staff. But they were most offended. So they came later to attack and kill me. When they came after me, I wanted to go out to them. I took my staff in hand to go to them outside to strike them with the staff. But the old ones would not let me go. And so they were spared; I was not able to beat them. They went away. And that is the story. At this moment, Haji Hasan Dede took out the piece of paper from his taj, the one he had put there. And he read it aloud, At this time, on this date, of this day, we were with Turabi Dede to drink coffee together. Halfway through the coffee, he stopped, with the coffee cup in his hand, he paused. Then, a few minutes later he said to us, “Ali Haqi Baba’s situation was precarious, but the Lord of All-Truth saved him.” “I wrote this. See, here is the date.” “Ahhh,” said Ali Haqi Baba. “It is clear that he held to his word, Turabi Dede. For he said, ‘You go there. I will speak for you.’ It is clear that he held to his word.” And that is how it ended.

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In a later lesson with Baba I asked about the meaning of Turabi Dede’s word to Ali Haqi Baba that he, Turabi Dede, would speak for him. I asked, “Does that mean that Turabi Dede would speak to the Lord of All-Truth for Ali Haqi Baba?” “Of course,” answered Baba. But I needed to make sure. I had found in my study with Baba that what seemed obvious was not always so. Here though, there was a larger picture, for saints, babas, and dervishes have long been most important in Bektashism as intermediaries. The particular point here was that no matter where Ali Haqi Baba was, Turabi Dede would know when he was in need of intercession, and he would provide it. In a later telling, it was clear that Turabi Dede had known of Ali Haqi Baba’s straits and despite the great distance had interceded for him. I remarked that such stories are not found so much today. Baba answered me, Yes, strange things, strange things. But you should know, to understand tasawwuf [Islamic mysticism], that this world is not all there is. A human being who sees this world as all there is stays like a bird, with nothing. But then he finds himself in the breath of the Lord of All-Truth. And at that time, how have they said, that is, the Lord of All-Truth Himself has said: “Neither the heavens nor the earth could hold Me, all that can hold Me is the heart of a true human.” This is a famous hadith qudsi or saying of God. This way, when the Lord of All-Truth stays in a person’s heart, he or she [there is no marked gender on pronouns in Turkish] must renounce all else. That is, whatever there is—be there egoism, life, whatever—he must reject everything; he must sacrifice all things. At that time the place of the Lord of All-Truth will be his heart. At that time the Lord of All-Truth speaks with him. It is as if one must first know, then one should understand what he/He is. Thus it is.

One way that one becomes of aware of the Lord of All-Truth in one’s heart is through the love of the murshid. This Baba taught me. And this is seen in the following interchange relating to the sealed book. Then after Ali Haqi Baba had learned how Turabi Dede had spoken for him and had indeed kept to his word, Ali Haqi Baba took out the sealed book. He said to Haji Hasan Dede, “My murshid, Abdullah Baba, when I went to him for the last time, he gave me this book. He said to me, ‘Do not open it. When the time comes, open it.’ You be my witness that I haven’t opened it. It is sealed. I did not open it. Now you, Nazarım, open it.”



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Haji Hasan Dede replied, “No. He did not say for me to open it. He said for you to do so.” At that time Ali Haqi Baba opened the sealed book. And inside he saw the ceremonies, all the prayers and ways of the ceremonies [of the four private Bektashi ceremonies of initiation—for muhib, dervish, celibacy, halife—that only those who perform them are allowed to see]. For his murshid had known he would become a dervish, he would be a celibate dervish, and he would become a halife. Of course, he knew that there would come a day [when he would have the right to see all these ceremonies]. But when he saw the book, he cried. He cried because he saw the handwriting of his murshid there. From this he cried.

I always loved this part of the story, for I understood the close relationship of student and murshid. And I even saw how Baba reacted when very late in his life we received cotton bags of papers and books from Albania that included some writing of his own murshid, Selim Ruhi Baba. So it was a shock for me to realize many years later that I had misconstrued who had cried. My initial understanding was that it was Ali Haqi Baba who had cried on seeing the handwriting of his murshid, Abdullah Baba. Indeed Abdullah had given Ali Haqi Baba the sealed book. But in a later Albanian version of this story, Baba had made clear it was Haji Hasan Dede who had cried. I understood how I could have misconstrued who was the subject, for Turkish, like Chinese, rarely repeats full subjects and just assumes the hearer is following along from context. But the context itself seemed to point to Ali Haqi Baba and Abdullah Baba. But then I remembered that before Ali’s birth, Salih Baba had been accompanied to Elbasan by Dervish Hasan. Undoubtedly Salih Baba was Dervish Hasan’s murshid. In Elbasan, Salih Baba had prayed for the birth of Ali and named him. Later, though, Salih Baba had been invited by Abdullah Baba to serve with him in his tekke. The unspoken was that Salih Baba must have given his book of Bektashi ceremonies to Abdullah Baba before he passed on. Later, Ali went to Abdullah Baba to be initiated, and so Abdullah Baba was Ali’s murshid. It was Abdullah Baba who had given Ali the sealed book, but it appears the book had originally come from Salih Baba. So when Ali Haqi Baba broke the seal and opened the book, Hasan Dede, who was Ali Haqi Baba’s witness that he had not opened the book previously and who used to be Dervish Hasan, saw to his amazement the handwriting of his own murshid, Salih Baba. And he cried. Thus, through this long and convoluted tale, both Ali Haqi Baba and Haji Hasan Dede testify to the deep love that remains, no matter the passage of time, between them and their murshids. But to return to Ali Haqi Baba’s life, Baba continued.

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Ali Haqi Baba returned [to his tekke in southern Albania]. Then he got those 40 lira ready that he had borrowed. He called Xha Malo. He handed him the money. Xha Malo said, “What are these [coins]?” “These are my debt,” answered Ali Haqi Baba. “I do not want these,” said Xha Malo. “I said, let them be a sacrifice for you.” “No, this was a loan,” said Ali Haqi Baba. “You must take them.” “No, I won’t take them.” “You must.” Xha Malo finally took the money, saying, “I will take the money and put it in the türbe of Asim Baba [founder of the tekke in the late 18th century]. You cannot ask why I put it there or overcome Asim Baba.” [Gifts left in the türbe of a baba who has passed on belong to the entire tekke and are used for its expenses.] Ali Haqi Baba acquiesced, saying, “Whatever you want with Asim Baba, so do. But I will give you the money.” Ali Haqi Baba lived on. Important hodjas came to him and became his muhib. They became Bektashi from him. And he initiated 2,000 muhibs with his own hand. He “dressed” forty dervishes and gave ijazet or authorization to twelve babas. Their names are written. With the passing of the next dede of the Bektashi Order, Haji Mehmet Dede, they sought for Ali Haqi Baba to become dede and go to Haji Bektash. The main halifes of the time wrote a letter in which they supported him. But the people of Gjirokastra, from the love they felt for him, would not let him go. Ali Haqi Baba served as baba at that tekke for 46 years. My murshid, Selim Ruhi Baba, who took his vows from his [Ali Haqi Baba’s] hand, became a muhib, a dervish, a baba, and a halife. Then in the year 1907, Ali Haqi Baba passed from the world. The day that he would pass from the world he told Selim Ruhi Baba to bring his book [the divan of poetry he had written]. Selim Ruhi Baba gave him a pen and he wrote a final couplet in Persian. He lived a few hours, then he passed from this world. This then is his terjume-i hal [“translation of condition,” that is, “biography”].



I asked Baba about the Persian couplet Ali Baba had written. Baba quoted: No friend remains for you, Khâkî, but sighs and wails. So you must say, “praise to God” that this remains for you.

“Khâkî” is the pen name of Ali Haqi Baba. I asked if Ali Haqi Baba had written all his poetry in Persian. “Most of it,” allowed Baba. “In his divan he had written many gazels in Persian,” he said. “It is very beautiful,” I added, referring to more than the last remarks. “Yes,” said Baba equally vaguely.



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Somehow I knew there needed to be a way of closing this tale that acknowledged it more fully and acknowledged Baba’s connection to this remarkable baba. Students too have responsibilities and I knew this was mine. “So this is Ali Haqi Baba,” I stated, somewhat lamely. “This is Ali Haqi Baba,” echoed Baba. Then it came to me. “I remember, Baba, that you said, those long eyebrows.” I had remembered this from well before the time of taping, maybe in our first years of study. Baba picked up immediately. “Ah, yes, it doesn’t come to mind who said it, one of the dervishes said to me, ‘You look like Ali Haqi Baba with your long eyebrows.’ ” “Thus it is,” I answered. “It is complete, Baba.”

Selim Ruhi Baba “They came to kiss his hand, one by one, for half an hour” One spring morning I went to the tekke and found Baba on the last leg of his daily walk. I walked with him. Baba could hear best from the right side, so I was always careful to walk on that side of him. He was, after all, well into his eighties by this time. It was sunny, which was not always the case in spring in Michigan. I said spontaneously to him, “Wouldn’t Selim Baba be proud of this tekke, of all you have done here?” Without pause Baba responded in Turkish, “Ama hepsi onun nimetinden” [But it is all from his blessing]. Selim Ruhi Baba was Baba Rexheb’s murshid, his spiritual master, and he had passed away in 1944. He was a crucial person in Baba’s life, perhaps the most important one. But Baba did not talk about him as readily as, say, about Ali Haqi Baba. Yet he was a pervasive presence from the time of Baba’s birth in Gjirokastra in 1901 until the end of Baba’s days in Michigan in 1995. When Baba spoke of him, it was with deep reverence, love, and sadness. He regretted not having been able to publish the poetry of Selim Ruhi Baba, spiritual poetry written in Persian, Arabic, and Ottoman Turkish. To be with one’s murshid at the time of his passing and to make known to the world his spiritual poetry— these were expected of a dervish. Baba kept a large black and white photograph of his murshid on the wall of his bedroom across from his bed. The photograph looked like an enlargement, for there was a fuzziness over all. Yet the face of the older man with his white beard, his long white garb and belt, and his Bektashi headpiece was striking. I later saw a large portrait of Selim Ruhi Baba at the Bektashi center outside

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4. Photograph of Selim Ruhi Baba that Baba Rexheb kept in his bedroom at the Michigan tekke, est. 1910.

Tirana, a more professional one with a green background and symbols of the Ottoman Empire on one side and Ottoman writing on the other. But Baba’s black and white photograph of his spiritual teacher was more haunting. He was not even placed square in the space of the photograph but tilted slightly to the right, almost floating. I do not recall when Baba first mentioned Selim Ruhi Baba. Perhaps it was in the context of talking about Ali Haqi Baba, for Ali Haqi Baba was Selim Ruhi Baba’s spiritual master, as well as his maternal uncle, and their lives overlapped for many years. Selim Ruhi Baba’s personality contrasted to that of Ali Haqi Baba, which was most advantageous for all concerned. This contrast was made clear when the Ottoman authorities came to the Teqeja e Zallit—“the Tekke of Pebbles”—where Ali Haqi Baba, Selim Ruhi Baba, and later Baba Rexheb all served in southern Albania, outside Gjirokastra. The



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Ottoman authorities came in the early years of the 20th century, in 1904 to be exact, seeking illegal books. In the late 19th century, Albanians had started printing books in their own language, instead of in Turkish or Greek or Arabic. The Ottoman authorities had banned this, rightly seeing that this was a step toward the unity of Albanians away from Ottoman Turkish control. The Ottoman authorities also made it illegal to harbor such books. But as tekkes tended to be built outside towns and cities and the Bektashis were early supporters of Albanian unity, their tekkes often became convenient storage places of forbidden books in Albanian. As Baba recounted in March 1985: When Hajdar Baba, head of one of the other two Bektashi tekkes in the Gjirokastra area, passed from this world in 1904, spies from the Ottoman authorities entered his tekke and found many illegal books in Albanian there. The tekke was surrounded by soldiers, no one was allowed to leave, and the dervishes and new baba, Sulejman Baba, were sent to prison in Yanina, the provincial center to the south. The following day the Ottoman authorities planned to search Ali Haqi Baba’s tekke, but the head secretary of the prefecture, who was a muhib of Ali Haqi Baba, warned him of the impending search. In the night all the books and materials in Albanian were taken from the tekke, over the rocky hillside, to the nearby village of Lazarat. The next day the Ottoman Pasha himself, with a contingent of soldiers, entered the tekke courtyard. For whatever reason, the Pasha did not like Bektashis, and he came himself to personally send Ali Haqi Baba to prison. Ali Haqi Baba was well aware of this. The Pasha climbed the stairs and entered the long reception room which was also the study room of the tekke. There Ali Haqi Baba sat resolutely, surrounded by his own books. “So, go ahead, take a look at the books,” Ali Haqi Baba ordered him. The Pasha came forward reached for a book, and took one that happened to be written in Persian. “Where is the bismillah?” he asked. “Perhaps this is not a religious book,” he said suggestively. For Muslim religious books have at the outset the first phrase of the Qur’an: Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim, “In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate.” Glaring at the Pasha, Ali Haqi Baba retorted, “Ignorant one!” For there was indeed a bismillah in the book, but the Persian script was slanted more than standard Ottoman and it must not have been clear to the Pasha. “Blind one! You must not have seen where it is. Bring it here and I will show you. See, here, the bismillah is here, ignorant one!” Saying this Ali Haqi Baba reached for his staff to strike the Pasha. But Selim Ruhi Baba, knowing Ali Haqi Baba’s nature, had wisely removed Baba’s staff from the room before the Pasha had arrived. Now it was the Pasha who was angered. He stomped out complaining of how rudely he had been treated by Ali Haqi Baba. Selim Ruhi Baba accompanied him, saying,

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“Where are you going, Pasha Effendi? He is old, and he is fasting,” for it is known that people who are fasting can be short-tempered. “He is upset from the implication of your search. Come and inspect the whole tekke, see if there is anything amiss. Do not punish the whole tekke.” He soothed the Pasha with his words and respectful manner. And the soldiers looked here and there, but they did not find anything. Selim Ruhi Baba said, “Of course, there was nothing here. It is clear that it was a mistaken message.” And at that time Selim Ruhi Baba wanted Ali Haqi Baba and the Pasha to drink a cup of coffee together. He sent a dervish to prepare it. But Ali Haqi Baba did not want to drink coffee with the Pasha. Selim Ruhi Baba pleaded with him, “So that he does not write to Istanbul to make trouble for us, so that he does not send us into exile.” “No, I don’t care to.” “I beg of you.” Finally Ali Haqi Baba condescended and Selim Ruhi Baba brought the Pasha back upstairs. A dervish brought coffee to the reception room for him and the Pasha. The Pasha sat down and took the coffee, as did Ali Haqi Baba. But Ali Haqi Baba refused to look at the Pasha, and instead kept his eyes firmly focused outside the window. At last it was over. Selim Ruhi Baba walked the Pasha down the stairs and through the courtyard of the tekke to the front gate, showing public respect to counter the indignity of the Pasha’s failure to find the books. And Selim Ruhi Baba had once again served his murshid well. There soon emerged a popular song about soldiers coming from Yanina to the tekkes of Gjirokastra, of their finding hidden books in some of the tekkes, and of their taking a baba and dervishes to prison. The people knew well of Ali Haqi Baba’s temper. One of the lines of the song said that if Ali Haqi Baba had had a sword, he would have used it. But imagine the cost to the tekke had this occurred. Baba Selim’s wisdom in removing Ali Haqi Baba’s staff and in soothing the Pasha had protected them all. Selim Ruhi Baba had a calming nature and a gentle disposition, besides being highly educated and most astute. This was in marked contrast to his murshid, Ali Haqi Baba who, when angered by whatever dervish or official, would stare at him harshly. With his dervishes, sometimes for a minor infraction, he would want to send them packing. But Selim Ruhi Baba, when he saw Ali Haqi Baba angered, went swiftly to his side and begged him to forgive whomever had angered him. He would kiss Ali Haqi Baba’s hand in the name of that person, seeking pardon, until finally Ali Haqi Baba forgave him. This was appreciated by all, from the dervishes to the muhibs to the entire populace.

This appreciation of Selim Ruhi Baba extended beyond crises. One “Holiday of Sacrifice,” the major Muslim holiday that commemorates Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son, I asked Baba how this holiday had been celebrated in Gjirokastra. Baba told me how Selim Ruhi Baba would go to the mosque, and so forth. This description seemed almost a procession out of time, for during much of the time that Selim Ruhi Baba was head of the tekke, from 1907 to 1944, there was foreign occupation and war. What stands out is the way the people



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responded to Selim Ruhi Baba. Thus, in reply to my common holiday question of how a holiday, here the Holiday of Sacrifice, was celebrated in Albania, Baba recounted. Selim Ruhi Baba rode, with several riders and servants in front. There were dervishes on each side as well, along with muhibs and ashıks [people drawn to the Baba], maybe 100 people, all of whom went along. But Baba was in pure white. Even the horse he rode was white, a white horse from the Arabian line. And the dervishes too were in pure white, walking along to the mosque. The imam of the mosque was Bektashi, a muhib of Baba. They set the tables outside the mosque, as they do for holidays, so there was room for all the people, so it would not be restricted. And [Selim] Baba sat there, as they laid out the entire meal. They celebrated the holiday. Then they brought out the minbar, the steps from which the imam preached in the mosque, so each one could go [up] and kiss Baba’s hand. This went on for half an hour. When this was done, they went back [to the tekke], slowly by horse, as earlier. For a full 15 minutes, or maybe 20 minutes, slowly by horse, with many people behind. They arrived back, but stopped in the area in front of the main gate of the tekke compound. It was an open place, an “outside courtyard.” And there, in front of the türbes, Baba descended from the horse and stood waiting. First of all the dervishes came, one by one, to kiss his hand, and to wish him “ ‘ id mubarak” [a blessed holiday]. Then the muhibs, the initiated members, came to kiss his hand. And after them, the ashıks, those drawn by their ashk or love of Baba. And then the children came, too, to kiss his hand. Then Baba would go up to his room, but it was a large room, larger yet than our meydan [in Michigan]. It was 15 meters long, so many could be accommodated. It was both the reception room of the tekke as well as the room of the Baba, a rectangular room that was long enough that 50 men could pray there. And they filled the room. The dervishes came, together with the muhibs. And there they performed prayer, Bektashi prayer, separately. If there were more muhibs, then they were brought in. If no more muhibs, then the ashıks joined them and sat there. They brought sherbet, red sherbet for the holiday. Then the children came in too. They came in a line with their fathers, holding on to their fathers’ hands, they would fill up the rest of the room. Baba [Selim Ruhi Baba] always ordered 15 kilos of candied fruit for this day alone to give to the children. A dervish would take it and give it to them one by one, giving this much to one, to another, in turn. Then they would stand, slowly, in well-brought-up fashion, and one by one, go to kiss the hand of Baba. Baba would greet them, “Rrofshh mo bir! May you live long, my son!” Then each would return, not showing his back to Baba, walking backward, slowly and carefully. That is how they went. Thus it was.

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As for Selim Baba’s fuller life story, unlike Ali Haqi Baba, about whom there were many stories in this oral society, there was much less patterned talk on Selim Ruhi Baba. He had passed away when the Communists took over his region of Albania, after which the public stories focused on Communist resistance fighters who fought against foreign invaders and bourgeois nationalists, stories approved by the new Communist regime. And yet, behind all of Baba Rexheb’s actions, in all his travels and communities, and most certainly in his prayers, Selim Ruhi Baba was there. To move to Baba’s words: Selim Ruhi Baba was born in Elbasan, on a date that does not come to mind [1869], from the marriage that Ali Haqi Baba made between his sister, Lahe, and Xhemal Baldhze. A baba there, who later died near Berat [a city to the south of Elbasan in Albania], gave him the name Selim, which was his name as well. Selim grew at home and then went to primary school. He finished primary school and entered religious school. He completed religious school when he was 19 years old, at which point his father, Xhemal, took him to Gjirokastra to Ali Haqi Baba to be a dervish with Ali Haqi Baba. There Ali Haqi Baba sent him to the madrasa in Gjirokastra for advanced study. When this was done, Ali Haqi Baba taught him all that a learned man of the time should know. For Ali Haqi Baba had gone on a journey to all the pilgrimage sites from Karbala [in Iraq] to Palestine. And Ali Haqi Baba was highly educated. He had written several books [on mystic phraseology, a dictionary of Chagatay Turkish, an account of his pilgrimages, and poetry in Arabic and Persian]. Together they waited for new books from Istanbul to pore over them together, books not just on religion, but on history, geography, literature, and science, on natural science, philosophy, and other fields of knowledge. Selim Ruhi Baba came to be considered the most cultured cleric of his time and the most enlightened of them all. And of course he was endowed with the mystic spirit from Ali Haqi Baba as well. He was like a sword that cuts from both sides, that is, he had both outward and inward knowledge. Selim Ruhi Baba served Ali Haqi Baba for many years until in 1907, when Ali Haqi Baba “changed life” [passed from this world]. The week this occurred, Ali Haqi Baba brought together his dervishes and said, “Look here my children, I am most pleased with you, for each of you, according to his merit, as much as you are capable, you have assisted me, you have served me. May the Lord of All-Truth, to each of us, write down the pious deeds and meritorious actions done, so that you are given your due.” Here the dervishes began to cry. They said to [Ali] Baba, “Do not say these words to us. Without you we cannot go on. If it must be, we all will go, while you stay.” Ali Haqi Baba responded, “Not one prophet has stayed forever here in this world. All have gone. Not one saint has remained here forever. They have gone. I, too, when the time comes, will go. It is so. But you, so that you do not stay with nothing, I give you my child, Selim Ruhi Baba. He will do what I have done, he will perform these duties.”



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And one wrote a poem about this, a muhib wrote a poem while in tears. The poem began: On Thursday evening, the eve of Friday, He gathered his dervishes to give his last words, “Listen up my children, for I am ‘on the way.’ ” The dervishes pleaded, “We will go for you,” “No, my children, no. One cannot be two; but in place of me, there is Selim Ruhi Baba, He is I, and I am he.” On Ali Haqi Baba’s final day, he asked Selim Ruhi Baba for a pen to write a last couplet in Persian in his divan.

But after remembering this couplet, and with suitable pause, Baba then launched into another couplet that Ali Haqi Baba had also written in Persian: O Turabi, for you it is better to be 100 years imprisoned, than to stay for one minute speaking with an ignorant one.

In this couplet Ali Haqi Baba was playing on his pen-name which meant khaki or earth-colored, like the earth, that is like turab. Granted, what Baba recalled are the lines that would have stood out, and one could argue that there is a certain amount of poetic posturing here. Still it is fair to say that Selim Ruhi Baba had his hands full with his murshid. Baba continued: After the death of Ali Haqi Baba, many muhibs came, and hodjas came as well to visit and talk with him [Selim Ruhi Baba] frequently. And many hodjas became his muhib. Most of the students of the madrasa in Gjirokastra became muhibs of Selim Ruhi Baba. Foreigners too were drawn to him. There was a Turkish officer, Shevki Bey, who heard of Baba Selim where he was quartered to the east [in today’s Macedonia] and came to “take his hand” [be initiated by him] and be his muhib. He wrote a fine poem about Selim Ruhi Baba. Whosoever drinks sherbet from the hand of Selim Ruhi Baba, be he insignificant, becomes someone of account. The water of his spirit is a wonder, the draught that he gives us, is none other than the water of Khidr, the water of eternal life.

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5. Formal portrait of Selim Ruhi Baba, est. 1910. To describe his qualities, I do not have strength, for his worth, it is so high. The beauty of the houris does not compare, O Shevki, for those whose love is bound to his face of light.

Many foreign Europeans who visited Albania—journalists, writers, ambassadors, and other people of note—visited Selim Ruhi Baba. The scholar, Franz Babinger, when he came to Albania, wrote in detail of his visit for a wellknown newspaper in Berlin [Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, July 1928], including his visit to Selim Ruhi Baba. He wrote of the meal given him at the tekke and the



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recitation of poetry by Selim Ruhi Baba. Baba continued about Selim Ruhi Baba. Several years after Selim Ruhi Baba became baba, fighting started [the First Balkan War, 1912–13]. The Turks left and the Greeks entered Gjirokastra. At that time Selim Ruhi Baba did not stay [in the tekke] because the Greeks wanted to kill Muslims. A committee came to Baba Selim, saying, “Go! Do not stay here. For maybe they will cause you harm.” [The tekke was outside town and therefore largely unprotected.] So Baba left, in the night, secretly by the back door of the tekke, near the uncultivated land, and went with his dervishes to the home of his sister in Gjirokastra. One dervish, who was old and unable to walk, stayed in the tekke. The Greeks took him and beat him so much that three days later he died. The Greek soldiers stayed three years in the tekke, as barracks, where they proceeded to plunder all that was there, even to the point of taking the frames of the windows to burn for firewood. They stole all the livestock of the tekke: the sheep and goats, the chickens, cows, and calves, even the mules, and all the animal feed. Meanwhile Baba Selim stayed three years at his sister’s in town. When the Greeks finally left, hundreds of women of Gjirokastra, out of love for Baba Selim, went to the tekke and cleaned it from top to bottom. Working from morning to night, they washed and cleansed it for days in a row. Baba Selim was deeply grateful and thanked the women for all they did, praying to God that He reward them with all good.

I had seen how the women cleaned the tekke in Michigan, how thoroughly they worked, and how carefully they dusted all Baba’s books and papers. This brought to mind something Baba had told me in my early years of study. I recalled that Baba Rexheb had known how to repair and bind books, and that he had learned this from Selim Ruhi Baba. So I asked Baba where Selim Ruhi Baba had learned the craft of binding and repairing books. Baba told me that he had learned from a muhib, a certain Zejko Kallo, who was a bookseller. He had learned as a child and had found great pleasure in working with books. I then asked Baba about Selim Ruhi Baba’s own books. Baba responded: Selim Ruhi Baba wrote several books, among which was one known as Mystic Guidance. He had also collected all the Bektashi ceremonies, giving commentaries on their bases in the Qur’an, in sacred sayings, in the sayings of the Prophet Muhammad, and in the words and explanations of the saints. And over 25 years, he wrote three divans of poetry: one in Arabic, one in Persian, and one in Turkish. And he began to write gazels in Albanian, intending to make a fourth divan of poetry in Albanian, but the revolution of the last days interfered, and he was unable to bring this to fruition. In 1939 the Italians invaded Albania. Italian officers visited the tekke and tried to get Selim Ruhi Baba’s support to have Albanians fight with the Italians against the Greeks, for the Italians soon invaded Greece as well. What the Italians said was that the

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Albanians should come with them to help “liberate Chameria”—the northwest part of Greece where many Albanians lived. But Baba Selim understood the situation and advised them not to follow the Italians. Somewhat later, in 1942, Salih Dede, the head of all Bektashis at the headquarters in Tirana, was killed. Many wanted Selim Ruhi Baba to assume the head position in Tirana, but Selim Ruhi Baba would not distance himself from his tekke.

Baba later recounted how Selim Ruhi Baba had told him to go to the surrounding Albanian villages and encourage the villagers to support national liberation from foreign troops and foreign ideologies, for the Communists were organizing in the chaos of foreign occupation. Selim Ruhi Baba said succinctly of the Communists, “Din yok, vatan yok.” [They have no religion, they have no homeland.] Still, the Communists gained power in the last months of 1943, and Baba was told that if all were promised amnesty, still he should flee or he would be flayed alive. The Communists deeply resented his work with villagers and the love they held for Selim Ruhi Baba and his tekke. Thus Baba Rexheb was forced to leave his murshid. The Communists took over the region and, soon after, Selim Ruhi Baba passed from this world. Villagers made up songs of his passing, and how word was brought to Lazarat, the village that had hidden the books 40 years earlier. These songs mention how Dervish Rexhep could not be there. For Baba this was a deep and ongoing source of grief. But more so was his inability to publish the spiritual poetry of Selim Ruhi Baba. Baba rarely spoke of this, but when he did, it was with a resigned sort of sadness. As he said, “I could not ask him for his books of poetry, for I did not know I would never see him again.” It also felt to me that for Baba to ask for these books would have been like asking for Selim Ruhi Baba’s death. It could not be done. And even if he had been able to take the poetry, Baba was not able to carry anything with him on the boat over the Adriatic. What he had with him he had to throw into the sea so the maximum number of people could be accommodated in the boat. When I learned of this, I asked Baba if he thought that Selim Ruhi Baba’s book of poetry would have been preserved somehow in Albania, despite the Communists and their atheist injunctions. “Where might it be?” I asked. “If it is preserved,” Baba answered, “perhaps in the village of Lazarat where they saved books from the tekke before.” In 1991 the Communists in Albania fell. That year a package arrived at the tekke in Michigan. Just as Baba had surmised, near the end of World War II, villagers from Lazarat had gone to the tekke and taken all the books and papers



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written in the Arabic script and hidden them under their floors and in the walls of their houses at great personal risk. Forty-six years later the villagers unburied them and gave them to one who was going to visit fellow villagers in Hackensack, New Jersey. From New Jersey they were taken, by hand, not post, to a fellow

6. Selim Ruhi Baba with his books, Tekke of Pebbles, Gjirokastra, Albania, 1942.

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Lazarat villager in Milwaukee, who brought them from there to Baba Rexheb at the tekke in Michigan. Baba called me on the telephone excited. “Books have come from Albania,” he said. I dashed to the tekke. There in cloth bags were all manner of books and papers: tax receipts, books of dream interpretation, tekke records, books of Qur’anic commentary. But among them we did not find the poetry of Selim Ruhi Baba. As we went through the last books, some of which had gotten moist, I could see that Baba was losing hope. Then I unfolded two large sheets of paper, better quality paper it seemed, on which was Arabic script. The first was the levha, a written banner that had hung in the türbe of Asim Baba, the founder of the Tekke of Pebbles, from the late 1790s. It was written in Ottoman Turkish. But the second, much bigger, was the levha that had hung in the türbe of Ali Haqi Baba. It was written in Arabic, in most beautiful calligraphy. What hand had done this after the passing of Ali Haqi Baba? Of course, it was written by Selim Ruhi Baba. This was the handwriting of Baba’s murshid. Like Haji Hasan Dede, who had cried when he had seen the handwriting of his murshid unexpectedly in the formerly sealed book that Ali Haqi Baba had carried around with him for years, so Baba’s eyes filled with both tears and sadness. Tears to see this exquisite hand again, whose blessing had followed him across three seas to the middle of America. But sadness too, for the poetry of Selim Ruhi Baba had not been found.

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3

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Baba’s Balkan Heritage A Fragile Homeland in a Time of Change Baba’s Hometown and Coming of Age “Heroes new and old” Baba’s native language gave him pleasure. When he talked about its grammar, he would reveal its delicate workings—such order, such subtlety. Baba explained the eight forms of the past tense in Albanian. And then the admirative, a wonderful mode almost unique to Albanian that shows surprise or wonder. How useful! Then we came to the middle voice. The book Baba had given me on Albanian explained the middle voice as having a passive form and an active meaning. U lava, I washed, u vesha, I got dressed. Baba did not quite agree with this description, saying that it was passive in the sense that some condition had changed. It looked reflexive to me, but then Albanian had a reflexive that was different. When Baba saw my confusion, he took out his prayer beads and said reassuringly that verbs can be like this. Why, he added, there are verbs that only have a passive form. When I asked about this, he could not think of any examples. “Ahh,” he said, “I have forgotten.” Then in gentle self-deprecation, Baba added, talking of himself, “He has studied, he has taught, and he has grown old.” This mimicked the sort of verbal listing in the book and made me smile. He elaborated in the first person. “Okudum [I studied], okuttum [I taught], unuttum [I forgot].” The crispness of the single word forms in Turkish reinforced the progression. And I laughed. “Me too, Baba,” I said. Baba laughed as well, but then said, “It has not yet come to you. You are young. As for me, yes. I studied, I taught, and I forgot [okudum, okuttum, unuttum].” I laughed again in enjoyment of verb forms that I clearly followed, unlike the book’s explanation. “But not you,” added Baba. To which I answered, “But Baba, you remember Nesimi.” “Yes,” Baba allowed.

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“And the others,” I added, “Safi, Pir Sultan Abdal, all the great ones, you have not forgotten their poems.” This was most certainly true, as Baba knew hundreds of spiritual poems. Baba allowed as how this was true, saying, “The things that one has seen and learned in one’s youth, these are not easily forgotten.” He then launched into a couplet by the 14th century Sufi poet Nesimi, to the effect that there are many Bektashis in name, but not every stone is a jewel, playing thereby on the word “Bektash” of which tash means “stone.” At this time Baba was 84 years old. But how can we know what Baba saw and learned in his youth? Baba did not talk much about his youth. Once he mentioned that he used to go with his mother to visit the Tekke of Pebbles outside town where his uncle, Selim Ruhi Baba, her brother, was in charge. This I can readily imagine because I knew the tekke drew him. Baba also briefly summarized his schooling and how it changed with the different occupying armies. And that was about it. In framing Baba’s youth, it is clear that he had been born in 1901, he had entered the tekke at age 16, and he had taken his vows as a Bektashi dervish in 1922. As for the tenor of the times, this I weave in from talk with people who grew up in Gjirokastra at the same time. And as Albanians are a place-proud people, I will begin with Baba’s town itself. Gjirokastra stands high at the head of a long valley with chains of bare mountains patrolling down either side. Villages and small towns alternate along the valley, with those of the eastern side richer in fields fed by a branch of the Vjosa River, while those on the western side are forced to rely on cisterns and deep wells. The city itself draws water from cisterns, since its stone houses are high up from the riverbed. The stone houses themselves are two and three stories high, with old wooden Ottoman balconies whose upper levels jut out. Above the slate roofs of these high homes is the centuries-old fortress of Gjirokastra that overlooks the city and from which the city takes its name. In 1900, according to the venerable 11th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica (1910:2, 488), there were 11,000 people in Gjirokastra. A century earlier the population had been 20,000, but plague had struck in 1814 and the numbers had not come back. Baba’s family home had stood in a prominent part of town. The family of his father, Refat Nureddin Beqiri, had been in Gjirokastra for several generations. His mother, Sabire, was from Elbasan to the north. Baba was the eldest of six children—two boys and four girls. When I visited Gjirokastra, I could not imagine Baba as a boy going about the cobblestone streets of this town perched on a mountain. Certainly Baba’s serious demeanor and advanced age made such imagining difficult, but there was something else. It was almost as if there were something missing in my many years of being



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7. View of Gjirokastra, Albania, 1918. Photograph by George Scriven, National Geographic Magazine.

with Baba when it came to his town. For example, I knew no poems on Gjirokastra, while I knew several on other Albanian towns like Elbasan. Still, although I had never heard a poem or song on Gjirokastra, I had heard many songs that came from that region of south central Albania. Maybe Gjirokastra itself was too close to Baba’s heart, and people thought it would hurt too much to sing about it in front of him, since he was never able to return. Or maybe, after Baba’s abrupt departure in 1944, when the Communists took over the region and then the country, the only songs composed about Gjirokastra lauded the Communists and their leader, Enver Hoxha, who himself came from Gjirokastra. It was better to ignore such songs. Once when Xhevat Kallajxhi, Baba’s oldest friend and fellow Gjirokastrit, was staying at the tekke, another man, also from Gjirokastra, Fehmi Kokallari, came by, and they happily sang songs of their region for my tape recorder. There is a special way of singing in southern Albania, where one person takes the main lines of the melody, and others come in as a chorus in harmony. It is the earliest polyphony in Europe and is wonderful to hear (see Sugarman 1997 and Camino 2001). When men do it, it is most virile and moving. I remember Zoti Xhevat

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and Zoti Fehmi singing for Yanina, a city to the south of Gjirokastra that had been the provincial capital under the Ottomans but had been lost to the Greeks in the boundary disputes of the early part of the 20th century—O e zeza Janinë [O Yanina in black mourning]. I could even hear Baba joining in the background harmony. Their own city, Gjirokastra, had been the seat of one of four sanjaks or districts in the Ottoman province of Yanina. After singing of the city of Yanina, these older Gjirokastrit sang of Baba Tomor, a Bektashi baba known for his Albanian patriotism. Then they sang another song of being given “a passport for gurbet,” that is, for exile, or emigration far from home. This has been the fate for centuries of Albanians who have often had to find work in places far from home. This song mentioned going to America, and so it probably dates from around 1914, when Greek guerrilla bands were active in their region. Many Albanians from Baba’s town and region left for America at this time. And then they sang a song for Çerçiz Topulli, who led the most famous Albanian guerrilla band in the south that fought the Turks in 1907 and 1908 and then, after the Turks left, the Greeks, who invaded in 1913 and 1914. For a young boy, these guerrilla leaders from his town—both Çerçiz Topulli and his brother Bajo were from Gjirokastra—must have been heroes. They were known as çetas, a name taken from similar groups operating against the Turks in nearby Macedonia. But Baba’s accounts always included how the Bektashi babas and their tekkes were involved in supporting the çetas. That is, the Bektashi babas were also heroes in the Albanian actions against the Ottomans. In the year that Ali Haqi Baba passed from this world, 1907, when Baba was six years old, there was a famous trek across southern Albania by guerrilla leader Çerçiz Topulli, a Muslim of Gjirokastra, and Mihal Grameno, an Orthodox Christian of Korça. The purpose was to spread Albanian national consciousness among the people, including the immediate need for administrative autonomy for Albanians within the Ottoman Empire. They also brought books in Albanian for the people. For local villagers to see a Muslim Albanian and a Christian Albanian working together in this way was more powerful than words, for one way the Ottomans had tried to keep the Albanians divided was by emphasizing religious differences. In this movement across the south, Çerçiz and Mihal undoubtedly stayed in or visited tekkes since Bektashi tekkes were known as places safe from the authorities. Baba recounted how early in the next year, 1908, Çerçiz, who had been in the mountains around Gjirokastra, came down one night with his friends to the Tekke of Pebbles, since he was a muhib of Ali Haqi Baba. It could even have been around the time of the one-year memorial of the passing of Ali Haqi Baba. This is commemorated among Bektashis and would have been expected of a muhib. But 1908 was the year that the Çerçiz’s guerrilla band took more violent



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action, including assassinating the Turkish commander of the gendarmerie in Gjirokastra, who had brutally suppressed those Albanians working for Albanian political ends. Turkish soldiers immediately set out after the guerrillas and even surrounded them in a village near Gjirokastra. But somehow they managed to escape to the mountains. Then in July of 1908 the guerrillas disbanded. The Young Turk Constitution put forth in Istanbul guaranteed rights for different ethnic groups across the empire. Albanians quickly worked to open schools in Albanian and to teach Albanian. Albanians held what became known as the Congress of Monastir in November of 1908 to agree on a Latin alphabet for Albanian (Buda et al. 1972, Demiraj 2004, Trix 1997b). But the Young Turks soon shifted to centralizing policies, insisting that all Muslims in the empire were one and therefore should not have separate schools or alphabets, let alone administrative autonomy. It does not appear that controversies over schools or alphabets affected Baba. All his early education was in Ottoman Turkish in Arabic letters. As for his teachers, Baba told me they were both Albanian and Turkish, but they had all taught in Turkish. He explained, “Turkey wanted to ‘turkify’ or make the Albanians into Turks.” Then as if speaking to Turkey, he added, “Under your protection we will remain. Fine. But we will have our autonomy.” In particular, the Albanians wanted the four vilayets or Ottoman provinces that were largely Albanian (Yanina, Shkodra, Kosova, and Monastir) to be consolidated into one administrative unit. But the Ottomans could not see their way to this. So the Albanian guerrilla groups reformed in 1911. As Ottoman power continued to decline, other countries in the Balkans, with the encouragement of Russia, made a coalition known as the Balkan League. In October 1912 Serbia, Montenegro, Bulgaria, and Greece all attacked and pushed the Turkish armies back. Serbian armies took Kosova and then headed westward across northern Albanian lands. Montenegrin armies went toward Shkodra, the Greeks toward Yanina, and the Bulgarians toward Monastir. It was clear that these countries planned to divide up Albanian lands. On November 28, 1912, the Albanians strategically declared their independence. I asked Baba if he remembered when Albania declared its independence, as he would have been 11 years old. “I was young then,” answered Baba. “I must have heard about it later, in newspapers and the like.” As soon as Albania declared its independence, Greek soldiers occupied southern Albanian towns, including Gjirokastra. That was when the Tekke of Pebbles was taken over by Greek soldiers for barracks and Selim Ruhi Baba moved into his sister’s home inside the town of Gjirokastra. For a time in 1914, the Greek soldiers in Gjirokastra were those of Zographos and his “government of Northern Epirus.” After some months they

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left, and the Albanian guerrillas who had been hiding in the surrounding mountains wanted to come down into town. But Selim Ruhi Baba got word to Çerçiz that this was probably a ploy on the part of the Greeks, designed to draw the guerrillas out of hiding, and so Çerçiz and his band stayed up in the mountains. In short order the regular Greek army showed up to occupy the town, thereby showing the foresight of Selim Ruhi Baba. The Greeks then took over the local government of Gjirokastra and imprisoned many notables of the town on the island of Ithaca. They wanted to imprison Selim Ruhi Baba too, but the Christians of Gjirokastra intervened with the Greek officials and Selim Ruhi Baba was left free in the town. This was a legacy from the time of Ali Haqi Baba. Earlier, at the funeral of Ali Haqi Baba in 1907, Stefan Litua, an Orthodox Christian of Gjirokastra, had spoken out saying, “We all mourn for this great personage, for had it not been for him and the brotherhood he fostered with us and the Muslims, not one of us Christians could have remained in this place.” What the Christians’ intervention meant for Baba was that all three years that the Greeks were in his town and he went to Greek school, he had Selim Ruhi Baba and other dervishes in his home. Baba told me that at this time there was much suffering among the local people, especially the Muslim Albanians. Greek soldiers burned Bektashi tekkes—fully 80 percent of the tekkes were damaged or destroyed between 1913 and 1916 because they had been known as places that supported Albanian political aspirations (Hasluck 1929:2, 541). They also burned Muslim villages in places like Kurvelesh and did much damage in Gjirokastra as well. Many people became very poor. There were no jobs for Muslims. All those who had worked for the Ottoman administration were out of work. Some of the homeless villagers came to Gjirokastra, but there was nothing for them there. Others went toward the coast to the city of Vlora, but again there was little for them. Baba Ahmed Turani, whose Bektashi tekke in Tepelena had been burned, went with the people to Vlora, where he set up a soup kitchen in the olive groves outside the town for those who were destitute. Meanwhile, World War I was raging in most of Europe. Albania had declared itself neutral, but this meant little, despite an earlier London agreement among ambassadors of the Great Powers to respect Albania’s independence. Greece occupied the whole south of Albania, Italy took the Albanian port city of Vlora, and Serbia the northern half of the country. In 1915 Italy joined on the side of England, France, and Russia, with a secret agreement in London that would allow it to keep land around Vlora after the war. In 1916 France landed troops at Salonika and moved inland to occupy Korça and the southeastern part of Albania. Italy then extended its operation from Vlora to include the rest of southern Albania, pushing the Greek troops back. Or, as Baba put it, the



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Italians came and the Greeks left. Selim Ruhi Baba and his dervishes returned from Baba’s home in Gjirokastra to the tekke. And Baba finished high school in Italian. Baba did not talk much about the time of the Italian occupation, which lasted several years. It was less traumatic than the Greek occupation. But the Italians were clearly interested in staying in Albania and tried to curry favor with the notables of the town. One day at the tekke, after we had finished lunch and were still sitting at the long table in the basement kitchen, Baba’s friend Zoti Xhevat told the story of a notable of Gjirokastra, an Albanian bey, a certain Idris Effendi, who was about to die. With his last breath he was supposed to have said in Arabic, “ta‘aish Shqiperie, ta‘aish Italya!” (Long live Albania! Long live Italy!). Then he died. The Italian commandant came and gave a speech in which he said that this man, this Idris Effendi, was truly good. He loved Albania and he loved Italy too. But then from the crowd a man contested this, a certain Javer Bey, one who thought clearly and who was later killed by the Communists. He said this was a lie. The Italian commandant reiterated that the man who had died was a man of consequence, a cultured man, so much so that when he died he had called out to Italy. No, this is a lie, said the Albanian. So, said the commandant, if they tell a lie to me, so I say it to you. Probably another reason Baba did not speak much about the Italian occupation was that it was during this time that he moved from his home in Gjirokastra to the Tekke of Pebbles, where he began serious study and work to become a Bektashi dervish. When Baba finished high school, he began Islamic school. Due to the departure of the Turks and the foreign occupations, there were no students in the Islamic school, so the Islamic teacher (müderris) was called to the tekke where he gave Baba private lessons. This teacher was Ragip Delvina, a most learned man who had studied at the Islamic school in Yanina. He taught Baba Persian, and Baba finished his study of Arabic with him. In addition they worked in Ottoman Turkish. Baba studied Qur’an, Hadith or sayings of the Prophet, commentaries, Islamic law, and Persian poetry. As I read through transcripts of lessons with Baba over the years, it was clear how central this time of study was to him. And it was also clear that Baba studied not just with Ragip Delvina, but also with Selim Ruhi Baba, his uncle and murshid. In our lessons, we frequently found ourselves discussing and reading nefes or spiritual poems that Baba had learned in his early years in the tekke. And how often we talked about al-Hallaj and his death (922), Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi (d. 1240) and his writings, and Nesimi, poet and martyr (d. 1404)—all of whom Baba studied in those early years in the tekke. These brave mystics were at least as much a part of Baba’s youth as were the Albanian çetas. The latest of these mystics, Nesimi, had been born in Baghdad. Like the

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8. Dervish Rexheb soon after his initiation as a dervish, Tekke of Pebbles, Gjirokastra, Albania, 1922.

earlier al-Hallaj, he too was brutally martyred by authorities, only in Aleppo. And like al-Hallaj, he had been calm at the time of his death. There was a Mufti, an orthodox Muslim official, who took pleasure that they would execute this kafir (infidel—referring to a non-Muslim or very perjoratively to a Muslim) and said to others present that not just Nesimi, but even his blood, if it touched another person, that person should cut off where he was touched. They were flaying Nesimi alive. And just when the Mufti finished his words, by chance, a drop of Nesimi’s blood fell on the finger of the Mufti. Another who saw this said, “Effendi! According to your order, you should now cut off your finger.” “No,” said the Mufti, “it is nothing. With a little water it will wash off.” But Nesimi, when he heard these words brought forth a verse: “To protect only his finger, this legalist went back on his order. See Nesimi the one of courage, they skin him, he dies a martyr.” They called him “the second al-Hallaj.” But mostly it was Nesimi’s poetry that we read throughout our many years



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together. And some of these poems, Baba remarked, he had learned from Dervish Hasan when Baba had first come to the tekke. He had been the rehber when Baba was first a muhib and, more importantly, at Baba’s own initiation as a dervish. Baba passed his religious exams in front of the ulema, the religious leaders of Gjirokastra, at age 21 and was initiated as a Bektashi dervish that same year, 1922. Yet the poems of Nesimi gave Baba pleasure throughout his life. Baba and I read many of these poems. One that we read in Ottoman Turkish had such lines as, “The ambergris of your curl is more fragrant than that of its eternal scent.” Or, “In the calm peacefulness of your face is written the holy verse [of the Qur’an].” And then again, “Letter by letter, on his face are hidden the letters of the [whole] Qur’an.” Here, of course, Nesimi is writing of his love for his spiritual teacher. I thought of Baba’s spiritual teacher, Selim Ruhi Baba, who had begun to teach Baba during the Greek occupation, and I thought of Baba’s town and his people in his early years, their dreams and heroic actions, followed by war and foreign occupations. And I wondered again at the strength of the bond of student and spiritual master, and the great gift of poetry to express it, for during these turbulent times, Bektashis continued to chant lines of Nesimi. Baba and I moved to the next line of Nesimi, “From your lips flows the water of eternal life.” Baba explained that this was the water that gave immortality, and that this was true. Here it evokes the love of the murshid and of God. As Baba explained, from the Lord of All-Truth does come the water of eternal life.

Baba as a Young Dervish in a Young Country “A time short on saints” Baba’s years as a young dervish, from 1922 to 1944, ended in the chaos of civil war, the victory of the Communists, and his forced departure from his homeland. When I went to Albania in 1993, I visited Gjirokastra, but I had been warned. The Communists, in their anger at Baba, had razed the family home. Fifty years later I still found a totally empty piece of property where the home had once stood. I thought of Baba’s elderly parents, forced to move from place to place to the end of their days. How had this all come about? And how had Baba, still a dervish, come to deserve such ire? Earlier in the 20th century Albanians had been very hopeful for their new state. They declared their independence in 1912, somehow survived World War I, while occupied by Greeks, Serbs, French, and Italians. In the spring of 1920, when 20,000 Italian troops were still in the south of Albania, Albanians demanded that the Italians leave. Irregular Albanian troops even forced the

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Italian garrison out of Tepelena. But when the Albanians tried to take the city of Vlora, the Italian navy opened fire, and it was no contest. Still the Albanians fought on (Logoreci 1977:52-53). By August of 1920, Italy withdrew its troops and recognized Albania’s independence. Behind Italy’s earlier refusal to leave Albanian soil was its frustration at the outcome of World War I. Italy had been persuaded to enter the war on the side of England and France with the understanding that it would receive coastal areas of Albania and a protectorate over what was left of the country after Serbia and Greece had taken their shares. What Italy sought in this was to be the master of the Adriatic. Italy had no good deep-water ports on its own eastern coast, while across the sea, on “the adjacent side,” as Mussolini referred to Albania, Vlora had great potential as just such a port. And Vlora’s geographic position allowed it to control the mouth of the Adriatic, the Strait of Otranto. The Albanians were deeply heartened by the departure of the Italian troops. As Baba put it, “Europe finally took note [of Albania], for we had shed so much blood and driven out the Italians.” Albanians’ pride in their country and hope for its future reached a new high when, in December of 1920, Albania was accepted into the League of Nations, leading many nations to recognize Albania as a sovereign state. In 1920 the Bektashis received recognition within Albania. That year Albanians gathered in Lushnja to form a provisional government in which there was a High Council made up of four members, one from each of the major religious groups—Sunni Muslim, Orthodox Christian, Bektashi Muslim, and Roman Catholic. This underlined the special status of the Bektashis in Albania. There were other Sufi orders, like the Halveti, the Sa‘adi, the Rifa‘i, and the Tijani, but none of them had been singled out in this way. The special status of the Bektashis resulted from the important role they had played in the Albanian national movement from 1878 to 1912. For this same reason, many Bektashi tekkes had been looted and burned during the Greek occupation. So while the Bektashis received national recognition, they had much to do in rebuilding their tekkes and clerical ranks. In 1923 a Congress of Muslim Albanians in Tirana ended in disarray, with Sunnis and Bektashis parting ways. The Bektashis met the following year, in 1924, in the Bektashi tekke of Baba Sulejman in Gjirokastra, known as the Hajderije Tekke. Here they agreed on statutes for the Albanian Bektashi Community, including their separateness from Sunni Muslims, their Advisory Board of elected babas, their hierarchy, and regulations relating to their resources. Also according to these statutes new tekkes could be constructed only at a distance of at least six hours walk from existing tekkes. Another article specified that dervish candidates had to serve at least five years before taking their vows. Since each tekke had much independence, and the Advisory Board was just that, advisory, it



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was crucially important that the dervishes and babas be selected carefully. Inappropriate people could be weeded out during this extended period of service. Meanwhile, 1924 was a time of change in the leadership of Albania. Its unsteady parliamentary government had split into two factions. The conservative landowners and northern clan chiefs were led by Ahmet Zog, himself a northern chief. The liberal reformers were led by Fan Noli, a southerner and a bishop of the Albanian Orthodox Church. Zog had been Minister of the Interior in the first provisional government and had rapidly parlayed this into becoming Prime Minister by 1922. Yet in the summer of 1924, he was forced out of power and fled to Yugoslavia. Noli became the new prime minister, but his reform agenda did not materialize. He tried but failed to secure a loan from the League of Nations. Several years earlier Noli had been especially articulate in arguing for Albania’s acceptance to the League of Nations. But now that he was in office, he failed to hold a general election. He did not even begin land reform. And then he made other countries suspicious by recognizing Soviet Russia. In December of 1924, Zog, who had received assistance from the Yugoslavs, arrived with Albanian mercenaries and White Russian soldiers to oust Noli. Zog then established an authoritarian regime, declaring himself president in 1925 and king in 1928. In 1925 there occurred in Turkey an event that affected the Bektashis. The Ottoman Empire had fallen, and the British, French, Italians, and Greeks had all sought to capitalize on its demise. The Turks fought fiercely against these for­ ces. The Bektashis in Turkey assisted those fighting for Turkey’s independence, just as they had supported Albanians fighting for their independence. But now that independence had been won and the secular Republic of Turkey had been declared, there was fear of an Islamic backlash. Further, the Sufi orders did not square well with Atatürk’s view of a new Westernized Turkey. So in the fall of 1925, all Sufi orders were declared illegal and their tekkes closed. This included the Pir Evi, the headquarters of the Bektashis that had been in central Anatolia for centuries. Baba told me how at that time Salih Niyazi Dede, the head of all Bektashis from the Pir Evi, had gone to Mustafa Kemal (Atatürk) to protest this new law, for he was his friend. Salih Dede reminded Mustafa Kemal of how the Bektashis had helped bring him to a position of high regard and of the assistance the Bektashis had afforded him and his forces. Salih Dede put it to him directly. “And how is it now that you in your lifetime want to abolish us?” Atatürk responded, “What can I do? I cannot make a special law for you. The entire Parliament resolved that the tariqats [the Sufi orders] be abolished. For this reason I can do nothing for you. It pains me, but I am unable to do anything.” Thus, continued Baba, they closed down all the tekkes in Turkey. So Salih Dede had to go stay in a hotel. By the end of the 1920s Albanian Bektashis

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invited him to come to Albania to preside at a newly established Bektashi headquarters in Tirana. It helped that Salih Dede, like so many Bektashi leaders of the last century, was also Albanian. What this meant for Bektashis in Albania was that they became the main center of Bektashism in the world. But in 1929, just before Salih Dede was invited to Albania, another Bektashi Congress was held, this one in the Turan Tekke outside Korça (Clayer 1990). Baba, then Dervish Rexheb, and Xhevat Kallajxhi were both delegates. Baba represented his murshid of the Tekke of Pebbles, while Xhevat went as a lay member of the Hajderije Tekke, also of Gjirokastra. This congress was important for the wide participation of Albanian Bektashis and for the resulting publications on regulations. These grouped all Bektashi tekkes in Albania into six regional administrative zones. An administrative body was added to the existing council of dedes. This new General Council would be made up of twelve members, one clerical and one initiated lay member from each of the six zones to deal with administrative affairs as separate from religious ones. Zoti Xhevat recalled that Baba had been elected in the Congress to draft statutes. His point was that Baba was well thought of by other Bektashi leaders. More personally, Zoti Xhevat also recalled that it was at this time that he renewed his friendship with Baba. Both Baba and Zoti Xhevat had been in the same schools in Gjirokastra, but when Baba entered the tekke and began his Islamic education, Xhevat went to a journalism school in Italy. On his return from that school, he founded a newspaper in Gjirokastra called Demokratia, which he edited well into the 1930s. I remember an old yellowed page from his newspaper that hung for a time on the wall of the oldest receiving room of the Michigan tekke. It was the front page of Demokratia from 1934, and the main article was the obituary by Zoti Xhevat on Baba Sulejman of the Hajderije Tekke. I once asked Zoti Xhevat about the differences between the Tekke of Pebbles and the Hajderije Tekke. Before he answered he had smiled. It seems that the Tekke of Pebbles, under Ali Haqi Baba and Selim Ruhi Baba, was a more intellectual place whose muhabbet sessions were largely made up of the baba reciting and then explaining the spiritual poems, without the assistance of drink; while at the Hajderije Tekke, ritual drink was permitted and the spiritual poems were chanted. Both tekkes were known for the quality of their food. Baba several times told me of the lazy dervish who had been among the many dervishes at the Pir Evi of Haji Bektash. When they would call for him, “Dervish!”, he would respond, “At your service.” If they would say, “Come, let us do this work,” “Ah,” he would say, “the poor one [himself] has no such desire.” And he would leave. But when they would call him to meals, “Dervish!” he would respond again, “At your service.” They would announce, “The meal is prepared and the table set.” Then he would say, “Ah, the morsel is worthy, for of it the saints too have partaken.” And he would come and eat.



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My son and I always were well fed at the Michigan tekke, but we were also nourished with talk and fellowship. This has long been central to tekkes. Even in the difficult times of the 1920s and the 1930s, there must always have been good talk and fellowship at the tekkes in Albania. It helps that Albanians value conversation, but Baba and other people at the tekke were masters of this art. Sometimes at the Michigan tekke it would just jell. This was especially the case when Zoti Xhevat would visit. Baba and Zoti Xhevat respected each other and had much shared experience, including the hardship of exile. But when they were together, some of the air and sunlight of an earlier Gjirokastra returned. Even Baba’s sister, Zonja Zejnepe, who had not had an easy life and had moved to Michigan to be near her brother, would become lighter of heart. One day in 1984 when we were all drinking coffee together in Zonja Zej­ nepe’s apartment by the tekke—Baba, Zoti Xhevat, Zonja Zejnepe, and myself— we somehow got onto Albanian proverbs. Zoti Xhevat offered a fairly simple one, perhaps so I could follow: Dardha bije nga dardhe (The pear falls under the pear tree). “That is,” he explained, “children tend to be like their parents.” To this Zonja Zejnepe offered, Tek ka rjedhe, po pikoj. Baba came to my rescue, explaining her proverb: “When water falls, even if it doesn’t flow out, still it comes drop by drop. With a good family, even if the children are not exactly like the parents, still they have some good in them.” He then clarified in Turkish that “Wherever water passes, drops will remain.” And certainly, if I had learned anything from being with Albanians around the tekke, it was the importance of family. In the same vein, Zonja Zejnepe added, Merrej nuse nga fis, në mos të dhanë fjalën, do bëje djalën—roughly, “Take a bride from a good family. Even if she is not polite herself, she will have a good son.” Again, she interpreted, “Always consider the family.” Zoti Xhevat changed course somewhat with Mos i thuaj babit, e atit e mësoj arit. In other words, “Do not tell your father, come and I will show you the property.” As he said, “He knows it, it is his.” To this he added another proverb, Mos i qa kalin kalorsit, se si e varen këmbit. Here it was Zonja Zejnepe who translated, “Do not worry about how the horseman’s legs come down.” She then interpreted, “Do not worry about the present, he knows [what he is doing].” Again Baba brought it closer to home. “For Frances, don’t worry about her exams, she knows.” I was scheduled to take my doctoral qualifying exams that month, and Baba knew these were on my mind. But the proverb jousting had heated up. Someone said, Dardhen a ka bistën prapë, “The pear has the tail after.” That is, “When something happens, wait, more will come from this, it is not finalized. This business isn’t done, there is more to come.” We were into pears that day. Next followed Kalin i mirë shton vetë kali, that

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is, “The good horse increases his own feed.” Perhaps it was the animal connection, for Zoti Xhevat added Kenge i urte pi dy nëne. And Zonja Zejnepe explained, “The calm lamb drinks from two mothers.” “That is,” she added, “when you are polite, you can have help from more people.” Good manners are highly valued among Albanians. Zoti Xhevat then said one that was not well received, Mbas mali dhe poli me mi. Something about a mountain and a rat. There was no translation given, but Zoti Xhevat tried to explain himself by saying he only knew this because he was a newspaperman. Baba finally gave a Turkish version, to the effect that “The mountain was pregnant, but what came forth? A rabbit.” In further explanation he added, “The affair got bigger and bigger, but actually there was nothing.” Zoti Xhevat said it was as when there was a big conference between Russia and America and the result was nothing. This was still the time of the Cold War. I added, “This happens a lot at the university.” Zoti Xhevat, who had been gently chastised, said that perhaps it was enough for that day. But still there were more. After the lesson and the meal in the basement kitchen, Zoti Kaja had come to shave Baba’s head and cut his nails. I lingered in the kitchen and so found myself again with Zoti Xhevat and the others who had stayed after the midday meal. Zoti Xhevat mentioned how we had talked about proverbs earlier. Immediately someone said in Albanian, “The broom sweeps one way, the broom sweeps another way, but still it belongs behind the door.” Another explained, “Someone tries to be a big shot, but is still a broom. That is, go here, go there, but still he belongs behind the door.” As in all towns, so in Albanian towns, undoubtedly there was jockeying for status. This was probably more acute in times of uncertainty and change. During the times of King Zog in the 1920s and 1930s it was particularly frustrating for southern Albanians because northerners ran the country (Fischer 1984). There were several attempted revolts, often from the south, but they came to naught. Meanwhile, there were signs of danger from across the Adriatic. When Zog was in financial difficulty in early 1924, he went to Italy for assistance, and a secret treaty was signed that gave Italy favored-nation status. Soon after, a national bank for Albania was set up, but its headquarters were in Rome. In 1925 Zog signed a secret defensive pact with Italy that essentially guarded Albania from attack by Yugoslavia, its ever-present covetous northern neighbor. For a while Zog was able to play Britain off against Italy, but by the end of 1926, he needed more funds. He ended up signing an open defensive pact with Mussolini, known as the friendship and security pact. The next year, 1927, this was amended to a 20-year defense treaty. Not only did Italy then train and arm Albania’s military, but Italian companies received concessions to exploit Albanian minerals. The history of Albania in the 1920s and 1930s is a history of increasing Italian penetration.



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In the 1930s at the Tekke of Pebbles, Baba was gradually taking over the major administrative responsibilities. He had become head dervish and as such was in charge of provisioning, which entailed overseeing all those who worked for the tekke. The tekke had tilled land, fruit trees, and many animals, including herds of sheep. Most of these had been left to the tekke when wealthy muhibs had passed on, although some of the early babas of the tekke had come from wealthy families and had brought land with them. Still it is important to remember that during the Greek occupation, all the animals had been taken, the harvests disrupted, and all stores depleted. They were only slowly rebuilt.

9. Selim Ruhi Baba and Dervish Rexheb walking near the tekke, Gjirokastra, Albania, 1931.

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When I stayed at the Tekke of Pebbles in 1993 the first person to come to visit me and pay respects was an elderly village woman whose husband had been the head shepherd of the tekke. She had walked a considerable distance and must have started very early to arrive when she did in the morning. She remembered Baba well and sent her greetings, as well as memories from her dead husband. Such loyalty over a 50-year hiatus bespeaks strong bonds. While the tekke had resources, it also had responsibilities, not just to the dervishes who lived there, but also to the muhibs and ashıks who supported it and who sometimes needed support, as well as to any people in need. In the 1920s and 1930s in Albania there were no government social programs; people in need went to tekkes in the south or to churches in the north. In Michigan at our midday meals during the week there were regularly at least 12 people and on weekends considerably more. And of course people who had come from afar to spend time in the calm of the tekke would also be at meals. In Albania, there were even more, including those who worked for the tekke. Meanwhile the dark days of the 1930s in Europe descended on Albania. Some say that Italy’s plan to invade and annex Albania was hatched by Mussolini’s foreign minister at King Zog’s wedding in 1938 in Tirana. Like the Shah of Iran’s birthday party in Persepolis in 1971, King Zog’s wedding appears as an extravagance too late in the game for any positive influence. He married Geraldine, whose father was a Hungarian aristocrat and mother an American. She delivered a son, Leka, on April 6, 1939. The next day, on Good Friday, Italy invaded and King Zog fled the country with his wife, new son, and entourage. Mussolini had always seen Albania as the gateway to spreading Italian power in southeast Europe. Germany’s annexation of Austria in 1938 and of the Südetenland in March of 1939 had both angered and emboldened Mussolini. Apart from Atatürk, who refused to recognize Italy’s annexation, no state protested, and the League of Nations was silent. Historian Bernd Fischer (1984) noted that Albania was “the last victim of appeasement.” Baba remembered the Italian troops coming again to Gjirokastra in 1940. They even came to the Tekke of Pebbles to recruit Albanian volunteers to go with them to conquer Greece, and they sought the support of Selim Ruhi Baba in this enterprise. I have a photograph of two Italian officers in uniform, crouching awkwardly on the floor next to a white-bearded Selim Ruhi Baba, who himself was seated most comfortably on a rug, surrounded by his books and holding one of the books in his hand. To the right stands Dervish Rexheb, still young and with a black beard. The Italians thought it would not be a problem to get Albanian support to conquer Greece, since the earlier Greek occupation was still in people’s memories and Greece had not treated well those Albanian villages that had ended on its side of the border. The Italian officers may have looked at Selim Ruhi Baba, seated on the floor with his books, dressed in his white robe



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and strange headgear, and thought him just an old man to be cajoled. Selim Ruhi Baba’s response to the Italian proposal for Albanian volunteers was succinct and not to their liking. “When we ourselves are occupied, why should we go and occupy someone else?” To his own people he also made this clear, concluding “This is a ploy to fool our people.” And so most in the area did not follow the Italians. When the Italians were beaten back by the Greeks in five short weeks and the Greeks again occupied southern Albania, while they imprisoned many, they did not touch Selim Ruhi Baba. There were demonstrations against the Italian invasion and annexation. Over time Albanian resistance grew, and guerrillas of different persuasions began to operate. These were all nationalist in orientation, but included some loyal to King Zog, some that were republican, and some that were Communist. There had been a few Communist cells in towns like Korça and Tirana in the 1930s, but they did not organize until Tito sent two agents to work with them in 1941. Soon after, the Albanian Communists changed their message to emphasize their opposition to foreign occupation, appeal to the young, and underplay their Communist ideology. National liberation was their mantra, but still they kept tight control in the hands of a few Communist leaders like Enver Hoxha. Late in 1942, the republicans organized as the National Front, the Balli Kombëtar. They were made up largely of moderate liberals and conservative politicians who were against King Zog. They favored reforms in the government and union with Kosova, but they were not as committed to radical social change. Their leadership tended to be older; they were led by Ali Këlcyra and by Mid’hat Frashëri, who had run a bookstore in Tirana throughout the Zog regime. That same year, 1942, Salih Nijazi Dede, the head of the Bektashis, was murdered, along with his loyal Dervish Aziz, in his headquarters in Tirana. It was made to look like a robbery. However Baba heard that it had actually been carried out by the Italians, but trumped up as if the Communists had done it in order to discredit the Communists. If so, it shows the concern of the Italian occupiers with the Communist guerrillas. And in these strange times, Baba traveled north from Gjirokastra to Tirana, where he attended the funeral of Salih Nijazi Dede. He could not have known that in two years he would make a similar trek under more harrowing conditions. A common need of all the resistance groups was for arms and support, and so they appealed to the Allies. British liaison officers infiltrated and, finding the split in the resistance groups, worked to bring them together to better fight the Italians (Amery 1948, Fischer 1999). To this effect they spurred the meeting of all the Albanian resistance groups at Mukaj in August 1943. Meanwhile Mussolini had fallen, and while briefly different partisan groups took over, they were soon pushed back by the Germans, who rapidly took control of the towns in Albania.

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But in the south, the rivalry between the Communists and the republican Balli Kombëtar heated up. The Communists almost immediately repudiated the Mukaj agreement, and fearing that the British might open a second front in the Balkans and lend their support to the republicans as they later did in Greece, the Communists issued orders to eliminate the Balli Kombëtar wherever they were found. Selim Ruhi Baba had not been quiet in all this: he was firmly against the Communists. But as he was then old, he had his head dervish, Dervish Rexheb, go out to all the villages and speak against the Communists. This Baba did, and thanks to his knowledge of the people, his prestige as a representative of Selim Ruhi Baba, and his skill as an orator, many came over to the side of Balli Kombëtar. Zoti Xhevat also worked for the Balli Kombëtar as a publicist. The rivalry between the Communists and Balli Kombëtar erupted into a civil war fought largely in the south from the fall of 1943 to the fall of 1944. The Communists were better organized and had several sources of outside support, including Tito’s partisans and the Soviet Union. They struck in the towns and were not concerned with reprisals. They also received more support from the British, who had little concern with postwar Albania and only wanted the Germans attacked. In contrast, the Balli Kombëtar, who operated more in the countryside and with villagers as fighters, was more cautious due to the threat of reprisals. The Communists could not have won without the supplies and armaments from the British, but why did the British support them over the Balli Kombëtar? Just as the British decided in late 1943 to support Tito over Mihailovic in Yugoslavia, so they supported the Communists over the Balli Kombëtar in Albania. But at the same time, British liaison officers in Albania noted that the Communists were using the arms they received to fight fellow Albanians far more than to harass the Germans. The Balli Kombëtar was soon on the defensive and then defeated. With the defeat of the Balli Kombëtar, Baba’s life changed utterly. In 1944, the last stage of the civil war in the south, the brother of a Communist fighter had come to him at the Tekke of Pebbles, where he was still head dervish, and told him he must flee immediately. This man told him that his own brother had heard the Communist leaders talking about capturing Dervish Rexheb at all costs. They could not allow someone of his stature and anti-Communist position to remain alive. The man concluded, “They will torture you and kill you in a most horrible way. Leave!” So Baba was forced to take leave of his murshid, his tekke, his family, his hometown, his country—all that he had known and loved.

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The Path of E xile Out of Albania to Displaced Persons Camps Leaving the Homeland “Even the storks’ nests were disturbed” (Kadare 1971) Apart from his description of leaving his murshid, Baba mentioned his departure from his homeland in 1944 only in cursory fashion. My understanding of how Baba left is from accounts of other Albanians who accompanied him on different parts of the journey. The beginning of this journey was leaving the tekke in southern Albania where he had spent 22 years as a Bektashi dervish. Whenever I asked Baba about this tekke, he would tell me about the trees that lined the way up to it. “Trees in lines, like soldiers,” he would say. One time he asked me what you call a group of 200 soldiers. I said I was not sure, maybe a battalion. “So,” said Baba, “a battalion of cypress trees, that is what Ali Haqi Baba had had planted on the way to the tekke. Four by four, the corporal there, the captain there, the sergeant there. In front of the tekke, a crowd of cypress, but if you looked carefully, you could see four by four, and a corporal by them. Two captains and so forth, for the whole battalion.” When I went to Albania and the Tekke of Pebbles in 1993, I looked for this battalion of trees, but they were long gone. The small mausoleums at the gateway were still there, but not the trees that led up to them. But when Baba had left the tekke of his murshid, and his murshid’s murshid, he walked through the formation of cypress trees for the last time. Leading Baba on his journey from southern to central Albania was a man named Hakki Gaba. I knew Hakki Gaba because although he lived in Milwaukee, he always came to the Michigan tekke for holidays. He was a lifelong Bektashi and hailed from the village of Lazarat, the village closest to the Tekke of Pebbles. He had led Baba through the most dangerous part of Baba’s journey since there was much fighting between the Communists and the Ballists in the

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10. Rows of trees in front of the Tekke of Pebbles, Gjirokastra, Albania, 1934.

south. I imagined Baba and Hakki, tramping through bushes and mountains, Hakki with his long rifle protecting Baba, who wore his conspicuous white Bektashi garb. It must have been a very long walk, and a dangerous one that, praise be to God, ended safely at the house of one of Baba’s sisters, Zonja Xhemile (pronounced “je-mi-leh”), who lived in Tirana with her husband and children. For many years this is how I pictured Baba leaving his region. Only it did not happen this way at all. After Albania opened up, I spoke with Vera, the daughter of Zonja Xhemile, and I asked about this journey. “Oh, Baba and the others came by taxi,” she said, “an old worn-out Italian minibus taxi.” By taxi! This was a very different story. “Who was with Baba?” I asked. “His body guard, Hasan Bocaj, and another,” she answered. “Hasan was very tall and devoted to Baba,” she continued. “He slept near Baba while he was still at the Tekke of Pebbles during the war.” “Where was he from?” I asked. “Lazarat,” she answered. That made sense since the people of Lazarat were deeply loyal to the tekke and to Baba. But what was Hakki’s role in this? He too was from Lazarat. I needed to talk with Hakki, but each time he came to the Michigan tekke there was much going on. The last time Baba was in the hospital, Hakki Gaba came to pay his re-



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spects. When the doctors took Baba for tests, we went to the hospital cafeteria, and with my tape recorder on the table, May 11, 1995, I asked Hakki about the journey with Baba during the war. Hakki Gaba was then white haired and 75 years old, but with a sturdiness that, as he talked, gave me some idea of what he must have been as a soldier. I asked Hakki how he first met Baba. “The monastery there, the tekke as we call it, that is, our monastery, for we [of the village of Lazarat] all went to it, we were in and out all the time, and I was five when my father took me to the tekke because I was sick,” he answered. “There I saw Baba Rexheb, he was a young dervish then.” That was in 1925 when Baba Rexheb was indeed a young dervish, only 24 years old. Hakki continued, telling that he knew Baba and his uncle, Selim Ruhi Baba, very well. He told of the close relationship of the tekke and the villagers, and how Selim Ruhi Baba cared about the children and loved the people of his village. Hakki continued, “Baba Rexheb was well educated and prepared through his mentor, Selim Ruhi Baba, who happened to be his uncle. He was brought up to replace Selim Ruhi Baba, to have the post of Asim Baba.” Here Hakki used the formal name of the Tekke of Pebbles which was the name of its late 18th century founder, Asim Baba. And he used a special Bektashi term, post, which refers to the sheepskin that the leader sits on in the front of the meydan while other initiated members sit on sheepskins along the sides. Hakki went on: “In 1939 Italy came over to Albania. They seized Albania. The Albanian king and his family left the country. So the country was left with no head.” Hakki then proceeded to tell how the Italians had made Albania a province of Italy, and how Mid’hat Frashëri had organized a secret meeting of Albanian leaders in Tirana that led to a proclamation to demonstrate against the Italians. In response the Italians took 250 Albanian intellectuals to the famous prison on Ventotene Island in Italy where they stayed for three years. Meanwhile Hakki said that the Communists did nothing at first because of the MolotovRibbentrop agreement of 1939. But in 1942, the Communists held a meeting near Tirana because Tito had sent Serbian agents to organize the Albanian Communists. Around this time the Albanians who had been imprisoned in Italy were released. Many came with Mid’hat Frashëri, forming their own nationalist republican party. They decided to make their own fighting units as well, their own guerrillas. Hakki then specified the leadership of these guerrillas with particular cities, all in the south of Albania. “Safet Butka went to Korça, Abas Ermenji went to Berat, Husni Lepenica went to Vlora, and then, Dervish Rexheb was for Gjirokastra.” I had not seen Baba as so prominent. When I queried, Hakki responded that Baba had organized the whole region of Gjirokastra which included seven districts: Libohova, Gjirokastra, Delvina, Konispol, Kurvelesh, Përmet, and Te-

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pelena. Hakki said, “He went out on the mountain with us.” I asked if he had had a gun. “No, Dervish did not carry a gun,” he answered, referring to a long rifle. I asked further about what he had done, for my understanding had been that Baba had gone from village to village, explaining that Communism was not what it seemed. Hakki concurred. “Yes, he would explain from village to village. And then we would call the leaders of the villages to the tekke and Selim Ruhi Baba would talk to them. I remember Selim Ruhi Baba’s words. He would say, “The Communists have no faith, they have no country.” Then he would say it in Turkish, Din yok, vatan yok. And he would say, ‘They [the Communists] will lie to you.’ ” Hakki had led a fighting unit of the Balli Kombëtar against the Communists. But the Communists kept getting stronger. As Hakki summarized, “We had 13 months of civil war. Villages were burning, houses were burning, brother killing brother, we lost so many people. Finally Mid’hat Frashëri said, ‘That’s enough.’ And Mid’hat and Baba went to Shkodra and from there left to Italy.” Meanwhile the Communists declared an amnesty in late 1944. People were tired of fighting. But Hakki added, “In 1945 the courts started.” These were the peoples’ courts where people were accused and often immediately executed. “Thousands were killed.” I asked, “If Baba had stayed, was there any way he would have survived?” “No! Absolutely. And he couldn’t hide himself,” asserted Hakki. I asked Hakki to go back and tell me how he had taken Baba north. Hakki described fighting the Communists around Libohova, across the valley from the tekke. “We left [Gjirokastra] to join other Balli forces and we took Dervish with us, along with his two bodyguards.” One was Bido Bashaj, a cousin of Hakki’s; the other was Hasan Bocaj that Baba’s niece had remembered as the tall man who never left Baba’s side. So this was the beginning of Baba’s leaving his homeland. They went to Këlcyra by way of Tepelena. From Këlcyra they went to Suka, where they stayed in a Bektashi tekke, the Tekke of Prishta. They stayed there several weeks while the Communists were advancing. Then Hakki said he and his friends took Baba to the Tekke of Gllava, again to the north on the way to Berat. From the Tekke of Gllava, Hakki sent Baba to Berat, while he continued fighting. In Berat there was a Congress of the Balli Kombëtar. This I learned from another Albanian, Sejfi (pronounced say-fi) Protopapa, whom I met at a Quaker Meeting House in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at a conference on the situation in Kosova in 1998. He had recognized me from his visits to the Michigan tekke, most recently for the funeral of Nekije Peshkopia, the wife of a Balli Kombëtar leader. Sejfi was from Berat and had first met Baba Rexheb there in 1944 when .



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11. View from the Tekke of Pebbles, Gjirokastra, Albania, 2005. Courtesy of Nancy Veliu.

he was only 20 years old. He noted that then Dervish Rexheb represented a region and a guerrilla group of the south at that congress. But the Balli Kombëtar forces had been moving northward and their power had been weakening. People from the south had been coming to Berat to escape the Communist forces for some time. Sejfi Protopapa explained, “Throughout the time of the civil war and German occupation, Ballist people stayed in Berat for over a year and it became their graveyard. The Balli Kombëtar elected to stay in the town and became trapped in the valley, whereas the Communists took to the hills, which was militarily a better position. It was a turning point in the civil war when the Balli Kombëtar evacuated Berat. The Communists then made their Party Congress there.” This was in the fall of 1944, long after Baba had left. Sejfi had also left, after seeing two cousins killed and another buried alive. “What saved me was my clarity of mind that I would be killed unless I escaped.” Returning to Hakki’s account, he reported sending Baba from Berat west to the city of Fier. This was not the most direct route to Tirana, but it made sense for Hakki Gaba and his unit, who wanted to return to fight in the south, since the

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coastal plain was safer for them. Then they sent Baba north by taxi to Tirana. Hakki also sent his younger brother Kajtas with Baba and his two bodyguards. He did not want his younger brother involved in the fighting that he knew awaited them. Thus Baba arrived in Tirana, Albania’s capital, still held somewhat loosely by the Germans, who had encouraged the civil war as a way of dissipating action against them. Baba stayed in the house of his sister Xhemile, whom I met on my trip to Albania in 1993. She was an older woman then, still elegant in her speech and manner. Xhemile’s daughter, who had been very young in 1944, remembered Baba’s assurance in his political stand and the height of his bodyguard. She recalled that it was summer and that people came to see Baba, but that he did not stay long with them. She reported that he went by truck, still with his bodyguards, from Tirana to the northern Albanian city of Shkodra. The Germans were departing and there was no effective resistance to the Communists in the central region of Albania. In Shkodra, Baba had yet another sister, Fatime. She was his oldest sister and married to a judge. I never met her, but I know that Baba’s parents lived with Fatime and her husband for several years after their home in Gjirokastra had been destroyed. Certainly Baba was most fortunate to have sisters in the crucial cities on his way out of Albania. This must have been a way to say goodbye to his family, although no one could have known it would be forever. Baba would never see Fatime or Xhemile or the youngest sister, Merjeme, again. There are several accounts of the last leg of Baba’s journey from the Balkans. One who was most proud of “bringing Baba in a boat to Italy” was Eqrem Peshkopia, husband of Nekija, whose funeral Sejfi had attended. Eqrem was from a wealthy family of Mallakastra, and he spoke with me in his home in Dearborn, Michigan, on November 11, 1996. What distinguished Eqrem was his spirit and that he did not put on airs. He told me with a glint in his eye that he played guitar in the only band in Albania. In the war, he was the leader of 600 Balli guerrillas and was much revered by his men. He was in Gllava when Baba was there. Eqrem reported that it was in Gllava in 1944 that he told Baba that they had lost the war and that Baba would have to leave Albania, that he could not go back to Gjirokastra. Baba had protested saying that was why he had not wanted to leave. Eqrem told Baba that he had to leave, and that he should go north to Kruja. And Baba did go north and thence to Shkodra. But Eqrem had first met Baba much earlier, in 1929, when Eqrem was only 17 years old. Eqrem had gone with his uncle to the Tekke of Pebbles, where his uncle had spoken with Selim Ruhi Baba in Persian for two hours. Eqrem said he did not say a word, but Dervish Rexheb was there with a black beard, that is, he was still young. As for Eqrem’s uncle, he was Aziz Effendi, who had been head of the judges in Istanbul. Eqrem also noted that his cousin had married Baba’s youngest sister, Merjeme.



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I asked Eqrem if he and Baba were in the same boat that crossed the Adriatic. Eqrem explained proudly that it was he who had bought the boat indirectly from the Germans for 500 gold pieces. All the local boats had been conscripted by the different armies during the war, so the only way to get one was to go through the current occupiers, the Germans. Eqrem did not speak German, and besides he was wanted by the Germans for his guerrilla activities against them. He remembered hiding in the ceiling of a home when the Germans were searching for him below. Through an intermediary he managed to purchase a boat, and along with other Ballist leaders, he and Baba went north from Shkodra to Tivar on the coast of Montenegro. According to Eqrem, there were 134 people in the boat when it set sail for Italy. Eqrem finished with gentle pride, saying again, “I brought Baba to Italy.” Another account of this voyage is that of Rudi Kiçi, who was only 16 years old when he left Albania with his older brother Gaspar on the boat with Baba, Eqrem, Sejfi, and the others who were fleeing the Communists. Rudi’s mother was Italian and his father a Roman Catholic Albanian from Shkodra. Rudi went to school in Tirana, where there were few Catholics. All his friends there were Muslim. When I talked to him in his home in Birmingham, Michigan, outside Detroit, when he was 70 on October 19, 1998, it was clear that many of his closest friends were still Muslim Albanians. Although I had not met him before, I had long known his last name, Kiçi. His older brother Gaspar was the author of a remarkable Albanian-English dictionary, printed in Rome (1976), that I had long used. I told him I was honored to meet him. He told me his brother had recently passed away, for which I was deeply sad. Dictionaries by single authors have character, and his had become my friend. I asked Rudi where the boat had left from. He said that they were in Shkodra, but they got in the boat in Tivar, just north of Shkodra. He noted that they were not stopped at the border since there were no border guards or soldiers because a revolution was going on. “And how many got in the boat?” I asked, trying to visualize better. “One hundred and twenty,” he answered. “So it was a big boat,” I said. “Yes, a fishing boat,” added Rudi. Rudi explained that they did not have room for everyone to go down inside the hold of the boat, so only the older people went inside with the families like Eqrem Peshkopia’s. The younger men, like himself, stayed on the outside deck with the arms. He noted that they took weapons since a previous boat that had tried to cross to Italy had gone off course and drifted back to Albania, where everyone on board had been shot. But Rudi related that their boat had one problem: they did not have a captain to navigate the Adriatic. What could they do? They would have to go back to Shkodra to get a captain. Rudi knew well how they solved this problem since his brother Gaspar

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was one of the six volunteers who went back to Shkodra to try to find a captain. Again due to the war, sea captains were in short supply, but someone had told them of an old fishing captain and where he lived. They went to his home and found him already asleep for the night. Of course they were armed. They told him, “We just want to talk with you for half an hour and then we’ll bring you back to your family, back home.” So they put him with the mat he was sleeping on in the back of their truck and made for Tivar in Montenegro. They were lucky to find him for it was a stormy night with thunder and rain. Sejfi from Berat was also on this boat. He remembered that the boat was a large-sized fishing boat and that it was full. People had to put aside their belongings. There was no room for them too. Sejfi also remembered the night and the storm and how the brother of Eqrem Peshkopia, Nexhat, who was a mathematician, made calculations and tried to interfere with the captain during the voyage. The captain protested and they had to tie up the mathematician. This was the night of November 22, 1944. Rudi remembered exactly because six days later was Albanian Independence Day, November 28. But while Baba was leaving from the north, back in the south of Albania the Communists had already taken over. Indeed they would officially take Tirana on November 28, and all Albania, including Shkodra, by December 9, 1944. Baba had escaped just in time. Hakki, however, was not on the boat. He had returned to fight and then hide in the south. He told me he met with Selim Ruhi Baba at the Tekke of Pebbles, who had told him not to surrender. As Hakki put it, “He told me himself. And he passed away so he did not see the Communists.” The Communists had taken Gjirokastra in late September of 1944, and Selim Ruhi Baba passed away in November of that year. I asked if the Communists had bothered Selim Ruhi Baba in the time before he left this world. No, they hadn’t bothered him because of what he did. Selim Ruhi Baba closed the tekke. He announced he was sick and did not want any audiences or visits. The Communist leaders still tried to get an audience with him, since Selim Ruhi Baba was deeply revered throughout the south of Albania. At first the Communists announced that they were not against Bektashis, not against Selim Ruhi Baba, but only against people like Dervish Rexheb. But Baba’s own father, whom Hakki referred to Mullah Refat, who then was spending much time at the tekke, came out and told the Communist leaders that Selim Ruhi Baba was ill and could not see them. When Selim Ruhi Baba passed from this world, the village women of Lazarat composed a lament for him. Forty-six years later, when the Communist regime in Albania was greatly weakened and soon to fall, the village women made a tape recording of their laments and sent it to Baba’s sister at the Michi-



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gan tekke. When she first played the tape, Zonja Zejnepe called me on the telephone in tears, telling me to hurry to the tekke to hear what had come from Albania. I arrived to see women seated in a circle around the tape recorder crying and clear women’s voices chanting heartily in Albanian from the tape. The tape that the village women had sent to Baba’s sister included the 19line Albanian lament composed when Selim Ruhi Baba passed from this world. From the lament we know the exact date of his passing, November 16, which was six days before Baba left on the boat for Italy. Albanian laments are led by a lead singer, each of whose lines are repeated in harmony by a chorus of other women. The village name (Lazarat) is never mentioned; instead the particular house that first received the news is named. The last four lines describe the times of multiple foreign occupations and the civil war between the Balli Kombëtar and the Communists. On the day of holiday they came and they said On the day of holiday they came and they said O light, Baba Selim, toward your holy light we bow This brother-killing-brother has covered the whole world This brother-killing-brother has covered the whole world O light, Baba Selim, toward your holy light we bow You sought the way to leave this world You sought the way to leave this world O light, Baba Selim, toward your holy light we bow In the middle of your room you spread out your hırka In the middle of your room you spread out your hırka O light, Baba Selim, toward your holy light we bow Angels came to you to bring you greetings Angels came to you to bring you greetings O light, Baba Selim, toward your holy light we bow Your prayer was answered, welcome you were told Your prayer was answered, welcome you were told O light, Baba Selim, toward your holy light we bow November 16 it was a Sunday November 16 it was a Sunday

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The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb Calamity struck at the tekke just before the midday meal Calamity struck at the tekke just before the midday meal Quickly they sent a boy to the home of Muço Quickly they sent a boy to the home of Muço. Tell the village to mourn for Baba Selim Tell the village to mourn for Baba Selim Women and men when they heard they stood with folded arms Women and men when they heard they stood with folded arms You left, O beautiful star, you left in time of greatest danger You left, O beautiful star, you left in time of greatest danger Dervish Rexheb, O holy light it happened you were far away Dervish Rexheb, O holy light it happened you were far away Not to be at his funeral to hold him in your arms Not to be at his funeral to hold him in your arms You lovers of the Way, the way you have forgotten You lovers of the Way, the way you have forgotten Where before you put your money, now they keep the bullets Where before you put your money, now they keep the bullets Where before you hung your robe, now they hang the rifles Where before you hung your robe, now they hang the rifles Almighty Lord, why endure it, why not loose an earthquake Almighty Lord, why endure it, why not loose an earthquake To destroy half the world for Baba Selim. To destroy half the world for Baba Selim.

Displaced Persons Camps We were just finishing the midday meal in the kitchen of the Michigan tekke when someone at the table asked me where was my nine-year-old son, Ramsay, known at the tekke as Pasha. I answered somewhat proudly that he was



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at camp. From the other end of the table came a voice. It was Dervish Arshi’s. “Camp!” he echoed, but with an utterly different tone. “Camp!” Now his voice was filled with astonishment and horror. “You sent Pasha to camp?” Dervish went on in Albanian and his talk got more and more anxious until I could no longer understand what he was saying. At the same time, all the others at the table listened politely. But even without understanding, I knew that I had somehow set this off. I tried to soften it. “I only sent Pasha to camp for three days. He’s with his school class.” The Dervish turned his eyes on me. “Three days! That is like three years!” And then he went off again in Albanian that left me far behind. An older gentleman across the table from me explained. “You know, Dervish was in camps during the war, and even after the war. He was not well treated.” And then as if to make sure I had understood at least some of what he was saying, he continued. “Each day there was to him a year.” I looked back at Dervish Arshi and recalled what people had told me of his background. He was from the southwest region of Albania and had been a Bektashi dervish for over ten years when the Communists took over Albania in 1944. They had been especially hard on clerics. And earlier in the war, his region had been occupied by Italians, Greeks, and Germans. Baba had once referred to the Italians as kafir i butë, that is, “the gentle non-Muslims.” But this was in direct contrast to the Germans, the Greek nationalists, and the Greek Communists who also came into that region in the late 1940s, not to mention the Albanian Communists who tightened their control each year after 1944 with show trials, torture, executions, imprisonments, and forced labor camps. Still it was an Albanian Communist who reportedly had told other Alban­ ians to help get Dervish Arshi out of Albania in August of 1949 and over the border into Greece. There, of course, he had been in another sort of camp—a Displaced Persons Camp—for several years. He had finally come to America after Baba opened the tekke in the 1950s. Dervish had most certainly suffered and, according to many, been tortured. When he first came to Michigan, doctors had advised Baba to have him work outside. Then I, in my ignorance, had set off painful memories with my mention of “camp.” Again I tried. “But Dervish, this camp is not like the ones in Albania. This is for children.” Dervish’s eyes told me I had given him further cause for concern. I persisted. “No, Dervish. It is not what you think. Why, children live in cabins. And they learn to cook food outside on campfires.” I found myself at a loss to explain. Then Dervish turned to me. Suddenly the lines in his face softened. And a smile spread above his gray beard. “So!” he announced. “You would teach Pasha to be a haydut, a brigand!” Everyone at the table broke into laughter. What could I say? Certainly my son’s elementary school had not considered

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it was training its students in skills for mountain banditry. With our full tables, we could practice on occasion what we saw as the simplicity of life outdoors. But in Albania it had been different. There, when people lived in the open it was to herd goats and sheep or, as Dervish suggested, to prey on travelers. There no one, but no one, would live in the open by choice. But Baba’s eyes were smiling, as were others’ around the table. Many at that table had also been in the camps. But they had survived. I looked down the table at Dervish. He too was with us in the light-filled basement kitchen of the tekke, surrounded by the flat plains and rich fields of southern Michigan. As for Baba’s time in camps, he had been in Displaced Persons Camps. In these camps people waited for years, not knowing their fate. And they lived in tight quarters with people they had not known before. When I went to Albania in 1993, I met many people who had spent years in prisons and forced labor camps under the Communists. They did not talk about this much. I was told they preferred to be in the company of others who had shared this suffering, but that they still did not talk about it. Perhaps there was no way to truly communicate what it had been like. Perhaps their sanity depended on their ability to put it aside. And there was even something of this with those who had spent years in Displaced Persons Camps. Yet the bond among those who had lived in the camps was a bond that overcame religion, class, generation, and even regional differences. Baba had not talked much about this time. When he was asked directly by Husni Aliko for his video recording what he had done in the camps, Baba had responded succinctly that he had listened to the radio, to Radio Rome and Radio London. He added that he had not known how long he would be there. And that was how time passed. The one thing Baba did talk about regarding this time was how the Allied military authorities had placed him together in small quarters for several months with an Albanian Sunni Muslim Mufti and an Albanian Roman Catholic priest. The Albanian way would have been to keep each religious cleric with his own people, but the Allied military categorized them as “religious,” and so they belonged together. Baba smiled when he remembered how displeased the Mufti had been at this arrangement at the outset. Salih Mufti was the senior Sunni Muslim leader of Shkodra, a northern Albanian city where there had been no Bektashis. I asked a Shkodran if there had been any Sufi orders in Shkodra at that time. “Only Rufa‘i,” he recalled. They are different from the Bektashis, but the Mufti probably did not know this. In addition, the more numerous Sunnis historically have tended to look down on Sufis as not sufficiently orthodox. Baba of course understood all this. And he knew his prayers and he had always fasted for Ramadan. These ways he quietly followed, and after three months Salih Mufti announced, “If all the Bektashis were like Dervish Rexheb, I would invite them



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to Shkodra myself.” As to the larger story of the camps, I did not begin to learn it until Baba had come home from the hospital to the tekke for the last time. Eqrem Stino, a Bektashi who lived in Toledo, Ohio, was sitting with Hasan Premtaj in the large living room of the tekke, not far from where Baba lay in a hospital bed in his bedroom. They had both been in camps in Italy with Baba. Eqrem started recalling the way at night Baba had walked with them, then young men, along the long boardwalk by the Adriatic Sea. They were then staying in the UNRRA (United Nations Refugee and Rehabilitation Administration) camp at the tip of the heel of Italy. He said, “Baba gave us courage, telling us not to worry, that we would come out of this.” The fuller story that Eqrem and Hasan told me that day whetted my appetite for more. Three years later I spent several months seeking out and interviewing people who had known Baba in the camps in Italy. But first they had had to get to Italy. On the night of November 22, 1944, the old fishing boat captain, Rapo Binari, who had been roused from his bed at gunpoint in Shkodra earlier that evening, asked, “To Bari or Brindisi?” The Balli leaders responded, “Take us any place but be sure it is Italy.” They set out in two large fishing boats from Tivar on the coast of Montenegro. Rudi Kiçi, the 16-year-old who went on Baba’s boat, recalled the night and its thunder and rain. He spent the 12 hours it took to cross the Adriatic on the deck with the other young men and the weapons. In the early morning, they could make out a coastline with sun shining on the buildings. At last, the Italian coast! They went to Bari, with the old captain navigating, not knowing the harbor had been mined by the Germans. As they went closer into the port, the Balli leaders thanked the captain and told him he could soon go home. But before they could dock, they were stopped by a British military boat. The British soldiers confiscated their arms and took them to some barracks in Bari. Who were these people? And more importantly, how had they known to get past the German mines? To be on the safe side, the British took them to a small village called Gruma, inland from Bari, where there was a German prisoner-of-war camp. There they put them in tents. As Rudi said, “We were the first ones who had escaped from the Communists. They did not know what to do with us.” Later Italy would be full of people fleeing Communist regimes in the Baltics, Poland, Czechoslovakia, the Ukraine, and Yugoslavia. But in late November 1944 this Albanian group was the first. Soon the Communists in Albania realized that the Balli Kombëtar leaders had escaped and were in Italy. They demanded that the British send them back to Albania. Meanwhile the British kept the top leaders, Mid’hat Frashëri and

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Ali Këlcyra, in a separate place, thinking that they might use them to trade for others if the need arose. They kept the old sea captain with them, too, for they still could not figure out how he had gotten through the German mines. But late in December something changed. The Albanians from the two boats were all returned briefly to the Santa Fara barracks by Bari where there were essentially no restrictions, no barbed wire, no talk of trading. The top leaders and the sea captain were also released. They told the captain he could go back to Albania. But he refused, saying that he did not want to go back to the Communists. It appears that during his captivity with the top Balli Kombëtar leaders, Mid’hat Frashëri had charmed the captain and convinced him of the Balli cause. The old captain would stay with them in the camps and later die in New York. But why the British change of heart? In mid-December of 1944, Churchill wrote in his memoirs, “If the powers of evil prevail in Greece, as is quite likely, we must be prepared for a quasi-Bolshevised Russian-led Balkan peninsula, and this may spread to Italy and Hungary” (1951b:6, 270). Albanians credit Anthony Eden with calling this situation to Churchill’s attention and Churchill’s own concerns and presence in Athens in December of 1944 as affecting the way Balli Kombëtar leaders were treated in Italy. But to understand the situation in Italy itself at the time Baba arrived, it is important to recall that the northern region of Italy was still occupied by the Germans and Mussolini. Earlier the Allies had crossed into Italy, taking Monte Cassino in May 1944 and Rome on June 4, 1944. This was just before D-day, and it appears that a main purpose of the Italian campaign had been to tie up German divisions so that the invasion in Normandy would have a better chance of success. Returning to Baba and his compatriots, in January 1945 they were sent south to a place called Santa Maria di Leuca at the very tip of the heel of Italy. After the crowded barracks in Bari, the Albanians found themselves in resort bungalows and a hotel that had been built for Italian Fascist leaders. This part of the heel of Italy had long been poor; Mussolini developed the resort for his leaders as a way to provide work for local people. There were beaches with palm trees and never any snow, although sometimes there was wind. Baba stayed in the hotel with Zoti Xhevat and the older men, while the younger men stayed in separate resort cottages. They spoke of sleeping on the floor with blankets, but they were safe. The Albanians stayed in Santa Maria di Leuca most of 1945. The Cape is made of bare limestone cliffs, very white, as reflected in the name (“leuca” comes from Greek for “white”). Thucydides wrote that the Athenian fleet stopped there in 415 BC on its way to Sicily. But travelers have also noted the extreme heat, the hot sirocco wind that came from Africa, and the bugs. What stood out in the memory of the Albanians was that when they walked



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up along the bluff, there was a monastery at the far end overlooking the Adriatic Sea. From this place, in the morning and in the late afternoon, they could just make out the outline of the mountains behind Vlora, the mountains of Albania! They used to say to each other, “In six months we will be back,” and they believed it. One man refused to have his nephew get needed medical treatment in Rome because he did not want him to miss the return to Albania. I asked what people did while they were in Santa Maria di Leuca. “Yak, yak, yakking, all the time about going back to Albania.” They would lie around for there was nothing to do. The younger men went swimming, and all talked politics. But behind this was the grim knowledge they had lost the civil war. Their families and friends were still back there. And the news from Albania, beginning in early 1945, was of show trials and tribunals that led to the summary executions of hundreds, and the imprisonment and sentencing to hard labor of thousands (Skendi 1956:346–51). Clearly the Communists were consolidating their power by eliminating the prewar elite and Ballists (Biberaj 1990). In March of 1945 the Communists levied an outrageously high tax on businesses for war profits, thereby doing away with the merchant class. In August all transportation and industries were nationalized. Property of large landowners was confiscated,

12. View across sea near St. Maria di Leuca, Italy, 2005. Courtesy of Luigi Spano of sispropertyandtourism.co.uk.

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especially that of Ballists and Zogists. Most of the land of religious organizations was also confiscated. Santa Maria di Leuca was within range of Albanian broadcasts on ordinary radios, although few people had them. Baba told me of a “re-education camp” in Albania at this time where people were sent to be purged of their allegiance to religion and other “superstitions.” One guard told a prisoner that he should not believe in God, he should not believe in anything he could not see. The prisoner responded, “Do you have a brain? You cannot see it.” For this he was buried alive. The brutality of the purges in Albania can partly be explained by the fear of the Communists that the British still might invade; their involvement in Greece was followed closely. The Albanians were among the first people sent to Santa Maria di Leuca. It was only in January of 1945 that UNRRA established its first four “accommodation centers” for displaced persons in Italy there and in nearby towns. There had been discussion of whether there should be any assistance given to Italy at all, for it had been an enemy state until late 1943. The decision was for limited aid to Italy (Woodbridge 1950:25–295, 496–534). UNRRA Monthly Reports for February 1945 note that these centers in the heel of Italy housed 8,500 Yugoslavs, with no mention of Albanians, who may have been subsumed in this larger category. The Albanians at Santa Maria di Leuca included all who had come on the boats, but other Albanians as well. When the Balli Kombëtar leaders had gathered in Shkodra in late November 1944, they were not alone. There were also around 5,000 Balli fighters and members who gathered with them, but the leaders could only secure two boats. They took them themselves, leaving the great majority of Ballists to cope on their own. Many went north and then down into Italy, while some went back south and then over the mountains to Greece. As for the conditions in Santa Maria di Leuca, Hasan Premtaj, who had come as a young Ballist fighter with his father and others from his village near Vlora, noted that there were two parts to the camp. As a young man he was in one, while Baba was in the other. He recalled that Baba would greet people without first being greeted himself. He had respect for both old and young. Hasan said he would jump over the fence between the two sections to greet Baba in the morning. But old and young alike would climb the hill to the monastery from which they could see the outlines of the mountains of Albania. Several told me that Xhevat Kallajxhi, Baba’s old friend, wrote a poem about the monastery and the view of the mountains of Vlora in the distance. When Zoti Xhevat was himself in the hospital in Michigan for the last time, I visited him and asked him what I could do for him. “Do not forget my poetry,” he said. So much of the life of exiles can only begin to be communicated in poetry.



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It was in Santa Maria di Leuca that people first told me about Baba taking long walks. This he would continue to do throughout the rest of his life—in Italy, Egypt, and America. These long walks were often taken during the night in southern Italy for it was very hot. And as the young men walked with him, Baba would reassure them by talking with them, listening to them, and sometimes by his manner alone. They had lost so much and in such a short time: their mothers, sisters, brothers, wives, children, friends, their homeland. Many had not been away from home before the fighting of 1944 and their escape. Baba had a calm peacefulness that people recalled. But then in September of 1945, a man came from Bari, telling them to return to Albania. He knew exactly in which place Mid’hat Frashëri was staying. With fear of possible assassination, the Allied authorities moved the Albanians inland and northward. I asked if the Albanians wanted to move. Rudi Kiçi said, “They said move, and we moved.” He explained that they did not even tell them where they were going. The trip took two and a half days as they went by train slowly up the Adriatic coast, past Bari, Ancona, and Rimini, and then inland to the Po Valley that had been the scene of the last fighting with the Germans in April of that year,

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to Bologna where they spent the night. The next day they were sent by truck to Reggio Emilia. In Reggio Emilia the Albanians were taken to a former school in the middle of town known as Casa di Balili, a sort of “house for fascist youth.” This was very different from other camps. There was no fence, and it actually had a soccer field in the back. It was not large. Later many displaced persons would be sent to camps of 20,000 to 30,000 people of many different backgrounds which led to an entirely different existence. But there in Casa di Balili, the 600 Albanians, with their Ballist leaders, established what an Italian journalist termed “little Albania.” As for the authorities, in Santa Maria di Leuca the person in command had been an American captain, Camp Director Cooper, “a man with one ear” as one Albanian termed him. But in Reggio Emilia, it was a British Major Simpson. Sejfi, who worked for him as camp registrar, contended that running the camp was a cover for the British Major. In fact he was really an intelligence officer concerned with the growing strength of the Communists in that part of Italy. It does appear that the Albanians themselves largely ran the camp with a camp committee, a school for literacy that they set up, and even a soccer team which was wise, considering the number of young men. But what most remember about the time in Reggio Emilia was the morning singing. Mid’hat Frashëri set it up so that they should arise at 7 A.M., face eastward toward Albania, and sing patriotic songs. Mid’hat organized a choir for this, led by the Albanian Roman Catholic priest, Dom Zef Shestani. For Albanians who had lived through the turmoil of civil war, the tension of escape, and confusion of different camps, this framing of the day helped structure an uncertain time. Another way the Ballist leaders helped structure time and increase resources was their work with cigarettes. People would buy tobacco and then take it back to Casa di Balili where they would roll it into cigarettes. One man was famous for rolling cigarettes faster than anyone else, about 1,000 a day. Then they would go to different cities to sell the cigarettes. Hasan Premtaj remembered going to a factory in Bologna where an Albanian friend who worked there would let him in, and then he would sell the cigarettes. The Italian government complained, but the British Major told them not to bother; at least it gave them something to do. The British made a pretense of conducting inspections. All the materials for making cigarettes would first be hidden, but the smell of tobacco was so strong you could smell it before you got to the door. Other times when upper-level British officers came to visit, the Major would ask them to display their wares. In a Milan newspaper article on the Albanians in Reggio Emilia, Corriere Lombardo, November 9, 1946, the journalist wrote of “being offered a cigarette, not well cured, that had been produced in this strange Albanian colony.”



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Meals were another way of structuring the day. In the first camps by Bari, people were expected to line up and serve themselves buffet style, a distinctly nonAlbanian way. But after a few days, some of the younger men realized that some of the older men were not eating. They had never served themselves. Immediately the younger men took to bringing food to the older ones. This continued at Santa Maria di Leuca and in Reggio Emilia. Indeed it was an honor to bring food for Mid’hat Frashëri or Vasil Andon, or for Dervish Rexheb, for that matter. When I asked about what they ate in the camps, I was told that for breakfast there was one piece of bread and tea. For lunch there was some sort of stew or soup, and then the same food for dinner. In Santa Maria di Leuca there had been meat two or three times a week, canned meat like Spam because the Americans were in charge there. No one had ever eaten such a thing before. It took a while before they realized it was pork. When the Mufti learned this, he went to the Camp Director, incensed. So they made a special kitchen for the Muslims, but soon almost everyone returned to the main kitchen because there was no meat in the food for the special kitchen. When they moved to Reggio Emilia, again it took a while before people realized that there was bacon in the soup. Again the Muslims did not know what it was. This is the region of Italy known for its ham, for prosciutto di Parma. But when they took it away, the soup had no flavor. This was especially the case with the pea soup that they had three or four times a week. Most Muslims did fast for Ramadan. But the Muslim prohibition on pork was taken less seriously by some young men, who once made pork and beans, and then took out the meat and served it to the Mufti who judged it “most delicious.” Overall they noted that they always wished they could have more food, but they did not go hungry. Daily life for the Albanians in Reggio Emilia was spent discussing politics and speculating on what was going to happen in Albania. Here the short-wave radio was critical in letting Albanians know what was going on in the larger world. One of the main things Baba did in the camps was listen to the radio and then report back to people in the different rooms of Casa di Balili what was going on. Mid’hat Frashëri maintained the discipline of constant letter writing. Every three months he would go to Rome to visit officials of different governments to try to lobby for Albanians opposed to Hoxha’s Communist regime. When I asked about Baba in particular, Rudi reported that he got up at 5 A.M. and went to a far corner of the back field to meditate for two hours. Then he would always walk. Besides listening to the radio and sharing the news, Baba was busy much of the time because people consulted him on all manner of things. Living in such close quarters could easily lead to disputes and arguments. Baba was a peacemaker. Again, as in Santa Maria di Leuca, he was calm. He would listen to people’s problems and then give counsel. In certain matters, like feuds, he was direct:

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13. Albanians in Displaced Persons Camp, Reggio Emilia, Italy, 1946.

“In Italy we do not engage in such things.” But often he was more indirect, helping people find a way to decide for themselves. He was seen as easy with everyone, someone people could trust. Bektashis and many other Sufis have long been known for their indifference to high position. One’s spiritual position often has little to do with one’s earthly status. Townspeople and villagers, people from the south and the north, religious and non-religious, Royalists and Ballists, young and old—the war had brought together a most disparate group. Baba refused to serve on the camp committee, largely made up of Ballist leaders. According to Rudi, Baba no longer wanted to get mixed up in politics. Later in America, Baba took the same stand. While he had worked for the Balli Kombëtar in Albania, now he was for people of all political persuasions. He demonstrated this in several ways in America. One of these ways was his selection of Teki Xhindi as his rehber, the assisting clerical position for Bektashi private ceremonies. Zoti Teki was a Zogist, a Royalist. Also Baba would only attend Albanian Independence Day celebrations by different factions if they were held on different days. If they took place on the same day, he would go to none. As for his being a Bektashi dervish in the camps, some thought that it



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helped him adjust since he was used to enduring burdens. Dervishes vow a life of poverty, so deprivation was not as problematic. Also dervishes do daily chores, no matter their class background. The people who had the most trouble in the camps were those like the professors who had never done their own laundry and were used to being served in many areas. But at the same time, another man noted the lack of privacy in the camps, that this was hard on a dervish. In Casa di Balili, there was only one shower. It was an indignity for others to be undressed in front of him. Another view of camp life for the Albanians in Reggio Emilia comes from the article about the Albanians in Corriere Lombardo, November 9, 1946, that Hasan Premtaj carefully saved. The unnamed Italian journalist reported having a long conversation with “the leader of the Albanian opposition in exile,” “an elderly and kind man whose fellow Albanians call him the Albanian Garibaldi, the Albanian Mazzini.” This was undoubtedly Mid’hat Frashëri, who would have refused to have his real name used in writing. The fear of assassination had not abated. Rather the journalist used the pseudonym “Mr. L. Sk.” This is Mid’hat Frashëri’s famous pen name, Lumo Skëndo, that he had used for many years, first during the time of Ottoman rule, and then in the intervening decades. Mid’hat Frashëri was born in 1880, the son of Abdyl Frashëri. He was one of the leaders of the Alphabet Congress in Monastir in 1908 and one of the signers of the Albanian Declaration of Independence in 1912, although the Communists deleted his name from the official documents (Pipa 1990:218–19). He was trained as a pharmacist but had a bookstore in Tirana during the time of King Zog. He was short of stature, with “the handicap of the Prophet Moses,” that is, he stuttered. He was a beloved leader. He was also a bibliophile, and his library, one of the finest in the Balkans, became the basis for the Albanian National Library. The Italian journalist described Mr. L. Sk., the leader of the Balli Kombëtar, as dressing “very properly with very clean white cuffs and very white hair. He received me in a small room full of light, heated by an electric heater, and with two wooden beds without mattresses as in a military fortress, with many books and magazines.” After offering the reporter a cigarette of their own production, Mid’hat Frashëri then made several important distinctions. First he noted that they were Ballist exiles, not Nazi collaborators. The Communist propaganda had not stopped. Then he noted that just as he had opposed the Italian domination in the 1930s, so he opposed the Slav domination of Albania by Yugoslavia at that time [1946–48]. He then characterized the current Albanian regime as “Quislings who collaborated with Tito.” Further, Mid’hat Frashëri noted that these “Quislings” were no longer Albanian, that they had forgotten how to be Albanian for they no longer respected

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the right of hospitality. He explained, “Albanians say that the guest is double.” When one kills one man, he must pay once, with his life. But to kill a guest, one must pay double, with the life of a relative as well. He continued that with a civil war there was hate against everyone: “War between the bourgeois and bourgeois guests” (Hoxha came from a landowning family). Mid’hat continued that he did not want to be considered a sentimental traditionalist, that their liberalism was oriented to the left: “We insist on the overall economic situation of independence.” Then in a more immediate vein, Mid’hat said that they considered the Italians as “neighbors across the sea.” They did not come to Italy “to be parasites.” He said that when the Allies left, they would probably go too. “But we do not know what exile has in store for us. Is this enough talk?” The journalist then noted, “Albania was so small. But there, in this Albania restricted to this compound, it is truly well organized. With its own police, guards, kitchen, sports area, and families on the ground floor that like Italian families tend to have too many children.” The journalist also described the motley attire of the Albanians, the cast-off clothing they sported, and the length of some of the moustaches. The journalist concluded: All the Albanians [some 600 in the compound] are stressed. They are overdrawn and insomniac, as is the case with all exiles. Albanians are searching in the ruins of an exiled regime, searching in the ruins of a broken annexation [with Italy], and now they are searching in the ruins of Europe, fighting to find friends who will respect them. And also in exile, these most proper Albanians are searching—they are searching and they are stressed and they are waiting.

Despite the clear success of the Albanian compound in Reggio Emilia, it was closed and the Albanians were moved back to southern Italy in 1947. Some said it was because the Italians needed the building and land. Others cited the fear of a Communist takeover in the Italian elections and thought it better to be far from the center of Communist political activity which was there in the Po Valley. Still others saw it as part of United Nations policy, for UNRRA had begun closing down the smaller camps. Originally it was thought that UNRRA would only be needed for 1945–46, at which time all displaced persons would be repatriated. That turned out to be far from the truth. By mid-1946, Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, who had taken over as Director General of UNRRA, remarked that in Italy it was clear that the remaining 630,000 displaced persons would not be repatriated and so countries needed to open their doors to them. But such doors did not open readily. Baba was sent to a larger barracks-type Displaced Persons Camp in Barleta, on the Adriatic Sea just north of Bari. Some of the Albanians went with



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him, while others were sent to Bagnoli, the huge Displaced Persons Camp outside Naples. There were people from many different countries in Barleta. All the people in these camps were trying to get accepted by some country like Canada, Australia, Belgium, or the United States. An excellent account of UNRRA Displaced Persons Camps referred to 1947 as “the year of despair” (Hume 1953). The Iron Curtain had closed over much of Eastern Europe, while Western countries had not yet opened their doors to these people, “this new kind of debris of modern wars.” As for Baba, when he concluded that there was no hope of returning to Albania, he decided he wanted to go to America. But America was the most difficult place for a refugee to enter. There were no Bektashi tekkes there to sponsor him, and America had many regulations including restricted quotas. But while Baba was in Barleta, a friend came and recommended that all the Albanians there take quota numbers for the United States for possible later use. The man then went to Milan and took out quota numbers for them, including Baba. Baba saved his quota number, but it was way down the list. In 1948 Baba sailed to Egypt with several other Ballists, including Ali Këlcyra. Before Baba left Italy in January of 1948 he was issued one pair of shoes, one pair of socks, a jacket, and underwear, as was carefully noted in his “Control Book for Displaced Persons and Refugees.” This official identity document noted Baba’s place of birth as “Glnrkhastro [sic], Albania.” What was the meaning of this time in the camps? Many saw it as a time of continued hope—hope that they could return to Albania, hope that the British would open another front in the Balkans, hope that the election in Albania in 1946 would bring in more moderates who were interested in relations with both East and West. None of these panned out. Nevertheless, the outline of the mountains of Albania, as seen from the high bluff of Santa Maria di Leuca, stayed powerfully in the minds of the Albanians. But if that was the visual memory of hope, being together in Reggio Emilia was the experiential memory of hope. People invariably recall the time in the youth house in Reggio Emilia as the best time in all the camps. There they stayed the longest. There they built their own community and worked together making cigarettes and writing letters. There they listened to the radio and played soccer. There they sang together. A taste of an Albania that could have been. But keeping hope alive was work. Sejfi noted sadly 50 years later, “We could not realize that we would not be able to return.” He paused, and then he continued. “It was very hard to realize categorical separation from our families. They could never know where we were, how we were, nor could we know how they were. It is most difficult to make peace with that sort of exile.” The Communist paranoia made contact dangerous for either party. After saying this Sejfi got up to leave the place we had met in Boston to

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conduct the interview. On his way out I asked him about some book, and he told me to talk to Rudi’s brother. But Rudi’s brother Gaspar had recently passed away, I told him, and he asked when? This year, I said. “Oh, this is the difficulty of exile. You try to find a niche, a place to live in, to be.” I could tell he was deeply saddened. Each person who passed on in exile left him more alone. I had only learned six days earlier of the passing of Gaspar when I had talked with Rudi at length in his home in Michigan. He had told me of taking his brother’s ashes back to Albania to a cemetery where Muslims and Christians were together. It is better that way, he said, better to be with others. Certainly taking ashes back to Shkodra brings this full circle. But in talking with Rudi, it did not seem right to leave on this note. Outside the door of his house I suddenly remembered the singing in the morning at Reggio Emilia. His face brightened. “Yes, the choir. We faced east toward Albania.” And then, he suddenly started to sing in Albanian. It was to the tune of “God Save the Queen” and began: O Zoti Fuqi madhë Ndimona ne tani Të lutemi

O Lord Omnipotent, Help us now in these times, We beg of You.

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5

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Waiting in Egypt Circling Back in Culture and in Time At the Muqattam Tekke of Cairo “Kings visited and Baba read” Why had Baba gone from the Displaced Persons Camp in Italy to Egypt? Certainly after four years he had had enough of the camps. He had taken a quota number to come to America, but his number was way down on the list. In contrast, Albanians did not even need a visa to go to Egypt because the family of King Farouk was Albanian. There had been an Albanian community in Egypt for 150 years. As an Albanian who had grown up in Egypt put it, “Egypt was the mother of the world. When we were there, there were Italians, Greeks, Turks, everybody went to Egypt.” But most importantly for Baba, there was a Bektashi tekke on the edge of Cairo where he could go and resume his life as a dervish with other dervishes. In the winter of 1948, Baba set sail from Bari to Alexandria with several other Balli Kombëtar leaders. From Alexandria he took the train south to the main train station at Ramses Square in Cairo, and then went by carriage another 10 km to the southeast side of Cairo, beyond the imposing Citadel, to a high spur of the Muqattam range. Approaching the Muqattam, one could see several türbes up on a hillside. Down around the hill a road led part way up the other side. From there steps led to the opening of an immense cave. Within the cave lay the tomb of Sidi Abdullah al-Maghawiri and a Bektashi tekke. The setting of the tekke on the southeastern outskirts of the vast city of Cairo was unexpected. Cemeteries lined most approaches to the Muqattam (Abu-Lughod 1971). From dusty roads and in relentless heat, visitors would climb part way up the hill to find, to their surprise, green trees around the mouth of a wide cave and a fountain where they washed before they entered the cave with its tombs and inner shrine. Just inside the cave a wooden wall, only 3 feet high, reminded people to

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take off their shoes, and a dervish would sit on a platform by the entryway, putting his hand in prayer on the head of the visitor as each passed through. Next to him was a box where people could contribute to the tekke. Within the cave was a great hall with columns and graves on either side. Beyond these graves a fence set off the graves of Bektashi clerics, tombstones with the turban-like headpiece on top. There had been 36 Bektashi babas associated with the Bektashi tekke in Cairo, and many were buried there, as well as numerous dervishes. Baba must have walked past these tombs many times during his four years in Egypt. Beyond this was a marble floor and the grillwork of a green room wherein lay the tomb of Sidi Abdullah al-Maghawiri. The marble floor was not level. Egyptian women would roll on this floor if they wanted a baby or a boy child, and others would come to pray there as well. The local saint was also known to assist men whose powers were declining, although this was less remarked upon than the help women sought. A staircase climbed up to the tekke itself and to gardens that wreathed one side of it. When I went to Egypt in 1998 to try to learn more about Baba’s time there, we went past the Muqattam on a road where I could see across to the türbes part way up the hill. The side of the hill had been removed so light could come in, a sort of high grotto. I could not go closer for the whole area had become a military site, with an air defense systems above and military guards down below. But when Baba came in 1948, it would have been at its most beautiful. As Baba walked up the staircase to the tekke, he would have come out into sunlight and seen the gardens, known as “the desert paradise” and “the green paradise,” with a guard in front of each one. On the right, “the desert paradise” had vines, some said from Albania, and palm trees and small shrubs. “The green paradise” was full of leafy trees—lemon, orange, fig, peach, and eucalyptus—as well as flowers like bougainvillea, roses, and daisies. A pond contained red fish, and fountain heads shaped like frogs. And in the trees were birds, and behind the trees, gazelles. I admit I was skeptical about the gazelles until I saw several photographs of them, small, tame deerlike creatures with their slender faces looking up, while visitors entwined their arms about them. The tekke itself was part of the hillside, formed from the limestone. To the right was a cavernous kitchen. Huge black pots or cauldrons, known as kazans, stood at the back walls. Above the black cauldrons, long-handled wooden spoons criss-crossed on the whitewashed wall. Higher up the walls were longhandled pans, with the old Bektashi warrior axes crossed in the middle. Besides the kitchen there were guest rooms and the rooms of the dervishes. Sirri Baba, the head of the tekke, had separate quarters in a separate building. And it is there that Baba was taken the first day he arrived. It is said that Sirri Baba



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14. Sirri Baba in the Bektashi tekke, Cairo, Egypt, 1937. Courtesy of Bernard Lewis.

had three secretaries, so Baba could not have just walked in. Instead, Baba was asked to wait until Sirri Baba was ready for him. Then he was ushered into a rugfilled room whose walls were lined with Bektashi calligraphy, Bektashi folk art, and all manner of objects—tables, vases, an Iranian wooden screen, a nargileh or waterpipe—and photographs of people like King Peter of Italy, King Constantine

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of Greece, King Zog of Albania, and Prince George, all visitors to Sirri Baba in the tekke. Cabinets displayed plates, glasses, and objects from these royal rulers, and a silver chandelier, all gifts. The tradition is for tekkes to be decorated with gifts, but usually they are more ordinary. Sirri Baba would sit on the low stone bench that was covered with a rug and pillows. When guests came in they bowed and kissed the hand of Sirri Baba, and then he would tell them to be seated. As Baba recalled, when he first went there, after the pleasantries on health, family, and Baba’s trip, they talked about Lutfi Baba, who had been the head of the Cairo tekke when Sirri Baba first came to Egypt. Lutfi Baba came from Baba’s hometown of Gjirokastra, and even from Dunavati, the same mahalle or neighborhood. After living in Egypt for many decades Lutfi Baba passed away in 1942 at the age of 107. Meanwhile both were taking the measure of the other without words. I think Sirri Baba would have noted Baba’s reserve and his serious demeanor. He was unlikely to compete with him in relating to the royals, or even desiring to do so. As one Albanian who spent his whole life in Egypt said to me, “Sirri Baba cared about his appearance and comforts.” Baba Rexheb respected all Sirri Baba had accomplished and how he had made the tekke more beautiful, but he took a very different way. Sirri Baba advised then Dervish Rexheb that in Egypt it was better to stay out of the political arena, for “we are foreigners. We must not provoke them.” However the tekke’s and Sirri Baba’s relationship with the palace and foreign monarchs could hardly be called apolitical. As for Baba’s political organizing work in Albania during the war, the less said of it the better. And so began Baba’s time at the Bektashi tekke of the Muqattam. He would eat the evening meal with the other dervishes seated on pillows around the low stone platform in the corner of the kitchen. There were then four of them: Dervish Bajram, Dervish Lutfi, Dervish Safet, and Dervish Muharrem. All were Albanian except Dervish Muharrem, who was Turkish. Both Dervish Safet and Dervish Muharrem died in 1957, the year the Egyptian government took over the tekke and transformed it into a military installation. As for the other two dervishes, neither suspected when they first met Baba in Egypt in 1948 that they would both end up with him later at his tekke in Michigan. The older one, Dervish Lutfi, was from Gjirokastra like Baba. He left his book of handwritten prayers to the tekke in Michigan. The other, Dervish Bajram, was the cook. He was originally from Gjakova in western Kosova and had been sent “visiting,” which was how he came to Egypt in the 1930s. It was a custom that if a dervish had problems getting along with others in a tekke that he could be sent “visiting” to another tekke for a year or more. But World War II had blocked Dervish Bajram’s return to the Balkans, and so he had stayed on in Egypt. He had a special warmth and was a remarkable cook—he could cook



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Egyptian, French, Turkish, Italian, and Albanian dishes. Myrvet Sula, whose husband had been the Royal Minister to Egypt from Albania under King Zog, remembered Dervish Rexheb and Dervish Bajram when they were in Egypt. I interviewed her at the Michigan tekke in May 1998. Zonja Myrvet spoke of the yogurt Dervish Bajram made from buffalo milk that was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Every day when Baba got up in the Muqattam Tekke, he would say his prayers and then walk in the gardens. Baba always walked in the morning—in Egypt, the earlier the better. Then he would spend time in the library. Some time during our early lessons at the Michigan tekke Baba showed me his notebooks from Egypt. They had brown leather covers with pharaonic pictures etched front and back. Inside was lined paper, entirely filled with Baba’s small blue ink handwriting in Ottoman and Arabic. Only the last four pages of one had writing in Latin letters, nefes in Albanian that Baba wrote in his first months in Michigan. The notebooks were filled with his notes from what he read while in Egypt, works in Arabic, Persian, and Ottoman Turkish. He read different books of commentary on the Qur’an and Hadith, as well as classics like Kalila wa-Dimna, Rumi’s Masnavi, and many nefes. Once Husni Aliko, who had been in the camps with Baba in Italy, asked Baba why he had wanted to go from there to Egypt. Baba’s answer, which is one given in hindsight and which I have translated, is most revealing. It is true I wanted to go to Egypt. I knew there were several tekkes there where I could deepen my studies of the way of Haji Bektash Veli. It was not that I did not have sufficient knowledge at that time, but I have always thought that one should not distance oneself from learning. Coming nearer to goodness, nearer to God, nearer to His works—this is only coming nearer to the learning that was born thousands of years ago and which has enriched us in ensuing years. Blessed is he who comes close to such learning and woe is he who moves far from it. Egypt for me was a university, for me personally, for I attained a fuller understanding of the major languages in which the philosophy of Bektashism is written. When the Babas of the tekkes there studied the confusions of the Bolsheviks, they prayed for the unfortunate Albanians.

It is my view, however, that when Baba first went to Egypt, he did not know what he would find. The world had been changing fast around him, but Baba was a scholar in the finest sense of the word. He found wonderful books, a setting in which little was expected of him, and some people who shared his love of learning. But from the Bektashi tradition, Baba always knew that there is much to be learned from people directly, not just from books. Certainly the central bond of Bektashism, the relationship of murshid and student, is forged

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in person. In addition, Baba was always willing to listen to others, even when their stated ways were far from his. Among the other dervishes in Egypt, he became good friends with Dervish Bajram, the cook. He also valued Dervish Lutfi. I do not know which of them told him the story of how Bektashis first came to Egypt. It could even have been the Turkish dervish, Dervish Muharrem, who was happy to have another Turkish speaker in the tekke. I imagine them sitting together in the cool dark kitchen after the midday meal, or resting in the garden in the evening breeze. It would have taken little to get one dervish started on the tale of Kaygusuz Abdal, which is how Bektashis referred to the saint who in Egypt became Sidi Abdullah al-Maghawiri. As Baba related in taped dialogue on April 9, 1986: Kaygusuz Abdal was the son of a governor in Anatolia. It was expected that when the father passed on, the son would take his place. As for Kaygusuz himself, his nature was to hunt. He hunted everyday, either gazelles or other wild animals. One day when Kaygusuz was hunting as usual, he shot a gazelle with his arrow, but somehow it escaped near the tekke of Abdal Musa. So he came up to the tekke and knocked on the door. A dervish opened the door. Kaygusuz explained that he had shot a gazelle, only it had gotten away. He asked the dervish if he had seen it go by. The dervish answered that they had not seen it, but if he liked, seeing as he had come that far, why not pay a visit to Abdal Musa? Fine, agreed Kaygusuz, leaving those who had accompanied him at the door. He went in, sat down, and began talking with Abdal Musa. Abdal Musa asked him what he wanted. Why had he come? Kaygusuz responded, “Only to hunt a gazelle. That is what I want, but I haven’t found it.” “Ahh,” said Abdal Musa. Then he called out, “Dervish!” “Eyvallah,” answered the dervish. “Open the wardrobe over there so he can see the gazelle.” The dervish opened the wardrobe and 40 gazelles jumped out. Abdal Musa said, “Take whichever is yours.” Kaygusuz walked around them. “But they are all alike,” he said. So he sat down again. He understood that Abdal Musa was an extraordinary person. They talked. And the talk of Abdal Musa affected Kaygusuz. He went out to those who had come with him, who were still waiting by the door. “Go and tell my father that I will not be coming back. I will stay here for a while.” And he stayed. They talked on. Finally he said to Abdal Musa. “Erenler,” [mode of address to a dervish signifying “brethren who have arrived”] he said. “I came here to hunt gazelles, but it is you have hunted me.” Abdal Musa asked Kaygusuz, “How was that?” Kaygusuz answered that he did not want to leave. He wanted to stay with Abdal Musa there at the tekke. “No,” said Abdal Musa. “You have a father. Go. You have a mother and so forth.” Kaygusuz countered that he would stay.



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In any case, Kaygusuz finally went home. There he informed his father, “I won’t stay here.” “How is this?” queried his father. “Your throne is here. You will stay here behind me. Then you will go in my place.” “No,” remonstrated Kaygusuz, “I have decided. This is what I will do.” His mother cried and carried on, but he would not change his mind. He would not pay heed to their wishes. He came back to Abdal Musa. He declared himself, that is, he gave his word that he would stay with him at the tekke. At that time his service began. Now what would be his service? To weed out his self-importance, to rein in his ego, he was given one of the most difficult tasks of going to the woods to collect wood and bringing it back to the tekke on his back. Everyday he had to do this work. He did it gladly. To do this, he had to go to the forest, on the road half an hour each way. Every day it was this way. It was hard work for the wood hurt his back and made it raw. Some suggested lessening the work, but he refused. For three years he did this every day to distance himself from his ego. That is, to make naught, to destroy what remained of this world in him, to clean himself from the material world and make it no more. He kept doing this. Periodically the wounds on his back would open. One day, one of the dervishes hid the rope that he used to hold the wood on his back. He could not find it. Still he went to the woods and got the wood ready. But how would he carry it? He prayed. And two gazelles came to him, and with them he brought the wood back to the tekke together.

Then Baba himself told me as an aside, “As for this matter of the gazelles, I did not write it in my Albanian book on Islamic mysticism and Bektashism because it is not fitting for the times. But this is how the dervishes told me.” I told Baba that I liked it, I liked the gazelles. Later I checked in Baba’s book (Rexheb 1970:184–86), and indeed, he had left the gazelles out: from the hunt, from the wardrobe, and from carrying wood. Baba had emphasized the moral message instead. Baba returned to the story. Kaygusuz brought the wood to Abdal Musa and told him what had happened. He was told not to do it that way again. But at the end of his service of three years, he became a dervish. He also served as a baba and then was sent to Egypt by Abdal Musa. Kaygusuz went to Egypt with 40 dervishes. He learned that the eyes of the Padishah there were not well. So Kaygusuz said to his dervishes, “All of us, we will close one eye.” All 40 made one eye closed. People asked them why? They answered they were ill, but there was really no illness. People went to the Padishah and told him that “this fellow” has 40 dervishes, and all of them have one eye closed. Certainly this was strange. The Padishah, partly out of curiosity, had a dinner

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prepared for them and called them to come to the meal. However, between where they were staying and the palace, there was much sand. It was very fine. So walking along with 40 people, they would get all dusty and dirty before they arrived. Seeing this Kaygusuz said, “Look here. We want people to see that we are pak adamlar, men who are clean and pure. For this reason, where I put my foot down, there too you put your foot, so the dust does not rise. And thus we will go. Then, when they see us coming they will ask, ‘Who is the leader?’ You, the first one, do not say, ‘It is I.’ Say instead, ‘It is the one who comes after me.’ The next one also should say, ‘It is the one who comes after me.’ The next, and so forth, until the last one. The last one should say, when asked who is the leader, ‘The one who passed before me.’ ” Kaygusuz continued, “And in this way we will go. Also at the meal there is a test. The table of the Padishah is round and the spoons are long. So when one tries to eat, the spoon will hit the person next to him and he won’t be able to eat. But we can manage by each feeding the person across from him. That way there will be no problems.” They all agreed.

Baba then explained: “In the tariqats, that is, in the Sufi orders, these admonitions have a different meaning. Who is the leader? One should not say it is I. To say “I” shows egoism. You should say someone else. And when Kaygusuz told the dervishes to put their feet in his trace, in his footprint, so there would be no dust, in Bektashism this means that a baba should follow his preceding baba. He should not play around. This is the purpose and the meaning.” Baba then returned to the story. In any case, they arrived and were received. The table was set, and just as Kaygusuz had foretold, it was set with long spoons. Each took food and gave it to the other across the table. All did it this way. Those around were perplexed. “This is strange behavior. What sort of people are these?” After the meal, they sat and made muhabbet, friendly talk. The Padishah then asked them, “What is wrong with your eyes?” “We have illness in our eyes,” they answered. Then Kaygusuz stood up. He said, “Your lordship, would you find it acceptable if I pray to the Lord of All-Truth for all of us? Perhaps our eyes will become well.” The Padishah said, “Why not? We are ready.” “Fine,” said Kaygusuz. “In that case all close your eyes. Close your eyes and say ‘Amin.’ ” They closed their eyes, all of them. And he began to pray. They all said, “Amin.”



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He kept praying, praying, praying, until he finished. Then he ordered them to open their eyes. They opened their eyes and the Padishah’s eyes were open and clear too. They had been healed through the prayer. The Padishah was very happy. His pleasure shone and he understood that Kaygusuz was a man of substance and most extraordinary. The Padishah asked what Kaygusuz might want. When he received no immediate response, he decided himself. “I would like to make a beautiful tekke for you, at Qasr al-‘Ayn [in the southern part of Cairo].” [There is a play on words here for Qasr al-‘Ayn can mean either “the Castle of the Spring” or “the Castle of the Eye.”] And he stayed there. All the dervishes stayed there with Kaygusuz. When it came time for Kaygusuz to pass from this world, he told his dervishes that when he died, they were to bury him up in the cave of the mountain to the east. They agreed and when he passed on, they buried him there. And later, when others died, they too wanted to be buried by Kaygusuz. It became a small cemetery inside the cave. But it was difficult to go all the way from Qasr al-‘Ayn [near the east shore of the Nile] all the way across the city to the mountain. And they needed to go there frequently to keep it clean and to light candles by the tombs. It was a lot of trouble and far to go to the Muqattam mountain. So the dervishes went to the Pasha and requested, if it were possible, if they could move the tekke there to the cave in the mountain. The Pasha agreed, and so they moved the Bektashi tekke from Qasr al-‘Ayn to the Muqattam and the cave. They made a fine tekke there.

Here I thought Baba was finished with the story. Other times he had told it, this had been the ending. Historically, there was great passage of time in Baba’s narrative. Kaygusuz Abdal had come to Egypt in 1388 and had been buried in the Muqattam in 1444. It was not until the dynasty of Muhammad Ali, during the time of his descendent, Khedive Ismail, in 1865, that the Bektashis moved from Qasr al-‘Ayn to the Muqattam. But this time Baba was not finished. And in my lessons I had learned to never derail a story. Baba continued: During the time of Abbas Pasha, a son of Muhammad Ali, the Pasha’s son, fell from the palace balcony to the ground. All the women started to cry. But as for the child, someone caught him just before he hit the ground. This person then put him on the ground gently and disappeared. People went looking for him but they could not find him. They asked the child who reported that as he was falling, someone caught him, held him in his arms, and then put him down on the ground. “Do you know who this person is?” they asked. “No, but when I see him I will know him,” answered the child. The people wondered how they would find him, seeing as how they had no name. This then is what they decided to do.

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The Pasha held a feast at the palace. All the religious men were invited, and the child too. As the religious men entered, they asked the child, “Is it he? Is it he?” But the child did not pick any of them. They asked themselves who had not come. They decided to cast a wider net. So they held a feast to which they invited everyone. The child watched carefully when they entered, but still he did not see the one who had caught him. They asked again if there were anyone who had not come. They answered, “No, only the one who lives in the cave, deep in the cave. He did not come.” They were told to have him come. But they did not think he would. So they called the police to have him brought to the palace. When the child saw him, he said, “That is the one who saved me.” So the Pasha honored Kaygusuz and asked him what he could give him. No, the dervish did not want money, for he said, “It was Jenab-i Hakk, the Lord of All-Truth, who saved the child. I only put him down.” Again the Pasha asked the dervish what he wanted. This time the dervish said, “I do not want anything. But for my guests at the tekke, some contribution perhaps.” So the Pasha began to redo the tekke from top to bottom. A new tekke. And they put up a placard that read, “From the time of this Pasha.” Baba said he had seen it himself.

When I thought about this added event of the saving of the Pasha’s son by the dervish Kaygusuz from the cave, I was perplexed. I checked the descendents of Muhammad Ali Pasha and found there was indeed an Abbas who ruled, most unillustriously, from 1848 to 1854. But this was before the tekke officially moved from Qasr al-‘Ayn to the Muqattam. At that time there would have been tombs of the Bektashis in the Muqattam, but not a tekke, at least not a legal one. And was this another Kaygusuz, or had he reappeared from the 14th century to the 19th? Some time later, when I was reading more about the Bektashis in Egypt, I came across a reference to their tekke having been closed in 1826 when the Ottoman Sultan Mahmud II destroyed the Janissaries and made the Bektashi Order illegal throughout the Empire. At that time Bektashi tekkes had been closed or burned or given away to other Sufi orders. When the Ottoman authorities in Egypt made the Bektashi Order illegal, they gave the Bektashi tekke in Qasr al-‘Ayn to the Qadiri order, another Sufi order. It was not until the 1850s that the Bektashis began to resurface in Cairo. And this is what I think the event of dervish saving the Pasha’s son refers to. When the Bektashis had been expelled from their tekke in Qasr al-‘Ayn, one place that some of them could have gone would have been to their tombs in the Muqattam. Probably they had lived quietly there or nearby. The story of their return to favor in the eyes of the palace is indeed a salvation story of sorts. That the dervish who brought them back



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into favor was Kaygusuz made sense, for as founder of the tekke, he would have watched over it through the centuries.

Gifts to Baba from the Saint “May our holiday of sacrifice be blessed” The Bektashi Tekke in Egypt drew different people for different reasons. The tomb of Sidi Abdullah al-Maghawiri drew Egyptians, the refreshing gardens and dervishes drew Western tourists and journalists, the Bektashi rituals drew Bektashis, and Sirri Baba drew the royals and celebrities like the famous singer Shadia. And as the tekke was largely staffed by Albanians, it also drew Albanians. Albanians had been coming to Egypt ever since the Albanian Muhammad Ali Pasha took over in the early 19th century. The second half of the 19th century saw an increased immigration of Albanians from southern Albanian lands to Egypt. It was an Albanian who, as a high official in Egypt, provided the financial backing for Verdi’s opera Aida that was composed in honor of the opening of Suez Canal and first performed in Cairo in 1871. In the early 20th century, the continuing political and economic instability in Albanian lands encouraged emigration. Albanian settlements grew in Bucharest, Sofia, Istanbul, Boston, and Cairo. Of all these places, Egypt was special in that there was an Albanian dynasty in power. Egypt became a model for Albanian communities in the diaspora, with its multiple Albanian societies in the main cities, its newspapers, and the level of engagement in Albanian political and cultural causes. Most of the people I interviewed about Baba’s time in Egypt were descendents of Albanians whose parents had come to Egypt early in the 20th century. They had been born and grown up in Egypt, but as their parents had not been Egyptians, they found themselves at a disadvantage in Nasser’s Egypt, so they had eventually emigrated to the United States or Canada. Several of these were relatives of Sirri Baba and so had known the Muqattam Tekke since childhood. When I interviewed them, one way I tried to remind them of the time when Baba was in Egypt was through newspaper articles and photographs from those times. One formal photograph of 15 people inside the Muqattam Tekke, including Baba Rexheb and Baba Bajram, caught people’s attention. When I showed them this photograph, they often took it as a test of their memory and tried to name all 15 people. Shahin Çoçoli, who had stayed in Egypt well into the time of Nasser until he could get permission to emigrate with his family to Canada, named most of the people in the photograph. He then explained that almost all the young men in the photograph had come from Albania and Kosova to Egypt to study at al-

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15. Albanians at the Bektashi tekke, Cairo, Egypt, 1950. Dervish Rexheb in 2nd row, 3rd from left; Dervish Bajram in 2nd row, 4th from right; Karim Hadjiou in 2nd row, on far right.

Azhar University in the 1930s. With the subsequent outbreak of World War II, they could not return. They would come to the tekke on Fridays to relax in the company of other Albanians, and they tended to congregate around Dervish Bajram, whose warmth and humor they appreciated. Zoti Shahin went on to talk about individuals, how one of the young men kneeling in the front row had died in Egypt, how one standing on the far right of the middle row was still alive in Egypt, and one standing in the back row was living in a suburb north of Detroit! He continued, saying I should talk with him too. He talked about the times that Baba Rexheb was in Egypt, 1948–52, saying they were good times. For Albanians this was still a good time, in comparison to what came after when there were confiscations of property of non-Egyptians. At the end of my visit to his home in Canada, he called the man in the back row of the photograph, and we set up a time to meet. Sejit Chota was by the door when I went to his home outside Detroit the next week. I showed him the photograph of the 15 people, including the two dervishes. Immediately he started naming the people. I asked Zoti Sejit where he was from. “Elbasan,” he answered, and his wife added that it was a place of cultured



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educated people. I thought of Ali Haqi Baba and Selim Ruhi Baba and Baba’s mother, who were all from Elbasan, and concurred. He told me that he had come to Egypt in 1939 with his sister, when he was 18, for his brother-in-law worked for the palace. We went through newspaper articles with photographs that I had brought on the Muqattam Tekke from the late 1940s and early 1950s. Sejit Chota had stayed in Egypt for 30 years and knew Arabic and Egypt well. I asked him what Baba had done in Egypt. “He read a lot,” he answered. “He understood Persian too, very educated.” Before I left, I asked for the address of Karim, the man on the far right in the photograph who still lived in Cairo. “Karim cares about the memories of the tekke,” Sejit noted. Then he gave me the address and told me to write and say I had gotten the address from his old friend. He gave me the telephone number too. The next day I called Karim in Cairo. When he answered, I tried several languages but Turkish worked best. Yes, I had spoken with his old friend and others in America who had been in Cairo. I told him how I wanted to write on Baba’s life, but needed help with the times in Egypt. Then I found myself telling him that I would be in Egypt early the next month and could I come and see him? He agreed. So I went to Egypt. The evening I went to visit Karim Hadjiou at his apartment in Abidin in Cairo, I was most hopeful. I was also most fortunate that the Shahin and Bekdash family—Hajdar Shahin, his sister, Fawzija Bekdash, and her son, ‘Amr Bekdash—had taken me under their wing. Their family had been in Egypt for two generations, they were closely related to Sirri Baba, and they had taken over responsibilities for the graves of Bektashi babas and dervishes. ‘Amr, the grand-nephew of Sirri Baba, went with me to visit Zoti Karim, to show the way and help if there were language problems. We climbed many flights of stairs in the old apartment building. Zoti Karim and his wife Şükran met us at the door of their modest high-ceilinged apartment. After introductions, Zoti Karim brought out a photograph of 22 men at the Muqattam Tekke, including Sirri Baba and three dervishes, among whom was Baba Rexheb. He explained that the people in that photograph had gathered to bid farewell to Rustem Kupi, who was going to the United States. I asked if I could copy the photograph. He told me it was mine, he had already copied it, and he gave it to me. I then handed him the framed copy I had brought for him of the photograph of the 15 people, including himself. I told him that all the people I had shown it to had recognized him immediately, including Myrvet Sula who had referred to him as “the soccer star.” When I asked him about the times for Albanians, he answered that the time of King Farouk, who had reigned from 1936 to 1952, had been good for

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Albanians. They were known to be honest people, trusted by both locals and the palace. And the palace had many Albanians in different roles, especially as soldiers and guards. And then Karim Hadjiou brought out a book entitled Shqiptarët e Egjyptit (Albanians of Egypt). It was written by Emin Azemi and Shkëlzen Halimi in Albanian and had been published in 1993 in Skopje, Macedonia. As I leafed through the book, it became clear to me that Zoti Karim had been crucial to the research—he was referred to as “the last link of the Albanian colony in Egypt.” Out of 15 million people in Cairo, he was the one I needed to talk to. He offered the book to me. No, I said, please, let me make a copy. It turned out he had already made a copy, but he would have given me his only original. No, I protested. Please give me the copy. You are too generous. Karim Hadjiou had been born in Lushnja, near Fier in Albania in 1920. In 1938 he had set out for Egypt. His purpose was to study Islam at al-Azhar University in Cairo, and then go back to Albania and pass on his knowledge. He told of rooming in a dormitory by al-Azhar where there were Turks, Syrians, Indian Muslims, and Bosnians. He talked about how the Albanian students would come on Fridays to the tekke and sit around with Dervish Bajram, who himself was a Kosovar Albanian and fun to be with. One time each week, they would not feel they were in a foreign land. Then Karim stopped, looked at ‘Amr and myself, and picked up a piece of paper he had on his side table. He started to read aloud in Albanian, and then recited from memory. It was a poem Karim had written on July 9, 1941, on the Muqattam Tekke. The poem is 11 stanzas, beginning with a description of the tekke surroundings—its gardens, pool, and fountains—and moving to what the tekke meant for him and his fellow students. There is a stanza about when the tekke was founded, how the dry earth became filled with flowers. Another stanza refers to Sirri Baba, and how he fought for his people when they were in danger, and of the dervishes, how good and gentle they are, filled with love of Albanians. Karim goes on to express how the earth of the tekke weeps for Albania. The last two stanzas speak more to the meaning of the tekke for him and his fellow students at this time. This beautiful tekke has become a home, Each Albanian heart finds there peace and calm. When one enters in, he is treated with respect, When one goes out, he is accompanied with blessing. When the heart is full of longing—go, go to the tekke. The beautiful language, Albanian, rings throughout.



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Most simply, the tekke here in exile Reflects our homeland, without a doubt.

When Karim finished reciting his poem on the tekke, there was a pause. Then we all clapped at once, ‘Amr, Karim’s wife, and me. At the end of our evening together in the dark living room of his Cairo apartment, one of the last things Karim said was, “The tekke was a refuge.” Most literally, when an Albanian died and could not afford a funeral, the tekke took care of it. ‘Amr noted that this was now the sevap, or good duty, of his family. But also for those who realized that their homeland had changed out from under them, and that there was no place for them there anymore, the tekke was a refuge. Similarly, there is a sense in which nefes, the Bektashi spiritual chants, are also a refuge. But this is not a refuge in the sense of a safe place apart. Rather the refuge the nefes provide is clear acknowledgment that others too have suffered in their longing and quest to come closer to the Beloved. In this vein, during one lesson with Baba I asked him if nefes came from this passionate love of the soul, from ashk. Baba acknowledged that nefes were from ashk, but one, which at the same time, submitted to meter. That is, they are made in a certain form. How it comes, it is expressed, only as the soul sees it. Then Baba surrendered to a taut line from a nefes: Gözüm görür dilim söyler. “My eyes see, my heart/tongue tells.” Baba went on. “That is, when one sees the Dost,” meaning “deep Friend” in the sense of the murshid and God. “Inside, no matter how far one looks, he or she sees and says as much.” I began to recite one of Baba’s favorite nefes in Turkish by the 16th century Sufi, Pir Sultan Abdal, from Gölpınarlı (1969:84–85): Derdim çoktur kangisine yanayım? Yine tazelendi yürek yarası. Ben bu derde kande derman bulayim? Meğer Shah elinden ola çaresi. So many are my sufferings, which shall consume me? The wounds of my heart again are raw. For my suffering where shall I find remedy? Its cure comes only from the hand of the Shah.

Baba then broke in to say, “In truth one is comforted or deeply refreshed [from the nefes], Frances.” Then he paused. Baba brought it home to himself. “I am deeply comforted when I hear those lines.” I asked if this were so since he was young. “No,” answered Baba. “When I matured in the order, then I understood

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what it meant. What can a child know?” And this maturing should not stop. But the more I learned about Baba’s time in Egypt, the more I felt it was a time of gathering in, of reaching back to his earlier education, and understanding what he had gone through in the civil war in Albania, and in the camps in Italy, in light of this age-old mystic frame. Suffering is not something that one avoids at all costs. Rather suffering can be a way of releasing oneself from attachments to this world, toward a love that is all consuming. One of the gifts that Baba received in Egypt, besides the time and opportunity to read and reread the poetry that has long reached to the heart of Sufis, was ritual times of muhabbet in which such nefes were chanted. At Baba’s particular tekke in southern Albania, nefes were recited and explained by Selim Ruhi Baba, but they were not chanted. Historically, nefes have survived through chanting, for the melodies hold one as well as the words. In Egypt, for the first time, Baba regularly took part in sessions of muhabbet where nefes were chanted. There were loyal Bektashis, both Turks and Albanians, who participated in these sessions at the tekke. In particular, there were several initiated Bektashis who were Turkish, who lived in Cairo, and who came to the tekke for the private rituals and for the following muhabbet. In the context of reading some nefes during a lesson, I asked Baba what the tekke was like in Egypt, whether it was as beautiful as people said. “Ah, not so bad,” answered Baba, “Its form was good.” Baba continued, “But muhabbet there, that was beautiful. The Turks [there] knew how to do it, in the correct way.” In another lesson, when Baba and I were talking about muhabbet, I again asked about the muhabbet in Egypt. Here Baba was more specific. “Yes, they made beautiful muhabbet there. The women especially contributed. There was—” and Baba paused. Then it came to him. “There was a Hikmet Hanım and a Lütfiye Hanım. There were five or six of them, five or six women who knew how to chant [nefes].” I asked about Sirri Baba. Baba said, “Yes, Sirri Baba was there. He did not chant so much; he recited, but like me, ‘neither one thing nor another.’ ” I laughed at Baba’s self-deprecation and that of Sirri Baba, but certainly Baba had not grown up chanting, nor perhaps had Sirri Baba. Baba joined in the laughter, adding, “But they, the muhibs, they knew how.” At this point in the lesson I broke into the first stanza of a nefes in Turkish that begins: I held a mirror up to my face; Ali appeared to my eyes. I considered my essence; Ali appeared to my eyes.



Baba responded that yes, the nefes was from Mehmed Ali Hilmi Dede.



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We then played, reciting stanzas of the nefes back and forth to each other. The stanzas are not difficult for they go though the prophets in almost folk poetry fashion. “Adam and Eve, and all the world of names, the universe and the heavens, [considering them] Ali appeared to my eyes.” And then on to Ibrahim and Noah. But the real point of all this was that Baba had told me earlier that this particular nefes was a favorite of Hikmet Hanım in Egypt. So when he had mentioned her name, this had come to mind. Baba did not just listen in such sessions of muhabbet at the tekke in Egypt. He also recited nefes, for he already knew so many, although he chanted there for the first time. He also chanted in Michigan at sessions of muhabbet, but he would soon ask for a muhib with more talent in chanting to take up the next one. And not just chanting—in Egypt Baba also composed nefes. He never brought up these nefes himself. In his book in Albanian on Islamic mysticism and Bektashism, the second half is full of short biographies and then examples of nefes written by earlier babas and bacılar or “sisters,” that is, female Bektashis. But Baba did not include any nefes he had written or any mention of his life. When I read works by contemporary Bektashi babas from Turkey, they always included their own nefes most prominently. I could sense that Baba’s way was the more traditional one. It fell to me, as Baba’s student, to make known his nefes. But I only discovered them by accident. One day Baba and I were reading some nefes in Ottoman Turkish, and I was having a rough time with all the Persian and Arabic words. Baba suggested diplomatically that we work on some simpler texts in Ottoman. He remembered he had copied one such text in one of his notebooks in Egypt. Baba then went and found two dark leather notebooks. As Baba opened one, he read aloud a line he had copied from a poem by Nesimi, to the point that one who is not full of the love of Ali is like a clanging bell. But it was Nesimi whom I had been having trouble with, so Baba quickly moved on. In the second notebook, he found the story of the farmer and the shepherd whose sheep had ruined the farmer’s vines. King David had adjudicated, but then Solomon improved on his judgment. This was Ottoman that I could follow more easily. I then turned the page and found a nefes in Ottoman. Baba looked at it and began reading the first stanza of the first nefes: To suffer pain is my custom; I do not seek remedy from pain. Grief and woe are my inheritance; I do not ask the Beloved for mercy.

I told Baba that I liked this, whose was it? Baba then acknowledged that it was his. I turned the pages and found that there were seven more nefes, all writ-

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ten by Baba. But the handwriting was so small, and the blue ink had faded in different places. Baba had been having trouble with his eyes for several years. I told him I thought his handwriting was good, but that I would copy the nefes and then enlarge them so we could read them. All the while in my mind I was thinking, “These must be preserved.” I ended up writing them out in my own Ottoman script, bigger and darker on yellow legal pads. Baba corrected my spelling and in cases where we could not make out the old blue ink, he composed phrases anew. But back to that lesson when I discovered Baba’s nefes that he had written in Egypt: Baba went from one nefes to the next, as if he were coming back to old friends. He made comments, such as with the first, that in Egypt he had experienced many difficulties, including sleeping on straw. As for the second nefes, Baba noted it was one in praise of Ali. And the third too was in praise of Ali, through Ahl al-Bayt, the Family of the Prophet. That is, in seeing Hasan, you see Ali (his father), in seeing Ali you see Muhammad (his father-in-law), and in seeing Muhammad you see the Lord of All-Truth. The fourth nefes was for Haji Bektash, the founder of the order. Baba commented after reading it that Haji Bektash was the one who cures the sick and heals the world. And the fifth nefes was written from a dream that Baba had of his murshid, Selim Ruhi Baba. Unfortunately the ink was most faded here. The second to the last stanza had the most direct reference to Selim Ruhi Baba. It is the wisdom of the destitute, The mercy of submitting to Adam, That there are four letters and two dots, The secret of the symbol of God is the Qur’an.

The third line makes sense when you know that the penname of Baba’s murshid, Selim Ruhi Baba, is Ruhi, and in Arabic, this is written with four letters and two dots under the last letter. The second line reinforces that it is a poem to Baba’s murshid, for God’s command that the angels should bow down to Adam is one of the parallels Sufis use in justifying devotion to their spiritual masters. As for the sixth nefes, Baba noted that he wrote it on the occasion of the Sacrifice Holiday, the main Sunni Muslim holiday that commemorates the willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son Ismail. This Baba read the most readily, though the ink was faded in the whole last half. The seventh nefes is also about a holiday, the more Shi’a holiday of Ashura. And the eighth and last nefes is similar to the first, about the trials of a dervish trying to come closer to God. To give a better idea of these nefes, I have chosen to focus on the sixth one, written in Ottoman Turkish on the occasion of the Sacrifice Holiday, but the subject is actually a comparison of Sunni and Bektashi beliefs. I have chosen



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it for its meaning, but also for the way Baba read it. It flowed. And Baba also commented part way through how it related to the people who would have been listening to it at the session of muhabbet in the Muqattam Tekke. It is eight stanzas long, with a clear refrain after each stanza. It helps to know that the Sacrifice Holiday occurs at the end of the time of the annual pilgrimage to Mecca. The month of pilgrimage has come; the pilgrims circle round [the Kaaba]. The pilgrims complete their pilgrimage, Facing the qibla they perform their prayers. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long. We [Bektashis] too in the meydan, we also circle round. Facing the mihrab, we perform prayers. The clothes of pilgrimage we too put on. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long.

The contrast that Baba has drawn is a powerful one, but it is only clear to Bektashis who know the practices. For example, the mihrab is the large arch found on the inside wall of a mosque to show people the qibla, the direction they should face to orient their prayers toward Mecca. But in Bektashi practice, it is the baba who sits in this arched area, showing that their faith is intercessory, through the spiritual leader. As for the garb of pilgrims, on this day dervishes take off the simple clothes they have been wearing the previous year and put on new ones. The Kaaba of the servants of the Way is the face of the Sultan. They perform prayers, it is the order of the Qur’an. The holiday of believers is coming together with the Beloved. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long. The heart of the believers is the dwelling place of God, The spirit of the perfected ones is the spirit of God, The words “from the spirit” is the secret of God. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long.

For the Sunnis, the Kaaba is the large black rock in Mecca around which pilgrims have circled for centuries. “Servants of the Way” refers to Sufis who fol-

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low the mystic way. For them, the Kaaba is not a historic place but rather the face of the Beloved that they so honor. The order of the Qur’an referred to here is God’s admonition to the angels to bow down before Adam, a primal murshid. The line beginning “the heart of the believers” evokes the famous saying of God, “Neither the heavens nor the earth can hold Me, but only the heart of a true believer.” Sufis seek to become among the “perfected ones.” As for the third line, the quotation is a phrase from the Qur’an (15:29) referring to how God created Adam from his spirit/breath, that he gave him spirit. The command “We will show them” from the traces of prostration “On their foreheads,” that commandment of God, The angels knew what it meant. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long. The command “to bow down” the angels knew; So they bowed down before Adam. Those who understand [this] have found the Way. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long.

The Arabic is getting denser here with multiple phrases quoted directly from the Qur’an (41:53; 48:29), all referring to God’s command to the angels to bow down before Adam. Of course, this is what Satan would not do, for he said he was above Adam since Adam was made from earth, while he was from fire. “The command ‘to bow down’ ” reiterates that those who understand that God’s command to the angels (41:37) is the legitimization of full devotion to the murshid. Those who have understood this know the Way, for the Way is through the murshid. “Who is consumed in love” is dear to God. To be a martyr on the path is the Wisdom of God. The desire of the Vanished; love made him Desolate. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long.

When Baba first read this nefes aloud to me, after this stanza he paused and said, “This is good here.” The first line evokes the much longer Hadith that he who is consumed in love and restrains himself from all desire and dies, dies a martyr. In the second and third lines, three words that I have capitalized are



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in Turkish “Hikmet” for wisdom, “Ga’ib” for the vanished one, and “Viran” for desolate—are also names. They happen to be the names or tahallûs [pen names] of three Turkish muhibs who were prominent in the sessions of muhabbet at the tekke in Egypt. Hikmet is the Hikmet Hanım referred to earlier. Her husband’s name was Mahmoud, but his pen name is Ga’ib. And Viran was yet another muhib. What this means is that Baba had worked the names of those he knew would be present into his nefes. And they are not awkward in the nefes in the Turkish. Imagine the pleasure of these people on hearing this! I wonder how often this was done with other nefes, but we do not know who was present when the nefes were first chanted. Ferdi, bow down ever to the Perfect One. Take loving care in your servitude. And show respect to the perfected one. May our Holiday of Sacrifice be blessed, May your holiday be happy and your life long.

In this final stanza, Baba addresses himself, for “Ferdi” is his pen name. He admonishes himself to follow the way of a dervish in loving care, servitude, and respect. As for the refrain, as the verses move from reference to outward practice to denser reference to the mystic path, the refrain takes on new meaning. The Holiday of Sacrifice is no longer the day of the general Muslim holiday, but rather when the Sufi lover seeks his Beloved, and thereby comes closer to God. Baba’s time in Egypt, but especially the sessions of muhabbet with people who appreciated and knew the Bektashi tradition, feel to me like a gift from on high, for the previous years had been wrenching, and the early years in America would be a trial.

Leaving Egypt “Witness to the end of an era” The area in the Muqattam that was the tomb of the Saint of the Cave and the Bektashi tekke and gardens—this was all taken over by the Egyptian military in 1957. Sirri Baba, who died in 1963, was allowed to be buried in his own türbe on the hillside of the Muqattam, thanks to the intervention of a friend in the military. He has no türbedar, no one to bring people to pray there. As for the tombs of the other Bektashi babas and dervishes which used to stand in the long hall of the first level of the cave, these tombs were taken out of the cave and down the hill to the stark sunlight of Basatin, the City of the Dead. There the

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family of Sirri Baba has taken responsibility for the tombstones of centuries of Bektashi babas and dervishes in Egypt. But the Bektashi tekke in Egypt is no more. Had Baba Rexheb sensed what would befall the Muqattam Tekke? At some point in Baba’s stay in Egypt, Sirri Baba invited him to stay and take over after him. Baba refused. Dervish Bajram, the cook, also asked Baba to stay in Egypt so they could be together. Again he refused. Egypt was a place where his learning could be more readily appreciated. And yet Baba chose to leave Egypt and come to America. To understand why Baba made the decision he did, it is important to consider what was going on around him while he was in Egypt from 1948 to 1952. I have ignored this context up to now, for I wanted to emphasize the special character of the Muqattam Tekke and the opportunity it offered Baba to reach deeper in his studies and Bektashi practice. I also wanted to give Baba more respite than he probably had. Baba was deeply tired when he came to Egypt. In Albania throughout the 1930s, he had gradually taken over the running of the Tekke of Pebbles for his aging murshid. In the 1940s, the invasions of foreign armies, the civil war, and his work against the Communists in that war, followed by his escape from a war-torn Albania, must all have drained him. Then the years in the Displaced Persons Camps where people again depended on him for counsel and solace, this too must have taken its toll. When asked about Baba when he was in Egypt, again and again, people said simply that he spent his time reading. This is clear from his notebooks. But Baba was a leader, and despite his quiet demeanor, his presence would have been felt. Further, Baba had always been able to listen to people of all sorts and make clear judgment. Even in the last months of his life when he was most ill, he was still able to discern more accurately than the rest of us the character of the young person sent from Albania as a dervish. And so I know Baba would have been aware of the tensions in Egypt during his time there. Modern historians have characterized Egypt from the end of World War II to the revolution in 1952 as a time when Egyptian nationalists sought to expel the British and rid themselves of corruption within (Botman 1991). It was a time of instability marked by assassinations of political leaders, student and worker demonstrations, growth in the Muslim Brotherhood, and bombings in public places. Anwar al-Sadat characterized the period of 1945 to 1952 as “a pre-revolutionary situation,” one when Egypt had “the experience of international isolation, of unpopularity abroad, of defeat and anarchy at home” (Hopwood 1985:24). The defeat that Sadat referred to was that of the war in Palestine. In 1948 neighboring Arab states contested the founding of the State of Israel in Palestine. In this war Egyptian armies were soundly defeated. This affected the tekke



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because the blame for the defeat fell on King Farouk, whose royal house had been associated with the tekke for decades. From 1948 onward Farouk was in increasing political difficulty. In 1949, the founder of the Muslim Brotherhood, Hasan al-Banna, was assassinated. There were tensions between Muslim factions in Egypt, from the Sunni theologians at al-Azhar to the radical Muslim Brotherhood. In this setting, the Bektashis, a mystic order known for their tolerance and whose clerics were Albanian and Turkish, did not have a secure place. It was said that for a while, even when it became acceptable to criticize King Farouk, it was not acceptable to criticize Sirri Baba. But this too would change. Also in 1949 there was a gathering of Bektashis at the Muqattam Tekke to deal with the changes in Bektashi leadership in Albania. Albanians in refugee camps in Greece wrote to Baba while he was in Egypt. So no doubt he had heard how two Communist collaborators, Baba Faja Martaneshi and Baba Fejzo, had met with Dede Baba Abas Hilmi at the headquarters in Tirana in the spring of 1947, seeking certain “reforms,” such as allowing Bektashi clerics to cut their beards, wear civil garb, and marry. They made it clear that if the Dede Baba did not agree to these reforms, he would be considered a reactionary opposed to the regime of Enver Hoxha. The Dede Baba not only refused their demands, but he drew a weapon from his hırka, shot both the renegades, and then shot himself (Rexheb 1970:269; Clayer 1990:217). The Communists threw his body into a common grave, reminiscent of the treatment of Ibn Arabi by authorities in Damascus centuries earlier. Baba also undoubtedly knew the fate of Baba Ali Tomori, who had taken the place of Selim Ruhi Baba at the Tekke of Pebbles outside Gjirokastra. Baba Ali Tomori was a well-known Albanian patriot and writer and had been sent to that tekke in 1945. After the killings in Tirana, however, the Communist authorities went after other Bektashi leaders. In 1947 they accused Baba Ali Tomori of spying for the British. They tried him in a People’s Court and executed him. This happened to other babas at this time. The Communists then put one of their own, Ahmed Myftari, as Dede Baba of Bektashis in Tirana. So in Cairo in January 1949, the decision was taken that Sirri Baba should be the new Dede Baba of all Bektashis, for clearly the one in Tirana was compromised. This served to make the Bektashi tekke in Egypt even more important among Bektashis throughout the world. But, due to changing conditions in Egypt, the tekke and Sirri Baba had little respite in which to build authority. In 1947 the British military had withdrawn to the Suez Canal. In 1951 negotiations between Egypt and Britain broke down. Early the following year, on January 25, 1952, the British tried to take over the Egyptian police barracks in Ismailiya. The Egyptian police resisted and 50 were killed. The response became known as “Black Saturday.” The next day there was a rampage in Cairo

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in reaction to the Ismailiya incident. Over 750 establishments were burned or destroyed, especially things British, but also cafes, cinemas, bars, and shops. Martial law was declared. The King had trouble forming a new government. Then in July 1952, military officers including Nasser and Sadat, who had formed the Free Officers Movement several years earlier, became fearful that Farouk would go after them. To avoid this they seized power on July 23, 1952. They forced the King to abdicate and leave Egypt for good on July 24, 1952. This was a time of great uncertainty for those at the Muqattam Tekke. It did not help that Sirri Baba was not in Egypt during the revolution, but in Turkey where he had gone for medical treatment for his diabetes. Nor did he return swiftly after the revolution occurred. In October of 1952, there was a powerful attack on Bektashism published in al-Ahram, the main Egyptian newspaper, by a Mufti of al-Azhar, in which he suggested that Bektashism was outside the Shari‘a, that is outside Muslim law. Some Bektashi practices do relate to Shi’a Muslim ways from early Safavid times (Babayan 2002, part 2) in western Iran and eastern Turkey, but an Egyptian theologian of mid-20th century would not have been conversant or even interested in such traditions. For there to be any hope for the Bektashi tekke in Egypt, Sirri Baba needed to understand the new regime. But perhaps this was moot. Perhaps with all the changes in Egypt, there was no chance for the tekke. Still, when Sirri Baba returned in 1953, Salah Salam and other leaders of the Free Officers Movement wanted to have dinner with him. Sirri Baba would not come to eat with them. They wanted to be photographed with him, and twice he turned them down. His nephew said it was too hard for him. It made him feel disloyal to Farouk. Or perhaps he had been so long with royalty that he identified with them, and after all these were not even high-level officers. Later in the 1950s, Dervish Bajram begged Sirri Baba to secure some property of their own. But Sirri Baba would not agree to this. And when Egyptians would come to pray at the tomb area, Sirri Baba would not go pray with them. Instead he remained apart. He just kept beautifying the gardens of the tekke. But it was a new era, and Sirri Baba did not seem to acknowledge it. Baba Rexheb had only positive words for Sirri Baba, for his energy and his work in making the Muqattam Tekke beautiful. And Sirri Baba continued to help Baba Rexheb after he left Egypt by sending him the official decree to make him a baba once he had a tekke in America. When Baba sought to bring dervishes from Egypt to America, Sirri Baba provided the necessary supporting documents. At the same time, they were utterly different. Baba Rexheb had never been taken with royalty. The Balli Kombëtar had been against the return of King Zog to Albania, preferring a democratic form of government. As for dealing with



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change or a new era, this was something Baba reflected upon. Several times he said to me, “If the times do not suit you, then you must consider changing with the times.” From a broader perspective, Baba’s time in Egypt was important for him not just because it allowed him time to read and chant nefes. This experience was also important because it provided a different model of a tekke and yet another society where Bektashism, this most tolerant mystic order of Islam, would no longer find a place. This had happened temporarily in the Ottoman Empire with the edicts of 1826. The Bektashis had come back from this. It had happened in Turkey in 1925 with the closings of all tekkes. And in Albania, with the Communist takeover in 1944, the Bektashi dervishes and babas like Baba were killed, executed, or put in prison or labor camps. In Egypt, the Bektashi tekke was not secure either. This was the ongoing cautionary tale that Baba would take with him when he went to America. Baba described his departure from Egypt one day during a lesson. Baba had saved his immigration quota number for the United States. Baba noted he stayed four years in Egypt but times were changing: I saw that the Egyptians were Sunni and that the tekke was the only Bektashi center there. Also the monarchy passed from there, a monarchy that had been considered Albanian and that liked Albanians and had allowed them to stay. The new regime did not like the tekke. I saw then that the tekke would run into difficulties. So, I reasoned, I have my quota number. Many of my friends have come to America. I should write to them. Also my sister is there in New York. So, I went to the American Consul with an Albanian who knew English, for I did not know English. I wanted to go to America. He asked if I had a quota number. “Yes, I do,” I said, and I showed it to him. “Good,” he said. “Let us consider this.” They needed to examine my background to see if I were a Communist or whatever, what sort of person I was. And they passed on the information that there was a dervish who wanted to come to America. But in America there were people who did not want this to happen. They sent word that he [Baba] is a Communist. I had fled from the Communists and yet they called me this. In any case, the Consulate had not done any investigating, so when word came from America that I was a Communist, they thought, “He is a Communist.” Of course, I did not know this. I waited until my number would come. But no word came. Then there were two people from Libohova [the town across the valley from the Tekke of Pebbles] who were already here in America, Asllan and Toptan. They were beys, the sons of Fuad Bey. They knew me, of course, since their father had come regularly to our tekke. They knew the Consul as a friend and went to visit him [when he was in America]. During their visit, the Consul mentioned that they had a problem. “What was that?” they asked. He said that a dervish wanted to come to America,

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but according to the information they had received, he was a Communist. “Do you know the man, this Dervish Rexheb?” “How not?” they said. “We know him well. And he is not a Communist. He is well known as one who was against the Communists. There is documentation on this, not the other way. That is why he left. He left Albania and went to Egypt, and from there he wants to come here. That is the situation.” Soon after that, the following day, they sent word to me. “Come and have the tests, the blood work and so forth.” I did this and got ready to go to America. I got ready and came to America, to New York.

Again Baba left much unsaid. It must have been hard at the tekke—Sirri Baba was still in Turkey, and now to have Dervish Rexheb leaving. It must have been especially hard on Dervish Bajram, who had become a good friend of Baba and who had wanted Baba to stay in Egypt. And the last session of muhabbet that Baba participated in with the Turkish muhibs who chanted nefes so well, this too must have been sad. But of all poetry, nefes speak to suffering and trials and love that move beyond this world. Baba did not describe his actual journey to America, but from others it appears that he took a boat from Alexandria to Naples. From Naples, Baba took a ship to America. Years later, when I was looking through old papers at the tekke I found a document from 1960 in which Baba had requested a name change. Instead of being known as Dervish Rexheb Beqiri, he wanted his name to be simply Baba Rexheb. On the document it asked when Baba had come to America, what port of entry, and by what means. There it was written, “December 10, 1952, to the port of New York, on the SS Saturnia.” But before leaving Egypt entirely, it is important to consider who did not leave. Sirri Baba was invited to come to America but he refused, saying that he was an Egyptian citizen and he would stay in Egypt. As for the tekke there, in the mid-1950s fewer and fewer people came to it, for they were afraid that its association with the old regime of Farouk would be held against them. Finally there was the Suez Crisis in late 1956. Sirri Baba went into the hospital again for his diabetes which had gotten worse. We have an inside account of the events that immediately led up to the confiscation of the tekke by the government, thanks to the work of Dutch historian Frederick De Jong. One day in 1972 De Jong was going through stalls of booksellers in Cairo and chanced upon some papers tied together with a string. As he read through a few, he realized that these had to have come from the Bektashi tekke in the Muqattam because they included official documents, lists of people initiated, booklets of nefes, and so forth. They were the last papers of Sirri Baba and the tekke. On the last page of the catalogue of the tekke library was a most brief listing of events that led up to the takeover. Their very brevity is all the more telling.



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2 November 1956, following the treacherous attack upon Egypt the Egyptian radio occupied the northern cave together with military forces. 2 December 1956, radio and forces vacated the cave. 2 January 1957, a symbolic unit of the Air Force occupied the main gate of the tekke. (De Jong 1981:242–60)

Thus the Egyptian government used the Suez Crisis, when England, France, and Israel had invaded Egypt, to take control of the Muqattam. The official confiscation took place in late February 1957 and was completed swiftly. Sirri Baba and the remaining dervishes moved to al-Ma‘ adi, a suburb south of Cairo, to a lodging given them by the government. It was the stable of a former member of the Egyptian aristocracy, but Sirri Baba succeeded in making it livable. He even had a fountain put in. But it was nothing like the Muqattam. There was no shrine, and people stopped coming. The government also gave them a small stipend that they soon made even smaller. Sirri Baba’s diabetes got worse and he had to have a leg amputated. When people did visit, they found him understandably depressed. I had difficulty even finding the date of death of Sirri Baba. So when I visited Karim Hadjiou in Egypt, I asked him about Sirri Baba’s death. He checked promptly in his library—January 4, 1963. With all these changes and so many Albanians leaving Egypt, why then did Karim stay? Perhaps, like the saints that come for their era and then pass on, so it seems there are people who are witnesses for their communities and times. Karim was this for the Albanian community in Egypt (see Azemi and Halimi 1993:55–72). Baba too was a witness for his order. But the difference between a minority ethnic community and a religious order is that the religious order fully expects to weather societal change. The forms and the message of Bektashism transcend such changes, as long as they are not too closely associated with any regime. And so Baba came to America.

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C oming to A merica Founding and Securing the Tekke Founding the Tekke in Michigan “Heroism in the diaspora” Like so many Bektashi tales, Baba’s time in America began with a negative experience. Baba’s sister, Zonja Zejnepe, had come before him from Italy to America. With her were her in-laws, her young daughter, and the knowledge that she would be the sole support of them all in this new land. When they were still on the ship, her daughter remembered her mother standing by the railing and, while looking out on the waves, voice the hope that the ship would never reach the shore. She had not reckoned on her own courage and energy, for Zonja Zej­ nepe would work and support them all and help her brother as well. Crossing the Atlantic took two weeks by ship. Once in New York, Baba was greeted by his sister, his old friend Xhevat Kallajxhi, and others who had known Dervish Rexheb in the camps. Baba’s sister then lived on Ludlow Street on the Lower East Side, the home to so many immigrant groups when they first came to America. It was full of life, as Naples and Cairo had been, only in its own urban American immigrant way. Albanians had begun coming to New York State at the end of the 19th century and the first two decades of the 20th century (Trix 2005:40; Federal Writers Project 1939). The earliest to come were Orthodox Christian Albanians from southeastern Albania, followed soon by Muslim Albanians from the same region. They were mostly men and worked on the railroads, in factories, and in restaurants. There were Albanians in New York City, but they were not a tight community. Among the Orthodox Christian Albanians, it was not until 1942 that St. Nicholas Albanian Orthodox Church was established in Manhattan. The Muslim Albanians in New York City worshipped at a mosque led by an Egyptian imam on the west side of Manhattan. They did not establish their own

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mosque until 1972. What Albanians in New York City did have by the mid-20th century was an Albanian cultural center. After World War II a second wave of Albanians, largely refugees from all regions of Albania, settled in New York City. But the Albanian Cultural Center there was still in the hands of the Albanians who had been in America before, who had not gone through World War II in the Balkans. Many of these people looked positively on the new Communist leaders of Albania, seeing them only as Albanians, not understanding what havoc they had already wrought on their homeland. Baba looked forward to founding a Bektashi tekke in New York. His old friend Xhevat supported him in this, for Xhevat had long been a Bektashi. But when Xhevat mentioned to another friend Baba’s desire to found a Bektashi tekke, the friend tapped his finger on his temple saying, “Is he in his right mind, that one? What is it that he seeks to do here?” Despite Baba’s dream of founding a tekke in America, he quickly learned not to bring it out in the open too readily. In his early months in New York, Baba found just talking about Bektashism to Albanians in New York problematic. For example, once when he spoke about Haji Bektash Veli and mentioned the vows and privations of dervishes and babas, people were surprised but not in a positive way. One man even remarked, “What in the world is that dervish talking about?” It must have been interactions with Albanians in New York City, in Baba’s early months in America, that brought home to him a sense of these new times. Baba was not naïve. Many of the young men in the camps with him in Italy had not been interested in religion, but they had respected him for his service to the Balli Kombëtar and had come to respect him for his counsel. As for his time in Egypt, he could see that it was full of the nationalist energy that had so gripped Albanians earlier in the century. Still in Egypt there was faith and respect for religious leaders and scholars like himself. But in New York City, Baba had no clear role in the Albanian immigrant community. The Muslim Albanians who had been there for decades had lived without their own religious leaders. As for those who had come after World War II, many had come several years before Baba arrived. They had worked hard at fitting into American life, finding jobs and apartments, and learning English. Baba may have reminded them of times they wanted to forget or of that which made them different from Americans. Baba’s very garb, which he had sworn to wear throughout his life, set him apart. Perhaps the closest fit in terms of mysticism, scholarship, and community organization would have been with the Hasidic Jews, not an accessible group for Muslim Albanian immigrants. What hurt Baba was not just people’s lack of knowledge or interest in Bektashism. It was that people from his own town of Gjirokastra, who knew about Bektashism



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and from whom he had expected help, did not offer it. Fortunately Baba eventually found several Albanians in New York City who had come much earlier, who were Bektashi, and who supported him. In particular there were two older muhibs, Veiz Turhani and Hysen Velia. From them he learned that during the Depression in the 1930s, there had even been talk in New York City of trying to get Baba Kanber Prishta in Albania to send them a baba, but it had not worked out. Baba was able to talk of his dream with them. They immediately insisted he stay with them, and they proposed renting a house for a start. But by then it was March of 1953, the month of the holiday of Nevruz. Zoti Veiz, himself a member of the Albanian Cultural Center, requested from the board a room at the center in which to celebrate Nevruz. This request was granted. But as March 22 approached, the day of Nevruz, Baba was told by several people that the center would be full of Communists. Baba told his friends not to worry. The day of Nevruz, Baba’s supporters came to the center, but there were many others as well. Baba began his talk by thanking the people who had desired that he hold a conference on this Bektashi holiday. He went on to thank God for allowing him to speak for the first time in front of the Albanian community of New York on a day that is “better known in our Albania.” He then congratulated those of the Albanian Cultural Center for their work in preserving, making known, and passing down what it meant to be Albanian. He thanked the board of the center for allowing him to speak. No one could fault Baba for his opening, although there may have been many who hoped he would then move into something politically unwise. Instead Baba launched into a discussion of the Persian meaning of the name of the holiday, Nevruz, “new day,” celebrated on the first day of spring. Baba explained that in the whole Muslim world, this day was also known as the birthday of Imam Ali. Baba then explained who Imam Ali was. After the Prophet Muhammad, on whom be peace, Imam Ali was the most important “pole” in Islam, “the symbol of noble manhood, of bravery, of humbleness, of character, of generosity and mercy.” Using judicious quotations from the Qur’an, from the writings of the founder of the Shafi‘ i school of law, all interspersed with memorable stories, Baba then wove a picture of Imam Ali that meshed well with the virtues of manliness and bravery to which Albanians subscribe, as well as the virtues of generosity, similar to Albanian hospitality, and humility, which befit one of religion. Not until near the end did Baba mention that in addition to his valor and nobility, Imam Ali was also known as the founder of the mystic understanding of Islam, of which Bektashism is a part. Baba also added that the famous Frashëri brothers—all Albanian patriots—were Bektashi in blood, in spirit, and in action. Further, it was a Bektashi baba who had counseled Abdyl Frashëri to

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hold the League of Prizren (1878) in the north, for at that time the southern Albanian lands were more secure, while the northern ones were in greater danger from Montenegro and Serbia. The audience appreciated this. Baba then stated that “Bektashism has been and continues to be linked with [Albanian] patriotic concerns.” Baba closed his speech “praying that this holiday will be passed on from generation to generation, together with a democratic Albania and all Albanians in peace and happiness” (Rexheb 1955). For the people who had come expecting to hear something negative from this Ballist whom they had been told was a traitor, they were sorely disappointed. Instead, people were drawn to the warm and inspiring words of this dervish who happened to have had a link with the Balli Kombëtar. But Baba’s success was his undoing. For when they tried to reserve a room at the Albanian Cultural Center to celebrate the next Muslim holiday, they were turned down. The Communists were afraid that Baba would draw people to him and away from them. So they celebrated the holiday in the private home of the old muhib, Zoti Veiz, where Baba then stayed for a while. People would come to visit Baba in Zoti Veiz’s home. Among them was an Albanian, Asllan Dragoti, who told Baba in private that while there may have been many Bektashis where Baba had been born and raised, here he would not succeed. He told Baba that he would not be able to do what he wanted in New York. But he suggested going to Detroit where the Albanian community was more conservative. Meanwhile Baba himself had been thinking about going to other places in America where there were Albanians. Baba had been invited to Canada and went there by train from New York. In Toronto there were people he had known in the camps. And it was from Toronto that Baba was invited to go to Detroit. Nevrus Selfo, an Albanian from near Përmet who had been in the United States for over 20 years, sent his car with his son-in-law as driver to pick Baba up from Toronto. I have described this journey and how Baba insisted on being taken first to the coffeehouse in Detroit. From there, Abas Myrteza and his family took him to their home in Detroit. This had been decided because Abas wanted him to perform an Ashura ceremony. It was there that Baba composed and read his Ashura prayer, and they commemorated Ashura with other Albanian families. From the people in attendance that day, the idea was born to set up a Bektashi tekke in Michigan. Baba stayed one month each with four different Bektashi families in Detroit. What distinguished the Albanians in Detroit was a cohesiveness that crossed religious lines and that manifested itself in gatherings and in unusual generosity to Albanian cultural activities (Trix 2001b). Orthodox Christian Albanians in Detroit had founded St. Thomas Orthodox Church in 1929, and Muslim Albanians had helped with the mortgage. The Muslim Albanians in Detroit organized the Albanian Moslem Society in 1947 and established their



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mosque when they found a cleric in 1949. The Albanians who had been at Abas Myrteza’s home when Baba first came called a meeting with other Albanian Bektashis. They were all from southern Albanian lands and had been in the United States for some time. They met on Saturday, October 24, 1953, in St. Andrew’s Hall on Congress Street in Detroit. This was a meeting hall they all knew, for it had been regularly used for years for Albanian Flag Day, November 28, when Albanians of all faiths gathered there. At the meeting discussion went back and forth. Finally they decided to buy a spacious place outside Detroit to be called, “The Bektashi Tekke in the United States of America.” It looked as if Baba’s dream was close to coming true. Only where outside Detroit would this place be? That had yet to be decided. And how would they pay for such a piece of land? There were 17 men that day, half of whom pledged $200, and the other half $400 or $500, with one pledging $600 and another $1,000. It amounted to pledges that day of $5,600. It helps to know that in 1953 a loaf of bread cost 14¢ and the average annual income for Americans was $2,870. Most Albanian immigrants had restaurants or worked in factories. Their incomes were not high so these pledges were considerable. Those opposed to the founding of a Bektashi tekke in Michigan did not wait long. Within two or three weeks of the decision, Baba first got wind of what was brewing. One night Zoti Abas took Baba aside and told him he had heard that day from an Albanian in Detroit that he, Dervish Rexheb, had been sent to break up the mosque. The mosque he was referring to was the Albanian Islamic Center that had been founded in Detroit four years earlier. It was then led by Imam Vehbi Ismail, an Albanian from Shkodra who been one of the Albanian students who had studied at al-Azhar in Cairo. The implication was that the tekke would draw Muslims away from the mosque, thereby dividing the Muslim community. Baba worked to reassure Zoti Abas, noting that such rumors were often false. He went on to describe the situation he had known so well in Gjirokastra. There, the tekke and mosque had worked together. Not only had there been no dispute between them, but on the contrary, they helped all Albanians who were believers, for God was One, and they themselves were all of the same blood. Zoti Abas was convinced, but others remained to be dealt with. Where were these allegations coming from? Clearly they were from those who did not know Bektashism, for Bektashism is a Sufi order or tariqat that is never meant to replace the mosque. How to deal with the accusations and put them to rest? Baba was still new to America. He could explain to people like Zoti Abas who asked him directly, but it was those who had kindled the allegation or believed it without examination who would be hard to deal with. This might even block the initiative to found a tekke.

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Besides reassuring people, Baba resorted to an age-old Bektashi way of dealing with difficulty. On November 28, 1953, which was also the day of Albanian Independence, a day that should have been full of hope in the tekke project, Baba wrote a nefes in Albanian that I discovered in the back of one of his notebooks from Egypt. Its message was that differences between Sunni and Bektashi Muslims should not divide them. Above it was written the word Hu, the Arabic for “He.” As God is referred to as “He” in the Qur’an, Sufis consider it one of His Names. And they chant it, extending the vowel, “Huuuuu,” the way Hindus use “Om.” It is so often associated with Sufis that when a poem begins with it, it is sure to be a mystical work. The first half of Baba’s eight quatrain nefes reads: He Religion should not bring discord among people, Neither among Bektashis nor Sunnis, That both have unity. I call out: Muhammad Ali. The roots of religion are the law, Its supporting beam is the Path, From both emerge the Truth. I call out: Muhammad Ali. Muhammad is the pole of religion. He fulfills the law and gives hope. With Ali lies the trust [besa]. I call out: Muhammad Ali. The two cannot be separated. They have one source and one religion. They left us as inheritance the Qur’an. I call out: Muhammad Ali.

In the refrain where Baba calls out or invokes “Muhammad Ali,” Baba explained that Muhammad is understood as the master of the Shari‘ a, that is the religious law, while Ali is understood as the master of the tariqat or the mystic path. There is the famous image of the tree in which the trunk is the Shari‘ a, the branches are the tariqats or mystic orders, the leaves are the ma‘rifa of mystic knowledge, while the fruit is the Haqiqa, the Truth. The implication is that the tariqat is based in the Shari‘a and is an extension of it. As for the refrain, in another context Baba explained “Muhammad Ali” as meaning that both the



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prophethood (of Muhammad) and the sainthood (of Ali) are necessary, not just one alone. Baba mentioned that when he had first heard the propaganda against him, the empty words that the tekke would divide the Muslims in Detroit, he wrote the third stanza. The fourth stanza above makes it even clearer that the two (Muhammad and Ali) are not separate, but rather of the one source and faith. Baba elaborated to me here with the Hadith in Arabic, “I [Muhammad] and Ali are from one light.” The last half of the nefes follows: Our Pir [Haji Bektash Veli] left us as a remembrance That we be united. He adjured A salvation for all people. I call out: Muhammad Ali. There will be curses For those who spawn division For as long as they live. I call out: Muhammad Ali. You who do not see clearly, Do not linger in darkness. Be patient and make appeal. I call out: Muhammad Ali. Ferdi, keep this in mind, Sacrifice yourself totally. Call out at all times. I call out: Muhammad Ali. Detroit, November 28/1953

“Did you read it aloud to others or was it only for yourself?” I asked. Baba responded, “No, no, only for myself. If I had recited it, it would have incited those who were against me even more.” Then I added, “But in less than a year the tekke opened, so your patience must have been rewarded.” Baba nodded, but without smiling. Perhaps he was recalling the ensuing attacks, for the local one was just the beginning. The next attack came from the Communist government in Tirana. Many of the founding members who had met that day in October in Detroit soon received anonymous letters, addressed to them personally, telling them that their relatives in Albania would suffer if they continued to participate in this endeavor. This hit the Albanian immigrant families where they were most vulner-

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able. How could they endanger their relatives who were still in Albania? People started to pull out and two pledges were taken back. That left $4,400. Others left their pledges in but made it known that they could not remain at that time in the founding group. Of the original members, ten would pull out. That left only seven: Nevrus Selfo, Abas Myrteza, Dule Seid, Gani Mosho, Surja Gorica, Qani Prespa, and Qemal Roshanji. But they held firm. They even went looking for property to buy for the tekke. Zoti Qani from the Prespa region of what is now Macedonia found a place advertised for sale in local newspapers. It was an 18-acre farm owned by a father and two daughters of German origin. This farm was south and west of Detroit. The asking price was $28,500, somewhat high. Baba visited and liked the proximity to the Albanian families he had come to know. But just when things were starting to look positive, a third attack was launched. It built on the first accusation, that a tekke would divide the Muslim Albanian community in Detroit, but it made additional accusations that smacked of the Communist regime in Albania. And this attack had the added problem of being spread on the national level. Specifically, Faslli Panariti, a representative of Muslims in America, sent a damning letter to the Albanian American newspaper, Liria, published in Boston, in which he asserted, among other things, that the Ballists in America had sent a dervish to break up the mosque in Detroit. I had heard about this letter during my study with Baba, but nine years after Baba passed away, I found it, among others, carefully preserved in an old suitcase in a closet in Baba’s first bedroom in the tekke. Baba had told me of these times, but the actual articles and letters made even clearer the gravity of situation. Panariti’s letter was most negative to Baba and his character, but at the same time, the author claimed to respect the sacrifices Bektashis had earlier made for Albania. Who was behind this? How to respond? The tekke group was already small, would this finish off their initiative? Fortunately, people in Detroit continued to stand firm. But then the controversy spread to the other national Albanian American newspaper, Dielli. People wrote letters in support of Dervish Rexheb. One who had previously pulled back from the founding group wrote the editor of Dielli in support of Baba. The controversy mobilized people in Detroit who resented the interference in their affairs by others who were far from them. Baba himself wrote a short letter to the editor of Liria in late February 1954 that is remarkable for its restraint. But with this letter was included a much fuller letter by Harry Dino in which he tried to explain to the editor of Liria how the Communist system in Albania worked to eliminate anyone who was not totally under its control. It labeled them “traitor,” “enemy of the people,” “Nazi collaborator,” and so forth. Dino explained that these people were only guilty



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of not liking the Communist system, especially religious leaders including hodjas, dervishes, priests, and others. Among the victims of this (elimination) were many Bektashis: Dede Kanberi, Dede Zylfo Melçani, Baba Qazim Korça, Baba Ali Tomori, Baba Qamil Gllava, Baba Myrteza Kruja, and many more babas and dervishes. The author further suggested that when the editor was last in Albania it was before the executions had begun. But it was “the system of Tirana” that had made up the accusations against the honorable Dervish Rexheb. The author ended by telling the editor that the tekke was not his business, but rather the concern of the Commission of the tekke and Bektashi people. In early March 1954 Baba wrote to his friend Xhevat in New York for advice, as Xhevat had been in America longer and understood the situation more fully. In his timely response Xhevat worked to reassure Baba, but his words indicate how serious this crisis was. Xhevat said that it most certainly would have been better if Liria had not written against him. He then stated that he believed Liria had come out against Baba because it had received an order from the Albanian delegation in Paris, that Liria was Communist and acted as it was ordered. As such, its accusations might in fact serve Baba morally and politically in the eyes of local authorities. Xhevat therefore told Baba to “remain indifferent concerning accusations or support in the press.” Finally Xhevat assured Baba that people in New York would contribute to the tekke in the realm of $3,000. Meanwhile, there were others on the local level in Detroit who tried to reassure people that the tekke and the mosque would be a partnership. To those who said that the mosque should be sufficient for all the needs of the Muslims there, Selman Zagari responded that it was not right for the Imam to put on a taj for Bektashi holidays and a turban for Sunni ones; their missions were different. Fine, the others responded, but what about what the Communists say he did in Albania during the war? The accusations had muddied the waters. Why not just cut off his beard and put him to work. He is young, he could yet work in the factories. At this point, things had become insulting, for Baba had vowed never to replace his religious garb or shave his beard. He was not afraid of work, but he would never go against his vows. And so those who supported the tekke and who had sought a partnership with the mosque decided to go it alone. But Baba never gave up the idea of a partnership and invited the Imam to all tekke holidays. With fewer people, there was a question what sort of property they could afford. Perhaps they should seek a smaller property. So they looked elsewhere and found a property north of Detroit, near Pontiac, that included many cows. Baba felt that it was too far a drive for people; the German farm was better. Qani Prespa, who had first found the German farm property, had a dream in which his mother, who had passed away, told him that they should buy the farm for the tekke. There was also help from the two daughters of the owner. When they found out that the people who wanted to buy their father’s farm wanted it for a religious center, they

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told their father that if he did not sell to them, they would no longer cook for him. The price was reduced to $25,000. But still there were financial worries. Again they had a meeting, and Xhemal Meço suggested buying the German farm that Baba preferred. If the situation got better, they would be all right. If it got worse, they could sell off a piece of the land themselves. They told the attorney to go ahead with the transaction, but the attorney had heard of the difficulties. He suggested just giving Baba some money so he would go away. Baba adamantly refused. He told them that he had not come here for money, the money was theirs. So they told the attorney to make the transaction or they would find another attorney. The farm was purchased and they agreed to monthly payments of $100 for 15 years. In mid-April Baba moved into the farm that then became a Bektashi tekke. He had been staying at Zoti Abas’s house and so they drove him to the tekke. On the way home, Nake remembers that her mother, Zonja Fiqiret, began crying. “Who will now make coffee for the dervish?” she wailed. Her husband insisted that now he would make coffee for them, that this was what they had all worked toward. But there was still work to be done, and the charges in the Albanian

16. Early photo of Michigan tekke, 1954.



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papers had not subsided. In early May the head of the Tekke Commission, Gani Mosho, wrote to the editor of Dielli, saying that they had carefully researched the accusations against Dervish Rexheb but had found them groundless. The Commission therefore prayed, “for the sake of the Bektashi martyrs,” to desist. Gani Mosho also noted that he included a letter from Dervish Rexheb in which he responded to “the accusations made by the Tirana press.” In this letter, Baba answered most fully to accusations that related to his activities in Albania during World War II and the civil war. No, neither he nor the tekke of Selim Ruhi Baba had been in the hands of the Italians. Baba reiterated how Selim Ruhi Baba had refused to support the Italian invasion of Greece, saying why should we occupy a country when we ourselves are occupied? The Italians had written orders to arrest Baba, only he had gotten word of this when he was in another area and had stayed there until the Italians surrendered. Major Communist leaders knew this for they were all working together at that time. There was an accusation related to killings in Libohova when Baba had not been in the region. And there were allegations against Baba as a military leader, something he denied while stating who the military leaders of that time and region had been. Baba closed by saying that the accusations were baseless, that he had a clear conscience, and that these were the facts. Then finally, on May 15, 1954, the tekke formally opened. Many people gathered for the occasion, including many from New York City. At the door of the tekke, Baba recited in Arabic the Fatiha, that is the opening verse of the Qur’an, whose very name means “the opening.” Then all came inside, wishing each other well and hoping for the best. They sat down for a meal together and Baba gave praise to God that they had succeeded, that their initiative had become a reality. The day after the opening of the tekke, Baba wrote another Albanian nefes, the second nefes that I found in the back of the brown leather notebook from Egypt. Like the earlier one, it began with “Hu,” but its tone and message were quite different. Again I have translated from Albanian with emphasis on content. He With the cloak of the Prophet I covered my back with patience. For the honor of Bektashism I took the road of exile. With the staff of Moses As accompaniment,

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The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb The enlightening of the people Does not seem so difficult. The speaker is the Pir himself, The language that of Ali Haydar. As murshid we have Muhammad, The instructions from Ja‘ far. The twelve imams They lead our side. All men who are true Always we have their help. Ferdi, hold to your murshid. From Him seek blessing. And with whole heart always call to him To fulfill what is His intent. Tekke, May 16/1954

In our lesson when I asked Baba to read his Albanian nefes aloud to me, Baba explained the first line of the first stanza by reminding me that according to Bektashi tradition, the Prophet Muhammad, on whom be peace, received the hırka, taj, and kemer, the ritual clothes, while on the heavenly journey, the mi‘raj. And he explained the last line of this first stanza, “the road of exile” by saying that he had gone from Albania to Italy and from there to Egypt. That was his “exile.” I added that it was a more complete exile since he could not return to Albania. But then it occurred to me that in this world we were all in exile, meaning in exile from God. Baba agreed. In the second stanza, the staff of Moses was given by order of God in the trying times of Pharaoh. In the third stanza, “Ja‘ far” refers to the sixth Imam, the descendent of the Prophet recognized as the sixth rightful heir, who is also an ancestor of Haji Bektash Veli. Thus, in this nefes Baba places himself as a traditional Bektashi working to fulfill the will of his murshid. There is much affirmation in this too. Later, while reflecting on Baba’s explanation, I noticed that he did not include America as part of his exile. In opening a Bektashi tekke in America—a dream that Bektashis had had for over 30 years, and a dream that Baba had also cherished—Baba had come to a new home. Notice also the way Baba annotated this nefes. He had annotated his earlier Albanian nefes with “Detroit, 28 November, 1953.” Here he wrote “Tekke, 16 May, 1954.” More important than any city or state, Baba was now where he belonged—in his Bektashi home.



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Securing the Tekke “With cornbread in sheep’s milk and a well-wrought tale” One day Baba and I were reading a prayer in Ottoman Turkish from the late 19th century defense of Bektashism, Mir’âtül-mekâsid fi daf ‘ül-mefâsid (Mirror of Intentions on the Refuting of Abominations). I read aloud to Baba, “Descended from the Qur’an is healing and mercy for the believers, not the Yazid of the tyrants; [descended is] also the Sultan of the saints, and the proof of the pious, and his Excellency Hünkar Haji Bektash of Khorasan, may God bless his mystery most high.” This was the frame for an incantation in which the blessings of God were requested for a long list of worthwhile entities, beginning with the bright firmament and the 40 who had passed through the base of the candle. I read this last phrase and stopped. What did that mean? I asked Baba and he responded that while here in the tekke there are candles, still there was also a candle that was forever lit. “The purpose of that candle is to bring light to others, spiritual light to their hearts, to drive away what is material and bring order to the spiritual.” Baba continued. “This candle,” meaning the one that was always ablaze, “in the depth of this candle is a place where all babas must pass through, so they be of the spirit.” Baba explained further. “But look, there is an analogy, in the Qur’an there is a verse.” And Baba recited in Arabic: God is the light of the heavens and the earth. And His light is like a niche in which there is a lamp. Therein is a candle, and that candle, within a glass, It burns, it shines. The oil, that is the blessed olive oil, comes from a tree, Not of the east nor of the west, And it shines like a star. The oil burns although fire has barely touched it. Light upon light, Light upon light, Light above light. God guides to His light. That through this light the Lord of All-Truth directs them, He puts forth ways of knowing to people To show God’s light and how it should be understood. And God is knowing of all things.

These lines are from the Ayat al-Nour, “the Verse of Light,” found in chapter 24 of the Qur’an, verse 35. I have modified the translation slightly in accord with the way Baba recited it. Baba then explained further.

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17. Baba Rexheb and Nevrus Selfo with candlesticks in the meydan of the Michigan tekke, 1955. By permission of The Detroit News.

“This noble verse says that the candle is what illuminates all that shines. All teaching of ways that are enlightening, all these are this candle. And the base of this candle, in the depths of this place, it is for the souls of all the babas and the murshids. Have you understood?” I answered that their essence was this light. Clearly the candles in the meydan and later in the türbe were meant to evoke this. So too were the images in Persian and Turkish Sufi poetry where the lover is likened to the moth, circling around the flame of the candle which is the Beloved. The moth eventually immolates itself in the flame, a union with the Beloved and at the same time a death to the self (see Schimmel 1975, 1992; Ernst 1997). An evocative photograph was taken in the meydan of the tekke and published in The Detroit News, April 30, 1955. To the left in the photograph are candles in candlesticks on graduated steps, while to the right are Baba and Zoti Nevrus. Baba is wearing his dark hayderiye, a long-sleeved robe. He is kneeling with his hands crossed in front of him, and his eyes are closed. Zoti Nevrus is



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in a suit. He too is kneeling with his hands on his knees, and he is focusing on something that we cannot see. The caption says that they are contemplating the mysteries of Bektashism. When I first saw that photograph I thought of Baba as the candle and the light of the tekke. But then I found myself drawn to the candlesticks themselves, for they too have an important story at the Michigan tekke. It goes back to the weeks after the opening of the tekke in May of 1954. Despite the allegations that had circulated against Baba, the tekke had been purchased, Baba had moved in, and the doors had officially opened. The founding members paid African Americans to sow the fields with alfalfa, soybeans, and corn. They bought sheep, for lamb was the preferred festive dinner fare. And they bought chickens, planning to sell the eggs for income for the tekke. Baba put on dark clothes instead of the white ones he had worn before and went out and took care of the chickens, the lambs, and the property. There were 400 apple trees, and Baba worked spraying them. All in all, things were getting better at the tekke. Some of the people who had left the initial founding group began to regret it. They felt as if they had been left aside. What could they do? They wondered what the dervish thought of them. They asked Jashar Petrit, who said he would go to the tekke to find out for them. Baba greeted Jashar, telling him that he had done well in coming. Baba also told him they would eat lunch together in the tekke, and he would make for him a food he had never tasted in America. By that time Baba had ten sheep, and Hysejn Kusi, the man who helped Baba, milked them. Each day he would get about a kilo of milk from them. As Baba described it to me in a lesson, “I took that milk and heated it. I had already made corn bread, the way they did in Albania.” Baba then made for him përshesh, a sop of bread dipped in milk or yogurt. As Baba recounted, “I put corn bread in the warm sheep’s milk, put it in front of him, and gave him a spoon. ‘Welcome, please sit down,’ I said to him, and we ate. ‘Have you eaten sheep’s milk in America?’ ‘No,’ responded Jashar, ‘I’ve been here many years. They don’t use it here. They don’t like it in America.’ And we ate and drank.” Baba seemed to want to soften the fears of those who had left in the same way he softened the corn bread in the warm sheep’s milk. Also, in a traditional Albanian way Baba was refusing to make distinctions that food so often makes. In Albania, rice would have been a food of the wealthy, and bread made from wheat a staple of town folk, while corn bread was the food of the shepherds. In serving this to Jashar, Baba was saying that what I bring is our tradition in its most basic form, what we all share. After the meal, Jashar said to Baba, “Dervish, let us not go near those people, those friends who left.” Baba asked him why. He answered, “In the middle

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of the road they left us, and they went away.” Baba retorted that he did not agree with him. “No, you are not right here. Because I did not tell you to make a tekke for me. You said to me, ‘We will make a tekke. Will you accept this?’ I said, ‘If there is a tekke, I will make it so. But a house for me, I don’t want it. All Albanians’ homes are mine.’ For this reason, when they said that they would make a tekke, I said fine. When people said they would not go through with it, I also said fine. Either we make it work or we don’t. Do what you want, what are your wishes. If they want, let them come [to the tekke]. The way is open to them. I will not say anything.” In other words, Baba refused to see himself as the one who was wronged. In the traditional Bektashi way he took himself out of it. Whatever they decided, it was their affair, not his. If they wanted to return, let them come. And he pledged not to say anything. Jashar went back and told them what had happened. They decided that they should come. And they brought with them the candlesticks that are in the meydan. So when I saw the candlesticks in the photograph in the Detroit paper, this was what came to mind. A peace offering, and how wisely chosen! They brought what would hold candles to be lit, symbols of the light that Baba would be to the community. And when they came to the tekke, there was a special dinner prepared for them. They talked about this and that, and there was no need to bring up what was past. Thus the first year of the tekke was a time of healing divisions. But Baba also had to deal with the daily needs of the tekke. The founding members, along with supporters in New York, had given significant amounts of their own hardearned money for the down payment on the tekke. Baba needed to find ways to cover the daily expenses of the tekke which he did that first summer by selling eggs. Nake Premtaj recalls that she used to go to the tekke after work to pick up eggs for the restaurant that her parents owned with several other members. She would also pick up eggs that her mother would sell around their neighborhood, fresh eggs that people liked. Sometimes Nake would get home and find that she needed more eggs. She would return to the tekke and find Baba inside, tired after working all day. She would say, “Dervish, I need more eggs.” Despite his fatigue, he would go out to the barn, find some more eggs, wash them, and put them in cartons for her to take back. And when fall came, there were field crops and apples to be harvested. But Baba would be the first person to say that he did not do this alone. Hysejn Kusi helped him with the work in the early times. And there was also an Albanian Catholic, Llazar Hila, who had been in America for many years and who had his own small farm. He helped Baba in practical ways with the farm, especially with the fruit trees. Baba also remembered that when he had troubles with his wife, he would show up at the tekke. At the same time Baba also needed to make the monthly mortgage payments of $100. Here he was helped by his old



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friend Xhevat Kallajxhi who suggested he write for “Voice of America,” commentaries not on politics but on religion. For each of these he was paid $30 that, together with help from family and friends in New York, allowed him to make the early monthly mortgage payments. Besides financial concerns, Baba also needed to build people’s understanding of Bektashism, for many of the people drawn to the tekke had been far from tekkes for many years. One way he did this was by bringing out the first in a series of booklets, known as Zëri i Bektashizmës or “The Voice of Bektashism.” Baba referred to these booklets in Turkish as risaleler, a word that denotes “pamphlets.” They were written as if Baba were speaking directly to the reader. When I asked Baba why he wrote them, he noted that the people who came here were not from the ulema, that is, they were not religious scholars. He wanted to give them a more complete idea of Bektashism, both to help them understand and to draw them in. The topics introduced in the first 32-page booklet were: Bektashism, how Bektashism was organized, mysticism, the history of mysticism, the Qur’an, Matem, and Ashura. Discussion of several of these topics continued in later booklets. All were in Albanian, followed by English translations of selected sections. It was no accident that this first booklet dealt with Ashura and came out just before the holiday of Ashura, which that year fell in early September. The first Ashura commemorated at the tekke was special in several ways. The people who had fallen away from Baba in the face of criticism and threats, who had not been at the opening in May 1954, were in full attendance. There were also people from New York, Canada, and other places, especially those who had known Baba in the camps in Italy. They made the ashura food outside in a cauldron over a fire. It needed to cook slowly all night, and people could see the smoke in the sky a long distance away. The ceremony itself was held in the basement of the small farmhouse. There, six people, including Xhevat and members from Detroit, chanted the mersiye or “lament” for Imam Husayn that Baba had written in Albanian, and that we have chanted every year since. The custom in Albania was to have dervishes chant this in Turkish around the cauldron. But in America, the people chanted it in Albanian in front of Baba. This was also the first holiday when Baba was officially a baba. As he was head of a tekke, according to Bektashi tradition he should be a baba, not just a dervish or monk. But he needed an official decree for this to be recognized, and it had to be from one who was a halife, the grade higher than a baba. So Baba wrote to Sirri Baba in Egypt. Sirri Baba sent back the required ijazet or decree. The language was fulsome. Baba summarized it, saying, “As we know Dervish Rexheb from his four years with us, we attest that he knows his duty. Therefore we send this decree to him, and may all go well and the tekke have long life.” Considering the plight of the Muqattam Tekke in Cairo at this time, these last

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words are more meaningful. With the official decree in hand, Baba attached the green felt band, that is the sign of a baba, around the base of his taj. When Baba talked about this first Ashura at the tekke, he did so with clear pleasure. His sister, Zonja Zejnepe, had also come from New York with her fatherin-law. After the lament, Baba read the long Ashura prayer that he had composed and recited the year before for the Ashura that had been held in the private home in Detroit. It seemed so long ago and yet it was just a year. Then there was good Albanian food, including lamb, rice, and lakror, layers of fine phyllo dough filled with spinach or cheese. It felt like the tekke was truly on course. But once again the newspaper Dielli and the Albanian nationalist organization, Vatra, came out against Baba. The eight officers of the Tekke Commission sent a strongly worded letter in response, published in Dielli September 26, 1954. Rhetorically they asked, What right had a patriotic organization to interfere in religious matters? They inquired, Why this suspicion? Why this mistrust? According to the ways of the entire world, suspicions did not constitute proof. On the contrary, they asserted that they who knew this religious leader regarded him with full respect. They supported Baba fully, stating that he was the choice of the entire community, and he had received the decree from the head Dede of Bektashism in Cairo. Vatra should desist from such actions. Baba too must have realized that he had to do something if these allegations were to cease. He had to stop “walking on eggs,” as his friend Xhevat had put it in a letter a year earlier. The problem was any real documentary proof would be in Tirana where the Communists were in charge and from whom the false allegations had come in the first place. So Baba requested a meeting with the Archbishop of the Albanian Orthodox Church, Fan Noli, when he came on his annual visit from Boston to St. Thomas Albanian Orthodox Church in Detroit. Fan Noli was a founder of Vatra and of the newspaper Dielli where he had been its first editor. He was the one Albanian leader in America who could put an end to such allegations. When Fan Noli came to Detroit that year, an audience was requested and approved. Baba, accompanied by two Bektashis, went to meet with him. Baba showed him appropriate respect; Fan Noli was the senior Albanian religious leader in America. Baba explained how people like the two who had accompanied him had asked him to make a Bektashi tekke in America (Aliko video 1988). What did his Excellency think of this? The Archbishop thought for a while. Then he said, Yes, if he were in their place, he too would want a tekke. This was good news. It meant that Fan Noli approved. But then one of the Bektashi men who had come with Baba asked a question. “Baba, can Christians become Bektashis?” What had gotten into him? Given the vulnerability of immigrant religious bodies to loss of membership in America, this was the worst possible question if Baba wanted to secure the sup-



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port of the Archbishop. What could he say? Baba said what came to mind (Trix 1995). “It has not been the custom to have Christians become Bektashis, nor Bektashis become Christian. Rather what we want is for Christians and Bektashis to work together as Albanians, to be Albanian patriots. That is our purpose. But,” and here Baba would pause, “when the nation was in dire need, not only did Christians become Bektashis, they even became dervishes.” “How was this?” asked Fan Noli. Baba had his attention. He went on. In 1908 the bands of Albanians known as çetas [often made up of both Christian and Muslim Albanians], who sought the independence of Albania from the Ottomans, were abroad in the countryside. Of course, we Bektashis supported them, and one of their meeting places was the Bektashi tekke of Frashër. It was in a mountainous area and hard to get to. So it was safer and more secure for the çetas. And one time a çeta group of some renown, later referred to as “the old band,” was staying there for several days. Somehow the Turks learned of this. They came in the night and surrounded the tekke with 300 soldiers. When the çetas realized what had happened, they were deeply saddened. They said, “We are soldiers, and as soldiers we will fight our way out. Either they will kill us or we will kill them. But for the tekke it will be most bad.” The Baba, who had been in another room, came in and found the çetas in dismay. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Look outside,” they said. “They have surrounded us.” But the Baba told them not to worry, that he would work it out. The Baba called to a dervish, “Dervish, bring me seven tajes, seven hırkas and kemers.” The dervish brought them, and the çetas put them on. Now it was a custom of the çetas to let their beards grow, like the dervishes. When they put on the tajes, hırkas, and kemers, they became Dervish Çerçiz [the famous Muslim leader, Çerçiz Topulli], Dervish Mihal [the famous Christian publicist, Mihal Grameno], and so forth. They joined the other dervishes, and then they were ready. The Baba went to the front door and opened it to face the Turkish Commander. “What is it?” he asked. The Commander answered, “We had word that there were bad people here.” The Baba said, “We have no bad people here. But since you are here, you are welcome to come in and look around.” The soldiers entered and searched throughout the tekke. They found nothing, for the rifles of the çetas had been hidden as well. The Baba called out, “Dervish Cerçis, Dervish Mihal, bring coffee.” As for the Turkish Commander, after the fruitless search of his men he said,

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“I beg your pardon Baba. They must have been false rumors. We have made you uncomfortable.” The Baba responded, “It does not matter. You were only doing your duty. But you see we only keep good people here as I said.”

This pleased Archbishop Noli. He said that there were many things that the Bektashis had done for Albania. To Baba he said, “You should write these down so they can be known by all of us.” Baba agreed, but as he did not know English, he said he would write them down in Albanian, if His Excellency would then translate them into English. Fan Noli agreed to this. Fan Noli thus went back to Boston with good feelings. He went to the office of Dielli, to its editor Qerim, and asked what he had been doing. Why was he against the tekke? Fan Noli said that he had personally spoken with Dervish Rexheb, that he was a good man. He told the editor to take back the evil deeds imputed to him by the Communists. A short notice then appeared in Dielli. It stated that they had heard, according to the Communists, that this dervish was to have done certain things. And yet there was not a single document to attest to this. Dielli would not be concerned with the matter further unless and until there were documents. Thereby the matter was closed. Yet when I think back on the story that Baba told Fan Noli, of Christians becoming dervishes, I see that not only was it a good story, and one that provided a way out of a delicate situation, but at the same time it was truly apt for the broader situation as well. Here Baba was asking Fan Noli, a Christian, to do for him, a Bektashi, what the Bektashi Baba had done for the Christian and Muslim çetas many decades earlier. He was asking the Archbishop to use the garb of his stature to protect him from the barbs of ongoing accusations. Such storytelling is artful diplomacy at its best. With this settled, Baba was able to go ahead with building up the tekke community by initiating new muhibs and bringing Bektashi dervishes to Michigan. That first year, several of the founding family members were initiated, including the first woman, Zonja Fiqiret, wife of Zoti Abas, in whose home Baba had first stayed. But as Bektashis who are initiated together become brother and sister, spouses are not initiated at the same time. The spouse would wait for the following year. In 1955 Baba arranged for the journey of Dervish Arshi from the tekke in Greece to America. In 1958 Baba brought Dervish Lutfi from Egypt. By then the Muqattam Tekke had been taken over by the Egyptian military and there was little support for additional people with Sirri Baba. And in 1960 Dervish Bajram came from Egypt to Michigan. Baba had asked him to come sooner, but he insisted that the older dervish, Dervish Lutfi, come first.



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18. Baba Rexheb in early years at the Michigan tekke, 1955.

As the tekke community grew with new members and new clerics, it also became more connected to its neighbors. Next door was a Baptist church. The sheep of the tekke would wander over and help keep down the grass of the church. For holidays, the tekke and the Baptist church would share folding chairs. And there was a nearby farming family that helped the tekke. In later

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years I remember the farmer giving advice about roof problems. I remember the wife of the farmer baking cakes for Baba. And I remember when the son came back from Vietnam, and as we all sat at the long table covered with red vinyl in the basement kitchen of the tekke, he told us about an awful place they had called “Hamburger Hill.” Down the long street to the east and across the train tracks was Andy’s Farm Market. Baba would walk the several miles there and back in the morning, often returning with watermelon or other fruit that the tekke did not have at that time. And later a bank was built across the road and down a bit. This became Baba’s bank and the manager knew Baba and Nake, who was the treasurer of the tekke. And directly across the road from the tekke were several homes of members of an Italian family. Baba of course spoke Italian, both from the time he had attended Italian high school in his own town when Albania was occupied and later from his four years in camps in Italy after the war. When a tragedy occurred across from the tekke, the Italian family turned to Baba. In the mid-1950s, a member of the Italian family across the street killed himself. The local Roman Catholic church refused to bury a suicide. What could the family do? They asked Baba if he would perform the burial service. Baba said of course he would. This occurred before I had met Baba. But someone at the tekke had told me what had happened and so I asked Baba. He allowed as how he had indeed buried the man. He told me that Bektashis believe that people who kill themselves are temporarily out of their minds. Like anyone else they deserve proper burial. Baba mentioned that he had even written out the burial service in Italian. I asked if he still had it, and the next week when I came for my lesson, he handed me two pieces of lined paper, full of writing in ink in Italian, and held together with a straight pin. I saved the pages, hoping some day to understand them. Later I worked with a woman from northern Italy, an instructor in Italian at the University of Michigan, to translate them. Baba had written a religious service in which neither Jesus nor Muhammad was mentioned. There were passages that reminded me of the Qur’an, but they were passages that any monotheist could accept. One part would later seem particularly Bektashi to me, not in direct theological reference so much as in Bektashi practice which embodied a particular belief. But I think the Italian family would just have seen this as making the service more personal. What stands out to me overall is the way Baba does not ignore the sadness of the suicide. In sharing a translation of some of this burial service, I will refer to the deceased as “Antonio Barletta.” This was not his name, but the personal quality of Baba’s prayer is made clearer using a name the way Baba used the real name in the service, which began with a series of benedictions. Then Baba prayed:



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To Divine Blessings we direct our thoughts. We pray only to You to bring peace to all, to all humanity, to all the sacred souls and all the saints, especially to the obedient soul of Antonio Barletta. We pray that You give Your full hand of mercy and assistance, and take from him all his emptiness and let him be whole in Your Paradise, beside the other noble and saintly souls, thanks to Your great generosity and eternal mercy. Amen

In his straightforward but graceful prayers, Baba went on to remind people that this world is temporary, while the other world is eternal. Baba also reminded people that we are all created by God and to Him we will return, that the day will come when we all must leave. More personally to the deceased, Baba prayed: Finally, we all pray for the soul of Antonio, hoping that God pardon him, and bring him in peace to His Paradise, and we pray for the family, for the neighbors, and for all of you a long life. Amen

What struck me as the most Bektashi part of the service was where Baba directly addressed the person who had died. The first time I experienced this at a funeral, I was deeply affected by it. It was the funeral for Teki Xhindi, a Royalist who had been the rehber for Baba at the tekke since its beginning. He had been one of the few initiated Bektashis who was in Detroit when Baba came here. In recognition of this, and of his fine voice, for years Zoti Teki chanted the mersiye at the Ashura ceremonies. At his funeral in Detroit, Imam Vehbi first read appropriate passages from the Qur’an at the lectern. He did this with dignity. When he was done, Baba got up. But instead of going to the lectern, Baba instead turned his back on us, the mourners, and walked to the coffin and stood facing where Zoti Teki lay. Then he addressed Zoti Teki and spoke to him directly. How they had shared so much, how he had appreciated Teki being rehber in the meydan, how he had worried when Teki first went to the hospital, how he had been relieved when he had gone home. He spoke to him as if Teki were listening. Indeed there is the Bektashi belief that during the first 40 days after the passing of a person, the spirit of that

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person remains close by. Baba also spoke in this manner to Antonio, albeit more formally since they had not known each other very long and the circumstances of his parting were different. Antonio! Obedient to the sacred order! You have left this temporal world and entered into the eternal world. You stand in front of the Lord with your good deeds. You are not at all made desperate by this change because you know that God himself said that all the faithful will not die, rather they change their condition from temporary to eternal.

Baba closed the service, asking that “your” memory be not forgotten. Only then did he return to addressing the general mourners and God. Blessed and Divine One! Have mercy on your obedient Antonio! Do not leave him alone. Pardon every fault and give peace to his soul. Do this for your great generosity for your absolute grace, in the name of your angels, the prophets, and all the holy saints. Amen

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E arly Decades at the Tekke Walking East in the Midwest Baba Bajram’s Time “Behind each book, a dear friend” Despite all the remodeling and additions one window at the tekke has remained constant, the basement window facing back to where the barn used to stand. I always thought of it as the “egg window,” for after people gathered and washed eggs in the barn, they would walk across to the tekke and then pass the eggs down through the window to be sorted. One day after lunch, when Baba went to sort eggs, I followed and asked if I could help. He told me to sit across from him and laf atmak, literally “throw words” at him. And so we talked—about the hens, there were 2,000 of them then, about their productivity, and about the problems of small businesses. All the while Baba was putting the small eggs in one set of cartons, the mediumsized ones in other cartons, and the large ones in still other cartons. Baba Bajram came into the basement room where we were talking. He had finished putting away the food after the meal and was on his way to take a well-deserved early afternoon nap. But he paused when he saw us and remarked to me in Turkish, “See,” inclining his head to Baba, “first he is a mystic, and he also sorts eggs.” Baba responded gruffly, “This is my san’at” (“craft”). And we laughed. By tradition all dervishes must have a craft that they pursue, besides their duties at the tekke. Baba’s san’at was bookbinding, which his murshid taught him when he was a young dervish. Whenever an old book came to us, Baba would eagerly take it in his hands to examine how it had been put together. But here in the basement of the Michigan tekke Baba Rexheb’s comment was more than a spoof on earlier activities. The easy banter of Baba Bajram and Baba Rexheb was a feature of their friendship. I bring up their friendship in

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discussing the early decades of the Michigan tekke because I see friendship with Baba Bajram, along with Baba’s even longer-lasting one with Zoti Xhevat, as a crucial part of this most productive time of Baba’s life. Baba Rexheb and Baba Bajram had first met when they were both dervishes at the Muqattam Tekke in Cairo. To some it had been an unlikely friendship, for Baba Rexheb was highly educated while Baba Bajram had a much less formal education. And yet their friendship had grown in that hidden garden oasis of a tekke whose entry was through the cave in the dry and dusty hillside. Baba Bajram came from Egypt to the Michigan Tekke in 1960. And just as Baba Bajram drew the Albanian students to him in the Muqattam Tekke, so his outgoing ways drew people to him in Michigan. I can close my eyes and see Baba Bajram working in the basement kitchen of the tekke, his white taj on his head, his long white beard descending over his white apron, and his hands lifting whitish coils of intestines that he was cleaning for a special dish. His eyes sparkled as he teased me with the account of what he was making. Or I can hear Baba Bajram at the end of a trying day in the kitchen, which he had had to share with many women who were preparing food for a wedding of 250 guests. “This is our sacrifice,” he would say to me, as he padded about. So when the Tekke Commission decided to embark upon an expansion of the tekke, the head of the Commission declared, “We founded the old tekke for the sake of Dervish Rexheb. But we expand the new tekke for the sake of Dervish Bajram.” In the early 1960s they took out another mortgage—they had paid off their first one—and built a large addition on the east side of the old farmhouse. Above, on the roof, they built a large-scale painted metal replica of Baba’s greenbanded white taj, signifying that herein was a Bektashi baba. The large steeple next door on the Baptist church may have encouraged the Bektashis in this, as I know of no such symbols on roofs of tekkes in the Balkans or Anatolia. The tenth anniversary of the tekke in 1964 was a joyous occasion. It took place in the much-expanded tekke and included the added dervishes: Dervish Arshi, Dervish Lutfi, Dervish Bajram, and even a new one, Dervish Bektash, who had recently come from Turkey but was of Albanian descent. There were as well significant numbers of new members at the tekke who had recently come to America from the Lake Prespa region of Macedonia, where they had long been Bektashi. For the tekke’s tenth anniversary, Zoti Xhevat prepared a book entitled Bektashizmi dhe Teqeja Shqiptare n’Amerikë (Bektashism and the Albanian Tekke in America), published in 1964 in Romulus, Michigan. This short book differed from Baba’s earlier pamphlets in its emphasis on Bektashism in America. When I first saw this book I wondered why Baba had not written it himself. While Zoti Xhevat wrote it, he did so in close collaboration with Baba. I have since come to believe that the book is a sort of testament to Baba Rexheb and as such is better



19. First expansion of the Michigan tekke, 1961.

20. Baba Rexheb’s naturalization certificate as an American citizen, 1972.

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written by another. Baba wrote the introduction. It begins, “America is a country in which it is said that all dreams can become reality. And this has happened with our Tekke.” Baba then included an account of the dedication in the Islamic Center in Washington, DC, in 1957 and the words of former President Eisenhower on this occasion. He thanked President Wilson for his support of Albania after World War I. He further acknowledged the importance of the Albanian patriotic organization Vatra, the Albanian Orthodox Church, and Archbishop Fan Noli for their work for Albania and Albanian culture. On a more local level, Baba also acknowledged in Detroit the presence of the Muslim mosque, Orthodox church, and Bektashi tekke, and he looked forward to the founding of an Albanian Catholic church. (An Albanian Catholic church in Detroit was not organized until 1977. At the opening reception, in recognition of Baba’s early support, he was asked to give the first speech.) As for the section on the history of the founding and first ten years of the Michigan tekke, what is interesting is the total absence of controversy. People gathered, contributed funds, found an appropriate place, and the tekke opened. The last section is also noteworthy. Here Xhevat wrote about the depth of Bektashi knowledge. He identified Selim Ruhi Baba, Baba’s murshid, as one of the most educated Bektashis in Albania. This served as the grounds for a brief biography of Baba Rexheb—his studies in Albania, his work against foreign invaders with the Balli Kombëtar, and his subsequent exile to Italy and Egypt. He concluded that the Michigan tekke was most fortunate to have such a leader. This is a final capping of all the allegations against Baba that hounded him in his first year in Michigan. This book is also important because it served as the impetus that led Baba three years later to begin his important book on Islamic mysticism and Bektashism. Events in Albania in the 1960s also encouraged Baba to write his own book. In 1967 Albania declared itself the world’s first atheist state. The context of this was Albania’s relationship with China and Enver Hoxha’s admiration for the cultural revolution in China, which he then imitated. Albania had been in the Soviet camp since it broke relations with Yugoslavia in 1948. But this relationship was strained by Khrushchev’s moving toward accommodation with Yugoslavia in the late 1950s. In 1960, when the Soviets broke with China, Albania supported China. In appreciation for Albania’s support, in 1961 China took over many of the projects in Albania that had previously been funded by the Soviets, so Albania became China’s small ally in Europe (Logoreci 1977:149–70). The main result of the cultural revolution in Albania was increased persecution of religion and the destruction of remaining religious institutions. In



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1967 an article was added to the Albanian Constitution that read, “The state recognizes no religion and supports and carries out atheistic propaganda in order to implant a scientific materialist world outlook in people.” Young people were encouraged to attack mosques, churches, monasteries, and tekkes and to turn in remaining members of the clergy to the authorities. Within three months 2,167 religious institutions were either destroyed or damaged, and the clergy who had managed to survive the previous 22 years of Communist rule were killed or sent away to hard labor camps (Bulletin Katolik Shqiptar: The Albanian Catholic Bulletin, published annually in California, beginning in 1971). A Bektashi baba from near Berat, Baba Bajram Mahmutaj, later told me how he had been imprisoned by the Communists for 17 years after the Second World War. He had only been out for a few years when in 1967 he was sentenced again, this time to digging canals in malarial regions for 15 more years. Of the 53 Bektashi tekkes that still existed in Albania before 1967, only 6 were left standing, converted of course to other uses (Trix 1995). At the time of what appeared to be the final persecution of religion in Albania, Baba Rexheb began his most important work on Islamic mysticism and Bektashism. The introduction to his 385-page book, Misticizma Islame dhe Bektashizma [Islamic Mysticism and Bektashism] (1970), is dated 1967, the very year of the greatest destruction of religious institutions in Albania. Baba dedicated his book as follows: To the clerics of all faiths in Albania, who have been sacrificed for its freedom and independence, particularly those who have been tortured and lost their lives in the Communist terror because they would not deny their religious and patriotic ideals, the author dedicates this work with deepest respect.

The dedication is enclosed in simple black lines. I imagine it is the only book on Islamic mysticism that is dedicated to Roman Catholic priests and nuns, Orthodox priests, and Sunni Muslim imams, as well as Bektashi and other Sufi dervishes and babas. Baba knew of what he wrote. The introduction to the book is direct and unassuming. Baba was writing for readers who had little formal background in religion let alone mystic philosophy. He began by saying that Bektashism is known the world over, that it has spread in Muslim lands, and that it has met with both success and defeat in the centuries of its existence. People have been drawn to it so much so that a considerable number of books have been written supporting it and against it. In Albania there has also been great interest in Bektashism, particularly in the time since independence. But unfortunately there are very few books written in Albanian about Bektashism. “Thus the strong desire of the people to learn about Bektashism and its philosophy has remained unfulfilled.”

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Baba then outlined the history of his desire to write such a book, how he had long had the intention to give a more complete idea of Bektashism. Baba felt it necessary to explain the roots and sources of Bektashism which are Islamic mysticism. For this reason the book is “Islamic Mysticism and Bektashism.” Baba also acknowledged that such an undertaking was by nature difficult. He noted that this was not made easier by his isolation from Albania and by not having with him the sources he had had over there. Baba then listed books, all in Turkish, that he had built on in his writing, as well as collections of poetry by Fuzuli, Kaygusuz, Nesimi, and Pir Sultan Abdal. He then stated in his modest way what he hoped to accomplish in the book. We do not claim that we have accomplished a great work; rather we trust that by this means we have given an idea, more or less complete, for those among Albanian readers who are interested. And we believe that this is the first time such a book has been written in the Albanian language. In this way we open the way for others to appear and write books on this subject, enriching our mother tongue with such books as are found in the languages of the civilized world.

Baba went on to caution the reader that mystical philosophy is most subtle. Therefore it should be read slowly and with care. And he reminded readers to attend to the explanations that he gave after most poems so that the poems not remain obscure. This reminded me of the times of muhabbet at Baba’s home tekke in Albania when Selim Ruhi Baba would recite and then explain a Sufi poem. Baba closed the introduction by asking for the support of the reader and of Almighty God. In the old Bektashi way, he did not even put his name at the end of the introduction, but merely “The Author,” followed by the place and date of writing: Detroit, Michigan, July 29, 1967. As indicated in the title, Baba’s book can be divided into two sections. The first half is on Islamic mysticism, its sources in the Qur’an and Hadith; its history and struggles in the early centuries; important Sufi writers like al-Ghazali, Suhrawardi, ibn Arabi, ibn al-Farid, ibn Sina, and Rumi; and the organizing of different Sufi Orders. The second half of the book is on Bektashism, its founder Haji Bektash Veli, the bases and principles on which it developed, the qualities of those who would follow the path, spiritual love in Bektashism, Bektashi literature, and important leaders and followers of Bektashism, including Albanian Bektashi leaders of the 19th and 20th centuries. For scholars of Islam and for Albanians the sections on Albanian Bektashi leaders may be the most interesting, for I know of no other place where this is written. Of the Bektashi followers, six are what is termed bacılar, that is, “sisters.” They are female Bektashi poets, and their inclusion reflects the importance of



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women in Bektashism. Baba considered this book on Islamic mysticism and Bektashism to be one of his more lasting contributions. It introduces readers to crucial concepts in Islamic mysticism, critical figures, and their central ideas. The poetry that pervades the book brings these together so that by the second half when Baba presents Bektashi poets and their nefes, the explanations of the mystic meanings of the poems flow readily. In tone, the book most closely resembles The Book of Certainty (1992) by Martin Lings, a book on Islamic mysticism written for Muslims. In Bektashi centers in the Balkans, Baba’s book is most highly regarded, and the copies show much use. As soon as it was published in America, people came forward to translate it into English. Unfortunately, these proved problematic since those who knew Albanian well often were not familiar with mysticism, and those who were well versed in mysticism rarely knew Albanian. And it was not always easy to convince well-meaning potential translators of their deficiencies. When Baba received such offers by mail, he would inquire whether the “would-be translator” was also a poet. This served to hold them back, for as the book is full of poetry, the translator needed to be a poet. Baba did want it translated into English, but he wanted it done well. All Baba’s education and self-study contributed to this book, and he spent two years writing it. But before he could, he needed certain sources at hand, including works by Haji Bektash, Saadeddin Nuzhet Ergün, Köprülü Mehmed Fuad, Ibrahim Haki, Bedri Noyan, Ahmed Rifat, and Ziya Saqir. These he obtained through a Turkish bookseller he had met in Cairo. Baba would write to the bookseller, listing the books he craved and sending what he thought would cover the cost of the books with some for the bookseller himself. And the bookseller would send the books to Baba. When Baba wrote about an important Muslim mystic, he always included poetry by that person. Poetry is not just an expression of culture and a way with words. For mystics, mystical poetry is also a form of legitimacy, for one only writes what one is given. And the inspiration most often comes from the love of one’s murshid. Baba’s library at the Michigan tekke grew to several hundred books, many of which are poetry. As for the actual writing, Baba said he always wrote in the morning on weekdays. He would pray, have breakfast, go for his walk, and on the walk be thinking about the next section. Then he would sit down to write. I do not know if it was his manner of writing or the frequency of interruptions that led him to write many short sections, or whether it was consideration for his reader, for short sections with descriptive headings are easier to follow. In any case Baba divided the book into many sections that are about three to five pages each. Baba would write in his study or in the small receiving room of the oldest

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part of the tekke. He wrote by hand on lined paper, and then attached the papers of a section at the top left corner with either a safety pin or a straight pin. I preserved what sections of the original handwritten book I found, even though by then there were many published copies in hardcover and later in paperback. I can tell by Baba’s handwriting that his eyesight was still good. He wrote fluidly. But whenever Baba talked about the actual writing of the book, he would mention Baba Bajram. In the morning at the tekke Baba Bajram would also pray and have breakfast. Then there were chores outside and food to be assembled. In the morning he would prepare the midday meal, the main meal of the day. This would keep Baba Bajram busy most of the morning. Dervish Arshi would spend much of his time outside in the fields or working with the animals, but it was also his duty to bring Baba Rexheb his coffee. He would bring Baba his coffee most respectfully and then leave. Unfortunately that was not the pattern with the rest of the world.

21. Baba Rexheb drinking coffee and Dervish Arshi making coffee in the basement kitchen of the Michigan tekke, 1987. Photograph by Manny Crisostomo. By permission of The Detroit Free Press.



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From my many years of morning lessons with Baba at the tekke, I know that people would often call Baba on the telephone in the morning. It was more private then since there was less chance that company would be in the room when Baba answered. These calls interfered with Baba’s writing. But the business of the tekke was with its people first and foremost, and so Baba would answer the telephone, listen, and sometimes pray for the caller. Service people preferred to come in the morning and they too interfered with Baba’s writing. Community members who had something special they wanted to bring to the tekke or something they wanted to do there would also arrive and often end up sitting with Baba and drinking coffee together. Writing a book was a new activity for Baba, and most people who came were not even aware that he was working on it. When the food for the midday meal was in the oven, Baba Bajram would often come upstairs to see how Baba was doing. If he found Baba Rexheb involved in something other than writing the book, he would send whomever was there down to the basement to wait for the meal, and would admonish Baba. Or as Baba put it, “He would vex me.” Now Baba Bajram was no scholar, but he understood the importance of the book Baba was writing and he knew about work. “Finish what you start,” he would say to Baba, shaking his head in that special way that I observed in Albania. It would make Baba smile. Then he would go back to his writing, trying to finish the section before the meal—whose smells were already wafting up, as Baba’s study was right over the basement kitchen. For all that Baba Bajram was deeply appreciated at the Michigan tekke, his life as a dervish had not always gone smoothly. Baba Bajram’s murshid had been Haji Adem Baba, the famous Bektashi Baba who much earlier had been a member of the League of Prizren (1878). But by the time Baba Bajram met him, he was an elderly Bektashi baba in Gjakova in western Kosova. Bajram had gone with his father Ejup to the tekke and asked to be initiated. Many said he was too young, but Haji Adem Baba said he would make a muhib of this son of Ejup, and he did. Bajram then wanted to become a dervish. Several times he went to the tekke to request this, but he was not accepted, so instead he opened a store that made plis, the white felt brimless hats that Albanians wore. Still his desire remained to become a dervish. Then Haji Adem Baba passed away. Again Bajram went to the tekke, now to Hamza Baba who was the new head. He agreed to accept Bajram as a candidate for becoming a dervish. Entering the tekke at the same time was another young man, who became friends with Bajram and who would later become Baba Qazim. At that time the tekke was poor. They had a cow whose milk they would sell for the tekke’s needs. Bajram worked there for several years. But then he was called up for military service. The Baba said, “Do not go, Bajram. We will

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give 40 liras in your place.” But Bajram refused, saying he would do his military service. “Ahh,” said the Baba, “it is clear that you regret having declared a desire to become a dervish. That is why you want to go.” Bajram responded laconically, “Time will tell,” and left to do his military service. When he finished his two-year military service, he went straight back to the tekke and renewed his vows. Then he declared, “Now you have understood that I did not change my mind, I did not seek a way out.” As conditions for Albanians in Kosova worsened, both Bajram and his friend Qazim went south to Albania where they worked at the Akçahısar Tekke and the Shemimi Tekke in Kruja, and both finally became dervishes. Then Dervish Bajram went to the tekke of Baba Mustafa in Elbasan. Not long after Dervish Bajram was sent “on a visit” to Egypt. From there he went on pilgrimage, but when he wanted to return to Albania the Second World War had begun, so Dervish Bajram stayed in Egypt. While at the Muqattam Tekke in Egypt, Dervish Bajram helped the Albanian students who had all lost their stipends when Italy took over Albania. However, he and Sirri Baba did not get along as Dervish Bajram was tough-minded, and Sirri Baba authoritarian. After the Muqattam Tekke was closed in Egypt, Baba Rexheb sent for Dervish Bajram and he came to America. Baba Rexheb had always been concerned that the Michigan tekke have another baba. So ten years after Dervish Bajram had been at the Michigan Tekke, Baba Rexheb sent a letter to Baba Qazim, who then was head of the Bektashi tekke in Gjakova, Kosova, and asked him to make Dervish Bajram both a baba and a halife. He agreed with pleasure. Thus in 1970 Baba Bajram went back to Kosova for the first time in many years. With him he took Misticizma Islame dhe Bektashizma, Baba’s recently published book. When Baba Qazim saw Misticizma, he knew that Baba Rexheb was “a person of abilities.” He told Baba Bajram, “Tell Baba Rexheb to translate the Hadiqat of Fuzuli. Dalip Bey and Naim (Frashëri) only did part of it. Tell him he is the only one who can translate Fuzuli into Albanian.” Baba Bajram came back to America and Michigan in 1970, with the request that Baba translate the whole 16th century Hadiqat al-Su‘ada, (Garden of the Martyrs) of Fuzuli into Albanian. Even though Baba Rexheb had just recently finished his book on Islamic mysticism and Bektashism, he took on this new work. The Hadiqat begins with the suffering of Adam and continues through all the prophets to the seal of the prophets, Hazreti Muhammad, on whom be peace, and the suffering of his family. It was written in Ottoman Turkish filled with Persian. Baba Qazim was quite right. Baba Rexheb was the only one left who could translate such a work from Ottoman Turkish into Albanian. And meanwhile, Baba Bajram encouraged and cajoled him in this work, as he had



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with the earlier work. I missed some of this work because in 1972 I went to Lebanon for a year to teach in a village school and work on my Arabic. During this time Baba and I wrote each other formal letters that made me miss him and Baba Bajram and the tekke even more. When I returned in August of 1973 it was with such happiness that Baba and I started to read the collected Turkish poetry of Hatayi, better known as Shah Ismail. At the same time Baba was still working on improving his English. One time on the phone when I asked for him, he answered “Talking.” And another time when our lesson was over, he told me, “Step down please.” “Baba,” I asked, “where did you learn that?” It seems Baba had been watching television to try to improve his English and had ended up watching “Divorce Court.” Baba Bajram was not at all convinced that studying English was necessary this late in life, to which Baba Rexheb responded in Arabic with the saying of the Prophet, “Seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave.” Baba Bajram was still not persuaded. On November 1, 1973, I noted in my lined notebook that this was the last day that Andy’s Farm Market was open for the year, and that the tekke bought 250 pounds of onions. It was the end of Ramadan, but still that was a lot of onions. What could Baba Bajram have in mind? On December 7, 1973, I parked my car across the street from Andy’s Farm Market. I could see Baba’s white taj there among all the Christmas trees. The market was closed: he had just come for the walk. Then we went together to the grocery store to buy butter, spinach, prune juice, and milk, and I bought Baba a good notebook for English. We stopped at the gas station on the way back because my tires were low. The young man who worked there began talking with me as he put more air in my tires. He wanted to know if I were saved. Probably not, I suggested. He asked if I hadn’t heard the message to let God into my heart. I said that I’d heard it. He asked if Baba, who was patiently sitting in my car had heard the message. I answered, “He is close to God.” The young man then allowed as he was a Baptist. “Like the church on Northline Road” (next to the tekke),” I said. He said he had recognized Baba as living along that road. We made one more stop so Baba could get a present for Baba Bajram. The following week, on Thursday afternoon, December 13, I had a late afternoon lesson with Baba. He was going on his annual trip to New York early the next day to see people and gather funds for the tekke. We had a good lesson, and as I started to get ready to leave, Baba Bajram would not hear of it. He had spent the day washing and changing all the bed linen in the tekke. It was as if he knew something would happen. But he had still prepared all the meals. For dinner he had made an Albanian dish of chopped meat that had been fried and then baked with five eggs broken on top. I only ate a little. But then he brought

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out the new yogurt he had made, so delicious with his pilaf. When I left the tekke that evening, Baba Bajram accompanied me to the back door. As I backed my car out, I could see Dervish Arshi outside to close the door behind me. And at the egg window I could see Baba Rexheb, while at the back door was Baba Bajram, both babas outlined with the light behind them. I cried, for no particular reason, in leaving them. The next evening, Friday evening, I received a telephone call from Baba. It struck me as strange since he was supposed to be in New York. “Bad news,” he said to me in Turkish. There was desolation in his voice and his pause. “Baba Bajram has passed on.”

A Dearth of Dervishes “Loss and change” It snowed on the day of Baba Bajram’s funeral. White for his taj, white for his beard, white for his apron, only for once he was not wearing an apron, and white for the December snow that covered all. We did not want to take his casket far from the tekke. He belonged at the tekke where we could visit him and light a candle in his memory. But the American municipal authorities would not allow it. So we took him to the cemetery in southwest Detroit where other Bektashis are buried. Looking west you could see the smoke stacks of the Rouge Plant, the enormous Ford industrial complex. The sky was gray and it did not feel right for Baba Bajram. The day after Baba Bajram had passed on, people gathered in the basement hall of the tekke to mourn. One woman began a sorrowful lament, but it soon turned into gentle wailing. Bektashi funerals, like all Muslim funerals, do not tarry. But there needed to be time for Baba Bajram’s cousin to come from Yugoslavia and so the funeral was held the following Wednesday. When I came into the tekke that day, Baba was praying over the casket. The women sat on one side, the men on the other. There were many prayers. Baba started, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, “God is most Great, God is most Great, God is most Great,” and his voice cracked with emotion. To lose a close friend unexpectedly is wrenching. But to lose a fellow dervish, when there were so few, someone whose life you had shared in different places and whose sacrifices you understood—this was to lose that precious fellowship that needs no explaining. And to lose such a companion while living in gurbet, that is, living far from home, was to feel again that earlier loss, now compounded. Much of Baba’s world in Albania was no more. Baba Bajram had been part of that world, and now he too was no longer at hand.



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In his eulogy for his friend, Baba began by saying that it seemed like a dream, like something unbelievable, but sadly it was real. They had to face this most unexpected sorrow. That day they would escort to his final resting place one who had dedicated himself to the Bektashi Way, a dervish who worked tirelessly in his sacrifice for the good of religion, the good of the people, and for the good of all humankind. Baba Bajram had dedicated 50 years to the service of religious ideals and to the service of humankind by helping the poor, protecting the weak from the powerful, and guiding the needy to stay the course. Baba’s long experience with prayer and oratory would carry him through most of the eulogy. He described Baba Bajram’s life in three periods of service: in Kosova and Albania, in Egypt, and in America. Baba told the story of how when Baba Bajram was already in the tekke, he had insisted on doing his military service, but when it was over had returned directly to the tekke. He told how Baba Bajram had become a dervish in Albania, and then in 1937 had gone to the tekke in Egypt. From there he had visited the holy places of Karbala and Najaf and others, and then returned to Cairo where he fulfilled his mission by helping the students from al-Azhar. In 1960 he came to America where he worked so hard that Nevrus Selfo, the Head of the Tekke Commission in the early 1960s, declared that while the old tekke had been established for Dervish Rexheb, the new one would be for Dervish Bajram. He then served in Michigan for 13 years. The loss of Baba Bajram was not just a loss for the tekke, or for Baba personally, but a loss for all Albanians wherever they were. “But what can we do! It is an order of God, Who is Supreme over all, so we can do no more. We can only say that God has decided what shall be, and for you, may you have long life. Amin.” Now Baba had to give his final farewell. He walked over to the casket, and then turning his back on the other mourners, he spoke directly to his friend, even falling into the affectionate form of Baba Bajram’s name: Baba Bajram! The right hand and pillar of Baba! Baba Bajram! Counselor of Baba! Baba Bajram! Everything to Baba! Today you betrayed Baba! You saw me off on my mission to New York, but then you left us entirely! You did not stay to see the fruit of our labors, but left us! You left all of us, all who love you and admire you so! Left the old and the young who love and follow you so! Nonetheless, these people who love you have stayed faithful and today all have come here to accompany you for a final time.

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The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb Today all in full admiration, and in full gratitude for your service, in love and sorrow they cry for you! O Bajo, most dear! This is Baba who speaks to you! This is your brother, your friend for 40 years from whom you departed, leaving him alone! You have left me in body, but in spirit we are always together. O Bajo! I do not have enough words for you. I want to tell you and to say it each day, but your leaving has cut short my words and my talk so I can speak no more! Rest then, in that place where you have gone, that place which you longed for, where you prepared to go. Farewell then. Your memory will never be forgotten.

These are Baba’s words, translated from the Albanian, which he wrote by hand on five sheets of lined paper. Even the handwriting on the last page mirrors Baba’s deep feelings, until by the end of the page the writing is almost scrawled where it continues up the left margin and then upside down across the top of the page. It was as if Baba knew he had to draw to a close and so would not use another piece of paper, and yet he needed to keep talking to his friend. In our lessons we continued reading the poetry of Hatayi. The way music sometimes cuts to the soul after a loss, so the mystic poetry of longing and love of the Beloved reached us in other ways. But the tekke itself felt colder. Meals did not have their flavor. When spring and the holiday of Nevruz finally arrived, they were most welcome for they let us slide into rhythms that went beyond our recent loss. One day in March, the week before Nevruz, I came into the tekke and smelled a certain odor. I went down to the basement kitchen and asked what was going on. Several sheep had just been ritually slaughtered and skinned. One man opened an icebox to show me an entire sheep there. The skin with its wool was on a side table. Would a laundromat take it, he wondered? I shivered at the thought. And that day Baba and I read the story of Ismail and the willingness of his father, Ibrahim, to sacrifice his son. In May 1974 we commemorated the twentieth anniversary of the tekke. This was very different than the tenth anniversary in both mood and in focus.



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We were still too close to the passing of Baba Bajram to truly celebrate. But Baba had come to an important conclusion that he made public in his speech at the gathering. This decision had been discussed in the Commission, and work had begun on an addition to the south side of the new part of the tekke. Baba’s speech for the twentieth anniversary of the tekke was a history of the tekke in America. Like the history that Zoti Xhevat wrote for the tenth anniversary, Baba began with the visits of two Bektashi babas to America in the earlier 20th century that came to naught. He mentioned the desire of Bektashis in New York to have a tekke, but that too had come to naught. Then he described the initiative by 17 people to establish a Bektashi tekke in Detroit, following his coming in 1953. But unlike Xhevat’s history, Baba did not gloss over the ensuing controversy. He called it outright: “The propaganda machine of Tirana immediately launched an attack against the initiative through all sorts of propaganda as well as through letters to the initiators, threatening to punish their family members still in Albania if they supported ‘this fascist criminal Dervish,’ to put it in their words. After this, ten people left and only seven remained.” Baba went on to list the names of the seven men who had held firm. He noted the money that they had given as down payment for the property and that the tekke had opened May 15, 1954. But he then said that he could not go on without mentioning the important contribution of the Albanian women of that time, including Hava Seid, Kile Selfo, Fiqiret Myrteza, Shaniko Qyteza, Zejnep Adam, Shazo Ali, Fato Nakoleci, Nekije Peshkopia, and many others who worked tirelessly for the realization of the tekke. In addition, their children had also helped. Baba noted that in time things stabilized, the Communist propaganda lessened, people came to the tekke and it was on its way. He noted the coming of Dervish Arshi, of Dervish Lutfi, and Baba Bajram who had so recently left them, and their importance to the tekke. Here, as with the list of the women, Baba then added people whom others might forget. He said that he could not go on without also mentioning Hysejn Kusi, Fadil Duro, Llazar Hila and Zenel Polloska who had all lived at the tekke and helped Baba in the early years. Then he described the major expansion of the tekke. At this point Baba gave what would be the basis for a new direction at the tekke. He said that at the tenth anniversary of the tekke, both he and the dervishes had begun to age, so he decided to seek out other dervishes. Unfortunately they had only found one young Albanian man who came from Turkey. He had declared desire and showed ability, but had then left the tekke. A little later, they found a dervish in Egypt of appropriate age and possessing a fine religious education, Dervish Yusuf. They brought him here. But in the first month he became dangerously ill with a brain hemorrhage, and within 24 hours of entering the hospital, he died.

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Baba then went on to say that since they did not find another dervish, they had thought of the possibility of finding a married baba, for Bektashism, when necessary, would accept such a solution. However such a baba could not live with those at the tekke and the guests. He would need his own home, as is the case with married clerics. That is why they had begun the addition of an apartment to the back of the tekke, to ready it for the arrival of such a person and his family. Baba continued that this had been the decision of the Commission and this was the way they would follow. He closed his speech, saying that it was with this hope that he wished them well on the 20th anniversary, and prayed that they would celebrate the 25th anniversary, a quarter century in the life of the tekke. With this prayer, he wished all a warm welcome. Such an announcement had to come from Baba. Albanian Bektashis have long preferred their dervishes and babas to be celibate. But as Baba noted, Bektashism allows for both celibate and married dervishes. Historically Bektashi babas were not required to be celibate, although according to Baba, the founder of the order, Haji Bektash Veli, was himself celibate. He chose his successor, Khidr Baba, who was a “child of his own breath.” The child’s mother, who was a married woman, had rendered much service to Haji Bektash when he first arrived in Anatolia, and he had prayed that a child be born to her. This child became Khidr Baba. In the following generations, there were many married babas. Then, in the late 15th century, Balım Sultan, from Dimetoka in southeast Europe, rose in the order. He reorganized the Bektashi Order, and in time was recognized as the second Pir of Bektashism, after Haji Bektash of course. Balım Sultan fostered much missionary work throughout the Ottoman Empire. He also fostered the celibate branch of the order, still allowing the other branch or çelebi branch to remain. As Baba cited in Turkish, “Those who are married are correct, but those who are celibate are pure.” After Balım Sultan, however, it became tradition for the heads or dedes of the order to be celibate. In the Balkans, almost all the well-known babas were celibate. Scholars have suggested that this preference for celibate babas reflected the influence of Orthodox Christianity whose bishops must be celibate, but whose local priests marry. But Albanian Bektashis have preferred that both their dervishes and babas be celibate. Some Albanians point to the responsibilities that marriage imposes on a man, not just in care for his children, but also in care for his own larger family and the family of his wife. How could one focus on the needs of the tekke with such responsibilities? Others have said that in times of little education, it was largely celibacy that distinguished dervishes from the rest of the community. But I think it is more than that. Baba always spoke of celibacy in terms of dedication and sacrifice. In one of my old lined notebooks I have a couplet that Baba once recited in response to my question on the importance of celibacy. It is from the 13th



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century Persian poet Sa‘ adi. To paraphrase: “However much good there may be in the sea, it does take one’s peace, so stay if you will on the shore.” For a less delicate response, some years later in the context of a discussion on blessing, I again asked Baba the significance of celibacy. In the taped response, Baba answered, The meaning of celibacy is to have been stripped. It is to take off the clothes of the world, like a chicken that is killed and its feathers are plucked. To have been stripped of attachment to the world.

The community preferred its spiritual leaders set apart in this way. So for the Commission and Baba at the twentieth anniversary of the tekke to suggest that they would look for a married baba meant that they had truly exhausted all other sources (Trix 1997a:117–19).

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8

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L ater Decades at the Tekke “The Tekke Settles In” Gentle Teaching “Red fezzes and banners” Lessons with Baba continued. We finished the poetry of Hatayi and then began reading the divan or collected poetry of Omar Khayyam in Turkish, not the original Persian. Only it was a Turkish full of Persian words. Khayyam is known for the beauty of his poetry. But he is also known for extolling the drinking of wine that may be interpreted as a metaphor for mystic love. At one point in my lined notebook, I made a list of words that Khayyam used for “wine glass” (eight), “drunk” (two), “wine” (seven), and “inn” (two). During one such lesson where a key word in a line of poetry escaped me, I said rather firmly to Baba, “This must be yet another word for ‘wine glass.’ ” Baba looked at me, paused, and said just as firmly in Albanian, “Fes të kuqë Libohovit?” That is, “Are all who wear red fezzes from Libohova?” He then took out his tesbih or prayer beads, and sat back. I too sat back in my chair for I knew I was in for a story. Once there was a shepherd from near Libohova. Now you know in the Ottoman Empire at that time, men wore red fezzes on their heads. But Albanians [on the western edge of the Empire] had long worn white fez-like hats. Only in one Albanian town, Libohova, did the men wear red fezzes, for many from their town had served in the imperial judiciary and they were proud of their connection to the center of power. Well, this shepherd, who had never been beyond the next mountain, was drafted into the Ottoman army and sent to, of all places, the capital city, “the Abode of Bliss” [an Ottoman name for Istanbul]. After several years in the army, the shepherd returned home and people asked him what Istanbul was like. The shepherd answered, “I never knew there were so many people from Libohova.”

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I gasped and laughed. In making every unknown Persian word a “wine glass,” I had been like the Albanian shepherd who labeled every man in a red fez from his provincial frame of reference. From that day on, Baba and I had a shared way of referring to situations where interpretation was constricted— another “red fez”; we did not need to say more. It was at this time, in 1974, that I started studying Albanian with Baba. Turkish had always been our shared language and would continue to be so to the end. But everyone else at the tekke spoke Albanian, so it made sense for me to try to learn Albanian. But we continued with the Sufi poetry in Turkish. Only the last half hour of our lesson would be devoted to Albanian. Baba found a good book for me to use (Pipa 1982). People were pleased that I was studying Albanian, but that does not mean that they did not also enjoy my confusions. One holiday season, soon after I had begun studying Albanian, I went to the tekke the day before Ashura to help make the special ritual food. The huge pots used to prepare the food were stored high on shelves in the basement. I followed some older Albanian women into the storeroom. When I saw how high up the pots were, I announced in my finest Albanian that as I was taller than they were, I would haul them down. The older women hooted at me. Apparently what I had actually told them was that I was “longer” than they were. For the rest of the day, my words got repeated to much amusement. By the evening it was wearing thin. Then at the dinner table, where we all sat with candles this time, and good hors d’oeuvres, someone again repeated my words to Baba. Baba sat back, closed his eyes, and chanted to me in Turkish the third stanza from a favorite nefes by 16th century poet, Pir Sultan Abdal. My tall and graceful cypress, my plane tree, A fire strikes my heart, I blaze, Toward you I pray, I turn, always facing you My prayer niche is between your two brows. Huu

The connection was the first line, where the Turkish for “tall” is “long length/height.” But the connection was more than that. What Baba had done was take my uncomfortable situation and tie it to a poem he loved, a poem that after that was mine as well. Baba’s words washed away the incompetence I had come to feel. He transformed my embarrassment into pleasure, drawing me into the world of mystic poetry that with him I had come to share. Baba gave much to others. And it was in giving that he coped with the loss of his friend and fellow dervish, Baba Bajram. But I could tell how he missed his company. In December 1974, the first anniversary of Baba Bajram’s passing, there was the usual one-year memorial. The Muslim custom is to commemorate



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the passing of a person with special acknowledgment at one week, at 40 days, and at one year. However, with babas who are loved and missed by their communities, such memorials become annual events. This is the case with Baba Rexheb, for we have had a commemorative gathering on August 10th every year since his passing in 1995. So it was not surprising that in December 1975, Baba gave a speech on the second anniversary of the passing of Baba Bajram. I have his draft of this speech, handwritten on the stationery of a Toronto insurance firm. Baba began the speech by saying that the memory of Baba Bajram had remained alive for us, and his actions were with us and unforgotten. Baba then spoke of the 50 years Baba Bajram had dedicated to the service of religion in the land of his birth and to people elsewhere. Where earlier he had addressed Baba Bajram directly, in the two-year anniversary Baba was more specific on what Baba Bajram had done at the American tekke. “Because he contributed so much, his loss is even greater for the tekke and for us all, but what can we do?” Again Baba responded in the traditional Muslim way that as this had been the will of God, what could they say. This time however it was less tearing. The third and last nefes that Baba wrote while in America, apart from the hundreds he translated for his books, was written at this time. I have his handwritten original on tekke stationery indicating it was from the mid-1970s. When I later asked Baba about this nefes, he said that he had written it because either Xhevat or I had wanted him to write another nefes in Albanian. This made me sad when I compared the situation in Michigan to that in Egypt where there had been broader encouragement for the writing of nefes. He I live on with troubles and suffering; I do not seek salvation from them from the Lord. For these are my legacy, I will suffer them. I trouble not the Beloved, I endure with gladness. The Shah of Karbala has left us his heritage He has taught us to be forever patient. The trials of Job he gives as attestation; That is why I too do not lament. Gladly have I embraced patience; Doing away with myself, I have submitted, Like the violet, with head bowed, I cry out, My Lord! Near You may I remain.

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The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb May I prove a true dervish, May I surrender to the Way of the Erenler May I show myself with head bowed And may my service be accepted. Ferdi! May you long for poverty, for isolation. Withdraw from the world, draw near to restraint, Surrender yourself to the Murshid. This is my testament, I shall never forget it.

The nefes emphasizes the place of suffering and patience, humility and restraint, in the life of a dervish. “The Shah of Karbala” is Imam Husayn, whose day of martyrdom is the main Bektashi holiday. “The Way of the Erenler” is the Way of those who have attained to spiritual life. And in the last stanza, “restraint” is what Baba always asserted had to be coupled with vows of poverty and celibacy. Or as Baba would put it, if there is no food, it is not clear that one is fasting. But in the context of Baba’s life, for I had learned that Baba’s nefes were never abstractions, I see this nefes as a way of coping with the “isolation” of the loss of Baba Bajram. That is, Baba merged this sadness with the discipline of the life of a dervish. The Sufis know that only through this is it possible to come closer to the Beloved. Only through this dying of self is there true life. But it was also the life-giving humor of Baba Bajram that was so hard to live without. Baba had this humor too, one of the things that I miss most to this day. Baba continued to comfort others. He had always visited the sick in the hospital. There are many accounts of him entering a hospital room, coming to the bedside of the person there, and when he put his hand on the head of that person, calm and peacefulness filled the room. There are also accounts of accidents where the doctors told the Bektashi family there was no hope, prepare for the worst. And then, with Baba’s prayers, the person survived. Baba also presided or gave prayers at funerals. Most were of Albanians, but in June of 1976, Roy, the American farmer who had so generously helped Baba in the early years, died. Baba went to the funeral home and spoke at the church. I saved the typed words that Baba read at the church. Baba understood a lot of English, but speaking in English in public was another matter and he preferred to have it written out. Dearest Roy! This is Baba speaking; I have come to say farewell for the last time. This is Baba who you loved and who loved you very much. You helped me much when I needed your help. Now you are gone from our eyes, but Baba will never forget you.



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I will think of you often and pray for you. Your memory as well as your kind deeds will be long remembered, not only by me but by all those who knew you. Rest in peace near God in Heaven, in the Heaven which by your actions you so warmly deserve. Bye.

The Bektashi way of directly addressing the deceased is present here. But I think Americans at the church would have seen it as personal rather than theologically different. Besides comforting others in grief, Baba also coped in the mid-1970s by tending to other needs of the tekke community. He could see how important education was in America. But he also understood how the exigencies of “making it in America” often led to long hours at work and little time for formal study. In line with the absence of compulsion in Bektashi practice, Baba chose to model forms of education that people could engage in in their own homes. So he asked me to recommend an encyclopedia in English for the tekke. My mother, who was a librarian, recommended the Encyclopedia Americana. I remember the day the boxes of volumes of the encyclopedia arrived at the tekke. The volumes for the end of the alphabet were unpacked first, which made me nervous for I was sure people were waiting to check out the entry for “Albania.” Finally we had them all unpacked, but before they were put on the shelves, there needed to be local examination. I put them in alphabetical order on the carpeted floor, and then stood back as several men gathered around the books. With all the political differences, it would be impossible for the entry on “Albania” to please everyone. But people did not head for the “A” volume. Instead they went to “S.” What was there? Then I saw it. They were checking the entry on “Scanderbeg,” the Albanian national hero. I held my breath. When I saw smiles, I relaxed. Bless Americana and some unknown editor who had included the entry. Scanderbeg (1405–1468) was the son of an Albanian leader of Kruja in central Albania and had been taken hostage by the Ottomans and trained as a Janissary. He fought with Ottoman armies in the Balkans until he abruptly left to return to Kruja where he successfully held off Ottoman armies for 25 years. Some think his efforts saved other parts of Europe from being invaded by the then highly successful Ottoman forces. Another way Baba tended to the needs of the tekke community was in education about Bektashism. In the winter of 1979 Baba designed a special banner to hang in the place of honor behind the head table in the basement hall of the tekke. The banner was red with white letters. The red symbolized the blood of Imam Husayn and his sacrifice, while the white reminded us of the need for a clean heart. In each of the four corners there was a name: “Allah” on the top left, “Muhammad” on the top right, “Ali” on the bottom left, and “Haji Bektash Veli” on the bottom right. As Baba explained, first there is Allah. That

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means that first Bektashis worship God. Then there is Muhammed. That is, the Bektashis consider Hazreti Muhammad a prophet, the messenger of God. Then there is Ali. In Sufism or the mystic dimension of Islam it is through Ali that we learn. Then there is Haji Bektash Veli. There are different orders in Islam, but the founder and master of our order is His Majesty Haji Bektash Veli. In the central part of the banner, the first line was Bismillah al-Rahman alRahim (In the Name of God the Merciful, the Mercy-giving) in Albanian. Below that were nine lines in Albanian from the Qur’an. Baba explained that the first four lines were from verse 30 of the Sura of al-Baqara (the Chapter of the Cow, the 2nd chapter of the Qur’an), while the last ones were from the Sura of al-Fath (the Chapter of Victory, the 48th chapter of the Qur’an). The following is an English translation of the banner. Allah

Muhammad

In the Name of God the Merciful, the Mercy-Giving. When thy Lord said unto the angels: I have created a representative of mine on the earth; this is an ancient decision of the High and all-Powerful God. And thou, O Muhammad, will illuminate the true way for the world. All those who swear allegiance unto thee swear allegiance unto God. The Hand of God is above their hands. Thus whosoever breaks this oath damages his own soul; while whosoever keeps his oath, on him will be bestowed immense reward. Qur’an Ali Haji Bektash Veli

For Bektashis, the lines from the Sura of al-Baqara are the Qur’anic legitimization of the murshid, the spiritual teacher. The last Qur’anic lines refer to private initiation. I asked Baba if there had been such banners in Albania. Yes, but they had been longer. Baba then allowed as how at his tekke in Albania there had been such a banner. But with the old letters or new, I asked. Of course the old letters— Arabic letters—for it is Qur’anic verses. So then this is the first such banner in Albanian, I stated. Baba agreed. “And in Albania, who composed and wrote the words?” I asked. “Selim Ruhi Baba, and our Zejnepe [his sister] sewed it,” answered Baba with pride. Where did the banner hang, I asked. Baba answered that it hung in the meydan. This surprised me because Baba planned it here for the basement hall. Baba explained, “Our essential meydan is here.” This was a change, a part of the democratization of Bektashism that made sense in America. Later when the banner was up on the wall I could see why it had needed to be so large. If not it would have been dwarfed by the two immense flags that



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hung on either side of it. On the left was an unusually large American flag, a gift from the office of Governor Milliken of Michigan to the tekke. On the right was an equally large Albanian flag, red with the black double-headed eagle, the standard of Scanderbeg. I later wondered if Baba wanted this banner to be ready for the 25th anniversary of the tekke which took place in the spring of 1979. For convenience, it was celebrated along with the regular holiday of Nevruz that fell in March. A quarter century was an achievement, and religious leaders from the other Albanian communities took part as well. I have fewer memories of this since I spent part of that spring doing consulting work in North Yemen. I also have fewer memories of this time because the following winter I gave birth to my son. Before he was born, I had asked Baba for a name that was used by both Muslims and Christians. He pondered. Then he said, “Remzi.” He reached for his Ottoman Encyclopedia and found an entry for “Piri Remzi Pasha.” From this my son was later always known at the tekke as “Pasha.” We spelled Remzi the Scottish way, Ramsay, and my mother’s relatives were pleased that we had chosen a Scottish name. The week Pasha was born, in the winter of 1980, was also the time of the death of Zonja Fiqiret. The first home Baba had stayed in when he had come to Detroit was that of Fiqiret and Abas Myrteza. It had been in honor of the passing of Zonja Fiqiret’s mother’s that Baba had celebrated the first Ashura in Detroit in the fall of 1953. And Zonja Fiqiret was the first woman to be initiated as a muhib by Baba in the fall of 1954. In our lessons, Baba once commented on the depth of faith of the women in the community, women like Zonja Fiqiret. He said he had reflected on this but had come to no conclusion why it was so. I offered an explanation that perhaps it was women’s closeness to life and death with childbirth that drew them more readily to spiritual life. Baba was unconvinced and said he would continue to ponder this. In 1982 the tekke celebrated the 700th anniversary of the Bektashi Order. This was not a high point in the history of Bektashism as it was still illegal in Albania, proscribed in Turkey, and closed down in Egypt. And yet survival warrants recognition. There had been other low points in the history of the order, such as 1826 when it had been outlawed in the entire Ottoman Empire. And it had come back. At the 30th anniversary of the tekke in 1984, the basement hall was filled with 500 people. There were guests who had come long distances, religious and political dignitaries, including a representative from the office of the governor of Michigan. The head of the Commission read aloud the telegram that had come from the office of President Reagan, congratulating Baba on having kept alive the inspiration of Bektashism in America. There was however, an undercurrent of concern at the tekke that day. The

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22. Baba Rexheb with Pasha, behind the Michigan tekke, 1984.

concern could be felt in the very nature of the poem that Zoti Xhevat, Baba’s oldest friend, had composed in Albanian for the occasion, and that he declaimed. To Baba Rexheb God Himself chose you For the Path of Bektash Veli; Willingly he guided you In the service of humankind. So it is, Baba Rexheb.



The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb Before birth he named you, With his hand he inscribed, Baba Ali himself, your murshid, Awakened you Dervish Rexheb. So it is, Baba Rexheb. You are a disciple of Sultan Bektash, Who is the source of our breath, Follower of Ali Haydar, Who is the essence of our faith. So it is, Baba Rexheb. You have devoted all your life To ideals, without remiss. For homeland and faith you labored Without tiring, without cease. So it is, Baba Rexheb. You founded for us a sanctuary In this most blessed land. Like brothers you brought us together, May you live long and be full praised. So it is, Baba Rexheb. You gathered us around you, Like a mother gathers her young, In the hearth of the tekke, A memorial for all time. So it is, Baba Rexheb. We love you, we honor you As leader, as patriot. We love you, we esteem you As murshid, devoted one. So it is, Baba Rexheb. You have been and ever shall be Forever with us, not apart. You have had and ever shall have Full affection and our love. So it is, Baba Rexheb.

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When Zoti Xhevat had read his poem aloud to Baba, Zonja Zejnepe, and me earlier, the week before the commemoration, Baba’s response was a gentle teasing: “I am not dead yet.” Such panegyric is most often read when someone dies. Xhevat’s love and regard for Baba was ongoing. He spent more time at the tekke each year. But beneath this, and it was not confined to Xhevat, there was the growing recognition that Baba would not always be with us. Who would lead the tekke when Baba had passed on? This question had lurked behind the loss of Baba Bajram some 11 years earlier. His loss had felt like a precursor for the eventual loss of Baba Rexheb. And then what would we do? In line with this unknown was the fact that Baba himself had spoken very little at the 30th anniversary celebration. He would speak less and less at public events in the following years. But Baba’s presence would loom larger.

Learning at the Tekke “Sacrifice, parable, and a feast of poems” We all tried to hold onto Baba in our different ways. Just after the 30th anniversary of the tekke in the spring of 1984, I began taping our weekly lessons. It was as if by recording his voice I could keep Baba with me. The community was more practical. The Tekke Commission decided to try again to get permission from the local municipality to build a türbe or mausoleum for Baba on tekke property. They had requested this before and been turned down. But this time they got an attorney to work on the request, an Italian American most appropriately named Gatto (“the cat”). Gatto knew better how to approach the authorities. The argument of the Albanian community had been that the founding baba of a tekke was always buried on tekke property. This apparently had not been persuasive. I do not know the argument of Gatto, but he was successful with one condition—that they also pave a parking lot. No one quite knew why the building of a türbe necessitated a parking lot. And unfortunately, the building of a parking lot meant that the massive old shade trees just behind the tekke had to go. But the Commission judged rightly that the türbe was more important. By Ashura the next year, a framed pastel sketch of the future türbe was hung on the wall behind the head table in the basement hall. The red banner with white letters was hung higher to make room for the architect’s rendition. The sketch, with its light greens with horizontal lines, had a California look to it, but I was not worried. I had seen the plans and knew that the türbe would be the traditional octagon with a fountain in front. When I asked someone how



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they knew to make it octagonal, he responded that türbes were always octagonal. This is true. Across Anatolia, and in Albania before the Communist devastation, türbes hundreds of years old were all of this form. Inside would be Baba’s sarcophagus facing east. The türbe not only reassured the community that Baba would always be with them; it also reassured Baba. Having Baba buried on tekke property made it sacred land. Such land could not be sold. Baba’s sister, Zonja Zejnepe, also wanted to hold Baba with us, and Baba had been concerned about her living alone in New York. So she came to live in one of the new apartments attached to the tekke. She would remain with us until she too passed away, less than a year after her brother. One day Zonja Zejnepe told me about her mother’s birth. Her grandmother, Medhallahe, or Lahe for short, had one son, Selim, and one daughter at that time. But the daughter was ill. A Bektashi baba came to visit and asked what was wrong with the daughter who was lying by the front room hearth. When told that she was ill, the baba told the mother not to worry, that she would have another daughter. “Name her Sabire,” (from the Arabic root meaning “patience”), the baba said as he left. “Eyvallah,” answered Lahe. But she wondered at his words for she was 42.

23. Baba Rexheb with his sister Zonja Zejnepe and another friend in the old part of the Michi­ gan tekke, 1987. Courtesy of Manny Crisostomo, photographer.

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Lahe did become pregnant and it was a girl. After the birth, she could have no more children. Then her husband died. By then her only son, Selim, had gone to Gjirokastra as a dervish to study and stay with Ali Haqi Baba. But he did not want his mother and young sister to be alone, so he arranged for them to come from Elbasan to Gjirokastra in the south. Zonja Zejnepe recalled that her grandmother still wore the Geg scarf and spoke in a Geg or northern dialect, but it was the sweet Geg of Elbasan. She lived with her daughter, Sabire, in Gjirokastra and helped take care of Sabire’s six children. Of these children, Baba was the oldest and Zonja Zejnepe the second youngest. Zonja Zejnepe said she loved her grandmother more than her own mother and slept with her until she was 15. By then it was Zejnepe who was helping her grandmother, but she said her grandmother’s mind was sharp to the end. One evening during Ramadan, the holy month of fasting, Baba, then Dervish Rexheb, came to the front door of the family home in Gjirokastra. Zejnepe herself answered the door and welcomed her older brother, “Come in Dervish.” She saw that there was also a young boy with a horse that had come from the tekke with him. Zejnepe brought coffee for her brother and grandmother to drink. The grandmother then asked her grandson why the young boy did not also come in. Dervish Rexheb responded that the young boy had gone back to the tekke, while he would spend the night there. “But who will serve Selim Ruhi Baba?” she asked. “Do not worry. I sent the boy back,” answered Dervish Rexheb. “Selim Ruhi Baba, your son, told me to come and stay with you tonight.” They talked. Then Lahe went with young Zejnepe to wash up. With a pottery pouring jar, they washed everything clean. Lahe changed into her nightgown and went to bed. But once she lay down, she started making sounds that were not words. Her eyes were open but she could not talk. Zejnepe called in Sabire, her mother. Dervish Rexheb came, sat by her side and prayed. In an hour she died. When Sabire’s husband went to the tekke to tell Selim Ruhi Baba, he found him reading the prayers for the dead. He looked up and said, Lahe mbaroi, “Lahe has passed on.” The next day they buried her. They put her by the green hill because Selim Ruhi Baba said to bury her where he could see her grave out of the window of the tekke. We both sat quietly in the apartment by the tekke in Michigan. Then out of the blue I asked, “What was the name of the first daughter, the one who died in Elbasan?” “Zejnepe, my name,” answered Zonja Zejnepe, starting to smile. Then she said, “So how can people not believe? The miracles I saw myself, and I was just a 15-year-old girl. How can they not believe? And Selim Ruhi Baba told me so many stories too. Of how Ali Haqi Baba had asked the month—Rajab—and then said a



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child will be born to us. And even Ali Haqi Baba himself was born this way.” Baba, however, did not emphasize the miraculous in the stories he wrote in his book on Islamic mysticism. This did not mean that people did not believe deeply in the power of prayer, only that its results were not touted as openly as in centuries past. Baba understood that we were in an age in which science had taken front stage. But, as Baba put it, science was not the whole story. We saw this clearly in the case of Fluffy and her ailment. Fluffy was a handsome dog, at least part golden retriever, that Zonja Zejnepe kept in her apartment for her daughter when she could come home from the hospital. Fluffy loved to roam the fields behind the tekke, but in these wanderings she somehow picked up a serious skin ailment. Her fur started to come off and the skin underneath was not well. Zonja Zejnepe took Fluffy to the veterinarian. The veterinarian examined Fluffy and then announced that there was nothing that could be done. Fluffy would have to be put down. This upset Zonja Zejnepe, for the dog was important to her daughter. She told the doctor that they would have to think about it, and brought Fluffy back home. When they got home, Zonja Zejnepe told Baba the bad news. But Baba suggested they try something else. He remembered an old shepherd’s remedy that Albanians used on their animals. It involved boiling tobacco leaves with sulfur and putting the leaves several times a day on the animal. Zoti Qani’s daughter, Nancy, brought the sulfur, they got tobacco leaves, and Zonja Zejnepe boiled them together for hours and applied them to Fluffy’s skin, day after day. Each week I would come for my lesson and stop by to see Zonja Zejnepe. Her whole apartment smelled of boiled tobacco and sulfur. As for Fluffy, the disease stopped spreading, but it didn’t get better. Then Baba decided it must be the kind of tobacco leaves. Somehow Zonja Kile got tobacco leaves for them from Albania. The boiling and applying of wet leaves went on. Slowly Fluffy’s fur started to grow back. Then one week I came and found that Fluffy was as healthy as ever. I looked at Baba and Zonja Zejnepe and congratulated them. I suggesting going back to that veterinarian with Fluffy and showing how she had been cured. Baba shook his head. “But,” he said, “it is clear that science has not reached the pinnacle of all-knowing that it thinks it has.” The 1980s were for me a time of more intense study with Baba. I realized that Baba’s Albanian translation of Fuzuli’s 16th century Hadiqat al-Su‘ada (Garden of the Martyrs), which he had completed in the early 1970s, had not yet been published. Baba had finished the translation and then an older Albanian Bektashi in Michigan had offered to type Baba’s handwritten work. Unfortunately he was not a good typist. Worse, he was not careful with Baba’s original. After a draft of a typescript had been done, the original was lost in a house fire in Chicago. Where was this typescript? Baba had it. Immediately I made ten copies and a table of contents.

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These martyrdom narratives, or maqatil tradition, are a rich source of stories and understandings of Islam that helped shape Bektashi faith and practice. For example, in the Hadiqat the Prophet Noah’s story is told dramatically. Noah bore the torment of insults and rocks thrown at him for several generations as he tried to give the message of the One God. Finally one day, one of his own sons threw a rock at him. At this he raised his arms in prayer and cried out to God for help, for he could take it no more. As soon as his prayer reached God, a storm burst forth and covered the sides of the earth, drowning his adversaries. Only Noah and those loyal to him were saved in the ark. “The people of my Family [the Prophet Muhammad, his daughter Hazreti Fatime, her husband Imam Ali, and their two sons, Imam Hasan and Imam Husayn] are like the ark of the Prophet Noah.” When Baba read this, he immediately added, “Who enters it is saved; who leaves it is drowned.” In Bektashi practice this refers to initiation. Those initiated should remain. To leave is to deny vows and be drowned in the waves of the world. As the ark sailed on the waves, at one place it would go no further. At that point God told Noah, “In this place the chosen of My Prophetic family will drown in a sea of blood.” This place was Karbala where Imam Husayn would be martyred. Later, when this came to pass, a raven soaked its feathers in the blood of the Imam at Karbala, flew back to Medina, and perched on the wall of the house of Umm Salima, one of the wives of the Prophet, beloved of the Family of the Prophet. There the raven shook its wings so that drops of blood fell. The young daughter of Imam Husayn, who had stayed behind with Umm Salima, immediately understood that her father had been killed and began crying. “Why do you cry,” asked Umm Salima? The young girl answered: O honored lady, the voice of the bird that has come is like the message of Noah’s ark. The ark of the family of the Prophet has been saved from the storm of suffering of this world. The winds of Nearness to God lifted them up and cast them on the shore of salvation. And this bird now comes to tell us of this.

Umm Salima said that there was also another sign of this. “What is that?” asked the girl. Umm Salima recalled how one day the Prophet of God returned greatly troubled, with the hair of his head and his beard full of dust. He said to her, “This evening they showed me a place in Iraq called Karbala. In this place they showed me the earth where my Husayn will fall martyr. I visited that place and took some clay from it and brought it here.” As he said these words, he gave her the clay saying, “Keep this clay safe in a glass, for when the day of misery arrives, the clay will turn red.” It had turned red. In Bektashi practice this clay from Karbala is referred to as “the jewel.” At



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the end of Matem, each person who comes to the meydan is given a sip of water with some of this clay mixed in to drink. It recalls the thirst of the Imam and his death. In addition, some of it is mixed with water and then put in the Ashura food that is made in such quantity at the tekke. Finally, the Ashura food itself— the cracked wheat, sugar, dates, raisins, and nuts—are understood as what was left at the bottom of the ark after 40 days on the waters. These martyrdom narratives would also prove a test of people who came to the tekke in the early 1990s. Baba had written them in his particular southern Albanian dialect. But during the Communist decades there had been a standardization of Albanian in Albania. I checked with Zoti Xhevat who had edited Baba’s book on Islamic mysticism so carefully and whom I trusted totally in such matters. “Should we preserve Baba’s dialect?” “Most assuredly,” said Zoti Xhevat. So when people came from Albania to the tekke in the 1990s, I would ask their assistance in cleaning up the typographic errors of the poorly typed copy of Baba’s Hadiqat. Those who insisted on changing Baba’s dialect, despite being expressly told not to, could not be trusted in other matters either. As I read through Baba’s Hadiqat, I came to understand it as a compendium of stories that Fuzuli and others before him had wanted to preserve. The Hadiqat gives Shi’a interpretations, but not specifically Bektashi ones. Rather this was what Baba would give, as he had long done at our holidays at the tekke. In my lessons, too, I was especially drawn to the ways Baba interpreted stories of the prophets and the people of the family of the Prophet. In this vein, in the mid-1980s on the occasion of the Muslim holiday, the Sacrifice Holiday, which commemorates Ibrahim’s loyalty to God, I asked Baba about Ibrahim and his willingness to sacrifice his son Ismail. Baba told me the full story, how Ibrahim saw in a dream that he must sacrifice his beloved son. Ibrahim told his son Ismail this, and his son, who had total respect for his father as one who did the bidding of God, acquiesced. Ismail cautioned his father to turn away from him when he cut him so his beauty would not weaken his resolve. He told his father to take care of his mother, that she should understand it was the will of God. And he told his father to tie his legs and arms tightly so when he cut him, his movements would not interfere. Baba also told how Satan went to Ibrahim’s wife to tell her of this, but she would not believe it, for Ibrahim was not a killer but a man of God. Then as Ibrahim tried to cut through the back of his son’s neck, the knife would not cut. Once, twice, three times he tried. It would not cut. So he threw the knife against a boulder and it cut the boulder in two. “Why,” asked Ibrahim of the knife, “why did you cut the rock and not the back of my son’s neck?”

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The knife answered in Arabic, “The friend of God [Ibrahim] ordered me, but God forbade me.” Then they found a lamb in the nearby bush. The angel Gabriel said to Ibrahim that his devotion was well received. However he should now sacrifice the lamb instead. Such is the story, said Baba. “But if you want to understand its meaning, what it tells us, you must see that the love of God must be above all other loves. As for cutting, it is one’s own bad habits and dispositions, one’s attachments to the vanities of the world that a person must cut out and do away with. When that is done, when nothing beyond God remains, then one is truly a saint or a prophet. That is the purpose. Have you understood?” I asked if the reason that babas are congratulated on the Holiday of Sacrifice was because they had cut away such attachments, for I had observed this. Of course, said Baba. Further, I asked what was the relation between the Sacrifice Holiday and the holiday of Ashura? Years earlier I remembered Baba saying that one holiday prefigured the other. Baba explained that with the Sacrifice Holiday, there was a substitute for Ismail in the lamb, but in Ashura, Imam Husayn himself was sacrificed. Ismail too was willing to be sacrificed, but it was not carried out. In the case of Imam Husayn it was. As Baba and I talked about sacrificing all for God, my four-year-old son sat playing quietly in the corner of the study room. I looked over at him and said to Baba that while I loved the Lord of All-Truth, I also deeply loved Pasha. “Fine,” said Baba. “You have not reached or attained to that level yet. If a command of God were to come to cut the neck of Pasha, you would not be able to do that.” I concurred. Baba continued. “In that case you have not matured to that point.” I allowed as how that was true. At this point Baba laughed gently. Then he continued, “All there is in the world, it is necessary to give this up to come close to the Lord of All-Truth. But you, the Lord of All-Truth accepts you because you are raising a child whom He has given you as a blessing. And this too is a service that is useful to humankind, useful to the Lord of All-Truth. Have you understood?” It was also in the mid-1980s that I became fascinated with trying to understand the relationship of talib and murshid, the relationship of student and spiritual teacher. It had gradually become clear to me that the transmission of spiritual knowledge was transmission of this relationship which, in turn, modeled the relationship between humans and God. When I asked Baba directly about this relationship, he recited the famous Hadith: “The murshid is to the student as the Prophet to his community.” And he added, “This is a very close connection.” To show this more clearly Baba told me the story of two prophets: one, Khidr, the spiritual teacher, and the other, Musa,



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a student who did not seem to be able to give total trust and obedience to his teacher. There follow a series of events where at each turn, Musa questioned Khidr, most rationally I might add. Khidr finally had enough, concluding, “You will not be able to stay with me.” This is a familiar Sufi way of explication through negative example. Baba then went on to put it more positively. “A student must be with the spiritual teacher like the body in the hands of the body washer.” By Islamic custom, bodies must be washed and buried quickly after death. It is also considered a great honor to wash someone’s body. It was the Prophet Muhammad, on whom be peace, who insisted on washing Ali when he was first born. He did this saying that when he died, it would be Ali who would wash him before burial. This is a sign of the closeness of Imam Ali and his father-in-law, the Prophet Muhammad. It may seem strange that I should ask about the relationship of spiritual master and student when I had the remarkable fortune to be with such a master. I remember trying to find other parallels. In the Hasidic tradition, the zaddik is similar to the murshid as are Buddhist and Zen masters. In American culture, another model is Annie Sullivan, who taught the young deaf and blind Helen Keller with such closeness and trust. During one lesson I asked Baba how one learned to be a murid. A murid is a “novice dervish,” a sort of “dervish in training.” In response Baba sat back, took out his tesbih or prayer beads, and said that he would tell me a fine tale, but he framed the tale by saying that as I was mature, I should not be embarrassed by what he would say. He paused, and I could hear the sound of the beads clicking softly through his hands. One day a new dervish asked Haji Bektash, “Who is an ashık? Who is a muhib? Who is a murid? And who is a murshid?” In response, Haji Bektash Veli said, “Ohh, you have asked a long question. Only I do not have time just now to answer your questions. However, if you will go to such and such a place—the Baba then allowed as how this was quite far away, maybe a month’s journey—there is a muhib of mine there. He has vowed to give me 300 gold pieces. Go and take that money. Then bring it back here and I will answer your questions.” The young dervish agreed and prepared for the journey. Off he went, walking for many days. One night well into his travels, he went to sleep where he had come. The next morning when he awoke, he found himself in another place. How can this be, he wondered to himself. He began walking but then someone crossed his path. The man asked him where he was going. He explained that he was a dervish of Haji Bektash Veli who had sent him to India where a man had vowed 300 gold pieces for Haji Bektash Veli. That is why he had sent him. The man replied that he was that man. “Come with me,” he said, and took him to his home. There they rested and talked. The man gave him dinner and lodging for the night. The next morning the man said, “Here are the 300 gold pieces that I vowed for Haji Bektash Veli. And here

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are 300 more for a special request from Haji Bektash. And for you, here are 300 that I give to you.” The dervish took the gold pieces and left. But as the dervish set out, instead of heading straight back to the road, he said to himself, “Let me walk around the town some.” This he did. He saw the whole town. Then through a window, he saw a girl looking out. From the first glance, he fell in love with her. The girl understood. Through signs they came to an understanding and agreed to meet. They came together and the dervish made clear that he wanted to marry her. She said this would not happen. Why? “Because I want 900 gold pieces.” “Fine,” he said, “I’ll give them to you. But then you will be mine.” “Yes, that I will,” said the girl. He took out the money, without thinking that it was not his, and gave it to her. She took it and then said, “Now do what you like with me.” He got ready to fulfill his desire, and just at the last moment, a hand appeared. Frrrt! Out of nowhere a hand appeared and flung him to one side, and her to the other. “What is that hand?” asked the girl, astonished. “It is the hand of my master,” he answered, for he had recognized it. Haji Bektash’s hand. “Since you have such a master, who even here saves you and wants you away from me, how is it that you came to me?” asked the girl. “Is that not shameful?” He acknowledged that his master had indeed come. She continued, “Since he is a master of such power, I will come with you. I will bow down to such a master.” “For goodness sake, don’t come,” he pleaded. “For it will all come out in the open.” “No, I will come,” she said. “I have given myself to him.” The dervish thought to himself, “Who knows? It will be a month’s journey, and I will take care of her.” But then the memory came back to him of being flung to one side, and her to another. How strong his master truly was! She persisted. “How can I not do this? Where would I find another like him?” She insisted on coming. Finally he agreed. At this she said, “Since this is the case, I do not want the money.” And she gave it back to him. They journeyed on. But as they got close to the tekke, he worried about what to do. “Stay in these thorn bushes,” he cautioned her, “so no one sees you. I will go in by myself.” He went in the tekke gate at Haji Bektash and was welcomed by those who knew him. Then he was taken to the master. “Did you travel?” he asked. “I did,” he responded. “And how did it go?” He took out the money saying, “Here are the 300 good pieces that were vowed to you. And he gave 300 more to you for a favor. And 300 for your humble servant.”



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“Fine,” said Haji Bektash Veli. “And the girl, why did you not bring her? What have you done with her? Bring her here now. But as for you, you will not be a dervish. For your own sake you spent not just your own money, but also mine. You have no place as a dervish. But go and bring the girl.” He went and came back with the girl. She kissed the hand of Haji Bektash and bowed to him. Haji Bektash said, “Since you love him, you should be betrothed.” And he married them. Turning to the man, Haji Bektash said, “Before you left, you asked me ‘Who is a muhib? Who is a murid? Who is an ashık? And who is a murshid?’ Now I will give you the answer. The muhib is the man in India who loves us and gave not only what he had vowed, but over and above in that he gave both money for me and for you. As for the murid, that is you. For your own self, when you desired something, you spent not only your money, but my money too. For your own will [here Baba is playing on the root of the word murid or “novice,” which comes from irade or “will”]. The ashık is this girl who without even seeing me, only in seeing my hand, became devoted to me. So much so that she left everything to come here to be with me. That is an ashık. As for the murshid, it is I who when you were about to do something wrong, would not leave you but saved you from it by flinging you to the side. Now go, being a dervish is not for you.”

We discussed this most satisfying tale for a while and then I asked Baba where he had learned it. “From the Vilayetname,” he answered. That is the book of Haji Bektash. I asked if the Vilayetname was mostly stories like this. Baba explained that it was made up of stories of what Haji Bektash had done here and there: But they are extraordinary tales. For this reason we do not use them so much now. For in these times, who would believe you if you said that while they were in India, Haji Bektash stretched out his hand to prevent them from doing something. However we know that the power of the saints or the Lord of All-Truth is everywhere present, everywhere actual, of all things capable. With the help and the power of the Lord of All-Truth, the saints can do all that is wonderful. But who knows this anymore? These are practical times, Frances.

And yet, stepping back, I cannot help but ask which is truly more extraordinary—the cuffing of an errant dervish in India, or a Bektashi baba of Baba’s caliber and dedication coming to Michigan? Or on a personal level, which is more extraordinary—a Baba sending a dervish on a journey of self-learning, or me studying Turkish so that when I met Baba we had a common language? To be fair, many in Michigan had come to realize how remarkable Baba was. Thus the thought of losing him was even more frightening. With every death and funeral throughout the 1980s, we were reminded that Baba would

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not be sitting next to us forever. The commemoration in 1987 of the 65th anniversary of Baba’s becoming a dervish was such an event, predicated on love and fear of impending loss and on the building of Baba’s mausoleum. Interestingly, it was sponsored by the women who had helped Baba when he was still a dervish, that is, before September 1954. These twelve women were from the generation of the founders of the tekke and the generation of their daughters and included Kile Selfo, Sally Negip, Marion Toptani, Nake Premtaj, Zymbruk Zagari, Lumturi Bardha, Fatmire Cakrani Metaj, Hatixhe Mahmoud Tsungu, Zejnep Adam, Nekije Peshkopia, and Zejnep Çuçi. The initiative appears to have come from Zonja Zejnepe, or at least in discussion with her, for the original notice was in her handwriting. Zoti Xhevat also played an important role. There were more funerals and Baba’s health was more problem-filled. Zoti Fadil Duro, who had helped out at the tekke for many years, died in 1987. Then in 1989 Zoti Xhevat died. In December we had a full memorial at the tekke. At the beginning of the commemoration, the head of the Tekke Commission noted that Xhevat’s death was a loss for all Albanians, but especially for Baba who had known him most of his life. Baba read the Chapter of Ya Sin from the Qur’an, followed by a prayer in Albanian. But the longer eulogy that Baba had written for his friend, he could not read. In his stead, his sister Zonja Zejnepe read it. In our hearts we were concerned about Baba. Like Baba Bajram, here was yet another friend who had died. But at some level, I think Xhevat knew that he would go first, and Baba knew this too. Still any funeral and memorial brought up our underlying fear for Baba’s health. He had problems with his eyes, with skin cancers, and with an ongoing heart condition. Taking Baba to doctors became regular outings. With checkups, Baba managed to distract us from medical matters at hand. Baba did not have difficulty with waiting. So much in the world reminded him of Sufi poetry and understanding. At one visit to a clinic, Baba watched the electronic door open and close several times, and then broke into verse in Turkish: The legalists pray We sit and drink wine,

toward the mihrab of the mosque. “My Friend is the threshold; the qibla, Thy face.”

The couplet contrasts Sunni and mystic ways. While the Sunni Muslims pray, bowing down in the mosque toward the mihrab that shows the direction to Mecca, the mystics praise God. And like the threshold that the unknowing step on but which does not complain, so should they be. As for the direction of their prayer, it is toward their murshid. The electronic door of the clinic had reminded Baba of the “threshold” of the verse. It has long been Bektashi practice not to step on the threshold, for in addition, there is the saying of the Prophet: “I am the city of knowledge, and Ali is its gateway,” that is, its threshold.



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24. Baba walking in the basement of the Michigan tekke with his sister, 1987. Courtesy of Manny Crisostomo, photographer.

Or after yet another visit to a clinic, as Baba sat back in the front seat of my car, I buckled the seat belt around him. He spoke to me, asking why I tied him in, for most assuredly it was he who had tied me to him as my teacher. On that trip, after visiting the doctor, I took Baba for a meal at my small apartment. As Baba entered the door, he opened his arms and said a prayer. Then almost as soon as he was seated on the white sofa by the sliding window door, ducks came. They were wild ducks that my son had put corn out for earlier that morning. I worked preparing the meal. I needed parsley and mint for the salad, and as I went toward the sliding window door, behind which I had a small garden, I noticed that the ducks were all lying down in the grass. They had never done that before. Baba was peaceful and so were they. I didn’t want to disturb them, so as I went out the door, I said quietly, “I am just coming to get parsley and mint. Stay where you are.” And they stayed. In 1990 Baba embarked on another way to try to secure succession at the tekke. He invited the Dede Baba, the head Bektashi leader, to come visit and make him a halife, the next step on the clerical hierarchy. As a halife, Baba could make a dervish a baba. That is, he would have the right to do this, just as Sirri Baba had sent him the ijazet or decree making him a baba years earlier. At this

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time, the Dede Baba was a Turk named Bedri Noyan whose father before him had been a dede baba. Thus Bedri Dede was of the branch of the Bektashis that married. He and Baba had long corresponded. Both preferred to write in Ottoman Turkish. As Baba’s eyes got worse, it fell to me to write the letters that Baba dictated. And so I wrote the invitation to the Dede Baba in February 1990. It had all the graceful formality of Ottoman correspondence. It wasn’t until the third paragraph that Baba broached the main subject of inviting the Dede Baba to visit our tekke and conduct the necessary ceremony. From this, the Dede Baba would understand that Baba wanted to be made a halife. In the next paragraph he also made delicately clear that we would send the ticket and additional support. Through similar formal correspondence, it was agreed that the Dede Baba would come in late May of that year. The weekend before the arrival of the Dede Baba I went to the tekke to help Baba with correspondence that had piled up. But I could tell that Baba’s attention was elsewhere. Baba explained that the Dede Baba would arrive in New York the coming Wednesday. There he would be greeted by people from the Balli Kombëtar who would help him in the large airport and make sure he got to the plane for Detroit. Then on Thursday, May 24, we would have a welcoming dinner and muhabbet at the tekke. I should write a nefes in honor of his coming. Baba’s eyes shone as he told me this. Clearly the arrival of such a distinguished guest merited the most gracious of welcomes. But my heart sank. How was I to write an appropriate poem in Turkish? I had written a few poems in English, but was no master in my own language, let alone my third language. So Baba helped me and as I came up with lines, he would comment on them. Early on I decided that the refrain would appropriately be “Bedri Noyan Dede Baba.” There is even a poetic form where the refrain is the second line of each couplet. That would fill in quite a bit. I wanted “America” in the poem, and made it as narrative as possible, but it was hard going. I was most grateful when the Dervish called us to lunch. “Uydurmalı,” said Baba as he stood up to go for the meal. “It must be worked on.” So I worked on it. The next week I came on Tuesday because I knew that Thursday, which was the day Baba and I usually had our lesson, Baba would not be free. The Dede Baba would already be there. When I came into the study room, I saw a paper napkin, both sides of which were filled with writing in Ottoman Turkish. Baba sat down in his brown leather chair and then explained to me. “I was sitting here when it came to me.” He had greatly improved on the rough draft of my poem. “It is more literary,” noted Baba. It was four stanzas, the first stanza in the form I had chosen of constant refrains, but the last three stanzas in more standard form, with the refrain only at the end of the quatrains. But then I showed Baba what I had worked out. It was better than the previous Saturday’s draft, but nowhere near Baba’s. He nodded.



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I thought for a few minutes. Then I decided. “Baba, I do not want the Dede Baba to think that I am someone I am not.” So Baba helped polish my simpler poem. When I stood up to give it at the session of muhabbet that Thursday, I was nervous. The few people there who understood Turkish would know it was simple. But I think the Dede Baba felt welcomed. In any case, his beautiful manners and the Bektashi way prevented anything other than thankful smiles. But this was just the beginning of the poetry. The Dede Baba stayed with us for a month. He seemed to thrive on life at the tekke. His experience in Turkey had been quite different since all the Sufi Orders had been closed by Atatürk in 1925. He of course knew the ceremonies and was practiced in muhabbet, but these had all had to be conducted behind closed doors in private homes and with some care. In Turkey the Dede Baba by profession had been a medical doctor. He was now retired. But throughout his career he had written many articles for Turkish newspapers on Bektashism, and several books, the most famous on the relation of Bektashis and Alevis in Turkey (Noyan 1998). The changing attitude toward Bektashism in Turkey was in no small measure thanks to him, although there were others who had also been good representatives of Bektashism.

25. The author, Rexheb Baba, Dede Baba Bedri Noyan, and Dervish Arshi at the Michigan tekke, after Baba was made a halife, 1990.

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The main purpose of the Dede Baba’s visit was to conduct the private ceremony in the meydan that would make Baba a halife. This was done. On June 24, 1990, there was a formal dinner to celebrate the elevation of Baba to halife, which occasioned another flurry of poetry. Baba wrote a fine nefes in honor of the Dede Baba and in thanks for his making him a halife. The Dede Baba answered with a longer poem of his own, whose refrain was Șükür gördüm Recep Ferdi Babayı, that is, “I give thanks that I saw Rexheb Ferdi Baba.” It was most laudatory and showed that he had learned about Baba’s life and what he had encountered. He wrote it of course in Turkish. For the ceremony, however, Baba translated it into Albanian, so in the program, we included both the Turkish poem from the Dede Baba and the Albanian translation. Before he left America, the Dede Baba also wrote a nefes for me. I had been doing a lot of translating for him during his visit. I was most honored. Now if we could only find a suitable younger dervish, Baba could make him a baba. But that was not to be.

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With Baba in the Beyond “I Will Always Be with You” Baba’s Last Days and Journey Back “Thursdays with Baba” The early 1990s were times of change. Baba’s health had been slowly declining, but we had unconsciously adjusted to it. What woke many of us up was the passing of Zoti Qani during Matem of 1994. He was the last of the original founders of the tekke to die. It was Zoti Qani who had found the farm property in the first place back in the early 1950s. When word came that Zoti Qani was in the funeral home, Baba was sitting in his leather chair in the front room of the tekke’s new wing. He paused, and then shook his head with sadness. We all knew Baba’s love for Zoti Qani and his family. But because Baba never complained, we had not realized how weakened he had become. He physically could not go. He rose unsteadily, and with the walker, slowly made his way to his bedroom. There he would rest and pray for Zoti Qani. The early 1990s had seen the fall of the Communist regime and the opening up of Albania. While the rest of Eastern Europe had sloughed off Communist governments in the late 1980s, Albania had not done so. But there had been signs of loosening. There were unofficial visits of religious leaders, and with pressure, religious services began to be held again (Trix 1995). The first public religious service was conducted by a Catholic priest for a crowd of some 5,000 Catholics and Muslims who had gathered in a cemetery in Shkodra in November 1990. The authorities immediately arrested the priest for illegally worshipping in public, but the people of that northern city, Catholic and Muslim alike, surrounded the building where the priest was held and forced his release. The following Sunday he performed mass, reportedly for 50,000 people. The next month the law against public practice of religion in Albania was rescinded. At the tekke we understood that changes were occurring when Zonja Zej­ nepe began to receive phone calls from relatives in Albania. These had been unthinkable in the past. One time I was in her apartment when such a call came.

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It did not last long, but when she put the receiver down, she said in utter astonishment that her nephew had just said inshallah, “if God so wills.” Such language had been outlawed since 1967. Things were indeed changing. People from Albania began to visit the tekke in Michigan. From them we heard gruesome stories: prison sentences of seven years for hearsay allegations and internal exile for three generations of a family for the alleged actions of one member. After my own visit to Albania and listening to many people there, it became clear that in Communist times, if one were competent, one was suspect. People had learned to accommodate to the system to survive. But what had this done to Albanian cultural values like that of besa, where one’s word of honor had been more valued than one’s life? What had this done to the strong family structure when people had been intimidated to report on those close to them? The State had tried to replace all loyalties with loyalty to itself. The worst stories were those of religious leaders and people of conscience— their imprisonments, tortures, staged trials, executions, or endless years in labor camps. Baba had few illusions about what had gone on in his homeland and the human and cultural desecration it had wrought. Baba Bajram Mahmutaj, who had spent a total of 32 years in prison and labor camps in Albania, came at this time to stay at the tekke in Michigan. We hoped that the peacefulness and rhythm of daily life in our tekke would soothe his soul. But he had suffered too much. He returned to Albania and soon died there. During this time of change in Eastern Europe, daily life at the tekke in Michigan remained the same. Baba would rise early in the morning, pray, and then go downstairs for breakfast. He liked cornflakes for breakfast. Then, when he still could, he would go for his walk—either outside if the weather were good, or in the basement if it were cold or icy. The morning was a time for writing letters, for lessons with me, and for getting things done. The midday meal was the main meal of the day. Often people dropped in, and it was not uncommon to have ten or fifteen for this meal. After praying at the end of the meal, Baba would go back upstairs and take a short nap. He would read until people began to come in the late afternoon for blessings, for advice, or just for company. Dinner was not a large meal. Baba might watch the evening news on the television. He would pray and then go to bed early in the evening. Day in, day out, this was the rhythm of life at the tekke. But there was also a special quality to daily life at the tekke. In the last year of Baba’s life, on September 8, 1994, I came back from a Thursday at the tekke and wrote down immediately all I could remember. That morning I arrived to find Dervish Arshi outside watering the flowers by the tekke with a hose. Flowers often bloomed well into the fall in the protected area behind the tekke. Dervish greeted me, asked about my son Pasha



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who was in school, and then pointed toward Zonja Zejnepe’s apartment, signaling that Baba was there. I went to Zonja Zejnepe’s apartment, where I greeted Baba and Zonja Zej­ nepe. Baba wanted to return to the tekke. As Baba and I set out to cross over to the tekke, he with his walker and me on his right side, I couldn’t help but think how he used to walk all the way to Andy’s Farm Market and back. Now he walked much more slowly. I said to Baba that it was such a beautiful day. I noted how good the sun felt and motioned to the back of his neck, where, as he stooped forward with the walker, he could feel it best. Baba paused in his short steps. He then broke out in a quatrain in Persian. “What does it mean?” I asked. Baba explained to me in Turkish. “Fire, water, air, and earth, the four elements, but what is truly good is the mystic way.” “Who wrote it,” I asked. “Arshi Baba,” answered Baba. “He was of Diyarbakır [in southeastern Turkey], but his grave was in Gjirokastra.” “That is a long way from Diyarbakır,” I said. “Is he in your book?” I asked. “Yes.” Baba then reached the steps of the tekke. “We have arrived,” he said in Turkish in relief and then slowly ascended the stairs, holding to the railing with both hands. Up inside the tekke we entered the vestibule and I took off my shoes. We walked into the main room of the tekke where the blue carpet and pale walls were so peaceful. “How calming is the tekke!” I remarked. “As much as there is calm in this world,” responded Baba. Slowly he made his way to his chair where a white lambskin was spread out waiting for him. Zoti Gani came upstairs and helped him sit down. “Would you like a chair to put your legs on, Baba?” we asked. Baba nodded and we put his feet up on a chair to rest them. “I have a question for you, Rejep Effendi,” I said to Baba. This was one of the oldest ways I prefaced questions to Baba. It came from the first line of a Turkish quatrain that Baba had told me many years ago in the old kitchen, in which the first couplet is an attempt to corner the addressee in heresy: I have a question for you, Rejep Effendi. Is Ali God or is he not God? You have asked me the ancient secret, I wonder, is he an unbeliever or is he not?

But the second couplet, the response, is a clever acknowledgment of the intent of the first speaker, followed by its implication, but no direct answer. The

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quatrain plays on Baba’s name, for “Rejep” in Turkish is the same as “Rexheb” in Albanian. In any case, the first line of this had become my way of introducing questions. Baba answered, “Go ahead.” I explained to Baba that in the Hadiqat—for I was still trying to get a clean copy of Baba’s translation so we could get it published—a book was mentioned whose title made no sense to me. It was clearly an Arabic title—nurul eimmic—as it had been poorly typed from Baba’s now lost manuscript. “What should this be,” I asked, “the light of what?” For the first word, combined with word order, made it clear it was “the light of something.” Baba asked how the second word was spelled. I spelled out what I knew to be meaningless. Baba thought. “How is it in Fuzuli, in the original?” he asked. I found Fuzuli’s book in Ottoman Turkish, located the tenth chapter, but my Ottoman was not good enough to find the phrase, especially since it had been garbled. Then using the magnifying glass with a light on it from the eye clinic, I showed Baba the line in the poorly typed version of the Hadiqat. Baba said nothing. Zoti Gani brought us coffee. He gave Baba his cup. As he handed me mine, Baba said, “nur ul-a’imma,” that is, “the light of the Imams.” It was an Arabic broken plural, transliterated through Ottoman Turkish to Albanian. As we drank the coffee, I asked Baba if we could read about Arshi Baba whose quatrain he had recited outside on the way to the tekke. Baba agreed. I

26. Baba reading a letter at the Michigan tekke, 1987. Photograph by Manny Crisostomo. By permission of The Detroit Free Press.



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found the section on Arshi Baba in Baba’s book on Islamic mysticism and began to read aloud in Albanian. It seems Arshi Baba was from much earlier times than I had thought. He had lived in the 1600s and had gone to Gjirokastra to spread Bektashism, where people had liked him. He had died there and been buried in the Cfakë section of the town. “What does Cfakë mean,” I asked. “Fate, destiny,” answered Baba. Also, as Baba had said, he was originally from Diyarbakır. “Did dervishes travel a lot?” I asked, for Diyarbakır was very far from Gjirokastra. “For punishment,” answered Baba. “Their murshids would send them away for 40 days, to reflect and come to their senses.” “But Diyarbakır is much further than 40 days,” I noted, “more like several months.” “Yes,” said Baba. “Like Ali Haqi Baba’s trip from Elbasan in Albania to Haji Bektash in Anatolia,” I suggested. That took six months, maybe more. Baba again broke out in poetry. It was another quatrain by Arshi Baba, this one in Turkish, about setting out on the true path, and getting started, for the morning had come, time to rise and get up. Baba said that he knew this nefes by Arshi Baba because his divan, his book of collected poetry, had been at the Tekke of Pebbles in Albania. “But the book must have been so old,” I remarked. “Yes,” said Baba. But of course Baba had not seen this book for many decades. Still the memory of quatrains from this book had come to him. In another vein, I asked Baba if there were ever people who wanted to become dervishes, but didn’t make it. “Sure, for whatever reasons,” answered Baba. “They just became kalenders,” he continued. That is, wandering holy men, not dervishes. It seems living in such tight community is much more demanding than many would suppose. I asked if there were dervishes who became dervishes later in life, after marriage and children. “Yes,” answered Baba, “those who had knowingly become tired of the world. There were some.” Baba then paused, put his head back, and said, “Like D- D- D- Dervish Osman.” Baba stuttered in imitation of how that particular dervish had talked. Before he had become a dervish, he had bought goods in Gjirokastra and sold them to the north in Dervishan. People used to say of him, “He is here, but his thoughts are in Dervishan.” I asked if most dervishes were like Baba, that is they had taken their vows when they were young. “Most of them, but there were older ones too.” Then Baba added most seri-

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ously, “Whenever the hidayet, the guidance, came to them, however that was.” After all, the Prophet Muhammad, on whom be peace, had first received the Word of God when he was 40 years old. When it was noon we went down for the midday meal. We made a small procession down the stairs. Baba was first, with Zoti Gani helping him. Then came Zonja Zejnepe, Eduard who was Baba’s grandnephew, and me. At the table, Zonja Zejnepe helped him into his chair at the head of the table. I put the green towel over his lap, and she put the other one on, and then we gently pushed his chair in, while Zoti Gani arranged the plates and soup and spoon so Baba could easily reach them. I greeted Joanna, the Greek cook. We had a good meal. There was lemon egg soup with little meatballs of rice, meat, and parsley. Then turkey, “Pasha’s meal,” as Zonja Zejnepe put it, referring to my son who liked turkey. There was dressing that Zonja Bajame had made, salad, carrots and broccoli, and a special eggplant dish. I told Joanna that I wanted her to tell me how to make the eggplant dish. Eduard smiled, saying, “You like this?” I told him that I did. I said that I only knew its name in Turkish—imam bağıldı—“the imam fainted.” Joanna said it was called that in Greek too. I said that people had explained its name to me in two ways: either the imam had fainted because the dish was so good, or he had fainted because his wife had used up half a year’s supply of oil in making it. People talked on. For dessert there was watermelon and cantaloupe. Baba then put his hands, one on top of the other, together on the table. Immediately there was silence. He prayed in Albanian the prayer that begins, “Praised be He who nourishes us, and whom we thank.” As I left the kitchen, Joanna handed me some turkey in a bag to take home for my son. People went upstairs, but no one wanted to leave. We all went back in the front room. I asked Baba if we could read more from his book, from the beginning of the second part. Baba nodded. So I began reading aloud in Albanian on how Bektashism is an Islamic mystic doctrine that believes in the perfection of the human being. But immediately I had a question. “Were people ever perfect?” I asked, “or just on the way to perfection?” “Some were, some not,” answered Baba. “Like the person who said ‘I am the Truth?’ ” I asked. “Yes, like he who said ‘I am the Truth’ (al-Hallaj),” replied Baba. I read on how Bektashism is that solitary mystic way that puts aside pursuit of tastes of this world and is endowed with love of God. Bektashism believes in covering the sins of others, the way Ali did. “Like the hayderiye,” I remarked, for Baba had earlier told me the significance of the long-sleeved coat he wore. The simplicity of its outer cloth reflected the dervish vow of poverty, while the inside lining symbolized covering the sins of others. Baba again told how Hazreti Ali



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had been walking one day, and through a hole in the wall of a courtyard saw a man and a woman doing something they should not have been doing. He then picked up a large rock and put it in the hole to block it, so people could not see through from the outside. I said again to Baba how unusual I found this, that other religions spoke of revealing one’s sins, not covering them. “Our way is thus,” said Baba. “Why?” I asked. Baba responded, “The weaknesses of people are numerous. If they are made known, they will get used to them and do them more. If they are covered, they may do them less.” It also fit well with the Bektashi way of protecting the dignity of others. Baba continued, “In any case, such are the attributes or Names of God: ‘the Forgiver of sins,’ ‘the Coverer of the shameful.’ That is, He forgives the sins of others; He covers their short-comings.” I asked if other Sufi Orders were like this too? “I don’t know,” said Baba matter of factly, “I would think so.” Then he cited a couplet: To follow what Hazreti Ali has done and what the Lord of All-Truth has said.

I interpolated, “That means that each person should work with his or her own sins so that they are no more.” Baba nodded. Finally I had to leave. I stood up, took Baba’s hand in mine, kissed it, and brought it to my forehead. “Eyvallah, Baba,” I said. I shook hands with all others present, and then backing out of the room, said to Baba in the traditional Turkish leave-taking, “Allaha ısmarladık” (we have commanded you to God). To which Baba gave the traditional Turkish response, “Güle, güle” (Go happily). Such was one Thursday with Baba at the tekke in that last year. The following spring Baba took ill and was rushed to the local hospital. We all went to visit him there, but the doctors did not know what was wrong with him. So he was taken by ambulance to the larger university hospital near where I lived, and put in Intensive Care. There were long days, and longer nights. Thanks to prayers from Bektashis in Albania, Turkey, Belgium, Australia, Canada, and America, Baba survived internal bleeding, but he did not get better. After enough time in the hospital, we brought him home to the tekke. The doctors in the hospital thought that at most Baba had three weeks to live. But they did not know that the main holiday of Ashura was coming. We knew Baba would want to hold on at least until Ashura. The holiday fell in early June that year. Baba had not gotten out of bed in many weeks, but he insisted on being put in the wheelchair and taken to the meydan to conduct the private Ashura ceremony. I watched his face as he was put in the wheelchair, and I knew

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27. Praying in Baba Rexheb’s türbe, Taylor, Michigan, 2004. Courtesy of Linda Wan, photographer.

he did this at great cost. As usual, he was showing us what mattered. To the surprise of the doctors, Baba lived through the rest of June and all of July. He would lie there in the hospital bed we had brought into his room. In the early weeks, when he was conscious, he could still speak. We would sit quietly next to him. If he opened his eyes, we would be able to talk with him for a short period of time. It was during one of these peaceful times that I asked Baba what he considered his most important work. “To tell the world about Bektashism,” he said simply. Later, he could not talk, but he could still hear. We would sit next to his bed and talk gently. If you held his hand, sometimes he could press down on your hand to let you know he heard. On the wall in front of his bed was the picture of Selim Ruhi Baba, his murshid. Baba could not see it anymore, but he knew it was there. The south window of his bedroom faced back across the parking lot to the türbe where Baba would be buried. He could not see that either, but he knew it was there. One day I was sitting quietly next to Baba. He was asleep. The sunlight from the south window fell on me, and as I looked out at the still empty türbe, I remembered a time maybe ten years earlier, before the türbe was built, when Baba and I had been talking about türbes. Baba had told me that inside the türbe



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the sarcophagus should be made out of stone that came to an upside down vee along its length. Covering the stone would be a thick green cloth, and at its head, a replica of the taj, Baba’s headpiece, in stone. There would be candles to one side that people could light in prayer and supplication. And in Albania there had been a long chain from inside the dome of the türbe. Suspended from that chain would be a lamp with a wick and olive oil. At night it would be lit. Baba had told me he would work to get permission to build such a türbe here. If they gave permission, then he would be buried in it, and people could see what the old ways were like. I had interjected that I didn’t want to see this all that much. Baba had understood immediately. He had told me that I was young, but that this would come. “As for you, when I will be buried, if I die, I die; you will still be healthy, and I will be with you. After my death, I will still be with you. Have no worry in that regard.” At this I kissed Baba. He paused. Then he added, “But this time will come, most certainly.” On August 10, 1995, around one o’clock in the afternoon, with Zoti Mynur by his side, this time came. Baba passed from this world. It was Thursday.

Baba’s Funeral and Our Journey “To your light we bow” In my early years of study with Baba, I had come one day to the tekke to find that Baba was not there. I assumed he had gone on his walk and so drove slowly down Northline Road. But Baba was not along the road. Nor was he at Andy’s Farm Market. Where else could he be? There was the bank along the road where the tekke kept its funds. Sometimes Baba would stop there on the way back. But he was not there either. Had he gone as far as the large grocery store on Allen Road? I did not find him there either. Finally I saw him by a meat market and gratefully took the purchases from his arms and opened the door of my car for him. What I remember most of this time was going from place to place and looking for Baba with increasing concern and worry. Baba several times told me the story of Fuzuli and Abdul Mu’min Dede, his murshid. In 16th century Baghdad, Fuzuli had written Hadiqat al-Su‘ada (The Garden of the Martyrs) which for hundreds of years Bektashis had read aloud during the ten days of Matem and which Baba had translated into Albanian. But the story was of Fuzuli’s youth and how he finally found his murshid. It seems that Abdul Mu’min Dede, a renowned spiritual leader of Baghdad, would stop off at a small jewelry store on the way back to his tekke. Abdul Mu’min Dede never bought anything there; he would just come in to sit awhile and talk with the jeweler and his young assistant, Fuzuli. The real reason Abdul

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Mu’min Dede made these stops was he understood that the young assistant was meant to be in his tekke, but he said nothing regarding this. Meanwhile his visits to the jewelry store became a daily occurrence, and the jeweler, while always most polite to Abdul Mu’min Dede’s face, felt that the visits were interfering with other customers. So he decided to put hot coals in a metal container underneath the chair where they could not be seen but where Abdul Mu’min Dede always sat. This way Abdul Mu’min Dede would understand discretely that he should move on. It was the young assistant, Fuzuli, who was charged with setting this in place as soon as he saw Abdul Mu’min Dede coming down the street. To their surprise, Abdul Mu’min Dede sat in his place that day as if nothing were amiss. He stayed even longer than usual. When he finally left, they went to look at the coals and found them still hot and the seat so hot that they could not touch it with their hands. How had he sat there without getting burned? At this the young assistant wondered. He thought, if this is so, this must be someone truly remarkable. I need to go to him, to visit him at the tekke. But in order to increase his longing, the dervishes at the tekke would not allow Fuzuli to come inside the gate. Finally one day, they let him in the tekke, but Abdul Mu’min Dede was not there. He had gone to visit others. But he had left word where he would be staying along the way. So Fuzuli set out to find Abdul Mu’min Dede at the first stop on his journey. He arrived there in the evening only to find that the Dede had been there, but he had traveled on to the next lodging place. So the next day Fuzuli set off for that place, only to learn that indeed Abdul Mu’min Dede had been there, but again he had left before Fuzuli arrived. Fuzuli went on to the next place. Again he just missed Abdul Mu’min Dede. So on he went, from place to place, never getting there in time to see Abdul Mu’min Dede. Finally he climbed the stairs of the last place up to the roof to try to see the Dede on the road. But he did not see him. He was exhausted and ready to give up, so he stepped off the roof. At that moment Abdul Mu’min Dede opened his arms. Fuzuli found himself in the arms of his teacher. “Just as Pasha throws himself on my lap, so Fuzuli greeted his teacher,” added Baba. Indeed my young son could not wait to see Baba and would run across the room at breakneck speed to jump into his lap. “Dervish!” proclaimed Abdul Mu’min Dede to his new disciple. And Fuzuli soon took his vows and never left his master. And he wrote a gazel or lyric poem about this, of his suffering in seeking his murshid. How whenever he arrived at a place, his master had just left. How the firmaments burned with his sighs, from his desire alone would a candle not burn? Why had he not given remedy? Or did he, the murshid, the beloved, think he, the lovesick, was just fine? How he had tried to keep his misery to himself, but others had told his master of this. If he were to tell the master, would he



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believe him or not? The dark night of separation burned his soul. His eyes cried with blood. His cries wakened the people, would this not awaken a better fate? It was not he who had first sought him, but it was the master who had been drawn to him. To see this fellow following after him everywhere, did that not embarrass him? Fuzuli had become a wandering lover, one that all the people made fun of. Only ask, who was his love? Have you, the beloved master, not had enough of this? There is much hyperbole in Fuzuli’s poem. But certain details still stand out. Indeed it was Abdul Mu’min Dede who had sought out Fuzuli. Also, Fuzuli’s agony had been worse since it had been he who had subjected Abdul Mu’min Dede to the heat and indignity of the burning coals. Baba explained that this would be chanted in all tekkes because it described so well the longing and love for the teacher in images that were well understood as images of spiritual longing. I am reminded of this story when I think of Baba’s time in America and his passing. Although Baba was deeply loved by many in the community, for some this love had grown gradually over the years. The initial months had not been easy in New York or Michigan. Like Abdul Mu’min Dede, Baba had recognized us before we knew him. And when Baba passed from this material world, our journey in understanding Baba’s place and purpose had truly begun. It would not be an easy journey, but that is another story. When we gathered on a hot day in August for Baba’s funeral, we did not know what was ahead. We had all known that this day would come, but still we were not ready for it. The tekke was full to bursting with people who had come from near and far. Earlier, the news of Baba’s passing on the afternoon of August 10 had spread rapidly. Within an hour, the tekke was full of people in tears and crying. Cables, telegrams, and flowers began arriving. The Tekke Commission met and established the order of speakers at the funeral, for there were many who wanted to speak. We held the funeral in the basement hall of the tekke because we could not bear to have Baba away from the tekke for any length of time. He was laid out in a casket there. People gathered by the hundreds, early on the day of the funeral, until they had filled all the chairs, and were lining the walls and stairways and outside the tekke. First Baba Reshat, head of the Bektashis in Albania, gave the welcoming prayer. He was followed by Baba Selim from Albania, Baba Bajram Mahmutaj, who had spent so many years in prison and labor camps, and Dervish Arshi, Baba’s devoted dervish who had served Baba in Michigan for 40 years. Then Father Nicholas Liolin, the priest of St. Thomas, the Orthodox Church for Albanians in the Detroit area, addressed us. He noted simply that Baba had taught through

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his actions, by the way he lived. Then two Albanian Roman Catholic priests, Dom Ndre Kçirra and Dom Ndre Vasha, spoke. Dom Ndre Vasha recalled how Baba had publicly stated the need for an Albanian Roman Catholic Church in Detroit before it was established, and how supportive he had been. The priests were followed by Imam Vehbi Ismail of the Albanian Islamic Center of Detroit and Imam Isa Hoxha who led the Islamic Center in the New York and New Jersey area. Imam Vehbi Ismail recalled how he had known Baba in Egypt before either he or Baba came to America. After the religious leaders, the politicians spoke. First the Albanian Ambassador to the UN, Pëllumb Kulla, followed by Mustafa Xhefa, the first secretary of the Albanian Embassy in Washington, DC. Then Azem Hajdari, a member of the Albanian Parliament, spoke. He had been one of the student leaders of the democratic movement in Albania in 1990 and a founding member of the Democratic Party there. In two years time he would be shot six times inside the Albanian Parliament but would survive, only to be gunned down a year later as he stepped outside Democratic Party headquarters in Tirana. I talked to him after the funeral and voiced concern for him. But his concern was for his country. Baba would have respected that. Tanush Frashëri, the Deputy Minister of Work, Immigration, Social Assistance, and the ex-Persecuted also spoke. Baba would have approved of his speaking, for many who had been persecuted by the Communist party had been his friends. After the politicians from overseas, those from the political groups in the Albanian diaspora spoke. There was Agim Karagjozi, the Chairman of Vatra, the earliest Albanian organization that had been founded in Massachusetts in 1907, and six persons from the organization, including the Vice-Chairman. But as Baba had insisted that the tekke not be partisan, Guri Demollari, Chairman of the Royalist Party, also spoke, and the Secretary of the Balli Kombëtar. Gjovalin Gegaj of an American branch of the Democratic League of Kosova told how Baba had always worked with them in the Albanian Aid Society, and how he supported their work for Kosova. This was the time just before the Dayton Peace Accords, when Kosovar Albanians still hoped that their nonviolent movement in opposition to Serb oppression would be recognized by other nations. They would be disappointed. It saddened me that even at the end of Baba’s life, Albanians in the Balkans would remain in jeopardy. Finally we got to our local tekke people. Shaban Shemsedini, head of the Tekke Commission, recounted the story of Baba’s life. Shaban’s leadership would be essential for the future of the tekke. Then Husni Aliko spoke. He had been in the Displaced Persons Camps with Baba in Italy. Then I spoke as Baba’s student. I gave a personal Bektashi account of Baba, how he had taught, ending with the image of Baba at the head of the table in the kitchen where he prayed for us all. Ekrem Bardha, who had been head of the Tekke Commission in the past,



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28. Baba Arshi in formal Bektashi garb at the Michigan tekke, 2004. Courtesy of Linda Wan, photographer.

told how fortunate we had been to have Baba with us for almost 50 years. Eduard Laze, Baba’s grandnephew, spoke about his great-uncle, whom he had heard about in Albania, but whom he had only recently met. A representative from the University of Tetova in Macedonia spoke. And finally Dr. Fillor Çaushaj, an Albanian-American surgeon who practiced in the Boston area, spoke. His father had been an early supporter of Baba in New York City. I remembered when Fillor had come to the tekke to study for his medical board exams. He spoke simply

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and eloquently of Baba. In all, 23 people spoke at the funeral. We listened, but in our hearts, we also feared the separation that would soon come. After the speeches and last prayers were over, we lined up to pay our personal respects to Baba as he lay in the coffin. When this endless line finished, the men came to lift the coffin. I handed the rocks I had brought back from Baba’s tekke in southern Albania to a man who was holding onto the coffin. Carrying the coffin and the actual burial were only for men. “Please put these in with Baba,” I begged. I was deeply honored that Baba had chosen to be buried in Michigan and thereby make our land sacred. But I wanted him to be with something from his homeland that he so loved. With all of us on our feet, the men put Baba’s coffin on their shoulders and carried it upstairs for the last time and outside. The crowds parted reluctantly for them at every step. The men carried the coffin over the parking lot where Baba had walked in circles in the last years of his life. They carried Baba into the türbe where we could no longer see. Inside they must have put Baba’s coffin in the place that had been prepared, and covered it with a temporary wooden raised sarcophagus, inverted v-shaped along the length of the tomb. It would

29. Baba Arshi and the author walking toward Baba Rexheb’s türbe, Taylor, Michigan, 2004. Courtesy of Linda Wan, photographer.



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soon be replaced with a stone sarcophagus covered by a thick green cloth. Thank God we had gotten permission to bury Baba by the tekke. People talked softly to each other as they waited for the men to come out of the türbe. When they emerged, we did not know what we should do. People did not want to go home. But we were all exhausted. Many dreamed of Baba in the ensuing nights, for there is the clear understanding that as with all people, Baba was with us in a special way for 40 days. We held the Forty Day Ceremony in September. But unlike others who have passed on, with Baba, there is also the understanding that he is always with us. Baba did not “die.” In Albanian he “changed life,” or in Turkish, he “passed from this world.” Every year on August 10, we hold a special memorial for Baba. He continues to be the light of the tekke. In Albanian, Nur Baba Rexhebi, nur të qofshëm falë. “You are our light, Baba Rexheb, to your light we bow.”

Epilogue “We go, but the Way remains” Bektashis have long marked important events and relationships with poetry. The coming of a holiday, the love of one’s spiritual teacher, the desire to come closer to God—all these warrant the composing and reciting of poems. So it should come as no surprise that Baba’s epitaph was in quatrains. I came to the tekke one Thursday morning, 10 years before Baba’s passing, to find Baba, his sister, Zonja Zejnepe, and his oldest friend, Zoti Xhevat, all sitting close together in the old study room. As I walked up the stairs from the back entrance, I could hear Zonja Zejnepe reading aloud in Albanian, something about visiting a sainted place and saying a Fatiha (the opening prayer of the Qur’an) for a baba. As I entered the room, Zonja Zejnepe voiced her approval, presumably of what she had just read. “It is like Baba—humble. I prefer this one. It says it all, all that should be said,” she added with finality. But Zoti Xhevat did not seem in agreement. In fact he looked hurt. I greeted Baba, Zonja Zejnepe, and Zoti Xhevat. Then I asked politely what they were discussing. Apparently the previous week Zoti Xhevat had suggested the writing of an inscription that would be affixed to Baba’s türbe when the time came. The previous month ground had been broken and construction had begun on the türbe. This may have seemed unduly early, but it had taken so long for the city to give permission to bury Baba by the tekke that when it was obtained, people moved fast to build the mausoleum before the city could change its mind. So Baba had set about writing the inscription. He had then shown his work to Zoti Xhevat, who had “elaborated” on Baba’s text in a longer version. That morning they had been reading aloud the two versions with Zonja Zejnepe as arbiter. She had come down in favor of Baba’s earlier one, to the consternation of Zoti Xhevat. But now with me present, they again read aloud in Albanian both Baba’s earlier version and Zoti Xhevat’s later one. Baba’s was three stanzas long, and it was indeed simple and direct. The first stanza began: This sacred place was built and adorned for Baba To show the people’s love for him and their gratitude.

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The Sufi Journey of Baba Rexheb Baba worked for them for thirty-two years; He does not forget his love and compassion for them.

By the time Baba passed on, he had worked 42 years for the people, but the number could easily be changed. Baba’s middle stanza then described the türbe as “a work of remembrance to make the tekke live on,” one that the Lord would appreciate and not forget, and one that should stand eternal. Baba’s last stanza was directed to those who would visit the türbe, telling them how they should say a Fatiha for him, and direct their minds in true worship so that the Lord would have them always in His heart. It was indeed unadorned and to the point. Then Zoti Xhevat read aloud his version which was one stanza longer. The first line was the same as Baba’s, but the second line brought out Bektashism, which Baba had implied but never mentioned directly. This sacred place was built and adorned for Baba. This symbol of Bektashism sanctifies him forever. It shows the great love that people have for him, The high regard our Murshid enjoys.

As Zoti Xhevat finished reading the last line above, Baba commented, “It’s not bad there.” It was an honest compliment, and I could see Zoti Xhevat’s face relax some. Zoti Xhevat then read the second stanza about Baba himself, something that Baba had not included, perhaps out of modesty, since such lines were found in most inscriptions for türbes. He devoted all his life, without tiring, without rest, To the service of the Motherland, the service of the Lord. He toiled for all the people from his heart; Always he led them with loving kindness.

After hearing this, I commented that indeed Baba had never had a vacation. Furthermore, it had been essential to Baba that he work for all the people, not just those of a particular region or political affiliation. It was good that this was included. Zoti Xhevat read on. His third stanza was similar to Baba’s middle stanza in that it focused on the türbe and its place in the community. Here again, Zoti Xhevat mentioned Haji Bektash Veli directly. This türbe makes the tekke forever immortal, A sanctuary from generation to generation it remains. Those who support it will be highly honored,



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And Pir Haji Bektash will bless each one.

The mood in the study room had changed. It was quite positive as Zoti Xhevat read the fourth stanza. This was word for word the same as Baba’s last stanza, and so met full approval. Each time you visit this most sainted place, Direct your mind to true worship. Do not forget a Fatiha for Baba who changed life, So that the Lord have you always in His heart.

Thus Zoti Xhevat’s expanded version of Baba’s text became the epitaph that Baba approved. I saved this in my notebook, and when the time came, after Baba’s passing, I gave it to Zoti Aslan who had it printed in metal and affixed to the wall in front of the fountain of the türbe. Traditionally, a baba did not write his own türbe inscription; rather it would be written by the baba who succeeded him. But in the mid-1980s we had no idea who would succeed Baba, and as it turned it, it was wise to have it written in advance. During the lesson that day, I asked Baba if the türbes in Gjirokastra had such inscriptions. “Always,” answered Baba. Then he recalled part of the inscription that had been on the wall inside the türbe of Asim Baba, the founder of the Tekke of Pebbles. “Sayyid Muhammad Asim Baba, the earth of his esteemed tomb is elixir to pain,” something to that effect. Six years later when the cotton bags of books and papers arrived from Albania, we found the handwritten inscription for Asim Baba on parchment paper, and the line Baba remembered was there. Yet to be frank, for all of us who knew Baba, the türbe inscription, while descriptive and hopeful, could not come close to our own memories. For us, the tekke and its community were Baba’s fuller memorial. Several times throughout our lessons I asked Baba what was the most important work of the tekke. Baba responded in 1986: The most important purpose of the tekke is to train and educate people how to behave, and to show them the path. That is, to all who come here, we must show them the way to be truly human. To help them bring order and harmony to their character, and to distance themselves from bad actions. This is our purpose, this our nurturance.

In a later lesson Baba added, “A tekke is a place of humanity and kindness. But what is most important is how people learn to behave. Our purpose is to help people do away with bad habits, and to provide them with models of good qualities.”

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30. Baba Arshi at the Michigan tekke, 2004. Courtesy of Linda Wan, photographer.

For most of us, it was from watching Baba, how he treated others and how he treated us, that we learned most. I remember the winter morning I came to the tekke to find a middle-aged American workman sitting next to Baba, trying to tell him something. When Baba saw me come in, he immediately asked me in Turkish what the man wanted. It was the man who plowed snow from the parking lot of the tekke. We paid him monthly during the winter for this service. But it turned out he needed additional money and he needed it that day. “How much?” I asked. Several hundred dollars. So I turned to Baba and explained in



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Turkish that he needed this much money. I added that it was probably a monthly payment for the truck. Perhaps he had lost this money in some other activity. Baba reached into the inside pocket of his hırka and drew out the money the man wanted. “Baba,” I said in Turkish, “at least get something in writing that he will pay it back.” Baba looked at me, and then handed the man the money. The man thanked Baba and left. I said to Baba that we might not see that money again. “That is possible,” answered Baba. But Baba could not teach us to cope with his passing. I think most of us turned to our memories of him. I recalled how Baba had dealt with the passing of his murshid, Selim Ruhi Baba. Baba concluded resignedly, “It did not fall my lot to be by his side.” He then fell silent. I reminded him that he had come out against the Communists at his murshid’s bidding. Baba just repeated that it had not fallen his lot to be there. Again he was silent. “But how pleased he would be that you made a tekke in America,” I said to him, hoping to raise his spirits. Baba had continued the way of Haji Bektash Veli. In the 13th century Haji Bektash had journeyed west from Khorasan, in northeast Iran, all the way to central Anatolia. Once established in Anatolia, Haji Bektash Veli had sent his halifes westward to the Balkans to take Bektashism to the people there. Then in the 20th century, Baba had continued this westward path, bringing Bektashism to America. “Oh, of course, he would have been pleased,” answered Baba, breaking out of his reverie. “ ‘Praise be to God that my child did not stay empty-handed,’ ” added Baba, speaking in the voice of his murshid, somewhat self-deprecatingly. I continued, “Baba, you brought Bektashism to my country.” Baba echoed, “To your country I brought Bektashism.” Then he sat up straighter. “Not just brought it,” said Baba. “I also explained what Bektashism was, what it is concerned with.” “Yes,” I said. “You made the tekke, you wrote books, and you taught us how we should be.” At this point Baba broke in, “I left a calling card here, a visiting card.” I laughed at the image in surprise and pleasure. Baba went on. “Isn’t that it? One goes, but he leaves his calling card that he was here.” Or, as Ali Haqi Baba put it the week he passed from this world, “Those who come, leave. We go, but the Way remains.”

Eyvallah

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31. The author and Baba Arshi on the stairs of the Michigan tekke, 2004. Courtesy of Linda Wan, photographer.

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Unpublished Sources With community-based research, there are many unpublished sources. Wherever possible I have preserved people’s words—in letters, field notes, prayers, spiritual poems, and tape recordings of dialogues. I saved anything written by Baba. Among written records, the letters in Albanian are from the time of the founding of the tekke in Michigan, 1953–54. My field notes from weekly lessons with Baba at the tekke are in 15 notebooks, dated 1972–95. They are in Turkish and English, with some Arabic and Albanian. At Baba’s request, I typed the prayers he composed in Albanian for the major Bektashi holidays of Ashura and Nevruz and for life-cycle ceremonies. I also saved the prayer Baba recited at the table and two prayers for the sick. Of the spiritual poems or nefes written by Baba, I have eight that he wrote in Ottoman Turkish while he was in Egypt and three that he wrote in Albanian in Michigan. An anomalous document is the scrapbook that Sirri Baba had put together in the early 1950s, made up of photographs and newspaper articles relating to him and the Muqattam Bektashi tekke in Cairo. It also includes a telegram from 1927, legal documents from Turkey in 1953, but mostly newspaper clippings from the 1940s and early 1950s from Cairo newspapers. I owe this source to Hajdar and Shije Shahin. As for audio material by others, I have an audio-video cassette recording of an interview conducted in 1988 by Husni Aliko and his daughter, Bukurije. I also archived two audio interviews conducted by Albanian News in Albanian and by Windsor (Canada) Radio in French. Among my own audio material, I recorded 17 interviews with people who knew Baba well, conducted in various locations (three in Cairo, one in Canada, one in Boston, seven in people’s homes in metropolitan Detroit, one at Our Lady of the Albanians Catholic Church, two at the tekke, one in a local restaurant, and one in a local hospital). But most important are the 90 audio tapes of dialogues with Baba from our weekly lessons—all conducted principally in Turkish. There are 48 tapes from my doctoral studies days, 1983–87, and 42 tapes from 1989 to 1995. I have burned these onto CDs and transcribed many. These include poetry, saint stories, spiritual advice, and experiences of earlier Bektashis, as well as Bektashi understandings. They document Baba’s beliefs and the centuries-old way he taught.

Index Abdal Musa 17, 102–3 Abdul Hamid II (Ottoman Sultan) 8 Abdullah Baba 30–32, 35, 40–41 Abdul Mu’min Dede 199–201 Adriatic Sea 9, 52, 64, 68, 79, 85, 87, 89, 95 Ahl al-Bayt 15, 114 Albania early history 8 Ottoman times 7, 28, 45, 59, 107, 171 fight for independence of 9, 58–60, 143 during World War I 60, 61, 63 inter-war years 63–66, 67, 68, 70 during World War II 6, 39, 52, 70–72, 75, 83 Communist take-over of 12, 23, 48, 52, 57, 61, 63, 71–72, 75–78, 80 Communist rule (1944–1991) 52, 80–81, 83, 84, 85–88, 93, 119, 121, 132–33, 142, 144, 152–53, 191–92 post-Communist times 202 map and photographs of 30, 57, 69, 74, 77 Muslim Albanians in 5, 9, 13, 51, 60, 64, 84, 79, 91, 93, 153. See also Bektashi Order Orthodox Christian Albanians in 9, 58, 60, 64, 125, 153 Roman Catholic Albanians in 9, 64, 79, 84, 90, 153, 191 society and culture of 6, 8, 9, 13, 30, 34, 56, 58, 67–68, 84, 91, 94,

139, 164, 192. See also Italy, Egypt, AlbanianAmericans Albanian-Americans immigration 107, 125–26, 128, 143 Muslim Albanians 14, 19, 24, 128, 129, 131–33 Orthodox Christian Albanians 65, 142, 152, 202. See St. Thomas Orthodox Church Roman Catholic Albanians 140, 152, 202. See also Albanian American Teqe Bektashiane Albanian American Teqe Bektashiane (Baba’s tekke) 6, 7, 8 founding of 1, 19, 129, 131, 132–35 anniversaries of 150, 162–63, 173–76 role of women in 51, 150, 160, 163, 173, 186 Albanian Cultural Center, New York 126–28 Albanian Islamic Center (Michigan) 129, 202 Albanian language ix, xi–xii, 55, 79 alphabet 59, 93 books in 45, 93, 103, 110, 150, 153, 158, 179 dialects 35, 181. See also Geg; Tosk poetry in 11, 51, 110–11, 113–17, 130, 135–36, 169–70, 174–75 prayers in 13, 15–18, 19–20, 196 singing in 57–58, 80–82, 96 Ali, Imam 15–16, 114, 127, 180, 183 Ali Haqi Baba 21, 22, 27, 28, 32, 34–43,

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44–46, 48–49, 54, 58, 60, 66, 73, 109, 178–79, 195, 211 Aliko, Husni x, 84, 101, 202 daughter Bukurije x, 218 Ali Tomori, Baba 119, 133 Anatolia 1, 5, 20, 31, 32, 35, 65, 102, 150, 164, 177, 195, 211 Arabic ix, xi, xii, xiv, 2, 9, 19, 20, 21, 22, 43, 45, 48, 51, 53, 54, 59, 61, 101, 109, 114, 116, 131, 135, 137, 159, 172, 182, 194 Arshi Baba (of Diyarbakır) 193–95 Arshi, Dervish/Baba (of Vlora) 10, 83, 144, 150, 156, 160, 163, 189, 192, 201, 212, 217, 218, 224 ashık xv, 47, 70, 183, 185 Ashura (holiday) xv, 11–13, 15–16, 18–19, 24, 30, 114, 128, 141–42, 147, 168, 173, 176, 181–82, 197 Asim Baba 42, 54, 75, 209 Atatürk 65, 70, 189 Austro-Hungarian Empire 27 Baba. See under individual’s name babas ix, xi, 2, 25, 31, 35–36, 40, 42, 58, 64–65, 69, 98, 109, 113, 119, 121, 126, 133, 137–38, 160, 163, 164, 169, 182 Babinger, Franz (German historian) 50 bacılar xv, 113, 154 Bajram, Dervish/Baba (of Gjakova) 8, 9–10, 100–101, 102, 107, 108, 110, 118, 120, 144, 149–50, 156–63, 168–70, 176, 186 Bajram Mahmutaj, Baba 153, 192, 201 Balim Sultan 17, 164 Balkan League 59 Balkans 1, 5, 7, 8, 13, 19, 27, 28, 32, 35, 59, 72, 78, 93, 95, 100, 126, 150, 155, 164, 171, 202, 211 Balli Kombëtar (National Front) 71, 72, 74, 76, 77, 79, 81, 85–88, 90, 92, 93, 97, 120, 126, 128, 132, 152, 188, 202

Bardha, Ekrem 203 wife Lumturi 186 Bari, Italy 85–86, 89, 91, 95, 97 Barleta, Italy 94–95 Bedri Noyan, Dede Baba. See Noyan Bektashi Order beliefs of 15–17, 30, 33, 35, 40, 101, 104, 146, 117, 127, 130–31, 137, 154, 158, 171–73, 180, 183–85, 186, 196–97, 208–9 founding and establishing of 5, 66, 105, 129, 135, 211 holidays. See Ashura, Nevruz known for 6, 7, 23, 27, 28, 35, 42, 106, 164, 173 master-student relationship in 43–44, 63, 101, 102–3, 114, 116, 136, 182–85, 199–201. See also murshid oppression of 28–29, 31, 65, 71, 106, 120, 123, 152–53, 173, practices 36, 70, 112, 115, 126, 141, 147, 164, 199 role of women in 6, 15, 51, 80–82, 112, 154, 173. See also Haji Bektash Veli, babas, dervishes, murshids, muhips Berat, Albania 48, 75, 76–77, 80, 153 British 9, 27, 65, 71–72, 85–86, 88, 90, 95, 118, 119–20 Budo, Shyqri 6 Budo, Xhemile 6, 74, 78 Bulgaria 59 Cairo 3, 97, 99, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109–11, 112, 119, 122–23, 129, 141, 142, 150, 155, 161 Catholics. See Roman Catholics celibacy (of Bektashi clerics) 2, 41, 164–65, 170 çetas 58, 61, 143–44 China 152



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Chota, Sejit 108–9 Congress of Monastir (1908) 59 coffee ix, 7, 13, 38, 39, 46, 67, 134, 143, 156, 157, 178, 194 Çuçi, Zejnepe. See Zejnepe, Zonja dede xv, 38, 42, 164, 188 Delvina, Ragip 61, 76 Dervish. See under individual’s name dervishes ix, xv, 2, 4, 12, 20, 23, 27, 28– 29, 32, 40, 41, 42, 46, 47, 48, 64–65, 66, 69, 93, 97, 100, 104, 110, 115, 117, 121, 126, 133, 141, 143, 149, 158, 163–64, 170, 183–85, 187, 195, 196 Displaced Persons Camps 3, 4, 13, 23, 25, 73, 82, 84, 92, 94–95, 97, 118, 202 divan xv, 19, 42, 49, 51, 167, 195 Egypt Albanians in 89, 95, 97, 101, 109–10, 123, 202; Bektashi tekke in 23, 24, 97–102, 103–5, 107–8, 112–13, 114, 117, 158, 161 oppression of Bektashis in 106, 120, 122 post-WWII 24, 117–23, 126, 141, 144, 150, 202. See also Cairo, Muqattam Tekke Elbasan, Albania 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 35, 41, 48, 56, 57, 108–9, 158, 178, 195 Farouk, King (of modern Egypt) 97, 109, 119, 120, 122 Fatiha 12, 135, 207, 208, 209 Fatima (daughter of the Prophet) 15–16, 37 Fehmi Kokallari, Zoti 57–58 Fiqiret, Zonja. See Myrteza family food 1, 8, 11–12, 13, 16, 18–19, 31, 36, 66, 83, 91, 104, 139, 141, 142, 150, 156, 159, 168, 170, 181

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ashura (ritual food) 11–12, 13, 141 Albanian and Turkish foods ayran 11 imam bağıldı 196 lakror 142 lamb 11, 68, 139, 142, 182 përshesh 139 Frashëri, Abdyl (Albanian patriot, d. 1892) 93, 127 Frashëri, Mid’hat (Albanian patriot, d. 1949) 71, 75, 76, 86, 89, 90, 91, 93–94 Frashëri, Naim (Albanian poet, d. 1900) 11, 20, 127, 158 Frashëri, Sami (Ottoman scholar, d. 1904. Also known as Shemseddin Sami Bey) 20 Fuzuli (Ottoman poet, d. 1566) 11, 154, 158, 179, 181, 194, 199, 200–201. See also Garden of the Martyrs Gaba, Hakki (of Lazarat) x, 73–78, 80 Garden of the Martyrs (Hadiqat al-Su‘ada) 11, 158, 179, 181, 199 gazels xv, 42, 51, 200 Geg (northern Albanian dialect/speaker) 35, 37, 178 Germans 8, 71, 72, 77, 78, 79, 83, 85, 86, 90 al-Ghazali (philosopher and Sufi, d. 1111) 154 Gjirokastra, Albania 3, 23, 35–37, 42, 45, 48, 49, 51, 56–61, 63, 64, 66, 67, 69, 70, 71, 74, 75–76, 78, 80, 100, 126, 129, 178, 193, 195 Gllava, Albania 76, 78, 133 Grameno, Mihal 58, 143 Great Britain. See British Greece 31, 64, 65, 70, 72, 83, 84, 99 early history 8 fighting Ottomans 58, 59 Italian invasion of 51–52, 70, 71, 135 occupations of southern Albania 9,

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51, 58–61, 64, 69, 71, 83 communists in 83, 86, 88 refugee camps in 119 Greek cook at Michigan tekke 32–33, 196 Greeks in Egypt 97 Greek language xiv, 45, 86, 196 Hadiqat al-Su‘ada. See Garden of the Martyrs Hadith 61, 101, 116, 131, 154, 182 hadith qudsi xv, 40 Hadjiou, Karim x, 108–11, 123 Hajderije Tekke, Gjirokastra, Albania 64, 66 Haji Adem Baba (Kosova) 157 Haji Bektash, Anatolia (place) 31, 32, 35, 38, 39, 42, 66 Haji Bektash Veli of Khorasan xv, 5, 17, 114, 136, 164, 172, 183–85, 211 Hakki. See Gaba halifes xv, 30, 38, 39, 42, 141, 187, 211 Halim, Aslan (1990 photo of Baba) 209 al-Hallaj (Sufi martyr, d. 922) 8, 61–62, 196 Hasan, Imam 15–16, 114, 180 Hasan, Dervish (Köprülü) 29, 31, 32, 35, 41, 63 Hatayi (pen-name of Shah Ismail) 19, 159, 162, 167 hayderiye xv, 138, 196 Hazreti (title of respect for holy person). See under individual’s name Hikmet Hanım 112–13, 117 hırka xv, 15, 34, 81, 119, 136, 143, 211 hodja xv, 28, 31, 42, 49, 133 Holiday of Sacrifice (Kurban Bayramı) 46–47, 114–17, 181–82 Hoxha, Enver (Stalinist leader of Albania) 16, 57, 71, 91, 94, 119, 152 Husayn, Imam xv, 11–13, 15, 16, 19–20, 141, 170, 171, 180, 182

Ibn Arabi, Muhyiddin (mystic theologian, d. 1240) 61, 119, 154 Ibn al-Farid (Arab Sufi poet, d. 1235) 154 Ibn Sina (Persian polymath, d. 1037; known in West as Avicenna) 154 ijazet, ijazetname (diploma) xv, 23, 35, 42, 141, 187 Imam. See Ali, Hasan, Husayn, Ja‘far imams 15, 136, 153. See also Ali, Hasan, Husayn, Ja‘far Iran 5, 70, 120, 211 Islam xiii, xv, 2, 5, 30, 110, 121, 127, 154, 172, 180. See also Shi’a and Sunni Islamic mysticism xv, 27, 31, 40, 103, 113, 126, 141, 152, 153–55, 158, 179, 181, 186, 195, 196. See also Sufism Islamic terms xiii Ismail, Imam Vehbi x, 129, 147, 202 Istanbul, Turkey 46, 48, 59, 78, 107, 167 Italian (language) 2, 146 Italy 9, 65, 99, 70–71, 94; annexation and occupation of Albania (1939–43) 51, 70–71, 75, 83, 135 camps in 85–95, 97 communists in 90, 94 economic penetration of Albania 68 Italians in Egypt 97 occupation of Albania (1916–18) 60–61, 63–64 Ja‘far (sixth Imam) 16, 136 Janissaries 5, 28, 106, 171 Kadıncık 5, 6 Kallajxhi, Xhevat (friend of Baba, journalist) xiii devotion to Baba 150, 152, 169, 174–76, 181 in Albania 66, 67–68, 72 in Italy 86, 88 in Michigan 57, 61, 88, 141, 150,

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186, 207–9 in New York 125–26, 133, 141 Kamus-e A‘lam 20 Karbala, Iraq xv, 5, 11, 15–16, 48, 161, 169–70, 180 Kaja (Bardha), Zoti 32, 68 Kaygusuz Abdal 4, 17, 102–7, 154 Kerbelaja 11 Këlcyra, Ali 71, 76, 86, 95 Kemal, Mustafa. See Atatürk kemer xv, 136, 143 Khadija (wife of the Prophet) 15–16 Khorasan, Iran 5, 17, 137, 211 Korça, Albania 29, 30–31, 58, 60, 66, 71, 75, 133 Kosova xiii, 59, 71, 76, 100, 107, 157–58, 161, 202 Kruja, Albania 78, 133, 158, 171 Lazarat, Albania 45, 52–54, 73–75, 80–81 League of Nations 64, 65, 70 League of Prizren 9, 128, 157. See also Rilindja levha xv, 54 Libohova, Albania 76, 121, 135, 167 Lutfi, Baba 100 Lutfi, Dervish 100, 102, 144, 150, 163 Macedonia 49, 58, 110, 132, 150, 203 madrasa, medrese 23, 31, 48, 49 Mahmud II (Ottoman Sultan) 27, 28, 29, 30–31, 34, 106 master-student relationship 182–85. See also Bektashi Order Matem 11, 13, 141, 181, 191, 199 Mecca xv, 5, 115, 186 mersiye xv, 13, 19, 24–25, 141, 147 Mevlevi Order 20 meydan xv, 7, 8, 11, 25, 47, 75, 115, 138, 140, 147, 172, 181, 190, 197 mihrab xv, 8, 115, 186 Monastir, Macedonia (now Bitola or

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Manastir) 59, 93 Mongols 5 Montenegro 59, 79, 80, 85, 128 müderris xv, 61 muftis 23, 62, 84, 91, 120 Mufti, Salih (of Shkodra) 84 muhabbet xv, 36–39, 66, 104, 112–13, 115, 117, 122, 154, 188, 189 Muhammad, the Prophet xv, 11, 15–16, 51, 114, 127, 136, 146, 158, 159, 171–72, 180, 181, 183, 196 Muharram (month) 11 Muharrem, Dervish 100, 102 muhib (lay initiate) xiii, xv, 6, 11, 23, 27, 29, 31, 36–37, 38 39, 41, 42, 45, 47, 49, 58, 63, 69, 70, 112–13, 117, 127, 128, 144, 157, 173, 183, 185 Muqattam Tekke, Cairo 97–101, 105–6, 107, 109, 110, 115, 117–20, 122–23, 141, 144, 150, 158 murid xv, 183, 185 murshid (spiritual master) xiii, 23, 30, 31, 36, 40–41, 43–44, 46, 49, 52, 54, 61, 63, 72, 101–3, 111, 114, 116, 136, 138, 149, 155, 157, 170, 172, 175, 182–83, 185, 186, 195, 198, 199–201, 211. See also Bektashi Order, master-student relationship in Muslim Brotherhood 118–19 Muslims 29, 36, 59, 110, 130, 131 Muslim-Christian relations positive 60, 96, 153, 191 problematic 9, 131–33 Mussolini, Benito 64, 68, 70, 71, 86 Mustafa (friend of Ali Haqi Baba) 27, 31–32, 35, 158 Mynur, Zoti 1, 199 Myrteza family Abas 13–14, 128–29, 132, 173 Fiqiret 13–14, 134, 144, 163, 173 Nake Premtaj 10, 13, 14, 134, 140, 146, 186

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Najaf, Iraq 5, 161 Naqshibandi Order 29 Nasser, Gamal Abdel 24, 107, 120 nefes xiii, 36–37, 61, 101, 111, 112–14, 116–17, 121, 122, 130–31, 135–36, 155, 168, 169–70, 188, 190, 195 nefes evladi xv, 32–34, 38 Nesimi 2, 55–56, 61–63, 113, 154 Nevruz (holiday) xv, 11, 30, 127, 162, 173 newspapers al-Ahram, Egypt 120 Corriere Lombardo, Milan 90, 93 Demokratia, Albania 66 Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung, Berlin 51 Dielli, Boston 132, 135, 142, 144 Liria, Boston 132–33 The Detroit Free Press 6, 33, 156, 194 The Detroit News 138 Noah, Prophet 113, 180 Noli, Archbishop Fan 65, 142–44, 152 Noyan, Bedri (Turkish Dede Baba) x, 29, 32, 155, 188–90 Omar Khayyam (Persian poet and scientist, d. 1122) 19, 167 Orhan (early Ottoman Sultan) 5, 28 Orthodox Christians. See Albania and Albanian-Americans Ottoman Empire 7, 8–9, 25, 27, 35, 44, 58, 65, 121, 164, 167, 173; Sultans 5, 17, 27–29, 30, 31, 34, 56, 106, 111, 115, 137, 154, 164, 168, 175. See also Turkey Ottoman Turkish xi, xiii, 2, 7, 11, 13, 19–20, 43, 45, 54, 59, 61, 63, 101, 113–14, 137, 158, 188, 194 Palestine 48, 118 Persian xi, 2, 4, 19, 20, 34, 42, 43, 45, 48, 49, 51, 61, 78, 101, 109, 113, 127, 138, 158, 165, 167, 168, 193

Peshkopia family Eqrem x, 78–79 brother Nexhat 80 wife Nekije 76, 163, 186 Pir xv, 29, 131, 136, 164, 209. See also Haji Bektash Veli Pir Balım Sultan 17, 164 Pir Sultan Abdal 56, 111, 154, 168 prayer beads xvi, 34, 35, 55, 167, 183. See also tesbih Premtaj, Hasan x, 85, 88, 90, 93 Premtaj, Nake. See Myrteza family Prespa, Qani x, 132, 133 179, 191 wife Zejnepe Adam x, 163, 186 daughter Nancy Topulli x, 179 Prophet Muhammad. See Muhammad Protopapa, Sejfi x, 76–77, 78, 79, 80, 90, 95–96 proverbs 67–68 Qani, Zoti. See Prespa Qasr al-‘Ayn, Cairo 105, 106 Qazim, Baba (Kosova) 133, 157–58 Qemali, Ismail (also known as Ismail Kemal) 9 qibla xv, 115, 186 Qur’an 12, 17, 19, 34, 36, 45, 51, 61, 63, 101, 114, 115–16, 127, 130, 135, 137, 141, 146, 147, 154, 172, 186, 207 chapters Fatiha 12, 135, 207, 208, 209 Sura of al-Baqara 172 Sura of al-Fath 172 Ya Sin 186 verse, Ayat al-Nour 137 Ramadan 84, 91, 159, 178 Reggio Emilia, Italy 90–96 rehber xv, 30, 63, 92, 147 Reshat, Baba (Dede Baba in Albania) 201 Rexheb, Baba his naming and birth 21–23



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youth and education 22–23, 56–63 as dervish in Albania 63–66, 69 devotion to Selim Baba 52–54, 114, 198, 211 against Communists 63, 72, 75–77 leaving Albania 73–80 exile in camps 78, 81, 84–95 exile in Egypt 97–122 in New York 12, 125–28 in Michigan 10, 13–19, 128–199 as a teacher 3, 10, 17, 19–21, 34–35, 55, 67, 104, 166–68, 171, 172, 179–181, 186–87, 193–97, 210–11 his nefes 113–17, 130–31, 135–36, 169–70 his books 153–57, 158, 179 funeral 201–5 Rifat, Ahmed 20, 155 Rilindja 9 Rumi, Jelaleddin 101, 154 Sacrifice Holiday. See Holiday of Sacrifice Sadat, Anwar al- 118, 120 Safi, Shaykh 20, 56 St. Thomas Orthodox Church, Michigan 128, 142, 152, 201 Salih Baba (of Elbasan) 28–29, 30, 32, 35, 41 Salih Niyazi Dede 52, 65–66, 71 Santa Maria di Leuca, Italy 86–89, 90, 91, 95 Selfo family Nevrus 128, 132, 138, 161 wife Kile 163, 179, 186 daughter Sally Negip x, 186 daughter Rosie Black 14 Selim Ruhi Baba (Baba’s murshid) 1, 21–23, 41, 42, 43, 59–61, 63, 66, 69, 75, 78, 152 against Communists 52, 72, 76, 80 against Italians 70–71, 135 community regard 46–51

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death of mother 178 his books 51 lost poetry 52–54 passing away 80–82 temperament 44–46 Serbia 59, 60, 64, 128 Shah Ismail 19, 159 Shahin family Hajdar x, 109 sister Fawzije Bektash 109 nephew ‘Amr Bektash 109–10 wife Shije Orhan Shahin x, 218 wife’s grandmother Shazo Ali 163 Shari‘a (Islamic law) xv, 120, 130 Shemseddin Sami Bey. See Frashëri, Sami Shemsedini, Shaban x, 210 Shi’a (Muslims) 15, 28, 30, 114, 120, 181 Shkodra, Albania 23, 59, 76, 78, 79–80, 84–85, 88, 96, 129, 191 Sidi Abdullah al–Maghawiri (Egyptian understanding of Kaygusuz Abdal) 97, 98, 102, 107. See also Kaygusuz Abdal Sirri Baba 24, 98–100, 107, 109, 110, 112, 117–18, 119–20, 122–23, 141, 144, 158, 187 Slavs 8, 9 Soviet Union (Russia) 24, 65, 72, 152 Sufi poetry 138, 154, 155, 168, 186. See also Hatayi, Nesimi, Pir Sultan Abdal Sufism 31, 172 Sufis 84, 92, 112, 114, 115–16, 130, 170 Sufi Orders 154, 189, 197 Suhrawardi (Persian philosopher, d. 1191) 154 Sulejman, Baba (of Gjirokastra) 64, 66 Sunni (Muslims) xv, 23, 28, 29–30, 42, 64, 84, 114–15, 119, 121, 130, 133, 153, 186 taj (headgear) xv, 7, 34, 38, 39, 133, 136, 142, 143, 150, 159, 160, 199 tariqat xv, 5, 29, 65, 104, 129, 130

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tasawwuf xv, 31, 40. See also Sufism Teki Xhindi, Zoti 92, 147 Tekke Commission 133, 135, 142, 150, 161, 163, 164, 165, 173, 176, 186, 201, 202, 203 Tekke of Pebbles (near Gjirokastra) 35–37, 44–46, 53, 54, 56, 58, 59, 61, 62, 66, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 77, 78, 80, 118, 119, 121, 195, 209 Tepelena, Albania 60, 64, 76 Teqeja e Zallit. See Tekke of Pebbles tesbih xvi, 34, 167, 183 Tirana, Albania 44, 52, 64, 66, 70, 71, 74, 75, 77–78, 79, 80, 93, 119, 131, 133, 135, 142, 163, 202 Tito, Josip Broz, Marshal 71, 72, 75, 93 Toptani, Marion Seit 14, 186 Topulli, Çerçiz 58, 60, 143 Tosk (southern Albanian dialect/speaker) 29, 35 türbedar xvi, 35, 117 türbes xvi, 3, 42, 47, 54, 97, 98, 117, 138, 176–77, 198–99, 204–5, 207, 208–9 Turkey and Turks 65 Bektashism in 5, 19, 29, 32, 113, 120, 150, 163, 189, 197 closing tekkes in 65, 121, 173; in Egypt 97, 110, 112 policy in Balkans 51, 58, 59, 61, 143. See also Anatolia and Ottoman Empire Turkish language viii, xi, xii, xiii–xiv, 40, 41, 48, 76, 141 Baba’s education in 59, 61, 63, 164, 168 Baba’s knowledge and use of 2, 7, 30, 34, 55, 101, 102, 154, 188, 193 Baba’s nefes in 113–17 language of research with Baba viii, x, 1, 8, 19, 21, 43, 67–68, 137, 149, 160, 168, 185, 193, 197, 210–11

poetry in 3, 20, 22, 49, 51, 111, 112, 113, 138, 159, 167, 186, 195, 188–89, 190. See also Ottoman Turkish United Nations Refugee and Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA) 85, 88, 94–95 Vatra 142, 152, 202 Veiz Turhani, Zoti 127, 128 veli xvi, 5 Veliu, Nancy 77 Vlora, Albania 60, 64, 75, 87, 88 World War I 60, 63–64, 152 World War II 6, 9, 15, 23, 53, 100, 108, 118, 126, 135, 153, 158 Xhelo, Zoti 12 Xhemile, Zonja. See Budo Xhevat, Zoti See Kallajxhi Yanina, Greece 45, 46, 58, 59, 61 Yazid (Umayyad ruler, d. 683) 11, 16, 20, 137 Young Turks (Ottoman political society) 59 Yugoslavia 65, 68, 72, 85, 93, 152, 160 Zejnepe, Çuçi, Zonja (Baba’s sister) 172, 177–78 in New York 12, 125 in Michigan 67–68, 81, 142, 177, 178, 179, 186, 191, 193, 196, 207 zikr (Sufi praise of God, “remembering”) 3. See also muhabbet Zog, King (Albania) 65, 68, 70, 71, 88, 92, 93, 100, 101, 120 Zonja. See under individual’s name Zoti. See under individual’s name