All posts by sbeaver

Broadcasting Nuance: An Interview with Rim Gilfanov

Profile

Rim Gilfanov is the head of RadioLiberty’s Tatar-Bashkir service Azatliq, the only independent media in the Tatar and Bashkir languages available in Russia. In addition to English, he speaks Czech, Russian and Tatar. He has published several books, including Tatar Diaspora (1993) and Tatar Way of Reforming Islam (2003). Has written for publications ranging from the Kazan newspaper Donya to Al-Jazeera. He has been quoted in the Moscow Times, the Atlantic, and other publications. Gilfanov has given lectures at think tanks and universities and has met with members of Congress to discuss Russian democracy and minority rights. Imagine my surprise when my inbox pinged with an answer to my amateur request for an interview, or even just a general direction: “Your idea seems interesting, we can do it.” 

 

Having successfully navigated the Prague-Boston time difference and having found a time for the interview, I was surprised at how easily conversation flowed. I was immediately struck by his enthusiasm to share his work and passion and his openness in discussing the path that lead him to RFE/RL Prague headquarters. Gilfanov started listening to RadioLiberty’s service while he was in secondary school during perestroika. This experience of realizing that “someone else, some foreign power cares about your language, which was in jeopardy in your own country” shaped his future path and helped carve out his identity as a “real Tatar.” While at Kazan University pursuing a degree in sociology and political science, Gilfanov worked as a stringer for RadioLiberty in the 1990s, a time of political change and ideological tumult in Russia. He joined the RadioLiberty team officially in 1993, moving to Munich, and later to Prague, when the headquarters were relocated.  

 

“This is my dream job actually.” Even after 29 years of experience in journalism Gilfanov’s enthusiasm for engaging with people regardless of their relative knowledge of Russia and Eurasia is evident in every aspect of his persona. Tatarstan, one of Russia’s 22 republics among 83 federal subjects, is rather unknown to most Americans. However, Gilfanov takes advantage of every opportunity to share the history and current circumstances of Tatars with his audiences. Of all the history and politics that he cites in his regular spiel to interlocutors, the fact they find most surprising is that the Tatar language is nothing like Russian. People “think that in Russia, everything should be close to Russian. . . but it’s completely different.” Tatar is a Turkic language belonging to the Altai family.  

 

The Tatar language and the various barriers to its instruction and usage are among just a few of the minority-related issues that Gilfanov and other journalists and advocates have addressed in recent years. According to Gilfanov, globalization and technology crowd out spaces that were originally pockets for smaller regional languages. Even in the countryside, where Tatar and regional languages were once integral to daily life, Gilfanov sees the younger generation trading in their use of Tatar for Russian, English, or another global language. 

 

As if the trials of globalization were not enough, the Tatar language has faced political attacks from inside Russia. Though Russian law upholds the idea of space for minority groups and officials claim that they try to defend these languages, Gilfanov sees another view emerging that diversity undermines the unity of the state. This quest for unity, and the homogenous population it envisions pit minority and republic languages such as Tatar, Bashkir, and Chechen against a broad russifying agenda coming from Moscow.  

 

Gilfanov’s job on a day-to-day basis is to support broadcasts and news coverage in Tatar and Bashkir that address issues not covered by state-owned or state-restricted news channels in Russia. However, the Tatar-Bashkir service, along with the Georgian and North Caucasus services, supported in part by American aid, are at risk of being cut by Trump’s new 2020 budget proposal. According to Gilfanov, this would be a “poor gift to Putin because it will give him a hand in building this new totalitarianism and russification policy.”  

 

Despite the numerous threats to the Tatar language and identity, Gilfanov remains hopeful and optimistic, even at times upbeat. Rather than succumbing to the cynicism that might be expected, perhaps justifiably of journalists focusing on minority rights in Russia, Gilfanov, though never sugar-coating the reality of minority groups, remains positive, stressing the importance of taking opportunities to talk with people, particularly young people, about Tatarstan. At the end of our conversation, Gilfanov mentioned a trip he recently made to Florida Atlantic University to attend a seminar. Students who had never heard of Tatarstan were genuinely curious and asked what they could do to get more involved. “I didn’t expect that kind of interest from young people, students. . . I was touched, really.” He answers their queries in this way: “Just being interested in the politics and events in certain regions is the biggest contribution you can make.” 

On the Primacy of Geography

Op-Ed

Americans’ lack of knowledge related to geography and world events has become a bit of a joke that in today’s political climate has stopped being funny. Last year, the crew of a late-night talk show went around New York City, asking Americans to label a country on a blank world map. Not a specific country, just any country out of 195 recognized states. There were more than a few awkward silences. This is one of many examples that, especially since the 2016 election, have given the rest of the world something to laugh about. These people on tv may not represent the average American. However, recent events have shown a harsh light on the degree to which Americans are uninformed about world events, and the response has been the equivalent of an indifferent shrug.

The picture doesn’t improve when you turn to statistics. Two surveys conducted in 2006 and 2017 by National Geographic and the Council on Foreign Relations found that in 2006 three-quarters of young Americans (aged 18-24) thought English was the most widely spoken native language in the world. It’s not. It ranks behind both Mandarin Chinese and Spanish. Three years after the beginning of the war in Iraq, only 37 percent of young Americans could locate that country on a map despite the attention it was getting in the media. In 2017,  a survey of 75 geography-related questions showed an  average score of 55 percent among American college students, who would be scurrying to office hours with their tails between their legs if that score counted towards their GPA.  

The problem isn’t that Americans can’t properly label a blank map or know the difference between temperate and continental climates, since a policy of forcing middle schoolers to do just this hasn’t resulted in a more aware public. The problem is geographic illiteracy- a lack of knowledge that signals, more troublingly, a lack of interest.

If you don’t know where Guatemala is on a map, chances are you’re unaware that in 1954 the United States backed a coup in Guatemala that sought to overthrow a democratically elected president with left-leaning policies. The violence and civil war that followed in Guatemala has had huge implications for immigration flows from Central America today. Knowing the location of Guatemala is the first step in grappling with complex ideas like immigration that will be at the center of 2020 debates. But you wouldn’t know this if you didn’t know where Guatemala was.

The truth is, politics don’t stop at the border; having regional context is an increasingly integral part of understanding an issue. Take Yemen, which is currently the site of the largest humanitarian crisis in the world. The same Americans who couldn’t locate Iraq when we were fighting a war there probably can’t locate Yemen now. This makes it unlikely that the average American is aware that the civil conflict in Yemen and the resulting scourges of malnutrition and cholera are exacerbated by actions of other governments vying for power in the region. It’s equally unlikely that these same Americans know that the U.S. supplied weapons to Saudi Arabia that played a role in this crisis until the senate voted against the policy in March.

This lack of understanding of basic geography becomes increasingly dangerous in a democracy where we vote for leaders who are tasked with responding to emerging situations. But instead of embracing their democratic responsibilities, it seems as if middle-class Americans, many of whom were central to the outcome of the 2016 election, are willing to evade this duty and to avoid grappling with the implications of bringing an individual to power who is equally indifferent. Engaging with the context and geography that shapes the realities of millions of people who have no say in the outcomes of these elections has become merely a nuisance. The danger isn’t limited to citizens: if you’re indifferent to the location of Syria, you’re liable to accept political and economic analysis from politicians who themselves can’t locate Syria.

Americans can afford to be ignorant, because geopolitics has little discernible effect on our daily lives. We don’t see our lives as directly impacted by a failure to engage in a larger international conversation. We are largely buffered from many of the effects of crises happening in the far-off amorphous regions that lie beyond our borders. Why bother? We can pawn off this engagement on other people.

This is a shame, because geography is a subject that has no age limit, and no prerequisite. It doesn’t require enrollment at a top university, or late nights hitting the books. It requires only curiosity, and perhaps a sense of global citizenship. We are living in a world rife with big complex problems, but turning our backs to these issues gets us no closer to solutions. There are areas for incremental progress in our own lives and communities. We need not bear the burden of these global issues alone, but in choosing to engage, we are taking one small step towards understanding the issues and forcing our leaders to understand these issues too. So if you find that you’re ready to reengage, feel free to start with the survey linked above. Don’t worry about your score. The bar is exceptionally low. There are no failing grades.

Exploring the Meaning of Freedom

Movie Review: "Women Without Men"

It’s hard to reconcile the masterful cinematography with the subject matter of Shirin Neshat’s Women Without Men. There is a magical quality about the filming, something that fits in with the film’s central theme of freedom, and Neshat’s artful shots, each frame itself a photograph, almost seem out of place in such a violent setting.

The film takes place in 1953 in Tehran, Iran, during the Anglo-American-backed coup d’état that overthrew Mohammad Mossadegh’s democratically-elected government and restored the Shah as dictator. The narrative begins with Munis (Shabnam Tolouei), a thirty-year-old woman who is trapped in her home by her fundamentalist brother. The opening scene shows her suicide, taking place directly after her brother unplugs her radio—her only connection to the world outside the walls of the house. Instead of mourning her, her brother curses her for disgracing him and buries her in their garden.

Faezeh (Pegah Ferydoni), a friend of Munis’s, discovers her body. She secretly wishes to marry Munis’s brother, and when she learns of his marriage to another woman, she seeks the help of a seer to ensure that the marriage fails. Instead, she hears Munis call out to her when she is in the family’s garden; when Faezeh digs through the dirt, Munis returns to live a double life as an independent woman, protesting against the planned coup d’état against Mossadegh.

Zarin (Orsi Toth) is a prostitute. So many men have abused her body that it becomes impossible for her to tell one from the next, and she flees the brothel when she sees that her last customer is seemingly faceless. The next time she is on screen, she tries to wash the marks of these men from her body; it is a painful thing to watch because these marks are indelible, and no matter how hard she scrubs, even leaving her skin raw and bloody, they will never disappear. It is only by leaving Tehran and the men who hurt her that Zarin breaks free from the loveless caresses that haunt her.

Finally we meet Fakhri (Arita Shahrzad), a wealthy woman married to a war general. Following the arrival of an old flame, Fakhri leaves her husband and purchases a villa at the edge of town. This villa becomes her refuge—and in turn becomes a safe haven for Faezeh and Zarin, who eventually arrive at Fakhri’s door. Here, the three women help each other heal from the invisible injuries men have left on them. In this newfound freedom, they can live their lives undisturbed by men. Together, they take care of each other without fear of saying or doing something wrong; Neshat seems to be telling us that they understand each other in a way that a man never could. Meanwhile, Munis is free to pursue her desire to not only interact with the world beyond her radio, but become an activist herself and fight for what she believes in.

Each shot and frame of the film is ethereal, reflecting the surrealistic nature of the cinematography. It is a unique contrast that both invites the user to question the reality of the film and decide for themselves what hidden message each scene might contain. But in keeping with this artful, ever-shifting style, the peace at the villa and Munis’s activism do not last. When Fakhri announces that she is going to throw a party to celebrate the opening of the orchard in which the villa is located, Zarin falls ill; meanwhile, the coup begins in earnest, and Munis watches helplessly as the leadership of the protest fractures after the capture of one of the key activists.

The party and the crumbling of the protest unfold in tandem as the film progresses. At first it seems odd that the two events happen together, but they are linked the moment that a woman voices her distaste for the Shah at the party. Suddenly the viewer is reminded of the coup and the ensuing rebellion, and not long afterwards the Shah’s men arrive at the villa’s door, searching for one of the activists. This marks the end of resistance as their leaders scatter and Munis mourns the freedom that could have been. When Fakhri walks around in her empty villa the next morning, it dawns on her that that party was perhaps the last moment of freedom for Tehran and its citizens.

That Neshat’s work is forbidden in Iran, as is the novel, a magic-realistic book written by Shahrnush Parsipur, that the film is based upon, creates another tension with the film’s central theme of freedom. Women Without Men is a self-explanatory title that explores the possibility of freedom—a place where women can dictate their own lives in any way they choose—in an environment where there is no way to win. Perhaps it is a reflection of how Neshat sees the world today, or perhaps it is a call to arms to fight for the freedom she shows us in the film. Whatever the case, Neshat’s love for Iran is apparent at every turn, and her artful depiction of freedom and what it means to women is central to each frame, surreal and real.

“They are just doing their job”

Letter to the Editor

To the Editor,

Racism is alive and well in Great Britain and clearly, Twitter isn’t helping. The racist online abuse of Meghan has put royal staff on high alert by Max Foster, (cnn.com, March 8), calls attention to the ways in which the media, social media, and other modern public discourse are making it difficult for the royal family to navigate this moment in its history. I appreciate the article’s informative, to-the-point departure from the sensationalist norm that appears to be controlling British media.

The social media din raised by online trolls has made it harder to tell the factual from the merely inflammatory. As Foster highlights in the piece, “The pressure to produce ever more dramatic headlines to drive traffic is intense,” and it’s what  gives the trolls a platform.

Monarchy implies monolith in the eyes of many, and a break in the pattern of whiteness in the royal family (the marriage of Prince Harry to Meghan Markle) has shown the British public’s true colors. Surely I am not the only reader who is outraged by how much the color of Meghan’s skin influences the online discourse in Britain. Unfortunately, the historical composition of the royal family implies, as Foster notes, that racism is built into the fabric of British culture. And so despite their efforts at projecting an image of normality, the royal family has continued to face challenges in welcoming Meghan into the fold.

Foster’s careful article reminds us that it’s the job of the media to present an accurate report of what’s happening with the royal family, while at the same time emphasizing the humanity of the often-superficially portrayed people who comprise this iconic group. Some in the media, like your writer, are working to make their reporting reflect the ideal of racial tolerance. With luck, this will one day become the norm.

More Than a Game

Feature Report

Success at go requires the tactic of the soldier, the exactness of the mathematician, the imagination of the artist, the inspiration of the poet, the calm of the philosopher, and the greatest intelligence. — Zhang Yunqi, Weiqi de faxia, Beijing, Internal document of the Chinese Weiqi Institute 1991, p. 2

K-chk! The sound drifts to my ears as I make my way past stacks of books and people comfortably reading in plush chairs by the windows that span the wall. K-chk! It comes again as I progress through the library. Before I know it, the stacks open up to reveal cream-colored wooden tables and chairs inhabited by an assortment of people bent over in focused intensity. The source of that resounding snap is in front of me: the snap of slate stones being played on a large wooden board. I stand and watch for a moment, the players oblivious to my presence.

I first came across Go when I was in middle school. I have always been a voracious reader–you name it, I read it–but somehow, I moved from reading Homer and Jules Verne to books less highly regarded- i.e., manga. One of my favorite series was Death Note, so I was thrilled to discover the artist had illustrated another series, called Hikaru no Go. The series is an inspiring coming-of-age tale about a young boy haunted by the spirit of an ancient Go master. Initially resistant, the boy comes to learn and love the abstract strategy game and grows up to become a pro in his own right. I became enthralled by the game, reading books about its history and solving puzzles; before long I was looking online for people to play against.

The rules of Go are simple; two players take turns placing black or white stones on a 19×19 grid board, and whoever captures the most territory is the winner. However, if the rules of the game are simple, the strategies needed to obtain victory are complex. Considered more strategically challenging than chess, Go inspired chess grand master Edward Lasker to say

While the Baroque rules of chess could only have been created by humans, the rules of go are so elegant, organic, and rigorously logical that if intelligent life forms exist elsewhere in the universe, they almost certainly play go.

That’s fitting, given that the number of possible board configurations in Go (2 x 10170) exceeds the number of atoms in the universe (1080), while chess has just 1050 legal positions.

The game is played on a solid block of wood, called a Goban in Japanese, which represents the earth. Each right angle signifies uprightness. The black and white stones stand for yin and yang, while their placement across the board represents the heavenly bodies. Unlike in chess or checkers, in Go the stones are placed at intersections. Nineteen thin, lacquered black lines run parallel to each edge; as a result, there are 360 plus 1 different positions at which to play. 360 represents the number of days in the ancient lunar year, the one is seen as supreme and the source of the other numbers, and governor of the four quarters. The four quarters of the board represent each of the four seasons. The 72 points around the edge of the board come from the weeks of the calendar, and the 9 black circles, called stars or hoshi, which correspond to the nine lights of heaven and mark the locations where handicap stones would be placed if they are used.

The best boards are made out of Kaya wood. Kaya boards have a bright, vivid color and a hardness that is ideal for use with shell and slate stones, which produce a lively and resonant click when struck without damaging the board. However, the wood is slow-growing and boards are typically cut from trees over 700 years old, leading to high prices.  Thus, more affordable spruce, also called shinkaya, has become the popular choice for the modern player. Go boards also come in several other woods, all of which are hard woods and have a resonant quality so that placement of the stones results in a clear, sharp sound.

Arguably the oldest of all known intellectual games, Go is the national game of Japan. It originated in China and is commonly attributed to Emperor Shun, who reigned from 2255 to 2206 B.C.E., which would make it approximately 4200 years old. Go was introduced to Japan in the year 735 C.E., when it was brought back to the country by an envoy to China. Originally played by the noble class, it would eventually reach samurai, monks, and even tradespeople. All three of Japan’s greatest generals, Nobunaga, Hideyoshi, and Ieyasu, were devotees of the game as it was the cognitive equivalent of a martial art. The first state institution opened to teach Go in the late 1500’s, and the Go Academy was founded soon after Ieyasu became Shogun in 1603. The game has only continued to increase in popularity over time. A 2016 survey by the International Go Federation’s 75-member nations found 46 million players worldwide, although the actual number is likely to be even greater.

Part of the game’s modern popularity is due to its reputation as a martial art for the mind, with Go seen as having strategic value in business and political communities, in children’s education, and in tournaments where victory is a way to display national pride. The game can help children to improve their focus and memory. Children who are especially talented can join Go schools as young as five and turn pro before their twelfth birthday like Lee Se-Dol, one of the greatest Go players of the modern era. Professional Go tournaments are held around the world, with prize purses as high as $500,000. The major Japanese tournaments come with titles and purses in the hundreds of thousands. With dozens of competitions held each year, star players can earn millions of dollars. Even those who do not become household names can make a good living from the game through local tournaments and teaching.  The publication of the international thriller Shibumi and the translation of Nobel prize winner Kawabata’s The Master of Go in the 1970s, as well as the appearance of Go in movies like A Beautiful Mind, helped to spread the game to the West. But, it was the emergence of the megahit manga and anime series Hikaru no Go that sparked the most recent resurgence of the the national sport of Japan both at home and abroad.

K-chk! That resonant clack as stone hits board calls me out of my reveries. The people playing in the Cambridge Public Library today are members of the Massachusetts Go Association, which is just one division of the American Go Association. This is but one of many meets that are held each week across the Boston area, each of which attracts a wide range of people. Go doesn’t appeal to just the young or the old. Its appeal doesn’t vary based on where you come from, how educated you are, or what gender you are. It is a game full of possibility and inundated with a rich cultural history. Here in the library today I see men and women, children and adults, and skin that runs the gamut of colors. I smile, glad for the chance to finally play in person against someone else who loves the game. I greet a woman whose game has just finished and slide into a seat.

It’s All Fun and Games

Feature Report
Kok-Boru final match between Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan

Welcome to the third World Nomad Games. On the northern shores of Issyk Kul, just outside of the small city of Cholpon-Ata, Kyrgyzstan, more than 1,920 athletes from 74 countries gathered to compete in a variety of games that harken back to a shared and glorified past of the nomadic peoples of Eurasia.

The World Nomad Games, first held in 2014 in Kyrgyzstan, seek to reestablish the cultural link between historic nomadic traditions and the modern identity of Turkic and post-Soviet states. The 2018 event showcased 37 different competitions, including the famous kok-boru.  Kok-boru, now a steady provider of gold medals for Kyrgyzstan, was traditionally a competition intended to prepare young men for the trials of battle. Kok-boru is played on horseback in which the objective is to move the body of a goat into a corresponding raised goal. It requires strength and balance, as well as the ability to control the horse as the rider scoops the goat off the dirt pitch. Imagine a rougher version of polo.

Opening and closing with massive ceremonies of more than 1,500 singers, dancers, and actors, the games welcomed tens of thousands of spectators and numerous heads of state. The arena sat opposite a colorful backdrop that represented the mountains of Kyrgyzstan and backed up against the deep jewel blue of the world’s second largest saline lake. While there was a wide variety of participants from around the world, most of the tournament’s serious competitors were nomadic Turkic peoples from Eurasia, Eastern Europe, and Anatolia. The next games are set to be held in Turkey next year.

The games have received relatively little coverage by Western media outlets. What did get reported was either a short summary of official details, such as those offered by U.S. government-sponsored Radio Liberty, or a feature piece such as the one run in the New York Times (“Horse Wrestling. Bone Tossing. Dead Goat Polo. Let the Nomad Games Begin.”) The New York Times article was less cringe-worthy than its title suggests, but nonetheless portrayed an idyllic image of nomadic traditions bound to titillate for the upper-middle-class cultural voyeur. However, neither type of reporting discussed the significance of the World Nomad Games in the context of the political and social milieu of present-day Central Asia.

The World Nomad Games, at least those held in Kyrgyzstan, take place in a region of the world where states and their identities are actively being crafted, influenced, and challenged both from within and from abroad. The traditions celebrated here are traditions that were discouraged, if not outright repressed, during the seven decades of Soviet rule.

Like the Olympics and the World Cup, the games cannot and do not exist outside of the political sphere. There is often more at stake in a match than the first-place medal. In some cases, this is recognition—a wrestler requesting to be introduced as an athlete from the Altai Republic of the Russian Federation or another with Bashkortostan written in blue Cyrillic on the back of his white jacket. At other times, the games are a display of patriotism and nationalism, and a test of superior skills between nations whose old conflicts have not been entirely resolved.

Outside of the platform they provide for confronting issues of ethnic minority rights, recognition, and border disputes, the games reflected the inescapable influences of the outside world that grow ever more prevalent as that world grows more connected.

It was at the games that I first saw a pan-Turkic flag, an image of a unification movement that defies current state structures and traditional colonial powers. Pan-Turkism, encouraged by Turkey and its allies, has gained traction in Central Asia since gaining independence. However, the influence of Turkey was far from the only tangible evidence of outside interests. The games were sponsored by Gazprom, a Russian natural gas giant with ties to the Kremlin and whose name figured prominently on the indoor sports complex. USAID sponsored multiple programs during the week-long tournament, and multiple infrastructure projects that made the games possible would have been extremely fiscally difficult for Kyrgyzstan without Chinese aid.

A ticket to the World Nomad Games is an opportunity to immerse oneself in the culture and traditions of Eurasia. It’s a chance to practice Russian with the Kyrgyz gentleman in the next seat. It’s a moment to enjoy a shot of vodka with the guest-house owner before heading to the arena for the kok-boru final. It’s an occasion to dance with near strangers to musicians from Kazakhstan, from Yakutia, and from Tajikistan.

But it’s also an opportunity to take stock of who-all is making the most of their respective opportunity. Humanitarian groups, political movements, businesses, and yes, formalized states are all vying for the attention of viewers everywhere. The rules, if so strong a word can be used, are neither collectively recognized, nor accepted with equal willingness. The days of relative peace in which to grapple with domestic struggles are lost to those states that came to be in the era of the 24-hour news cycle. Kyrgyzstan and its siblings, situated in a region deemed strategic by multiple world powers, represent the perfect place to play a strong hand.

There are many games being played in Central Asia. Not all of them are as straightforward as kok-boru.

 

 

 

 

 

Kholodets: A Labour of Love

Blog Post

Kholodets (ru: Холодец), a new year’s dish, is a labour of love. It’s ingredients are simple and include the patience of a devoted individual. Its preparation is often accompanied by a cacophony of chopping, pouring, and clattering noises, a shifting display of ingredients, utensils, and dishes,  and a constant stream of national music crackling from the old radio on the windowsill in the appropriate post-soviet language. Before the cooking even begins, the cook chops an assortment of onions, carrots, and garlic en masse. She adds them to the largest stock-pot available along with peppercorns, bay leaves, and other spices. The meat, which by this point has already been carefully selected on the merits of its cut and fat consistency, follows the vegetables. She adds just enough water to cover the ingredients and puts the lid on the pot.

The tedious process of preparing a traditional kholodets requires at least five and up to eight hours on the stove before she begins the last, and arguably trickiest phase of the process. During this metamorphosis, she attentively watches over the pot, and carefully skims off any fat or foam that rises to the top.

Hours later, she removes the individual pieces of meat and filters the remaining broth. She then allots a small portion of meat to each one of an assortment bowls, and covers them with a generous amount of broth. She leaves the brimming bowls of kholodets to set overnight and finally retires from the kitchen.

During the hours of anticipation, the smell of meat cooking in a bath of onions, garlic, bay leaves, and peppercorns wafts into every corner of the apartment. The smell whisks away remaining memories of cheeks stung and feet numb from the sheets of ice, driving wind, and brown slush of a meteorologically inconsistent December.

Kholodets is a labour of love that demands endless trips across our small soviet-style apartment to retrieve meat and produce stored in the fridge on the balcony. It requires chopping those vegetables on a white-painted table, which is a couple of inches too low to be convenient and which, though up against the far wall of the kitchen, is still only two feet from the counter. It necessitates stacking bowls waiting to be filled everywhere including on the reliable but ancient microwave in the corner whose buttons are labeled in Russian and Chinese.

Kholodets is a labour of love, and the only dish in the post-Soviet kukhnya that I have to make a concerted effort to keep down.

It is a wobbly, fatty, meat-based, jello-like concoction that floats at the top of your stomach like oil floats on water. It is served cold and mixes poorly with the American pairing  of chilled water and dinner.

The result of all of this chopping, shredding, stirring, seasoning, pouring, and filtering is a dish that could have come out of an article in a 1950s women’s magazine on how to host a superior dinner party. But please remember what 50s cuisine entailed.

Unlike the synthetic gelatin of the bright-red strawberry banana jello that colored my Midwestern American childhood, the wobbly motion does not come from a small fun box in the bakery aisle. The bouncy, jiggly movement of kholodets rather is caused by the breakdown and later reformation of collagen in the cartilage and tendons of the carefully selected cuts of meat mentioned above.

The week before winter exams, it was this infamous classic that Bekbolot, my host father carried into the dining room and sat down at my place at the table. I looked up, recognizing it immediately.

–Kholodets.

-Ah. Good. You know it.

-Of course. How could I not.

-Cholpon is eager for you to try it. She started yesterday. She made this from scratch.

And indeed, she had. I had heard the cacophony, seen the shifting display on the table, and breathed in the savory aroma rolling out of the kitchen. I steeled my nerves and cut into my dinner. The gel gave little resistance, and I picked up the first nearly perfect cube and placed it in my mouth. I swallowed. I took a bite of black bread, and quickly followed it with another bite of kholodets before I lost courage.

-Does your mother make it often at home?

–Kholodets? No, we don’t really eat that much Russian food at home.

I finished my dinner shortly afterward, and rushed to my room to nurse my now churning stomach. But it did not end there. We had kholodets the next day, and for breakfast the day after that. I was dying. Never had I missed plov so much. Or pelmeni. Or oromo. Or borshch. Or manti. There simply were not enough pryaniki in the world to ever let me forget the taste of my allotted portion of kholodets.

My Midwestern American rearing had taught me to always be gracious, to finish the food on my plate, and to always give my compliments to the cook. So I did. And the other exchange students rolled their eyes and sighed as I came in day after day with tales of my gastronomic woes. Eventually the madness ended, and my intestinal trauma faded into the background. Now, months later and miles away from the nearest serving of kholodets, the memory of that chilled jiggly bowl of despair brings only warmth.

Kholodets is a labour of love. Sometimes for both parties.