What Would You Do for An Interview?

What Would You Do for An Interview?

Amy promised me pancakes if I wrote a blog entry, and I’ve accepted her terms.

Road conditions in the Rasht Valley are always a constraint. This summer holds great promise with a number of new roads being built, but also great frustration in navigating road closures. I know this has been a huge challenge for Mercy Corps’ food distribution currently in action. Beyond road closures and sometimes confrontational road crews, there are also the usual poor road conditions. I’m continually impressed by the resiliency of our vehicles and the skill and knowledge of our drivers.

Before I get to my description of navigating a different type of roadblock, I should introduce myself. I am a graduate student interning with Mercy Corps this summer and conducting a value chain study. I’m examining how Mercy Corps can implement value added programming to improve the honey, rose hip and fruit (pears, apples) markets. I’ve been interviewing buyers, wholesalers, retailers, and producers to see what people are selling and how the system works. It has been fascinating, and although I’ve found myself in the middle of a few swarms of bees, I haven’t gotten stung yet.

Earlier in the week I interviewed a wholesaler who purchases dried rose hips from several jamoats (districts) in the area. Basically, if you own a truck in this area you are a wholesaler, and transport goods to the capital of Dushanbe, and the larger northern city of Khojand. Makhmad was very helpful and explained his business and his main contact in Khojand to whom he sells all his goods. He also told me that the village of Pingon, in a nearby jamoat, provides him with up to 14 tons of dried rose hips each year. The interview went so smoothly that I was later startled to find out I had such good access to a man villagers call a phantom.

I wanted to verify price and other information from Makhmad, so on Friday set out for Pingon with Dodarjon, a member of our agricultural team, and Iskander and his trusty and increasingly shock-free Niva. Iskander’s taped up MP3 player has an interesting selection of Tajik pop, Russian covers of Western artists and Enrique Iglesias. I am burning him a CD so that the last one is in rotation less. We passed through the village of Shulmak, where I was again unable to track down a phantom of my own – another truck owner that interviews had pointed me towards, but that was in Dushanbe this first time I stopped by, and now in China. Further down the road we encountered another obstacle – the bridge going to Pingon was washed out. With the options of turning back or finding a footbridge, we decided to eat lunch. The head of the road crew offered us another option – fording a lower part of the river with his bulldozer. I was offered a place inside the cabin, and Dodarjon and Iskander held onto the sides. I held on to a loose watermelon that had been rolling around.

After our alternative crossing, we walked 4km to Pingon to interview a selection of villagers that ascend to the mountains each fall to collect rose hips. I’m conducting the interviews in Tajik, but I’m still glad to have Dodarjon there to take further notes in Tajik I can review later. Household income in Pingon is almost entirely dependent on the collection of rose hips and walnuts in October, brought down on donkeys or their backs from higher altitudes a few kilometers away. Most villagers accept informal credit from buyers like Makhmad in the summer, which is based on a low price for the product they hand over in the fall. Other intermediaries appear in their village in November, and wholesalers like Makhmad and buyers in Khojand and beyond remain a mystery to producers.

While walking back to find a footbridge, a car pulled up. A man who had just returned to the village heard there had been a guest and insisted on giving us a ride to the river. This attitude is wonderfully pervasive throughout the region – guests are celebrated, welcomed and honored. A few rickety footbridges spanning a fast-flowing river later, it was back to the bumpy ride home and good conversation with Dodarjon about possibilities for increasing and diversifying household incomes in the region. Clearly amused and beat from a long and interesting day, when we dropped him off he still insisted I come to his house for a cup of tea.

Jarrett Basedow

A fragile peace is shaken

Just a couple of weeks after celebrating the National Day of Reconciliation, tensions are rising here in Rasht. The ghosts of the civil war that I’ve written about seem to be more than just apparitions. My colleague, a refugee during the civil war, woke up last night afraid that soldiers were at her door. My neighbor, a former UTO commander and still highly influential in Rasht, is offering interviews to the media. The Garm militia has sent its men up into the nearby mountains to block any militants from coming here. And my beloved colleagues have advised me not to travel this week, telling me stories of checkpoints being ambushed wit the possibility of a foreigner being taken. “But it’s unlikely,” they say calmly. The roads in and out of Rasht are choked with checkpoints (My first blog entry is about being refused passage to Garm at one such checkpoint).

“We have a problem with foreigners,” the military police told me at the time. Rumors were swirling that more han 300 militants had come from Afghanistan and Pakistan, some seeking asylum and others some trouble. Many are followers of feared former warlord Mullo Abdullo, who has supposedly spent the last few years with the Taliban. And while the government claims it’s supporting an operation to combat drug trafficking, the locals say it is to squash any uprising. Reports of attacks on government checkpoints abound. And then there is the killing of Mirzo Ziyoyev.

Our work continues near the border with Kyrgyzstan this week. We are finishing distribution (800 metric tons!) . The work is demanding and not without its problems (that somehow are all tied to transportation and the road!), but spirits are high as we’re welcomed warmly into the communities.

I lived in southern Kyrgyzstan for two years and am surprised by how much Kyrgyz I still understand and speak. Every conversation starts with me happily exclaiming: “I understand you!” Of course, community members in these remote and marginalized villages are also surprised that I speak Kyrgyz. Many of them do not speak Tajik, limiting their opportunities for work and education. During distribution, I talk to the women about breast-feeding, complementary foods for their babies and the success of their greenhouses.

Touring a greenhouse in the early morning, a volunteer named Delbar beams as she shows me ripe cucumbers, round tomatoes and flowering melon vines. The Kyrgyz communities were skeptical when Mercy Corps introduced greenhouses, wondering if they would work in such a harsh climate. “But eating is believing. Now we ask one another about our greenhouses as if they are our children,” Delbar says. We laugh. There is a cool drizzle this July morning and the sun begins to peek through the clouds. Quietly. Peacefully.

A ritual for healing

This past Saturday we celebrated the National Day of Reconciliation, which marks the day when President Imomali Rakhmonov and United Tajik Opposition leader Said Abdullo Nuri signed a peace agreement in Moscow in 1997. This ended the civil war that displaced 1.2 million people and killed 60,000 to 100,000 men. Those ghosts hover here, perhaps especially in the Rasht Valley where a majority of the opposition was based. Nearly every day, someone tells me their own story about the civil war.

Despite this, the atmosphere was festive on Saturday as crowds of Tajiks strolled the streets eating ice cream; enjoyed plov and cold soda downtown; and filled the stands at the stadium to watch wrestling (a national sport?) and traditional dancing and singing. While women and girls are mostly absent from the public sphere, it was refreshing to see them walking hand-in-hand, laughing and chatting. Young girls played together and many wore the traditional Tajik dress. Yet, I was still the ONLY woman who ventured into the stadium seats to watch wrestling. And while the men stared at me with curiosity, they were also very friendly — asking if I wanted to get closer so I can take some photos.

I splurged on a Sprite, imported from Kabul, and popcorn. Popcorn! I love popcorn and here it suddenly appeared on the street. This is a celebration! A young boy operated the ancient red machine, filling a small popper with oil and kernels and waiting patiently. Slowly, slowly, it popped some corn. I could eat a bucket, but that would take hours so I settled for a small bag. The plastic melted against the un-popped hot kernels as I happily scooped the corn into my mouth.

It’s at this celebration that I felt a strong sense of community. One of the most interesting ideas related to community development theory is the concept that soul is significant in building community capacity. I love this. One way to build community capacity is through rituals because they involve relating, healing and celebrating. Ritual can also provide stability and promote a sense of solidarity and cohesion. I think that creating space for ritual may be an avenue to rebuilding fragile communities.

Ritual is integral to rural life in Tajikistan — from the daily calls to prayer to the wedding celebrations every weekend. Daily rituals, annual celebrations —they create space for the Tajiks to exchange information, build trust and community, and reaffirm their identities. While peace accords were signed more than a decade ago, there remains a desperate need for the Tajiks to process their experiences and heal. And rituals like this national celebration seem like one step toward healing.

From tomatoes to empowerment?

While we’re spending this month focused entirely on the transport and distribution of wheat flour, lentils and oil to nearly 5,000 women, it’s actually a small component of the Mercy Corps food security program here.

The true success of this program lies in its network of field coordinators and 300 health and agriculture volunteers, who take time to educate their communities. These weekly seminars (roughly 5,500 a year!) include topics such as water-borne diseases; greenhouse construction; canning and drying fruits and vegetables for storage; breastfeeding and preparing complementary foods for babies; and simple behavior changes to promote better health and nutrition.

I've toured a lot of greenhouses, built by families who participate in the program, and it's always exciting!

It’s exciting to travel through the region and see greenhouses everywhere! Last summer, while conducting an evaluation of a similar Mercy Corps’ program, families raved about harvesting tomatoes and cucumbers months earlier than the year before. Women proudly served us tomatoes in early June and some said they were selling their seedlings for a small profit. As we moved out of Rasht, collecting data where Mercy Corps did not work, there wasn’t a tomato to be found.

It’s simple interventions like these that add up to true strides in increasing food security. This is important in a country that is defined by the 20,000-foot peaks of the Alay and Pamir mountain ranges with just seven percent arable land. A country that spiraled into civil war after the collapse of the Soviet Union, destroying infrastructure and killing an estimated 60,000 men. A country where some families report that they spend 80 percent of their income on food. In the US, it’s a paltry 10 percent. This is a stunning, but harsh country.

The Christian Science Monitor reported in 2008: “Strained by the coldest winter in 30 years, Tajikistan’s Soviet-era infrastructure has buckled, leaving millions of its citizens without water and electricity. Aid groups have been quick to step in, but the mountainous Central Asian republic is facing a serious humanitarian crisis which could spark unrest in this volatile region, experts warn.”

While out in the field last summer, women told me that the distribution comprised about 50 percent of their income and acted as an incentive for their families to allow them to attend the seminars. As the seminars progressed and families saw improvements in their overall health, the elders came to unequivocally support the program and seminar attendance by young women — who normally do not leave their homes. The distribution became less important. It’s the education that is truly sustainable, communities told me again and again. And these women began to share this information with relatives and friends in neighboring villages: Breastfeed exclusively until six months! Here’s how to make a simple sugar-salt solution to treat diarrhea! Washing your hands is a simple way to kill bacteria! The women are becoming empowered. Some women told me the following when I was here last October:

“Even when we had eyes, we were blind.
Even when we were dressed, we were naked.
Even when we were alive, we had one foot in the grave.
This poem is our slogan now…since participating…”

Women chat during a distribution.

It’s lunchtime!

Working out in the field is exhilarating for so many reasons. It’s a chance to see the program in action; to meet with locals and hear their stories; and to take in the stunning landscape that this country offers so effortlessly. Oh, and then there’s lunch. The Tajiks have adopted a saying from the Russians: “Even during war, we all stop at noon for lunch.” Good timing. At noon, the sun is scorching. Dust swirls around me, sticking to every inch of exposed skin, which indecently includes just my face and hands here in the conservative Rasht Valley.

Islam says that guests are a gift from God and we are treated as such as we are welcomed into the homes of community members. We often lunch outside on the topchan, usually situated in the shade where a cool breeze hides out. We sit on pillows, around a tablecloth that is piled high with bread, fruit, jam, and fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, often grown in simple greenhouses that Mercy Corps has introduced to the region. And there is always candy. The best candies are imported from Iran, so I always look for the tiny Persian script. Tajik candy is so sweet that my teeth ache from the first bite. We talk. The team laughs —Tajiks like to tell jokes — as we pour tea and snack on bread and fruit before the meal.

While living in Kyrgyzstan, the youngest girl in a family does all of the serving for guests. Here in Rasht, guests never see the women of the house. They are nearly invisible and men bring out the meal as well as tea, spoons, extra salt and other requests.

Last week, tpakkshak was served first. It’s a refreshing soup of thin noodles topped with a mix of minced herbs. This was followed by my favorite dish found throughout Central Asia — plov. It’s a simple mixture of onions, carrots, rice and beef or mutton. Usually cooked over an open fire and somehow impossible to replicate in the States (I’ve tried!). While the Kyrgyz usually make it with mutton, Uzbeks are known for adding raisins and chickpeas. The Tajiks seem to add more fresh cumin. In any variation, it’s absolutely delicious.

Today, we’re enjoying otala, a less soupy version of tpakkshak that includes chickpeas and small pieces of beef. Sharing a plate among my colleagues is a good feeling. Like we’re all in this together. We end the meal with watermelon, which has been cooled in the creek, and then we head back to work, refreshed and grateful.

Fingers crossed that the road is open

This little boy is ready to transport his family's staples home.

Moving 800 metric tons of wheat flour, oil and lentils across eight districts in Tajikstan, with its limited infrastructure, is just plain challenging. For four weeks, we’ll be distributing these staples to nearly 5,000 women who are pregnant or have children under the age of two. This is just a small component of Mercy Corps’ food security program here in the Rasht Valley.

We’ve just finished the first week of distribution and it went smoothly. This, considering that the local trucking company sent only half the trucks contracted and the road is open in 15-minute increments. Luckily, when I stepped into this temporary position, many of the logistics had been handled.

One of my favorite aspects of working out in the field is how every day brings the unexpected. I never thought I would find myself negotiating with the head of the Chinese road crew here in Garm, trying to ensure that we could move our trucks through without endless delay. The road leading to and from Garm is in the process of being widened and paved. This means there is blasting on the hour, every hour as they transform the narrow, dusty road into a functioning paved road. Sometimes the road closes for four or five hours; vehicles stack up, honking and waiting…and waiting. I trekked over to the road crew manager’s home in the hopes of securing a schedule of openings. Tall and looking like Inspector Gadget, David promised that the road would be opened for fifteen minutes at 8am, 10am, 3pm and 6pm. We’ve also got an hour at noon. We’ve posted Mercy Corps/USAID signs in the windows of every vehicle. If they can let us through they will, he promised. Then he offered me a slice of homemade pizza. All in all, a successful meeting.

During distribution, many of my days start at the warehouse where the goods are stored. It’s wild to walk through the tall towers of flour, made from wheat grown by US farmers. (I have some thoughts on this…next post.) It’s busy, with loaders stocking the ten-ton trucks and the warehouse team counting every item that goes into a truck…every item is counted and accounted for. We all review the plan and coordinate how many trucks go to specific distribution points across various villages.

And then it’s out to the villages, fingers crossed that the road will be open. Since independence, Tajikistan has seen a renewal of traditional cultural and social values, including a revival of Islamic practices. One result is the withdrawal of women from public life. But not during distribution, when the women talk and laugh while their children play. While conducting a study here last summer, several women told me that distribution allowed them to meet new friends and catch up with others. The atmosphere is festive, with community members helping transport the staples to homes…vehicles, wheelbarrows, donkeys…whatever it takes. Men invite us to their homes to show us their greenhouses, which our field coordinators and volunteers have taught them how to build and use. It’s exciting. And our local team and volunteers are phenomenal; they are organized and in good spirits as they exchange news with community members and keep everything moving. Overall, it’s been a good week.

Lost and found…notes from last summer

I’m lost in Tajikistan. Well, not completely. I know that I’m in the remote Rasht Valley, looking for the village where my Tajik colleagues and I will sleep for the night. As our vehicle crawls along a rutted road, I look out the window and try to imagine what first drew the Tajiks to this land with no horizon, just sheer mountains in every direction. The sun sinks into the imposing peaks and summer’s lush landscape becomes muted. Velvety emerald fields fade. Snowy mountain crevices lose their shimmer. There is a cool bite in the air after a scorching day.

I’ve been traversing this region for several weeks, conducting interviews with young mothers about their family’s food security. This is the first time we’ve lost our way. The non-governmental organization we’re working with prefers that we do not travel after dark. It’s dusk when we turn down another road. The temperamental tape player skips like a record with each dip in the road and the tinny local pop music comes in bursts now. Abdul-Rahmon drives with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel as his grey eyes stay fixed on the road. I call him the Bear because he lumbers more than he walks. He tells me that true Tajiks are fair-skinned and not like Sher-Mahkamah, my translator, with his nearly-black eyes and dark skin.
Sitting next to me in the backseat, Sher-Mahkamah takes this subtle criticism in stride. I’m not too surprised because his family comes from neighboring Uzbekistan, although he’s a proud Tajik who favors the idea of an Islamic state. Both men pray five times daily. Just this afternoon, we took extra time to pray after a woman breast-fed her baby during an interview. Although she turned her back to us, Sher-Mahkamah was distressed when we left her home because he had been in the presence of what he described as an “immodest woman.”

“Why do you need to ask God to forgive you for seeing a mother feed her baby?” I asked. We begin a lot of our conversations with antagonistic questions, asked good-naturedly with a genuine goal to better understand each other. He sighed. “More than 50,000 men died in our civil war, many fighting for Islam,” he told me. “Was it for nothing? Now we have immodest women like this one.”

This is the same man who innocently flirts with the women we interview, slips wild flowers behind his ear, and teases me when he catches a glimpse of my ankle, the only exposed skin other than my hands. We even joke that he may have to start praying six or seven times a day to redeem himself.

Tajikistan’s fragile peace was hard won 11 years ago, but the civil war still haunts daily life. Women talk about husbands who died in the fighting. Abandoned tanks serve as reminders that war once raged in this quiet landscape. Right here on this unpaved road. Once, while drinking tea with several men, one man leaned toward me and identified another as a former soldier who pressed a gun to his head during the war. My stomach tightened.

“Don’t worry. We don’t want more fighting. We’ll have peace now. Insha’Allah,” he told me. The Arabic phrase translates as God willing. And every facet of daily life in Rasht is God willing. Tajik friends smile sympathetically when they hear me talk of future plans. Insha’Allah, they gently remind me.

When I announced to my family and friends back home that I was spending the summer here, they responded in chorus: “Where?” When they realized that the country shares a border with Afghanistan, they also responded similarly: “Is it safe over there?” I certainly feel safe. The Tajiks tell me that all guests are a gift from Allah and I am treated as such. There is a spirit of tranquility and warmth among the families who welcome me into their homes each night.

Another burst of music and my head bumps against the window. Abdul-Rahmon slows the vehicle and asks for directions from young soldiers wearing fatigues and cutting grass for fodder. They point to where we just came from. Abdul-Rahmon apologizes.

“We don’t have maps,” he says. Here, life unfolds minute by minute. I’m starting to accept that daily life is unpredictable, despite my planning and organizing. I’m forced to live in the moment and trust everyone around me. Alone, I could never find my way out of these mountains if my life depended on it.

We make another turn. And another. It’s dark now. It takes effort for the half-moon to climb above the craggy horizon and illuminate the sky. Finally, Abdul-Rahmon stops the vehicle and sighs.

He slides his hands down across his face and brings them to prayer. It’s been a long day. A day that began before sunrise when the men rose for prayer and I drank warm goat’s milk with the women. We’re quiet and then Sher-Mahkamah reaches forward and turns up the music. Really cranks it. He hops out and starts to dance with arms extended, shoulders shrugging and fingers snapping. Abdul-Rahmon slowly smiles. I burst out laughing and clap along to the music. He shimmies toward my door and opens it. He grasps my hands and pulls me out of the car. I clumsily twirl my wrists as I’ve observed Tajik women do at wedding parties. We stomp up dust. We laugh. The brisk air moves with us. Suddenly, I don’t feel lost anymore. Insha’Allah, I’m exactly where I should be.

En route to the Rasht Valley and rumors of militants…

Tajikistan is incredibly remote…and the Rasht Valley even more so. Hemmed in by peaks that reach 10,000 feet or higher, the landscape is gorgeous. Unreal. Lush green hills look crushed against jagged mountains still capped with quite a bit of snow in June. The horizon is nearly one-dimensional. Like an overly dramatic painting done by a painter who can’t quite capture depth and dimension. It’s unreal. 

It was quite a trek to Garm and the security has been tightened since I was here last fall. I went through two security checkpoints (more on that later). According to the media, the militant Islamic commander, Abdullo Rakhimov, has returned to the area from Pakistan and is meeting with elders to garner support.

This was his base during Tajikistan’s civil war, which took place between the current government and the United Tajik Opposition (UTO), which was an uneasy alliance of democrats and Islamists. While the peace accords in 1997 brought members of the UTO into parliament, Abdullo reportedly crossed the border into northern Afghanistan.

Interestingly, I sat next to Muhiddin Kabiri on the flight from Istanbul to Dushanbe. A friendly, polite and smart man, he is the leader of the Islamist Renaissance Party and described as a moderate who is a skilled negotiator. The IRP is the only legally recognized religious party in Central Asia. He said that indeed the rumors are true…a handful of “combatants” have returned to Rasht and he hopes the government can work to move towards peaceful solutions and perhaps offer them amnesty. Most people here say that the returned former mujahidin just want a quiet place to live. 

The day before yesterday, I was stopped at a checkpoint and asked for my passport and visa, which was in Dushanbe so it could be registered with the government. The copy I had with me was not acceptable…although it was last year. Policemen milled about and we were detained for almost three hours…not totally sure why. In the end, they sent me back to Dushanbe. Apparently, the “big boss” was at the checkpoint and protocol was not to be broken. It was hot. I was wearing the black skirt and long-sleeved top that I had ben wearing since Saturday because my bag did not arrive. Sweat was trickling down my stomach as one officer leaned into the car and spoke with me in Kyrgyz, after he learned I know Kyrgyz but not much Tajik. “I have thirteen children,” he boasted. 

The following day, we drove p to the checkpoint again. This time I had my passport ready. The officer came to my window and apologized for the day before. “Just doing my job,” he said. When I handed my passport over, he just gave it back to me. “We already have your information,” he said.