Z's Tragedy

I knocked on Z’s door and I heard steps approach.

“Kimmu?” a voice behind the door asked. “Who is it?”

“Men, ingliz tili mu’ellim,” I said. “It’s me, the English teacher.” I heard the steps walk away from the door. Z opened the door, smiling broadly. We greeted each other with an Essalamueleykum and a kiss on both cheeks. I removed my shoes and left them in the hallway.

I entered their house, announcing Essalamueleykum as I crossed the threshold. When I entered the front room, my feet welcomed the soft plush of the carpet. Z’s mother got up to greet me, despite my insistence that she stay sitting. She firmly but gently touched each cheek to mine. The dining room was ornately decorated with plush golden brown curtains along the windows, a chandelier, and other traditional Uyghur dish ornaments in glass cases on both sides of the TV.

I slowly went around the dining room, greeting each person and touching each of the women’s cheeks with both of mine.

I also entered the living room. Pirates of the Caribbean dubbed in Uyghur was playing on the large flat screen TV in the living room. Z’s little brother was sleeping on the carpet in front of the TV. The living room had white lace curtains with a flower design and gold trim, and the living room felt as large as a small movie theater. A couch sat on one end with a coffee table filled with dried fruit and individually wrapped candies in ornately designed glass bowls. Z’s other younger brother was watching TV and her other younger brother is kicking a soccer ball around the house. He ignored his mother telling him to stop, instead releasing a loud cackle. Her younger sister was on the ground making a chocolate desert dish. When I sit on the couch, the large flat screen TV on the other end of the room facing the couch feels so far away. In the middle of the room is a large chandelier. I was quickly ushered back to the dining room, where I noticed a pile of laundry, dirty diapers, and trash—a couple floating plastic bags, and food packaging wrappers, sitting on a pile near the bathroom.

(While the house symbolizes their wealth, the pile of laundry and trash symbolizes the hectic nature of their lives with so many young kids running around. Despite being wealthy, they can still be overwhelmed with the hectic nature of human life and children.)

Their house was huge—two stories of 150 square meters each floor. Not only that, but they owned the house across the hall too, which appeared to me to be a play room, sitting room, and guest room. For us, it was mostly quiet retreat for us to study English in (except for when the kids play with the punching bag out on the balcony during class). The house is adorned with chandeliers and plush carpets all over.

About a month later, I visited the family again for English lessons. When I walked in, I greeted Z’s mother who was sitting on the ground with the baby on a pillow and medicine all around her. The baby was three months old, I was told, but she was so tiny and skinny that she looked like a newborn. Z’s mother was feeding the baby a bottle with a brown liquid that looked like tea.

“It’s her medicine,” she explained.

“Why are feeding her tea when what she needs is formula? Why do you have her resting on a pillow, when what it needs is to be held?” I couldn’t help but judgmentally think to myself.

Z and I completed the English lesson for the week. The lesson was about how to say what country we were from and what nationality we were. I explained to Buzohre that some of my Uyghur friends studying in the US really struggled when people asked them where they were from because they don’t look Chinese. So I wrote it down for her, “I’m Uyghur-Turkish, but I was born in China, in a city called Hoten.” We talked about how Turkic was an umbrella family for other ethnicities underneath it, including Uyhgurs, Uzbeks, and Kirghiz. I talked about how there are Arab-Americans and Chinese-Americans in the US, and how identities can get mixed up like that.

About 2 weeks later on Thursday, September 22, 2016:

This morning I was heading for class at the university when I got in the elevator with my bike and said hello to Z. She had a white headscarf wrapped loosely around her head. She looked sick. Like she was about to throw up. She looked miserable.

“Neme boldi?” I asked her. “What happened?”

“Nijet tugep ketken,” she said. “Nijet passed away.”

I started crying and we hugged each other there, our shoulders shaking and heads buried in each other’s shoulders right there in the elevator.

I told her all the right things, all things you are supposed to say in Uyghur when someone dies. I told her to be patient. And that we all die.

“Konglingizni yerim qilmang,” I said. “Don’t be sad.” It was a common phrase to say in Uyghur, literally meaning, “Don’t break your heart in half.” But I really I hated that phrase in that moment. Like seriously, “YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME NOT TO BE SAD WHEN SOMEONE JUST DIED??? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” I imagined her screaming at me. Anyway. I digress.

“This too shall pass,” I added in Uyghur. She just nodded.

Later, I went to pay my respects to the family in their home. I brought doughnuts as a gift, at the suggestion of a friend.

“If they’re poor, take laundry detergent or cooking oil,” my friend suggested.

“They’re rich,” I said.

“Oh. Then take some desserts,” she said. So I went to Z’s with the plate of doughnuts. 

The doors were open. I walked in, and saw Z the living room. I called her name. She saw me and smiled and came up to me. We hugged for a long time. I hugged and kissed her mom. Then E’s mom, another one of our neighbors, came out from the living room. They coaxed me to come and sit down. They fed me lots of meat, which I have to say was delicious, but I was like totally full.

I felt really awkward because I hadn’t covered my head. All the other women were wearing headscarves.

There were three women there, our neighbors, who I know don’t cover their heads normally, who half covered their heads with dark gray, blue, or black scarves, careful not to ruin their perfect perms. They looked awkward with their scarves perched over their fake curly hair.

They made small talk like nothing was wrong.

“Oh, where did you get the doughnuts? Do you have class today? Can you teach me English? My daughter is studying in America, and when we went, we couldn’t go outside because we didn’t know English. Just teach us enough so that we can at least get in a cab and tell him where to go.”

At one point a man came in and sang a prayer in Arabic. It was beautiful and made me cry.

I learned later why one of our neighbors was wearing that ugly yellow t-shirt. Because it was the only thing he had that was appropriate. You are supposed to year yellow, white, or black when mourning apparently.

When I tried to leave, they insisted that I stay. I told them I had to go to class. I felt bad that I didn’t stay for longer. I went out and bought a black headscarf. I used it several more times in the next year.

Z’s family was wealthier than most other migrant families, and they seemed to have resources, such as the ability to buy a home, and shields to getting kicked out and other forms of state oppression. But that still doesn’t mean that they weren’t vulnerable. The death of an infant was an example of that perhaps. Though they clearly had more resources to deal with it than any other family I knew, they still lost their child.