Life is good, work is bad

Sunday, March 16 2003
Sovhoz 22, Uzbekistan

Another two and a half months have passed, and suddenly I've been in Uzbekistan for almost eight months. That's longer than I've been anywhere in the past few years. It's hard to believe. There is a lingering idea or feeling in my mind that I am still new to this place, that I arrived only a few weeks ago. But then occasionally I realize how comfortable I have become here, how I have begun to accept as normal the things that used to frustrate me. I think I am becoming a part of this place, or maybe this place is becoming a part of me.

A couple months ago things were pretty rough, as I imagine things are for most volunteers at the sixth month mark. My host family was not especially friendly, and I felt lonely, depressed and hungry when I was in their home. At school, I was frustrated by the limitations I saw all around me, and I wondered what exactly I was sent here to do. I was spending most of my hours alone in my room waiting for Friday when I could escape to Bukhara for the weekend. Once in Bukhara, I would spend the next two days venting frustrations (read: bitching) together with other volunteers. Yes, we were all feeling a little bit down at that point.

Fun with Turks

I finally realized that things were not going to get better on their own, so I decided to take some initiative and change things myself. I started with moving to a new host family. I thought about changing families for a long time, but I hesitated because I knew that in a small community where everyone knows everyone else's business, my move could be the source of gossip for a long time as well as hurt the reputation of my host family, a relatively wealthy and well-respected family in the village. But after three months, I really couldn't stay any longer with a family that never smiled or laughed or projected any semblance of happiness. They were very nice and kind people, but our personalities just didn't match well.

So my counterpart and I came up with a nice excuse: I had to live closer to my counterpart; the ten minute walk puts us too far apart for us to work together. This is what we told everyone, but I think people know I moved because I wasn't happy. I moved in the beginning of February and have much happier because of it.

My new host family is wonderful, a much better match. They laugh and smile and in general seem to enjoy and appreciate what they have in their lives. The Wahibov's and most of our neighbors are Turks. At home, we speak Turkish, Uzbek, Russian, and some English. I love it. Now I remember why I came back to Uzbekistan. The mother, Gulyora, recently quit her job at the local kindergarten because they weren't paying her salary regularly enough, a much too common problem with teachers in Uzbekistan, especially in rural areas. Gulyora is small and thin and has light eyes and hennaed-red hair. The father, Sodir, is my counterpart's cousin and looks a little like Kurt Vonnegut. He left today for his second six-month tour as a worker in Russia. He builds crates. There are two host sisters, Hajar, 16 and Nasiba, 18, and a brother, Jahongir, 12. Jahongir plays the accordion. He is in one of my sixth form classes. He used to be kind a trouble maker in class, but after I moved in to his house, he has become one of the few kids who do their homework. There is also an older sister who is married and lives with her husband in another town. I haven't met her yet.

This family is poorer by all accounts than my first family, but they are much happier. In fact, the move from richer to poorer families seems to have been a trend recently among my group of volunteers. Peace Corps likes to pick families with more money, assuming volunteers will be happier with more conveniences, like color TV's and indoor plumbing. But more often than not, the richer families are the least friendly and the least fun. The Wahibov's don't have a television, and I like it that way. Sometimes in the evenings, Jahongir and I take turns playing music for the family, Jahongir on the accordion and I on the dutar (I started taking lessons again twice a week in a nearby town).

There is also Sobir Bobo, 67. He is Sodir's father, and he cracks me up. He tells me often that his own father lived to be 111 years old. He himself is still quite active, mentally and physically. He plays cards with his grandchildren enthusiastically, slamming down the cards forcefully when it's his turn. He cheats and thinks no one notices. The kids let him cheat. His skin is bronze and leathery from years of working in the fields. He has a tattoo of a watch on his left wrist from his Soviet army days. As I have written before, Sovhoz 22 and surrounding villages are home to a significant population of ethnic Turks. Stalin sent them here from Georgia in the 1940's. The then-leader of Uzbekistan accepted them and put them to work in the cotton fields. They are still working in the cotton fields. Sobir Bobo was six years old at the time. He remembers soldiers coming into his village in Georgia, digging trenches and setting up cannons. The villagers were told to leave within 24 hours. They had many cows and sheep, but they had to leave them behind. They ended up in rural areas in Uzbekistan, but they were spread out, only three families in each village.

Sobir Bobo tells everyone that I am his third daughter. He teaches me Turkish and I teach him English. The kids in my family call me Sofia Baji. "Baji" is the Turkish equivalent of the Uzbek "opa" the respectful title for older sister. It is also the Pakistani word for older sister, so it sounds very comfortable to me. Sobir Bobo also calls me Sofia Baji. When he sees me, he often cheers, "Sofia Baji! Hello!" It's very cute. I feel very cared for with the Wahibov's, and already I am starting to feel like a part of their family. I still go to Bukhara every weekend to go to the post office, and use the internet, etc. But now these trips seem more like a task than an escape. That's a good sign.

Anyway, I moved to the other side of the village (only a ten minute walk from where I lived before) and suddenly I was aware of a wonderful sense of community, something I had not seen in my first three months here. It's almost as if I‚'m in different village. Now I am almost exclusively hanging out with Turks, and they are a great crowd. My personal conclusion is that in this village at least, the Turks (including my new family) are more laid back and happy, while the Uzbeks (including my old family) are more sad and depressed and tired with life. That is a generalization of course, but that's my observation so far.

The community around me now reminds me of why I asked to live in a village. I feel so welcome here. Neighbors come and go in each other's homes on a regular basis. Women chat in the street, while groups of men sit around wooden stools playing dominoes. I often play frisbee, soccer or volleyball in the street with Jahongir, and the local group of 10-14-year-old boys: Bobur, Emil, Bashir, Kamran, Jasur, etc. I enjoy sitting outside on wooden benches chatting with the local woman and girls, all of us in mismatched clothes, and cracking sesame seeds, which I buy for 25 soum a handful and store in my pocket. The people around me know me and like me and are always ready to help me with anything I might need. I am not a stranger in a strange place anymore. I belong to them. I belong to Sovhoz 22. The taxi drivers know this when they see me in Gala-Assiya, a nearby town, waiting for a ride home. Sometimes the ride is free.

The village school

Finally comfortable and content with my living situation and my place in the community, I have spent the last several weeks focusing on my work. Unfortunately, things haven't changed much with my work at the school. I am still wondering what exactly I am supposed to be doing here.

Technically, my job is to teach English to children as well as share new teaching methods with the local teachers. I have not been a teacher for very long, but here "new methods" are still fairly simple ideas. "New methods" means anything beyond reading at the students from old Soviet-era textbooks. (The phrase, "It's high time!" is a textbook favorite). It means using various activities to cater to various learning styles. It means engaging all the students in class. It means making sure the students have learned one lesson's material before moving on to the next. It means making the lessons interesting so the students will actually want to learn. Ideally I am supposed to share ideas by conducting teacher training sessions with the local English teachers. Well, I work in a rural village that has one school, and that school has one English teacher, my counterpart. She doesn't do any of these things I've mentioned. And when I try to share these ideas with her, she often tells me, "Sofia, we can not change things." So I wonder why I am here.

At the very least, I have been trying to teach by example, letting my counterpart see these "new methods" as I use them in my own lessons. But she is the only English teacher and is responsible for teaching as many English lessons during the day as possible. And since the school doesn't pay its teachers as often as it is supposed to, she spends all of her free time giving private lessons in her home. Since I can't really conduct any teacher training sessions, I have been trying to teach by example, letting my counterpart see the "new methods" as I use them in my own lessons. But since she is so busy, when I am teaching my lessons, she is resting, not watching my lessons. I can't blame her for that. So much for "new methods".

One of Peace Corps‚ favorite mantras is "sustainability." We are here to teach people in our communities skills that will enable them to become stronger, more capable, etc. on their own. But lately, I have been doubting the sustainability of teaching English at a village school. My counterpart is a wonderful woman who works very hard and is a dedicated teacher. But she has been teaching a certain way for more than 20 years and is not comfortable with change. And there are no other English teachers with whom I can work. And my counterpart will be retiring in a couple years. I am trying desperately to figure out what I can possibly do at school that can be sustainable. Even any out-of-class activities I might do are doomed to end after I leave. My counterpart asked me to have an English club for the students after school. I would like both of us to create and conduct the club together so it can continue in my absence. But she has no time because she teaches extra lessons after school. So currently if I can't be there on a certain day, English club won't happen.

I am the second volunteer to work at this school. The first volunteer did a lot of great things for the kids here. She was the first American to live in the village and share her life with the children here. She taught them baseball and had English clubs and started an English library at the school. But when she left, most of those things ended. I'm afraid the same thing will happen with anything I do. Last week the PC Country Director came to visit my village and see me teach. He spoke to my counterpart and explained our hopes for sustainability. My counterpart nodded and hmm-ed throughout the conversations and then said, "We hope to take another volunteer after Sofia."

If I could think of a way, I would try to help the school get more English teachers. But anyone who teaches in the village school must be from the village. The school rarely pays its teachers anyway, so it certainly won't pay someone from outside of the village to come and teach everyday. And there is no one else in the village who can teach English. My counterpart's daughter is in her third year at a university in Tashkent, studying to be an English teacher. She tutors in her free time and is already making more money than her mother. I doubt she will return to teach in the village.

So why am I here? Many of us are realizing that to many of our schools, having a volunteer is a status symbol more than a sign of eagerness to better their ways. During my first week here, my school's director tried to dole me out to other schools, having me travel all over the region every day of the week. This is our American. We will let you use her once a week. I quickly refused.

For what reason am I teaching English? Some of the students tell me they want to learn English because it is interesting. Others are not interested in English at all. Some say they want to go to university, but from what I can gather, very few of them ever make it out of the village. Most of the teachers at our school are village mothers who read out of books to the students. I fear that many of the students will probably not go to university, whether they know English or not. Those who are determined to continue their education go to extra courses every evening to prepare for the entrance exams. Am I here to teach English to those few who might have a chance?

Another problem is that the kids at my school are wildly misbehaved in class, so it isn't possible to teach anything substantial in a 45-minute lesson because half or more of that time is spent in attempts at classroom management. Many of them seem eager to learn English, but they just don't seem to have the concept of sitting quietly during a lesson. Even my eighth-grade students have to be told every two minutes to stop talking or to stop yelling or to stop hitting each other. For a while I just assumed this daily classroom chaos was the norm all over Uzbekistan. Then I started teaching some lessons once a week in Gala-Assiya and was amazed at how well-behaved and studious the kids were. I praised the students to their teacher, explaining tha t"at our school, the kids are constantly screaming or beating on each other." She laughed and said, "Because it is the village." So I guess I get to play the role of Mr. Kotter teaching a village of sweathogs. (I watched it in reruns).

A short bus ride away in Bukhara, my friends are teaching in a completely different environment. I'm sure they have their own frustrations, but they don't feel nearly as hopeless. At this point, I just can't see the merits of sending a Peace Corps volunteer to a rural site to teach English. People in my village collect rainwater because it's cleaner than their normal water. Many of them never go to the city because the city is expensive. They could certainly benefit from a health education volunteer or a community development volunteer. But how will teaching them English make their lives better?

So as far as school is concerned, I am still quite frustrated on a daily basis. But I am not forgetting that my mere presence in this village is doing a lot to broaden the perspectives of the people, and especially the children, who live here. There is an American living in their village. I'm not their first American, but still it's a big deal. Just that I am here to talk to them and learn from them as much as they learn from me is in itself fulfilling many of Peace Corps goals. I am starting to really enjoy living here. I love playing music with my host brother. I love drawing pictures in my living room with the neighborhood kids; we created a museum in my bedroom. I love looking at the stars at night with my host mother. I love sitting outside on warm days and chatting with the neighborhood women and girls. But when it comes to school, I can‚'t help but feel that my work is hopeless or pointless or utterly unsustainable. And then I wonder if I ca'‚t do any sustainable work here, will two years of being the token American suffice? Is that what Peace Corps is really about?

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