The company you keep

Right now there's a lot of harsh talk coming from Trump and his Trumpists about all sorts of types and groups of people, from Mexicans to Muslims. Because of the life I have led, having spent much of my existence interacting with people from all across the globe, I sometimes have great difficulty understanding the hatred that seems to be spewing primarily from Red-state America. I think I am even more sensitive to the evil of Trump because at times during my life I have been the immigrant, the outsider, relying on the kindness of others and the approval of the governments of other countries.

I find myself again, in a faraway land, as a minority, "The Other." Yesterday, 70 students from Pakistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Afghanistan, and Tajikistan arrived on our campus.  Of course, I have only interacted with these students for a little more than a day, but I am struck by their good humor and their overall demeanor. They seem to respond to my stupid jokes and kidding the same way that past students I have encountered from Italy and Japan and the United States and Saudi Arabia and Central America have as well. And the bowl of chocolate in my office has the same attraction and impact across cultures too! Perhaps I am hopelessly naïve, but somehow I believe that things people share in common potentially have the power to unite people as much as the things that divide us have the power to destroy us.  It is those like Donald Trump who serve as the destructive counterforce to my community chocolate bowl and all it represents.

Also consider this: the faculty of our University is from the United States, Germany, Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, the Philippines, Pakistan, and Azerbaijan. The librarian is from upstate New York and his two assistants are from Tajikistan. My current supervisor is from Canada. His replacement will be taking over next month. She's from Latvia. The head of campus is a woman from Pakistan who has recently lived in Canada. The gentleman who has been managing the construction project of our campus is from Scotland and one of the crew is Australian. The super high tech windows in the buildings are being installed by a crew from Serbia. The university counsellor is from Nelson, British Columbia--only a three-hour drive from my home town. The registrar is Russian, by the way. I also have an awesome student life staff I work with. They are from Utah and Alberta and collaborate wonderfully despite their divergent backgrounds. Our campus doctor is a woman from Kyrgyzstan. Our two main chefs are Pakistani and they conduct most of their communication in Urdu; I think they devote a fair amount of their energy trying to figure out how to work with the remainder of a kitchen staff that only speaks Kyrgyz. We also have a communications staff led a by a gentleman from Singapore. He works with a young woman from Canada, another woman who, I think, is Kazakh, and one other guy; I have no idea where he's from, and when I think about it, his land of origin really doesn't matter.

The company you keep says a lot about you. I think most people who are Trumpists, have had the very sad misfortune of only living with people like themselves. They fear others because they do not know others. Cultural isolation might be one of the biggest factors explaining this election. Those who don't keep company beyond their narrow tribe seem more likely to be Trumpists. People like me who keep a wider circle of company can never accept or support the hatred and nastiness that Trump represents, because what we have experienced in our lives and what we have learned from spending time in diverse company, has disproved every spiteful word that has come from Trump's mouth. Not all that defines us as individuals are factors from within, but instead we are often shaped profoundly by the company we keep and the transforming power that can come from people beyond our usual horizons.

As I sit down and think about the company I have kept today and how it might be more varied than what many Americans might encounter in their entire lifetimes, I am filled with gratitude for this amazing gift I continually receive.

My new street address

In my life I have lived in many different places on many different streets.  Here are the names of just some of the streets I've lived on:

*Willamette Boulevard
*Fiske Avenue
*Via Bettinelli
*Via Bolognese
*Via Buonvicini
*Main Street (in two different states)
*College Avenue
*Maple Avenue
*Tokiwacho (Japan)
*Fredericka Street
*Kasteellaan (Dutch for "Castle Lane")
*Исанова -стрит (Isanova Street, Bishkek)

Now, here's my newest street address. I can be found in Naryn at 310 Lenin Street. Yes, that Lenin. To quote one of my favorite writers, Dr. Seuss, "Oh, the Places You'll Go!"

The view from 310 Lenin Street: looking south toward the Blue Mountains

Another view from 310 Lenin Street: looking north toward the Red Mountains

Leaving Bishkek

Got up at 05:00 to begin the next phase of my Central Asian journey. Those of us relocating to the Naryn campus left Bishkek today to move into our new home in the mountains.

Sometimes I've been very happy to leave a place, other times I've been filled with sadness. Bishkek is somewhere in between. I didn't live there long enough to establish roots, but I also liked the place, despite its idiosyncrasies. Actually, now that I think about it, I enjoyed Bishkek because of its idiosyncrasies. While almost every former Soviet city outside of Russia has worked to erase its old Sovietness, Bishkek retains much of its old Soviet monumental architecture and stern ambience. The feeling of living in an old Soviet time capsule that you experience in certain neighborhoods, for some, might be surreal or strange, and in reality it is, but yet it is reminiscent of the feeling you get when listening to old Disco songs: you know that both Soviet life and Disco music are best left in the past, still they both do stir a jarring mix of feelings of a time gone by.

Despite its Soviet feel, Bishkek also has a colorful side represented by places like the Osh Bazaar and the tranquil oases of various parks. There's a cultural and arts scene that seems to be budding. I found several interesting restaurants, including a Japanese sushi restaurant with extraordinary seafood. How that is possible thousands of miles from the sea, I do not know. And, of course, there are the wonderful views of the distant mountains.

But there are ominous warning signs. Dozens of luxury apartment buildings are being erected at breakneck speed. Bishkek is living in what appears to be a gigantic housing bubble. What will happen when that bubble bursts? I'm not optimistic about the nature and the severity of the potential fallout. And the air pollution...in winter it can be as bad as some of the worst smog I have ever seen.

Now that I am gone and will only be making rare visits to Bishkek, I can envision my return visits feeling like a trip to see an old friend. I am glad to have made Bishkek an acquaintance and know that I am better for the experience.

The stern Soviet architecture of the Concert Hall...

...contrasted with a city of flowers

The picture I took out the window as I left my office in Bishkek for the very last time

My "Reading the World" Project

In May, on this blog, I featured Ann Morgan's Ted Talk on "Reading the World." Ms. Morgan, frustrated by her lack of exposure to other world perspectives, decided to read one work of fiction from each of the countries of the world during the course of one year.

https://go.ted.com/CjMW

All of the books Ms. Morgan read are listed on her blog.

ayearofreadingtheworld.com

So, I decided to read one book from her list before the end of the year and challenged everyone else who reads my blog to pick a book from an unfamiliar country and do the same. I had hoped to read the book representing Kyrgyzstan. It turns out that not only couldn't I find an English translation of the Kyrgyz book by Chyngyz Aitmatov, but I also couldn't find any English translations of any of Aitmatov's works.  Even worse, I couldn't even find a Kyrgyz or Russian copy of one of Aitmatov's books. Of course, I am completely unable to read a Kyrgyz or Russian copy, but I had somehow hoped that I could find one copy of Aitmatov's works somewhere in this country--in any language. Even the copy of Aitmatov's book in the UCA library collection seems to have disappeared without a trace. Sadly, I think it would be easier to find the Holy Grail in Kyrgyzstan than a copy of a book by Aitmatov on public display.

Having failed in my epic search, I decided to read a work from a writer of a different country. When I traveled to Istanbul, I was able to find Turkish books translated to English. And while I have been embarrassingly less ambitious than Ms. Morgan, I am proud to announce that I have completed reading four books for my personal "Reading the World" project, although only one of the four books is on her list.

The first book is by Orhan Pamuk, perhaps the greatest living Turkish writer, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2006. It is actually his memoir and is entitled Istanbul. It is an amazing look at the city, its history, and its stories as related through Pamuk's life as a young boy as he chronicles his growth into adulthood and ultimately his path to becoming a writer.  Because I had just visited Istanbul, the book resonated with me as it explained much of the city I had been exploring, but even more compelling is its description of how Pamuk's upbringing influenced his development as an author. Istanbul is also a chronicle of Turkey and how it has struggled in its attempt at becoming a modern, secular nation.

The second book I read is also by Orhan Pamuk and it is the work of fiction on the "Reading the World" list. It is entitled Snow and it is a spellbinding political thriller. It is an extraordinary work in that it describes the conflict between the secular and the Islamic in Turkey and it even anticipates and explains the current political upheaval in Turkey with as much insight as any work of journalism or academic analysis. It is also a text that struggles with questions of God, faith, and unbelief and serves as a remarkable theological reflection. It surely is one of the books that influenced the Nobel Prize committee to award Pamuk and it is, of the four books I read, the one that I recommend most highly.

Another interesting book is the intellectual biography of the founder of secular Turkey, Kemal Ataturk (written by Sukru Hanioglu). It is an unusual biography, in that it is not particularly concerned with the details of Ataturk's personal life, but rather the ideas that had an influence on his thoughts and actions. It excels as a biography because it provides the reader with an understanding of how prominent ideas and thinkers can guide the actions of important historical leaders and influence the course of history. It is another indispensable book for someone who wants to understand modern Turkey.

The final book I read has nothing to do with Turkey specifically, yet it is a book necessary for understanding Turkey, and the entire Islamic world. It is the Oxford Press's A Very Short Introduction to Islam by Malise Ruthven. Since moving to Kyrgyzstan, I realized how woefully inadequate my knowledge of Islam was, so I gladly purchased this small guide when I found it in the Istanbul Airport.  What makes Ruthven's explication so valuable is that it is designed for those completely unfamiliar with Islam and its goal is to explain the faith, not promote it. Even more essential is its explanation of concepts like jihad that too many Westerners misunderstand, distort, or misrepresent.  In today's overheated political environment, gaining an understanding of Islam is an urgent need so that we are not manipulated by the unscrupulous who are eager to take advantage of our fears and ignorance for their own personal or political gain. A Very Short Introduction to Islam should be required reading for all Christians and for anyone who holds opinions about our Islamic cousins.  Yes, it may be hard for some of you to believe, but we truly are cousins with Islam as there are quite a few interesting links and parallels between our two religions. It's amazing what a little reading and learning can show us.

With these four books, my personal "Reading the World" project allowed me to get a far more comprehensive understanding of Turkey than I could have ever imagined. I hope that each of you are able to take the time before the end of the year to read one of the books from the "Reading the World" project list. No matter how busy you are, I think you will find the small investment of time will pay you large dividends in understanding and insight. Now, I am off to continue my search for a book by Aitmatov or for some holy relic, each being equally difficult endeavors.

Farewell my Babushka

Today I moved out of my apartment where I have lived the previous six months. I spent almost 1% of my life thus far there.  I am now living in a hotel for a few days waiting to move to the new campus in the mountains.

How many houses and apartments have I lived in during my life? I am afraid I've lost count. My apartment in Bishkek wasn't as historic and dramatic as the medieval castle I called home for several years in the Netherlands, it wasn't as small as the tiny apartment in the suburb of Osaka I lived in that didn't seem much bigger than a bread box, nor was it as filled with mayhem and wretched housekeeping as the ultra-cheap lodging I shared one summer with three alcohol abusing, philandering college students while I was a graduate student in upstate New York.

On balance, though, my apartment in Bishkek was a nice place, that actually resembled home on certain days. Yes, there were problems with the hot water and the internet and there were power outages and the old woman who lived above me enjoyed playing loud classical music on her piano at all hours of the day and night, missing notes here and there as she pounded away on the ivory keys. And there was the elevator. That tired grandmother of a contraption, to whom I gave the name "Babushka." Poor Babushka, who more often than not, was out of service, out on her feet. And even when she did work, she moaned and groaned as if she were carrying the weight of the world inside her.

Today, as a final gift, Babushka came through for me in the end. She managed to somehow work as I brought my suitcases and bins of possessions down to the front door of the building to be transported to the hotel, sparing me the misery of trudging up and down six flights of stairs in the summer heat.  Interestingly enough, after I completed my early morning move, I arrived at work only to find the elevator there broken down; even more interesting was the fact that the person trapped inside was one of the same women who had been stuck in that exact elevator when it had broken down two months prior.  The work elevator must be a niece of Babushka's.

It's funny what peculiar things leave an impression on us as we go from one place to the next. So, farewell my Babushka. May you continue to confound and frustrate future generations of tenants as time moves onward.

Babushka, during one of her rare working moments

The Supara Ethno-Complex

Last night I went for dinner with some co-workers to the Supara Ethno-Complex in the hills south of Bishkek. Supara is a collection of yurts and other old-style buildings where traditional Kyrgyz culture is highlighted. A guide took us to the various buildings and showed us examples of folk handicrafts, clothing, tools, and furniture. We then had dinner in the kind of traditional stone house that Kyrgyz people built in the 19th Century when a small fraction of them abandoned their nomadic lifestyles and began the process of urbanization that continues to this day. Our dinner was delicious and consisted of a range of customary Kyrgyz dishes including various meats grilled over hot coals on slabs of slate.

In the background is the traditional wood and stone house in which we had dinner, yurts in the foreground.

Inside the largest yurt in Central Asia. It is used for large banquets and weddings.

Our guide sitting on the king's throne, dressed in a traditional warrior outfit.

Cooking meats and vegetables on slate slabs

Where we had dinner inside the traditional wood and stone house

Saying good-bye while listening to Cuban music in a Korean chicken joint in Bishkek

Last night was the time for saying good-bye to the summer camp staff. So, I said farewell to an amazing and talented group of people from the United States, Canada, New Zealand, Kyrgyzstan, and Austria while listening to Cuban music and eating Korean fried chicken in Bishkek. As I ponder the previous sentence, I don't think most Red-state Americans really understand where the world is going and what they must learn to stay on board. (Hint: you don't stay on board by building walls)

Kyrgyz-Cuban band playing lively Latin music with the Cuban bandleader dancing the beat

Faces at twilight

Camp has ended and I have returned to Bishkek from Issyk-Kul. These faces of Issyk-Kul are now just memories.

Enjoying our Kyrgyz campfire

We asked the resort that is hosting our summer camp if it would be possible for them to set up a campfire on the beach as a special treat for our participants on their final night of camp.  At times the resort had been reluctant to address our various requests, so that's why it was a bit surprising when they agreed to our wishes so quickly and so enthusiastically.

When we arrived at the beach for our campfire this is what we discovered:

Our Kyrgyz campfire in its full glory

It turns out that the staff's interpretation of a campfire was to set ablaze a poor, scraggly pine tree.  Because we've had lots of rain, the tree didn't burn easily.  That's why one of the resort staff members, who I think moonlights as a part-time arsonist, would every minute or two, take his 20-liter jug filled with gasoline and splash some fuel on the dying flames.  While the resulting flare-ups seemed to excite the eight-year-old boys who had dashed from the neighboring condos to witness this thrilling event, it was less thrilling for those of us entrusted with the safety of our 70 camp participants.

Soon this spectacle attracted all the other resort guests who happened to be on the beach at the time.  I could hear their conversations in Russian and could imagine them to be something like this:

Kyrgyz Person 1: Why are they setting fire to this tree?

Kyrgyz Person 2: I think it is some strange ritual these North Americans are performing as part of their camp.

Kyrgyz Person 1: Do you think they will be roasting a goat?

Kyrgyz Person 2: I don’t know. But, thank God they are all leaving tomorrow.

As the resort staff fed the flames with newspaper, cardboard, and generous doses of additional gasoline, a shower of embers and burning debris drifted toward our group as we tried to keep a safe distance from the Kyrgyz campfire.  At that point we decided to take our group back to our residential building to continue our programing for the night. As we left, I looked over my shoulder and noticed that the resort staff was undaunted by our departure. Assisted by the army of eight-year-old boys, they were continuing to pour gas on the flames, perhaps to see if it might be possible to set the entire resort ablaze.

Fortunately, we made it back to our building and because I didn't hear any ambulance sirens during the evening, I am guessing none of the eight-year-olds caught fire. Best of all, some of our intrepid camp counselors ran ahead and quickly found a "virtual campfire" on the Internet that they could project on the screen we had set up in our largest conference room.  So, we happily ate snacks and sang songs around the virtual campfire, safe from the conflagration that was our Kyrgyz campfire.

Our Kyrgyz campfire: the morning after