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One of the most remarkable aspects of cultural life in Tajikistan is the way in which layers of history and tradition intersect, bringing together ancient and modern, religious and secular, always with family and community at the heart of any celebration.

In early November, Tajikistan celebrated Idi Qurbon, a Muslim holiday which remembers Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac. In Tajikistan, traditional celebrations honor both family ties and sacrifice. Guesting, both visiting friends and family and receiving guests, stretches across several days surrounding the holiday. Each house prepares a dasturxon, a table covered with treats for anyone that might happen to pop by. For my host mother and sisters, the week leading up to Idi Qurbon was filled with cleaning house, trips to the bazaar for fruit and honey, and endless baking: cakes, cookies, meat-filled sambusas, and pastries of every shape and sort. After the flurry of eating and guesting subsides, families return to their homes to tidy up, digest, and discuss the holiday goings on: who put out the best dasturxon, who did or didn’t come by, whose recipes we should ask for. The other side of the Idi Qurbon message, sacrifice, is symbolized in the communal sacrifice of a sheep or goat; in my family, as in many others, this task was taken up by our grandfather, so that all generations could gather under one roof to share in the feast.

As a cold and rainy autumn has given way to a crisp and sunny winter, signs of another important holiday are cropping up throughout the city of Dushanbe. Come December, first-time visitors to Tajikistan might be surprised to find themselves in a city dressed to the nines in familiar holiday colors and characters:  bushy-bearded Father Christmases, jolly snowmen, holly and tinsel, and, of course, lots and lots of twinkling neon lights.

During the Soviet period, celebration of the religious holiday of Christmas and all its trimmings were reoriented into secular and more ideologically acceptable New Year’s festivities; both modern and traditional families in Tajikistan continue to celebrate New Year’s with many customs bearing a strong resemblance to our own American Christmas. Relatives travel from near and far to gather around a special holiday meal on December 31. The last several weeks of December are spent shopping for the perfect gifts to put under the tree for friends and family, and the stores and television channels even advertise “holiday sales.” The city of Dushanbe erects a giant Christmas tree in the central square each year, and residents wait in anticipation for its lighting.

This weekend, I accompanied my host family to the bazaar to select a Christmas tree of our own. Echoing my own family’s yearly Christmas preparations, my host mother pulled a box of decorations down from the attic, a cacophony of beautiful, store-bought “nice” ornaments, tacky gifts from years past, and school projects and handmade decorations accumulated throughout 25 years by children and now grandchildren. The tree was topped off with hand-sewn garlands of chestnuts and dried mulberries, much the same way that my sisters and I used to thread together strings of popcorn for our tree. I even persuaded my host family to break out “Ирония судьбы” (The Irony of Fate), a more chipper Soviet equivalent of “It’s a Wonderful Life” that many Tajik families watch on New Year’s Day. While any study abroad experience should be built upon new experiences, exploration, and discovery, these familiar, comfortable moments with family and friends also serve to remind us of our human connections and commonalities.

- Margaret Sullivan is studying Tajiki in Dushanbe, Tajikistan.

On December 16, 2011 Kazakhstan will celebrate the 20th anniversary of its independence. Kazakhstan was the last Soviet Republic to declare its independence and the build-up to this 20th jubilee has been immense. For months now the streets have been adorned with colorful banners and all concerts and construction projects have been dedicated to Kazakhstan’s 20th anniversary. No government speech passes without a reference to the 20th anniversary of Kazakhstan’s independence.

As you enter the city of Dushanbe from the north, you pass a cement factory, the outer walls of which are decorated with portraits of the Qahramoni Tojikiston, the “Heroes of Tajikistan.” Here you will find the historical father of the Tajiks, 10th century king Ismoili Somoni; Persian classical poets such as Rudaki and Firdavsi; Soviet writer and pioneer of modern Tajik language Sadriddin Ayni; and, of course, Tajikistan’s current president.

Welcome to Almaty, a city in Kazakhstan that I, as a completely under-qualified layperson, have diagnosed as suffering from a language identity crisis, one that I think may reflect larger linguistic tensions bubbling under the surface throughout Kazakhstan.  In Almaty, once the capital of Kazakhstan, street signs and commercials are most commonly seen in two languages, and hardly anyone speaks one sentence in pure Kazakh. More often than not, it’s Russian that seems to dominate, with a couple colloquial phrases in Kazakh thrown in for good measure.

Fall has finally fallen upon Dushanbe, bringing with it an eye-catching bounty of fruits, vegetables, beans and other fresh and flavorful ingredients. For many, “Central Asian cuisine” brings to mind one thing: meat. From Persian-style kebabs and savory stews to more esoteric delicacies like bone-marrow soup, these dishes certainly abound in Tajikistan; on a recent trip to the Pamirs, students even dined on fresh mountain goat.

Summer 2011 ERLP ParticipantsAmerican Councils completed yet another successful summer in Eurasia this year. A total of 19 undergraduate and graduate students from across the U.S. spent 8 weeks on the Eurasian Regional Language Program in Armenia, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Russia and Tajikistan. Nine students received funding from the U.S. Department State (Title VIII program) and two received scholarships from the U.S.

A friend of mine in Dushanbe is Iranian-American and last weekend her parents came to visit.  One of their throw-away comments was Tajiks live like Iranians did 100 years ago.  Although this was not a serious assessment – it was meant facetiously – they had a point that life in Dushanbe is more oriented towards the extended family than it is in more atomized “western” societies.  This does not mean that Tajik culture exists in homeostasis, untouched by the outside world.  The Tajiks I know in Dushanbe have cell phones, access to the internet; they wa

This week, the U.S. State Department convened a conference on female entrepreneurship in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan called Strategies for Success: Central Asia and Afghanistan Women's Economic Symposium. I cannot stress enough the importance of this conference. Empowering female entrepreneurs is one of my passions. As many of you know, I am part of a start-up called AdviseHer, an online personal mentorship platform for high-school girls.

I have a Dungan babushka. She is AWESOME. I spent Sunday with Zarina, my Russian peer tutor. We first visited Baraholka, a mega-bazaaropolis on the outskirts of Almaty, before a traditional Dungan dinner at her home with her gracious family. Prepare yourselves for a two-part blog post! I will first write about Zarina’s family and then will devote a different post to Baraholka.

During my first two weeks in Tajikistan I was surprised by the generosity of my host family, and by how rapidly my spoken Persian improved.
 

One of my Dari teachers is a former diplomat and trained political scientist. Every class we talk about the news of the day and its implications. He keeps abreast of all the major developments in Afghanistan and the world over. Living without easy access to internet, TV, and newspapers, I rely on him more than any other source to keep informed about what’s going on in the world. As part of our class we read articles from BBC Persian and various Afghan newspapers.

I am more than half way through my semester here and I have seen so much improvement in my Farsi language skills. I am taking one class of Tajiki where we focus on learning the alphabet and reading texts in Cyrillic as well as learning words that are used in the Tajik dialect versus the Farsi. I have made some amazing friends and met many cool people from all backgrounds in this country. I love meeting with my peer tutors or conversation partners. I have two, a Tajik one where we focus on cultural sights and an Iranian one where we focus on conversation and talking about various topics.

I spent last year living in Tajikistan with a host family and working alongside Tajiks for an international organization. Now, as a student in an American organization with 11 American peers and a new host family that I don’t know very well, I have less contact with Tajiks than before. However, now that I’m studying Dari, the form of Persian spoken in Afghanistan, I have much more contact with Afghans than I ever have before. I have two teachers from Afghanistan—one from Kabul and one from the northwest part of the country—who each teach me for seven hours a week.

In the former Soviet Union work relationships can take on an informal tone. I mean this in the most appropriate sense of course. In this case, I am studying Chechen with a Kist woman here in Tbilisi, Georgia as well as studying Georgian with a private teacher and perusing card catalogues at the I. Javakhishvili Institute for History. I have met some extraordinary people while here and feel very lucky about that. Sometimes work, however, got so inextricably intertwined with the rest of my life . . .

Spain was an enchanted country for me. And until coming to Georgia in the summer of 2009, I had not been to a place comparable in enchantment. I am grateful that American Councils made it possible to come and study Chechen and Georgian in Tbilisi. Chechen was my first language of intensive study and I lived at my teacher’s sister’s place for over a year. In this way I not only studied the language but also participated in Chechen cultural life, learning a lot about Chechen traditions and perspectives.

Walking down Rudaki street you can see all sorts of people. Tajiks, Russians, locals, villagers, foreigners, and so on. However the most interesting population to watch by far is the young people.  Being from Afghanistan, it’s easy for me to blend in with the local population and observe the behavior of these fascinating people. I’ve met so many great local friends here who have taken me around the city. I don’t really get stares or anything like that like some of the other Americans in Dushanbe.  

Cucco! I had awakened to the sound of a rooster. The natural call of this farm animal put me in a good mood despite obtaining only a few hours of rest. It was 7am but the sun’s rays poured in the country house like ink on canvas. I washed my hands and face and said my Salams and Sobh Bakhayrs to the host and rest of the family. Today was the day they were bringing the arus, or bride to this qishlaq, or village, for the wedding. We sat around the dastsarkhan, a tablecloth used to serve food on, as breakfast was quickly brought to us.

Eight days we have been on the road. The roads were long; the roads were bumpy, dusty and muddy. In those 8 days I believe I took two showers, lovely. I suppose that makes the “Pamir trip” experience.

We left Dushanbe at six o’clock in the morning, heading out in 3 jeeps. I can already tell we are going to be listening to the same motley of Russian dance music and old American pop songs for the duration of the trip.

I can’t believe my time here in Chisinau is nearing its end. And I regret that I will be leaving right when summer is starting. Chisinau seems like a completely different place than the city I arrived in four months earlier. There have been consistently sunny days and warm temperature, while we have generally been spared from any spring showers.

It is almost three and a half months now that I have been searching for a guitar in this far corner of the world only to find one in bizarre circumstances ten days before I leave Tajikistan until who knows when. After asking around all the teachers at American Councils, my host family and anyone to mentioned anything vaguely musical I concluded I would have to survive without strumming away until I returned to my guitar in Edinburgh.

The digital-sounding-Nokia-standard-ring tone went off from my right pocket.

“Salom!” I answered, “… Yeah, I’m on my way… Umm, Okay, I’ll do that… I see one right now.” I bent down to pick up a stick off the ground and continued walking, “ See you in a minute.” I replied as I rounded the corner and hung up the phone.

Well, all the snow is finally gone and it is slowly warming up here in Chisinau. The sun is out longer and more often, and the city is slowly becoming greener as spring arrives in full force. The city itself seems to be coming to life after a prolonged winter. There are definitely more people, vendors, and street musicians.

On the day of the traditional Persian New Year the population of Dushanbe, dressed in their finest, flooded into the botanical garden for the official Navruz celebration. At least the women were well dressed, almost every one was decked out in a brightly colored national dress, high heels, full makeup and sparkling hair ornaments.

Well, I finally made it Moldova! When I arrived in Chisinau it was cold and snowy and I was unsurprisingly jetlagged. I think I could have made a better first impression with my host family, since after meeting them and eating dinner I went to bed and slept well into the next day. However, my host family wasted no time in showing me around the city, as well as introducing me to their culture.

My 22nd birthday was bound to be memorable simply by virtue of location, but it certainly surpassed all expectations. I was only in the country a week before my birthday and the day was gray and a sorry change from the balmy weather we had had since arriving, but my host family, teachers and fellow students pulled out the stops to really make it a celebration.

Five o’clock in the morning on a Saturday in January. I am exhausted from forty hours of airport terminals, airport food and aircrafts in general. After dragging my luggage across a dirt driveway, I step through a ten-foot-tall steel gray entryway. I look up and see a woman and two others who I assume to be her daughters. “Aziza! I know you!” are the first words to leave her mouth. Immediately, more of an unconscious I-could-not-help-myself-reaction, I smile because I, too, remember her.