One of the questions I was asked repeatedly before leaving Afghanistan was, “So, are you going home before heading to your new post?” To which I would reply, “I just spent a week in Kazakhstan. That was my break.” Generally, people who don’t know me very well think it is strange that I would take a break from Afghanistan in another Central Asian ‘stan. But this is how it is: I have spent most of my adult life in Kazakhstan and I have family and friends there. Most of what I know and how my adult character has been shaped is due to my time in the former USSR. I can’t bear dirty shoes or wrinkled clothes, bring a gift whenever invited to someone’s house, take my shoes off at the door (and put on slippers) and even last night caught myself sticking a cork under the metal handle of a pot lid. It is more than these habits, though, and this is what sucks about my lifestyle and my line of work: it is the relationships you form with the people you have to leave.

I first came to Kazakhstan with the Peace Corps, just out of grad school. After only three days in-country, with quick and intense Russian lessons, I was handed over to the people with whom I would live for the next three months. Hating children, I had requested to live with a couple about my parent’s age with adult sons. Reihan and Syrail came to pick me up at the sanitorium with their daughter-in-law, Ranosha (who spoke a little English). In a rented Lada, they took me away to my new life in a small village near Talgar. What I remember most about that day was watching my future husband walk off with his Russian host family and wondering when I would see him again.

The next two months were all about acclimating. I spent eight hours a day in Russian lessons, after which, Stas (another Volunteer in my village) and I would drink fortified wine and watch 18-year-old village boys play soccer with their shirts off. Reihan and Syrail treated me like their own daughter: the taught me pidgin Russian, made sure that I was well fed, and built me a shower in the backyard (they only bathed at a neighbor’s banya once a week and they had no running water). They took me to graduation ceremonies and to visit relatives. Syrail told me about how his father died in World War II before he was born and Reihan told me about her childhood emigrating from China with her 10 brothers and sisters. I was the first American they had ever known and they were anxious to tell me all about their people, the Uighurs. For those of you who don’t know (and most of you don’t), Uighurs are an ethnic group who live in the northwest of China in the area bordering Kazakhstan. Because they are Muslim and seek an autonomous state called East Turkestan, they have been persecuted by the Chinese government, labeled terrorists, forcibly sterilized, tortured, and generally experienced all of the other terrible fates that befall minorities in China. (Some of you might recall that there were some Uighurs held in Guantanamo; the US had no further reason to hold them but knew they would be sentenced to death in China, so they sent them to Bulgaria after their release.)

After my initial three months with my new family, I was sent out on my own to live in Siberia. Before I left, Reihan gave me a freshwater pearl necklace which she had gotten from her mother, “I never had a daughter, but if I had, this necklace would have gone to her” she told me, “you are my only daughter.”

I wrote letters to Reihan and Syrail (now “Mama” and “Papa” with the accent on the last syllable) and called them, and of course visited when I traveled to the Southern city of Almaty. When they found out I was getting married, they bugged me about having children, even offering to raise a child for me whom I could visit on the weekends. When I finished my two-year stint in the Peace Corps, leaving Mama and Papa was heartbreaking. As we were all crying and hugging goodbye, I took a petal from one of Mama’s rosebushes in the courtyard for safekeeping, somehow hoping that a small charm would bring me back to them.

It was almost a year before I came back to work in Western Kazakhstan. Then, luckily, was offered a job in Almaty, only 40 minutes from Mama and Papa’s village. For the next two years, I saw them nearly every weekend. Once, my husband was building a fence around our Almaty yard and Papa and one of his sons came to help. A nosy Kazakh (drunken) neighbor ventured over several times asking questions about me and my husband and what we were doing there. “I was in the military in Belarus, where I met the girls’ mother,” Papa told the neighbor about me, “she is my biological daughter, but her mother moved to America right before she was born.”

Nearing the end of my two-years in Almaty, my host father had a heart attack. Mama told me the prognosis was poor; we went to see him in a truly Soviet hospital in Talgar. I remember driving up in the snow in my beige Neva, and walking down the long, dingy hallways. Papa was lounging in the room in a track suit with another patient. He was feeling alright (Mama had not told him what the doctors said) and once assured that he would be OK, I proceeded back down the stairs. On the way down, I heard him tell his roommate, “That was my American daughter”.

During my time in Kazakhstan, their first and second grandsons were born. Abdullam and Rabkhat, now six and four, have known me all of their lives.

When they found out I was leaving once again, they were upset. When they learned I was going to Afghanistan they were just as anxious as my American Mom and Dad. Luckily, there were direct flights from Kabul to Almaty, so I was able to visit three times during my two years in Afghanistan. The last visit was just a few weeks ago, right before coming to Africa. I took a marshrutka (minibus) from the central bus station in Almaty to the village, bearing gifts for everyone and when I got there, Mama was not around. “Where’s Mama?” I asked frantically. “She’s at the hospital, we will go and see her tonight.”

After finishing dinner, and spending time with Abdullam and Rabkhat crawling all over me and vying for attention, my host father broke the news: Mama’s youngest sister, whom I had met several times and visited, had died of a sudden stroke ten days before. Mama had high blood pressure and that is why she was in the hospital. Rustam (the older son) and Papa drove me back to Almaty about 7:00 pm to the hospital. It was a nice place—the Presidential hospital, where Nazerbayev has his own ward—the complete opposite of where Papa had to stay a few years before. Mama was crying and upset when we saw her, putting aside her grief, the first thing she asked me was, “did you eat?”

Mama told me again about her sister, about what a good person she was and how she had saved her whole life (her sister was a surgeon at the Veteran’s Hospital) and was just at the point in her life where she could relax (her first grandchild had just been born) when she died. I realized that it was the stress of her sister dying that put Mama in the hospital. I promised to visit a few days later.

That next Sunday, Stas (the Volunteer from my village, now an old friend who can’t seem to leave Kazakhstan) and I went to see Mama at the hospital. Anyone familiar with the Soviet system will tell you that the hospital stay is TEN DAYS. No more, no less and most people go to the hospital to relax or recover from a cold. Mama was sharing a room with a Russian war veteran and another talkative old lady. After giving me money to buy candy (Mama knows how much I love sweets) she took us around to introduce me to everyone on her hall. “She doesn’t look like you” the talkative old woman said.

Saying goodbye was hard. I knew that I was leaving Asia and I was not sure when I would be back. Even living in Bangkok or Delhi I could fly back to Kazakhstan for a week easily, but my new position in Africa makes visits to Mama and Papa almost untenable. I broke down as soon as we walked out of the hospital. “Come on, let’s go get a beer,” was Stas’ reply.

So this is my Uighur family from Kazakhstan. It’s strange how you can form relationships with people who have such different backgrounds, cultures, and languages, but grow to care about them as much as the people you have known your whole lives. It really sucks when you have to leave, but I am sure I will be back.