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. 

Kyrgyzstan: Jiujitsu, Part 3

Thursday, July 1st-

evening 

I had been exchanging messages with the Golden Eagle BJJ WhatsApp account for a couple of days. I had found them on Instagram and was messaging them using WhatsApp from there. I just told them my name was Sam and that I was a purple belt. Timor, the guy who responded to me with voice messages in English, was very enthusiastic. He had invited me to come train on Thursday at 7 pm and emphasized that I could train without paying the entrance fee. 

Yesterday had been very uncomfortable and I felt objectified. I just wanted to be myself. After what happened at KGZ Top Team, I had decided that I was going to go to Golden Eagle and present myself as I am. I was going to let them assume what they wanted about me and my gender based on my appearance. I was thinking three things. First, I wanted to be able to train with the guys. I didn’t want to be limited in my training partners. Second, I was feeling like a guy and not wanting to get misgendered as a girl. Had it been in the States, I think I would have just said, “My pronouns are he or they,” and let them assume the rest. But it’s not so easy here. So, I just didn’t say anything about it. Third, I wanted to see if I could pass. I wanted to see if I would be treated differently and how that would feel. 

Arriving at Training

Earlier today, Timor asked me to send him my picture. A wave of fear came over me as I thought maybe he was trying to figure out what gender I was. Sam is, after all, an androgynous name. 

“Why do you ask?” I messaged him. 

“So I can give your picture to the reception desk and they won’t charge you an entrance fee,” he explained. 

I sent him one of my pictures from a couple days earlier where I was looking appropriately like a teenage boy, acne and all. He responded with a thumbs up emoji. I took a deep breath. 

I took a Yandex taxi there, KGZ’s version of Uber. 

My Yandex driver to the jiujitsu gym. 

When I walked in to the gym, I was 15 minutes early and two men were teaching a kids' jiujitsu class. I stood by the side and just did some joint mobility exercises while I waited. As guys came in to the gym, they approached me and shook my hand. They did not say anything to me, but shaking hands is a common greeting between guys in Muslim countries so it was clear they thought I was a guy. 

“It’s working,” I thought. “I’m passing.” 

At the end of the kids' class, I introduced myself to the main coach, using my lowest masculine voice, and I explained I was a visitor coming to train for a couple weeks. Timor arrived a couple minutes later and we shook hands. 

“So, our coach is out of town, do you mind teaching class for us tonight?” Timor asked in English. “You can give us a seminar."

“Uh, I don’t really know what to teach,” I said. 

“Don’t worry. They’re all white belts, just think of something to teach us, it will be fine. If you don’t mind, just show us something you know,” he said.

“OK, sure,” I said and I freaked out inside. This was more attention than I wanted. I also didn’t know what to teach. After a few moments of panic, I finally resolved that I would teach what I had taught many times before doing seminars in China, which was the single arm choke from the back with a transition to arm bar and reverse triangle. 

“Just keep your voice low,” I told myself and willed myself to calm down. 

From being segregated to the white belt class and only being allowed to train with two other people, to being asked to teach a seminar, presenting as male certainly was a change in perspective and opportunity.  

Warming Up

“First, we warm up with basketball,” Timor said.  

Suddenly, 10 guys rushed onto the basketball court (which was right next to the jiujitsu mats) and started a game of pickup basketball. 

I momentarily freaked out. I hadn’t played basketball in years. But a voice inside my head said, “Yes, you can. You played basketball for 5 years growing up on teams at school, you got this.” 

As I ran up and down the court, blocked guys, went for rebounds and layups, the game came back to me quickly and felt like second nature. Like riding a bike. All those years doing drills multiple days a week with the Word of God and St. Maurice teams was suddenly worth it. The times of my youth running up and down the court flooded back to me as I was able to handle the ball with ease. 

After I got the ball a few times, I was frustrated because the ball was slightly deflated and hard to dribble. But then the guys explained to me that they were playing a revised version of basketball—it was a combination of rugby and basketball. Dribbling was not required. 

You could hold the basketball like a football and run down the court. Also, tackling was allowed. Suddenly my years of playing rugby in college came back to me, and there I was dodging in and out of players, tackling and being tackled. I even made a couple of shots, and the guys patted me on the butt in congratulations. I had never played such a rough and physical sport like that since my rugby days. I’d never played pick-up basketball like that. It made me wish I had played with Ruth and Dad more. 

After 25 minutes of sprinting back and forth across the court, I started getting winded and I felt like sitting out.

“If you were a guy, you wouldn’t quit,” I thought to myself, which was a cruel version of misgendering myself. 

“Holy shit, I’m in a whole different world here where it’s not okay to just quit, you have to keep pushing yourself,” I thought. It felt good to know that I could and wanted to push myself. I kept going but felt myself slowing down. 

Finally, we stopped playing basketball and got onto the jiujitsu mat. 

Sparring and Passing

We did a few warm-up drills: front rolls, back rolls, shrimping, stand up and base, and triangles. Then they called me over, and asked me to give the seminar. I started with a basic back take. Then I showed the one-handed kimura, one-handed choke, and arm trap to the choke. After drilling for about 45 minutes, we called it and sparred. I got some submissions and was also submitted. It was exhausting but fun. 

We took a bunch of pictures at the end of class. 

They thought I was a teenage boy. 

Several of the guys were Uyghur and were excited that I could speak their language. 

A few of them spoke very good English, explaining that they had been taught English by a Peace Corps volunteer in their village about 20 years ago. One guy even took a video of me speaking Uyghur and put it on his Instagram. 

After the pictures, the Uyghur guys all got together suddenly and prayed toward Mecca for 15 minutes or so. I started panicking then—so these guys were more religious than I expected and that kind of freaked me out. What if they found out I am trans?

My heart started beating fast and I felt light headed and sick. I started to have a mini panic attack, just thinking about them putting those pictures on Instagram and getting found out somehow. What if one of the KGZ Top Team guys saw their Instagram?

I walked outside with a million thoughts running through my head. What if I get found out? What if they already know? I thought of some excuses if they confront me—that I had a disease that caused my penis to fall off. That the girl at KGZ Top Team was my twin sister. 

Or, I could tell them. 

Or, I could just never go back. 

Every scenario possible ran through my head. 

I was scared. It made me sick to my stomach thinking that I could never really be true to them about who I really am.

Reflections

Afterward, Brai assured me that nobody is going to try to feel your crotch and if they did, they wouldn’t say anything about it. Brai said that men have a “I’m not even going to try or pretend to know or act like I am even thinking about what is going on between your legs.” 

Nobody would say anything to me. What would they say? “Wow, you have a small dick”? 

I also processed it with my best friend Kevin, who said, “Well you are a guy so it’s not like you’re lying to them.” He encouraged me to get some pepper spray so that I could defend myself if something goes wrong.

My mind was reeling. It was amazing and beautiful; I felt better than I’d felt in my whole life. But at the same time, I was terrified of getting found out. But I loved feeling solidified in my masculine identity. 

It felt good, it felt right, but I was terrified and not even sure if I should go back. 

I love being a guy. I love being seen as a man. I love being treated as a man. But being trans is hard.

But you know what they say, fear means you’re doing something right. Follow your fear. Embrace your fear. It means you’re stepping outside your comfort zone.