Canning project is completed!

A phone call to Kyrgyzstan gave me the information I was seeking:  the canning project has been completed.  Friday, October 15 was the final day.  Each week day, for more than two months, 20 – 30 Uzbek women, whose homes had burned, arrived each morning at a secluded location and were shown crates and bags of produce.  The task for the day:  convert raw produce into cans of salads, pickles and jams to be tucked away for winter weather. 

In all, over 1,300 women were able to come and altogether they preserved more than 40,000 liters of canned goods;  on average, more than 30 liters per woman.  It was our goal that not only would they take away food for the winter months, but also a dose of hope.   We are so grateful that the project proceeded undisturbed, that no local authorities interfered or were able to stop the work.  Though we were on location at the start of the program, we had to leave after a few short weeks and those who carried on, daily showing up, rolling up their sleeves and hanging out with the women, need to be commended.

The clothing distribution continued nearly to the end (but eventually, even 10 tons of clothes runs out!) and tushaks (long sleeping/sitting pads) were given to about half of the homes.  Additionally, funds were donated to give each woman a length of fabric to sew herself the traditional Uzbek garment. 

I know each time I open a can of food this winter, I will remember the brave women of Osh, Kyrgyzstan, who have faced tragedy and survived.  I hope you will, too.

Undiscovered Actress

Every country and ethnic group has its ‘characters,’ people who were born with extraordinary abilities and personalities.  For most, they are never ‘discovered’ by the right person or interest group so they never achieve much beyond what one might term a ‘normal life.’

One day in Osh, we approached a burned mahalla for the first time.  As though they were waiting, a group of women ran toward us, competing for our attention.  Elaine and Sue got pulled (literally!) into a hovli of an older Uzbek woman.  She clung to us and listed her grievances;  ‘Look, my house was burned, all my furniture stolen, my plates were broken and scattered.  See, here (pointing at a meager pile) is all that we found.’  All the time, she was weeping copiously, but then I noticed something curious;  while she thought we weren’t looking, she would squeeze her tear-stained eyes open and glance at us to see if we were noticing. In other words, were we going to be moved by her story and offer her assistance?  I (Sue) thought she was trying to manipulate us and reacted by starting to attempt an exit!  Her neighbor seemed to sense my discomfort and briskly took us to her hovli. 

However, later, because of our developing friendship with the second woman, we returned to that street a few times and during the course of our visits, came to realize that our ‘actress’ was just that, someone gifted with the extraordinary talent of an actress!  We realized she was always the life of the party…. making and bringing food, laughter, and joking into the midst of everything.   We grew to love and appreciate her deeply.  She was such a ray of sunshine in a dark situation. 

On the day that she and her neighbors came to the canning project, she was one impressive worker.  She is 72 years old.  She’s obviously suffered much in her life.  On that particular day, she was fasting. Yet, she put woman 50 years younger to shame with her energy, hard work and encouragement.  She smiled constantly, worked tirelessly and talked seamlessly.  As Elaine said to me, ‘Ayam, u juda ham sho’x.’   (Mom, she’s very mischievous and upbeat.)  And she meant it as a compliment.  Even now, many weeks later, I can’t think of her without a silly, happy grin plastered across my face.  Oh, what Hollywood missed by not discovering her….but then, in my opinion, she’s beyond Hollywood!  

Good News!

After many days of wondering, I (Sue) finally phoned our friends in Osh to learn if the canning project was successfully continuing. 

Good news – it is!  These days, they are inviting 30 ladies a day in order to maximize the few weeks remaining of harvest season.  Now that Ramazan (the month of fasting) is over, the women can work a bit more efficiently. 

The women continue to appreciate the chance to hang out in a beautiful place, do something productive and have something to smile about.  We love those gold-toothed smiles!  In addition to the second-hand clothing, funding has been found so that bolts of fabric can be purchased and each woman is given an appropriate length to sew herself a dress.  For a time, reading glasses were also being distributed and as soon as additional resources are located, that project will continue. 

Thanks to those of you who have supported this project with your finances.  The Uzbeks of Osh and the other affected areas thank you.

SHOE SHINE

I, Jeff, just got back from getting my shoes cleaned and shined. The significance of that is that the shoes I’m talking about were the only shoes I took with me and wore in the 6 weeks I was in Kyrgyzstan. I grew to hate those shoes and I took them off as soon as I got home from the airport on the return from Kyrgyzstan (22 August) and I haven’t put them on since. In fact, in my days back at work at the university, I wore other shoes that gave me a blister after the first day but I still continue to wear those rather than putting back on the shoes that served me so well on the streets of Osh and Jalal-Abad.

Why do I now hate those shoes—they used to be my favorite? They more or less represent the time for me in Kyrgyzstan. During my time there I spent hours and hours walking in and out of burned out homes and always seemed to be walking on grit and ash and broken glass and broken roofing. Normally, in Central Asia, shoes are always kept clean and it is very important for men and women to have clean shoes. However, due to the tragic events there, the houses I was visiting were always dirty with this grit and ash and my shoes never were clean despite trying to clean them often.

As I sat today and watched the guy who was cleaning and shining my shoes, it brought back so many memories. He brushed away and polished over a bunch of grit and ash that had come from the burned homes of Kyrgyzstan and the shoes look like new now. I even had new strings put on them. However, as I sat there, I remember wishing that I could just brush off and polish some of the difficult memories I have of Osh and Jalal-Abad. I wish I could put out of my mind some of the horrible things I have seen and heard in my time there. My shoes were soiled and worn down from their contact with the grit there but my soul has been soiled and worn down from the cruelty and depravity I’ve seen there. How can I brush that off and polish it and be good as new?

And that is just me, an observer who came from the outside. How can the Uzbeks that have experienced it first hand--and still experience it every time they hear a strange noise outside—how can they have this brushed away and polished over? How long will these memories linger and dominate their lives? How long will they be scared to go outside their gate? How long will they be scared to stay inside their gate? What about their shoes and clothes? How many of them are still only wearing what they had on when they fled because everything else got burned?

Even though they are now clean, I still haven’t put those shoes on—maybe next week or when school starts--maybe never…

REFLECTIONS

What can the average citizen do, when made aware of gross injustice in their sphere of influence? Do you ever tire of the passivity of your life and long to do something useful with it? We certainly feel that way since our time in Kyrgyzstan.  Last night, a local TV channel carried a documentary about Bono, the lead singer for the famous Irish band, U2. As it turns out, U2 will make it's first-ever appearance in Turkey tonight. Starting as early as the late 70's and definitely by the mid-80's, Bono has been what we'd call a 'world citizen,' someone who can see beyond his own little cul-de-sac.  A cul-de-sac's purpose (as a street type) is to permit a quiet, undisturbed lifestyle for those who live on it. Only those who actually live on it or are visiting those who do, have reason to use it. It's easy to live a 'cul-de-sac life.' Generally, we humans long for a quiet, stable life; one untroubled and uninterrupted by the cares and worries of the 'outside world.' Bono has opted out of this comfortable lifestyle. He has committed himself to the task of seeing the poorest, unhealthiest, most marginalized of the world have their basic needs met.  He is admired by many. In his work of the past decades, he has been hosted by myriads of world leaders and each one is challenged to see the needs of the world's poor and do what they can to help. He has raised
millions in aid.  In a sense, we (and others) have in some way been serving as the "Bono" for Kyrgyzstan's Uzbeks. Naturally, we don't have the fame or fortune to throw about, but we have a window of opportunity into the lives of those affected in the attacks of June 2010. Thanks to the world wide web and the popularity of blogging, we've been able to give voice to the nameless, faceless citizens whose lives have been torn apart in that region. Thanks so much for reading these posting and letting your heart be touched.  We ourselves don't know how to help further, other than to encourage our friends and acquaintances on this site to keep weeping, praying and caring. As we've stated many times, the violence hasn't ended. When the foreigners are gone, then what will happen? Who will be the voice for the voiceless? Please consider signing the petitions if you haven't. And keep checking back……Bono is just one voice that speaks out; there are many, many others. Wouldn't you like to add yours, too?

Below are the lyrics to a song by the Wailin' Jennys which was recently sung at Elaine's wedding:

This is the sound of one voice,
One spirit one voice,
The sound of one who makes a choice,
This is the sound of one voice,
This is the sound of one voice.

This is the sound of voices two,
The sound of me, singing with you,
Helping each other to make it through,
This is the sound of voices two,
This is the sound of voices two.

This is the sound of voices three,
Singing together in harmony,
Surrendering to the mystery,
This is the sound of voices three,
This is the sound of voices three.

This is the sound of all of us,
Singing with love and the will to trust,
Leave the rest behind, it'll turn to dust,
This is the sound of all of us,
This is the sound of all of us.

This is the sound of one voice,
One people, one voice,
A song for everyone of us,
This is the sound of one voice,
This is the sound of one voice.

(if you want to hear the song, go to youtube
http://search.conduit.com/Results.aspx?q=wailin+jennies+one+voice&hl=en&SelfSearch=1&SearchSourceOrigin=13&ctid=CT2365274)

HELP NEEDED

As time passes and Kyrgyzstan is seldom, if ever, mentioned in the news, we quickly lose our attention spans and feel like we've already put enough mental energy into being concerned for the injustice of the circumstances there. The fighting that happened on June 11th is now history and so our tendency is to leave it that way and get on with life. The Uzbeks in Osh feel the same way: they want to get on with life. They are sick and tired of the rubble and dirt and trying to sleep in flimsy tents at night. They want to go back to work and provide for their families. They want to enjoy life: watch a T.V. show, go on a picnic, or take a walk. The difference between us and them is that they can't move on.

They don't have permission to rebuild their homes so they remain in tents. Their businesses have been destroyed an they can't sell their goods at the bazaars anymore so they have no way to provide for their families. Their TVs are stolen and even if they had them, there is no more Uzbek programing. They dare not take a walk just anywhere because of the risk of being arrested or beaten or slurred.

The fact is that for the Uzbeks the persecution and discrimination that started on June 11th is not history, it is still happening. Click HERE to learn more about suffering farmers in South Kyrgyzstan.

And if you'd like to do more, please click HERE to sign petitions that will give voice to your concerns.

The Tale of Zarina, age 15

"My father was killed by one of the masked men that came into the neighborhood. He was shot and killed on the street. The rest of my family had to escape to Uzbekistan when the fighting started and he told us he would stay behind to protect our house. We didn't know then that it would have been better for all of us to just leave Osh because the fighting would continue for four horrible days.

It was my uncle who found my father's body. He had to search through rows and rows of bodies before he could locate my father. My uncle called us and told us the news and said that my father looked
peaceful -- his body hadn't been bloated or bruised and he looked as though he had been sleeping. The whiskers on his chin had grown soft and white even after he had died. I didn't get to see my father buried and I couldn't say goodbye.

Since the fighting in June, many Uzbek girls my age are being married off quickly. Families fear that Kyrgyz men will come and kidnap us and rape us. My mother is worried for me because there is no man in our household to protect us anymore. There is a 26 year old man who is talking to my mother about marrying me. I am not ready to be married, but I do not want to be a burden to my mother either.

I try to believe that there are good Kyrgyz but each time I see a Kyrgyz my heart beats so fast and I am filled with fear and anger. I don't know if like can ever return back to normal again."

Grief Across Generations

We are no longer in Kyrgyzstan but the memories are still there and some come back anew. One day I (Jeff) visited a particularly hard-hit area in Osh. As we walked down the dusty street we barely noticed the ever-present burned homes on both sides of the street—had we become accustomed and oblivious to the damage that was so shocking? As we entered one home, I noticed a bench for mourners, just inside the gate. I took my place on the sagging bench with the two young men that brought me there.

A young guy, I'll call him Dilmurat, came out and greeted us reservedly but kindly. He was nineteen, but looked older; it seemed he had grown up a lot in the last difficult months.

He explained how his life was good and full of promise until several months prior. He had finished high school and had started a construction job. Then he talked matter of factly about those terrible days in June. The trouble started for them around 3 a.m. the morning of the 11th. The snipers on nearby Solomon's Mountain were active throughout the day. He was unemotional as he told us there were 4 snipers on their side of the mountain. His mother had previously left their home to go to his married sister's house but Dilmurat and his father remained behind to try to defend their place. At some point they decided that they needed to escape too or they would never be able to. They got in their car and drove off. As Dilmurat drove, he wove back and forth erratically to make a more difficult target for the snipers. After they had traveled to a neighboring mahalla without incident, they thought they had gotten out of danger. They needed to stop for something, I can't recall now what for, but just as his father stepped out of the car, the bullet from a waiting sniper hit him in the neck and he slumped back into the car. Dilmurat pulled him in and drove to a hospital but his father was already dead. Shocked, scared and confused, Dilmurat went to a friend's house—he didn't dare try to return to his own home.

In the normal custom for Muslims, his father was buried quickly, along with others that had been killed in the violence (15-20 from their neighborhood). However, they didn't have the chance to properly wash the body as is the normal custom. At this point, his reciting of facts stopped and brave, young Dilmurat couldn't fight it any longer as the tears overcame him. I became aware that his two friends that brought me were still beside me listening to yet another story. I turned to them and started talking with them allowing my partner to go off with Dilmurat to let him talk things through.

Soon after that, an official from the city, a Kyrgyz accompanied by several armed soldiers, came into the hovli and asked to talk with Dilmurat. They were assessing and recording the damage to his property. As they were discussing, I saw an older man waving at me. He was sitting on a supa that hadn't been burned. I hadn't noticed him before.

He waved again and I went to him. He was Dilmurat's grandfather, Soli-jon, and was grieving the loss of his son, Dilmurat's father. He was in his 80s and told me about his various jobs over the years spanning the former Soviet Union. Eventually, my partner and Dilmurat joined us and we talked about the current situation. The grandfather was a proud, strong man and said that if only they had just 10 automatic weapons, the Uzbeks could have fought off the Kyrgyz. We let him talk out his anger for a while and eventually he got to the point where he wanted to know what we thought.

We shared how they had two roads to proceed down--both of which would be extremely difficult. The first road was to find a way to fight the Kyrgyz, but eventually lose because Uzbeks made up only 30 percent of population of Kyrgyzstan (before the events). The second road was to find a way to forgive and live with the Kyrgyz again. Soli-jon was quiet as he pondered this and then his eyes filled with tears and his head started bobbing up and down as he quietly sobbed. He said, "you are right, we have no choice but to try to forgive and live again with the Kyrgyz." He sobbed as he thought of the difficulty of it all; how can one forgive what he had experienced and was experiencing?

This was such a poignant experience for me as I sat there. In front of me on the sura was this brave, strong, tender man in his 80s, sobbing quietly as he grieved his situation and the loss of his son. To my left was his brave, strong, tender grandson not yet 20, sobbing quietly as he grieved the loss of his father and his dreams. Listening in the background was Dilmurat's mother sobbing quietly as she thought of the loss of her husband and the loneliness that loomed. We sat quietly there crying quietly together, the only sound being the chickens picking and scratching through the yard. None of us had any words worth the situation…still don't…

Want to try it yourself?

A friend of ours wrote us a note, asking us to include the recipe for the canned tomato salad called shakarop that the women of the canning project are making.

Here is the recipe one group of women gave us for a kozonful:

• 20 kilograms (kg) of tomatoes
• 20 kg of cabbage
• 10 kg of peppers, red and green mixed
• 3 kg peeled garlic
• 4 bunches of purple basil
• 4 bunches of fresh dill
• Salt and pepper to taste

Then, the fires were kindled (firewood) under the huge kozons and everything was stirred with huge paddles until the mixture came to a boil. After there was a good boil going, the product was poured into sterilized jars and sealed. It is called shakarop and is used during the winter months as a side dish to their hot dishes. Each woman received at least six, 3-liter jars of shakarop.

The women also make a pickled cucumber they called bodring tuzlash. For one, 3-liter jar:

• 1.5 kg cucumbers (bodring)
• 2 stalks of dried dill
• 4 cloves of peeled garlic
• 3 large spoonfuls (large, tablespoon) of vinegar (note, their vinegar is 70% concentrate, in the U.S. it is about 5%)
• 1 horseradish leaf (they grow it there for the bodring tuzlash)
• 3 large spoonfuls of salt
• 4 bay leaves
• 5 or 6 peppercorns
• 1 hot pepper

Each jar was tightly packed with the ingredient and then the boiling water was added to the jar. Then, the first water was poured off and more boiling water was added—this was done 3 times before being sealed. Each woman received at least 2, 3-liter jars of pickled cucumber.

The women also made some sort of fruit jam which varied according to what fruit could be found. The fruit and sugar were the most expensive ingredients used in the canning and so less of this was made —each woman received at least 2, 1-litre jars. Basically, the recipe consisted of equal amount of fruit and sugar brought to a boil, then sealed into jars.

If you are tempted to try a Central Asian dish, you might try this website. The recipes seem fairly straight-forward, though we haven’t tried them ourselves. Osh bo’lsin!

http://www.angelfire.com/ny/lolamk/dishes.html

Snipers!

One of the terrifying aspects of the June 2010 events in southern Kyrgyzstan was the snipers who were posted on various high places to take aim at Uzbeks who tried to escape their burning homes or mahallas.

Solomon's Mountain

In the center of Osh is ‘Solomon’s mountain,’ a landmark of significance for the whole city. It has traditionally been a place for pilgrimage and prayer for the religious. Surrounding it are Uzbek neighborhoods, most seriously destroyed. On top of the physical damage on those days, acts of terror were committed against those neighborhoods. As people tried to escape the attacks of the mobs and their burning homes, trained snipers attacked them with a spray of bullets. Many were shot and killed: men, women, children, the elderly. Others were wounded and carry the scars or even bullets yet inside. As we visited in homes in those neighborhoods, the mountain looming nearby (where snipers reportedly were still stationed) was a reality we didn’t like to think about.

Those attempting to put out the fires were shot at, Uzbeks escaping with their family by car were shot at, and those trying to escape by foot were shot at. In one neighborhood a woman told us of how her family, and others from the community crawled up a ditch along a lane on their hands and knees to avoid being seen by the snipers in a nearby tower and spent several days in the nearby cornfield hiding during the fighting.

We don’t know if every neighborhood was covered by snipers, but we visited another neighborhood and walked through the rubble of several homes which received sniper fire from a hospital across the street. Those neighbors reported that several times, they saw what was likely military helicopters drop bundles of ammunition to the snipers working on the rooftop. How did a hospital, a place of healing, become a place of death?

The snipers of the roof of this hospital had a clear shot into this hovli

In one of the yards, the woman mentioned they found lots of bullet casings in their yard and sure enough, we didn’t have to search in the rubble long to find two of them.

The presence of these snipers are one of the indications that these events were organized, planned and controlled (to some extent controlled) by someone. It was not just a mob that got out of hand but an organized event that promoted and supported a mob approach. The snipers were apparently used to keep Uzbek mobs from forming, defending and attacking because as a group of Uzbeks would form to defend or put out a fire, they were shot at by the snipers.

Meeting needs

The canning project has finished its first 2 ½ weeks of operation. We, ourselves, are no longer onsite, but our hearts are there with the ladies as each day they process fresh produce for the winter months. What some may not know is that the ladies not only receive jars of preserves, pickles and tomato salads, but in Osh, they were also invited into a 'clothing store' (set up on the premises) where each woman was able to chose from a large assortment of second hand clothing, the items her family most needed. Each clothing item is 'priced' and each woman is given the same purchasing value, so that the give-away is fair.

This is inside the clothing shop. The woman on the left is wearing the traditional Uzbek dress, the kuylak. On the right is the woman who came to help us.

Sue and Elaine spent large portions of the first week setting up and administering the clothing giveaway. During the second week, a young lady with experience in marketing secondhand clothing was sent to us, and what a blessing she was. She had access to hangers and racks which made organization so much more convenient and attractive.

The third week brought additional treats for the women who came to do canning. A 'tushak-making' project in the city yielded a number of nice tushaks (cotton-stuffed floor mats) that are found in every home.During the daytime, these are used for sitting on, and at night, they become sleeping mats. When not in use, they are folded and layered in large stacks. Some of these newly-sewn tushaks became available for distribution. There is a limit to how many of these are available, but for at least some women, they have had a basic need met.

We had noticed from the first day of clothing distribution that the women couldn't find suitable clothing for themselves from among the second-hand clothing options. The second-hand clothing is from Denmark, where women obviously dress themselves somewhat differently than the women of Osh. Uzbek women's dresses are made in a traditional style: long-sleeved, high-necked and to the ankle. Typically, a woman purchases a length of fabric and either makes the dress herself or has a seamstress sew it for her. Since most women fled the violence with only the dress on their back, many are in bad need of a second dress. "I have to wash my dress out at night and hope it dries by morning," they told us. Funds have become available for the purchase of bolts of fabric that can be cut according to a woman's size and given to her to take home. By providing the fabric to create their own traditional style, a real need is being met.

Yes you CAN!

It is 8 a.m. A van-load of women pulls through the gate of the hovli, all looking a little apprehensive. "What is this place? Who are these people? Are they going to betray us like others have?" These are the questions on their minds – and it shows in their 'deer-in-the-headlights' look.

We greet them warmly in their mother tongue and with arms clasped and kisses on both cheeks. 'Welcome, we're so glad you could come!"

We invite them to sit down on the supa (traditional seating platform) and on a motley collection of stools, welcome them and explain the day's events. Some are crying and starting to trust us a bit, realizing that the boxes of produce and jars scattered around are real and that they really are going to be canning produce. It's so hard for them to trust anyone after the epic betrayal these women have faced.

Four or five women are asked to volunteer as leaders of various aspects of canning (washing, chopping, cooking, closing jars, making lunch) and the supplies and equipment are pointed out. They don aprons, wash up, and soon have configured themselves around the shaded orchard and are busy at work. Each day, about 500 pounds of tomatoes, 175 pounds of cucumbers and many more pounds of peppers, garlic, cabbage and fruits are processed. Jars must be washed and sterilized, fires built under the huge cooking pots (kozons) and tended, and always there must be good cooperation and effort. Its hard physical labor, but for them, it's a holiday; a day away from the charred shells that are their homes.

We mingle with them. Together, we wash jars, wash cucumbers, wash fruit. We chop tomatoes, cabbage, peppers and apricots. We peel garlic. We carry boxes and cartons of produce and jars and all the time, we are meeting these dear women and asking about their stories and lives.

"Tell me what happened to you in June."

And the stories pour out: of fleeing in panic to the Uzbekistan border; of family members who were put in different vehicles and who became lost from each other for days; of panic, shooting and death at the border; of their return to a living hell and realizing that everything in their home had been stolen and then burned completely. And now, trying to figure out how to live again when every last thing continues to be taken from them; most are no longer permitted to work and have been let go from jobs, or their business was burned in the violence (Here in Osh, about 500 businesses, plus the entire bazaar was destroyed – it was estimated 10,000 people, mostly Uzbek, made their living from the bazaar alone). They don't have peace of mind anymore. Everywhere they go, they are taunted with, "Haven't you left yet, why are you still alive, 'Sart?'" They don't feel safe on the streets or in their own yards, knowing the police and secret police can come and go as they wish.

As the day progresses, the relaxation is tangible. They see we are trustworthy. Their families back in their mahallas are reassured by phone that they are ok, "We're having fun, we're having a holiday here!"

Mobilizer

Through our project to help families who have been burned out, we met a young woman we'll call 'Dilya.'

Dilya wanted to talk with us about the trauma she and her family faced on June 10 and following. She recalled how one day earlier, they noticed bus loads of Kyrgyz leaving town on the road north. They puzzled at why so many were leaving but decided it must be groups going to Issyk Kul ('Hot Lake'), a popular resort area in northern Kyrgyzstan (others have confirmed that prior to the attacks, their Kyrgyz were warned to leave, in one instant neighbors saw them taken away on tanks).

Dilya went on to explain that her neighborhood was one of the first to be hit by the fighting as it lies at the convergence of three highways. Hundreds of masked, armed men attacked her Uzbek mahalla, though as she stated, none of the Uzbeks had any weapons to defend themselves with, other than sticks and stones. However, there was enough warning that women, children and the elderly could escape. Those that could, spent 10 days in Uzbekistan before being 'invited' to return to their looted and burned homes. This story is not unusual – we've heard it or variations dozens of times.

But what we like about Dilya, a young woman in her early 20s and a university graduate, is the way she is serving her community in the aftermath of the violence. Because the homes in her neighborhood are now only shells, and the children have no place to play, the UN set up a 'children's camp' in a big tent near her home. Dilya and three other women take the children in two shifts a day to give them a place to play (there are toys, art materials provided), to lavish love on them, to give them a special snack, and to encourage them to tell their stories to sympathetic teachers.

What else is Dilya doing? She has an elderly neighbor who is responsible for her grandchildren but has lost the lower parts of both her legs. So, Dilya gave up her day off to come to our canning project a second time, and work so that her neighbor might receive the clothing and canned goods we supplied.

Dilya carries a heavy burden of sorrow for her neighborhood, but she is not immobilized by grief. Instead, she is taking action and giving her energy and time to helping her community.

More pictures from the Canning Project

Here are some more pictures from this week's Canning Project. As you can see, the women were not only putting by lots of produce for the coming winter, but they also managed to relax for a bit, and escape their burnt-out homes for a day.

Thank you to those of you who have helped support this project already. If you would also like to support this canning project, please visit our "DONATIONS needed!" tab on this blog.

The music playing  in the video is called "Fargonacha" by Mavlyuda Agzamova and can be found on this page -- just scroll to the bottom (note that you will leave this blog).

Visual impressions of the canning project

The following movie is an attempt to capture impressions of the canning project in action. We hope you enjoy it!


If you would like to help support the canning project, please visit our page "DONATIONS needed!" for information on how to contribute. Thank you!

Can you bottle hope?

(Note: This article was written by a friend of ours who wishes to remain anonymous.)

Hope is something in short supply for Uzbeks in South Kyrgyzstan. After orchestrated ethnic violence broke out in June, there was hope that the violence would be curtailed, but it continued unstopped for four days while army helicopters circled overhead. The SOS messages painted onto streets all over the city of Osh were ignored. Then there was hope that when the violence had stopped, somehow things could go back to normal.

"After the fighting, in which my mother, sister and brother were burnt alive as they hid in our cellar, all my Kyrgyz friends called me and put credit on my phone," explained one Uzbek man. "They were so sorry about what had happened and one even promised to sacrifice his largest ram on the 40th day of their deaths, in memory. Well, the fortieth day was yesterday and no Kyrgyz called or came. They all believe the lies on TV that say we did this to ourselves and that we're to blame."

For many Uzbeks, sitting in tents in the remains of their courtyard homes, and grieving relatives killed during the violence, there is no hope for the future. Uzbek men are arrested on pretexts, are held and beaten until relatives pay ransom money. There is lawlessness and a growing fear for the future.

Our response is small, and it doesn't change much, but maybe it provides a little bottled hope. This is the season for canning in preparation for winter. Usually Uzbek women make vast quantities of jams and pickled vegetables while fresh produce is cheap and in abundance. However, those jars that weren't broken by looters, melted in the fires they left behind.

Our emergency canning project invites one woman from each burnt household to come to our canning station, set in a shady, peaceful orchard. We provide all the jars and raw ingredients and each day twenty women from the same neighbourhood preserve and pickle as much as they can, and take home the fruits of their labours. It gets them out of their refugee tents, doing something that feels normal, empowers them by giving them work rather than handouts, and a chance to drink tea and enjoy a social event as cauldrons bubble.

In size, our project is ambitious. We hope to reach each of the 2000 or so homes that were destroyed. We have two canning stations and a transport network for those women afraid to leave their neighbourhoods. We don't have all the money we need to complete this project but we've started in faith that people will respond generously to the need.

"It was so nice to come to this beautiful place, and work hard and not be surrounded by ruins, even if it's just for one day," says one woman. "Thank you for caring for us. Every day we think about winter coming and how we'll cope. Come back in winter and visit us. We'll cook for you and you know what you'll be served!"

As you can see, this canning project has already served a number of Uzbek women affected by the recent ethnic violence here in Kyrgyzstan. However, we will need help to continue to provide these vital services. If you would like to support our efforts and donate to the canning project, please take a moment and visit our "DONATIONS needed!" tab. We would be grateful for any donations, no matter how small, so that we can maintain this canning project until all of the affected Uzbek families have been served.

Iron Woman

Today, we decided to make a return visit to a woman whom we had really connected with last week. In fact, she had insisted that we return and she'd take us to her daughter's home.

When we arrived at her tent, we found a group of people dividing up and distributing food items (rice, flour, tea, oil, macaroni, etc.) donated by a church in the capital. They were grateful; happily weighing, measuring and handing out food stuffs to the steady stream arriving in their burnt out yard. Although we know it is hard for people who were once able to provide for themselves, to accept hand-outs, the Uzbeks do it with a graciousness and generosity that humbles us. There was much laughter and good-natured arguing and teasing. We (Sue and Elaine) sat at the back of the UN-issue tent for several hours, observing and greeting those coming and going. A woman in a neighboring yard, brought plates of osh (rice pilav), tomato salad and nan which they insisted we share. We saw a community at work; brought down, but not defeated.

At one point, two women arrived, who we could see at a glance were dressed and looked differently from the all Uzbeks who had come in previously. After they left, we were told that they were women from a different mahalla whose homes hadn't burned, but who insisted they be given donated items along with the Uzbeks whose homes were gone. And we also learned that the leader of the neighborhood could no longer do the distribution himself, because so many of these same women arrived that it seriously cut into the hand-outs for those who were in need. But he couldn't say 'no' or the women would complain to the government and he'd probably be arrested.

It made our blood boil: yet, these woman explained this to us in voices without anger, not desiring revenge. Being mistreated has become a way of life for them.

'Renee,' our new friend showed us her new notebook in which she now keeps records and holds the few photos she managed to save of her father and siblings. In it, she detailed the account of her family (daughters, grandchildren) fleeing the attack in June, spending many days at the Uzbekistan border (where they saw many dead people) and then returning to her home to find it a living hell. She wrote, "Yet, I realized I still had my most precious possessions; my family, my grandchildren and my friends. And at that moment, I became 'Iron Woman."

And truly, she inspires us. She suffered from a heart attack three years ago and is now in her 60's, but this crisis has mobilized her so that her energy leaves us feeling exhausted. She is an angel of mercy. She is Iron Woman.

Biting the hand that feeds you

Shortly after the events of June 10 – 14, 2010 in southern Kyrgyzstan, Yulduz Usmonova, a popular singer from Uzbekistan, but now living in Turkey (where she's taken the first name, 'Yildiz') wrote a song to the people of Kyrgyzstan. The song has been banned in Kyrgyzstan, for obvious reasons, but is probably widely available. The words describe how the mindless violence not only destroyed homes and businesses, but also the culture of the Uzbeks who have lived in and worked this region for centuries. The Kyrgyz, a civilization of nomadic tribes are relative newcomers to settled city life. Until recently, Uzbeks were mainly farmers, merchants and bread bakers (and tax payers). Now, they have been driven from their businesses and lifestyle. They aren't welcome in their traditional homeland any longer.

SONG TO THE KYRGYZ

My Kyrgyz friend, you have betrayed so cheaply,

You have destroyed your own blessing.

You have caused pain to my Uzbek heart.

When tomorrow comes don't have regrets.

If you bury embers the fire will die

Don't harm your neighbor he too will fly.

If you kill and chase away all of your ethnic groups

Who will remain in your Kyrgyzstan?

Tell me, what will grow in your fields?

Who will drink their fill of your kimiz*?

You will miss the watermelon, melons, and nan,

You have sacrificed the farmers and the bakers

The centuries will not forgive blood.

Tell me, is there not one among the Kyrgyz with true faith?

If Uzbeks take revenge you will be finished;

When needed, you will ask forgiveness.

Yildiz Usmonova

*Traditional Kirghiz drink of fermented mare's milk

Click here to to watch Yildiz Usmonova's video of her song (with pictures of Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan) on YouTube.

Mother Grief

She makes her way slowly toward us, head bowed, picking her way carefully on the gravel street. Her scarf nearly hides her face and even from a distance we can almost feel her sadness. The women we're sitting with whisper softly to us, 'She's the one whose son died.'

Her face is bleak with grief. It feels like an invasion of her privacy to even approach her, but the women are encouraging us to hear her story. So we rise from our seats and walk to meet her.

"Hello, our names are Sue and Elaine and we arrived two days ago in Osh, because we heard about the situation here and wanted to help. Would you like to talk?"

She keeps her head low, but she reaches into her bag and pulls out an ID card; it's her son's, the only thing that remains of his. Central Asians don't smile for photographs and it gives an added sadness, as though he, on that date when the photo was snapped long before, had a premonition of his fate. Shot down at age 25. So much life ahead, but now his body lies anonymously in the dirt. This story would be singularly tragic yet it's one of hundreds.

She indicates she lives right on down that street and we tentatively follow her into her fire-scarred hovli. She points out the room where he and his bride would have lived, had they had a chance to marry. And we learn how her yard held the family of an older son as well and there in the ashes, we see the frame of a child's bicycle and a small plastic toy that somehow escaped the inferno.

We cry with her. We hug her and tell her we care and we won't forget her story. We tell her to hug and kiss her other children and grandchildren every night and tell them how special they are to her. Life is like that; we can never take anything for granted. Her tragic face illustrates this all too well. Weep for the mothers whose sons died before their time.

Flowering Hope

One home I (Jeff) visited had virtually everything destroyed as is almost always the case. We sat in their courtyard on the two stools that hadn't been burned and surrounded by the roofless crumbling mud brick walls seared black amidst broken glass, broken asbestos roofing sheets and ash and grit and they served us tea. It is hard for them because these people are so hospitable and want so badly to be good hosts to us but they have nothing to offer but maybe some tea in some piyolas that haven't been broken or that have been given by someone.

In this particular house, everything was gone but there was a large potted cactus plant that had two huge white blooms on it on one side of the cactus and the other side was damaged. They said the bud shoot on the damaged side was burned or knocked off during the fire and they put it out in the courtyard and gave it water and the two huge white blooms (4 inches across) came out and gave life and freshness in contrast to the ash and destruction all around them. I told the middle-aged man, his old mother and his young son that this plant represented their lives. The fire knocked off the beauty of their life and burned and damaged it, but beauty can emerge from these ashes. They understood the analogy as they looked at the beautiful blooms in front of them and I think some hope was restored to them. We tell people, 'they can take your house and your stuff and can take lives but don't let them also take your hope and your dignity.' I wonder about them now.

Oasis in the rubble

"We were just standing here saying, 'if only someone would come to hear our stories. I've been praying God would send someone to us.'"

These were the words of the spry 'Robiya,' in her 60s, right after we (Sue and Elaine) approached her and her two friends on the street late one afternoon. As we spoke to them in their mother tongue, tears began to flow. "You know our language!" Immediately, 'Robiya' began stuffing bread and cookies into our bag, despite our protests.

For more than a week, every single Uzbek home we've entered has been an eyeful of misery; charred beams, twisted iron roofing, melted jars and tea kettles, broken plates and piyolas, and everywhere, rubble. But today was going to be different.

We couldn't say no to Robiya's invitation to come to her hovli and when we did, it was as though we had entered paradise. The yard was swept clean and blooming flowers in pots greeted us. Curtains fluttered in windows. They invited us to sit down around the low table on their supa and as always, we removed our shoes and then seated ourselves at the indicated spots on the tushaks.

Within minutes, her grandchildren and kelin (daughter-in-law) began filling the table with plates of nuts, candies and raisins and a pot of steaming green tea and piyolas were brought and filled.

Yet, all this lovely mehmondostlik (hospitality) was laced with fear. Here was a family who had escaped much harm (only one son arrested and ransomed for $2000, now sent off to Russia) yet lived with the thought of 'I wonder if we will be next?' Yet, we also saw the typical forgiving nature of the Uzbek people who amazingly carry little animosity for the persons who perpetrated the violence of June 10-14, 2010.

"There are good Kyrgyz and bad Kyrgyz, just as there are good Uzbeks and bad Uzbeks. We don't want you to think all Kyrgyz are bad, even though this happened." And they proceeded to tell a story about how another son's life (the one who sat at the table with us; whose wife and children were serving us) was saved by Kyrgyz nomads living in yurts on the mountains where he had gone to gather honey from his hives on June 10th, the day the violence began. Those Kyrgyz even lied to authorities, saying they weren't hiding anyone.

It is so encouraging to hear stories like this amidst the police brutality that continues as we write. It is a whisper of hope amongst so much despair.

Color from Ashes

Handing her a pack of crayons
and a stack of paper
I tell her to draw a picture
of her future.
I wonder if she can see
Beyond the ashes of what used to be
And the loss that is now normality.
At age eight she should not feel
As though she'd taken life for granted.
She was not meant to be victim
Of human hatred at its ugliest
Or to try to comprehend
The "why?"s behind it all.

The purity of a child's trust
Is stolen from her
The moment she is betrayed

By those she called her neighbors

Will she envision a way out of this?

She must fight from now on--

For the wounds inflicted by hatred
Will with time agitate and itch
For revenge.
She must struggle for a future

Of peace, with forgiveness

Her only weapon.

Draw, little one
The world you want to see.
There is no shame in
The simplicity
Of life.
Don't let anyone
Call you naive for
Dreaming of lasting peace.
--By Elaine

Nobody Has Come

"Nobody comes here, nobody cares about us!"

These were the words of the Uzbeks in this particular mahalla we visited. On this day, a group of six of us went out to this area. We divided into pairs and went off in different directions. I, Jeff, went out with a Russian speaker and as we were discussing where we might go, we were dragged off by some Uzbek ladies to their hovli.

We were ushered into the hovli and sat on their supa (traditional raised platform on which people sit, eat and sleep). This household was substantially burned out except for the rooms at the back of the courtyard where this supa was. As I sat there, trying to sit cross-legged without looking awkward, I looked around the hovli and noted the usual, white tent labeled with the big, blue UNHCR letters to my left, the ever-present, burned-out rooms along the street straight ahead and to my right, and about 15 Uzbeks, male and female, young and old in front of me. They were all trying to talk at once. Since my partner was a Russian speaker, when they talked with her, it was in Russian, some of which I understood. When I asked about something in Uzbek, the group switched into Uzbek which she couldn't understand. Perhaps to accommodate both of us, or more likely because that is just how life in Central Asia is, they talked in both languages without realizing it and neither of us could understand well.

But such is the color and fabric of this region.

"Are the OCSE police coming and when?" was the first question they asked. They were asking about the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe's (OSCE) proposed deployment of some 50 international police advisers to southern Kyrgyzstan. This is a huge concern of the Uzbeks because the

all-Kyrgyz police force in Osh are taking Uzbek men, usually young, and beating and torturing them unless or until the family comes up with their demanded ransom. The Uzbeks are desperately hoping that this independent OCSE force will stop these police abductions. Unfortunately, we don't
know the answer to whether the OCSE advisors will come (the city leadership in Osh and many Kyrgyz oppose their coming) and try to move the conversation away from political discussions.

Food on a table

As quickly as the questions and conversation fly, just as quickly the tablecloth in the middle of the supa is loaded up with nan and choy and, as a first time for me in one of the burned-out hovlis, a large platter of rice pilov or osh is set before us (see photo). "Oling, Oling," they insist (take, take), in the typical aggressive and yet ever so genuine hospitality so characteristic of the Uzbeks. Our objections relating to having just eaten before coming fall on deaf ears and so we take token amounts of the food offered. This current situation is so hard for the Uzbeks because they are so welcoming of guests and so badly want to serve us osh but most places have nothing much to offer except nan and choy and watermelon which we are offered everywhere we go. Most of these people have virtually nothing but they can't think of not giving something. When we leave, they always say, "next time you come, we'll have osh together."

After talking an hour or so (well, mostly listening), we move on to the next places. Again, we don't have much choice in the matter as we are ushered in to the next burned-out hovli. Soon we get separated and I am almost literally dragged from house to house along this street. They keep saying: "nobody comes here, nobody cares about us" and they want so badly to show me their burned-out hovli. So instead of doing the usual sitting down and talking to people which we prefer, I am taken down this narrow street and shown one-by-one each of the burned out places on each side of the street.

I walk with a certain numbness and at the same time I'm crying and yet unable to cry anymore. Nothing is new and nothing shocks me anymore. Three weeks ago when I first started this, I was so shocked and had to hold back excessive tears and I was wanting to take photos of everything. Today, they were wanting me to take photos to show the world since nobody seems to care. I didn't want to take any more photos, I didn't want to see anymore burned-out hovlis, I didn't want to hear anymore crying people say: "we have nothing, everything is gone." However, that is what we are here for and so that is what I did. Sometimes it is so hard to try to give them a glimmer of hope when I have my own struggles with a sense of hopelessness for them. As I was thinking such thoughts, a little 5-year old Uzbek girl smiled up at me with the most innocent, beautiful smile that seemed to make all the rubble around her disappear and I told her mom and grandmother and older sister standing there that there is always hope in the midst of this despair in that little girl's smile. I think we connected there in some way.

Capttap ('sarts') is a derogatory term Kyrgyz use for Uzbeks

In addition to hope, we try to give them dignity. They have been treated so inhumanely and continue to receive such bad treatment. As I walk down this narrow street and see the walls spray painted with sart (looks like 'capttap' when written in Cyrillic letters) and "death to Uzbeks" and other more vulgar words or pictures, I can get a little sense of their loss of dignity. I tell them that I used to live in Uzbekistan and love the
Uzbek people and I heard about their situation and so as a foreigner, I wanted to come and show them the respect they deserve and that has been taken from them. I tell them that the world knows of their situation and this means so much to them because of the lies shown on Kyrgyz television about what has happened. So I walk in the ubiquitous grit of ash, broken glass, broken roofing tile and rubble. Everywhere there is grit, always grit, underfoot and I am so tired of it. I take ever more pictures of charred walls and broken everything so that I can show the world. And as you are reading this, I am indeed telling the world about their situation. Please remember these people!

I try to tell them that I care and that is why I came…

P.S.:If you care about these people, and would like to help them, please look at our page called "How YOU can help". You will find several petitions there, one of which is supporting the OSCE police force. Signing these petitions will only take a few moments, but will mean so much to us and these Uzbeks we have met. Thank you! 

Vigilante Mamas

A number of days ago, our small group of trauma counselors entered an area of the city where we had heard there were many affected mahallas, and that day, we randomly chose one where about 170 houses were looted and burned. Only 5 homes were left untouched. All of the homes in the whole mahalla, except one, were Uzbek-owned.

In order to guard the identity of this area, we can’t tell all the stories we’d like, but here is one that is typical of other neighborhoods, too. At the entrance of the mahalla, a brigade of Uzbek women had planted themselves in the shade at the side of the street and were monitoring all who came and went on the street. As the women made room for Sue and Elaine on their tushaks, they also immediately pulled out their stash of nan and watermelon. There we sat and listened, halfway in the dust of the street, surrounded by around ten women, wearing their only dress--the one they wash out at night and wear the next day.

We listened to stories of horror; how helicopters had circled overhead before the outbreak of violence and how the kids had waved at them merrily, thinking there was a special visitor in town to merit the show of helicopters. How the snipers had taken their places on the roof of a public building nearby and opened fire on their homes (we picked up shells). How black-masked young men had come into their neighborhood, how the residents escaped piled several deep in their cars amidst sniper fire, and how these same men first looted, then burned everything but the streets. How they had spent 10 days in Uzbekistan being treated for injuries, seeing numerous dead brought there and others who died in the trampling panic, but blessed by Uzbek hospitality. How young girls were mistreated and raped, including three sisters, the youngest age five. We cry with each new story. Their hurt is our hurt.

As we listened, we suddenly noticed how these women were serving as the ‘walls’ of the mahalla. In effect, a self-styled police force--and one to be reckoned with as we soon learned. In this city of lawlessness, they provide a first line of defense. Every car passing through the partially barricaded road was scrutinized. Usually a woman would say, “He’s one of ours” or “I know them.” But at one point, some Kyrgyz youth tried to enter and everything was interrupted as a battalion of formidable women arose and marched toward the car, and unbelievably the car backed out. We’ve always said, “An Uzbek woman is a force in herself.” How much more so, a group!

Abduction

Yesterday, we had just finished an afternoon of visits to yet another destroyed mahalla. Our souls were weary of the stories. We had an evening meeting scheduled so decided to stop at a tea house to drink choy, debrief a bit, and rest. Just as we were filing through the door, our colleague received a phone call from another foreigner in town. Another abduction was in progress, could he come at once? Usually we are on foot, but someone with a car had joined us, so the two of them sped toward the address in a still-intact area of town, hoping simply their presence would help.

They were too late. A crowd of twenty plus women huddled on the street, weeping and in shock. Just a few minutes previous, some people had come, broken into one of the walled hovlis and abducted a man in his 50s. The ransom: $70,000.

Maybe a few of you have this kind of money available, but Uzbeks don't. Until they find money, the people abducting will torture their victim to get the relatives to try to scrape the money together from somewhere. Who is doing the abducting? We aren't certain who, but are certain that it is done with the approval of the police and hear of cases that it is the police. It was hard to sleep last night. Just yesterday, Sue and Elaine spent time with a woman who leaves her burnt-out yard in the evening to sleep at her daughter's house, but she said recently, she can't sleep there either because in the nearby police station, they hear men's voices pleading for the torture to stop.

View of downtown Osh

Maybe this man in his 50s was taken there or to another place. We're sure he didn't get a good night's rest. Hopefully this morning he is still alive.

This story is tragic enough but it is repeated many times each day in this city. The city mayor is not only supportive of this treatment of Uzbeks, but is probably encouraging it...