by Owen Sutter (December 2025)
In the evening, I hear a knock on my door. It’s Sayeeda, my Moroccan friend from a week ago. “Barbeque?” She asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply, as I make my way downstairs, aching joints protesting.
A ragtag group is gathered, smoking, drinking, and chatting in Russian. On the table is a spread of pickles and lamb and chicken. I nod a gracious thanks and take a seat by Sayeeda.
It feels like summer evenings back in Oregon. But there’s no English here, only Russian—the lingua franca of these parts. I sit there absorbing it. I’ve always found it pleasant to listen to the rhythm and flow of conversation in foreign language. It’s a puzzle to glean meaning from intonation, and one I like to think I’m quite good at now. But Russian is something else. Something new.
Across from us, the homestay host and her young daughter sit on lawn chairs. Later some Kyrgyz friends stop by. An Afghani professor arrives from his lecture at university. It’s a melting pot, and I’m grateful to be accepted in such a crowd.
As night falls the language barrier fades. I’m surprised when the Russians reveal they do know some English. They speak it bravely and with deep accents, gesticulating with tongs while manning the barbeque.
They’re mechanics, software developers, and designers. They’re not in Bishkek by choice (the pay is higher in Russia). They simply do not want to fight in the war in Ukraine. They disagree with their government, and for that, they are exiled.
The Afghani professor, named Mir, is fluent in English and meticulous in word choice. He cannot go home because of the Taliban. His education and liberal views are not welcome there.
We couldn’t be more different. Their stories are not altogether happy ones.
This is the home of displaced people with limited options.
I don’t know what to say. War and politics has uprooted these people’s lives. They’re unable to return to their families and country until a regime changes, and who knows when that will happen. Imagine waiting for your government to topple? I can’t.
And just what am I doing here? That critical voice reappears—this trip has been a joy ride, and travel is a luxury. Tomorrow I’m leaving, and I can go to practically any country I wish. My new friends here are in a totally different situation.
No one here deserves exile.
The conversation drifts back into Russian. I can’t help but think, we are our own worst enemy. It is always the misguided governments that cause people so much pain, not the people themselves. I want to believe if it’s human caused it can be human solved.
The next morning I knock on Mir’s bedroom door. We talk for hours about America and Afghanistan. He tells me about how when the Taliban came, and the US pulled out, he had to flee his home. It wasn’t safe for him or his family to stay in Afghanistan. Now he’s a professor researching Central Asia at University of Bishkek, and his family is in a different country.
He’s safe, but with limited options. An Afghani passport is not looked upon favorably by my country. His frustration with the world is palpable. I can tell he’s a good man, a man that deserves more than this, a man in a tough and unfair position.
When the conversation ends, Mir thanks me for listening.
“No, thank you for sharing your story,” I reply.
Outside the morning air is cool. Beyond the poplars a plane climbs into the sky. Tonight is my flight. How easy it is for me to leave here.
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Owen Sutter is an artist and product developer whose work explores our connection to each other and the Earth.
Follow NER on Twitter @NERIconoclast
