The Uzbek grandmother was quite educated and extremely intelligent. In no time, she mastered Mongolian to a somewhat accented perfection. Now, she was able to work, and she did. She was appointed a small downtown cinema director and soon that grew into a large community center with a cinema, small theater, and classes in all branches of art.
People could learn to paint, sculpture, act, sing and dance and all that for free. That was covered in the taxes as well as healthcare and education. All of it was terrible, outdated, and not really professional but for free. Free was good, and people supported it not really knowing the difference. Thus, one got very little pay, bad social service, food, and other goods shortages, no freedom, of speech, assembly, religion or movement but tried to stay happy. So, you drink to death, and that’s where the happiness was hiding, in the bottle. That was the happy times in the Soviet Union, Mongolia and the rest of the Socialist camp.
The cultural center was becoming important. The whole set up was quite popular, and the center started to offer classes in Math, Literature, Language Skills, History, and the car repairs but not too many would sign up for these. After about two years of trying hard and advertising it profoundly, they had to give up with almost all educational and vocational classes but the car repairs and driving. Still, the artistic side of it went strong. They even had the rare evenings for the public where anyone could perform, and then, dances and the non-alcoholic refreshments were served as well. This was so new that tickets for those events were sold out a month in advance. That’s how popular it was and the director of the center, the Uzbek grandmother of the President, was very respected. She could do no wrong.
So, the grandparents never went back to Fergana or even Uzbekistan. Well, they went back there for a few times for a visit with relatives and old friends, weddings, funerals and some other happy and not occasions. They thought of returning to the place that used to be home, but the home was in Ulaanbaatar now. That was a better home. No, it was not the best place on earth, but they built the life there. And, it was a good life all considering. They enjoyed the work, and the pay was good, and people were just people. People were always good if you treated them right. So, they applied for the permanent residency permit, and it was granted just in a few months. Bureaucracy was bureaucracy even in Mongolia, and it always required time for the due process. The Mongols thought so well of both of them, and the Soviets did not see anything wrong with them either. So, their daughter, Gulzara, was a born citizen of Mongolia,, and thus, could be anyone in that country. But, she was not a citizen of the Soviet Union. Dual citizenship was not allowed in the Soviet Union. Maybe one day, maybe one day but when. Soviet citizenship was somewhat stronger than the Mongolian, but it was not that important.
Then, Gulzara met a young Lieutenant in the Mongolian internal security force. The security forces; he was going places. They met at the community center on one of these famous gatherings with tickets impossible to obtain. Only the connected ones were lucky enough to get them. She had a ticket because her mother ran the place and he had a ticket because he was in the security apparatus. What a coincidence. What a blessing. He was a Mongol, and she was an Uzbek, but they fell in love on the first dance. It was like in a fairytale, but it happens if you try. A Princess meets a Prince, and they fell in love.
Six months later, they were married. It took that long only because some relatives from Uzbekistan wanted to attend. Visas had to be arranged, places to stay, the wedding, the food, and many more things. Money was not really an issue. Everyone helped as much as they could, and some of them could do a lot. They wanted a traditional Mongolian wedding, but her parents wanted at least some Uzbek dishes like Plov, Lagman, Kabob, Samsa, Manti and many more. All dessert dishes were Uzbek, but many of the drinks came locally. Mongols knew drinking better than the Uzbeks. The relatives in Fergana offered to pay for the chef and his assistants to go over and to prepare the feast. After all, between the Mongolian, and the Uzbek side, at least three hundred people would attend, and no one believed in the Mongolian cousin. It was an expensive affair, but that’s how it was done in that corner of the world. Everyone chipped in, and it was enough to pay for the wedding and all associated expenses and to leave plenty for the newlyweds to start on the right foot. They had everything they needed, and the baby that should be soon on the way would be fully equipped at least for the first few years of his life. And, the rest of it? Parents, grandparents, and multiple friends and relatives on both sides of the border would provide. That was the custom no one would ever break. That was a good custom, don’t you think so?
Arban Vagabundi was born, as was expected, in about ten months after the memorable wedding. He had the loving parents, fighting for attention grandparents on both sides and scores of relatives and friends of the older generations wishing to help and willing to do almost anything for the boy. Just tell us what you need. How do you like that? Can you beat that combination? Could he fail? Yes, but why? There was no need for that. Don’t even mention that. So, the boy grew without any significant problems that other youngsters could acquire. He was in a different orbit with the rest of the world. Now, he was a teenager, and it was time to think of his future. Everyone agreed that Arban should go to the University in the Soviet Union. That should give him a good education (better than what was offered in Mongolia), decent status, possible connections, and fluent Russian.
All that was so important in the world of so many important things. A miscalculation could be costly, but the right calculation could be profitable. So, things had to be arranged and just right. Moscow and Leningrad (the first choices) were too far, and no one had real connections there. Also, an Asian in the predominantly Russian part of the Soviet Union would be a minority; thus, may be discriminated. It was so prevalent in the multi-national brotherly union of the Soviet Union. So, one had better know his place. Someone proposed the University of Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan. It was not too far from Mongolia, still in Asia and close to the relatives. It was more local, friendlier, and more familiar. The relatives in Fergana had multiple connections there and could help with almost anything. The telephone calls were made, and the ideas exchanged, and young Arban went to Uzbekistan to become a doctor. To be a doctor was good, very good. That was a profession of status in Mongolia and doctors, especially, the Soviet Union educated were in very short supply. If he survived the University, Arban’s future was secured.
The five years at the University went like a dream. Another country, money to spend, the status of the privileged foreign student, available girls of the different descend and the score of relatives and new friends made the experience quite agreeable. No, Arban was never in trouble on any front. Still, the family was always there to help if needed. He went to Fergana quite often and was always welcome. He was made to know that he was a family and a close one. There, on multiple occasions, he notices that relatives were somewhat different. The culture was not known to him and needed an occasional explanation. Some of their customs, some of the food, some of the social structure were different, and a few other things he could not pinpoint. First, he thought it was the Uzbek influence. After all, they were Uzbeks and not the Mongols. Then, with time, he started to notice more and more differences in customs even with the Uzbeks. One Friday evening, he was offered to join some of the cousins in the Jewish synagogue with the following Sabbath dinner at the uncle house. That is how he understood that the family from Fergana was actually Jews, the Bukharan Jews. Before that, he knew the words, and now, he met the people. And, they were his people, his family. All this was very new to him but so interesting. Was he a Jew?