Mother's Testament: 3 Exile

Gyuli was a fair-skinned girl who was not particularly tall. She was gentle in her movements and in her speech. Her eyes exuded a bewitching spark. She wore a modest white dress with little blue flowers that suited her very well. Gyuli would throw her long hair down her back, while keeping her slender neck erect. One day her mother sent her to visit old Hadzhyar-ana and take her some presents. As she was coming home, Gyuli bumped into a young man. She gave him only a single glance. And flushed red, because this swarthy dzhigit with his broad forehead returned that glance. His face showed admiration. And their fleeting encounter was to bring big changes to the lives of both Gyuli and Tairzhan.

           

It was not acceptable in those days for young people to meet and get to know each other without their parents’ consent. Normally it was the parents, who decided whom their children should marry to continue the family line. Once a decision was made, matchmakers would be sent to the girl’s house; if her parents approved of the young man, the wedding would quickly follow. This is what happened for Gyuli. They held the customary Muslim marriage ritual of Nikah, after which Gyuli and Tairzhan set to building a house of their own.

           

Tair invited his friends to help with building the house. They worked day and night, and soon they had erected a small cottage with two rooms; they covered the roof with poles and coated the walls with adobe. Young Gyuli worked feverishly to make the house orderly and cosy inside. In the centre of the living room, on a small piece of koshma, she placed a low table, a dzhoza, and around this she spread out some korpya for sitting on. She placed a chest on the opposite wall and on top of this she stacked several more korpya. The rooms were small, cosy and warm. This was where Gyuli and Tairzhan spent their sweetest and happiest days.

           

The pair worked unceasingly. After five or six years they bought a cow. Now Gyuli had sufficient milk and butter to feed her two small daughters, Selimyam and Saniyam. The young couple were in love with life: they lived it with relish, not noticing how the happy days were flying by.

           

Tair’s friends Dzhelil, Kudryat and Adil also started families at about this time. Tired after long days of work, they would spend the long winter evenings together, talking or playing the dutar. The life and soul of the company, however, was Tair, who sang well and had a candid and contagious laughter.

           

When the warm weather returned, the working life of the kolkhoz also resumed. Tair and his comrades went out to work in the fields. They dug aryks and cut and gathered hay. They sat boys on the horses and set to ploughing. All the hot summer days were spent watering the crops. Each day the young people got up before dawn to work on the harvest, cheerfully and companionably, like one large family. Their joking and laughter made the heavy work go easily.

           

At the hottest point of the day, when sweat poured down their faces and necks, the reapers, burning with thirst, would erect an area of shade out of branches. They sat down on the grass and ate melon and watermelon and drank sour milk. Often Tair’s friends would ask him to sing some soulful song; his weary fellow villagers would listen, sigh and look up at the sky. Sometimes they joined in, and then the surroundings would resound with their strong voices. And so, labouring from dawn to dusk, they scarcely noticed the passing of yet another summer.

           

That fateful year, 1937, Tairzhan and Adil graduated from the veterinary and accounting college in the neighbouring town of Zharkent. Tairzhan began working for the kolkhoz as an accountant, while Adil became a veterinarian.

           

Autumn brought cold winds together with incessant rain and early frosts. Alarmed, the villagers were forced to bring in the cotton as a matter of urgency. Every morning the brigadir would ride through the village on his horse, pausing at every house to call out: ‘Hey, people, get up! Don’t just lie there! The cotton’s going rotten!’

           

Anybody who did not go out to the fields went hungry. This was because, rather than being paid in money, the workers were paid each day with a spoonful of talkan, or ground roasted wheat. People who had not worked in the field that day would not receive their daily talkan. Forced to work in the rain in thin clothing and worn shoes, people caught colds and often fell ill for a long time – and yet the cotton had to be harvested at any cost.

           

One rainy autumn evening Dzhelil came to see Tair. They had barely sat down at the table when Shavdun barged in, muttering ‘Salam aleykhum’. Shavdun was a cunning young man and nobody’s fool. Many people disliked him, but no-one had yet been able to prove his guile. Gyuli made tea and put on the table everything they had in the house. Meanwhile Kudryat and Adil also turned up.

‘Looks like we’ve got a complete kolkhoz meeting tonight,’ joked Tair.

‘Well, what can you do at home when it’s raining like this? We thought we’d drop by and persuade you to play some dutar for us, we could sing and talk,’ answered Kudryat.

           

Little Selimyam ran out from the other room. She looked at the visitors and said ‘Assalam!’ and put her right hand on her heart and bowed slightly to the seated guests.

           

‘Little one, may grace be upon you for your kind greeting,’ said Adil.

           

Noticing that the three-year-old Saniyam was about to follow her elder sister, Gyuli took them both away, saying: ‘Come on; let’s go in the other room. There are visitors here; this is no place for children’.

           

The men were talking, as ever, about kolkhoz matters, about the illnesses that were spreading as a result of the raw, damp weather and about the indifference of the bosses to the hardships the people were suffering. Tair grew passionate and said many things that were entirely just. Dzhelil, however, a man of few words, said quietly to him: ‘It’s no use saying these things, adash. Let’s hear you play to us instead.’

           

Tair realised that Dzhelil was hinting at the presence of Shavdun, of whom many people were afraid. He picked up his dutar and began to pluck the strings, and at once everybody perked up. Seeking to improve the mood of his guests, Tair sang a song, before playing a folk tune. Again Selimyam came out of the inner room. ‘Why not let our little one dance for you?’ suggested Gyuli, coming out after her.

Selimyam had been waiting for those very words. She bowed and then began dancing. She did it with enthusiasm, forgetting herself, and the men clapped in time to the music. After this performance everybody’s mood had become more cheerful. The group of friends sat and talked a little longer, and then they made ready to leave.

           

‘That was wonderful. Tair, Gyuli, thank you so much, you’ve raised our spirits. But it’s late now, so we had better be going,’ said Kudryat.

           

Outside, the rain was still pouring down. ‘Tair doesn’t mince his words,’ they said to one another as they walked home. ‘He’s so open and direct.’

           

They often used to meet at Tair’s house for a heart-to-heart talk or to discuss what was going on around them. Rumours had begun to reach the village of disturbing events. At first, people responded with astonishment and disbelief. In a single night, however, the rumours were suddenly confirmed, when five or six men were declared ‘enemies of the people’ and arrested. The village went quiet; it was like the calm before a storm.

After seeing his friends out, Tair had gone to bed and fallen asleep before he became aware of strange noises. As he woke there came a loud knocking at the door and a voice, ‘Open up! Open up, I said!’ The rough voices of the nocturnal strangers frightened Gyuli. A hard lump rose in her throat as she wondered who it could be, coming here at midnight.

           

Tair got up and opened the door. Two men in military uniform entered. One of them took a document out of his pocket, showed it to Tair and, knitting his brows, said: ‘Tair Husanov, we have orders to take you away with us.’

           

‘Bring some warm clothing,’ the other man added.

           

Tair felt dread spreading through him. Sweat broke out on his brow. He could not believe that what was happening was real. For a moment, an oppressive silence hung in the room; only the sound of the unceasing rain could be heard. Through his mind flashed the thought: ‘So this is what being “arrested and taken away” means,’ but he did not say anything out loud. He dressed in silence. The soldiers ordered him to walk in front of them. As he crossed the threshold he turned and saw Gyuli and Selimyam, who was holding on to her mother’s skirt with one hand and wiping her tears with the other. In that moment, Gyuli’s expression and his daughter’s eyes meant more to Tair than the whole world.

           

Gyuli cried out in a breaking voice: ‘Tairzhan! Tair!’ – and froze, leaning against the wall.

Behind the soldiers, the door slammed shut. The rain was lashing at the ground.

           

Everything in Gyuli’s eyes went black. She broke down in tears, holding her daughter tightly to her. The house already felt cold and abandoned. Worrying thoughts crowded into her mind: ‘What is Tair guilty of? Where are they taking him? Where will I have I go to find him?’ But no answer would come to these unending questions. She laid Selimyam, who had fallen asleep on her lap, carefully down beside her little sister. She sat down beside them and looked at the two children sleeping so peacefully and began to sob softly. A little while later she came to her senses and said to herself: ‘Crying isn’t going to help. I’ve got to do something. I have no right to be weak. Not for my own sake but for the sake of my daughters and for the child I am still carrying. I need to be tough and persistent. Tair is not dead; he is alive, and one day he will come back. We will live happily again. But for now I need to keep the house and feed and bring up the children.’ Talking to herself in this way, she tried to comfort herself.

When Soviet power had come to their region, there had been unrest. The White Guard stormed into the towns and villages, shooting Communists and Komsomol members and taking men prisoner. Later, Soviet power became established in Zharkent and the process began of removing the kulaks and wealthy peasants – and those of only average means as well. They took everything. Arrests and shootings began again. They took grain and animals from the inhabitants of Bolshoy Chigan, and there was nowhere to hide. The sole exception was Tudmet, an aksakal who stood up against this arbitrary dispossession.

           

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded of them, shaking his fist. ‘What rich kulaks are there here? All the in the village families have seven or eight children. If you take away their animals, how are they going to survive? They are hardly feeding themselves as it is – and you will kill them outright!’

           

At that, two Red Army men beat the old man and took him to the edge of the village. They tied him to a tree, saying: ‘You have opposed Soviet authority, and that makes you an enemy.’ Then they shot him, without trial or investigation. This appalling injustice, together with the brutality that was everywhere in the ascendant, put fear into ordinary people. Many abandoned their homes and became refugees. Some of the Uighurs made it across the border to China: to Ghulja, Shuiding, Chilpanze and Dashigur. They had to submit to their fate and struggle hard to make ends meet in a foreign land. The parents of both Gyuli and Tair had also crossed into China and settled in Dashigur. There was no possibility of writing to them. All of Gyuli’s family that remained in the Bolshoy Chigan was her sister Maysimyam. She and her family lived on the same street, and the two sisters were very close and took care of one another. So Gyuli, having had no sleep all night long, took her children and rushed to her sister’s when it was barely light. Seeing them arrive so early, Maysimyam became worried. ‘Goodness, it’s Gyuli!’ she exclaimed and pulled her tearful sister towards her. ‘What’s happened?’

           

Gyuli could not answer and instead burst into tears again.

           

‘Why are you crying? What’s happened then? Tell me!’ Maysimyam turned her sister’s face towards her.

           

Gyuli sat down on the steps. ‘Last night two soldiers came and took Tair away. Why – I don’t know.’

           

This sinister news made Maysimyam go cold. Just then her husband Kurvan-aka came out of the garden, cool and unflappable as he always was. He came up to the two women and looked down from his full height at the crumpled Gyuli. When he heard what had happened, Kurvan-aka told them all to go indoors. ‘In these times you mustn’t talk candidly even with your own family,’ he said. ‘I love Tair as my own brother. But now he has paid the price of always and everywhere telling the truth. You have to think ten times before saying anything. Truth can be bitter and it’s not to everybody’s taste. That’s how he made enemies. Gyuli, you’ve got to stand firm! Crying won’t get you anywhere. They’ll interrogate Tair and in a few days they’ll let him go. And if they don’t, we’ll still see him again. Think about your children – look how afraid they are.’

           

Meanwhile Maysimyam had prepared aktyan-chay, which she now brought and poured into bowls. The subdued relatives drank the tea in silence.

           

Finally, Gyuli, exhausted from her insomnia, went home. A single thought thumped in her mind: how could she get news of Tair?

           

Word that Tair had been arrested spread through the village at lightning speed and soon his closest friends were sitting in Gyuli’s house: Dzhelil, Kudryat and Adil. Reflecting on what had happened in the night, they recalled their conversations of the previous evening, in that very house, and exchanged glances. They knew who had informed on Tair. It was Shavdun.

           

The three friends resolved to visit the prison in Zharkent. They had to find out everything they could.

           

‘If you see Tair, tell him that all is well at home. Ask him what he needs.’ Gyuli stood up and pressed her hand to her heart. ‘If they don’t release him today, I’ll go tomorrow myself.’

           

The men set off. Left alone, a deep melancholy settled onto Gyuli. The dark thoughts gave her no peace, and images flickered in her mind, each more disturbing than the last. She sat down, not knowing what action to take. At length the door opened, however, and in came her friends Zaynaphan, Mervanam and Mariyam. They greeted her, hugged her and sat down on the korpya spread out on the koshma. ‘Gyuli, bear up! We’re here and we will help you. You’re not alone,’ said Mervanam.

           

‘But no, there’s nothing I need at the moment,’ Gyuli answered, unnerved.

           

The smartest and most resolute of the three, the thin Zaynaphan, fetched some brushwood from the yard and lit a fire, not allowing Gyuli to come near the hearth. Maryam poured water into a pot, a kora, and set it on the oven; gradually it heated up until the water came to the boil. Zaynaphan now prepared aktyan-chay with the butter Mervanam had brought.

           

‘Yesterday I baked a large pumpkin in the tono. It was really sweet. So I’ve brought half of it for you to try.’ Maryam placed a laden tray on the table.

           

‘And I’ve brought an apkur of home-made curds,’ Zaynaphan added.

           

As they talked and drank their tea, Gyuli again began to feel anxious. ‘My dear friends, I’m so grateful to you,’ she said, sensing tears.

           

‘I’m sure Tair will come out any day. Then all this nightmare will be over,’ said Zaynaphan gently. ‘But you mustn’t let yourself go to pieces in your situation. Remember, you’ve got a baby on the way.’

           

‘If God wills, you’ll give Tair a fine son and they’ll go out to work together,’ Mariyam added by way of support.

           

‘Your Tair is very hard-working. Look, his yard is neat and tidy, he’s got in a stock of hay and he’s laid in firewood for the winter,’ complimented Mervanam.

           

Gyuli smiled to hear these admiring words about her husband. ‘He built his own storehouse, you know, and keeps the vegetables in it.’ She pointed to a place to the right of the main door.

           

‘If only we had husbands like that,’ whispered Zaynaphan.

           

Mervanam grasped the small of her back with her hands. ‘Oi, girls, something isn’t right with me today. But remember, Gyuli, if your cow stops giving milk, I’ll give you milk for your children. We’ll all share whatever we have, right?’ The other women nodded. ‘So now let’s say the prayer.’

           

After they had prayed, the women got up from their places. Gyuli went out to see them into the street.

           

‘Let’s hope our husbands will come back from Zharkent with good news,’ said Zaynaphan. And on that note they parted.

           

As evening approached, Tair’s friends came back to Gyuli. They evidently had no good news to give her from Zharkent. Gyuli did not take her eyes from them for a moment. Dzhelil quietly said: ‘Gyuli, we went to the prison, but were unable to see Tair. As well as your message, we sent a note in to him. Tair sent a reply straight away: “They interrogated me today, and are accusing me of some pretty hefty offences. But it is all lies. I don’t actually know how I’ll get out of here. And ask Gyuli to make me some warm clothing.”’

           

Gyuli felt weak all over her body, as though something inside her had broken away. The men, unable to give her comfort, sat with her for a few more minutes and then went home.

The days passed grimly in their appointed order. To obtain warm clothes for Tair, Gyuli went to visit the old woman shepherd Ryszhan-apay and explained the situation. The apay gave her a sack of wool, with which Gyuli knitted mittens, socks and a scarf. She went to the prison every day – but was unable either to see Tair or to leave food for him. She would come home again in tears. Whatever could she do, she wondered? How on earth could she get her husband released? Nobody could give her an answer, nobody could help her.

           

Then one day some news arrived. Tair had been tried and sentenced to five years’ imprisonment, and would be sent to a labour camp. When she heard this, Gyuli spent the entire night in preparations. Into a large sack she put a pullover, several shirts and everything she had managed to knit, and on top placed a packet of talkan. Kurvan-aka contributed a pouch of tobacco and his favourite boots with puttees. Gyuli put the sack of things in a corner. Alone, as she waited for the dawn, she stroked her swelling belly and said softly, over and over again: ‘You will be five, son, by the time you see your dada.’ She looked at her two girls, sound asleep, then, going over to the window, came to a standstill, staring intently into the darkness of the yard outside. Her thoughts were heavy and bitter. After a while, Gyuli lay down next to her daughters and fell asleep.

Dawn had scarcely broken when Gyuli woke with a start and began to dress her sleepy daughters. Kurvan-aka and Maysimyam drove up in a two-wheeled cart harnessed to a donkey. Gyuli went outside holding the sack, which she loaded onto the cart. She then also seated her two girls, who had fallen asleep again, on the cart. By the time they set off for Zharkent it was almost light.

           

The closer they came to the prison, the more people they saw. They were all heading in the same direction. Finally Kurvan’s cart drew up by the gloomy hulk of the prison building. People were standing all along its iron perimeter fence. Clutching at the grating, they were looking out for friends and relatives, weeping and talking to one another. On the other side of the fence was a crowd of prisoners. The visitors were of all kinds – women with sacks, children, grey old people, stooping old women – and all were staring anxiously through the bars of the fence, trying to identify their particular relative or friend among the dense huddle of the captives.

           

Kurvan-aka, Maysimyam and Gyuli with her daughters elbowed their way with difficulty through the mass of people. Gyuli spotted Tair at once. He was standing at a distance and was almost unrecognisable: unshaven, emaciated, with sunken eyes. There was nothing left of the old Tair she had known. With trembling hands, he rolled up a cigarette and started to smoke. Seeing her haggard husband, Gyuli felt nauseous; her heart constricted and she could not take in enough air to breathe properly. Meanwhile Kurvan-aka, who had experienced many things and learnt to keep control of himself, called out in a stentorian voice: ‘Tair! Tair!’

           

Tair raised his head at the familiar voice, recognised the group of visitors and made his way to the lattice, elbowing the other prisoners aside, and put his hands through the bars.

           

‘Tair-uka, be strong! Don’t worry about Gyuli and the children; we’ll take care of them.’ Kurvan-aka squeezed the hand of his son-in-law firmly.

           

Tair, just keeping control of himself, uttered: ‘Thank you. Please keep an eye on my family.’

           

Gyuli pushed her daughters forward towards their father. Tairzhan kissed them through the grating and moved his hands over their faces. Next, he threw his wife an ardent look. Gyuli choked with pity for him. Her voice was inaudible when she said: ‘Tair, I’ve brought you some warm clothes. Try to come home as soon as you can, we will be waiting for you.’ Then she shouted out: ‘My love, we’ll be happy again!’

           

Selimyam and Saniyam, holding onto their father’s hands, repeated their mother’s words tearfully: ‘Papa, please come home.’

           

Now a man in uniform began issuing orders: ‘Fall in!’ Hanging their heads, the prisoners fell into ranks. A strong wind was building and whirling up dust. Tair did not take his gaze from Gyuli. She could see how much he was suffering. Looking at his eyes, Gyuli thought: ‘My Tair, my one and only, will we ever see each other again?’ Her heart was racked with pain and her face was wet with tears.

           

The crowd of prisoners moved away and disappeared, but the people who had come to see them off as they went to begin their sentences remained for a long time at the fence. Mothers, wearing white dresses, wailed: ‘Oh Allah, what offences have we committed, what are these sins for which we are suffering? Will we live to see our children?’

The slow journey home and the steady thudding of the wheels of the cart on the stony road filled Kurvan-aka with bleak thoughts. What were these times that had come upon them? He thought again about how there had first been the White Guard, who brought shootings and confiscated the grain, driving away all sense of life. And then came the Soviets, and with them more executions, taking away everything that the people had meanwhile managed to re-establish. Anybody who opposed them was killed without trial or investigation. And now, yet again, they were capturing innocent people, calling them ‘enemies of the people’ and sending them away – but nobody knew where. Half a year earlier they had taken his brother Abdumanap, an honest worker at the kolkhoz. Nobody now knew whether he was alive or dead. Whom could he ask, where could he have searched? And hundreds of other families were likewise weeping blood-stained tears for lost relatives.

           

Kurvan-aka sighed deeply. His own parents had worked themselves to the bone all their lives for wealthy bays. They had exhausted themselves and died young, leaving five children orphaned. Nowadays his sister Adalyat lived near him in the village. His brother Abdumanap had been arrested. His sister Rozihan was living in Dashigur, across the border in China. And now he could see, as though right before his eyes, his little sister Patam, tall, big-eyed and pretty. When she was seventeen she married a young man called Elam. Soon she was pregnant. When she was near her time, however, there was unrest in the village. Patam and Eliam went to her older brother and said: ‘Aka, a group of us – a total of eighteen people, all relatives and close friends – have decided to cross to China. We’ll be leaving in a few days.’

           

Crossing the border was difficult at that time. People hid in the deserts near the frontier, sleeping under the open sky and fleeing pursuit on horseback. Some made it across. Others fell foul of the Red Army and were shot there and then. Their bodies were left where they fell and were quarry for predators. Accordingly, Kurvan-aka worried for his beloved sinnim Patam. He held her close to him and said to her: ‘God willing, we’ll see each other again. Take care of yourself and your child-to-be. May you have a good journey. If you get to Dashigur, please give Rozihan our sincere greetings. Allah is merciful; he has taken care of you.’ Tearfully the brother and sister embraced one another. A few days after the group had set off, a rumour came back to the village: ‘Somebody has come across from the Chinese side. It seems he saw eighteen dead bodies in the desert.’ All day Kurvan-aka could find no solace, and in the evening he went to the house where the arrival from China was staying and tried to extract the details from him. Yes, it transpired, one of the villagers shot at point-blank range was his Patam. And with her died her unborn child. Kurvan-aka began to cry out uncontrollably, fell to the ground and began scraping at the earth with his nails. Did these murderers have souls at all?

           

When he now remembered Patam he was again riven with pain and choked on his grief. Tears poured from his eyes and disappeared into his black whiskers. He saw his sister lying somewhere in a pool of blood, her body not laid to rest. Then he sighed and shook his head: for even while one is wracked with suffering, life has to go on. He cleared his throat loudly, forced himself to calm down and admitted to himself: ‘Well, I’m not alone in this torment. How many people are being made to drink this bitter cup? We live in savage times!’

           

He came out of his reverie as they reached home. ‘Whoa there, you wretched creature!’ He reigned in the donkey and drew up at the paddock.

           

Seeing Gyuli, Maysimyam came running over to them and invited them in for some tea. And Gyuli, who had not eaten a scrap since the previous day, now felt hunger, while tea brings warmth to the body and comfort. But when Gyuli got up from the table afterwards, clutching at her lower back with both hands, Maysimyam sensed an alarm. ‘Let me come and stay with you tonight. I think your labour is about to start.’

           

She was right. Next morning Gyuli was woken by birth pangs. Maysimyam ran anxiously to the house of their aunt Hadzhyar-ana. Without even asking her how she was, as is proper, said: ‘I need your help. Gyuli’s gone into labour.’

           

‘Oh, Allah, show us the way! Has her time come, or has something just startled her?’

           

‘It’s her time,’ Maysimyam answered impatiently.

           

‘Bismillah…’ The old woman stood up, straightened the shawl on her head, took a light chapan from its hook, put it on, put a pair of galoshes on her feet and came out, locking the door behind her.

           

Hadzhyar-ana was already seventy. She had delivered many of the children of the village. She was lean, not very tall and kept up with Maysimyam easily, saying to herself as she went: ‘I was the midwife to both of Gyuli’s daughters. God willing I’ll be midwife to the third.’

           

When they arrived, Gyuli was going round the room in circles in her labour pains. Her daughters watched her anxiously from the doorway to the inner room. When Hadzhyar-ana saw Gyuli she exclaimed: ‘O Allah, O merciful Creator! Open up the way for us in this and let the birth go easily!’ She felt Gyuli’s belly gently. ‘When did the labour start?’

           

‘Early this morning.’

           

Maysimyam lit the stove and set water to boil, then unrolled some clean rags that Gyuli had prepared for the baby. She took her young nieces away to her own home at a trot, then came running back. Gyuli groaned incessantly, now pacing about and now sitting for a moment. After a while the labour began in earnest.

           

‘Right, everything’s ready to go,’ said the midwife, touching Gyuli’s belly. ‘O Allah, these are not my hands, they are the hands of the holy mothers,’ she exclaimed, and got down to her task.

‘It’s a boy! It’s a boy!’ announced Hadzhyar-ana as she cut the umbilical cord.

           

Now, the suffering behind her, Gyuli felt immense relief. Tair had always longed for a boy. Now his dream was fulfilled.

           

The old woman washed the baby’s ears, mouth and nose. Then she dried him, wrapped him in his swaddling clothes and showed him to Gyuli. ‘May Allah grant your son many years of life. May he be happy, prosperous and may he support his parents in their later years!’

           

Maysimyam kissed her sister on the forehead, washed her face and hands and handed her a large bowl of aktyan-chay.

           

‘Hadzhyar-ana, you must be tired. Please have some tea and then lie down and rest,’ said Maysimyam gratefully and handed the old woman two cushions.

           

Wiping away the tears and sweat from Gyuli’s face, Maysimyam looked down at her. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. You and your children are alive. We will pray to Allah for Tair’s return. Our ana is resting beside you. I’m going to rush home now, I’ve got a handful of flour there for this very occasion. I’ll make some spicy suyuk ash and bring it over.’ She stood up, tossed some wood into the stove and hurried home. Gyuli, after finishing her tea, fell into a slumber.

           

When Maysimyam returned with the evening meal, Hadzhyar-ana and Gyuli were sound asleep. Maysimyam set the dzhoza and poured the food into bowls. First to be woken by the aroma was Hadzhyar-ana.

           

‘O Allah, I was sleeping so deeply. Have you already made supper?’ The old midwife leaned her elbows on the cushions and sat up. ‘You’d better wake Gyuli and get her to eat. If she doesn’t produce milk the baby’ll be restive.’

           

Maysimyam woke her sister, placed a pillow under her back and put a bowl of the soup in front of her. Gyuli’s hands were weak and shaking.

           

‘What a wonderful sister, always a support – in life and in death,’ the old woman observed as she started to eat. ‘You’re like a mother to Gyuli. Now Gyuli, kizim, you need to eat something. You need strength and the boy needs milk.’

           

At that moment Selimyam and Saniyam burst in from outside. They rushed to their mother and kissed her. They looked at the baby. Saniyam frowned. ‘Why is he so small?’

           

‘But he’s so sweet!’ exclaimed Selimyam. ‘Mama, can I pick him up?’

           

Maysimyam picked up the sleeping infant first. ‘Selimyam, you must hold him with both hands. Don’t drop him. If you want him to grow up into a big strong dzhigit, you must look after him well.’

           

The sisters looked tenderly at the new-born baby, holding him close to them and trying to rock him to sleep. As she looked at this moving spectacle, Hadzhyar-ana smiled. ‘Gyuli, your boy has two wonderful little nannies.’

           

After their meal and an unhurried conversation, Hadzhyar-ana turned to Maysimyam and said: ‘All seems well with Gyuli, so I’ll go home. It’s already getting dark,’ and started preparing to leave.

           

‘Thank you so much. Sorry for causing you so much trouble. Why don’t you stay with us for a day or two at least. After all, I’m your daughter too,’ said Gyuli, lifting herself a little from the cushions.

           

Indeed, once Hadzhyar-ana had also delivered Gyuli herself, and so in a certain sense was a mother to her. So now the midwife agreed now to stay for twelve days while Gyuli regained her strength.

On the twelfth day after the boy’s birth, Kurvan-aka invited one of the elders, Zair-buva, to come and name the child. Kurvan-aka gave Gyuli five roubles of his own because the birth of a son had been one of Tair’s wishes.

           

They drank bowls of tea, as was their custom, and then Zair-buva announced: ‘We will call your son Yadikar. It is in keeping with his father’s name.’

           

Gyuli nodded her agreement. It was an attractive, sonorous-sounding name. Zair-buva took the new-born baby in his arms and read out the appropriate sura of the Qur’an. Then he intoned the azan into the baby’s ear, lifted him up high and, raising his voice, pronounced: ‘I congratulate you on receiving your name, Yadikar, who have been sent to us from heaven.’ He laid the baby down again on the korpya, wrapped him and again took him in his arms.

Everybody present at the table turned to Gyuli and congratulated her.

Winter arrived, covering everything in a veil of snow. It fell from early morning to late at night, and the whole of the village turned white. The following morning the villagers busied themselves, clearing their yards and their flat roofs of snow. Snowdrifts appeared on the roads. After Gyuli had put everything in order in her yard she decided to visit old Hadzhyar to see how she was.

           

‘Assalam, Hadzhyar-ana! How are you?’

           

‘Oh, it’s you, Gyuli! Well, as for me, everything’s well. But how are you managing with your three children, kizim?’

           

‘We’re doing fine, ana. The children are in good health. Look, I’ve come to take you home with me. Why do you want to spend the winter here on your own in this cold? We can live together and help each other out.’

           

Thank you, my dear, but while I’ve got the strength I think I’ll stay here. If I get unwell I’ll come to you.’ And the old woman saw Gyuli out.

           

In the winter, the villagers lit their stoves and took the ashes out, fed hay to their animals and cleared away the dung. They ate any leftovers from the summer harvest. On winter days the streets were largely deserted, though you might occasionally see children taking carts to collect water or pulling a sledge laden with firewood.

           

All winter Gyuli burned the firewood and kizyak that Tair had laid in during the summer months. She did not let the children be cold and ensured that the kang was warm at all times. Gyuli’s friends were afraid to be seen visiting her for fear of being spotted by the informer. They therefore came in the evenings, under cover of dark and with great caution. Gyuli meanwhile had grown thin and drooping and bore no trace of the beautiful woman who had lived so happily with Tair.

           

And today, as darkness fell, Tair’s friend Kudryat came together with Zaynaphan to see her. ‘Have you had any news or letters from him? How is he, wherever he is?’ they asked.

           

But ever since Tair was sent to the camps there had been not a single letter. This worried them all. Her friends had told her about other kolkhoz members who had also been arrested as ‘enemies of the people’. Gyuli was shaken. ‘What is this?’ they asked one another, ‘Who could have informed in this village?’ But none of them had an answer.

           

That evening Gyuli could not sleep, tortured by thoughts. ‘Look at me; I live with our children in a warm house, but what about Tair? What if he’s caught cold and become ill? Is he being properly fed or is he hungry?’ And although she was lying on a warm kang, free to stretch her legs or to pull her children to her, sleep would not come. She was also preoccupied with the cow. Zaynaphan and Kudryat had noticed the cow that day, heavy with calf, and said to her, ‘She’ll calve any time now. Make sure the calf doesn’t freeze.’ For this reason Gyuli had got up twice in the night and gone out to the cowshed, candle in hand. But the cow was peaceful. She came back into the house, thinking: ‘Thank goodness Tair sealed the doorways with koshma, otherwise the cold would get in.’ She lay back down, pulled her baby son to her and finally drifted off to sleep. At dawn she got up, washed herself, raked the ashes out of the stove and took them into the yard. She looked in at the cowshed and found the cow licking her newly-born calf.

           

‘Thank God, the calf’s well,’ she thought. ‘My cow’s a good one. This is for the children’s sake,’ she whispered to herself, tears in her eyes. At that moment she heard a cry from the street: ‘Gyuli!’ Going out into the yard, she saw the stooping old Hadzhyar, shaking with cold.

           

‘Assalam, ana!’ she called out, going over to her. She could see that things with the midwife were not good. ‘Come into the house, quickly,’ she said, opening the door, ushering her in and closing the door tightly behind them.

           

Hadzhyar-ana clambered onto the kang straight away. ‘I went to bed a couple of days ago. That way there’d be no need to light the stove and no ashes to clear up. And then I thought I’d go to my daughter instead. So you see I’ve wasted no time and come early in the day.’

           

‘It’s good that you’re here, ana. I’ll light the stove, meanwhile you lie down and rest.’ Gyuli lay the old woman down beside her sleeping children. She then lit the stove and made tea.

           

Old Hadzhyar sighed. ‘What was I doing, lying there getting ill in that cold house, when I have such a caring daughter?’

           

Selimyam and Saniyam woke up and cried out with delight: ‘Look, it’s moma! Our moma is here!’

           

Hadzhyar-ana pulled some dried apple and dried apricot out of her pocket and held them out to the girls. ‘Eat, my little ones.’ She stroked them on the head and kissed their foreheads.

           

‘Ana, do you know, just as you arrived here, our cow gave birth to a calf,’ Gyuli said.

           

The midwife nodded. ‘Allah grants riches for children. And I have no children or grandchildren of my own, so I’ll help you all now.’

           

Gyuli’s house was a warm and friendly place. The old woman even forgot about her infirmity. And life had hardly spoiled her. Hadzhyar married when she was very young, but was unable to have children. She and her husband divorced and she lived for some years by herself. Later she remarried, this time to Tair’s uncle, Mohammed-aka. Yet no sooner had they established a home of their own together than the White Guard descended on the village, rounded up the Komsomol members and Communists and shot them all. Among the dead activists was Mohammed-aka. Since that time Hadzhyar had lived alone.

           

Gyuli had just finished washing the dishes when Maysimyam’s eldest son came in and said: ‘Kichik-apa, our mother is calling for you.’

           

Unnerved, Gyuli finished breast-feeding the baby and turned to her daughters. ‘If Yadikar cries, rock him gently to sleep in the cradle. I’m going to see your chon-apa. Don’t make any noise, your grandmother’s asleep.’

           

When they entered her sister’s house Maysimyam said to her: ‘They’re sending my husband to Talgar for training.’

           

‘What’s he going to learn? Is that far away?’

           

‘They say it’s a long way. The others going from here are Pahardin, Savut and Imyar. When they finish their training they’ll come back to the village on tractors. Then we’ll be working the land with tractors, not horses and bullocks, and they can be used for sowing as well.’

           

‘That’s excellent news. It will be easier for people.’

           

Kurvan-aka entered. Tall and strongly built, he smiled at Gyuli: ‘You need to keep an eye on your sister! Look after the children together and help each other out. Something with Maysimyam isn’t right – she keeps falling asleep on her feet. This morning she went out to milk the cow, and while she was there she fell asleep. It’s a good thing I went out and found her. I don’t know what to do. I can’t turn down my tractor training. We’re leaving tomorrow.’

           

Gyuli looked nervously at her sister’s face. It was as white as a wall. ‘Kurvan-aka, don’t worry. I will stop by every day and see how things are. There are a lot of us in the village with illnesses like this.’

           

‘I’ve already told my sons, Tursun and Turgan. They are already big enough to look out for the younger ones and help their mother.’

           

‘Would you bring me medicine for my illness when you come back from town,’ Maysimyam asked her husband.

           

‘Of course, I’ll find it and bring it. And I will come back as a tractor driver. There are new times ahead. From now on we’ll be working on machines.’

           

‘So there’ll be no need for people? If so, how will we manage to live?’ asked Gyuli, disturbed.

           

‘Well, it won’t happen overnight. It’ll be a gradual process,’ smiled Kurvan-aka.

           

Maysimyam and Gyuli gathered everything the men would need for their journey. After a while, Maysimyam’s eyes began to close and a sluggishness came over her movements. Concerned, Gyuli said: ‘What’s this all about? Hadzhyar too is sleeping and never getting up. Have we been infected by sleeping sickness or something? Surely we aren’t all just going to fall asleep and expire?’

           

From gossip she heard at the well Gyuli found out that two or three people were suffering from the sleeping disorder in every house. Most of the people affected were advanced in age. It was said that in the next village several people had even died in their sleep.

           

Soon after Kurvan-aka’s departure Gyuli and her sister brought out some tomatoes they had in store along with some dried peppers. Gyuli then set off to sell them in the Zharkent bazaar and use the money to buy flour and meat. At the bazaar she told a milk seller she knew that she was looking for a remedy for sleeping sickness. The milk seller pointed to a short, stout woman of about fifty who was selling knitted items. ‘That Russian woman over there can cure illnesses. We call her Mama-Finya. Go and ask her.’

           

‘But I can’t speak Russian, so how can I talk to her?’

           

‘Don’t worry, she knows Kazakh, Uighur and Tatar as well.’

           

After she had sold her produce, Gyuli went over to the Russian woman. She was wearing a large woollen shawl, a sheepskin coat, felt boots and warm mittens. She did not seem to be bothered by the cold; her cheeks were ruddy and red. It seemed as though everybody at the bazaar knew her: people were constantly calling her by name and greeting her. Gyuli also greeted her. ‘I’ve come to ask you for help.’ And she told her about her sister’s condition.

           

Mama-Finya nodded, understanding the situation. ‘Daughter, this illness is caused by hunger. You should give your sister a bowl of boiled milk every morning, stirred forty-one times with a spoon. Go on doing this for forty days. If you have sugar or honey, then all the better. Give her grated carrot to eat, and boiled beetroot. If you’ve got some meat, then make a broth with beetroot, onion, carrot and potato. She needs proper nourishment. Don’t worry, your sister will get better.’

           

‘Eh, Mama-Finya, if we had food in the house do you think we’d be falling asleep from weakness?’

           

‘Daughter, you must drink the milk in the mornings too, or you’ll end up like your sister.’

           

When the healer learned that Gyuli had children, she nodded towards some of her knitted socks. ‘Choose the ones that are the right size for your little ones.’

           

‘No, thank you,’ said Gyuli, ‘I’ve only got enough money for flour and meat.’

           

‘Go on, take them. I’m not asking you for money,’ the woman said to her. And despite Gyuli’s protests she thrust a present of them into her hands.

           

Shivering with cold in her thin chapan, Gyuli only just made it home. Coming into the warm room and seeing old Hadzhyar sitting on the kang with the girls, however, she felt better.

           

‘Look at you, you’re blue with cold! Go and take your coat off and climb up on the kang. I’ll light the stove,’ said the old woman as she bustled about.

           

Still shivering, Gyuli looked at her son lying in the beshchuk. ‘Did Yadikar cry?’

           

‘He cried a little, then I gave him a spoonful of water and he quietened down.’

           

Once Gyuli had drunk a bowl of hot tea, she stopped shivering. ‘Thank heavens you’re here, ana, so I don’t have to always worry about the children. Look, I managed to trade and get some flour and meat.’

When the girls heard this they shouted out: ‘Mama, make us some laghman today!’

Woken by the noise, Yadikar started crying. Gyuli sat down beside the beshchuk, picked him up and unwrapped him, talking baby-talk all the while. She watched him as he sucked at her breast. How like his father he was! The same eyebrows, eyes and lips. Yet the father of little Yadikar was probably trudging somewhere far away, knee-deep in snow in a blizzard. She shuddered and whispered: ‘O Allah, keep safe my Tair.’

           

‘So, how was dinner, Yadikar?’ Gyuli patted the child gently on the back. ‘Now I’m going to put you back to bed. Let’s see you sleep a bit longer, all right?’

           

Yadikar puckered out his little lips and began to babble amusingly.

           

‘He came in to the world with ease, so he’ll grow up big and strong. If God wills, he’ll be crawling by the spring,’ said the old woman, not taking her eyes off them.

           

Selimyam and Saniyam observed what was happening attentively. Gyuli put down the baby and handed them the woollen socks. ‘These are for you from an old Russian woman.’ She then told them about Mama-Finya.

           

Cheered by the gifts, the girls quickly pulled the socks on and began to show off in front of the old woman, who was like a grandmother to them.

           

‘I’m going to take some of these things to my sister,’ said Gyuli. She divided the flour and meat equally and set off to see Maysimyam.

           

When she arrived, Maysimyam was sleeping on her warm kang. She raised her head when she heard Gyuli’s voice. ‘Is that you back already? Well, goodness, half a day has already passed. You walked to Zharkent in this cold?’

           

Gyuli put the flour and meat down on the table. Maysimyam could not conceal her delight. ‘Today at least, I can make something filling for the children.’

           

Modangul, who was washing dishes, added hurriedly: ‘Mama, Mahinur and I will wash some greens and we can make a nice laghman.’

           

At that moment, Tursun-zhan and Turgan-zhan came in carrying firewood. The sight of the provisions on the table cheered them also.

           

Gyuli smiled sadly to see how much happiness a handful of flour and a piece of meat could bring and how the children in both houses had become so animated. ‘Today the children will go to sleep on a full stomach, but tomorrow we leave to Allah,’ she thought, and then she remembered what the Russian woman had prescribed her.

           

‘Sister, I’ve found out how to cure your sleeping disease.’ Gyuli told Maysimyam everything that Mama-Finya had advised her.

           

‘Well, really! If it’s just a matter of milk, then I’ll definitely drink it as she says.’

           

Tursun looked at his mother in her weakened state, then turned to Gyuli and said: ‘Kichik-apa, I milk the cow every day. Now I’ll start boiling some every day and give it to mother. God willing she’ll be better by the time father gets back.’

           

‘I’m going to make laghman today as well,’ said Gyuli, getting up.

           

Tursun and Turgan saw their aunt to the gate. A strong snowstorm was blowing outside. Gyuli wrapped her face in her shawl and walked quickly towards her house. After a few seconds her figure disappeared into the white-out.

           

When she entered her yard Gyuli filled a basin with kizyak, piled some firewood on top and went inside. And so what if it went on blowing a blizzard outside and the snow blinded the eyes, she thought: her children, satisfied by the food they always dreamed of, would sleep soundly. For both sisters’ households that day was a festive occasion.

           

Next morning the blizzard relented. People set to clearing their yards of snowdrifts, feeding the animals, chopping wood and lighting their stoves. Having completed their tasks, Tursun and Turgan went over to Gyuli’s to fetch water for her from the well. Gyuli helped them load the small wooden barrel onto the cart. As the brothers set off home and she closed the gate behind them, she saw her neighbour Rihanbuvi coming towards her. The two women greeted one another and then Rihanbuvi said: ‘You know my aunt’s daughter, who lives in the upper village?’

           

‘You mean Zorabuvi, Shavdun’s wife?’

           

‘Yes, that’s her. Well, I’m afraid she died this morning.’

           

Gyuli raised her hands and passed them over her face. ‘Was she ill?’

           

‘She was helping with the cotton harvest in the autumn in the rain. She caught cold. She was forever complaining about a pain in her side. And she died of it. She was only twenty-one. She’s left two little boys. I just came to tell you.’ Wiping her eyes with her shawl, Rihanbuvi began to hurry away.

           

Gyuli saw her to the gate, and then went back inside, shaking her head in regret. Evidently, sorrow came in both heat and cold.

           

Hearing the bad news, old Hadzhyar began to lament. ‘And now all the responsibilities will fall to Zorabuvi’s elderly mother. Oh, the poor thing! Both her sons have gone over to China, and Zaynaphan only stayed here for her daughter’s sake. How will she bear this hardship now, in her old age?’

           

It is a general rule that if one of the villagers has suffered misfortune, the others cannot simply sit at home. So today, despite the heavy frost, old Hadzhyar, Maysimyam and Gyuli went over to Shavdun’s house. Women were wailing in the yard. The men standing nearby were blue with cold. One of the oldest men in the village, Mahmut-aka, asked them to light a fire. They did so, and once it took hold the men were able to warm themselves.

           

The women went inside the house, greeted one another and went up to the elderly Zaynaphan, embracing her one at a time. Old Hadzhyar held her grieving friend close to her, stroked her head and comforted her. ‘Dear friend, crying won’t bring her back. And you can hardly stand on your own feet any more, you need to take care of yourself.’

           

‘I didn’t want to abandon my daughter. I lost my sons for her sake,’ wailed Zaynaphan in her thin voice. ‘I thought she would be there to see me out… but she’s gone, and still so young! It would be better now if she was weeping for me instead!’

           

An old woman sitting in the place of honour raised her hands for prayers, and they all fell silent. After the prayers the conversation resumed. ‘I didn’t let her go out to the fields,’ Zaynaphan said, shaking her head. ‘But Shavdun, once they made him the brigadir, he started forcing her out. In the fields, in the cold and mud, my kizim caught cold. Three months she endured that pain in her side – and today, see, they’ve laid my little dove out cold in the middle of the room.’

           

Again she began crying bitterly. Hadzhyar-ana kept saying to her, ‘Zaynaphan, calm down. Death comes to old and young alike, it makes no difference. It’s clear that this is our destiny – fear and crying.’ She straightened Zaynaphan’s shawl and stroked her grey hair. The other women in the room looked with pity at the old mother as she grieved for her daughter.

           

The men dug the grave even though the ground was frozen. Some women washed the body of Zorabuvi and combed her hair. And so another of Allah’s children was committed to the earth.

           

On the way home, Maysimyam sighed deeply and said to those about her: ‘Is the only purpose of this life for us to suffer and then die?’

           

As they walked, the women talked about the two children Zorabuvi had left behind, now orphans. They also knew that the person to blame for Zorabuvi’s death was her own husband, Shavdun. But none of them wanted to say so out loud.

The villagers were tired of the cold winter months and longed for spring. When spring finally came the whole world awoke once more from beneath its snowy cover. The gardens turned green and blossomed, the sun shone radiantly in a clear sky. The morning crowing of the cocks, the barking of dogs, the neighing of donkeys and the warbling of birds all heralded the return of life. When nature is reborn and shows its beauty once more, the human soul feels lighter. It was as though winter had brought only sorrows and grief, but the spring brought joyful changes.

           

Kurvan-aka and his comrades finished their course at Talgar and returned safely to their village. They then went to Zharkent to collect their tractors. Towards evening the old men sitting on stumps saw two tractors rumbling towards the village and raising clouds of dust. They jumped from their seats, shouting out: ‘O Allah!’

           

Mahsum the joker called out: ‘Hey, people, watch out! The iron tractors are coming! Get inside or they’ll knock you flat!’

           

Some small children and old people, believing Mahsum’s words, went running home. But Tursun and Turgan, seeing their father at the wheel of one of the tractors, ran out to meet him. ‘It’s father, he’s driving the tractor!’

           

When they started ploughing the land with the tractors, everybody, young and old, came running to see. The villagers watched with rapturous astonishment at this miracle. And so the spring work began happily and in a new way that year.

           

Every morning the women set off with ketmens on their shoulders to dig the main aryk. Maysimyam, now recovered from her sleeping sickness, set off to work in the kindergarten. Gyuli was barred from working at the kolkhoz, however, as she was the wife of a so-called ‘enemy of the people’.

           

‘So if I can’t work on the kolkhoz, how will I feed my children?’ she asked the management.

           

The chairman of the kolkhoz, Imyar-aka, replied drily: ‘I’m just not allowed to employ you. That is an order from above.’

           

The dismayed Gyuli turned to growing vegetables on her vegetable patch. Around the arbour that Tair had built she and the girls planted pumpkins and climbing flowers. There had been a time when all the family had sat in this arbour and enjoyed sweet conversation and food. As she remembered that happy time her eyes filled with tears.

           

One sunny day in spring, the mail carrier Masim-aka came up to her house on his elderly black horse and called out her name. Gyuli emerged from the garden, then, seeing him, froze. How long had she been waiting for this! She greeted Masim-aka and asked joyfully: ‘Have you got a letter for us?’

           

From his ragged cloth satchel Masim-aka pulled out a letter. ‘It’s from Tair.’

           

Gyuli seized the envelope and rushed inside, her heart beating wildly. She took out the thin sheet of paper and began to read:

           

‘My dear family, greetings! How is life with you? If you are alive and well, then I will be happy. Gyuli, my dear, I hope that you have had your baby and all went well? I think about you and the children every day. I know that it is hard for you, but remember me and things will be easier. If God allows, we will see each other again. It was hard for me to be parted from my home and village. They brought me and the other political prisoners to Siberia. Here it is very cold, we have knee-deep snow, and all around is the endless taiga. All day from morning to evening, we fell trees. The work is very heavy, but there’s nothing for it – we can’t escape our fate. But for the sake of seeing you I will endure it all and survive…’

           

Gyuli read each word avidly, trying to extract all the meaning. When she reached the end her shoulders shook with sobbing. She held the letter to her breast. Now old Hadzhyar and the girls came in. Seeing Gyuli with the letter, she asked with concern: ‘Daughter, it looks as if you’ve had bad news?’

           

Gyuli responded almost inaudibly: ‘I’ve had a letter from Tair.’ She burst into tears again.

           

‘Mama, when will Papa come home?’ asked Selimyam impatiently.

           

Gyuli started to read the letter again, out loud. When she finished, the old woman said gently: ‘Well, that’s good. Tair’s alive and is working with the others. This is a trial – we must be patient. And let’s look forward to celebrations in our street.’

           

Six months had now passed since Tair’s arrest. One day Gyuli became agitated, without knowing why, as though sensing trouble. She could not concentrate on anything.       Later that day, after the cow had come home from pasture and they had lit the lamp in the house, there was a loud knock on the door. Two men in uniform entered. One of them asked in a steely tone of voice: ‘Would you be the wife of Tair Husainov?’

           

Gyuli’s arms and legs were shaking. ‘Yes, I am,’ she whispered, for some reason with a sense of guilt.

           

One of the officers held a document out in front of him and began to read loudly: ‘The family of an enemy of the people is not permitted to live in a border zone. You are required to relocate within a period of twenty-four hours or you will be arrested.’ When he finished reading he handed the paper to Gyuli.

           

‘Get yourselves ready. A truck will come by tomorrow. It will take yourselves and two other families from this village to Chilik.’

           

‘Where am I supposed to go with three small children? What am I guilty of?’ Shaken, Gyuli shifted her gaze from the officers to Hadzhyar. The old woman waited for the two strangers to leave, then began tearfully to curse everybody and everything. But Gyuli’s eyes were dry. ‘Hadzhyar, I hope they won’t keep us in Chilik for long. Meanwhile, you can live here in my house. My sister’s boys live nearby and will help you. But I’ve got to leave.’ She started to gather items of clothing.

Sobbing, the old woman began to help Gyuli. Soon afterwards Maysimyam appeared, having heard the appalling news. She brought a few items of food. Clasping her sister to her, Maysimyam began to sob. Still Gyuli did not shed a single tear.

‘Don’t cry, sister, I’m not going alone. There are three families going from here.’

Hearing of the latest misfortune, Gyuli’s friends also called in Mervanam and Dzhelil, Adil and Mariyam and Kudryat and Zaynaphan. Again Gyuli did not weep in front of them.

           

‘The others going with you are the families of the bosses who were arrested in December. They are also ‘enemies of the people,’’ said Adil.

           

‘What are these times that have befallen us? It’s all very well if Party workers and bosses are guilty, but what’s that got to do with ordinary villagers? All we know about is how to use a ketmen to dig ditches. It makes your heart bleed!’ cried Kudryat angrily.

           

When her friends heard that Gyuli had had a letter from Tair, they began asking her about it. All but breaking down in tears, she told them what he had written.

           

‘But there must be better times on the way. Sooner or later we’ve got to be able to laugh and sing again. But for now it’s a matter of fighting for our lives,’ sighed Adil.

‘Gyuli, nobody will make you happy where you’re going,’ added Kudryat. ‘We hope you are able to find work, bring up the children and one day can come back home.’

           

The women friends simply sat and wept.

           

Eventually Gyuli’s friends bade their farewells, left food for her and went home. Maysimyam kissed her, her daughters and Yadikar repeatedly. She left in tears.

Next morning as the sun rose, three families – twelve children and four women – were loaded into the back of a truck and driven away to Chilik. Not a single person came to see them off.

* * *

I said nothing. The roar of the aircraft filled my ears. Ruth, who had been listening to me with her eyes half open, now seemed to come to life. Straightening herself up in her seat, she sighed. ‘But what are those children guilty of? They’re innocent victims of a policy.’

           

The flight attendant came to our seats to see whether we needed anything. But we were still deeply immersed in that distant time. I recollected the years past, and Ruth tried to comprehend the pain and terror felt by these people whom she did not know.

           

After a pause, I looked questioningly at Ruth.

           

‘Yes, please,’ she nodded. ‘I’d like to hear what happened next.’

Ссылка на краткометражный фильм по мотивам книги "Завещание Матери"

Revelation

По книге Дурнам Машуровой: "Завещание матери"
Directed by: Eldar Nassyrov
Cameraman: Eduard Bekbayev

Mother's Testament: 2 A Springtime Farewell

It was the month of May. In our village the apple and apricot trees were blossoming and the air was heady with sweet scents. Fed by the spring rains, the grass had grown high and was bright green. One night I was awoken by a storm; peals of thunder and violent flashes of lightning, followed by a torrential downpour. No sooner had this died down a little than the telephone rang. My heart began to pound with unease. I lifted the receiver to my ear and heard the words: ‘Mehriban, Gyuli-ana[1] has died.’ This fateful news arrived with the dawn: the clock said half past five, but I knew I would be unable to go back to sleep. I went over to the window and pressed my forehead to the cold glass. The news had shaken me. Death, of course, comes to us all sooner or later, but I had hoped that old Gyuli-ana would be able to overcome her illness one more time. But why was I still standing here thinking? I had to go and help relieve the suffering of my relatives.

           

I dressed quickly and went out into the street. The houses and gardens had been washed clean by the rain and everything seemed to breathe freshness. Yet this only made it harder for me, and my chest ached from my sense of loss.

           

People were already crowding along the street to Gyuli’s house. The elders were sitting in the yard on long benches. The sounds of weeping and keening made my shoulders sink even lower. Her son Yadikar was unable to contain his sobbing: ‘Oh Mama, you looked after us; you gave to us all your life! Why did you leave us so soon, Mama? Forgive me, Mama!’ The grandchildren, who like their father were wearing white bands around their waists, also keened: ‘Moma, our own dearest grandmother, you were solid gold! And now you’ve gone away and left us.’

           

Nor did the neighbours standing around them hold back their tears. And since Gyuli-ana had been known and respected far beyond the boundaries of the village, the street and the yard were soon full of people. Death forces us to feel our frailty and dependency, and when somebody departs this world forever, we try to be closer to one another.

           

I went inside, to the inner room where the women were sitting. Their heads were covered with white mourners’ shawls. Scarcely had we greeted each other before my two cousins, Selimyam and Saniyam, came over to me. We hugged each other and wept together. One after another we lamented: ‘Oh, mother! How much you laboured, all your life long! In the heat and the cold, in the garden and in the house! You raised us, you nurtured us, then you were nanny to our own children. You really loved life! But now you’ll never see your grandchildren marry! You cannot now rejoice in the good life, our beloved ana, our priceless, irreplaceable mother!’

           

Appak-ana, the wife of the village imam, sitting on a korpya in the centre of the room, said: ‘My children, stop weeping now and pull yourselves together. Nobody in this world lives for ever. We will all leave by the same road. Allah said, and may it be so, that the child will lament its mother, but not the other way round. May heaven protect us from the grief of a mother who weeps for her child!’

           

Soon more relatives arrived from the nearby village of Pidzhim. Our neighbours, my sisters and their woman friends resumed their keening and sobbing. May their crying reach heaven, may it help the soul of the departed to find the straight path to the Most High God!

           

Then came an announcement. ‘Quiet please, everybody. They are now ready at the cemetery. Who will go in and wash the body of the deceased?’ At this the crying stopped.

           

Selimyam spoke up: ‘Mama’s wish was that her friends Mervan, Mariyam and Zaynap would wash her for the last time. And let Sepiyam-hada bring and pour the water.’

           

The women mentioned went out into the yard and began by performing an ablution as if before the ritual prayer. Next they went into a separate room and sewed a garment for the deceased out of white material. Once this was completed, the oldest of them, Mervan-hada, wrapped everything they had prepared in white cloth. ‘Good,’ she said, ‘now let’s go in and say Bismillah, then wash our friend’s body and comb her hair before she is laid to rest. We’ll give her the best of farewells,’ she said and went into the room where Gyuli had been laid.

           

They fetched two buckets of water and a kapak-chumush for pouring it. Once they had washed the body they dressed it in a shirt, tidied the hair and wrapped the body in the white cloth. Now the children, relatives and close friends came to pay their respects. Gyuli had changed: her eye sockets had grown deeper, all her features had become sharper – and her face suddenly seemed small.

           

Whispering our farewell, ‘Mother, may your resting place be paradise,’ we quietly went outside.

           

The men gently lifted the shrouded body, carried it out to the yard and placed it on a covered stretcher. A prayer was recited, then the men carried Gyuli off to the cemetery. The sound of keening grew stronger as they went. The women accompanied the procession as far as the cemetery gates, then washed their hands and returned to the house. I looked over the rooms with their subdued occupants and felt a lump in my chest. Another wave of crying and ritual lamentation broke over us. As is our custom, the eldest daughter Selimyam then stood up and asked:

           

‘My dear friends and relatives, tell us, what kind of person was my mother?’

           

Mervan-ana replied: ‘Gyuli was a good woman. She never hurt anybody; she was gentle, unassuming and hard-working. Everyone in the village respected her highly. When I think of how much we went through together…!’ The old woman broke into sobs.

           

And it was true. Gyuli-ana was one of the oldest among us. Today the number of old-timers left in the village can be counted on one hand, like precious beans in a thin soup.

           

Now Zaynap-ana spoke up. ‘Selimyam, child, that’s enough crying. Calm yourself. Let’s choose who will take care of the kazan and who will stay in this house for the next seven days to care for the family.’ She pulled her shawl a little tighter.

           

‘Dzhanyam and Halidam, my mother loved and respected you very much,’ Selimyam addressed her neighbours, ‘would you be willing to work at the kazan for seven days?’

           

‘Of course, we will be happy to fulfil your mother’s wishes.’ The two women rolled up their sleeves and went over to the hearth straight away.

           

Old Zaynaphan, stroking her aching knees, added: ‘And I will make zhit for the seven days.’

           

Selimyam turned to the others. ‘Dear friends of my mother, relatives and elders of our community, please stay with us, any of you who can, for this period of seven days.’

           

Sighing, the younger women, neighbours, reluctantly declined, unable as they were to leave their work, their homes and their animals for a whole week. Many of the older people were also distressed that they could not stay – but how could they neglect their grandchildren, whom they looked after every day? Free time is precious nowadays.

           

Now Dzhanyam entered the room holding a tray piled high with freshly-baked nan from the tono oven. She went up to each woman in turn and said: ‘Take some of this nan, it has been held over the head of our deceased mother.’ Each took half of one of the flatbreads, and when they had all sat down, Halidam came in. She also had a tray, on which was a quantity of tea wrapped in newspaper together with some needles and thread. Going up to the older women, Halidam said to each: ‘Take a handful of tea, a needle and some thread.’ They did so, and then she addressed the younger women: ‘And you take some as well, and tomorrow, when you do your namaz, remember our Gyuli-ana.’ Each of the women took a handful of tea and a needle and thread and wrapped them, together with the piece of nan, in their shawl.

           

‘Why do they give out nan and tea after someone has died?’ a young woman asked the elderly Zaynaphan.

           

‘If a neighbour borrows bread, tea or a needle and thread and does not manage to return them while she is alive, then on the day after her death her relatives give out all three, to ensure that the soul of the deceased is free of debts,’ she replied. ‘This is an ancient custom of ours, daughter.’

           

Noticing that some of the older women were preparing to leave, Selimyam stood up and said in a trembling voice: ‘My dear ones, thank you, all of you, very much for coming to pay your respects to my ana.’

           

Appak-ana, filled with compassion, responded: ‘You are all deserving children. You buried your mother beautifully. Those of you who remain, I wish you the best of health. Let me say a prayer.’ All the women sitting in the room lifted up their hands and passed their palms over their faces. After the prayer, Appak-ana continued: ‘Selimyam, I’m not feeling too well. Allow me to go home. But on the seventh day I will come back and pray with you all again.’ The old woman got up to leave.

           

Since our tradition forbids any close relative of the deceased to leave the house, Selimyam-hada asked one of the young girls to go with Appak-ana and put her in a taxi home.

           

Old Zaynaphan stood up, took the jug for ablution and went out into the garden. Then, going into the chayhana, she filled a large bowl with flour, took a tea bowl and placed a little salt in it, dissolved the salt in some cold water and poured this onto the flour, then began kneading the mixture into dough for zhit. Nine-year-old Guncham, watching every movement of the old woman, asked her: ‘Moma, why are you making zhit?’

           

‘These breads will be fried in oil while we remember and pray for the person who has died.’

           

‘Moma, let me help you.’

           

‘No, daughter, it’s better for you just to watch. One day you will have to make zhit yourself.’

           

While Zaynaphan-ana was frying the thin bread, Mervanam-ana went out into the yard and gave instructions to two younger women. ‘Daughters, would you place a table in one of the rooms for when the men come back, and put a tablecloth on it. As soon as Zaynaphan finishes making the zhit, she’ll come and put them and the other food out on the table.’

           

By now, it was hot in the house. The woman beside me, Pashahan, and I went out into the yard. I looked at the house whose owner had for many years been Gyuli-ana. On one side of it was a canopy up which a vine now crept, with new shoots appearing in tender green. On the other side of the house stood the chayhana, decorated with a carved floral pattern. On a high shelf in a corner of the chayhana were two kazans that had been scrubbed up until they shone. Not for nothing did the villagers say that Yadikar had golden hands. His yard was tidy and attractive. Around the chayhana Gyuli-ana had planted rose bushes whose swelling buds now glittered with dew. For the whole of the summer to come, the yard would be pervaded by the fragrance of roses – Gyuli’s final farewell. Gyuli used to work incessantly – but she and her children had it no worse than others, and her children grew up to be hard-working and honest.

           

There was a creak as the gate opened and the men returned from the cemetery. Yadikar was in front; he looked as though he had aged. He stopped in front of the entrance to the house and lamented: ‘So I have entrusted my ana to Allah. Without you this yard is bereft, my dear mother, my source of joy and wisdom…’

           

To Yadikar’s lament was added the voices of his sisters. The women came out; once more the yard was filled with weeping, and not even the men could hold back their tears. For all of us, after all, our mother is the dearest and most irreplaceable person. A mother is ready to suffer anything for the sake of her children, yet does not show her suffering or complain about her hardship. And so when their mother departs this world, the grief of the children is great.

           

The weeping died down in due course and the men were invited to the room prepared for them. The zhit was consecrated with a prayer recited from the Qur’an and everybody prayed for Gyuli-ana. They drank their tea in silence.

           

When they had finished drinking tea, Yadikar addressed the mullah: ‘Mullah, father, would you please pray for our mother.’

           

‘Very well, son, I will do as you ask. I will say prayers for forty days,’ he replied.

           

After the closing grace everybody got up from the table and began to say goodbye to one another and to disperse. The friends, in-laws and close neighbours appointed to rememorate Gyuli-ana for seven days stayed behind in the house. We talked softly, sometimes reducing our voices to a whisper. At times of sadness the familiar world can seem quite different: the eyes see more sharply, and feelings are felt more keenly. In the evening, when it was time for the meal, Dzhanyam and Halidam brought long low tables into the room and announced: ‘The daughters-in-law of Mervanam-ana have brought you suyuk ash.’

           

The daughters-in-law, Pashahan and Memanhan, served the soup into bowls and placed one of these in front of each woman, then broke a large nan into pieces that had been baked in the tono and placed it on the table. The men meanwhile assembled in the chayhana. They were also each given a bowl of suyuk ash. After the meal, aktyan-chay was served. As they drank their tea they conversed at leisure. Afterwards the women silently cleared the dishes from the tables.

           

After their tea the most respected of the women, who were sitting in the places of honour, took turns to invite one another to lead prayers, as was part of the memorial ceremony.

           

At last Maryam-ana turned to Pashahan and Memanhan and said: ‘Daughters, may your hands never be tainted! You have given us such delicious food! Thank you,’ and raised her hands for prayer.

           

According to Uighur custom, when a person dies at home, their relatives do not prepare or serve any food or drink; instead, this is brought in by friends and neighbours. This goes on for seven days. The two women chosen to work at the kazan prepare the food, wash the dishes and perform the other kitchen tasks for that week. The same women also serve the food to the others who have elected to stay for the seven days of remembrance. As the close of the seventh day approaches, the people who washed the body are presented with the best clothes of the deceased as a token of thanks, while the neighbours who served in the kitchen are each given a blanket or korpya, a block of soap, plus tablecloths, spoons and a large bowl filled with rice. Significant events always become covered over with small, commonplace happenings, and these help to heal the wound of loss. Life goes on and takes us forward with it.

* * *

It is customary in Uighur villages that money will have been collected from each household at some past time and a large kazan purchased, along with two hundred trays, spoons, plates and bowls, plus tablecloths and benches. These items are then used for nazyrs, weddings and other communal events. At the end of each occasion they are washed, put away and stored ready for the next.

           

Before we knew it, it was time to prepare for the seventh-day nazyr, the wake for Gyuli-ana. On the appointed morning, people brought tables and benches into Yadikar’s yard, where they were arranged under the vine canopy in two rows. Cloths were spread on the tables. On one side of the yard men were butchering meat, while on the other side, women peeled carrots. These people included relatives, neighbours and friends. Dzhanyam and Halidam, aided by other women, baked ten batches of nan in the tono and arranged them on the tables. The sight of these people, who had put aside their own affairs to support the family that had been afflicted by grief, was heart-warming. But ordinary people are like this – friendly and responsive to need.

           

Two days earlier, Yadikar had gone to visit Nizamdun, a cook well known in the village who was always ready to help, be it for a wedding or a wake.

           

‘Aka, can you please prepare a special plov in honour of my deceased mother? Tomorrow we will kill a large bullock – do come and see. If we need extra we will also slaughter a sheep.’

           

‘Don’t worry, brother, I will come and check everything,’ the cook answered.

           

The day before the nazyr Nizamdun came to boil the meat of the bullock. He inspected the sliced carrot and estimated the quantity. He took a handful of rice, examined it and let pour back into the sack. Only after this did he sit down with the others to drink a bowl of broth.

           

And now the day of the nazyr had arrived. From early morning Nizamdun had set to preparing the plov in two large kazans. By his calculation, each person would require roughly a hundred grams of rice, fifty grams of meat, eighty grams of carrot, thirty grams of oil, thirty grams of onion and various seasonings. Normally, before starting to cook the plov, Nizamdun heats the oil to a high temperature and fries the meat together with the onion and carrot. He examines the type of rice, estimates the amount of water required and brings this to the boil in a separate kazan. While it is heating up he washes the rice carefully in warm water. Finally he places the rice on top of the fried meat and vegetables and pours in the boiling water. It is a perfectly ordinary recipe, but Nizamdun’s plovs are nevertheless particularly delicious; the guests eat it with relish and compliment the cook.

           

By midday more than three hundred men had gathered in the yard. After washing their hands, they took their places. The mullah said a prayer and blessed the zhit. Women poured tea for them and then began to serve the steaming plov. The men ate unhurriedly, in serious mood, talking quietly among themselves. The day was calm and sunny.

           

Towards two o’clock the men began to disperse. It was the turn of the women. After they had washed their hands, the oldest women went into the house, while the younger women sat down under the canopy. Once again they were first given bowls of sin chay, then, once this was complete, the appetising, fragrant plov was served on deep plates called tavak. The serving of women was followed immediately by milky aktyan-chay.

           

By this time sunset was approaching. The memorial meal was over and the crockery was cleared from the tables. They gave thanks. Yadikar’s wife Hushnyam, and his sisters Selimyam and Sepiyam, brought four bundles of clothes into the room and placed them in front of Mervan-ana, Zaynaphan-ana and Maryam-ana, who had washed the body of the deceased, and Sepiyam-ana, who had poured the water. Once again the daughters wept a little, then said to the four helpers: ‘Please accept these things of our mother and do not be offended if anything isn’t quite right.’

           

Hushnyam then turned to Dzhanyam and Halidam. ‘Dear neighbours, you’ve worked so hard in the kitchen all these seven days. Thank you.’ Selimyam and Saniyam now put in front of them everything that they had prepared.

The two women declined, however. ‘No, no, what are you doing? We are close neighbours, almost relatives, you could say. And we helped you out of respect for your mother.’

           

Appak-ana, sitting in the place of honour in the centre, said: ‘Selimyam and Saniyam, you took good care of Gyuli, you kept an eye on her and took her to the doctors. But there is nothing for it – her days on this earth have ended. There is a day and an hour appointed for all of us. Yadikar is a deserving son and he buried his mother very well. May the place where Gyuli lay down be soft and may her soul be at rest. Good health to you all! And never let your mother’s light, the light of your family, ever go dim.’ After saying these words Appak-ana raised her hands to lead a prayer, and the others followed her movements, bringing their palms towards their faces.

           

Afterwards, Zaynaphan-ana spoke. ‘Dzhanyam and Halidam! May you have long lives! Thank you, dear neighbours, for everything. We will pray for your wellbeing.’

           

All the women raised their hands to their faces.

           

The seventh-day nazyr for the deceased Gyuli-ana was now over, and the relatives departed. The neighbours took Selimyam and Saniyam back to their homes. Hushnyam and her daughters began the cleaning up. Once everything was tidy, Yadikar went into his mother’s room. Looking at the empty bed, he felt a wrench in his heart and once again he began sobbing violently.

His own young son Tairzhan came up to him, looked at his grandmother’s bed and asked: ‘Papa, why did moma die? Her friends also got ill, but then they got better again. Why didn’t my grandma get better?’ He collapsed on the bed and cried.

Yadikar was at a loss as to how to answer his six-year-old boy. He stroked his head, wiped away his tears and said: ‘Don’t cry, your moma didn’t like it when you cry. I’ll take you to her tomorrow.’

The child looked up at his father. ‘I loved sleeping next to her so much, she used to tell me all kinds of stories. Who’s going to tell me stories now?’ He hugged his father.

‘Your moma is in heaven and she’s watching us. If you want to make her happy, be a good dzhigit and remember what she told you.’

Next day, as promised, Yadikar took his wife, little Tairzhan and his daughters Unchyam and Guncham to the cemetery. Unchyam made a bouquet of her grandmother’s favourite peonies and placed it in a jar of water. The cemetery was situated in a hollow below the mountain. The family walked up to the mound over the grave and stopped. Yadikar squatted down and said a prayer. They all whispered ‘Amen’ and passed their hands over their faces. Unchyam placed her bouquet of peonies on the grave.

Tairzhan had never been in a cemetery before. He walked about the mound that had been built over his grandmother’s grave. He could not have imagined the amount of suffering and grief that had been her portion before she was laid out in the dark earth.

* * *

When I had finished my tale, I added: ‘So where can children learn about grandmothers and mothers like Gyuli-ana, except from books? This is why I have written my book.’

           

Ruth nodded agreement. The aircraft was droning along, trying to catch up with the sunset, but the wing was already bathed in pink light.

           

I looked at Ruth. ‘I don’t know how much you know about what happened to us in the 1930s. The truth was covered up for decades. Almost all of our history from that time is a blank. So I had to rely on eyewitnesses for many events from that period. They remembered how some men were labelled as ‘enemies of the people’ and thrown into prison or tortured. Their wives and mothers, left at home with the children, had no easier a time; they were often forcibly relocated to unfamiliar places. The mothers held themselves together heroically for the sake of their children. Each of them, down to the last, hoped that their menfolk would come home. So what happened in our village is what happened all over the country.’

           

‘And what is the name of your village?’ Ruth asked curiously.

           

‘It’s called Bolshoy Chigan. It’s divided into two parts, the upper village and the lower village, by the Great Silk Road. There used not to be more than fifty families there, but it has gradually grown. And what used to be clay adobe huts have been replaced now with modern, good-quality houses. People have a better life there today. Before we had only an outdated primary school, but now we can boast a ten-year combined school on three floors. Its classrooms are bright and it has a sports hall and an assembly hall. The streets have proper asphalt and there are flowers everywhere. The one thing that hasn’t changed here is the ability of its inhabitants to work hard. They labour on the land, which they love and understand. But I want them also to know and understand our history there. That’s why the heroine of the book is Gyuli-ana, one of the women from the village.’

             

‘So was it her death that stimulated you to start writing?’

           

‘It wasn’t just that. It was also that for many years nobody could write or speak about the repressions. Only decades later were the archive documents declassified and the truth became known. The times had changed. So I decided to portray the suffering of thousands of people through the lives of an ordinary Uighur family.’

           

‘So, will you now tell me the very start of your story?’ Ruth declined the tray of drinks proffered by the stewardess, while I took a glass of water.

           

‘If you aren’t tired yet,’ I smiled at my travelling companion, ‘then I’ll start at the beginning.’

---

[1] For explanations of italicised words – mostly Uighur expressions – see the glossary at the end of the book.

Mother's Testament: 1 The Travelling Companion

‘Would you like something to drink, ma’am?’ asked the stewardess. I glanced at the tray of drinks and chose an orange juice. As I did so the crew asked us to fasten our seat-belts. A minute later the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker system: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to welcome you on board this KLM flight number 0410 from Almaty to Amsterdam. The scheduled flight time is seven hours and twenty minutes. Our arrival time in Amsterdam will be 10:40 local time. The captain and crew would like to wish you a pleasant flight.’ 

I always become a little agitated as I wait for the moment when the undercarriage lifts from the ground and the aircraft sails softly up into the ocean of the sky. Its wings will bear me from one continent to another over the course of many hours. I looked around and noted that not all the seats in the first-class cabin were occupied. Once we were airborne, the smiling stewardess offered me drinks once more. 

‘No, thank you, I’m a little tired, I think I’ll sleep for a while,’ I replied. I let my seat back and settled into it comfortably. On the screen in front of me the KLM airline logo was proudly displayed: a white swan soaring upward from water. Today this white swan would bear me to Amsterdam and then to America. I was on my way to meet my readers. My childhood dream of becoming a writer had come true, and the ugly duckling from some obscure village was now spreading its wings. But surely this must be a fairy tale? Even today I find it hard to believe. 

Beneath us, dazzling white clouds drifted in a limitless blue sky. Enchanted at this sight, I began to doze. When I opened my eyes again, I noticed a woman sitting in the seat next to me. Grey-haired, wearing a sporty white outfit, she turned to me. ‘Hello. How are you?’ she said, smiling. 

‘Very well, thank you,’ I replied. 

When I meet somebody, I always study their appearance. In my neighbor's eyes were signs of sadness. Judging by the deep wrinkles on her face she must have been over sixty. 

‘Where are you going?’ she asked. 

‘I’m going to Los Angeles.’ 

‘That’s where I’m going too.’ 

‘There should be a girl waiting for me at the airport called Danielle. Then she and I will fly to Chicago together.’ 

‘So are you travelling on business or are you visiting?’ 

‘I’m going to appear on Oprah Winfrey’s TV show.’ 

‘Wow!’ A smile broke out on my companion’s face. ‘That’s impressive. Oprah is hugely popular in America.’ 

‘I've been wanting to meet her since 2001. And now, at last, I will.’ 

‘How amazing! What will your show be about?’ 

‘Oprah read my book about the lives of Uighur women and got very interested in the subject.’ 

‘So you’re a writer?’ The grey-haired stranger gave me a look of respect. 

‘Better to say a beginning author,’ I grinned. ‘I write about what I've seen and what I've experienced. My book consists of tales about people I've known. They have interesting and sometimes tragic lives.’ 

'You've got me interested. Would you care to tell me about these people, about the Uighur?’ 

‘It’s a long story,’ I warned her. 

‘Well, we've got more than twenty hours ahead of us. That’s time enough. But first, let’s introduce ourselves. I’m Ruth.’ 

‘And my name is Mehriban.’ 

 I looked out of the window and thought for a moment. Where should I start?