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 I’m 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 hands.
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, within 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; a
painting of an impressionable Timur Lenk, referred deridingly as Tamer the
Lame, whom to me resembles King Midas as he’s donned with a crown and draped in
wealth; 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, purveying
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 each 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, their 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 little 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 from my
homeland.”
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 were 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 among 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, among 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—the latter’s
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
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 had 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, to include 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 within?
While the communists had hoarded Uzbekistan’s literal gold
and production of
cotton for so long—Uzbekistan among many other countries were pillaged for its
resources—, in my family’s eyes, the gold had been in its people’s stories,
particularly my grandfather’s.
Therefore, his heart 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 in the basement, looking for a new item to bring to the ceremony up from the trove. We’re all to bring pieces containing
memories, some however bring pieces of meaning to them, regardless of whether
they bear any cultural significance.
In the ceremonies, sipping in place of what virgin’s blood, we’ve got
“rabbit’s blood”,
(based merely on its 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 must be perfect in
order 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.
Unfortunately, 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 then put it away,
choosing to bring this artifact to another ceremony practice.
Instead, I catch sight of my mom’s transistor radio, left over from her days in 90s as an international-broadcaster. During those years, she was stationed in Washington DC to Uzbekistan for Voice of America, leading up to the toppling of the iron curtain–the fall of communism.
I walk over to this box containing other items with a retro flair. Unlike the stories of our family
history I seldom 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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