The summer air is not as fresh as what one gets used to in England. As rain seldom falls in Tashkent, the air is dry, and I would suspect not as full of oxygen. You certainly don't see the lush green trees and vegetation that you take for granted in the UK.
Another reminder of Iraq was noticeable in the modest home grown vegetables and fruit and the abundance of humble organic foods. Looking at them from the outside, they may not always appeal to everyone, but once you try the inside, you’re guaranteed an overwhelming satisfaction. They don't have the fancy wrapping that many associate with splendour, but they are the genuine article. Nevertheless, the bazaar traders somehow manage to individually wipe them clean, polish and then stylishly stack them to tempt the unimpressed. The sellers stand beside them almost begging passers by to taste them. It doesn’t seem to anger them if after tasting all varieties on offer one still walks away unconvinced by their quality and good value.
With average daily temperatures of around 45degree centigrade I was automatically transformed to my previously familiar Iraqi surroundings. However, here people were coping with a 100degree variation in temperature from winter to summer! The daily scorching sun was almost guaranteed during the very long summer. Even the nights were not exactly cool. Often when we leave the tea pot covered overnight, it seems to keep brewing until breakfast.
Late at night, the little animals and insects seem happy to get a break from the heat. Frogs and crickets were producing as much sound as they can to remind everyone that they’re still out there.
Friends and neighbours meet and chat in the streets for long periods while standing in shaded areas away from the heat of the sun, sheep and goats were still being herded on the streets.
Instead of Um Kalthoom (the Egyptian diva of the sixties), I heard a lot of Uzbek hip-hop. The tea is mostly green instead of black. People smile when you mention you come from Iraq, somehow you’re not regarded as a true foreigner. I noticed empty mosques, some with overwhelming police presence. Sometimes I got the impression that I was in a Russian city, but then I hear the Arabic prayers (with a slight Turkic accent), I smell the kebabs, fried onions, and home baking then I recall its Asian roots.
As in Baghdad of the 1960’s, being around highly educated people is not unusual. Our guide was a university graduate with a master’s degree. Most families I met had at least one PhD and were all University graduates. Listening to sellers in the streets or hearing top government officials on television, I was surprised to find how many still communicate in Russian.
With deep Muslim roots, to me I wished and felt as if it should be a date-eating Arabic-speaking nation. All this has made me even more determined that one day I can fulfil my dream of taking my family to visit my original hometown, Baghdad. So far all I have to compare Tashkent with are my memories of Baghdad in the 1960’s and 1970’s.
As much as I would like to think differently, in reality, may be I should simply remember Baghdad as it was and just treasure my memories of it forever.
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