Digital Storytelling for Social Change

Join our Closing Session today at 7 PM!

Topic: Women's Memoir Writing Club - Closing Session
Time: Feb 23, 2022 07:00 PM Islamabad, Karachi, Tashkent

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https://us04web.zoom.us/j/73425529501?pwd=mJXTLIG6bSkLYLjIVg1fVx3Bk4Jlvu.1

Meeting ID: 734 2552 9501
Passcode: 850iHF

Women's Memoir Writing Club is ready to share some of the wonderful works created by our participants.

Memoir # 4: Barn Lessons

to Grandpa
Dear reader, let me take you on a tour today. If you take a bus from Tashkent to Kokand going through the province of Sughd, just before reaching Beshariq, the outskirts of Kokand, you get to enjoy the sweetest scents from forty types of apricots that ripen in the orchard fields of Konibodom. Heavy from their golden harvest, the trees bow to the ground as if welcoming you. At the far distance, behind the vast orchards your eyes could rest on the emerald waters of Kairakum reservoir.
A couple of years of my childhood is spent between two neighboring villages of Konibodom, Hamijo’ and Kuchkak. The years being 1994 - 1996, the peak of the economic crisis following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the ongoing civil war on the south of the country, non-stop quarrels between my parents, my mom and me going back and forth between two villages, between two homes, three/four-year-old myself was living my childhood, much unaware of what was going around me.
It was at my maternal grandpa’s place; I felt the happiest. My mom being away at work during the days, my grandpa and me would spend our days together in his grand home.
There were two separate buildings, ustki uy (higher home) and pastki uy (lower home) with a pomegranate orchard in between. The orchard itself was cut by the middle with concrete pavement, roses blooming on each side. Grapevines with black, red, and white chandeliers divide the orchard and open space of the pastki uy, giving a full shade to the yard and even partly covering the rooftop.
Recently retired school math teacher of fifty years, my grandpa would busy himself feeding the sheep three times a day with two course meals. First, we serve vegetable and fruit peelings followed by forage and lastly serve water in buckets. With much of the cooking and living happening in pastki uy, all the food and water is kept in the porch there. We would be doing nine trips a day going through the rosy pavement, around ustki uy to the corner of the back orchard, to the barn. On the way and as my grandpa feeds the sheep, four-year-old curious me would bombard him with questions after questions. He in turn would answer and explain everything meticulously and with lots of affection. We would learn various folklore, prose, and poems. It is back then, I learnt by heart Hamid Olimjon’s epic poem - Oygul bilan Baxtiyor, and Erkin Vohidov’s ode - O’zbegim. We had already mastered basic arithmetic and alphabet. In the evenings, my two cousins, both boys and much older than me would join us for grandpa’s classes. He would teach us old Uzbek script (Arabic letters) and as well as Ayats* from Koran.
Are you still with me? Good. I might be getting too nostalgic with my memories from Konibodom and about my grandpa and could go on and on. So not to bore you with my rumbling any longer, let me tell you one little story from those days.
One day, I decide to pay a visit to my mom while she is at work. Her workplace, the village school being six houses and one chaykhana away from grandpa’s, it doesn’t take me much to get there. The only challenge to find the classroom where my mom would be teaching at that exact hour. By now, I know five - six classrooms she would likely be. I am not tall enough to peek through the keyholes, I put my earlobe on the doors instead. This day, I find her on the second floor, drawing the solar system on the board.
Quite classroom fills with giggles and laughter as soon as I enter the room. On one side my mom furious at me for interrupting her class, on the other side, whole class trying to get my attention. Almost everyone is begging me to seat next to them. Ha! I see Nemat Terak* among them calling my name enthusiastically. The other day, he made us chase him the whole neighborhood for our ball that he took away. Now totally ignoring his pleadings, I pick a guy in front of him to sit next to and I shoot a victorious look at him. I ask the guy for a pen and paper. By now my mom manages to quite the class somehow, but this guy next to me continues whispering and asking me questions. I tell him to shut up and concentrate on the lesson. I, myself start copying the solar system from the board. At that moment, the door opens and enters the school director. Seeing me among the students:
‘Your little one is again here today? She seems very interested in coming to school. Why don’t you let her to attend Shoira’s grade one and see if she likes it?’
‘But she is only four years old, how can she study with the kids three years older than her. No, she is too young’ refuses my mom.
That evening with the help of my grandpa, I manage to convince my mom. Now I have to get ready to school next day. I have no supplies, no school bag. I run to my cousins, get some notebooks, pens, and an old bag from previous years. It has no back straps, just a handle on top. No problem! If I lean to one side a bit, I can manage walking without it touching the ground. I didn’t bother with school uniform much and went on my first day with slippers on my foot. I went three days in a row. I was getting ready on the fourth day, alas, my mom grabbed me by my elbow and next I found myself locked up in the basement. I could hear her arguing with grandpa:
‘She is too young. She barely reaches the board. I thought she would get tired and bored by sitting for hours in the class, yet she is getting more eager day by day. It needs to stop.’ And off she went to work.
Surrounded with shelves of pickles, old bicycles, and gardening tools, it took my eyes some time to adjust to the dark. Within minutes, I was hiccupping from too much crying. My grandpa let me out and we spent the day with our usual routine, yet I was too sad.
That night I didn’t sleep, I waited for the morning. As soon as the daylight started breaking through pitch darkness, I got up and run to school. Interestingly, the school gates were closed and locked. I started banging the gate with a stone. Uncle Qorovul* came out from his cabin next to the library building rubbing his eyes. I explained everything to him, occasionally looking over my shoulder to see if my mom wasn’t coming after me. He let me in. We even had a breakfast, bread with qaymoq* in his cabin before I went to my classroom.
That morning our first class was interrupted by my mom and the school director. Caught again, I started packing my notebooks and pens. But the director announced my mom should bring my documents and I was officially accepted to grade one.
Today I am far away from Konibodom. I miss the apricot trees of the village. And my grandpa is no longer with us.
I miss our lessons, talks with him. And I miss our walks to the barn the most.

*Ayats – verses from Koran
*Terak – Poplar tree, common nickname for tall kids
*Qorovul – security guard
*qaymoq – double cream

Women's Memoir Writing Club is ready to share some of the wonderful works created by our participants.

Memoir # 3: A Drop of Ink in My Life

I had a terrible car accident in my life. It was 26th June last year. While I was coming back my home after passing my exams. I got on the bus and sat in the middle of the bus chair. Not having breakfast, I was so tired and leaned against the mirror of the bus, then closed my eyes to have a nap. I couldn't know how it happened but I had slept longer than I expected. Thus, I missed my bus stop station. If the conductor had not woken me up, even I would not have thought to get off.
When approached traffic light I had a premonition of danger. However, I decided to cross the long road. It was so hot that the air was filled with the smell of asphalt that always reminded me the first time I had ever stepped asphalt in my village. I moved my leg to across. When I arrived in the middle of the road, I heard a long beeping of the car.
I opened my bloodshot eyes with a slight pain. And tried to move my body to feel I was alive.
— Don't stir dear, you should sleep.
— Dad...
Only this simple word filled with my all feelings that I wanted to express for him. I could say nothing except this. After a while I observed my dad under my eyelashes slowly. He seemed to me pale-faced, moist-eyed condition. I was accustomed to see him with slightly smiling lips but that time I saw him in a parched lips.
— What do you want to eat, dear?
— Ice cream!
— But...
— Dad, please I'm feeling burn in my inside. Nothing can cold me apart from it.
— I will ask doctors.
Then I looked at my dad like abandoned orphan kitten in the rain at night. I gazed at him with a bit rised my eyebrows, widely opened hazel eyes, and missing hair that even did not think to tie my hair back in a ponytail. Because I felt drained, both physically and mentally.
The sunk silence is crushed by my dad's only word in a husky voice.
— Dear!
He leaned over and gave my hair a gentle stroke. Suddenly he wore a smile and said in a low voice.
— Oh God! Why did you give this pain to my daughter? For what of my sin my daughter is suffering?
I yelled with my whole soul. 'Daddy how dare to say this? It's my fault, only mine'. But I said all my sentences in my inner voice and couldn't reduce my tears. Suddenly my eyes filled with tears and rolled down my cheeks. A drop of salty liquid came out of my eyes didn't pain my wounds. But I felt pang of guilty at making my daddy blame himself.

Women's Memoir Writing Club is ready to share some of the wonderful works created by our participants.

Memoir #2: Value of a Woman
I am a woman of 34 and I am not married! This fact can provoke various spectrums of emotions in different cultures! “Enjoy your freedom while you can!” “You’re a baby!’” “What are your future carrier plans?’” However, I mostly hear: “Why aren’t you married?” “You need to find a husband?” “When are you going to become a Mom?”

In the culture I live, to be married with sons is the highest level of achievement in life for a woman. Your husband will hopefully respect you and he won’t take a second wife. Your neighbors will gossip mostly about your house, your clothes, your relatives, but not about you. Nobody even cares if you are happy, if you would like to try something new in your life. Why asking this? A woman is a baby-delivering machine that should be quite and obedient. She is a slave to her husband and his family. She is a cook, cleaner, baby sitter and a daughter-in-law. Everyone seems to forget that she is a person with the unique soul, emotions, longings and dreams.

The dominant voice of others messed up so many lives. I can count on fingers my friends who got married and are happy. Even those who moved to a different country have been driven by this cultural push to become someone’s, anyone’s wife. Their stories made me angry, sorry, discouraged, bewildered, helpless, sometimes even hopeless. One friend was regularly bitten up by her spouse, another got 5 children and lived in 2 bedroom rented apartment, the other lives in constant fear and is seeking divorce now because her husband has anger decontrol. Oh, how many more stories of trapped women in the grips of “marriage”, how many cries of silent victims of these cultural assumptions.

These days we are just opening to the idea of Shelters for women. The places where one can stay with children in case her husband or his relatives threaten her life. Women are most likely to be blamed for divorce, they are rejected back to their parents’ home, labeled as free to be courted or forced to abort baby girls; so the majority continues to suffer in silence, frightened to be exposed to the public shame.

Thankfully I have seen a good family model. There are friends who love, respect and enjoy their unity in marriage. I have recently visited one of them. His wife gave a birth couple of months before and both of them took delight in their baby girl. He shared his concern of how little he helps his wife with the baby. My friend has even done a research of how a husband could be more effective in freeing his wife from everyday duties. He was that determined to give his spouse a hand in everything to ease her burden and responsibilities. Beautiful family, beautiful example for all!

I am a woman of 34 and I am not married! I am a human being, a wholesome person not a half of someone. I was created in the image and likeness of God. I am worthy to pursue happiness, to pursue my dreams, to fulfill the potential that was put inside of me by my Creator. I am worthy to be respected, heard and accepted just like I am. I have the right to live, to learn and to develop! And I am NOT going to let culture, religion or opinions TREAT me less than what I BELIEVE is the TRUE VALUE of a WOMAN.

Women's Memoir Writing Club is ready to share some of the wonderful works created by our participants.

Memoir #1: Silence

Something between running and speed walking, I reached the building six. Now were left the stairs and to find the auditorium 606. Almost silent corridor of the sixth floor was empty, just the hum of lecturers oozing through the cracks of doorframes.
Conscious of the noise of my heels to make I was now tiptoeing, my heels barely touching the marbled floor.
Creaking sound of door opening, with a glance from the lecturer, I stood at the door, he continued with the attendance check. Turn was at letter R, “Rasulov, Rahmatov, Sultanova…”. Students raising their hands, announcing their presence, “here”, “me”. “… Tursunova”.
“Me” I said, still panting in a voice not so audible. The lecturer did not turn this time, continued with his task. Once finished, “Tursunova, are you?” He lowered his eyeglasses to have a better look at me. One would think the glasses are to help you see better not to obstacle the view, though. Forty-five faces, ninety eyes turned towards me. The desks arranged in ascending order, every eye in the auditorium could have a head-to-toe view of me.
“It’s 8:40 am, ten minutes past the start of the lecture. May I ask the reason for you being late?”
The only thoughts of what has happened on the way made me go crimson. I couldn’t tell it, no. I remained silent, the professor lecturing on the benefits of getting up earlier, being punctual, him talking, me still silent, him talking, me hunching my shoulders, shrinking further and further as if I could get swallowed by this exact crack of the floor my eyes were tracing. I knew any utterance of a word by a young girl to an elderly man, a professor, at this very moment, would be considered as sheer disrespect. By this time, most of the ninety eyes lost their interests and now were glued on their phone screens. Some of them thrilled by this distraction, anything was better than a boring lecture.
It all started with me miscalculating my standing point as the bus neared the bus stop. Isuzu it was, already full. The bus approaching slowly, took a sudden gear and came to stop six meters past where I stood waiting. Dozens of people, mostly students rushed towards its doors. I was happy I could get on, but to my surprise five more people got on after me pushing each other. The conductor was shouting to move on back else the door won’t close. Being taller than the average, I scanned the flow of heads and shoulders spotting few long-haired heads all next to each other. To my disappointment, there was no way I could squeeze through to get there, so I settled where I was. Now the conductor was asking if there is anyone need to get off before each stop, getting no answer, the bus just went ahead without stopping. We passed by people at the stops raising their hands up and possibly uttering some curse words towards the non-stopping bus.
I had two lectures followed by a workshop today. First lecture, Theory of Probabilities, I was so much excited about this particular one. Moved to the second semester, we were getting more serious and going to dive into some real math not some introductory theories, I thought. A close breath of a person behind me distracted my thought. Although in a crowded bus, I could identify it being too close, then a light touch on my right thigh. I let slid my shoulder bag to my side, tried to push its pointy edge behind, to create a bit of buffer zone. It didn’t work. I was now quite leaning on an elderly person sitting in front of me, my hand up on the bar stretched and curved holding my whole body, so I don’t collapse on him. I felt another touch, it was getting more obvious. There are three more stops, nine more traffic lights until my destination. My cheeks very growing hot from shame or rage, I couldn’t tell.
Within seconds I found myself getting off at the next stop. Brows furrowed I commenced marching furiously. My chest was getting tight as I alternated the thought of what else I could have done with the situation. Growing up in a society where girls expected to be shy and submissive, I couldn’t have dared to speak up. I felt helpless. To make things worth, the probability of me making to Theory of Probabilities on time was zero percent.

In case you missed, the link for the recording of the Opening Session:

Women's Memoir Writing Club - Opening Session.mp4

Countdown starts! 5 days to the Opening of Women's Memoir Writing Club!!

We have registered over 80 participants (!) for the Opening Session. Seats are filling up very quickly, so hurry up! We have 20 more to go as we aim to publish "One Hundred Stories of Women" by the end of this project. Be one of this empowered women and register today!

📣📣📣A new workshop on Digital Storytelling is coming! We are pleased to announce the launch of Women's Memoir Writing Club aimed at providing hand-on writing skills and practice in memoir writing. 💯Participants will write in various genres and a collection of all the works will be electronically published at the end of the project. 📖 Participants will receive certificates of completion from American Center Tashkent.
📌Workshops will be held 7 PM - 8PM on Thursdays and Fridays.
📌For registration, email your full name and date of birth to [email protected].

A new workshop on Digital Storytelling is coming! We are pleased to announce the launch of Women's Memoir Writing Club which is aimed at providing hand-on writing skills and practice in memoir writing. Participants are strongly encouraged to write in various genres and a collection of all the works will be electronically published at the end of the project. Participants will receive certificates of completion from American Center Tashkent. Workshops will be held 7 PM - 8PM on Thursdays and Fridays.

For registration, email your full name and date of birth to [email protected] by September 1, 2021