Magtym and Sveta
The night is cloudless, cooled by a slight breeze and the stars are brilliantly burning above us. The plastic bags that I carry are filled to the ripping point with potatoes, onions, and tomatoes. Magtym, (my neighbor with whom I play basketball) Azat (Magtym's friend) and Didar, my host little brother, trail behind me struggling with their own bags filled with food and clothes for Batyr, my eldest younger host brother who is about to graduate from University of Ashgabat. We unload the bags into the back of the taxi and load in. We are headed to the train station. Didar is going to visit Batyr for the weekend.
Returning to the train station I cannot help but remember the police officer trying to take the film out of my digital camera after I took a picture of the train the last time I was at this station. The feeling now is one of complete relaxation and a subtle playfulness that prompts me to ask Didar to bring out the frisbee. We spread out and started throwing the Frisbee, back and forth each trying to out due each other as the best catch. Didar's train arrived promptly on time and we loaded the supplies into his cupee. I told him that he was lucky that he didn’t have the one right next to the bathroom. With a final joke and me doing a fake crying episode because he was leaving (which prompted a nearby officer to blow his whistle at me) we headed for the exit. Magtym draped his arm around Sveta’s shoulder while Azat and I trailed behind. Sveta wore a blue tank top and a jean skirt and with a smile and laugh to complete the outfit. Magtym was wearing the typical Turkmen white pointy gator shoes, stone washed jeans and new T-shirt that Didar had let him borrow.
Azat was in the midst of telling me that he wanted to learn English so he could travel to Turkey, when I asked him what he wanted to do in Turkey. He told me that he was going to buy cell phones here and then sell them in Turkey. When I asked him what he was going to do for housing or after he was done selling the cell phones his face was a complete blank. Like so many ideas that I have heard since I have been in Turkmenistan the initial idea is fine its the next step and sustainability that seems to be missing. I wonder if that is a product of the type of day to day life that pervades here, each a step of chores and meals before you sleep and wake up for the next.
We arrived outside of Azat’s apartment, which looked exactly like all of the others that we had past for the previous ten minutes, and exchanged farewells. We headed past a couple of shops and an alleyway. The only people out at 12:30 at night were Turkmen men crouching in alleyways hawking loogies or the occasional pair whose conversation would hush as Sveta, Magtym and I approached.
After we passed the tenth apartment that looked the same as the previous nine, Sveta turned to me and asked what city I had lived in America. I responded Washington DC.
“Is that the only one in the east?” She asked.
“No, there are many cities. Why do you ask?”
Sveta’s bright smile turned down and she brushed a piece of hair from her brow to reveal a deep furrow. She told me that five years ago her mother left for Russia, then three years ago she got a postcard from Washington D.C. with her mother’s signature on it. That is the only thing that she has heard from her mother since she left.
“Do you know her?” she asked.
I took a deep breath and shook my head. I felt like a soldier coming back to my old hometown during a war. People on the street stopping me and asking if I knew anything of their sons and daughters. The weight of their lingering hopes balancing in the air before I would shake my head and the life out of the conversation. This type of secondhand information that is powerful enough to wash out or liberate the hopes of a future reunion is a powerful thing. While the physical danger of losing my life is not present here in Turkmenistan, I can plainly see how Mom and Dad would hang on my every word in my letters home.
We dropped Sveta off at her door at the other end of our apartment complex and headed home.
We passed two vans parked near to one another and from the darkness I heard someone shout my name, “Salaam Chris! Are you good?” There in between the two vans 10 young Turkmen boys were spread out on carpets, pillows and blankets. I paused a bit to exchange pleasantries, trying not to disturb one particularly heavy snoring boy with a glob of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth near the rear wheel axles. I tried to think of any situation in America that you would get to see this. The only one that came to mind was Chris Farley’s old Saturday Nigh Live skit, “A van down by the river.” However, these boys were simply sleeping in the outdoor air and enjoying a summer night in the middle of a dusty courtyard.
Magtym’s and my apartments illuminated by the lights of the neighbors apartments behind them were now fully visible. I saw two shadows standing sentry, gazing out between the bars of their metal porches. Azat, Magtym’s little brother, his arms resting on the crossbars of their first floor patio greeted us with a whispered “Salaam.” A floor above and across the doorway my host mom, her fragile frame silhouetted by the glow of a candle on the top john called out to Magtym and me. After a brief explanation as to why we were close to an hour late in arriving from Magtym, I bid him good night and headed upstairs.
I settled myself onto a pillow and a mattress laid out on the patio by my host mom and told Bazar, my host dad, the story of how we played Frisbee at the train station. He smiled and chuckled a bit when I told him about pretending to cry when Didar left and the police blew a whistle at me. A few minutes past and he headed to bed in the far room of the apartment.
I overheard a hushed but rushed conversation coming from Magtym’s apartment. I stood up, nursing my now swollen ankle, an injury from the nights basketball practice, and walked over to the place where my host mom had only minutes ago stood guard to greet our return. Pasha, Magtym’s mother, was standing over Magtym while he propped himself up on an elbow. Pasha looked up at me and with a huff went back into their house. Magtym got up and followed right after her, swinging the steel door shut with a bang.
I heard Magtym’s raspy shouts coming from inside, “She’s good I tell you! I told you good!” Moments later there was a thump, the sound of a fist hitting a solid piece of wood. Then slightly muffled sniffling and crying came from inside the house. Tears from anger and shock coming at the same time.
The thing about free love in Turkmenistan is that there is no such thing. Turkmenistan for all of its boasting of development, Turkmenbashy glorifications, is still a tribal nation. Thus if a Turkmen son finds a Russian girl that he would like to marry, in some cases the family tells him that he is a disappointment to the family, sometimes with a more derogatory slant toward the girl.
I found myself pondering and understanding a bit of what Magtym must have felt when he slammed his fist into the wood; the disapproval of finding someone that you have loved for two years that your family disapproves of while in your heart you just want them to accept her. It is a story that has been told in every culture in every nation since humankind came together in cities. I lit a cigarette and exhaled, humming the song “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof.
The television was turned on and the volume turned up so loud that I could make out every word that the Altyn Asyr reporter was saying about the days “news.” This reminded of watching a drama of fighting parents that go into the car and turn the radio up so the kids can’t hear the fight but can see as they stand by the bay window watching. This illusion of self-infused separation being a simple matter of semantics.
I found myself wanting to go down to their apartment and start to tell Pasha that she was being restrictive, traditional, and that they loved each other so what did it matter. I knew though that adding fuel to the fire from the American neighbor would only hurt Magtym’s case rather than enrich it. This would not matter if I was fluent in Turkmen or not, it was simply not a problem I could fix.
It occurred to me that the saying, “Don’t hang your dirty laundry where everyone can see it,” seemed duly appropriate. This is a place that for 70 years they were taught to always watch their neighbors, add to this fact the huge percentage of unemployed and housewives with nothing to do but sit around and gossip and you have a place neighbor opinion is as valuable if not more so than personal desire.
I hear a scream in Russian, the smashing of a plate and the slamming of a door, followed by the voices of two Russian women descending the staircase from Pasha’s. It seemed that Sveta’s aunt had been called into the argument on behalf of Magtym. I went once again to the edge of the patio and gazed out. There in the beam of a streetlight a 100 feet from edge of our patio, I see the shrugging shoulders and hear the muffled tears of Sveta. The two Russian women walk back toward the other side of the apartment complex and disappear into the night.
The phone rings inside the house. I get up gingerly and head toward the living room door. I open it into the side of my host mom. I apologize and hand her the phone. She says hello and listens for a bit. She looked at me and I mouthed the word Pasha, she nodded telling me that yes she knew what had happened she had heard it to.
I feel asleep with my journal on my chest trying to recount all of the events that had just happened.
Returning to the train station I cannot help but remember the police officer trying to take the film out of my digital camera after I took a picture of the train the last time I was at this station. The feeling now is one of complete relaxation and a subtle playfulness that prompts me to ask Didar to bring out the frisbee. We spread out and started throwing the Frisbee, back and forth each trying to out due each other as the best catch. Didar's train arrived promptly on time and we loaded the supplies into his cupee. I told him that he was lucky that he didn’t have the one right next to the bathroom. With a final joke and me doing a fake crying episode because he was leaving (which prompted a nearby officer to blow his whistle at me) we headed for the exit. Magtym draped his arm around Sveta’s shoulder while Azat and I trailed behind. Sveta wore a blue tank top and a jean skirt and with a smile and laugh to complete the outfit. Magtym was wearing the typical Turkmen white pointy gator shoes, stone washed jeans and new T-shirt that Didar had let him borrow.
Azat was in the midst of telling me that he wanted to learn English so he could travel to Turkey, when I asked him what he wanted to do in Turkey. He told me that he was going to buy cell phones here and then sell them in Turkey. When I asked him what he was going to do for housing or after he was done selling the cell phones his face was a complete blank. Like so many ideas that I have heard since I have been in Turkmenistan the initial idea is fine its the next step and sustainability that seems to be missing. I wonder if that is a product of the type of day to day life that pervades here, each a step of chores and meals before you sleep and wake up for the next.
We arrived outside of Azat’s apartment, which looked exactly like all of the others that we had past for the previous ten minutes, and exchanged farewells. We headed past a couple of shops and an alleyway. The only people out at 12:30 at night were Turkmen men crouching in alleyways hawking loogies or the occasional pair whose conversation would hush as Sveta, Magtym and I approached.
After we passed the tenth apartment that looked the same as the previous nine, Sveta turned to me and asked what city I had lived in America. I responded Washington DC.
“Is that the only one in the east?” She asked.
“No, there are many cities. Why do you ask?”
Sveta’s bright smile turned down and she brushed a piece of hair from her brow to reveal a deep furrow. She told me that five years ago her mother left for Russia, then three years ago she got a postcard from Washington D.C. with her mother’s signature on it. That is the only thing that she has heard from her mother since she left.
“Do you know her?” she asked.
I took a deep breath and shook my head. I felt like a soldier coming back to my old hometown during a war. People on the street stopping me and asking if I knew anything of their sons and daughters. The weight of their lingering hopes balancing in the air before I would shake my head and the life out of the conversation. This type of secondhand information that is powerful enough to wash out or liberate the hopes of a future reunion is a powerful thing. While the physical danger of losing my life is not present here in Turkmenistan, I can plainly see how Mom and Dad would hang on my every word in my letters home.
We dropped Sveta off at her door at the other end of our apartment complex and headed home.
We passed two vans parked near to one another and from the darkness I heard someone shout my name, “Salaam Chris! Are you good?” There in between the two vans 10 young Turkmen boys were spread out on carpets, pillows and blankets. I paused a bit to exchange pleasantries, trying not to disturb one particularly heavy snoring boy with a glob of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth near the rear wheel axles. I tried to think of any situation in America that you would get to see this. The only one that came to mind was Chris Farley’s old Saturday Nigh Live skit, “A van down by the river.” However, these boys were simply sleeping in the outdoor air and enjoying a summer night in the middle of a dusty courtyard.
Magtym’s and my apartments illuminated by the lights of the neighbors apartments behind them were now fully visible. I saw two shadows standing sentry, gazing out between the bars of their metal porches. Azat, Magtym’s little brother, his arms resting on the crossbars of their first floor patio greeted us with a whispered “Salaam.” A floor above and across the doorway my host mom, her fragile frame silhouetted by the glow of a candle on the top john called out to Magtym and me. After a brief explanation as to why we were close to an hour late in arriving from Magtym, I bid him good night and headed upstairs.
I settled myself onto a pillow and a mattress laid out on the patio by my host mom and told Bazar, my host dad, the story of how we played Frisbee at the train station. He smiled and chuckled a bit when I told him about pretending to cry when Didar left and the police blew a whistle at me. A few minutes past and he headed to bed in the far room of the apartment.
I overheard a hushed but rushed conversation coming from Magtym’s apartment. I stood up, nursing my now swollen ankle, an injury from the nights basketball practice, and walked over to the place where my host mom had only minutes ago stood guard to greet our return. Pasha, Magtym’s mother, was standing over Magtym while he propped himself up on an elbow. Pasha looked up at me and with a huff went back into their house. Magtym got up and followed right after her, swinging the steel door shut with a bang.
I heard Magtym’s raspy shouts coming from inside, “She’s good I tell you! I told you good!” Moments later there was a thump, the sound of a fist hitting a solid piece of wood. Then slightly muffled sniffling and crying came from inside the house. Tears from anger and shock coming at the same time.
The thing about free love in Turkmenistan is that there is no such thing. Turkmenistan for all of its boasting of development, Turkmenbashy glorifications, is still a tribal nation. Thus if a Turkmen son finds a Russian girl that he would like to marry, in some cases the family tells him that he is a disappointment to the family, sometimes with a more derogatory slant toward the girl.
I found myself pondering and understanding a bit of what Magtym must have felt when he slammed his fist into the wood; the disapproval of finding someone that you have loved for two years that your family disapproves of while in your heart you just want them to accept her. It is a story that has been told in every culture in every nation since humankind came together in cities. I lit a cigarette and exhaled, humming the song “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof.
The television was turned on and the volume turned up so loud that I could make out every word that the Altyn Asyr reporter was saying about the days “news.” This reminded of watching a drama of fighting parents that go into the car and turn the radio up so the kids can’t hear the fight but can see as they stand by the bay window watching. This illusion of self-infused separation being a simple matter of semantics.
I found myself wanting to go down to their apartment and start to tell Pasha that she was being restrictive, traditional, and that they loved each other so what did it matter. I knew though that adding fuel to the fire from the American neighbor would only hurt Magtym’s case rather than enrich it. This would not matter if I was fluent in Turkmen or not, it was simply not a problem I could fix.
It occurred to me that the saying, “Don’t hang your dirty laundry where everyone can see it,” seemed duly appropriate. This is a place that for 70 years they were taught to always watch their neighbors, add to this fact the huge percentage of unemployed and housewives with nothing to do but sit around and gossip and you have a place neighbor opinion is as valuable if not more so than personal desire.
I hear a scream in Russian, the smashing of a plate and the slamming of a door, followed by the voices of two Russian women descending the staircase from Pasha’s. It seemed that Sveta’s aunt had been called into the argument on behalf of Magtym. I went once again to the edge of the patio and gazed out. There in the beam of a streetlight a 100 feet from edge of our patio, I see the shrugging shoulders and hear the muffled tears of Sveta. The two Russian women walk back toward the other side of the apartment complex and disappear into the night.
The phone rings inside the house. I get up gingerly and head toward the living room door. I open it into the side of my host mom. I apologize and hand her the phone. She says hello and listens for a bit. She looked at me and I mouthed the word Pasha, she nodded telling me that yes she knew what had happened she had heard it to.
I feel asleep with my journal on my chest trying to recount all of the events that had just happened.
posted by Schirm 2605 | 10:32 AM
