Sunday, August 12, 2007
The Muslims
I suppose my mother wanted me around because it probably got very lonely. She seemed to have the habit of always keeping a talk radio station on, perhaps to simulate conversation and human interaction. She never any music around the house. The time of my parents' divorce, was the big transition from plastic albums to CDs, and my father had taken much of the music collection, which was an impressive opera collection on plastic. What remained were a few scratched plastic albums that might have belonged to my mother before my birth -- two Mamas and the Papas albums, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and perhaps a few I had left from my teenage years. She didn't bother turning down the talk-radio as I peeled carrots in the kitchen and she stirred a boiling pot on the stove. I was dripping in sweat.
"Aren't Uzbekistanis anti-semitic," she mused, apropos of nothing. It was probably one of those burning issues eating at her. One of the injustices in the world that she felt quite personally about and which from her perch in New York City, she could speak out against, thousands of years of real persecution that somehow legitimated her claim to victimhood, though she lived in a large, comfortable apartment, mostly around other jews, rarely having to interact with anyone who wasn't jewish. And probably, it was about time for her to express how she really felt about my being in Uzbekistan. I hadn't thought of it, but most likely, she hated the idea of me living there and needed to express her disapprobation. Or perhaps that is my very typical hyper-sensitive adolescent response to anything that even gives the slightest whiff of criticism. "Says who?" I asked snottily.
"Well, they're Muslims," she responded."First of all," I said trying to restrain myself from calling my mother stupid, "the term Uzbekistanis refers to citizens of Uzbekistan -- and that includes its sizable population of Jews and Russian Orthodox, not to mention athiests, Buddhists, some Catholics, and probably others. You probably are referring to the Uzbeks, who culturally are Muslim. Second, not all Muslims hate Jews." I said. "They're moderate in their faith." I thought of the clever quote I cited in a profile about Uzbekistan from a local man who lived near the airbase that the US was stationing its forces in, something to the effect of, 'yes, we're Muslims, but not like the ones in Afghanistan -- We like to drink vodka and sleep with women.'
"But what about those radical Muslims?" It was that aggressive adolescent in me that detected that she was probably trying to pick a fight. I almost wished that it were possible to have a civilized discussion with my mother, but often, I just gave up, she was set in her ways. And when you get to issues of religion, just as if you were to try to have a reasoned conversation with a Muslim fundamentalist, emotions just get too high for any reasonable exchange; early on needs to realize that one must agree to disagree. So, I just rebuffed her. "What do you know? You've never been there." I said. It was probably something she heard on one of her talk radio programs, since she didn't get out much.
On the other hand, living in Uzbekistan, much was made of these dangerous underground movements in Uzbekistan. Everyone had heard a story of a friend of a friend who had woken up in the morning only to find at their doorstep the infamous leaflets distributed by the radical Muslims, calling for the overthrow of the government, for the expulsion of the American troops from the K2 airbase, which they were supposedly using for search and rescue missions in Afghanistan, claiming that President Karimov was a Jew. I'd tried to follow these rumor trails -- track down the "friends of friends" who had received them, and I never found anyone who'd actually claimed to have seen these leaflets, or someone who saved a copy. But knowledge of these leaflets was widespread.
Then again, Uzbekistan was a place where you never knew the truth, and where it was impossible to get to the bottom of things. For all we knew, the threat of an underground radical Islamic movement could have been a conspiracy manufactured by the government that was conveniently conjured to justify crackdowns and campaigns against critics of the regime, thousands of whom languished in the country's prisons. After all, what enemy was more heinous in this post-911 world than an Islamic fundamentalist. Throwing out a few leaflets could also be a way to scare into submission a population grateful that they lived in peace, even if their government was far from perfect, rather than living under the Taliban like in Afghanistan right across the border, as well as do whatever they wanted in the name of peace from this enemy with the approval of the international community.
Of course there were fundamentalists operating in the shadows, underground, and certainly, there were sympathizers. But devout Islam, like anti-semitism, wasn't something that you encountered much on the Tashkent street. At least I hadn't, though indeed it is something I am sensitive to -- but I never saw it among my friends, probably few of which new I was Jewish, as it had grown unimportant to me now. When the topic of jews came up, often you heard people lamenting the mass exodus of the jews after the collapse of the Soviet Union -- and subsequently, the loss of all the brilliant doctors, teachers, professors, lawyers. Often I'd heard about the Jews and their golden minds. And often friends would begin talking, as if boasting of all their friends and classmates who had emigrated to Israel. Another thing jewish that they all seemed to be obsessed with was Sholom Aleichem. They loved Sholom Aleichem, the Yiddish writer, who apparently was considered a classic writer in the Soviet canon of literature. This was a writer who I hadn't read, nor did I know anyone who'd read him, we only knew "Fiddler on the Roof."
I recalled an incident with Yulia, when I invited her to see the Tashkent Youth Theater's production of "Tevye the Milkman," which apparently was the Russian translation of "Fiddler on the Roof." She asked me what the piece was about, and I told her that it was an American musical based on the stories of Sholom Aleichem. " "A musical?!" She cried aghast. "A musical!" She glared. "Only in America," she declaimed, "could they take masterpieces of literature and turn them into musicals," she said enunciating the word 'musical' with disgust, expressing, as she always did ,her distaste for America, Uzbekistan, me, musicals, all at once in her defense of the great Sholom Aleichem. I ended up going to see the show. The entire cast was Uzbek, save for the Russian Cossack that the second daughter, Hodel, falls in love with. He was played by a strapping, long-haired blond Russian.
Mother continued to talk, and I barely paid attention, my mind dwelling on recent memories of my life in Tashkent, which almost feels like they are from long ago. I console myself that my stay with my mother is short and that within a few days, I will be back in Uzbekistan, where the heat is dry, where people turn on the airconditioner in their home. And I am relieved to know that she drops the topic of Uzbekistan, of her perception of anti-semitism there, and moves on to another topic which I have long been familiar with in the days before I left -- it is of the persecution she herself has endured, one I know intimately well as I know of the history of the jews.
I suppose my mother wanted me around because it probably got very lonely. She seemed to have the habit of always keeping a talk radio station on, perhaps to simulate conversation and human interaction. She never any music around the house. The time of my parents' divorce, was the big transition from plastic albums to CDs, and my father had taken much of the music collection, which was an impressive opera collection on plastic. What remained were a few scratched plastic albums that might have belonged to my mother before my birth -- two Mamas and the Papas albums, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and perhaps a few I had left from my teenage years. She didn't bother turning down the talk-radio as I peeled carrots in the kitchen and she stirred a boiling pot on the stove. I was dripping in sweat.
"Aren't Uzbekistanis anti-semitic," she mused, apropos of nothing. It was probably one of those burning issues eating at her. One of the injustices in the world that she felt quite personally about and which from her perch in New York City, she could speak out against, thousands of years of real persecution that somehow legitimated her claim to victimhood, though she lived in a large, comfortable apartment, mostly around other jews, rarely having to interact with anyone who wasn't jewish. And probably, it was about time for her to express how she really felt about my being in Uzbekistan. I hadn't thought of it, but most likely, she hated the idea of me living there and needed to express her disapprobation. Or perhaps that is my very typical hyper-sensitive adolescent response to anything that even gives the slightest whiff of criticism. "Says who?" I asked snottily.
"Well, they're Muslims," she responded."First of all," I said trying to restrain myself from calling my mother stupid, "the term Uzbekistanis refers to citizens of Uzbekistan -- and that includes its sizable population of Jews and Russian Orthodox, not to mention athiests, Buddhists, some Catholics, and probably others. You probably are referring to the Uzbeks, who culturally are Muslim. Second, not all Muslims hate Jews." I said. "They're moderate in their faith." I thought of the clever quote I cited in a profile about Uzbekistan from a local man who lived near the airbase that the US was stationing its forces in, something to the effect of, 'yes, we're Muslims, but not like the ones in Afghanistan -- We like to drink vodka and sleep with women.'
"But what about those radical Muslims?" It was that aggressive adolescent in me that detected that she was probably trying to pick a fight. I almost wished that it were possible to have a civilized discussion with my mother, but often, I just gave up, she was set in her ways. And when you get to issues of religion, just as if you were to try to have a reasoned conversation with a Muslim fundamentalist, emotions just get too high for any reasonable exchange; early on needs to realize that one must agree to disagree. So, I just rebuffed her. "What do you know? You've never been there." I said. It was probably something she heard on one of her talk radio programs, since she didn't get out much.
On the other hand, living in Uzbekistan, much was made of these dangerous underground movements in Uzbekistan. Everyone had heard a story of a friend of a friend who had woken up in the morning only to find at their doorstep the infamous leaflets distributed by the radical Muslims, calling for the overthrow of the government, for the expulsion of the American troops from the K2 airbase, which they were supposedly using for search and rescue missions in Afghanistan, claiming that President Karimov was a Jew. I'd tried to follow these rumor trails -- track down the "friends of friends" who had received them, and I never found anyone who'd actually claimed to have seen these leaflets, or someone who saved a copy. But knowledge of these leaflets was widespread.
Then again, Uzbekistan was a place where you never knew the truth, and where it was impossible to get to the bottom of things. For all we knew, the threat of an underground radical Islamic movement could have been a conspiracy manufactured by the government that was conveniently conjured to justify crackdowns and campaigns against critics of the regime, thousands of whom languished in the country's prisons. After all, what enemy was more heinous in this post-911 world than an Islamic fundamentalist. Throwing out a few leaflets could also be a way to scare into submission a population grateful that they lived in peace, even if their government was far from perfect, rather than living under the Taliban like in Afghanistan right across the border, as well as do whatever they wanted in the name of peace from this enemy with the approval of the international community.
Of course there were fundamentalists operating in the shadows, underground, and certainly, there were sympathizers. But devout Islam, like anti-semitism, wasn't something that you encountered much on the Tashkent street. At least I hadn't, though indeed it is something I am sensitive to -- but I never saw it among my friends, probably few of which new I was Jewish, as it had grown unimportant to me now. When the topic of jews came up, often you heard people lamenting the mass exodus of the jews after the collapse of the Soviet Union -- and subsequently, the loss of all the brilliant doctors, teachers, professors, lawyers. Often I'd heard about the Jews and their golden minds. And often friends would begin talking, as if boasting of all their friends and classmates who had emigrated to Israel. Another thing jewish that they all seemed to be obsessed with was Sholom Aleichem. They loved Sholom Aleichem, the Yiddish writer, who apparently was considered a classic writer in the Soviet canon of literature. This was a writer who I hadn't read, nor did I know anyone who'd read him, we only knew "Fiddler on the Roof."
I recalled an incident with Yulia, when I invited her to see the Tashkent Youth Theater's production of "Tevye the Milkman," which apparently was the Russian translation of "Fiddler on the Roof." She asked me what the piece was about, and I told her that it was an American musical based on the stories of Sholom Aleichem. " "A musical?!" She cried aghast. "A musical!" She glared. "Only in America," she declaimed, "could they take masterpieces of literature and turn them into musicals," she said enunciating the word 'musical' with disgust, expressing, as she always did ,her distaste for America, Uzbekistan, me, musicals, all at once in her defense of the great Sholom Aleichem. I ended up going to see the show. The entire cast was Uzbek, save for the Russian Cossack that the second daughter, Hodel, falls in love with. He was played by a strapping, long-haired blond Russian.
Mother continued to talk, and I barely paid attention, my mind dwelling on recent memories of my life in Tashkent, which almost feels like they are from long ago. I console myself that my stay with my mother is short and that within a few days, I will be back in Uzbekistan, where the heat is dry, where people turn on the airconditioner in their home. And I am relieved to know that she drops the topic of Uzbekistan, of her perception of anti-semitism there, and moves on to another topic which I have long been familiar with in the days before I left -- it is of the persecution she herself has endured, one I know intimately well as I know of the history of the jews.
Labels: The Muslims
¶ 10:20 PM
