Reflections on Thanksgiving

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, and even before it arrived, Christmas music filled the air. Can it really be? Time seems to be accelerating at an ever increasing rate. Advent season has arrived. A time for joy and anticipation. At my age, I’m having a hard time keeping up.

This rainy afternoon, I am looking through the rear view mirror of my memory bank at a Thanksgiving past.

Twenty seven years ago I found myself celebrating Thanksgiving as a legal consultant (on loan from the Department of Justice) in the former Soviet Republic of Kyrgyzstan. Far from home and family, with a work schedule so packed that I usually felt no loneliness until I went to bed close to midnight.

But wait, Thanksgiving is not celebrated in the former Soviet Union. For over six weeks, I was the only experienced western lawyer in the country, and my role was to help the Kyrgyz build legal institutions that not only reflected their culture and traditions, but also secured the contract rights of foreign investors and provided the framework for a fledgling democratic governmental structure that protected human rights. Tall order indeed.

My hostess was Cholpon Baekova, former Prosecutor General and recently appointed Chairman of the new Constitutional Court. She was perhaps five years my junior, but a tower of strength and with a heart for serving her people. She had taken me on a tour of the country two weeks earlier, and in most places we stopped I was the first “live” American the people had ever seen. No, they volunteered, they had not seen dead Americans, but lots of live ones on the television. As a retired Air Force officer whose organization viewed the Soviet Union as a nuclear target, I was relieved.

My memories of that tour include visiting the second largest saline lake in the world, called Issyk Kul. The name means warm lake. It never freezes, despite being surrounded by snow capped mountains. We visited a collective farm in a town called Cholpon Ata, where we were hosted at a table that must have been forty feet long, every square inch covered with bottles, glasses, cutlery, flowers, dried fruits and nuts. The weather outside was freezing, and inside not much warmer.

This was my first experience with what is known as Beshbarmak (literally, five fingers). Our hosts had slain at least one and probably several lambs in our honor. Luckily, we did not have to watch that ceremony. Then course after course of food was served, including soup, bread, lamb on the bone (the guests receiving the largest pieces). Whatever we did not eat was quietly and efficiently removed from our places at the table. After two hours came an intermission. This was a much needed opportunity for personal relief.

Darkness was almost upon us as I trudged slowly toward the “bathroom,” which was a wooden outhouse on the far side of a field about a football field away. It was good that I had remembered to bring a small packet of Kleenex as well as a flashlight. It was well worth the trek. Now I had the sense that there was again some room in my digestive system for phase two of the dinner.

I need to explain that while there was little if any artificial heat in the building, we were treated to a never ceasing series of toasts, after each of which I drained a small glass of vodka. This was my heating system, prescribed by my hostess as the best way to avoid pneumonia. I was invited to speak, sing and give a toast. I did my best.

This entire scene was so natural and enjoyable that I almost failed to notice a large platter coming my way. Atop this platter was a well cooked sheep’s head. As the honored foreign guest, it was my privilege to use a large knife (buchek) to remove the eyes, ears, cheeks, and other parts, and then give them to those I wished to honor. I think I ate parts of the head, but my memory fades. I recall that all who were chosen to receive parts of the head acted as if this was the highlight of their year.

But wait, the feast is not over. The platter is removed. All the uneaten lamb had been minced by a young man in the kitchen, and out came another platter with a small mountain of minced lamb meat. With it was broth from the soup and noodles. At this point, all hands were on the table. Each guest received a base of noodles, with lamb on top and finally bathed in broth. This is Beshbarmak. Everyone ate this delicacy with their fingers, and it was delicious. Then there were blessings, final toasts, hand washing with a young man bringing a towel and basin of hot water to each guest, and we said our farewells.

Back in our car, we sped down the road, sirens blaring and lights flashing, everyone yielding, running red lights and stop signs, until we arrived at a town on the far eastern end of the lake, Karakol. Only then did it dawn on me that we were going to have a second feast, just like the first. I don’t remember how I was able to consume all the food and drink at this second feast, but I asked God to empower me, and He did it.

We returned late in the evening to the capital city of Bishkek, where I somehow made it up the four flights of stairs to my apartment, somehow found the right keys to open the multiple locks at the door, and crashed. But let me move forward a week to Thanksgiving Day.

Thanksgiving Day was like any other day in my schedule. I had many appointments with government officials, where they sought advice on issues like how to systemically ensure civilian control of the military, and how to develop environmental protection laws (including defining criminal offenses related to the environment). Another was how to develop an international agreement with other former Soviet republics that would facilitate the repatriation of sentenced prisoners whom the Soviet computer system had sent to areas far from their now home country. There were other meetings, but it was a typically busy day.

Then there was a first, a meeting with the country’s president. He was an astrophysicist, and I enjoyed spending half an hour with him in his office. He asked me when would they know that real legal reforms were in place, not just the letter of the law but changing the culture. Without too much advance thought, I said two things would prove such change. When he asked what those were, I said the first is that a powerful political office holder who had committed a serious crime will actually be charged, tried by an impartial court, found guilty, sentenced to jail, and not be able to avoid responsibility for his actions. He smiled, and then said, “and the second thing?” I could not resist a bit of humor, and said: “when pedestrians have as much rights as motorists.” He laughed.

In those days, you took your life into your hands walking across a street or in a driveway or parking area. Even little old ladies (babuskas) would have to jump out of the path of a vehicle. Drivers would seemingly speed up when they saw pedestrians in what should have been a crosswalk. It was the same thing when a vehicle backed out of a parking space. There as no yielding to pedestrians. It’s probably much better now, but that was reality in 1993.

After my meeting with President Akaev, I was escorted by my interpreter across town to a dark room in the rear of a nondescript building on the edge of the city. An American had invited us to a Thanksgiving fellowship meal. There was virtually no heat in the room, and precious little light. I could see about three dozen people, mostly Americans, and perhaps a few Brits and Aussies. There were young children as well. Food was on a long table. I was welcomed, and sat down. There was no turkey, as I recall, but they had what looked like several scrawny chickens wired or tied together. Many of the other traditional Thanksgiving dishes were absent, but there was fresh fruit, greens, potatoes and desserts.

What I recall the most is that each attendee spoke to the group about what they were most thankful for, there were tears, sharing of struggles, how much they missed their families back home, but how God had always been with them, and led them through every struggle. There were prayers and hymns. Now, I have sometimes been accused of being less than fully observant of my circumstances, but I finally figured out that this was a gathering of Christian missionaries. It was the first time in my life that I had been in such company. It was just wonderful!

I know that God moved in my heart that Thanksgiving Day, and I knew that one day I would return to live among the Kyrgyz people and combine my legal development skills with a ministry to the most gracious and hospitable people I had ever encountered (aside from those crazy drivers). And I can say that I was invited back by senior government officials, and later moved to the country with my wife. And at that point I will stop this post and continue the story in future posts. Please stay tuned.

COVID-19 is horrific, and has impacted people all over the globe. My Kyrgyz brothers and sisters are no exception. So this past Thanksgiving was very different. But I am so very thankful to God for his provision, his patience with me, and his enduring promises. My circumstances are not determinative of my thankful heart. No matter how dark the clouds, there is always a basis for joyful Thanksgiving. My Kyrgyz family taught me that, plus a lot more. Thanks for joining me on this journey.