I can’t even begin to fathom how many individuals actually read my blog, but if you’re reading this, then I’d have to assume you care somewhat about the Kyrgyz Republic.
Every Friday at half past two, 15-20 young women, ages 15-23 attend our Women’s Leadership Club. As Megan and I put finishing touches on our lesson plans, the ladies trickle in – eventually filling up a large circle in our classroom at the Kyrgyz-Uzbek University.
The three goals of Women’s Leadership Club are to 1. Practice English 2. Discuss issues relevant to women in Kyrgyzstan 3. Have fun. In the process we hope to transfer important skills and to facilitate and foster a safe environment for local women to dialogue about issues that effect their lives.
Past session topics included: dream jobs, careers, gender expectations, resume writing, cover letters, interview skills, mock interviews, labor migration, human trafficking, HIV/AIDS, sexuality/safe sex, menstruation, self-esteem, culture, breaking stereotypes, Black History month, effective communication, challenges women face, and assertiveness. So far we have held twenty-one sessions. Upcoming sessions will be focused on nutrition/women’s health, homosexuality, prostitution, body image/concepts of beauty, and goal setting.
Every week a core group of girls show up, but there are always new people too. The core group of girls also comprises the student planning committee for the Southern Kyrgyzstan Women’s Leadership Conference that we are developing.
The leadership conference will be for 3-4 days. Our student planning committee has been meeting regularly to decide on session topics, local leaders to invite, presenters, activities, venues, and other aspects of the event. They have already designed a logo and a slogan for t-shirts and certificates.
The Women’s Leadership Club has been one of the most fulfilling activities of my Peace Corps service thus far because the young women who come to club are so inspiring. They are intelligent and motivated – which in turn motivates me. We’ve had some amazing, and some difficult discussions on topics some of our girls have never spoken about before. I feel good about helping them to critically think about their environments and issues that impact their lives. On top of all that, we’ve been able to share cross-cultural experiences.
This is where you all come in. Up until now, Megan and I have been paying for the materials we use during club with money from our living stipends. We would love to set up a Women’s Leadership club fund through donations. Just a small budget, would help us do more with the club over the course of the next year and a half, and would help us reach more young women.
Materials here such as flipcharts, small notebooks, markers, and the like are all fairly inexpensive. A couple hundred dollars would go a long way. If you would like to support our Women’s Leadership Club please email me at beckyj6043@hotmail.com and I will send you my mailing address. Cash and/or office supplies would be much appreciated.
On behalf of Women’s Club – Thanks!
Monday, April 28, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
April Showers...
I turned 24 in Kyrgyzstan, on the 14th of April. I’ve always felt older than my age, but 24 seems like a good year. It rained all day, but it was productive nonetheless. I cleaned my entire apartment – since my friend from Talas was coming down for the week, and worked a bit. I got 2 packages from the post office. In the evening I made pizzas with the other volunteers at Meg and Theo’s place. I splurged on canned olives to add to the fresh basil, spinach, and sun-dried tomato toppings. So gourmet! Karen made brownies – my favorite. It was a great night, concluded with a few competitive rounds of catch phrase.
On Tuesday of last week, one of my NGOs had a project writing training from 9-5. It was in Russian and I understood most of what was going on. After lunch my brain was fried, but I stuck it out. When I got home I was so exhausted. But – since I fixed my oven I decided to christen it, so I made green bean casserole! Yummy!!
So my friend from Talas hung out for the week, which was fun. She gave a presentation for the leadership workshops.
I got a fridge finally, on Thursday! My landlord was pretty resistant to my pleas, so I busted out some Russian to negotiate. I think he was impressed/entertained so he finally gave in. He said his family was getting bigger so he needed to buy a new one; I got his old one. It’s so nice to be able to refrigerate my milk, cheese, and eggs and have cold beverages. How did I live 5 months without one?!
My good friend Karen left Kyrgyzstan (again) on Saturday. Her farmer-to-farmer project with Winrock International ended, so she said goodbye and packed up. It’s going to be strange not having her and her baked goods around.
Hopefully all these April showers will bring lots of fruits and veggies in the months to come.
On Tuesday of last week, one of my NGOs had a project writing training from 9-5. It was in Russian and I understood most of what was going on. After lunch my brain was fried, but I stuck it out. When I got home I was so exhausted. But – since I fixed my oven I decided to christen it, so I made green bean casserole! Yummy!!
So my friend from Talas hung out for the week, which was fun. She gave a presentation for the leadership workshops.
I got a fridge finally, on Thursday! My landlord was pretty resistant to my pleas, so I busted out some Russian to negotiate. I think he was impressed/entertained so he finally gave in. He said his family was getting bigger so he needed to buy a new one; I got his old one. It’s so nice to be able to refrigerate my milk, cheese, and eggs and have cold beverages. How did I live 5 months without one?!
My good friend Karen left Kyrgyzstan (again) on Saturday. Her farmer-to-farmer project with Winrock International ended, so she said goodbye and packed up. It’s going to be strange not having her and her baked goods around.
Hopefully all these April showers will bring lots of fruits and veggies in the months to come.
Monday, April 7, 2008
April
Disclaimer: I usually write pretty realistically, to make it easy to convey what I’m experiencing here. The following is an example of how I write for me – more creative. I hope this reveals another layer of understanding.
Kyrgyzstan has seeped into my pores like a fine dust, leaving on my skin a gritty residue. Constant friction leaves me raw and tired but I cannot sleep. Am I changing? Am I growing? I sculpt awkwardness and cultivate its forms on my heel. Lean into your discomfort they said. I’m leaning so much, I’m almost lying down; but no, I will not surrender.
Faces and tongues that were once new I feel as if they have always belonged to me, or me to them – though we don’t always understand. I cradle my hours, frame in my mind the moments I never want to elude me. Time is elusive here; I feel older somehow.
Stallion reds and hushes of greens, stable yellows, and violet flurries guide me now, always alive. When there’s nothing else there’s always color. I look forward to the freshness of vibrant mornings, solitary walks, humming thoughts.
In the village, miles away from everything and nothing, I sit with the women and they give me tea, bowls of sumalack, homemade naan. I made a wish on the stone in my sumalack, lucky me, then gave it to six-year-old Monha Liza. Her toothy smile broke my heart, filled me with hope. Riding home past fields and farms and poverty and life, the urgency of childbearing shakes me, and I cry. Silent tears for my unknown future and unborn children. I’ve never been so sure.
Naked, I examine my body; fingers trace scars etched in fleshy mauve. I look on the outside how I feel on the inside: soft and imperfect, altered. I think often about the impressions left on me and the ones I blindly, carelessly leave behind. Such fragments, such deep gashes. I should be more careful.
Terminals and hotels, Russian taxi drivers, conversions come so easily now. Exchange rates, cultural exchange, interpersonal exchange, change, change, adapt.
Hand wash; soak in suds, scrub with scratchy bars. Rinse and wring, wring and rinse then hang dry. Green clothes lines and cheap Chinese clothespins. My socks and underwear are exposed and dripping on my balcony for all of Aravanskaya to see.
Kyrgyzstan has seeped into my pores like a fine dust, leaving on my skin a gritty residue. Constant friction leaves me raw and tired but I cannot sleep. Am I changing? Am I growing? I sculpt awkwardness and cultivate its forms on my heel. Lean into your discomfort they said. I’m leaning so much, I’m almost lying down; but no, I will not surrender.
Faces and tongues that were once new I feel as if they have always belonged to me, or me to them – though we don’t always understand. I cradle my hours, frame in my mind the moments I never want to elude me. Time is elusive here; I feel older somehow.
Stallion reds and hushes of greens, stable yellows, and violet flurries guide me now, always alive. When there’s nothing else there’s always color. I look forward to the freshness of vibrant mornings, solitary walks, humming thoughts.
In the village, miles away from everything and nothing, I sit with the women and they give me tea, bowls of sumalack, homemade naan. I made a wish on the stone in my sumalack, lucky me, then gave it to six-year-old Monha Liza. Her toothy smile broke my heart, filled me with hope. Riding home past fields and farms and poverty and life, the urgency of childbearing shakes me, and I cry. Silent tears for my unknown future and unborn children. I’ve never been so sure.
Naked, I examine my body; fingers trace scars etched in fleshy mauve. I look on the outside how I feel on the inside: soft and imperfect, altered. I think often about the impressions left on me and the ones I blindly, carelessly leave behind. Such fragments, such deep gashes. I should be more careful.
Terminals and hotels, Russian taxi drivers, conversions come so easily now. Exchange rates, cultural exchange, interpersonal exchange, change, change, adapt.
Hand wash; soak in suds, scrub with scratchy bars. Rinse and wring, wring and rinse then hang dry. Green clothes lines and cheap Chinese clothespins. My socks and underwear are exposed and dripping on my balcony for all of Aravanskaya to see.
Kyrgyz New Year
On March 21st - 24th I celebrated Norus, the Kyrgyz New Year, with my coworkers and friends. One day I went to a sumalack party at one of my NGOs and one day I went to a village festival with some other volunteers.
Sumalack is a traditional food that is made once a year, on Norus. It is made from cooking ground wheat and wheat milk with oil and stones in a large outdoor kazan. The kazan looks like a giant wok, but deeper, and is usually mounted on bricks above an open fire pit. The sumalack needs to be constantly boiling and stirred for 24 hours. When it is finished it looks like a thick brown molasses; and is usually eaten with bread. I got to stir the sumalck with what looked like an oar, for about an hour. You’re supposed to make a wish while making your first stir, and later when eating it, if you get a stone that’s good luck. Sumalack is made in huge batches, then jarred and stored in the fridge. I was given a liter.
The village festival we stumbled upon was a bit of an accident. We had hear that oolack was being played in this particular village about 25 minutes outside of the city, so we jumped in a taxi and got dumped on the side of the road. Where we thought would be oolack (men on horses play a polo like game with a sheep head) the whole village had gathered for a Norus festival. At first people just stared and we didn’t feel comfortable, but then a few older women ushered us into their yurt and played music for us. There were 4 other yurts and a circle formed around a microphone. Throughout the day there were musical performers, speeches, dances, and a simulated wedding precession in the middle of the circle. In the yurts judges were going around scoring them on various traditional foods laid out, decorations, and entertainment. We got invited into each yurt and were given foods to try and tea to drink. Yurts are a lot bigger on the inside than they seem from the outside, and quite comfortable too.
On Norus, the city was teeming with people and families, everybody wearing their “Sunday best.” It was a gloriously warm day and all of the outdoor cafes were at full capacity. People were picnicking on every patch of green grass in the park, and young boys were playing on the riverbed in their underwear.
Sumalack is a traditional food that is made once a year, on Norus. It is made from cooking ground wheat and wheat milk with oil and stones in a large outdoor kazan. The kazan looks like a giant wok, but deeper, and is usually mounted on bricks above an open fire pit. The sumalack needs to be constantly boiling and stirred for 24 hours. When it is finished it looks like a thick brown molasses; and is usually eaten with bread. I got to stir the sumalck with what looked like an oar, for about an hour. You’re supposed to make a wish while making your first stir, and later when eating it, if you get a stone that’s good luck. Sumalack is made in huge batches, then jarred and stored in the fridge. I was given a liter.
The village festival we stumbled upon was a bit of an accident. We had hear that oolack was being played in this particular village about 25 minutes outside of the city, so we jumped in a taxi and got dumped on the side of the road. Where we thought would be oolack (men on horses play a polo like game with a sheep head) the whole village had gathered for a Norus festival. At first people just stared and we didn’t feel comfortable, but then a few older women ushered us into their yurt and played music for us. There were 4 other yurts and a circle formed around a microphone. Throughout the day there were musical performers, speeches, dances, and a simulated wedding precession in the middle of the circle. In the yurts judges were going around scoring them on various traditional foods laid out, decorations, and entertainment. We got invited into each yurt and were given foods to try and tea to drink. Yurts are a lot bigger on the inside than they seem from the outside, and quite comfortable too.
On Norus, the city was teeming with people and families, everybody wearing their “Sunday best.” It was a gloriously warm day and all of the outdoor cafes were at full capacity. People were picnicking on every patch of green grass in the park, and young boys were playing on the riverbed in their underwear.
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