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First Encounter
By
Dina Baslan
The nostalgic journey began as my mind
meandered subconsciously around. I was
trying to familiarize myself with the
beautiful landscape my eyes had just
laid sight on; like a kid embraced
magically by precious Disney World. The
sunset had welcomed us with a
performance, and with its reddish
atmosphere and warmth covering the
fields, we were smoothly captured in an
instant and followed our quest.
I had traveled with a group of young
Circassian girls and boys from Jordan to
visit. A number of us were living their
parents’ lifetime dream in those
moments, reaching the lands of our
ancestors. Those were moments carried
away in the space of time like pollen in
the air, dissolving and penetrating us
to the core. Instances like those of
arriving at Nalchik airport on August 8th.
2001 are those that I shall never
forget. Located 3 km northeast of
Nalchik, capital of Kabardino-Balkaria -
republic of the North Caucasus, the
primitive under-construction airport
unfolded universal hidden truths right
before my eyes.
I saw a far, hidden life occupying the
lands of humble blessings. It was the
serenity that our ancestors left behind
after the battle for their lands against
the Russians. I could almost see proud
men and women filling the space; yet
their souls hovered atop the oceans
instead - for their bodies were eaten by
the life inhabited in the deep darkness
as they tried to escape the deadly war
in 1863.
I saw an old lady wearing a
hair band covering half of her white
fuzzy hair and a colorful thin dress
sweeping the streets of the village; the
leaves were covering the streets.
Silence occupied the air, and everything
moved in slow motion.
“Could this have been my home?” I recall
asking myself. It gave me butterflies;
sometimes it hurt. It would’ve been
exhilarating.
We were there. Right in
front of the hotel were young girls and
boys awaiting us, older women as well. I
was lost in my thoughts again. Emotions
erupted, every face I looked at talked
back to me, as if we had known each
other for years yet it was our first
encounter. Faces looked familiar; some
say it is the blood.
“I finally could use those handful of
words my grandma has taught me in
Circassian. Yeah! I couldn’t wait to see
my grandma and say: “Granny Granny,
those guys spoke Circassian just like
you do!”” My tongue felt illiterate all
of a sudden. I couldn’t speak my
ancestor’s language? I felt trapped in a
nightmare that angered me. They left us
a language and a culture to cling onto
after we lost our lands. They left us
the pride.
I stepped down the bus steps and
everything I felt was pure whiteness. I
felt a wind of warmth as the old women
came towards us and hugged us
passionately, crying, smiling; looking
deep into our eyes. We were told they
were crying over their brothers,
sisters, daughters and sons who were
forced to leave our home.
We were told they were crying over us.
“They say the snow is so
thick, we need to wear sunglasses to
protect our eyes from the reflected
sunshine!” My friend said as we packed
our belongings and prepared ourselves
for yet another first encounter we had
fantasized about. Mount Elbrus, one of
the highest mountains in Europe, was
awaiting us. Elbrus, for us, was that
beautiful black shining horse with the
long silky tail that everybody dreamed
of riding. It was the fairy tale we grew
up hearing our grandparents talk about –
our people were strong warriors,
still and strong like Mount Elbrus.
It all had a different meaning on
Elbrus; the air, snow, animals, Sun,
height, skies … Even the people. We were
overwhelmed by its majesty and power. It
was gigantic, still, and snow-covered;
yet kind and warm embracing us dearly.
My eyes were cherishing every split of a
second, mirroring the emotions straight
into my heart. I took a last look, and
finally stored an image of Elbrus that I
only shared with myself, printed in my
mind forever.
It was a life-changing experience; a
missing piece that completed me. Driving
my car back in Amman streets felt
awkward, nothing seemed to be the same.
Different people, different culture,
different land. I was raised in Jordan,
the place where my life evolved around
all the way. I just couldn’t see it in
the same eyes. My heart belonged
somewhere else.
6 years later, after
starting with a new life here in San
Jose, I sat in the living room one day
browsing the net for the Worlds affairs.
BBC News had an article entitled
Regions and territories:
Kabardino-Balkaria. I was alarmed.
It read: “Living standards are low,
unemployment is high, corruption is rife
and it has had its share of violence,
kidnappings and organised crime to
contend with.” I couldn’t see that. I
refused. What I know is that
Kabardino-Balkaria is the aloof home for
20,000 to 80,000 Circassians
settling in Jordan and thousands more
stretched across the globe.
I know the reality of the Caucasus does
not necessarily lie in what Greeks have
revived in their great legends;
illustrated as one of the pillars
supporting the world, or where almighty
Zeus chose to chain Prometheus. The real
myth that defines the Caucasus is in the
lives of brothers, sisters, daughters
and sons who dream of being home
celebrating the glorious culture their
ancestors left them. We are the
myth of the Caucasus, a myth colored and
shaped through our lives, our lands,
mountains and pride.
- The End |
