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Circassian regiments may even have fought each other since the Turks also employed them as cavalry, and
most Circassian villages in Turkey have photographs of the volunteers they sent off to fight the Russians. In the Second World War, the Soviet Union’s Circassians fought again, although – Turkey being neutral – they no longer had to fight against their ethnic kin.
    The Circassians, however, are no longer the fighters they once were. Young Circassians are now – in Israel, Jordan and Turkey – more likely to study technology than to enter officer training school. The older martial qualities are slipping away, and the world offers more opportunities than Khon ever had.
    But it is the lasting respect for military virtues that sustains the Circassian regard for a phlegmatic nature – for the lack of which Khon rebuked his nine-year-old. Traditionally, a Circassian should never express frustration, anger or weakness. To be seen drunk in public is shameful, and a Circassian should be able to hold his alcohol. Circassian women traditionally wore a corset from puberty to marriage, the strings of which were only untied once a day by her mother. On the marriage night, the groom would have to restrain his impatience by untying the fiendish knots concocted by his in-laws. Any man who used a knife to release his new wife showed a lack of self-control, and was publicly shamed.
    Circassian women no longer wear corsets, but the tradition has been updated, according to Tahawha, who talked me through the wedding traditions used by the young Circassians of Kfar-Kama.
    â€˜People used to try to make the groom tired. His friends would often kidnap the groom, and eat, dance, play – the only sad one being the groom. They only sent him home at first light, and when his wife opens the door she has been asleep and she was not afraid of anything. Then, twenty years ago or so, they started to put obstacles in front of the groom, or burst the tyres on his car. When I got married in 2002, my friends sat with me until two in the morning. I kept telling them I had to go to my wife, but they would ask me what the rush was. I was angry, and did not know what they were doing. But afterwards I understood, they were making me tired so I would be gentle with my wife. People still do this now, although only until twelve midnight or so.’
    All of this perhaps gives the impression that habze is a rather austere discipline, but that is far from the truth. Hospitality is given
joyously and willingly, while loyalty and comradeship are an excuse for competitions and showing off. Nineteenth-century travellers wrote how the Circassian young men raced and fought to establish precedence.
    In a strange reflection of this tradition, I made kebabs.
    In Kfar-Kama, a wedding takes place almost every weekend in summer. At least a quarter of Israel’s 4,000 Circassians are invited to each one and the catering is a major challenge. A dozen or so men are required to shape the mince into shish-kebabs, to skewer the marinaded chicken, and to chop the onions and other vegetables. Although, as a vegetarian, I did not look on preparing several thousand kebabs as a major treat, I could hardly turn down an invitation to take part.
    Funnily enough, although the mince was clammy and the fat stuck to my hands, the occasion was a joy. Conversation was almost all in Circassian, with just the occasional comment in English to me, but the constant laughter and spirit of the occasion made me feel included and happy.
    Our host, who spoke very little English, kept encouraging me to ‘make kebabs with love’ – a baffling comment that I only later discovered was a reference to an Israeli hummus advert. Every time he said it, a gale of laughter would sweep the room. Then the fierce competition that had developed between our table and that next door, where a group of older men were trying to match our prodigious kebab output, would resume in even