Yuragim,
My younger cousin Muhammad sets the breakfast table,
Running to the local grocery store across the street–
Alone, 9 years old, no fear in his heart,
Returning with a tub of butter and yogurt I haven’t tasted in 14 years,
Treating himself to a lollipop with the change.Jonim,
My grandfather hobbles down the stairs for breakfast,
Replaying the video of my younger brother practicing piano for the fifteenth time,
Immediately stepping outside to tend to his garden in our courtyard,
As if the flowers and vegetables are his dear children,
Discretely passing Muhammad another 2,000 so’ms to buy candy from the store.Jigarim,
My older cousin, my Asal apa, invites herself into our home,
Extending invitations for this week’s weddings and gatherings in the neighborhood,
While her daughter – my niece – runs into my arms,
Exclaiming she’s missed me so much in the two days we didn’t meet.Azizlarim,
My paternal aunts, my ammas, call the house down for breakfast,
Making me take over for meal prep, as they’ve been up for hours,
Stepping outside to gossip with my apa and the other married women,
Debating which gatherings they should attend, why, and for how long.I haven’t walked these streets or seen these faces in over a decade,
but nonetheless, I am a daughter of the house.In all my time at Uzbekistan,
I felt no distance greater than that of a daughter or a sister:
I am my neighbor’s older sister apa, the local shopkeeper’s daughter qizim,
and my grandfather's soul jonim.This proximity is regular in my experience as a Persian,
Where the language is inherently poetic: Simple phrases translate to grand expressions,
And countless terms express endearment, love, and all forms of relationships.
Yet unheard of in my experience as an American,
Where endearment is extended only to partners and direct relatives,
And referencing a person by their relationship is outdated to the point of nonexistence.It was in America I learned to distance,
Where I learned to not acknowledge strangers, or approach them shyly when I did,
Though I would have approached them as my cousins and sisters,
It was here I learned indirect translations of our Persian phrases,
Where I express gratitude to my friends sharing a dish with a thank you, it tasted great,
Though I would have wished for their hand to never break, had I spoken in my tongue.But I do a disservice to myself, my culture, my language:
Our cultures in the East long for community,
My paternal grandmother lays next to her great-grandfather,
In the same plot of land my maternal great-great-grandfather sleeps.
Our neighbors plant sour cherry and mulberry trees outside of their homes
So that we may walk past and grab a snack on our promenade,
And we repay the favor for anyone who walks past with sour plum trees and grape vines.To us, our culture and community form the backbone of our identity and society.
And in a land of rugged individualism,
I’ve lost the biggest part of myself.You may call us backward, criticize us for slow infrastructure, mock our everyday life,
Even I find myself annoyed and angered at the difficult quality of life.
But my family is there,
Our roots nestled in Samarqand, nurtured for tens of generations.My cousins are my siblings,
my neighbors are my aunts and uncles,
my family is my soul, my dear, my heart.MiC Columnist Madina Nosirova can be found at nosirova@umich.edu.
