Dushanbe is the Tajik word for Monday. The Soviets selected the site of the
“Monday Bazaar” or “Dushanbe
Bazaar” to build the capital of Tajikistan. Before I arrived, a few people warned me against staying in
Dushanbe since it was a concrete jungle, where no one will speak to you on the
street. To me, Dushanbe is a great
mix of city and country. Inside
stores, homes, and libraries, people are welcoming and patient. Outside, in buses, open markets, and
walking home, people keep their distance, and I am fine with that as well.
Still the city feels small enough to bump up against the
daily trials and triumphs of those around me. Walking home from services at Jamatkhane last week, I saw a
huge plume of smoke. Larger than a
plume – this was a massive, assaulting mega cloud of purple and gray and it
felt much more ominous than rain. It was so odd that I made a mental note of it. Later that evening, my host family told
me there was a fire in Korvon, the largest bazaar in Dushanbe. Many fine rugs, wood carvings and
antiques had been looted or burned from a whole stretch of stalls. Apparently, this happened many times a
year.
The next morning was a Thursday. I stepped out of the National Library, where I work on the
fourth floor, around 11:30 AM after a morning session at the American Corner. The Library is within a few
blocks of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Presidential Palace and the
Mayor’s Office so it was a central spot to meet with my new Tajik tutor. We sat on a bench opposite the row of
identical fountains lining the pathway.
After around 15 minutes of chatting, my tutor, who is about
45 and wears the same golden Tajik tunic at each of our lessons, kept darting
looks behind me. I kept looking
over my shoulder and didn’t notice a thing. I felt as though she was spotting ghosts. Another five minutes passed and the
swarm of people gathering, shouting and calling the name of God, attracted due
attention from everyone around us. By the time I turned back to face my tutor, she had already
picked herself and her bags up off the bench and ushered me to follow away from
the crowd. From a safe distance,
we turned around to watch the ensuing punches the crowd was throwing. Their anger was directed toward the
policemen restraining them at first, and then it turned on each other. The most dire snapshot from this
chaotic scene that I can recall was of a stress-ridden young lady, maybe in her
late 20s, slouching on another lady and throwing tired punches into the air
while yelling at the top of her lungs at a police officer as he poked her and
her supportive friend away using the tip of his baton.
By this time, my Tajik tutor had asked a passerby about the
situation. She informed us that at
the center of the crowd were young shopowners whose entire livelihoods had
burned in the bazaar. They had
taken their grievances to the Mayor’s office, but were quickly batted away by
the city police, unable to even meet the Mayor. In such a situation, no Tajik is guaranteed money from the
city or insurance, although they pay monthly fees to both to maintain their
bazaar stalls. Some speculated it was a way for the
city to commandeer land without having to pay landowners.
At that moment, I realized my tutor and I were watching some
of the deeper wounds of the people of Dushanbe being salted. I knew I should leave, but as a natural
reaction, I stayed on a little longer to watch. My tutor had retreated 50 feet behind of me and two men
shoved me as they ran toward the mob.
I knew I had to leave right then, even though I didn’t feel personally threatened
or in any danger. I just wanted to
see the slouching lady once more to know if she had hit her target, or had
finally collapsed under the weight of her situation.
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