The Ambassadors’ Birds

I stepped out of the elevator and right in front of me, on the wall, were two birds. Not just any birds, but two absolutely magnificent peacocks, the iridescent feathers of blue and green trailing behind their bodies. Even without the full-on fan of the eye-dotted feathers, these birds were beautiful and noble, holding their blue, crowned heads up high. They were turned towards each other, one a bit more elevated than the other, and they were staring at a spot somewhere behind me.

I blinked, not understanding. How could they be so still, high up on the wall, standing on little ledges? Then I saw. They were stuffed, but their colors were perfectly intact. They looked alive, very much unlike other stuffed animals I’d seen in museums or friends’ dachas back in Russia. I once heard somewhere that peacocks symbolized immortality in ancient Greece and later on in Christianity, and that’s why they were often depicted next to the Tree of Life. It was ironic, almost cruel, that these peacocks—symbols of life—were very dead.

I had to force myself to look away from the birds. They were beautiful and strange. But my curiosity to see more was stronger.

It was a sunny day in the not too distant past when I visited this place of wonder and awe, a secret place that only few people know of, although it’s right here, in the middle of everything, close to the city’s masses.

I only got a brief glimpse of this world very new and different to mine, and had to leave it a few hours later, when most other guests had already departed. Among those honored to be invited to view and experience this enchanted spot for the first time were fifteen or so. Four others knew the place quite well. They belonged to it. Or it to them. The only reason I was there was that my boss was busy, so he sent me instead. I don’t think that any of the important people there expected somebody like me to show up.

To access this magical place, you muttered a secret password to the guards outside. They then accompanied you to the elevators that in turn took you up. The top few levels belonged to this group of powerful men. Once I heard the ding! of the elevator, announcing my arrival, I stepped into light and soft music and colors of wood and leather but also sparkle and gold.

After my moment with the peacocks, I walked on slowly, taking in the surroundings. On my left stood soft but imposing couches with a round embroidered table between them and a golden light illuminating the scene. Even though it was morning and very bright outside, the heavy caramel-colored curtains were drawn. The effect was that the interior appeared cozy and vaguely familiar. It was the atmosphere of your favorite reading room in an ancient library or the backdoor library of a duke or lord. All this without any books, but instead tables, laden with the most polished silver wear, dishes, vases and tall crystal bottles, and walls covered with photographs of important people and expensive bottles from all over the world. Next to each table stood a full-sized, broad-shouldered wooden man replica. Again, I was confused, until I realized that those shoulders held expensive suits to save them from wrinkles when the important men sat down at the splendid tables.

I was early and the room empty. All I could hear was the lull of the music draped over everything. Even though it was my first time coming—and even hearing—of this place, I hadn’t had any trouble finding it in one of the large commercial-looking buildings of the city. I hesitated but then walked to the middle of the majestic round room, a huge wooden bar on one end and red-carpeted stairs on the other. Finally, a man saw me and came towards me, smiling. I was nervous and quickly explained that I was very early. He smiled even wider and gestured to a small door at the other end of the round room. I had not noticed the door leading into yet another room. Now I saw the suits and ties of a few men who were already there.

On my way to the men, I passed a vitrine with thick, imposing-looking cigars. Somehow, this did not surprise me in the least.

The room I entered was named after a mountain, as were others, I would later discover. Most at the unique gathering were men of a mature age. They looked similar in statue, demeanor and physical demarcations. They also spoke at least two of the same languages, languages not everybody in the room understood. I did. This elevated me in their eyes and I was allowed to join their circle. I shook hands and exchanged nods, learning little by little, that these men were representatives of their countries and industries.

For a long time, I was the only woman in the room named after a mountain. I made polite conversation, handed out and collected business cards and joined the gentle chuckle that erupted from time to time in response to politically leaning jokes. A smile settled on my face, a smile that was pleasant and friendly enough for the occasion I hoped. It did not even leave my lips when one of the important men winked at me, as if sharing a private joke. I simply sipped my tea and smiled some more.

Slowly, the gathering grew to its full twenty people, as the important men trickled in. Three women also came. They too were very important, powerful and of extraordinary influence. A white-haired woman graced my circle with her presence, speaking in an almost whisper, hardly audible. She made sure to first ask everybody else’s occupations before revealing her superior own. I could not help but think that this might be a clever tactic to reinforce her position over us. I also came to understand that she was saving her voice for a moment that came later, when she stood up and announced—with violently rolling Rs, but loud and clear—the advances and superiorities of the country she represented.

A few other intriguing comments about superiorities and inferiorities of their countries versus this one were made over the course of our gathering. The speech we were there to hear was of little importance, even though we, of course, all acted otherwise. At the end, polite applause, and all stood to shake, nod, wink.

One of the men familiar with the magical place showed me the different wondrous levels, separated by steps floating in the air. I showed my appreciation with “ah”s and “oh”s. He looked pleased.

Before I left, as the elevator doors were sliding shut, I looked once more at the peacocks, and I thought about how in some cultures, they were viewed as vane and proud. And I imagined the important men, representatives of their various countries, sitting in this palace of peace in the middle of this turbulent and troubled town, smoking cigars in rooms named after mountains and looking up at their birds—beautiful and dead.

Peacocks grace the Tree of Life in this Indian tapastry

Advice

At the lakeside, we got talking

about the land, the water

one brown, one red

Hippos are fast, he said

And when they chase you

you zigzag

and run as hard as you can

His hands were in motion

setting an example

At his childhood lake, he’s escaped a few

but not his friends.

There’s water snakes too

Once they bite, stay in the water

Will they kill you? I asked

Instantaneous, he said

you leave, you die

But in the water, your blood is slow

cold

You stay, don’t move

Wait for muti.

Journalist? she asked.

I had a friend, a journalist, she said

On an assignment, in CAR

She got incredible access

embedded with the rebels

One day

they had muti

Became invisible

—including her

When they went into a village

she followed

invisible

By the next day

they had killed them all

and she was there

invisible

A Beautiful Thing/Родина

I want to tell you about a beautiful thing that recently happened to me. It has to do with my family and acceptance. Maybe some of you will relate.

My family is spread all over. My mother lives in Germany, my aunt in Spain, another aunt, uncle and cousins in Central Russia, my grandma and more cousins in Southern Russia–and I’m in Kenya. When my aunt announced that she was going to marry her long-term partner, we decided to get together, in Barcelona, to celebrate.

Not everybody could make it but the three sisters reunited. Vera, Nadeshda, Lubov–Faith, Hope, Love. I also joined and saw my mother’s sister from Central Russia and her husband for the first time in 14 years.

We were all nervous. After such a long time, you don’t know each other anymore. You–literally–have to get used to speaking the same language again, learn first-hand what has happened over all those years and what kind of person you’re related to and dealing with.

My aunt is a hard-working woman who likes to shed a tear or two over shared memories, and tell stories about her children whom she adores deeply. She is also the eldest among the three sisters, and you can tell. Even though it was her first time in Barcelona and she let others decide what to do, it still felt that she had the ultimate control. It was also her who, without hesitation, pointed out the obvious, everybody else was too polite to verbally notice. One of the sisters had gotten a little belly (“What is this? And you are wearing this tight dress?”), the other one was anxious and stressed (“Quiet! Just sit down for once and relax! You’re driving everybody crazy!”), her husband drank a bit too much (“Here we go again…”) and I was lacking a good part of crucial Russian cultural know-how (“She doesn’t understand Ukrainian jokes. You must explain again.”). But in this same direct fashion, she would also tell you when she liked something about you or something you did. After a few days together, she hugged me–suddenly–and said that I was a sensible and intelligent girl who was interested in people and the world, and that she was impressed and very happy about how I had turned out. I felt honored and glad and relieved.

My uncle was a bit of a different story. He is a man full of jokes and opinions. Many of them sounded offensive to my Western, liberal ears. There were jokes and comments about peoples he clearly disliked and there was the way he did not look at me when, on our second night together, I left the women’s family story circle on one side of the room to join the men’s political talk on the couch and hear his thoughts about Syria and Crimea–merged into one argument against American world policing. I chimed in occasionally, probing his argumentation, but he attributed our generational, cultural, sociopolitical differences to my having spent too much time in the US. It’s true, spending time abroad will most likely widen the horizon of your opinions, but I’m sure that’s not what he meant.

After a while, he decided to give me a lesson of sorts. He asked me to join him on the balcony, away from the (protective) women. While he smoked a cigarette, he told me about his two children whom he raised to love Kuban, the region in Southern Russia where we are all from. Even though his children had been born in other regions of the Soviet Union, he took them to Kuban as often as he could, because he wanted them to love it as much as he did, and to view it as their Родина [liberally where you’re born or your homeland]. Clearly, my uncle loved his country–and he expected me to feel the same. Standing on this little balcony, overseeing a narrow street in the Gothic quarter of Barcelona, where one of my aunts lived and where I had spent more time coming of age than in Russia, a country I left at age 2 and had only visited a few times since, I felt the pressure of needing to belong. I felt that I had to choose sides (my homeland’s side in this case) and stick with it, no matter what. Most of all though, I felt sad and disappointed that my uncle did not see me as the person I was–complex background and all. I had not grown up in a different region of Russia, like his kids, but a completely different country, Germany. And even that place I had traded in over 10 years ago for the US, South Africa, Kenya and others, because I did not feel that I belonged. People like me who face dilemmas of not truly fitting in anywhere have since been dubbed “third culture kids.” Even though I had grown up with the Russian language, food, stories, mentality and culture, I did not belong to it–and I never would, at least not fully. And that was something my uncle could not accept.

We spent the next week cooking, eating, strolling, laughing, crying, arguing, making up–and on my last evening, just before I was to head to the airport to fly back to Nairobi, a beautiful thing happened.

Over another lavish meal, accompanied by a great deal of spirits, my uncle raised his glass to make a toast. He looked at me and he said: “Forget what I have told you about your Родина. Home is where you are happy, where people accept you as you are–and where your mother is.” Everybody drank to that and my mother beamed at him, but I knew that this was a private exchange between him and me. That he, like me, had continued thinking about our conversation on the balcony. That he had learned, as we spent time together, that I could not and would not belong–and that that was OK. It was one of those rare times when you see somebody opinionated change their opinion. And it was in this moment that he stopped trying to make me something I was not and accepted me instead.