City water wheel

19/10/10

Today I woke up to one of Dushanbe’s scourges, no water in the taps. The rows of bottles in the bathroom with pale shades of water in, stored for a rainy day (as it were) made more sense now. Even tonight when I came home, there was still no water. I knew before I even got in the door as there were women collecting water in large canisters from the stream by the block, next to the small market.

Every day I cross the stream on a concrete bridge to get to SaadiShirozistreet. I look right and see the simple wooden water wheel turning, but I did not think I would see people collecting water there, even though I know that the Dushanbe water supply is notorious. It has been known to come out of the taps browny-yellow, carry typhoid or probably both. G washed her hair tonight; to do so water must be collected and heated, if not quite over a fire, but with the electric element. She has a presentation tomorrow on the economy of Iran.

I managed to find the office I was hunting for yesterday. Well I say found, only with the help of F who kindly came to get me, where I was hanging out, outside the Chinese Embassy, which is in a very grand position on Rudaki Street. I think it is one of the only, if not the only country to have been granted this honour by Tajikistan.I was glad to see that it was not me that couldn’t read maps, it’s just that they were both somewhat skewed!

F has found me another family to stay with which is great, I am learning so much more about life here, obviously, than I would if I stayed in a hotel, besides it being lovely to have people to chat to about our days. Why am I here on my own, F asked? I answered that if I was with a friend, I would spend all my time talking to them, in a little bubble of Englishness, whereas now I have to get out there and meet Tajiks!

We went for lunch in a government canteen with another woman, H, from her office. She was a history teacher in Badakhshan and spoke about how during the Soviet period they taught predominantly Soviet history, though Tajik and world history did get some kind of look in. During that period they only had one book on Tajik history, called “The Tajiks” By Bobojon Ghafurov, who is so revered as a Tajik historian, who has told them their history, that he has an avenue called after him in the west of the city. She now works in women’s rights and female empowerment projects, I was pleased and somewhat surprised to learn that the President Rahmon is a big supporter of such projects. The canteen was very grand, and the food, though simple was good. H spoke about how she used to visit this canteen when she was a student, and that this area was her stamping ground as her student accommodation was not far away from here.

After independence H made sure that she read all the history books that were becoming newly available. The curriculum changed, and Tajik history took a place centre stage in history lessons. She was really interesting to talk to and suggested many people I should talk to around the city.

Saying goodbye to F, she saw a friend of hers, K, coming up the street. She called herself an Orientalist, and was hoping to come to the Institute of Ismaili Studies next year on the STEP programme. She kindly suggested that she accompany me to the nearby SadriddinAini Museum. He was a writer who spanned the end of the Emirate and the Soviet invasion. This orphan boy from a village between Bukhara and Samarqand, who went to the madrassa in Bukhara and ended up sitting in the desk I saw as the first President of the Tajik Academy of Sciences. They have a photograph of his one storey white walled house in the village.

K translated what the guide told us about his life and the objects in the museum. I have read his autobiographical book about growing up in the village and going to school in Bukhara, which is full of humanity, the tenuousness and corruption of things under the Emirate. He has a statue in front of the Bekhzod Museum and I travel down the adjoining road named after him every day. There was another room that the guide couldn’t show us, as up until recently Kamollidin Aini, the big man’s son, has personally showed visitors around. However since his death in August 2010, no one has been able to find the key. The room has remained locked.
K agreed that if I needed a translator on visits to the Academy she would be happy to do it on her return from Khujend. Great.

From the Aini Museum I went to a screening of an Afghan piece of movement theatre at the Bactria Centre. It was so moving, ten people with minimal props apart from their bodies and their voices. Telling the story of the wars and violence against women that go round and round there.It especially m There were unexpected French subtitles which was good. The director was with us, tall and willowy she was on stage being thanked in headscarf and manteaux. Here in a short skirt showing slim legs, just across the border. For a while during the performance one of the actors’ headscarves had slipped down, and I wondered if that wasn’t problematic at a performance in Kabul? I wanted to ask her, but am sure she is bored of speaking about what women wear or can’t wear and wanted to talk about their performances. An Iranian woman, J, of whom, more later, was also very surprised at this.

And for those of you who have asked for photographic evidence - next time I promise!