Uzbekistan
I’m a good Muslim.
I never dreamed I’d be a divorced woman. Those ladies were another sort. But, I don’t care about the stigma anymore. I’d rather drown than stay married to him. He was always gentle, but I never enjoyed it for a second. The first time we met, at our wedding ceremony, my heart sank. He was bony, dark, and old. And I was his property.
I remember that day. My mother tried to smile for me, the square corners of her mouth slightly rising. But she knew inside that this was a necessary evil.
After my father died, I left without explaining myself. While he was out for a morning game of durak, I packed a small handbag, and boarded a 2-day bus. There were no parting words. He knew better than to come here. You could say I married my mother, moving back to my village home in Lakkon.
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Uzbekistan is vast, greyed, Sovietesque, and rugged. Although we were the rural region, our nation was once part of a world superpower. Now, we are forgotten. When Stalin carved up the USSR, he paid no heed to our people—to who is Tajik and who is Uzbek. He drew up our borders like a child with crayons.
When my eldest brother Dilshyod was my age, he left our village for Russia, in search of better work. It took Dilshyod five days to arrive in Moscow by train. But it took the police just minutes to arrest him and his friend upon arrival, demanding passports and 200 rubles. For the past three years, Dilshyod has been living illegally on the rooftops of dozens of construction sites all over the country. He, with three other Uzbeks, live in constant fear that police will find them. In Moscow, migrant workers are despised, though it is their work that holds Russia’s economy together.
During the winter months, Lakkon gets its blood back. The men flood home from Russia, including Dilshoyd. The provisions and presence of fathers, brothers, and sons light up each house. The streets teem with men in white robes and Uzbek skull caps. Chai steams as they lounge together on tap chans by the street, waiting for Navruz to come.
When the new year finally arrives, the fun begins—and lasts all night. Of all the peoples of Central Asia, we Uzbeks know how to do Navruz. Whether you are young or old, you move to the music. Flailing, unabashed, free. A good Muslim is modest, but knows how to dance the night away at Navruz.
When you’re not dancing, you take your shift stirring the sumalak. We all stay awake late into the night, telling tales and making prayers to the seven stones found at the bottom of the porridge. We stir in shifts, making a wish for luck with each churn.
Like this soup concocted uniquely at our New Year, our people are a medley—Russian, Islamic, Turkic, and Persian. The Silk Road left our homeland the remnants of many nations. It is as Al Qu’ran says: “Of His signs is the diversity of your language and color.”
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The aroma from the tandoor never stops.
With start-up money Dilshyod earned in Moscow, my mother and I have opened a small bakery in our village. The front room of our home in Lakkon is now the hotspot for local sweets. With help from Mercycorps, we did the research. People in our village have the money to buy sweets and bread, so we’re keeping that money here in our economy. Instead of sending it away to bring in packaged Chinese treats, we created a plan to keep our resources—including our men—here in Lakkon.
After running this business successfully for four years, I have just started college in the capital. My concentration is Business Economics. Yes, at 32, an old woman, I will begin a new life here in the city.
“Dosve danya” I call out as my classmate transfers to another subway. Here in Tashkent, I speak in Russian. My hair is bleached blonde. My phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans, summoning me to a study group or night club. Even in my own country, I feel like a foreigner.
Here in the city, at least, I may be able to marry again. I will find a strong Muslim man. He will be chaste and cultured, of good family and character. I will find a man who knows how to cook. He will let our daughter choose whom she will marry one day.
photo by Salohiddin Kamolov on Unsplash
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