Renegotiating Identities and Cultural Legacies Chapter Twelve Be(com)ing Uzbek

Political versus Personal
“We do not talk about siyosat (politics),” Tursun-oi reminded me during a lesson at her home in 2003. “We talk about din (religion) va (and) hayot (life),” she added. The ideological connection among home, women, and private life are symbolically overdetermined in Central Asia (as elsewhere). These categories are firmly linked in popular and official imagination and academic productions. As a result, politics (siyosat) and social transformations are associated with public and men, and often portrayed as taking place at such locations as mosques and/or streets. It continues to be so, despite the Soviet government’s persistent attempts to discursively link women and public. I argue, however, that politics are not a function of any one location or gender. A conversation with another local otin, Bibi Gul’, exemplifies that din va hayot (religion and life) and siyosat (politics) do not belong to any one sphere such as public or private.
Bibi Gul’ received knowledge about Islam from her mother—a local katta (famous) otin—at home. In the 1990s, she attended classes at a local Culture Center, an important social and educational institution in the Soviet Union and (post-Soviet) Uzbekistan. This Center offered two-year elementary instruction in Arabic, which, as Bibi Gul’ claimed, helped her to recite the Quran “correctly” and “understand some of its parts [better than others].” Since she was not registered as a religious teacher and leader with government institutions, such as the Muslim Board of Uzbekistan, local police department, or the city hall (hokymiat), Bibi Gul’ felt that by attending these classes she, in a way, legitimized her activities.
During our last meeting in August 2011 at her house, Bibi Gul’ told me that she was aware that teaching about Islam without the government’s permission was prohibited; nonetheless, she continued doing it. She said she knew that the SNB agents were aware of her role as a ceremonial leader and religious instructor in her mahalla, and, sometimes, beyond. Then she smiled and added, “They [the agents of the National Security Service] keep an eye [on me]. In their notes they keep me [by keeping a record of her activities]. They know me. The government allows me. They have my photo.” Bibi Gul’ chuckled, “They keep everyone who reads the Quran on a black list.” She finished this statement by warning that, since I had visited her, I would also be put on the black list. I smiled in return.
If we take the political/personal distinction as a communicative phenomenon, then Bibi Gul’s and my smiles and chuckles were indexes that established a nested set of distinctions. In our personal encounter, we switched from a mere statement of fact—that she has provided religious instruction—to a political commentary about the existing techniques of social control exercised by the government’s agents. These techniques included keeping a record of one’s public life in private spaces, such as Bibi Gul’s teaching Islam or officiating at ceremonial events in domestic space. I take indexes such as individual smiles and chuckles to manifest and signal individual ability to understand, interpret, and evaluate the sociopolitical context and existing social control, and, as political gestures, to criticize these. Thus, this private conversation between Bibi Gul’ and me had both implicit and explicit evaluations of the Uzbek state as politically repressive, where freedoms of religion and expression had clear limits and consequences. Bibi Gul’s activities have infringed on these limits, and as a result she was put on the “black list.” As she joked, I, by association, would be on this list as well.⁵⁹
This was not just a thematic shift in our conversation; we were not moving from topic to topic. Rather, this particular exchange was one of the iterations of a situational political/personal distinction signaled by the participants through body language—by smiles and chuckles. In 2011, in Uzbekistan, laughing at the existing sociopolitical context was much safer than making a declarative statement about the government’s oppression and/or protesting on the street; a joke, by definition, was not to be taken seriously. Consider this, during our meeting Bibi Gul’s made a personal joke about such serious and public matters as social control and political oppression; then her joke became public through this chapter and was interpreted as a political commentary by the researcher. This situational fleeting recursive political/personal distinction re-created at this part of the conversation between Bibi Gul’ and me was an example of its complex entangled iterations, whereby the meaning of this distinction depended on the interactional context, including space, physical bodies, and individual motivations.
Women may have different motivations behind holding public events in individual homes—be that achieving personal power or status, satisfying one’s financial need, or acting on a feeling of personal responsibility. These events have social effects and can have personal risks. During the first two decades of the twenty-first century, according to the government’s representatives, to organize a lesson about Islam’s history in a private space without the government’s authorization was (and to my knowledge continues to be) a political act that can result in arrest, detention, and other forms of persecution by the government’s agents. In this context, otinlar have to be creative and find solutions. For example, by 2011, Tursun-oi redefined her teaching about Islam at home as tutorship, which at the time was not prohibited. Just like a tutor of mathematics or chemistry, she was sharing her expert knowledge on the subject with others. Other otinlar had to be creative as well. The same year, from a conversation with Jahon, I found out that another local otin, who was neither certified nor registered with the state, continued teaching neighborhood children about Islam at her home; the students stopped in on their way home from school at her house. According to Jahon,
They come with books, and they leave with the same books [so no one would be suspicious]. . . . We [knowledgeable Muslims] are not supposed to leave anyone without knowledge. Her students are, maybe, in the sixth, third, and fourth grades. Who knows, maybe they will be famous qoralar [reciters of the Qurʾan] one day. They come [to study with this otin] with their shoulders uncovered, wearing lyamochki [tank tops], just like they go to school. She [this otin] does not tell anyone. She is afraid of proverka [an investigation of her activities by a local SNB office].
Private sartorial practices of the students have political significance as well. In a context where government representatives operate under the assumption that religious instruction unsanctioned by the state fosters political opposition, one’s personal dress code, such as a long-sleeved shirt or a scarf covering one’s hair, neck, and shoulders, can be read as a sign of oppositional politics. To be creative in such context may require negotiating and sometimes compromising one’s personal moral standards by delinking these from a set of sartorial practices that otherwise would be considered immodest.
While some otinlar continue teaching and officiating at ceremonial events held (often) in homes, the government representatives continue developing new strategies of social control of public life in private spaces. One such strategy includes an effort to co-opt private religious instruction and practice by institutionalizing these. Since 2008, in an effort to establish coherence among existing theological interpretations and divergent practices, the Muslim Board of Uzbekistan has established exams or competitions for otinlar in different parts of the country, where the best among the participants can become a hokymyat (city, city hall) or vyloyat (regional, a part of the regional government) otinlar. As the placeholders of these relatively new administrative positions, otinlar would become public figures and not just private individuals leading public life in private spaces. Further, being in charge of women’s issues and their religious observances would require reporting on these to the local government. In 2011, in a private conversation, one hokymyat otin, at the time a public figure, said,
People teach less at home. The state [in general] has more, but in a mahalla . . .less. The government does not trust [those who teach at home]. I do not trust these teachers either and reprimand them [italics for emphasis]. They may [have knowledge but] not know how to give [it]. I love some of these women, but I reprimand [them]. Our hokimyat now has special kursi [courses] for otinlar. Qorehona [home school] is a secret. There are many. The hokimyat knows, and the SNB knows. But the government cannot close all of them. They trust [you], if you go the right way. They check, and they trust [she smiled].
Institutionalizing public life in private spaces is one of the strategies deployed by the Uzbek government to ensure dissemination of “a politically correct and correctly political” religious knowledge “at the service of a Republic.”⁶⁰ If an otin takes the hokimyat’s “special” courses about Islam and, as a result, is certified, she would no longer be breaking laws by providing private religious instruction or officiating at social events taking place in domestic spaces. Such publically recognized certification would allow her to conduct lessons (but not teach minors) and, at the same time, would enable better control of her public life in private spaces by the government’s agents. The results of these efforts, however, are yet to be thoroughly researched and analyzed.