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…