«neweurasia»
‘For lust of knowing what should not be known, we take the Golden Journey to Samarkand’, wrote the poet James Elroy Flecker. And indeed, there was a time when you could learn a secret or two before the Emir of Samarkand gouged your eyes out and threw you to the hounds. In Islam Karimov’s Uzbekistan, however, you’re lucky to come away having learnt the name of James Belushi’s third wife.
To be a tourist in Uzbekistan is to ride the silk highway from one historical wonder to the next, from the architectural oohs of Samarkand to the archaeological aahs of Bukhara. These once foreboding places now offer streamlined pleasures for hordes of Western pensioners, merrily tailing the guiding umbrella up front. People seem to go about their daily business with a smile, ice cream is plentiful and the roads are wide and windy.
The authorities are doing such a good job at keeping reality hidden from visitors, you could be forgiven for not realizing that Uzbekistan is one of the world’s most repressive regimes.
That is, of course, unless you’ve taken the bother of at least looking up your destination on the internet before leaving. But then again, maybe better not. Uzbekistan tends to get real creepy on you once you look behind the facade.
THE GOLDEN ROAD.
A mere fifteen minutes from the Kyrgyz town of Jalalabad lies one of several border crossing to Uzbekistan. The day is bright and sunny, as they usually are around these parts – and after crossing the strange nothingness separating the two republics on foot, I find the Uzbek border guards to be in a cheery mood.
However, it doesn’t take long before one of them reveals their sore spot. Taking me from the passport control into a stripped side room, he becomes more serious and starts his questioning.
– So, are you going to Andijan? he asks straight away.
– No, to Tashkent.
– But are you going through Andijan?
As far as I know, the only road available does indeed go through Andijan, then on to Namangan, and from there to Tashkent. Although that’s no fault of mine, I decide to play out my stupid routine to be on the safe side.
It has proven to work well with inquisitive policemen in oppressive places before.
– I don’t know…Yes? Maybe? Yes, that town you just said. Ambijan, is that what it’s called? And on the map it said the next place is called Mambanan, or something.
He smirks.
– Yeah. Namangan.
– That’s it.
He gets closer, and looks around conspiratorially, even though there’s no one else in the room there with us.
– My brother is a taxi driver. He can take you straight to Tashkent. No stops.
I smile and say no thanks. I’m not going anywhere with this guy’s relatives.
WHAT’S IN A NAME?
– There’s our Andijan! the taxi driver exclaims proudly, stretching his hand out towards a pretty clutter of houses and buildings in the near distance, sunk softly in the green fertility of the Ferghana Valley.
Then, somewhat embarrassed, as if suddenly remembering something :
– Only, let’s take this here road around the edge of the city, better not drive through the centre. There are a lot of checkpoints there now. There were some…events.
Seeing the exit from the main road towards downtown Andijan, I feel a shudder go through me. During the “events”, as some like to call them, the ugly head of Uzbek oppression was brought out of the shadows and into the wide open, with catastrophic consequence.
Although Uzbekistan surely boasts a string of wondrous cities, the image is strained by the fact that what should have been their glorious port of entry instead has become synonymous with the country’s greatest shame.
As often happens with places where something particularly terrible has taken place, the word itself does no longer seem to signify the name of a city, but that of an unspeakable disaster. “After Andijan…” has become the phrase introducing more or less anything said or written about Uzbekistan since May 2005.
On the night of May 12th, a large group of armed men stormed a prison in Andijan, freeing 23 businessmen they believed were being held there unjustly. Via flyers and phone calls, they encouraged local citizens to join forces in a large protest against the oppressive Uzbek regime.
The groups of demonstrators grew enormously the next morning, as ordinary citizens came out to voice their dissatisfaction after years of poverty, corruption, violence and injustice. At noon, the numbers reached 10,000, as more people gathered on Bobur Square in the centre of town. Although the demonstrations were entirely peaceful and included hundreds of women and children, the situation was considered out of control by the authorities.
Military started shooting at random into the crowds, killing indiscriminately, even kids, in order to scare people into submission. The demonstrators, however, stood their ground – demanding that the President arrive, and that he would finally listen to them.
At around 5 PM, the military sealed off the square and began the massacre. As more military vehicles arrived, they started massive firing into the panicking crowds, killing hundreds. Groups of survivors, lying wounded and terrified on the ground were then surrounded and summarily executed throughout the night, into the early morning hours. In the morning, the dead were loaded into buses and buried in mass graves.
As authorities have not allowed an independent investigation, the numbers of victims varies wildly. Conservative estimates lie at hundreds of people murdered by government troops. What is for certain is that the streets of Andijan were awash with the blood of innocent men, women and children the following morning – people whose only crime it was to have been courageous enough to ask for changes.
The town and its frightening associations soon disappear in the morning mist behind us. I have difficulties describing what I feel, glancing back at its rooftops.
NO NEWS ARE GOOD NEWS
Tashkent remains the fourth largest city in the former Soviet Union, and one of the largest Asian transport hubs. The city itself is one of grandiose boulevards, air-conditioned museums boasting all you ever wanted to know about Timur Lenk, and even a region hosting excellent, upscale restaurants and art galleries.
It is also eerily clean, seemingly uninhabited at night – and seriously lacking in decent reading material.
Although Uzbekistan has never been a place for journalism to thrive, the turning-point came after Andijan. In an attempt to keep the word about what was happening from spreading among the population, Uzbek authorities blocked broadcasts by all foreign media, who were following developments closely.
The only version of events was to be the government’s own. After that ensued nothing short of a purge of foreign journalists, and of all locals trying to assist them. Islam Karimov announced that Uzbekistan was under information attack by hostile foreign powers.
Within five months, none of the international news agencies operating in the country were there anymore. Internews had lost their accreditation. RFE/RL had lost their accreditation. The BBC threw in the towel on their own, saying they were being harassed by the government and were fearing for the safety of their employees.
In February 2006, the government passed a Resolution written with such ungraspably vague elegance, you’d think it was penned by Hemingway himself. Foreign journalists were forbidden “to interfere in the internal affairs of Uzbekistan”, and also “to insult the honour and dignity of Uzbek citizens or to interfere in their personal lives”. And you just know what is hidden underneath that legislative tip of an iceberg.
Another regulation Uzbek authorities are glad to enforce, is the law that prohibits offending the President. In authoritarian states like Uzbekistan, the President personally makes all the calls, which in practice means you’ll get jailed for criticizing government policy. All public debate about where the country is headed is effectively quelled this way. If you’re unhappy about something, you’re unhappy with the government. But in Uzbekistan, the President is the government.
That means you’re unhappy with Karimov. Which means you’ve dishonoured him.
Not surprisingly, the organization Freedom House ranks the situation surrounding Uzbek media among the worst in the world. Uzbekistan shares the honour of the 187th place with equally dismal Zimbabwe, finishing just three slots ahead of North Korea.
I’ve made it my little task for this journey to pick up some Uzbek newspapers – so far I have not had any success. Although I know there are a couple of government controlled papers out there somewhere, every newsstand I visit seems to sell nothing but magazines full of crossword puzzles, horoscopes and TV programs.
There is not one paper with anything resembling news in it. Not even government news. On every other street corner, there will be a woman selling cigarettes and magazines, but never with any actual news. The same goes for every kiosk or shop – even the ones that obviously are intended to sell just newspapers.
The conversation plays out the same way everywhere – I ask for a newspaper, and they hand me a magazine with crossword puzzles. I repeat that I want newspapers, not crosswords, and they shrug and suggest the TV program.
When I explain exactly what I mean when I say news, they look at me like I just asked if they have the collected works of Marcel Proust in leather binding tucked away somewhere.
For the third day in a row, I give up.
Of more immediate concern than the well-being of foreign journalists is what happens to local Uzbeks assisting them. Foreign journalists are protected by their passports, and the fact that even the Uzbek regime doesn’t want to be bugged more than necessary in diplomatic circles.
At worst, they might have to endure the discomforts of deportation. For Uzbek citizens, it is an entirely different matter.
Among the many unfortunate ones is President Islam Karimov’s own nephew, the journalist Jamshid Karimov. After writing articles criticizing officials in his home town for corruption, he found himself confined to a psychiatric institution in Samarkand. Since then, no one has been allowed to see him. The last sign of life from Jamshid came in August this year, when he was able to smuggle a written message out of the institution, asking for help.
It said he was feeling ill because his captors were feeding him psychotropic drugs.
The heat isn’t on just Uzbek journalists and human rights activists who uncover the truth, but also on Uzbeks trying to help foreigners in search of it. On May 28th 2005, a resident of Andijan took a correspondent for RFE/RL to a mass grave in the city. The next day, he was found stabbed to death.
The list goes on. Mutabar Tojibaeva, Saidjahon Zainabidtinov, Nesim Isakov…these, and so many others, are names that it is the duty of all of us not to forget. Most of them are either confined in a place no observer will ever go, or they are barred from leaving the country. They have no Embassy to turn to, and no emergency line to call. Their courage in the face of overwhelming terror commands the deepest respect.
They truly are heroes.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
Among yet another street vendor’s dreary selection of crossword puzzles, I finally do come across a magazine with one actual article in it. I’m puzzled to find it’s about the American actor James Belushi. I have nothing against James Belushi – he is a fine actor, for sure. But personally, I can’t really recall seeing him in anything since he played against Arnold Schwarzenegger in ‘Red Heat’ in 1988. Now, here I’ve been asking for a newspaper with a normal article in it for a whole week, and when I finally find one, the only information I can gather from it is that James Belushi is currently married to a Jennifer Sloan, his third wife, and that they have two beautiful children together.
I mean, that just might be the most uncontroversial thing I’ve ever heard.
Uzbekistan does, however, have internet cafes, and although they all are subject to government scrutiny, they are not as heavily censored as you might expect.
I stop by a small internet café where a few teenagers are playing computer games – the room is hot and stuffy. I sit down by one of the five computers, and try a little experiment.
First, I type in the address for the CNN web-site. It pops up without any problems. I try BBC, while feeling that same creepy sensation of someone looking over my shoulder as I did when secretly playing mindless online games during work hours at my previous office job. But the BBC also works fine. A few months earlier, I tried the same little experiment in China, and found both sites to be blocked.
Then, growing more bold, I enter the address for a site with reports on Uzbekistan by Human Rights Watch. It’s blocked.
Feeling sudden unease, I get up, pay and leave.
I HEARD IT THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE
– Christ, it’s hot, I say, hopping into a cab.
We’re driving through downtown Tashkent, headed for the train station. The place is eerily clean. Not a grain of garbage in sight. The sidewalks seem downright polished.
– It must be at least 40*C, don’t you think?
The driver looks at me.
– Oh, more. Much more. Last week, they say, it was 58*C.
– What? No, that’s not even possible.
– I’m telling you, that was the real temperature. Only, the government kept it hidden from the people.
I laugh at his well-timed punch line, glad to hear that political satire is alive and well even in Uzbekistan. I suppose that leaves some hope. But then I look at him again, and realize that he’s not laughing. It’s not a joke. He really believes it.
– But 58*C is not possible here, I say. – It doesn’t ever get that hot in Tashkent.
– Oh, it does. But they keep it from us.
I scratch my head, then decide to go with it for a minute.
– You mean…so that people will still work?
– Exactly, he says. – So that people will still work.
He really is dead serious.
– I see.
We roll up outside the station, I grab my bag, thank him and give him a decent tip.
Not even human rights activists are that prone to conspiracy theories.
RIDING THAT TRAIN
There are two trains from Tashkent to Samarkand – a fast one, and a slow one. I’m on the slow one. The old carriages bounce and grind along the railway tracks, and I have to hold on tight to my beer to keep it from spilling all over the floor of the restaurant cart.
– Hey, can I bum a smoke?
A guy in his early 20’s is leaning over towards me from the neighbouring table.
– Sure.
I hand him the pack and nod to his friend to take one as well. He seems too shy to ask himself.
Once that ritual is done with, the two start quizzing me across the room, asking about the prices in Europe for everything from cell phones to BMW’s, before eventually moving over to my table altogether.
Outside, run-down Uzbek villages are passing in the no-man’s land lying between the country’s great historical cities. We order another round of beers, and the conversation soon turns to religion. The more talkative of the two is complaining about how the government won’t let him practice Islam the way he wants to. He is deeply religious, he says, but the government is trying to force him to pray their way.
I point out that we’re on our fourth beer already, but he says beer is all he drinks – never vodka. Also, never on Thursdays, in order not to be hung over in the mosque the next day.
The young man is surprisingly open about his contempt for the authorities, although the noise and rumble from the train effectively drowns out our conversation to all other guests in the restaurant cart.
We’re on our fifth beer, when I take a chance.
– What about the events in Andijan two years ago? I ask.
The face of the first guy goes blank, while the other starts fidgeting nervously.
– I mean, what are you thoughts about it, I try again.
The first one seems to suddenly have gone completely sober, and looks examining at me.
– Let me ask you a question first, ok? What do you think about it?
I too pause for a second, then decide there’s no point in pretending. Besides, I was the one who brought it up.
– I think that hundreds of innocent civilians were murdered. I believe it qualifies as a crime against humanity.
He looks at me in silence for a bit, as if making sure the alcohol isn’t making him say something he’ll later regret. Then he leans across the table and takes his hand around the back of my neck, drawing me closer.
– Have you heard about Beslan?
– Yes, I’ve even been there.
– And what did you think about it?
– It was the most horrifying place I’ve ever been, I say.
– Well…Andijan was worse.
He looks me straight in the eye – perhaps for dramatic effect. It works.
– They turned off the TV channels so people wouldn’t know about it. But we know. Everybody does. There are a lot of things I could tell you. But I could be hurting tomorrow if the wrong people hear us talking. You’re just passing through. So let’s not talk politics anymore. Let’s change the topic.
I nod.
– Let’s change the topic.
PARADISE NEWS SERVICE
I open my eyes and realize a recent acquaintance is in my room. He’s standing next to my bed, and I have no idea how he got in. It’s 6:30 AM.
– Get up! Get dressed!
– What?
– Get up! We don’t have much time.
– What the hell is…
– We’re going to a wedding!
Fifteen minutes later I’m in a car with my new friend and his cousin. We pass the grandiose Registan with its awesome minarets, then drive on through the Samarkand suburbs, into the country side. After a week in Uzbekistan, this is the second wedding I’ve been dragged off to.
The cousin is smiling at me in the rearview mirror, seemingly exhilarated to have a dead tired foreigner in his car.
– So, what do you think about Uzbekistan?
– Great, I say.
– Really, you think it’s great?
– Totally great. Beautiful.
– And what more do you think? What else?
– Well, it’s weird how you have no newspapers, I say. – At least I haven’t been able to find any.
He looks over at my friend, who shrugs. The he turns around in his seat.
– But Uzbeks don’t read newspapers.
– So how do you get any news?
– Well, there are news on TV.
– But we don’t really watch them, my friend adds.
– No, no, we do sometimes, says the cousin. – But we have a joke about it.
– What’s the joke?
– Well, the news come on, and then we yell, ‘Look! News from Paradise!’
They both break into hearty laughter. They laugh for a full two minutes. Soon, we roll in to a parking lot, and I’m at a wedding with about 300 people, all singing, eating and dancing at 7 in the morning. There’s even a live band.
I forget all about the news too.
SIZZLING HOT NEWS
“Only the insane or deeply unfortunate will find themselves in Turkmenistan in July”, reads the bit about climate in a guidebook to Central Asia. The same can probably be said for nearby Bukhara, perched on the edge of the Kizilkum desert. The heat in July is so intense it’s almost hard to fathom.
It’s outright nauseating, making it impossible to do or think anything at all between noon and early evening – while knowing that just outside, the intriguing alleys and backstreets of the ancient old town await.
It’s the hottest time of day, and I’m on the bed in my hotel room, sweat soaking the bed sheets even with the air conditioner whooshing at full force. Having finished a bizarre biography about Islam Karimov I picked up in Samarkand, I turn to the television set.
I usually never find the time to watch TV while travelling, but for three days now the heat has left me little choice. I hold the remote control lamely in my hand, switching uninterestedly between various Uzbek and Russian TV stations. The people salute Karimov. Zap. Russian cops chase the bad guys. Zap. Karimov is saluted by the people. Zap. The bad guys are chased by the Russian cops. Zap.
Suddenly the screen is filled with a familiar image. BBC World. Coming up next – World Headlines.
– Huh, they actually got BBC, I think drowsily.
I’m moping at the tick-tack down towards the eleven o’clock news when I notice something is weirdly off.
The heat is making thinking hard, but I go over it in my head a few times. 11 AM in London. That would make it 2 PM in Uzbekistan. But it’s not two o’clock. It’s four.
Slowly, the obvious dawns on me. Somewhere in Tashkent, someone is watching the BBC night and day, ready to intercept and delete any news that are deemed inappropriate.
I’m actually watching a video recording of what was shown on BBC two hours ago.
THE DAY OF JOURNALISM
Back in Tashkent, I stop by a hotel, looking for a shirt I left there the week before. The smiling staff are looking around for it. In the meantime, a nice girl at reception offers me a Russian language newspaper, called Uzbekistan Today. It is a completely government controlled paper – asking for a few back issues, I’m not surprised to see that every front page has the President on it.
I am, however amazed to learn that this is actually the Day of Journalism in Uzbekistan. President Karimov has met with the country’s scribblers and scribes, and has held a speech for them. Reading the quotes from his speech in the paper, it’s fairly clear what he’s saying between the lines. He stops just short of telling them not to try any smart-ass moves.
“Today, while we set our goal for further development of democracy, modernization, development of the country and the strengthening of human rights and freedoms, life itself is setting hard tasks for the mass media and is placing on them a great responsibility.”
Once Karimov holds you personally responsible for something, you know it’s time to tread carefully. Which is probably what the next speaker also gathered. He is the head of the Union of Journalists of Uzbekistan, and his speech reads like a playback of the one delivered by the President.
“The main task of the mass media under present conditions for civil society is to give objective and impartial information about the results of the large-scale reforms directed at modernization and development of democratic society in our country.”
I’ve gotten quite lost in this ridiculous article, and forgetting myself for a moment, decide to read the next paragraph out loud for the reception girl, while we stand around waiting for the shirt to re-surface.
– Listen to this, I say. – ‘Today, more than 900 newspapers and journals are registered in our country.’
I look up at her.
– Doesn’t that seem a bit strange? I mean, where are all those newspapers?
She blushes and gets up from her seat, and I immediately feel bad that I even asked.
– I don’t know. Sorry, I don’t know, she says.
Then she quickly goes in the back of the reception, and disappears.
GOING HOME
The time has come to leave Uzbekistan. As the plane lifts us high up above the thousands of rooftops in Tashkent suburbs, I wonder what the people living beneath them would say had they just been given a chance to say it.
On September 3rd 2007, new demonstrations occurred in the Ferghana Valley, in a town near Andijan. This time, they were about high food prices, and the group consisted only of some 40-50 people, according to reports.
However, the security services were immediately put on high alert, further demonstrations were forbidden, and people were ushered home.
You can’t help but be amazed at the courage it takes even for such a small group to gather to vent their anger, considering the fate of those who did so two years ago. But this time, too, nobody listened to their complaints. Not their President. Not the media.
Islam Karimov might control all that is done and said in Uzbekistan by way of threats, but even he can’t read peoples thoughts. And perhaps he should be glad he’s not a mind-reader.
I have a feeling he’d have a hard time sleeping if he was.
Almost every single person I encountered in Uzbekistan met me with unequalled hospitality, kidness and honesty.
I hope it will be clear to the reader that my intention is not in any way to criticize or make fun of the people of Uzbekistan, who I have the greatest respect and admiration for. My complaints (and sometimes, jokes) are entirely with the Uzbek regime.Names, people and places in this article have been rearranged in order for them not to be identifiable. Dialogues and events, however, are recounted truthfully.
Background information for this article was taken from reports by Human Rights Watch, Reporters Without Borders, PEN International and the International Helsinki Federation for Human Rights, as well as from news reports from the BBC, RFE/RL and Uzbekistan Today. The biography referred to in the text is called “Islam Karimov -The First President of the Republic of Uzbekistan” (Tashkent, 1997).