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| A view of the Red Mountains from the Naryn campus, right after sunrise. |
Saturday, December 17, 2016
A Brief Hiatus
Life in the Stans will be on a brief hiatus until the middle of January; thanks for visiting this blog during the past year. Best wishes to everyone for a wonderful holiday season. May the year 2017 be filled with peace and joy, despite however improbable the likelihood of that might seem at the moment. Let us go forward with great courage come what may.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Pineapple Dreams
We had a gathering on campus yesterday and I was sitting with a couple of Expats and inevitably we discussed what foods we would be bringing back from our home countries when we returned from our winter breaks in January. Someone mentioned obtaining a range of vegan products unknown in the sheep-eating land of Kyrgyzstan. I proposed almond butter and rooibos tea as potential stowaways that might find their way into my luggage.
Longing and desire are constant companions of those who live far from home. In casual conversation we dare not name some of the subjects of our yearnings, so we settle for sharing descriptive accounts of the delicious and tasty items that we cannot seem to find anywhere. This is why almond butter is talked about like a beloved cousin who lives in a distant land, whose companionship is sorely missed. It is also why we eagerly share our stories of finding rice milk in Bishkek at five times the price one would pay at home--even when we aren't particularly fond of milk made from grains. Longing and desire cause us to seek out different comforts than we might otherwise and pay a steeper price for them.
When winter descends upon the Kyrgyz mountains a biting cold accompanies the season. Sometimes I am huddled on campus for days at a time, never leaving the cocoon in which I live. I seldom remember my dreams while living in this frigid land and I suspect that it's a good thing. But as the chill grows deeper across the landscape, the fog of my slumber has been lifted and fragments of dreams stay with me and accompany me as I climb out of bed. These new dreams are unlike ones I've ever had: images of pineapples, coconuts, and mangos drift across my consciousness and contribute to the murky haze of my morning until they are banished by my first cup of tea.
Unlike the land of my dreams, there are no mangos cultivated in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. Apples and potatoes and carrots are the bounty of this place. As wonderful as they are, eating them in copious amounts has not been the antidote to this obsession that seems to have overtaken my sleep. I find it peculiar that a person as pale as a sheet who can barely tolerate an ounce of sun has a mind suddenly fixated on this tropical fare.
Then, this past Saturday, I wandered through the Naryn produce market to buy some pears and apples and the occasional banana that somehow finds its way to every corner of the world. While contemplating a burlap sack crammed full of local carrots, I spotted it, hiding in a bin of onions at the very back of the adjacent produce stall. It was a golden, prickly pineapple, with a forest of spiked green leaves protruding from its top. At that moment it seemed unreal, as if it had tumbled from my dreams onto a random pile of onions, a mirage in Naryn Market.
The sharp thorns that stabbed me when I grabbed it was proof of its realness and greedily I bought that pineapple, despite the fact that it cost more than all the other produce I had purchased combined. Longing does that to you.
That night I ate half my pineapple, the fiercely sweet and burning sensation darting through my mouth, then settled into bed in a state of tropical bliss.
When I woke up the next morning, my mind was empty, no memory of the tropics or of anything at all. At first I was very pleased to have escaped the odd dreamscape that had been confounding me. Two more nights passed and still no recollection of anything--just more blank and uneventful sleep. My pineapple dreams had vanished, which left me wondering which was better: the empty memories of a sleep whiter than the snow-draped Kyrgyz mountains or the puzzling images from a colorful equatorial illusion?
When all of us living here go searching, for whatever it is we are looking for during our holidays, we will be trying to live out our elusive pineapple dreams. Then eventually we will return to the blazing, white Kyrgyz mountains and may still be left wondering which reality we might prefer.
Longing and desire are constant companions of those who live far from home. In casual conversation we dare not name some of the subjects of our yearnings, so we settle for sharing descriptive accounts of the delicious and tasty items that we cannot seem to find anywhere. This is why almond butter is talked about like a beloved cousin who lives in a distant land, whose companionship is sorely missed. It is also why we eagerly share our stories of finding rice milk in Bishkek at five times the price one would pay at home--even when we aren't particularly fond of milk made from grains. Longing and desire cause us to seek out different comforts than we might otherwise and pay a steeper price for them.
When winter descends upon the Kyrgyz mountains a biting cold accompanies the season. Sometimes I am huddled on campus for days at a time, never leaving the cocoon in which I live. I seldom remember my dreams while living in this frigid land and I suspect that it's a good thing. But as the chill grows deeper across the landscape, the fog of my slumber has been lifted and fragments of dreams stay with me and accompany me as I climb out of bed. These new dreams are unlike ones I've ever had: images of pineapples, coconuts, and mangos drift across my consciousness and contribute to the murky haze of my morning until they are banished by my first cup of tea.
Unlike the land of my dreams, there are no mangos cultivated in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. Apples and potatoes and carrots are the bounty of this place. As wonderful as they are, eating them in copious amounts has not been the antidote to this obsession that seems to have overtaken my sleep. I find it peculiar that a person as pale as a sheet who can barely tolerate an ounce of sun has a mind suddenly fixated on this tropical fare.
Then, this past Saturday, I wandered through the Naryn produce market to buy some pears and apples and the occasional banana that somehow finds its way to every corner of the world. While contemplating a burlap sack crammed full of local carrots, I spotted it, hiding in a bin of onions at the very back of the adjacent produce stall. It was a golden, prickly pineapple, with a forest of spiked green leaves protruding from its top. At that moment it seemed unreal, as if it had tumbled from my dreams onto a random pile of onions, a mirage in Naryn Market.
The sharp thorns that stabbed me when I grabbed it was proof of its realness and greedily I bought that pineapple, despite the fact that it cost more than all the other produce I had purchased combined. Longing does that to you.
That night I ate half my pineapple, the fiercely sweet and burning sensation darting through my mouth, then settled into bed in a state of tropical bliss.
When I woke up the next morning, my mind was empty, no memory of the tropics or of anything at all. At first I was very pleased to have escaped the odd dreamscape that had been confounding me. Two more nights passed and still no recollection of anything--just more blank and uneventful sleep. My pineapple dreams had vanished, which left me wondering which was better: the empty memories of a sleep whiter than the snow-draped Kyrgyz mountains or the puzzling images from a colorful equatorial illusion?
When all of us living here go searching, for whatever it is we are looking for during our holidays, we will be trying to live out our elusive pineapple dreams. Then eventually we will return to the blazing, white Kyrgyz mountains and may still be left wondering which reality we might prefer.
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Moments of Epic Wonderment
I have a very good friend who is a work colleague stationed in Bishkek with whom I usually communicate with via Email once or twice a day on business. Sometimes, I conclude my communications with a whimsical or peculiar closing salutation. Today, in my salutation, I wrote that I hoped her day had "moments of epic wonderment" as my day seemed to contain nothing of the sort.
She wrote back and told me that she had experienced a moment of epic wonderment today. And then I realized I had too. Epic wonderment. It's a "state of awed admiration or respect." It can also be defined as the "surprise and admiration caused by something beautiful, unexpected, or inexplicable." After considering these definitions, it's not astonishing that many of us go for days or weeks without perceiving that we ever experience a moment of epic wonderment. It seems as though lately our surprise and amazement has been caused by unexpected or inexplicable events of shocking ugliness, rather than those of profound beauty. Yet they are here to be grasped, these positive moments of wonderment, if we can somehow find them.
My moment of epic wonderment today was the feeling of surprise and awe I experienced when I considered an unexpected friendship that has enriched my life more than I might have imagined months ago. I also feel wonderment, when I look out my office window at the stark and beautiful landscape and consider the unexpected nature of life that caused me to somehow end up living in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. Almost every moment in our lives contains the possibility for wonderment when we realize that a state of awed admiration and respect should not solely be reserved for the remarkable or the unusual, but also for those things which are embedded in our daily lives that are often overlooked and ignored. Whether it is the spectacle of the night sky, or the warm and gentle touch of someone's hand, uncountable sources of wonderment like these surround us, despite our obliviousness to them in our hurried and unreflective lives.
Each day I witness much that fills me with concern. The state of the world is alarming. Aspects of my existence are sometimes troubling and I fail to grasp the intricacies of the challenges those around me face in their own lives. Then I must stop. It is at that instant, when I need to search outside myself for the surprisingly beautiful and unexpected. It is in these moments of epic wonderment where meaning and insight most intensely reside and where some small strength to continue onward can be obtained.
She wrote back and told me that she had experienced a moment of epic wonderment today. And then I realized I had too. Epic wonderment. It's a "state of awed admiration or respect." It can also be defined as the "surprise and admiration caused by something beautiful, unexpected, or inexplicable." After considering these definitions, it's not astonishing that many of us go for days or weeks without perceiving that we ever experience a moment of epic wonderment. It seems as though lately our surprise and amazement has been caused by unexpected or inexplicable events of shocking ugliness, rather than those of profound beauty. Yet they are here to be grasped, these positive moments of wonderment, if we can somehow find them.
My moment of epic wonderment today was the feeling of surprise and awe I experienced when I considered an unexpected friendship that has enriched my life more than I might have imagined months ago. I also feel wonderment, when I look out my office window at the stark and beautiful landscape and consider the unexpected nature of life that caused me to somehow end up living in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan. Almost every moment in our lives contains the possibility for wonderment when we realize that a state of awed admiration and respect should not solely be reserved for the remarkable or the unusual, but also for those things which are embedded in our daily lives that are often overlooked and ignored. Whether it is the spectacle of the night sky, or the warm and gentle touch of someone's hand, uncountable sources of wonderment like these surround us, despite our obliviousness to them in our hurried and unreflective lives.
Each day I witness much that fills me with concern. The state of the world is alarming. Aspects of my existence are sometimes troubling and I fail to grasp the intricacies of the challenges those around me face in their own lives. Then I must stop. It is at that instant, when I need to search outside myself for the surprisingly beautiful and unexpected. It is in these moments of epic wonderment where meaning and insight most intensely reside and where some small strength to continue onward can be obtained.
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| A source of wonderment: the view outside my office window |
Sunday, November 27, 2016
My "Reading the World" Project: Finding the Holy Grail
I've spent the last several months engaged in my own personal "Reading the World" project, inspired by Ann Morgan who read one work of literature from every country of the world during the course of a year. She describes her project in the following Ted Talk.
https://go.ted.com/CjMW
If you are interested in checking out all the books that Ms. Morgan read, you should go to her website.
ayearofreadingtheworld.com
I had hoped to find the book on Ms. Morgan's list written by Chingiz Aitmatov, Kyrgyzstan's most noted writer, but failed miserably in my search for any copy of his works during the time I lived in Bishkek. (I described my futile search in my post of August 16.) Instead, I resigned myself to reading a collection of four works focused primarily on Turkey. While they were all great books, I still felt a tinge of sadness that I couldn't find any of the works of Aitmatov.
But then, one fine September morning, I was aimlessly searching the shelves of our new campus library, when I discovered it: The Holy Grail of Kyrgyz literature for which I had been so intrepidly hunting.
It was Jamilia, the book considered to be Aitmatov's master work. Where did I find it, exactly? It was hiding among the miscellaneous books and items wedged into the backside of one of the library's movable bookshelves, disguised from clear view. But find it, I finally did.
I've now read the novella, which tells the story of a young Kyrgyz woman in World War II Kyrgyzstan named Jamilia who is married to a soldier who has gone off to battle the Nazis. Jamilia spends her time engaged in the back-breaking work of hauling sacks of grain to the station where they will be used for the war effort. Her marriage is a loveless one as her husband barely even addresses her in his infrequent letters home. The novella focuses on Jamilia's budding romance with a crippled war veteran named Daniyar who has returned to Kyrgyzstan and has been enlisted to assist Jamilia in hauling the grain.
I see the value of this novella, not so much as a story recounting the love of two people, but rather as a narrative that expresses love for the Kyrgyz landscape, its arts, music, culture, and traditions as a nation struggling to transition from its traditional ways to the modern Soviet world. This portrayal of Kyrgyzstan is particularly compelling for me now that I reside in this landscape and have some small appreciation for the traditional Kyrgyz ways to which I've been exposed.
I invite those of you who haven't taken me up on my invitation to read at least one work from Ann Morgan's list during the year 2016 to do so right now. You have only a month left, but that's plenty of time to pick up an outstanding work of international literature and to learn about a part of the world with which you are completely unfamiliar.
Happy reading!
https://go.ted.com/CjMW
If you are interested in checking out all the books that Ms. Morgan read, you should go to her website.
ayearofreadingtheworld.com
I had hoped to find the book on Ms. Morgan's list written by Chingiz Aitmatov, Kyrgyzstan's most noted writer, but failed miserably in my search for any copy of his works during the time I lived in Bishkek. (I described my futile search in my post of August 16.) Instead, I resigned myself to reading a collection of four works focused primarily on Turkey. While they were all great books, I still felt a tinge of sadness that I couldn't find any of the works of Aitmatov.
But then, one fine September morning, I was aimlessly searching the shelves of our new campus library, when I discovered it: The Holy Grail of Kyrgyz literature for which I had been so intrepidly hunting.
 |
| Published by Telegram Books of London, 2007, ISBN 978-1-84659-032-0 Perhaps the most annoying thing about this version of the book is that the woman on the cover portraying the Kyrgyz heroine is clearly not an ethnic Kyrgyz and bears no resemblance to the woman described in the book. Some art director at the Telegram Book Company failed to do their research. |
 |
| Where I discovered the Holy Grail of Kyrgyz literature known as Jamilia. |
I see the value of this novella, not so much as a story recounting the love of two people, but rather as a narrative that expresses love for the Kyrgyz landscape, its arts, music, culture, and traditions as a nation struggling to transition from its traditional ways to the modern Soviet world. This portrayal of Kyrgyzstan is particularly compelling for me now that I reside in this landscape and have some small appreciation for the traditional Kyrgyz ways to which I've been exposed.
I invite those of you who haven't taken me up on my invitation to read at least one work from Ann Morgan's list during the year 2016 to do so right now. You have only a month left, but that's plenty of time to pick up an outstanding work of international literature and to learn about a part of the world with which you are completely unfamiliar.
Happy reading!
Saturday, November 26, 2016
An emptiness of mind
One of the faculty members came to our office the other day to complain to my colleagues and me about his boredom. There was nothing happening on campus, he said, that satisfied his interest. Not only that, he noted there was nothing inside the entire community of Naryn sufficiently interesting to break his boredom funk.
I thought about this for awhile. Perhaps I am greatly lacking in empathy, but I have almost no empathetic impulse for those claiming boredom. One of the problems with the bored is they think that boredom is a condition that springs from a deficiency of the outside world when, in fact, I am convinced that boredom is almost exclusively a difficulty that comes from within.
In defense of my bored colleague, after considering the idea of boredom in a solitary moment over a cup of tea, I realized that what we call boredom might actually be something else. Perhaps boredom is much more complicated. It is an emptiness of mind.
An emptiness of mind is when you don't feel any engagement with the world as it presents itself to you. Perhaps it is because you are depressed, which makes it difficult to connect fully with the world. Maybe the cause is you don't have the capacity to understand or relate to the stimuli you are encountering. That's why nuclear physics seems boring to me: I am wholly incapable of understanding it. It is an emptiness of mind that comes from non-comprehension.
In my contemplation of boredom, I realized that I have also been suffering from an emptiness of mind lately. I didn't attach the term boredom to my disengagement from things that usually keep me occupied, nor did I call it boredom those many times I've spent just staring out my window. But an emptiness of mind it is, and it has caused me these past couple weeks to be like a car stuck in neutral, moving nowhere at all.
There is a reason, however, that some spiritual traditions encourage an emptiness of mind. When our minds are empty, we can despair, or we can raise a call against what we perceive is a boring world that's overtaken us. Or we can take this emptiness of mind as an incredible opportunity to re-focus and contemplate again what we want to take from the world and, even more importantly, what we wish to contribute to this cosmic accident where we happen to find ourselves. Boredom cannot flourish in a climate where what one gives takes precedence and a mind cannot remain empty when its focus is outside itself.
And I also learned last night there is one other sure-fire cure for an emptiness of mind, even if you aren't able to successfully fill your mind yourself. With a group of awesome people, we made pizza together and engaged in pleasant conversation while eating. What a useful rule of thumb: make pizza with friends and your emptiness of mind will disappear. Even better: make a hundred pizzas and share them with the world.
The world is in a bad state and evil forces surround us. Hope seems distant. Boredom and an emptiness of mind can so easily overwhelm us. Time to re-focus, knead the dough, and get to the business of baking and, in embracing this process, we then take the actions needed to bring us engagement with the universe and those with whom we share it. Let us act to transform our emptiness of mind by contributing to the fullness of each other's lives, because each moment is too precious for us to do anything else.
I thought about this for awhile. Perhaps I am greatly lacking in empathy, but I have almost no empathetic impulse for those claiming boredom. One of the problems with the bored is they think that boredom is a condition that springs from a deficiency of the outside world when, in fact, I am convinced that boredom is almost exclusively a difficulty that comes from within.
In defense of my bored colleague, after considering the idea of boredom in a solitary moment over a cup of tea, I realized that what we call boredom might actually be something else. Perhaps boredom is much more complicated. It is an emptiness of mind.
An emptiness of mind is when you don't feel any engagement with the world as it presents itself to you. Perhaps it is because you are depressed, which makes it difficult to connect fully with the world. Maybe the cause is you don't have the capacity to understand or relate to the stimuli you are encountering. That's why nuclear physics seems boring to me: I am wholly incapable of understanding it. It is an emptiness of mind that comes from non-comprehension.
In my contemplation of boredom, I realized that I have also been suffering from an emptiness of mind lately. I didn't attach the term boredom to my disengagement from things that usually keep me occupied, nor did I call it boredom those many times I've spent just staring out my window. But an emptiness of mind it is, and it has caused me these past couple weeks to be like a car stuck in neutral, moving nowhere at all.
There is a reason, however, that some spiritual traditions encourage an emptiness of mind. When our minds are empty, we can despair, or we can raise a call against what we perceive is a boring world that's overtaken us. Or we can take this emptiness of mind as an incredible opportunity to re-focus and contemplate again what we want to take from the world and, even more importantly, what we wish to contribute to this cosmic accident where we happen to find ourselves. Boredom cannot flourish in a climate where what one gives takes precedence and a mind cannot remain empty when its focus is outside itself.
And I also learned last night there is one other sure-fire cure for an emptiness of mind, even if you aren't able to successfully fill your mind yourself. With a group of awesome people, we made pizza together and engaged in pleasant conversation while eating. What a useful rule of thumb: make pizza with friends and your emptiness of mind will disappear. Even better: make a hundred pizzas and share them with the world.
The world is in a bad state and evil forces surround us. Hope seems distant. Boredom and an emptiness of mind can so easily overwhelm us. Time to re-focus, knead the dough, and get to the business of baking and, in embracing this process, we then take the actions needed to bring us engagement with the universe and those with whom we share it. Let us act to transform our emptiness of mind by contributing to the fullness of each other's lives, because each moment is too precious for us to do anything else.
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| One cure for an emptiness of mind |
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Explaining Pumpkin Pie
One of the more peculiar duties I have had while living on international campuses is helping put together the menu for holidays and festivals that are not part of the local tradition. Thanksgiving is usually the big offender as food is the centerpiece of this celebration and the culinary traditions of this feast cannot be translated easily across boundaries.
My Italian cooks at NYU in Florence were sharp and adaptable and had the ability to crank out a Thanksgiving feast that would have made grandma proud, although I will never forget the response of one of my Italian chefs when I was explaining how to make mashed potatoes: "Why would someone commit such violence on a potato?"
The rural and unworldly Dutch staff in the Castle where I celebrated Thanksgiving had a bit more trouble navigating the holiday. I remember the looks of horror when I described how to create stuffing. "Excuse me, you shove the dried bread mixture where?" they would ask me repeatedly. Their sour frowns at my excessive interest in a turkey's innards seemed to border on moral disapproval and caused me to question the very nature of this holiday treat.
And now in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan I find myself explaining this strange assortment of foods that we eat when we are supposedly thankful to two Pakistani cooks and a Kyrgyz kitchen supervisor. What makes it even more challenging is the none of the ingredients seem to exist within 200 kilometers of our mountain home.
Explaining pumpkin pie. With language barriers. The kind and good young Pakistani baker and I went through the recipe several times, but his quizzical expression and his constant head scratching were ominous signs. "I think I should also bake some pastries," he said. "Yes, you are right," I replied, agreeing to his back-up plan.
A few hours later he brought me a bowl containing his experimental efforts at making pumpkin filling for me to try. It had a pleasing taste, but something was awry. "Is this pumpkin?" I asked. "Yes," he beamed.
When we entered the kitchen, he proudly showed me the assortment of small, brown autumn squash displayed on the counter. "Pumpkin," he exclaimed proudly. "Yes, pumpkin," I said, quietly, as I tried to figure out in my mind how I would explain squash pie to the small group of North American visitors who would be coming to our campus on Thanksgiving, expecting a traditional feast. It's no wonder I didn't even try to go down the stuffing path this year.
I have no doubt the Thanksgiving meal we'll get tomorrow, will be the strangest one yet from all the Thanksgivings I have spent in various corners of the world. It will be okay. It will be a good reminder that it really isn't the food that makes the holiday. It is the efforts of a Pakistani baker who is probably still furiously working to transform squash into dessert even as I write, it is the paper turkeys and other handmade crafts created by Tajik and Kyrgyz students in art club to celebrate our day, it is the warmth generated by a hundred hearts eating together in a dining hall in the mountains, far away from anyone, that really matters. And it is for these, and many other, small blessings that go unnoticed throughout our days for which I am quite thankful.
My Italian cooks at NYU in Florence were sharp and adaptable and had the ability to crank out a Thanksgiving feast that would have made grandma proud, although I will never forget the response of one of my Italian chefs when I was explaining how to make mashed potatoes: "Why would someone commit such violence on a potato?"
The rural and unworldly Dutch staff in the Castle where I celebrated Thanksgiving had a bit more trouble navigating the holiday. I remember the looks of horror when I described how to create stuffing. "Excuse me, you shove the dried bread mixture where?" they would ask me repeatedly. Their sour frowns at my excessive interest in a turkey's innards seemed to border on moral disapproval and caused me to question the very nature of this holiday treat.
And now in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan I find myself explaining this strange assortment of foods that we eat when we are supposedly thankful to two Pakistani cooks and a Kyrgyz kitchen supervisor. What makes it even more challenging is the none of the ingredients seem to exist within 200 kilometers of our mountain home.
Explaining pumpkin pie. With language barriers. The kind and good young Pakistani baker and I went through the recipe several times, but his quizzical expression and his constant head scratching were ominous signs. "I think I should also bake some pastries," he said. "Yes, you are right," I replied, agreeing to his back-up plan.
A few hours later he brought me a bowl containing his experimental efforts at making pumpkin filling for me to try. It had a pleasing taste, but something was awry. "Is this pumpkin?" I asked. "Yes," he beamed.
When we entered the kitchen, he proudly showed me the assortment of small, brown autumn squash displayed on the counter. "Pumpkin," he exclaimed proudly. "Yes, pumpkin," I said, quietly, as I tried to figure out in my mind how I would explain squash pie to the small group of North American visitors who would be coming to our campus on Thanksgiving, expecting a traditional feast. It's no wonder I didn't even try to go down the stuffing path this year.
I have no doubt the Thanksgiving meal we'll get tomorrow, will be the strangest one yet from all the Thanksgivings I have spent in various corners of the world. It will be okay. It will be a good reminder that it really isn't the food that makes the holiday. It is the efforts of a Pakistani baker who is probably still furiously working to transform squash into dessert even as I write, it is the paper turkeys and other handmade crafts created by Tajik and Kyrgyz students in art club to celebrate our day, it is the warmth generated by a hundred hearts eating together in a dining hall in the mountains, far away from anyone, that really matters. And it is for these, and many other, small blessings that go unnoticed throughout our days for which I am quite thankful.
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| Not my squash pie. |
Sunday, November 13, 2016
Where is God today?
Where is God today?
When I was an undergraduate I had an electric alarm clock that never seemed to work. When there was even the tiniest of power surges, it would revert back to 12:00 and flash incessantly. Other times it would turn itself off spontaneously and the snooze button simply seemed to just turn the alarm off. And the plug didn't seem to fit into any outlet and would fall out of the wall if you breathed upon it too heavily. It's a wonder I made it through my Freshman year with the world's most unreliable timepiece as my guide.
On many days, when I look at the world, I think God possesses an alarm clock from the same company that made the one I had in school. I believe, during the relatively quiet year of 1707, he set his alarm for 200 years, anticipating a wake-up in 1907, ready to get up and at it to face the challenges of the 20th Century. But, poor God, with that same crappy brand of clock I had, has overslept and much has happened since that 1907 wake-up we've all been expecting. What better reason could explain World War I, the Holocaust, fifty different genocides, and countless famines, just to name the highlights?
Today as I walked along the streets of Bishkek, shopping, enjoying unseasonably warm weather, I was successfully managing to keep the events of the past week out of my mind, when suddenly I encountered a beggar sitting on the sidewalk as I waited for the light to change. This was no ordinary beggar, but instead was one of the saddest people I have ever seen. It appeared he had either lost a fight with the baddest UFC fighter on the planet or had been run over by a cement truck. His clothes were torn, cuts and bruises encrusted his body. I could see his blood dried on his knee through the giant hole in his pants. He spoke to me in Russian asking me for money. And the first thing I asked myself was "Where is God today?"
I tried to fish some coins out of my pocket, but all I had was a One Som coin, worth about a penny. Crap. The only other money I had in my pocket were really large bills. Then the light changed back to red and I had to wait for the light again. And I was late to get to a store I wanted to visit before it closed. I was about to hand him the One Som coin, when I realized that it's really more insulting to give a person such a small pittance than it is to give them nothing at all. It feels like giving a person One Som is like taunting them or spitting at them in contempt.
I stood and looked at the man, deeply into his eyes. Damn the light turned red again. All I really wanted to do was just cross the street. Exasperated, I pulled a 500 Som bill out of my pocket and handed it to him. I might have detected a small flicker brighten his eyes as he said three or four sentences to me. I wish I could have said something more meaningful to him than "good-bye." Oh no! The light turned red again. Oh well, what can one do?
Please do not operate under the impression that I am a good person. If I were I would have given him all the bills in my pocket and would have tried to find a place where he could have had his wounds cleaned and tended. No, my complete lack of skill in Russian is not an excuse for my inaction. And as an even worse reflection of my character, I do admit, for a second, I did calculate how that 500 soms could purchase two weeks of my blood pressure medication (which I am in much more dire need of since Tuesday) or even six delicious Perfection 80% Cocoa chocolate bars, my favorite chocolate in Kyrgyzstan.
Where is God today? After I finally crossed the street I realized that the problem with God is not His alarm clock. It is actually a problem with bicycles. If there is a God, maybe He/She/It is not sleeping after all. Maybe what has happened is that the Supreme Being has decided that after centuries and centuries of providing humans with prophets and messiahs and holy texts galore, that it's time to take the training wheels off and let us humans ride the bicycle of destiny for ourselves and learn to properly use that gift of free will we've been given. Sadly, like the small child riding a bike without training wheels for the first time, we all expect the hand of someone more powerful to control our ride and keep us from crashing. But one will never learn to ride a bicycle correctly if one always expects a guiding hand.
Where is God today? If the Kingdom of God is to appear it will not come from the skies or fall from the heavens. The Kingdom of God will come only if it is present in all our hearts and manifests itself in each of our little daily actions; bringing the Kingdom of God to Earth is OUR responsibility. The Kingdom of God will come when we bring it to the planet by taking good care of every person in the world.
We cannot wait for God's alarm to go off, as who knows when that will happen. Instead, the training wheels are off and we must pedal as hard and as fast as we can, whether we are Buddhist or Christian or Muslim or Hindu or Jew, or lapsed-Lutheran agnostic. We must ride with the message of love toward one another, kindness towards all who are different than ourselves, and assistance to all in need, while resisting the messengers of greed and hatred. And we must ride no matter the risk of crashing into the ditch and despite the peril we face from our adversaries chasing us on Harleys.
Where is God today? He is the man I met on a street corner in Bishkek. And God is also in our hands.
Friday, November 11, 2016
The Power of a Paper Clip
In 1940, the Nazis invaded the nation of Norway so that they could control the entrance to the Baltic Sea and keep the shipping lanes open that provided the much needed raw materials to fuel their war efforts.
While weak militarily, the Norwegian people were a strong and defiant lot who resisted the fascist invaders as best they could. In the fall of 1940, students at the University of Oslo decided to wear paper clips on their lapels to demonstrate their resistance to the Nazi leaders who had instituted policies mandating that fascist ideology be taught in universities and schools throughout Norway.
Soon Norwegians from the Baltic Sea to the Arctic tundra were wearing paperclips as a sign of their defiance. And not just one paper clip, but even necklaces and bracelets of the humble piece of office supply were worn by those resisting the evil that overtaken their land.
Why the paper clip? It is as humble an item as one can find. Yet, it is an item that binds things together and symbolizes unity and togetherness. What better symbol of resistance could one find?
I was reminded of this story after the election and the victory of the forces that espouse hatred and division and neo-fascist ideology. If one studies the historical parallels carefully it is not unreasonable to state that we find ourselves in a situation that bears some frightening resemblance to Italy of the 1920s or...even worse. That is why resistance in our country must begin now, must begin today. We can't make the same mistake of passivity that the Italians of old made or the mistake of indifference and cowardice my German relatives living in the "Fatherland" made decades ago.
That is why I have decided to adopt the symbol of the brave Norwegians. I will be wearing a paper clip from today forward. It will serve as a reminder to me that I will not allow myself to go to bed on any day I am on this planet without having made at least one concrete effort of resistance. It can be writing letters to public officials, it can be advocating for my personal issue of opposition to U.S. use of torture on prisoners, it can be providing money to causes that further justice, it can be posting essays against the actions taken by the Trumpian government, but each day I have an obligation that something must be done. And I will not remove my paperclip for four years, or longer if needed, until the danger is gone and the ideals of my country prevail.
I have already found my paper clip. It comes from the desk of one of my dearest friends here in Kyrgyzstan. Since his nation's independence he has fought for justice and for the education of his people, sometimes at his own personal risk. Literally. For example, during the uprisings here in 2010 against an evil leader who was becoming a dictator, my friend risked his safety to help lead this cause. I can't think of a better person from whom this humble paper clip should come as his commitment to what is right will serve as inspiration to me on the darker days of discouragement that we all will face.
Eventually the Nazis figured out what was going on and wearing a paper clip became a criminal offense in Norway, but in time the good prevailed as the Norwegians never gave up their resistance. I invite you to join me in embracing the paper clip as a symbol of unity against that which is unjust and wrong. The humble paper clip can gain the power to bind our hearts together, no matter where we all find each other, and it will remind us that every day is a day of labor for the cause of peace, justice, kindness, mercy, and equal treatment for all.
While weak militarily, the Norwegian people were a strong and defiant lot who resisted the fascist invaders as best they could. In the fall of 1940, students at the University of Oslo decided to wear paper clips on their lapels to demonstrate their resistance to the Nazi leaders who had instituted policies mandating that fascist ideology be taught in universities and schools throughout Norway.
Soon Norwegians from the Baltic Sea to the Arctic tundra were wearing paperclips as a sign of their defiance. And not just one paper clip, but even necklaces and bracelets of the humble piece of office supply were worn by those resisting the evil that overtaken their land.
Why the paper clip? It is as humble an item as one can find. Yet, it is an item that binds things together and symbolizes unity and togetherness. What better symbol of resistance could one find?
I was reminded of this story after the election and the victory of the forces that espouse hatred and division and neo-fascist ideology. If one studies the historical parallels carefully it is not unreasonable to state that we find ourselves in a situation that bears some frightening resemblance to Italy of the 1920s or...even worse. That is why resistance in our country must begin now, must begin today. We can't make the same mistake of passivity that the Italians of old made or the mistake of indifference and cowardice my German relatives living in the "Fatherland" made decades ago.
That is why I have decided to adopt the symbol of the brave Norwegians. I will be wearing a paper clip from today forward. It will serve as a reminder to me that I will not allow myself to go to bed on any day I am on this planet without having made at least one concrete effort of resistance. It can be writing letters to public officials, it can be advocating for my personal issue of opposition to U.S. use of torture on prisoners, it can be providing money to causes that further justice, it can be posting essays against the actions taken by the Trumpian government, but each day I have an obligation that something must be done. And I will not remove my paperclip for four years, or longer if needed, until the danger is gone and the ideals of my country prevail.
I have already found my paper clip. It comes from the desk of one of my dearest friends here in Kyrgyzstan. Since his nation's independence he has fought for justice and for the education of his people, sometimes at his own personal risk. Literally. For example, during the uprisings here in 2010 against an evil leader who was becoming a dictator, my friend risked his safety to help lead this cause. I can't think of a better person from whom this humble paper clip should come as his commitment to what is right will serve as inspiration to me on the darker days of discouragement that we all will face.
Eventually the Nazis figured out what was going on and wearing a paper clip became a criminal offense in Norway, but in time the good prevailed as the Norwegians never gave up their resistance. I invite you to join me in embracing the paper clip as a symbol of unity against that which is unjust and wrong. The humble paper clip can gain the power to bind our hearts together, no matter where we all find each other, and it will remind us that every day is a day of labor for the cause of peace, justice, kindness, mercy, and equal treatment for all.
 |
| My new accessory |
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Even more sentences I never thought I would utter during my lifetime
It's the first day of snow here and only 151 days until Spring arrives.
(My thoughts on the weather in Naryn in mid-October.)
An OB-GYN is my primary medical care provider.
(That's the specialty of the physician assigned to our campus.)
And I don't understand a word of what my OB-GYN says.
(She only speaks Russian and Kyrgyz.)
I can't read the label on my medication.
(They're also only in Russian and Kyrgyz.)
Did you just say that the urologist was treating your sinus infection?
(A question addressed to one of my students who answered in the affirmative.)
The Cubs just won the World Series!
(The first time in 108 years. Is this a sign the apocalypse is coming?)
Because you've run out of vegetables and meat there's only pasta, rice, or potatoes for dinner?
(Words about the starch offerings presented by the cafeteria, spoken to our Pakistani chef, while in carb-rich Kyrgyzstan)
Quick, get my OB-GYN, I suddenly feel horribly ill.
(Gasped to my colleagues during the later returns on election night.)
Donald Trump is going to be President of the United States.
(Forget the Cubs winning. This TRULY is a sign of the apocalypse.)
It felt even worse than a regular hangover, because you never experienced any of the pleasure of the buzz.
(The consensus of all the North Americans living on campus, on what waking up to face a Trump Presidency felt like.)
Do you know any Canadians I could marry?
(I actually didn't say this. Technically this is a passage taken from an Email sent to a Canadian acquaintance.)
Wow, if this is part of God's plan, He is one really twisted dude.
(Said to myself, while staring out my office window after the election results were known.)
(My thoughts on the weather in Naryn in mid-October.)
An OB-GYN is my primary medical care provider.
(That's the specialty of the physician assigned to our campus.)
And I don't understand a word of what my OB-GYN says.
(She only speaks Russian and Kyrgyz.)
I can't read the label on my medication.
(They're also only in Russian and Kyrgyz.)
Did you just say that the urologist was treating your sinus infection?
(A question addressed to one of my students who answered in the affirmative.)
The Cubs just won the World Series!
(The first time in 108 years. Is this a sign the apocalypse is coming?)
Because you've run out of vegetables and meat there's only pasta, rice, or potatoes for dinner?
(Words about the starch offerings presented by the cafeteria, spoken to our Pakistani chef, while in carb-rich Kyrgyzstan)
Quick, get my OB-GYN, I suddenly feel horribly ill.
(Gasped to my colleagues during the later returns on election night.)
Donald Trump is going to be President of the United States.
(Forget the Cubs winning. This TRULY is a sign of the apocalypse.)
It felt even worse than a regular hangover, because you never experienced any of the pleasure of the buzz.
(The consensus of all the North Americans living on campus, on what waking up to face a Trump Presidency felt like.)
Do you know any Canadians I could marry?
(I actually didn't say this. Technically this is a passage taken from an Email sent to a Canadian acquaintance.)
Wow, if this is part of God's plan, He is one really twisted dude.
(Said to myself, while staring out my office window after the election results were known.)
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
The top-10 groups of Donald Trump supporters
In my research of political polling I have found that there are some demographics that are almost unanimous in their support of Donald Trump. Here's the list of fervent Donald Trump supporters I've uncovered:
10. Members of lynch mobs
9. Christians who only cite the Old Testament
8. Men who think that white robes and hoods are an appropriate fashion statement
7. Branson, Missouri (both residents and visitors)
6. Confederates
5. Barbers
4. Masons, chain-link fence experts, and other builders of walls and barricades
3. Canadian immigration lawyers
2. Makers of cheap hats (including most "Make America Great Again" models)
1. People who think the Electoral College has a football team
10. Members of lynch mobs
9. Christians who only cite the Old Testament
8. Men who think that white robes and hoods are an appropriate fashion statement
7. Branson, Missouri (both residents and visitors)
6. Confederates
5. Barbers
4. Masons, chain-link fence experts, and other builders of walls and barricades
3. Canadian immigration lawyers
2. Makers of cheap hats (including most "Make America Great Again" models)
1. People who think the Electoral College has a football team
Sunday, November 6, 2016
Heading toward 1861? Why the next few days really matter
I was a very strange child. There is no disputing this fact. While my fellow cohort in Mrs. Butler's first grade class was reading "See Spot Run" and mastering the art of subtracting single-digit numbers, I was eagerly devouring on a daily basis the 12-volume series of hardback books on all the U.S. Presidents that my Grandma Vickie and Grandpa Tom had given me for my birthday that year. Why was it, I wondered, that none of my classmates was impressed by the fact that I had memorized all the Presidents in chronological order, along with their political party affiliations, the exact years they had served in office, as well as the years of their births and deaths? Not only did I learn much about the Presidents during my first grade tenure, but I also gathered valuable information about solitude, tribalism, alienation, and the urgent need to adapt to the whatever unsuitable environment in which one happens to finds himself. So, being the eminently rational first-grader that I was, I also decided, in the name of adaptability, to become an avid sports fan.
Now we find ourselves in a Presidential election year, that time where my interest in the Presidents and sporting contests intersect: after all, the way elections are covered in our media as a sort of horse race, aren't they the ultimate sporting event? Although, at the time, I didn't think about first grade and how I became interested in Presidents and sports, this fascination with both topics probably led to my master's thesis at Cornell University being focused on how Presidential public opinion polling data was reported over time, including the increased emphasis on the "horse race" aspect of the reporting.
All this explains why I have gladly accepted the role here at my workplace, high in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan, as the resident American who takes it upon himself to explain the election of 2016 to people from across the globe who for the life of them can't understand why such a powerful and important country uses something as bizarre as the electoral college to choose its supreme leader. During one of my electoral conversations one of the questions someone asked me was, "What past election does the election of 2016 look like?" My answer might surprise some. With each passing day this election feels more and more like the election of 1860.
In the election of 1860, Abraham Lincoln faced off against three other candidates. The country was sharply divided over the issue of slavery and the rights of states. Many, especially those in the South, believed that unless their wishes were reflected in the final vote, they would not accept the election. And, as we know, the winner of the election, Abraham Lincoln, did not accede to Southern demands and wishes and in 1861 a Civil War we did have.
In 2016, we also face a United States that is sharply divided. Donald Trump has done a masterful job of gathering support by stoking racial enmity and by pitting one group of people against another, widening this divide. Even worse, just the like the Southern firebrands of 1860, Trump has asserted that unless he wins, the result of the election is invalid. These kinds of assertions made in 1860, helped lead to the war of 1861. While I am not predicting a Civil War, there is no telling what kind of chaos will result in 2017 from the irresponsible and dangerous claims made in 2016. For these assertions alone, regardless of any political philosophies held by the candidates, Donald Trump has disqualified himself from the Presidency. Any candidate who risks unleashing events today even vaguely similar to those of 1861 is a person of such selfishness and is a person who possesses such contempt for our country, that he is not fit to serve as dog-catcher in the most remote and canine-infested hamlet of Arkansas, let alone President. And any citizen who votes for a candidate who rejects our electoral process and is willing to unleash an 1861-like fury is also planting their flag in the ground on the side of a Confederate way of thinking by proclaiming their disdain for the Constitution, our democratic system, and the very notion of America. How ironic it is that the Republican Party of 2016 much more closely resembles the Confederates of Jefferson Davis than the Republican ideals of Lincoln himself.
Sadly, no matter who wins, the damage to our country has been done and this damage will continue indefinitely. We will have upheaval and continued disintegration, regardless of the victor. If Hillary Clinton wins, Trump supporters will likely engage in acts of retribution and violence to resist what they've been told is a rigged process. Republicans in Congress will continue to obstruct all forms of legislation; many of them have already said they would never conduct hearings for any Clinton nominee for Supreme Court throughout her entire term, in clear violation of their Constitutional obligations. If Donald Trump wins, he will disregard the Constitution in multiple ways he has already outlined with great clarity and will embark upon his efforts to eliminate the concept of equal treatment under the law for all Americans that has been a hallmark of this country since time of Lincoln. Providing equal treatment under the law for all Americans, whether they be the African-American ex-slave of the 1860s or the Mexican immigrant or the practitioner of Islam of today: that was the one extraordinary and positive result that came from the horrors unleashed in 1861. It is not a matter of speculation that it is Trump and his modern-day Confederates who intend to erase Lincoln's enduring legacy.
This is why the next few days really matter. We stand, like those in 1860, staring into a great abyss. We face a choice and neither result bodes well for our country. But when faced with this terrible choice, I have no alternative but to stand against the Confederates of today. I will never cast a vote for those who reject the legacy of Lincoln and his commitment to our Constitutional form of government and the creed of equal treatment that I have held dear since I first encountered them as a first grader in the precious books on the Presidents my grandparents had given me. What we will lose, if Donald Trump is voted President, are these fundamental Constitutional values and principles, though not always adhered to or lived out in our history, that have served as a reminder to us of the greatness we should aspire to as Americans. Let us heed the words of Abraham Lincoln, who delivered them to the nation at his inauguration, on a cold day in 1861, just before war broke out. In his final, futile plea that America remain unified and faithful to the vision of our founding fathers, he urged his fellow countrymen to work peaceably together and listen "to the better angels of our nature." On Tuesday, let us all summon our better angels as well and reject the messages of intolerance that have been shouted across the land during this version of the 1860 election we've been living through.
 |
| Essential first-grade reading for odd little boys |
Now we find ourselves in a Presidential election year, that time where my interest in the Presidents and sporting contests intersect: after all, the way elections are covered in our media as a sort of horse race, aren't they the ultimate sporting event? Although, at the time, I didn't think about first grade and how I became interested in Presidents and sports, this fascination with both topics probably led to my master's thesis at Cornell University being focused on how Presidential public opinion polling data was reported over time, including the increased emphasis on the "horse race" aspect of the reporting.
All this explains why I have gladly accepted the role here at my workplace, high in the mountains of Kyrgyzstan, as the resident American who takes it upon himself to explain the election of 2016 to people from across the globe who for the life of them can't understand why such a powerful and important country uses something as bizarre as the electoral college to choose its supreme leader. During one of my electoral conversations one of the questions someone asked me was, "What past election does the election of 2016 look like?" My answer might surprise some. With each passing day this election feels more and more like the election of 1860.
In the election of 1860, Abraham Lincoln faced off against three other candidates. The country was sharply divided over the issue of slavery and the rights of states. Many, especially those in the South, believed that unless their wishes were reflected in the final vote, they would not accept the election. And, as we know, the winner of the election, Abraham Lincoln, did not accede to Southern demands and wishes and in 1861 a Civil War we did have.
In 2016, we also face a United States that is sharply divided. Donald Trump has done a masterful job of gathering support by stoking racial enmity and by pitting one group of people against another, widening this divide. Even worse, just the like the Southern firebrands of 1860, Trump has asserted that unless he wins, the result of the election is invalid. These kinds of assertions made in 1860, helped lead to the war of 1861. While I am not predicting a Civil War, there is no telling what kind of chaos will result in 2017 from the irresponsible and dangerous claims made in 2016. For these assertions alone, regardless of any political philosophies held by the candidates, Donald Trump has disqualified himself from the Presidency. Any candidate who risks unleashing events today even vaguely similar to those of 1861 is a person of such selfishness and is a person who possesses such contempt for our country, that he is not fit to serve as dog-catcher in the most remote and canine-infested hamlet of Arkansas, let alone President. And any citizen who votes for a candidate who rejects our electoral process and is willing to unleash an 1861-like fury is also planting their flag in the ground on the side of a Confederate way of thinking by proclaiming their disdain for the Constitution, our democratic system, and the very notion of America. How ironic it is that the Republican Party of 2016 much more closely resembles the Confederates of Jefferson Davis than the Republican ideals of Lincoln himself.
Sadly, no matter who wins, the damage to our country has been done and this damage will continue indefinitely. We will have upheaval and continued disintegration, regardless of the victor. If Hillary Clinton wins, Trump supporters will likely engage in acts of retribution and violence to resist what they've been told is a rigged process. Republicans in Congress will continue to obstruct all forms of legislation; many of them have already said they would never conduct hearings for any Clinton nominee for Supreme Court throughout her entire term, in clear violation of their Constitutional obligations. If Donald Trump wins, he will disregard the Constitution in multiple ways he has already outlined with great clarity and will embark upon his efforts to eliminate the concept of equal treatment under the law for all Americans that has been a hallmark of this country since time of Lincoln. Providing equal treatment under the law for all Americans, whether they be the African-American ex-slave of the 1860s or the Mexican immigrant or the practitioner of Islam of today: that was the one extraordinary and positive result that came from the horrors unleashed in 1861. It is not a matter of speculation that it is Trump and his modern-day Confederates who intend to erase Lincoln's enduring legacy.
This is why the next few days really matter. We stand, like those in 1860, staring into a great abyss. We face a choice and neither result bodes well for our country. But when faced with this terrible choice, I have no alternative but to stand against the Confederates of today. I will never cast a vote for those who reject the legacy of Lincoln and his commitment to our Constitutional form of government and the creed of equal treatment that I have held dear since I first encountered them as a first grader in the precious books on the Presidents my grandparents had given me. What we will lose, if Donald Trump is voted President, are these fundamental Constitutional values and principles, though not always adhered to or lived out in our history, that have served as a reminder to us of the greatness we should aspire to as Americans. Let us heed the words of Abraham Lincoln, who delivered them to the nation at his inauguration, on a cold day in 1861, just before war broke out. In his final, futile plea that America remain unified and faithful to the vision of our founding fathers, he urged his fellow countrymen to work peaceably together and listen "to the better angels of our nature." On Tuesday, let us all summon our better angels as well and reject the messages of intolerance that have been shouted across the land during this version of the 1860 election we've been living through.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
The Top-10 Things I've Learned in Kyrgyzstan Thus Far
10. In this country you can actually eat lamb 365 days a year without any effort at all.
9. It takes at least six months (and still counting) for a postcard to get from here to the U.S.
8. There are more statues of Lenin per square mile in Kyrgyzstan than in any other nation.
7. It is surprising how little oxygen is available in the atmosphere when living at 2200 meters.
6. Standing in line in Kyrgyzstan can sometimes be a contact sport.
5. There are times when a piece of dark chocolate can feel like a precious commodity.
4. How wonderful it is to be outside of the U.S. during an election year, especially this one.
3. Kyrgyzstan has a rugged, mountainous beauty reminiscent of some of the more-splendid parts of Montana or Wyoming.
2. College students are wonderful, fascinating, remarkable people to work with no matter what country they are from.
1. The most important feature of the place you live, wherever you might find yourself, are the people who live there.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
My ballot's amazing 20,000 kilometer journey
I often seem to find myself thousands of miles from a polling booth during Presidential election years. In 1992 I was in Japan and cast my ballot from there by mail; I was so interested in the election results that I took an election-day vacation to the island of Saipan, an American possession, so that I could watch the returns on CNN, which wasn't available at the time in the neighborhood in Osaka where I lived.
In 2000, I voted by mail from the Emerson College campus in the Netherlands. I conducted seminars for all the students on how they could vote from abroad, but few took me up on my offers of assistance. How sad the two young Al Gore supporters from Florida were after they realized how their laziness, and the votes they never ended up casting, played a role in determining the election of George W. Bush. Never again, they vowed, would they ever fail to vote no matter where on the planet they might find themselves.
Again, I am residing far from the Spokane County, Washington election office. Here where I live, it is sometimes difficult to find basic items like a half-dozen bananas in the market, so imagine how much trouble it would take to figure out how to vote in an American election from high up in the Kyrgyz mountains. However, the election of 2016 could very well be a defining election like those of 1860 (the Civil War looming) or 1932 (the Great Depression crashing down on everyone), so I was bound and determined that I would get ahold of my ballot no matter what it would take.
My first partner in this endeavor was my mother who took possession of my ballot and put it on a DHL Express flight bound for Kyrgyzstan. Actually, make that "flights." My intrepid little ballot traveled on airplanes from Spokane to Seattle to Cincinnati to the East Midlands Airport in the United Kingdom. Then onto a truck the ballot went, traversing hill and dale, until it arrived at London's Heathrow Airport. Once at Heathrow, it was gathered aboard a plane bound for Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. End of sojourn, you think, but, no, we're just getting started.
A truck took my ballot on the 30 kilometer jaunt to the DHL office in Bishkek where it was transferred to another vehicle, eventually ending up at the UCA Central Office where it found its way into the receptionist's desk. There is no DHL service or formal courier service from Bishkek to my home at the UCA Naryn Campus, so I had to rely on the kindness of my faithful, fellow election geek, Canadian co-worker who took custodianship of the ballot and brought it on the bumpy 300 kilometer UCA shuttle bus ride over two mountain passes, finally into my possession.
Before casting my ballot I gave a presentation on the U.S. election system and the 2016 election to the students here at UCA. I've also had chats about what's at stake in the election with co-workers from across the globe. The topic of voting even came up when I had dinner with Roza Otumbayeva, ex-President of Kyrgyzstan, who was amazed when I told her about my ballot's incredible journey. "You must tell people in Kyrgyzstan about this," she said. "This shows how important it is to vote." Yes, my tiny little ballot is being cheered on by everyone in my far corner of the world who hears about it.
The moment then arrived to formally make my vote. Anyone who has read this blog knows exactly for whom I cast my Presidential vote. There are hundreds of reasons why I voted the way I did, but this one is perhaps most important. If the worst-case scenario comes to pass, I will be able to proudly say that I stood up and made my voice heard against that which I feel could pose the greatest danger to our democracy in decades, a danger with a frightening neo-fascist voice and tone. I would ride on the back of a Kyrgyz yak to get my ballot to Bishkek and on its way to be counted, to strike even the smallest blow for this cause.
Thankfully, I didn't have to find a yak to get my ballot back to the Spokane County Auditor. Luckily, my supervisor was kind enough to allow me to take the day off to return the ballot to Bishkek--support for my ballot comes from everywhere. I hired a driver and, at 7:30 yesterday morning, he took me in his car, and off we went over the two mountain passes back to Bishkek.
Once in Bishkek, it was to the DHL office where my ballot was tucked away in its brash yellow and red shipping mailer. Right now it's on a flight to London where it will re-trace its journey to the English Midlands, Cincinnati, Seattle, and Spokane, finally to be taken to its drop-off point for sorting and counting. When all is said and done over 20,000 kilometers will have been traveled and over $300 will have been spent in getting my ballot to where it ultimately will serve its purpose as one person's humble expression of what he thinks should be.
In 2000, I voted by mail from the Emerson College campus in the Netherlands. I conducted seminars for all the students on how they could vote from abroad, but few took me up on my offers of assistance. How sad the two young Al Gore supporters from Florida were after they realized how their laziness, and the votes they never ended up casting, played a role in determining the election of George W. Bush. Never again, they vowed, would they ever fail to vote no matter where on the planet they might find themselves.
Again, I am residing far from the Spokane County, Washington election office. Here where I live, it is sometimes difficult to find basic items like a half-dozen bananas in the market, so imagine how much trouble it would take to figure out how to vote in an American election from high up in the Kyrgyz mountains. However, the election of 2016 could very well be a defining election like those of 1860 (the Civil War looming) or 1932 (the Great Depression crashing down on everyone), so I was bound and determined that I would get ahold of my ballot no matter what it would take.
My first partner in this endeavor was my mother who took possession of my ballot and put it on a DHL Express flight bound for Kyrgyzstan. Actually, make that "flights." My intrepid little ballot traveled on airplanes from Spokane to Seattle to Cincinnati to the East Midlands Airport in the United Kingdom. Then onto a truck the ballot went, traversing hill and dale, until it arrived at London's Heathrow Airport. Once at Heathrow, it was gathered aboard a plane bound for Manas International Airport in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. End of sojourn, you think, but, no, we're just getting started.
A truck took my ballot on the 30 kilometer jaunt to the DHL office in Bishkek where it was transferred to another vehicle, eventually ending up at the UCA Central Office where it found its way into the receptionist's desk. There is no DHL service or formal courier service from Bishkek to my home at the UCA Naryn Campus, so I had to rely on the kindness of my faithful, fellow election geek, Canadian co-worker who took custodianship of the ballot and brought it on the bumpy 300 kilometer UCA shuttle bus ride over two mountain passes, finally into my possession.
Before casting my ballot I gave a presentation on the U.S. election system and the 2016 election to the students here at UCA. I've also had chats about what's at stake in the election with co-workers from across the globe. The topic of voting even came up when I had dinner with Roza Otumbayeva, ex-President of Kyrgyzstan, who was amazed when I told her about my ballot's incredible journey. "You must tell people in Kyrgyzstan about this," she said. "This shows how important it is to vote." Yes, my tiny little ballot is being cheered on by everyone in my far corner of the world who hears about it.
The moment then arrived to formally make my vote. Anyone who has read this blog knows exactly for whom I cast my Presidential vote. There are hundreds of reasons why I voted the way I did, but this one is perhaps most important. If the worst-case scenario comes to pass, I will be able to proudly say that I stood up and made my voice heard against that which I feel could pose the greatest danger to our democracy in decades, a danger with a frightening neo-fascist voice and tone. I would ride on the back of a Kyrgyz yak to get my ballot to Bishkek and on its way to be counted, to strike even the smallest blow for this cause.
 |
| My completed ballot, safely tucked in its return envelope, ready for the journey back home |
Thankfully, I didn't have to find a yak to get my ballot back to the Spokane County Auditor. Luckily, my supervisor was kind enough to allow me to take the day off to return the ballot to Bishkek--support for my ballot comes from everywhere. I hired a driver and, at 7:30 yesterday morning, he took me in his car, and off we went over the two mountain passes back to Bishkek.
 |
| Riding with my ballot in our hired car, through the Kyrgyz mountains |
The person who doesn't take the time to vote, complaining that the process isn't convenient, saying it doesn't matter, while there is a kernel of truth in these sentiments, this person still gets no sympathy from me. Jumping from a leaking ship, rather than working on repairs, is the not the act of a courageous person, but is instead the coward's way. It is the same with voting, as failing to take a stand, and doing nothing, takes no skill or wisdom and contributes nothing to the common good. In some ways I have more respect for those who vote for the candidate who fills me with such trepidation. While I may question their kindness and compassion, their judgment, their ability to assess the realities of the world with any degree of accuracy, and their understanding of what democracy and the Constitution mean, at least they are participating in this great, though certainly flawed, experiment in governing a nation.
My ballot, in and of itself, is no more significant than a grain of sand on an endless beach. Yet, as it makes its way back to the election office, I feel this small ballot has, in its journey, spurred conversation with many others and has caused me to remember why it is I care so much about it. And through its journey it has gained slightly more power because of the small attention it's received and the actions it's caused me to take to amplify the impact on the world that it will make. Let us all value our ballots and their journeys so that they motivate us to take actions big and humble, and through these actions we can multiply the strength of our ballots, so that they might serve as the beginning of a process to effect the positive changes in the world we desire.
Sunday, October 30, 2016
You never know who might show up for dinner
I woke up in the middle of the night before this day officially started and found myself unable to go back to sleep. Then, I did something I never should have done: I checked the Emails on my phone. A person should never check their phone if they wish to return to a peaceful slumber. In fact, after bedtime, cell phones should be stored in a locked steel box on the front porch if restful sleep is one's primary nighttime concern.
I scanned my inbox and found a panoply of mildly troubling and slightly annoying messages to consider. But one was particularly jarring: the ex-President of Kyrgyzstan was arriving at our campus later, that very afternoon, with no prior warning. Ordinarily, such news wouldn't concern me a bit as I am usually able to blend into the background when dignitaries visit, except at that moment I realized the two administrators on campus with a higher rank than me were both out of town and would not be present for all the hoopla. That meant I would be the one to have to hang out with the ex-President. And even worse, as a person who keenly dislikes formality, I would have to wear my suit.
For those of you unfamiliar with matters Kyrgyz, this was no ordinary ex-President of Kyrgyzstan who was planning a visit, it was Roza Otunbayeva. President Otunbayeva started her career as a leader in Soviet Kyrgyzstan, educated in Moscow, speaker of five languages. After the fall of communism, she became a pioneering figure in the infant Kyrgyz nation. Otunbayeva was Kyrgyzstan's first ambassador to Canada and to the United States. She later served served as foreign minister and then as Ambassador to the United Kingdom. In 2010, Kyrgyzstan spiraled into chaos and revolution against a corrupt regime. Otunbayeva was one of the leaders of the democratic movement and was chosen to be President as Kyrgyzstan recovered from its instability and transitioned toward a more reformed government. Otunbayeva is the first woman president in Kyrgyz history as well as the only woman to ever lead any of the nations of Central Asia. In 2011, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton presented her with the International Women of Courage Award for her leadership especially in promoting women's rights. Since departing from office she has headed the Roza Otunbayeva Foundation which has created dozens of initiatives and projects designed to further Kyrgyzstan's social, political, and economic development. In other words, this was the Kyrgyz equivalent of having to host Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton.
Madame President arrived on campus late in the afternoon and I was required to accompany her on a campus tour. Then she spoke extensively to our student body, particularly about her foundation's initiatives. Finally, I had to host a small, hastily arranged, dinner in her honor. This was the most troubling aspect of my duties. I am an American in my eating habits, which means that anything not readily consumed with one's hands--like pizza, hamburgers, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches--presents the potential for social disaster, especially when in the company of former heads of state. After all, the last time I shared a meal on campus with an even slightly prominent outsider, His Highness the Aga Khan's personal photographer, I ended up spilling a half a plate of rice and stew down the front of my shirt. Please don't ask me how I managed to accomplish that great feat of skill. I would be lying if I didn't admit that visions of me chatting with Roza Otunbayeva with a bowl of soup splattered across my suit had been bothering me throughout the entire day.
The average person only meets an extremely small number of prominent people in their lifetime. And an even smaller subset of these dignitaries live up to the expectation you have for them. President Otunbayeva was certainly one of the members of this minuscule subset. Her encyclopedic knowledge of world affairs, her vivid descriptions of various world leaders, and her overall gracious and down-to-earth demeanor made dinner a pleasant and enjoyable event. And then it happened: President Roza Otunbayeva asked me who I would be voting for in the U.S. Presidential election.
Anyone who knows me well realizes that asking me that question is like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull, whacking a hornet's nest with a baseball bat, or wearing a Boston Red Sox cap into Yankee Stadium. This seemingly innocent question had the potential of being more embarrassing for me than if I had spilled an entire ten-liter bucket of chili on myself in front of the Presidential dinner party.
Somehow, though, I managed to take a deep breath and provided a calm and rational explanation for my vote. Fortunately, all in the room agreed that the thin-skinned, xenophobe I opposed would be an unmitigated disaster, not only for the United States, but for the entire world. Funny how virtually every human being I have encountered outside the U.S. with an ounce of education and a half a brain is in complete agreement on this point.
This final minefield avoided, we concluded our evening, the President departed, and our campus returned to normality. Best of all, my soup stayed out of my lap and my encounter with an amazing Kyrgyz leader entered my memory forever.
I scanned my inbox and found a panoply of mildly troubling and slightly annoying messages to consider. But one was particularly jarring: the ex-President of Kyrgyzstan was arriving at our campus later, that very afternoon, with no prior warning. Ordinarily, such news wouldn't concern me a bit as I am usually able to blend into the background when dignitaries visit, except at that moment I realized the two administrators on campus with a higher rank than me were both out of town and would not be present for all the hoopla. That meant I would be the one to have to hang out with the ex-President. And even worse, as a person who keenly dislikes formality, I would have to wear my suit.
For those of you unfamiliar with matters Kyrgyz, this was no ordinary ex-President of Kyrgyzstan who was planning a visit, it was Roza Otunbayeva. President Otunbayeva started her career as a leader in Soviet Kyrgyzstan, educated in Moscow, speaker of five languages. After the fall of communism, she became a pioneering figure in the infant Kyrgyz nation. Otunbayeva was Kyrgyzstan's first ambassador to Canada and to the United States. She later served served as foreign minister and then as Ambassador to the United Kingdom. In 2010, Kyrgyzstan spiraled into chaos and revolution against a corrupt regime. Otunbayeva was one of the leaders of the democratic movement and was chosen to be President as Kyrgyzstan recovered from its instability and transitioned toward a more reformed government. Otunbayeva is the first woman president in Kyrgyz history as well as the only woman to ever lead any of the nations of Central Asia. In 2011, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton presented her with the International Women of Courage Award for her leadership especially in promoting women's rights. Since departing from office she has headed the Roza Otunbayeva Foundation which has created dozens of initiatives and projects designed to further Kyrgyzstan's social, political, and economic development. In other words, this was the Kyrgyz equivalent of having to host Jimmy Carter or Bill Clinton.
Madame President arrived on campus late in the afternoon and I was required to accompany her on a campus tour. Then she spoke extensively to our student body, particularly about her foundation's initiatives. Finally, I had to host a small, hastily arranged, dinner in her honor. This was the most troubling aspect of my duties. I am an American in my eating habits, which means that anything not readily consumed with one's hands--like pizza, hamburgers, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches--presents the potential for social disaster, especially when in the company of former heads of state. After all, the last time I shared a meal on campus with an even slightly prominent outsider, His Highness the Aga Khan's personal photographer, I ended up spilling a half a plate of rice and stew down the front of my shirt. Please don't ask me how I managed to accomplish that great feat of skill. I would be lying if I didn't admit that visions of me chatting with Roza Otunbayeva with a bowl of soup splattered across my suit had been bothering me throughout the entire day.
The average person only meets an extremely small number of prominent people in their lifetime. And an even smaller subset of these dignitaries live up to the expectation you have for them. President Otunbayeva was certainly one of the members of this minuscule subset. Her encyclopedic knowledge of world affairs, her vivid descriptions of various world leaders, and her overall gracious and down-to-earth demeanor made dinner a pleasant and enjoyable event. And then it happened: President Roza Otunbayeva asked me who I would be voting for in the U.S. Presidential election.
Anyone who knows me well realizes that asking me that question is like waving a red cape in front of an angry bull, whacking a hornet's nest with a baseball bat, or wearing a Boston Red Sox cap into Yankee Stadium. This seemingly innocent question had the potential of being more embarrassing for me than if I had spilled an entire ten-liter bucket of chili on myself in front of the Presidential dinner party.
Somehow, though, I managed to take a deep breath and provided a calm and rational explanation for my vote. Fortunately, all in the room agreed that the thin-skinned, xenophobe I opposed would be an unmitigated disaster, not only for the United States, but for the entire world. Funny how virtually every human being I have encountered outside the U.S. with an ounce of education and a half a brain is in complete agreement on this point.
This final minefield avoided, we concluded our evening, the President departed, and our campus returned to normality. Best of all, my soup stayed out of my lap and my encounter with an amazing Kyrgyz leader entered my memory forever.
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| Seated next to President Otunbayeva after dinner |
Saturday, October 29, 2016
My favorite Kyrgyz driving game: Pass/Don't Pass
I've spent a fair amount of my time in Kyrgyzstan riding in cars going from one place to another for work-related business. To pass the time, I can't play my favorite driving game, which is "license plate lotto" as 99.99% of the vehicles' plates are Kyrgyz; no cars from Turkmenistan, Afghanistan or Idaho to be found, so that game gets dull pretty quickly.
Conversation with the hired drivers usually ends after 1.4 seconds on average:
Driver: Здравствуйте
Erik: Hello
End of conversation.
So, that means something else must done to pass the time on these drives across Kyrgyzstan. Luckily for me, virtually every hired driver in the Kyrgyz Republic is a wildly enthusiastic participant in what has certainly become my very favorite driving game of all time: Pass/Don't Pass. The premise of the game is really quite simple. Every Kyrgyz driver will make unceasing efforts to pass any vehicle that impedes his forward progress, while every English-speaking passenger will make all possible effort to send mental messages to the driver in the hope of conveying the message "Don't Pass." Passengers are allowed to shout, gasp, or scream final messages to the Supreme Being of their choice, but only three times in any given journey, so one must use these exclamations wisely in order to avoid penalty.
Today's game features one of my favorite drivers: Bekbol. Readers of this blog will remember Bekbol for his amazing feat of driving 500 kilometers over rugged roads at very high speeds on a temporary tire designed to travel only 50 kilometers. As an added challenge, Bekbol is driving a vehicle with the steering wheel on the right side, making it even more difficult to see cars coming when he tries to pass on the left. At least, on the passenger side, I will have a perfectly clear view of what is bearing down upon us. Is everyone ready to play Pass/Don't Pass?
ROUND 1: DOUBLE VEHICLE PASS
Bekbol has the chance to pass two vehicles, including a rare Kazakh driver who has dared venture onto Kyrgyz roadways (extra points potential for Bekbol). However, Erik notices that Bekbol is going much too slowly to get the momentum up for a double-vehicle pass and there are oncoming vehicles on the horizon.
Erik's Verdict: DON'T PASS
Bekbol's Descison: PASS
The result: DON'T PASS. Despite Bekbol crowding his way toward the center line, the oncoming grey van was sufficient deterrent to keep him from passing.
Scoring: 5 points for Erik as the pass was not completed. 0 points for Bekbol as he clearly had just enough space to have squeezed between the two vehicles in front of him and the oncoming ones if he had just shown a bit more initiative.
ROUND 2: ULTRA-SLOW FARM MACHINERY
Slow moving farm machinery ahead. However, the road is wide and clear sailing is on the horizon.
Erik's verdict: PASS
Bekbol's decision: PASS
The result: PASS, as easy a maneuver as one could hope for on a Kyrgyz highway.
Scoring: 10 points to Erik for finally manning up and showing some bravery. 15 points for Bekbol as not only did he pass the farm machinery successfully, but he was also able to drive unimpeded in the left lane for over a kilometer, apparently just for the hell of it.
ROUND 3: DILAPIDATED DUMP TRUCK
Another ancient, tortoise-like dump truck crosses our path. The road is bumpy and cars are coming, clearly not an opportunity for passing.
Erik's verdict: DON'T PASS
Bekbol's decision: PASS
The result: PASSING ON THE RIGHT. Bekbol comes through with an amazing ploy: if you can't pass on the left, traverse the gravel shoulder and pass on the right.
Scoring: Bekbol kills it this round with his unexpected maneuver. 25 points for Bekbol. Erik gets -5 points for his lack of imagination and for uttering "what the hell" just as Bekbol began his move and for complaining aloud about his bruised kidneys after they were jarred severely while bouncing along the pothole-filled gravel shoulder. Two negative utterances in a single round will always get points deducted.
ROUND 4: JUMBLED MESS AS EVERYONE TRIES TO PASS WHILE THE ROAD SIMULTANEOUSLY NARROWS FROM TWO LANES TO ONE
The title of the round speaks for itself. No wise driver would interject himself into this mess by attempting to pass, but I can see Bekbol's fingers twitching, I think he is itching to make a dramatic move and possibly force the oncoming marshrutkas off the highway.
Erik's verdict: For the love of God, DON'T PASS, PLEASE.
Bekbol's decision: PASS, I wouldn't be a Kyrgyz driver if I thought otherwise.
The result: Utter humiliation for Bekbol. The worst thing that can happen to a driver in the game of Pass/Don't Pass. Someone actually passes Bekbol first.
Scoring: -20 points for Bekbol as he allowed the unthinkable to happen. 10 points for Erik for witnessing the calamity. Erik would have received 15 points, but laughing at a Kyrgyz driver when someone passes him will always get you a 5 point deduction for poor sportsmanship.
THE FINAL RESULT OF THIS GAME OF PASS/DON'T PASS
And the winner is: both of us. Because we made it to our final destination unscathed, and in one piece, we both were declared winners. The game of Pass/Don't Pass might be the only contest on the planet where you root for everyone to have an undefeated season.
Next up in the Kyrgyz Pass/Don't Pass schedule is the highly anticipated and infinitely more entertaining winter season of the game where ice and snow and sleet are added to the mix just to maximize the challenge and level of fun. Can't wait for that.
Conversation with the hired drivers usually ends after 1.4 seconds on average:
Driver: Здравствуйте
Erik: Hello
End of conversation.
So, that means something else must done to pass the time on these drives across Kyrgyzstan. Luckily for me, virtually every hired driver in the Kyrgyz Republic is a wildly enthusiastic participant in what has certainly become my very favorite driving game of all time: Pass/Don't Pass. The premise of the game is really quite simple. Every Kyrgyz driver will make unceasing efforts to pass any vehicle that impedes his forward progress, while every English-speaking passenger will make all possible effort to send mental messages to the driver in the hope of conveying the message "Don't Pass." Passengers are allowed to shout, gasp, or scream final messages to the Supreme Being of their choice, but only three times in any given journey, so one must use these exclamations wisely in order to avoid penalty.
Today's game features one of my favorite drivers: Bekbol. Readers of this blog will remember Bekbol for his amazing feat of driving 500 kilometers over rugged roads at very high speeds on a temporary tire designed to travel only 50 kilometers. As an added challenge, Bekbol is driving a vehicle with the steering wheel on the right side, making it even more difficult to see cars coming when he tries to pass on the left. At least, on the passenger side, I will have a perfectly clear view of what is bearing down upon us. Is everyone ready to play Pass/Don't Pass?
ROUND 1: DOUBLE VEHICLE PASS
 |
| Two vehicles to pass |
Bekbol has the chance to pass two vehicles, including a rare Kazakh driver who has dared venture onto Kyrgyz roadways (extra points potential for Bekbol). However, Erik notices that Bekbol is going much too slowly to get the momentum up for a double-vehicle pass and there are oncoming vehicles on the horizon.
Erik's Verdict: DON'T PASS
Bekbol's Descison: PASS
 |
| Bekbol fails to pass |
The result: DON'T PASS. Despite Bekbol crowding his way toward the center line, the oncoming grey van was sufficient deterrent to keep him from passing.
Scoring: 5 points for Erik as the pass was not completed. 0 points for Bekbol as he clearly had just enough space to have squeezed between the two vehicles in front of him and the oncoming ones if he had just shown a bit more initiative.
ROUND 2: ULTRA-SLOW FARM MACHINERY
 |
| The 98th slow-moving piece of farm equipment we encountered along the way |
Slow moving farm machinery ahead. However, the road is wide and clear sailing is on the horizon.
Erik's verdict: PASS
Bekbol's decision: PASS
 |
| The easiest pass one could ever possibly have |
Scoring: 10 points to Erik for finally manning up and showing some bravery. 15 points for Bekbol as not only did he pass the farm machinery successfully, but he was also able to drive unimpeded in the left lane for over a kilometer, apparently just for the hell of it.
ROUND 3: DILAPIDATED DUMP TRUCK
 |
| If there is a dump truck in Kyrgyzstan capable of traveling at speeds over 20 kilometers per hour, I have not yet encountered it. |
Another ancient, tortoise-like dump truck crosses our path. The road is bumpy and cars are coming, clearly not an opportunity for passing.
Erik's verdict: DON'T PASS
Bekbol's decision: PASS
 |
| Passing on the right! What a daring gambit on Bekbol's part. |
Scoring: Bekbol kills it this round with his unexpected maneuver. 25 points for Bekbol. Erik gets -5 points for his lack of imagination and for uttering "what the hell" just as Bekbol began his move and for complaining aloud about his bruised kidneys after they were jarred severely while bouncing along the pothole-filled gravel shoulder. Two negative utterances in a single round will always get points deducted.
ROUND 4: JUMBLED MESS AS EVERYONE TRIES TO PASS WHILE THE ROAD SIMULTANEOUSLY NARROWS FROM TWO LANES TO ONE
 |
| Two oncoming marshrutkas with no place to go |
Erik's verdict: For the love of God, DON'T PASS, PLEASE.
Bekbol's decision: PASS, I wouldn't be a Kyrgyz driver if I thought otherwise.
 |
| A more-daring Kyrgyz driver squeezes past us on the left, before Bekbol can make his move |
Scoring: -20 points for Bekbol as he allowed the unthinkable to happen. 10 points for Erik for witnessing the calamity. Erik would have received 15 points, but laughing at a Kyrgyz driver when someone passes him will always get you a 5 point deduction for poor sportsmanship.
THE FINAL RESULT OF THIS GAME OF PASS/DON'T PASS
And the winner is: both of us. Because we made it to our final destination unscathed, and in one piece, we both were declared winners. The game of Pass/Don't Pass might be the only contest on the planet where you root for everyone to have an undefeated season.
Next up in the Kyrgyz Pass/Don't Pass schedule is the highly anticipated and infinitely more entertaining winter season of the game where ice and snow and sleet are added to the mix just to maximize the challenge and level of fun. Can't wait for that.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Common threads: playing Briscola
When I first lived in Italy years ago, before the Internet and Email, my social life consisted of failed attempts at finding English language news on short wave radio and doing the crossword puzzle in the USA Today newspapers that occasionally found their way to the newsstand at the Mantova train station.
I resided in an apartment above a pizzeria adjacent to the train station. Every time the 10:14 express to Milan, or any number of assorted other trains, rumbled by, my apartment would shake as though it were perched atop an unstable volcano. Because my residence was also adjacent to a motorway the locals called "the street of trucks" it would also shake anytime a vehicle possessing more than four wheels would zoom past.
This constant rattle and commotion sometimes made it impossible to decipher any radio transmissions or come up with the answer to 26 down or 35 across. That left me no choice but to escape my apartment to find some peace, or to go to the nearest bar to drink a Campari with soda, or to even take a seat in a pew in Mantova's massive cathedral, the quietest and emptiest place, perhaps, on the entire planet.
The times my refuge consisted of that medicinal Campari with soda, a sobering and bitter tonic that could make any person's mundane day seem sweeter by comparison, I always found myself in the same small neighborhood bar across the street of trucks from my apartment. While sipping, grimacing at the pungent aftertaste of my beverage, I would observe the older gentlemen sitting at neighboring tables playing a game with cards I had never seen before. This was my first exposure to a game called Briscola.
I couldn't exactly figure out how the game worked, because these older gentlemen were playing for money and were deadly serious in their demeanor, no conversation, except a few mocking comments in Italian dialect when a game was done, pride was gained, and lire changed hands. Fortunately, I had a couple of Italian acquaintances, with whom I could communicate, who purchased me a Briscola deck and taught me the game. Little did I know how a deceptively simple and fiendishly strategic card game would serve as a common thread throughout my life.
A wonderful and distinguishing feature of Briscola is that each region of Italy has its own distinctive 40-card deck, with the four suits (coins, sticks, swords, and cups) depicted with radically varying design concepts. I soon became enamored with pursuit of the various kinds of Briscola decks whether they were Roman, Sicilian, Neapolitan, or Sardinian. As for the game itself, the object is simple: whoever captures the cards with the most value is the winner. How one gets to this victory is a bit trickier. The rules and strategies represent more than this blog entry can handle, but suffice it to say that Briscola has been called the quintessentially Italian game, in a somewhat flippant reference to the nation's lack of military success, because the winner is usually the person who best surrenders his valuable cards early in the game in order to gain the possibility of success in the end. One principle that must always be remembered and it's a principle that might also be applied to life: you cannot win a game of Briscola without, at times, surrendering.
After leaving Italy, I took on the role of Briscola missionary, teaching the game to whomever was interested, particularly students with whom I have shared experiences. When I worked at the Castle in the Netherlands, I would introduce Emerson College students to Briscola before our field trip to Florence. They would then spend their Italian excursion happily in search all the variants of Briscola decks and would challenge me to games during the remainder of their time abroad.
When working with Latin American students studying in the U.S., I would introduce the game to Hondurans and Nicaraguans and Mexicans and Costa Ricans. Perhaps a dozen Costa Ricans on the entire planet know the game of Briscola and three or four of them were taught by me.
Even at camp this summer, a group of high school students from Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and Tajikistan joined me most every afternoon for a leisurely Briscola matchup--probably the only seventeen-year-olds in their respective countries to have ever acquired this delightfully useless skill.
And perhaps the most important games of Briscola I play, are the ones I contest with my father whenever I visit him. It is a game I like to play with my father, because it is actually a rare thing that I have taught him. Though now we both seem to wade unsteadily through the passing of time, one of our first actions when we see each other again is to take the Briscola deck out from the small cupboard in which it resides. At one time in our lives, the score might have mattered, but now it is simply the acts of sitting near each other, placing cards on the table, finishing out the game, that carry with them the sense of victory, rather than calculating win or loss. It is one of our common threads, this game; though not terribly profound, it is still one of the tangible strings that binds the two of us together no matter where we are.
Last night, I taught a new group of students this Italian game of strategic surrendering as I find myself in yet another different place and time; I am amused that people from lands far from Italy like Pakistan and Tajikistan are sharing this game with me, the Briscola missionary from America. The common threads between people seem so few and spindly, even when one as insubstantial as this one is created, as foolishly naive as I may be, somehow it feels as though it might have some small power to bind.
I resided in an apartment above a pizzeria adjacent to the train station. Every time the 10:14 express to Milan, or any number of assorted other trains, rumbled by, my apartment would shake as though it were perched atop an unstable volcano. Because my residence was also adjacent to a motorway the locals called "the street of trucks" it would also shake anytime a vehicle possessing more than four wheels would zoom past.
This constant rattle and commotion sometimes made it impossible to decipher any radio transmissions or come up with the answer to 26 down or 35 across. That left me no choice but to escape my apartment to find some peace, or to go to the nearest bar to drink a Campari with soda, or to even take a seat in a pew in Mantova's massive cathedral, the quietest and emptiest place, perhaps, on the entire planet.
The times my refuge consisted of that medicinal Campari with soda, a sobering and bitter tonic that could make any person's mundane day seem sweeter by comparison, I always found myself in the same small neighborhood bar across the street of trucks from my apartment. While sipping, grimacing at the pungent aftertaste of my beverage, I would observe the older gentlemen sitting at neighboring tables playing a game with cards I had never seen before. This was my first exposure to a game called Briscola.
 |
| These cards are from the Piacentine deck. Because of its clean, yet elegant, design it is my favorite. |
I couldn't exactly figure out how the game worked, because these older gentlemen were playing for money and were deadly serious in their demeanor, no conversation, except a few mocking comments in Italian dialect when a game was done, pride was gained, and lire changed hands. Fortunately, I had a couple of Italian acquaintances, with whom I could communicate, who purchased me a Briscola deck and taught me the game. Little did I know how a deceptively simple and fiendishly strategic card game would serve as a common thread throughout my life.
A wonderful and distinguishing feature of Briscola is that each region of Italy has its own distinctive 40-card deck, with the four suits (coins, sticks, swords, and cups) depicted with radically varying design concepts. I soon became enamored with pursuit of the various kinds of Briscola decks whether they were Roman, Sicilian, Neapolitan, or Sardinian. As for the game itself, the object is simple: whoever captures the cards with the most value is the winner. How one gets to this victory is a bit trickier. The rules and strategies represent more than this blog entry can handle, but suffice it to say that Briscola has been called the quintessentially Italian game, in a somewhat flippant reference to the nation's lack of military success, because the winner is usually the person who best surrenders his valuable cards early in the game in order to gain the possibility of success in the end. One principle that must always be remembered and it's a principle that might also be applied to life: you cannot win a game of Briscola without, at times, surrendering.
 |
| This is the peculiar Sardinian deck. It stands in striking contrast to the Piacentine deck, almost to the point of seeming as though these are the cards of a different game. Notice the suspicious scenes portrayed in the 4 of each suit. Each Briscola deck has small nuances of meaning embedded in it. |
After leaving Italy, I took on the role of Briscola missionary, teaching the game to whomever was interested, particularly students with whom I have shared experiences. When I worked at the Castle in the Netherlands, I would introduce Emerson College students to Briscola before our field trip to Florence. They would then spend their Italian excursion happily in search all the variants of Briscola decks and would challenge me to games during the remainder of their time abroad.
When working with Latin American students studying in the U.S., I would introduce the game to Hondurans and Nicaraguans and Mexicans and Costa Ricans. Perhaps a dozen Costa Ricans on the entire planet know the game of Briscola and three or four of them were taught by me.
Even at camp this summer, a group of high school students from Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, and Tajikistan joined me most every afternoon for a leisurely Briscola matchup--probably the only seventeen-year-olds in their respective countries to have ever acquired this delightfully useless skill.
And perhaps the most important games of Briscola I play, are the ones I contest with my father whenever I visit him. It is a game I like to play with my father, because it is actually a rare thing that I have taught him. Though now we both seem to wade unsteadily through the passing of time, one of our first actions when we see each other again is to take the Briscola deck out from the small cupboard in which it resides. At one time in our lives, the score might have mattered, but now it is simply the acts of sitting near each other, placing cards on the table, finishing out the game, that carry with them the sense of victory, rather than calculating win or loss. It is one of our common threads, this game; though not terribly profound, it is still one of the tangible strings that binds the two of us together no matter where we are.
Last night, I taught a new group of students this Italian game of strategic surrendering as I find myself in yet another different place and time; I am amused that people from lands far from Italy like Pakistan and Tajikistan are sharing this game with me, the Briscola missionary from America. The common threads between people seem so few and spindly, even when one as insubstantial as this one is created, as foolishly naive as I may be, somehow it feels as though it might have some small power to bind.
 |
| Playing Briscola in Kyrgyzstan |
Saturday, October 22, 2016
The story of my shyrdak
Last weekend, some of us on the staff and faculty took an excursion and got on the road that leads to China. About 45 minutes south of Naryn, after you go over a small mountain pass, you arrive in the town of At-bashy, which is the Kyrgyz word for "horse head." In the center of town you will encounter one of the most striking sculptures of a horse's head that one would ever hope to find.
We did not come to this town nestled in a picturesque valley to gaze at the heads of horses, either sculpted or in the flesh. Our trip was organized so that we could visit a family who makes shyrdaks, or Kyrgyz felt carpets. It takes the wool of five sheep to hand craft the average shyrdak, which is also dyed by hand. This labor-intensive and painstaking craft has been a part of Kyrgyz culture for centuries and remains an integral part of Kyrgyz life and a source of commerce.
I had joined the trip to At-bashy because I needed to get away from campus, where I am sometimes stranded for days at a time, and because I wanted to see another small corner of Kyrgyzstan. I didn't really need a carpet because I had purchased a couple for my apartment from a shop in Bishkek. I was a bit surprised when we stopped in front of a house in a residential district as somehow I had the impression we were going to visit a commercial establishment.
We passed the chicken coop and the wood pile before entering the house--this was certainly not a place created specifically to cater to tourists. Once inside we were taken to the living room which resembled a fantasy from the dreams of Aladdin. Shyrdaks of all shapes, sizes, and hues were spread across the room for our inspection. There are few people who deserve our respect more than those who take knowledge from prior generations to craft something with their hands possessing both great beauty and utility. Perhaps the masterpieces I have viewed in museums like the Louvre have infinitely more value, and maybe my small bias toward the applied arts is showing, but to stand in the living room of a family beaming with pride while they display the products of their hands and hearts is no less inspiring to me than gazing upon the enigma that is the Mona Lisa's smile.
After looking through all the shyrdaks, a few of us purchased one or two. Then the family took us into their kitchen. Evidently it is a tradition of the Kyrgyz shyrdak maker to finish the transaction by setting their table for their customers and serving homemade breads and jams along with steaming cups of tea. As I sat and relished the tart goodness of the raspberry jam spread across my slice of bread, I contemplated the act of hospitality I was receiving. At that moment, I realized that my new shyrdak will always carry with it, in whatever place I call home, the same warmth that radiates from the hearts of a family in At-bashy.
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| Sculpture in the At-bashy main square |
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| Where the shyrdak makers live in At-bashy |
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| In the living room, where the shyrdaks are displayed; the woman makes shyrdaks with her son and daughter-in-law and also served as the town's French teacher when not making carpets |
We passed the chicken coop and the wood pile before entering the house--this was certainly not a place created specifically to cater to tourists. Once inside we were taken to the living room which resembled a fantasy from the dreams of Aladdin. Shyrdaks of all shapes, sizes, and hues were spread across the room for our inspection. There are few people who deserve our respect more than those who take knowledge from prior generations to craft something with their hands possessing both great beauty and utility. Perhaps the masterpieces I have viewed in museums like the Louvre have infinitely more value, and maybe my small bias toward the applied arts is showing, but to stand in the living room of a family beaming with pride while they display the products of their hands and hearts is no less inspiring to me than gazing upon the enigma that is the Mona Lisa's smile.
After looking through all the shyrdaks, a few of us purchased one or two. Then the family took us into their kitchen. Evidently it is a tradition of the Kyrgyz shyrdak maker to finish the transaction by setting their table for their customers and serving homemade breads and jams along with steaming cups of tea. As I sat and relished the tart goodness of the raspberry jam spread across my slice of bread, I contemplated the act of hospitality I was receiving. At that moment, I realized that my new shyrdak will always carry with it, in whatever place I call home, the same warmth that radiates from the hearts of a family in At-bashy.
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| Preparing tea and food for us |
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| Shyrdaks often have a pattern that represents a traditional motif: mine is that of deer antlers |
Friday, October 21, 2016
Spiritual Leaders and those of us untethered
This week our campus celebrated its formal inauguration. The featured guest was His Highness the Aga Khan, Chancellor and benefactor of our University. Even more important is the fact that he is the head of the Ismaili Islamic community, its spiritual leader.
His Highness came to the inauguration to give a speech on the importance of UCA and what it all means. About half of our students are Ismaili and what struck me as much as anything I experienced on that day was the love and devotion these students had for their spiritual leader. I don't know if I have ever seen an outpouring of emotion as genuine and heartfelt as what I witnessed on inauguration day. I overheard one inaugural guest, clearly a non-Ismaili Westerner, comment to her companion, wondering why some of the students were crying. She had misinterpreted the tears as a manifestation of distress, perhaps unable to comprehend the joy people might feel when encountering their spiritual leader for the first time in their lives.
After the ceremony ended, and His Highness had departed, I sat in my chair quietly, waiting for the buffet line to diminish, and at that moment I realized that never in my life have I ever looked to a spiritual leader for guidance or been truly devoted to any creed or organized belief system. Yes, I was raised in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, but somehow the teachings of the ELCA never inspired me or captured my soul. The spiritual leader of the ELCA is called the "Presiding Bishop." And the Bishop is headquartered in Chicago. The current Presiding Bishop was born in Cleveland. Somehow none of that inspires much fervor or devotion. To the Lutherans' credit, the current PB is a woman named Elizabeth Eaton and she is married to an Episcopal priest--all a testament to the general progressive spirit and open-minded nature of the liberal wing of Lutheranism in America, but relatively meaningless to me personally.
What caused this disconnect from the spirituality with which I was raised? Perhaps it was my experience with the spiritual leaders with whom I interacted. Was it the interim pastor of our church who sexually harassed women? Was it the minister I knew who fooled around with the church secretary? Was it the pastor I listened to every Sunday for years who had no humility and was certain he would enter heaven, not even possessing one small doubt that perhaps the Lutheran doctrine of salvation by faith alone was not enough if that faith was devoid of goodness and a kind heart? I don't know exactly what it was, but untethered I became.
Despite being raised a Lutheran, and possessing a newly-untethered status, somehow I kept finding myself remaining connected to Christian spirituality in the company of the Roman church. I graduated from a Catholic university, taught at a Jesuit high school, and served as the Dean of Students at a university run by Ursuline nuns. They all had the Pope as their spiritual leader, but sometimes I felt the Notre Dame football coach was a more-influential religious figure with many of the Catholics I knew. Besides, when you are not a Catholic at their institutions you are always an outsider, not allowed to take communion, never truly connected to the intricacies of their spiritual world and untethered I remained.
While never being connected to a spiritual leader or particular creed during my life, that doesn't mean one is devoid of spiritual experiences. One such experience happened to me in Japan. My apartment in suburban Osaka was located near a Buddhist temple. On Mondays, which I always had off, I would often walk to the temple and sit and gaze at the statue of the Buddha situated there. The temple was tended by an elderly priest. He could not speak English and I could not speak Japanese. However, he would come up to me whenever I was there and we would both sit together silently. We never exchanged more than a glance or a knowing smile and we never learned each other's names. I am still not sure what it all meant exactly, but I knew, as I sat in silence, I was at a rare place in the world where peace presided. But aptly, one does not gain attachment to creed or spiritual leader while in a Buddhist temple.
Before I moved to Kyrgyzstan, I lived in Arkansas. It is a place where everyone says they have a spiritual leader of some sort or another and where everyone is saved. There I worked at a Presbyterian university in the heart of the Bible Belt. How is it I, the untethered one, seem to always find myself among the devout? I worked with a group of Central American students, most were ardent Christians. These students were the possessors of scholarships where one of the values I was required to promote to them was faith, and promote faith I did, in my unorthodox manner. How peculiar it was to find myself attending chapel every Wednesday. I even was called upon by the chaplain to give the sermon once, and a fire-breathing sermon I did give. I wonder how many of my students suspected that, when it really comes down to it, I am an agnostic person, uncertain of matters spiritual, unable to cast my lot with any faith or creed? Well, they all know now.
What happens to a person when they are untethered from the world of faith, disconnected from spiritual guidance, without a spiritual leader? Much depends on the person themselves. I have had people tell me that they couldn't live, couldn't face the world, if they didn't have their faiths and couldn't hang onto the promise of the afterlife they've received. For me, I think I am not worried about what comes in future realms of existence; there's enough difficulty deciphering this one. All we can do is live our best, try to help others, err on the side of kindness, and work to bring justice, mercy, and peace to whatever corner of the world in which we happen to reside. Trying to follow these humble principles might be all someone without a spiritual leader can do.
Despite being untethered, I found great joy being with the students here and witnessing the great flood of emotion and pure happiness they experienced this past week. How wonderful it must be to see and hear the person who represents your faith and who provides you with wise guidance and direction. After being here awhile, I realize His Highness and the Ismaili people are also trying to live their best, trying to help others, trying to err on the side of kindness, and working to bring justice, mercy, and peace to whatever corner of the world in which we all happen to reside. It turns out that is why I also shed a few quiet tears when I saw His Highness and heard him speak--because it is my hope that at some point in human existence those of us following spiritual leaders of every calling, and those of us untethered, can all unite to follow these humble principles which matter so much and which are the inspiration for this secular, yet spiritually-guided, place where I now work.
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| His Highness at Inauguration |
After the ceremony ended, and His Highness had departed, I sat in my chair quietly, waiting for the buffet line to diminish, and at that moment I realized that never in my life have I ever looked to a spiritual leader for guidance or been truly devoted to any creed or organized belief system. Yes, I was raised in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, but somehow the teachings of the ELCA never inspired me or captured my soul. The spiritual leader of the ELCA is called the "Presiding Bishop." And the Bishop is headquartered in Chicago. The current Presiding Bishop was born in Cleveland. Somehow none of that inspires much fervor or devotion. To the Lutherans' credit, the current PB is a woman named Elizabeth Eaton and she is married to an Episcopal priest--all a testament to the general progressive spirit and open-minded nature of the liberal wing of Lutheranism in America, but relatively meaningless to me personally.
What caused this disconnect from the spirituality with which I was raised? Perhaps it was my experience with the spiritual leaders with whom I interacted. Was it the interim pastor of our church who sexually harassed women? Was it the minister I knew who fooled around with the church secretary? Was it the pastor I listened to every Sunday for years who had no humility and was certain he would enter heaven, not even possessing one small doubt that perhaps the Lutheran doctrine of salvation by faith alone was not enough if that faith was devoid of goodness and a kind heart? I don't know exactly what it was, but untethered I became.
Despite being raised a Lutheran, and possessing a newly-untethered status, somehow I kept finding myself remaining connected to Christian spirituality in the company of the Roman church. I graduated from a Catholic university, taught at a Jesuit high school, and served as the Dean of Students at a university run by Ursuline nuns. They all had the Pope as their spiritual leader, but sometimes I felt the Notre Dame football coach was a more-influential religious figure with many of the Catholics I knew. Besides, when you are not a Catholic at their institutions you are always an outsider, not allowed to take communion, never truly connected to the intricacies of their spiritual world and untethered I remained.
While never being connected to a spiritual leader or particular creed during my life, that doesn't mean one is devoid of spiritual experiences. One such experience happened to me in Japan. My apartment in suburban Osaka was located near a Buddhist temple. On Mondays, which I always had off, I would often walk to the temple and sit and gaze at the statue of the Buddha situated there. The temple was tended by an elderly priest. He could not speak English and I could not speak Japanese. However, he would come up to me whenever I was there and we would both sit together silently. We never exchanged more than a glance or a knowing smile and we never learned each other's names. I am still not sure what it all meant exactly, but I knew, as I sat in silence, I was at a rare place in the world where peace presided. But aptly, one does not gain attachment to creed or spiritual leader while in a Buddhist temple.
Before I moved to Kyrgyzstan, I lived in Arkansas. It is a place where everyone says they have a spiritual leader of some sort or another and where everyone is saved. There I worked at a Presbyterian university in the heart of the Bible Belt. How is it I, the untethered one, seem to always find myself among the devout? I worked with a group of Central American students, most were ardent Christians. These students were the possessors of scholarships where one of the values I was required to promote to them was faith, and promote faith I did, in my unorthodox manner. How peculiar it was to find myself attending chapel every Wednesday. I even was called upon by the chaplain to give the sermon once, and a fire-breathing sermon I did give. I wonder how many of my students suspected that, when it really comes down to it, I am an agnostic person, uncertain of matters spiritual, unable to cast my lot with any faith or creed? Well, they all know now.
What happens to a person when they are untethered from the world of faith, disconnected from spiritual guidance, without a spiritual leader? Much depends on the person themselves. I have had people tell me that they couldn't live, couldn't face the world, if they didn't have their faiths and couldn't hang onto the promise of the afterlife they've received. For me, I think I am not worried about what comes in future realms of existence; there's enough difficulty deciphering this one. All we can do is live our best, try to help others, err on the side of kindness, and work to bring justice, mercy, and peace to whatever corner of the world in which we happen to reside. Trying to follow these humble principles might be all someone without a spiritual leader can do.
Despite being untethered, I found great joy being with the students here and witnessing the great flood of emotion and pure happiness they experienced this past week. How wonderful it must be to see and hear the person who represents your faith and who provides you with wise guidance and direction. After being here awhile, I realize His Highness and the Ismaili people are also trying to live their best, trying to help others, trying to err on the side of kindness, and working to bring justice, mercy, and peace to whatever corner of the world in which we all happen to reside. It turns out that is why I also shed a few quiet tears when I saw His Highness and heard him speak--because it is my hope that at some point in human existence those of us following spiritual leaders of every calling, and those of us untethered, can all unite to follow these humble principles which matter so much and which are the inspiration for this secular, yet spiritually-guided, place where I now work.
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