Mahira

Mahira Gilić born 1926, Sarajevo. Interview by Tatjana Pavolović.

TP: Your thoughts and memories about coffee. How old were you? Where were you? Do you remember in which room you made your first coffee—in the kitchen? In a cafe? What did it taste like? Did you eat something with the coffee?

MG: My first coffee, I made it, maybe…maybe when I was ten, and that coffee I didn’t drink like Bosnian coffee, but I mmm…I made it for my mom, and we children drank the leftover coffee as a cafe ole.

TP: Oh, I remember that as well! Do you remember where you were? At home?

MG: I was at home. Maybe I was in the village where we had property, during the summer we were at the village, or in Sarajevo…I think really it was in Sarajevo where I made my first coffee.

TP: Do you remember if you ate something with that coffee—the one you made first: the cafe ole?

MG: We had cafe ole on a regular basis; every morning we got coffee before we went to school. We drank cafe ole with breakfast. There was always fresh bread and cheese, butter, and butter, kaymak (cream). Kaymak was essential. And cafe ole.

TP: And back then, who was your family?

MG: My family consisted of my mom and three brothers. My father died very early on, when I was three, so my mother was left with us: four kids. She was left alone. Luckily she financially [independent]….she didn’t depend on anyone. She was financially secure.

TP: Where were you in the order among your siblings?

MG: I was third. I had one younger brother. Everyone has died. I am the only one remaining.

TP: Auntie Maha, did the boys also make coffee?

MG: No, they didn’t make coffee. Mostly our mom cooked it. And my first Bosnian coffee I would say that I only drank when I started to work.

TP: How old were you then?

MG: I was twenty. Until then, I didn’t drink coffee, the Bosnian [coffee]….I mean, the one that you customarily drink first, and then the day starts.

TP: Oh, me as well! I only started at the university.

MG: Only when I started to work, there was coffee first, and then the work started.

TP: Ana is asking us: who taught you to cook coffee, and if you can say a little more about that person.

MG: I can say that my mother taught me. She became a widow when she was 28, alone with four of us. And from her, not only did I learn about coffee, but everything in life.

TP: Was someone helping her? Or, was she really alone?

MG: She had a maid, she mostly had a maid until we all grew up. So she could go get groceries and leave us with someone else.

TP: Did the maid live with you?

MG: Yes, and she helped with cooking, cleaning, and all other small tasks around the house.

TP: So, your mother was very talented in household management.

MG: Yes. First, because she was dedicated only to us, and all her life was about us.

TP: And now Ana is asking: when did you perfect coffee-making? Did you after your first coffee make more coffees? How much did you have to practice?

MG: Yes. If we had guests, my mom would ask me to make coffee for them. That is how I was practicing and perfecting making coffee. She [my mother] cooked coffee in the morning, and for us: cafe ole.

TP: I have similar memories. I also remember, I made coffee especially when guests were coming. When, and from whom, did you get or inherit your first dzezva?

MG: I have no idea….I don’t know.

TP: Maybe when you formed your own family?

MG: Yes, only when I formed my own family, and I got it for myself because I started from the spoon….

TP: From zero?

MG: From zero.

TP: Did your husband drink coffee?

MG: He was not a fan of coffee. But later, when my mother-in-law came, she regularly cooked coffee for herself in the morning. But the two of us didn’t. Instead, when we arrived at work, we drank the so-called “work coffee”.

TP: “Work coffee,”

MG: in those times, there was no coffee, except Bosnian coffee.There were no coffee machines, everyone cooked Bosnian coffee. And that was the one [Bosnian] that was valued. Everyone loved it. In other words, that was a sacred thing. In Yugoslav times, at times there would be a coffee shortage. But every family kept reserves. A house was never without coffee.

TP: Machines and beans: Do you remember when you started using electric machines? For example, electric grinder? Or, electric coffee maker?

MG: Only here in America, and grinding and coffee it was…

TP: Did you have that old handgrinder?

MG: Yes, I had a beautiful old coffee grinder: handmade. I’m so sorry that I was not able to bring it. That was one beautiful artifact.

TP: Did it get lost?

MG: It disappeared in the war [1990s].

TP: All right, did you prefer using certain dzezve, or certain machines? Do you think there is one thing that is the best for making coffee?

MG: I used dzezva—that suited me; one big [dzezva] and I had an even bigger dzezva than that one, and I called that one” Auntie’s coffee” because when aunts arrived—my mother had four sisters—so five of them, so when they came to visit, one had to have a big dzezva. Three times bigger than my other one.

TP: When did you leave Sarajevo Auntie Maha?

MG: I was not there during the war. Just before the war, I arrived at Dubravka’s [daughter] for a visit, only for a visit.

TP: And you didn’t know what lay ahead?

MG: I didn’t know. I had a return ticket and everything, and when I asked for visa [at U.S. embassy] they said to me “you’re going to your daughter’s to stay?” “Why would I stay there?” [I said] “If my daughter wants, she can come to visit me, I have my pension, and my apartment, I don’t know why I would stay in America.

TP: And was Dubi already in New Orleans?

MG: Yes, she lived in New Orleans. And he [U.S. embassy] said “everyone says that, and everyone stays until the end of their life.” I came on June 11, through Zagreb, I had a ticket through Zagreb, and just after that the war started in Croatia.

TP: What year was that?

MG: It was 1991. I was waiting [for] when they would open the airport [in Sarajevo] so that I could return. I even extended my ticket, I paid $600 to extend it, but the war continued, the airport was not opening. So, for some time, I was neither there, neither here. In the end I saw that the war started in Bosnia as well, and there was no return. And then here [U.S.] I asked for asylum.

TP: Do you remember from other people how they obtained coffee during the war?

MG: There were times when you couldn’t buy coffee. You could obtain it through black market, through people who knew how to get coffee and no one was sorry to give more money if they got coffee.

TP: Do you remember which was your favorite brand? The coffee you liked the most?

MH: My favorite was Visoka [CHECK]…what was the name, and also Zagreb coffee.

TP: Frankova?

MH: Yes, Frankova was also very good.

TP: Yes, I still think that Frankova is excellent. Do you remember what you like about that brand? Packaging? Taste?

MG: Most of all, taste, but the packaging was nice to, but I think the taste was very important.

TP: The taste was number one! Which kind of coffee was the tastiest? Did you like to drink it with the foam?

MG: Now, I drink American coffee from a machine, with milk, without sugar of course. And that’s one coffee in the morning, and no more: only one.

TP: Do you ever get nostalgic for Turkish i.e. Bosnian coffee?

MG: I get nostalgic very often, but I never cook coffee for myself, but only if Dubravka was here, or someone else. And for myself, I don’t know if I made but ten coffees in my life.

TP: Even though your mother made coffee for herself?

MG: Well yes, well yes.

TP: Does Dubi still drink Turkish coffee?

MG: She loves to drink it, but now we drink American coffee because it is easier to obtain that kind of coffee, because for Bosnian coffee we need finely ground beans, and it’s good if it’s not over-roasted or under-roasted: that coffee demands a lot.

TP: Therefore, more complicated?

MG: Yes, yes.

TP: To me, Turkish coffee—Bosnian coffee—is also connected to some rituals like when the guests come, and when we talk.

MG: When my cousins come over from Chicago, then we drink Bosnian coffee, of course with sugar cubes—or even better with rahat lokum / turkish delight.

TP: Yes, the same thing in Turkey; they put it on the small plate.

MG: That’s a special honor when you offer coffee with rahat lokum.

TP: In Sarajevo, you can find it without a problem (rahat lokum).

MG: Yes, and they have their own factory [in Sarajevo] but they get it from Turkey.

TP: I just brought that to Ana and to you I brought it—from Turkey. Did you drink coffee with friends at work—you already said that that was your first coffee…

MG: Yes, and then, after, we drink one more coffee after the breakfast.

TP: Did you drink coffee first? On an empty stomach, without breakfast.

MG: Without breakfast. In the morning you just washed yourself, and ran to work.

TP: Except morning coffee, was there another regular coffee break?

MG: Yes, there was a break after the regular break, and there was a breakfast there, and then after breakfast, one drank coffee.

TP: So, you ate breakfast at work too?

MG: Across from our work, there was a shop, so you could buy whatever you wanted. For example, sour cream, butter, suho mesa/dried meat — anything for breakfast.

TP: When you drank coffee at work, who prepared it?

MG: We had a colleague who was younger than us, and she cooked coffee. She cooked coffee, she washed dishes…she was there, and she did that. She was the youngest, and she was a hard worker.

TP: With whom did you prefer to drink coffee then, and now?

MG: Now, of course with Dubravka, and then, also with Dubravka. But I also loved to drink it with colleagues from work.

TP: Do you remember what you were chatting about, or what you were talking about when you were drinking coffee at work?

MG: I had two kinds of jobs. With one group, I talked about everything: about making food, about going out, about love affairs. They were young, and we talked about everything. There were a lot of us in the room—it was a big room, and everyone had something to say. And then, I started another job in which there was order and work. It was well known that there was not much talking aloud: one knew the time when one would arrive, when one would take a break, and when one would leave the job: to the second [rigid].

TP: Why? Was it because of the way your boss was?

MG: That’s how my boss was. She demanded discipline, but I think she was fair about everything.

TP: What was that first company, and what was the second one?

MG: I worked in so many companies, I don’t remember. The last company I worked for was Jugobanka.

TP: What was your profession?

MG: I worked in accounting, in operations.

TP: And now, with Dubi, when you drink coffee, what do you talk about?

MG: About what we’re going to cook, and what we’re going to eat [laughs]

TP: Where did you prefer to drink coffee? Did you go out?

MG: I didn’t go out; I rarely went out. I can count on my fingers how many times I went out—not including when I was a young woman—at that time I went out with my friends. But afterwords, when I matured, I didn’t go out.

TP: And did you already have children then?

MG: Especially because I didn’t have a husband…I was not always in the mood to go out. By the time I would gather my friends who would go out, I’d lose my desire for it. So mostly at home I drank coffee.

TP: Is Tozo [son] older or younger than Dubi?

MG: He’s older.

TP: How many years?

MG: 2.5 years

TP: So, he was 12.5 when your husband died?

MG: Yes, Yes

TP: Do you think it was strange for a single woman that was alone to go out?

MG: No no no, not that. It’s just that I wasn’t in the mood to go out. I was happier at home. But, I’m sitting at home, alone, but I don’t know how to cook coffee.

TP: You should have [made coffee for yourself]

MG: I should have, but I never prioritized myself.

TP: Did you have a balcony, veranda, or a yard in your house?

MG: I didn’t have it. And I’m so sorry that I didn’t. When I got married, I didn’t have even a balcony. There was a yard, but it was dirty, so it was not usable—especially for drying laundry.

TP: When you lived with your mother, did you have a house, or an apartment at that time?

MG: A house—I grew up in a house that had everything. We didn’t have any needs—nothing was missing. We had a large garden that a man cultivated. One third he kept for himself, second third went to my uncle, and the last third when to us. Therefore, we always had winter provisions [zimica]. In the summer, we were in the village. We didn’t lack anything, all the way until the war [WWII]. Until 1941, we had everything, and then the war came. We were lucky to have property in the village.

TP: Where in the village, close to Sarajevo?

MG: Close to Sarajevo, Butmir, where we spent summers. It was unforgettable for me. That’s where we had our house. In that house, there were three rooms upstairs, one more downstairs, and a cellar, and everything that one needed: water, pump, and well—there was everything except electricity.

TP: Was there some river or some lake around there?

MG: No, but river Zeljeznica was close by, so we kids could go swim regularly. The men had their vortex [VIR??] CHECK and women—a little bit closer—their vortex [VIR??] whirlpool?

four or five friends, and we would be joined by my youngest aunt, and then some more women would gather, so we really enjoyed swimming. There, I learned how to swim. And, when we would return home, we had snacks: boiled corn, boiled tikva [squash], cafe ole, cheese, and kaymak…we enjoyed ourselves.

TP: You didn’t have a bad life.

MG: That was the best the time of my life.

TP: Do you remember the rations? [WWII]

MG: After the second world war, there were ration cards, and ration points

TP: So you couldn’t buy food without cards?

MG: The first group were the workers, the second group were the white collar/office workers, and the third group, school children. The [younger] children were getting the best cards, but the older school children were the last. So, we got very little ration points for food. However, we made ends meet—we had our village. It was hard to get food, bring it to the city from the village, because that was considered to be black market. My brothers were trying however they could, but it was hard for me.

TP: How old were you then?

MG: I was 15-16 years old.

TP: Do you remember if after WWII, there was a shortage of coffee?

MG: Yes, there was a big shortage. It was hard living. It was hard to get anything, but coffee was always in every home. Coffee was a priority. How people got it, I don’t know. For example, I remember in the village in the morning two aunts—first was carrying her own coffee, the second was bringing her own coffee: one with her husband, the other with her brother. My mother was carrying the third coffee on a tray—the trays had hot coals to keep the coffee warm—one round with a concave middle and there was slow burning coal, and on the side a little tray to keep the coffee warm. And that was called….I don’t remember. And then, everyone brings their coffee and drinks it. It was wonderful.

TP: Did you bring dzezva to the U.S.?

MG: No, no, But Dubravka did—she brought dzezve and sahan, and she brought some other things. Lately, in Sarajevo, women did not drink coffee from fildzan, but from small cups, thin, pretty, English.

TP: If you had known you were going to America to stay, would you have brought dzezve with you?

MG: No, because I was never a passionate kafedzija (coffee drinker). I drank coffee because it was a custom, but I could also do without it.

TP: Auntie Maho, did you think that Muslims, Serbs, and Croats have the same customs around coffee?

MG: No, no: Muslims were really the only true enthusiasts and lovers of coffee—really connected to coffee. While the others were drinking [check translation - others drank without thought?]

That’s how I was imagining it [my perception] But the Muslims were always looking to be more well-presented— so the dzezve would be polished, that everything around shines, that it be a pleasure.

TP: Therefore, it was a part of identity?

MG: Yes

TP: Would you share one of your memories about coffee?

MG: There is nothing special that I remember. Only that we all enjoyed coffee—some more, some less. I can remember one coffee I enjoyed and that I remember. It was in Sarajevo, on the hill, there was an old cafe Babica Basta. And here, with my husband, I once drank coffee. But it was before we were engaged. And that coffee, I remember.

TP: Because it was connected to love?

MG: Perhaps it was tied to love, but also ambience. It was a garden, on a hill, and down below, you could see Sarajevo. That coffee, I remember.