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Tajikistan

Kelsey Hallahan

I stop climbing. I've finally reached the plateau top of this steep, dusty hill. The sweltering 115 degree sunshine prickles my pale skin and stings my blue eyes, but the view is well worth the discomfort. With the azure-tiled dome of the hilltop mosque behind me and the endless mountains of Afghanistan and Uzbekistan stretching across the horizon in front of me, I reflect on both the beauty surrounding me and on the past two months. It is my last Saturday in the Central Asian republic of Tajikistan, and the August day feels indescribably peculiar. I absent-mindedly pull my headscarf lower and look down at my turquoise-painted toes. Modesty has never been my favorite virtue; yet here I am, draped in billowing, brightly colored clothing from my neck to my ankles. Although the loose-fitting cotton dress and matching pants combination that most Tajik women wear everyday seemed bizarre at first, I now adore it. For a moment, I luxuriate in the brilliantly clashing colors, wild pattern, and pajama-like comfort. I feel beautiful and strong, even as I remember the countless mistakes and agonizing struggles that led up to this moment. I am eighteen years old; however, lately I have often felt closer in age to an eighteen month old infant. My intensive Persian lessons bewilder me, the culture continuously reveals new unspoken social rules, and my own actions – the one thing I can control – are often at odds with my longest-held beliefs. I blunder through social situations and botch the home stay and butcher the language, yet I have somehow survived my failures to stand here, breathing in the dry mountain air of a country I have grown to love. My past shortcomings don't rankle as much when I realize how deeply I've fallen for this tiny, poverty-stricken, Muslim country in the supposed backwaters of the former Soviet Union. The culture of this isolated nation is overwhelmingly rich and vibrant. I love twirling around and flicking my wrists to the beat of the drums, as my handsome male dance partner circles me in the ancient tribal choreography still used at modern weddings. I love sampling dried fruit and sugar-covered nuts at the bazaar, and furiously exclaiming over the seller's prices because, of course, that is how business negotiations begin. I love travelling through Dushanbe's unpaved maze of walled-off houses on my way home from school, small children exuberantly frolicking in the street and old women gossiping as they pretend to sweep their doorsteps. As I reflect on my experiences, I can taste the sweet black tea I drink with my host family every morning. I can hear Shabnam Soraya's throaty voice wailing on loud, tambourine-laden tracks of Persian pop music. I can smell the heady explosion of scents that is the bazaar. "Know thyself" stated the famous Greek temple of Apollo, and as I stand on this dusty hill overlooking the famed mountains of Central Asia, I realize how much I have learned.

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