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!"