Berkley Center

On September 9, 2011, Tajikistan celebrated its twentieth year of independence. I had been in the country for a total of one week, and as I watched the parade and celebrations, I was too overwhelmed—and possibly still too jet-lagged—to offer a meaningful commentary on the events occurring around me.

However, over the last two months, I've spent a lot of time rethinking, discussing, and reading analyses of the historic occasion I was lucky enough to experience. If you haven't yet had the chance to attend a Central Asian country's twentieth birthday party, I strongly recommend it: I consider it among the most odd and worthwhile experiences of my life. (You're running out of time though. Kazakhstan, the "youngest" of the Central Asian republics, will celebrate its twentieth birthday in December).

In retrospect, I found the Twentieth Independence Celebrations in equal parts absurd, tragic, and wistfully hopeful.

Let me begin with the absurd: On September 9, 2011, in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, it was impossible to cross the main thoroughfare. This was because the government had invested in the largest flag in the word and unveiled all 165 meters of it right down the middle of the street.

Those viewing the parade were primarily old, foreign, or young unemployed people, because all people nominally associated with the government—including public school students, Olympic athletes, and doctors—were required to march. In the evening, I watched the national laser light show on TV, which featured a giant laser portrait of Tajikistan's president, Emomolii Rahmon. During the same show, Rahmon himself began to dance to a ditty entitled "Exercise: It Makes your Country Strong."

Each of these things struck me as absurd on September 9. However, looking back on them, I noticed the tragic as well. Tajikistan is the poorest of the post-Soviet countries, yet a shockingly large amount of money seems to be spent on purchasing Guinness record-breaking national symbols.

In addition to the largest flag, Tajikistan is also home to the world's largest flagpole. For a country that cannot afford to provide more than 12 hours of electricity a day to most regions in the winter, an hour long laser light show seems a little excessive. And unfortunately, there were quite a large number of young people watching the parade: although the government currently puts the national unemployment rate at 2.2 percent, unofficial estimates place it as high as 40 percent, and Tajikistan's economy is heavily reliant on remittances from migrants to Russia.

As for the homages to Rahmon and the national government, although the government seems to be neither loved nor reviled, many citizens of Tajikistan cannot resist comparisons to the Soviet years, as in "the electricity never went out during the Soviet era…"

Despite this, the strongest emotion I associate with Tajikistan's Independence Day is a sense of wistful hope. As the laser portrait of Rahmon flashed across the screen, my host family all smiled and applauded politely.

At the time, it was difficult for me to understand their attitudes towards Tajikistan's authoritarian leadership, but since then, I've discussed it in detail with them and with other Tajik friends and teachers. A common response is: "Before Rahmon, there was war. Now, with Rahmon, there is not." Although this is a low standard to hold a national leader, the fact that Tajikistan's first decade of existence was marred by a civil war that killed up to 100,000 people in this tiny republic makes their statement somewhat understandable.

Overtime, I've come to interpret their tacit support for the president as a recognition of the fact that the second decade they spent living in independent Tajikistan was significantly more peaceful and productive than the first.

Even the excessive displays of nonexistent wealth seemed to carry with them a hopeful symbolism. For a country that tore itself apart immediately following independence from the USSR, national symbols, and any level of popular support for those symbols is a recent phenomenon.

That evening, I discussed the longest flag with my host grandmother, who is half Uzbek, and therefore part of a minority that has not been fully incorporated into the new sense of Tajik nationalism. However, she said to me, "You know, our country's going to be in the Guinness Book of World Records." There was a certain level of irony behind this comment, but also, a subtle sense of pride. This country, which hadn't existed for most of her lifetime, was suddenly the best at something.

Two months later, I still feel torn about the Independence Day Celebration. On the one hand, it was a fascinating introduction to my new home. On the other, it highlighted some of the tragic aspects of Tajikistan's recent history, and threw its economic and political woes into sharp relief. However, for a country that's spent much of the last 20 years being described as "violent," "poor," and "corrupt" to finally have something to celebrate felt oddly powerful and hopeful.