Russian Culture in Uzbekistan (One Language in the middle of Nowhere)

Russian Culture in Uzbekistan “An erudite fusion of theory and empirical content that is rare amongst studies of Uzbek...

Author: David Macfadyen

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Russian Culture in Uzbekistan

“An erudite fusion of theory and empirical content that is rare amongst studies of Uzbekistan. MacFadyen has crafted a text that is both historically informative and highly original in its conceptualization of the Russian engagement with Central Asia.” Nick Solly Megoran, Cambridge University. “Russian Culture in Uzbekistan provides an excellent contribution to debates around Russian national identity and the Russian ‘diaspora’ experience, both past and present. The scope of the text, and the complexity and subtleness of the author’s analysis, encourages the reader to reflect not only on Russia ‘in’ Central Asia, but also on the contested understandings of Russia’s historical and contemporary positioning between East and West.” Moya Flynn, Department of Central and East European Studies, University of Glasgow. “The author is to be congratulated on his extremely good and resourceful research . . . I found [the manuscript] most interesting and valuable . . . [It reflects] both elaborate and intensive work.” Pinar Akcali, Middle East Technical University, Turkey. This book investigates the workings of Russian-language culture in Uzbekistan, the ways in which an imperial civilization promoted itself, from the mid-nineteenth century to the tragic uprising in Andijan of May 2005. It demonstrates how the Russian language and its speakers attempted to create something called ‘Uzbekistan’, examining the predicament of Russian culture in a predominantly Islamic society within several contexts: historical, political, social, artistic, religious, and ecological. Focusing in particular upon the Russian language, it also analyzes non-verbal domains of Russian enterprise such as classical music, opera, folk dance, and ballet. It shows how these forms of expression were not initially part of Uzbekistan, and had to be vigorously, verbally advertised by Moscow as it tried to promote itself as culturally superior. This book outlines the cultural implications of Russia’s involvement with the Uzbek people, and Islam in general, and will be of great relevance to the study of other conflicts of a similar nature in the world today. David MacFadyen is a professor in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures, University of California, Los Angeles. He is the author of several books on many aspects of Russian literature and culture, including the poetry of Joseph Brodsky, classic Soviet prose, popular song across the twentieth century, comedic cinema, and animated film.

Central Asian Studies Series

1

Mongolia Today Science, culture, environment and development Edited by Dendevin Badarch and Raymond A. Zilinskas

2

Turkestan and the Fate of the Russian Empire Daniel Brower

3

Church of the East A concise history Wilhelm Baum and Dietmar W. Winkler

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Pre-tsarist and Tsarist Central Asia Communal commitment and political order in change Paul Georg Geiss

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Russia’s Protectorates in Central Asia Bukhara and Khiva, 1865–1924 Seymour Becker

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Russian Culture in Uzbekistan One language in the middle of nowhere David MacFadyen

Russian Culture in Uzbekistan One language in the middle of nowhere

David MacFadyen

First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2006 David MacFadyen This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN10: 0–415–34134–5 (hbk) ISBN10: 0–203–47934–3 (ebk) ISBN13: 978–0–415–34134–9 (hbk) ISBN13: 978–0–203–47934–6 (ebk)

To my parents

Contents

Preface Acknowledgments 1

ix xxi

Before Russia and Uzbekistan: subtle, suppressed affinities

1

2

Troubles with Islam and “ecstasy or self-oblivion”

21

3

Folk music and dance: plaintive sobbing or fiery virtuosity?

38

4

Introducing Russian classical music to Central Asia

56

5

The onset of Russian literature’s kindly genius

65

6

Simplifying one thousand years of Uzbek poetry

78

7

Today’s culture and the ironic benefits of the internet

96

8

Conclusion: eventful encounters with a horror vacui

113

Bibliography Index

118 161

Preface Big, eventful empires and Andijan’s quiet tragedy

The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. (Abraham Lincoln, December 1, 1862)

In common parlance the term “big event” may connote various types of surprising disclosure, all the way from short-lived yet unrestrained clamor at circuses or sporting occasions to rare moments when the hushed months of pregnancy suddenly become a loud and palpable presence in the world. An event is a happening that both adds to and alters a prior state of affairs. It is excessive or in some way disproportionate to the recent past. A big event may be disconcertingly inconsistent, hence the worry or excitement associated with tightrope walkers, championship games, and maternity wards. It embodies a process of synthesis, excess, and uncertain difference; it somehow exemplifies unicity and multiplicity, both one and many. In talking of empires and cultural expansion, the term “event” seems particularly applicable, at least in terms of what an imperial army would like its actions to mean. A singular system, in this case Moscow, brings a singular idea to various unrelated places and peoples along its borders. That idea is promoted as both something eventful, that is, new (to the borderlands) and yet continuous (in the spirit of the imperial capital). A third element in this centrifugal movement, that is, risky excess, is hardly of any use to stately expansion, yet it is the most telling aspect of Russia’s growth into Muslim lands, for example Uzbekistan, the focus of our study. We choose this area as the erstwhile Soviet Union’s most significant Muslim community and home to its fourth largest city, Tashkent (after the Slavic metropolises of Moscow, Leningrad, and Kiev). In the 1860s, when Slavs conquered the broader realm of Central Asia, Imperial Russia augmented its status as the one Christian political realm that included a major Islamic (territorially contiguous) component within itself. This was problematic. Major elements of Russia’s stately structure and unwavering symbolism, especially in prior, formative centuries, had depended upon a rhetorical capacity for juxtaposition(s) with Islam, for keeping it “elsewhere” by means of unflattering contrast. Islam was a negative, yet inherently indispensable element in the definability of the positive. A modern, most secular parallel might lead us

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to suggest that likewise in mathematics the number zero is needed to even start counting from (or as) “one,” even though nullity does not exist as such. By attacking a Muslim sociopolitical system, by walking into what was ideally elsewhere, Moscow was therefore invading a key duality within its very fiber, revealing a dangerous, intolerant surplus in fraternal rhetoric that seriously perverted the traditional balance between strong, centralized leadership and spiritual self-definition in Islamic lands. The Muslim notion of unicity (of God’s oneness or tawhid ) as a concord of things temporal and spiritual advocated – at least in pragmatic theory – a harmonious coexistence of the material and ideal, the bounded and the boundless. These problems of an enlightening empire slowly appeared as it tried to promote itself as an event, as a novel, qualitatively superior and different state of affairs. Yet if some key elements of Russian statehood emerged via a set distance from Islam, how could Moscow hope to sell its philosophical agenda to and inside that same faith? Not only was this difficult for the Tsarist regime, but when the Soviets appeared in the twentieth century matters became even more complex. The Kremlin was now obliged to promote its worldview as different to Tsarist enterprise (whilst being itself just as imperially expansive and desirous of continued stability), yet the people of Central Asia insisted that Islam offered the same social goals as socialism, and had performed them for considerably longer. Communism was not offering anything new, simply a perverted form of social Islam redux. Muslim tenets had (re)appeared in a most peculiar fashion, for Soviet rhetoricians also spoke of some ceaseless, inclusive “unicity,” yet could never enact it. When it came to putting such excess into print, the ineffable nature of this unicity was clear, often through hesitant shifts in Soviet political oratory; cultural historians and philologists were likewise forced on occasion to repudiate and redo their own utterances. When it came to talking of a unified “friendship of peoples,” as Lowell Tillett has meticulously documented, “new histories [over and over] were replete with studied vagueness, awkward arguments, and far-fetched generalizations” (Tillett, 418). Here is but one example. Following a pre-Revolutionary meddling in educational finance – documented by Bartol’d – together with a seizure of waqfs between 1918 and 1922, the Bolsheviks then started giving property back to Islamic schools, courts, and other bodies. By 1927, however, they were closing mosques and expunging clergy. The following chapters of this study will investigate many such instances “when the Party proclaimed an ideological line but behaved differently in reality” (Keller, 250). Politicians spoke of a charitably excessive and politically risky social spirit, but it remained a telling, undoable gap that demarcated differences between political presence and philosophical paucity or absence. The collocation of repressed truths, of silence, and a pressing absence will also be a major part of this book. Silence in this instance means the absence of language. It is the point beyond grand narratives or other analogous stories from literature. The following chapters will not concentrate on the content of literature produced in these lands between

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two faiths and two (if not more) traditions; instead the emphasis will be on ways in which Slavs and Western Europeans tried to speak highly of and promote that culture as eventful. My recent monographs on socialist song and prose classics concluded that their “Sovietness” likewise came from what journalism or socialist academe said about these works, rather than what they described in reality (i.e., prior to policy’s crude redefinition of their “true purpose”). Politicians needed the frequently apolitical adventure stories or pop music of the USSR in order then to create telling, promotional metaphors of social cohesion, which could turn little love songs between two people into oratorical bombast applicable to 200 million. Once again, stories of total forgiveness and acceptance (amid love, trusted friends, or nature) were things dogma needed and employed yet could not enact. They were undoable and excessive. Russian language and its (attempts at one, lasting) expression of the East have passed through many stages of orientalist endeavor, today perhaps most famously in the 1969, eternally quoted film comedy, White Sun of the Desert, whence viewers are still reminded that “the East is a subtle matter” (Vostok – delo tonkoe). From stylizations of the Qur’an and other Eastern texts in the early nineteenth century to the modishness of Indian or Iranian verse by the 1830s, Russia had labored with an unutterable subtlety, especially by the time realism was instituted. Many Russian stories of the 1840s and 1850s validated the differences between Eastern cultures, though a homogenizing intent among the more imperial members of eastward-looking literature showed (sometimes crude) tendencies to impose unifying metaphors upon lands all the way from the Caucasus to the Pacific Coast. Likewise, just as the Russo-Turkish wars of the 1870s brought specific literary attention to one region, the ethereal fin de siècle leanings of the Symbolists then pushed definitions of the “East” once again back out into wider-ranging, often inexpressible musings upon the cosmos. The vostok kept shifting and something remained unsaid. All the way, therefore, from Lomonosov’s and Derzhavin’s martial odes of the 1700s, through the nineteenth-century exoticism of Pushkin, Polezhaev, BetsuzhevMarlinskii, or Lermontov, a troubling split or gap persisted. While “Muslim lands were glorified as citadels of free-spirited, Homeric machismo” and “touchy oriental women,” any true and revealing admission or understanding of “Russia’s own Asian roots [nonetheless] defied permanent repression” (Layton, 288). It is the purpose of this book to investigate the philosophical and cultural degrees of desperation involved in that repression, together with the eventful rhetoric of its occasionally traumatic failure. Harsha Ram has termed the poetry of Russia’s empire during the Golden Age the “imperial sublime” (Ram, 23), a turn of phrase that elegantly captures a passionately desired unicity of the terrene and the terminally elusive. It is the gap between these two words that attracts our attention, the empty, yet telling point at which an unnerved empire (or even its native populace) is forced to subliminate the sublime – the logical surplus of its own expansive speech-making. The tone and topography of these problems were for most of the twentieth century placed within the tight-laced style(s) of Soviet socialist realism, the officially endorsed aesthetic of the USSR born in the late spring of 1932 together

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with a concomitant Union of Soviet Writers. This was the offspring of an engineered harmony between politics and art, in particular after the organization of an initial Writers’ Congress in 1934. Over this early phase a five-man committee was appointed by the Politburo and guided by Stalin himself. The form of realism they devised was supposedly the logical culmination of Russia’s socially responsible and admirably critical Golden Age (the realist masters of the nineteenth century); it purportedly satisfied both the demands of the present and the desires of the future. Socialist literature would become – as we hear from the received critical heritage of the West – a tailor-made, self-generating, and predictable form of storytelling, in which an individual, born of the people, is shown maturing from youthful impetuosity to a more aware, social state of wider benefit to both family and nation. The traditional movement from self to social selfhood is effected amid modern, grand projects of military or industrial consequence. When we consider that socialist culture across the Union and Central Asia was simultaneously supposed to be both “national in form and socialist in content,” a difficult push-and-pull between old and new, near and far became inevitable, a tug between incompatible places, worldviews, and truths. The following pages place Russia’s tongue-tied attempts at cross-cultural veracity after 1917 in several contexts: historical, political, social, artistic, religious, and ecological. Although the focus of our book is wholly upon the Russian language, much attention will be paid to other, non-verbal domains, namely classical music, opera, and ballet. These forms of expression were not part of Uzbekistan and had to be vigorously, verbally advertised by Moscow. Given that literature could not happily slide into a neighboring domain where linguistic and spiritual differences were minimal, other analogously structured activities had to be advocated around Russian-language literature that might help to frame socialist realist storytelling as somehow proper (or at least feasible). For all the weight of the past, the sociopolitical status of these art forms would have to be negotiated anew for reasons that Lincoln suggests in the epigraph given earlier, uttered only a few years before Russian troops walked from the snow and out onto the parched steppe of the East. They were armed with swords, rifles, and heavy artillery for a confrontation with cultural or spiritual forces that helped (by often-negative example) to define them many centuries earlier. Russia went to bloody war with the other, absent half of itself – in the name of persuasion. But which annalists can we trust, because our chosen authors and scholars will be “real” Russians (from Russia itself), Uzbeks writing in the suitable imperial idiom of Russian and English-language scholars from the (wantonly contrary) West, both before and after 1991? Those Asian authors who joined the academy were frequently significant agents in this process, sometimes internalizing their colonization, sometimes not. And of Western scholars we can of course say that their literary theory has tended in recent decades toward the celebration (and therefore separation) of long-sidelined, subjugated voices along imperial margins – all proudly, splendidly independent of one another. Yet all these voices purport to frame and forward a legitimate actuality, a truth. Amid the penchant for postmodernist postures, minor narratives have always found plenty of room to

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breathe and blossom. But today, in another (different) wantonly contrary spirit, theoretical kingpins like Terry Eagleton are declaring nothing less than the unsightly death of theory altogether. So what now? Gilles Deleuze once called Spinoza, that master of minority’s inclusion, “the Christ of philosophers” and Alain Badiou has in the last few years echoed Eagleton’s shift, thus turning Deleuze and his Jewish mentor, themselves supposed champions of the peripheral and the downtrodden, into mouthpieces of a neo-Platonic and unspeakably social “univocity.” Everything and anything becomes one big “some-thing.” Is there perhaps something common, if not universally truthful in (or in between) the varied narratives of our Russians, Uzbeks and tweedy Anglo-Americans? Yes: all these parties wish for their texts to be eventful, to be hewn with austere, unassailable clarity from words that expand upon and alter received rhetoric in consequential, revelatory forms. It is to Badiou that we will turn in this study for an exit from endless celebrations of narrative multiplicity (as never [ever]-ending, postcolonial diversity), from jumbled, contradictory networks of naught but words within equally wobbly structures of subjectivist constructivism. All the ardent, committed authors in this book wish their words to be eventful in that they improve or subvert a rhetorical status quo; even the grimmest, most conservative Soviet oratory purports to embody a progressive, revolutionary social spirit. These events, likewise, would (could or should) be “interruptions” in their fidelity to improving something (after it is stopped and improved). The truth they would draw upon should include both a received tradition and innovation (i.e., the as-yet unseen). It would require commitments to something akin to a risky belief, not prior knowledge (within even the oldest or most colonized groups). I thus assume no true or authentic, unmediated and perfectly pre-Russian “Uzbekness” in this study of what Russian and English words brought to Central Asia because truth, in Badiou’s mind, sits apart from social considerations of the type that underwrite knowledge of a stable culture. In looking, therefore, at how language has made Uzbekistan from all sorts of sources, we share Badiou’s thought that all the variegated parties reflected in this book can share an objective acuity and we can step beyond the fractured, fractious world of (supposedly inclusive) postmodernist or postcolonial politics. It is this unity, in fact, that leads to a far greater potential for politically relevant activism than the individual policies outlined in existent histories. We see good reason to seek common ground in conflicts between Russian words and truth, speakers and listeners, power and persuasion, in tales of how a rigorous and true, full application of eventful oratory would trouble garrulous revolutionaries just as much as royalty. This veracity, as noted, will be a state of synthesis, excess and uncertain difference; it exemplifies unicity and multiplicity, both one and many. The most recent struggle between Central Asian events and Russian policy or stately language took place in May 2005, when a tragedy occurred in the Uzbek town of Andijan, close to the Kyrgyz border; according to unofficial reports, hundreds of people were slain by police gunfire after a local uprising. This occurred in a nation where the United States has a vested interest in oil and gas reserves; so much so, in

xiv Preface fact, that Washington granted the Karimov government more than 50 million dollars of aid in 2004. Over 20 percent of this sum was destined to bolster law enforcement, resulting in what Human Rights Watch termed a somewhat “schizophrenic policy” (Davis, 2005). Senator John McCain, in a similar vein, called America’s relationship with Uzbekistan “very difficult, if not impossible” (Whitlock). The consequences of this schizophrenia or gap between rhetoric and reality were underscored for both Washington and Moscow on Thursday, May 12. A large crowd in Andijan had protested the imprisonment of twenty-three businessmen, accused of involvement with Islamic extremist groups. Many of the outdoor protestors, however, viewed the prisoners as victims of taxation and trading laws that were stifling business along the Ferghana Valley. Corporate or bureaucratic risk was being demonized by a different story, by talk of a terrorist threat. Tensions came to a head rapidly when, under cover of night, the jailhouse was attacked by masked gunmen. Suddenly not only the twenty-three suspects were free, but many other individuals associated with their case and a large number of unrelated inmates, perhaps 2,000 in all. An uprising began. Key administrative buildings were seized. Disorder soon ruled Andijan, countered only by orderly daytime gatherings of the populace on a central civic square: up to 50,000 townspeople, by some estimates. Calls for the removal of President Karimov from power were stopped short around 6pm, when armed government troops opened fire both on presumed insurgents (outdoors) and the glass-strewn corridors of state buildings claimed by angrier, more evident rebels. Government media announced approximately ten deaths after the shooting ceased; independent sources broadcast much higher numbers of local deaths, often over five hundred. Purportedly, many citizens were removed and “disposed of ” so quickly by government forces that an accurate body count was impossible. In this brief and panicked turmoil, the Western media saw possible parallels with recent uprisings in Georgia, Ukraine, and Kyrgyzstan, while more skeptical analysts noted that the ability of Uzbekistan, Russia, and China to blame Andijan’s jailbreak upon Islamic extremism was actually helping the mythmaking policies of those three governments, especially after the events of May 5, 2001. At that time Karimov had ended Uzbekistan’s membership in GUUAM, thus removing his nation from official interaction with either Georgia or Ukraine – and increasing contacts with Russia instead. In fact with regard to another possible “orange” or “green” revolution, the Russian-language Ukrainian press was equally skeptical of any such romanticism from, say, the BBC, who were allegedly relying on ex-pat sources sympathetic to overnight regime change (“Khlopkovaia” and “Siloviki”). Russia’s own reaction to the events in Andijan was complex and just as schizophrenic as Washington’s. Sergei Lavrov, Russia’s Foreign Minister, noted that the United States had already taken measures to warn American citizens of “terrorist activity” in Uzbekistan. Russian claims of Taliban or Chechen involvement in Andijan would not, therefore or “logically,” differ from any information sources employed in other nations (“N’iusmeikery”).

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Challenging these official attitudes would be difficult. Cable television in Uzbekistan usually provides access to a range of Russian TV stations, CNN, BBC, and other international media. Radio stations such as Svoboda, the BBC World Service, or “Voice of America” are also accessible (“Miatezh v Andizhane”). On May 13, however, they all fell off the radar, together with Deutsche Welle. Uzbek viewers using their remotes to watch NTV now found nothing more than music videos on offer; CNN was replaced by various Uzbek shows. A large number of Russian news sites were likewise blocked on-line, including lenta.ru and gazeta.ru (“Problemy SMI”). The key unofficial website for Uzbek news, ferghana.ru, was said to be “non-existent or temporarily out of order.” Absence became increasingly present in the state’s turns of phrase. By using anonymizers, ironically, “Ferghana” was nonetheless back on-line within several hours after suffering more obstruction than either the BBC or centralasia.org (“Uzbekistan, perevernutaia kartina”). The troubling multiplicity of a defended or threatened democracy was thus sometimes unable to voice itself, due to the zeal of those very (official) defenders. Within Russia itself, although television stations such as ORT could certainly be expected to dampen any talk of democratic idealism (“Moskva podverglas’. . .”), other realms of the Russian-language media offered a large number of dissenting voices. Audible disagreement was directed at Russia from without, too, most notably in the form of George Soros’ observation that the massacre in Andijan, made possible only after Karimov’s telephone discussions with Putin, constituted “one of the worst political crimes committed in the 21st century” (“Soros: Rasstreliat’ ” and “Sovet rasstreliat’ ”). Some Russian newspapers considered this a predictable display of bile, given that Soros had lost approximately two billion dollars in Russia’s stock market crash of the late 1990s (Mil’shtein and “Dzhordzh Soros . . . ”). Pravda suggested that Soros’ rhetoric was too redolent of Chechen news sources, which were claiming that Russian soldiers had been flown to Andijan to lead the armed retaliation against protesters. The Kremlin’s Press Office, in even more forthright terms, singularly defined Soros’ wayward remarks as “nothing more than the product of his imagination; they have nothing to do with reality” (“Peskov – obvineniia Sorosa”). Another foreign, though very different, disagreement with Lavrov was voiced by Radio Svoboda, specifically with regard to why the protestors had requested Putin’s intervention in a telephoned statement to the editors of ferghana.ru. The text of the call was as follows, giving coherence to other brief and troubled quotes gathered by Russian journalists from locals on the street, claiming – despite tales of Islamic extremism – that “we just want work and democracy” (“Beschinstvuiushchie”). We call upon Russia’s leadership and personally upon President Putin to intervene in the situation. We ask that Russia mediate in our discussions with the Uzbek authorities. We do not wish for massive bloodshed or victims. There are, however, already victims. Today on the main civic square more than fifty thousand people have gathered. Since morning troops and the police have been shooting from armored personnel carriers at the women.

xvi Preface But we, too, have taken some prisoners, including several police officers and snipers hired to kill us. We ask that the Russian people, as President Putin, intervene in the events of Andijan (“Chto takoe ‘Akromiia’ ”). The rioters had invoked the old Soviet center, said Radio Svoboda, because land ownership around Andijan has plummeted over the last 15 years, part of a general social disparity between Uzbekistan and Russia. The latter nation remains a benchmark for disgruntled Uzbeks both because of the Soviet past (when Asian “progress” was always a notion relative to buoyant Muscovite rhetoric) and because of the three million Uzbek guest workers who today see Russia’s “well-stocked shop shelves and reasonably well-dressed people in Siberia, Ekaterinburg, Novosibirsk, or Surgut. All of this – from the viewpoint of your typical Uzbek – is heavenly.” Hopes, claimed Svoboda, “for a good future and for a good life were therefore associated either with the Soviet period or automatically transferred to today’s Russia” (“Vosstanie v Andizhane i ego posledstviia”). This difficult interface of retrospection and progression between two nations (and various patriotisms) was openly discussed by Russia’s neo-communist press. The newspaper Za SSSR held that Karimov needed Putin’s view as that of a strong, approving ally, not because the Uzbek leader cares for the wellbeing of Russians in his land. These problems of “nationhood” on an imperial periphery will be discussed anon, but events in Andijan provide a telling introduction. Who were these Russians in the middle of nowhere and why should Moscow (or Tashkent) care? Andijan, estimated Lavrov, has approximately 80 Russian residents (“Andizhan zakhvachen”). The Communist Party of the Russian Federation, bemoaning the loss of social and spoken unities, said this figure was discernible only from knowledge of those Uzbeks who had simply acquired Russian citizenship for handfuls of cash, that is, for mercantile reasons alone, not out of patriotism. Karimov, privy to these processes, was both reversing and ruining all the benefits of his nation’s once-proud Soviet membership (“Radiostantsiia”). After Putin’s blessing the Uzbek president was able, in the words of newspaper Kommersant, to show his recently deposed Kyrgyz neighbor with confidence that “he is no Akaev” (“Vosstanie v Andizhane podavleno” and “Andizhan mozhet porodit’ ”). This ability, however, was not initially clear to the Kremlin, hence the phone call, so that Putin could assess the likelihood of a religiously driven Islamic uprising, something of danger to both Tashkent and Moscow (“Akramiia ne smogla . . . ”). These differing aims and worries found tidy concord in a subsequent announcement from the Kremlin’s Press Office, defining a shared diplomacy born of “serious concern over the dangers of destabilization” (“Khronika sobytii”). The two leaders thus “agreed to continue their consultations” (“Karimov proinformiroval Putina”). Since, however, Putin and Karimov are both men who have learned their storytelling from Soviet narratives, from a system whose own story of social justice evanesced in 1991, it is interesting to hear how their language is assessed

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by champions of Russia’s future “fairness.” Both communists (kings of the past) and modern, westernizing liberals (waiting for the future) maligned the handling of Andijan, leading somewhat oddly to a joint sense of some overarching historicism. Russia’s Iabloko party ascribed the events in Andijan to a “logical, fifteen-year conclusion to the repression of political and economic rights amid slogans about ‘the need to avert civil war’ and ‘the battle with religious extremism’ ” (“Sobytiia v Uzbekistane” and “Shturm”). This ingrained fatalism tended publications like gazeta.ru to remind its audience, in a related and somewhat sardonic manner, that events in Andijan would be handled, as ever, “in accordance with the laws of Uzbekistan” (“V Uzbekistane nachalos’ vosstanie”). If we wish to encounter the disorganized, multi-voiced Russian-language, Russo-Uzbek experience of Andijan whilst excluding journalese and spin, some of the best environments are web-based forums. The rioters themselves had telephoned ferghana.ru as a podium for their message, and here, among the site’s readers, the significance of several issues endures. There is a lasting consensus amongst contributors that Russia has employed Central Asia in its own self-definition, yet only in as far as the former benefits. One empire uses the language of multiple peoples and the idiom of parity yet in reality goes no further than a pragmatic duality (i.e., major center/minor periphery). The nineteenth century still plays a leading role in shaping this fatalism. As soon as the Uzbeks are in trouble, they come running to Putin for arbitration. Recent events are just more proof that our Slavo-Turkic civilization can be salvaged only within the framework of an empire. How much more blood must be shed in order to understand that? You can interpret all your “independence parades” as you see fit, as a sham or fairy tale. Take as much autonomy as you like in your songs, dance, books, theater and cinema. But there must be a common Ministry of Internal Affairs, Defense Ministry and Central Bank . . . Read Dostoevskii and the Russian philosophers like Il’in and Trubetskoi. The charms of a liberal society are another topic altogether, but the longer we’re tempted by them, the longer we’ll keep getting trapped (“Kommentarii k stat’e”). And, in the posting of another contributor, the language of the larger nation gravitated towards the simplest of stereotypes, once again feeding into an opposition of words and ostensible reality, that is, an old way of Russian storytelling and its Asian figures. This author does not resort to imperial wistfulness, but his concern over sociopolitical variety and variegation is nonetheless just as evident, cast here in terms of Uzbek “history.” These people only understand force. Any sign of humanism or democracy is seen as weakness . . . The life of Uzbekistan’s simple people is not getting better, nor will it. A mere 30km from the Tashkent ring road there’s poverty, disease and adobe villages; crowds of wild and hungry children. Slave labor

xviii Preface on the cotton fields for a penny. There’s a clan war for power going on and if anything resembling humanism shows itself, Karimov will chop off its head, stick it on a spike and drag it around Uzbekistan. The only thing left for him to do is round up all the ringleaders and shoot them . . . Karimov will manage without any outside help. If he asks for it, he’ll become a living corpse. Russia has enough problems of its own. This is an issue of foreign aggression; it’s not a Russian internal affair. (Ibid.) The fundamental structure of this book is designed to examine these spiraling dualities – ways in which the Russian language and its speakers have tried to make something called Uzbekistan, to tell its tale since the nineteenth century. Working with such grand or unwieldy terms as “Russian tales,” though, are there perhaps some ways that we can first distill the initial essence of imperial, narrative enterprise in Russia? Malcolm Jones gives us a good starting point. “At the beginning of the nineteenth century, Russian culture experienced two irresistible imperatives: to grasp and represent in imaginative literature the full range of contemporary reality, exemplified in such concepts as the narod (the Russian people), the rodina (‘motherland’), the vast primitive, anarchic Russian countryside, the history and the symbolism of her capital; and to understand their place in history. This latter quest sometimes embraced the idea of national historical mission, which at times, for example in Dostoevskii’s hands, became messianic” (Jones, M., 3). The reference here to landscape is key. Landowners such as Turgenev, Aksakov, and Tolstoi described it in idyllic terms; the subsequent horrors of civic turmoil, World War and even collectivization would do little to alter nature’s moral significance. Despite the more doubting or cynical portraits painted by Saltykov-Shchedrin, Goncharov, or Bunin, sweeping and silent landscapes also interwove with anti-rationalist aspects of Orthodoxy and elements of Rousseau to fashion patterns of “national,” Christological self-realization. Novelistic archetypes from the Lazarus or Easter narratives (again as in Dostoevskii) began to conflate traditional repetition and private variation in what Jostein Bortnes calls “ludic recombinations.” “Every human being, even a murderer, is a potential image of Christ . . . in the negative way of knowing God through dissimilar similarities” (Bortnes, 112). The counting of things that are (potentially) known begins with a negation, with that which is dissimilar, not chosen or absent. That negation, as explained in subsequent chapters, is always carried forward as a stubborn, unspoken trace, and the more one counts, the greater the emptiness will be. This will be a tale of both presence and absence, of something and nothing. This book, based upon extensive fieldwork in Russia and Uzbekistan, focuses upon the experience of Russian speakers in official realms. In such domains, often far from non-official and private discourse, the historical disengagement of Russian state and society comes into play. By placing the story of Russianlanguage culture in the framework of Western culturology, too, I hope likewise to

Preface

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maintain a modest distance from assumptions that a core, somehow pure or authentically Russian viewpoint is attainable, that my role as Western observer is escapable. Thus presence and absence will again be acknowledged in ongoing engagements with unavoidably dialogic, negotiated significances among library shelves far from Moscow or Tashkent, and far from the equally distant times to which we now turn our attention.

Acknowledgments

The author would like to express his gratitude to all those who offered help and sage advice in the preparation of this manuscript, having read earlier drafts: Shirin Akiner (SOAS, University of London); Marianne Kamp (University of Wyoming); Donald Ostrowski (Harvard University); Shoshana Keller (Hamilton College); Dilchoda Berdieva (Miami University); Pinar Akcali (Middle East Technical University, Turkey); Nick Solly Megoran (Cambridge University); Janet Martin (University of Miami); Moya Flynn (University of Glasgow); Tanya Merchant and Gail Lenhoff (both UCLA).

1

Before Russia and Uzbekistan Subtle, suppressed affinities

“We are all small elements of God.” (Xurshid Do’stmuhammad)

Introduction: orthodoxy, autocracy, nationhood (and Islam) This splendid axiom comes from Uzbek writer and politician Xurshid Do’stmuhammad. During a conversation in the Uzbek Parliament in 2003 he asserted that the Qur’an for centuries has determined and underwritten this core philosophical tenet of local culture. It is redolent of a certain pantheism, and indeed within the Qur’an itself one can find surprising equivalences of a singular God and multiplicity: “To God belongs the East and West. Whichever way you turn there is the face of God. He is omnipresent and all-knowing” (“The Cow,” 2: 115). This is a type of Spinozistic monotheism which left some early Sufi theologians suggesting there is nothing not born of Allah, and since He resides within each and every individual there must therefore exist (difficult) paths leading to a mystical union with universality. This pantheistic aspect of Islam has, added Do’stmuhammad, shifted on occasion from spiritual emphases in poetry to more earthly concerns, such as social reform movements in the nineteenth century (examined later); an improving, expanding spiritual universality became that of a growing society in need of ostensible amelioration. Uzbek writers and policymakers today see unarguable parallels between Islamic monotheism and a non-linguistic (i.e., meditative or rhythmic) context of multiplicity; did Russians ever see or accept those parallels when they arrived in the nineteenth century? Such will be the focal point of this initial chapter, the question of whether Russians discerned any interplay in Asian culture between singularity and variegation that was part of their own “nonIslamo-ergo-Slavic” modus operandi. Do’stmuhammad believes that amid all the ancient Persian, Turkic, Mongol, and Arabic lexicons of the Silk Road, the (one) Uzbek language was likewise always made relative by a mass of potential synonyms and since Russians did not use Uzbek for writing edicts, even today it is an idiom poorly suited to goal-driven, progressive politics. How did the Russians deal with this “excessive” Asian relativity, its troubling equivalence of identity, and continual, all-embracing diversity (i.e., non-identity)?

2

Before Russia and Uzbekistan

Edward Said once noted, “The Orient at large vacillates between the West’s contempt for what is familiar and its shivers of delight in – or fear of – novelty” (Said, 59). Studies of orientalism today tend toward the latter, examining ways that imperial or colonizing states have dealt with the difference of something “else” or novel on their periphery. Said claimed that the Orient never becomes for us an actual, three-dimensional locus, but remains a mere set of references, a congeries of characteristics, that seems to have its origin in a quotation, or a fragment of a text, or a citation from someone’s work on the Orient, or some bit of previous imagining, or an amalgam of all of these. (Ibid., 177) There is a paradoxical duality here: the tendency of the East to operate both as something predating the West (as an old, now-fragmented or “pre-historical” text) and something that lies forever in the future, an object of desire never to be (completely) comprehended anon. This latter course of inquisitiveness and possible acquisition is what usually underwrites Western studies of how empires have managed the Eastern “other,” together with a critique of racial or cultural biases in colonial dealings with alterity. The key thrust today of post-colonial studies (the tendency to revive oncedowntrodden minorities) frequently does little more than invert binarisms, and so the opposition remains of protectorate and rapacious “protector.” What I would like to suggest in this study, however, is something different. The Russian relation to Uzbekistan was not always founded upon fail-safe social or philosophical superiority and therefore Moscow for some reason wanted to realize elements of sameness in the region, something shared with its Islamic neighbors. This would not be born of desires for imperial homogeneity, for common law and order, or even the desire to make and then maintain “inferior” states of difference but a(n unconscious?) captivating awareness that something in/from Central Asia resided in the very composition of its own Slavic being. By chasing this empty petit objet into the future, Russia would hope to learn more by willingly becoming what it had (long) been fascinated by and (still or unavoidably) lacked. This hypothesis is reasonably close to what David Cannadine has written of the relationship of imperial Britain to India, especially in the nineteenth century, that is, on the other (southern) border of Central Asia during the Tournament of Shadows. He writes about what has recently been called the ‘construction of affinities’ on the presumption that [Indian] society was the same as, or even on occasions superior to, society in the [Western] metropolis. Thus regarded, the British Empire was about the familiar and the domestic, as well as the different and the exotic. (Cannadine, xix) This “domestication” was not in any sense condescending; it was the investigation of a long-lost, suppressed and unuttered part of the (here Russian) ethos: an


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impressive, distanced Islamic heritage. Prior to doctrine and dogma (in both the psychological and historical senses) was an unmanageable, ineffable excess of meaning, invoked for the processes of nation building, but never expressly realized. It remained both traumatic and repeatedly tempting.

Islam within Russia: using faith to get things done Most of this book will concern Russia’s experience in Uzbekistan after 1917; an analysis of how Marxism and Islam interacted in Central Asia over the twentieth century will show how the hushed outskirts of an empire explain the origins of its dogmatic internal workings. In beginning that analysis certain questions pose themselves automatically. How did the supposed, binary opposites of imperial, “central” Marxists and “peripheral” Muslims interact on a quotidian, micropolitical level? How could socialist society and culture build themselves from the ground up? In the history of Western forms of government, society grew with and reflected the dictates of the church, whereas the lack of any central institution in Islam charged with the task of religious governance impeded the emergence of its counterweight in the shape of the secular state. The law developed separately from the agencies entrusted with its enforcement, and so military-tribal rule became the norm. (Ruthven 2000, 14) The places where these norms helped to define Slavdom before the Great Game deserve brief attention first of all, in order to understand any likely future relationship between monotheism and multiplicity in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Kiev had vacillated between Christianity and Islam, as the chronicles tell us. The eventual institution of the former creed was in essence elitist, the choice of a ruling minority, so healthy relations were still possible between the “pagan syncretism” of the majority of unbaptized Kievans and their so-called nonChristian neighbors. This relative harmony was undermined only in the year 1223 by the Mongol invasion, yet Genghis Khan endorsed the tolerance of all faiths under the Horde, and by the time of Uzbek Khan’s rule (1312–1342), Islam was adapted as the official faith of a new kingdom. This helped to institutionalize the status of Islam closer to the future heartlands of Russia, accelerating Slavs’ experience of an interface between monotheism and variety. It was during the period of Mongol law in Central Asia that traditions of government were established, legitimating a collection of mandatory inductions to be obeyed without question . . . In theory there was no limitation to the exercise of unrestrained tyranny by the ruler, but in practice tyranny might be curbed by custom and the strength of clan feeling which cut across gradations in the social hierarchy. (Yalcin, 71 and 74)

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These tendencies were of direct relevance to an Orthodox Church which survived perfectly well under the Mongols; the Khans threatened its abusers with capital punishment and permitted the Orthodox citizens it oversaw to flourish spiritually, particularly in the founding of monasteries. Thus some researchers conclude that “in spite of any substantial Byzantization of the new Russian state it maintained its strong Islam-Asian component. It was present in the economic and military organization, its political and social hierarchy, its ethnic composition, its court ceremonial, costumes, architecture, arts and design” (ibid., 25). Just as a rather worldly and mercantile common sense lay behind Kiev’s decision to accept the Christian faith from Byzantium, so the Mongols subsequently managing the territories of that faith opted for Islam themselves because it brought the fastest, most pragmatic social benefits. Thus two systems, side by side and informing each other, left traces upon one another: “Russia took over the legacy of the Golden Horde in many aspects of state management” (Bukharaev, 153). Donald Ostrowski embellishes and extends this list of stately aspects to include “taxes and the treasury, the organization and armament of the army, bureaucratic language, diplomatic forms, the postal service, and some aspects of criminal punishment and liability” (90). He adds later on, however, in contradiction to Bukharaev: It was not [however] the poverty of the Golden Horde’s culture that kept Russian culture free of Mongol [Islamic] influences. Partly, of course, the Russians simply were not looking for better ways to build mosques or for new interpretations of the Qur’an. (123–4) Indeed the notion of Russia’s “Islam-Asian component” is open to significant question if one assumes that “Mongol” implies “Islam.” It is also appreciably complicated by the fact that Ivan III married the last Byzantine emperor’s niece in 1472, thus embarking upon the increasing use of Byzantine imperial symbolism, including the double-headed eagle as state insignia. (The same symbol, tellingly, was readopted in 1993.) With regard to the Golden Horde’s Islamic nature under Uzbek Khan, it may be that Mongol adopters of Islam were shaped more by Mongol custom and belief than by Islam; Uzbek adopted Islam in the early fourteenth century, yet beforehand Mongols had been “pagan” and such practices did not vanish overnight. The terms “Mongol” and “Muslim” were and may remain sometimes dissimilar. As time went on and stately influence moved to northern towns, these same intrusive outsiders supported the slow ascendancy of the Muscovite princes, who became themselves increasingly significant (or avaricious), to the point where it has been said that no other city came under external sway more than Moscow. Yet this was quite possibly, once again, not a direct Islamic influence. As Devin Deweese points out, with regard to the rise of the future Russian capital: A relatively minor “internal” event of Uzbek Khan’s reign, which is nevertheless widely known because of its impact in Russian sources, came in 1327


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with the suppression of an uprising in Tver’, formerly the premier Russian principality and the chief rival to Moscow. Both through his suppression of the revolt itself, which effectively eliminated Tver’ as the chief rival to the more loyal Moscow, and in the free hand he gave to the Muscovite troops in dealing with the rebels in Tver’, Uzbek Khan in effect boosted Moscow to the position of primacy among the Russian cities that it enjoyed ever after. It is ironic to find the Khan credited with establishing Islam in the Golden Horde also responsible, in large measure, for raising Moscow to the status that enabled it to absorb the remnants of the Golden Horde some two centuries after Uzbek’s death. (Deweese, 93) These developments from which Moscow benefited ostensibly altered in 1552, when the city under Ivan the Terrible sent 150,000 soldiers to quell an antiRussian uprising in the Muslim Turkic city of Kazan. The subsequent enforced inclusion of these people within the Russian Empire now made the nation an even more multiethnic society, a state of affairs reflected most perceptibly by the Tsar’s new self-definition as “Ruler of Russia and Kazan.” The people of that Khanate were henceforth anonymously subservient to the Russian throne yet “peripherally” Eastern. Islamicized traces within the Russian polis would remain vital and paradoxically productive elements of the state’s self-definition – perhaps until the overtly Eurocentric rule of Peter the Great at the start of the eighteenth century. At this point tensions began anew and they were experienced directly in lands that would become Uzbekistan: a Russian force of 3,500 men was sent by Peter against the Khiva (Khorezm) Khanate in 1717 but destroyed almost entirely en route by awful weather and impossible terrain. Loud antagonistic dogma was ineffective (too) far from home, so attempts ensued to set up forts midway in lonely southern places that later became Omsk, Orenburg, and Petropavlosk. The increasingly muddled notion of Russianness at its boundaries was reflected linguistically in certain key terms of self-definition, such as unending – additional – confusion between the appellations “Mongol” and “Tartar,” too. Indeed, in Russian annals, the name “Tartar” far too often applied to any Muslim nation or ethnic group of the Russian empire. All of the ethnically diverse peoples of Caucasus, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan and Central Asia were, at one time or another, called Tartars. (Bukharaev, 187–8) Limited and limiting terms of rhetorical reference such as these help to show how a northern, increasingly centralized Christianity gradually overcame prior subservience before the Horde and spoke of the Tsar’s sacral authority above any earlier ethnic diversity (existent in quietly polytheistic, polyconfessional reality). Rhetorical monolog, vertical hierarchies, and binary oppositions displaced both the greater tolerance of Islamic people for other faiths within their territories and the very notion of a more democratic living space. Unlike a Christian church, which was often separated from mundane activities and devoted

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only to worship, no activity was excluded from mosques. In the Qur’anic vision there was little dichotomy between the sacred and the profane, the religious and the political, and sexuality and worship (though one could certainly point to the exclusion of women, to [male] dirtiness or feasting, that is, to examples of troubling, sidelined presences determined by gender and/or purity). The whole of life was potentially holy and had to be brought into the ambit of the divine or tawhid (a “making-one”), the “integration of the whole of life in a unified community, which would give Muslims intimations of the Unity which is God” (Armstrong 2002, 14–15). Events such as the persecution of Kazan, Patriarch Nikon’s radical reforms of Orthodoxy in the seventeenth century and Russia’s subsequent invasion of the Caucasus and Central Asia all marked an increasing, imperialistic homogenization of surrounding lands whilst – paradoxically – decrees on the hypothetical freedom of conscience for Russian Muslims (1788) appeared on occasion to be mapping a road toward multiplicity and tolerance. Which was the more representative tendency used to reduce Islam’s disconcertingly democratic air on the edge of the empire: the doxa or the deeds? This issue of representation is key here, for despite all the evidence from modern scholarship that allows us to distinguish between Islam and Mongol, between Mongol and Tartar, there is still a deep-rooted rhetorical, representational tradition in Russian historiography that uses Islam and Mongol jointly, for example, to create one (negative) half of a binary that said (and says) what Orthodox existence “is.” Mark Batunskii’s recently-published (though sadly posthumous) three-volume study of Islam in Russia addresses this eloquently. Even in the early Byzantine-derived writings of Rus’ he discerns a depiction of Islam in purely “perverted, polemical and fantastic images” (1:59). Employed for frequently political purposes of self-definition, the term Islam came to play the role of “conditional irritant,” guaranteed to instigate oppositional, contrary points of view (1:82). When it came to the formation of Moscow’s positioning as pinnacle of the Christian world, this duality was firmly fixed in metaphor: The internal logic of the Russian state, of its political absolutism, presumed functioning within a space separated into two domains. These were Russian Orthodoxy and a “contemptible” sphere that was predominantly Muslim. The superiority of the former was conceived as a totality beyond anything narrowly political; moreover this totality was not something already achieved, but a single potential state of being predetermined by nature itself, the eternally dual structure of a universality . . . Although the actual danger of Russian lands becoming Islamicized by the Khans of the Golden Horde was fairly insignificant, nonetheless Moscow’s political and spiritual leaders considered it necessary to construct and conserve images of Islam as “a religion of violence and intolerance.” They did so by contrast with the image of Rus’ as home to true, righteous Christianity, victorious over “contemptible Muslims.” (Batunskii, 1: 94–5)


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Here we see a disconcerting gravitation toward institutionalized binarism, the same imposition of a simplified juxtaposition that constituted “problems” of dual faith (or dvoeverie) in early religious tracts advocating the propagation of Christianity among alleged pagans. Such operations, at the risk of grossly telescoping a history of rhetorical practices, are certainly just as relevant in today’s political persuasion, for example a synonymy between good and evil Islam that is crudely transposed onto “refuge versus risk” or “security versus peril.” Such oppositions, needless to say, can fall neatly into a compartmentalization of gender-determined analysis, too: “male versus female, rationality versus emotionality, activity versus passivity, hard versus soft, war versus peace – with all the characteristics we associate with maleness on one side and those associated with femaleness on the other” (Hahn, 135). In fact even Lincoln, the man who so eloquently warns us against dogmatic binarism in this book’s epigraph was equally tempted to operate within similar, willfully-embraced limits, since “as a hallmark of nineteenth-century political oratory, the construction of an absolute opposition between reason and passion enabled speakers to validate allegiance to institutions over emotion, to [stable] laws over [fickle] men” (Watson, 2). What is required in such dual phrasing is a narrowed definition of one side to the point where a singular notion is then coarsely juxtaposed with “absolutely everything else.” In the correspondence of Dostoevskii and Tolstoi these sad practices were, like Lincoln’s, very much in evidence. Dostoevskii in one diary entry hoped to save Orthodoxy from “Muslim barbarism and the Western heresy,” and six years later he expressed credence that “Muslims can stay Muslims as long as they like, just as long as they don’t touch any Slavs.” Islam as a social or national category remained a non-issue, an unuttered non-factor. Tolstoi in a letter in 1902 similarly imagined a dialog between Muhammad and a contemporary believer in Islam; often impressed by the hushed (i.e., simply “done,” not spoken) moral qualities of Islam, he was nonetheless troubled by its workings as a terrene, verbal form of straightforward and politically “beneficial” persuasion. Muhammad starts by saying: “Believe that I’m the prophet and that everything I’m going to say to you, everything that’s written in my Qur’an, it’s all the real truth. It’s the truth relayed to me by God Himself.” And then he’ll start laying out everything he learned. But in response to all that, if our simple-minded Russian fellow [chuvashin] isn’t a complete fool, he’ll say: “But why should I believe that everything you say is from God? I never saw God relaying any truth to you. I never saw any proof that you’re a prophet. The fact you’ve ‘flown in the seventh heaven’ doesn’t convince me at all, because I never saw it myself. And what’s written in the Qur’an isn’t entirely clear, either; it’s often muddled, wordy, arbitrary and even historically incorrect – or so people have told me. I can only be convinced by that of which I am myself conscious or may verify with thought and with private, internal experience.” (Tolstoi in Batunskii, 2: 310–11)

8


And so the teachings of a thousand years were bundled into a couple of tight, untidy boxes: Islam and Orthodoxy; Muslims and Russians; homogeny and messy pluralism (ibid., 321). One might align such simplicities with academic debate between authors advocating that Muscovite institutions were a continuation of Kievan practice (Solov’ev, Platonov, Grekov, and Iakubovskii) versus those who saw Mongol influence as an occasional “blessing in disguise” (Karamzin) – or at least leaving a lasting impression, if not always positive (Riasanovsky, Koretskii, Trubetskoi, Szamuely, or Vernadsky [Halperin, 2–3 and 8–9]). How would these tangled yet time-honored formulae look when transferred into the realm of nineteenth-century political (or military) pragmatism in the face of new Islamic “threats”?

Muslim fatalism and insurgency at the same time? After two centuries of complex interactions between Russia and the Kazakh Steppe, Russia entered Central Asia during the Great Game to reinforce “penetrable” borders that exposed Slavdom to Britons moving northward from India. The British were also starting to do increased business in precious metals both with India and Iran, which was more than disconcerting. Russia’s desire for growth eastward was doubled as the Crimean War produced less than stellar results, but things would not be easy. Striking the first Uzbek Khanates in 1864, troops battled slowly onward and reached Tashkent the following year. As soon as the Russian commander entered the conquered city, his first proclamation was designed to avoid protest by promising with considerable speed that Islam would be respected and its believers not drafted. Within twelve more months – by the autumn of 1866 – Tashkent had been annexed into the Russian Empire and declared the new “center” of the region in an attempt to undermine the dissenting conceit of other Khanates. A Russian governor was quickly established for the new province of Turkestan (created by royal decree on July 11, 1867), while fighting continued for Bukhara and Samarkand; as these too were conquered, Russians hoped that mutual aversion between the three Khanates of Kokand (recognized since the late eighteenth century), Khiva (in its current hypostasis since the late seventeenth) and Bukhara (an independent power since the sixteenth) would now hopefully help to lessen any sense of cohesive opposition to the Russian invaders. By 1885 Slavic forces reached a point south of which they need not venture and so a massive expanse of land was annexed for a European empire, yet in this wilderness spheres of influence remained unclear as spying against the British began. London newspapers were guaranteed adventure stories of hushed and shady intrigue for a considerable length of time. Despite such problems in speaking or showing the limits of imperial authority, colonization developed with cotton farming and industrial communication thanks to the early institution of a railway system linking major population centers; Russian immigrants began to inhabit the region. In the parts of Turkestan that became Uzbekistan, namely the Ferghana Valley, Samarkand and Tashkent


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regions, the influx of Slavs was initially small, though. By 1926, in fact, there would be no more than approximately 300,000 Russians in all of Uzbekistan. Russian decree in the mid- to late nineteenth century curtailed “socially unstable” nomadism by restricting access to grazing pastures and reliable water sources (Yemelianova 2002, 64). The early Slavic arrivals discovered that the legal system favored the stability of sedentary farmers; Russians, entering a new domain were therefore dislodging nomads not Uzbek farmers (who constituted the majority of the population). Itinerant, if not migrant traditions of social unsteadiness were replaced by the modern, woefully analogous ability of capital to endlessly displace conventional meanings and reshape or mould them with no respect for custom. Capital grabbed what appeared to transgress it and then reterritorialized it in new, familiar, and profitable patterns. Cash came to an already happily-mercantile Islam and did so in accelerating forms. Yet for all the benefits of advanced capitalist development in Asia, such as the endlessly trumpeted construction of theaters (Khodjayev, E. and Mizhiritsky, V., 121), faith – as ever – stayed an integral part of the Muslim experience amid commerce, as the ratio of mullahs was 1:100; for Christians, the ratio of priests to citizens was 1:1000 (ibid., 69 and 84). In his popular history and essentialist or Orientalist reinscription that would charm few of today’s historians, Edward Allworth suggests there remained in Central Asia a fidelity to “something” pre-Russian (i.e., pre-dogmatic) that appeared to some a form of apathy or fatalism in its lack of zealous commitment to the present; particular aims paled before something vague. Western scholarship here proposes an aggregate, socially passive situation across Asian territories. In general, the policies of Central Asian governments toward Russia since Timur in the late fourteenth century seem to have remained essentially passive except in connection with trade. Because of the great expanses separating settled areas, and owing to the extremes of climate and the forbidding deserts in Central Asia, Muslim leaders had always been able to put great trust in their natural stronghold. Furthermore, a kind of apathy resulting from low physical vitality attributable to disease, drug addiction, malnutrition, and other causes accorded with an inclination to accept the unmanageable international situation as something preordained by God’s will. Therefore, though religious zeal and fierce attachment to political independence occasionally stimulated the Khans to act against the Christian invader, their position remained, almost to the end, mainly defensive and continuative. Outside of commerce, to which they devoted energy and skill, if their fragmentary and sporadic official actions can be collectively spoken of as policy, it must be labeled as an intention to react rather than initiate. (Allworth 2002b, 53) Unimpressive though this presumed passivity is for some historians, Englishlanguage studies often suggest that at least some peaceful overlap was discerned between faith and social existence, between the people and Islamic

10 Before Russia and Uzbekistan principles – even if Russian officials were irked by unhelpful hordes of “native administrators, traders and translators,” all on the make. A temporary balance was found and maintained. When the Russian Revolution looked increasingly likely at the start of the twentieth century, though, some Muslim groups saw in its dreams of social improvement a reflection of several core Islamic tenets. Discontent with the Tsar’s forces had led to fin de siècle reformative, religious or nationalist groups, some of which unnerved Russians with their talk of purportedly pan-Turkic or pan-Islamic affiliation. Slavic revolutionaries remained wary, accusing such organizations of misconstruing “proper” rebellion, of their supposedly “fatalistic” support for constitutional monarchy or bourgeois origins and thought (Kahn, 7). These Jadid (“Renewal”) reformers set about advocating changes between 1913 and 1916 that would hopefully modernize Uzbek society in ways that made faith and community synonymous. Recent studies of their worldview suggest that any pan-Islamic leanings were not the result of outside, intrusive political zeal. They were a combination of micropolitical, moral, religious, and theological responsibilities merged in a modernist communal vision of “perhaps the last generation of Muslim intellectuals who would communicate with each other without the use of European languages” (Khalid, 194). In addition, they wished – sometimes from concern over this European threat and a need for modernization – to enter Russian existence with practices of “involvement in Russian political life” (ibid., 235). Revolution seemed to make this active, not passive dream of healthy, increased social complexity more feasible. So what happened after 1917, when external circumstances thrust change upon the entire region from afar?

Messy attempts to define Uzbek society after 1917 After the Revolution, Moscow radically altered its attitudes toward Central Asia, at least rhetorically. It declared that land reform and religious and political selfdetermination were immediate and fundamental prerequisites for any future and democratic restructuring. All the same, within months Russia’s 18 million Muslims were troubled by a manifest dearth of theology in the new Soviet agenda; Jadids and fellow believers in Tashkent would soon feel their apprehension. The renouncement of private property met with a less than ringing endorsement among Muslims, long before private farming had vanished into collectivization schemes by the end of the 1920s. This disappointment was a harbinger of policy’s direct and awful consequences in Central Asia. Over a million people died from drought and famine, leaving ecological and managerial scars that complicate the bureaucracy of Uzbek agriculture even today (Thurman, 45). If a successful dovetailing of Islam and communism could ever be effected, it would have to begin from the Qur’an’s uncompromising emphases upon “social justice, communalism, the priority of the group over social interests, [plus] concern for the poor and a denunciation of slavery and usury, which was compared to capitalist profit” (ibid., 99 and 103–4).


11

Since Muslims insisted upon the timelessness of these fair, charitable processes irrespective of Soviet historiography’s forgetful pragmatism, it is not surprising that persecutions of Islam in particular would intensify under Stalin, despite our typical assumption that the Soviets persecuted all faiths in utter ignorance or indifference to distinctions between them. A precarious synonymy developed between religious, individual, and territorial identities; centralized culture strove to discern simplified ethnicities, often by violently separating them from the complexity of pre-Revolutionary custom. After the alphabet was changed by mandate (to Latin between 1929 and 1931, then Cyrillic in 1939), Soviet Muslims struggled to maintain a connection with the multiple tongues and texts of their history, previously evoked in Turkic forms (for daily life), Arabic (in theological tracts), and Persian (for literature). Diversity was made simpler while Russian emerged as the “perfect, international” form of communication, which – said the Kremlin – represented not colonialism but the multiple, social goals of Soviet society and enterprise (Asfandiiarov, 15). A single policy of control spoke of miscellany as something displaced into the future (Moscow’s growing “internationalism”) while that same policy both enacted centralized singularity and repressed the troubling, excessive range of Islam that historically had granted it the very dual representations of stately power it needed. The Soviet classrooms of Turkestan made history a tale of class conflict, not faiths. Sensing an imbalance in the making, indigenization policy (korenizatsiia) as early as the 1920s and 1930s had at least tried (albeit with unconstructive haste) to amend matters; it aimed to give social standing back to Uzbeks, yet was quickly unnerved by its own consequences. Here Western scholarship again reflects the broad, region-wide rhetoric of the imperial processes it documents. Korenizatsiia facilitated both the development of standardized written languages using the Latin script, literacy and education in these languages, and the more rapid upward mobility of indigenes by targeting them for preferential treatment in hiring. Russians and non-Central Asians were told not only to hire indigenes over nonidigenes, but to study the indigenous languages or face unemployment. Not surprisingly, the indigenous elites created under these conditions tended to be more nationalistic and exclusionary than in the past. With their hegemony challenged by indigenization in the 1920s, Russians resisted learning the indigenous languages and hiring unqualified Central Asians. This placed local Russian elites in conflict with Moscow; however, they did not have to resist these central edicts for long. By the mid-1930s, Moscow shifted emphasis away from indigenization and toward russification. The developing Central Asian languages were russified through the use of Russian loan words and the replacement of the Latin script with Cyrillic. (Chinn and Kaiser, 220) This somewhat telescoped view of linguistic shifts hides a double complexity, one both ethnic and micropolitical. First, many people who read Uzbek simply

12 Before Russia and Uzbekistan could not read Arabic script Uzbek. Marianne Kamp has relayed to me from archival experience in the region, for example, that although Uzbek was used in the 1920s as both governmental idiom and the prime language for education and print distribution, Russian then begins to overshadow Uzbek in card catalogs relating to the 1930s. That may reflect a greater frequency in Russian usage, but it may equally mirror an unwillingness of archives to house Uzbek documents once those papers had been translated into “official” Russian. In the next decade, the 1940s, knowledge of Russian grew even more, to the point that perhaps after the Second World War and certainly by the early 1950s it dominated both urban usage and government endeavors. The second, micropolitical complexity here is born of the fact that Russians, purely numerically, had a hard time dealing with (and dealing out) these simple, straightforward policies in ways that corresponded to the messiness of day-to-day interaction. Terry Martin’s intricate study of korenizatsiia records many of these private, peeved responses from briefly disenfranchised Slavs, here from 1928: I am poor and unemployed and it is difficult to find work. And when there is work, then it goes mostly to the indigenous population, to the Uzbeks, and our brother, the European, although dying of hunger gets paid no attention. It’s difficult to find work here. All jobs are taken by the Uzbeks and it is difficult for Russians to find work. In Central Asia now, it is hard for Russians to get work and in two to three years it will be impossible. They are implementing natsionalizatsiia. I am living and working among Uzbeks for the first time and it is in general difficult. National hatred exists in a sharp form. In every republic “their letters” and “their language” are being introduced . . . so the question arises: “where will the Russians go? Where will Russians work?” . . . Russians will be forced to flee to Russia . . . already from Uzbeks one often hears “that this is our country, not yours.” (137–8) In analogous problems with control, Turkestan became five Central Asian republics between 1924 and 1936 in an apparent concession of variety and regionalized distinctiveness. Yet once again the true champions of multiplicity, the ever-mobile and spatially inconsistent, purportedly nomadic people of Soviet Asia (despite many more, and therefore socially consequential, Uzbek farmers being sedentary), were “immobilized” by new, bureaucratic obligations and territorial definitions. By 1927 Shari’a courts were robbed of any ability to enforce their decisions; the Soviets paid no attention to their rulings. These processes of centralized homogenization were especially apparent in Uzbekistan, which of all the new territories would become the most significant Muslim community of the USSR. Traditions had slipped slowly into the past once ethnic histories and languages were “fashioned” for Uzbek and Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republics (formed in 1924), the Tajik SSR (1929), and the Kazakh and Kyrgyz SSRs in 1936.


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Trade between these regions, that had run from toward the south in Central Asia, had managed to continue in its “caravan patterns” under the forced closing of Soviet borders in 1927, but the development of trade links beyond these new republican borders of Central Asia would slowly lead to problems vis à vis economic “independence” in the region, problems that would be felt even after 1991 (Bohr, 68). Russian newcomers in Soviet academe always conducted much selfcongratulatory research into how land reforms, the cooperative economy, Soviet schooling, literacy programs, and atheism both benefited and united the new citizens of the UzSSR. Complacent oratory was used to create “a vague, unspecified national pride” (Baldauf, 21–2) – one that would improve both material and aesthetic development across the country (Kitiatkin and Zinov’eva, 5). This spoken creation of a blossoming Asian space continued with disturbing zeal: in the view of some Western academics, the purely verbal idea of “Uzbekistan” would subsequently become “one of the most successful Soviet-era inventions” (Melvin). The Second World War halted several disparities between communism and Islam that by 1942 had left less than 10 percent of Uzbekistan’s mosques in operation. Troops for the European front were drafted from all regions of the Union whilst Central Asia, in a reverse movement, saw the arrival of over 1,000,000 evacuees from Russia. Despite the draft and falling population rates elsewhere in the USSR, Tashkent’s population actually went up by 5 percent (Matley 2002b, 95). Hundreds of Russian factories were relocated to safer Asian territories, together with power plants, movie studios, hospitals, and various research centers. Evacuated European Russians were thrust en masse into an environment where, especially outside of Tashkent, Islam had been eking out an existence without reliance upon (long-absent) clerics. People arriving from Leningrad and other cities remarked that in daily life popular forms of Muslim belief remained relatively healthy. Marx and Muhammad worked best over a cup of tea in the living room. Islam and Slavdom dovetailed better at home than at work, and politicians were staying way too long in the office, penning the dogma of denial. These small-scale interactions can sometimes spin into the realm of huge, if not suspect generalizations in Western studies: Islam has played an important, albeit indirect, role in Russian history and has arguably accounted for some common fundamental characteristics between contemporary Russian society and those in the Islamic East. Among them are a tendency towards political despotism and a deficit of established and democratic procedures in the acquisition, appliance and transfer of power; undeveloped civic solidarity; the prevalence of collective over individual values; extensive predatory patterns of behavior; incomplete secularization of the individual and public consciousness; and the strength of emotional, mystical and contemplative attitudes to life. The proto-Russians’ interaction with Muslims and Islamic culture was one of the central factors in the formation of Russian ethnicity, which occurred between the eighth and tenth centuries . . . Significantly, [even] Marxist official policies of suppression of

14

Before Russia and Uzbekistan Islam and coercive Christianization of Russia’s new Muslim subjects did not seriously interfere with the traditional grassroots interaction between ordinary Russians and Muslims. In fact, it enhanced the cross-ethnic and cross-religious coherence of Russian society in its relation to the alien and coercive state. (Melvin, 194–6)

To more optimistic religious figures of late, a transition from private to public is possible because societies forged under socialism and Islam do indeed share some common elements, despite any verbose evidence to the contrary presented prior to 1991. Both systems share a lot of common conditions within their sociopsychological framework and worldview. They both concern themselves with the primacy of collectivism over individualism, the deference of personality to that collective, authoritarian power seen as the norm of political culture, and the universal orientation of human activity towards social fairness, not economic efficiency. (Landa, 232) If so, both belief-systems can be attributed with universal (or totalitarian?) leanings, given that they derive their doctrine from first principles, as last and final worldviews (Goldberg). Marx himself glimpsed in religion a potential for eradicating hierarchical social structures, for the institution of evenhandedness. He saw (via Feuerbach) additional unity in the concept of God as embodying a social yearning to prevail over alienation; Islam likewise cherishes the Qur’anic ideal of doing God’s will in forms of socioeconomic and political fairness. Neither Tsarist nor Soviet societies on Uzbek territory were democratic in practice, of course: autocracy was apparently the norm. “The entire history of Uzbekistan is largely an uninterrupted chain of absolute monarchies, be it a strong, centralized despot or an economically and politically weak set of feudal territories or monarchies” (Yalcin, 151). There is, nonetheless, despite such arguably broad claims, sometimes a very fine line between a single, powerful monarch and the full (i.e., repressed) and excessive limits of his ideology being then supported by the masses such that the king’s own creed becomes a challenge to his singular authority (Ibrahim, 27). Maybe Islam could even be the sine qua non of such a challenge, of civil variety to counter intransigent monologic dogma (cf. Hanks, 174)? Could it be a province of “social-ist” unspoken variety from which monotheism or authoritarianism is both born and into which it one day naturally evanesces? As hinted, the family as a social unit of enduring faith amid authoritarian pressures was vital in Uzbekistan, where Islam – supposedly – even “prospered” behind closed doors during the Soviet period. Whatever (politicized male) society lay outside the front door, the wife was the dominant cultural influence inside the apartment (Bacon, 214). It is sometimes claimed that the influence of these


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familial and domestic, spiritual values in Asian households stopped the success of Soviet propaganda increasingly with each generation (Haghayeghi, 38; Polonskaya and Malashenko). Silence and an illicit domesticity were the realms of Soviet Islam, which Russian commentators over the twentieth century continued to dismiss, here as noiseless and indiscernible emotion. Soviet atheist literature adopted and extended the approach of G. V. Plekhanov, who understood religion as constituting “a more or less orderly system of ideas, moods and actions. Ideas form the mythological element of religious feelings, and actions are embedded in religious worship.” For the followers of Plekhanov, this suggested that religiosity might be broken down into three structural components: the intellectual, emotional and behavioral. Thus by the late 1960s and early 1970s most Soviet sociologists concurred that it was necessary to examine not only religious consciousness (belief in God) but also the religious behavior of individuals in order to understand their level of religiosity. The notion that ideas, moods and actions must be in evidence to constitute “belief ” significantly reduced the statistical measure of “believers” and thus served its purpose of confirming the Communist Party’s ideological declaration that Soviet society was “extinguishing religiosity and eroding faith.” (Ibid., 172) As with Orthodox Christianity in Russia, so too “moody” Islam would see an explosive renaissance after the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991, hopefully offering a peaceful alternative to problems of the 1980s and before: murderous ethnic riots under Gorbachev; the ecological destruction of the Aral Sea (sucked dry by industry); the removal of “Soviet” mufti for alcoholism, embezzlement, and theological ignorance; and gross violence directed against Uzbek soldiers, which was just one more unwanted headache, given Moscow’s recently disastrous encounter with Islam during the Afghanistan campaign (Macleod and Mayhew, 24). These problems were difficult, if not impossible, to express via literature (i.e., in stories unrelated to policy planning) and even the supposedly liberal media of perestroika and glasnost had trouble handling the rising, increasingly verbal multiplicities of Uzbek society in the late 1980s. This problem of multitudes deserves special scrutiny, for the social “elite” of Uzbekistan today has purportedly lost the similarly varied roots from which it once came, even those of the recent (and sometimes peculiar) past: Like subjects of other colonial systems, its native values are overlaid by an education according to the curriculum of the occupying power; in this case not only of Marxism–Leninism but Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Chekhov, and – at least in Russian translation – Western writers like Balzac, Dickens and Hemingway. (Critchlow, 203)

16 Before Russia and Uzbekistan How true can this be, especially in a country that by the 1980s contained two thirds of the 230 functioning mosques in Central Asia (Hiro, 161)? And, in any case, although new states stress their newness in explicitly documented historical forms, the neophyte or refashioned nations “to which they give political expression always loom out of an immemorial past” (Literature and the Nation, 133). Can Uzbeks reach back to that “pre-historical” multiplicity and join an entirely different set of referents or reposition selfhood as the structured consequence of other, long-existent (but forgotten) identities?

The challenge to see unity as eventful multiplicity Drawing upon recent thought from Slovenian culturologist Slavoj Zizek, one can organize this social dispersal of individuality through brief reconsideration of early socialism, of the early challenges to discern and embody its own romantic, rhetorical surplus. This is the endlessly democratic surfeit that, when finally revealed in the USSR after Stalin’s death in Khrushchev’s secret speech, caused several delegates to have nervous breakdowns and perhaps even Fadeev to commit suicide because the exclusive, limiting and segregating nature of oratory suddenly had to contemplate what truly lay within and beyond it. Zizek recently distinguished the heart-stopping challenge of what we might call a Spinozistic socialism in the writings of Lenin: “Marx summed up the lessons of all revolutions in respect to armed uprising in the words of Danton, the greatest master of revolutionary policy yet known: de l’audace, de l’audace, encore de l’audace” (Zizek 2002, 143). Shedding limit, signification, and even judgment in order to outperform the romantic daring or dispersed multiplicities which dogma actually promises is something that requires bravery. Zizek begins this investigation of judgment, rectitude, and materialist audacity with an appraisal of purportedly inclusive multiplicity or political correctness in today’s society. Such policies of tolerance are only valid insomuch as the other is him/herself broadminded; “Tolerance towards the other thus passes imperceptibly into a destructive hatred of all (‘fundamentalist’) others who do not fit our ideas of tolerance – in short of all actual others.” There is, consequently, an excess or surplus evident in political correctness or controlling/controlled socialism that those philosophies must invoke in order to operate, but which they can neither utter nor enact. That real surplus comes back, over and over again, as a ghostly trauma of what they dare not do, accept, or say, and the real which returns has the status of a(nother) semblance; precisely because it is real – that is, because of its traumatic/excessive nature – we are unable to integrate it into what we experience as our reality, and are therefore compelled to experience it as a nightmarish apparition. (Ibid., 225 and 232)


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Zizek sees this haunting problem as the quiddity of what happened on September 11, 2001, even, the need for American dogma to make a long-overdue move from “A thing like this shouldn’t happen here!” to “A thing like this shouldn’t happen anywhere!” that is the true lesson of the attacks. The only way to ensure that this will not happen here again is to prevent it happening anywhere else. The Islamic terrorists therefore served a horrifically Hegelian or Nietzschean role of negation, of a philosophically “positive” sickness, so “the first gesture of [our own true] liberation is not to get rid of this excess, but actively to assume it” (ibid., 254). This – by naming the wholly, truly Real as tied to a void of nonrepresentation – takes us to some truly daring leftist slogans of Paris, 1968, such as “Soyons réalistes, demandons l’impossible!” This is the truly Real that lies beyond ideology, totalitarianism, or exclusionary religious dogma, and in fact the law itself encourages its own transgression; it generates the desire for its own violation (and) our obedience to the Law itself is not “natural,” spontaneous, but always-already mediated by the (repetition of the) desire to transgress the Law. (Zizek 2001, 100) The philosophical ventures of Alain Badiou push this impossible logic in search of verity a tad further and reveal an extra resonance at the point where the Real and “truth have no interest in [judgment or] interpretation; instead, truth exposes the gaps in our understanding [of such things]” (Barker, 4). The truth that incorporates multiplicity to the point of entirety must incorporate the biggest gap of all, the “zero” needed to even start counting from (or as) “one”: that is the true unicity. Oneness [i.e., everything] can only be presented adequately in terms of multiplicity. However, given that “the [centralized or atheist] one is not,” it must follow that multiplicity as “pure presentation” is “anterior to all effectof-one, to all structure” – a fact which renders it “as such unthinkable.” Multiplicity rules out all relations between concepts and categories, including their non-relations. Deprived of all determination to the point where even its non-being is excluded from being, there is only one other “thing” that the concept of the one can possibly be: nothing. At this point Badiou arrives at the final, negative qualification of Plato’s text: “If the one is not, nothing is.” (Ibid., 51) Everything – the limit of Spinoza and Leninist daring – is also nothing, a gap, a lack, therefore, and a challenge. It is the harbinger of truth, and “every truth is without an object . . . Here is the result of an infinite procedure, an indiscernible

18


multiple . . . the Platonism of the multiple” (Badiou 1992, 91, 95, and 103). That Plantonism is a procedure, not a state; it is therefore extremely disconcerting to a singular imperial culture with pretensions toward veracity. Since being is multiple, and truth must be, a truth shall be a multiple, thus a multiple-part of the situation of which it is the truth. As might be expected, it cannot be an already “given or present” part. It shall stem from a singular procedure. In fact, this procedure can only be set into motion from the point of a supplement, something in excess of the situation, that is, an event. A truth is the infinite result of a risky supplementation. Every truth is post-eventful. (Ibid., 106–7) Events are deviations from the usual; they are encountered in Lacan’s divinely romantic but impossibly impractical dictate of revolution: Ne pas céder sur son désir. And, since in this philosophy of sweeping materialism there is no God, [it] also means: the One is [likewise] not. The multiple “without-one” – every multiple being in turn nothing more than a multiple of multiples – is the law of being. The only stopping point is the void. The infinite, as Pascal had already realized, is the banal reality of every situation, not the predicate of transcendence. (Badiou 2001, 25) Truth, a result of this eventful process, is what a subject helps to make or what he bears. A subject does not come before this process or via preexisting policy. “He is absolutely nonexistent in the situation ‘before’ the event. We might say the process of the truth induces a subject” (ibid., 43). This, perhaps more than anything else, brings us to the endless events of the world, for “to exist is to be an element of ” (ibid., 135). Badiou calls here upon the “truth of Spinoza’s substance, which is immediately expressed by an infinity of attributes” (Badiou 2000, 25). This recourse to the unity of being allows him to claim – amazingly – that “Deleuzianism, the chaotic, desirous multiplicity of a Body without Organs, is fundamentally a Platonism with a different accentuation”: In Deleuze, as in every great physicist of this kind, is a great power of speculative dreaming and something akin to a quivering tonality that is prophetic, although without promise. He said of Spinoza that he was the Christ of philosophy. To do Deleuze full justice, let us say that, of this Christ and his inflexible announcement of salvation by the All – a salvation that promises nothing, a salvation that is always already there – he was truly a most eminent apostle. (Ibid., 102) This brief theoretical digression has profound consequences for our study. Lunacharskii noted “it was true” that apostolic Spinoza, after Hegel, “was the


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predecessor whom Soviet thought recognized” (43). This need to embrace and live as the philosopher was reiterated elsewhere, the need to see “him in his true light . . . on the foundations of Marxism and Leninism” (Toporkov, xix). One can also find quotes from Engels praising the “brilliance” of Spinoza together with wise words from Lenin prompting the populace to study their thought processes through the harmonious, selfless plexus of nature (Vandek and Timosko, 37–8 and 79). This is the non-progressive, affective, all embracing complexity of micropolitics found initially between two peoples and two faiths, all of which speak of an ecologically complex univocity that politics could only ever imagine. Soviet culture imagined a plurality that creates subjectivity, so our book will be less a story of people initiating actions or events than multiple events (hopefully) making people. The best-known English-language scholarship has said of Central Asian selfhood that “a great variety of mostly intangible group possessions – institutions, concepts, linkages – furnish both a foundation and a [singular] generator for group awareness” (Allworth 1990, 15). This variety will operate between what Badiou has called natural and historical situations: a non-linear interplay of non-progressive multiplicities (faith) and those beginning to move or develop in a given direction (politics). Verbose macropolitical institutions and reticent micropolitical individuals are part of the same process and (if honest or truthful) will enter this interplay with frequently mutual intent. The creation of “some-thing” from resulting interactions will often be literary, linguistic, and metonymical in its movements, trying to build and advance “truthful” states (with “incessant indoctrination”), but there will always be the frustrating presence of what cannot or will not be said (a zero) as the last piece in any representation of wholeness. Such problems are certainly audible, for example, in thoughts from orientalist Russian scholars on Samarkand’s simultaneously historical and “inexorable, timeless” aspects (Kurbanov 1992). Any escape in Russian culture from analogous illusions would have to come from a fidelity to multiplicities, not from political rhetoric. It would come from endless events, not (imperial) states: For the process of a truth to begin, something must happen. What there already is – the situation of knowledge as such – generates nothing other than repetition. For a truth to affirm its newness, there must be a supplement. This supplement is committed to chance. It is unpredictable, incalculable. (Badiou 2003a, 62) It operates at the point where truth and justice cannot be presented, being so deeply embedded in universality and multiples. This, it seems, it what holds together the strange collection of philosophers I have used in prior studies: Deleuze, Lacan, Badiou, phenomenologists, and Spinoza. Badiou himself says: “For very different thinkers – Heidegger, Lacan, Spinoza, Deleuze, myself – there is a conviction that truth has no guarantee” (ibid., 173). That uncertain verity, it is my contention, could potentially come from Islamic traditions of community (umma) or infinitely variegated unicity (tawhid ) as much

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as anything the Russians brought or left (cf. Fowkes, 36); it is what Russians in Central Asia and Moscow’s bureaucracy wanted and wished for, plus something they needed as part of their own (dialectically constructed) national selfawareness, albeit of which they perhaps no longer had any conscious knowledge. Some Western scholars have already started to disassociate Central Asian Soviet nationalism from strict adherence to (or manifest deviance from) Marxist– Leninist tenets (Fragner 1994, 31–2). So what lay in the gaps (where excess resides) between the dogma and its deeds? Marx himself, the father of fustian, concurred with Central Asia’s first Slavic governors to such a degree that he would quote them directly, declaring in moments of particular accord that “Russian domination is a civilizing element” in Central Asia, but we should look beyond the confidently voiced, suspect intentions of an educating, enlightening empire. We begin with the problems of talking about a spiritually underwritten Uzbek society, where Marx and Moscow hoped, perhaps in vain, to fill the gap between domination and civility with an unexpected, persuasive addition to the known lexicon.

2

Troubles with Islam and “ecstasy or self-oblivion”

Religion teaches a man who has always worked and wished for something both to be submissive and not to complain in his earthly existence. It assuages him with anticipation of some heavenly reward. Religion teaches a man who lives by another’s labor some charity in this same existence; it offers him a very cheap justification for his self-serving life. It sells him a cheap ticket to heavenly well-being. (Lenin in Kuliev, 155)

Introduction: the problems of language Much was said and written by Sovietologists about the divided character of the Uzbek social order during the twentieth century, in the sense that Russians long occupied positions of (urban) prestige while local Uzbeks neither had nor sought such standing with any great enthusiasm. This may be true of the Kyrgyz, for example, but probably not Uzbeks, who can both trace lengthy (pre-Russian) genealogies and enjoyed significant professional/political success. The first few years after 1991 altered this scenario in two ways; both were initially tied to the wishes of post-Soviet Uzbekistan to improve cultural relations with Turkey or Iran rather than Western Europe. First, language laws passed in the nation made a career in the government’s upper strata increasingly difficult, if not impossible, without fluency in Uzbek. Second (and conversely), Russians – so keen of late to move abroad, together with Koreans, Germans or Ukrainians – were at least officially encouraged to remain because the nation’s technical, fiscal, and managerial skills would be manifestly deficient if everybody flew back to Moscow. Rumors and grumbling continued that upper-level management was often composed of elderly members of the Russian (i.e., Soviet) immigrant intelligentsia; that was certainly the case with regard to Tashkent’s aeronautical factory and elsewhere in industrial manufacturing, yet in agriculture, social services, government, and the service sector the claim seems moot. The constitution adopted on December 8, 1992 proscribed ethnic origin as the basis for prejudicial differences among any social factions (Konstitutsiia) and academic studies at the time also hoped to “strengthen the political activity of all

22 Troubles with Islam members of society” (Perevezentseva, 19). Presidential elections advocating such ideas produced 98 percent approval ratings; some commentators believe Uzbeks voted so overwhelmingly for Karimov because of his concerns over the civil war in Tajikistan and because he appeared capable of keeping nationalist pressures of dissenting organizations like Birlik (“Unity”) and Erk (“Freedom”) in check. Russians observing these changes were concerned after the fall of the USSR that governmental tactics in Tashkent to promote independent Uzbekistan’s “cultural wealth” would mean little more than knee-jerk social revisionism (Babakhodzhaeva, 21); as early as May 1992, Slavs had founded “The National Association of Russian Culture,” an institutional moniker that might have been redundant even a few years prior. In actual fact, though, Russians had started to emigrate in the 1970s, following a downward trend after spikes in immigration figures during the previous decade (dictated by opportunities for career advancement north of the border). The year of 1991 was not the extreme, radical disjuncture that it is often assumed to be. Some of this movement backward and forward was always dictated by short-term, financially attractive contract work. Tempting though it may be to attribute all population movement to the drama of ethnic or nationalist tensions, often the reasons were much more mundane, such as the realization in the late 1980s, for example, that cash per se was now more readily available in Russia than in Tashkent. These tensions, as suggested, frequently revolve around issues of language (for business or bigotry) and the aspiration of some institutions to disenfranchise Russian as a lingua franca. One piece of legislation in 1989 had stipulated an eight-year transition period to the native tongue, but many citizens remained skeptical about the ability or willingness of Russian-speaking Uzbeks to switch (for no apparent benefit) to another idiom, especially in a realm of burgeoning foreign business. Today, even though linguistic similarities across Central Asia allow heads of state to interact and understand one another in their own languages, they employ Russian for official correspondence. Language in society, therefore, despite any legislative propensity toward an unnecessarily severe monolingualism, remains multiple in daily lives. Even when Moscow began requesting greater “respect” for indigenous languages in the 1980s, people in Uzbekistan could only recall an irony in similarly zealous Soviet linguistic reform from the late 1970s; that decade was often blamed for causing many problems of the present. After 1972 inter-regional equalization was no longer included in Moscow’s Five Year Plans and so the Kremlin began reducing its economic commitment to a lot of regions on the imperial periphery. Fresh evidence of Russia’s casual disregard came to light when it was discovered that in 1979 the authorities had decided to exaggerate the level of Russian fluency in the region. People had been encouraged in census papers to declare themselves fluent Russian speakers. When the Soviet Union started to unravel, Asian nationalist groups used those same statistics to increase support for an anti-Russian linguistic campaign, since those figures (if taken as true) simply underlined a need to save local languages! Obsessive policy seemed to produce the reverse effect, an inverse non-truth.

Troubles with Islam

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Political claims to “one nation” and one manner of familiar speech hid a greater complexity of cultural difference that was still smarting from decades of Soviet monocultural interference. Nobody could ignore the riots in the Ferghana Valley of June 1989 that killed over 100 people, and indeed perhaps this event more than any other prompted the start of the largest Russian exodus, though the hostility concerned local ethnic problems and was in no way directed against Slavs. It began among Uzbeks, Jews, Turks, and the Kyrgyz populace (if we conflate several incidents); official denouncements just identified related ethnic problems repeatedly without proffering any bona fide solutions, and thus Europeans began worrying about further developments (Iakubova, D., 4). One fairly recent characterization of dilemmas that arose from insistence upon monocultural “social unity” addressed the wholly linguistic concept of nationhood before and after the breakup of the USSR. Problems were caused, not rectified, by language. There has always been a cultural gulf between the Asians and the Europeans in Central Asia – although formerly this was something to which one did not pay much attention. One reason for this seems to be that till recently the Uzbeks did not have a deep sense of ethnic self-identification. What passed for “the Uzbek nation” was in fact a conglomerate of tribes and people which, only as late as the Soviet era, were molded into a seeming unity by a conscious [i.e., linguistically embodied] policy of the state. Lacking a clear concept of “us,” the Uzbeks also had a hazy understanding of the corresponding concept of “them.” Under the term of the Russians, they could lump together Slavs, Tartars, and even Koreans on the basis of language alone. In fact most experts are inclined to believe that not only Uzbeks but all Central Asian nations lived up till the very near past in a pristine world of pre-nationalist man. (Kolstoe, 227) That cultural gulf altered as soon as Russians felt the categories of “them and us” had been reversed. Rural birth rates among Uzbek girls began to outstrip those of Russian mothers further still. This created another reason for Slavs to leave the country, continuing an exodus that by 1990 was already running at about 5 percent per annum amid concern over vindictive prejudice (Rotar’). In point of fact, once again, the problem began much earlier: a disparity between Slavic and Uzbek mothers had slowly been worsening since the 1960s due, often, to the traditional size of European versus Asian families. In 1969, for example, the Central Asian Slavic birthrate was already as low as 14.2 per 1,000, versus highs of 18.1 in Western Europe and an amazing 34.7 in Muslim regions of Central Asia (Rywkin, 64). The trouble was, in the words of one researcher, that for many Russians in the early 1990s “ ‘de-Sovietisation’ was understood as synonymous with ‘decolonization’ and ‘de-Russification.’ ” Uzbeks, felt Slavs, now tended to “essentialize” their new national identities, to base a new ethnicity upon a small

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Troubles with Islam

number of allegedly essential traits that could easily be encapsulated within the simple lexicon of political speeches. This resulting lexical set gravitated around references to a common point of societal origin (“our homeland, our language community”) or common experience (the binary oppositions of, for example, “colonized/colonizers”). These identities were then “historicized,” via the poetic, somewhat effusive representation of some supposedly pre-colonial Golden Age (Khadzhimirzaev, 37). Such issues led to enormous disaffection among Asian Slavs. When the Uzbek government began looking back to the martial imagery of fourteenth-century Timur (i.e., Tamerlane) for a set of state symbols to displace the Soviet past, thoughts of a defensive territory guarded specifically from northern intrusions came unavoidably to mind and Russians felt even more excluded from the earlier, cohesive imagery of their lost borderland (Kinzer). Increasingly the place that once looked like home altered its appearance and Russians had increasing difficulty saying who they were, since the land that had once made them was evanescing before their eyes. Before opening a huge museum in Tashkent dedicated to Timur in 1996, President Karimov (who was once the Communist Party Secretary) made a similarly retrospective gesture at his inauguration ceremony, placing one hand on the Qur’an and the other on the State Constitution, thus making good (and novel) use of the fact that for millions of Uzbeks, there was a potential parallel between being a Muslim and an Uzbek nationalist, or at least no evident (consciously, overtly expressed, and jarring) discontinuity between being Muslim and communist. Within a year Karimov had also made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Russians today are facing the consequences of their own, prior ideological surplus. The empty Soviet rhetoric of Uzbek self-realization is now being acted out, as its unchanging, repetitive lexicon broke, not bolstered an “Islamic” empire. Rhetoric, in its desire to encapsulate everything or the ineffable simply introduced “a gap in the order of being” (Zizek 2003b, 33). This gap would perhaps permit a glimpse of existence prior to – or outside of – political language, because it is language itself that makes the gap. We have reality before our eyes well before language, and what language does is . . . it digs a hole in it, it opens up visible/present reality toward the dimension of the immaterial/unseen. When I simply see [or film] you, I simply see you – but it is only by naming you that I can indicate the abyss in you beyond what I see. (Ibid., 70) What opens up is a competition between the Real of this gap and the “semblance” of reality created by the metonymy of speech, the belief that many (many) words can, given time, exhaust and objectify the emptiness of vacant actuality. Oratory does not construct; on the contrary – it deconstructs. It creates nothing, both literally and literarily.

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Communism and religious conviction in Tashkent The rest of this chapter explains how the Soviets spoke about faith in Uzbekistan, their discussions of Islam’s role, and rights and wrongs (i.e., its universalizing aspirations) in an equally grand, atheist society born of a messy severance from almost one thousand years of Eastern Orthodox monotheism. The Soviets were dealing with a system that ideally (outside of Central Asian legal and theological commentary surrounding the Qur’an) does not mediate between man and God; Shari’a law is driven by tenets of daily self-regulation in tangible social reality according to Qur’anic, not priestly guidance. This produces a society that although often headed by a single political power is less than monolithic: “The public domain, it is presumed, is the sum of its [countless] private components, not a separate entity requiring legal protection” (Ruthven, 88). So how would the legislation of countless observers of the Shari’a under a new political system tally with the complex category of free will according to Marxist mores? Marx had proposed an understanding of self-determination within contextually shifting, often restrictive social conditions. People “make their own history, yet they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but instead under circumstances directly encountered, given, and transmitted from the past” (Marx 1977, 300). As a derivative of this proposal, an interesting article in a 2002 issue of The Independent suggested after the tragedy at The World Trade Center that passionately committed Islamic “fundamentalism” is in fact an outgrowth of Marxist thought, a hybrid of often unpopular, radically democratic theories from young Muslims thwarted by the limits of “bourgeois” societies at home (though Buruma and Margalit suggest that such extremism may be paralleled with Fascism, given its shared roots with the extremist leanings of Romanticism). One transposition of Islam into a socialist mode has again taken place in a recent essay by Zizek: One should not put forth the distinction between Islamic fundamentalism and Islam, à la Bush and Blair, who never forget to praise Islam as a great religion of love and tolerance that has nothing to do with disgusting terrorist acts. Instead, one should gather the courage to recognize the obvious fact that there is a deep strain of violence and intolerance in Islam – that, to put it bluntly, something in Islam resists the liberal-capitalist world order. By transposing this tension into the core of Islam, one can conceive such resistance as an opportunity: It need not necessarily lead to “Islamo-Fascism,” but rather could be articulated into a Socialist project. The traditional European Fascism was a misdirected act of resistance against the deadlocks of capitalist modernization. What was wrong with Fascism was not (as liberals keep telling us) its dream of a people’s community that overcomes capitalist competition through a spirit of collective discipline and sacrifice, but how these motives were deformed by a specific political twist. Fascism, in a way, took

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Troubles with Islam the best and turned it into the worst. Instead of trying to extract the pure ethical core of a religion from its political manipulations, one should ruthlessly criticize that very core – in all religions. Today, when religions themselves (from New Age spirituality to the cheap spiritualist hedonism of the Dalai Lama) are more than ready to serve postmodern pleasure-seeking, it is consequently, and paradoxically, only a thorough materialism that is able to sustain a truly ascetic, militant and ethical stance. (Zizek 2004)

The terrorists of September 11 embodied an overlap between ancient Islamic and modern Marxist egalitarianism, tempered by the excessive, revolutionary modus operandi of the latter. They kept going where Marx would rather have stopped. Gennadii Ziuganov, the leader of post-communist communists, said in the newspaper Sovetskaia Rossiia on September 19, 1995 that Christ should always be considered the “first communist,” since He, like Marx, espoused a doctrine of justice. This leaves us with the following set of relationships: from within principles of stately authority that inspired Slavophiles like Konstantin Leont’ev there arose an intensely “Christian,” revolutionary or Leninist drive to institute classless social relations amid those who had (and lived in) nothing, a heavenly compulsion toward candor so palpable in Maksim Gor’kii’s 1907 novel Mother that it became the genesis of Soviet Socialist Realism. The resulting social order in Slavdom, itself containing both the Christian eschatology of the “meek inheriting the earth” and an autocratic power structure, was subsequently an inspiration to Islamic fundamentalists, driven by both egalitarianism and a terrible intolerance. Islam, Christianity, and Marxism displayed an “inverted replica” of themselves, a pairing of both romantic excess and pragmatic constraint – with varying degrees of daring or success. The role of Lunacharskii in this process is clear, helping once more to bridge the religious and the political. Under the explicit influence of Thus Spake Zarathustra, Gor’kii cultivated an early, enthusiastic interest in Nietzsche together with Lunacharskii, who as early as 1903 discerned a Nietzschean influence in Gor’kii’s thoughts about a “collective egoism.” Nietzsche had begun to be prominent in Slavic lands in the 1890s, where he acted as a powerful antidote to prevailing Hegelian determinism. Through Lunacharskii and other friends like Andrei Sokolov (Vol’skii), Aleksandr Malinovskii (Bogdanov), and Vladimir Rudnev (Bazarov) that antidote took shape locally, both framing and amplifying Gor’kii’s philosophical intuition. Jointly these men would propose a form of socialism that would let individuals freely desire a subordination of the ego in collectivism, rather than the Leninist–Stalinist model that stressed the duty of subordination (Kline, 171). Lunacharskii even went as far as to say that desire could freely, happily “strive to realize its ideals in the broadest scope . . . The more grandiose the scope, the more self-sacrificingly the individual person consumes his energies in the name of his ideals, the better” (Problemy idealizma). This forms an instructive parallel with

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communist commitment and certainly parallels the ways in which a sympathetic, micropolitical individual might turn his nothingness into a figure of molar or even messianic import, given that Marxism itself is a lay-version of Judeo-Christian Messianism. One is prompted to recall Walter Benjamin’s definition of historical materialism, even, as a “puppet” moved around by a small yet assertive “dwarf ” called theology. So how easy could it be to slide back and forth between the social goals of Islamic theology and socialism, employing the former in pragmatic forms that – oddly – evoke Vladimir Solov’ev’s equally peculiar designation of Islam as a necessary, “healthy and sober ‘milk’ ” between the sweet “honey” of emotive paganism and the “wine” of Christian spirituality (Batunskii, 2: 301)? One possible answer might be in the social philosophy of Islamic fundamentalists during the Soviet period, such as Sayyid Qutb, Ali Shariati, or the Indo-Pakistani Abul Ala Mawdudi (1903–1979) who believed the path to a shared, social experience of divinity would come from removing corrupt, exploitative elites. Mawdudi rejected nationalism as too limited in its scope; it prejudices the bounded domains of a single nation over the boundlessness of God. Even democracy, he thought, fell short of limitless inclusion or membership, since it simply installs the “tyranny of the majority” (Fakhry, 134). He improved upon the shortcomings of Marxist principles by enacting them better through Islam, hoping thus to motivate a worldwide drive for equality and social justice. Free from neatly mapped or circumscribed spaces in the atlas of colonization, Islam could be a bigger, better, and grander social force of fairness: “The Islamic state [when considered as the totality of its multiple members] does not curtail individual freedom nor has it much room for dictatorship or absolute authority” (Mawdudi in Safi).

Religious truths within Asian Marxism Works on Central Asian religious mores soon after the Revolution managed to maintain a calm, anthropological, and objective interest rather than resort to critique, thanks perhaps to the enduring careers of eminent pre-Revolutionary orientalists. Investigations into the origins of Islamic symbols, such as the crescent, describe rather than lambaste the sociocultural systems they potentially represent (Bartol’d, 470). The author of this study, however, renowned Petersburg scholar Vasilii Bartol’d, died in 1930; then, coincidentally, began the growing intolerance and narrow-mindedness of later years, continuing Jadid invectives and equally acerbic critique of the 1920s, both dismissing clerics as plump bedfellows of Tsarism and its bourgeois endeavors. Soon to disappear under the rising tide of censure, a number of Soviet publications of the early 1930s admitted there was something in Islam that could be (unnervingly) admitted as sharing aims with socialism, but it was “spoiled” by negative affective forces. No matter how the mullahs adapt Islam to Soviet reality, now matter how much they color it anew in rosy hues, their attempts to “master the souls” of

28 Troubles with Islam believers are increasingly in vain. The anti-Soviet activity of reactionary clergy, crazed with anger, is born neither of strength nor force. It comes from the feebleness of these Muslims, the final spasms of Islam in its death throes . . . Islam, like many other religious systems, can be related to a series of superstructures that – in their current state – are playing a rather reactionary role. Islam is an entire socioeconomic concept and unique culture, which in certain historical circumstances was progressive, but in its current form soon became its opposite, a hindrance to the economic and sociopolitical development of the peoples of Central Asia. (Vasilevskii, 63 and 72) Even long after the institution of Soviet power, claims were made that “nonprogressive” Muslim clergy would sneak around collective farms inciting people not to work on fasting or holy days. The way to defeat priestly subversion, said propagandists, was to arm oneself with maximally objective, “truthful” information on the improved welfare of the Uzbek people. One would thus conclude that socialism enacted Islamic “talk” of social freedom and fairness with considerably more success (Oleshchuk, 11–12, 24, and 28). The mapping of progressive history with secular, not religious calendars would obviously endure for many years: “Muslim traditions of fasting are merely a detrimental remnant of the past. They ruin people’s health, reduce their ability to work and give rise to all manner of unwholesome, pessimistic dispositions” (Mamedov, M., 18). The dissuasion of people from old habits was attempted both through promises of quotidian, future benefit and an enthusiastic promotion of science’s logical prevalence over religious conviction. The Qur’an’s assurances that Heaven’s [firm] canopy lacks even the tiniest fissure sound like some silly fairytale today. Soviet scientists have had amazing success in their study of the cosmos. Satellites, crafted by Soviet citizens, encircle the Earth and Sun at an incredible height after being launched from booster rockets made in Soviet factories. (Avksent’ev 1960b, 22) And so, intransigent self-perpetuating attitudes were coarsely inscribed into journalistic and academic canons. The Soviets were keen to distinguish between future and (chronic, recurrent) past threats to their philosophy, but since – as noted earlier – Islam survived best of all at home, behind closed doors, the real battlefield was precisely in those living rooms, a struggle with individual persuasion, not loud public proclamation. Even decades later, the fact that ideological or theological victory could be claimed only after examining private custom was apparent: politics was not sure if it could ever uproot confidential practice. In Central Asian ideology and economics there are two areas. The first is that of the state, the proper domain of all official departments and their

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proclamations on unionwide issues; the second is that of the family . . . The way people live today is being evaluated in two ways. The state evaluates tradition as something “bad,” but as for family tradition, [today’s ideologically lax observers maintain] that’s “good,” a proper, traditional way of life. Here we run up against a very incoherent type of conventionality. (Poliakov, 102) It was this potential, reverse movement from (or influence of ) private, religious traditions into public, forward-looking ideology that caused the Soviets longstanding worry. Russians were obliged to defend verbose socialist doctrine over and over again from suggestions that the Qur’an (a single text in millions of homes) advocated laudable, achievable forms of “religious socialism as a panacea for all manner of social ills” (Klimovich 1958, 47). The standard complaint about Islam was that it expanded the application of materialism to a point where fact becomes fancy: Science is incompatible with religion. Religion uses fantasy to depict nature, society, mankind, and his consciousness. It demands blind adherence to other, equally fantastic concepts. As opposed to religion, science replicates the existent, material world properly; it correctly depicts mankind and the essence of human consciousness. (Ishmukhamedov, 31) This road to clarity had been paved by Engels, who first “removed the veil of mysticism” surrounding Islam and declared it nothing more than a form of socioeconomic relations ideally suited to “peoples of the East,” be they city dwellers, nomads, or Bedouins (Arsharuni, 4). Any attempts to try and somehow marry or reconcile the ideas of Islam with those of communism (on the basis of morality or humanism [Faiazov, 7 and Kerimov, 30]) were dismissed out of hand; talk of common economic or social principles was always declared impractical and in any case secondary to the everlasting irreconcilability of religious and scientific worldviews. Soviet scholars stubbornly maintained that social justice under Islam could never tear itself loose from idealism (Piotrovskii, 18). The tragic Tashkent earthquake of 1966 gave birth to even more speechifying in a similar vein. Geologists and seismologists, not clerics, understood the earthquake (albeit in retrospect); calm, considered knowledge of what caused the tremors meant that the people of Tashkent, showing courage and a great sense of awareness, now work with enthusiasm. The life of the city continues, just as before, with its prior rhythm. People did not succumb to any kind of spiritual panic. This is all the result of the party’s ideological efforts and the high cultural level of the Uzbek people. (Umarov, M., 19)

30 Troubles with Islam Prayer in moments of panic or uncertainty was the great adversary of articulated, conscious, and social ideology. Prayer was a waste of valuable time that could be spent on more useful concerns; it ruined all thoughts of happiness in life with moribund musings in states “of ecstasy and self-oblivion” that cultivate a philosophy of “dead-end fatalism” (Tsavkilov 1965, 23). The only alternative to Islam’s fatalism was the relative determinism of socialist thought – human activity defined by objective laws of the outside world. This is the path to understanding objective necessity. Traveling this path a person acquires an independence of action; possessing a relatively free will, he bears a certain responsibility for the consequences of his behavior or deeds. (Mamedov, A., 24) If the typical citizen of Soviet Central Asia were to make this discovery (or be persuaded of its validity through successful atheist propaganda), then the spoken movement from arrogant spiritual autonomy to a relative, materialist condition would occur if s/he knew more about the (true and troubled) nature of the Islamic sermon. Both the “content and the orientation of the Muslim sermon” would have to be studied if meaningful steps were possible away from religion (Karimov 1991, 18–19).

The creation of a better Muslim society after Stalin Which of the two ideologies would more convincingly dismiss the other as “illusionary happiness” (Klimovich 1956, 40), because “religious festivities only cloud man’s reason, distract him from labor and create false impressions that mankind’s happiness depends on some unknown force which can be persuaded and won over with sacrifices” (Muslimov, 15)? To counter this sense of communal passivity, odd suggestions were even made that a superior (and socially tempered) free will could be cultivated through sporting events. Sport would increase one’s sense of self-determination, but Soviet critics of the 1960s said Muslim girls simply did not want to wear “light, comfortable” (i.e., revealing) sportswear. Criticism of Islamic traditionalism continually made custom tantamount to fatalism (Gadzhiev 1966, 38–9). But were the objective constraints of a dialectical historiography ever any more flexible? “The classics of Marxism and Leninism have always stressed that an individual can operate freely only through a thorough understanding of necessity; they emphasize that an individual can act only in accordance with it because freedom is cognition of that necessity. If people want to be free, to act freely, and achieve their goals, they must understand that both history’s development and its laws have an objective, necessary nature. People must act in accordance with these laws, otherwise they will not be able to be free” (Abdurasulov, 40). Traditionally guided Muslims were unable to “remake

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or reorganize” their lives, and thus robbed of all volition, for all events in the eyes of believers were predetermined by God’s great plan. Islam simply gave birth to social passivity and thus to one’s inevitable manipulation at the hands of the exploitative classes (Khanbabaev, 9). Islamic tradition was responsible for diminished agency in the Soviet world, just (apparently) as it had been circa the Jadid reformers. So where, in the eyes of Russians, did Islamic philosophy reside? As they looked into nothingness in the middle of nowhere, was this a reclusive, introverted or mystical Sufi tradition? Or would its resonance be more discernible in the “real world,” in places where communists felt that the greatest propaganda work had (yet) to be done: clubs, tea houses, reading rooms, dormitories, canteens, houses and yurts, tractor stations, hospitals, theaters, cinemas, and so forth (Programma-konspekt, 17 and 23)? Russians frequently complained that certain rituals were being performed in that busy real world “as accurately as hundreds of years ago, even though our life has made great strides forward” (Smirnov, 8 and 21). The battle for social influence was conducted amid rumors that clerics branded Soviet reforms “the work of the devil,” threatening participants with eternal damnation. Rich Muslim peasants organized bands to rob and even kill workers on the collective farms, setting fire to crops as they did so. Uzbek citizens were hoodwinked by mystical conceptions of the Earth as supported by an angel, standing in turn upon an emerald stone between the horns of a bull (Snesarev, 13, 17 and 20–1). Even during the Thaw, there still remained occasional elements of a worldview that informed angry, orientalist, and objectifying social policies directed against religious conviction. Discussion of many “peoples” in one or two sentences turned discussion of devout Uzbek society into phrases redolent of an anthropology study or safari guide. Customs develop and change as centuries go by. Some of them persist and as time passes acquire new features. There is no populace on earth who would not prefer a better life or refuse to enjoy all the good things of civilization simply because they were not familiar with them before . . . Uzbeks are very friendly, hospitable and sociable. They love to gather in big groups, and entertain the whole village on days of family celebration. (The UzSSR 1967, 60) These beneficial aspects of Uzbek society, although described with condescension, were seen here as commendable (being of no direct menace to the Soviet status quo), yet they allegedly had a more disconcerting philosophical and textual origin in the Qur’an. Soviet phrasing may sometimes have meant nothing in particular; Qur’anic phrases meant several things (i.e., too many): It’s well known that in the Qur’an there are no chronological dates, no names of historical figures. There’s no information about real events, no logically constructed argumentation, yet – conversely – there is a wealth of mutually

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Troubles with Islam exclusive, contradictory conclusions. They are full of double entendres, being in essence abstract and, on occasion, [a mere reflection of] totally unclear, stupid thought. That’s why the text can be easily manipulated to unearth arbitrary, incongruous interpretation. (Artykov, 17)

These random interpretations, dates, and conclusions mirrored the inefficient, social “aimlessness” of Asian teahouses. It is paradoxically here, in kindred oratory of the 1960s when there appeared to be scant room for concession between Islam and socialism that a reverse trend began. On very rare occasions, references to the actual “social benefit” of Islam could be found in Soviet texts from academics. Muslim clerics maintained that service to Allah “nurtures honesty and virtue in Soviet people. It strengthens their decisiveness and forces people to keep passions in check, for each person who is conquered by passion will think only of himself – and not about society.” Sometimes Russians concurred. By the 1970s tentative debate began over whether or not acceptable social theory could at least be discerned in early Islam – yet it was the motley, non-chronological, and illogical nature of the Qur’an that less forgiving Soviet columnists used (once again) to insist that progressive communism shared precious little with such a rootless text (Akhmedov, K., 24). Conservative researchers tried hard to prohibit debate; even in the 1980s one would sometimes read that Uzbek Muslims were convinced of the superior benefits of scientific socialism. They had no faith in tales of some “fantastic heaven” that were the product of a suspect morality (Akhmedov, A., 1982, 131–2). Yet for all of socialism’s oft-touted superiority, social studies of Uzbekistan after the fall of the Soviet Union lamented the lack of state-sponsored support for many of its citizens, especially for those on non index-linked pensions. The cruelty of capitalist enterprise was disparaged, as it would have been under the Soviets, but critique at this time gave the impression that socialism had never really been a successful alternative. It left an ugly legacy in the areas of material well-being and cultural potential, especially as desperate calls went across Uzbekistan for new teachers of music, drawing, and aesthetics in general (Khazratkulov, 49). It is only in recent studies of Central Asian society that European intrusions into the region have been described as attempts to improve what was already a perfectly functional, functioning, and pious community. The [modern] features of the Uzbek people were, to a large degree, fashioned by their entrance into the structure of the Russian Empire. Uzbek society is essentially, typically Eastern; it has strong and constant links with its environment, both near and far. The Russian State into which it entered had a different religion, a different structure and way of looking at the world, a different mentality. This was followed by the Soviet Union, an “exclusive” amalgamation, in the negative sense of the word. From the point of view of

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the economy and ideology, it was “exclusive” in its attempts to create a classless, single, atheistic society, some kind of supranational organism. (Sharapova, 53) Islamic society had been managing itself much better before any amelioration proffered by Moscow or St. Petersburg – and it seems entirely possible that both cities knew as much.

Doing the right thing: conflating ethics, empire and Islam The problems of improving an old, spiritual society always constituted a thorny issue for the proponents of a newer European system. Ethics were a large part of these problems, that is, debates over the fairest, truest realization of communal potential. Interestingly, most ethically driven studies of Uzbekistan were written in and after the 1960s, suggesting that the first and most pressing sense of “release” felt in the region after Stalin’s death was a correlation between philosophical expansiveness and rectitude. Begrudging admissions or quiet confessions sounded that Islam propounds universal rules of ethically commendable behavior, but most ideological compromises were tempered by provisos that such rules were not the creation of Islam alone, since they were discernible in both Indian and Christian faiths too (Shiravov, 19). This idealist heritage led other critics to assert that Islam merely persuades man of his inability to “know the real nature of things in the world, or to understand moral relations between them.” Here morality is not just borrowed; it is faulty, since the Muslim concept of “real” remains beyond consciousness and thus negates the “mighty possibilities of human reason.” Islam knows what it does not know; socialism is more confident bringing enlightenment to what Marx termed the “nightmares hanging above the rational minds of the living” (Abbasov, 9 and Tsavkilov 1967, 312). Ethical critique of Muhammad was sufficiently self-assured at this time to mock Muslim claims to be the progenitor of “simple moral norms like respect for one’s parents and the elderly, or the condemnation of spousal infidelity or drunkenness” (Tkhagapsoev 1969, 23). Unkind accusations that Islam’s “attractive, lofty phrases about honesty and justice, its condemnation of evil or propagation of goodness” were simply to dupe the populace would never vanish entirely. The apparently faultless endorsement of goodness amongst Muslims came under fire as behavior was directed toward posthumous results or consequences, not toward efficacy in the here and now (Gasanov, 16–17). Bearing in mind Marx’s dictum that the more people invest in God, the less there remains within them, the Soviets were keen by the 1970s to reemploy goodness as the “force of an essentially free will” once any emotional or affective impulse for God had been removed (Ashirov, 64). It could be transferred, for example, to other modern forms of ethical communality that advocated “universal joy and the active participation of all involved” whilst reinforcing a belief in self-governance and “lofty ideals on earth” (Tkhagapsoev 1976, 85).

34 Troubles with Islam One positive affect would (and should) overcome or outdo another, older, and pessimistic one because “religious feelings and a religious consciousness reflect the world inaccurately; they are directed towards illusory objects and are therefore devoid of objective content. They lead to erroneous conclusions” (Shaidaeva, 144–5). This thought about nothingness was developed more fully in the closing minutes of the Soviet Union: A believer’s individual experience depends on how reality’s events are reflected therein. A social, moral consciousness replicates their essence – their social significance. When the moral tenets of a believer’s social group begin to influence him (for example within his class, among colleagues, with family, or in a religious congregation) there can be no total coincidence between those tenets and his own personal experience. In his own experience the believer will find things that lead him to recognize collective, socially significant, non-religious values. This could be information that clarifies the coincidence of his [religious] interests with some social equivalent. They could be examples he knows well of morally exemplary behavior among nonbelievers. His own experience will also include that which inclines him to discover more subjective or religious “meanings” in life, too. He might have observed instances where public and private interest do not coincide, examples of immoral behavior by non-believers; information indicating that vice is not by any means always punished, or that virtue will not be victorious and so forth. Therefore the believer’s acquisition of views of the world in order to evaluate that world is based upon choices between subjectively and objectively significant values, between the collective and the individual, between religious and nonreligious evaluative tendencies. (Tagirova-Shaidaeva, 33–4) The influence of an ethical, existential phenomenology here is clear. The world is a consciousness, made by choices. This does not seem to coincide with the Marxist critique of Spinoza that doing is more important than being aware; society, in this case, a mental process, is one prompted by the body and ostensible reality. Maybe this strange socialist conclusion originates in other sidelined elements of Soviet philosophy, such as the work of Aleksandr Bogdanov, who grew slowly away from Lenin (and closer to Gor’kii on Capri) after an initial period of common labor and a shared worldview. Bogdanov, putting an idealistic spin on hardcore positivist forms of materialism, declared that one day the division of matter and spirit in Soviet thought would be replaced with an affective unicity or “monism” of sensations (Williams, 48–9). Opposed to Lenin’s position that the physical world exists independent of man’s perception of it, Bogdanov’s understanding of sensations became an important part of the later work he did in Proletkul’t, announcing that “proletarian art will [soon] be fundamentally poetry and perhaps music, too”; modern workers would live in a future “kingdom of rhythm and rhyme” (Sharapov, Iu., 64).

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Building upon Ernst Mach’s belief that the real world can only be grasped through immediate experience, which in turn is made of rhythmic interaction between physical and mental categories, Bogdanov held that these interactions were both unending and changed endlessly. “A causal principle of universal and exhaustive transformation reveals an even more basic monistic relationship of mind and matter. Mind or ‘my’ mental complexes are only the transformed energy accompanying changing brain states” (Boll, 57). Even today in modern social rhetoric, selfhood and thought processes are a core concept of religiously tinged, ethical policy-making. President Karimov says: In the realm of spiritual matters, our basic goal is to continue the virtuous projects begun in the first years of our independence: The resurrection and profound recognition of national values, the construction of a national idea and ideology, and the resurrection of a fitting place for our holy religion in the spiritual life of the people. This will all lead to “spiritually rich and morally unified, harmoniously developed selfhood, possessed of an independent and self-determining thought process, one founded upon the priceless heritage of our forefathers and universally human values.” This may sound like a banal vagary, but it is painfully true and equally unaware of its own verity (Karimov 2000, 17–18). It goes beyond Soviet social doctrine and the rhetoric of a progressive materialism; it actually makes (national, ostensible) reality into ineffable consciousness (Surapbergenov, 43).

Conclusion: a brief word on Soviet cultural romanticism and Christianity Much of what has been discussed in this chapter can be very profitably interwoven with what Zizek and Badiou have written about Saint Paul, a figure of strangely vital relevance to our analysis. Just as Marxism was worried by Islam’s bridging of the divine and earthly, so recent Marxist thought has turned to elements of Christianity in order to revive flagging leftist deliberation, exhausted after repeated drubbings by corporate capitalism. In this post-industrial, postmodernist world where there is no longer any difference or evident distance between the divine and the terrene, religion suddenly finds itself in the middle of an unexpected playing field, a place very close to earth. It is here that Slavoj Zizek starts to meddle with Christianity’s “perversity,” the fact that its social messenger – Christ as (material, corporeal) link between heaven and earth – is remarkably akin to the materialization of a Christian message in Marxism. Here one can observe the unity of what Zizek calls Paul’s “Leninist” and revolutionary drive, the romantic, ambitious commitment of his Damascus road experience, converging at the point where a spiritual truth invokes the stunning dimensions of felt, multifarious social existence that later socialism constantly denies (or refuses to see in) neighboring faiths like monotheistic Islam. The elements of Paul’s life that Badiou draws upon constitute an “unprecedented

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gesture of subtracting truth from the communitarian grasp, be it that of a people, a city, an empire, a territory, or a social class” (Badiou 2003b, 5). Such groups do little to encourage truth – they merely restrain it. A truth process must be subtracted from these groups; it is again bound to the negative in a manner that recalls the phenomenological bracketing-out of existent assumptions and theory that I found so useful in discussing of increasingly wordless Soviet animated cinema. One must slowly remove or break down the (ultimately dangerous) nature of radically “identitarian” politics like communism (or fascism) in order to reveal a Pauline actuality. Something vital resides in nothingness. This actuality is a gap beyond symbolization, even though the clear symbols and dialectical workings of Hegelian thought in Soviet policy or culture owe a great deal to the imagery of Christian resurrection, to “a Calvary of the Absolute.” For the Leninist Paul, a gap of grace is not in service of anything dialectical; it is positive without the need for any negation beforehand: “It is what comes upon us in the caesura of the law. It is pure and simple encounter.” [Therefore] the fundamental question is that of knowing precisely what it means for there to be a single God. What does the “mono” in “monotheism” mean? Here Paul confronts – but also renews the terms of – the formidable question of the One. His genuinely revolutionary conviction is that the sign of the One is the “for all,” or the “without exception.” That there is but a single God must be understood not as a philosophical speculation concerning substance or the supreme being, but on the basis of a structure of address. The One is that which inscribes no difference in the subjects to which it addresses itself. The One is only insofar as it is for all: such is the maxim of universality when it has its root in the event. Monotheism can be understood only by taking into consideration the whole of humanity. Unless addressed to all, the One crumbles and disappears. (Ibid., 66 and 76) In the thought of Paul we see what an event of early revolutionary conviction and fidelity thereto could manage on the edge of the Roman Empire. It is an ability to engage truth that lies within the Christian elements of Soviet culture, not only in remembrance of its early, Leninist bravado, but even in later decades of centralization and imperial establishment. This is because Soviet culture invoked the transformational power of Pauline experience or thought in order to become a system that promised evenhandedness – yet acted with less than democratic intent toward things it was never keen on recognizing. Within the Soviet system was the Pauline version of revolution that was never fully acted out, a Neo-Platonic version that marries monotheism and multiplicity; it sees no distinction between wholeness and (often-chaotic) disparity. Islam, observing no division between its own monotheism and secular, terrene well-being, brings a similar excess to bear in society, and was therefore maybe even more disconcerting to socialism than Paul’s ancient tale. Islam is ready to reconstitute society itself with daring thought, not just contemplation thereof.

Troubles with Islam

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In the less rhetorically driven, more romantic materialists of early Soviet culture like Bogdanov, we get a sense of what this Pauline potential might have looked like, a system that stepped aside from logocentric emphases and envisioned the interaction of body and spirit, self and other, individual, society, and state as non-linear in a way that somehow recalled the rhythmic workings and harmonies of music, or the cyclical, repetitious structures of poetry rather than the unidirectional, metonymical chains of logical disputation that make up prolix, realist depictions of ostensible existence. What, therefore, did the Soviets have to say about music in Central Asia?

3

Folk music and dance Plaintive sobbing or fiery virtuosity?

Everything here is a mélange. (Management at Tashkent’s Muqimiy Musical Theater on a positive, institutionalized combination of Western instruments with Uzbek music, 2003)

How does language relay noise? Central Asian song and music Within the monism of the One (in our case, communism, the “one” state aesthetic and so forth) are, willy-nilly, forms of plurality and not just duality; that diversity, however, does not negate singularity, since both states remain bound to one another. The plaintive, attenuated structures of Uzbekistan’s “alien-sounding” music played an important role in the promotion of plurality; many of the technical terms used by Central Asian performers come from broader milieus. Music itself appeared in Uzbekistan as an extension of pre-Islamic Iranian and Turkic performance practice; the Arabs invaded in AD 709 and came eventually to define a much shorter period of influence. Likewise Russians found that Uzbek song is distinguished by equally “exotic” rhythmic cycles, a poetic system of vowelled and unvowelled consonants (aruz/usul ) and the maqamat, a series of regulations on modal structures and melodic forms that although founded upon eighteenthcentury traditions may, in the view of some, even date from Sumerian principles circa 2000 BC or earlier. Resulting texts were often written and performed in esoteric Persian, thus managing to evade the initial intrusions of Russian culture. A word or two about these modes will help to explain how one traditional form of expression avoided the equal intransigence of a modern, imperial challenge. How much room was there for diversity or free movement in traditional musical forms, because maybe the obstinacy of custom could be an ideal defense against external, undesired influence? Several Western scholars have drawn very elaborate parallels in attempts to answer these complex questions. None of the maqamat can be transposed, since with the transposition their character changes, and they are known by different terms. A maqam [in the

Folk music and dance

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singular] is circumscribed and leaves much less room for free improvisation than ecclesiastical modes like Ionian, Dorian, and Phrygian, or Western major and minor scales which are distinguished only by their internal structure. The improvisation in a maqam can be likened to constructing a Greek temple, in which process the styles require specific proportions between columns, capitals, cornices, gables and friezes. The architect has little latitude for variation, and his inventiveness is restricted to detail work and general harmony; likewise, when a maqam is announced by the performer his audience knows what to expect and looks forward to familiar musical patterns rearranged, elaborated upon, and in the true sense “composed.” In the West, not “free improvisation” but “a theme with variations” would be spoken of in this connection. (Spector, 465. For more detailed and less florid definitions, see Zeranska-Kominek et al., 74 or Slobin, 9) Another reason music managed to stay alive, giving voice to both stability and change, was that it frequently sounded in domestic or spontaneously festive situations rather than the institutionalized settings of Western performance: weddings, births, and other family gatherings were reason enough to break into harmony or song. Singers would often work in pairs, trying to outperform a rival couple, instigating a form of musical dueling punctuated by witty repartee from comedic comperes. This was only one of several “oddities” in an Uzbek mélange of established structures and supposedly impulsive performance that perplexed Russians. Here again, the local specificity of Uzbek traditions, even today, is often bundled together with equally peculiar heritages from elsewhere in Central Asia: Unusual performance practices exist, like the Yomud Turkmens’ singing, which is frequently interrupted by sudden shouts, spasmodic inhaling with closure of the glottis, sighs and long sustained notes in a vibrato reminiscent of strings in a low register. The special term applied to this voice projection is alkïm ses (singing in a “hoarse voice”). Outcries and singing in a high register are found among the Kazakhs. In Merv, singing has been heard which did not sound human at all, but resembled some kind of primitive flute. The appoggiatura was taken with quite an unnatural position of the Adam’s apple and the vocal chords. Apparently only bakhshis [singers or narrators] with [occasionally] high tenor voices master this art, the technical term for which is sekdirmek (to make hop, skip). Other Turkmen vocal performance practices include jolotmak (low, inhuman singing on the syllable gu) and khemlemek (singing with the mouth closed). Tajik and Uzbek singing is throaty and nasal, characterized by high [i.e., wide?] tessitura. The vocal line is melismatic, embellished and microtonal. (Ibid., 448)

40


The seemingly repetitious, monotonous melodies of Uzbekistan had developed freely for over five hundred years in the courts of Khiva, Bukhara, and Kokand. The instruments used in settings majestic or modest, palatial or domestic, were the same and, just as musical terminology, they had their origins in antique craftsmanship: lutes, delicate flute-like instruments, and a variety of tambourines or small drums for the percussive diversity so important in Uzbek compositions. Private interpretation and rhythmic variety on the instruments was foregrounded and culturally validated. The long-necked dutar with no more than two strings can be played with glissando and a multitude of vibrato effects (qashish), accompanied by a series of loud finger-taps on the soundboard. Likewise, the ghijak (a spike fiddle today with four steel strings) “is played to produce trembling, whining sounds. Ensembles in Uzbekistan consist of tanbur or tar (plucked lutes), ghijak, chang (struck zither), nai (transverse flute) and doira (tambourine). [In addition to such exoticism,] Uzbek singing is [once again dismissed as] throaty and nasal” (The Musical Nomad ). These and other characteristics give us at least some idea of how local traditions in Central Asia were different – or constantly deviated – from anything recognizable to a Slavic audience. The ancient courts of Bukhara and Khorezm maintained high standards of “odd” performance; Russian ethnographers initially captured many of these antique styles and forms circa 1905; over subsequent Soviet decades the State Radio Orchestra of Uzbekistan became the center for audio preservation and performance. Even after the ensemble was dissolved in the 1950s, its members continued to work on collective farms, much to the delight of far-flung agricultural laborers. Custom acquired new meanings for new generations, especially because local preferences in language and intonation (i.e., intonatsiia) were observed and respected. The Soviet researchers who first helped to gather and promote these forms had been educated under the old regime; since their work was often characterized by objective reporting rather than by a politicized agenda, much of their research remained unpublished during Stalin’s term and saw the light of day only at a time of acceptable “debate” under Khrushchev. The grandest of these frequently researched and ancient sung forms, the shashmaqam, came from a long-established and restricted canon of songs and instrumental pieces, sometimes constituting six separate suites that could potentially last for hours. The tradition (which, to be honest, is known today largely from performance materials no older than the late nineteenth century) developed in Bukhara and other regions, eventually becoming too grand for one singer; consequently various parts would be distributed among various singers. Once played by professional musicians with mercantile or courtly sponsors, the form nonetheless managed to circumnavigate accusations of profiteering or negative ties to capital: “For Soviet Uzbekistan, the shashmaqam provided evidence of an Uzbek literary and musical great tradition” (Levin, 46). Whenever the Russians hijacked this august tradition for the purposes of local galas, the pathos of Soviet pageantry would add a rather clumsy aspect to the performance. The shashmaqam ensembles [of the USSR] represented in some sense a merging of a workers’ choir and a folk orchestra: between a half-dozen and a dozen singers, both male and female, sang in [what was taken to be] a


41

unison monophony that alternated with solo episodes, all backed up by a consort consisting usually of at least eight instruments and often included doublings. The result was that the limpid, filigree texture of the melody lines that is such an essential feature of the shashmaqam became lost in the ensembles’ bloated heterophony of voices and instruments. (Ibid., 49)

Ongoing problems with strange harmonies In the early post-Revolutionary studies of Uzbek musical culture, researchers encountered forms of expression outside of institutionalized or nationwide practice. Song was made, presented, and cherished at the micropolitical level. Investigators noted the associated prevalence of quotidian and lyric songs of modest genres. “In almost every home you come across the people’s favorite national instruments – the tanbur, dutar and nai. Uzbeks value highly their poets and writers, as well as their singers, especially those with a high voice” (Mironov 1929, 8). The same author two years later came to the conclusion that, oddly, this stable and domestic tradition had its roots in an unstable, nomadic heritage (though such traditions are much more part of Kazakh peoples, for example). Immobility and custom even interwove with a similarly peripatetic aesthetic resulting in “rhythmically rich series of melodic sketches.” Sung poems left ethnographers perplexed, since they could not really be classified as “folk,” being the work of individual (often courtly) performers (Mironov 1931a, 5 and 14). This seemingly innocuous conclusion hinted at future trouble; Russian researchers and critics would have difficulty incorporating a patently lyrical tradition into increasingly civic and modern Russian canons. Beside a correction of harmonic oddities or excessive lyricism, the third and equally thorny issue of how Asia might benefit from a correctional European influence is discernable in the following quote. Each and every nation, passing from their primitive culture to a higher level of development, also develops its forms of folk performance. All peoples of the West have undergone this process; the Russian people did so during the eighteenth century when they adopted the musical culture of the West without bidding farewell to their own folk or national forms of music. This amalgamation of Russian folk music with that of the West deprived the former, on one hand, of several unique and inherent features yet increased its level of technical expertise. Western influence also granted it new opportunities for further development. Any analogous course for the development of folk music today cannot be artificially delayed or substituted; we can observe identical procedures already underway in other areas of national and quotidian life. A community cannot linger forever at one and the same stage of its progress. It would be wrong to tell a man he should labor eternally with an ancient plow and not give him a tractor. It would be a falsehood to tell somebody it makes more sense to travel by bullock-cart than by wagon or car. Things are no different when it comes to musical development. (Ibid., 41)

42 Folk music and dance In addition, Uzbek music after 1917 adhered to different ways of tuning instruments and continued to display a lamentable deficiency of choral, orchestral, or massed performance. Russian audiences simply could not understand (or endure) Uzbeks’ purported unfamiliarity with unison singing (Levin, 21). This “undeveloped” tradition would not be coaxed or coerced into notions of proper evolution without extensive structural violence, for Asians obstinately embraced monophony. They adhered to the significance of a melodic line over Western harmony and polyphony, and thus would develop no further than “simple” heterophony, that is, modifications made to one and the same melody by several musicians, often by means of extra embellishment. “The more elaborate the embellishments, intervallic finesse, and complex rhythm of the melodic line, the more interesting and satisfying to the Oriental musician” (Spector, 477 and 480–1). The problems underlying similar generalizations would persist for decades; studies from after Stalin’s death continued to express a desperate hope of “making performers more professional” or increasing their awareness of Western techniques and repertoires (Kovbas, 59). Several aspects of Uzbek music were called woefully “retarded,” yet it was regularly dispatched to Moscow for loud and prolonged applause. It was presented at the All-Russian Agricultural Exhibition of 1923, the Festival of Uzbek Art, and All-Union Radio Festivals of 1937, not to mention various performances of the mid- to late 1930s as far away as Belarus and London (Alimbaeva and Akhmedov, 18). Thus the “fame of Uzbek folk performers traveled far beyond the boundaries of their native republic” (Alimbaeva, 18). Why the contradiction between disparagement and endorsement for so many years? It suggests a deeprooted, unsettling confusion in the way that Uzbek culture saw itself and was seen, both at home and in Russia. Some insight came in the 1950s, when cynical readers started suspecting that the more successful Uzbek songs were those blessed with Soviet enhancement or written from scratch employing a new aesthetic upon a traditional foundation. Two rubrics developed from the development of these “Soviet Uzbek songs.” The first was characterized as an emotional disposition emanating from the text in summarized, generalized forms. Both this emotional upsurge and various psychological experiences are transmitted laconically. The melodies of these songs are short and encompass one or two lines, maybe one stanza of a poetic text. The other type of song, outlined with equally vague terminology, conveyed feeling and psychosomatic states in more developed and explicit structures, employing melodies across one or two verses, rather than a single, seven- or eight-syllable line (Karomatov 1954, 8). However indistinct these definitions, one can see that rather than true innovation, it was repetition (of both genres and smaller musical elements therein) that defined what made some songs acceptable and others not. Repetition and rhythm will help us to define the logic behind a colonial development of progressive affirmation, to escape the purported


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“laconic” doldrums of pre-Soviet Uzbek folk songs criticized as the most “developmentally hindered” of all socialist arts in Central Asia (Vyzgo 1954, 32–3). En route from misery to affirmation, scholars tried to decide what was most in need of a fix; some felt that the “plaintive sobbing” of traditional delivery reflected (and therefore prolonged) the misery of past feudal times. This would have to be corrected with an alternative emotion, especially since Central Asian music is indeed based upon an unequivocal tradition of affect rather than any “scientific rationalism” (Spector, 483 and Levin, 40). It was suggested that (often fervent) breathing was a reasonable place to begin correctional work. Techniques of inhaling with the nose or throat, as opposed to the diaphragm, should be propagandized less often on the radio, and once a new generation had begun to adopt the superior practice, children’s choirs should perform more often at youthoriented concert halls or the homes of local people. Conferences would help to show that by a reliance upon the diaphragm, a singer would not only approximate the Russian manner of performance, but would in addition help to “synthesize national Uzbek and Russian cultures of musical arrangement” (Mullokandov, 12). Once agreed upon paths of action, researchers periodized the history of their interests and work in many monographs, thus bringing repetitive, generic order to a most troubling disorder of spontaneous and often miserable folk forms. The principal history of Uzbek music published in the Soviet Union serves as a suitable point of reference here. Its editors voiced explicitly their desire to create the first detailed study dedicated to advancements in (once-traditional) Uzbek music since the Revolution. Since the roots of those ancient traditions had frequently been domestic in nature and connected to various rural festivals, Soviet scholars were keen to reemphasize song and dance as born of agrarian rites, albeit not of spiritual import. Song should be intertwined with both repetitive rites and the “processes of labor” (Veksler 1966, 3 and 6). These Soviet scholars claimed that even the “pomp and brilliance of the courts” audible in maqams could be traced back to simple melodic motifs from working people. From such origins, academics decided to develop the history of Uzbek music as follows. Between the fourth and seventh centuries, harmonic and rhythmic aspects of songwriting had come to the fore, but it was between the ninth and nineteenth centuries, with an increasingly centralized and urban state, that repetitious elements appeared to mirror the growing consolidation of political territories. Songs began to make use of the ghazal, a monorhymed form of Persian love poetry, which typically concludes with a brief auto-reference from the poet. It was melancholy in nature, colored by musings on absent lovers and fleeting romance. Traditionally lines within the song were repeated and interrupted by musical passages allowing a listener to ponder the grief. Investigators were sufficiently troubled by these enduring tendencies toward depression and lyricism in the ghazal that they described its structural characteristics more than its content, drawing parallels between versification and a relative calm brought to the region under Timur by the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Scholars wrote of more recent musical history as the subversion of those calm yet obdurate politics by song. Music could both underwrite and undermine

44 Folk music and dance bigger, social harmonies. By the sixteenth century, for example, with the rule of “nomads,” Uzbeks developed various transportable or mobile forms of song, that is, texts that with comic interludes moved with a peripatetic society. It was here that songs had been turned to satirical use, making fun of feudal lords, rich landowners, and mullahs. As these singers moved in and around the settled forms and milieus of courtly life with impromptu performances in urban teahouses, folk and professional music began to influence one another. These simplified views of musical development served one purpose. They lay the theoretical foundation for explaining and substantiating cultural enlightenment in the nineteenth century, becoming a template for the way Russians wished to remember and interpret their own contributions to local custom. Attempting first to understand what following generations would then alter, nineteenth-century Russian musicians published Uzbek melodies on paper in the 1880s and 1890s. The last of these transcriptions prompted the observation that Uzbek music “sounds like” (i.e., is subsequent to) Glinka’s melodies in Ruslan and Ludmila or orientalist classics of the nineteenth century in the vein of Rimskii-Korsakov’s Sheherazade and Borodin’s Polovetsian Dances (Levin, 20). Capturing these samples as sheet music was culturally important because melodies are not normally recorded with notation in Central Asia; a very large vocabulary was used instead for the oral transmission of tradition, slowly explained to and remembered by apprentices. Once Asian harmonies were on paper and transcribed in recognizable forms, the first substantial intrusion of Slavic musical mores could begin: at the end of the 1870s the Tashkent Musical Society had been formed. Its 500 members and affiliates organized concerts in the city with excerpts from operas, chamber, and symphonic works of Russian and Western European composers. Simultaneously, the Russian Army Wind Instrument Ensemble also did much to promote Western music in the region. Praiseworthy though these efforts were, they remained the product of Tsarist civilization. The seeds of revolution would never find expression in chamber works and thus new songs of insurgency began to appear. Just as the satirical, roaming texts of earlier centuries, they mocked the Tsar, landowners, and seats of bureaucratic power. Because these ditties were vehicles of a European ideology, the influence of Slavic song could be heard in multiple loan words, a “march-like character and well-defined rhythm.” Plans to institute these simple, martial rhythms were aided by the creation of Central Asia’s first organization for higher musical education – the private Turkestan People’s Conservatory in 1918. There were 1,300 applicants for the first academic year, but only 500 students were accepted due to insufficient rooms in the dormitory. The Conservatory had two explicit aims: “To offer the masses the chance to play an instrument together with some compulsory elements of musical theory, which is the starting point for any musical groundwork.” The second goal was “to introduce all students to the principles and forms of music, because our undergraduates are representatives of the people. We will give them a chance to perform those works which were inaccessible until recently” (Vyzgo 1973a, 103).


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The Conservatory helped to crystallize various efforts in the city by amateur groups created in the recent past from local Russians, Uzbek students, and even musically gifted prisoners stranded in Asia after the First World War. This motley crew unsuspectingly became a symbol of possibly harmonious cultural interaction after the hostilities. Multiplicity mirrored the egalitarian hopes of recent, Revolutionary songs in Uzbek that had employed shorter, improvised forms close to Russian chastushki and reflected the rapidly changing events of an incipient nation. They became “realistic chronicles of life and the people’s struggles,” even if some initial songs, straddled between two languages, also reflected two incompatible historical periods. They simply kept the old, pre-Revolutionary choruses and changed the subject matter of a few verses (Karomatov 1954, 36). Variety, however, as earlier Russian histories of Uzbek song had already chronicled, does not necessarily assist centralization and so began the slightly more invasive, restricting process of “cultural enlightenment” (kul’turnoe prosveshchenie) designed by Lunacharskii to promote forms of amateur performance or enterprise especially through the state’s theaters, “Houses,” and “Palaces” of artistic activity (Doma narodnogo tvorchestva and Doma khudozhestvennoi samodeiatel’nosti). Over and above the desire to centralize and homogenize national art forms for these houses and palaces, the very definition of “national” was difficult – as another reflection of the artificial borders and boundaries drawn up to make the country of Uzbekistan in the first place.

Bringing order to structure, tradition, and geography During the 1930s, a series of Philharmonia were established to propagate ballet, opera, and symphonic music; a resulting State Philharmonic was created in 1936. These organizations (slowly) squeezed all forms of private musical enterprise and performance out of Tashkent and other cities, since they offered booking and transportation services without which it was impossible for performers to operate professionally. Furthering the consolidation of state structures, the Uzbekistan Composers’ Union was formed in 1939; wartime, however, immediately scattered its members across the map, as singers and musicians were sent out to perform for the troops. Soldiers both destined for and already at the front were introduced to new songs and offered help in memorizing them . . . [The recently arrived singers] were part of a dear, happy and peaceful past. At the same time they embodied the future, strengthening soldiers’ will and their determination to battle for victory. (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1972, 276 and 278) Fifteen performing brigades gave more than 4,000 concerts during the war, the most famous of which were managed by choreographer Tamara Khanum, who was made a People’s Artiste of the USSR in 1956 as a result. Song and dance was performed for drafted Uzbek, Uighur, Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Tajik, Azerbaijani,

46 Folk music and dance Armenian, and Mongol troops. One-day festivals dedicated to Soviet Central Asian culture continued during the war with equal tenacity in Frunze (1942) and Tashkent (1944); somehow over 1,000 participants were free to attend and perform in both events. After the end of hostilities, the shift from wartime jollity to the seriousness of reconstruction was rather pronounced, and there arose the very difficult issue of how Uzbek lyrics could be designed for a realist agenda whilst “vibrantly emphasizing multiple or multifaceted manifestations of life” (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1973a, 12). As new themes of construction became more prevalent, they were once again often strapped onto older, familiar, and popular melodies while composers made sure that the rhythm, “character and emotional tone” of the new text matched the older music. Novel marches and anthems dedicated to rebuilding Uzbekistan enjoyed the greatest official endorsement, though lighter (and more popular) texts were praised for their “sincerity, a general light tone and a national specificity” while employing “national melodies and rhythms together with orchestral or harmonic elements of modern light entertainment.” Variety and singularity went hand in hand. Speechwriters insisted that some of the most celebrated and vigorously sanctioned songs were made from the poetry of Hamza (1889–1929), the murdered revolutionary poet who spoke, “just like Maiakovskii,” of “battling for the victory of the new social order, a merciless struggle against the enemies of Revolution, bourgeois nationalists, [any remaining] elements of feudalism and the landed rich” (Sultanov, I. 1984, 62). In instances where Uzbek songwriters and lyricists did not come running to meet the Soviets, researchers would complain that their peculiar harmony, rhythm, and formal characteristics could not be “explained from the position of traditional music theory” (Alibakieva, 15). Non-Russian traditions were only allowed to persist in history books, not the present, and as with the shashmaqam, eulogies of tolerance were lavished upon music of prior centuries that had led to the narrower, more Russocentric emphases of superior contemporary songwriting: The shashmaqam belongs to all of mankind . . . A uniqueness of artistic thought within it gave rise to particular, singular laws of development. A couple of fundamental principles in its formal organization – equivalence and contrast – emerged from the very essence of an epoch, from an Eastern medieval aesthetic based upon traditionalism. (Kokulianskaia, 24–5) In praising art forms from before Soviet political geography with the rhetoric of acceptance, that is, in paeans to the way in which the shashmaqam was “intimately connected with the historical development of national music” (Matiakubov, O., 22–3), there was a risk of implying that these cultural entities were common, in fact, to Arabian, Tajik, and Uzbek canons because they shared common poetic forms and genres for a very long time (Nizamov, A., 18). Past worries over the pan-Turkism of Jadid reformers came back to haunt the planners


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of cultural enterprise. The emotionally centrifugal, inclusive movement of the shashmaqam was stopped at the Uzbek border. It was allowed to represent connections not between Asian traditions, but between itself and Russia. The theories of “bourgeois music scholars” that said harmonic systems of Asia and Russia could not be integrated were discarded: “The harmonies of Uzbek music are to a large degree similar to those of other peoples, including the harmonies of Russia” (Kon, 98). These contrived or constrained linkages led to forms like the anomalous hybrid of “the Uzbek gypsy” romance, where both Slavic and Central Asian intonations came together to “organically interweave, both supplementing and enriching the culture of our republic” (Karimova, Z. 1981, 281–2). It is interesting that romances were seen as a potentially fruitful grafting of European and Asian traditions, given the intense, longstanding lyricism of Uzbek verse. As late as the mid-1970s, for example, Russian scholars were distressed by the shortage of effectively “civic lyric” songs. There seemed no way to drag the private into the public without grim effort: “Amorous lyrics, both petty and quotidian” persisted over “serious social themes,” leading to cheerless admissions that “there is still a great deal of work to be done in this area” (Vakhidov, S. 1976, 132). Since that work was never really finished, the Uzbek romance stayed around after 1991 as a successful and perhaps logical crossbreed because it displayed, like ancient Asian song, “the movement from a restrained, narrative-driven tone to vivid self-expression” within time-honored forms of monody (Fomenko, 2). Purer Uzbek traditions, whatever was implied by such a vague modifier, held on in rural areas all the way to perestroika, thus (in the eyes of some critics) mirroring the stubborn insistence of their sung melodies that ran together with the rhythms of percussive instruments (Solomonova 1978, 5). With their “numerous varied repetitions or formulae, expressed in the rhythmic prescriptions of a ‘musico-poetic line,’ ” they embodied “an expressive type of meditation . . . where one is plunged into a state of self-absorbed, lyrical experience” (Sultanova, R., 24–5). Only in recent scholarship have commentators been able to say freely that local (i.e., non-urban) associations and relationships in song could revive these older styles and do so free from state meddling (Tashtemirov, 3). Working quietly in the background to prepare the first post-Soviet steps toward cultural linkages outside of a restrictive cartography, rural bakhshi were maintaining a wholly traditional art of restrained improvisation, the harmonious synchrony of word and melody.

Choosing and improving the correct musical instruments The tools associated with these nomadic performances were traced to the encyclopedist Abu Nasr Farabi (870–950) who had once played the earliest wind and stringed instruments (like the nai and tanbur); his “characteristic melodies were drawn out with slowly extended notes, then enriched by a delicate alternation of nuances” (Karomatov 1972, 68). These nuances, claimed Soviet scholars,

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were sometimes “not distinguished by any particular artistic values but simply created a necessary mood,” especially if the music was used in a religious context, for example during lunar or solar eclipses “when religious fanatics tried with all their effort and means to heighten the effect of their prayers or worries” (ibid., 156–7). A better art form was needed to redress spiritual misery. Embracing joy rather than fear, tiny ensembles of a karnai (long trumpet), surnai (a form of oboe), and nagora (kettle drum) had traditionally performed street music in the past, especially on wedding days. Improvised music would accompany a married couple through familiar streets and neighboring districts, stopping at important places en route to dance for the public. Music would be played “impulsively” for the entire wedding procession, as variations on a single melody. Performing on occasion from the rooftops, artistes would also be involved in a peculiar mock-ceremony during which acquaintances and relatives – to the sounds of music – would be jokingly shaken in order to raise a given amount of money and fund the recital. Other forms of outdoor, unprompted celebration included incidental music played for tightrope walkers. Puppet shows were likewise presented to danceoriented melodies and “laconic, couplet-based songs” (ibid., 183). Both types of performance required that music be played to mark the beginning and end of an act, as well as punctuate traditionally demarcated episodes in between. None of these musical forms were given to large ensembles; the oldest combination in Uzbek traditions is in fact composed of a mere tanbur and doira. As repertoires changed and grew in stateliness under the Soviets, major reorganization was therefore called for in order to make this smallness big. Suggestions emerged that even the shape, pick-ups, and resonance of several folk instruments ought to be changed and made more precise, in order that they harmonize when incorporated into new, larger ensembles. The first experiments along these lines led to the creation in 1927 of the Uzbek Radio Orchestra, noted earlier in this chapter for its role in musical preservation. Remade, improved, and sometimes radically altered instruments appeared in the search for “new expressive possibilities” (Vyzgo and Petrosiants, 93). Promptly blessed with the prefix “State” in the springtime of 1927, the orchestra embarked upon a four-month tour around the USSR and performed in 24 different cities (Iuldashbaeva, 84). Newspapers responded positively in many regions: Leningradskaia Pravda said, “One would be justified in calling this performance by Uzbek artists a great event. Full use was made of sources that could help to vivify our art and satisfy its needs for both new forms and content” (11 May, 1927). In the laboratory of A. I. Petrosiants scientific work was conducted on several instruments with the expert advice of Uzbek musicians. They were “corrected” in order to express a full chromatic scale, thus “becoming significantly better than their predecessors when it comes to a powerful resonance.” This and related experiments networked with the subsequent Sheet Music Orchestra (Notnyi orkestr) of N. N. Mironov, itself connected to the State Philharmonia’s Ethnographic Orchestra. The 98 musicians of the Notnyi Orkestr learned how to read notation for the first time and started rehearsing with a pianist in their midst.


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Twenty-eight people were chosen in 1938 for the final ensemble, praised by the government for sidestepping any racial pigeonholing. Little by little, wholly traditional repertoires came to an end, and yet according to a peculiar, reverse logic, the orchestra opted ever more to play new works without the Western instruments that had been thrown into their midst: trumpets, trombones, and French horns, for example. By the mid-1940s, these foreign objects had been rooted out. The “most important thing of all” in all ensuing endeavors would be the creation of a new, vividly national artistic collective. A most unique Uzbek sound was needed, one that would take into consideration the finer expertise of both ensemble and orchestral performance, the complete, varied plenitude of antique instruments, and [established] principles for comprising nationwide, traditional Uzbek music ensembles. (Ibid., 244) The publicity surrounding national and “unsophisticated” art forms created high hopes, thanks to the 1932 creation of an Arts Study Institute in Tashkent and Samarkand’s Institute of Music and Choreography. Scholars working along its corridors hoped to explain how Uzbek folk compositions might move beyond monody. This could include polymetric forms in traditional music, “elements” of polyphony in double notes played upon the dutar and dombra (unfretted lute), maybe chords played on the “empty” strings of a tanbur or rubab (fretted lute), the widening of pick-ups, an amplification of string sections, additional lower registers, and so forth. The Notnyi orkestr had helped to put some of these theories into practice, especially on their tour of 1939–1940, when many cities and towns of Uzbekistan were treated to a mélange of Western European classical music, Soviet composers, Russian, Ukrainian, and Uzbek folk repertoires. The aforementioned ensemble of Tamara Khanum, formed in 1936, took a more conventional approach. The company was designed to popularize Uzbek folklore, music, and dance at a time when Uzbek artists were able to release a decent number of recordings (1935–1937). These happier emphases upon indigenous forms of expression would not last forever, though, as was underscored on April 8, 1951 by the post-war government declaration “Concerning the Current State of the Musical Arts in the Uzbek Soviet Republic and Measures for Their Further Development.” The need to bring (i.e., insistently promote) polyphony to the masses was stressed anew, whilst criticism was expressed of any “attempts at idealizing archaic forms or the canonization of monody” alone. The Uzbek people should overcome their preference for things “legendary or fantastic,” whilst returning performances to the topics and venues of daily life. Responding to these new dictates, the State Radio Orchestra and the Uzbek Philharmonia both developed active ensembles of Westernized, “reconstructed” folk instruments and by 1948 the Tashkent Conservatory had opened a faculty dedicated to indigenous music. Folk music was developed no longer along exclusively ethnographic lines but with Western harmonic structures and in more orchestral forms. Thus from the 1950s a peculiar process of replacement began

50 Folk music and dance (again): an oboe would now replace a surnai (again), a flute instead of a nai, together with the inclusion of clarinets and western forms of percussion: kettledrums, drums, cymbals, and triangles (Vyzgo 1973b, 361 and 366). Even by the 1960s and 1970s, some experts were still wondering publicly if Slavic and Uzbek traditions could be successfully stitched together; Russian music simply could not match a “constantly increasing melodic tension, moving in leaps” up and down (Akbarov and Karamatov, 25). The connection of Uzbek harmonies to natural, seasonal, or cosmic changes seemed so distant from modern experience or familiar landscapes (Veksler 1968, 5 and Zakrzhevskaia, 16) and yet the rhetoric of unification continued in most places, claiming that inclusion into the empire had allowed Uzbeks to “affirm” their national differences (Veksler 1966, 5). That inclusion would now help to enact the “logical, developmental laws of the nation’s spiritual riches,” merging multiple local, or regional styles into something nationally specific (Karomatov 1964, 8). Deep in the heart of alleged monody, insisted experts, sat the supposed processes of change and renewal, the “causes of development.” They were repetition, variability (“the equivalence of order and budding forms of germination”), reprises, and combination. In the creation of forms, thematic renewal has a great significance. This is the degree to which an element is varied and – in its extreme expression – encompassed by the concept of contrast. It is one of the most powerful impulses in musical development. Similar forces of diversity had to be encouraged within monody in order for imperial culture to operate (Akhundzhanova, 14 and 20), but they unnerved that same empire, having the potential to instigate unmanageable or opposite states. Soviet writers frequently heard that the leap from monody to polyphony would require “a reconstruction [ perestroika] of one’s thoughts,” but the degree to which this redoing could be recognized or fulfilled was far from limitless (Koral’skii, 3). Squeamish theorizing thus continued. After Soviet archaeologists unearthed wall paintings and terracotta figures representing musicians and dancers from the first few centuries AD in Central Asia, they noticed depictions of instruments that seemed reminiscent of lutes, harps, and flutes (Karomatov 1971, 11). Laying claim thus to the interpretation of regional musical genesis, researchers then hoped to guide local aptitude to “fulfillment or completion, without losing any sense of tradition.” The process would come into being dialectically, as proof of bonds between music and the people (Akhmedov, M. 1982, 28). It would let Uzbek music blossom in lyrical, tragic, philosophical, and psychological registers, “bedecked with romantic tones” (Chakhvadze, 24). In this kind of rhetorical insistence that continued even into the 1980s, a tension between yearning and restraint was increasingly clear, the romanticism that never left Soviet culture, being neither wholly endorsed nor totally enacted. The “psychology and philosophical interpretation of reality” remained far from apparent or commonly agreed upon in Central Asian culture. One monograph of


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1985, for example, noted that in traditional Uzbek dance music a “dictionary” of gestures was used to express notions “devoid of subject or theme,” since they could not be made contextually specific. Meaning kept slipping away even if Uzbek culture had “three [unambiguous] muses: poetry, music and dance. They are inseparable” (Salimova, L., 12–13). In the middle of three things sat nothing in particular; dance and its expression of indistinct subjectivity deserve our scrutiny, given choreography’s status among Russians as an art form embodying something “that can [perhaps] be expressed in the first person singular.” Issues of indistinct lyricism would emerge once again, because in addition to lacking big choirs and orchestras, Uzbeks also had no traditionally massed choreography. The following section will question the Soviet conviction that Asians’ lyrical traditions meant a dearth of “profound philosophy” or a “two-dimensional depiction of reality” in dance.

Traditional dance: embodying what needed to be said Uzbek dance enjoyed an international reputation very early in its history; records exist of Samarkand dancers performing in Chinese courts as early as the fourth century. The adoption of Islam, however, meant that (now veiled) women would retreat from public performance, henceforth dancing only for one another in private (with the exception of closed, courtly shows); dancing boys, dressed and “acting” as women took their place. In either situation, dances were customarily interwoven with seasonal cycles and festivities. Physical movements were strictly defined by courtly constraints or the clichés of female imitation: Uzbek dance is characterized by intricate arm and hand movements, a variety of spins and turns, backbends, shoulder isolations and animated facial expressions. Often portions of the dance are performed while kneeling on the floor. Footwork is relatively simple; high leaps and pelvic rotations are absent from the dance. (Gray, L.V.) The very emotive Soviet definition of key regional variations and corresponding styles bears quoting in full. The essence of a heartfelt, lucid Ferghana style is its delicate footwork: movements that are occasionally joyful, sometimes slow and fluid. The Ferghana style, at times happy and vibrant, muted and thoughtful, depends equally on the position of the torso, [held still] without the slightest movement. The body leans almost imperceptibly forward, followed by a circular movement of the wrists that is frequently, seemingly unfinished, weaving the complex design of airy lace. The fundamental posture in a Bukhara dance is a small, sprung curtsey; a tapping series of sounds; a proud, erect stance, with the head tipped back

52 Folk music and dance slightly; the decorative engraving movements of the hands; part of the body makes a tiny, quivering movement forward; a large number of complicated, circular turns with a simultaneous turning of the torso. All of this creates the unique manner of the Bukhara dance – grand and full of deep, constrained passion. A headlong rushing movement plus a modest jump; straightened shoulders, a somewhat sharp, accentuated movement of the entire torso modulating a play of the muscles; virtuoso, fiery movements of the wrists – all this constitutes the method of Khorezm dance, ardent and full of fire. In the Bukhara region women often dance with decorated bracelets on their ankles and arms, together with a corsage covered in the tiniest of bells that jingle during the performance. In Khorezm, dancers click to the beat of the dance with stone castanets. In Samarkand they beat out the rhythm with metal thimbles on tiny porcelain saucers; in some valleys they dance to a rhythm marked by decorated wooden spoons. This system of ornate accompaniment has given birth to a multitude of original movements, figures and poses. (Avdeeva 1960, 20–1 and 23) Thus within Soviet cultural rhetoric three regional styles are reified: Ferghana, Bukhara and Khorezm, defined further a few years later as follows: The most lyrical of the three schools, Ferghana dance, is characterized by intricate wrist-circles, undulations of the hands and arms, [amplified by] a flexibility of the spine and a shy, yet playful demeanor. Khorezm dances often feature a trembling across the hands and torso, frequent inclination of the head [to one side or the other] and comic elements . . . Dances from Bukhara include a confident posture and the juxtaposition of soft, rolling movements with crisp, staccato gestures. The Bukhara style is the most acrobatic of the three, requiring fast spins, sudden drops to the floor, and deep backbends. In all three schools, the dancer may sometimes don wrist-bells, underwriting movement with percussive elements. Traditionally, both folk and professional forms of Uzbek dance have been solo in nature. Group dances are virtually non-existent. (Avdeeva 1965) Initially, in order to prompt a move from “solo” to “group,” the Soviets had created an Ethnographic Dance Society in 1926 to manage concert bookings; a more institutionalized dance company ensued a decade later. The intervening period was peppered with novel endeavors, including a series of classes taught at the Tashkent Choreographic Institute by Isadora Duncan’s daughter. Perhaps the crowning achievement of all these cultural efforts came after a considerable wait in 1957 with the creation of Bakhor (“Springtime”), a dance company that gained great international renown. It was at this time that monographs also began to appear with frequency in the Soviet publishing world, helping their readers


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understand the regional techniques and “the mechanics of movement . . . which reveal the character of that movement, the quintessence of a performance” (Andizhanskii tanets, 20). This was an ineffable system mapped onto certain parts of the body (in Ferghana dance the hands, torso, shoulders and head); those bodily parts then “spoke” (Narodnye tantsy Uzbekistana, 15). These speaking movements and adornments of “ineffable charm” (Shcherbakova) were first categorized and defined rhythmically, in the hope that Soviet teachers could distinguish, develop, and define their frequency or intervals – and thus their most “typical” features, also (Nedialkova, 155). Changes in these rhythms would be needed to some degree, because to leave them untouched by innovation would condemn ancient art forms to the status of mere “orientalism” (Avdeeva 1965, 16–17). Modernization was begun by incorporating dances into theater or circus performances as a strict, qualitative, and tripartite classification for their melodies was drawn up: tunes accompanying beat-driven, humorous dances; ceremonial melodies with a clear rhythm used for male dances (or the “fiery” Khorezm numbers); and, third, “lyrical, protracted” melodies for so-called slow dances (Karomatov 1972, 197). The deep-seated lyricism of these slow dances was ostensibly reflected in the “Eastern plasticity” of the dancer’s body and a “constant, ‘vital’ development of the material through periodic returns to cadences in the original phrasing.” Eastern lyricism undermined the static, rigid body and did so through rhythmically vital repetitions. These wheeling, cyclical forms gave dance music of this type a “pensive, dreamy, philosophically generalized narrative.” Such was the power of Uzbek dance and its “singing gestures” (ibid., 238). The thoughtful, often sad and “lingering, woeful” melodies were those that “expressed the deep feelings, thoughts and dreams of people from various intellectual levels, occupations and interests.” Repetitious, subjective melancholy was a formidable social fabric, too; it linked the self and the social body of community in one rhythmic practice.

Conclusion: insistent attempts to resemanticize persistent dance In essence, then, Asian dance was viewed as an affective, persistent series of movements back and forth between what Russian commentators called textual ornament (movements and gestures) and the traditional composition of a dance (the set organization and ordering of those ornaments). The meaning of repetition for Soviet choreographers only took on a more “useful” aspect when dances were created for rural communities, since it was so hard to make old dances mean anything specific. The choreographer Elizaveta Petrosova created some folk dances for the Karakalpak peoples (on the southern Aral Sea) between 1956 and 1959 that were “joyfully accepted” by the masses. Although reflecting (i.e., supposedly originating in) the movements of nature or animals, these “new traditional” performances were promoted in terms of the cadences of local work processes, of laborious human “movements, organized by rhythm in a consistent series” (Petrosova, 4 and 7).

54 Folk music and dance When, therefore, the government dispatched our Uzbek dancers to the frontlines after 1941, the emotive and micropolitical significances of dance (thoughts of lost, absent lovers) were described or designated as something much more useful. Words were used to try and make wordless dances adopt different significances. Dancers performed along the front constantly in order to enrich their repertoire with the heroism of the Great Patriotic War, summoning a sense of raging hatred for the German Fascist invaders amid both our warriors at the front and workers in the rear. They must give rise to fearlessness, courage and love for our Motherland. (Rakhimova, G., 92) The pathos running through such rhetoric – not surprisingly – later hoped to express itself in modern, Russianized forms of Asian mass dance, in “explosions of the spirit, hungering for full freedom” (Karimova, R. 1983, 17). Overtly supporting pleas for these grander genres, Soviet historians blamed Sunni Islam for their endless problems with a lack of massed custom; readers were informed that desires to dance in large groups had been a part of pre-Islamic faiths and did persist, albeit in secret places. Only socialism, it was claimed, would unearth and foster the genuine, suppressed desire of millions (Karimova, R. 1975, 17). When investigators used similar oratory to homogenize the “essential characteristics” of the Uzbek people, the passion of local traditions was sadly turned into something rather tepid and gender-specific: Uzbek women, one learned from centuries of watching them dance, are the embodiment of “shyness, common sense, wisdom, pride, a tender, gentle coquettishness and a lovely slyness” (Karimova, R. 1979, 129). When these features were incorporated after the Second World War into more civically minded dances for Tashkent’s concert halls, the Soviets were keen to stress that no traditions had been manipulated or forced into uncomfortable modern molds. These syntheses [of East and West] are not a counterfeit assortment of disconnected details, but a dialectic whole, subject to the laws of [aesthetic] development. Folk dance will therefore die, but it will also flourish, and moreover even aid the development of aesthetic taste and the demands of viewers. (Salimova, S. 1986, 14–15) Some of these arguments over ownership of the most synthetic and truly multifarious art forms recall acrimonious debates over metamorphosing art forms in and around Russian music hall traditions (Litvinova, 13). Nonetheless, for all the claims of Moscow, domestic and intensely non-professional versions of ancient choreography endured, irrespective of what the Soviets said. A study of Samarkand dance from 1992 noted the diverse objects employed in locked households over prior decades to create the rhythms that dance needed (and concert halls stole): metal trays, kettle lids, washtubs, and buckets (Begimov, 11).


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Things could not possibly be more amateurish or more profoundly involved in the world, grabbing whatever came to hand and putting it to (no particular or predetermined) use. So what happened when things were founded in wholly professional realms from the outset and had no claims to (or need for) native origins? What did Russians say about their own musical art forms, about the Western classical music, ballet and opera they brought to Uzbekistan, especially after the Second World War, when Tashkent witnessed a vast influx of classically trained musicians from evacuated Russian orchestras, such as the Leningrad Conservatory? Within a year of the war ending, for example, Russian writers announced with pride that Central Asian opera was finally coming into its own, albeit with an occasional faux pas by non-Europeans that prompted a rhetoric of interminable effort: In search of an artistic manner, Uzbek opera performers will have – untiringly – to raise the level of their cultural endeavors in terms of both music and stagecraft. Study of the world’s operatic classics will enrich them with new expressive means. Boundless artistic horizons will open up before them. (Glikman, 58) How boundless?

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Introducing Russian classical music to Central Asia

Rachmaninov is an absolute gem. You have to take care of masterpieces, no matter what nationality they come from . . . I’m interested in the work of art, not the nationality . . . We’d get nowhere without Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Chopin, Britten . . . They’re gems of universal value, for all mankind. (Rustam Abdullaev, President of the Uzbek Composers Union in 2003)

Sketching out several Western genres on a carte blanche One of the most important names in the development of Russian classical music throughout Uzbekistan was that of Viktor Uspenskii (1879–1949 [cf. Vyzgo 1950, 5]). This Russian musicologist taught Western principles to Uzbek students from the 1920s onward, in particular musical theory, harmony, and polyphonic orchestration over a period that witnessed the establishment of a Music Conservatory in Tashkent, together with a Russian Opera Theater and Choral Ensemble; enhancing this developmental process with a “reciprocal” gesture, Uzbek composers would begin traveling to study in Moscow, Leningrad, and Kiev (Spector, 478–9). Instigating the colonial spirit of these travels, Uspenskii had grown up in Central Asia but was a graduate of the Saint Petersburg Conservatory and early advocate of the idea that Russians musicians “ought to learn Uzbek music” (Levin, 13). So if some figures, such as Uspenskii, showed considerable interest in (and respect for) things Asian, what of the intrusion of wholly alien, European musical forms? The great shift toward Western music took place in 1915, perhaps, with the creation of the Tashkent Military Orchestra. It had 45 musicians, several of whom – as noted – were war prisoners; after the Armistice was signed, an inclusion of Russian soldiers increased the number to 75. Within two years a parallel Muslim Youth Dramatic Troupe was created (Alimbaeva, 85) and the Soviets established a custom of cut-price (or free) concert tickets to advertise national music and songs by Hamza, mixed with symphonic works, guest appearances by the stars of Russian opera, together with recitals by professors from the new conservatoires on folk instruments and violins, pianos, or other “imports.”

Introducing Russian classical music

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This was all part of the democratization of concerts. Art left the concert halls and went out onto the street, into workers’ clubs, onto the squares and into the trenches. It started making an effort in the interests of the working people. (Vyzgo 1972b, 77) The opening of the Turkestan Conservatory in 1918 was marked with Dargomyzhskii’s decidedly non-Uzbek opera of 1856, Rusalka, a “serious” production made possible by “a significant improvement in material and technical conditions” since the Revolution. The sizeable Coliseum theater was nationalized in the same year; performers started receiving a state salary and the theater underwent many structural improvements. Gradually these cultural enhancements would include the first Western operas and symphonies written on the basis of Uzbek music, leading one day to the creation of the bilingual Alisher Navoiy State Theater of Opera and Ballet in 1948 (Vyzgo 1973c, 134). Russian composers had shown the way forward: Uspenskii, Reinhold Glière, and Aleksei Kozlovskii. They helped to remove the major technical obstacles to westernizing music in the region, beginning with tuning techniques and the widespread acceptance of notation. Heterophony, polyphony, harmony, choirs, and orchestras could hopefully all be introduced (Spector, 483). Kozlovskii’s arrival in Uzbekistan had been less than voluntary. He was a victim of Stalin’s purges and, as a once-noble Russian, sentenced to three years’ exile in Tashkent. The first symphonic work he wrote in Uzbekistan was called Lola (“Tulip”) and concerns a local flower festival: Kozlovsky’s Lola is a symphonic tone poem in three movements that paints three different scenes from the tulip festival. While Kozlovsky is not immune from [some of ] the orientalist clichés of his famous nineteenth-century Russian predecessors (for example, the high, tremulous drones in the opening of both Lola’s first and second movements could have stepped right off the pages of Borodin’s On the Steppes of Central Asia), Lola largely transcends those clichés. Kozlovsky shies away from the banner techniques of such Russian orientalist favorites as Rimsky’s Sheherazade, Borodin’s Polovetsian Dances, and the Lezginka from Glinka’s Ruslan and Ludmila: fetching modal harmonizations, quirky rhythms, and furiously paced dance numbers with exotic scales. In their place he offers a kind of true-to-life musical impressionism based on his own direct and protracted experience of the music he portrays. Rather than citing Uzbek melodies and rhythms with the aim of reproducing the musical surface of his sources, Kozlovsky draws on orchestral timbre and coloration to convey a more abstract sense of the atmosphere of a place and the feeling of the events that occurred there. (Levin, 20) Musical dramas appeared from the 1930s onward (Farkhad i Shirin; Gul’sara), together with more operas (Buran; Laili and Majnun) and symphonies written on

58 Introducing Russian classical music the basis of “abstractions” (i.e., orchestral timbre?) from Uzbek music. It was, however, during the Second World War that contact with European Russian music increased appreciably when the Leningrad Conservatory faculty was evacuated to Tashkent. Since concert halls in Tashkent could operate safely during the war, free or subsidized concerts promoted a wide range of Slavic composers: Glinka, Dargomyzhskii, Borodin, Rubinshtein, Glazunov, Rachmaninov, and Taneev, together with the Western canon of Bach, Mozart, Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, Liszt, Brahms, Frank, Duparc, Debussy, and Ravel (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1972, 283). The expansion and influence of symphonic music was in fact so significant after 1945 that some commentators thought it impossible for contemporary musicians to resist the temptation of penning a work or two in the genre, especially because its parameters were expanding all the time in kindred forms: suites, overtures, and poems. Sage Russian and neophyte Uzbek composers worked along “unified lines of development, in close contact with one another” (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1973d, 239–40). Ballet also appeared at this time, since Uzbekistan previously had no “professional” composers in the field. The first ballet written and performed for local theater was Pakhta (“Cotton”) in 1933 by Nikolai Roslavets (1880–1944). The score has not survived to the present day, but we do (unhappily) have records of Soviet criticism and accusations of formalism (Karimova, I., 1972, 198), that is, of patterns and structure overshadowing ideological content. Viewers of the time likewise recall an absence of melody, and it was in fact performed only twice – never to reappear. As more ballet schools opened in Tashkent in 1936 with the Conservatory, work began on a second attempt – Shakhida – performed in 1938 to a libretto by Ia. Iusupov and A. Bender. Even though it concerned the armed struggle with anti-Soviet forces in the incipient Uzbek republic, it too came under fire, this time for “a surplus of events, an overabundance of minor details and confused scenes that are hard for the viewer to understand” (ibid., 199 and Karimova, I. 1973, 196 and 214). Simplification was evidently a more desirable goal. The ballet Guliandom by Evgenii Brusilovskii pleased more people in 1940, offering “more compact events,” a more logical arrangement of scenes and a plainly causal relationship between the opening and denouement. Brusilovskii’s dances allowed dancers to express “the heroes’ internal experiences . . . This was an organic combination of folkloric Khorezm color with the composer’s professionalism.” The synthesis of East and West appeared natural when it looked logical. The 1951 declaration mentioned in Chapter 3, “Concerning the Current State of the Musical Arts in the Uzbek Soviet Republic and Measures for Their Further Development,” was also an impetus to keep promoting classical Western arts. Cantatas and oratories appeared, together with choirs without musical accompaniment, music for organs (after Uzbekistan’s first organ appeared in 1946), and film scores (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1973c, 238 and Vyzgo 1973d, 366). These arts would elevate the aesthetic standards of the region: The fate of Uzbek opera, as with all professional musical culture, is being determined by the general development of massed, musical effort every day


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in outlying regions, on collective farms, in rural clubs, and schools. In Central Asia the musical edification of the people is both an urgent undertaking and great responsibility. More than ever it depends on groundwork by professional musical organizations and the simultaneous development of operatic arts, symphonic music, polyphony and so forth. (Vinogradov, 117) Acapella singing, for example, could (and should) be used to “solve the problem of native Uzbek traditions’ viability and vitality under the conditions of polyphonic musical culture.” It would help even aesthetically impoverished folk melodies sound “richer, more profound, and more expressive in each detail” (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1973b, 80). Western classical music was now offering the people of Central Asia greater “clarity and expressiveness in their musical language” (Vyzgo 1973a, 96–7): The composers of Uzbekistan have “armed themselves” with the European harmonic system of music and are now enriching it with the melodious ornamentation of folk music. Little by little this leads to the materialization of very clear tendencies . . . Combined with certain peculiarities of performance, with a unique range of melodies and rhythms, these resources are now seen as an inherent component of modern Uzbek musical style. (Vyzgo 1973e, 371) Things were coming together, in both senses.

After the 1970s: struggling to retain similarities and dissimilarities The synthetic spirit went as far as pulling classic poetry into the fray, in particular verses by Navoiy set to music. This supplementary inclusiveness was prompted to some degree by versification of the fifteenth century that for Soviet ears evoked “a musical rhythm . . . with its alternation of long and short syllables. It is indeed redolent of musical rhythm and melodiousness.” In addition, the “imagistic, emotional makeup of Eastern verse” was being enhanced and unlocked by contact with Western forms of music (Karimova, Z., 1988, 3). Supplementing this fusion of song and verse further still, choral composers were reminded under Brezhnev that their chosen genre was the most “massed” of all art forms, and therefore required rigorous attention in order to develop works national in form yet socialist in content: “Uzbek choral art is on the right path [in 1974], but its development still lags behind the tempo and demands of modernity” (Gudkova, 217). If choirs could catch up, their entrance into international (i.e., Union-wide) culture would help in approximating (i.e., maybe garnering) “a national uniqueness” (Bordiug, 22). Becoming more Soviet meant becoming more “Uzbek”; ever-increasing singularity allegedly meant ever-increasing diversity. Whatever the degree of truth in these hopes and desires, one should not overlook rare yet significant Soviet admissions that “no other genre” of tuneful

60 Introducing Russian classical music art won viewers and listeners as easily as Russian èstrada, a more successful syncretic mélange of music and comedy that enacted dogma’s socializing objectives with sentimental apoliticism and a big smile on its face all the way from the Baltic to the Pacific. Since light entertainment typically stresses individual, rather than massed experience, Russian scholars maintained that estrada’s success resulted from a similarity between lyrical or love songs and traditional emphases in Central Asian poetry (those which, paradoxically, troubled the Soviets). In addition, both variety and ancient Asian verse made equal, common use of music and song for dance; they both displayed an overt preference for small, laconic forms of expression, a tendency toward formal modesty. They embodied “finely detailed, individually characterized, emotional states – the concrete, vital movements of the human soul.” These Muscovite genres, skits and sketches were sometimes so selfeffacing in their personal dimensions that universal human experience (amid stately failures) found expression in estrada better than in longer, national forms of grand celebration. To accept estrada was to enter universality, so it is interesting to read how Uzbek variety performers’ insufficient “national specificity” occasionally concerned Russian commentators. Witty, popular songs were not employing the rhythms that Slavs associated with classical Asian music, for example, so local artistes were thus criticized for undermining or lessening their expressive potential. The authorities in Tashkent needed to both maintain and yet limit the difference between European and Asian forms of expression. Neither total (homogenized) synthesis with Russia nor total (formless) difference were permissible. Estrada had the potential to work wonders, given its equation of political ethics with open-armed sentiment, not the lumbering binaries of dogma, but in discussions of light entertainment in Uzbekistan the same old phrases kept trundling along through the 1970s (and beyond) in ways that suggested no real likelihood of imminent change. Only a musical culture that is very closely linked to the life of the people and profoundly reflects the Zeitgeist or tendencies in social progress [yet does not create them] can become an important means of spiritually rebuilding subjectivity and the nature of human relationships. (Inozemtseva, 25) What people were these, though? What audience did they constitute and why would they be logical partners of a Slavic, musical “rebuilding”? Although the sources of Central Asia’s and Russia’s mutual relations are lost in the distant past, they are both indubitable and long-lasting. Things could not be otherwise, since there has been close economic and cultural interaction between Russia and Central Asia for a very long time. One is led to think this is one of the main reasons for the organic nature in which modern Uzbek music embraces the achievements of Russian professionalism, whilst modern Russian music absorbs characteristic elements of Uzbek folklore. We observe here a two-way process between fraternal nations, one of reciprocal


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interaction. Brotherly nations follow the examples of Russian composers and their art that have touched upon artistic traditions of the Uzbek people, whilst there are Uzbek composers who perform the works of a Russian artistic heritage. (Azimova, A., 3) As this kind of Russian involvement kept on growing, publications began with dubious impudence to raise the status of Russian-related art in the region to the heights of local heritage; the “laws” dictating the structure and development of the maqam, for example, were compared to those of recent symphonies (Kadyrova, N. 1981, 23). The stepping-stones from (unrelenting) maqam to harmonic, polyphonic symphonies could be scribed along several common paths: rhythm (of which we have heard), “dynamics,” tempo, and agogic accents, those deviating from strict tempo and rhythm in the name of “subtlety” (Koval’ 1983, 21). These were the ground rules for tightly controlled sets of movement, the productive limits of restricted motion. What appeared to be proscribed was the motion of local, not imported traditions, the “philosophically entrenched and emotionally elevated” lyrical tone of ancient verse (Abdullaev, R., 1982, 3). These expansive, destabilizing affects were transferred into whatever form of musical or artistic endeavor referenced them, even those divorced over time from the Asian heritage – such as chamber music, which ended up absorbing restrained aspects of a “unique development in local life, a specific mode of thought” (Goloviants 1982, 4). Russian art entered ostensible, tangible Asian society and admitted to a certain degree of influence; it believed it was endowing semantic tendencies and significances to local phenomena, but in observations like these one perceives how the minor presence in this “fraternal” relation may have dictated the behavioral development and successes of the supposedly major entity. So, accordingly, when we chance upon assessments of the communal, modern, and very Soviet “benefits” of, say, choral singing, one should ask whence those benefits, even if there was no tradition of choral performance in Central Asia before the Russians arrived. Choirs were deemed the most accessible form of musical performance, evoking communality, Soviet patriotism, and easing the harmonious development of all socialist society. “Cultivating one’s ability to sing is simultaneously the cultivation of human feelings and emotion, for singing itself has a profoundly emotional basis.” This logic seems somewhat tautological, claiming to place emotions as a future (actively generated) goal, whilst their “basis” is already emotional because the quote comes from an article outlining the maturity of choral works in Uzbek schools and children’s groups (Iuldasheva, 104). Asian, non-adult sources of meaning were promoted anew as the fuel needed for successful management of meaning by intrusive, alien, and adult projects. Asia was prior to Europe and so it seemed a tad audacious, therefore, to claim even decades later as perestroika began, one may go in search of one’s own path only after having studied European symphonies, i.e., after the transformation of a wide-ranging form and

62 Introducing Russian classical music application thereof to one’s national artistic concepts. Only then can a new art affirm itself on a national foundation or become a [genuinely] innovative artistic tradition. (Ianov-Ianovskaia 1983, 43) Equally inconsistent reasoning appeared in an overview of violin compositions and their improvement in the 1980s. Concerts by Uzbek composers strive to impart a refined awareness of complex, developed harmony. They enhance one’s feeling for a violin’s “coloring,” they enrich phrasing and prepare performers for a proper understanding of modern music. Concert work cultivates an unfettered attitude in students’ performance; it teaches them artistry. (Khashimov 1980, 63) Conformity therefore gives rise to unfettered performance; form invokes formlessness. Rather than contemplate the neo-Platonic underpinnings of this conclusion, the Soviets preferred (despite a rhetoric of expansiveness) to toy with repression and moderation. The limits of genuinely, pointlessly expansive skills in music therefore lay somewhere in abstract (if not idealist) idiom, for example in suggestions that personal interpretations of pedal use in piano performances, so “vital” for understanding and realizing Bach, should not be allowed to swamp the “transparency and clarity of the polyphonic fabric” (Iusupova, 7). In yet another attempt to bring clarity to bear upon the nature of musical exchange, one study resorted to an explanatory division between “morphological” elements in Soviet Asian culture (such as ornament or harmony) that were paradoxically yet properly termed “stable,” and the varying, mobile elements of culture, which came to define a “concretization” (Takhalov, 22–3). In other words, change or morphology may occur, but it never moved beyond discernibly stable parameters, whereas the only form of variation consisted of how those factors found their (own) way toward stability. Unpredictable variation moved toward predictable variation. Once those formal limits were reached, development was then possible in thematic spheres, for example the summons of the late 1980s that Uzbek Soviet choirs ought to try producing more works praising the Soviet people, the Second World War, peace, and so forth (Dzhumaeva and Bakhretdinova, 6).

Conclusion: audience desire as the key to true syntheses By the early 1990s – thankfully – the ardently lyrical aspects of chamber harmonies were deemed the most successful Slavic musical import into the region since the nineteenth century, so at least Russian self-assessment had scaled itself down to lesser genres. All the same, as rhetoric lessened, market pressures stepped in and classical music soon found itself struggling in the absence of state


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support. Modesty – such as small compositions for cellos – may be a fine alternative to speechifying, but it is not much use in the face of loud advertising and shoptalk (Spektor, 19). When these pressures had begun in the mid-1980s, classical pomp stepped back and pop music stepped forth; oddly, the orchestration of more expensively produced or fashionable pop numbers allowed for the novel application of polyphonic skills and prompted equally new debate on the interplay of Uzbek and patently Western estrada. Academics planned the new development of this hopefully synthetic estrada in three stages. The first would comprise of reworked folk tunes or lyrical Uzbek songs to match modern rhythms, modernizations honed “in interaction with listeners” at concert halls. Once again the reason why politics would want (and endeavor) to use this positive, socially non-committal emotion was evident: emotion would be the crucial element in any attempt at persuasive naturalization. Nevertheless, sensation is prior to language or speech(es), as evinced by any baby shaking with the passionate desire to utter a coherent, convincing command. It is the feeling of selfless union with others that has much in common with the (pre-dogmatic, romantic) goals of socialism, but little in common with intolerant, exclusive ideology. Emotion (as sentiment) is eternally forgiving, altering, and inclusive; speechifying, on the other hand, employs emotion to proffer increasingly exclusive and prejudicial notions, to plot the increasingly relentless progression of some grand narrative. The second stage of popular musical development was novel work undertaken by composers raised on traditions of more northerly Russian estrada and jazz. Their endeavors in a newly independent sociopolitical space were orchestrated in a Western fashion. Following folk songs to new rhythms and these jazzy orchestrations, the third stage of musical readjustment was a form of union, discernible in recourse to specifically “Eastern” style strings, which then “synthesize with jazz, rock and other directions in style” (Iusupov, L., 29–30). The romantic rush of rock or other “unruly” styles appeared to be under great control here, as was the case with Soviet Uzbek opera in its final years, praised for not forgetting about reality or rushing off to the East’s “legendary and romantic themes from the distant past” (Pekker 1984, 259). For all these words of cultural intent, though, micropolitical and modest emphases prevailed. Even works of operatic grandeur that strove to depict the strident conflicts of dialectical drama never got away from “a dominant, lyrical subtext” (Nasyrova, Iu., 21). The function of recitative in Uzbek drama was also maintained, despite anything grandly imperial, since Russian-language writers felt that it was now vital to the development of characters on stage, the key to audience sympathy and so dependent upon intonation, in fact, one would have to study the Uzbek language and its rhythm to guarantee the audience response desired (Mirkhodzhaeva, 17). The need to be “Uzbek” through more overt (and honest) means reached the point where opera in the republic was sometimes lambasted for not using enough indigenous tradition, for being rather “superficial” with references to an oral

64 Introducing Russian classical music folklore. Criticism on occasion seemed guaranteed, no matter what one’s stance or aesthetic leanings – and so indecision after conventions of controlled motion or evolution became no motion whatsoever: “In the years of the Soviet regime, many genres of sung art were either undervalued or simply forbidden. As a result several [genres] ended in a state of stagnation.” Nobody was terribly sure what to do. To avoid a stalemate in the 1990s, it was suggested that ethnographic expeditions be established “to create foundations and archives which are the preconditions for any reestablishment of folklore in Uzbekistan” (Khamidov, Kh., 47). Urban, oncecentralized culture gave up. It hoped to abandon the interfering, officious approach of the past, to merely record performances, not structure or channel them. Placing those performances in situ once more brings us back to further investigation of central theoretical concerns of contextual unity, tradition versus change, and the relationship between one-ness, univocity, and monotheism. Once it has been revealed what Russian-language, Soviet civilization was doing (rather than saying about dance, music, and literature), the truth of all contradictory viewpoints in action will be revealed as an actuality unconnected to interpretation, since that actuality makes manifest the lacunae in any comprehension. This, hopefully, will be the point where it becomes clear that to talk about the difference between things in different contexts (Russian, Uzbek, and Western), there must also be a degree of overarching sameness making comparison and contrast possible. In looking at how these elements of Badiou’s thought can be applied to socialist art, it is interesting at this juncture to note that his philosophy was born amid the leftist politics of post-war France, amid concerns that the French Communist Party was too reliant upon Soviet rhetorical platitudes (Barker, 13). The language and proscribed limits of socialism had to be redone, somehow similarly yet qualitatively better, thus marrying singularity and variety. This goal would necessarily employ an understanding of (singular) Being as both a multiple of presentation ( just as the singular Kremlin, say, is an example of sixteenth-century architecture; there are others) and a singularity or composition of multiples (made of countless stones, bricks, nails, and screws). Since, as stated, extreme and fullyenacted multiplicity nullifies all relations, including non-relations, its real limit or true unity will only be found in nothingness. It is only the “errant structure” of nothingness or the void on the edge of everything that makes counting possible, that is, the quantitative assessment of who constitutes a nation, for when counting the people of any ethnicity or nation, one unavoidably starts from nothing. This emptiness, free of interpretation, is held at a healthy distance from meaningful historicism. So is it possible to acknowledge cultural truths and simultaneously create any semblance of stable meaning defining progress or social amelioration? Perhaps not, but what does this mean for literature? If words had so much trouble dealing with the affective evasiveness of music and the rhythm of dance, did things look any better when words could at least discuss themselves? In order to discern the failings or future of Russia’s cherished canon in distant lands, it is important to consider how the literary past was discussed as progenitor of any future potential. The following chapters explain how the Russian language spoke of its greatest achievements and assumed parallels with a much older tradition – one thousand years of Uzbek poetry.

5

The onset of Russian literature’s kindly genius

Uzbek literature, an amalgam of the best in national traditions and the finest customs of world literature, has been greatly enriched by the works of a number of brilliant Soviet writers and poets . . . This internationalism stems from the ethnic make-up of its authors, from the ideal it embodies and the objective reality of what it represents. (The Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic [1974], 60)

Translating verity and reality into another tongue Chapters 6 and 7 are dedicated to the significance of literature in Central Asia under the Russians and a simultaneous, further examination of Truth, of the empty space that lies before and beyond the last word of the last sentence in a very long Russian novel. This section examines and intertwines two issues disconcertingly close to a truly revelationary senselessness: Russians telling Uzbeks what Russian literature “is” plus the secondary, related conundrum in that same language of what Uzbek literature was and could be. Not only was this a procedure of aesthetic and philosophical colonization, but part and parcel of the Soviets’ own (ongoing) attempts to convince themselves that Socialist Realism was furthering a nineteenth-century heritage of great Russian prose. Several aspects of this multifaceted practice will be scrutinized, starting with the manner in which Russian classics from the Golden Age of realism were marketed in the region. Uzbek scholars often admitted their literature had been rather sluggish in answering “the demands of socialist construction” from the outset of the Uzbek Republic in 1924, especially because there had been a rush to deal with more pressing demands: the building of children’s schools, rural study centers, and so forth. A key endeavor in this listless, tentative literary transferal would be translation. What did it mean to “translate” or transfer a work of literature in the twentieth century under socialism? Some of the theories that elucidate a communist logic behind the process make frequent reference to modes of transmittable thought. Once such theories have been delineated, it should be possible to see how Uzbek literature itself was offered to a Russian-language readership, be those readers Uzbeks in Tashkent or Slavs elsewhere in the Union. After all, nearly

66 The onset of Russian literature every Russian book, dissertation, and article under consideration for this monograph was published in Uzbekistan, yet many of them can be found in the libraries of St Petersburg and Moscow, far from the Asian steppe.

Romantic Russian literature arriving with realism’s readers The promotion of Slavic literature in Uzbekistan was insistent, to say the least. Even when strategies of cultural translation were drawn up (yet again) by the Soviets in the relatively freer atmosphere after 1953, Pushkin was still the first writer called onto the field; publications appeared explaining how he might be transferred (yet again) to Soviet Uzbekistan. Russian researchers always felt the most important thing was to “unveil the world of Pushkin’s lyrical hero” so it corresponded to systems of national thought [in Central Asia]. The lyrical “I” of the poet or the hero has neither name nor biography. It is something non-concrete, existing only in emotional responses to the outside [natural] world; in observing its own internal world, it is plunged into self-contemplation. Characters are very clearly expressed through this kind of “I”. (Salimova, Z. 1985a, 15) Selfhood, removed from the specificity of an original land and language, became pre-linguistically affective and amorphous. Amid similarly romantic and ineffable essences, Soviet scholarship very often moved from the affectual (feeling) to the wholly affected – nature. Silent nature, felt Russian researchers, had been best captured by Lermontov, the “discoverer” of nature’s emotional and psychological aspects, which in turn had come to him from Western European traditions. Just as Lermontov had managed to “merge organically” with those customs, so Uzbek poets (like Navoiy in the fifteenth century) had endeavored to capture and utter nature’s “refinement and perfection [or completeness: sovershenstvo]” (Umarbekova 1967, 19). Lermontov, presaging what Russians in the 1960s called Hemingway’s “ideological and aesthetic” criteria amid nature’s quietness, remained a nameless and universal presence that would supposedly allow absolutely any Uzbek writer to find something “concurrent with his own talents.” Through Lermontov Asian writers could “widen the boundaries of their artistic perception of the world. They can penetrate further the essence of characters and phenomena.” Even if an Uzbek writer was not reading and studying Lermontov directly, he or she could acquire the same philosophical influences through other authors who had apparently fallen under Lermontov’s sway: Nekrasov, Lev Tolstoi, Blok, and Gor’kii (Umarbekova 1973, 164). In Nekrasov, for example, Asian writers ascertained the “organic links” forming literary history, the point where romanticism’s wide purview helped to address (and redress) several social problems with silent, heart-felt inclusiveness. Lermontov’s passion became Nekrasov’s compassion for everything (and nothing

The onset of Russian literature

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in particular) in more worldly domains: Woman and Society; the empty, inspirational expanses of Homeland and Faith; History and its Heroes (Kamilova, 10). Somewhere between the heady romanticism of Lermontov and the more civic, critical concerns of an empathetic Nekrasov sat Nikolai Gogol’ and his fantastic forms of realism. Himself a Ukrainian operating within a dissimilar, Russian aesthetic during his lifetime, he became an edifying example for literary processes in Tashkent. His so-called “little people” or meek, rural characters were helpful in coaxing the equally minor people of a minor republic into a major literary tradition. In addition, maintained scholars, he offered Uzbeks an equally laudable “democratization of form and content,” frequently drawing upon Ukrainian folkloric mores, that is, their themes of rural justice couched in non-canonized, oral traditions. Likewise his humor, too – particularly in moments of socially subversive satire – had helped to reveal the “true” nature of facts and phenomena outside of Tsarist hierarchies. Romanticism, quiet compassion, and pastoral fantasy, that is, the illogical and the ineffable, tell us more about the promotion of Soviet realism in Asia than we would expect and were sometimes even advertised as alleged parallels to Islamic traditions of writing (cf. Bezhanova, 8–9 and Khamraeva, 15–16). Consequent claims that Chekhov brought a “merciless realism and objective manner” to fledgling Uzbek writers prompt the unavoidable question of whither this merciless movement was heading and what the parameters of its objectivity would be – that is, whether they were constrained by ostensible reality and precisely how objective anything beyond the ostensible could hope to be (Imamov È., 8). Moving on to the promotion of bona fide Socialist Realism, the same accents on the ineffable would remain, albeit couched in terms of dialectics. The core issue became whether the dualisms of Hegelian thought or Marxist sociology were beginning to spawn something greater, grander, or even overwhelming for an Uzbek readership. Gor’kii, for example, was praised for taking Asian readers onward and upward into broader social canvases of the distant future: More than anything, to study Gor’kii means learning how to reflect reality in all its dialectical contradictions, in the processes of change and development. It means defining progressive, Revolutionary manifestations of existence with precision. Research into Gor’kii differs somewhat from the study of other classic writers [of the late nineteenth century]. The latter used their works to reflect life in its dialectical development, yet did not possess the method of Socialist Realism and therefore could not reveal the full extent of a futural perspective. (Abdumavlianov, 15–16) Realism was awkwardly discerning something in excess of the wholly discernible. When the renowned Uzbek poet G’afur G’ulom (1903–1966) heard Gor’kii give a report at the First Writers’ Congress and then visited him at home, G’ulom was sufficiently impressed by the Russian novelist to pen some stanzas in his honor. He felt that Gor’kii was a “confirmation of humanity’s new outlook on the

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reasons for and significance of existence” (Ul’rikh, 68). This Congress report was frequently referenced in Russian-language scholarship; it served to push the development and desires of Soviet Socialist literature beyond the narrow purview of anything binary or dialectical, invoking the participation of “multiple fraternal republics,” of their lands in the very “specificity” of Socialist Realism (Bakaev, 27). Delegations of writers were sent by Gor’kii to these same extensive republics to set the self-multiplying process of Soviet prose in action (Khamidova, T. 1984, 12). In supposed avoidance of idealist excess, though, socialist literature habitually said its own expansiveness remained something modern science could comprehend. The logic of politics would thus be prompted by the logic of science, each displaying its own objective mechanisms in literature. Terming literature “the study of man,” Gor’kii was often praised in Tashkent (as late as 1985) for prompting syntheses of the technical and the artistic, combinations embodied best by literary heroes taken from academia and technical research (Lartsev, 91–2). This dry agenda was unlikely to be fulfilled with great enthusiasm and in actual fact does not correspond in any direct way to the nature of Uzbek literature, be it socialist or ancient. Searches for indefinable boundlessness would come back (almost traumatically) to the environment again, to an ambiance of the natural world that Paustovskii insisted “grants an artist no peace of mind whatsoever.” The “kindly genius” of nature’s inspiration, he declared, often led him to grab a pen without delay. Keen not to let things sound too abstract, though, our Russo-Asian edifiers insisted that similarly compulsive talent was, first and foremost, prompted and “nurtured by life,” though any such definitions remain woefully vague (Kurambaev, 14). Paustovskii’s links to an ecological aesthetic come to Uzbekistan from Moscow, from his 1932 novella Kara Bugaz in particular; the work is about the discovery of Glauber’s salt in a lifeless bay of the Caspian Sea. Kara Bugaz is forged from the “stubborn repetition” of rhythmic elements that facilitate a more “lyrical” aspect of Soviet prose, especially via the depiction of nature, for “Paustovskii saw the beauty of nature in her concrete, tiniest manifestations” (Bobrova, 17). This role of the environment in the author’s work was stressed as a moral endeavor, one of “great sense and wisdom” (Pudozhgorskii, 9–10). The significance attributed to the natural world means the excessive terror of politics is countered with recourse to the biosphere, not as an escape to Arcadia, but as a parallel, more inclusive, caring, and therefore more adventurous social philosophy. It was often called “romantic” and on occasion attributed to the influence of Polish literature (Proshak, 9–10). Although there were obviously instances where Paustovskii was celebrated in more dogmatic tones as an author who trumpeted the triumph of man over nature (Pavlov, 13), in essence there is a surprising prevalence in criticism of this writer as “naturally inclusive.” Paustovskii delineates an ardent love for nature which is part of all his heroes’ beautiful soul, a faith in goodness and the strength of man, a faith in the transformational strength of an art that is able to grant man the greatest joy in his life. (Kolpakova, 193)


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Sovietness and selfhood merge; their overlap is poignant, it is joyous, for joy includes both the personal and the political. It does not operate on the exclusive bases of government and protocol. Paustovskii’s most beloved heroes [in addition] do not consider that a forest is an icon to be prayed over [either]. They see a forest as the abundance of a harvest, a healthy climate, and a means of summoning feelings in an individual of beauty, of cultivating a real culture in him. (Levitskii, 229) A recent Russian dictionary dedicated to Paustovskii’s language even suggested, following a recommendation by the author himself, that words of the forest, field, or meadow should each be afforded their own semantic rubric or separate publication. Each such rubric would be a multitude in and of itself. Paustovskii wanted to complicate, not simplify the representation of nature’s abundance with verbal communication. This, once again, is closer to romanticism than realism (Slovar’ iazyka, 293). It is an ecologically driven romanticism, as books on the man in the mid-1990s asserted by classifying him as a writer of recollection, scenery, and inclusiveness beyond the bounds of logic. It seems that Paustovskii’s view on the world is very relevant even today. It calls for the preservation of beauty in nature that surrounds us, for the preservation of imagination’s forgotten treasures, for sincerity, for a spontaneous or ingenuous relationship with the world and a tendency towards dreaming. In fact, even in 1989 he was being selected as one “of the sources of modern ecological literature, which we understand as literature on the relationship between man and nature.” The stage for literary attempts at creating modern relationships in the middle of nature (i.e., of nothing particular before cartographers got there) was and remains a dusty space the same size as Sweden – almost 450,000 square kilometers – between the 2 great rivers of Central Asia, the Syr Darya (Jaxartes) and Amu Darya (Oxus). Together with Liechtenstein, Uzbekistan is one of two natural domains in the world that (politically) is doubly landlocked (Macleod and Mayhew, 29). Most of the land is flat desert, except for western stretches that rise up to become the Tian Shan and Gissaro-Alay mountain ranges. Less than 10 percent of the terrain is arable, so the Soviets were quickly obliged to build water lines that stretched a total of 94,000 miles to maintain their cotton crops. In the south of Uzbekistan, arid seasons can last 220 days (and humidity never rises above 30 percent). The nation as a whole has access to only 10 percent of the Syr Darya and Amu Darya’s load; in a country that had (at times) the highest birth rate in the entire Soviet Union, the environment was bound to suffer. Sure enough, water usage grew with increased cotton production and lessening crop rotation (Stadelbauer 1997b, 351–2). These failings were a miserable, modern echo of water management in traditional Islamic society. Khans and the Kremlin had a

70 The onset of Russian literature kindred management style. Extensive canal networks [of the distant past] functioned in the Ferghana Valley . . . Many of the main canals stretched great distances: for example the Shahrikhan Say, one of fifty canals from the Qara Darya, extended over sixty-five miles . . . A master supervised the construction of these canals. He possessed no instruments for leveling, but lay on the ground and used his big toe as a sight lining on the head of a man standing some 400 yards away in order to determine the best route for the canal to follow and to allow for a slight gradient in its flow. Often canals would meander over the countryside to avoid slight rises in the ground. This irregularity made the canal needlessly long and its undue length led to the evaporation of a large amount of water from the surface. Loss due to ground seepage was also high. (Matley 2000b, 267–70) Traditionally, all water – seen as God’s gift – was under the management of a “water controller” to circumvent problems of individual ravenousness, but under Muslim law, the Khan or Emir actually owned the land. The most dreadful story of this self-perpetuating despotism concerned Uzbekistan’s Aral Sea, mentioned earlier and drained not only for cotton while Soviet authors scribbled, but also for rice. The world’s fourth-largest lake has today lost half its surface area and threequarters of its volume. One huge body of water has already become two, linked by a single canal. Salt levels in the water have increased (exacerbated by excessive evaporation) and chemical residues are exposed on dry lakebeds to the wind, such that infant mortality rates have risen noticeably. In 1986, almost 5 percent of all Uzbek infants were dying within a year, while the UzSSR was busy printing cheerful memoirs of Tashkent’s tourists to counter what they branded the pseudoscientific “bourgeois falsification” of Western environmentalists (Iusupov, E., 4). Fishing towns are now many kilometers from the erstwhile Aral shoreline; the moderating effect of the water upon local climate changes has also been lost. A plan in 1986 to save the area with water drawn from Siberia was scuttled. Today the lake is so concentrated with salts and chemicals, previously well diluted, that it is unsuitable even for irrigating fields. Soviet oratory and its strident stories, outlining Uzbekistan’s need to rush onward toward higher yields, now make tragic reading with calls to participate in the “competition of socialism, to fulfill plans and obligations” (Uzbekistan v bratskoi sem’e, 27–8). More economical and technologically advanced forms of irrigation are the only possible hope for reversing damage already done; this entire tale is a quintessentially social conflict between singular, despotic management and complex, “polyphonic” ecological networks. Nature once upon a time helped to form and now reflects tales of human culture. The story of the Aral Sea manifests all the symptoms of the vicious circle characteristic of underdeveloped countries: a narrow economic base allows only limited investment, which restricts the national income, which then results in insufficient health care and severe


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supply deficiencies. Priorities are defined in purely economic terms, without any consideration of the social and ecological consequences. The results are deficiencies in food supplies, increasing impoverishment of the population, a decline in productivity and severe unemployment in the face of a rapid increase in population. (Stadelbauer 1997a, 355–6) Nothingness starts reclaiming woeful, wordy attempts at something in the middle of that same nothingness. Given the unyielding, obstinate presence of this unutterable, ecologically managed realm it might not come as a surprise to learn that the modern embodiment of Lermontov, of his “once-European” romanticism in these southern territories came to Tashkent readers via Maiakovskii (himself born in Georgia). Bringing his verse to Central Asia intact would not be easy, though. Much innovation and daring was needed by the city’s translators to capture the neologisms of Maiakovskii’s avant-garde aesthetic, but thanks to the ancient, “reasonably rich[!] lexical resources” of the Uzbek language, a transposal from one culture to another was theoretically achievable (Rasuli 1965, 137). The rhythms of Uzbek versification also complicated matters somewhat; only with the liberal use of additional caesurae were local writers able to “solve” the problem. They used the emptiness of caesurae to break up lines into one- or two-syllable units (i.e., of stressed plus unstressed syllables). Maiakovskii’s “ladder” verse was then created by dividing the translated lines into sections that matched the number of stresses across each line of the original. The Russian poet once said himself that “rhythm is the fundamental force of poetry, its fundamental energy” (Mukhtar 1957, 8). That force would hopefully broaden the traditional forms of Uzbek verse, and since form “always lags behind” development in content, rhythm created by vacant, silent caesurae would be a crucial, constantly required vehicle to help transport significances across the border (Khadzhiakhmedov 1963, 25). Emptiness was where transition was both noted and potentially made. Poetry festivals held in Uzbekistan between 1917 and 1941 were designed explicitly to develop “the traditions of Maiakovskii” and criticized for “any narrowly subjective perceptions when depicting emotion and feeling.” A grander sweep was needed to embody Revolutionary passions or any concomitant Eastern “epic interpretation” thereof (Abbasova, 13). “Lermontov-esque” traditions and emphases persisted yet were by no means replaced by anything epic; they themselves were always potentially so. In partial admission or awareness of this, Russian Soviet philology in Central Asia always said it intended to overcome any exotic or orientalist tendencies, that is, it refused to acknowledge Asia as its obligatory, negative “other” of extremely long standing. If literature was not exotic, it was domestic. If it is not strange, it is familiar and part of something already seen, at least once before. At times it seemed as if the Soviets were throwing foreign literature at Asian readers rather than deal with the need to recognize (by negative example) their zero-Islam or, conversely, ponder the consequences of their own all-encompassing oratory in romantic poets like

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Lermontov that ultimately leads to the nothingness of everything (in the Badouian sense). Since 1917 Uzbek writers had the chance to acquaint themselves with works of foreign literature like Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, and Julius Caesar; The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain . . . and others . . . . (Pulatov, 23)

A closer look at the mechanics of a very Asian realism In attempting to invoke yet keep a handle on this multitude, what did imperial scholars say about realism, the literary vehicle that could supposedly reference such a sweeping perspective? It makes sense to subtract the theory from the novels (the idea from the matter) and investigate what remains. In the late 1950s, moving ever further from the constraints of Stalinist storytelling, the Central Asian newspaper Pravda Vostoka (“Truth of the East”) had petitioned for a realism that would embody genuine “fidelity to life.” Encompassing the “great dream of all mankind” would be a complex business and literature should not try to simplify (and thus impoverish) the issues at hand (Sultanov, I. 1959). Over time these calls to profusion would become louder still: The strength of Uzbek literature lies in its range of creative individuals who enrich that same literature with innovative artistic breakthroughs. It is distinguished by philosophical elucidation and a true reflection of reality, a wide range of experience in life’s problems. Uzbek literature knows how to reveal these weighty problems in a most comprehensive fashion. (Kulzhanov 1974, 69) Even by the early 1970s, Russian-language scholars had freely admitted that in the first few years of Soviet Uzbekistan no discernible names or movements transpired in either literary or cultural theory. This paucity had an undoubted effect on any ability to combat “false tendencies in interpreting literature’s social functions” (ibid., 15). The problem was that readers did not yet comprehend how class bias, prejudices, and pressures had shaped the people’s views of their own cultural heritage and an “extreme canonization of the Uzbeks’ artistic past.” Thankfully at the same time as such arid rhetoric, assertions emerged in Tashkent that the truth evident in successful Soviet art is actually “creative fantasy,” an argument that runs through the entire journalistic history of Soviet animation, pushing the received constructs of realism far beyond anything squeamishly logocentric. Flights of the imagination show the “potential possibilities of


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facts in real life and correspond to the direction in which reality itself is developing.” It was wrong, as some authors suggested, to juxtapose truth and fantasy. In Soviet socialist realism “truth must not be placed higher than the flight of fantasy, but within the fantasy itself ” (Mansurov 1971, 129–30). These unwittingly wonderful disclosures were not very frequent; some of the direst deviations from this healthy complexity had their stubborn roots in the distant past, when Uzbekistan had felt the influence of Central Asia’s counterpart of The Russian Association for Proletarian Writers, UzAPP. Shaking off its heritage was always difficult; the failings of UzAPP were listed in a Tashkent publication under Stalin as a good indication of possible “downsides” in literary development. The Association vanished but these risks remained. 1 Sectarianism, an arrogant form of communism and the management of the literary process by order and decrees 2 A nihilistic attitude towards the traditions of classical literature 3 A cliquishness, together with the complete absence of unity inside the organization itself 4 A malaise of “leftishness” 5 An incorrect attitude towards “fellow-traveler” writers. (Salikhov, 14–15) And so, returning to the 1970s, one understands better the goals set out by writers at the Twenty-fourth Party Congress. New songs were requested by the State so that the Composers’ and Writers’ Unions would work together. At the outset of the decade a new section was even formed within those organizations specifically to handle the development of new and better “mass songs.” They should avoid the awful immoderation of prior, UzAPP-like organizations and instead “win the love of listeners” across the republic (Iashen 1971, 25). This stress upon love, desire, and persuasiveness adopted interesting forms under Brezhnev, when realism was explicitly defined with a term once again simultaneously (if not incessantly) used in writing on Soviet animation: “the relativity of meaning” or uslovnost’. This at least was a harbinger of change, metamorphosis, fantasy, and immeasurable audience sympathy. To offer one example, the term was used to define and promote proper (i.e., very emotive) children’s literature: Realist literature, as is well known, makes wide use of the most varied forms of uslovnost’. This is truer still in the sphere of children’s literature. We often see personification, since naïve anthropomorphism is characteristic of children’s worlds, a striving to invest surrounding objects with human characteristics. (Koshchanov 1980, 254) An affective view of reality was a total view.

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With related rhetoric it is possible to draw some productive correspondences between realism, complexity, change, and the nature of truth within the Party Line, that is, the nature of what a timorous Party really wanted to do. Any deviation from life’s truth, any disruption of the laws used to reflect life artistically, represents a denunciation of the Communist Party spirit. And, conversely, if that Party spirit [ partiinost’] tries to distance itself from Revolutionary ideology, this leads immediately to a distortion of artistic truth. (Mansurov 1988, 21) And, in another, third echo of hopeful, high-flying (but initially weak) public speaking from animated cinema, “secrets” were maybe what lie at the foundation of Soviet, poetic art. That poetry was a “journey into the unknown,” where the “light of the unspoken shines.” Its secrets resided in the simplest words and most typical of places, just like the magic of Eastern fairytales within “a rusty lamp” (Tartakovskii 1978, 6). This debate over truth and an imported, half-Slavic realism took an interesting turn when scholars began to discuss anew the impact of technology on literature, that is, a multitude of new significances that could become “the object of one’s love with their potentials, rich in content” (Khudaibergenov, N. 1966, 26). Complexity was advanced according to scientific reasoning and the spirit of truth altered as a consequence. Reality, for example through space exploration and astrophysics, moved beyond the boundaries of the tangible, beyond the limits of ostensible experience that marked the workshop of nineteenth-century prose. The amicably divisive debates from the 1960s over knowledge from either “physicists or lyricists” were approaching common agreement. Both knowledge and science now concerned themselves with “boundlessness” whilst examining forms like blank verse, vers libre, and a quiet, intellectual lyricism. Politics, affect, and science were all boundlessly real and potentially true (Koshchanov 1977, 72). The role of an affirmative art form began to sound less like rant and more like a form of phenomenological extension, of “people’s consciousnesses” grounded in an antique, Asian lyricism (Kasymova 1971, 3).

How Russians saw the kinship and common history of Uzbek literature One standard argument held that Russian literature had helped to free the national character of Uzbek poetry and prose, their democratic and intrinsically revolutionary traditions, whilst – in turn – Russian Soviet literature was enriched as a consequence (Rasuli 1974, 46). The presence of national or folk traditions in both literatures, their shared narodnost’, and joint proclivity for “psychological analysis” led toward a common ability to capture the “dialectic of the soul,” to enhance binaries that would blossom and become something without borders


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(Vladimirov 1979, 120). Consider the following two examples. The first attends to the theoretical benefits of using traditions and common heritages; the second is from a Moscow scholar concretely affirming what he has gained from two lands and two literary cultures. Literature splits dialectically and begins to sound increasingly (if not effusively) romantic. The attitude of Eastern people towards their unique synthesis of two [cultural] sources has exceptional significance. The sources in question are realism and romanticism – within the framework of a single literary method – such that the issue of “tradition and innovation” can be approached in a more historically specific fashion. This issue is extremely significant for understanding and explaining the state of literature in socialist nations today. One cannot imagine accelerating the development of these literatures clearly or convincingly without [prior] consideration of one’s own traditions and how they came together over the centuries! The same considerations hold true both for the productive way Uzbek writers utilize the achievements of Russian realism and for the literary experience of other fraternal republics (Vladimirov 1980, 119). Over the last twenty-five years [since 1956] my research and creative efforts have bound me firmly with my fellow “brothers of the pen.” My blood is wed to Republic of Uzbekistan and its literature. We truly are brothers in our spirit and goals, in the essence of our souls and thoughts. We have the same thoughts and ideas, and – if I may express myself thus – we have the same hearts, too. When I am in Uzbekistan I feel myself with particular keenness to be an inalienable, tiny cell of that complex, entire and singular organism, the name of which is the Soviet People (Karasev). This neo-Platonic sense of kinship dovetailed with the romantic overshooting of political geography inspired by Lermontov. It was claimed that both countries were inspired by each other’s landscape, by the lay of the land that – in the words of Gogol’ – let writers “express the feelings of the soul with even greater strength” (Rakhimov, A., 19). These searches for something akin to what was already at home were gradually epitomized by certain turns of phrase. Until the 1980s, one often heard that Slavdom’s relation to Asia was “not an eastern exoticism, sung in diverse registers by poets,” but a modern search for communal “facets of a new life created by Soviet people.” It was this communality that made even writers like Fedin such a “perfect” choice for Central Asian prose writers in search of inspiration (Abdullaeva, D., 12 and Masharipova, 10). Soviet critics were lamentably keen to link economic changes in Uzbekistan over the century to associated aesthetic transformation in the region (e.g., Iashen 1987, 11–12), but the rhetoric of this chapter leads us away from material investments and materialism to something less tangible, be it heartfelt, intellectual or contemplative. Quickly in 1991 there appeared typical and predictable works demanding that cultural relations and kinships between Russia and Uzbekistan be freed from pigheaded policy, but this section suggests there is an affective,

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pre-dogmatic, and nervously expansive romanticism in even the driest studies from the dullest decades (Makhmudova, 19). Ideally it is a merging of life itself and the writer’s principles on equal terms, said Russian-language critics in Tashkent, an awareness of copiousness that purportedly began even in Navoiy, continued for centuries and was then sustained by the Revolution. Extending this harmony in the 1920s, translated works of Gor’kii, Aleksei Tolstoi, and Pushkin had appeared in schoolbooks and were serialized in newspapers (Shamansurov, 7 and Abdulkhamidov, 7). This continued into the 1930s, as more Pushkin translations appeared, together with classics by Lermontov, Gogol’, Nekrasov, Ostrovskii, Herzen, Belinskii, Chernyshevskii, Lev Tolstoi, and Soviet standards from Nikolai Ostrovskii, Maiakovskii, Sholokhov, Gladkov, Bezymenskii, Bednyi, Pogodin and, finally, Simonov (Khamidova, T. 1973). In the subsequent, institutionalized environment of a fraternal Writers’ Union, the talk of brotherhood and kindred traditions battened onto rhetoric of brotherly nations of shared Central Asian roots. The suspect language of happy mergers within institutions only ever sounded convincing when expressed as a combination of progressive and other, increasingly complex or simultaneously non-linear developments in storytelling. One of the most virtuous tasks of Socialist Realism today falls to the artists who are investigating life itself. They must reveal the maximum possible beauty of a subjectivity formed in the active, deeply conscious processes of a creativity that is designed to vivify Communism’s majestic edifice . . . Heroism is the foremost element in our struggle for Communism and the loftiest ideals. This struggle [in literature] must neither simplify life’s numerous manifestations nor mess about in a quagmire of everyday feelings. It must fight to cultivate a confidence in principles founded on heroic effort. Just as Anton Pavlovich Chekhov said: One must weave the golden threads of romanticism into the gray tedium of the daily grind. (Spravka 1976, 71 and 130; Vos’moi s”ezd 1980, 97 and 148)

Conclusion: a steady and sometimes importunate romanticism It is this thread of golden romanticism that sometimes saved literature from the arrogance of completion, conclusion, and single-minded directedness. Even in the braying from Komsomol organizations there were admissions that success depends upon “popularity among – and the recognition of – today’s youth” (Laureaty premii, 2). Meaning was elsewhere and endlessly, always so; as early as the start of Brezhnev’s term there were warnings in literary criticism not to weigh down industrial stories with exacting mechanical terms and details (Khodzhaeva, 18). Nouns needed attractive qualifiers and qualities; industrial heroes needed “psychological aspects and figurativeness, which to a large degree are a departure


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from mere [objective or nominal] descriptiveness” (Mirzaev 1987, 98). Objective progress acquiesced to another force that could be discerned (albeit with difficulty) in occasional studies: “Man creates according to the law of beauty,” wrote Karl Marx. “Even people working on a given plot of land make pains to give that plot some kind of pleasing form – to make it square, triangular, divided into sections and so forth. They labor with the desire to gather a good harvest, but at the same time their labor is subordinate to a feeling of beauty.” (Koshchanov 1963, 126) Without a pre-political magnificence (a pre-linguistic, wholly affective sense of plenitude or perfection), a wordy political metaphor will fall short. For many centuries the favorite symbol of Uzbek poetry was a rose. How many gorgeous verses were dedicated to that empress of flowers, how many incomparable epithets poets gave to the rose’s sweet smelling delicateness and beauty! But times change, as do symbols. Today the most widespread image of Uzbek poetry has become the snow-white cotton bud. That does not mean that our poets have rejected those roses. A traditional image has been filled with a new content; it has developed to the degree we understand that love and beauty will endure. Poetry cannot be satisfied with tradition alone. Life itself suggests new themes to poetry; images that express the work, thoughts and feelings of a new epoch’s people. Cotton is the fundamental treasure, pride and reputation of Uzbekistan. It embodies the sweep of kolkhoz fields, the keen aroma of workers’ hands, the purity of the people’s soul . . . The harvest of the nation’s heroes was 4.5 million tonnes in 1971, and by the end of this Five Year Plan it will exceed 5 million. Isn’t that a theme for poetry today? (Iashen 1980, 71) Sustaining related themes were narratives for adolescent readers, which had – as ever – offered wonderful examples of blissful feelings “between a boy and girl [. . .] that can be precious, serious or shamefully hidden” (Shermukhamedov 1978, 123). Thus – purportedly – were developed and continued the eternal, centrifugal, or non-linear themes of Uzbek classical poetry, which found so much overlap with the driven romanticism of a modern, imported, and Slavic tradition: “The eternity of matter, the connection of man and poetry, the swift flow of time” (Babadzhanova, 11). In Chapter 6 we consider this primeval energy.

6

Simplifying one thousand years of Uzbek poetry

“We Muslims should get to know the customs of the Russian people and compare them with own. We should emulate whatever is reasonable and pleasant.” “Today’s authors write in the name of the people. This takes enormous effort. The key here is poetry for poetry’s sake.” (Two ostensibly incongruous views of literature: Jadid poet Furqat [1858–1909] in Sabirov, T., 16 and representatives of the Writers Union, Tashkent 2003)

Building a tradition of socialist literature from scratch This chapter serves two purposes: What did Russians think the history of Uzbek poetry should look like and which texts epitomized that history best of all? A modern overview can start profitably with a major study of Uzbek literature published just before the Purges. It said that writing would play a very important role in social development at this time because literacy had risen in Uzbekistan by 52 percent since the Revolution; the number of children in schools had gone up from 325,000 to over half a million and students in institutions of higher education now numbered 6,000, an increase from the previous, frighteningly low figure of 411 (Madzhidi 1934a, 8). This was seen as a major achievement, especially in the light of recent data from the United States claiming that in New Jersey, for example, students with PhDs were often unable to find work and frequently obliged to labor long hours in department stores as sales clerks, simply to avoid unemployment. Some of these overlaps between life and literature may recall the goals of earlier Jadid activity, but the Soviets would always circumvent any nationalism by stressing the class divisions in society, rather than “inflammatory,” chauvinistic phrases in the style of “Uzbekistan for Uzbeks,” which purportedly did little more than fuel an exclusionary view of the world. The new sociopolitical system and aesthetic were equally keen to divorce themselves hastily from the “Old Uzbek” or Chaghatay Group, created after 1917 but supposedly made of bourgeois intelligentsia. They, said Soviet critics, had advocated an excessively emotional aspect in poetry determined by gratification alone, a “passive enjoyment” of the literary text devoid of any useful application of that emotion in society (ibid., 21). Lenin brought some order to bear; he

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declared simultaneously at the Third Komsomol Congress (1920) that if literature were to be applied to the present, it would have to include an active and constructive reworking of literary history along Marxist lines. Writing new verse, invoking the active, emotive rhythms of construction, and repositioning the mileposts of literary history were three interconnected assignments. In 1926 a group of ideologically diverse writers had already attempted to engage a similarly tripartite agenda and created an organization known as Red Quill (Krasnoe pero/Qizil qalam). Since, however, only some of the members were committed wholeheartedly to the “spirit of October,” said Moscow, they were unable to form a consolidated ideological platform or “attract the young creative skills of factories and production plants into literature,” which troubled the architects of Socialist Realism. Similar criticism was leveled against the “Young Leninist” Tashkent newspaper; although designed as a more explicitly pro-Soviet publication, it was too often full of very vague, poorly applied affect: “Some kind of obscure, unclear wishes, some kind of hopes for something or other” (ibid., 30–2). Poetry bolstered by unambiguous doctrine could help to correct this: Poetry predominates in Uzbek Soviet literature. We have more poetic works than prose. The strength of young people multiplies with each and every day; they’re beginning to be active in literature, mostly in poetry. This fact alone demands that we pay lasting, serious attention to verse. If we want to raise poetry to the highest possible level, the issue of content should occupy its proper place [in verse composition], together with more specific matters of form: vocabulary, rhythm, rhyme and so on. (Ibid., 47) “Imitations” of antique Persian and Arabic poetry would have to stop; their rhythms could be learned much more successfully from Maiakovskii and Bezymenskii (Soatov, 14–15)! At the very first Congress of the Uzbek Writers’ Union, a resolution was produced to this effect, in which the signatories drew directly upon words from Stalin: “The dictatorship of the proletariat is an age of promising cultures, which are national in form and socialist in content” (Madzhidi 1934a, 98). In 1934, at the First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers, the Uzbek representative echoed analogous attitudes, also from Stalin – assurances that the people would at long last be blessed with their true literary heritage, not the “miserly” versions from feudal or Tsarist philology. The state publishing house in Tashkent, beginning to fabricate that heritage, raised output between 1929 and 1933 from 142 quires to 600. What was on those printed pages became increasingly significant, so that poetry could overcome its prior “inability to penetrate deeply into the processes of life. It should stop describing things that are merely stolen from short newspaper articles and start being less superficial” (Madzhidi 1934b, 25). Poetry’s current heroes quoted journalistic rhetoric celebrating completed tasks and successful policy, without showing (or even wondering) how to achieve those results.

80 Uzbek poetry By the time, therefore, that a major history of Uzbek literature appeared after the Second World War, one would think writers would have an improved idea of their common assignments. Debate, however, continued over which national forms could best give voice to a socialist context, or which antique works had done this successfully. Lenin’s call to rework literary history was constantly being attended to. Ancient literature had grown in essence from verse, despite simultaneous hybrid prosaic forms concerning religious, hagiographic, or didactic goals; here, at least, academics were in agreement. Lyrico-epic works with narrative inserts (the dastan) began to be turned into prose only from the seventeenth century onward; bona fide, recognizable prose emerged subsequently in the nineteenth century after contact with Russia. Uzbeks had already produced a “preparatory, grand vista” of prose in the epic dastan by drawing upon Turkic and Iranian traditions; having made such designations, Soviet critics then divided these epics into two categories that embodied sweeping generalizations. They either had a folkloric basis (“the unfaltering victory of goodness”) or a feudal–clerical genesis, designed to serve nationalistic and political purposes (Kor-Ogly 1956, 15). Over and above the folkloric/feudal opposition, scholars asserted that there had been tendencies in this and early Uzbek poetry either toward didacticism (requests that rulers refrain from immoral or violent excess) or a Sufi tradition of poetry, that is, introspection and alienation from the world in search of eternal patience and unending peace. Commentators maintained the former tendency had always endured in Uzbek verse, yet although these academics dismissed its spiritual component, the role they calmly ascribed to emotion was just as extensive. It was Navoiy who met with loud Soviet approval as a precursor of national spirit or narodnost’. His work ostensibly married romance and a studied manipulation of rhythm to an emotional universalism worthy of pious commitment. Navoiy is a great poet. His multifaceted talent places him alongside many other geniuses of worldwide repute. His verse has long become the property of all mankind . . . The power of his talent resides in the fact that his works traverse the centuries. His poems have entered the nation’s memory and inspire its people to this day. (Kor-Ogly 1956, 63) Lyricism and pre-modern forces moved out and beyond political geography in Russian translations. Чepны, кaк нoчь, твoи кocы, кaк тoпoль, ты вcя cтpoйнa, И лик твoй звeздe пoдoбeн, кoтopaя тaк яcнa. В тоске по тебе дo небa вознес я мольбy, господь! Ужели моя молитва не бyдет тебе слышна? И гyбы твои – не диво ль? – как пламя среди воды; B том пламени капля пота – как странно горит она!

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Mечта о ней в грyстном сердце, и мне оттого печаль, B дyше y ней столько ласки, моя же дyша грyстна. [Your braids are as black as night; you have the shapely figure of a poplar tree. Your visage is so radiant; it is like a star. Oh Lord, from yearning for you I raised a prayer to the heavens. Will you truly not be able to hear it? And your lips – are they not a wonder – like a flame amid water. In that flame is a droplet of perspiration: how strangely it burns! There is a dream of this girl in my saddened heart; it brings me woe. Her soul has so much tenderness; my soul is sad.] (Azimov 1965 [vol. 2], 126) In the simplifying agendas of poetry and political cartography within Soviet scholarship, the generation of “poet-democrats” was vital: Furqat (1858–1909), Zavqiy (1853–1921), and Avaz (1884–1919) were lauded as adversaries of religious bigotry and advocates of change in the national educational system. Since, however, the men and women of this time had not benefited from a European education, they were mournfully ensnared in “medieval” worldviews and therefore unable to unite the progressive nature of their thought to an accurate understanding of social progress as a whole. At least (said socialism) they ushered in more democratic tendencies in the poetic lexicon, as words appeared from technology, economics, and sociology (ibid., 119). The need to push traditional themes, forms, and epithets beyond the constraints of habit became increasingly clear. As these calls for reform sounded louder, smaller prose genres proliferated, such as tales and plays from Hamza and his compatriot Qodiriy (1894–1938), growing into longer narratives over the 1920s. By this time, however, Socialist Realism loomed large on the horizon, and so there returned the dilemma of how to fold prior centuries into socialist forms of storytelling. The time-honored prominence of beauty endured in verse, albeit in altered forms: “Poetry often sang the praises of hard-working people, those who would captivate you at first sight – not just with their beautiful appearance, but with their attitude towards work and the environment, too” (Kor-Ogly 1956, 152). The great voices of this Uzbek poetry that were pulled into the modern Russian canon included Hamza, G’ulom, Hamid Olimjon (1909–1944), and Zulfiya (1915–1996). Hamza, tragically killed at the age of 30 by opponents of the new Soviet system, was promoted as the perfect early socialist poet, not because he had the theoretical schooling or Marxist savvy to understand the role of politically astute verse, but because he intuitively understood humanism and justice. “He was the first poet in the history of Uzbek literature who created the image of a beautiful, valiant working man” (ibid., 166 and 173). Oтважных воинов, рабочих и крестьян, Pодная Партия слила в единый стан, – Былого призраки yйдyт невозвратимо! ...

82 Uzbek poetry Tоржественно гимны гремят; Знамена в небе шyмят, Kанyло старое в тинy зыбкyю, Hовое к нам шагает с yлыбкою. [Valiant warriors, workers and peasants, our native Party has merged into a single stature. The ghosts of the past will leave, never to return! Anthems roar thunderously forth; banners make noise in the sky. The past has sunk into the quivering mire. The new life strides toward us with a smile.] (Azimov 1967 [vol. 3], 503 and 21 and 29) In a similar fashion, G’ulom outgrew his early years as the “epigone of a classical lyricist” and became a professed champion not of studied, elegant, and formalistic difference but of typicality, making his poetry infinitely more “relevant and life-affirming.” Olimjon, in an analogous development, met Maiakovskii in 1929 and had, among others, translated Pushkin, Lermontov, Gor’kii, and Nikolai Ostrovskii. As a man whose life placed him between passive and active attitudes toward new, Soviet culture, he was associated in later years with the Uzbek war effort and its most successful propagandistic verse, whilst never departing from or diminishing his “emotive lyric poetry, a rich range of moods and a love for beauty.” Bерен по-прежнемy розе своей, Tеперь не стонет над ней соловей, Hовой ее красотой восхищен, Cчастлив в моей стране и он. ПoэTы гaзeли пoют, нo cтиx Tеперь не отравлен слезами их. Mатери над колыбелью поют – Cyдьбy своих детей не клянyт. Cчастливая на все времена – Bот какая моя страна! ... Kем же тебе эта мощь дана, Любимая родная страна? Kто тебе вырасти так помог, B чем твоей громкой славы залог? Это Партия, это Mосква – Bечные святые для нас слова. [I am, as ever, faithful to my rose. A nightingale no longer keens above it; its new beauty stirs me. The nightingale, too, is at ease in my land. Poets sing ghazels, yet tears no longer taint their verse. Mothers sing above the cradle; they do not curse their babies’ destiny. Joyful forever – such is my

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land! . . . Who granted you this power, my dear native nation? Who helped you to mature thus? Where is the security of your illustrious fame? It is the Party, it is Moscow: these words are eternally sacred to us.] (Azimov 1967 [vol. 3], 56)

The apparent, optimistic theory behind Russian practice The best way to approach this remaking of Uzbek verse over the course of the twentieth century is not to work through a list of poets; one should instead examine the way poetry was written about, almost independently of the author under investigation. It then becomes feasible to take quotes such as the following, from a post-Stalinist study of G’ulom’s verse, and consider whether the period made the poetry or Moscow tried utilizing poetry “to make an [historical] epoch”: Optimism is inherent in all of G’ulom’s verse. Our amazing age has created poetry that is penetrated with joy. This optimism is not some light-hearted happiness; it is born of a rich world of thoughts and feelings both nourished by and inspiring love for the Soviet Union, for the laboring masses. It is a forceful, long-lasting, vigorous optimism. (Iakubov, Kh. 1959, 63) Individuals who insisted on finding such qualities in religious, not Soviet organizations were accused of ignorance of the benefits brought to the region by Russia (either now or in the past [Epifanova, 11]). Yet even when an Uzbek poet recognized such benefits for an enthusiastically imagined future, s/he was accused of replacing “the romanticism of creative labor . . . with mere description, oratory, superficiality and dry didacticism” (Mamadzhanov, S., 17). The Russians invited and invoked romanticism, but were less than sure of its limits or the degree to which it coincided with Moscow’s unambiguous and guiding principles for making an epoch. Asian poets enacted the impassioned letter of the law and were then accused of being too literal in the interpretation. They “did” didacticism to the full and it became subversive. One hopeful outlet from this predicament came in somewhat abstract references to the rhetoric of musical scholarship, to “syntheses” of rules and romance, such as in the poetry of G’ulom, embodying a barmak syllabic verse form and its rhythmic potential together with more modern innovations from Soviet culture like free verse (Shukurov 1960, 10 and 17). These mergings were justified (and defined) by Soviet critics drawing upon Belinskii, advocating that artistic writers undertake to capture “reflections of individuality, the characteristics of a people, an expression of their internal spirit and external life with all of its typical shades, colors and birthmarks” (Musina, 4). Hamza, taking Belinskii quite literally, was here praised for an insistence that literary classifications not narrow to the

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exclusion of romanticism, stating that syntheses of orderly words and emotive music should both condemn the “executioners” of the nation’s past and “instill joy in the hearts of people” (Bazarov, U., 97). In fact by the 1960s, this same poet of amalgamation was called “an expert in the human soul” with a “richness, profundity and clarity of artistic thought.” According to this logic, clarity came both from fusions and from an ever-escalating pursuit for individuality amid a huge range of “thought” traits, none of which represented that individuality in isolation or in total (Babakhanov 1960). It was the ability to both grant meaning to unutterable multitude yet be from it, a shuttling movement enacted rhythmically, as with Ogahiy (1809–1874): In lyric verse all of life’s manifestations are transmitted as an individual’s experiences, as the attitude of a subject to them. This is where the emotionality of poetic speech originates, together with intonation that accentuates all manner of words and phrases. [The poet’s experience and attitude] are both the origin of rhythm and the lyrical uniqueness of a poem, too. (Dalimov, U., 13) If so, the plenitude of the sublime is driving poetry that the Soviets are trying to claim as the foundation for a Socialist aesthetic; and indeed it is such a foundation, but critics are unnerved by that realization whenever it emerges. They do not wish to know what they know. A centrifugal subjectivity born of this power once again invites some Spinozistic conclusions, and indeed in 1962 Tashkent readers were informed that classical Uzbek poetry, aided by the rhythmic structures of the barmak, had used this penned subjectivity to create an explicit “pantheism” outdoing orthodox Islamic dogma and the “prudishness of religious fanatics” (Karimov, G., 90 and 94). Scholars were considering Asian verse as something beyond undeviating politics and its storytelling, something beyond its own poetic syntax. G’ulom’s stanzas proved a good case in point, revealing sufficient “emotionality” to realize the genuine, original promise of the Revolution (Turabekova, 18); in Hamza’s ardent poetry pro-Moscow critics could now witness that “Lenin’s predictions had indeed come true.” Hamza was a “lighthouse” for future poets working in the same vein to further the social spirit lying just beyond the end of every repeated and versified phrase (Kaiumov 1963, 50). This movement “beyond” would be a form of affective extremism to counterbalance equally sweeping failures noted gradually in Uzbek society and highlighted by trenchant local satirists of the time: “Abuse, bribery, bureaucratism, careerism, egoism, parasitism, hooliganism, alcoholism, smoking hashish, a love for gambling . . . ” (Akhmedzhanov, 26). As we know, any earlier possibility that Islam could be a counterweight to these problems had faded over previous decades and socialism hoped to occupy the same ethical location (Mominov, 21). Statements appeared in the final full year of Khrushchev’s term that described the dominion of ideological romanticism as a never-ending “expanse, unheard of in any prior age” (Tursunov 1963, 166). Versified forms of socialism were expanding more than progressing.

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Romantic extremism foundered briefly, yet persisted As Brezhnev replaced his predecessor, the first few studies of verse were, to be honest, rather dull, distilling the healthy complexity of the early 1960s and their aesthetic expanse ( prostor) into rubrics that supposedly underlie all poetry, such as the relationship of ruling classes to the “unfortunate” or the patriarchal oppression of women (Khusainova, 21). If, in studies of the early 1960s, one could sense a degree of tolerance for poets even close to Sufism, then by 1966 and Khrushchev’s enforced retirement, nineteenth-century and pre-Revolutionary writers (pitiful “sons of their age”) were criticized for their inability to conceive of existence devoid of Shahs or other, equally “inescapable” rulers (Arzibekov, 19–20 and 23). Arrogant, unconvincing paeans were sung to the “Soviet people, who are vitalized as they become increasingly multifaceted” (Khashimova 1966, 14), while quotes from Brezhnev himself were interwoven with Asian scholarship, all with the simple goal of getting Uzbek literary houses immediately in order. It is most imperative that modernity and problems of communist production in our country become the main themes and framework for literature, cinema, theater, painting, music and sculpture. Various generations of artists are trying to better comprehend and illustrate the image of today’s citizen. (Saimov, 3) The poet-democrat Muqimiy (1850–1903) and others of his generation were now men who founded their work upon “the cornerstones of humanism and narodnost’ ” (Rakhmatova, 20). The human potential became narrow humanism. A welcome yet modest sign of romanticism’s tenacity at this time, despite Brezhnev’s conservative reform, came in a fresh overview of early Soviet verse. Although it sometimes resorted to tedious binarisms, it at least classified Uzbek poetry with two categories that did offer a glimmer of hope. The author maintained that scenes of landscape were a prime indicator of lyricism, while epic verse, even when lauding socialist construction, attained its status with “emotionally adorned images.” Affect and the environmental sweep of subjectivity broadened, slowly blurring any conceivable focus upon semantic or social headway. In looking at epicurean aspects of classic verse, for example, readers were told that wine allowed writers to banish sadness and turn one’s quill to love lyrics, which “in the broadest possible sense of the word are connected to real life” (Rasulova, 14). Realism benefited from the unfocused boundaries of reality under the influence of alcohol. The resurrected metaphor of “broadening” across an intoxicated, poorly focused prostor also appeared in new scholarship on the published corpus of G’ulom, because he was a man who traveled to the edges of the USSR and then farther still, to France, Italy, Egypt, Turkey, and Afghanistan. The widening of both experience and reading material (amid foreign classics) in turn supposedly

86 Uzbek poetry extended “the space for one’s thoughts. This deepens the universally human spirit of one’s poetry, making images multicolored, enriching them with splendid details and facts” (Mamadzhanov 1967, 65). And thus, according to this compositional logic, poets and lyrical poetesses such as Zulfiya were able to define the “tiniest details of intimate experience” and then expand them into “significant, socially noteworthy conclusions” (Babakhodzhaev, N., 25). Once this potential for future development was suggested, the importance of the past was also increased such that the poet, as a tiny detail, started becoming a fleeting concentration of prior and future multiplicities. Usmon Nosir (1912–1944), by way of illustration, was christened the sum of Navoiy, Esenin, Bagritskii, and Maiakovskii, and a multitude of folkloric sources from around the world (Radzhabov, 25). Even a strident poet like Hamza, usually positioned clearly in a series of dialectically progressive processes (Musakhodzhaeva, 21), was (it seemed) actually closer to the unspeakable, in between those spoken steps and now nowhere in particular, in a “blank spot” – because themes of variegation had spun outwards to the point where correlations between their elements could become indiscernible. The poet’s active construction did not bridge these gaps; instead, to his surprise, “machinic” biology and the ecosphere surpassed human technology as nature outdid any forms of social development. The ecology of “quiet gardens” outdid noisy factories; the past outdid the present and future. Человек – я yмрy. Hо мой стих – Продолжение жизни моей. Продолжает ее и тот, Kто за мной в этот сад придет. Cтих и люди – и в нем, и в них Продолжение жизни моей. Kак хорош этот тихий сад! Kак хорош этот теплый свет! K цветникy я приник дyшой . . . И пьянит меня запах хмельной. Kак конца не имеет сад, Tак конца и y жизни нет! [I am a man. I will die. Yet my verse extends my life, as does the person who comes after me into this garden. Verse and people; in both of them is the extension of my life. How fine is this quiet garden! How fine is this warm sunlight! With my soul I lean towards the flowerbed and the heady aroma intoxicates me . . . Just as this garden knows no end, so life has no end!] (Azimov 1967 [vol. 3], 309–10) Metaphor helped this process of non-linear expansion in a strange rendering of conventional realist tools, such as the typicality of “life itself ”: “The generalizing force of metaphorical description conjures a reader’s fantasy and does so with considerably more breadth than any simile” (Rasulev, 10–11). The same scholar,

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thankfully, also ascertained once more that precisely this type of fantasy and “dreamy” metaphor lay at the foundation of classical Central Asian love lyrics (ibid., 25). It also lay at the base of successful Soviet verse in the region, existing amid silence and minorization, in the emotionally commanding pauses of Hamza’s poetry, or the canon’s oft-ignored mixture of amorous and religious verse that left such a strong (yet ineffable) impression on Russian-speaking Tashkent critics of the late 1960s (Babakhanov 1970, 87 and Kasymkhodzhaeva, 11 and 18). It moved into analyses of other poets like Ahmad Tabibiy (1869–1911), too, whose work was advertised as encompassing the emotional and spiritual world of his heroes by using the language of the past’s poets and their “hyperbole,” all to carry a text to new symbolic dimensions (Ganikhodzhaev, 10 and 16). “A symbolic depiction is perceived by the reader as lyrical aesthetic enjoyment” – but this would never happen if the image was not effected “concretely” and the reader not “intellectual” (Sharapov 1970, 11). That conceptual, phenomenological concreteness, however, need not be achieved with inventories of ostensible details, since the most important goal was transmitting the “movement and growth of lyrical sensations.” Rhythm was explicitly named the key tool in guaranteeing that movement of Asian realism, that is to say cadences growing out of the natural rhythms of the object being described (Kamalov, 12). Thus any verse born of paysage would echo the same Russian hypotheses noted earlier in Lermontov or the natural, “ecological” rhythms of Asian dance. The ineffable drove the effable.

An ecological aesthetic materializes in the 1970s Hope endured that fidelity to the ultimately unknowable, metaphorical, “hyperbolic,” and outward-moving extensiveness of the last few years could sustain itself throughout the entire Stagnation. Initially in the decade things did not look good; religious poets of the past were criticized on those grounds, pure and simple, condemned with faint forgiveness (again) as “sons of their age” (Dalimov 1971, 25 and Mukhiddinov, 25). Real clemency gradually materialized not in the area of theme (crudely categorized as good or bad) but in versification, in sympathetic, ongoing discussion of what poetry draws upon (and punctuates) from forces external or prior to the lexicon. Rhyme, for example, was at least exonerated as a “manifestation that changes in history” and therefore reflects metamorphosing reality rather than constant “social motifs” (Mirkhaidarov, 23–4). Something unutterable was exterior to quantifiable, explicit texts and their ability to create discernible, effective social motifs in literature or politics. What the 1970s revealed was the ability of that “something” to continue under pressure from small-minded yet durable prudence. In some cases ineffable plenitude came from moving beyond the tenets of political expediency through adherence to them. The career and raison d’être of G’ulom were thus interpreted in 1972. By using the banal metaphor of his poetry’s “acquaintances,” that is, the people who actually give his work meaning, scholars were able to make the real-life poet less of a tangible presence in the world or somebody bounded by skin, bones, and a

88 Uzbek poetry quantifiable lifespan. G’ulom was his expansive, ascendant public and they were he, in a system of interactions that officially created people who “help one another, live, work and dream” (Akbarov 1972, 209). The promising consequences of this attitude remained dogmatically restrained, yet there was at least slight cause for hope amid metrical studies. Several of them advocated development of a traditional metrical system from the aruz, that is, playing upon long and short syllables, together with the syllabic system of the barmak. The aruz and its non-European sounds, hoped one researcher, would bring greater musicality to new verse, and heightened “musicality without doubt increases the artistic level of a poem” (Arzimatov, 22). Realist literature was augmented from outside the lexicon. As seen once or twice earlier with Hamza, the countryside was still utilized in search of this undoubted, non-linguistic importance; silent thoughts on voicelessness and wilderness were imbued with a “profound humanism” (Madgaziev, 32). The true or profound aspect of being human came from a noiseless consciousness of being within nature; it therefore came also from considering the absence of humans, from terra firma and not its noisy residents. Truth was bound to absence, to a gap and growing emptiness. This was the kind of “love for life” that made simplifying, reductionist, or binary thought very difficult, as in the case of one Asian poet who also worked as a judge and constantly wrestled with the poverty of choices between a mere “guilty” or “not guilty” verdict (Abdurakhmanov, A., 17). In using landscape to circumvent unsophisticated simplicity, authors were warned of the dangers of naturalism, which would rob poetry of “psychological analysis” or all lyricism and divorce it from anything social or connected with physical existence. Reality could not be illustrated by photographic reproductions of that which is accessible to vision (Nuriddinov, 19–20). As diverse attempts were made to investigate these indescribable aspects of life by Uzbek socialist writers, their Russian-language champions were eager to emphasize that any resulting multiplicity was not “realism without limits,” but a realism that was romantic variety within singularity (Shukurov 1973, 66). Lenin himself had always said that Socialist Realism could not get by without some romanticism: “Better an excess of it than a lack! We’ve always sympathized with Revolutionary romanticism – even when we didn’t agree with it!” (Kambarova, 7 and Mamurov, 11). Affective, ecological metaphors of romanticism were promptly incorporated into clumsy forms of stately celebration: Yes – as long as our literature exists, Hamid Olimjon is alive! There is our Homeland – and that means he exists, too. While the sun is shining, his ardent lines warm our soul like sunrays. Winters are followed by springs; new generations walk upon the green earth and the poetry of Olimjon continues to awaken beauty and joy in their souls. Absolutely everywhere that mankind is alive, where happiness and sunlight reign on the earth, his voice and the spirit of his mighty poetry will be alive there, too! (Mamadzhanov 1972, 309)

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Береги долинy, которой yкрашен Cтарый Восток, Береги чистотy этих пашен, Чтобы ни на один листок Даже пылинка не села, Даже песчинка не смела Hа этy землю yпасть, всецело B бyдyщее yстремленнyю, Зеленyю-зеленyю! [Take care of the Ferghana Valley adorning the Ancient East. Take care of these fields and their purity. No speck of dust should touch a single leaf; no grain of sand should fall arrogantly upon this ground. The green, green Ferghana Valley is striving toward the future!] (Azimov 1967 [vol. 3], 43) The poetry of paysage increased in significance relative to the expanse it described and encompassed. Across horizons, distant shores, and azure skies one lost “one self ” and gained “oneself ” (Gafurov 1973, 18). Absence and leave-taking acquired a very special significance. As Marx himself said once to his wife: A temporary parting is useful, for constant socialization can acquire forms of uniformity that erase the differences between things . . . When their object is close by, profound passions can become everyday habits, yet those passions grow and acquire their inherent power once more under the magic influence of absence. (Fazylova, 7–8) Poets associated with the Revolution in Khorezm were, despite their explicit links to insurgency, likened both to the distant, “absent” body of the sun and the presence of sunlight, because “since ancient times the highest ideals of mankind have been associated with light, with radiance of the moon and the sun” (Pirnazarov, 11 and 18). The state presses celebrated verse and song that developed metaphors around overt reference to local mountains, rivers, lakes, and villages (Khodzhibaev, 19). One study of “the poetry of wilderness and springtime” even held that the depiction of a real, modern hero was something national or nationwide, ergo something “human.” This human essence could be made manifest without recourse to received, realist techniques of common people representing broadly human or national traits (Tartakovskii 1974, 127). Natural occurrences could do the job just as well and by removing an unambiguously human presence give any narrative an “epic quality.” G’ulom, as one man in a national crowd, was for example more profitably associated with a twin star in the night sky, that is, an apparent wholeness that, when viewed more closely showed a split or incipient multiplicity. To view oneself from the future would do the same and reveal many different selves in one person: “There are so many of them [inside you] – all varied and

90 Uzbek poetry they are squeezed [increasingly] into your skin over the years of your life” (Naumov, 6). Suddenly there was not one, singular Tashkent, but simply multiple cities, each unavoidably subjective. Many beautiful lyric verses poems, songs and narrative poems have been written about Tashkent, her beauty, about love for her – but that theme is inexhaustible; each poet expresses his own personal feelings, sensations, experiences – and there will certainly be a lot more written on the same one theme. (Khoroshin, 24) This modesty of status amidst other people, phenomena, places, and opinions was fêted as a way to adopt “a transformational role in the world” (Khalilov, T., 17). It showed how the supposedly introspective and self-contained hero of classic Uzbek verse was – so often – part of an inexorable triad: lover / beloved / rival. One writer and his/her unity was always multiple (Zhumabaeva, 11). This was a different truth of life, as one study termed matters: Affirming his right to existence, the lyrical hero in each work of Uzbek literature strives to affirm his ideals and negate that which is unacceptable to him. Affirmation and negation are understood not only as the convictions of an individual person, but of an entire people or a certain section in society. One could make similar observations about the intermingling [vzaimosliianie] of subjectivity and objectivity when evaluating life’s [countless] manifestations. Both concrete events and changes in bona fide reality [real’naia deistvitel’nost’] leave a discernible trace in poetry’s attempts to comprehend them. (Narbaev, 14) The modesty that came as a result of this phenomenological “making sense” was, paradoxically, tied to increasing self-affirmation. In the last year of the 1970s, for example, dogmatic scholarship interpreted Hamza’s pre-Revolutionary sadness (at social nothingness) and the pervading “elegiac” air of a classical heritage as something that may have characterized his early poetry, yet the same sadness was allied with a hope for joy in altered, ameliorated society (Babakhanov 1979, 98). Affirmation here remained caused and then limited by social policy, but one should not forget the assertions of Uzbek poets today that Hamza was always a Jadid at heart, whose texts were sometimes manipulated by more squeamish Soviet editors. Dead poets tend not to protest the fact that their meaning is being curtailed.

Very Soviet poetry and the affirmative spirit of the 1980s Slightly less squeamish or orthodox interpretations of Hamza’s open, expanding subjectivity became available in scholarship of this time. It asserted that the 1916

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Khorezm uprising had turned selfish sadness into social joy; Hamza, however, then began his self-affirmation within groups of others, for example, as recorded in his visits to teahouses where he read poems to unsystematic groups of patrons exiting and entering an establishment. On a more professional level, he garnered related renown for organizing ensembles of actors and instituting experiments in dramaturgy, as well as teaching assembled singers to harmonize their voices in modern, novel choral forms, that is standing up and together, rather than sitting higgledy-piggledy on the floor as per traditional, smaller arrangements of performance (Kaiumov 1979a, 89). Even when he died, some kinder academics subsumed him into an assemblage larger than social groups or the boundaries of atheist prejudice: the environment itself. The following is from a stylized folk song that mourns his bloody murder and was published in a Russian museum guide for visitors to Uzbekistan. Hа берегy горного потока, Pаскрылась красная роза, Kак жаль, что преждевременно Погиб Xамзаджон. Hа берегy горного потока два камня, Hа камни похожи сердца ходжей, Убивших Xамзаджона. Брови Xамзаджона подобно перьям соловья, Чтоб смерть взяла тех, кто yбил его. [On the bank of a mountain river a beautiful rose blossomed. How sad that Hamza died prematurely. On the bank of the mountain stream are two stones like those hearts of the religious teachers who killed Hamza. His eyebrows were like a nightingale’s feathers. May death take those who killed him.] (Guliiants and Burdova, 28) Over the course of 1915–1917 Hamza had released 7 collections of his poetry as song lyrics set to approximately 30 folk melodies. This move was now seen in terms of a “broader” application of oneself to many genres, styles, and even the nameless multitudes of folk creativity (Sultanov 1979, 27). The downside, however, of this philosophy à la “one man as many people” (especially when bundled into simpler, political forms) was that any act, be it “good” or “bad,” could make the persecution of “wrong” parties and the celebration of “correct” somewhat sweeping and undemocratic. Generalizations could be dangerous. When Hamza was murdered, by way of illustration, the trial resulted in 9 people being sentenced to death, 8 to lengthy terms of imprisonment, and 17 to distant exile (Kaiumov 1979b, 46). To say therefore, as rhetoric of the early 1980s did, that he was the founder of modern Uzbek verse may be true, but to narrow that emphasis and insist that he and his readership were “always going forward” is simply a vulgar and reductionist perversion that allows precisely this kind of negative, violent generalization (Farkhadi, 24).

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Thankfully, kinder concessions predominated, such as works on Jadid poets that focused upon the inherent fairness of laws they tried to introduce, their hopes for a “better future” outside of any explicitly ideological aims. Democracy, not edicts prevailed and even pointedly Soviet references gravitated toward the early, romantic ideals of Lenin (Salikhova 1988, 40 and 79), because subsequent, sadder decades had never established any consoling stasis through the repetition of themes like Homeland, Revolution, the “Party of Lenin,” labor, peace, the friendship of peoples, “and so on . . . ” (Saliev, N., 8). Despite any such revisionism, as the USSR came to a close there was still no genuine desire in academia to reposition or recontextualize verse in areas of study like “Hamza and Religion.” Any such hypothetical rubrics remained non-materialist and entirely “speculative” (Koshchanov 1989, 306–7); even consideration of these themes gave conservative scholars slight cause for concern, because by 1990 liberal rhetoric was leading socialist scholarship to consider the logical excess or extreme of its own discourse. Questions were asked about Navoiy’s potential links to Sufism (Sirozhiddinov 1991, 18) vis à vis its similarity to excessive idealism or romanticism and their common ability to conjure “a different kind of life.” Two studies published in 1991 looked back at Uzbekistan’s romantic poetry and its “irrational emotional relationship with the world” (Akramov 1991, 47–8). Irrespective of their authors’ aversion toward illogicality, readers were persuaded that romanticism produced not suspect exaggeration but “the special, multifaceted lyrical embodiment of a single hero.” This was an attempt to cope with variegation and enormous difference, the desire to assign them ethical and even spiritual qualities, which were closer to truth than politics. Uzbek literature has one exceptional quality. In an Uzbek poem it is almost impossible to lie. All attempts to foist one’s opinion onto the reader, passing off the lyrical hero as somebody he truly is not, will end in failure. If the hero’s disposition or behavior is not authentic, that will be revealed, no matter what. This results from Uzbek poetry’s keen moral sense in the face of falsehood. (Boborakhimov, 17) In fact as Uzbekistan left Soviet history and entered 1992, another review appeared scrutinizing the interplay between ecology and lyricism over the last socialist decade. One short phrase therein encapsulated much of that keen “moral sense” and its social trajectory beyond society. In poetry concerned with privacy and nature, poets, and translators of the 1980s “strove to reveal new limits for the content of traditional images. [This came from] transforming the truth of life into an artistic truth via the talent of an artist” (Farmonova, 16–17). Central Asian verse was prior and subsequent to Soviet truth. Classical poetry is not subject to the passage of time, despite its abundance of what seem (by today’s norms) an old-fashioned vocabulary and metaphorical turns of phrase. Although a great deal in antique poetry is not made fully

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conscious, it still continues to excite and charm its readers with a magical, incommunicable force of art. Over the past century Uzbek classical poetry has shown it can transgress not only temporal, but territorial boundaries, too. Thanks to the art of translation, it has come to life in other national literatures, including Russian [but not exclusively], acquiring a new existence in another language. (Kasymova 1993, 3)

A closing word on stubborn, diffusive lyricism We might, given our Badiouian scrutiny thus far, hope to discover that private, eventful embodiments of fidelity to a centrifugal lyricism would thus result from a process of subtraction, from removing the identities or unities that typically structure narrative contrasts (gender, classes, ethnic groups, etc.). Non-unified multiplicities would result, that is, entities comprehensible to mathematics’ set theory as multiple, eternally “regroupable” or reconstitutable elements. Amid all these elements and unmade (yet-to-be-remade) sets would reside the emptiness of truth or reality, for the zero or “void of a situation is simply what is not there, but is necessary for anything to be there” (Badiou 2003a, 16). This comprehensive veracity will be always very hard to encompass, no matter how long a story or fat a book. For every property that one formulates, even the most general such as “this apple and this apple and this apple . . . ,” the generic set has at least one element which does not share that property. This makes sense intuitively: when someone tries to tell you about a new experience, whether it be a meeting or seeing a work of art, they have a lot of trouble describing it accurately and, every time you try to help them by suggesting that it might be a bit like the person x or the film y, they say, “No, no, it’s not like that!” For every property or concept you come up with to describe this new thing, there is something in that new thing which does not quite fit. (Ibid., 30) Colonialist literary discourses have a lot of trouble with this; they must deal with the newness of truth that is always a supplement to their presumably stable norms. They want and need something indescribable and risky if an individual intends “taking this newness and running with it,” to see what happens. Yet the Soviets installed huge institutions to (try and) lessen the likelihood of ensuing excess(es). For example, a Central Committee for Repertoire Supervision was established in Uzbekistan in March 1927, working with even greater censure than the prior UzSSR Council of People’s Commissars (1925); it oversaw the matter of “literary control,” working with education officials and the Committee for State Security (i.e., secret police). All publications and performances required prior approval from these ominous figures, which in practice made the likelihood of Jadid or explicitly Muslim works minimal (Allworth 1990, 222).

94 Uzbek poetry Such were the loquacious institutions designed to make literary history, but after 1991 these stentorian critics from the Soviet past were attacked with their own, prior lexicon and accused of both “formalism” and a merely “mechanical perception of how epochs come and go” (Rakhimov, T., 3). The very idea of how a time and place in creative and gladly “formless” activities could be documented appeared moot. Today’s artistic methods are notable for their dynamic reinterpretation of many [supposed] constants in human existence. Literature is satisfied less and less (and indeed limited less and less) by any fixation upon a small cross-section of ostensible existence. Stories are focusing their attention more clearly than ever upon individuality, taking it as the starting point for all manner of observations. Everyday, run of the mill notions about time and space are being jettisoned: time does not move as an arrow in a singular, linear direction, but operates instead as a concentric spiral. It can move backwards, too. Memory therefore becomes an important creative act. Eternity is changed from an abstract, conceptual notion into an artistic imperative. Only through eternity can one [truly] perceive the world. (Abdutalieva, 21) In this radical step from real geography and tangible events, where did culture operate, especially when we bear in mind that Russians had physically left the expanse known as Uzbekistan in droves? In many instances it moved to the Internet; the web’s vital significance for the Andijan uprising is already evident. Our final chapter will therefore examine how cultural practices in ostensible spaces and on the printed page might remake themselves on-line, perhaps from the ravages of geopolitical dispute. The garden of classical (paper-based) literature, after all, never grew to political fruition for the Slavs who walked into it, despite all their hopes. The air is replete with the aroma of ripe apples. A song plays and it can be heard in even the most distant corners of an enormous orchard. Ladders are placed against young, sturdy apple trees. The happy faces of girls gathering the fruit appear fleetingly amid the braches. The girls are singing . . . “Do you want things to be even better here?” The old man nods his silver head. His gaze is radiant and confident. He smiles with the wisdom of age and, as if remembering a boy and girl he had once seen in the garden, says barely audibly: Things will be even better! They will be, for sure! There will be weddings and holidays. Those kinds of things can come true nowadays! (Shamsharov 1958a, 357–8) This type of situation – something that never happened yet might “come true” – can also be seen as the competition between what a character wants (to see things “done right”) and what he desires (a much more complicated issue). The dogmatic canon goes round and round again, hopefully getting closer to what is overtly

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wanted. It may, though, do nothing more than bring a situation closer to what is secretly desired, the revelatory emptiness of what could one day (be)come genuinely, apolitically true. Becoming is strictly correlative to the concept of REPETITION: far from being opposed to the emergence of the New, the proper paradox is that something truly New can only emerge through repetition. What repetition repeats is not the way the past “effectively was” but the virtuality inherent to the past and betrayed by its past actualization. In this precise sense, the emergence of the New changes the past itself, that is, it retroactively changes not the actual past – we are not in science fiction – but the balance between actuality and virtuality in the past. Recall the old example provided by Walter Benjamin: the October Revolution repeated the French Revolution, redeeming its failure, unearthing and repeating the same impulse. Already for Kierkegaard, repetition is “inverted memory,” a movement forward, the production of the New and not the reproduction of the Old. “There is nothing new under the sun” is the strongest contrast to the movement of repetition. So, it is not only that repetition is (one of the modes of ) the emergence of the New – the New can ONLY emerge through repetition. (Zizek 2003a, 12) As the subject begins to note and encounter the emptiness that it is, we can draw an odd parallel with even state(ly) literature, with the dullest, most repetitive writing or histories made for imperial subjects. With this closing observation from Zizek on the excess lurking in the cultural fantasies of those socialist, propagandistic texts, it remains only to look at the shift of literature and related activities to the Internet since 1991, in apparent flight from the limits of Soviet politics. One has to ask, though, whether the fantasies of repetitious Soviet custom were closer to an emancipatory experience of the Real than the virtual of the web could ever be: Many a commentator has made ironic remarks about the apparent stylistic clumsiness of the titles of Soviet Communist books and articles, such as their tautological character, in the sense of the repeated use of the same word (such as “revolutionary dynamics in the early stages of the Russian revolution” or “economic contradictions in the development of the Soviet economy”). However, what if this tautology points toward the awareness of the logic of betrayal best rendered by the classic reproach of Robespierre to his Dantonist opportunists: “What you want is a revolution without revolution?” The tautological repetition thus signals the urge to repeat the negation, to relate it to itself – the true revolution is “revolution with revolution,” a revolution that in its course, revolutionizes its own starting presuppositions. (Ibid., 211)

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Today’s culture and the ironic benefits of the internet

The two most important concepts that Badiou adapts from his philosophical inheritance: Sartre’s conception of radical subjective freedom as being nothing, as an objective nothingness, or néant – that is, a freedom that determines its existence at each moment, as an ongoing “creation ex nihilo” – and Marx’s conception of the proletariat as having nothing, “nothing to lose but their chains.” (Hallward, xxxii)

Finally opening up to emptiness and the event(s) of the world In the new millennium and its creation of new sets, states and, genres, sociopolitical relations changed between Russia and Uzbekistan, in particular vis à vis the United States and, in turn, Moscow’s policy toward Afghanistan. American operations in Afghanistan, directed between 2001 and 2005 from an Uzbek airbase close to the border, would be left alone if – in turn – Russian operations in Chechnya were spared from frequent American critique. Thus dealings between Uzbekistan and the United States generally improved (until Andijan) but Russo-Uzbek relations were soured, a turn of events that only increased the likelihood of continued Russian emigration. A common rhetorical set of activities and individuals endlessly referenced by all these parties, however, has been (and remains) “the war on terrorism.” With the dogmatic, recurring categories of anarchic outsiders amid emptiness, Badiou’s and Zizek’s writings find another modern, post-Soviet resonance. Clear, conservative lines were drawn around these new political narratives to replace those of the USSR and UzSSR. In the autumn of 2001, the newspaper Kommersant restated, “Russia will be able to act in Chechnya without worrying about the opinion of the international community, led by America. It goes without saying that if America agrees with Moscow’s terms, it will have a free hand in Afghanistan.” The English-language Moscow Times was somewhat more critical of the fact that the Cold War had actually given the United States and Russia an ability to influence political stability in Central Asia. Neither nation had done anything to lessen the gross discrepancy between talk of democratic tolerance

Today’s culture 97 toward Islam and their real-world acts – that displayed no such leniency (“Russian Press Review”). One hope endured that American influence in Uzbekistan, although less than desirable, would at least assist the Uzbeks in managing the Taliban within their borders. Car bombs that exploded in Tashkent on February 16, 1999, killing 15 and wounding 150, were attributed to the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, formally categorized by President Bush as a terrorist organization. Disproportionate cooperation with the United States and its policing abilities in order to remove such dangers would, however, hardly endear Karimov to his close Muslim neighbors. The Taliban and the problems they embodied in Afghanistan thus remained a major headache for Tashkent until recent times, since any future and safe passage through Afghan territory, if feasible, would guarantee priceless trade routes to the Indian Ocean, logically by rail (Arkwright). Following early indications that improving and increasingly cooperative diplomatic relations between Tashkent and Washington could be long-standing, Moscow responded with concern over its decreasing sphere of influence, even though it did have a permanent military base in bordering Tajikistan. Other neighbors, such as impoverished Kyrgyzstan, were equally troubled that increasing wealth from similar foreign partnerships would leave them poorer than ever (Davis, C.). The fickle workings of capital were becoming the prime dictator of international interaction; erstwhile allegiances of any one country to another within the closed framework of a single empire had become much more complex. Centers of political significance were shifting and people were leaving; as a result many cultural issues relating to Russians (who were once upon a time within Central Asia) and their language shifted to the web, as Andijan made clear. One article of January 2003 from the Slavic press noted both persistently and optimistically that Uzbek interest in Russian literature had not waned, despite the ephemeral, less logocentric, and more visual workings of the Internet. A conference held in Samarkand concurred, even if the quality of stories being taught was now slipping; Omsk University arranged a series of residential courses to improve Russian-language teaching standards in Uzbek schools of various regions. To try and rectify this same lacuna, the Russian Consulate in Uzbekistan gave 300,000 Russian language textbooks to local schools as both a gift and incentive. Such generosity could only hope to remedy one aspect of a distressing situation, though. The numbers of Uzbek students studying for a higher degree in Russia on state-sponsored scholarships certainly needed a hand: in recent times there were only 50 such undergraduates (“V Uzbekistane”). Attempts are now being made to increase the number of Russian-speaking students living in Uzbekistan who can enroll in Russian universities, at least via correspondence courses. Foreign universities are not allowed to operate on Uzbek soil and the discrepancy in typical incomes between Moscow and Tashkent means that on-site Russian degrees are often prohibitively expensive (“Organizatsiia”). These rather desperate attempts to salvage prior norms began after statistical studies of emigration were published, painting an unhappy picture of Central

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Asia’s Russians at the start of the new millennium. Between 1985 and 1992, 800,000 people left Uzbekistan, mainly Slavs. By 1996 émigrés numbered 27,400 people per annum; in 1997 this figure rose to more than 33,000. The last Soviet census listed the number of Russians in Tashkent as 1,660,000; by 2003 the figure may have dropped as low as 600,000. Russian sociologists, putting a subjective spin on those bleakly objective facts, declared that an international and interethnic environment would at least stop the prior prejudices of nationalism (Kuznetsova, S., 97 and 102). True, but that “shared” culture had been both to the advantage of Russians and effected linguistically. Slavs now stood to lose, not gain, irrespective of any flattering (and forgetful) lip service they paid to their purportedly democratic and “nomadic” existence amid multiple cultures before 1991 (Gudava 2000). One event of importance and interest, therefore, was a 2001 conference held by Uzbekistan’s Russian Cultural Center to celebrate 200 years since the birth of the great Russian lexicographer, Vladimir Dal’: The “feats of this remarkable man from Pushkin’s Golden Age of Russian culture” were vigorously discussed. Participants concluded that diminishing languages must be preserved as “vital attributes of national uniqueness and the spiritual collective character [obshchnost’] of a people. On the other hand, the Russian language, just like other national languages of all peoples living in the Republic of Uzbekistan, reflects universally human values and the uniqueness of our nation’s multinational culture” (Danilov). Soviet rhetoric was hoping to find a new life after the demise of the Union. In reality, the number of people speaking Russian had fallen to fourth place in the Republic, after Kazakh and Tajik; nonetheless it was the lingua franca in many fields of industry, science, education, and tourism, for example. As proof of this enduring, uneasy balance between stately desire and common sense, one recent survey asked people in Tashkent which language they use at work: Language of Preference at Work in Tashkent: Only Uzbek: 7.4% Uzbek and Russian: 41% Only Russian: 40.2% In Samarkand: Only Uzbek: 11% Uzbek and Russian: 38% Only Russian: 39% At home in Tashkent: Only Uzbek: 44.3% Uzbek and Russian: 20.7% Only Russian: 29% At home in Samarkand: Only Uzbek: 19% Only Tajik: 21% Only Russian: 20%

Today’s culture 99 Other studies maintained that parents tried to use Russian and Uzbek at home with their children, aware that bilingualism will stand them in good professional stead while the number of Russian children speaking their own tongue fluently was diminishing (Egorov 2000). The quantity of Russian language TV and radio broadcasts was certainly in decline; the number of theaters showing plays in Russian had, oddly, moved in the opposite direction and actually increased. Street names, advertisements, and verbally delivered information in public (for example metro and railway announcements) were increasingly visible in Uzbek. Translated airport broadcasts would be more often in English than Russian. Perhaps due to this mess, almost 89 percent of people said they would (still) resort to Russian in an international social context; a mere 0.4 percent felt they knew English well enough to rely upon it in such situations. Many believed that the post-Soviet state was only able to dictate language use among its own employees. Indeed, amid Tashkent’s cabinet ministers, non-Uzbeks were almost nowhere to be seen; following obligatory language proficiency tests, only five of 250 parliamentary deputies were Russian. Managing language preference at an earlier age, literature textbooks for Russian-speaking schoolchildren were altered by those same parliamentarians. As opposed to textbooks of yore, where Russian writers, extracts from classic tales, and biographies were gathered, today’s equivalent publications have more poets and prosaists of Uzbek origin, now translated into Russian. Parents complain that students suffer from worsening grammar as a result of this retreat from Slavic and European traditions. Teachers notice in particular that Russian hard or soft consonants, case, aspect, tense, gender, number, agreement, and word order are problematic for many young people (Zinin). Regardless of worried pedagogues and perfectionists, it seems possible to say today that 70 percent of Uzbek citizens (80 percent in the big cities) speak perfectly acceptable Russian. Even in villages it is rare for that figure to fall beneath 45 percent. People speak a language that is not promoted, despite the fact that only 4 percent of Uzbek schools today teach exclusively in Russian.

Slowing the exit of Russian literature and culture It has been declared that these problems of loss were felt most acutely in the early 1990s when the Cyrillic alphabet was replaced with Latin characters. As Russians started emigrating, melancholy cynics among those who remained tried to argue that there was less need to put pressure on the language internally; the Russians still in Uzbekistan today are mostly the children of immigrant Soviet intelligentsia, industrial or cultural experts. They continue and try hard to celebrate the anniversaries of cultural figures in the same way they celebrate Dal’ and his language. Vysotskii, Akhmatova, Pushkin, Lermontov, Shostakovich, and Tsvetaeva have all been afforded great attention on special dates in Tashkent. There are 28 parishes of the Orthodox Church around Uzbekistan and 5 cathedrals in the capital that act as increasingly important cultural centers (Umarov, B.).

100 Today’s culture One jarring contradiction in these consoling statistics came during the fall of 2001 with tales of a governmental decree distributed to school headmasters: destroy all textbooks by the Soviet educational publisher Prosveshchenie; even acceptable Moscow texts should have the front page (i.e., place of publication) torn out. Inspections, said some rumors, took place during school time, involved searching children’s bags and even removing collections of Soviet poetry from teachers’ desks. One edition of Paustovskii’s ecologically driven stories was purportedly ripped up in front of pupils (Morozov). Since in essence, though, most manifestations of nationalism under Karimov take a moderate form, Uzbekistan’s Russian Cultural Center is “loyal to the powers that be,” seeing in them a guarantee of calm security (Levyi). The center opened on May 26, 1995, and proclaims in its promotional material to have the following agenda: Celebrating Russian holidays and noteworthy dates in Russian history; Cultural evenings with composers, artists, and local historians; “The Russian Parlor”: a music and poetry society; A club celebrating the work of painter N.K. Rerikh; “Help Yourself.” A group dedicated to the spiritual and physical well-being of the individual; Work with invalid children; Educational activities relating to children’s rights, Scouts and assistance with school entrance exams (“Russkii kul’turnyi tsentr”). The organization funds itself with members’ dues, auctions, concert profits, and outside contributions. Its main concern, of course, is that all this (and much more) be done in Russian to slow the loss of a Slavic heritage. Rectifying or criticizing this state of affairs becomes increasingly difficult when there are no independent typographers and the government closes down both Russian newspapers and television shows. Broadcasts from Moscow’s ORT station have been temporarily censored in the past and the radio station Maiak from the same city was blocked at the start of 1997 (“Uzbekistan: Sviaz’”). This prompted some commentators to pose a peeved and pointed question: Why do Uzbeks fuss so much about their linguistic independence when they all use Russian at work and (allegedly) 40 percent of words in a modern Uzbek dictionary originally come from Russian, anyway? In hoping to heal these social tensions, people wondered about the potential efficacy of Orthodox Christianity and any social influence it might have after the end of the Soviet Union. State agencies in Uzbekistan that dealt with religion were given greater power after the religiously fuelled civil war in Tajikistan (1992–1997). Any registered religious groups would have to include at least 100 members; prior to registration being granted, organizations were also obliged to renounce all missionary work and “ensure their members know that the state and religion are separate.” Despite this somewhat petulant tone, the Uzbek Ministry for Religious Affairs said that it would do everything possible to mark the

Today’s culture 101 two thousandth anniversary of Christ’s birth. This would guarantee that our Russian citizens feel they’re members of the Uzbek Republic and have equal rights, that their religion is on an equal standing with Islam . . . On the whole we have wonderful relations with the Russian Orthodox Church. There are no points of disagreement between us. (Gafarly and Kasaev) Maybe journalistic communities can replace Orthodox congregations, bound by red tape, and bolster a different sense of togetherness? Approximately two thousand people per day read a digest of Russian news at ferghana.ru. Nonetheless, censorship of the web, plus the unattractively radical nature of anti-government sites like 1924.org or mazlum.ferghana.ru, together with unaffordable computers, weak telecommunication infrastructures, and a relative dearth of internet cafés outside of cities all make the cultural influence of these organs comparatively small in the countryside. Some usage-related statistics quickly attracted attention, even if early Uzbek web surfers were unsure whether the medium would be a benefit or threat to society. Usage grew in Tashkent from 137,000 people in 2001 to 275,000 in 2002. That figure rose to 310,000 in 2003 and further still – 350,000 users – in 2004, when more than 650 sites were officially registered under the “.uz” domain. This is an impressive growth rate in Tashkent, but must – once again – be considered against a broader “digital gap,” that is, the fact that while 21 percent of the nation is aware of the web, relatively few non-urban communities have access to it (Towards a Knowledge-Based Economy, 11 and 19). Across the entire country, even TV ownership runs at a mere 61 sets per 1,000 citizens and radios marginally higher at 65 sets (E-Readiness Assessment, 35). On the luckier streets of the capital, 65 percent of internet cafes still use dial-up connections and the typical access costs of between 50 cents and $1.20 are still too high for some people. Slowly but surely, though, when all is considered, growth and dissemination are improving. Likewise, after a 1999 declaration that the government organization UzPak would operate as the only ISP nationwide, a repeal of this law in October 2002 (i.e., of Decree 352) allowed for more open market competition in the name of healthy technological rivalries and other perceived benefits. How open can this market be? When people are able to get access to web cafes, 71 percent of such establishments admit their employees monitor customer hits to make sure that morally, that is, pornographic and politically suspect sites are not accessed (Kolko et al., 4, 7 and 12–13). Since these sites tend to support émigré opposition groups (cf. uzbekistanerk.org or birlik.net), the likelihood of enjoying free and unfettered broadcast is in this instance lessened (Gudava 2003). Liberty and constraint, progress and retreat, both continue to shift back and forth. What might instead keep Russian and Asian cultures developmentally together is, ironically, what the Soviets always said they had in common. In a 2001 interview on Russian television for the station TV-Tsentr, German Professor Leonid Levitin noted both that Islamic nations have extraordinarily deep roots in centuries of

102 Today’s culture “moral tradition,” and that “things would be complicated for Russia without Uzbekistan.” Both Russia and Uzbekistan stood to gain much from Islam. Host:

It’s hard to think that a once-Soviet republic could become an Islamic state. Guest: I am sure that Uzbekistan will remain a secular state. But I should add that Uzbekistan even during the Soviet period remained Islamic. It’s a traditional society that neither Stalin nor any other leaders were able to alter . . . Until 1938 Moscow did all it could to destroy the [region’s] traditional view of democracy, the way that Uzbeks have organized their lives for more than a thousand years. Islam was always the most important point of identification for Uzbek culture. It never died . . . Uzbeks now feel themselves to be a titular nation, and the Russians – an ethnic minority. Uzbeks consider that they’re obliged to take care of the Russians. (Levitin) One obstacle en route to a philosophy of “care” was the question of dual citizenship. When Russian inhabitants of Tashkent were asked very recently if they would prefer an Uzbek passport, a Russian passport or dual citizenship, 74 percent opted for dual citizenship. A Russian passport alone attracted a positive response of only 10 percent. If, came the next question, dual citizenship were not possible, which would you prefer? Forty-two percent said Russian citizenship and 41 percent Uzbek, a result that is testament to how difficult these decisions are for Russians today (Tishkov 2003). One of the most interesting and controversial studies regarding this issue of late was published in the journal Druzhba narodov in 2003. This very lengthy quote (occasionally less than objectively) explains how Russians were willy-nilly (by a process of reverse influence) always infected by Uzbek culture. People fleeing Tashkent in large numbers take a hybrid, Eurasian psychology with them. The author suggests somewhat controversially that the Russian state took Islam’s autocratic arrogance, whereas its citizens adopted a juxtaposed form of forgiving and patient Asian “social-ism.” The minor culture fashioned the major one. Over the century and a half that Russians were in Turkestan / Uzbekistan a certain type of person came into being: they won’t get into a fight but won’t stick up for themselves either. They’re hardworking, socialize in a way that’s both easy-going and tactile (that’s the East for you!), and [long ago] joined a very flexible system of social relations. The Russians never really juxtaposed themselves to this system; they remained responsible, sober-minded, and ready to make clear-headed assessments of any given system or their place in it. As regards the social–political status of these Russians, each of them could always feel Moscow’s presence “at their back,” be it Imperial [then] or Soviet Moscow [now]. He or she had access to various informational and cultural / aesthetic sources. Russian theaters and top-flight estrada stars often

Today’s culture 103 traveled to Tashkent from Moscow and surrounding cities . . . In his private life, though, a Tashkent Russian relied on himself, on his (fairly) able hands, his savvy – and an acceptance of someone else’s language developed over generations, an acceptance of other peoples’ mores and customs. This can be summed up by one of today’s fashionable terms – “tolerance.” Mainland Russians, to say nothing of Muscovites, never showed that kind of tolerance [for the East] . . . Tashkent Russians, though, were always the embodiment of forbearance. In the 1980s when there was a brief but intense interest in tourism around the Soviet Union, long lines of people from the Urals, Siberia and other regions of Russia flooded into Tashkent; they came for the bright sun and luscious fruit. In shops and on public transport these “guests from the capital” always betrayed their recent arrival with loud voices and a rudeness that seemed so normal to them. They also displayed an eternal readiness to discuss sensitive issues in front of everybody. Many Tashkent Russians, whenever standing next to their mainland relatives, would feel awkward and very much aware of the differences between them. At the foundation of Tsarist politics in Turkestan was a principle of preserving local, traditional power structures, mutual relations, and hierarchies. The Tsarist administration did not interact directly with the local people, but kept them at a certain distance “behind the scenes.” The very first Governor General, the Russified German Konstantin Petrovich von Kaufman, ruled the region for a decade and a half. Consequently he maintained certain norms within domestic policy, the essence of which was as follows. Having a fundamental acquaintance with Islam, having studied the Qur’an and Shari’a, Kaufman came to the conclusion that the laws of Muhammad view religion and society as one indivisible whole. They thus exclude one of Christianity’s most important tenets: “Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s.” Kaufman consequently adopted an approach of non-intervention, of total tolerance for faith, complete freedom of worship and the right to observe customs according to the laws of Islam. Yet at the same time he treated Islamic clerics like typical citizens. This remained the basis of Russian cultural policy in Central Asia until 1917. To some degree, the Soviet administration adopted this “behind the scenes” approach in the organization of local power, too, starting with the designation of local nationality representatives. This system of control was hidden, yet no less cruel for that. For several decades a certain principle was adhered to: “The second one’s a Russian.” This meant that a Russian (or Russian speaker) was almost always designated to the post of Second or Vice Secretary in Party committees. The post, as we all know, meant automatic inclusion in the ranks of the KGB [. . .] for this representative of the ruling Russo-Soviet administrative system. People who did not belong to the haughty ranks of “seconds,” but nonetheless were close to them, would gain a sense of membership amid the nationally and culturally chosen. They’d have some semiconscious awareness of where power resided; this was of some considerable mental comfort, in fact it often provoked the kind of

104 Today’s culture conceit and arrogance [chvanstvo] that emanates from substantial political force (Podporenko). The article’s author says that these semblances of power could not last long, however, since almost all power systems that have entered into Central Asia have come already enfeebled or in a late stage of their own evolution. This, purportedly, was true of Zoroastrian, Chinese, Buddhist, Ancient Roman, Greek, Christian, Arab, Turkic, Persian, Russian, Korean, “and other cultures” in the region. Behind the scenes, the binarism of them-and-us hid an impressive and dissipating multitude; this increased the likelihood that Russians would seek a cultural foothold to avoid the inevitable evolutionary ebbing of all previous imperial stability. Slavs held tightly onto language: “We’ve preserved the literary language here. You’ll find dumbed-down language much more in Russian towns than here. Here the press, radio and television direct [public] speech. We have no dialects and we’re very sensitive to linguistic mistakes.” There’s one more fundamental difference. We’re more atheistic than Russians who are inside Russia. Orthodoxy has spread widely again but it hasn’t entered our life at the rate that it has in Russia. The process here is somewhat more complex. First of all, there were always fewer churches here . . . Secondly, the presence of another religion alongside and constant interaction with its adherents were a huge influence. An Orthodox believer would not feel the singularity [edinstvennost’] of his spiritual world. Thirdly, there were many intra-national marriages, which by the third generation created an extremely complex situation; the definition of nationality on one’s passport often contradicted the person’s private self-identification of his nationality. According to the 1989 census, 560,000 people, who were not Russian on their passport, called the Russian language their native tongue. Out of those people, 170,000 were Uzbeks . . . The issue was even more convoluted when it came to the choice of one’s religion. The choice between Christianity and Islam was extraordinarily confused, and – as a rule – ended up with many people joining the growing numbers of atheists. That’s even truer when we consider there was no inherent tradition here of religious zeal. (Ibid.) Within the literature of today, nationalist zeal is often a difficult enterprise, too. In 1991 one famous Uzbek poet declared with confidence that he would no longer write in Russian, but within three years was seeking a publisher in Russia. The publishing house Sovetskii pisatel’ once had a sufficient budget for publishing up to fifty books per annum of Uzbek poetry translated into Russian. Gloating perhaps a little over the complaints of Uzbek poets who now have too few readers, Tashkent Russians (whilst distancing themselves from mainland rudeness and drunkenness) also worried how these literary shifts might give rise to new and horribly generalized grand narratives: revisionist, “corrected” literary histories

Today’s culture 105 that – with tragic irony – would owe much to the workings of Soviet socialist realism and its own insistent, typifying storytelling. The essence of today’s new attitude towards history lies in drawing the entire story of Russians and Soviets in the region with the darkest colors possible. Writers lean upon archival data that “verify” incidents of violence and shameless behavior by the Russian conquerors. But what kind of facts are these? Some drunken NCO grabbed a rifle and started shooting people in a village, killing some of the locals in the process. There was a criminal case with all the consequences thereof. That one incident is raised up to the level of a mass generalization. So why don’t we generalize other facts? For example, in another region where there are often landslides, entire villages were sometimes wiped off the earth. And who was dispatched to deal with the consequences? The same NCO or captain with a detachment of Russian soldiers, who saved people, risking their own lives as they did so . . . . (Ibid.)

Some websites to counter post-imperial generalizations Various reports on these new narratives can be garnered from differing websites, such as jahon.mfa.uz, or Zhakhon, the Russian-language information agency affiliated with Uzbekistan’s Ministry of Internal Affairs. Recently, as one example, the latter site celebrated publishing a new culturological journal about Central Asia for German readers. It went by the title Uzbekistan: Politics, Society and Culture, a periodical designed to inform Western readers about life in “an independent and free nation . . . under the guidance both of our leadership and policies designed for building a democratic society and state” (Akbarov 2002). Alternatively ferghana.ru has offered since 1998 a very wide range of cultural information, prompted by what it perceives as the necessity to safeguard rapidly vanishing arts. Here one senses the spirit of the Andijan riots. The Ferghana cultural phenomenon started to fall apart with the breakdown of the Soviet Union and increase of Uzbek independence. Russian ethnic minorities and local skilled specialists who cannot participate in this new historical and cultural environment are deserting the republic. As many as several thousand unique Ferghana artworks are no longer exhibited in the Museum of Regional Studies. Historical and architectural monuments reminiscent of Russian colonial rule have been partially or totally destroyed. A suitable epigraph for this particular venture could be taken from James Joyce, who said that if Dublin were totally destroyed and wiped off the face of the earth it would be possible to rebuild it using the novel Ulysses. The authors of this [ferghana.ru] project hope to revive and “reanimate” Ferghana – at least in cyberspace (“Ferganskoe soobshchestvo”).

106 Today’s culture The site offers links to local search engines, theaters, football teams, tin can manufacturers, and other oddly bracketed activities. Of equal size and breadth is xontalas.uz that utilizes educational reports from “Ferghana,” together with other Russian news agencies like zerkalo.21.uz to supplement a wide and telling range of threatened rubrics: Cinema, Theatre, Music, Artists, Literature, Photographers, Folklore, History, and Traditions. Voicing similar concerns from an Asian, not European perspective, the multilingual site muslimuzbekistan.com is dedicated to the preservation of Muslim custom under the pressures criticized by ferghana.ru. Nowadays, Uzbekistan is known worldwide as the largest Muslim population in Central Asia. Before its existence as Uzbekistan, this was a territory of Muslims from all over the world – and will remain so, if Allah wishes. Today Muslims have to work extraordinarily hard in order to realize this dream because these people have always followed the Shari’a. They have based their lives, traditions, and customs on the Qur’an – and the Sunnah of the Prophet (SAW) is witnessing the tragedy. The new Uzbek government of ex-communists is persecuting both Muslims and people of almost all religions everywhere. (“O nashem saite”) When it comes to sites dedicated to Uzbek music, poetry, opera or ballet, these problems are often, thankfully, absent. As with recent archaeological studies that objectively and convincingly locate modern Uzbek awareness in pre-Russian spiritual culture, even amid prehistoric deities born of locally validated resources (like water [Mkrytchev]), much of what is dedicated to musical history is calmly reconstructive, playing the role of archival archaeologist or explicator (“Klassicheskaia . . . ”). One indicative study reconsiders and extols the musical scholarship of Fitrat. His 1927 work, Uzbek Classical Music and Its History had advocated a mutual, modest interpenetration of two musical traditions of East and West. This would increase the significance of Eastern music, since Western sounds would seek innovative resources for development within their opposite. In a tragically predictable manner, his suggestions fell foul of the authorities in the early 1930s as socialist dictates grew sterner, more insular and less “international.” Take this article from Izvestiia on August 24, 1932: Nowadays even the average collective farm worker is starting to feel that old Uzbek music is not satisfying anymore. It was created many years ago, when the Uzbek people and workers suffered the double oppression of Khans and local rulers, together with the yoke of Tsarist imperialism. And that is precisely why the fundamental motif of Uzbek music is a lament; it is full of tears and woe. These motifs do not answer to life’s demands today; they make for tedious listening. (Dzhumaev, A.) Music today, as in the early 1930s, sees itself as planning and promoting the early stages of a new (yet very different) history.

Today’s culture 107 An analogous blend of hopeful soothsaying and revisionism distinguishes several sites dedicated to the State Academic Grand Theater of Opera and Ballet (“Istoriia baletnoi truppy”), but it is again in web-based discussions of literature that we see the greatest consequences of a loudly decreed independence, since any residue of political historicizing would be left most obviously in the same verbal medium. At a Moscow evening dedicated to “Ferghana Poetry” in November 2003, pronouncements were made to the effect that the Russian language and its poetry were for many Ferghana poets the ideal gathering place for an Uzbek mentality (including the Central Asian chronotope), together with Western culture and the poetic experience per se. That Western experience came in a wide assortment, all the way from Italian Hermeticists to American Imagists. This unique experiment was similar to what happened in Petersburg’s uncensored poetry. Just as that mélange was possible only on the periphery of a centralizing empire, so “Russia’s culturally imperialistic consciousness has yet [even now] to get used to Uzbek poetry in the Russian language. It’s a much more open, universally Western tradition than Russian poetry itself ” (“Biblioteka Fergany”). The poetry of this Ferghana group is based around the journal Zvezda Vostoka that began its existence in 1935 and by the end of the Soviet period was enjoying a circulation of 250,000. Of that total, approximately 35,000 copies were sold in Uzbekistan, which is a good indication of interest in Russian-language literature outside of the region. As happened with so many other magazines and newspapers after 1991, however, the print run fell radically – to 8,500 by 1995 (Malashenko and Shevchenko). The poetic school spawned by the journal is primarily famous for working in vers libre, “preserving in their works an Eastern meditativeness and simultaneous air of things visionary [vizionarnost’].” Tashkent poets, also writing in Russian, have responded in kind and their promotional material gives voice to a fascinating, stubborn attempt at discerning and claiming some benefit from the linguistic subjugation of the past. The twentieth century gave us many examples of an interaction between Eastern and Western cultures. Ideal conditions for this mutual influence were created by the structure of Soviet society on the Central Asian periphery of an empire with the fixed and fruitful despotism[!] of Russian as the language of science and culture, together with a Europeanization of the population as a whole: What makes Tashkent poetry unique? First of all, there is a profound investigation into the fabric of space and time, where the limits of every object and every moment expand to the point of infinity. Hence Tashkent verse is a concentrated form of thought in a chamber-like form of depiction. Intrinsic to poets of this school is a keen sense of the past and of individual history; a poeticizing of one’s childhood and a striving to regain what has been lost. This is explained by the fact these poets are residents of the Union’s periphery (i.e., of its “Asian underbelly”). The collapse of the empire . . . was accompanied in

108 Today’s culture Central Asia by a more radical ideological change than in the center, a greater degree of deep-seated correction in both culture and language. One can almost speak about a genuine disappearance of “Homeland” as we knew it. Some kind of minor homeland is all that remains for a writer, but even that slowly trickles away through the cracks. It may be that a poet emigrates [on occasion] from his native land, but here that land is leaving him, like the ground slipping out from under his feet. The closed space of a train carriage, a single room, a bird-box and a beehive are things that often figure in Tashkent verse. This is simply an attempt to hide from the passage of time, to save the appearance and air of a “minor homeland.” It is an eternal search for a road home . . . In its poetics the Tashkent school is primarily oriented towards the traditions of a philosophical lyric. We do not accept epatage or pseudo-novelty in any form. At the same time we try to use everything that has been achieved in modern Russian poetry regarding rhyme, melodiousness and composition. (Ianyshev et al.) These desires and conclusions have resonance in related areas. In 2001, for instance, a museum dedicated to Esenin celebrated its twentieth anniversary, even though Esenin came to Turkestan only once (in 1921 and just for two weeks, simply to visit a friend [Egorov, 2001]). Commemorative evenings have been held in Oybek’s apartment–museum to mark the writer’s “huge” contribution as translator of Russian literature. The man once said himself: “Uzbek literature and the Uzbek language have a rich vocabulary; in the works of Pushkin there are kinds of phrases not found exclusively in Russian.” These could (and should) be transferred using relatively free translation: “The most proper of all paths in literary translation has been the path of free translation.” Rectitude could be found in its absence, in inaccuracy (Fakhrutdin), just as the Tashkent poets detect space in its absence, also. They find something in nothing.

One more (forgiving) look back at logocentric history Across an even more fundamental plane than that of literature, perhaps, the topic of the Russian language and alphabet reform has recently been reinvestigated on-line with the help of new archival information from before and after 1917. The slow, inexorable movement of the Russian language into the ancient tongues of Central Asia was never easy, it seems. In 1883 language schools had been opened in St Petersburg for officers who were about to commence a tour of duty in the region, yet in 1906 Samarkand newspapers, by way of illustration, were angry that local Russian officials refused with haughty, “universal stubbornness” to engage or respect local speech. When, as we know, the late 1920s saw the adoption of the Latin alphabet, there were equally arrogant declarations that we can now say the question of transition to a Latinized alphabet has been solved. The time for arguments between adherents of Arabic and supporters

Today’s culture 109 of the new alphabet has passed. It is now time to fling the Arab alphabet out of schools, to establish printing presses in order to institute this new alphabet everywhere. Yet committees had never decided which of all possible dialects would serve as the basis for a new literary language. It was hoped by some that the dialect closest to Chaghatay would prevail, being from the time of Timur and Asia’s blossoming civilization; the works of Navoiy were in this language, and Fitrat had been an adherent of the idea. But how many vowels would there be? In dialects that developed under Iranian influence, there were said to be 6, but in isolated rural areas the number could exceed 10. The problems were manifold. Meanwhile Lunacharskii, leaning on erstwhile conversations with Lenin, was pondering the idea of making Russian assume Latin characters, too: “I do not doubt that the time will come to Latinize the Russian alphabet, but it would not be circumspect to act hastily at this point.” Worries over pan-Turkism were always an issue, and when new policies of “indigenization” in the 1930s hoped to destroy linguistic barriers, the announcement of March 13, 1938 that all students in all schools would have to start learning Russian was missed by many people in the national newspapers. A speech condemning anti-Soviet Trotskyites filled all the front pages (and then some more). This entire tale was assessed in a captious letter from Lenin’s widow to Stalin on July 19, 1938. We’re introducing the obligatory study of Russian across the entire USSR. That’s good. It will help to deepen the friendship of peoples. But what really concerns me is how we’ll conduct this process. I get the impression sometimes that a kind of superpower chauvinism is showing its ugly little face. (Vydrin) In new considerations of why history has been so complicated, the web-based independent news agency harakat.net published an interesting article in 2003 on the changeless nature of Uzbek Islam, despite all of these radical shifts in language: A settled way of life, work on the land, and trade in particular has always meant that Islam was accepted without problems in regions where Uzbeks lived. If one considers that the Prophet Muhammad was a fairly serious trader and trading was widely practiced across the entire Muslim world, then it can be asserted with confidence that Islam is a religion of traders. Uzbeks have since the beginning of time been famous as merchants. An uninformed individual [from outside], observing Uzbek festivals or events, would be terribly confused as to where Muslims’ religious and national essences are expressed. The thing is that for centuries Islamic and Uzbek traditions were so amalgamated that what resulted was an ineradicable and inalterable Islamo-Uzbek culture. It was Islamic because it offered moral and ethic norms with a necessary belief in Allah and His prophet. Any event for Uzbeks is strengthened not

110 Today’s culture only by faith, but also by its practical expediency. In various historical periods the ideas of Islamic fundamentalism entered Uzbek society but found no support because of Uzbek practicality . . . For the practical Uzbek Muslim, anything bellicose and any kind of “-ism” were always alien notions (“Islam èto religiia torgovtsev”). This mercantile pragmatism indeed created a profound and enduring material emphasis in Uzbekistan, something that brings us full circle, back to discussions of Marxism’s difficulties in divorcing itself from the endlessly distanced, yet necessary zero-essence of Islam, in particular from the work of Jadid reformers. Furthering a similar line of investigation today, especially as explosions sounded on the streets of Tashkent in 2004, we could again suggest (ironically) that the enduring and very destructive spirit that fuels fundamentalist, extremist groups is a worldview co-opted from Marxism, especially when these angry groups began to see they lacked widespread social and voluntary support. This idea, referenced earlier in passing, explains further the Western basis of Marxism that joined Russia’s Islamic power structures. Some years ago – just over a dozen, to be exact [in 1990] – there was a good deal of talk about the collision of East and West. In the media and academy, the Cold War was routinely described as a clash between Western liberal democracy and something else (Russian despotism, perhaps) that was definitely not Western. In fact, the Communist system from Lenin to Gorbachev was one of several attempts to turn Russia into a Western society that the country had experienced since Peter the Great. Soviet Marxism did not spring from an Orthodox monastery. It was one of the finest flowers of the European Enlightenment. Equally, the USSR was nothing if not an Enlightenment regime. The Soviet state was the vehicle of a Westernizing project from start to finish. The Cold War was a family quarrel among Western ideologies in which rival versions of political universalism struggled for hegemony. Today, we are watching a rerun of that uncomprehending struggle. Of course, much has changed. Unlike Communism, political Islam does not purport to be [wholly] secular. For that reason alone, it is a puzzle for the many who still hold to the atavistic nineteenth-century faith that secularization is the wave of the future. But the view that something called “the West” is under attack from an alien enemy is as mistaken now as it was in the Cold War. Islamic fundamentalism is not an indigenous growth. It is an exotic hybrid, bred from the encounter of sections of the Islamic intelligentsia with radical Western ideologies. In A Fury for God, Malise Ruthven shows that Sayyid Qutb, an Egyptian executed after imprisonment in 1966 and arguably the most influential ideologue of radical Islam, incorporated many elements derived from European ideology into his thinking. For example, the idea of a revolutionary vanguard of militant believers does not have an Islamic

Today’s culture 111 pedigree. It is “a concept imported from Europe, through a lineage that stretches back to the Jacobins, through the Bolsheviks and latter-day Marxist guerrillas such as the Baader-Meinhof gang” . . . The inspiration for Qutb’s thought is not so much the Qur’an, but the current of Western philosophy embodied in thinkers such as Nietzsche, Kierkegaard and Heidegger. (Gray, J.) If one can then draw a big bold line connecting modern Russo-Uzbek culture and a silently modest, materialist faith whilst showing that extremes of that socially applicable belief (in its legislative, politicized, and terrene aspect) can become verbose Stalinist horror or horrifyingly fixated fundamentalism, then what of the relationship between Islam and Christianity per se? Is there still an overlap between these two Abramic faiths in their relation to themes of silence, the void, and a distance from politics? Some interesting attempts along such lines were made in 2001 by Prince El Hassan bin Talal of Jordan. He drew several such parallels, finding the greatest point of connection in the words of a figure we have championed in this study as the personification of the Badiouian event, Saint Paul. The first Christian theologian, relying on (and, outside Damascus, inspired by) affect rather than logic had proclaimed “God’s secret wisdom” (Corinthians 2:7) that “cannot be put into words,” and “human lips may not speak” (2 Corinthians 12:2–4). This was equated with a quote from the Qur’an that “only God knows interpretation [3:7].” Both faiths make God co-eternal with the Word, “manifest in the creation, government and redemption of the world.” Both see evil as the inverse of social well-being, as an expression of greed; they equate the “cause of God with the cause of the weak and defenseless,” that is, those who both have (and live within a state of) nothing, since they have nothing to lose, too. Fine historical parallels exist to support these happy generalizations. One might point to the development of a silent nothingness in the work of Paul’s first Greek convert, Denys the Areopagite. The Athenian equated God with both the ineffable and – paradoxically – nothingness itself, thus establishing two tenets of Orthodox Christianity. God, according to such ideas, was – in a most non-Western fashion – “both ‘God’ and ‘not-God,’ ‘good’ and . . . ‘not-good.’ The shock of this paradox, a process that includes both knowing and unknowing, will lift us above the world of mundane ideas to inexpressible reality itself ” (Armstrong 1993, 127). In a similar vein we might also call upon Islam’s misgivings about confidently rational, clearly-spoken theological debate, which it terms zanna. The world, in a Pauline spirit, is again privy only to tight-lipped epiphany. Narratives, religious or otherwise, are therefore but symbols of something else, lesser fragments of something unutterable; hence the Qur’an’s 99 synonyms for Allah or the acceptance by Muslim scholars of light as the best possible metaphor for a timeless, supra-spatial reality, beyond all debate and depiction (ibid., 151). For these past, positive parallels to be realized in modern life and not fall to destructive fundamentalism, three viewpoints should supposedly be espoused: Existence as commonality, an association between theology and practicality, and the recognition of political and economic dimensions in inter-faith dialogue

112 Today’s culture (El Hassan bin Talal). The likelihood of their success is in direct relation to problems surrounding obstinate fidelity to the events of social interaction, the challenging, Spinozistic aspects of “social-ism.” The results of that challenge, if accepted, will be hugely humbling, a profoundly diminished (yet universalizing) form of micropolitics that evades (and does not engineer) the stable sets of any “status quo.” These eventful places of overwhelming dissipation (what Badiou calls a site événementiel ) emerge from proximity to the Real, to a Pauline and sometimes uncontrollable experience of the void, not political and extremist obsessions over degrees of control. They lie beyond the knowledge that makes politics and political geography even possible, yet just as the event can happen at any time, so perhaps the most famous depiction of Russians in Tashkent shows the behavior of imperialists as a bad counterpart that likewise can happen anywhere, epitomizing a colonial equivalent of Badiouian unicity (i.e., a homogenizing, unethical empire, not multiplying, ethical events). Saltykov-Shchedrin’s satirical sketches “Gentlemen of Tashkent” (Gospoda Tashkentsy, 1869–1872) proposed that the materialist(ic) basis of Russo-Asian society was willfully misinterpreted by opportunistic and avaricious Slavs to the point that “Tashkentism” (tashkentsvo) became more of a psychological state than a geographically specific state of affairs. It is the mindset of culturally arrogant gourmands. Just as with the relationship of socialism to Islam, it shows that extremism invokes a reverse state: “Each term, brought to its extreme – that is, fully actualized – changes into the next; [for example] an [earthly] object which is thoroughly beautiful is no longer merely beautiful, it is sublime” (Zizek 1997, 218). A universalized category can no longer be an isolated, exclusive, or exclusionary category; it is everywhere and everything. Total employment of all an ideology applies to, will by implication touch upon its opposite, too. What appears to be imperial, self-assured pomp falls to the lowly level of a satirist’s sitting duck. “Tashkent” can exist at any time and in any place. I am so convinced of this that I consider myself fully competent to draw a reasonably detailed picture of morals, predominant in that abstract country. Thus I consider it possible to depict: The Russian Tashkent resident civilizing in partibus; The Tashkent resident civilizing his intestines; The Tashkent resident cultivating state property (in common parlance – as an embezzler of public funds); The Tashkent resident cultivating his own property (in common parlance – as a thief); The Tashkent industrial resident; The Tashkent resident causing a foreign disturbance; The Tashkent resident causing a domestic disturbance And so on, almost ad infinitum. These people often look very different from one another, but they do share one, unifying call: Wolf it down! (Saltykov-Shchedrin, 32)

8

Conclusion Eventful encounters with a horror vacui

Everything that truly belongs to the Uzbek folk is both national and truly international. (Karomatov 1978, 257)

In the context of earlier chapters, Saltykov-Shchedrin’s imperative of voracity is deeply disturbing. Russia’s experience of Central Asia is a centuries-long tale of massive repression in two senses; Moscow suppressed a “zero-Islam” it needed for self-definition, only then to invade and inhibit Islam. Russia ignored itself in order to invade itself, all to no apparent benefit. Joseph Schumpeter once asserted that all empires are affectively atavistic (i.e., driven in the present by experiences of the past) and paradoxically, “defensively aggressive.” Empires generate reasons to protect themselves from “probable” invasion and thus occupy terrain on their periphery. Yet that just creates a new periphery. This sounds exhausting and certainly was so for Moscow: “It may be argued that adding Turkestan to the empire sapped, rather than strengthened Russian security” (Keller, 5). As assaults upon Islam became nasty in the late 1920s, it was impossible to have or define a limit. This was either because imperial expansion in Schumpeter’s terms is an “attitude” and wolfing things down is a modus operandi (not a plan) or because the best exponents of the Party line, that is, the most vigorous, were often criticized explicitly by Moscow for “excess,” for violating the same Party guidelines (ibid., 250). The Russian drive toward nothingness, it has been suggested, may have arisen as part of an enduring horror vacui, the petrifying dread that any “hostile power” must surely have felt in a “terrain flat as a saucer, devoid of peaks and with scarcely any trees, consisting of grasslands, deserts and brackish marshes” (Meyer and Brysac, 120). Both driven and daunted by emptiness, the politics of ever-increasing presence moved forward with lessening assurance. The more it acquired, the less it knew (or wanted to know). Since, moreover, Tsarist Russia prior to the invasion had recently seen its expansion halted in both Europe and the Near East, “it sought to work off its frustration by demonstrating military prowess through colonial conquest in Asia. After all, it was no more than the other European powers had done, almost everywhere else in the world” (Hopkirk, 314).

114 Conclusion With comments such as these, the Great Game appears to be a risky interaction with oneself and one’s fears or traumas, rather than with anything existent or even historically unique. Russia itself went up against Islam under Ivan the Terrible (Kazan’ and Astrakhan), Peter the Great (the Caucasus), and Catherine II (southern Ukraine and Georgia), so for five centuries Islam constituted a riddle to which Russia’s leaders were unable to find a satisfactory answer . . . These strategies implied a common assumption of Russian superiority, a reluctance to take Islam seriously and the recurrent suspicion that non-Christians were “ignoble savages and unfaithful subjects,” in one Tsarist official’s phrase. (Meyer, 149) One reason that this imperial riddle persisted is that the answer lay within Russia, not without. Persuasive argument toward such a conclusion can be attempted by analogy with the Great Game of today, the political tensions between Russia and America over the same territories, in this instance now offering bottomless oil wells. America’s leftist press maintains that talk of democracy or weapons of mass destruction casts but a thin veil over the acquisition of massive petroleum resources. Casting aside the United Nations as extraneous to its decision-making, the United States thus supposedly embodies an internal, unmediated logic of the Imperium Americanum that Russia once typified. Putin’s response to this, his “pragmatic salto occidentale” is less an expression of consequential, active policy-making than a “back-against-the-wall-maneuver in a game whose rules Russia no longer sets” (Kleveman, 260). So what is the connection between the Russian story and the American playing fields of capital, where (in the words of Lenin), imperialism wants desperately to “finally divide up the world,” yet seems inspired by an unfinalizable, potentially limitless horror vacui? The limits most tragically breached in recent history have been those of socioeconomic self-complacency on September 11. In Slavoj Zizek’s book Revolution at the Gates, as noted in Chapter 1, he takes an unsettling look at those events and suggests that the terrorists who attacked the WTC embodied a negation of hypnotizing “pleasure-reality principles” in the West. They “gave America [the terrifying show] it had [secretly] fantasized about,” especially when we consider how the White House has enlisted Hollywood filmmakers in its war against terror (Zizek 2002, 231). To stop terrorists making themselves theatrical “instruments of the big Other’s [repressed] jouissance,” he says the American state should move beyond “state-hood” and all related forms of limitation to consult the utter lack of comforting coordinates in a humbling philosophy that changes “A thing like this shouldn’t happen here!” into “A thing like this shouldn’t happen anywhere!” It is the very fact that an empire sees itself as a safely compartmentalized or self-assured entity which generates assumptions that beyond something lies nothing – together with the fact that “nothing” is the domain of something dangerous. If imperial stability is constructive, then beyond its borders lies

Conclusion

115

destruction. Nothingness is excessive; it is – quite literally – beyond the pale. When we look at Islam, today therefore, we have to ask whether the characteristics ascribed to it as “something else” are actually proper. It was suggested that “fundamentalism” as the force emanating from nothingness is essentially a perverse expression of Marxist ideology. The similarly excessive, eventful rhetoric of zealots that unnerved even Stalin now directs airliners into American skyscrapers, inspired to enact the surplus inherent in today’s Western imperialism. Outsiders were deemed as such and came to life, bringing the unthinkable from beyond the borderlands into the heartland. After all, “we are not dealing with a feature inscribed into Islam ‘as such’, but with the outcome of modern sociopolitical conditions” (ibid., 235). Strident critics maintain that just as America talks of democracy but enacts undemocratic interference, so the issues outlined in this book from Russian experience have been repeating themselves. These same detractors insist that the Spinozistic realm of reality that communism invoked and the all-inclusive domain of democracy that Bush employs in order to constrain and “finally divide up” outlying territories are unmanageable and unspeakable; so much so, in fact, that they acquire the form of a terrifying void. Acceptance of that vacuum, which would entail the loss of singularity, selfhood (as singularity), and stability purportedly becomes the type of unthinkable apparition which America saw on September 11 (as an outcome of US policy in the Middle East), just as the Russians could never deal with the horror of the East and its Mongol barbarianism: You could smell them coming, it was said, even before you heard the thunder of their hooves. But by then it was too late. Within seconds came the first murderous torrent of arrows, blotting out the sun and turning day into night. (Hopkirk 1990, 11) The tragedy of American and Russian experience in the Middle East or Central Asia (and all the mysterious, mountainous realms in between to flout cartography) is that the gap, hole, or “outside” of experience is the realm of truth, not a barbarous falsehood. The embodiment of “death and destruction” that empire sees beyond its borders is, in actuality, part of the very diversity it purports to exemplify. Death is found on the side of multiple being, of its ineluctable dissociation. Death is the return of the multiple to the void from which it is woven. Death is under the law of the multiple (or mathematical) essence of being qua being; it is indifferent to existence. Homo liber de nulla re minus quam de morte cogitat [The free man thinks of naught so little as death], decidedly, Spinoza was right; there is nothing to be thought in death, even if it be the death of an empire, other than the intrinsic nullity of being. Every event is an infinite proposition in the radical form of a singularity and a supplement . . . There was a Polish event, between the Gdansk strikes and

116 Conclusion Jaruzelski’s coup d’état . . . Even in Russia there was the uncertain attempt on the part of the Vorkuta miners . . . (Badiou 2003a, 128–9) In the light of similar rhetoric, it is clear why any imperial organ would wish to employ eventful turns of phrase and metaphors, yet not have the courage to see them in action. They become unspoken, a series of zeroes filed away yet which (being a traumatic remainder) come back time and time again until they adopt the form of big, bad phantoms on the “other side” of whatever is seen to constitute reality. This is true both of Russia’s dealings with the positive unicity of tawhid that Islam advocated (which frightened a centralized European state as too positive) and the negative status of Muslim or manqué Marxist “terrorists” today (who frighten Washington with the thanatic significance ascribed to them as subversively, i.e., too democratic). By speaking of universality, unicity, and multiplicity, political language creates differences and sets, not wholeness; it moves further from totality to the point where it must contemplate what lies beyond (or unifies) an increasingly fragmented world, since for every property or concept conjured in order to describe something new, there is always something (else) therein which does not quite fit the explicatory power of a word. It is this sad realization that leads one to the hopelessly un-Revolutionary trajectory of oratory in an enlightening Christian empire, radical socialism or any “exportation” of American democracy to Central Asia and the Middle East. Lenin loved to quote Napoleon’s aphorism on attaque et puis on le verra (cf. Zizek 2003a, 203), which is most certainly redolent of Kierkegaard’s assertion that life is lived forward yet understood backward (i.e., after the event). The futural rhetoric examined in this book operates totally and utterly in reverse order. It therefore represents not life, but loss – yet it still cannot handle absence or nothingness that it often creates itself. With a repeated, stable lexicon, these political orders lapse into sloganeering, but bearing in mind our observation from Chapter 7 that repetition gives birth to flourishing differences, to novelty, and becoming, not stable imperial being, disaster cannot be far. The greater the differences, the greater the degree of spiraling, Spinozistic variety that words create as they approach the Real. In fact it is precisely because the cultural activities outlined in this monograph are often advocated in words, stories, and repetitious narratives that the Real would emerge as in poetry, forcing these regimes to contemplate the extraneity and alterity they spoke into being. To reemploy a succinct formula from prior observations on Uzbek society, we have reality before our eyes . . . What language does, in its most fundamental gesture, is the very opposite of designating reality; it digs a hole in it, it opens up visible/present reality toward the dimension of the immaterial/unseen. When I simply see you, I simply see you – but it is only by naming you that I can indicate the abyss in you beyond what I see. (Zizek, 2003b, 70)

Conclusion

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The imperial cultures in this book entered Central Asia with words of health, prosperity, and classlessness yet with those very same words they talked themselves sick. I began this concluding section by suggesting that the annexation of Central Asia “sapped” the Russian Empire to the point of infirmity, yet the truth of the matter is that by talking (over and over again) of such a supposedly limited category, Moscow and her envoys were digging a very deep hole, both for themselves and the philosophy they embodied.

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Index

Allworth, E. 9, 19, 93 Avaz, O. 81 Bach, J.S. 56, 58, 62 Badiou, A. xiii, 17–19, 35–6, 72, 93, 96, 111–12 Bartol’d, V. x, 27 Batunskii, M. 6–8 Belinskii, V. 76, 83 Birlik 22, 101 Bogdanov, A. 34–5, 37 Borodin, A. 44, 57–8 Bortnes, J. xviii Brezhnev, L. 73, 85 Brusilovskii, E. 58 Bukharaev, R. 4 Cannadine, D. 2 Chaghatay Group 78 Chekhov, A. 15, 67, 76 Communism: and Islam after Stalin 30–3; and Islamic ethics 33–5; and Islamic notions of truth 27–30; and language policy 21–4; and religious conviction 25–7; as revolutionary unicity 16–20 Dal’, V. 98–9 Dargomyzhskii, A. 57 Deleuze, G. xiii, 18–19 Deweese, D. 4–5 Do’stmuhammad, X. 1 Dostoevskii, F. xvii–xviii, 7, 15 Engels, F. 19, 29 Erk 22, 101 Fedin, K. 75 Fitrat, A. 106 Furqat, Z. 78, 81

Glière, R. 57 Glinka, M. 44, 57–8 Gogol’, N. 67, 75 Gorbachev, M. 15, 110 Gor’kii, M. 26, 34, 66–8, 76, 82 G’ulom, G. 67–8, 81–3, 85, 87–9 Hamza (Hakimzoda Niyoziy) 46, 56, 81, 83–4, 86, 90–1 Hegel, G. 17–19, 36 Hemingway, E. 15, 66 Internet: on emigration 96–9; on fate of Russian culture in Uzbekistan 99–105, 108–12; on revisionism 105–8 Islam: and communism after Stalin 30–3; and communist conviction 25–7; and creation of Uzbek culture 10–16; and ethics 33–5; and presumed fatalism 8–10; and Soviet notions of “truth” 27–30, 114–16; within Russia 3–8, 113–14 Jadid reformers 10, 27–8, 46–7, 90, 93, 110 Kamp, M. xxi, 12 Karimov, I. xiv–xviii, 24, 35 Keller, S. x, 113 Khanum, T. 45, 49 Khrushchev, N. 16, 84 Korenizatsiia 11 Kozlovskii, A. 57 Lacan, J. 18–19 Lavrov, S. xiv Lenin, V. 16, 19, 21, 34, 88, 92, 109 Lermontov, M. xi, 66, 71, 76, 82, 87, 99 Lunacharskii, A. 18–19, 26, 45, 109

162 Index Maiakovskii, V. 46, 71, 86 Martin, T. 12 Marx, K. 14, 16, 20, 25–6, 33, 89, 96 Mironov, N. 48–9 Muqimiy 85 Navoiy, A. 57, 59, 76, 80–1 Nekrasov, N. 66–7, 76 Nietzsche, F. 17, 26, 111 Nosir, U. 86 Ogahiy, M. 84 Olimjon, H. 81–2, 88 Orientalism 1–3 Ostrowski, D. xxi, 4 Oybek, M. 108 Paustovskii, K. 68–9, 100 Petrosiants, A. 48 Petrosova, E. 53 Plekhanov, G. 15 Pushkin, A. xi, 66, 76, 82, 99 Putin, V. xv–xvii Qodiriy, A. 81 Rachmaninov, S. 56, 58 Ram, H. xi Red Quill 79 Rimskii-Korsakov, N. 44, 57 Roslavets, N. 58 Russian literature: and “Eastern” realism x–xii, 66–7, 72–4; and ecology 67–2; as parallel to Uzbek forms 74–6; and Soviet romanticism 35–7, 76–7; and verity 65–6

Russian music: and audience desire 62–5; establishment in Uzbekistan 56–9; as parallel to Uzbek forms 59–62 Ruthven, M. 3, 110 Said, E. 2 Saltykov-Shchedrin, M. xvii, 112–13 Schumpeter, J. 113 Solov’ev, V. 27 Soros, G. xv Spinoza, B. xiii, 1, 17–19, 34, 84, 116 Stalin, J. xii, 16, 33, 79, 109 Tabibiy, A. 87 Tillett, L. x Tolstoi, L. 7, 15, 66, 76 Uspenskii, V. 56 Uzbek dance: and dialectics 53–5; and language 51–3 Uzbek literature: and ecology 87–90, 93–5; as parallel to Russian forms 74–6, 83–5; and realism 72–4, 90–3; and romanticism 76–7, 85–7; and socialist realism 78–83 Uzbek music: and correction of instruments 47–51; and harmony 41–5; and popular songwriting 62–4; as parallel to Russian forms 59–62; and relation to language 38–41; and reworking of tradition 45–7 Zavqiy, U. 81 Ziuganov, G. 26 Zizek, S. 16–17, 24–6, 35–6, 95–6, 114–16 Zulfiya (Isroilova) 81, 86

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