We met Jackie in a guest house in Karakol, Kyrgyzstan. She is a photojournalist currently working on a piece about the Kyrgyz phenomenon/tradition of bride kidnapping. The way she described it:
The parents of a son expect him to take a bride soon after they build a new house for him and his family to live in. If he is not dating anyone or a marriage hasn't been arranged, he might kidnap a bride. Sometimes the kidnapped woman is someone he may know, either from school or a friend etc., or she may be a stranger on the street. He rounds up a few of his friends and prowls the streets by car. When he finds the appropriate women, they grab her and throw her into the car and forcefully take her back to his home. Once there, he will most likely force himself upon her regardless of concent, ie rape her. The village matriarchs will be there to comfort her telling the new bride that "this is our culture" and "this is how it's been done for hundreds of years." They put a white scarf on her head, which is the cultural form of the contractual binding of their marriage.
They keep the bride behind a curtain in a separate room in the house and have people from around the village come and pay to get a glimpse of the new bride. A delegation is sent by the husband's family to the bride's to negotiate the actual marriage. The delegation usually brings gifts as a sort of dowry.
I have recently witnessed a kidnapping in its terrible entirety. I thought of Jackie and wrote her an email:
Jackie,
This is Jono - we met at the guesthouse in Karakol; I was the American with a moustache.
My eyes are watering with tears now as I begin to think about the terrified girl I just saw being throw into a car by 7 men on the streets of Osh. Let me tell you what happened:
Matt and I had just sat down at an Uzbek restaurant after commenting to each other how we heard that the streets of Osh could be dangerous at night, and after dinner we should go straight back to the guest house.
After being served two bowls of black tea, I noticed two girls walking quickly whilst being followed by a horde (no pun intended) of men. Suddenly the girls grabbed each others hands and began to run. The men chased them maybe 10 meters until the moment they passed by our table and both of them were grabbed from behind in a sort of bear-hug. One of the struggling women punched one of the men in the face, but, by that point, any attempt to escape would have been more than futile. The other girl was dragged by one of the men into a small, white car that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. 4 of the men got into the car with the woman (1 in front and 3 in back), the last man slamming the right-side door a couple of times before actually getting it shut. I didn't see where the other 2 men went, but when I scanned the area for them, they were nowhere in sight. The girl who was left took out her cell phone - probably simply as a panic response, but realizing soonafter that there was nobody she could call to help the situation.
This is a scene I will replay over and over in my mind, and I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to shake it. These women were clearly modern women, wearing western clothes, with cell phones, and purses, about 28 years old I'd say. I think I would be safe to say that neither of these women grew up talking to their girl friends saying "I want to get an education and a university degree, then work for about 6 or 7 years. After that, I hope I get kidnapped by a mob of men and settle down with a stranger." And I seriously doubt her mother would look on as the unshaven Kyrgyz man manhandles her daughter and says with a gold-toothed smile: "I remember my first kidnapping," without thinking, even for the tiniest iota of a moment "there is something
wrong with this."
After witnessing this, there is no way that I can say this isn't a clear and awful violation of human rights. It is a cultural remnant of a patriarchal time that no longer has a place in a modern society. When I first heard your stories of this happening in the countryside, it seemed more plausible, but in Osh?
I continue to see the terrified face of that one girl and I imagine her speeding away, tears streaming down her face. Then they get back to his house, and her life changes forever.
I wish you the best of luck in your photojournalism journeys.
Keep in touch if you have any questions for me.
Best,
Jono
-----------------
My impression of Kyrgyzstan has been truly amazing. It is a beautiful country with warm and genuine people. However, human rights abuses and domestic violence cases do happen. The worst part of the whole experience was that I felt completely powerless to do anything. There will always be some lingering guilt in the back of my mind about not acting. After it all went down, I heaved a sigh and drank from my bowl of tea.
I promise I'll have some good stories about Kyrgyzstan soon.
http://jackiedewemathews.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bride_kidnapping#Kyrgyzstan
http://www.hrw.org/en/reports/2006/09/26/reconciled-violence
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
There's a Moustache on my face, what do I do?
Initially I started growing facial hair to blend in while travelling in Pakistan, but it has gotten dangerously out of hand. After about 3 weeks, the beard and sideburn stubble was boyish and unkempt and it had to be removed. This left my face with a moustache that, various people have told me, makes me look like certain other peoples:
This is it:
- The old man from Chitral (Pakistan) that used to come to our house and fix broken cups. -Wazir, Shonas Village, Pakistan
- Qazi Sab, the village elder from Kalasha (Pakistan). -Ayub Khan, Pakistan
- A Pathan from the Swat Valley. -Islamist Student, Hyderabad Train Station, Pakistan
- While wearing a hat, one of "The Village People" -Matt Reichel, while travelling in Kashgar
- A Russian left behind in Kazakhstan after the fall of the U.S.S.R. -Бакыт (Bakyt), Yurt camp owner in Манжылы-Ата (Manzhyly-Ata), Kyrgyzstan
- Super Mario -Anton, ethnic-Kazakh Russian we met in Manzhyly-Ata, Kyrgyzstan
- Сыдыков Абдыкерим (Abdykerim Sydykov), statesman of Kyrgyzstan, President Semirechensk Regional Executive Committee (1922) -Bust of Abdykerim Sydykov in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
- Tom Selleck -Kim Gemme
This is it:
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Carved in Stone - Reflections from the KKH
"This is pretty scary, right?" I said as the crowded bus swerved to avoid a gaping pothole in the middle of the dirt road, the leftmost tires gripping pebbles and nothing. I contemplated the possibility that this imported Japanese schoolbus could careen off this mountain pass into the river below as I spoke aloud: "our lives are entirely in the hands of our driver."
"First they are in Allah's hands... then our driver's," the young man of 25 to my left assured me.
Unassured, I looked up to notice a brilliant moon illuminating the night sky in a gradient from white to black, but never touching gray. The other stars, normally radiant, glowed dimly, jealously. The moon set late in the night to reveal the same night sky that compelled Gallileo to wake up and say "I must invent the telescope." I remembered seeing the Milky Way from a similar viewpoint some nights before, during the new moon after Eid-al Fitr. Silhouetted mountains were peperred with the earthly stars of little houses in even smaller hamlets with juniper wood fires for brewing tea. It was then that I noticed that Allah's outstretched hands had guided us safely into Chipurson Valley.
The Karakoram Highway (KKH) is about 40 years old and is currently being renovated. There are 4 to 5 thousand Chinese laborers hard at work connecting China's cheap goods to Pakistan's cheaper markets. It is the major artery that connects western China to Pakistan and far northern Pakistan to Islamabad. The snaking road that hugs the side of the karakoram overlooking the Indus river is only ever as wide as to allow the width of two cars separated by just enough space to keep the paint from scratching off two passing cars. One learns to accept potentially near death experiances as commonplace. In the three weeks I spent in Pakistan, about 40 hours were clocked on the picturesque and oftentimes periloius KKH.
Most human transportation between cities on the KKH is done with old 15-seat toyota vans. These vans will only leave the depot if there are at least 19 passengers in the seats, sometimes with more hanging off the back or sitting on top alongside the luggage. The ride is cramped and hot. Women and children usually sit in the first row behind the driver.
Driving in the daytime, the road is enveloped in a couldren of mountains. As the path winds, the mountains cleave from one another in an ever-widening "V" (or lowercase "y") reavealing new titans, each one more spectacular than the last.
Even though the ride from Shonas to Gilgit may be uncomfortable, sometims you get to meet some fun characters. Afsar and I had a conversation about Pakistani hiphop - his cousin "Bee Jay Hussein" was the most famous "northsyde" rapper in Gilgit-Baltistan (formerly the "Northern Areas" or "NA"). He told me how much people liked Lupe Fiasco here because he was a muslim rapper.
The 25-year old going to Chipurson with us was trying to secure support for his "Walk 4 Peace" from "Khunjerab 2 Karachi." The 100-day walk would try to raise awareness of the Pakistani domestic problems in Swat and Tribal Areas and show that the majority of the Pakistani people are against the Talibanization of their people.
My conversation with Afsar was interrupted by the sight of some viscous orange-brown liquid creeping down the window. It was local apricot jam and I just hoped none of it jammed my bag stored up top. I drifted off to sleep and expected to wake up covered in jam.
I had just begun to doze off when I was abruptly roused from my slumber by a terrible noise. A brilliantly adorned sphinxy painted in the brightest greens and yellows had honked its horn. On the KKH, the sounds and sights of these hulking iron beasts on wheels are quite common. The passing of a truck is always accompanied by the blast of its horn or, when there was no need to honk, by the gentle sound of chimes followed by the roar of a diesel engine. The truck is truly a product of a failed "Pimp My Ride" episode where Xzibit takes some redneck's pickup and comes out at the end of the episode and tells the owner "Aight, your trunk can hold 50000 kilos of potatoes now. We set you up with a horn that is as loud as it is obnoxious and sounds like mo'f'n' Flash Gordon's lizardman-blastin' lasergun killing an elephant." Some of them have decorative Ben Hur-like charriot spours. Dick Dastardly is the driver while Muttley rides shotgun and operates the smoke screen and oil slick.
On the 16 hour busride from Gilgit to Mansehra, in addition to stops to let people off the bus, we stopped four times. The first stop was right outside Gilgit for lunch. We stopped in Chilas for a tea break. At about 6pm, we stopped for evening prayer, which conventiantly gave the bus driver enough time to change a tire. The last stop was my favoirte and always is on these long rides on the KKH: dinner at a cliffside restaurant. Lit by Christmas lights and propane-fueled lanterns, we're presented with a plate of roti(bread), daal(lentils), and gosht(beef) as we sit on a rope-mesh bench as a tributary of the Indus rushes beside us.
The KKH is an unforgiving mistress, but at least I'll have Allah on my side the next time I'm on a shaky 40-year old rope bridge when it snaps.
"First they are in Allah's hands... then our driver's," the young man of 25 to my left assured me.
Unassured, I looked up to notice a brilliant moon illuminating the night sky in a gradient from white to black, but never touching gray. The other stars, normally radiant, glowed dimly, jealously. The moon set late in the night to reveal the same night sky that compelled Gallileo to wake up and say "I must invent the telescope." I remembered seeing the Milky Way from a similar viewpoint some nights before, during the new moon after Eid-al Fitr. Silhouetted mountains were peperred with the earthly stars of little houses in even smaller hamlets with juniper wood fires for brewing tea. It was then that I noticed that Allah's outstretched hands had guided us safely into Chipurson Valley.
The Karakoram Highway (KKH) is about 40 years old and is currently being renovated. There are 4 to 5 thousand Chinese laborers hard at work connecting China's cheap goods to Pakistan's cheaper markets. It is the major artery that connects western China to Pakistan and far northern Pakistan to Islamabad. The snaking road that hugs the side of the karakoram overlooking the Indus river is only ever as wide as to allow the width of two cars separated by just enough space to keep the paint from scratching off two passing cars. One learns to accept potentially near death experiances as commonplace. In the three weeks I spent in Pakistan, about 40 hours were clocked on the picturesque and oftentimes periloius KKH.
Most human transportation between cities on the KKH is done with old 15-seat toyota vans. These vans will only leave the depot if there are at least 19 passengers in the seats, sometimes with more hanging off the back or sitting on top alongside the luggage. The ride is cramped and hot. Women and children usually sit in the first row behind the driver.
Driving in the daytime, the road is enveloped in a couldren of mountains. As the path winds, the mountains cleave from one another in an ever-widening "V" (or lowercase "y") reavealing new titans, each one more spectacular than the last.
Even though the ride from Shonas to Gilgit may be uncomfortable, sometims you get to meet some fun characters. Afsar and I had a conversation about Pakistani hiphop - his cousin "Bee Jay Hussein" was the most famous "northsyde" rapper in Gilgit-Baltistan (formerly the "Northern Areas" or "NA"). He told me how much people liked Lupe Fiasco here because he was a muslim rapper.
The 25-year old going to Chipurson with us was trying to secure support for his "Walk 4 Peace" from "Khunjerab 2 Karachi." The 100-day walk would try to raise awareness of the Pakistani domestic problems in Swat and Tribal Areas and show that the majority of the Pakistani people are against the Talibanization of their people.
My conversation with Afsar was interrupted by the sight of some viscous orange-brown liquid creeping down the window. It was local apricot jam and I just hoped none of it jammed my bag stored up top. I drifted off to sleep and expected to wake up covered in jam.
I had just begun to doze off when I was abruptly roused from my slumber by a terrible noise. A brilliantly adorned sphinxy painted in the brightest greens and yellows had honked its horn. On the KKH, the sounds and sights of these hulking iron beasts on wheels are quite common. The passing of a truck is always accompanied by the blast of its horn or, when there was no need to honk, by the gentle sound of chimes followed by the roar of a diesel engine. The truck is truly a product of a failed "Pimp My Ride" episode where Xzibit takes some redneck's pickup and comes out at the end of the episode and tells the owner "Aight, your trunk can hold 50000 kilos of potatoes now. We set you up with a horn that is as loud as it is obnoxious and sounds like mo'f'n' Flash Gordon's lizardman-blastin' lasergun killing an elephant." Some of them have decorative Ben Hur-like charriot spours. Dick Dastardly is the driver while Muttley rides shotgun and operates the smoke screen and oil slick.
On the 16 hour busride from Gilgit to Mansehra, in addition to stops to let people off the bus, we stopped four times. The first stop was right outside Gilgit for lunch. We stopped in Chilas for a tea break. At about 6pm, we stopped for evening prayer, which conventiantly gave the bus driver enough time to change a tire. The last stop was my favoirte and always is on these long rides on the KKH: dinner at a cliffside restaurant. Lit by Christmas lights and propane-fueled lanterns, we're presented with a plate of roti(bread), daal(lentils), and gosht(beef) as we sit on a rope-mesh bench as a tributary of the Indus rushes beside us.
The KKH is an unforgiving mistress, but at least I'll have Allah on my side the next time I'm on a shaky 40-year old rope bridge when it snaps.
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