Chapter Thirty-Seven
Every evening there’s a tree fading,
every evening the leaves of the windows,
every evening falling into the night...
Every evening, when it disappears,
my breathing, empty and restless,
every evening a cigarette smokes...
Every evening, every evening, every evening,
spending the night on the street of a strange town
when the rust unexpectedly covers the stove-bench.
Like the candle of the last leaf, when it has not faded yet,
every evening twinkling till morning,
what is the moon, your window, waiting for?
-Belgi
Tursunbai Bakir-ulu – a member of the Kyrgyz Parliament and a former Kyrgyz Ombudsman – tells his story:
I should preface the story of my negotiations concerning the Batken hostages with the following. In 1996 in Germany, I met Muhammad Solih,
