Last night,
I went for a walk with Bakari, Magda, and two other younger people from Oni. We
walked in circles on the main street, bought chocolate and mineral water to
share, and talked about how the one young man was going to leave in a few weeks
to go to the police academy in Tbilisi.
One of the
things that Saakashvili has done well here is reform the police. There is
corruption in some small town local governments, that is for sure. But the
police—Personally I was frustrated to be followed when I first got here. They
stopped following me after I was harassed by a drunk officer and reported it.
Some of them haven’t looked me in the eye since that happened. They were getting
new cars when I first arrived here and they got a few new cars last week.
They’re also getting a completely new building; the construction can be heard
from my school’s path. A friend who’s a bit of an anarchist told me that the
money the government sent to rebuild the town has all gone into the police
trucks. He also told me that my phone’s area code—which my program told
everyone is the Tbilisi area code—is actually the code for phones that are
monitored by the police. On both counts, I didn’t want to believe him. But I do
wonder where the money for such shiny new trucks comes from, and Eka affirmed
that my phone’s code is the police code. All this said, people on the street
seem content with the police reforms. The academy in Tbilisi is a shiny glass building.
There are commercials on TV for it often, and it does seem to be one of the
preferred career paths for young men here. Most of my 9th graders
say they want to become police officers. They like and trust their officers,
which I’ve repeatedly been told is a huge change from how things used to be. I’ve
met plenty of officers who are honest and nice people. They wanted to become
cops because it’s seen as noble and helpful. They work 36 hour shifts in a
small town near two dangerous borders. True, they’ve joked that they have cars
instead of horses because they drink during their shifts and would fall off
horses. But I’ve only seen a police car outside a beer shop once, so I’m sure
it was just a joke. Right?
Anyway.
Bakari and I went to have tea with his mother after the others went home. His
mother had a huge operation about a year ago, and he spends his nights
performing a few medical procedures for her every 5 hours. They really don’t
have much money, but they like company. His mother sat next to me reading a
Russian atlas while Baka pulled out a stack of black and white photos from his
childhood. We looked through them, pausing periodically so he could tell me
which girl he loved, point out the Levi jeans or Converse sneakers that someone
smuggled through the Iron Curtain for him, or tell me what happened to this and
that classmate. Some were people I recognized. One now lives in Germany; one is
in prison; about a third are dead. This is a little unnerving, because Bakari
is only 37.
He asked if
I knew about Occupation Week. I said that Eka had mentioned it when I asked why
the news anchors were wearing roses. He explained that the 23rd used
to be “Men’s Day” in Soviet times. Now it’s known as “Russian Military Day.” We
didn’t mark it, but my male friend who teaches in Batumi was presented with
flowers when he walked into school. For once, Oni is less Soviet than a big
city.
Which brings
me to today. School started with an announcement that we would be combining
some of our classes so that the younger grades could go to Keti’s puppet show
at 1 o’clock. Matsatso and I taught 1st through 3rd
grade, 4th and 6th grade, and then 1st grade
gym class (in which they played chess). When we went back to the teachers’ room
after gym class, I was given a paper rose to tape to my sweater. I figured out
from the conversation that we were having an assembly of some sort to mark the
last day of Occupation Week, and we went down the hall to watch a film with the
7th through 9th graders.
The film was
called “A Soviet Story.” I took it home to watch in English, and I’ll write
about that separately. At school, though, we watched the Georgian version so I
didn’t understand much. They fast forwarded through a lot of it, looking for
the part where it talked about Georgia. It didn’t talk about Georgia, so we
listened to the part where Putin talked instead. One of the teachers loudly
protested through the film: “They used to say things were this way. Now they
say things were that way. They’ll change the story again in a few years, but that’s
just not how things were for me.” I don’t know whether the students agreed or
not, but they got bored after an hour like normal kids. I’ll ask them on Monday
about their thoughts. In yesterday’s class, the 8th graders couldn’t
tell my co-teacher when their Independence Day is. They kept throwing out dates
and she kept shaking her head. Then she asked when my Independence Day is. I
reminded her that she has a booklet (which she had before I arrived here) about
it and that it’s written about in the 7th grade textbook: July 4th.
The picture in the booklet she has is of children wearing red and white striped
shirts. They’re wearing dark blue shorts and carrying pinwheels…She asked if
these are uniforms, and I told her and the kids that usually people just BBQ
and light fireworks. There certainly are no uniforms for most of us civilians.
They nodded, and then they started arguing about why they didn’t know their own
holiday’s date.
The students
all left after the film, but the teachers went into the teachers’ room. We ate
mtchadi with cheese, badje (paste of
ground walnuts and dried marigold petals), and a sweet dessert made from boiled
buckwheat mixed with sugar, walnuts, and raisins. It was all very good and very
simple food. Here’s to the first Friday of Lent. My fellow teachers are fasting
too. The fast a lot. The past two weeks have been meat-free for them. Starting
this Sunday (I think…they debate among each other about specifics) they start a
big fast. They’ll essentially be vegans until Easter (although they also debate
about what exactly is and isn’t allowed on which days…). In the US that’s easy
enough. There’s lots of produce and there are lots of meat/dairy/egg substitute
products. Here in Oni it’s a little more difficult. I already can’t find
tomatos, lettuce, or eggplants. We’re running low on pumpkins and so have been
eating a lot of potatoes and beets. I guess during the fast we’ll eat potatoes,
borscht, and egg/milk/butter-free breads. I’ll be curious to see how creative
people get with their few available ingredients. There was more produce back
during the pre-Christmas fast so there were more options. Now…I’m not sure how
this will work.
Walking
home, I noticed that the sun was warm on my cheeks despite the cold wind. This
and the sight of the catsikutsera tempt me to hope that spring will come soon,
but I’m trying to be practical and not hope too much so that the bitter first
weeks of March don’t make me despair. Matsatso and I were talking about seasons
as we walked, and she said that summer is her favorite. Oni, she said, is very
very hot during summer afternoons. But the mornings are cool, and it’s ok to
have to stay inside in the afternoons because family members who spend winters
in Tbilisi come back for the summer weeks. Her sisters come back and bring her
nieces and nephews, and she loves being together with them again after a long
winter apart. She said that she likes autumn’s colors and fruits, and she loves
snow in the winter. Then she surprised me by saying that she doesn’t like
spring. Her reasoning is that nature goes crazy in the spring and people do
too. She said that people’s minds and hearts become reckless in the spring and
she doesn’t like it.
I’ve known
for a while that seasons affect how people feel. That’s logical enough: short
days are depressing, being inside all the time is annoying, heat makes us lazy.
But usually I wouldn’t link how I feel in spring with the sudden blossoming of
nature. I’d just say that it had to do with finally having freedom after months
cooped up because of the cold. She’s right though. Nature and people both go
crazy in the spring. I find it a bit refreshing. I always relish the first day
that’s warm enough for me to throw all my windows open and leave my coat at
home. Wearing short-sleeves and a skirt again is heaven. Being barefoot in the
grass usually comes later, but I love it. Spring is the time of year to let the
sunshine and the flower-scented breeze clear out the dust that gathered in my
home over the winter. Vegetables other than potatoes become abundant just as
the weather is warm enough for real outdoor exercise (and, here, for shower
water every day I’m told!), which means I can revitalize my body at the same
time that I’m revitalizing my home. So then I feel much better and I watch
plants grow…As alive as I feel when I shiver and watch my breath crystallize
the morning air in my bedroom, I feel even more alive when I’m outside with my
hands in the dirt.
Some people
make resolutions at New Years. I’ve always been better off if I wait until
around Lent. Then by Easter it’s usually spring. When spring comes, I stop
worrying about keeping warm and start working at untangling all the knots I
made in life over the winter. I order my thoughts, re-assess my priorities,
start restoring/redefining/repairing relationships…Spring is crazy, but I like
it.
The rest of
the day, I was a pretty boring person. My computer hasn’t been working, so when
I came home from school I took it apart and cleaned it. That helped. Jumberi
was both impressed that I could use a screwdriver and frustrated that I wanted
to work. I got home before he did, so I was at the table with computer parts
spread out in front of me when he walked in. He immediately ordered me to eat,
and I politely explained that I wanted to work first. He grumbled as he sat
down to watch TV and then proceeded to turn around every three minutes and
order me to eat. After the first few times of replying that I wanted to finish
working first, that I wasn’t hungry, and
that I would feed myself when I was hungry, I stopped answering and resorted to
shaking my head ‘no’ without looking up. Then Eka surprised me by bringing the
internet home with its bandwidth restored (her poker-playing friend had run it
down to 0 over a week ago). So I sat at the table and quickly sorted out my
summer class registration—ignoring Jumberi’s hovering the whole while—and then
shot off a bunch of emails until her friend called and said he “needed” the
modem…for another poker match. Eka ran off to a supra so Jumberi and I had a
fried potato dinner together. He kept trying to spoon extra onto my plate, and
finally I put my plate in my lap so that he couldn’t reach it.
He does this
to Eka and Nona, too. Everyone does it; it’s a cultural thing and I know by now
that forcing food on someone is a way of expressing love and care. Most days,
by now, I can politely negotiate the situation or laugh it off and not be upset
by it. But there are some days when I sincerely don’t want to eat. The orders
to eat and drink and sit are especially frustrating when coupled with “my
little girl” or “my little beauty” or whatever other “my little…” it may be
that day. I want to say, “I am not a baby! I know when I am hungry and when I
am not; I know when I am thirsty and when I am not. I am not yours. My body is
not yours. I am mine. Step off and
have a little respect! I respect you!”
Later, I
watched the movie that my kids watched at school today. It was very
interesting. The producer/writer/researcher makes no effort to be subtle about
his agenda. Notes to follow…
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