A Carpet Ride to Khiva: Seven Years on the Silk Road

by Christopher Aslan Alexander

  The weavers filed in, loom by loom, to receive their wages. Outside, they fanned their bundles of notes at those still waiting, laughing, joking and keen to hit the bazaar as soon as possible. The dyers swaggered in like khans, ignoring heckling from the weavers, and strutted out waving their wages in the air to mock applause. The actual wage was pitiful, but for many in the workshop it was the first time they had ever received such a thing, and they were relishing every moment. I hoped that we could increase these basic apprentice wages to something more substantial once we began selling carpets.

  I wasn’t being paid a penny to run the workshop, but I received more than enough payment watching the younger weavers discuss what gifts they would buy family members, or seeing women like Sanajan the widow quietly fold her bundle of notes into her bra, knowing that she would be putting food on the table for her children.

  After our first wage day there was a deluge of women wanting to work with us. We started a list on a first-come, first-served basis, undeterred by applicants who attempted sobbing or seduction in order to jump the queue. The weavers, feeling flush, bought enough material to make into a kind of uniform, returning with reams of black polyester fabric covered in large neon-green and yellow bow motifs. Wasn’t this the most beautiful fabric? I was asked, lying in reply.

  Shirin invited everyone to her house for her birthday and we enjoyed the first of many social gatherings outside the workshop. Friendships were forming, along with a corporate sense of identity. I was limited in how much time I could spend, as a man, with the weavers. Most were deferential, at least at the beginning, although there were some definite exceptions. Dark Nazokat was one of them. A continual source of worry to her mother, her dark skin colour reduced her chances of ever finding a husband, further dampened by her loud, boisterous character. She was usually at the centre of workshop gossip or scandal and developed a worrying crush on Madrim, who dreaded every encounter with her.

  ‘The darkness of the heart shows itself in the skin,’ tutted one of the older weavers, quoting an Uzbek proverb, as Nazokat began a slanging match with Toychi the dyer, with whom she either flirted or sparred.

  I spent more time with the weaving ustas and, as we worked together, Ulugbibi liked to complain about her mother-in-law, who kept a tight rein on her. Ulugbibi herself was a striking woman and had been quite a head-turner in her youth – promptly married off to keep her out of trouble. She lived with her husband, his mother and her two sisters-in-law who had never married and enjoyed picking on her. Ulugbibi longed to move out, but her husband struggled to find work and they couldn’t afford their own place. I asked her if she loved her husband, which she considered a strange question and one to which she hadn’t given much thought. Safargul the usta was in a similar predicament as the main breadwinner in their house. Her husband, according to Madrim, was a good-for-nothing. Safargul was careful to keep her earnings away from him, knowing how quickly they could be turned into a wild bout of drinking or frittered away on ‘bad girls’.

  * * *

  Although women were undoubtedly second-class citizens in Khiva, their lot had improved dramatically. In fact, the impact of Communism on women’s rights all over Central Asia was nothing short of revolutionary. Previously they had been veiled, largely house-bound and the property of their husbands – who could divorce them by merely repeating ‘I divorce thee’ three times. Suddenly they were presented with a bewildering level of status. Under Soviet law, women could divorce their husbands and gain employment, and were provided with unlimited access to birth control and abortion.

  As the Bolsheviks gained control over Turkestan (later carved up into the current –stans) in the early 1920s, they called on women to emancipate themselves, to throw off the veil and discard domestic servitude for equal rights as factory workers.

  Gustav Krist, an Austrian POW interned in Turkestan during the First World War, escaped to Persia but returned in the mid-1920s to witness the transformation taking place under the Communist regime. Previously veiled women now wore Soviet skirts and jackets. He met a young proletariat leader of one village who had, a few years previously, been an illiterate slave, third wife to a rice merchant. Now she was the most powerful person in the village, learning how to read and to speak Russian.

  Schools of ballet were set up to better the toiling masses, and Uzbek girls, previously scolded for exposing too much wrist, now paraded on stage in tights and tutus. Liberated bare-faced Uzbek women braved the old city in Tashkent, going from house to house and preaching emancipation. The first batch had their throats promptly slit and their successors were provided with revolvers. Mass veil-burnings were conducted in public squares, the air acrid with the smell of burning horse-hair. The scratchy black horse-hair veil was worn under the paranja – a long cape with extended ornamental sleeves, sewn together at the wrist like handcuffs to symbolise that this wearer was the property of her husband. The veil could be flicked back, exposing the face and allowing free conversation with other women, then flipped over again if men passed by. They were stifling in summer, made breathing difficult, and with regular use left scabs on the nose and chin where the rough horse-hair continually rubbed. The overall effect was best described by a Swiss traveller to Central Asia in the 1930s, Ella Maillart, who referred to passing women veiled in this way as walking upright coffins.

  In order to liberate women, not only from the veil but from motherhood, huge crèches were set up in the factories. Neat rows of beshiks were rocked by nurses, their contents tightly swaddled inside. Most Uzbek babies spent the first year of their life strapped tightly into one of these cradles, which flattened the back of their skull. They proved essential in traditional families, in which women produced large numbers of children and were unable to watch over them all at once. Dummies dipped in sugar and opium kept babies happy and quiet, their mothers lifting a breast over the rocking wooden structure to feed.

  The beshiks were designed to keep mess to a minimum, each floored with a mattress with a hole strategically positioned halfway down to collect piped urine. Strings of cloves and chilli peppers adorned each beshik, bread and a knife were placed under the mattress, and triangular amulets stuffed with Koranic verses hung from the wooden rocking handle that ran the length of the cradle. These were all achik, and kept the evil eye at bay. European cradles were introduced in the Soviet factories but met with stiff opposition from the workers and were soon replaced with beshiks. These were, after all, a practical way of caring for large numbers of infants, and the time-honoured tradition of dipping dummies in sugar and opium also proved popular with Soviet nurses, quietening the unhappiest of squalls.

  Another Soviet concession regarded the use of isfan. This dried yellow plant – the equivalent of garlic in medieval Europe – was said to cleanse the air of evil spirits, particularly those causing disease. Anyone taking to their bed with flu needed nothing more than a thorough smoking – a pan of acrid isfan smoke wafted around them. The Soviets, attempting to ban such superstitious nonsense, soon realised the futility of this and instead secularised the practice. Soviet doctors declared that isfan rid the air of microbes. Even today, each time there’s a flu epidemic, school nurses wander the classrooms in their white coats and surgical masks, smoking each child with a belching pan of isfan.

  * * *

  Despite gains for women made under Communism, traditional values remained strong, as I witnessed during my seven years in Uzbekistan. In the Khorezm oasis women had a particularly hard time, as brides were sold for a hefty bride-price – the groom’s family then expecting value for money.

  Grooms were expected to provide a chest full of new dresses, a set of corpuches and heavy gold-hooped earrings. Most families, struggling to make ends meet, could hardly afford this or the huge quantities of food and vodka consumed by hundreds of wedding guests.

  Weddings took an entire day, beginning with a tour of the Ichan Kala’s holy sites for the bri
dal couple and their friends. A madrassah converted into a wonderfully kitsch confection of plasterwork, zodiac signs, stained-glass windows of bride and groom, and even a stork with a baby-sized parcel in its beak, made for the ‘house of happiness’ where a register was signed and the couple were legally married.

  The wedding party, enjoying the absence of older relatives, then raced in their cars to one of the war memorials where they would lay flowers in a nod to Soviet tradition – the cars festooned with ribbons and balloons and LOVE written in English on the back window. The groom’s car sported a large tiger or teddy-bear strapped to the front, while the bride’s had a plastic doll attached to its bonnet, the driver speeding to make her skirts fly up.

  The groom retired to a friend’s house with his mates for a feast, while the bride returned home to begin her farewells. Old grandmothers sang ‘Kelin, don’t cry’ as the young girl wept, knowing that she was no longer a member of this household. She was torn from her parents and driven to the groom’s house, her parents remaining alone and taking no further part in the celebrations, for they had just lost their daughter. The young girl, shrouded in a blanket, had to bow low before each of her in-laws. She was beginning her new life as a kelin – meaning literally ‘come in’ – and taking her place at the bottom of the family food-chain.

  The kelin’s female relatives took her to the bedroom she would share with her new husband and covered her in a silk blanket, standing guard outside the door. The groom, returning with his mates, had to fight his way into the room, offering gifts on the way, before picking up the bride and throwing her onto the bed. His robe, hat, shoes and belt were removed and everyone watched as he joined her in bed – grannies laying charms around and under it as a baby boy was passed through the sheets in hope of a first-born son.

  As the day drew to a close, the wedding feast began. Plastic chairs and tables were set up outside the groom’s house and lighting was rigged. A large factory-made carpet hung as a backdrop, the names of the couple written on it in cotton-wool. Live music blasted, distorted, through speakers and made conversation almost impossible; for there should be no distraction from the main entertainment provided by the professional dancer. Dancers were usually considered ‘bad girls’ and were often available for other services after the celebration. Men leered as the dancer swayed her voluptuous hips – her plump figure almost bursting out of a sequinned costume, tiny braids flying as she spun.

  It was the dancer’s job to collect money from the male relatives, who were expected to finance the musicians. She danced up to their table and one by one they staggered drunkenly to their feet, bank notes in hand, offering a token few. These were glanced at disparagingly, and with a toss of her head and shimmy of her shoulders, the dancer looked enquiringly for more. This continued until the dancer was satisfied with the sum or the drunk relative stuffed it down her bra and stalked off.

  A few times I had been called upon to present money in this fashion, and – hoping for more lucrative business after the wedding – the dancers exceeded themselves in flirtation. Despite the hoots of laughter my embarrassment produced, this was still preferable to making speeches. I rarely escaped without a microphone being thrust into my face by the roving master of ceremonies, with demands that ‘our guest from afar’ say a few words. My first speech had been a rough translation of what I might have said in English and was a complete disaster. It was far too short, lacking in superlatives, and with no deluge of extravagant wishes.

  People I scarcely knew invited me to their weddings, hoping the exotic garnishing of a foreign guest would improve their status within the community. I avoided these if possible, but always enjoyed workshop weddings. The entire group was usually invited, and the uninhibited weavers could be relied on to get the dancing started. I enjoyed the astonishment produced when, as a foreigner, I danced the traditional lazgi. I learnt to make better speeches, parroting the same formulaic blessings as everyone else. Toychi the dyer disgraced himself, getting violently drunk on numerous occasions and trying to start fights with the groom’s relatives. Each time he would appear hungover and penitent the next day, vowing never to touch another drop.

  My most memorable wedding was Shoira’s. She was a small, pale orphan who lived with her brother and his wife who mistreated her. Quiet, and self-conscious about her speech impediment, she was both damaged and vulnerable. She wasn’t a particularly good weaver, although she improved dramatically under Fatima-the-twin’s tyranny. Once she tried to kill herself, drinking a bottle of powerful vinegar but thankfully vomiting. Her throat was damaged and she was unable to speak or eat solids for two weeks.

  As an orphan from a poor family, unable to defend herself, she was picked on at first by one or two of the weavers who were swiftly castigated by the others. They became quite protective of her, knowing the beatings and other hardships she endured at home. One day Shoira entered the workshop, eyes shining, and invited us all to her wedding. She was marrying a poor village boy but that didn’t matter, because he had told her that he liked her and no one had ever said that to her before.

  She looked stunning at the wedding, wearing a particularly lavish wedding dress. It was only afterwards that I heard the story behind this. Her in-laws, happy with their bargain bride, had presented her with a stained and dirty old wedding dress to wear for the occasion. Devastated, she’d wept with shame until the outraged weavers had taken the matter in hand. They pooled their wages and presented her with a brand-new outfit. Speechless with gratitude, she wore the dress with pride. At that moment our workshop became more than just a collection of weavers and dyers; we became family.

  * * *

  I had attended enough weddings to know that the bride and groom weren’t expected to look happy. Both were unused to all the attention and still tired from the preceding days of preparation. The couples, usually in their late teens or early twenties, often felt awkward with each other, having met only a few times previously. The bride, at least, was allowed to look miserable, her eyes downcast and unsmiling. She had, after all, just left her family; and there was also the ordeal of the wedding night looming.

  Young men discussed just how much blood should be spilt on the wedding sheets to really prove a girl’s virginity, and were unrestrained on the first night. Despite a female relative discreetly monitoring proceedings, new kelins’ first sexual experience was invariably painful, many unable to sit down properly for days afterwards.

  A newly married kelin’s life wasn’t a happy one – a system perpetuated by miserable young women who eventually became mothers-in-law, keen to inflict cruelty on the next generation. In Khorezm, kelins were expected to wake at five in the morning and sweep the street outside the house. This was followed by preparation of breakfast and domestic drudgery to keep her busy until late at night. She mustn’t look at her mother-in-law but keep her eyes downcast, and must speak only when spoken to. Her lowly status gradually eased as she bore sons, or as her younger brothers-in-law married, bringing a new, lowlier kelin to the household.

  Right from the start there was pressure to produce children, kelins experiencing regular interrogation from their mothers-in-law as to why they were still menstruating. They were expected to greet all in-laws with three slow bows, rubbing their hands against their knees at the same time. Kelins often lost weight, feeling ashamed to eat more than a few silent bites at the table. Insubordination led to beatings, often administered by mothers-in-law, or by husbands at their mother’s command. The first birth was always a big occasion, demanding another large feast and further debt. While everyone wanted their first-born to be male, daughters were a pragmatic consolation as they would soon be doing the cooking and cleaning around the house.

  Why any woman would want to marry at all, I wasn’t sure, but it was still the most important aspiration for the younger weavers at the workshop. I assumed that once our weavers got married, this would be the last we would see of them. After all,
they had streets to sweep, dinners to cook and drudgery to do. Thankfully, the economic realities of independence meant that no one could afford to give up a good job, and even the most controlling mother-in-law returned her new cash-cow to the workshop, eager for the extra income. Most newly married kelins were given two weeks off to begin a honeymoon of silent servitude, before gratefully returning to the workshop.

  At the workshop, silent and demure kelins reconstituted themselves into the vibrant young women they were. Free from the tyrannies of mothers-in-law, they could talk and laugh, eat as much as they liked and enjoy their freedom. They could show off their new wardrobe and their gold-hooped earrings fitted with turquoise stones, while gaining marital advice from the older weavers. Each new kelin wore a gold-embroidered square skull-cap with tassels for the first month or so, and a headscarf after that to show her married status.

  Earning a wage brought all the women in the workshop more status within their families. Kelins gained more freedom and were less likely to receive severe beatings, and older women were able to save money their husbands might otherwise have drunk, to buy clothes and food for their children.

  Although the workshop increased status, it didn’t stop domestic abuse. A number of the married women arrived at work purple and bruised, having ‘fallen over’ – an excuse that would be met with knowing glances from the other women. Of all the workshop girls, Kamolat suffered the most. She was a stunning young woman with huge dark eyes, full lips and porcelain skin. On one of my morning rounds, the girls in her cell announced that Kamolat had just got engaged. I congratulated her and asked her what her fiancé was like. There was an awkward silence which provided a clear answer.