Баҳор омад. Spring comes.

This past week was Tajikistan's most important national holiday, Navruz. It literally means "new day" but is the Persian New Year and marks the spring equinox. When I wrote this to my Grandmother, she replied,

The people over there certainly have the right idea – new year beginning in the spring.  How sensible.  

I have to agree.

It means almost a week off school for concerts and parties. Everyone wears national dress. There is much dancing. There is much poetry, much of which involves the phrase баҳор омад (bahor omad, spring comes).

Here, people are eager to say that it is an International holiday, which someone declared a few years ago, since today people celebrate Navruz in Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan, Turkey, parts of China and probably elsewhere I am forgetting. Sarah and I were interviewed to discover our thoughts on Navruz as foreigners, but we didn't see the TV special when it aired. Several of our students and neighbors did, though, and some have approached me since to excitedly, "You speak Tajik!"

At the library, the celebration on the 20th included: a competition of who has the most beautiful table of food (scores could be augmented by poetry recitation), poetry recitation, dancing, a holiday tableau, the arrival of girl in white as "spring", who showed off the haft seen and haft sheen, a poetry contest, a humorous skit, displays of national dress, and speeches. I was encouraged to stand up and congratulate everyone on Navruz in Farsi and English, and later a representative from the Iranian embassy's ministry of culture presented me with a gift. It ended with everyone dancing as the women cleaned and put everything away.

Navruz (21st) in Khujand seemed to be an excuse for kids to run off and play with their friends. Two of the volunteers from the American Corner showed me around the crowded park, where people were selling shashlik every three yards. We went on the Ferris wheel, on a boat ride, and talked as we walked past everyone in their finest clothes.

Sarah and I missed the official Khujand celebration on the 22nd, because we were guest-ing in different parts of Sughd for the rest of the weekend. On the 21st we went to Mangit village in Ghonchi, where one of Sarah's students lives. He took us immediately taken to the village party and we danced. I chose the 11-year-old girls as my partners instead of the teenage boys. 

 

We stayed two nights, and went to many other family members' houses to be guests, which means introducing ourselves and drinking tea and eating food. Both nights included dance parties with all of the neighbor kids outside of the house. Sarah and I apologize for being poor representatives of our country when they put on a J-Lo song and told us to "dance American".

 

We also visited some women making сумалак (sumalak), the traditional Navruz dish. I was only told the story of sumalak the next day, but it is beautiful and goes something like this: Once, long ago, a widow had nothing to feed her children. The children cried to their mother that they were hungry, but she had nothing to give them. One night, the mother threw seven stones into a pot with wheat and some flour and fell asleep with despair. While she slept, thirty angels (see malak) came and stirred the pot. When she woke up in the morning, the woman tried the dish and found that it was delicious.

  

Now people make sumalak in the spring, when the shoots of wheat are young. It must be cooked from 12-24 hours, and women stay up all night, adding wood to the fire and water to the cauldron as they stir and sing to keep themselves awake. If you make a wish while stirring sumalak, it will come true. Sarah and I did not stay so long, but we visited for a little while.

Later that night, I got my hair braided in the traditional style: many little braids finished by cotton tassels at the end of each braid. It took less than two hours, and it is usual for everyone to ask how many braids you have. I ended up with 24 - traditionally one should have 40 braids.

The next day I went to Shahristan. The first night, instead of staying with an English teacher we know, I ended up being the excuse for five 16-year-old girls to have a sleepover. They giggled and talked all night and in the morning we all beautified ourselves with усма (usma). Now, to most Westerners, this is not beautiful. I have plucked my eyebrows at least since I was thirteen. But with usma, you draw your eyebrows thicker, darker, longer, and they are supposed to meet in the middle. It is a green plant that they make into a juice. You paint it on three times, letting it dry some between each application, and then you wash it off - gently! the girls told me, alarmed as I splashed my face.

There is also a story behind usma, which again I learned only after the fact: people believe that on judgment day, all of your body parts will be forced to tell their sins from your life. Your hands, for example, will say that you stole, and your eyes will say that you looked on something covetously. But if you put usma on your eyebrows, they will be so grateful for your care of them that they will lie for you, saying that they are above all and can see everything and that you did good deeds. In conservative villages where fathers will not allow their daughters cosmetics, usma is still encouraged (and some girls sneakily put it on their eyelids as well to simulate the makeup they're not allowed to wear).

My makeover was made complete with либоси мелли (lebosi melli), which literally translates as "national dress." When I mentioned that Sarah had an adras dress (made of this particular fabric and pattern) and I did not, they secretly went to the bazaar, bought some fabric, and brought one student's sister over to measure me "for no reason." In the morning, she arrived with the dress she had worked on all night and took no money for. It might be the most thoughtful gift I have ever received.

This was all for the Navruz celebration that the students had prepared in Shahristan, which involved everyone in national dress, poetry, songs, a skit, and more dancing. Sarah and I were forced to have a dance competition. We walked, played a game, and the reward when I won was that I had to dance for all of them.

 

Photo credit to Sarah and her iPhone.

When we stayed with the teacher that night many more people came to see us, but more exciting was that I finally learned how to make osh-e plov, the national dish of Tajikistan. In the morning we helped bake the bread in the tandur (outdoor oven).

Then we came home and still had a day and a half to sleep before the library opened again.  I tried to answer some emails. I showed my colleague how to make chocolate chip cookies. I welcomed spring.

This house believes that debate is a valuable teaching/learning tool.

I have spent most of my time and energy since January preparing Tajik students to debate in English. 

I must first admit that I used to be prejudiced against debaters. Though I enjoyed debates as a class activity - to learn about the creation of Israel, for example - I am generally conflict-adverse, and it seemed that debate emphasized conflict, and seemed to feature too much of that teenage-male certainty that they are right about everything.

I am glad to report that I have changed my views. I not only think that debate is a great tool to use in a classroom, but also in extracurricular practice and competition. In preparing my students - both school-age and university - I have realized that the tools of a good debater are important tools for success in other arenas as well.  When a friend and I gave a presentation about using debate during our conference in Nepal, we started by talking about the various reasons we chose to start debate clubs. 

Students first came in order to practice English speaking skills. They desperately want practice speaking in English and they don't get that in their school or university English classes. I have had the pleasure of seeing a few of my debaters turn from shy, stuttering speakers who could hardly continue for 30 seconds into confident first speakers who can present their ideas for 6 minutes (plus three minutes answering questions). Obviously this involves not only English language skills but also the art of public speaking. For one girl who would only look at the floor, I moved around an American flag so she would look up (even if not at our faces). The group I have been working with has a ways to go, but is much more confident. 

Debating is an accessible way to approach controversial subjects, and to practice critical thinking. In the words of the International Debate Education Association, whose website we plunder extensively for ideas, 

Debate is an essential tool for developing and maintaining democracy and open societies. More than a mere verbal or performance skill, debate embodies the ideals of reasoned argument, tolerance for diverging points of view, and rigorous self-examination.  

I have seen my patience rewarded as my students have slowly moved towards these ideals. Students don't often get a chance to express their own opinions in the educational system here. We have moved from circular, non-arguments like "it is good because it is the law" or "because it is" to actual arguments in defense of a position that they may not agree with. I banned the use of the phrases "right" and "wrong" in order to move towards logical reasoning. We worked through the ideas that you are not expressing your own opinions and it is not personal - it is about ideas, and how well they are expressed. I think some of them finally understood this in our first competition when a team with better English skills lost to one with much better arguments.  I have repeated many times that debate is about respect: respecting your opponents.

As someone who teaches writing it is also satisfying to see that those same debating skills are ones that students could apply to writing: a clear introduction, outline, evidence and examples, and conclusion. They must do research. They must plan ahead. These are also foreign skills for most of them, and I love to see that it is the same process of thinking that will serve them well in writing.

Now that we have prepared and participated in two tournaments [see many more photos from the first tournament and photos from the second tournament], it is also heart-warming to see the camaraderie and friendship that have built up between students of different ages. The winners of the first tournament were a woman in her mid-20s who graduated from university with a law degree, a fourth-year university student in telecommunications, and an 11th-grade boy. At the second tournament, I inadvertently become a matchmaker in putting together the members of one of the teams.

I enjoyed organizing the tournaments; I remembered that I like producing events, and my experience producing theater shows at Yale served me well.  But I still don't like conflict, and I don't like judging. I would much rather guide the preparation process. I care too much to be a passive audience member; I was tense watching my students and waiting to see who won (and I was a bit crushed when a group lost that I thought should have won). We were lucky enough to have guest judges who would be impartial. As Sarah pointed out, one of the coolest things about these competitions is that they were fair, as opposed to many competitions here, which everyone knows are rigged because of a relative or where you are from or some other factor. 

The students were extra-excited at the second competition because the winning debaters would get the opportunity to debate in Dushanbe. My Dushanbe counterpart has been organizing a National English-language Debate tournament there, and flurries of emails have been flying back and forth about every aspect of the tournament. It is finally happening this coming weekend, and Sarah and I will go with the debaters to help manage and judge the three-day tournament. 

Also exciting, but less tangible and looking less likely, is that we have the opportunity to send some high school students to the Asia Youth Forum, a two-week debate tournament/seminar for school students all over Asia, which is taking place in Kyrgyzstan this year, near Lake Issyk-kul. This would be an amazing opportunity to learn infinitely more than I could ever teach about debate and meet peers from dozens of countries. But the scholarship process has left us in the dark, and it is still unclear what will happen.

More than the competitions, though, training these students has given me the opportunity to spend more time with them. I have gotten to see them think and talk and worry and then go out to lunch with some of them and talk more outside of the confines of debate. I am excited to meet more debaters in Dushanbe this weekend, but for me this national tournament is less important than the work that we have already done in Khujand. I am proud of all of the debaters I have been working with.

More information about training a debate team and many sample debates at idebate.org.

Buzkashi and Links

Buzkashi literally means "goat (buz) - pulling (from kashidan)".  It is the Central Asian horseman's game, similar to polo but with the headless body of a sheep. There aren't many rules; the goal is to  get the goat in the pit at one end of the field. Only there are no field boundaries - spectators periodically must run out of the way of the galloping horses.

When I was in the Pamirs in 2011, I went to a sort of Buzkashi exhibition/practice in Murgab, the Kyrgyz area, with some other expats. A friend took some photos, and then later I was introduced to a professional photographer who has won international awards for his Buzkashi photos (he also happens to be a Yale grad). Check out his amazing photos at www.theodorekaye.com. (Going to his website again informs me that he has published a book with his photos and an essay.)

All rights reserved Theodore Kaye. From http://www.theodorekaye.com/buzkashi/#2

I went to my first real game a few weeks ago. It was in Aperlevka, near a gold mine where some Americans we know work. Men kept crowding around to talk to the foreigners. I acquired a bouncer who would field questions to me as we talked in Tajik, and then periodically remind the crowd, "The goat is that way! Watch the game, not these people!" Mostly, I think, so that he could talk to me himself, about how we should come next weekend to Adressman, his town, which is much more beautiful and less dusty. He also informed me that almost everyone at this game was Uzbek. Buzkashi is is mostly/traditionally played in southern Tajikistan, but Kyrgyz and Uzbek (countries to the north) also play, so there are games in Sughd, but few of the players are Tajik. (I apologize if that is confusing, but that is life in these squiggly border areas where nationalities and ethnicities are thoroughly mixed.)

Below is a less-professional but more local video that one of the geologists made of his photos from Aperlevka (comments and discussion near the end are not necessarily condoned by me). The video was from the weekend before I went.

A short film made in Kabul was nominated for an Oscar this year (the two young stars were flown to Hollywood and went to Disneyland - what an impression of America!). I have not seen it but want to.

A documentary made about Buzkashi players in southern Tajikistan:

The other week for a movie night we watched the 1971 movie The Horsemen, starring Omar Sharif, set  and filmed in Afghanistan, and featuring an extended Buzkashi segment near the beginning. Apparently it can be viewed in full on YouTube.