While we extend our thoughts and prayers to the victims and survivors of the Istanbul Airport attack, let us also be the vehicles for converting thoughts and prayers into concrete action. Below are three organizations I have personally supported. However, I understand that budgets are very tight, that's why even sharing this post or posting links to these sites can be incredibly useful as it widens the audience for these appeals.
The International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent will be setting up a fund next week to help survivors of the attack in Istanbul. There are also dozens of other humanitarian efforts you can support on their website if you prefer.
ifrc.org
Razoo is a crowdsourcing site that helps match monies with causes. In their decade-long existence, they have helped facilitate over $500 million in charitable contributions. On their site, #Istanbul is where the appeal for funds for victims of the Istanbul attacks is located.
razoo.com
As I have mentioned in an earlier post, it is essential that we resist the Trumpian notion of fighting evil with evil. Torture is one of the illegal and morally-indefensible approaches that Donald Trump and many others advocate as a means of combating terrorism. I have been supporting the National Religious Campaign Against Torture for a couple years now. They are engaged in advocacy that fights against torture and other inhumane treatment of prisoners. If you donate today (June 30) your donation will be matched. If you prefer, their website also provides a range of non-financial actions you can undertake to reject the practice of fighting evil with evil, in this case the practice of torture.
nrcat.org
It's time to take action. Let's get going!
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
My extremely brief life as a Counter-selfie Activist
In Kyrgyzstan one seldom sees people taking selfies. One reason might be that Kyrgyzstan is tucked away in such a far corner of the Earth, that the armies of selfie takers have not yet located it on the map. It could also be that those who visit Bishkek can find little that would warrant breaking out their selfie sticks for self-poses. Or it could be that those who do come to Kyrgyzstan are busily engaged in action sports like Alpine mountain climbing or parasailing and simply don't have the time to sit still long enough to pose. Whatever the reason, I had almost forgotten about Selfie-madness until I visited Istanbul and became re-exposed to hordes of Selfie-obsessed tourists.
The selfie is something I tolerate and don't really give much thought to, unless, as happened to me a couple of times in Istanbul, someone walks directly into me while taking a selfie, oblivious to my existence on the planet.
Perhaps it is my membership in a relatively older generation that keeps me from embracing the cult of Selfie-ness. When I was growing up, my peers and I avoided people who wanted to take pictures of us; our portraits were only taken at very special occasions like baptisms, first communions, state championship sporting competitions, graduations, and weddings. And we certainly didn't take self-portraits at our first communions or similar festivities, as we left that task of photography to kindly aunts or professionals hired to do this sort of work. In fact, in our minds, people who were obsessed with self-portraits, were tortured artists like Van Gogh. And look what happened to him, I mean what he did to his ear was just the beginning of his troubles.
I think there were other factors that kept Selfie-ing to a minimum back when I was in the prime Selfie-taking age of my life, the main one being the cost of technology. I used to teach photography...none of my students took Selfies with their 35mm film-devouring cameras. Film cost money, lots of it. And to develop your pictures...even taking the film to Walmart wasn't cheap. Only young Donald Trump, growing up in the lap of luxury could have afforded taking hundreds of selfies back in the day and, knowing him, I'm sure the heirloom photo albums in his bedroom closet are loaded with stacks of self-portraits. If you think about it though, only the advent of digitized photography made the Selfie possible. Thank you, wonderful new technology.
The Walton Scholars I worked with always urged me to take selfies that I could transmit to them whenever I traveled, but I always resisted the urge: really, how much value does my disheveled, sweat-drenched image add to a photo of Hagia Sophia? This personal resistance occurred despite the fact that the King of Selfies, Little Viejo, was one of my students. I admire him tremendously...he's taken selfies to a whole new level. In fact, he's made an industry out of the selfie. His Little Viejo YouTube page has hundreds of thousands of subscribers and is filled with his self-created videos, many of which serve as the most marvelous and magnificent six-minute extended selfies; these videos complement his other selfie-filled social media sites--and from all of this Selfie-ness he has created a lucrative media empire and is a celebrity of some repute in Central America. Despite his personal urgings that I join the brigades of Selfie-ites, I have resisted, stubborn person that I am.
Today, though, not only didn't I become a Selfie-ite, it was the day when I began my life as a Counter-selfie Activist. It started on the boat trip along the Bosphorus, the stunning waterway of Istanbul that separates Europe and Asia, when one of the members of my group stepped on my foot as he took a selfie next to me as I sat, minding my own business, on my deck chair. He didn't say "excuse me" or anything. He then started to take more selfies, not even a meter from me, blocking my view of Istanbul. I decided to retaliate by taking what I call a "Counter-selfie," which is a little less aggressive than a Photobomb. A "Counter-selfie" is when you take a picture of the Selfie-taker in the act, and by doing that you are attempting to break the illusion of the Selfie-taker that he or she is the focus of the universe at that moment by publicly objectifying them and, in your counter-action, you are taking away the power of their selfie and colonizing that image they are creating for your own purposes. Yikes, has some blogger you know read (or misread?) too much Critical Theory in his life?
I don't think my Counter-selfie had any impact on "Standing-too-close-to-me-guy," because he continued to Selfie away while almost on top of me, still blocking my view. But, I felt better that I had embraced my role as a newly-formed Counter-selfie Activist.
I decided to Counter-selfie all the Selfie-ites on the deck of the ship. Strangely enough, no one seemed to recognize that I was Counter-selfying them, or else they really didn't care. I could simply walk up to them, a total stranger, and photograph them, while they were "Selfie-ing" and it didn't seem to matter to them. I thought about taking a Selfie of myself in front of those taking Selfies in order to make a "Double-Selfie," but I felt that it would be against the purposes of being a Counter-selfie Activist and would somehow be legitimizing the act of Selfie-ing, which was something I really didn't feel like I should be doing in my new role.
After a few minutes, though, I realized that the only thing less personally satisfying to me than taking a selfie, was taking Counter-selfies. Interest in one's self is something even the most-humble of us can relate to at some level, but taking an interest in someone else's intense interest in their Self isn't interesting at all--if you could follow that sentence. So, I gave up and ended my life as a Counter-selfie Activist and simply walked to the lower deck and found a lovely secluded spot at the back of the ship where I could take pictures of the scenery, minus myself in the image, and without having any other Self nearby and, better yet, where I could just take in the wonderful, salty, marine air and, best of all, capture images with the most extraordinary camera that's ever been devised: the eye.
And so tonight, I sit in the Istanbul Airport, ready to head back to Kyrgyzstan, where the selfie seems to be in its proper perspective, my Counter-selfie Activist days (make that "day") having ended. No definite proof will exist that I have ever visited Istanbul, as I took no Selfies, but only useless Counter-selfies of strangers. Nevertheless, I think I enjoyed my trip as much as those people whom I Counter-selfied even though the part of self I retained from my travel experience didn't consist of Selfies, but instead was formed of intensely personal thoughts, perceptions, tastes, insights, and feelings that are intangible, yet somehow these intangibles represent a more-valuable and meaningful record of places visited, at least for me.
The selfie is something I tolerate and don't really give much thought to, unless, as happened to me a couple of times in Istanbul, someone walks directly into me while taking a selfie, oblivious to my existence on the planet.
Perhaps it is my membership in a relatively older generation that keeps me from embracing the cult of Selfie-ness. When I was growing up, my peers and I avoided people who wanted to take pictures of us; our portraits were only taken at very special occasions like baptisms, first communions, state championship sporting competitions, graduations, and weddings. And we certainly didn't take self-portraits at our first communions or similar festivities, as we left that task of photography to kindly aunts or professionals hired to do this sort of work. In fact, in our minds, people who were obsessed with self-portraits, were tortured artists like Van Gogh. And look what happened to him, I mean what he did to his ear was just the beginning of his troubles.
I think there were other factors that kept Selfie-ing to a minimum back when I was in the prime Selfie-taking age of my life, the main one being the cost of technology. I used to teach photography...none of my students took Selfies with their 35mm film-devouring cameras. Film cost money, lots of it. And to develop your pictures...even taking the film to Walmart wasn't cheap. Only young Donald Trump, growing up in the lap of luxury could have afforded taking hundreds of selfies back in the day and, knowing him, I'm sure the heirloom photo albums in his bedroom closet are loaded with stacks of self-portraits. If you think about it though, only the advent of digitized photography made the Selfie possible. Thank you, wonderful new technology.
The Walton Scholars I worked with always urged me to take selfies that I could transmit to them whenever I traveled, but I always resisted the urge: really, how much value does my disheveled, sweat-drenched image add to a photo of Hagia Sophia? This personal resistance occurred despite the fact that the King of Selfies, Little Viejo, was one of my students. I admire him tremendously...he's taken selfies to a whole new level. In fact, he's made an industry out of the selfie. His Little Viejo YouTube page has hundreds of thousands of subscribers and is filled with his self-created videos, many of which serve as the most marvelous and magnificent six-minute extended selfies; these videos complement his other selfie-filled social media sites--and from all of this Selfie-ness he has created a lucrative media empire and is a celebrity of some repute in Central America. Despite his personal urgings that I join the brigades of Selfie-ites, I have resisted, stubborn person that I am.
Today, though, not only didn't I become a Selfie-ite, it was the day when I began my life as a Counter-selfie Activist. It started on the boat trip along the Bosphorus, the stunning waterway of Istanbul that separates Europe and Asia, when one of the members of my group stepped on my foot as he took a selfie next to me as I sat, minding my own business, on my deck chair. He didn't say "excuse me" or anything. He then started to take more selfies, not even a meter from me, blocking my view of Istanbul. I decided to retaliate by taking what I call a "Counter-selfie," which is a little less aggressive than a Photobomb. A "Counter-selfie" is when you take a picture of the Selfie-taker in the act, and by doing that you are attempting to break the illusion of the Selfie-taker that he or she is the focus of the universe at that moment by publicly objectifying them and, in your counter-action, you are taking away the power of their selfie and colonizing that image they are creating for your own purposes. Yikes, has some blogger you know read (or misread?) too much Critical Theory in his life?
I don't think my Counter-selfie had any impact on "Standing-too-close-to-me-guy," because he continued to Selfie away while almost on top of me, still blocking my view. But, I felt better that I had embraced my role as a newly-formed Counter-selfie Activist.
I decided to Counter-selfie all the Selfie-ites on the deck of the ship. Strangely enough, no one seemed to recognize that I was Counter-selfying them, or else they really didn't care. I could simply walk up to them, a total stranger, and photograph them, while they were "Selfie-ing" and it didn't seem to matter to them. I thought about taking a Selfie of myself in front of those taking Selfies in order to make a "Double-Selfie," but I felt that it would be against the purposes of being a Counter-selfie Activist and would somehow be legitimizing the act of Selfie-ing, which was something I really didn't feel like I should be doing in my new role.
After a few minutes, though, I realized that the only thing less personally satisfying to me than taking a selfie, was taking Counter-selfies. Interest in one's self is something even the most-humble of us can relate to at some level, but taking an interest in someone else's intense interest in their Self isn't interesting at all--if you could follow that sentence. So, I gave up and ended my life as a Counter-selfie Activist and simply walked to the lower deck and found a lovely secluded spot at the back of the ship where I could take pictures of the scenery, minus myself in the image, and without having any other Self nearby and, better yet, where I could just take in the wonderful, salty, marine air and, best of all, capture images with the most extraordinary camera that's ever been devised: the eye.
And so tonight, I sit in the Istanbul Airport, ready to head back to Kyrgyzstan, where the selfie seems to be in its proper perspective, my Counter-selfie Activist days (make that "day") having ended. No definite proof will exist that I have ever visited Istanbul, as I took no Selfies, but only useless Counter-selfies of strangers. Nevertheless, I think I enjoyed my trip as much as those people whom I Counter-selfied even though the part of self I retained from my travel experience didn't consist of Selfies, but instead was formed of intensely personal thoughts, perceptions, tastes, insights, and feelings that are intangible, yet somehow these intangibles represent a more-valuable and meaningful record of places visited, at least for me.
 |
| My first Counter-selfie, my attempt at cultural comment by appropriating the Selfies of others: "Standing-too-close-to-me-guy" taking one of several dozens selfies. A question that comes to mind: are the images being created a representation of this person's authentic self or is he struggling to construct an idealized "Selfie-self" that he is hoping to transmit to the world? |
 |
| Imagine if you saw this picture and you didn't know he was taking a Selfie. When you can't see the photographic device and you don't know the context of the picture, "Standing-too-close-to-me-guy" looks even more absurd. Without knowledge of the context you could easily come to the conclusion that there is something seriously wrong with a person who stands less than a meter from a total stranger while holding this particular pose for several minutes. Or what if I told you the man in the picture was standing in front of me for several minutes while holding a mirror. Again, you might conclude that "Standing-too-close-to-me-guy" has a problem. Yet, if you think about it, his phone is serving as a very fancy mirror that is recording his real image so that it can serve as a permanent record of himself that he can enjoy for years to come, but that can also be broadcast around the world, so perhaps our attitude toward "Standing-too-close-to-me-guy" should be the same as the attitude we would take toward someone standing next to us holding a mirror. |
 |
| I took this Counter-selfie after this gentleman elbowed, what appeared to be his girlfriend or wife, out of the picture because he wanted a "True Selfie," not a "Shared Selfie." This Counter-selfie shows how the act of Selfie-ing can detract from our human impulse toward mutuality. Actually, I hope the woman is his cousin, because if she is his wife, this doesn't bode well for her future happiness. |
 |
| This is a Counter-selfie of the woman who was elbowed out of the previous picture. She doesn't have the enthusiastic posture or expression of a real, genuine "Selfie-ite." I just think she is going along with this Selfie business because it's what she's expected to do as her duty. Hmm. Unfortunately, I don't believe she is his cousin, the more I think about it. |
 |
| Now, you can even take Selfies with just about any kind of electronic device as this woman demonstrates. I wouldn't be at all surprised if toasters will soon have cameras installed in them so you can take an action Selfie while burning your English muffins. Shhhhh. Don't want to give anybody any brilliant ideas. |
 |
| This Counter-selfie was taken with great caution as the woman pictured had just snarled at her traveling companion for bringing her the wrong beverage from the galley and I felt that my Counter-selfie activities might draw a similar response. I don't think the Selfie-stick left her hands during the time period I was watching her. I wonder if her obsession with her Selfie-ing contributed to the impersonal and unpleasant response she gave to her traveling companion, or if that behavior was simply typical of her general disposition. |
Reflections after spending time yesterday evening in the Istanbul Airport
I arrived at the Istanbul Airport yesterday a little after 18:00. The airport shuttle I had booked picked me up from my hotel at 15:45, much earlier than originally planned. Extra time was needed to get to the airport, they told me, because the road to the airport would be more congested than usual because a Turkish holiday was scheduled for the next day and holiday goers would be packing the airport for their getaways.
The shuttle company was right, the roads were crowded; we barely moved during much of the journey. But, I felt fortunate that we made it to the airport about three hours before my flight was scheduled to depart. Nothing unusual in the departure lobby; little did I know that in a few hours time the same departure hall where I was standing would be the scene of a horrible act of evil. Checked my bag, went through immigration and security (twice), and then entered the secure area of the Istanbul Airport where I visited the wonderful bookstore there, then I sat by my departure gate and worked on a post for my blog, which I didn't post because I didn't have the time to upload the pictures I was going to use.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 20:50, but we had troubles at the gate where we were supposed to board the bus that would take us out to our airplane. It seems the officious Turkish airline employee was not pleased at the mostly-Kyrgyz passengers' efforts to form an orderly line to board the bus and he refused to let us board until we converted our mob into a line. Evidently he'd never been to Kyrgyzstan and witnessed the difficulties we have in my new country with forming orderly lines where people do not cut in front of one other. If he had, he would have given up and just let us push and shove our way onto the bus as is often the custom in my newest residence. But he was a persistent man, who believed firmly in social engineering, and our progress was delayed by over half an hour.
Finally, we were able to board the bus and then the plane. I noted that we took off at 21:30 because I was trying to calculate at what ungodly hour of the morning I would be arriving in Bishkek. I cannot sleep on airplanes, so I decided to read one of the books I had purchased--Islam: The Oxford Very Short Introduction. When the attack began at the airport at 21:50, a mere twenty minutes after my plane departed, I was, oddly enough, reading the chapter on terrorism and jihad.
I arrived in Bishkek the next morning and took a taxi to my apartment. When I turned my phone back on, I noticed a message from the travel agent who had booked my flight, hotel, and airport transfer. "Are you in Bishkek? Are you okay?" was the message. "Yes, I'm fine," I texted back, impressed at the excessive attentiveness of my travel agent. Then I opened Facebook and saw another message asking if I was OK. That's when I knew it was time to turn on my television so that I could discover what in the world had happened in Istanbul. That's how I found out about the airport bombings.
In a few of the news reports I heard today, it was noted that the terrorists had arrived at the airport by taxi. I had been in terrible traffic, but the terrorists had left later and had probably found themselves in even worse traffic. If my transfer company hadn't been on the ball and moved my shuttle from 17:00 to 15:45 and if the terrorists had followed the advice one of the hotel clerks had given me that I should skip my shuttle altogether and take the train, because it wouldn't be delayed by traffic, they would have arrived much earlier. If I had taken the original, later shuttle time and the terrorists had arrived much more quickly on mass transit, perhaps our arrivals at the Istanbul Airport would have coincided and who knows what my fate would have been? Everyday little things like this occur that we are not aware of and each of our lives is altered in indiscernible ways we will never know. Only in dramatic instances like yesterday's does one realize that every small step we take is connected to something else, and someone else, and every alteration of our paths has meaning, usually insignificant, but sometimes monumental. My experience of yesterday also made me think of my past job of selecting Central American students for Walton Scholarships. The selections made for my university were entirely in my hands. I wonder what extraordinary blessings and cruel tragedies I have unknowingly put into motion by choices I made as to who would go to the U.S. and who would not? I realize more than ever today, that each and every one of our actions matters, no matter how large or small.
And what of those who were wounded or killed? Why did their fate have to be this way? I cannot accept "God's Will" as an answer to why these innocent met this fate, nor as an answer to why I blithely continued my journey onward unharmed, reading my newly-purchased books on the flight to Bishkek. I cannot accept this answer because it implies a God who is cruel, or a God who is indifferent, or a God who doesn't have a very good handle on Creation management. I don't have a decent answer, actually, and I haven't yet met anyone who does. All I know is that it is up to us, any person who cares about others, to put into action what we perceive to be "God's Will" or the "Golden Rule" or whatever it is we want to call the impulse to love our fellow human beings unconditionally and to shower them with support and aid and kindness. Whether it be to help the victims in Istanbul, refugees from Syria, or our neighbor down the street, we cannot enjoy the luxury of assigning the tag "God's Will" to whatever is good or bad and simply leave it at that; rather we must work to be instruments of Good and must work to act upon this impulse to love others and to aid the suffering and the hurting, no matter who they may be. Determining the "why" should not be our focus, but we must instead be the "what" that brings comfort to those in need.
And what of those who when the bodies of the dead of Istanbul are still warm proclaim that actions like torture of our enemies will be the solution to our problems? Evil met with evil never brings peace and only degrades those who follow this wrong path. In fact, those who committed the atrocities in Istanbul want us to respond in a Trumpian manner to help bring about an intensified religious war that suits their purposes. This Trumpian approach violates every religious code of conduct, Christian, Islam, or otherwise, not to mention that it also violates every legal standard ever devised in areas like this. And it will not solve the problem of terrorism. So, Trump and those who support Trumpian methods of torture and banning entire groups of people must be resisted.
What else can we do when faced with terrorism and evil that doesn't seem to go away? I don't know the answer to that question either, but I do have a couple of thoughts.
First, we need to recognize that evil is always present. It is part of the human condition, unfortunately. We cannot despair when facing evil, but realize that it will always be with us and we can't be frightened, we can't give up. We must live our lives according to our standards and beliefs, no matter what. We must be brave, even if it's very hard to do.
Today, I also for a split second had this thought, "It's a good thing I went to Istanbul when I did, because it's getting more dangerous there and I'll probably never go back." Then I realized, no, I will go back to Istanbul whenever I feel like it. Why should I punish the good, hardworking people of Istanbul because I am fearful? Unless it becomes a complete war zone, I plan to go back to Istanbul, because it is a wonderful, remarkable, beautiful city with friendly people and fascinating history. I will go back there some day if I am able, terrorism be damned. Because when we run and hide, terrorists win, and I'm not going to help terrorists.
I also wasn't going to post what I wrote for my blog last night while sitting in the Istanbul Airport, because it is a little bit silly and not really the right tone considering what happened. But then I thought about that. There are few things terrorists hate more than joy and humor and laughing and being mocked and ridiculed. Think about it, how many terrorists are humorous people? How many terrorist organizations use humor and laughter as weapons? One of the biggest problems with terrorists is that they take themselves and their causes much too seriously and their dogma and indignation has harmed their capacity for empathy and humor, especially self-deprecation. That's why laughter and humor is a powerful antidote to terrorism. While I didn't agree with the approach of some of Charlie Hebdo's humor, it is clear that their humor was something terrorists hated. Why else would terrorists target a humor magazine like Charlie Hebdo for destruction? Terrorists targeted a small magazine in Paris because humor is their enemy and laughter in their faces is a stronger affront to them than insult or gunfire. If I were entrusted to construct an army against these terrorists I would recruit all the finest comedians of the world to launch an all-out assault of mockery and laughter against them. It couldn't be less effective than torture, and it would be legal and a lot less messy--and the rest of us would feel much better if we were all laughing too. So, I'm posting my silly blog entry later today and I'm posting my other posts of Istanbul at some point, because I refuse to let terrorists take joy and mirth and our daily routines from us all.
Courage be with those of us who are afraid. Peace be with those of us who have lost loved ones. Comfort be with those who are injured and are suffering. May the souls of those who have perished find eternal rest.
The shuttle company was right, the roads were crowded; we barely moved during much of the journey. But, I felt fortunate that we made it to the airport about three hours before my flight was scheduled to depart. Nothing unusual in the departure lobby; little did I know that in a few hours time the same departure hall where I was standing would be the scene of a horrible act of evil. Checked my bag, went through immigration and security (twice), and then entered the secure area of the Istanbul Airport where I visited the wonderful bookstore there, then I sat by my departure gate and worked on a post for my blog, which I didn't post because I didn't have the time to upload the pictures I was going to use.
My flight was scheduled to leave at 20:50, but we had troubles at the gate where we were supposed to board the bus that would take us out to our airplane. It seems the officious Turkish airline employee was not pleased at the mostly-Kyrgyz passengers' efforts to form an orderly line to board the bus and he refused to let us board until we converted our mob into a line. Evidently he'd never been to Kyrgyzstan and witnessed the difficulties we have in my new country with forming orderly lines where people do not cut in front of one other. If he had, he would have given up and just let us push and shove our way onto the bus as is often the custom in my newest residence. But he was a persistent man, who believed firmly in social engineering, and our progress was delayed by over half an hour.
Finally, we were able to board the bus and then the plane. I noted that we took off at 21:30 because I was trying to calculate at what ungodly hour of the morning I would be arriving in Bishkek. I cannot sleep on airplanes, so I decided to read one of the books I had purchased--Islam: The Oxford Very Short Introduction. When the attack began at the airport at 21:50, a mere twenty minutes after my plane departed, I was, oddly enough, reading the chapter on terrorism and jihad.
I arrived in Bishkek the next morning and took a taxi to my apartment. When I turned my phone back on, I noticed a message from the travel agent who had booked my flight, hotel, and airport transfer. "Are you in Bishkek? Are you okay?" was the message. "Yes, I'm fine," I texted back, impressed at the excessive attentiveness of my travel agent. Then I opened Facebook and saw another message asking if I was OK. That's when I knew it was time to turn on my television so that I could discover what in the world had happened in Istanbul. That's how I found out about the airport bombings.
In a few of the news reports I heard today, it was noted that the terrorists had arrived at the airport by taxi. I had been in terrible traffic, but the terrorists had left later and had probably found themselves in even worse traffic. If my transfer company hadn't been on the ball and moved my shuttle from 17:00 to 15:45 and if the terrorists had followed the advice one of the hotel clerks had given me that I should skip my shuttle altogether and take the train, because it wouldn't be delayed by traffic, they would have arrived much earlier. If I had taken the original, later shuttle time and the terrorists had arrived much more quickly on mass transit, perhaps our arrivals at the Istanbul Airport would have coincided and who knows what my fate would have been? Everyday little things like this occur that we are not aware of and each of our lives is altered in indiscernible ways we will never know. Only in dramatic instances like yesterday's does one realize that every small step we take is connected to something else, and someone else, and every alteration of our paths has meaning, usually insignificant, but sometimes monumental. My experience of yesterday also made me think of my past job of selecting Central American students for Walton Scholarships. The selections made for my university were entirely in my hands. I wonder what extraordinary blessings and cruel tragedies I have unknowingly put into motion by choices I made as to who would go to the U.S. and who would not? I realize more than ever today, that each and every one of our actions matters, no matter how large or small.
And what of those who were wounded or killed? Why did their fate have to be this way? I cannot accept "God's Will" as an answer to why these innocent met this fate, nor as an answer to why I blithely continued my journey onward unharmed, reading my newly-purchased books on the flight to Bishkek. I cannot accept this answer because it implies a God who is cruel, or a God who is indifferent, or a God who doesn't have a very good handle on Creation management. I don't have a decent answer, actually, and I haven't yet met anyone who does. All I know is that it is up to us, any person who cares about others, to put into action what we perceive to be "God's Will" or the "Golden Rule" or whatever it is we want to call the impulse to love our fellow human beings unconditionally and to shower them with support and aid and kindness. Whether it be to help the victims in Istanbul, refugees from Syria, or our neighbor down the street, we cannot enjoy the luxury of assigning the tag "God's Will" to whatever is good or bad and simply leave it at that; rather we must work to be instruments of Good and must work to act upon this impulse to love others and to aid the suffering and the hurting, no matter who they may be. Determining the "why" should not be our focus, but we must instead be the "what" that brings comfort to those in need.
And what of those who when the bodies of the dead of Istanbul are still warm proclaim that actions like torture of our enemies will be the solution to our problems? Evil met with evil never brings peace and only degrades those who follow this wrong path. In fact, those who committed the atrocities in Istanbul want us to respond in a Trumpian manner to help bring about an intensified religious war that suits their purposes. This Trumpian approach violates every religious code of conduct, Christian, Islam, or otherwise, not to mention that it also violates every legal standard ever devised in areas like this. And it will not solve the problem of terrorism. So, Trump and those who support Trumpian methods of torture and banning entire groups of people must be resisted.
What else can we do when faced with terrorism and evil that doesn't seem to go away? I don't know the answer to that question either, but I do have a couple of thoughts.
First, we need to recognize that evil is always present. It is part of the human condition, unfortunately. We cannot despair when facing evil, but realize that it will always be with us and we can't be frightened, we can't give up. We must live our lives according to our standards and beliefs, no matter what. We must be brave, even if it's very hard to do.
Today, I also for a split second had this thought, "It's a good thing I went to Istanbul when I did, because it's getting more dangerous there and I'll probably never go back." Then I realized, no, I will go back to Istanbul whenever I feel like it. Why should I punish the good, hardworking people of Istanbul because I am fearful? Unless it becomes a complete war zone, I plan to go back to Istanbul, because it is a wonderful, remarkable, beautiful city with friendly people and fascinating history. I will go back there some day if I am able, terrorism be damned. Because when we run and hide, terrorists win, and I'm not going to help terrorists.
I also wasn't going to post what I wrote for my blog last night while sitting in the Istanbul Airport, because it is a little bit silly and not really the right tone considering what happened. But then I thought about that. There are few things terrorists hate more than joy and humor and laughing and being mocked and ridiculed. Think about it, how many terrorists are humorous people? How many terrorist organizations use humor and laughter as weapons? One of the biggest problems with terrorists is that they take themselves and their causes much too seriously and their dogma and indignation has harmed their capacity for empathy and humor, especially self-deprecation. That's why laughter and humor is a powerful antidote to terrorism. While I didn't agree with the approach of some of Charlie Hebdo's humor, it is clear that their humor was something terrorists hated. Why else would terrorists target a humor magazine like Charlie Hebdo for destruction? Terrorists targeted a small magazine in Paris because humor is their enemy and laughter in their faces is a stronger affront to them than insult or gunfire. If I were entrusted to construct an army against these terrorists I would recruit all the finest comedians of the world to launch an all-out assault of mockery and laughter against them. It couldn't be less effective than torture, and it would be legal and a lot less messy--and the rest of us would feel much better if we were all laughing too. So, I'm posting my silly blog entry later today and I'm posting my other posts of Istanbul at some point, because I refuse to let terrorists take joy and mirth and our daily routines from us all.
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Courage be with those of us who are afraid. Peace be with those of us who have lost loved ones. Comfort be with those who are injured and are suffering. May the souls of those who have perished find eternal rest.
Monday, June 27, 2016
The Cats of Istanbul
In my walking through Istanbul, I have noticed many cats. I realized that I hadn't seen a cat since I left the United States four months ago. Kyrgyzstan has plenty of packs of stray dogs and I've noticed a couple of different people in my apartment building walking their dogs, but cats aren't anywhere to be found. Perhaps that's why the cats of Istanbul have captured my attention.
I have found that people seem to either love cats or hate them. I am one of the few who fall into neither of the categories. I am quite content to live in Bishkek without a cat, but I have a respect for the feline world that comes from having lived in close proximity to cats throughout my life. I have never technically owned a cat, but have somehow found myself tending to the cats of others. I have given dozens of insulin injections to a diabetic cat, have diapered a 22-year-old cat who could no longer use the litter pan consistently (trust me, it wasn't my idea), have spent three days in Florence searching for an aggressive tabby who had escaped from our top-floor apartment across the rooftops of the city, have been entrusted to take the cats of others to the vet to be sent to the afterlife because the owners couldn't bear to do the task themselves, have helped dig the holes to bury two expired cats, have as a seven-year-old watched a mother cat give birth to several kittens in a closet, and have cleaned more litter pans and hairballs off the carpet than I had ever imagined possible. These are some of the reasons why, though neither a cat lover or hater, I somehow sympathize with them and have concern for their fate.
Having experienced a complete absence of cats these past months, I found Istanbul's tolerance and even affinity for cats to be a pleasant diversion. Cats are everywhere. They are in the cathedrals, prowling the streets, and begging for food at sidewalk cafes. I think in the U.S., people would shoo them away, call the animal control unit, and in some rural redneck enclaves I have visited, might even bring firearms into play. But here in Istanbul, cats are free to be themselves and seem to be liked even (yes, I understand they should be neutered and that street life is not a good fate for a cat). Tomorrow, I will return to Kyrgyzstan, land of roaming dogs and horses and cows and goats and sheep and I will keep these pictures as a reminder of another land.
I have found that people seem to either love cats or hate them. I am one of the few who fall into neither of the categories. I am quite content to live in Bishkek without a cat, but I have a respect for the feline world that comes from having lived in close proximity to cats throughout my life. I have never technically owned a cat, but have somehow found myself tending to the cats of others. I have given dozens of insulin injections to a diabetic cat, have diapered a 22-year-old cat who could no longer use the litter pan consistently (trust me, it wasn't my idea), have spent three days in Florence searching for an aggressive tabby who had escaped from our top-floor apartment across the rooftops of the city, have been entrusted to take the cats of others to the vet to be sent to the afterlife because the owners couldn't bear to do the task themselves, have helped dig the holes to bury two expired cats, have as a seven-year-old watched a mother cat give birth to several kittens in a closet, and have cleaned more litter pans and hairballs off the carpet than I had ever imagined possible. These are some of the reasons why, though neither a cat lover or hater, I somehow sympathize with them and have concern for their fate.
Having experienced a complete absence of cats these past months, I found Istanbul's tolerance and even affinity for cats to be a pleasant diversion. Cats are everywhere. They are in the cathedrals, prowling the streets, and begging for food at sidewalk cafes. I think in the U.S., people would shoo them away, call the animal control unit, and in some rural redneck enclaves I have visited, might even bring firearms into play. But here in Istanbul, cats are free to be themselves and seem to be liked even (yes, I understand they should be neutered and that street life is not a good fate for a cat). Tomorrow, I will return to Kyrgyzstan, land of roaming dogs and horses and cows and goats and sheep and I will keep these pictures as a reminder of another land.
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| In the outdoor café of the Archeological Museum |
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| Resting at the Archeological Café |
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| Another beggar at the Archeological Café |
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| Along the road to Topkapi Palace |
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| This particular cat was not happy to have his/her picture taken and quickly scampered away. |
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Inside Hagia Sophia  |
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Don't know much about history...
Several years ago I was privileged enough to take a course on the History of Medicine. What made the course particularly extraordinary was that it was taught by one of the most wonderfully brilliant, kind, and interesting professors one could possibly have. His name is Dr. William Campbell. Those of you who are Jeopardy! champions might recognize his name. You see, Dr. Campbell won the Nobel Prize for medicine this past year. I learned a great many things in his class and one of them was how the history of medicine (and really all the sciences) had a really infertile period where nobody really discovered anything new...basically between the years 500 and 1500. This time period was also known as the Dark Ages. I remember Dr. Campbell spending about 10 minutes on this bleak period in Western science and he did make a quick mention of how there were some advances in medicine in the Islamic world at this time, but he really didn't cover them. And then I forgot about that particular lecture, until today.
Today is when I visited The Istanbul Museum for the History of Science and Technology in Islam. While the West spent about 1000 doing nothing to advance the concept of science, it turns out that the Islamic world was a beehive of scientific activity. Each room in the museum focused on a different branch of science. I was amazed by the room devoted to medical history. During the Dark Ages, the Islamic world was doing things like figuring out how the eye works, developing the field of ophthalmology, and figuring out how blood circulates through the body. These advancements were matched across the spectrum of the sciences, including mathematics, chemistry, astronomy, and physics.
Some of these contributions were forgotten, some were built upon (but not credited) by the scientists of the Renaissance, and a few were acknowledged. Goethe was one of the first to study and recognize these contributions and by 1900 some Western scholars were beginning to show how Islamic science played an important role in increasing human knowledge and served as a significant contributor to human advancement. I had a vague notion about all of this before I visited Istanbul, but after today I had a much clearer indication of the amazing linkage between Islam and the sciences during their millennium of discovery.
When we think about Islam in the year 2016, we need to understand it in its entirety. Many I've talked to in the U.S., associate Islam with backwardness and anti-scientific irrationality. Clearly this is not the case. We would be wiser to associate backwardness and anti-scientific irrationality with fundamentalism and religious dogmatism that is present in most religions including both fundamentalist Christianity and fundamentalist Islam. I will never forget the day I was tasked several years ago with tutoring a group of Christian home-schoolers in the sciences. I received the kids' textbook, which assailed evolution and a whole range of legitimate scientific theories (and advanced notions like a 6000-year-old Earth) and at that point I realized that no amount of tutoring would ever help these children ever achieve scientific literacy. So, let us celebrate the scientific achievements of all cultures and stand against any force from whatever group of fundamentalists who place dogma above science.
So, although in my History of Medicine course, I only heard a brief mention of Islamic contributions to the sciences, I made up for it today and now have a much more complete sense of the debt we owe to Islam in a multitude of scientific fields and have punctured one more small hole in the giant wall of obliviousness that surrounds me.
Today is when I visited The Istanbul Museum for the History of Science and Technology in Islam. While the West spent about 1000 doing nothing to advance the concept of science, it turns out that the Islamic world was a beehive of scientific activity. Each room in the museum focused on a different branch of science. I was amazed by the room devoted to medical history. During the Dark Ages, the Islamic world was doing things like figuring out how the eye works, developing the field of ophthalmology, and figuring out how blood circulates through the body. These advancements were matched across the spectrum of the sciences, including mathematics, chemistry, astronomy, and physics.
Some of these contributions were forgotten, some were built upon (but not credited) by the scientists of the Renaissance, and a few were acknowledged. Goethe was one of the first to study and recognize these contributions and by 1900 some Western scholars were beginning to show how Islamic science played an important role in increasing human knowledge and served as a significant contributor to human advancement. I had a vague notion about all of this before I visited Istanbul, but after today I had a much clearer indication of the amazing linkage between Islam and the sciences during their millennium of discovery.
When we think about Islam in the year 2016, we need to understand it in its entirety. Many I've talked to in the U.S., associate Islam with backwardness and anti-scientific irrationality. Clearly this is not the case. We would be wiser to associate backwardness and anti-scientific irrationality with fundamentalism and religious dogmatism that is present in most religions including both fundamentalist Christianity and fundamentalist Islam. I will never forget the day I was tasked several years ago with tutoring a group of Christian home-schoolers in the sciences. I received the kids' textbook, which assailed evolution and a whole range of legitimate scientific theories (and advanced notions like a 6000-year-old Earth) and at that point I realized that no amount of tutoring would ever help these children ever achieve scientific literacy. So, let us celebrate the scientific achievements of all cultures and stand against any force from whatever group of fundamentalists who place dogma above science.
So, although in my History of Medicine course, I only heard a brief mention of Islamic contributions to the sciences, I made up for it today and now have a much more complete sense of the debt we owe to Islam in a multitude of scientific fields and have punctured one more small hole in the giant wall of obliviousness that surrounds me.
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| Museum Entrance |
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| One of the dozens of astronomical devices developed by Islamic scientists during their scientific renaissance |
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| Dozens of surgical tools developed around the year 1100 for surgery of the eye, far in advance of anything present in the West at that time. |
Hagia Sophia
Hagia Sophia is one of the world's treasures. It is the third church on the site, the first one being inaugurated by Constantine II in 360. This particular version was completed in the year 537 and remained the largest cathedral in the world for almost 1000 years, until the Seville Cathedral was completed in 1520. In the 13th Century, the Latin Church (what we today call the Catholic Church) invaded old Constantinople, and held Hagia Sophia for several decades and during this time looted and defiled the structure.
The Ottomans took over the city in 1453 and had the Orthodox church converted to a mosque. Over the next 450 years Islamic elements were added to the building like minarets and the gold leaf Christian mosaics were whitewashed. After World War I, the Ottoman Empire ceased to exist and the leader of the new, secular Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk closed the mosque and converted the building to a museum. At this time, the Islamic carpets were removed and the original marble floors were uncovered, the ancient mosaics were discovered and painstakingly brought back to life and entire cathedral was restored, respecting both its Christian and Islamic histories--although this process of restoration continues to this day.
I have been to many of the major Christian cathedrals of Europe. Because of its extraordinary history, groundbreaking architecture, and breathtaking grandeur, in my opinion, Hagia Sophia is as remarkable a structure as I have visited in my years of wandering through ancient religious monuments.
The Ottomans took over the city in 1453 and had the Orthodox church converted to a mosque. Over the next 450 years Islamic elements were added to the building like minarets and the gold leaf Christian mosaics were whitewashed. After World War I, the Ottoman Empire ceased to exist and the leader of the new, secular Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk closed the mosque and converted the building to a museum. At this time, the Islamic carpets were removed and the original marble floors were uncovered, the ancient mosaics were discovered and painstakingly brought back to life and entire cathedral was restored, respecting both its Christian and Islamic histories--although this process of restoration continues to this day.
I have been to many of the major Christian cathedrals of Europe. Because of its extraordinary history, groundbreaking architecture, and breathtaking grandeur, in my opinion, Hagia Sophia is as remarkable a structure as I have visited in my years of wandering through ancient religious monuments.
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| Exterior view of Hagia Sophia |
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| Inside the Basilica |
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| The Deesic Mosaic, circa 12th Century. This mosaic was discovered in the 1932 restoration. It depicts the Virgin Mary and John the Baptist imploring Jesus Christ to fulfill his mission of salvation. |
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| View of the Hagia Sophia from the vicinity of the Blue Mosque. |
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| Detail of architectural structure of Hagia Sophia |
Saturday, June 25, 2016
Cooking in Istanbul
My day in Istanbul was devoted to food. In the afternoon I went to the Spice Bazaar and purchased some teas and spices I can't get in Kyrgyzstan. I then spent the evening taking a cooking class at Deraliye which is a restaurant which recreates Ottoman Palace recipes, many of them from centuries ago. It turns out no one else signed up for the class, but Murat, the restaurant manager was kind enough to conduct the class anyway.
I learned to make Stuffed Vine Leaves with Sour Cherries, which was a favorite dish of Sultan Abdul Medjid who ruled the Ottoman Empire in the mid 1800s. The recipe was taken from historical documents which detailed the recipe. We also made "Sailor's Roll" which is a rolled pastry flled with cheese and peas, deep fried, and served with honey. And the final course I learned was a melon, stuffed with minced meat, pine nuts, almonds, currants, and spices. It is a summer variation of one of Sultan Sulieman's favorite dishes (circa 1600s) . Traditionally, it is cooked in winter and the stuffing is used to fill quinces.
Had a wonderful time in the company of Chef Mehmet and Murat, both kind, informative, and pleasant gentlemen--and gained insight in the food and culture of the Ottoman Empire. And had a really delicious meal.
I learned to make Stuffed Vine Leaves with Sour Cherries, which was a favorite dish of Sultan Abdul Medjid who ruled the Ottoman Empire in the mid 1800s. The recipe was taken from historical documents which detailed the recipe. We also made "Sailor's Roll" which is a rolled pastry flled with cheese and peas, deep fried, and served with honey. And the final course I learned was a melon, stuffed with minced meat, pine nuts, almonds, currants, and spices. It is a summer variation of one of Sultan Sulieman's favorite dishes (circa 1600s) . Traditionally, it is cooked in winter and the stuffing is used to fill quinces.
Had a wonderful time in the company of Chef Mehmet and Murat, both kind, informative, and pleasant gentlemen--and gained insight in the food and culture of the Ottoman Empire. And had a really delicious meal.
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| Outside of Deraliye Restaurant where I had my cooking class |
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| Chef Mehmet gathering his strength before preparing to take on one of his more difficult apprentice cooks. |
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| The chef adds the filling to the pastry dough for the "Sailor Rolls" |
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| Sailor Rolls ready for the fryer after being rolled and sliced |
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| Apprentice chef preparing the melon for stuffing |
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| Murat, the restaurant manager, explaining how to fry the sailor rolls |
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| Finished Sailor Roll drizzled with honey |
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| Finished Stuffed Vine Leaves with Sour Cherries |
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| Completed Main Course: Melon Stuffed with Minced Meat with Melon and Rosemary Side Dish |
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| Dessert: Saffron and Turmeric Pudding with Pine Nuts and Currants |
Spice Bazaar and Grand Bazaar
Arrived today in Istanbul for a mini vacation, as I am not sure if will be able to have another holiday before Christmas. I am staying in a lovely little hotel in Sultanahmet, which is Istanbul's historic old city.
I wandered off in the afternoon to do buy some spices at the Spice Bazaar that can't be easily found in Kyrgyzstan like allspice, saffron, turmeric, and garam masala. Then went to the Grand Bazaar, which is one of the largest and oldest markets in Europe. Both markets give a person an extraordinary taste of Turkey and its mercantile heritage.
I wandered off in the afternoon to do buy some spices at the Spice Bazaar that can't be easily found in Kyrgyzstan like allspice, saffron, turmeric, and garam masala. Then went to the Grand Bazaar, which is one of the largest and oldest markets in Europe. Both markets give a person an extraordinary taste of Turkey and its mercantile heritage.
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| The Istanbul cityscape as seen from outside Spice Bazaar |
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| Inside the Spice Bazaar |
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| Shop where I purchased spices |
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| The turmeric I purchased was stored in its own special drawer |
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| Entrance to the Grand Bazaar |
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| The Grand Bazaar dates back to the 1600s. Pictured is an area where people can wash their hands. |
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| So many shops, I lost count. |
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| Another place to wash. |
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Old Babushka's back in business along the Path of Destruction
I knew there was trouble this morning when, while eating breakfast in my kitchen, I could hear Ariston wheezing and coughing. Ariston is the name I've given my hot water heater who lives in the bathroom, because that's the name of the manufacturer that's affixed in large letters to his round, white front. Usually Ariston makes loud, assertive, proud noises when working at heating the water in my apartment. But, today, before I even turned on the water for my bath, Ariston was huffing and puffing meekly, not like his usual self. And sure enough, when I started my bath, only a tragically small stream of water came dribbling out of the faucet. I'm quite sure I've been in the company of drooling St. Bernards who slobbered more liquid on me in a moment of greeting than was available today for my daily cleaning. Why do I give inanimate objects in Kyrgyzstan, like hot water heaters, names? Because they seem to possess personalities and frailties as profound and real as those of any person.
I arrived at work to find that the entire neighborhood around both my apartment and my office was without water. It turns out that the work on the water main being done on the street where I live had gone horribly awry and, as a consequence, a massive chunk of downtown Bishkek found itself without water.
By noontime I really had to go to the bathroom, but our office had not even a bucket at our disposal. So, I decided to go wandering to find a restaurant where I might be able to relieve myself and have a little lunch in the process. Further and further from my office I wandered, but without any success as no restaurant I visited possessed a bathroom with even a drop of running water. Finally I gave up and had my lunch at a local coffee shop, despite its lack of functioning facilities.
But, I hadn't solved my more pressing concern. I decided to walk to my apartment to use my bathroom. Even though my toilet didn't work, at least I wouldn't be worried about how my bathroom usage would affect my co-workers. My apartment is on Isanova Street, the street where the catastrophic water works are being conducted. I might be mistaken, but I think the name "Isanova" in Russian translates to "Path of Destruction" because Isanova has been torn up now for the past couple of months and looks like an invading army has lobbed dozens of mortar shells onto the roadway. In fact I have seen stray dogs almost fall into some of the open, 10-meter-deep holes that now dot Isanova Street.
When I arrived at my apartment building, I saw that the repair crew was working on Old Babushka. Yes, I have given the elevator in my building a name too. Babushka was moaning and groaning as the repairmen tried to coax her into operation. Hers is a chronic illness as she has been broken several times in the four months I have lived in the building--this particular ailment has kept her out of commission for almost two weeks now. I call her Babushka because she is like a sick grandmother who is bedridden, having been flattened this time by the hot, Bishkek summer. Even when Babushka is feeling up to operating, she moves slowly and unsteadily, causing one to perpetually worry about her health.
Luckily, I was able to take care of my bodily issues in my apartment and return to work in much better condition. When I arrived at the office a co-worker said that all this dysfunction made him feel like he was a time traveler who was living in the past: he said he felt like he might have traveled to the old Soviet Union just as it was collapsing. I thought about this. Sometimes I feel like a time traveler too. Except, I feel like I'm living in the future. I have this strange sensation that I am living through an early, mild version of what the future will be, except the real future will be much worse even than today in Bishkek, if we don't wake up and start to take care of the issues of climate change and other environmental concerns. I feel like I am witnessing a tiny glimpse into a dystopia where no water, no electricity, and collapsing economics will be just some of the lovely features of life for most of us in the not-too-horribly-distant future. Sadly, many of us are listening to the Donald Trumps of the world who don't even acknowledge the possibility of this potentially grim future and our responsibilities to act. What will future generations say about us, we the oblivious of today, who condemned them to a life of misery because we did nothing when faced with the choice of courageous action or selfish denial?
I managed to make it through the afternoon, but during the last few minutes of work I did feel as though I had to sit very still in order to survive the work day. I scrambled out of my office and somehow managed to make it back to my apartment building to use my toilet, which now functions as nothing more than a fancy porcelain bucket. While the sight of water was still a mirage, I was astonished to find that Babushka was working again, although I decided the wisest course of action was to trudge up six flights of stairs, because I felt I couldn't trust her health quite yet. And as the day concluded, while sitting on my sofa, I decided I would go out to eat for dinner so as not to create any dishes I couldn't wash as I kept an ear out for Ariston who remained eerily silent on his perch above the toilet in the bathroom.
I arrived at work to find that the entire neighborhood around both my apartment and my office was without water. It turns out that the work on the water main being done on the street where I live had gone horribly awry and, as a consequence, a massive chunk of downtown Bishkek found itself without water.
By noontime I really had to go to the bathroom, but our office had not even a bucket at our disposal. So, I decided to go wandering to find a restaurant where I might be able to relieve myself and have a little lunch in the process. Further and further from my office I wandered, but without any success as no restaurant I visited possessed a bathroom with even a drop of running water. Finally I gave up and had my lunch at a local coffee shop, despite its lack of functioning facilities.
But, I hadn't solved my more pressing concern. I decided to walk to my apartment to use my bathroom. Even though my toilet didn't work, at least I wouldn't be worried about how my bathroom usage would affect my co-workers. My apartment is on Isanova Street, the street where the catastrophic water works are being conducted. I might be mistaken, but I think the name "Isanova" in Russian translates to "Path of Destruction" because Isanova has been torn up now for the past couple of months and looks like an invading army has lobbed dozens of mortar shells onto the roadway. In fact I have seen stray dogs almost fall into some of the open, 10-meter-deep holes that now dot Isanova Street.
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| Kyrgyz utility crews working feverishly this afternoon on the Path of Destruction to fix the accident that wiped out the city's water supply. (Irony alert.) |
When I arrived at my apartment building, I saw that the repair crew was working on Old Babushka. Yes, I have given the elevator in my building a name too. Babushka was moaning and groaning as the repairmen tried to coax her into operation. Hers is a chronic illness as she has been broken several times in the four months I have lived in the building--this particular ailment has kept her out of commission for almost two weeks now. I call her Babushka because she is like a sick grandmother who is bedridden, having been flattened this time by the hot, Bishkek summer. Even when Babushka is feeling up to operating, she moves slowly and unsteadily, causing one to perpetually worry about her health.
Luckily, I was able to take care of my bodily issues in my apartment and return to work in much better condition. When I arrived at the office a co-worker said that all this dysfunction made him feel like he was a time traveler who was living in the past: he said he felt like he might have traveled to the old Soviet Union just as it was collapsing. I thought about this. Sometimes I feel like a time traveler too. Except, I feel like I'm living in the future. I have this strange sensation that I am living through an early, mild version of what the future will be, except the real future will be much worse even than today in Bishkek, if we don't wake up and start to take care of the issues of climate change and other environmental concerns. I feel like I am witnessing a tiny glimpse into a dystopia where no water, no electricity, and collapsing economics will be just some of the lovely features of life for most of us in the not-too-horribly-distant future. Sadly, many of us are listening to the Donald Trumps of the world who don't even acknowledge the possibility of this potentially grim future and our responsibilities to act. What will future generations say about us, we the oblivious of today, who condemned them to a life of misery because we did nothing when faced with the choice of courageous action or selfish denial?
I managed to make it through the afternoon, but during the last few minutes of work I did feel as though I had to sit very still in order to survive the work day. I scrambled out of my office and somehow managed to make it back to my apartment building to use my toilet, which now functions as nothing more than a fancy porcelain bucket. While the sight of water was still a mirage, I was astonished to find that Babushka was working again, although I decided the wisest course of action was to trudge up six flights of stairs, because I felt I couldn't trust her health quite yet. And as the day concluded, while sitting on my sofa, I decided I would go out to eat for dinner so as not to create any dishes I couldn't wash as I kept an ear out for Ariston who remained eerily silent on his perch above the toilet in the bathroom.
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| Babushka, ready for passengers. Maybe, I'll try my luck tomorrow. |
Saturday, June 18, 2016
Left Behind
I remember when growing up in Washington State, seeing cars with bumperstickers that read, "In case of the rapture, this car will be unoccupied." I was raised in the ELCA, the liberal arm of the Lutheran church in America, where the concept of the rapture was not seen as theologically valid, so this bumpersticker seemed very bizarre to me. Why God would pull a small percentage of true believers out of their cars while they were driving them and swoosh these people into the air, up into heaven, on some random summer afternoon seemed inconceivable to me. The rational Lutheran in me figured that if God was all-powerful certainly he'd be able to figure out a way to wait until the people he wanted to pull up into heaven had safely parked their cars in the Walmart parking lot before commencing. I mean, why would a loving God create a catastrophe of auto wrecks and airplane crashes across the world? It didn't seem Godly to me. There just had to be a kinder and more orderly way to begin the End Times.
It turns out, even though I hadn't realized it until I moved to Kyrgyzstan, a rapture of sorts has already taken place in the world. Actually, it's happened here in Kyrgyzstan. The date of the End Times was August 31, 1991 and the "Kyrgyz Rapture" didn't happen instantaneously, no one was pulled out of their cars into the sky, but it was a slower rapture that took place during the months after August 31. On that date in 1991 is when the Kyrgyz people declared independence from the Soviet Union. What disappeared from Kyrgyzstan at first wasn't people, but the entire structure of the Soviet government: all the Soviet mythology, culture, and ideology gone in an instant. Very quickly after that all the money and resources from Russia had vanished, as if God himself had pulled billions of rubles into the sky. Then the ethnic Russians living here realized that they suddenly no longer had the power of God behind them, in this case the Holy Father being Moscow. The floodgates of ethnic Russians pouring back into Russia had started and it was truly as if the Rapture had begun.
Before the rapture, in 1991, there were about a million ethnic Russians in Kyrgyzstan representing about a quarter of the population. Today, there are only about 370,000 Russians here, less than 7% of Kyrgyzstan. In essence, they are a little like the sad people from the depressing Kirk Cameron movies; they have been Left Behind.
In my workplace, the vast majority of the positions of prominence in the organization are held by North Americans, Europeans, and those of Kyrgyz ethnicity. The few ethnic Russians we have in our organization are primarily employed as drivers of our university vehicles or on the housekeeping staff; in fact, the one ethnic Russian in my department left last month for America. After years of trying, he finally obtained his Green Card and is now living in Brooklyn. When you do see ethnic Russians, you will probably observe them working in small businesses, driving taxis, and waiting tables. Conversely, highly-educated ethnic Russians, doctors, educators, and most anyone who had reasonable employment prospects in Russia fled back to the motherland as quickly as possible, while the Kyrgyz began to reassert their culture which had been suppressed during Soviet times.
I haven't spoken much with those left behind, but I have gathered a few clues. I remember one of my Russian drivers from work playing the radio as we were driving back from Lake Issyk-kul; he was listening intently to Vladimir Putin giving a press conference from Moscow rather than tuning in to the Kyrgyz news. Even though he was a Kyrgyz citizen, he was somehow still more closely tethered to Russia, even though he had seldom visited there. Another ethnic Russian person has briefly mentioned to me a disconnect from Kyrgyz life. There definitely does seem to be a disconnection as I can only remember seeing one or two mixed-ethnicity couples since I have been here: the Kyrgyz and the Russian do not seem to connect with each other on "Kyrgyzmatch.com" or "Kyrgyzmingle." I am an outsider in this land and even I can almost feel the separation and loss of those who have been left behind in this human-initiated version of the rapture.
I wonder what the future offers for the ethnic Russian of Kyrgyzstan. Will their fate be that of the 100,000 or so ethnic Germans who were here before August 1991? Now there are about 1,000 left in the country and I am guessing that soon there will be none in Kyrgyzstan as they too have been fleeing. When walking down the streets of Bishkek, one sees older ethnic Russians, but the sight of young Russian school children causes one to pause because it is such a rarity. When one calculates the passing of older Russians and the low birth rate of new Russians, the conclusion seems to be that at some point this process will be complete.
Despite my Lutheran skepticism of things rapturous, I have no idea what the End Times might look like, and I suppose I am not able to categorically reject any notion of how the Earth might end. Perhaps, I will be walking through Bishkek one day and see the two rapture-believing Christians in the city fly upward out of the taxi they are riding in, while the rest of us in Kyrgyzstan watch, scratching our heads. Or if Donald Trump is elected President, I may suddenly decide to believe in the rapture and pray that I will be taken quickly to heaven (or anywhere otherworldly) so that I won't have to witness the hellish End Times his presidency might bring to our planet. However, as I entered a taxi cab last night driven by an aging Russian who has been left behind, I realized the most-likely scenario is that the only "rapture" I will ever experience is the aftermath of the one that began in 1991 in Kyrgyzstan.
It turns out, even though I hadn't realized it until I moved to Kyrgyzstan, a rapture of sorts has already taken place in the world. Actually, it's happened here in Kyrgyzstan. The date of the End Times was August 31, 1991 and the "Kyrgyz Rapture" didn't happen instantaneously, no one was pulled out of their cars into the sky, but it was a slower rapture that took place during the months after August 31. On that date in 1991 is when the Kyrgyz people declared independence from the Soviet Union. What disappeared from Kyrgyzstan at first wasn't people, but the entire structure of the Soviet government: all the Soviet mythology, culture, and ideology gone in an instant. Very quickly after that all the money and resources from Russia had vanished, as if God himself had pulled billions of rubles into the sky. Then the ethnic Russians living here realized that they suddenly no longer had the power of God behind them, in this case the Holy Father being Moscow. The floodgates of ethnic Russians pouring back into Russia had started and it was truly as if the Rapture had begun.
Before the rapture, in 1991, there were about a million ethnic Russians in Kyrgyzstan representing about a quarter of the population. Today, there are only about 370,000 Russians here, less than 7% of Kyrgyzstan. In essence, they are a little like the sad people from the depressing Kirk Cameron movies; they have been Left Behind.
In my workplace, the vast majority of the positions of prominence in the organization are held by North Americans, Europeans, and those of Kyrgyz ethnicity. The few ethnic Russians we have in our organization are primarily employed as drivers of our university vehicles or on the housekeeping staff; in fact, the one ethnic Russian in my department left last month for America. After years of trying, he finally obtained his Green Card and is now living in Brooklyn. When you do see ethnic Russians, you will probably observe them working in small businesses, driving taxis, and waiting tables. Conversely, highly-educated ethnic Russians, doctors, educators, and most anyone who had reasonable employment prospects in Russia fled back to the motherland as quickly as possible, while the Kyrgyz began to reassert their culture which had been suppressed during Soviet times.
I haven't spoken much with those left behind, but I have gathered a few clues. I remember one of my Russian drivers from work playing the radio as we were driving back from Lake Issyk-kul; he was listening intently to Vladimir Putin giving a press conference from Moscow rather than tuning in to the Kyrgyz news. Even though he was a Kyrgyz citizen, he was somehow still more closely tethered to Russia, even though he had seldom visited there. Another ethnic Russian person has briefly mentioned to me a disconnect from Kyrgyz life. There definitely does seem to be a disconnection as I can only remember seeing one or two mixed-ethnicity couples since I have been here: the Kyrgyz and the Russian do not seem to connect with each other on "Kyrgyzmatch.com" or "Kyrgyzmingle." I am an outsider in this land and even I can almost feel the separation and loss of those who have been left behind in this human-initiated version of the rapture.
I wonder what the future offers for the ethnic Russian of Kyrgyzstan. Will their fate be that of the 100,000 or so ethnic Germans who were here before August 1991? Now there are about 1,000 left in the country and I am guessing that soon there will be none in Kyrgyzstan as they too have been fleeing. When walking down the streets of Bishkek, one sees older ethnic Russians, but the sight of young Russian school children causes one to pause because it is such a rarity. When one calculates the passing of older Russians and the low birth rate of new Russians, the conclusion seems to be that at some point this process will be complete.
Despite my Lutheran skepticism of things rapturous, I have no idea what the End Times might look like, and I suppose I am not able to categorically reject any notion of how the Earth might end. Perhaps, I will be walking through Bishkek one day and see the two rapture-believing Christians in the city fly upward out of the taxi they are riding in, while the rest of us in Kyrgyzstan watch, scratching our heads. Or if Donald Trump is elected President, I may suddenly decide to believe in the rapture and pray that I will be taken quickly to heaven (or anywhere otherworldly) so that I won't have to witness the hellish End Times his presidency might bring to our planet. However, as I entered a taxi cab last night driven by an aging Russian who has been left behind, I realized the most-likely scenario is that the only "rapture" I will ever experience is the aftermath of the one that began in 1991 in Kyrgyzstan.
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| Ethnic Russian woman sweeping the sidewalk near my apartment |
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| Russian taxi driver waiting for a fare |
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| Elderly Russian woman selling eggs to passersby |
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| Russian store owner selling products to Kyrgyz woman |
малина!
малина is the Russian word for raspberries. The English word "raspberry" is horrible sounding and that's probably why the word is also used to describe the obnoxious blowing sound one makes with the tongue and lips to signify contempt or derision. It's also the kind of peculiarly spelled word that drives students of English as a Second Language nuts. But, the Russian word for raspberries, малина, is pronounced "Malina" and, unlike the word raspberry, Malina is a pretty and delicate word, just like the small berries themselves. Am I talking about the word for raspberry in two different languages because I have finally lost my mind after spending the past week climbing up and down the endless flights of stairs to my apartment because the elevator in my building, it seems, will never be fixed? NO! I am talking about raspberries because it's the beginning of raspberry season in Kyrgyzstan and I bought a wonderful container of my very favorite fruit today. Yes, I like them even more than watermelons--especially their portability. And, by the way, the first handful I ate were sublimely delicious.
Monday, June 13, 2016
What not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment
After work, every few nights, I stop by the tiny fruit stand near my apartment. The guy who runs the stand is very polite, speaks English, and offers tasty fruit at a reasonable price, so I like to shop there, rather than at the local supermarket chain, for my produce.
It's been very hot for the past couple weeks and there was a new product at the stand that looked like it would serve as wonderful summertime refreshment: big, beautiful watermelons.
The man who runs the fruit stand told me he had the best possible watermelon saved just for me; it would be so sweet and delicious, he assured me, I would thank him for allowing me the privilege of purchasing it. So I bought it and began the trek home, six kilogram melon perched on my shoulder because it was easier on my back to carry it this way. After making the 200 meter walk in the sweltering heat, I arrived at my apartment building sweating, somewhat sore and winded, only to remember that the elevator had been broken when I had left for work in the morning. The cranky old elevator in my building usually falls apart about once a week, alarms a blaring, then by the time I return from work in the evening someone has fixed the infernal contraption and I am able to make the somewhat uncertain journey up to my apartment on the 6th floor. Not today. My mechanical nemesis, having thwarted the efforts of the repair crew on this summer's day, remained as unmoving as the mountains that surround Kyrgyzstan's capital city.
I thought about just leaving the watermelon on the ground floor for someone who lives on one of the lower floors to discover and cart back to their own apartment as an unexpected present. But, the thought of the taste of fresh watermelon was too tempting, so I tightened my belt, strained a bit, and re-positioned the melon back on my shoulder as I began the slow trudge up all the stairs.
Carrying a watermelon up multiple flights of stairs is kind of like going jogging with a bowling ball. You kind of have to watch your balance and be very careful to keep from dropping your precious cargo on your toes. When I got to the third floor I could hear someone coming up behind me, gaining ground bit by bit. By the time I reached the fourth floor, my pursuer had caught me and overtaken me. It was the tough, elderly, Soviet-era Russian woman with varicose veins who lives on the seventh floor who shuffled past me. I think I detected her rolling her eyes at me as she ambled by, sending mental snark waves in my direction for being the dimwitted, inarticulate American struggling up six flights of stairs with a giant watermelon on his shoulder.
Finally, I reached my apartment door on the 6th floor and realized my keys were in my left pants pocket, where they couldn't be reached because the watermelon was precariously perched on my left shoulder. I had a feeling, as exhausted as I was, that if I tried to put the watermelon down on the ground I would simply drop it and have it explode into five jagged pieces. But, my frantic efforts to reach deep into my left pants pocket with my right hand weren't working either. Somehow, though, I managed to lean up against the door with the watermelon and gradually slide the humungous piece of fruit down to the ground without shattering it. Thank goodness my elderly neighbor hadn't witnessed the entire pathetic spectacle because I think she would have given me a Soviet-style beatdown and stolen my watermelon from me just to teach me a lesson.
After I was finally able to open my apartment door, I rolled the watermelon through my apartment and wedged it into my refrigerator, happy that I had somehow made it without requiring a visit to the local physician. So, now you know what not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment. Next time I visit my tiny neighborhood fruit stand I am purchasing a couple of kiwi fruit and a small bag of cherries.
It's been very hot for the past couple weeks and there was a new product at the stand that looked like it would serve as wonderful summertime refreshment: big, beautiful watermelons.
The man who runs the fruit stand told me he had the best possible watermelon saved just for me; it would be so sweet and delicious, he assured me, I would thank him for allowing me the privilege of purchasing it. So I bought it and began the trek home, six kilogram melon perched on my shoulder because it was easier on my back to carry it this way. After making the 200 meter walk in the sweltering heat, I arrived at my apartment building sweating, somewhat sore and winded, only to remember that the elevator had been broken when I had left for work in the morning. The cranky old elevator in my building usually falls apart about once a week, alarms a blaring, then by the time I return from work in the evening someone has fixed the infernal contraption and I am able to make the somewhat uncertain journey up to my apartment on the 6th floor. Not today. My mechanical nemesis, having thwarted the efforts of the repair crew on this summer's day, remained as unmoving as the mountains that surround Kyrgyzstan's capital city.
I thought about just leaving the watermelon on the ground floor for someone who lives on one of the lower floors to discover and cart back to their own apartment as an unexpected present. But, the thought of the taste of fresh watermelon was too tempting, so I tightened my belt, strained a bit, and re-positioned the melon back on my shoulder as I began the slow trudge up all the stairs.
Carrying a watermelon up multiple flights of stairs is kind of like going jogging with a bowling ball. You kind of have to watch your balance and be very careful to keep from dropping your precious cargo on your toes. When I got to the third floor I could hear someone coming up behind me, gaining ground bit by bit. By the time I reached the fourth floor, my pursuer had caught me and overtaken me. It was the tough, elderly, Soviet-era Russian woman with varicose veins who lives on the seventh floor who shuffled past me. I think I detected her rolling her eyes at me as she ambled by, sending mental snark waves in my direction for being the dimwitted, inarticulate American struggling up six flights of stairs with a giant watermelon on his shoulder.
Finally, I reached my apartment door on the 6th floor and realized my keys were in my left pants pocket, where they couldn't be reached because the watermelon was precariously perched on my left shoulder. I had a feeling, as exhausted as I was, that if I tried to put the watermelon down on the ground I would simply drop it and have it explode into five jagged pieces. But, my frantic efforts to reach deep into my left pants pocket with my right hand weren't working either. Somehow, though, I managed to lean up against the door with the watermelon and gradually slide the humungous piece of fruit down to the ground without shattering it. Thank goodness my elderly neighbor hadn't witnessed the entire pathetic spectacle because I think she would have given me a Soviet-style beatdown and stolen my watermelon from me just to teach me a lesson.
After I was finally able to open my apartment door, I rolled the watermelon through my apartment and wedged it into my refrigerator, happy that I had somehow made it without requiring a visit to the local physician. So, now you know what not to buy when you live in a 6th floor Bishkek apartment. Next time I visit my tiny neighborhood fruit stand I am purchasing a couple of kiwi fruit and a small bag of cherries.
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| My Bishkek traveling companion. Perhaps I will bring a couple of pieces up to my tough, elderly neighbor. |
Did you know those teeny tiny temporary tires can go more than 50 kilometers?
I am interviewing candidates for the position of Student Life Advisor and I had to take a group of three of them from Bishkek to Naryn so they could see the campus and get an idea of where they might be living for the next year of two if they get the job.
About 60 kilometers into the trip, the hired vehicle we were riding in began to shimmy and then we all heard the ominous thump, thump, thumping sound of what was, of course, a flat tire. Bekbol, our exceedingly good-natured driver, changed the flat in no time at all and we resumed our trip.
Problem is, he replaced the flat with one of those teeny tiny tires that the vehicle owner's manual says you should never drive on for more than 50 kilometers. And, the manual also explains, you should never go over 80 kilometers per hour on the teeny tiny temporary tire.
I guess Bekbol has never read the owner's manual. Bekbol continued driving the vehicle at his customary 120 kilometers per hour. "Are you sure you're supposed drive this fast on the spare tire?" I asked. "What are you talking about?" replied Bekbol, his perpetually sunny smile beaming across his face.
That was before we entered the mountain pass section of our journey. That's when we went careening around hairpin turns on our teeny tiny temporary tire, went flying down 12 degree grades or steeper on our temporary tire, zigged and zagged and avoided assorted cows, goats, and sheep (and one wayward pedestrian) on our temporary tire, and successfully navigated 50 kilometers of gravel road and potholes while traveling through road under repair on our teeny tiny temporary tire.
Finally, over 200 kilometers after suffering our flat, we arrived at the campus in Naryn. "Are you going to the tire shop now to get that flat fixed?" I asked Bekbol. "What tire shop?" was the cheerful reply.
So, after our campus tour and our Naryn city tour, off we traveled on the teeny tiny temporary tire back to Bishkek. Back over the gravel roads, dodging more sheep and goats and cows, over the mountain pass and down the steep grades, through the hairpin turns, almost 300 kilometers more to Bishkek.
Our teeny tiny temporary tire made, by my calculation, a 500 kilometer journey at many different speeds, most of them above 80 kilometers per hour. I don't know about the teeny tiny temporary tires I have read about in my owner's manuals, but this particular one was a pretty impressive workhorse that greatly exceeded its mandate. I must admit I was very happy when we disembarked in Bishkek. Bekbol said farewell in the always cheerful and unconcerned manner he employed and I took my three candidates out for dinner hoping that they, after their journey on the teeny tiny temporary tire, might actually still consider working for us. But most of all, I was simply grateful for journeys concluded successfully.
About 60 kilometers into the trip, the hired vehicle we were riding in began to shimmy and then we all heard the ominous thump, thump, thumping sound of what was, of course, a flat tire. Bekbol, our exceedingly good-natured driver, changed the flat in no time at all and we resumed our trip.
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| Bekbol changing our flat; we offered to help, but he'd would have none of that |
I guess Bekbol has never read the owner's manual. Bekbol continued driving the vehicle at his customary 120 kilometers per hour. "Are you sure you're supposed drive this fast on the spare tire?" I asked. "What are you talking about?" replied Bekbol, his perpetually sunny smile beaming across his face.
That was before we entered the mountain pass section of our journey. That's when we went careening around hairpin turns on our teeny tiny temporary tire, went flying down 12 degree grades or steeper on our temporary tire, zigged and zagged and avoided assorted cows, goats, and sheep (and one wayward pedestrian) on our temporary tire, and successfully navigated 50 kilometers of gravel road and potholes while traveling through road under repair on our teeny tiny temporary tire.
Finally, over 200 kilometers after suffering our flat, we arrived at the campus in Naryn. "Are you going to the tire shop now to get that flat fixed?" I asked Bekbol. "What tire shop?" was the cheerful reply.
So, after our campus tour and our Naryn city tour, off we traveled on the teeny tiny temporary tire back to Bishkek. Back over the gravel roads, dodging more sheep and goats and cows, over the mountain pass and down the steep grades, through the hairpin turns, almost 300 kilometers more to Bishkek.
Our teeny tiny temporary tire made, by my calculation, a 500 kilometer journey at many different speeds, most of them above 80 kilometers per hour. I don't know about the teeny tiny temporary tires I have read about in my owner's manuals, but this particular one was a pretty impressive workhorse that greatly exceeded its mandate. I must admit I was very happy when we disembarked in Bishkek. Bekbol said farewell in the always cheerful and unconcerned manner he employed and I took my three candidates out for dinner hoping that they, after their journey on the teeny tiny temporary tire, might actually still consider working for us. But most of all, I was simply grateful for journeys concluded successfully.
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Images of Crumbling and Decay II
Despite the current building boom in Bishkek, where luxury apartment buildings are springing up faster than dandelions, there is a parallel phenomenon where building in the public sector is almost non-existent and old projects that are now unfunded sit idle indefinitely.
Below is a building behind the Philharmonic Theater, not far from my apartment. It was started several years ago during the rule of the despot who was thrown out of office in the 2010 uprising. His sons used public money to engage in building projects, but after the uprising when they fled to the UK, many of these projects were halted and remain incomplete to this day. No one seems to know what this building was supposed to be. This sturdy and thickly constructed structure that resembles a pine cone or a hand grenade looks like it could survive an intensive bombardment. But it appears this abandoned shell will live out its life as a stillborn skeleton, never achieving birth.
Below is a building behind the Philharmonic Theater, not far from my apartment. It was started several years ago during the rule of the despot who was thrown out of office in the 2010 uprising. His sons used public money to engage in building projects, but after the uprising when they fled to the UK, many of these projects were halted and remain incomplete to this day. No one seems to know what this building was supposed to be. This sturdy and thickly constructed structure that resembles a pine cone or a hand grenade looks like it could survive an intensive bombardment. But it appears this abandoned shell will live out its life as a stillborn skeleton, never achieving birth.
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