- Language barriers make me feel incredibly dumb. There is no doubt in my mind that the 2 Kazakhstani girls in my work group talked about me at lunch, and the phrase "stupid American" was used.
- I don't care if your country has oil; I don't care how big your nation is, or how corrupt your democracy is. If you cannot flush toilet paper in your toilets (hence the name of TP, no???), you're not exactly advanced in my eyes.
- Boys are ridiculous everywhere, and, somehow, awful come-ons are universal. The Kazakhstanis have a "dance party" every night; smoking and drinking is involved, so I politely decline. One of the boys just came into our cabin to recruit more people to join the party, and I told him that I was tired, so I wasn't going to go. His reply? "Do you know...massage? Is this right word? If tomorrow you cannot come to party because tired, I can massage." Either Jewish boys have some kind of inherent ego-inflater, or our AEPi guys are rubbing off on the Kazakhstani boys.
- Smoking is not good for you; Kazakhstanis do not understand this. In our 4 hour volunteer shift this morning, Ruslan had easily 15 cigarettes. James tried to explain what cancer is; I simply said that cigarettes will kill you (bluntness seems to work better when you're working with a very small common vocabulary set). Ruslan laughed, though, and explained to us stupid Americanskys that 3 or 4 cigarettes a day aren't so bad.
Gila gave us packets today during our group reflection; on the front was a quote from Pirkei Avot: "It is not your job to finish the task, but you are not free to desist from it." Thank you, G-d, for lightbulb moments.
Earlier today, Ruslan asked James and I why we were here...volunteering isn't popular in Kazakhstan, he scoffed, because you should take care of yourself first. I mumbled something about needing to give before you can take, and marched angrily up the stairs of the apartment building that we were visiting. I was about to explode with frustration, with anger at my peers' selfishness, when I was handed a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water.
"Spaseba," I said. Thank you. And I meant it.
I will scrub these walls until they shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. I will help this lonely old woman as best as I can, even if I don't speak Russian. I will try. I will work hard. I will keep kosher in this godforsaken land. I will hope, even if you give me every reason not to, thank you very much. I will pray and believe and struggle and challenge and yearn. I will love. I will care, no thanks to you.
Spaseba. Yeish tikvah.
