The more I embrace the West, the deeper I miss my roots. I miss my childhood in the suburbs of my hometown and the long summer holidays spent at my grandmother’s house.
Those were the days when my grandfather was alive. I still hear the mesmerizing whisper of the walnut trees in his garden. I still smell the baked potatoes we clumsily made on the coals. There is still a taste of a fresh milk and hot Uzbek bread in my mouth, that little special bread for children that my grandmother baked in the clay oven.
I hear all these voices that called us to the table for a dinner of fried tomatoes and dry bread. I hear all these voices of my vanished childhood. Those twenty years ago, when summers were mild, aryks were filled with water and I was a child bitten by mosquitoes. I was a youngster who smashed the watermelon all over my shirt; I was a child full of curiosity and lust for new experiences.
Those were the days when even my great grandmother was alive. She could no longer walk without assistance. Every time I ate an apricot or a peach, she would tell me to plant their stone in the ground. She made me believe that beautiful fruit trees would spring forth from this tiny seed. And the trees did grow: trees of life and passion that sprang up in me. My great grandmother taught me to nurture the soil and the soul.
When I think of who I am, the golden reeds stretching forth on the salty Karakalpak land instantly come to my mind. I still remember them quivering in the wind and blinding my eyes. I reminisce about the trees, steady and unmoving, spreading their strong branches into the wild, trees deeply rooted into the soil. There is a terrifying magnificence to this scene which symbolizes the nation that gave birth to people who are called nowadays – Uzbeks. Under this overwhelming sky, Amazon women rode their horses and defended their land from the other tribes. They were my predecessors – button-down, cool and fierce people.
There, under the stunning rays of the sun, you can hear the whistling sound of the wind; you can feel the majesty of Earth running through your veins. The lines on my 80 year old grandmother‘s face are not wrinkles, but the evidence of a long and fulfilled life. I see a resemblance; I feel we have the same DNA. She kisses my cheeks twice and then kisses my hand. And I know I am from here. And I am THAT tree standing alone in the middle of the desert with branches that even the wind can‘t break.
No matter what language I will speak, no matter where I will wake up, no matter how big my bank account will be, no matter what clothing I will wear, I will always remember who I am. It is written on my face – the shape of my eyes, the color of my skin, my nose and my lips. And there is not any force that is going to erase it. The desert wind is my lullaby. It is the ode to my heritage; it is the poem of my progenitors written on the surface of the desert sand. And I carry the lyrics in my genes. And deep in my heart, I sing the ancient song that gives me power and energy to live my life to the fullest.
Those were the days when my grandfather was alive. I still hear the mesmerizing whisper of the walnut trees in his garden. I still smell the baked potatoes we clumsily made on the coals. There is still a taste of a fresh milk and hot Uzbek bread in my mouth, that little special bread for children that my grandmother baked in the clay oven.
I hear all these voices that called us to the table for a dinner of fried tomatoes and dry bread. I hear all these voices of my vanished childhood. Those twenty years ago, when summers were mild, aryks were filled with water and I was a child bitten by mosquitoes. I was a youngster who smashed the watermelon all over my shirt; I was a child full of curiosity and lust for new experiences.
Those were the days when even my great grandmother was alive. She could no longer walk without assistance. Every time I ate an apricot or a peach, she would tell me to plant their stone in the ground. She made me believe that beautiful fruit trees would spring forth from this tiny seed. And the trees did grow: trees of life and passion that sprang up in me. My great grandmother taught me to nurture the soil and the soul.
When I think of who I am, the golden reeds stretching forth on the salty Karakalpak land instantly come to my mind. I still remember them quivering in the wind and blinding my eyes. I reminisce about the trees, steady and unmoving, spreading their strong branches into the wild, trees deeply rooted into the soil. There is a terrifying magnificence to this scene which symbolizes the nation that gave birth to people who are called nowadays – Uzbeks. Under this overwhelming sky, Amazon women rode their horses and defended their land from the other tribes. They were my predecessors – button-down, cool and fierce people.
There, under the stunning rays of the sun, you can hear the whistling sound of the wind; you can feel the majesty of Earth running through your veins. The lines on my 80 year old grandmother‘s face are not wrinkles, but the evidence of a long and fulfilled life. I see a resemblance; I feel we have the same DNA. She kisses my cheeks twice and then kisses my hand. And I know I am from here. And I am THAT tree standing alone in the middle of the desert with branches that even the wind can‘t break.
No matter what language I will speak, no matter where I will wake up, no matter how big my bank account will be, no matter what clothing I will wear, I will always remember who I am. It is written on my face – the shape of my eyes, the color of my skin, my nose and my lips. And there is not any force that is going to erase it. The desert wind is my lullaby. It is the ode to my heritage; it is the poem of my progenitors written on the surface of the desert sand. And I carry the lyrics in my genes. And deep in my heart, I sing the ancient song that gives me power and energy to live my life to the fullest.
