I walked down the narrow path through the Osh Bazaar in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, passing by dozens of vendors in their tent-roofed shops who sold nearly every product imaginable. I was enjoying my time being immersed in the country’s culture while simultaneously hunting for bargains. A stack of traditional Kyrgyz scarves caught my eye; they were made of silk and hand-felted with flower shapes. I bought a few from the young man selling them, communicating with him in Russian, one of Kyrgyzstan’s official languages. After I paid, he asked me where I was from. He said that he had assumed I was Russian until he heard my accent. Before he realized I was American, he explained, I had come across as crazy because I was walking by with a smile on my face. The gesture was uncommon for Russians, according to him.
During my two months in Kyrgyzstan, I was frequently assumed to be Russian. As it is an off-the-beaten-path destination for Americans, and because Russians comprise the majority of white people in the country, this was understandable. But it was one of the many things I did not expect to experience before arriving in Bishkek.
I thought I had done my research on Kyrgyz culture before my trip; I knew about the holidays, the kalpak hats and cultural outfits, and even kumis – the fermented, carbonated horse milk drink, but I didn’t appreciate how much the culture shaped everyday life. I was welcomed into a Kyrgyz host family and exposed to specific rules that were new to me, including: a new way of eating bread and drinking water, a different way to pair up socks, toothpaste flavors ranging from evergreen to lilac, and an anxiety-inducing lack of seat belts. My host mother was surprised to see my clumsy attempts to make my bed. I was used to flat sheets, but their sheets were origami-style and folded in a way that I couldn’t replicate. She claimed that I was supposed to become a housewife in the future.
I discovered that diplomacy does not occur solely between people with fancy titles dressed in stiff suits, but also through small actions shared by ordinary people in everyday situations. I played the diplomat when I shoved down every single bite of liver. My host mother had urged me to follow the often-repeated Kyrgyz proverb that translates to “eat until the end or you will have an ugly husband.”
While my inept mistakes sometimes reduced me to feeling like a helpless child, I am grateful that I got to experience the full force of Kyrgyz culture. Even the more difficult moments were useful; these experiences enlightened me to the extreme degree of open-mindedness required for compassionate cross-cultural interaction and made me more sympathetic to the experiences of foreigners such as immigrants coming to the U.S. My metaphorical mental excavations led me to discover the ways my culture has permeated deep into my mind, unknowingly shaping my every thought and expectation. I never expected that traveling to Kyrgyzstan would teach me more about American culture. I was also gifted with long conversations at the kitchen table about my host mother’s childhood; her Kyrgyz cultural identity clashed with Soviet rule. I got an inside look at the Soviet Union that I have come to consider regularly.