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!