Larisa is a flawed human. Also, an anthropologist, an independent scholar, and a beekeeper. Her latest book, Beekeeping in the End Times (2024) and the documentary film by the same title, narrate Islamic eco-eschatology, honeybees, and climate change. Lately, Larisa’s been researching robobees and ecologies of inspiration. With her best friends, she’s writing Children of Salik : a children’s series of climate fiction books. She loved teaching at the University of Chicago and enjoyed a spell at the Max Planck Institute for the History of Science in Berlin.
You can reach Larisa at jasarevic.g.larisa@gmail.com
Azra is an indie filmmaker. Currently on the team of Taskovski Films, Azra eats and breathes movies (for real). In the past, Azra’s been filming and producing reportage for a Bosnian radio and TV station as well as running a youth talent film school in the town of Tuzla.
Zumra, a retired economist, life-long writer, is turning her green fingers to our uncombed land, every day. Also, a bee-lover, she’s helping us catch every swarm. Practically-minded , she logs all our expenses. According to her count, the cost of our beekeeping to date is extravagant. Oh, but the joy of it, no one can account. No one but al Muhsi.
And before that, she had a great time studying at San Antonio de los Baños International School for Film and Television in Cuba. You can reach Azra at:
azrajasarevic10@gmail.com
Pasha Pepe is being a cat.
Postcards from our village and apiary
These days, we keep bees, grow food, and otherwise film, write, and work on a mountaintop in northeastern Bosnia. It’s a steep patch of densely planted land. Our baba passed it on to us along with a small forest by a creek. He also left us a heap of dreams and wild plans for the land , yet to be pursued. Our mama, thankfully, keeps us down-to-earth, for homesteading at the current scale is already a lot of work. She is to our land what a queen bee is to a hive.
Spring 2026
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Refurbished. An old skep gets a makeover. What it takes? Fresh mud, rich manure, a running stream, a pair of hands. Gloves are useless.
Winter 2025
A storm on the outside. Within, the insects are unsleeping, keeping the heart of their world warm.
Fall 2024
Heirlooms
Summer 2024
July 2024. Hot as hell, our summer. Frogspawn used to linger and dragonflies once droned on this patch of road to the forest .
Spring 2024
March 29th dawned brilliant and unseasonally warm. We took a long walk through the fields and forests. Mom and Azra hunted the forest for bear’s garlic while I stalked the foraging bees. There was not much for the bees to find in bloom besides dead nettles, primroses, and wild violets. And this strange forest flower—can anyone name it? Raw and pink as flesh, the flowers emerge beneath the blanket of last year’s leaves, as if they were shrouds. Arching low above the ground, the florets are hiding, though not from the bees.
Sometime in late May, 2021. A plunge: deep within the parted petals is an offering. We name it pollen but who could tell what the treasure means to this bee.
Blooms came out way too early. But they are as gorgoues as ever.
Spring 2020
The many honeybees that live on our land occupy seventeen hives (among them is a wicker skep!). Our apiary is truly small but our greatest feat is that we’ve been managing to keep the bees alive and healthy over the years. We have harvested honey only three times, since 2015. Gorgeous, umber-colored linden, mixed in with black locust and blackberry blossoms, the honey is so fragrant that a whiff alone gives you a buzz. The jars warm up with golden hues as the honey crystalizes. All other years, we have fed honey and pollen (bought from a trusted source) back to the bees.
Without this emergency food aid (a snapshot of its production above), our bees would not have fared well through the dearths due to strange weather. As the signs of global climate change become more immediately felt on the ground--even ground such as ours, far from industrial pollution and industrial agriculture, lovingly cultivated with bee-friendly flora and surrounded by forests and wilds--it is not clear how much longer we will be able to keep bees. In the meantime, with their perseverance, their beauty, their buzzing that sounds like invocation to Sufis and, anyhow, feels like a blessing, their swarming, nectar gathering, pollen foraging, pollinating and other acts of faith under inclement skies, the bees are keeping us going.
These days, we keep bees, grow food, and otherwise film, write, and work on a mountaintop in northeastern Bosnia. It’s a steep patch of densely planted land. Our baba passed it on to us along with a small forest by a creek. He also left us a heap of dreams and wild plans for the land , yet to be pursued. Our mama, thankfully, keeps us down-to-earth, for homesteading at the current scale is already a lot of work. She is to our land what a queen bee is to a hive.
Spring 2026
Refurbished. An old skep gets a makeover. What it takes? Fresh mud, rich manure, a running stream, a pair of hands. Gloves are useless.
Winter 2025
A storm on the outside. Within, the insects are unsleeping, keeping the heart of their world warm.
Fall 2024
HeirloomsSummer 2024
July 2024. Hot as hell, our summer. Frogspawn used to linger and dragonflies once droned on this patch of road to the forest .
Spring 2024
March 29th dawned brilliant and unseasonally warm. We took a long walk through the fields and forests. Mom and Azra hunted the forest for bear’s garlic while I stalked the foraging bees. There was not much for the bees to find in bloom besides dead nettles, primroses, and wild violets. And this strange forest flower—can anyone name it? Raw and pink as flesh, the flowers emerge beneath the blanket of last year’s leaves, as if they were shrouds. Arching low above the ground, the florets are hiding, though not from the bees.
Sometime in late May, 2021. A plunge: deep within the parted petals is an offering. We name it pollen but who could tell what the treasure means to this bee. Blooms came out way too early. But they are as gorgoues as ever.
Spring 2020
The many honeybees that live on our land occupy seventeen hives (among them is a wicker skep!). Our apiary is truly small but our greatest feat is that we’ve been managing to keep the bees alive and healthy over the years. We have harvested honey only three times, since 2015. Gorgeous, umber-colored linden, mixed in with black locust and blackberry blossoms, the honey is so fragrant that a whiff alone gives you a buzz. The jars warm up with golden hues as the honey crystalizes. All other years, we have fed honey and pollen (bought from a trusted source) back to the bees.
Without this emergency food aid (a snapshot of its production above), our bees would not have fared well through the dearths due to strange weather. As the signs of global climate change become more immediately felt on the ground--even ground such as ours, far from industrial pollution and industrial agriculture, lovingly cultivated with bee-friendly flora and surrounded by forests and wilds--it is not clear how much longer we will be able to keep bees. In the meantime, with their perseverance, their beauty, their buzzing that sounds like invocation to Sufis and, anyhow, feels like a blessing, their swarming, nectar gathering, pollen foraging, pollinating and other acts of faith under inclement skies, the bees are keeping us going.
Watch us on YouTube Channel
@beekeepingintheendtimes3009
Write to us
— beekeepingintheendtimes@gmail.com —
@beekeepingintheendtimes3009
Write to us
— beekeepingintheendtimes@gmail.com —