Human destiny and the desert are interwoven

On the outskirts of LA, I recently met Aigul. When she told me she was from Kazakhstan, it created an instant and yet distant bond, something of a mirage that exists in a distant future, and that is an aspiration to visit the lush green mountains and ride horses in the endless grasslands. For a while now, I find myself being oriented towards the Stans. I don't know why and for how long, there is an urge in me to visit, maybe next summer.

I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, showed her a few photos of spectacular landscapes in her country, and asked if she could share some knowledge about them with me. Before she could say anything, she paused, and then said:

"My dear Kazakh steppes, how wondrous and beautiful it is. The pasture where my father raised her four children. The fields where my mother and sister used to pick tulips. The vast steppes that were the grounds for our horses' gallops. The wetlands that were vibrant with water lilies."

As she continued, I noticed her voice catching in her throat. Her almond-shaped eyes welled up with tears.

"Whenever I played with a baby donkey, or went horseback riding, or chased after a baby goat, I remember the steppes. I used to go out with my father to pick flowers and gather mountain gum. That time will never return. As everything passed before my eyes like a movie."

Aigul has lived for years on the outskirts of Los Angeles, far from her birthplace. She jokingly tells me, "I am a self-imposed exile."

I envied her, the feeling of fascination and nostalgia for the steppes and nature of Kazakhstan. Every time I watched videos of Westerners driving motorcycles through the vast and pristine steppes, I became more attracted to the steppes than ever.

The steppe and the desert are the habitat of humanity. From a Western perspective, the steppe, the desert, and pristine nature are a "landscape" to be gazed upon and admired. But for the natives, like Aigul, who grew up there, who picked tulips, galloped on horses, and greeted the water lilies every morning, it is a social reality. It is a complete livelihood. 

Human destiny and the desert are interwoven. One cannot be separated from the steppe and the desert. That is why you cannot separate Aigul's identity, now living more than two decades and thousands of miles away from the steppes and deserts of Kazakhstan, from her past, because her childhood memories are a geography shaped in the pastures and green meadows.

the limits of categories: "immigrant" or "refugee"

Today, while hiking, I met an Ukrainian refugee or immigrant (whatever those categories mean to policy makers). We spoke of plants, birds, mountains and nature. I listened sympathetically to her stories about her escape from the Russian war in her country that catapulted her to another part of the world. There was an inner tension or urge building up inside me, it was some sort of emphatic feelings. I wanted to talk with her about what it means to be an immigrant or a refugee, but suddenly I realized that we are different and she may not understand my language and feelings. This hesitance was due to the way we are and the way we are defined as immigrants. So, I felt discouraged to say anything about my experience as an migrant because I, as an Afghanistani carrying multitude of tropes and stereotypes. I come from a majority Muslim country that is torn by war and violence, and its people's identity is often (if not always) coterminous with religion, terror, war, and drug. I thought I'm completely different from a refugee with blonde hair, blue eyes, and white skin, and most importantly, a Christian believer. From our conversation, I realized she doesn't see herself as a refugee, but as a displaced person in a familiar culture and territory. It was here that I realized the word immigrant may not define us correctly.