The New Dominion

The following is a translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter One, pp. 9-14. New readers are encouraged to start from the beginning, Chapter One, Part One. This translation is presented for information and entertainment purposes only. It is also a work in progress — comments are welcome, especially on the (questionable) quality of the translation.

As time passed, some changes in Fan Yaonan’s temperament began to appear. To speak in terms of the psychologists’ analyses, he was beginning to turn from an extrovert into an introvert. That is to say, rather than talking about the absolute necessity of establishing Republican law in Xinjiang, realizing equality for ethnic groups, completely ending corruption, and developing education, he began, like a man who has lost something, to talk to himself and to move about quietly. Yang Zengxin, having heard news of his rival’s situation, was pleased with his talent. Cackling, he said, “Well done, gold! What an exceptional thing you are! As you melt in the fire, you make those who melt you themselves melt away, don’t you! It seems it is true: the mouth that has eaten is ashamed.”

In fact, underneath Fan Yaonan’s quietude, there smoldered an explosive force. Looking at this with a wise eye, underneath this quiet man’s silent surface, a powerful, surging force was gaining strength, like an ocean undulating harder by the moment, or like a hunter holding his breath, waiting among the trees for the moment to take the clever fox with a single bullet.

As a result of the magnificent revolutionary war against the northern warlords throughout the country, in the summer of 1928, the Beijing warlord government was overthrown. However, the fruits of the revolution’s success were picked by the Nationalists under the leadership of Chiang Kai-shek, and they established the Nanjing government. The strongest warlords committed themselves to the Nanjing government. Finally, Yang Zengxin, having not given up on being a free ruler as he was before, also began to move towards commitment to the Nanjing government, hoping to save his own local regime. He also got to work drawing up the membership of the new regional Xinjiang government; Fan Yaonan was not part of it. This news put salt in Fan’s wounds, enraging him. He moved immediately to action.

The center of Fan Yaonan’s action was Ürümchi’s Teknikum of Russian Governmental Law. Yang Zengxin, with the goal of nurturing his own loyal diplomatic officers, had himself founded the school and taken on the role of its honorary director. On behalf of Yang Zengxin, Fan Yaonan also acted as the school’s chief invigilator. The Headmaster of the school, Zhang Zhongshi, was Fan Yaonan’s most loyal comrade. As such, this teknikum was under Fan Yaonan’s direct influence.

The very next day at that teknikum there was to be held the graduation ceremony of the first class of students. There was one young Uyghur man among the graduates, as well. This slender-figured, pale-faced young man from Turpan’s name at school was Yu Wenning, and his own name was Yunus. Usually, ethnics called him Yunusbäg. One day before the ceremony, in the morning, Fan Yaonan and Headmaster Zhang Zhongshi called Yunusbäg to their own office to entrust him with giving a speech in the students’ name at the event.

“I will do this poorly,” said Yunusbäg, his face reddening.

“No. You are, like a seed of wheat among the barley, the only Uyghur at this school. What’s more, your studies are excellent,” said Fan Yaonan, smiling.

“Let’s do it like this,” added Headmaster Zhang Zhongshi. “I will help you write the text.”

“When you speak,” said Fan Yaonan, laughing, “don’t forget to first bow deeply to General Yang, nor, in your speech, to praise General Yang’s noble moral virtues!”

Yunusbäg, executing a well-mannered bow, exited the office.

“This young man,” said the academic official Zhang, gesturing towards the door with his eye, “as you know, is meant to be the possessor of exceptional talents. Looking at his composition and oratory, after four years, I could no longer tell he was an Uyghur. The way I look at it, Uyghurs seem an extremely industrious, skilled, well-tempered, intelligent, clever people. Great people may emerge from among them. Unfortunately, they take no interest in educating their children. They’re driven away from school. Even the most prominent ones press poor children into service, paying them to go in their children’s place.”

Fan Yaonan, with a cry of “Hey, brother,” interrupted the Headmaster and said:

“This is all a tragedy stemming from our policies. The people of Xinjiang are being sacrificed to the Honorable General Yang’s policy of keeping them in a state of ignorance. So tell me, is there any public school that teaches in local ethnic students’ native language, or a course preparing teachers to teach at such a school?! No! Even if exceptional figures among the local people, say, people like Mäxsut Muhiti in Turpan and Abduqadir Damolla in Qäshqär, do something and open a new school, what slander does our government not stick to them?! What inconveniences do they not pass along? What’s more, where’s the use in splitting up Uyghurs who’ve studied in Chinese-language xuetang to be translators in governors’ offices? From what I hear, Uyghurs say ‘The only thing worse than the governor is his translator.’ This saying didn’t come from nothing. So, why wouldn’t they get their children interested in learning! Alright, let’s leave it at that and come to our own work. Have all of the invitations to the ceremony been distributed completely?”

“Yes.”

“And that business, is everything in place?”

“Every matter is in place. I ask that His Excellency the Mayor be reassured.”

“May God will it. Today is Saturday, and tomorrow is Sunday. May the God of Heaven grant that this Sunday come to be an unforgettable day in history!”

After they had whispered with each other for another short while, Fan Yaonan returned to his own house and, after lunch, having arrived of his own volition at a desire to see Tahirbäg, came again to that garden courtyard.

Tahirbäg was renting some rooms in this courtyard. When he told Fan Yaonan the news that Mäxsut Muhiti was, too, in Ürümchi, Fan Yaonan immediately invited him to call Muhiti over, as well. So, the three of them sat for some hours, conversing happily while drinking a little tea. In the course of the conversation, Fan Yaonan’s eye came to alight once again on that photograph on the wall. That photograph, taken at the conclusion of the Xinhai Revolution, on the First of January, 1912, when for the first time a republic was founded in China, was a souvenir photograph of the Sun Zhongshan, elected to the office of President, with his minority ethnic delegates. Since Tahirbäg had been the head of this delegation, in the picture, he sat next to Sun Zhongshan.

Looking at the picture, Fan Yaonan said:

“I’m seeing this picture in your house for the third time, and each time I look at it, I become awash in different impressions. You were the first among the Uyghurs to visit Mr. Sun Zhongshan, and you must have been the first Uyghur Mr. Sun Zhongshan had ever seen. Isn’t that right?”

“Indeed,” said Tahirbäg. “I, too, whenever I see this picture, I remember Mr. Sun Zhongshan with deep respect. But I feel terribly regretful that his promises to us were never fulfilled.”

“You’re right,” said Fan Yaonan. “According the Republic’s program, our Mr. Sun didn’t put his heart into realizing local autonomy for minority ethnic groups, developing the economy, and causing education to bloom.”

“I think,” said Mäxsut Muhiti, interrupting, “when people like General Yang are at the head of a regime, though Sun Yat-sen may be fated to live to be a hundred, realizing his ideals would be impossible. This is because, wherever a stone lies on the road, it will eventually be an obstacle to the cart.”

Fan Yaonan, listening with care to his words said with slightly broken Chinese pronunciation, suddenly came to life, as though he had found something in his soul:

“You’re both absolutely right. You’re right,” he said, patting Mäxsut Muhiti on the shoulder.

“From what I hear from some people,” said Tahirbäg, howling a little, “General Yang wants to say that he is waiting to make Xinjiang an inseparable part of the Republic of China, and that, without him, this will be difficult – that, otherwise, it will be like the land was taken and run off with by thieves. Speaking in moderation, this may be true, but, if the man who was Xinjiang’s General hasn’t kept a tight hold on this land, if it is stolen, then, Yang Zengxin, no longer a tyrannical warlord, would end up having to sell the land, of course! That would be no bad crime against humanity!”

Fan Yaonan, hearing these words, became even more lively, holding Tahirbäg’s hand and saying, “Excellent opinion, excellent opinion.” He wanted to say something, but swallowed the words that come and stood on the tip of his tongue and turned to the bookshelves. The bookshelves were full of all manner of books in Chinese and in Russian, as well as those printed in the presses of Tashkent, Qazan, and Istanbul. On the oval table before the window with a few journals lay some issues of Pravda, Qizil Özbekistan, and Dagongbao, printed in Tianjin.

>> Read Chapter 1, Part 3…