Some parting thoughts

(my teacher, Abdullahjon: this man loves Michael Jackson)

(silent cousin from meal photos; Shahsonam (NOT Sherzoda!); Malika and Muhamidamin.)

(just enjoying the latest issue of "Zamondosh" ("Contemporary").

Dir frekhnds,

My times in Dushanbe, they are grow short. I write my conclusive ideas now, below:

Four days before departure I'm sitting on the 'so'ri' (outdoor table/bench) with Bakhtior and he calls for his daughter, "Shahsonam!" I say, "who is Shahsonam?" And out comes Sherzoda, hidden host sister. "here is Shahsonam," he says. Say what??!! (For the Russian speakers that translates as "Chego???!!) Turns out that traditional Uzbek husbands and wives dont' call one another by their given names, but by the names of their eldest children. This is because, according to Bakhtior, their bond is sacred and the name of their eldest child signifies the beginning of the family they create together. After all, you can call a common acquaintance by their given name, but you can't call any common acquaintance Sherzoda, can you? You will remember that I was never formally introduced to any of Bakhtior's adult daughters, including the who lived under the same roof as me, I had always assumed that "mystery host sister" was Sherzoda, because either she or Saida-opa would come running when he yelled for them, lazily, from his chair in front of the TV. He had a good laugh at my stupidity. I had a good laugh at teh fact that it took me two months to figure this one out. Of course, I couldn't laugh about it with Shahsonam (lit. "queen-beautiful-goddess") because I'm not allowed to talk to her.

Bakhtior also explained that after deaths of close relatives women in mourning wear dark colors, green or dark blue, for a year whenever they leave the house. This is to show other people that they are in mourning and to respect their moods. Saida-opa will also not be attending an extravagant wedding of a female relative because she's in mourning due to the death of Bakhtior's sister who died earlier this year. However, a prime money making opportunity she will however be making 70 loaves of "pater" bread (a version of traditional central asian non, but with flaky layers and lots of oil. Saida-opa is well known for her paters and sells them to a store on the side). I asked if there was a similar rule for men as far as special mourning dress or obligatory skipping out on invitations and he said no.

In a general talk of women's fashion, Bakhtior also said how women are beauty, flowers, nature's gifts, delicateness, etc, etc, personified, and therefore should be surrounded by beauty and color. Hence the really colorful dresses that non-mourning central asians wear. I told him that in the West wearing black was considered rather fashionable, and he looked at me as if I were a moron. He then said that it was just rude/uneducated (po russki, "grubo") that Iranian women all wore black.

In our final conversational tussle of the night we broached the seemingly safe topic of the Olympic games. He asked me how many countries participated....40 or so? I said closer to 100, and he was surprised. He said it was impossible, for how could they find the time for 100 different nations to compete in a space of 3 week. I tried to explain to him that athletes in different events, in different heats could represent easily 50 countries in a single day. Somehow or other he refused to believe this. I said take the marathon plus 20 different swimming heats. And still he refused to beleives this.

(and while we're at it, if the olympics only took 40 countries why on earth would TAjikistan be invited?)

This was a pretty contentious evening. I think it says a lot about one's ability to really get to know people and their traditions that after two months I only figured out everyone's name in a house! What does this say about international diplomacy, I don't know.

My last complaint/moment of disbelief occurred at Bunyod's going-away party. I had really been looking forward to it because I thought it would be a chance to be invited to see the whole family interact and enjoy one another's company. Instead the menfolk, including Bunyod, me, his friends, and older cousins were segregated from the women and their table. There was not a full moment of whole-family interaction. Perhaps my presence had something to do with it. Perhaps because his friends were there. But in any case, it was a really boring affair. A bunch of dudes eating plov, drinking RC cola and watching the same Turkish 'serial' on TV as all other Uzbeks. I was a bit disappointed and sad that we couldn't all have fun together. But such is the house that Bakhtior, bastion of worldly perspective, has built. I think it's pretty good that Bunyod gets to exit it for a while...

( I did get the chance to take photos of the closer relatives when the party ended however, so I can show them to Bunyod's aunt in Istanbul. Hence I have, surprise, surprise, a photo of Shahsonam with her kids! Amazing.)

On the teaching front....our female teacher, Dilbar, is sweet, attentive, and clued in. We play games in class, she adjusts things according to our mood, and she speaks English. These are all great things in my book. Abdullahjon, our conversation teacher, is a little less clued in. Twice this summer we've informed him of things that have made his jaw drop, and he gets this look in his eye as if we've just told him there is no santa claus. It's pretty damn informative of just how insular this place is to learn what these moments are. First, we told him that Michael Jackson likes kids. No, really likes kids. He was still under the impression that the king of pop was a shining American star. Second, we told him about somethign called the "Andijon massacre," when in 2005 the Uzbek president ordered troops to fire into a crowd of innocent protesters, killing perhaps as many as 500 people. This occurred in his neighboring country, perpretrated by a man that most local Uzbeks (like my host father) revere for his strength. Hearing about Andijon from Americans in broken Uzbek made him a bit uncomfortable so he turned the conversational tables and asked us about 9/11 and why no one saw it coming. According to his worldly knowledge alll terrorists notify journalists at first, to make their ransome demands known. We then proceeded to role-play as journalist and terrorist. I was the journalist and he made my classmate, Ailey, call me and tell me he had my wife and kids captive on a plane and that they would die unless I gave her money. What wonderful conversation practice. I cut the thing short and said I wouldn't continue to make light of such things. Sometimes we have off-days with Abdullahjon....

He did recently take us to the editorial offices of all the Uzbek-langauge papers in Tajkistan. They were quite a site. I think I saw two computers total for three different newspapers. They folks working there were very nice, however. Ailey was interviewed for Uzbek radio and as long as I send my photos via email (to the one guy in the office who had an email address; the papers don't have their own), they will publish them in the papers! They're kind of funny and Soviet-posed.

Can you sense the growing jadedness? I think it's time to go soon.

Thus might be my last post. But I might be going to the car bazar on Sunday with my peer tutor, which could result in some awesome stories and pictures. So stick around.

Charles