No Going Back

Transitions Online, Czech Republic
Sept 10 2004

ST. PETERSBURG, Russia–They compose poems about the city where they
were born. They send money home. They help each other find jobs and
solve problems. They even convene international reunions. But far
more often than they see each other in person, they meet up at the
web site Dushanbe.ru.

“They” are the Dushanbe diaspora. And having seen so many of my
friends leave since Tajikistan was thrust into independence in 1991,
and then mired in a civil war for most of the next 10 years, I feel
a part of this group, even though I still live in the Tajik capital.

I was flying to Prague for an international conference on migration
earlier this summer. As luck and geography would have it, the shortest
way to and from Central Asia to Central Europe was via Moscow. I
could get my visa and see my friends, the former residents of Dushanbe.

The friends I was staying with, Valeri and Lola, told me that they
had learned that our former compatriots were going to gather in the
suburbs of St. Petersburg for a reunion. They twisted my arm to get
me to postpone my return to Dushanbe–something that didn’t take much
effort–and I accepted their offer.

After a day’s drive, we reached a cozy recreation area by the Finnish
Bay. Most of the participants of the “Third Annual International
Meeting of Dushanbenians” had already arrived. They communicated
actively and loudly. A simple boom box blared Tajik music. Everybody
seemed to be excited to be together.

Some drank beer or stronger beverages in an arbor; others were
collectively cooking plov, the traditional Central Asian dish made of
stewed meat, rice, carrots, and other ingredients and spices. Soon
it had become clear that too many cooks had spoiled the plov. But
nobody minded too much in the festive atmosphere.

GOING TO EXTREMES

Trying to find familiar faces, I headed toward one man I knew, a
journalist working for a well-known media company. He caught sight
of me, unmasking my Internet identity before the crowd.

“Hey, folks, this is Kide (my nickname on the forum). You probably
haven’t seen him before,” he said, knowing that this was my first
gathering.

But someone said, “No, we know you. We’ve read your book, ‘The City
of Monday and the Jeans Community.'” I was flattered to be recognized.

“You probably have to go to Dushanbe a lot on business?” a pretty,
green-eyed woman asked me.

It took me a while to understand her question, but I automatically
responded: “I’m constantly there. I mean, I live there.”

She looked at me incredulously. “You’re fond of extremes?”

More people flock around me, asking questions that I try to answer
briefly and clearly. I simultaneously try to restrain myself from
exaggerating or airing my subjective opinions about the current
situation in Dushanbe. It feels like being at a press conference.

The men listen attentively, but the green-eyed lady doesn’t seem to
believe me. I can see her thinking “brain-washing” as she looks at
me. Suddenly I feel uneasy, as if I’m some sort of secret agent sent
to convince them to come back to their “motherland.” But after all,
with the five-year civil war over, there are no more tanks in the
streets of our town; no field commanders in camouflage uniforms;
the curfew was abolished long ago. Coming home is not out of the
realm of possibility.

“Who cares that fruit at the market is ten times cheaper than
in Moscow? Anyway, ordinary mortals cannot afford such gifts of
Tajik nature, I suppose,” one girl with dark hair and flashing eyes
exclaims. She left her town 12 years ago when she was just a child;
she has scars on her soul that time is not likely to heal. She’s an
ethnic Tajik but says she feels comfortable in the Western country
where she studied and managed to stay and work.

Another woman who was listening in on our conversation says, “You
mean to tell me that there are still Russians there?”

“Imagine, they are still there,” I–partly ethnic Russian–reply
dryly. I’m starting to feel somehow under attack, but I suppress
my emotions.

“And not only Russians, but also Tajiks, Uzbeks, Ukrainians, Jews,
and Armenians. In other words, people are still there. They live and
work in Dushanbe.”

I desperately want to end my press conference.

But another small delegation approaches me. Sighing, I’m relieved
when they ask what school I graduated from. It turns out we share an
alma mater, and we pass some time warmly recalling our teachers and
classmates, some of whom perished during the civil war.

NICE PLACE TO VISIT…

Watching my downcast reaction to this spontaneous outpouring, my
former classmate, Dima, consoles me. Dima and I attended the same
school for 10 years, and then studied together again at university.

“Don’t let it get you down. They haven’t been in Dushanbe for years,
and you live there. They can’t believe there’s no more war there,
and somehow they cherish these thoughts… maybe it accelerates the
feeling of their own safety.”

But then he continues, “Aren’t you going to go somewhere yourself?”
Dima has been working in Helsinki for a Russian trade company. He
says it wouldn’t be difficult for “a smart guy like me” to find a
decent job.

I know that he has the best of intentions, and I try to appreciate the
sentiment, but inside I’m angry. Angry at him for offering to “rescue”
me and angry with myself for being irritated by the offer of a friend.

“Thanks, brother,” I respond finally. “But there’s too much winter
in Finland.”

Man feels good where he’s needed, and I feel needed in Dushanbe,
though I am not sentimental about it. But here, these 100 or so
ex-Dushanbeans–who are now Londoners, Muscovites, New Yorkers,
Parisians, Jerusalemites–are tuned to one nostalgic frequency, just
like a short-wave radio. And no “jammers” like me can push them out
of this groove.

They want to believe that all the ethnic Russians were cast out from
the Tajik lands, and–although things are far more complicated than
they seem–it’s difficult for me to argue with them. The truth is that
every one of these people–myself included–has countless different
bloods flowing in their veins from the hopelessly multicultural Tajik
past. But they still feel mostly Russian–they speak Russian and they
think Russian.

Having me here, among the exiles, perhaps only reminds them of the
motherland they left and that seems to be lost to them forever.