By age seven, I knew four ex-presidents and dozens of lower-ranking dignitaries. They were from the Soviet republics, as well as the “autonomous” region of Xinjian. All were forced to leave their homelands, after only brief periods of independence and leadership. Once a month on Wednesday mornings, my dad met with them on the second floor of his office, a four-minute walk from the compounds of the governor of Istanbul, who was also his friend. They would discuss world affairs, brief each other about their conversations with “important people” from different countries, map out their next steps.
These friends all had different accents. I was their litmus test: The person speaking would observe me carefully while talking. If I started chuckling, he would then change his word or pronunciation until I stopped, or in many cases, until my father yelled at me to stop. Most of the time, I understood what they were talking about. I considered each one of them as my uncle and I called them “Uncle” followed by their first name. They were my heroes.
My job was an important one: Licking stamps to mail out the bi-monthly publication for the diaspora, two thousand copies. My brother licked the address labels. As a result, we both developed powerful tongue muscles that lasted a lifetime. Of course, the best part was lunch, an assortment of appetizers, finger foods and sweets. One month, I would be eating the best home-cooked Tajik meals, next month it might be from Bukhara, the month after from Bashkir. This great feast made all that yucky stamp-licking worthwhile.
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