Behind the sleek high-rise blocks that circle Tashkent, and the Soviet era landmarks near the city’s central square, stretch a few blocks of a very different type of city. Or perhaps, not what we would call a city at all. A city is a community of buildings, which face onto streets. From the balcony of my sleek, new Tashkent hotel (I’m treating myself), as traffic streams by, this seems obvious. But the mahallas are built inside out.
A mahalla is a district, with a population of around 1,000–2,000, often related by ties of kinship, organized around a single mosque and associated burial ground. The long, often dusty streets of these districts feel claustrophobic, labyrinthine. Sheer, imposing walls, two metres or more metres high, stretch ahead of you. They change colour occasionally, sometimes topped with greenery instead of guttering, but give no clues as to what lies behind. No windows, no sleek facades or shop fronts. But every 5 or 10 metres, there is a gate. But not just a gate- a huge sheet of metal or hand carved wood, surrounded by ornate patterns, usually with a large bolt across it. Sometimes it is ajar, and you catch a glimpse of the oasis lying behind the walls. But on the empty street, without even a pavement, and the midday sun beating down, the dusty steppe of Uzbekistan feels close at hand. Was it really this world that so many expats, returned and not, told me that they missed so much? One left work in Russia which paid four times the salary, to live behind these walls.
Whereas our idea of a town faces onto the street, the mahallas look inwards. Usually, those gates lead onto a courtyard, decked with vines and with flower beds and small lawns, surviving even the 40C heat. A covered terrace provides some shelter, usually for an ornately decorated dastarkhan table, abundant with local or home-grown produce. One or two storey buildings open directly onto this courtyard- a kitchen, toilets, bedrooms. Most importantly, this home is often shared by generations of the same family. In Samarkand, Farhod shows me with pride his mother’s bedroom, and then his own; half the size, even though his mum spends half her time at his brother’s home instead. Farhod’s son shows me to his uncle’s house- Farhod’s brother lives next door. Two doors down live Farhod’s cousins. Young children run between play dates with their extended family, knowing that they’re never more than 100m from home. Farhod’s father built half of this house, with his own hands, before he died, aged 35. Farhod’s mother raised her two boys on her own, when some non bread and sugar for lunch meant the family had eaten well. Farhod finished his father’s work, and he invited me to stay the night in his home.
We can all recognise the healthy advantages of such a community, and a mahalla is the most fundamental level of regional administration in Uzbekistan. But those inward facing courtyards are not what most think of as a modern community. In the Ferghana Valley, a region long marked as a potential flashpoint for ethnic instability, these communities have been described in Western analysis as “dangerously insular”, a potential source of conflict. And from Ferghana City to Samarkand and Tashkent, these districts have faced mass demolition. Some do not meet current safety requirements, and they are not inviting for investment or modernisation.
But these communities have provided protection and comfort for generations of Central Asian families, through turbulent changes which arose a long way from home. And it was walking through the mahallas of Ferghana, as much as in the rest of Uzbekistan, that the famous Uzbek hospitality was most apparent. Invited to celebrate Eid with plov and three generations of strangers in Samarkand, to an impromptu masterclass and meal with the apprentices of one of Uzbekistan’s most renowned ceramic masters, or simply to sample the sweetest, freshest fruit I’ve ever eaten. Using Russian with those who knew it, and hand singles with those who did not, we discussed the past, the future, and the meaning of life. And I told them how grateful I was, and how unused I was to such hospitality, invitations usually catching me off guard on an empty street corner, or through a intimidating, but slightly ajar, courtyard gate.
I’m interested in relations; between states in my degree, between people in my everyday life, and for my Laidlaw Leadership in Action project, I will be advising and working with Central Asian organisations on the cooperation which will be crucial for tackling the environmental problems which face Uzbekistan, the region, and those states surrounding it. I wonder if the Mahallas might give us something to think about when it comes to this. In an article for Lossi36 (forthcoming), I describe how Central Asian neighbours and their international partners are being encouraged to cooperate with each other based on the ties which bind them, such as shared priorities, issues and solutions, as well as a common past and future. This, to me, sounds a lot like family- we muddle along, we know each other inside out, and these ties are something we know we can also fall back on, and shelter in.
And perhaps if we all looked inside first, putting our house in order rather than its facade, we might be a bit more confident about inviting others in, and really getting to know what we share. I am not advocating for empty streets with no pavements, but maybe the corridors of power would be a bit cleaner if we were to base our relations on what we do, and who we are, inside, away from the public eye. We put up walls, because they give us a sense of safety, and there is nothing wrong with that, because community comes from inviting people in.