Neighborhoods

NPR's David Greene had a good piece of reporting on Wednesday from Osh, Kyrgyzstan, on the aftermath of ethnic violence there that has left as many as 200 dead: "Calm Returns, Fear Remains, in Kyrgyzstan's South."

This is a place I know little about and a conflict I do not understand, except slightly by analogy, and even then I am not sure by which analogy. The ethnic distinction between ethnic Uzbeks and Kyrgyz is not one I would be able to make. Introduce me to members of both groups and their appearance, language, accents and family names wouldn't improve my chances of guessing who was who. I don't know the history of the conflict, the litany of grievances or counter-grievances, real or imagined or legendary. This conflict is, to me, foreign — in every sense.

Yet like hundreds of such local ethnic conflicts around the globe, it seems terribly important to many people there. Important enough to kill for.

Greene's report ends on a hopeful note in the final segment, which shows what hope looks like in such contexts. One neighborhood in Osh had blocked off its street. The neighbors maintain watch at the barricade, drinking tea. They are unarmed. Some of them are Uzbeks and some are Kyrgyz, but mainly they are neighbors and old friends — people who seem to find this latest violent conflict as bewildering as I do.

Their neighborhood defense strategy is simple. When a group of Kyrgyz arrives to make trouble, the Kyrgyz neighbors go out to talk to them and ask them to go away. If the troublemakers are Uzbeks, then the Uzbek neighbors go meet them and do the talking. In the meantime, they hang out and talk and drink a lot of tea.

This strategy seemed to have worked for their neighborhood.

Listening to Greene's story, I still had trouble keeping track of which neighbors were Uzbek and which were Kyrgyz, but they didn't seem like the sort of people who would be upset by my confusion. Listening to this story from this foreign land with its foreign people and foreign conflicts, this group of neighbors seemed familiar. I know people like them. I like people like them.

And it's good to know that there are people like them everywhere, even in cities I've never heard of in countries I rarely think of.

* * * * * * * * *

Closer to home, Ovetta Wiggins of The Washington Post reports on Maryland legislation protecting neighborhoods in that state: "Legislation gives mobile-home owners protection if land is sold."

Like many who live in mobile home parks across the country [Amy] Lamke … felt vulnerable because she doesn't own the land beneath her home.

She rents it.

"The fear is there" of the park closing, she said, and being sold to
high-end housing and commercial developers looking for land in rural
areas.

Fear of losing her community is what drove Lamke and other affordable
housing advocates to lobby state lawmakers this year. They pushed for
legislation that, they say, discourages owners of mobile-home parks from
selling their properties. If the landowner does sell, it provides the
homeowner with some protection.

Under the law, which was passed earlier this year, a mobile-home park
owner who wants to sell and change land use must give written
notification to the residents and provide displaced homeowners with a
relocation plan and relocation assistance that equals 10 months' worth
of rent.

The sponsor of that legislation, State Sen. James N. Robey, is also pushing for additional protections for manufactured-home owners, including the right of first refusal should their landlords decide to sell — giving them the potential chance to become resident-owned communities.

"There are few forms of moderately priced homes available," Robey said.
"We need these communities. This is where our clerks in the grocery
stores live. Many are retired people; they work on our nails. They are
people who can't afford a $400-a-month condo fee."

Robey knows firsthand the need that mobile home parks fill for those
unable to find affordable living for their families.

He owned a mobile home in the late 1960s when he was a rookie police
officer, earning $5,000 a year. He said that he had a family and
"couldn't afford anything else."