The celebration of
Eid al Fatr is the holy celebration that breaks the month-long fast of Ramazan
(in some places called Ramadan) found in Islam. For at least two days, the
women of every household are running around preparing the feast to be laid out
on the dastarkhon, a tablecloth which is set out on the floor, for
the steady stream of guests that will stop by briefly to have a cup of tea and say
prayers for the family. Among the dishes set out are boiled meats, homemade
pastries and cakes, fresh yogurt from the family cow, seasonal fruits, a
variety of flat breads, halva - a dish made from flour, oil, and sugar, and
candies –individually wrapped chocolates bought from the local shops. A bowl of
broth soup is brought fresh for each guest. It is a big feast and a great
social affair in which everyone is out, dressed in their Eid best. Each year I also follow the tradition,
accompanied by a few local friends and colleagues from work that make sure I don’t
commit any cultural faux pas during this ritual. I am grateful to be included
in the celebration, and the families warmly welcome my participation.
For the celebration
in Garm, we spent three days making the rounds. There is a special emphasis to
call on homes in which a member of the family has died during the year, but not
all homes visited have suffered such a loss. As is customary we eat a bowl of
soup in each home, sample the sweets and pastries, say our prayers, and then
move on to the next house. I spent two days visiting the homes of 14
other friends and families further away. On the third day, I finally visited the home
of my neighbor, who also happens to be a former colleague of mine, Aminjon.
I saved his as the last in the
house-visiting ritual that comprises these holy days.
After the few days of snow and rain, the earth was soaked and slippery
with mud. It was cold outside, but the coal stove in their dim room burned
so hot that sometimes the door had to be opened to let in a fresh cool breeze.
After the government started enforcing the use of energy-saving light
bulbs, families were forced to use the only type of bulb available in the
market - spiral, fluorescent bulbs that glowed obnoxiously white and struggled
to cast their light into the smallest of rooms. In Aminjon’s house the bulb
hung from a dirty electrical wire about three feet from the ceiling, looking
somewhat like a small, coiled snake. Despite the bulb, the barren room was dark,
but the short rays were unable to hide the discoloration along the bottom third
of the walls. Many years of floor-dwelling guests and children had worn away
the light blue paint and bits of the mud bricks peaked through. The small round
iron stove burned along one wall, with a bright orange ring glowing in the
center from the heat of the coal. It is said that some of the best coal
in the world comes from this region, and the hot glowing ring was proof.
There were six young children in the room, a woman who was mother to
only three of them, and the grandmother who sat on her bed with her back to all
of us. She was reciting prayers and slowly separating prayer beads, one by
one, with her crippled and severely arthritic hands. She prayed the whole time
I was there breaking from her prayers only once in a while, mostly in response
to the children’s bouts of loud or unruly behavior. In this home, as in
most others in the region, elders are central to the family, and thus
Grandmother was placed along the wall close to the center of the room, and she was
the first person visitors saw upon
entering.
Two families totaling 13 people surrounded her, including her two sons,
their wives, and their nine children, aged three to 16. That is a lot of people at any given time,
but in the winter, when only one stove is lit during the day to provide warmth,
it becomes a veritable sardine can crammed with highly energized children and very
little room to expend their energy.
Aminjon works as a guard in the office I previously managed and his
brother is a local Mullah, which is
similar to a priest in Catholicism. He is responsible for giving the five
prayers a day at the main mosque in town - his only job, which is a volunteer
position. That places the burden on Aminjon to be the sole breadwinner of the
whole family. He makes around $275 per month. This scarcity of
income is reflected in the remains of two former toys that could be found in
the house – the wheels to one toy car, and the top to another, both of which
were entertaining the three year old, Aisha, the youngest girl. Clearly,
they were hand-me-downs, already used up and virtually destroyed by her older
siblings. Nonetheless, Aisha was deeply
engaged with them.
The room also had an old TV in one corner, the single bed where grandmother
sat, and a pile of stuffed and aging cotton mattresses, called kurpachas, that were stacked against the
far wall. Although old, these kurpachas
brought the room to life with their wild floral and abstract prints displaying a
bold array of the brightest colors imaginable, just short of neon. Every
household in Tajikistan has a similar stash of these pliable mattresses,
usually covered by another colorful and sometimes hand crafted piece of
material. That stash is the supply to draw from in the event of company, when they’ll
be laid out on the floor around the dastarkhon.
Other than these few essentials, the empty space took up more room. This sparseness
of belongings and yet fullness of family is characteristic of every household
in this remote mountain valley.
I sat quietly on the dastarkhon, drinking
green tea and contemplating which pastry
I would try to eat on top of the hundreds it felt like I’d already eaten that
day. The only reason I even considered eating another thing was because the
women, in a fashion typical to this region, cannot accept an idle guest around
the dastarkhon; one must constantly
be eating and drinking tea. Stuffed as I was, I continued to snack and found
myself content to take in this typical family scene. I felt privileged to be
part of it. The experience starkly contrasted my small family gatherings in the
US; there are no grandchildren, and my mother – our elder – lives alone.
A couple of the boys were seated on a kurpacha at the end of their grandmother’s bed, watching a program
on the TV, even though they were unable to understand the Russian language
being used. The oldest daughter was coming and going bringing other treats from
the outdoor kitchen, and the younger children were crawling all over each other
restlessly. Like busy little ants, they ran in and out of the house, opening
and closing the door, sometimes fighting, sometimes laughing. Their grandmother
would occasionally shout to them to be still and quiet, but to no avail. Cabin
fever had settled in and they were not to be stilled.
Suddenly, I remembered that I had purchased coloring books and colored
pencils on my last visit to the capital. I had been waiting for just such an
occasion - winter and a collection of children - and here they were. I
excused myself, ran home and ruffled through my plastic bin full of art
supplies, found the collection of books and pencils and ran back, thrilled that
I had something to give to the kids.
When I arrived bearing my handful of coloring books, the children
gathered around me with curiosity. They watched intently while I selected a
book and then gave it away to one of them. Each child was waiting to see exactly
who would be receiving a book – as if only some would be lucky enough. The
collection of blank looks made it obvious that they didn’t expect to each
receive one. But as they realized they would each get their very own book, blank
looks shifted to wild excitement. They grabbed and held on to their new prized
possessions tightly so they couldn’t be taken away. One by one they found a
spot on the floor and, sharing the colored pencils, began coloring intently.
For the next hour quietness filled the room as the children slowly
studied their books, carefully choosing the first illustration they would
color. The oldest, a girl of 14, helped the younger boys and Aisha, who I noticed
was the only one to combine colors, creating multi-colored balloons. The
grandmother paused her prayers, turned to me and said, “You couldn’t have
brought those over earlier?” with a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice. I
laughed, although I knew she meant it. Her relief at the quiet was palpable.
After awhile, I got up to leave. I was full, and ready to sleep. Now
that the children were ensconced in coloring, and their mother and the oldest
child were equally engaged in watching them, there was not a whole lot left for
me to do. As I got up to leave, grandmother was still praying, and the children
barely noticed me. Their mother prompted them to say goodbye and without
looking up, they all yelled, “Khair
Janees”. I left feeling content at the richness of my visit – so
simple, yet deeply connected and meaningful. Walking home, I made a mental
note to remember to get more coloring books, and to visit my closest neighbors
more often. They were, after all, like second family.
