30-Day Challenges: Mindful Eating, Part 4

One night, alone in my apartment in Prague, I sat on the floor with a stack of tortillas, hummus, and vegan cream cheese with a bar of chocolate all splayed out on the floor in front of me. I had a little picnic with myself right there on the floor. 

That is something Brie would never do. Brie always cooks and prepares her food so mindfully, so spiritually. For her, eating and sharing a meal is a spiritual experience and a spiritual practice. She would never, or at least I have never seen her, just grab a tortilla and dip it into hummus. She would take the time to get out a plate, napkin and maybe even a place mat. She would get a knife out and spread the hummus evenly over the tortilla and maybe add some cheese and fried mushrooms.

But not me. I just grab whatever I can. For me, eating fast accesses an animalistic or primal self inside me. Tapping into my lizard brain is SO satisfying. I love not thinking about it, but just digging into my food without much thought. For me, it’s like I just want to be in my body and let my lizard brain take over. I want to forget my civilized self and embrace my primitive self. There is also something so satisfying about the fact that it’s not something I normally do in front of Brie—to stuff my face or eat on the floor.

When I’m around Brie I try to eat mindfully. I know that chewing with my mouth open bothers her, and I try not to talk with my mouth full either. We did a month of mindful eating while she was in Prague, which included some silent time at the beginning of each meal as well, not talking unless to comment on the food. It was wonderful. And yet, there I was that night, sitting on the floor and filled with the pleasure of eating fast.

Eating mindlessly is something I let myself do only one of the days of Brie's trip to Europe. It was the day on the train heading from Berlin and Prague when my tattoo infection was at its worst. I didn’t care. I ate all the chocolate, all the nuts, all the chips, and all the grapes in our little snack bag. I just needed to feel soothed and calm for a while. Brie could tell, saying to me as I devoured the snacks: “Sometimes we need chocolate to soothe ourselves, don’t we?” 

That was the day I allowed us to watch Netflix together, something I normally don’t like to do, because it feels like we’re connecting with the screen but not with each other. But I needed it that day on the train; my arm on fire, itching and burning, orange pus leaking out. Throughout the train ride, we kept spare shirts cool with our drinking water and kept putting the soaked shirts on my arm like a bandage to calm the nerves and swelling and heat that was emanating off my skin. 

When Brie isn’t around, I like to eat the way I “normally” do: fast and with abandon and with my mouth open. I actually get a ton of pleasure out of eating with my mouth open, partially because I think that it genuinely does make my food taste better (this is what Chinese people believe—that the air oxygenates the food to make it more flavorful and I think they’re right! Beer tasters would agree), and also because it just makes me feel more relaxed and in my own body and enjoying my own personal experience in and with my body.

This way of eating is totally normal for me. For me to re-train my eating habits that have been ingrained since childhood, this is definitely one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. There are lots of things in our brains that are plastic and can be re-trained. But I’ll tell you from personal experience that eating is something so primal, so closely connected to our mothers and our families that re-training myself how to eat is so hard-wired it really does feel like learning how to walk and talk all over again. 

So there I was that night in Prague, heart aching and needing to be soothed, and all I needed in that moment was some chocolate, tortillas and hummus. And all I wanted in that moment was to eat it mindlessly. I wanted to just get lost in my phone and stuff my face. And so I did just that. And it felt amazing.

Being mindful and spiritual is great. But sometimes we just need to be animals and lose ourself in bodily pleasure. It's a combination of factors from purity culture to dieting culture, weight-loss mania and disordered body image. It's the way we were raised, and the way we live. It's not bad or good. It just is. What I want for my life is to be mindful of what I'm doing. If it means being mindful while I'm eating fast, then I'm okay with it. But it also means trying new things and new ways of being, and I'd like my entire life to be an experiment of doing and trying different things. And that is what the 30-Day Challenges are all about.

30-Day Challenges: Mindful Eating, Part 3

It's not that I hate mindful eating. 

It's that I hate being restricted. And, I love losing control and being "bad." Judgment of being "bad" or "good" is also part of the shame that comes from purity culture.

There is something thrilling and enticing about being “bad” that just makes me want to do it more. It's the archetype origin story of human history: What were Adam and Eve doing if not rebelling? It's part of human nature. 

Experts say that the adrenaline rush that comes from rebellion is one part of heroin addiction. They say that the finding and obtaining of the drug--the chase--is almost more addicting than the drug itself. With studies being conducted in Switzerland of drug addicts having all the access they want to the stuff, the study results show that users found it easier to break the addiction when the thrill of the chase was taken away. 

Play hard to get, they say, and then you’ll really hook them. 

Binge eating provides a feeling of losing control. The loss of control is like a drug, it’s a sweet drug that allows me to totally lose my mind and turn off my brain. In that moment, I am only doing what my body is telling me to do. As someone who is often disembodied from myself as well as often “in my brain” for work and life, to turn off my brain and let my body move with abandon and without thinking is a release, surrender, and numbing all at the same time. It’s intoxicating. 

When this happens, I enjoy my food in huge big bites, swallowing so much and so fast that it actually hurts as it goes down my esophagus. All I want is to feel that comfort and dopamine rush that you get from eating and feeling full.

When I allow my body to take over, it naturally just tells me to eat as fast and as much as possible, to preserve as many calories as possible for the winter or until the next hunt. 

I follow some YouTubers who have had histories with eating disorders and experience “extreme hunger.” Some of them talked about how they had extreme hunger during and after having eating disorders. They talk about how there is a difference between extreme hunger and binge eating. 

They validate that it’s not normal to be thinking about food all the time. 

The first time I heard that, I thought to myself: "It’s not?" 

This was news to me. 

The YouTubers have documented how they actually got themselves back on a more even and healthy eating pattern by letting themselves eat as much as they wanted and gain weight, and eventually—over the course of one or two years—find their body’s healthy weight on its own. They call this "going all in" as a recovery from eating disorders. These videos are validating for me in my journey of listening to my body, eating as much as I want, and finding a body weight that is healthy for me. Listening to my intuition and my body is really new for me. Mindful eating is a part of this journey but I still struggle with it. But it's all part of learning more about myself, what my triggers are, and how I can listen to my body and get my body what it needs. 

Sometimes I am ignoring my body and hurting my stomach. But sometimes, it's because I actually am that hungry. My body actually does need the calories. Do I eat so much because I exercise so much? Or do I exercise so much because I eat so much? Probably a little bit of both. Either way, I am slowly learning to listen to my body and what it needs. 

30-Day Challenges: Mindful Eating, Part 2

 I wrote in my journal one day all of my reasons for mindful eating:

“My stomach has been hurting a lot recently. I want to slow down when I eat so I don't hurt my stomach. I want to taste, savor and enjoy my food as one of the great sensual and bodily pleasures in life. Eating is a great way to nurture myself and doing it mindfully makes it a whole body experience. Mindful eating helps me connect with my body in a way that translates to other parts of my life. Mindful eating helps me practice mindfulness and presence, which translates to writing, doing jiujitsu and learning foreign languages, as well as other activities.” 

Of course, mindful eating seems like an obvious thing to do and perhaps for some people this is the way they normally eat. So why is it so hard for me?

Because, for me, binge eating is also one of the great pleasures of life. 

(People define binge eating in different ways, of course, but for the purposes of this essay, I define binge eating as eating as quickly as possible in big, engulfing bites, not really paying attention to the flavors or textures but eating with the sole purpose of feeling the heady intoxication of being too full--also known as “food coma.”)

Macaroni and cheese is my favorite food of all time. I ate it with full pleasure and abandon even when I was vegan, as I declared finding and preparing vegan macaroni and cheese to be my new favorite hobby. I remember one night I was feeling particularly lonely. I prepared a huge bowl of vegan macaroni and cheese seasoned with buffalo sauce, with bits of vegetarian bacon sprinkled in it. I also had coconut milk chocolate ice cream with brownie chunks for dessert waiting for me in the freezer. As I sat down to eat, I knew I should be mindful while I ate it. I had just spent an hour making vegan macaroni and cheese from avocado and cashews, I should at least enjoy it, right?

But just rebelling against that feeling of “I should be mindful” made me feel instantly liberated. Instead of slowing down and enjoying my food, I said “fuck it” to myself and wolfed down the bowl. I could taste the cream, the fat, the spice, the chewy texture of the noodles, the cool splash of oat milk as it washed everything down. All of the sudden everything was right in the world. I was full at the end of it but I dug into the carton of ice cream with abandon anyway. 

Nothing had ever felt so good. I had a full stomach, and I reveled in the sleepiness and sedated feeling that came with the fullness and sugar that was washing over me like a weighted blanket. I didn’t clean up. I just left the dishes on the table and stumbled to my bed and curled up with Netflix, already dreaming and planning my next binge session. Would it be brunch at Walnut Cafe? Lunch at City O’ City? Or dinner at Native Foods? (Three of my favorite vegan restaurants at the time.)

"Surely I needed--no, I deserved--something for all my hard work and also my loneliness and pain! And that one would be the last one. Just one last treat," I thought to myself as I lay in bed.

These thoughts swirled as gassy bubbles started rising in my belly and heartburn set in. Self-hatred bubbled to the surface and in the back of my mind I wondered if I looked fat.

For me, eating is an obsession.

On top of that, the pleasure and rebelliousness of binge eating even tops the mindful eating experience...sometimes. It’s the feeling of doing something wrong or bad that makes binge eating even more desirable and tempting. Food is also the main source of comfort for me.

Sometimes I feel so alone, so detached, so futile. I have felt very existential. "What’s the point?" I ask myself all the time.

One day, I also felt empty and sad, depressed just like they describe: like a dark cloud descended above my consciousness and everything felt heavy, sticky, pointless and hopeless. So I walked through the grocery aisles of Sprouts and picked out four different kinds of boxed vegan mac and cheese. I had a craving for that processed taste and convenience, something to bring back the bodily pleasure and connections with my body through food, the feeling of being blanketed and held, which is provided through this easy and rich and sweet and salty and fatty combination. I piled them high in my cart and then I had something to love and something to look forward to, something to fill me up when I was feeling empty. 

30-Day Challenges: Mindful Eating, Part 1

Mindful eating is the one "30-day challenge" that I have never been able to successfully complete. 

I’ve tried a "30-Day Mindful Eating Challenge" on three separate occasions, and while I can last 7-8 days at a time, I cannot pull myself away from the urge to binge every once in a while. For me, a 30-day streak of mindful eating everyday feels more like a jail cell than a liberation. I feel too chained and restricted to stand it. I always end up breaking the streak at least a few times during the month. 

How do I define “mindful eating” for the purpose of a 30-day challenge? I define mindful eating in this context as only eating while sitting down (eating while driving does not count though!), and putting my fork down on the table between each bite (if eating a taco or hamburger or other such finger food, it means putting down what I’m eating between bites). 

If you’ve never tried it, try just putting your fork down after taking a bite of food, and then waiting to pick up the fork again only once you have swallowed all of the food in your mouth. 

It is SO difficult! 

The sitting-and-put-your-fork-down-between-bites trick really forces you to slow down and requires you to pay attention to the food in your mouth.

I love it and I hate it all at the same time.  

I love mindful eating for the obvious reasons: It helps me enjoy my food more. It helps me savor my meal time too, as I connect with my body and really feel the pleasures of food and eating. 

Mindful eating is not just about food and eating, though. Food itself is pleasurable most of the time. But when it comes to meals I really love, they are all about mindset and environment. For example, when I lived in Boulder and worked from home during COVID, I ate lunch while sitting in the grass in my front yard. Feeling the grass on my hand, the breeze on my skin, and the sun on my face, lunchtime was a moment in time for nobody else except for myself. My favorite meal was quinoa bowls. The quinoa was salty and flavored with vegetarian broth, and its nutty texture rolled around like tiny marbles in my mouth. On top of the quinoa were various toppings. The soft, chewy texture of the fried tofu, the smooth skin of the zucchini, the crunch of cashews, the tart pop of the pickles, the soft and earthy scent of the micro-greens I picked two seconds ago from my own garden, the zing of the kimchi; it all mixed it my mouth to a harmonious melody.

The thing that made the quinoa bowls the most memorable though? It was the chili paste that I poured on and mixed in, which burned in my mouth and made my eyes water. It made me sit right on the edge of being able to stand it, an uncomfortable but thrilling feeling of “it hurts so good.” Knowing that I was flirting with the edge of discomfort and sitting with it? That brought me right to the present, right inside my body, as my tongue and mouth said “you can’t ignore me now!” 

If I washed it down with smoothie or milk, I felt immediate relief and I would eagerly take the next bite and enjoy the spicy-sweet combination. 

But, if I resisted the urge and really sat with and embraced the spice for several minutes, endorphins were released and a wave of calm and satisfaction washed over me like getting a small tattoo. Eating spicy food like this makes you feel like all is right in the world, and that, at least in the moment, there is nothing you have left wanting. 

Being present and mindful to the food and attune to my surroundings and bodily sensations sounds like a very nice, pleasurable experience, doesn’t it? So why do I hate it so much? Why do I resist mindful eating so much? Why is it the only 30-day challenge that I’ve never been able to complete?

Kyrgyzstan, LGBT activism: Part 5

 One day, I had brunch with a Kyrgyz friend (a mutual friend had introduced us at the beginning of my trip) at a coffee house and we sat on the patio, eating scrambled eggs and drinking lattes. She was fluent in English. I told her what I had been up to. She said, “I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be gay and Kyrgyz.”

In response, I explained to her my theory about the link between colonization and homophobia: Insecurity around land, identity and the future for the KGZ people due to a legacy of Soviet colonization, as well as contemporary Russian and Western imperialism, means that anything different can be a threat, and also means that nationalism, conformity and religion are a source of comfort and survival. 

She nodded and said, “Yes, I agree with what you’re saying that we don’t have a secure sense of national identity. We don’t have the same sense of security in the cultural, political or economic sense that Westerners do. I think we have a type of insecurity we grow up with our whole lives. It’s a privilege to have the time and resources to even think about identity. Most people here are worried about food and shelter. They don’t even have the opportunity to think, 'who am I?' As a Kyrgyz, you don’t grow up thinking, 'my country is #1, my country is the world’s police, my country is the most powerful in the world' like Americans do. Thinking about identity, who am I and what I want, how I want to express myself...now that is a privilege. It’s not a privilege we have access to because we have other, bigger things to worry about than identity. It’s a privilege to be able to come out as LGBT. It’s a privilege to come out and feel safe. This is not something we have access to.”

I pushed back against what she was saying a little bit. I said: “Yes, I agree that coming out is a privilege, and coming out and feeling safe is an even greater privilege. But to come to find one’s own identity is not necessarily something that only the wealthy have access to. 

Now, I know there is a hierarchy of needs, and one must have secure food and shelter before they can attend to creative needs or self-actualization, and I agree with what you’re saying about insecurity and how KGZ has not had a recent history of secure national identity. 

But, to say that identity itself is a privilege that only the rich have access to is not exactly true. Of course, we know that places the world over, rich and poor alike, have national and ethnic identities—and often fierce conflicts over these identities. But identity includes sexual orientation and gender identity. People everywhere are queer, and there is a long history of queer identities in human cultures and societies. It’s just a matter of feeling safe or not. Safety and being queer is not equal across time and place. 

For example, the ancient philosophy of Buddhism teaches—and many other faiths teach—that to find true identity—that is, the access one’s Essence not covered up by ego—is something you can achieve through yoga and meditation. Accessing one’s true Essence through prayer is something that people have had access to for thousands of years before material comforts were even a thing. Jesus and Buddha would probably also say that fasting and other kinds of aesthetic lifestyles is one way to achieve enlightenment, this kind of third eye perspective on yourself--what we call identity--is something achievable by anyone no matter their socioeconomic status or situation. So identity is not a privilege. But being able to fully true and open and out in one’s queer identity AND feel safe at the same time is no doubt a privilege, and a privilege that only some people have had access to for a very short time.” 

We talked more about her life story and her own feelings living in KGZ. 

From this conversation, as well as many others I had in KGZ and working with Indigo in their community space and with their community activities for the rest of the two weeks I was there, I came up with a few goals for my next research project on LGBT community in KGZ:

First, I want to represent the LGBT community as whole people in the fullness of their humanity. Not objectified and exoticized, not as just a collection of limbs and organs and a brain, but as whole people with hopes, dreams, desires and regrets just like anybody else.  

Second, I want to find out more about the importance of safe community spaces for queer identity. 

Third, I want to better understand the relationship between Islam, colonialism, queerness and spirituality for Kyrgyz people. 

My proposed research questions are: 

• What is the role of safe community spaces in KGZ queer people’s lives? 
• How do queer community spaces function as sources of safety and identity? 
• How do queer people in KGZ use queer community spaces to celebrate their identity and transform their culture? 
• How do these spaces function as political activism?
• How does the intersection of Kyrgyz, Muslim, Asian, queer, and gender identities influence the way people come together as a community and create a shared culture? 
• How do queer identities and spirituality intersect in KGZ? 
• What is the intersection of race and queer identity? 
• How has colonization and racism shaped the queer KGZ experience?

In my previous work with queer Uyghur people, I found intersecting dynamics between their identity as Muslims, Uyghurs, and queer people. Queer people did not find a conflict between their spiritual and Muslim identity. However, race (e.g., Uyghur versus Chinese) and a history of colonization did play a role in being able to find safe spaces where they could be secure in their queer identity. 

In other words, I hypothesize that marginalized communities struggle with accepting queer identities if they already feel threatened in their space and identity by outside forces such as colonization. (For the Uyghurs, it was Chinese influence, for the Kyrgyz, it might be Russian or other outside Western influence.) I would like to continue this work with the people of KGZ to better understand the intersection between race, queer experience, and colonization. 

I recently received some great news. Indigo and the Czech Academy of Sciences have approved my research proposal and agreed that I can continue conducting this research in the future. I am excited to continue learning more. 

Over and over again I have heard, "I've never even heard of Kyrgyzstan!" This is sad. I hope more people have a better understanding of Central Asia after reading my work. 

Kyrgyzstan, LGBT activism: Part 4

I had been to the restaurant a few times before. I had first gone there the week prior to meet with a professor from American University of Central Asia (AUCA), one of the most prestigious and expensive universities in Bishkek (the acronym for the college is colloquially pronounced “ow-tsa”). He and I had mutual friends in the Central Asian and Uyghur Studies world, and we met up at this restaurant for lunch one day upon his suggestion. After telling him about my new potential research avenues, which included Queer Studies, he had informed me that the very restaurant we were sitting in that exact moment was in fact a queer friendly space. When he told me that, I looked around and realized that much of the staff was genderqueer. I immediately felt at ease. 

The next time I went there on my own, I intentionally made my voice a bit higher. I used my feminine voice because I wanted to be seen as queer. My higher voice combined with my masculine appearance immediately signaled to the staff that I was genderqueer and they reacted with shy and knowing smiles. 

After that, the staff was really sweet and kind to me. They were always smiling and friendly with me, and they enthusiastically got me the menu and took my order each time. I always intentionally went there in the middle of the day when it wasn't busy, and I was often one of the only patrons at the restaurant during that time. But nobody approached me like they would have in China. 

In China, I was constantly getting approached by Chinese and Uyghur people alike, curious about me and wanting to exchange phone numbers. At the gay bars in Urumchi, I would be approached multiple times per night with people—club employees and patrons—just wanting to talk and just curious to hear my story. Of course, it helped that I spoke fluent Chinese and Uyghur in these situations, and not speaking Russian or Kyrgyz is a barrier. 

After I went back to the restaurant a few times, the staff started to know me. They knew I was obviously and visibly queer, but they never approached me or talked to me except to take my order. I think it was out of politeness, or maybe the language barrier. Although their English seemed excellent to me, so I think it might have been more of a cultural norm where people do not approach strangers the way they do in China. 

It was kind of nice to be left alone, but it was also kind of lonely...and hard to do research. “Research in KGZ is so much harder than in China!” I thought to myself. This made me sad (“come talk to me!” I wanted to say), but it was also relaxing to not have people trying to talk to me everywhere I went. 

I realized that if I wanted to do research in Bishkek, whether in the queer community or not, I needed to have an "in"--people didn't talk to strangers in KGZ the way they did in China. At the time living in China, I hadn't even realized how grateful I should have been for all those random conversations I had every single day in China that informed my research. Of course, both China and KGZ are authoritarian countries where freedom of speech is not a given, and in both places people were worried about the government. But in KGZ people were definitely more on their guard when it came to speaking to a stranger about queer identities and politics than in China. 

Many of the Indigo staff knew the restaurant staff there, so everyone felt comfortable being themselves and nobody was worried if our conversation would be overheard. 

Over dinner, the Indigo staff told me about a scandal that occurred last year when a former AUCA student went to a hotel with his boyfriend. A camera had been planted in the room (some people suspect by the state security forces, but nobody is sure who it was--again, the enemy is unknown). The boys were supposedly blackmailed over the video footage, with the police saying they would keep the video a secret if the boys gave up the identities of everyone at Indigo. But the boys refused to do that, so the police had the video published. Footage of them having sex leaked out to the press and internet. People photoshopped the video to make it even worse. Those who published the video in the news said, “Look, this is what AUCA is doing to traditional KGZ values.” The boys in the video were quickly shuttled out of the country because their lives were in danger. One of the boys’ mothers actually sued the interior ministry for planting the camera--but the verdict is still out on that one. 

Meanwhile, the Indigo staff wrote a letter to the president of AUCA, saying "you should protect your students." But the university president did nothing. A few months later, the president got fired over an unrelated drug scandal (the president claimed he had prescriptions for the drugs, the university claimed that he did not). One of the Indigo staff said that this was karma because he didn’t stand up for the gay kids that had their video published. But it was clear: the KGZ government was not supportive of AUCA and their liberal agenda. 

Queer people are seen as a threat to KGZ traditional Muslim values, and the government runs on a nationalist platform that is supposed to restore these so-called "family" values. The government cracks down on gay people and queer activism, especially recently with a return to nationalist politics. AUCA is seen and blamed as being a haven for queer people, and this is interpreted by the KGZ government as going against KGZ values. They see AUCA as encouraging gay identities, and AUCA has been attacked by the government and KGZ nationalists. AUCA is also known as encouraging freedom of speech and human rights, and is thus seen by the current KGZ government as being too liberal and left-wing for their taste. 

My analysis on homophobia in KGZ and how it relates to a KGZ nationalist political agenda: queer identities in the midst of a post-colonial environment often conflict with religion, especially when religion is used as a force of survival, comfort and resistance in oppressive regimes. When you are insecure about yourself, your land and your people, you cling to anything to maintain that. Islam does not cause homophobia, nationalism does not cause homophobia. The homophobia in KGZ and in KGZ politics is related to post-Soviet colonialism and seeing homosexuality as an external influence and threat to the KGZ identity and survival as a people, which was under threat from the Soviets for so long. 

Nothing happens in a vacuum, everything is integrated. This situation is not unlike what is happening with queer Uyghurs. Religion is a source of comfort for KGZ people, and this conflicts with queer identities. But it’s not just about religion. It’s also about identity and being insecure about one's place in the world. When people and the governments they run are insecure, they project that insecurity onto others and have a need to control them. In a post-colonial context, homophobia in politics is about body sovereignty: people want freedom over their bodies, but this makes the population harder to control. In addition, people have insecurity about the police and their status--whether socioeconomic status or citizen status--and this makes queer identities feel threatening to safety, livelihoods and futures.  

For KGZ politicians running on a populist and nationalist agenda, queer people and AUCA are a scapegoat for the economic problems, which have their origin in Soviet colonialism as well as rampant government corruption, and this makes queer people an easy target for a population insecure about money, identity, and their future. 

In other words, queerness, homophobia and nationalism are often linked when it comes to politics in post-colonial states and their populations that are still trying to re-gain their footing after years of oppression. 

Kyrgyzstan, LGBT activism: Part 3

Dastan had never been to the new Indigo location. We called his friend who was meeting us there and we waited at the corner of an intersection for him to take us inside the building. After waiting at the corner for some time, a guy came out and showed us through a gate at an apartment complex and through a parking lot. The entrance was through a back facing building. 

On the first floor was a pink sign that said “Indigo Vibes” in English. There was a large group of staff meeting with masks on the first floor, and Dastan explained to me that the first floor was for HIV testing, prevention and treatment. They were doctors, nurses and medics in a training. On the second floor were offices, and there we met some more of the Indigo staff who worked on political advocacy and community organizing. 

On the third floor was the community center, which they called “Queer Lab.” There was a small library of books in one corner. One of them in English was about reconciling the Abrahamic faiths and queerness. I found a book in English called “The Divine in You” was about affirming queer identities in people through the readings of the Eastern World Religions. They also had a lot of reports about HIV in the region, mostly in Russian, as well as reports about the state of queer people in KGZ and the rest of Central Asia. There was a small kitchen with water, coffee and tea, and a bathroom. On one wall was a big mirror and above that a pink florescent lighting that said “Queer is Good.” 

At that point, others had started to gather in the community room and many of them spoke English, but not fluently. Dastan explained that the meeting would start soon, and that it was an open community meeting for anyone in the public to join. The topic was “before and after coming out.” The meeting would be held in Russian, Dastan explained. 

Dastan translated simultaneously for me most of the meeting by speaking softly into my ear what everyone was saying. I was very impressed! I had never had someone do a simultaneous translation like this for me before. 

When I spoke, Dastan translated simultaneously: he spoke at almost the same time I was speaking to translate what I was saying into Russian. When I introduced myself, everyone clapped enthusiastically for me. It felt like a very welcoming environment. 

Dastan then shared his story, which was about conversion therapy. His parents took him to a bunch of Muslim leaders who performed exorcisms on him, thinking he was possessed by an evil spirit. But now he is out and active. He was one of the founding members of Indigo, he said, and now he is totally out to everyone: family, friends and anyone else who cares to ask.  

He ended the story saying that he founded Pink Summits as a way to show that “we as queer people have been through so much hardship and yet we still persevere, we still triumph, we can still do amazing things like climb Mt Everest. I wanted to show that we are strong and powerful and can accomplish great things.”

I will not share the other stories here, since they did not give me permission to do so. In summary, all of the stories involved triumph and heartbreak, love and loss. All of the stories had some positive things about them and some negative. Coming out in KGZ is not a black and white narrative where I could say “everyone in KGZ is homophobic,” like some of the stereotypes say. It’s not like that, actually most of the stories had at least some aspect of love and acceptance. Unequivocally, all of the stories were about accepting oneself, learning, self-discovery, courage, and love. Most people had exposure to some form of conversion therapy and some had been kicked out or shunned by family and friends for a time, but had been accepted by them later. Many spoke about knowing at a young age and being found out by snooping parents somehow, or else about secrecy, hiding and shame. 

After that, we left and a small group of us went to a restaurant for dinner and drinks.

To be continued...

Kyrgyzstan, LGBT activism: Part 2

While I was waiting for a response from the activists and journalists connected to the queer community in KGZ, I tried to find a queer bar to go to. But the only information I could find was about the rampant homophobia in the region, or else articles about the only gay bar in Bishkek getting shut down three years ago. I was a little surprised and disappointed—I had thought there would at least be some online forums about queer hang outs in Bishkek. In other cities I’d visited, especially in China, there was always at least one TripAdvisor forum about the local gay bars. But I was having very little luck.

Based on the articles I was finding and what other people had told me, it became clear that the queer scene in Bishkek is quite hidden. I was realizing that it was not safe to have your queer business or queer organization easy to find on the internet, and it was not safe to be openly queer either. 

Finally, I got a response to one of my queries. It was Dastan, the KGZ queer activist who started the organization called Pink Summits that comes together to climb mountains and put rainbow flags at the top. I had found his Instagram (he has 13.5K followers!). His Instagram bio said, "queer activist" so I knew then that he is open about his status. I contacted him on Instagram and he responded quickly, saying that he would be in Bishkek the next week. He lives in Europe but was visiting his family the same time I was in town. I eventually got his WhatsApp number and we set up a time to meet at a local LGBT activist organization. 

At first he sent me one address, then he messaged me again later, saying the location of the community center had changed and sent me another address. He said to call him when I got there, that he would come out and get me. 

I could tell that it had to be somewhat secretive, as he couldn’t give me the name of the exact location or the exact address. He mentioned that it would be a meeting with “Indigo,” which I had heard was a queer organization here but couldn’t find any info about it online. The secrecy was for good reason too. Based on the articles I was reading online and what other people said, the queer situation was not safe here.

While I was waiting for the day of our meeting to approach, I sent Dastan a video of myself, just introducing myself and telling him, "I know you’re taking a risk inviting someone you don’t know from the Internet to come to your group meeting, I just want to let you know this is who I am and I’m excited to meet you." He responded with a message: “Looking forward to it.” 

On the day of our meeting, I took a taxi to the address he gave me. I called Dastan and at that moment he was walking down the street with his friend. We greeted each other and he explained why he had sent me two different addresses to Indigo earlier in the week. 

There had been some protests against the government recently and the government was blaming the protests on foreign influencers and LGBT influence that was inciting division in the country. Somebody unknown released a video on the same day that one of the protests were planned that published the name and location of Indigo, as well as the names, identities and email addresses of the employees of Indigo.

After that, at Indigo's old location, there were suspicious cars and people monitoring the comings and goings of the people at Indigo, with cars and people following them to and from work, and watching them. 

Dastan said they didn’t know if it was the government or some private security organization, or just some hate crime groups. That was the problem in KGZ, that they didn’t know who the enemy was. They often used the pronoun “they” to describe this invisible entity that was targeting LGBT people and organizations, but they said it wasn’t always explicitly the government. Though they suspected it was government-funded or government-initiated, the government is not so bold as to be completely public about targeting these organizations and people—the government knew that this wasn’t a good look for international human rights standards and organizations. Such behavior could threaten funding from the US government and USAID. But at the same time the government didn’t like LGBT organizations and saw them as a threat to Kyrgyz traditional family values. The current nationalist government appealed to populist politics and appealed to people by instigating fear in them against LGBT people. Even though Dastan didn't know for sure who was stalking the Indigo employees, they all had suspected the current nationalist and populist government was behind it somehow. 

So that is why Indigo had to change the location of their office recently, for security concerns because they were being stalked.  

Like everything else, the situation was highly even, of course--it wasn't a completely underground organization and people didn't constantly hide in fear. Indigo had a website and an Instagram. Dastan was open and public about his queerness, to his family and everyone else--hosting a public-facing LGBT organization and posting queer activism related content to his public Instagram with 13.5K followers. Indigo was more public than I previously realized, too, with a public-facing Instagram account themselves (2,500 followers) and a website with all of its activities. Indigo and Dastan were happy to host me and be a part of my blog posts and research. It just took me a while to find them. Still, you will notice that I don't post pictures or information about the location or employees. 

To be continued...

Kyrgyzstan, LGBT activism: Part 1

One evening, I was hanging out at the hostel. It had gotten quite late and I hadn’t eaten dinner yet. I overheard another guest, who was Kyrgyz, at the hostel saying she was going to go find some dinner, and I asked if I could join her. She suggested we go to a food court down the street, where we could get pizza and street food at this hour. 

She spoke some English and this is verbatim the conversation that we had as we walked down the street: 

Her: “Can I ask you a question?” [giggle]

Me: “Sure.” 

Her: “Are you a girl or a boy?” [giggle]

Me: “well… I was born female…”

Her: “…but you feel like a boy.”

Me: “Yes.”

Her: “In our culture this is something totally unbelievable. People would never accept this here. If you say you are gay, you are dead. If a guy says, ‘I am gay,’ the next day he would be killed. Totally like this. For girls, it is not as bad. She would be told to go to the mosque, and pray to the saints to change her mind.”

Me: “Do you know anyone like this?”

Her: “What do you mean?”

Me: “A girl who dresses like a boy.”

Her: “Yes, I know a few people like this. I don’t know them well, but I’ve seen them before, maybe on Instagram. But if a boy wants to look like a girl? That would be totally unacceptable. He would be beaten to death. It doesn’t matter if it’s a friend, a neighbor, a family member, they would kill him for this. I think it’s because we are Muslim. I don’t know. Kyrgyz people are kind of wild.” [laughs]

In reflecting on our conversation, I thought about all of the LGBT activists who are working hard in KGZ for queer rights. I don’t think they would have appreciated what she said, and I couldn’t believe that what she was saying was all true. One person can’t speak for a whole country, and I’m sure there’s a spectrum of beliefs: some people more accepting than others with some people fighting really hard for rights. 

I did some research online and saw that there was a Pride parade in KGZ in 2019, what some people call the first Pride parade in KGZ. There are a couple LGBT organizations, and activists who are active in the country. I also found a documentary made about Kyrgyz queer women and a Queer Studies conference held at American University of Central Asia in Bishkek. 

There are also articles online about the only Kyrgyz gay bar being shut down in 2017, and about other hate crimes and homophobia happening. 

So what my new "friend" said was not exactly the truth; there are lots of queer people who are out and fighting for their rights. But clearly life is hard here for LGBT people. No wonder LGBT people from Central Asia seek asylum in Russia and the US, fearing for their lives. It’s so sad that only a small percentage of them are successful. 

I tried emailing the LGBT organization I had read about online, but their email bounced back, saying “this email address does not exist.” 

I also reached out to a KGZ queer activist I found online, Dastan Kasmamytov, who runs an organization called Pink Summits to spread LGBT activism awareness. His goal is inspire "young LGBT to believe in their powers and abilities to change the world around them" (listen to a podcast with him). 

I also emailed the authors of two academic articles I found online ("Securing an LGBT Identity in Kyrgyzstan" and "Translating ‘Queer’ Into (Kyrgyzstani) Russian"), as well as some of the journalists. I could only wait and hope someone would respond to me. 

To be continued...

Kyrgyzstan, Hiking: Part 4

Eventually, I made my way back to the trailhead. I stopped at a restaurant there for some dumplings and plov (pronounced “pilaf” in English and “polo” in Uyghur, this traditional Central Asian dish is rice cooked in broth with carrots). 

My meal at the restaurant; I am normally vegetarian but ate meat in KGZ when there were no other options. 

A young girl working the tables looked no more than 14 years old. She was kind to me as I ordered in my foreign accent while she ran around getting things for me and the others in the restaurant. The trail, waterfall and hot springs were a popular place for locals and tourists alike, and the restaurant was bustling with customers. 

By the time I was done eating, it was already 3:30 pm. I saw the marshrutka (mini bus) sitting in the parking lot outside. It was scheduled to head back to Bishkek at 4 pm; it was the last mini bus back to Bishkek of the day. It was packed full like a can of sardines. Almost every adult had a kid sitting on their lap and no masks were in sight. I took one look at that COVID container and thought to myself, “no, thank you.” 

(NOTE: I had had a COVID scare only a few days earlier when I had been to a party where two other vaccinated people had tested positive for COVID the next day, so I was feeling on edge about it.)

I decided to just risk it and find a way back to the city on my own. I walked up the hill to the hot spring and paid the entrance fee (100 som or $1.15 USD) to a nice boy at the ticket counter, who proudly asked me "where are you from?" in English. 

The changing rooms were all single-stall and gender neutral, so I was able to go in there and change into my swimming shorts. I kept my shirt on. 

Usually when I hear “hot spring,” I think of some idyllic vision of secluded and small pools of near-scalding water on top of a mountain. In KGZ, “hot spring” is more like a warm community swimming pool with a beautiful view of the mountains. 

It was an old Soviet-made “sanatorium.” Not sanatorium as in “long-term medical facility” as we think of it in the West, but “sanatorium” as they use it in Russia and Eastern Europe, which basically means “spa.” This one was rusty and falling apart. The water was dirty and smelled strongly of urine. Some women had full bikinis, even some in just underwear, and some had full head-to-toe coverage in black body suits. The pool was crowded, with lots of kids in inner tubes and their parents with their smartphones out taking pictures and videos of their kids.

I went into one of the hot spring pools and it was lukewarm. I was disappointed; I had been expecting something more like a hot tub. 

It was crowded, with over 30 other people there in the pool with me. The Muslim women swam with full outfits and hijabs on. 

Nobody blinked an eye at me or seemed to notice or care why I might be wearing a shirt. I stood alongside the other men in the pool under the fountains, where hot water slowly trickled out. I let it cascade over my sore shoulders and neck, hoping its magical healing powers would cure me of all my muscle aches. Nobody bothered me, except one guy who asked me if I spoke Russian. I said no, and he asked if I was a tourist and he explained to me that I shouldn’t spend more than 40 minutes in the pool at a time. It was kind of nice not speaking Russian; everyone just left me alone. I noticed that I don’t even have to try to put on a deep voice anymore, it comes naturally and I pass easily. 

I hung out in the pool for a while longer. It was worth the entrance fee just for the cultural experience alone. Kids continually jumped in the water with huge belly flops right in front of me, covering my face in water much to their delight until I decided to move. Everyone thought it was hilarious every time a kid belly-flopped in the pool and got everyone around them wet. 

Eventually I got out and changed back into dry clothes. I had to change into my jacket since my shirt was all wet. I headed out. On my way out, I saw an older gentleman with a traditional KGZ hat. I asked him for a picture with me since these hats are quite unique and a big part of traditional KGZ culture. The Kyrgyz men in China also wear these hats. 

I walked back down the hill and started walking along the highway, holding my thumb out to hitchhike.

After not too long of a time, a van stopped and I ran up to it. The driver, a young man with braces, spoke to me in Russian. I had to explain that I didn’t speak Russian. He said he didn’t speak English, but he spoke Arabic since he had studied Law in Jordan. But that didn’t help us much, so we switched to Uyghur/Kyrygyz. He wasn’t going to Bishkek, he said, but he was going to Tokmak, and I could get a minibus to Bishkek from there. 

“Sounds good,” I said, so I hopped in, and we proceeded to have an awkward conversation bumping along with our different dialects about what is good and bad about America (bad: homelessness, guns. good: mac and cheese, comfortable housing if you could afford it). At one point he wanted to light a cigarette, so while he was driving he lit a match and tried to light it. But we had all the windows open and the flame kept going out, so I offered to help. He refused, but I grabbed the matches and helped him light it. It finally worked. I felt accomplished in helping him with this seemingly impossible task. 

Finally, we got to Tokmak and I jumped out. It was boiling hot. It was much hotter there than in the mountains and I was burning up in my jacket. I didn’t have a shirt underneath; my shirt had gotten wet in the pool. But I didn’t have anywhere to change, so I sucked it up and bought some bottled water at a grocery store. [This is one reason why I might want to get top surgery some day.]

When I left the store, three guys were outside in the parking lot saying, “taxi taxi taxi,” so I told them I was going to Bishkek. It was going to be 1500 som (after a brief bargain negotiation). I looked up my location on Google maps—turns out I had hitchhiked my way farther from Bishkek, not closer. It was going to be an hour ride to Bishkek. But I was hot, tired and wanting to get back to the hostel. So I agreed to the price, looking out the very cracked windshield of this guy’s car the rest of the way. 

1500 som is about half an average monthly salary for a KGZ local, and this guy was going to earn that in an hour. For me, it was $18 USD, not much more than a burger with fries and coke at a nice restaurant. 

I got back to Bishkek and promptly treated myself to a spicy red curry with tofu and a cherry stout at the local Thai restaurant and craft brewery (cleverly called "Save the Ales"). 

The place had a bougie atmosphere: English-speaking staff, expensive vegetarian food, jazz music in the background, IPA beer on the menu, brightly painted furniture, and decorative light bulbs strung across the patio. The other customers clearly had money. The people around were dressed up and were enjoying their evening out. Economic inequality was tangible and starkly contrasted the taxi drivers and servers I had met earlier. 

It was nice to sit outside on the patio, the breeze kissing my skin. The red curry was rich and spicy with a luscious consistency from the coconut milk. I mixed it with white rice and the poached egg they put on top. The spicy flavors mixed with the creamy texture of the tofu and egg was heaven on my tongue as it mingled on my palate with the fruity dark beer. 

I felt wholly bougie and over-the-top. I was filled with a sense of satisfaction with a tipsy food-coma feeling to ease me into a deep sleep that night. 

Red tofu curry and cherry stout at the local restaurant and craft brewery

Kyrgyzstan: Hiking, Part 3

 Walking along the trail, I came across a Kyrgyz couple: a man in his sixties and his wife, who spoke a little bit of English. They asked me where I was from, where I was going, and how I liked KGZ. The man spoke Russian to me, and then his wife would translate into English. They understood some of my Uyghur too, but from my limited Czech skills I could tell he was speaking Russian, which I couldn’t understand at all, so I needed the wife to translate. 

He insisted that I tell him my age, give him my WhatsApp number and accept their offer of a ride back to Bishkek after the hike. I just kept saying “thank you thank you” (rehmet, rehmet), which is how you politely refuse in Uyghur. I have learned it is important to refuse aggressive friendship-making in Uyghur/Kyrgyz culture, which I have discovered is very common.

I told them that I was having trouble finding the waterfall. They said they were also hiking to the waterfall and invited me to join them. 

As we walked, the husband switched back and forth between Krygyz and Russian, and his wife translated when she could (her English was pretty rudimentary but better than my Russian!). He told me that he was 63, he had served in the Kyrgyz military for 25 years (he was outfitted in camo, camo hat, and boots) and that he had served in a war in Afghanistan. He had several metal teeth or missing teeth. Him and his wife used walking sticks. He was in a white tank top with blue stripes, and his skin was dark tan and leathery. Talking was pretty awkward, as it always was in KGZ, with him explaining things I only half understood, and his wife trying to translate. For the most part, the conversation revolved around him bragging about himself and his life, while also aggressively trying to be friends with me as I politely declined. 

He stopped periodically to explain different plants or smell the flowers. He explain the herbal benefits of various flowers and plants to me. One plant had large leaves, which were called elephant ears, and he told me to take a leaf and use it as a fan. At another point, he stopped to use the leaves of one plant to wipe up the sweat off his back. He told me that he had come to the waterfall four years ago with several friends, they had drank whiskey until they passed out and slept there overnight. But, he assured me, he remembered the way to the waterfall from that day four years ago. We bushwhacked part of the way through heavy underbrush and crossed several creeks, going up and down steep slopes. Some of the way was so steep and hard to navigate that we had to help each other and they lent me their walking sticks. 

After some time, the husband and I got quite far ahead of the wife. The husband took his shirt off and sat down for a rest and smoke, offering me one. I looked at the All Trails app. We had been walking for 5.6 kilometers already, and our trajectory didn’t look promising to find a waterfall anytime soon based on the elevation change markings on the map. I showed this to him and tried to explain it, but it was clear that he was confident that he would find it if he kept going. He said that it was just 2 km ahead—even though they had told me way back when they first saw me that the waterfall was 1.8 km ahead. 

The wife eventually caught up, and I was impressed by her perseverance. She was definitely not dressed for a hike on a hot, humid day. She had on a thick t-shirt and long pants. She was wearing glittery platform shoes that barely passed as tennis shoes. My feet ached just looking at them on her feet. 

I showed her the map as well. She explained to him what I was saying, but he insisted that he knew the way. I explained that I was tired and decided I would turn around. Plus I was running out of water. They nodded and did not protest, so long as I exchanged WhatsApp information with them first. We took some selfies and they promised to meet me at the hot spring and drive me back to Bishkek. 

They continued walking into the gorge—more power to them; I was impressed—and I turned around. I headed back to the trailhead, which is where the hot springs were located. 

To be continued... 

Kyrgyzstan: Hiking, Part 2

I had done some Googling of “hikes close to Bishkek” and had found several easy to moderate trails that led to famous waterfalls: Alamedin Gorge, Ala Archa Gorge, Issyk Ata, and Chunkurchak. 

Ala Archa Gorge

I would hike all four trails by the end of my trip. 

Alamedin Gorge

Each destination was well-known among locals and tourists alike, and so I easily found busses to the trailheads and hiking tips in English on travel blogs. 

Chunkurchak

This particular blog post is about my trip to Issyk Ata, which had a hiking trail to a waterfall as well as a hot spring. 

The waterfall, which was the main destination for the hiking trail here (as it was for the other hikes), was supposed to only be 2.3 km away. The hostel dad was worried about me though, making sure I was stocked up on water and snacks. He made me promise to call him if I had any troubles getting home, and assured me that I should pay no more than 100 som for the minibus (marshrutka) home. I assured him I would be fine and set off on the way, enjoying the views while following the trail route along on my hiking app All Trails. 

The views were majestic. There were tall snowcapped glaciers in the background with grassy mountains in the foreground as I walked in the valley of a gorge. 

I walked past pastures of cows grazing. 

The fields around me were dotted with purple, pink and yellow wild flowers. I crossed little streams and walked along the meandering trail that crisscrossed the hill side and generally followed the river down in the gorge below.

I kept walking and finally the trail stopped and I came across a horse that was clearly abused.  

Its front two legs had been tied together so it couldn’t move. It was in this small little pen that was full of its own shit, so there were flies everywhere, and there were flies eating its eyes and face. All it could do was constantly twitch, blink and flap its tail, but it couldn’t move at all. It was skinny and didn’t even have any water to drink. I felt so bad for it and I suspected that the horse was for tourism purposes. This made me vow never to go horseback riding for tourist purposes unless I know they take good care of the horses. 

I kept walking following the trail on All Trails. It started to thunderstorm. I put on my rain jacket and waited underneath a thick tree while I waited for the storm to mostly pass. It was beautiful to watch the rain fall from my spot underneath the tree. Eventually I started walking again, and it was still raining quite a bit so my hands got cold. Before too long, the sun came out and it got hot again. 

Watching the rain and the flowers, listening to the chirping of the birds, gazing at the mountains in the background and walking through the creek crossing the path, I felt at peace.

Kyrgyzstan: Hiking, Part 1

Monday, July 5th- 

KGZ is clearly set up for adventure tourism. The hostel I was staying at offered services to their foreign guests—most of them from western Europe—to accommodate any kind of desire for outdoor adventure. The bulletin board by the front desk was filled with advertisements for day trips into the mountains or week-long trekking trips around the country. Other outings included watching the nomadic horse sporting games to hiking to horseback riding to paragliding to overnight KGZ yurt stays at mountain lakes to waterfall viewings to off-roading Jeep tours. 

KGZ is a mountainous country. Ninety-four percent of the country is over 1,000m (3,280 ft) above sea level and the average elevation is 2,750m (9,000 ft). To compare, Boulder is at about 1600m above sea level (5,250ft). While Bishkek is in a valley at 800m above sea level (2,600 ft), there were mountains only an hour away that one could go hiking or have other adventures in. (There is also lots of skiing there in the winter). 

It makes me sad that some people see KGZ as nothing more than a tourist destination. KGZ is like many other “exotic” countries, such as Thailand, that are just seen as travel spots and nothing else. For many of the tourists, KGZ is not seen for its people, governments, cultures and economies in their own right. Tourism is a kind of exploitation and appropriation, a kind of objectification and colonization. On the other hand, it’s clear that the KGZ people are very proud of their country and their culture. They seem pleased to show it off to the Western “guests.” For me, the trekking tours around the country look really fun and like something I would like to do at some point. But it also feels like this huge gross privilege to take entertainment in someone else’s home; it feels colonial to take a holiday in another person’s home, especially in the overnight “homestays” in KGZ yurts in the mountains. At the same time, of course, their economy clearly depends on tourism and has suffered since COVID. 

The other reason why KGZ, and many other “exotic” countries, are seen as desirable tourist destinations for Westerners is because everything is so cheap. Hiring a driver to take me into the mountains for the day cost about $35. A taxi driver to the mountains or back home was about $10. A nice meal at a fancy restaurant was $5. A night in the hostel was $5. A normal meal of rice or noodles was about $1.75. 

Their currency has been especially weak since the COVID crash of 2020. The currency fell with Russians currency (rubles) last year, and the price of goods is rising while the currency is inflated. They are having a huge economic crisis in KGZ right now. The result is a weak currency which makes it cheap for Western tourists. 

Heading into the mountains for hiking

The hostel I was staying at was owned and operated by a KGZ family. I hired the father to drive me out the mountains one day. According to my internet research, the hostel family over-charged me for the drive, but I can’t care when it’s such a small amount of money for me ($10 as opposed to $6). The dramatic difference in currency between KGZ som and US dollars is inequality in action—the way our money is worth different amounts in different countries reflects a legacy of colonialism, racism and inequality.  

The hostel dad and I stumbled through our conversation, which basically consisted of me speaking Uyghur, him understanding most of it, and him speaking Kyrgyz (occasionally with an English or Russian word thrown in here and there) and me understanding most of it. Our conversation was like a car that is super wobbly and is bumping along an off-road trail. You have to go slowly and even then you might have to stop, turn around, repeat yourself, and even then you might have to take a different route if they’re not understanding you. 

Me speaking Uyghur and him speaking Kyrgyz was a bit of a struggle the whole time. (It’s good that I’m studying Czech because some of the words are the same with the Russian words, so I can understand things like numbers and simple phrases.) But we can understand each other along the bumps and turns along the way, and talking with the hostel dad is fun and makes the long car ride go by fast. 

He told me that religious tensions are good in KGZ; that Christians and Muslims get along quite well. We passed an Orthodox Church on the right and a mosque on the left, and he explained that if a manager was a Christian (he kept saying the English word “Christmas” for Christian, which I thought was very cute) and the worker or other manager was a Muslim, they would have no problems working together. He mentioned that the government doesn’t tolerate radical Islam and has made no place for radical Muslims in the government or in society, so that has been dealt with well. Of course, this is a concern in a region close to Afghanistan, Pakistan and India that has had issues with religious and ethnic tensions. 

As we drove through the countryside, he pointed out to me how dry it’s been this year—a mountainside that’s normally green was brown. We could see billowing smoke in the distance showing a forest fire, which he said are normally very rare, and rivers that were lower than normal. He also said it’s hotter and dryer here than ever before. 

He said that the craziest thing about America is that we have guns and people just go into churches and schools and shoot people up; he said this would never be allowed in KGZ. He drove through farmland and he explained that 62% of KGZ people are farmers or rural populations, and guessed that 5% of America was (I looked it up and 19% of America’s population is rural), but his guess at 5% is telling how other people see America as urban and developed. 

Before I knew it, we had arrived at the trailhead.

To be continued...

Kyrgyzstan: Jiujitsu, Part 4

Saturday, July 3rd- 

I was having an internal conflict. 

Should I go back to jiujitsu or not? 

I was scared shitless of getting “found out” as trans somehow. I imagined them pulling my pants down and realizing that I was AFAB; I conjured up thoughts of them assaulting me by feeling my breasts or crotch and then beating me up. These thoughts haunted me. But at the same time, I realized that the fear was perhaps a signal of what I actually should do to leave my comfort zone, pointing me in the direction of what I wanted and needed. 

I was seriously considering not going to training. The voices inside my head said: Maybe I should just call it. Nobody will notice if I don't show up. Nobody will care. As one friend said, “it doesn’t benefit anyone.” Why not just take the week off and train in Prague when I get back? You don’t have to train. Just take the time to relax and chill at the hostel. 

“You don’t need to train,” the logical part of my brain kept insisting; the part of me that wanted to keep me safe.

And yet. And YET. 

Jiujitsu does benefit me. This opportunity to go back to Golden Eagle was not only about training jiujitsu. It was about presenting male, making connections, having fun, and playing. It was about taking care of my mental health. It was about cultivating social connections and emotional health. Jiujitsu in that moment was about accessing every part of myself and being vulnerable with others. It was about stepping outside of my comfort zone. It was about challenging myself. It was about doing what I wanted to do, creating the life I wanted for myself, and training the sport that I love. 

I looked deep inside myself and asked, “What do you want?” The answer was clear: “I want to play.” I could not deny my inner-child the chance to play—what was I going to say to him, “Sorry, it’s too risky because you’re trans, you have to stay home”??? 

No! That’s not what I would want for myself; that’s not what anyone else would want for their kid either, trans or otherwise. What I wanted to say in response was: “YES! Go play! YES, you deserve this chance to play just like anyone else. I don’t want you to be limited or limit yourself because you are trans. You deserve the full spectrum of human experience. Yes, your life is inherently riskier now, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put yourself out there.” 

I wanted to go. I wanted to play with the other kids.

After deciding that I would go to training this evening after all, I laid down in bed to re-fuel and re-charge mentally. I felt a sense of dread and doom wash over me. My mind kept telling me, “This is too dangerous, this isn’t worth the risk.” But it was something I wanted to do for myself anyway. 

I did some reading to relax. I pulled out my phone and messaged Golden Eagle, letting them know that my COVID test was negative and confirming that we had class at 7 tonight. They said in response, “Yes, and also maybe you could come help with the kid’s class at 5:30?”

I responded with a simple: “Yes [smiley face emoji].” Nothing else to get me going somewhere faster than to make me feel like I’m helping. (If you want to get me to do something, just tell me that I’m going to be helping someone out and I’ll be there. Yes, I am type 2 on the enneagram…) The drive to go was stronger now that I was feeling like they needed and wanted me there. 

I looked at the clock. It was already 4:40. I needed to leave soon to get there on time for the kid’s class. I did a 5-minute meditation. The meditation ended, and I prayed: “Universe, give me the strength to do your bidding. Give me the strength to help out where I am needed. Give me the strength to spread Love.” 

I got up and got changed. I put on my tightest sports bra (thankfully I was gifted such a small chest; I don’t know how other trans men survive before top surgery). I put my passport away (I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing it somehow and seeing my birth name). I put my period stuff in a separate pocket in my backpack so that nobody would see it if I opened up the main pocket. I did 5 minutes of foam rolling to get my muscles ready and was out the door, getting a Yandex (Kyrgyz Uber) and heading over there. I was anxious, and had to do breathing exercises the entire way there to stop from hyperventilating. 

A big part of me still wanted to give up and go home. Then I thought to myself, this is my misogi. 

Misogi was a term I had learned listening to a podcast called “The Benefits of Discomfort,” which was an interview about a book called The Comfort Crisis. 

Misogi has been appropriated by Western culture to mean something different from the original Japanese definition, not unlike what has happened to yoga. The word misogi translates as "water cleansing." It’s a Japanese and Shinto practice of ritual purification that typically involves people drenching themselves in freezing cold water, usually a waterfall.  

The "new misogi concept," aka the Western re-appropriation of the term and idea, is the name for a certain kind of extreme challenge.

According to Michael Easter, the author of the book featured on the podcast, a misogi is a rite of passage. A misogi is specifically a challenging mission where you want to give up and there is a very real chance of failure. If one does succeed in the misogi, they have the opportunity to slay a dragon, and very often that dragon is actually themself—often the part of themself that is doubting, limiting or hindering them in some way. This is the hero motif that runs through so many stories because it resonates with the human experience: a problem or a challenge that the protagonist overcomes, often by slaying the enemy, and sometimes that enemy is an aspect of the hero themselves. 

I knew that in terms of jiujitsu training, there was a 50/50 chance that I could fail—that I will lose at sparring, get tapped out, get smashed and/or get “found out” as AFAB.  This evening was my challenge, my misogi. It was my opportunity to slay my dragon: the dragon of self-doubt. It was my opportunity grow into myself in my confidence and belief in myself.  

The Yandex arrived at Golden Eagle and my (mini) misogi began. 

When I entered the building, it was like I entered a different world. It was a world where I was male. I greeted the males on the sidelines—the dads watching the kids’ class—with a handshake using two hands as was customary in this gym for all the males. I put my backpack and my money belt to the side and put on my gi. 

Kids' Class

I told the instructor—a short, stalky Uyghur man with a long beard who spoke English—that T had told me to come help with the kid’s class. The coach seemed surprised—nobody had informed him that I was coming, apparently. T himself was nowhere to be found. He said I should wait on the side and he would let me know.

I did some stretching on the side while the kids played a warm-up game of tag. Then the coach invited me to play a dodge ball game with the kids with a huge bouncy ball. The coach and I ran around throwing the soft ball at the kids to get them out. While the kids screamed and giggled, we threw the ball at them and they dodged us and ran around. The kids also played some games of leap frog to warm up (and they were SO cute). 

Then we did some jiujitsu drills in a circle and I joined them, and the kids helped me out when I didn’t understand the Russian, pointing out when I was going in the wrong direction. Next, the kids all sat in a circle while pairs would go in the middle of the circle and roll while the coach yelled at them competition style, telling them what to do. 

The kids (ranging from 4-7 years old) were really good, passing guard, maintaining guard, and putting on armbars and chokes. Some of the kids had on expensive and new brand name Shoyoroll, Tatami, and Hayabusa kid’s gis that I'm sure ranged in the hundreds of dollars. Others had faded or torn blue gis, some just had a gi top and no gi pants (just shorts), and some of the kids didn’t have gis at all. It was clear that these kids came from a wide range of different economic backgrounds. We were in the Uyghur neighborhood and many of the members were Uyghur—and Uyghurs in KGZ range from privileged to impoverished. Clearly these kids were from a range. 

The kids were so cute, struggling as hard as they could, some with their parents shouting at them from the sidelines, some parents taking videos of them. One dad was particularly vocal when a kid got in the middle and Z (one of the guys I trained with who spoke English) stood behind him mouthing at me, “It’s his father.” I just laughed. The kid looked exactly like him and it was so obvious that this dad was projecting onto his kid everything he wished he could be or could have been. 

They sparred for about 30 minutes, but I was just sitting on the sidelines doing nothing, I couldn’t really help because the class was being instructed in Russian. While I can speak Uyghur and Kyrgyz people can understand me, I don’t know enough Kyrgyz for the kids to understand me. I offered to the instructor to roll with some of the kids who were sitting out—the kids on the sidelines were clearly getting bored and distracted, many running off to go play with each other while the others sparred. I rolled with a few of them, but they were clearly intimidated by me and many were too scared to roll with me. 

Training

After the kid’s class, the coach and some of the other men with long beards went into a back room to pray. I stretched while waiting for the adult’s class to start. Everyone else in the class was a white belt. We did some warm up drills. 

It was at this point that I started to get really nervous. Everyone was bigger than I was—a lot bigger. I noticed a 4-stripe white belt I hadn’t seen before who looked really strong with really broad shoulders. He was tall and looked mean. My heart started beating faster. 

In that moment—warming up and looking at all the big guys around me—I kind of started freaking out. I was really scared that I would get smashed and that I would get found out. I felt sick to my stomach, like I was going to vomit. My face got hot, my heart was beating fast, I almost started hyperventilating. I was light headed and a little dizzy, and my mouth was dry. But I kept telling myself to just stay present, and that I was connected to universal energy that would give me strength.  

We drilled a cool armlock from bottom of guard I had never learned before: overhook the arm and grab the opposite lapel, hip out, put the opposite foot on their hip and the other foot by their armpit, squeeze the knees). 

I was paired up with a Uyghur man with a long beard with red in it. He was very adorable and didn’t say much to me. He was shy. At that point, I started feeling better as I was able to get present while we were drilling and felt more confident in what I was doing. 

In the middle of drilling, the two smaller blue belt guys I had trained with last Thursday came in carrying a championship belt and a gold medal. They explained that they had competed at a tournament yesterday and they had won the championship medal. Everyone cheered them. 

After class, we had sparring time and the one blue belt—we’ll call him R—called me out and asked me to roll.

We rolled, and I could tell I was better than him and maybe even stronger than him, but I still struggled a bit to get into my groove. He didn’t tap me but I didn’t tap him either. Then, I rolled with the other blue belt—we’ll call him Irafat. He tapped me at the end with a bow and arrow choke. Irafat and I went a second time, and this time he didn’t get me—and I didn’t get him either, it was a draw. 

We were all breathing and sweating heavily at this point. We all rested for a minute and they shared their water with me. I went with R again, and this time I got on top and was able to hold him and submit him. I was exhausted, rolling as hard as I could every roll and completely out of breath. A part of me, again, wanted to give up. I told myself I would keep rolling until there was no one left to roll with, until everyone else went home. This was my misogi. 

So Irafat and I rolled again, and this time I submitted him four times, and he got me twice. I don’t even know how it happened. It was a disembodied experience; it happened so fast and I just let muscle memory completely take over. I remember I got on top and told myself to keep heavy hips pressing down on him. All I remember is that I got him with a bow and arrow, arm bar from bottom of guard, an Americana from mount and one other submission that I don't remember. We just kept going without stopping between submissions. He was gracious and didn’t let up on his aggression either. After that one, he said he was going home. 

R said he would roll one more with me. We rolled and again I couldn’t submit him but he couldn’t submit me either. It was just complete presence and muscle memory; it was too fast to process anything or think about anything. It was just pure brain to body. 

After our roll, R said, “Okay I’m going home now.” By that time, we had been rolling for an hour and everyone else was gone. 

I had made it to the other side. I had made it to my goal of being the last one on the mat. I had slayed my dragon.

Going Home

I left, tired and parched, out of breath and red-faced. I grabbed my backpack and walked out without my shoes. I put my shoes on in the lobby. I bought a water from the bar tender downstairs who giggled shyly at me. 

As I waited outside for a taxi, Irafat came out and offered to drive me home. I told him in Uyghur that I was getting a taxi, so he took my phone and called the driver he was cancelling the ride. He cancelled the ride in the app and told me to get in the car. I showed him where my hostel was on Google maps and we were on our way. 

He put YouTube on his phone and had Kyrgyz music playing in the background. We stopped at a mini mart, and he got a Coke, which he shared with me—the sweet liquid and spicy bubbles dissolving on my tongue. He sped down the highway, dodging cars left and right. He offered me a juicy nectarine he had in the back seat. We danced in our seats and ate the nectarines, juices spilling over our chins and down our shirts, throwing the pits out the window. 

While we danced to YouTube videos we drank out of the 1L Coke bottle. It was cool and refreshing, the bubbles and the sugar exactly what my throat needed and my tongue wanted. When eating nectarines, the fuzzy, tough skin was hard to break through while the soft meat of the fruit popped and juice drizzled down my shirt and covered my hands and chest. The sticky juice covered my pants as I wiped my hands.

When we got to my hostel, he pulled over and showed me the videos on his phone from the tournament yesterday, where he had gotten two submissions by triangle. I told him that he did awesome and he smiled shyly. I congratulated him, and was genuinely proud of him for his effort. As I got out of the car, I told him I would see him on Tuesday. He said, “for sure.” 

I made it out to the other side of my misogi. 

I had a break through that night, in terms of my identity but also my confidence and the way I believe in myself and feel about myself. Like I’m finally becoming comfortable with myself in a way I never thought was possible. Like I deserve this. Like I belong. Like I have value. 

I’m so glad that I didn’t give up, that I took the risk. It was 100% worth it to get the chance to challenge myself, play, train, work my body and my mind, and make new friends. I was in heaven. 

I’m grateful for getting to the other side of my misogi, slaying my dragons: My dragons of being scared to be trans, my dragons of being scared to go hard at jiujitsu, my dragons of insecurity and not believing in myself. What I did tonight was the definition of play because I went out there but didn’t know what the outcome would be. It turned out to be quite fun. 

I don’t feel like I’m spying or undercover or an imposter anymore. I feel genuine. I feel like myself. 

I continued to train jiujitsu a few more times in KGZ. Of course, it was still difficult to go there and not be openly trans/queer, but it was still incredibly liberating. Besides jiujitsu, the rest of my time in KGZ was filled with hiking and working with a local LGBT organization, where I could be open. I will continue this blog series with tales from those other adventures. 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: It is interesting re-reading and writing this now, 1.5 months later as I travel through Europe and Berlin and train there. Now it is completely natural to present as male at jiujitsu—in Prague where I have come out as well and in the gyms I visit—and it is not scary at all anymore (of course, the fear factor might also be a function of being in countries where it is not a huge threat to my life to be trans). And it definitely feels genuine and authentic. Looking back on myself not so long ago, it is interesting to note the change as I grow into my trans identity.