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“We don’t want our women in veils,” claimed Dildora when I told her about the woman I had seen in the street. “Well I don’t want to be in a veil.”
“What would your husband say?”
“Nothing. He can’t tell me how to dress.” She grinned softly, looking down at her short skirt and knit top. “See. He can’t stop me from dressing in what I like. All these girls going around in long skirts and headscarves, who knows why. When I was at the institute we all wore short dresses. I even got married in a wedding dress that was up to my knee. Now everything has to be at your ankle. You wear longer skirts than anyone else.”
She clapped her hand to her ruby red mouth, laughing at the thought that I, the American, was so dowdy. What Dildora said was true. Uzbek and Russian cultures blended skin-revealing clothes and Muslim scarves; vodka drinking and Friday prayers; Schwarzneger movies and Ramadan fasting.
Marifjon came rashly into the kitchen. His fists were bunched in tight knots, “They closed the mosque! They told us we couldn’t come back,” he almost shouted at us.
“Who? What are you saying?”
“The police, the KGB, all of those …” He stopped before he said the word. Bastards. “Its starting. Its like the old times, no more praying in the open.”
“Why?”
“They claim the mullah was building bombs in the basement of the mosque. The doors have been shut. We can’t go in to get our Korans. Their guns pushed us out and those that didn’t move because they were praying were hit over the head. Bastards. Now you really won’t be able to see the mosque. I was going to ask the mullah tonight. I felt ready to do so, just to hear an end to your questions. No more now… now I really don’t know.” His hand held fast in the stiff air between us, he shook his head, bending down slightly to hide his tears.
I was asked a week later by a visiting capital-city ex-pat about the fundamentalists in the Ferghana Valley. “It’s brewing. I heard about the religious men who want to make all Uzbeks like their brothers in the Middle East.” The Valley has a taboo to its name, Islam being the five-letter word.
“Aren’t you original. Which stick are you using? Religion or Politics?” He tilted his head, his blond hair filling the left edge of his face. He tried to decipher me, but couldn’t. He commented instead on the logman dish. “I’ve never had such great soup.”
My mahallah was silent. There was no more call to prayer. There was no more humming of men sending out prayers.
Boys kicking plastic coca-cola bottles up and down replaced the quiet in the streets. Screaming to the sky their defeats, they charged ahead to find glory, not in their god, but in themselves.
Marifjon came rashly into the kitchen. His fists were bunched in tight knots, “They closed the mosque! They told us we couldn’t come back,” he almost shouted at us.
“Who? What are you saying?”
“The police, the KGB, all of those …” He stopped before he said the word. Bastards. “Its starting. Its like the old times, no more praying in the open.”
“Why?”
“They claim the mullah was building bombs in the basement of the mosque. The doors have been shut. We can’t go in to get our Korans. Their guns pushed us out and those that didn’t move because they were praying were hit over the head. Bastards. Now you really won’t be able to see the mosque. I was going to ask the mullah tonight. I felt ready to do so, just to hear an end to your questions. No more now… now I really don’t know.” His hand held fast in the stiff air between us, he shook his head, bending down slightly to hide his tears.
I was asked a week later by a visiting capital-city ex-pat about the fundamentalists in the Ferghana Valley. “It’s brewing. I heard about the religious men who want to make all Uzbeks like their brothers in the Middle East.” The Valley has a taboo to its name, Islam being the five-letter word.
“Aren’t you original. Which stick are you using? Religion or Politics?” He tilted his head, his blond hair filling the left edge of his face. He tried to decipher me, but couldn’t. He commented instead on the logman dish. “I’ve never had such great soup.”
My mahallah was silent. There was no more call to prayer. There was no more humming of men sending out prayers.
Boys kicking plastic coca-cola bottles up and down replaced the quiet in the streets. Screaming to the sky their defeats, they charged ahead to find glory, not in their god, but in themselves.
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Comments
wow Raymond M. Kristiansen | Jun 18th, 2002
what a wonderful story Sophie.
it struck at the core of so many issues, and it is acutely relevant.
thank you for sharing this with us.
best regards, dltq
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