The Forgotten Heritage: Exploring Kassala's Beja Tribes and Ottoman History

The Kassala souk isn't just a market – it's the beating heart of eastern Sudan's cultural crossroads. Unlike the tourist-oriented bazaars I've encountered across Southeast Asia, this sprawling network of narrow alleys and open squares exists purely for locals. My first morning, I found myself wandering through sections dedicated to everything from handwoven Beja baskets to Ethiopian coffee beans and Eritrean spices.

What struck me immediately was the diversity of faces. Kassala sits at the intersection of multiple ethnic groups – primarily the Beja tribes (Hadendowa, Amarar, and Bisharin) alongside Rashaida Arabs and other Sudanese peoples. The Beja men are particularly distinctive with their fuzzy hairstyles, curved daggers (jambiyas) at their waists, and traditional wraps that seem to flow with their movements.

'You must try the jabana,' insisted Mahmoud, a local teacher who appointed himself my unofficial guide after finding me photographing a particularly photogenic spice stall. The traditional coffee ceremony that followed became my daily ritual – strong Eritrean-style coffee brewed in a clay pot over charcoal, served in tiny cups with plenty of sugar and conversation.

What makes Kassala's market special isn't just the goods but the genuine cultural exchange. Unlike markets designed for tourists, here I was the novelty – leading to countless invitations for tea, impromptu language lessons, and discussions about everything from local politics to Manchester United's prospects. I documented these encounters with my mirrorless camera, which proved perfect for capturing candid moments without being obtrusive.

Twenty kilometers outside Kassala lies Khatmiya village, home to a significant population of Hadendowa Beja – perhaps the most famous of the Beja tribes, immortalized as the 'Fuzzy-Wuzzies' in Rudyard Kipling's colonial-era poetry. My connection here came through Osman, a university student I met in Kassala who invited me to spend three days with his extended family.

The Beja have inhabited this region for over 4,000 years, their traditional nomadic lifestyle increasingly challenged by climate change, political borders, and economic pressures. Yet in Khatmiya, many traditions remain intact. The family compound where I stayed consisted of several thatched huts (tukuls) arranged around a central courtyard where cooking, socializing, and most daily activities took place.

My days followed the family's rhythm – waking before dawn to help the women prepare kisra (thin fermented bread) and asida (porridge) over open fires, then accompanying the men to tend livestock in the foothills of the Taka Mountains. Evenings brought storytelling sessions where elders recounted tribal histories and resistance against both colonial powers and the Ottoman Empire.

'Our grandfathers fought the Turks with these,' explained Osman's uncle Mohammed, displaying an antique sword passed down through generations. 'And then the British with their Maxim guns. But we are still here.'

The Beja language (Bedawiye) – part of the Cushitic language family with no written form – surrounded me daily. I managed to learn basic greetings and expressions, much to everyone's amusement and approval. For documenting this experience, my audio recorder proved invaluable, allowing me to capture language samples and traditional music with minimal intrusion.

The most profound aspect of my stay was witnessing the Beja's deep connection to their land. Modern conservation concepts pale beside their generational knowledge of sustainable grazing patterns and water management in this semi-arid environment.

The Ottoman Empire's fingerprints on Kassala are subtle but unmistakable once you know where to look. The most prominent reminder is the Khatmiya Mosque complex, established by the Khatmiyya Sufi order in the 19th century during Ottoman rule. The whitewashed domes and courtyards blend Islamic architectural traditions with distinctly Ottoman flourishes.

'This was once the easternmost frontier of their empire,' explained Sheikh Ibrahim, the elderly caretaker who guided me through the complex. 'The Ottomans ruled through proxies – local leaders and religious figures who maintained their control.'

The mosque sits at the base of Jebel Totil, one of the distinctive granite formations that give Kassala its dramatic skyline. After removing my shoes, I followed Ibrahim through cool marble hallways into the main prayer hall, where intricate calligraphy adorned the walls and light filtered through geometric window screens.

What fascinated me most was how this Ottoman-era structure has been continuously adapted and maintained by local craftsmen using traditional techniques. The mosque represents not just imperial history but the resilience of local traditions that absorbed outside influences without being erased by them.

Beyond the mosque, Ottoman architectural influences appear throughout Kassala's older neighborhoods. The former administrative quarter features several buildings with distinctive arched windows, internal courtyards, and decorative brickwork that wouldn't look out of place in Cairo or Istanbul. Many now serve as government offices or have been repurposed as schools.

For photographers, these historical structures offer compelling subjects, especially during the golden hours. My travel tripod proved essential for capturing the interplay of light and shadow in these atmospheric buildings without camera shake.

The Gash (also called Mareb) River defines both the landscape and rhythms of life around Kassala. Unlike the permanent flow of the Nile, the Gash is seasonal – a raging torrent during the brief rainy season that shrinks to scattered pools during the long dry months. This unpredictability has shaped local agriculture and settlement patterns for millennia.

I arrived during the dry season when the riverbed was mostly exposed, revealing a patchwork of small farms and gardens along its course. Local farmers have developed sophisticated techniques to harness the river's unpredictable nature, creating a system called gash die (Gash irrigation) that captures and distributes floodwaters to maximize agricultural productivity.

'My family has farmed this same plot for seven generations,' explained Fatima, a woman who invited me to see her riverside garden where she grew tomatoes, okra, and sorghum using these traditional methods. 'We know when to plant by watching the mountains, not calendars.'

The river also marks an unofficial cultural boundary. Historically, Arab pastoralists dominated the western bank while Beja tribes controlled the eastern side and mountains. Today, these distinctions have blurred, but subtle differences in architecture, farming techniques, and even food preparation remain visible as you cross the riverbed.

For travelers, the Gash offers remarkable hiking opportunities, particularly along the eastern bank where paths wind through acacia groves and past seasonal pools that attract diverse birdlife. During my explorations, I relied heavily on my water filter bottle to safely drink from local water sources – an essential tool in a region where clean drinking water can be scarce.

The river's most dramatic aspect is its transformation during the brief rainy season (July-September), when flash floods can arrive with little warning, turning the dusty riverbed into a churning brown torrent within hours. While I witnessed only the dry season face of the Gash, locals shared videos of these spectacular transformations that bring both life-giving water and occasional destruction.

The question that haunted me throughout my time in Kassala was whether I should even be writing about this place. Eastern Sudan receives few international visitors, and while tourism infrastructure is minimal, that very absence has preserved cultural authenticity increasingly rare in our hyperconnected world.

'We want visitors, but the right kind,' explained Dr. Amna, a professor at Kassala University who specializes in cultural heritage. 'Those who come to learn, not to change us.'

The region's tourism potential is undeniable – dramatic landscapes, living traditional cultures, and historical sites with minimal crowds. Yet the challenges are equally significant. Political instability in Sudan has deterred all but the most determined travelers. Basic infrastructure like consistent electricity and internet remains limited outside Kassala city. And perhaps most importantly, the delicate social fabric of traditional communities could easily be disrupted by insensitive tourism development.

My approach centered on principles of community-based tourism – staying with local families when possible, hiring local guides, and ensuring my spending benefited small businesses rather than outside operators. I also committed to sharing unfiltered stories of both beauty and challenge, avoiding the romanticization that often characterizes travel writing about traditional cultures.

For those considering following in my footsteps, preparation is essential. Beyond the usual travel gear, I found my solar charger indispensable in a region where power outages are common. More importantly, arrive with cultural knowledge, appropriate expectations, and willingness to adapt to local conditions.

The most sustainable approach to visiting Kassala may be through educational or volunteer connections. Several international organizations work in the region on water access, healthcare, and education projects, occasionally accepting skilled volunteers for extended stays. These structured programs provide both purpose and appropriate cultural context for visitors.