Life in Central Asia: Experiencing Eid

Excitement crackles in the air as I prepare for my first Central Asian Eid. 

I feel like my 7-year-old self waking up on Christmas morning as I slip on my new poinsettia-red outfit. I rub my fingers across the smooth mini reflective mirrors and feel the bumpiness of the sequins and thread to secure everything in its place.

Eid is one of two major Muslim holidays. This first Eid marks the end of the month of fasting called Ramadan. Locals celebrate by having quick visits to the homes of family and friends to drink tea and eat sweets. For those who can afford it, they wear a brand new outfit and the children receive money. Kids race to a nearby shop to buy whatever toy or sweet they can with their newfound funds.

Shouts of joy meander through the open windows. I peek out an upstairs window and observe two elementary-aged boys chasing after each other in the dirt street with their new toy guns.

After applying make-up—something I rarely do these days—I add my faux gold dangling earrings and costume gold necklace to my complete my festive look. 

One by one, I carefully slide on my set of four 21-carat gold bangles, a treasured gift from my husband years ago when we started to date, but also highly coveted by every Central Asian woman.

Clink! Clink! Clink! Clink! The bracelets jingle together in their familiar melody. The corners of my mouth turn upward. I sashay downstairs. 

My husband and I visit two households together, but we don't stay in the same rooms. He's taken to the men's guest room while I'm whisked away to the designated hosting room for women. With limited language, I'm grateful a short visit is expected for the holiday. This takes my mind off the pressure for what to say with my limited vocabulary and allows me to savor the experience.

I step into the women’s room. Compartmental glass trays filled with a wider than usual assortment of dried fruit, candy, and nuts spread across the Persian rug. Trays lined up next to the floor cushions contain sweets I haven't seen or tasted yet.

A small sampler plate of goodies and a steaming cup of green tea is set in front of me. The hostess beams with holiday cheer and I sit on the soft floor cushions.

One treat grabs my attention. It resembles an orange donut hole. I lift the dessert to my mouth. My eyes widen. This thing heavier than I anticipated—and dense.

I take a small bite, wondering if this will not be a treat I'll want to repeat. But then the soft, syrupy flavor cascades inside my mouth. This donut-hole imposter melts in my mouth. My eyes sparkle like tinsel on a Christmas tree. 

“What is this?” I ask, slightly in awe.

“Mutiyeh,” the hostess says. Her eyebrows arch and a half smile plays across her lips.

Life in Central Asia: Ice cream and Burqas

Enjoy this slice of life short story from when I lived in Central Asia a decade ago.

I sit in the back seat of the office car on the way back to my new home. I landed in Central Asia a few months ago. Over the weekend, one of the biggest holidays of the Muslim year, Eid, transpired.

“What food did you like?” Amin*, an office driver, asks. His bushy black beard often contains a huge smile as he prepares to make a funny remark or ask a question he thinks I can manage at my meager language level.

“Mutiyeh!” I say, without hesitation. The corners of my lips turn up underneath my burqa. Sweat drips down my body.

Amin chuckles at my speedy response. His eyes shine with pride because I genuinely have a favorite holiday treat.

I gaze out the car window, the scenery difficult to pick out through the crisscross mesh eye grid of my burqa. A roadside vendor sells ice cream bars from a ladybug red cart. The instrumental version of, “My Heart Will Go On” fills the air. This music lets those in the community know the ice cream vendor is heading their way—at least some things remain the same across cultures.

Amin swerves to the side of the road.

“Do you want ice cream?” he calls, hopping out of the car. His white prayer cap bobs up and down as he scurries toward the vendor.

I grin. Amin instantly rockets to the top of my favorite driver ever list. Ice cream has always been my dessert of choice, but hard to come by without steady electricity in the summer here.

Amin returns with two ice cream bars. He reaches his arm to the back seat and hands one bar to me before tearing into his own. It’s now a race against time to consume the ice cream bar before it melts in my lap.

I pause for a moment wondering if I can really eat an ice cream bar underneath my burqa. The sweltering temperatures convince me to just go for it. I rip open the packaging. Ice cream splatters all over the inside of my burqa. I try to peel off the outside chocolate layer—I’m not a chocolate fan—and place the fast-melting chocolate coating inside the wrapper.

I devour the entire ice cream bar before realizing I had missed the wrapper. Some of the chocolate shell is now painted across the inside of my burqa. How embarrassing will it be to get out of the car with noticeable chocolate spots on my burqa? 

A worthy price to pay for ice cream, I tell myself.

“Very good ice cream. Kindness.” I say in my beginner language. “Thank you.”

Amin laughs. “You’re welcome.”

We pull into the driveway inside the walled compound containing my house. I scramble indoors to clean the inside of my burqa before it leaves a stain all the local women will perpetually question me about.

*Name changed for privacy.