Finding a Preschool

Now that we’ve found an apartment to live in, the next thing on our checklist is to find a preschool for K.  The first thing M and I need to agree on is which language we want K to be learning in – Russian, Tajik or English.  M wants English and I want Russian, so we know that Tajik is out.  After much reflection on this, we decide it would be great for K to learn Russian at an early age (he already speaks in quite well for a 3-year old) and where better to do this than in Tajikistan, a former Soviet republic?  “I’ll be speaking to him in English at home so he won’t lose it” I tell M one evening after putting K to bed.  We can always put him in an English school as he grows older if we want to. So in search of a Russian preschool in the city, I contact friends and old-colleagues of mine who live in Dushanbe and have children – they share their experiences with Russian schools and give me the phone numbers of schools to contact.  But this is not where we find the school K is currently attending as I write.  It is the suggestion of the principal of a nearby school that is closing for a few months due to some upcoming renovations.  She tells us about a new private Russian school, called Panda, where her friend, Gulnora, is the principal.  M speaks with her to get some more information about the school and asks when we can come by and see it.  She invites us to come later that day.  So off we go to catch a taxi during a busy lunch hour in the city.

After numerous taxis filled with passengers pass us on Rudaki street, the biggest street in the city, M finally flags one down and mutually agrees on a reasonable price with the driver.  We have the address, but after driving for about 15 minutes (we’ve been told it’s only a 10-minute drive), we can’t find it.  This is nothing new since street signs are not as visible in Dushanbe, Tajikistan as they are back home in Vancouver.  We pass an elementary school and ask a lady selling knickknacks on the side of the road where the school is.  She points in the direction of the street we just drove down and motions for us to turn right and keep going for a while, or at least this is how I interpret her hand gestures and tone of voice while not understanding a word she is saying in Tajik, the national language.   The taxi driver, a young man who seems to want to impress me with his loud music on the radio, makes a quick u-turn back to where we came from and then I hear both him and M, who is sitting in the front passenger seat, both say “there it is” in Russian.  Strangely enough, the preschool is located right behind the woman we asked for directions.  Mental note – always, keep your eyes on the lookout and don’t trust the directions someone gives you.  We get out of the taxi and I smile as we head towards a big gray gate at the end of the alleyway painted with some big white and black pandas and cars from the popular children’s movie bearing the name.  After ringing the doorbell, we are greeted by a woman in a white uniform and hat, similar to the ones worn by nurses at the hospitals here.  M lets her know that we are here to see the principal, Gulnora, whom he spoke to earlier about coming to see the school.   K’s face lights up with a smile probably bigger than mine as he looks around the huge garden filled with swings, a basketball net, balls, toys, and a rabbit running around (yes, I did say rabbit).  We’re immediately shown the way to the principal’s office, requested to take off our shoes and put them aside since no one is allowed to wear shoes in the school. 

The corridor opens up into a lunchroom with a checker board decorated floor, an aquarium and where the kids are seated on small red wooden chairs at tables that fit 4-5 of them, eating their lunch.  As I walk by I look to see what they are eating – macaroni and meat sauce – “looks good” I think to myself. We turn left into Gulnora’s office, a woman in her late-50s nicely dressed in a spinach green two-piece suit who looks up at us through her thick black rimmed glasses that are taped up on one side.  “Privet” (hello in Russian) she says and asks us to come sit down.  We tell her that we’re looking for preschool for our 3-year old son and she begins to give us very detailed information about the school – she was so thorough that she answered almost all my questions before I could answer them.  Gulnora has an aura of authority about her that is typical of a Soviet era bureaucrat and this is quickly contrasted by the sweet way in which she speaks to K and the other children who come into her office while we talk.  Across from her opened door, there is a staircase.  While talking to us, she tells the children running up the stairs to be careful and walk slowly. 

She continues by telling us that this school follows the Russian school curriculum where the children go through the day learning various subjects like mathematics, Russian literature, culture as well as do activities that help promote their fine motor skills, artistic abilities (they have music class once a week and perform plays) and physical education.  The school hours are from 8 to 5 and they provide a pick up and drop off school bus option with 3 meals a day (breakfast that consists of oatmeal and various grained cereal, lunch that consists of vegetables and protein and then an afternoon snack including blinchik, cottage cheese and some baked goods) – all the food is made fresh daily at the school kitchen.  During the meeting, the owner of the house where the school is located, who happens to be a graduate of one of the American funded fellowship walks in the room and sits on the chair at the back of the room.  Gulnora introduces him as Fariddun, the owner and her boss.  I am immediately taken aback at the words she chooses to use since it is very unusual in this context for a younger person to be the boss of an older person.  His demeanor is respectful and quiet.  Happy to hear him speak English, we begin chatting about the six years he spent studying business administration at Omaha State University in Nebraska.

A few minutes later, Gulnora asks if I have any questions before she takes us on an excursia (tour) of the school.  I tell her that I only have one question to ask her and that had to do with how they discipline children when they are misbehaving or fighting with other children.  I was later to find out that Gulnora was probably stumped by this question because it’s not something most parents ask here.  I was very impressed with her answer – they don’t punish the children, they remove them from the situation and explain why the behaviour is not acceptable and they put them in time-out like we do back home.  If the behaviour continues, she talks to the parents and helps them deal with the situation at home.  I am so engrossed in the conversation that I forget that K is not sitting on the couch next to me – he has gone outside to play with one of the teachers.  We go and look for K who is playing outside with some coloured plastic balls and asking the teacher if she can pick a persimmon from the tree above.  “Do you want to come to this school tomorrow?” I say to K and he immediately responds “No, I want to go to this school now.” I take this as a good sign and accept the offer to keep K there for the rest of the afternoon to try it out. 

We pick K up a few hours later only to find him playing on the trampoline with the other kids and not wanting to go home.  “This is the school for us” I say to M who is smiling while watching K who is talking to a little girl in Russian.

A Visit to the Doctor

While looking for apartments in the centre of the city, my mother-in-law calls to tell me that K has a fever and his mosquito bites are swelling up.  She’s going to call her sister to find out what to do and then call me back.  I wonder if I should go back home immediately, but then realize that she’ll know exactly what to do – she’s raised 3 sons who have turned out to be just fine, I just need to trust her.  About an hour later, she calls back to tell me that K is ok, the fever has gone down and after giving K a bath and putting some red beets and salt on his bites, so has the swelling.  I’m all for traditional and natural healing and have been ever since I saw a religious healer for a boil on my face many years ago when I lived in Tajikistan.  I was cured after some prayers, verses from the Quran written on pieces of paper that I had to dip in water and burn for 7 nights in a row and some sheep’s fat to put on the boil to get rid of the evil spirit that had come into my body.  Some hours later, I come home only to see that K is running around the apartment playing with his new soccer ball.  He seems fine and I am relieved.

I wake up the next morning, turn over to see K sleeping next to me.  The mosquito bites have spread on his face and I quickly get up and check the rest of his body – they’re all over his arms and legs now!  I begin to worry but then tell myself not to worry – I’m sure it’s just that he’s getting use to the new environment and food.  The more I look at my red spotted son, I start to think the worst – does he have malaria?  does he have typhoid? Is it bed bugs?  what have I done by bringing K here to this dusty city? Before going further with my worst case scenario imagination and my negative judgments on the country, I turn to M on my other side and tell him that we need to get K checked out.  I recall that there is a medical clinic staffed by European doctors in the centre of the city and suggest we go there.  “I’d feel comfortable going somewhere where the doctors speak English” I say to M who sheepishly agrees.  My mother-in-law walks into our room and M tells her that I want to take K to the doctor and she agrees while reassuring me that K is just adjusting to this new environment. She calls a nurse in the family who tells her to go to the nearby hospital and see the allergy specialist, one of the best in town who studied in Germany.  I agree and after having breakfast, the usual naan (traditional bread) with cheese and sausage and a cup of coffee, we get ready and walk down the four flights of stairs of the apartment building. 

In one of the busiest intersection's of the city, we catch a mashrutka (mini-bus) and get off at the stop about a 10-minute drive away.  My mother-in-law tells me the hospital is only a few minutes walk away, but I know that she’s being kind knowing that I am worried– the hospital is a bit more of a walk and after a while K tells me he’s tired of walking and wants to be carried.  K has become so tall and too heavy for me to carry him so I give him to M who carries him until we reach the local hospital.  Along the way, M tells me to sit in the waiting area while he, K and my mother-in-law go see the doctor.  Again, I start to make judgments as to why I, K’s mother, cannot go with my son to the doctor.  I catch myself thinking the worst about the country and immediately ask M why.  “They might not treat him if they know you’re a foreigner” he says, and I back down with complete understanding because all I really want is for my son to get better. 

M, K and my mother-in-law are called into another room and I remain sitting in the dark waiting room with men and women who have come to see their loved ones who are patients in the hospital. I think about when we lived in Vancouver and those times I took K to the doctor for regular checkups and to the health clinic for his vaccinations and the times I called the nurses’ hotline in the middle of the night when K had a fever – these were the time when I felt most like his mother.  But here in the waiting room of the local hospital, I am saddened, helpless and feel ignored as my role as a mother has been stripped away from me.  I wonder if my mother-in-law knew what I was feeling (since she is a mother herself) when I see her calling for me from the hospital door motioning for me to come in.  I ask M if it is ok for me to come with them to see the doctor and this time he says “yes.”  I’m not sure what transpired in those moments but in the end, my role as K’s mother is reinstated as the 3 of us (K, M and I) sit on the chairs in front of the doctor as she checks K’s spots.  In her white doctor’s gown, she comes over to where K is sitting and looks at the spots on his face, arms and legs.  She touches them and lets us know that these are mosquito bites that have been exacerbated by the new environment and new foods K has been exposed to, not to mention all the scratching he has been doing.  She gives us a prescription for some tablets to be taken orally and some ointment to spread on all the spots 3 times a day and gives us a pamphlet highlighting which foods he should avoid eating and which ones he should eat more of.  I’m consoled in knowing that these are only mosquito bites and the natural reaction children have when being in a completely new environment – “phew, nothing serious” I say to myself.

We walk out of the hospital, I buy K a toy guitar for being so patient and brave at the doctor’s office and hand him off to my mother-in-law who gets the prescriptions filled at one of the many local pharmacies in the neighborhood.  M and I take a mashrutka to the centre of the city to continue looking at apartments to rent.

It’s been a few weeks since that visit to the doctor and the spots on K’s face are almost gone and he hasn’t had a fever since.    

Found in Translation

Usually K is the one to lock himself in the house - in fact he has locked himself in every room of our old house in Richmond, BC, from the washroom to his bedroom and our bedroom which had child safety handles inside that he didn't know how to maneuver.  My favorite (although not at the time) was when he was about a year a half...it was December 2009 and it had snowed all night.  The next morning when I looked out the window, I saw the driveway covered in a blanket of snow and decided it would be a good time to stay home from work and daycare and play in the snow with K.  So I bundled up K in his snowsuit so we could make a snowman in the backyard.  And then I remembered, I left K's mittens in the car.  So I told K to stay put in the hallway while I went to get his mittens from the car.  I closed the door behind me, walked to the car parked on the street, got the mittens and came back to what I thought would be an unlocked door.  But to my surprise, it wasn't.  I tried to explain to K how to unlock the door, but he couldn't and started to cry.  My landlady wasn't home so I couldn't ask her to come downstairs and open the door...hmmm, what to do now? I thought to myself.  And then I remembered that my landlady's daughter who has an extra set of keys and lived a few houses away worked from home.  I told K to wait there and that I was coming back.  I walked over to my landlady's daughter's house, hoping she would be home.  I rang the doorbell and she answered...I told her what happened and she came back with me and the extra set of keys to open the door.  As we walked back home, we could hear K crying from inside.  My heart sank and we walked faster.  We opened the door to find him red in the face from crying so much and standing helpless in his blue puffy snowsuit.  We went inside the house and he motioned for me to go in the house by myself while he stayed in the hall and did his business.  Now I understand the meaning of "I was so scared I shit in my pants."

It seems locking oneself in a room in the house runs in the family and this time it was M's turn.  It is around 7 am the morning after moving into our new home in Dushanbe, Tajikistan.  I am talking to a friend on Skype, M is taking a shower and K is sleeping in the next room.  I hear K's footsteps in the hallway...he walks towards the washroom and then into the living room where I am...he asks me where his dad is and I told him he was in the shower.  A few minutes later, I hear M knocking on the washroom door...I walk over to check and see what's going on only to find out that he has locked the door and can't get out.  I turn to K who ks standing right next to me with his blanket and I smile - this time it's his dad's turn.  We try to open the door, but to no avail.  I suggest that I go upstairs to the 4th floor of the apartment building (we live on the first floor) and let the landlady know and ask for her help.  The only challenge is my Russian is not good enough for me to convey such a message.  So I ask M to dictate what I should say...I write it down and repeat it back to him to make sure I am correct.  I turn to K and ask him to come with me.  He stops me in my tracks and, very slowly, reminds me that first we need to go to the store and buy some soap to wash the clothes (this is something I told him before going to bed the previous evening - he never forgets).  Both M and I can't help but laugh...K obviously doesn't understand the urgency of the situation at hand - to get M out of the locked washroom.  So I assure K that we would go to the store and get the soap but that first we need to go to the landlady to help us get his dad out of the washroom.  I put on his shoes and then mine and again, he stops me in my tracks again and questions why we were going in our pyjamas.  Clearly he doesn't understand the urgency, so I calmly tell him that it's ok for us to go in our pyjamas because we need to get his dad out of the washroom.  As we walk up the 4 flights of stairs, I practice what I am about to say and ask K to help me out since he speaks Russian very well.  He responds by saying, "how am I suppose to know what to say in Russian?" We get to the door and knock on it....no answer.  I ring the doorbell, no answer.  I start to worry and ring the doorbell again.  Our landlady comes to the door and asks who it is...I tell her it's me and she opens the door - we've woken her up.  So I begin to apologize profusely with the Russian word for 'sorry' (I've learned this from the numerous times K has had to apologize to M for misbehaving...glad that I could put it to good use now).  Nervously, I read every word from the paper and then K, who realizes I am stumbling and probably not making any sense, chimes in and says 2 key words in Russian - "open door."  That seemed to do the trick and my landlady calls to her husband and lets me know that he will come down in a few minutes.  While walking down to our apartment, K and I recall how K has locked himself in every door in our house in Richmond and that he also locked himself in our room at my in-laws place when we first came to Tajikistan and that now his dad has locked the door.  I end with "the moral of the story is we don't lock doors anymore."  We laugh for the remainder of the walk downstairs.