Uzbekistan’s neighbor to the north is the enormous Kazakhstan. Because of its proximity to Russia and its sheer size, Kazakhstan has a large Russian minority that claim to be Russian Orthodox. Uzbekistan, on the other hand, is predominantly Muslim and, because it is further and much smaller from Russia, the Russian presence is not as noticeable. During our Tashkent explorations we have encountered only two onion dome-shaped churches so typical of the Russian Orthodox architecture.
Last year I only realized that it was Easter when I tried to complete some on-line banking and could not because all the bankers and brokers were crowded into some church, praying to be forgiven for the most recent financial mini-crisis.
So many of our beliefs are determined by the time and place of our birth. Are we going to observe Ramadan or Lent? And, even within the monotheist religions, we have divisions. Don’t tell the Shia Muslim that his beliefs are identical to his Sunni neighbor. And the past bloody disagreements between the Catholics and the Protestants are still in the living memory of many people. And had I been born in Micronesia going back several centuries, I might be worshiping freshwater eels and turtles. I wonder if those believers also managed to find a reason to kill each other, perhaps over some differences in the color and spots of their divine creatures?
It is unusual for Navruz to fall within Ramadan. Navruz is the biggest celebration in Central Asia. Its importance equals that of Christmas for Westerners. It always starts on the 21st of March, welcoming Spring and the return of sunshine. Ramadan moves every year by several days, because it is based on the lunar cycles. “This is going to be tough on some of our Muslim friends who actually fast,” I told Dave as I took a large bite of my croissant and savoured it. No fasting for me. Thank you so much that I was born in the non-fasting part of the world, I silently congratulated myself yet again on my luck.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do you remember those delicious deep fried small buns that we were served during the past Navruz celebrations? They won’t be able to make them during the day because of Ramadan.”
Hearing Christmas music in a restaurant in March reminded me that I am in Nukus where Easter goes un-noticed while Ramadan is in full swing. Whoever was responsible for the music selection evidently didn’t recognize the signature sound of ‘pa rum pa pum pum’ tune for what it was; a version of The Little Drummer Boy. I was not surprised. After all, there must be some favorite Navruz tunes that I must have heard many times by now and, yet, I remain clueless.
I love Ramadan in Uzbekistan. During the day the cafés are almost empty, making the atmosphere very pleasant for those of us who are free to eat any time of the day, any day of the year. And, with so few guests vying for the servers’ attention, the service is what I would love it to be all year round. It is only around sunset that all the hungry and, thus, listless fasters come to life. By then any good café should be ready. Typically, the bar counters have bottles of water lined up like soldiers and numerous small dishes each holding three dates all waiting for the hungry to break the fast.
Compare that to the Persian Gulf countries where the Muslim will-power is evidently so weakened by their Petro dollars that they can’t handle seeing a non-Muslim eating in front of them during Ramadan. There, during Ramadan, all eateries are closed during the day and, even if you buy some food in the supermarket, you are not allowed to eat it in public. Nor even drink water. While living there, I always felt that the Ramadan environment was somewhat unfriendly to the non-Muslims.
“It would never cross my mind to force Easter eggs down the throat of my Muslim friends, so why do I have to eat my lunch in the store change room during Ramadan? It smelled bad there,” my friend laughed and added that it did make a fun memory. We had both worked in the rich Gulf countries and it was enjoyable to compare notes.
Navruz’s origins have their roots in paganism. The much looked forward to Navruz is a celebration of the new beginning and new growth. The sunshine helps, but it doesn’t hurt to encourage the plants to thrive in other ways. Come spring, the whole city smells like a farm. Since so many people have livestock in their backyards, they treat the plants to the real stuff. None of the petro-based fertilizers for the lucky Nukus plants.
Personally, I am a very laisse faire gardener. I let most of the plants live. What are weeds but unplanned plants I often think to myself. As Dave likes to quote; “A weed is a plant that has mastered every survival skill except for learning how to grow in rows.” Perhaps because I never had to garden for food, it has never been me and my food supply versus nature. So I always felt slightly guilty when pulling out weeds. If it has this will to live, who am I to curtail it?
The Uzbeks seem to be on the same page as me in this regard. When I walk the uni grounds I see a lot of young trees sticking out of new grass and weeds. It’s a wonderful mess of green. I know from the past that, when the greenery gets tall enough, people from the neighborhood will come with their sickles, cut it and take it home for their livestock.
I love Nukus government buildings. Not because I am enamored with their architecture, which at best is quite mediocre, or with what they represent. I love them because they are the ones that offer the biggest riot of colors in the flower beds that front them.
Navruz is very special for other reasons. It is the only paid time off that we, the international teachers, get. Including a weekend, it usually comes to a whopping four consecutive days. But even that comes with a price.
On Thursday at 11:30 am we got a message from the Agency that we were expected to work on Saturday to replace the Monday day off before Tuesday, which is a civic holiday. We knew about the holiday. We already had airfare and accommodation in Tashkent for the weekend. We had it for two weeks now. That is how normal people operate. They plan. “Are you Agency people for real?” went through my head yet again. Who does that? You don’t think people have lives outside of work? I was distraught and my one prized chin hair got a good workout.
This is the hair that I had discovered on my chin several weeks back. It is pretty long by now, but it’s blond, which perhaps makes it harder to detect. Or is it just the politeness that holds people back from exclaiming in a horrified voice, “what is that thing on your chin?” I have been waiting for any reaction, treating it as my private social experiment, and still nothing. Meanwhile, I calm myself down by sagely stroking and twirling it when dealing with frustrations. And there’s never any dearth of those.
The surprising lack of comments regarding my unusual chin sprout keeps reminding me of an experience I had in Alberta. At that time we lived in a town where, shopping for groceries in the only sizeable store, you were bound to run into someone you knew. I worked as a substitute teacher, which took me to all four schools within striking distance. That meant that, in the course of a week, I would encounter a great number of aquaintances. One weekend Dave and I went for a ride. It was spring, just past Navruz but, because it was northern Alberta, the weather was still quite cool and we kept the car windows up while moving. At one point during our explorations, we got lost. We stopped and Dave, who was at the wheel, used the control on his side, rolled down the passenger window and I asked a passerby for directions. After the middle-aged man happily provided the information, I came up with one more question regarding the time. I whipped my head back through the window to catch the man before he could walk off. Alas, meanwhile, speedy Dave had rolled the window back up and my cheek experienced the full impact of the unexpected glass. If there were a pitiful competition amongst the battered women of the world for the most telling black eye, I would qualify. It took a couple of weeks to lose the worst of the colouring and, yet, not a single person asked about it. ‘Maybe we should start talking to each other more,’ frequently crossed my mind back then. Are people just overly polite, loath to embarrass me, hesitant to butt into our family privacy? Or is it indifference? I never found the answer back then.
Recalling those days, I twirled my chin hair yet again. Yes, I will definitely miss it one day, when I finally get rid of it. The world is so full of reasons why everyone should have their very own something to soothe themselves with when necessary. I have seen people using small rubber balls that, when squeezed, are supposed to release tension. They might be effective but what happens if you forget it somewhere? My cherished hair is always available. I don’t see losing it in any foreseeable future.