Hats are a symbol

It is Sunday afternoon. I'm worrying about violence half a world away. And I am looking at seven hats.

The hats are ones I brought back from Central Asia. Most of them were gifts from newspaper editors who took part in seminars I helped conduct for the International Center for Journalists in 2002 on my first trip to that region. Three more projects in Central Asia would follow in 2003 and 2004.

Three of the hats are from Kyrgyzstan, and while all of the hats are unusual, these are the ones that would provoke the most stares if I wore them around Jay County. There is a whimsical quality to them, as if they had been designed by Dr. Seuss.

But they are practical in their own way. They are made of felt, the same material used to make a nomadic Kyrgyz yurt. Two of them have high peaks and curved brims as if intended to keep the rain and snow off. And, because Kyrgyzstan is a mountainous country, all three hats are warm. The brims could flap down in a mountain snowstorm to provide protection for the ears.

All three are a creamy color, almost white, with designs embroidered on them in black or white.

In Tajikistan, the local version of the more formal Kyrgyz hats would have a brim that was black on the underside that folds up, as if to say, "I am similar, but I am different. And the differences are important."

Two of the hats are from Uzbekistan. They are striking in their difference from the Kyrgyz hats.

Compact, black skullcaps that are designed to fold-up for easy packing and storage, they are completely utilitarian. They are the hats of men from an agrarian culture, for while the Kyrgyz were traditionally nomads, the Uzbeks have traditionally been farmers. And because they were not nomadic, theirs is the Central Asian culture with the most highly refined artisans and craftsmen.

Still, the Uzbek hats have their own innate contradictions.

Though the skullcaps are Islamic in design, the embroidery has bird images that harken back to an earlier pagan era. Islam, it has been said by scholars of the region, rests lightly on Central Asia.

The last two hats are from Kazakhstan, and they are pretty flashy.

In construction, they are similar to the Uzbek hats. But in decoration, they are over the top, with bright colors and glittering threads.

In some ways, that's reflective of Kazakh culture, nomadic tribes that roamed the sea of grass of the steppes on horseback and appropriated bits and pieces from other tribes they conquered or came in contact with.

What's important to remember about these hats is that they do not represent countries.

They represent ethnicities.

And the great complication of Central Asia is that ethnicity and nationality aren't always in synch.

That's particularly true along the border between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan, and the great city of Osh in the Ferghana Valley. The border wiggles back and forth with no rhyme or reason, with enclaves of Kyrgyz marooned in Uzbekistan and islands of Uzbeks within the borders of Kyrgyzstan.

Back in the bad old days of the former Soviet Union, none of that mattered, because - horrible as it was - the U.S.S.R. could provide over-arching national identity.

But nowadays, that's gone.

And when a political power struggle emerges - as it has in recent weeks in Kyrgyzstan - it's easy to stir up ethnic animosity against the guys who happen to be wearing a different type of hat.[[In-content Ad]]