In a small village

In a small village, nestled between two mountains in a remote part of Kyrgyzstan lived a man called Abdugazi. Born in the village, he had married young after a successful bride kidnap and was the proud father of seven children. The mountain life was not an easy life; he lived in a small two roomed shack in a valley and earned his living from farming and building work. After school his sons assisted him on the land whilst his daughters helped his wife make blankets and clothing. Tasks were arduous and fun was not plentiful, but there was one joy that kept Abdugazi awake at night pondering, with a smile upon his face.

Next to the two room house in which the family lived, there was a plot of land. Not just any plot of land nonetheless, but the location of a beautiful seven roomed house. This building was the masterpiece of the village, built by Abdugazi carefully, painstakingly and with love, sweat and tears over a fifteen year period. Created from a combination of mud bricks and wood the house sat proudly overlooking the rest of the village, a symbol of one man’s dedication and love. The exterior displayed beautiful artwork, a mixture of Kyrgyz patterns, trees and flowers in clashing yet uniquely alluring colours. Inside, it featured handmade furniture with carvings juxtaposed with Chinese furniture, customary in most of Kyrgyzstan. 

Nothing quite filled Abdugazi with joy and satisfaction the way this house did, and as he walked back from checking on his animals before sunset every evening, he would stop and gaze at its beauty. It truly was a labour of love. 

Word soon spread about the beauty of Abdugazi’s house, and it wasn’t long before visitors from neighbouring villages and districts came on horseback to pay their regards and congratulate him on such a fine construction. As is customary on such an occasion, Abdugazi and his wife would leave their small run-down property and host the guests in the larger house. After many bowls of tea coupled with bread and jam the guests would depart, the lights and gas would be switched off, and Abdugazi’s family would return to their smaller property. Although life was more confined in the dilapidated building, the heating costs were less. Besides, now the family had the larger beautiful property next door they need put no effort into maintaining the smaller house as visitors would never see it.

Then the rain came. Day after day for a month the heavens opened and the rivers began to swell. Whilst rain in the autumn was normal, the elders of the village commented on how they had never seen so much in such a short period of time. Despite this, Abdugazi’s house stood firm. Its beauty seemed to mock the weather, not even slightly damaging its wooden timbers.

One day, a few short months after the completion of the house, news began to travel through the valley. A nearby village sharing the same mountain ridge as Abdugazi’s village had been subsumed by a landslide. All the occupants were killed. A few months later a further village experienced a landslide. Month after month news came on horseback of another village destroyed by landslides and mudslides. 

Soon after, the government sent representatives to Abdugazi’s village and the other remaining villages in the valley. The delegation held a meeting with the village elders. Tones were hushed as the government representatives stated their purpose; to request that the residents moved to another valley.

Some villagers were more than happy to move. As the government had agreed to fund half the cost of rebuilding new houses it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss out on. But many people were angry. They had lived their all their lives, as had their parents, their grandparents and their parents before them. Although the Kyrgyz are a nomadic people, they had been forcibly settled during the Soviet Union and many members of the village enjoyed the sense of legacy they felt on that piece of land. 

The villagers held another meeting. They would stay, come what may, and trust their future to Allah. 

The government representatives returned and this time informed the villagers that their properties would be forcibly destroyed irrespective of whether they moved or not. True to their word, a week later army conscripts arrived at the village with primitive destruction implements and set about their task.

One by one, house, school and shed were demolished. All that remained standing was the mosque. As the soldiers worked their way up the houses in the valley, Abdugazi stood sobbing in front of his beautiful house. 

As he watched the demolition of fifteen years of hard work, his hopes and his dreams, Abdugazi’s eyes looked up to the sky. He was angry at God and at Mother Nature. But what was troubling him the most? Was it the fact that he would never again glance upon the intricate paintwork? Never again switch on the electricity that took so long to install?

Abdugazi looked up at the sky and shook his fists, and as he did so his angry yet still melodic Kyrgyz bounced off the rocks of the surrounding mountains: 

“I never even got to sleep with my wife in my new house!” 

(As told to me by a former resident of Abdugazi’s village. You will be pleased to hear that him and his family are now living in a different locality with a new house half funded by the government)