“Gaspadin Shriver, Gaspadin Shriver”, said a voice in Russian just after first light in a far eastern region of Turkmenistan. I dressed quickly and met our host who beckoned me to go outside where the first lamb of the day had just been slaughtered. Our host, Mr. Durdaev, picked up a Mason-like jar filled with the lamb’s blood and headed in my direction. I wondered what ritual I was about to participate in, as I had not seen or heard about this cultural practice. Oh, no! Was I going to be asked to drink the blood?
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The previous night we had seen the lights of Iran a few miles to the south as my wife, Barb, and I headed past the town of Serahs to the residential compound of our hosts, the Durdaev family. We stopped about 15 miles short of Afghanistan, as remote as we'd been from civilization as we knew it, in the Mercedes limousine belonging to Shiki Durdaev, the CEO of the Durdaev conglomerate. Shiki and his younger brother, Djumamurad, had invited us to Turkmenistan from our home in L'viv, Ukraine, for a week of discussions on how we might work together to attract capital to worthwhile projects in Turkmenistan … no small task in this country of 4 million very poor people and one-fifth of the world’s natural gas reserves. Combined with the nation’s considerable oil reserves and cotton production, the gas offered more than enough wealth to keep 4 million Norwegians living well for the foreseeable future; the 4 million Turkmenis, however, lived in a different world with different rules and an autocratic ruler, the self-proclaimed "Turkmenbashi", or "leader of the Turkmens", who was vastly more interested in the longevity of his regime than in the welfare of his people.
In that regard, Turkmenistan was little different than virtually all of the tribal countries of the Soviet Union’s former Central Asian republics. When the Soviet Union collapsed, all six of the republics making up Turkic Soviet-Central Asia, (Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan in addition to Turkmenistan), found themselves living under tribal leaders self-appointed for life, despite a façade of normal elections.
We pulled into the Durdaev homestead and met Father and Mother Durdaev, devout Muslims both of whom had made the Hajj from Mecca to Medina. We also met their three daughters, all in their late teens and early twenties. We were led into the great living room, the floor of which was covered from wall to wall with dozens of overlapping carpets. Visitors dropped by throughout the evening, some with musical instruments which they played while they sang Turkmeni songs.
During the conversation, Barb mentioned how she had hurt her ankle earlier; Mother massaged her ankle, and the pain (and a headache, to boot) soon went away. As a welcoming gift, Father had given me a small carpet; workers had spent a week making this in his factory with my name woven into it in Russian. These were a gentle, warm and generous people who, with some adjustments for cultural differences, were as welcoming as Texans.
During our stay, we spoke at length with the daughters. On the surface, they had much the same interests as young women everywhere such as cosmetics and clothes (they all wore burkhas, of course … but a copy of Vogue was like gold). After the cosmetic issues, however, the comparison ended abruptly. We asked one who spoke fluent English what she thought about her future. She said her dream had been to study to become a secretary, but Father and Mother would never allow it. She said her other sisters also wanted to go to school as their brothers had done, but it wasn’t going to happen.
Barb and I wondered briefly if we could adopt them all (or at least one) and bring them back to what is still the land of opportunity for everyone.
Shiki and Djumamurad told us they did not believe in the Muslim religion all that much, but they went along when in Serahs so as not to displease Mother and Father. Shiki, who lived in Ashgabat with his family, was one of the most natural leaders I had ever met … everything he suggested was possible and exciting … .but only possible when he said it. Shiki’s wife was a Ukrainian from Moldova and was not encumbered by restrictive traditions of Islam. Their children, who lived in the capital city of Ashkabat, were destined for a very different and, to our minds, brighter future than the Durdaev girls in far-off Serahs..
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Father was now almost up to me with the jar of sheep’s blood. I had decided to drink if asked. Instead, Father dipped his finger into the blood and placed his finger on my forehead, leaving a spot of red. Only men are so honored. Mother was unable to wake Djumamurad, so she placed a finger print of blood on his forehead while he slept.
On the business side of our trip, we had made great plans to change the world of Turkmenis for the better, and Barb and I returned to Ukraine. A week later, we received a fax from Turkmenistan: “Shiki and his wife, and two of their three children killed in a single vehicle auto crash. Cyril (third child) in a coma. ” The reason “single” was emphasized was because a popular form of assassination in that part of the world in those days was a head-on collision of the target’s car with a heavy truck. The driver of the truck always survived, though the truck was expendable. Cost of the killing: $5000.
I called Djumamurad immediately. There was no answer. No email contact. And not in the next few months. He disappeared. Perhaps he could not function without his brother. We think often of this family that we came to love, while I continue to wonder if the death was really the result of a “single car accident”. In some parts of the world, it's dangerous to try to do something good.
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