Tajikistan has been in the news again lately, not for a good reason. Though Putin is trying to connect Ukraine to the mass shooting in Moscow on March 22nd, they have arrested four men, some Tajik for the attack that killed 190 people. As I mentioned in my first post on Tajikistan, there was an Islamic militant problem there a decade ago, and it hasn’t changed. As I observed back then, when you make practicing one’s religion externally, like wearing headscarves or attending mosque, illegal or restrict it, it becomes even more political. People see their identity as being repressed, and religiosity is conflated with political opposition to the now 30-years in power President of Tajikistan. When political and religious freedom is limited, things practiced in secret tend toward the radical. Combine that double repression with poverty, and you get a population primed for radical recruitment. Now, back to the ever-fresh time-capsule of my experience auditing a class in Dushanbe, in mid-September 2010.
Higher Ed, Central Asian Style
I had to leave my Media class at American Councils early to make it to my first Tajik University class on time. I took one of the Martruskha mini-bus-taxis, which was as much fun as the time I got stuck on the bus (another story). The mini-buses drive like mad on the decrepit streets and stop to pick up more people even when all the seats are taken, and unlike a bus, there’s nowhere to hold on. But they keep piling the people in and crouch because it’s not tall enough for a person to stand in. People start helping each other stay upright, holding strangers’ purses and grocery bags. As I said, no fun, but it only costs 20 cents, so you get what you pay for.
Each mini-bus seems to be an entrepreneurial venture involving several young men. One drives, one directs from the front seat, and another collects the fares. I had to walk another ten minutes to the University, and after I made it up four floors to the history department, sweating from the exertion, I tried to find the classroom. But what do you know, not all the rooms were numbered, so knowing that my class was in 436 didn’t help. Luckily, I met one of the staff in the hallway who we had arranged earlier would show me to the classroom. He brought me in, and I sat in the back of the narrow classroom. There were two male students, one female student, and then me. The professor was already in full-swing lecture mode. I started taking notes, following the other students’ lead. The professor only looked at the two male students while presenting the material.
I knew the class was supposed to be about the ancient history of Afghanistan, but I did not recognize anything he was talking about, and only when he gave the dates did I have some clue as to what century he was referring to. Later, I Wikipedia’d the history of Afghanistan, and I didn’t even know the names of all these tribes he’d mentioned that lived there in English. I also realized that the professor was speaking in Tajiki, and he had a full set of upper and lower gold teeth. Not a good sign, so much for the “educated Tajiki” sounding more like Persian.
I had been warned beforehand that the Tajik (and perhaps simply non-American) style of higher education was very different from the student-centered, everyone’s–a winner, and show-me-how-smart-your-opinions-are way of doing things I was accustomed to in the States.
Here in Tajikistan, the students stand up when the professor arrives. He (usually a he) reads the material, and everyone writes it down word for word. At the end of the term there is some exam, usually in oral format. No papers, no back-and-forth discourse in class, no homework. And they say there’s a lot of grade-buying and diploma buying, too. I took notes in Persian script (I can barely scratch out Cyrillic at this point, but working on it) as best I could. My dictation will improve, at least I can see that already. I surreptitiously took a photo but did not capture the gold teeth. Due to the small class size, the professor had to consider his students’ dictation progress, pausing for them to catch up. He even stopped and asked if there were questions.
When he had finished a brief summary of the history of the spread of Islam in the world, one of the male students asked, “What about Russia?” The professor launched into a humorous (in my view) telling of the legend about the Ambassadors of all faiths going to pagan Russia to present their religions for consideration, after which the Russians accepted Orthodox Christianity. The gist of this legend was made clear by the Professor: Islam is a very strict religion, praying five times a day and no alcohol—and this was too much for the Russians, so they decided on Christianity, where wine was holy even. I laughed a bit at that part, and the professor (finally) looked at me with a look that showed he had no idea why I had laughed. The male student dutifully filled in this gap in his notes.
After class, I tried to chat with the one girl, but she seemed mildly perplexed. I had not been formally introduced to anyone, and being an American who speaks Persian (kind of), trying to learn Tajiki, taking notes in Persian and in English (she had glanced behind her a few times to see what I was doing) she didn’t know what to make of me. I asked her where the bathroom was, and as we struggled through the crowded hallways, we passed a bathroom, I said, is this for men or women? She looked confused, and shrugged, like she had no idea and had never used the bathroom at the University. Very odd, I will have to work more on rapport-building. I think I made clear that I would return every week on Mondays.
Social Norms on Family and Pedagogy
Back at home, I did lose patience and got stern with the kids (all various cousins) who apparently had been left unattended yesterday afternoon. Besides letting the 2-year-old scream her head off, shouting across the courtyard, and generally causing a ruckus for four hours, the 15-year-old acted dumb when I pointed out that food was spilled all over the floor (by the 2-year-old). I got serious for the first time, and they hopped to.
It’s funny how they marry so young; 17–18 is the norm (18 is the law), but now they are such children. All motivation comes from external sources. Being yelled at by Bibi or one of the aunts is the only way they will do anything. I am simultaneously fascinated and appalled at the family dynamics here. There seems to be a distinct pecking order involving age, but even that is not always the deciding factor. The aunts yell at the 15-year-old, who orders around the 12-year-old when no one is around. The one person who seems to have been dealt the worst hand is the daughter-in-law, otherwise referred to as Kelim, who stays home all day watching the kids, cooking, cleaning, etc. The visiting aunt (oldest daughter of Bibi who is my age) leaves to do whatever, and Kelim has to watch her children. In my family at home in the US, my sisters would always ask if one of us could watch the kids and not assume—but here, I’m pretty sure it’s a given that Kelim will watch them. Lately, we’ve exchanged some tired and knowing glances when the two-year-old starts screaming.
I thought I would try to take a more “progressive” Western approach with the kids. I even offered to help tutor the 15-year-old grandson in English, and he appeared very eager, bragging to Bibi that I would tutor him (quite an expensive service in this city, actually), but then he was never available when I suggested we actually study. Then his Bibi told me that I had to be sakht or strict, with him and make him study. I realized that that’s the only way they learn: through fear, duty, obligation, and being yelled at. It’s the only way they know how. I can’t do that. I’d rather be the Mehman guest and not have any responsibilities except eating than turn into this poor mother-less child’s substitute English teacher, Tajik-style.
Maybe they should be allowed to enjoy their brief childhood—precisely because they will become adults all too soon.