I pour my elixir –a shade of “rabbit’s blood”–, or the Turks say given the way it’s tinted, a dark red mixed with brown.
It is a potion I’ve concocted with care, a shade achieved by boiling leaves through the means of fire and air.
Having traveled east to west, it exists in almost every part of the world, a drink considered so mundane as to be overlooked while sipped; except in Japan where the symbolism of its warmth, hospitality and simplicity has been recognized to be powerful enough for ceremonies to be conducted in its honor; the secrets of these ceremonies safeguarded by the Samurai for centuries and conveyed by masters to the keepers of their schools.
Tea.
As a weirdo who grew up swimming through different cultures and not knowing where I quite fit in, I learned of the significance of tea for the Japanese after coming across it in the passage of a book The Japanese have devoted centuries to preserving “The way of Tea”, their distinguished Tea Ceremonies built on the principles of making others feel welcome within a small, tea gathering while inspiring guests to find immense beauty in things that are overlooked—like a blossom that’s been carefully clipped in season and its choice of vase; a scroll on a wall containing a profound message; the placement of prized utensils, cups and dishes–all blending to foster a sense of unity with nature and guests; learning how to hold a stirring spoon properly, sometimes taking a lifetime to master, or ensuring the tearoom is deliberately small, so that when guests enter through the door, they must crawl, ensuring there is a sense of equality once inside. From a western perspective, one built on rationalism, the notion of tea being served from the heart might seem sentimental or cheesy, but this precept rests on eastern philosophy revolving around a different set of values. The tea used in the ceremony differs from the one I’m pouring, theirs being matcha, a powdery green with a leafy taste, distinct from the black variety I pour.
After the last drops of “rabbit’s blood” trickle into two cups, I take them, walking from the kitchen to hand a cup to my lovely mother. She is lounging in the family room on a blue sofa, the edge of her scarf dangling past her shoulders, as she pulls a of string prayer beads. She looks up at me. Though I’m a married 28 year old woman, I still haven’t quite left the roost as I’m here all the time, which also means I’m chided, doted on, fed, complained to, complained about, cared for and loved all the time. One need not be in the same house to be the recipient of all that–but being under the same roof calls for a more heightened experience I seem to enjoy.
“Make sure you eat something, did you find the pilaf in the fridge?” she asks, her round face scrunches up in worry, her cheekbones rising higher. Always worried, she looks me up and down—from my raven hair to my toes. I’m not terribly thin, but thin enough to have that slight pouch at my waist be noticeable, and when paired with slouched shoulders, the combination gives me the look of an inverted question mark–much like how I feel about my existence most of the time.
“will eat later , sorry mom, I have to do stuff downstairs…
“What? Haven’t you put in enough effort into these ceremonies?” she calls after me. By this time, I’ve returned to the kitchen, opening my parents’ basement door and flip on the light, treading down the burgundy carpeted-stairwell, swinging my mug–its drops drizzling on my fingers like burning mist. A mini volcano in my hand.
It’s not much of a descending hike reaching the base of the stairs where I turn on another outlet.
Basements, like attics, often serve places to store objects, storing items where there is no other place in the house to fit; some basements are finished, serving as an entertainment room with games/sofas, while others are unfinished — bare yet full– containing boxes, in them items that oft go forgotten or unnoticed. My parents’ is the finished kind, containing the typical billard table.
Over the years, a mishmash of other items in piles of boxes unable to fit elsewhere in the house have made their way down here, too.
Beyond the pool table and boxes, all around me in my parents’ basement is an additional spin—my mom had originally intended our basement be a family museum, containing cultural artifacts showing where our roots trace to in lieu of the usual framed family pictures on the wall—our family’ history explained through a series of maps of Central Asia, miniatures of Sultans, bejeweled daggars, stacks of dusty books on shelves, posters on the wall of flags and historical empires, silk cultural dresses, pinned hats; teapots and assortment of other momentos as well some colorful mats on the floor.
Being in the basement is like I’ve sunk into the underlayer of memories among some dust and cobwebs; as a question mark, it’s precisely why I’ve come here to retrieve answers regarding who I am.
I waddle around, tea in hand—if I were to have some clipboard in the other, purviewing questions on a form titled, “Who are you?” I imagine finding the ones commonly thought to be markers of identity….Name: I’d skip past that… (too complicated of a story to mention here..) check the age field.. 28.. sex…F marital status.. M occupation, wishing there was “misunderstood creative” in lieu of unemployed.. but check the latter.. then I’d reach the question whose answer I’m on my quest here to find, “Question Number 5 Ahh..Ethnic identity..” I’d check that as “other..” under the Explain field: scribble Turkic, followed by flipping to a page in the back of the form, fill in the lines under family history as I jotted down the stories behind these cultural heirlooms.
Everywhere in the basement is a memory of my grandfather, a community leader, who had imparted lessons to his children, clearly my mom, about the importance of knowing one’s ancestral history —especially given the sacrifices he and millions of others took in fleeing from their homelands during the red terror of the 1940s (their escape from communism). I imagine what it must have been marching from his native country Uzbekistan in Central Asia, through frosty woods , hilltops, mountains at age 9 among a caravan of others who creeped beside one another silently. Mothers even having to stuff their bundled infants’ cheeks with opium to keep them asleep as to not risk them waking up to cry for fear of getting murdering or captured by the communist guards lurking nearby, the hidden shadows masked in an ideology.
These people escaped from countries represented by their respective flags on of these posters…. Kyrgyzstan… Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Eastern Turkistan–all one prior land, translating to Land of the Turks (that included Azerbaijan and series of other territories too..) ; lands that to the west appear as a bloc of inconsequential stans but to us represent a linkage to my family’s past.
Over the course of 20 years both sides of my family, my paternal and maternal grandparents escaped to non-Turkic countries whose borders the arms of the communism hadn’t reached–India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, lastly to settle in Turkiye, a Turkic country with customs and language similar to their own, the exception being my paternal grandparents who moved to the US in 70s, along with my parents. My maternal grandparents remained in Turkiye, with this side-of-family’s grandfather returning to Uzbekistan for the final time in the 1990s, when I was five years old. We traveled from the US to Turkiye after hearing on the news of the communist bloc having collapsed to join my grandfather on his return home after being estranged from it for 70 years.
The first item I reach for, removing it from its pin on the wall, is one of my grandfather’s square black hats with white designs. I bring my nose into its opening and sniff; pulling in his crisp, clean scent still buried in them from the 1990s, and now it’s 2016.
I remember as a small girl at the airport, looking up at my wise grandfather as I held his hand, his cane in his other. He was wearing another version of the that I hold. He was certain, peaceful–excitement twinkling in his brown eyes. He was ready. In fact, he’d always been ready.. Five years before this episode , shortly after my birth, my mom had awoken from a troubling dream where it appeared he’d passed away. She picked up the phone frantically dialing a long-distance call to Turkey at 2 am, there being a 7 hour time difference in between, relieved at hearing his voice on the other line, as he calmly said, “my dear, know that I will not die until I taste my last sip of water of my country.”
Upon landing in Uzbekistan, we set out from the doors of the airport, pulling our luggage, wide-eyed, not understanding any commands barked in Russian by the airport officials, but their stern glares letting at us know that we “foreigners” the ones who had fled big ol’ bad daddy Stalin’s decree were unwelcome, as we set foot into the warmth of sun’s glare around noon.
In place of the reverberations of the hooves of horses strode by some of the mightiest conquerors in history, we heard the horn of a communist style minibus pull up; we mounted, peering out the window at the passing scenery; my older sister and I surprised at not seeing the green mythic pastures as described to us by our parents, instead we were witnessing a country undergoing recovery, trying to remember itself, what it once was in order to rebuild and adjust to a new world. Then, we learn our parents had only shared with us what they’d been told by their own parents, through my grandparents’ nostalgizing of vatan.. (Homeland..) their recollections of a land they couldn’t return to until then…now
We however did delight at the whispering of that mythic past seen in the monuments and minarets made of hardened sand that survived the occupation as we drove out of the capital city Tashkent, the City of Stone, toward the heartland and direction of my grandfather’s village.
Those feelings were soon jarred once we finally arrived. Having the excitement of a child, my grandfather ran, pointing with his cane toward his neighborhood, saying “look, look this is where we had our family’s store.” Only to break down in tears at seeing no trace of it, and instead where a statue of Lenin stood instead.
Among that grave disappointment, were also tears of joy, All around us in my grandfather’s village were relatives, beaming, smiling, welcoming us—reactions we were used to after having made so many stops in villages in cities throughout the country where we had been welcomed into every house for a meal and in which my Grandfather, continuing his role as community elder, was teaching, learning, sharing, remembering—but here the joyful reactions were more pronounced with his own kin.
As we were welcomed into a courtyard, surrounded by so many others, there was a face in the crowd my grandfather would recognize after last seeing it last at age 7—when they were both boys, cousins, the best of friends, having playfought with one another in the mountains while shepherding. In one “battle”, my grandfather’s cousin had struck my grandfather’s tooth—his tooth having wobbled for all those years without ever falling. The two cousins, now elderly men with wrinkles and beards, having lived long years of loss and grief reached for one another in a brotherly hug, just as the tooth that had wobbled for 70 years fell straight into my grandfather’s hand.
“You got your revenge 70 years later, Cousin..” my Grandfather laughed, looking at both the loss and gain in his hand.
A few weeks later, we had to return. Within that interval, my grandfather had fallen ill, though insisted we carry on, and that he’d be fine. It was the last time we saw him. As we walked out of the hospital room, praying to God that it wouldn’t be the last, my five-year-old self backed up in the hallway, peering through the door, giving my last wave upon which, he returned with a loving smile. A month later we discovered that one afternoon, right after leading Friday prayer, he had passed, surely, with one last sip of his country’s water.
Though the sadness always remained, along with the hat in my hand.
The white designs on them are the same patterns found on a cobalt-colored teapot and its matching bowl cups—representing cotton, Central Asia’s white gold for the economic value it holds.
If there was another question on the form, right underneath, “Any Other You’d like to Provide..” that would be where I’d answer why that last bit of info is relevant, along with another story that explains the exact purpose of why I’m here..
Along with my grandfather knowing he wouldn’t pass away without the last sip of water from his homeland, he also had an inkling for where he’d be buried, which ties to my purpose here.
While in Uzbekistan, we were visiting a mountain, a tour guide had explained its significance in terms of mythology and prehistory, with legend stating that a dragon had inhabited it, causing calamities for the ancients there—and to appease the dragon, virgin sacrifices had to be made. In terms of context, the tour guide said that universally, dragons represented the union of the four elements; fire—in that dragons could breathe fire, fly–air, swim–water, and hide their gold in the earth—earth.
Whenever men were too greedy, snatching Earth’s wealth (gold) away, taking more than they needed, that it caused harm to the planet. Thus, as Earth’s gate keeper, the dragon safeguarded Earth’s wealth, demanding recompense whenever too much was taken through a price equal in exchange—Virgin Blood. Virgin blood was said to the only thing untainted and equal in measure to gold, despite the idea being atrocious in our own day, it was symbolic and universal to the world’s people in pre-history. Thankfully, through time’s passing, the world treats humans, which includes virgins, more humanely!
Amid this disturbing yet fascinating lecture, I being too young to understand, but later hearing it recounted by my sister and mom—my grandfather was too occupied, not listening, but instead like a water diviner had been tapping his cane on the grass intently. Upon finding a spot, he’d shouted, “Hey.. This is where I’m to be buried.” Repeating.. “This is where I’m to be buried..”
Could my grandfather, having always championed women’s rights long before his time in a flavor complementary to the traditions under which he was raised, have been sensing the sleeping dragon’s smoke breathing up from beneath the soil, hinting where a Treasure like him would find safety in Earth’s lair to rest? Not for any recompense of the innocent’s blood, but for the gold he carried?
While the communists had hoarded Uzbekistan’s literal gold and production of cotton for so long—Uzbekistan among many others countries pillaged for its resources—, in my family’s eyes, the gold had been in its people’s stories, particularly my grandfather’s.
Therefore, he would qualified as being just the right Treasure, he and his stories worth far more to us than gold.
Thus, I seek items here containing these kinds of human stories to bring to the tea ceremonies I’ve created, having cajoled my friends into joining every Sunday night. Inspired by the Japanese tradition that I could never appropriate, even if we tried, our ceremonies are built on finding unity with humanity and nature through cultural elements/pieces that build peace. Every week I’m here, looking for a new item to bring up from the trove, containing memories, while others bring pieces of meaning to them, regardless of whether or not they bear any cultural significance.
Sipping in place of what virgin’s blood, we’ve got “rabbit’s blood here (based merely on color)” the tea which also represents earth, water, fire and air, the gold would be the people’s stories, the stories each person brings to explain what make them human, enabling them to connect with other participants on a deeper level. The tea also itself also represents a collective, human story, as tea had traveled across the ancient silk road, the predecessor of the internet and modern-day highway (relative to 2016), having connected the world for centuries.
The tea ceremonies have to be perfect in order to be able to fundraise for our ultimate goal being the Teahouse. If everyone were to look at their own “Who Are You?” form, the answers would be so varied,; so the Teahouse would be an actual place where people gather, sitting crossed legged on these colorful mats, or on chairs for those who have difficulty sitting on the ground, to discuss existential meanings,–including values, challenges, beliefs– whether it be their own or that of others, over a cup of tea; reflecting on how Culture influences how we see things to solve meanings we have within ourselves holding us back from establishing greater peace. A group of question marks.
My not having a job means no source of income or funding, so my efforts at these kinds of fundraising efforts to get the Teahouse, might seem like heaping pennies through child’s play; but with enough innovative pizzazz a “child’s lemonade stand” could morph into a bold entrepreneurial move amassing millions, or, uhh.. maybe just enough for the first day of rent in a building somewhere.
We could even luck out and gain the sympathies of a generous donor or a grant by some governmental agency, insisting, “we see the promise behind your creative, humanitarian, endeavor, please let us pick up the tab.”..
None of this sounds like sound business advice, but my eyes scout anyway, while I press the hat to my heart and put it away, choosing to bring this artifact in another ceremony practice. I catch sight of my mom’s transistor radio, left over from her days right before the toppling of the iron curtain–the fall of communism.
I walk over to the box. Unlike the stories of our family history I never brush off, I pull out the radio from the box whose dust I do, blowing the surface as I flip on the switch, giving a dial a whirl. It works fine. I whirl, spin, hearing programs, one after the other; funnily, a Russian pop song blasts, followed by a news program in Spanish, and in the sequence of other whirls are songs and programs I interpret as Korean, German, French, interspersed with languages I don’t recognize. Once I hit the 90 bracket, I hear static, cracks, interrupted at 96.6 am by a man who says, “back to our regularly scheduled programming” then unceasing silence. My fingers continue following the knob’s etchings, arriving at 97.7 FM, where I again hear static.. but then something unusual– a faint kind of sound, with an otherworldly feel, pulling onto itself– a raspy breathlessness complemented by a soft chime.
I can’t tell whether the sound is external or in my mind.
The song ends, leaving me to the sound of static and goosebumps. It feels lonely down here. I latch the handle of the radio, the only “artifact” I seize, then scurry up the staircase, tea erupting like volcanic bubbles in my hands. I turn off the lights, and slam the door.
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