The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 54-60. New readers are encouraged to start from the beginning, Chapter One, Part One. This translation is presented for information and entertainment purposes only. New sections will be posted every Sunday, pending their completion and the satisfaction of the translator. It is also a work in progress – comments are welcome, especially on the (questionable) quality of the translation.

When we last left Xojiniyaz Palwan, he was about to explain how he ended up at the home of Alipbay…

2

This is what happened up until then in a place in Altay called Chinggil seven months after Tömür Xälpä was killed. As the reader may remember, when Tömür Xälpä went to Ürümchi in anticipation of Li Shufu’s deception, Xojiniyaz, sensing the tragedy of his end, has hurried off into the mountains [near Qumul] and lived in refuge in the dark valleys. Only one person, his brother-in-law Qurban, communicated with him. His mother and father, too, kept aware of his situation through this young man. However, King Shamäxsut’s notice concerning Xojiniyaz’s capture was spread all over the land of Qumul, so greedy people were on his heels, and, in the end, even the mountains of Qumul began to feel crowded. In the meantime, King Shamäxsut, saying “You have not found your son for me,” threw his father, Iminniyaz, in the palace’s dungeon. Iminniyaz was originally one of the simple shepherds in the palace’s service who took care of the “iron livestock” [breeding stock]. Because he was, himself, a clever, strong, and reputable man in that country, Shamäxsut took him in as his own hired hand, intending to take advantage of him. Not only had he been separated from his son while still alive, finally, Iminniyaz’s imprisonment caused pain like that of kicking the dead to Aysä Appaq, who came to be bedridden. Hearing this grave news, Xojiniyaz, his patience spent, said, “I am what I am” and came to desire to go before Shamäxsut himself. As his [Xojiniyaz's] son came to hear of these intentions through Qurban, Aysä Appaq said, “He should never think this way. What if he is discovered, then, fine, he will never stay alive. We’ve eaten what we had to eat, we’ve worn what we had to wear, now we’ll see the completion of our fates. Xojiniyaz is still young; wherever he goes, he should protect himself. We are content with him.”

After this, Qurban went into the mountains and invited Xojiniyaz to leave for Altay or Inner Mongolia. Xojiniyaz went to the country of Altay and found a place to be among the Kazakh people. He wanted to exchange his horse and head to Altay be way of Bariköl. Qurban had been his companion all the way up to the mountain slopes layered with ice all year around.

“Goodbye, younger brother, and peace until we meet again,” said Qurban at the base of a slope, wiping a tear from his eye. “My advice to you is, once again, once you have reached the interior of this country, leave that sticker [Qumul dialect slang, "rifle"] behind, that it won’t cause you trouble again.”

“Goodbye, older brother, don’t worry about me,” said Xojiniyaz, mounting his horse. “The say God loves the lonely.” Then, saying, “Place one kiss on the forehead of my son, Sädänsha,” he spurred his horse. A slender-footed, long-necked red-black wolf followed in his tracks. Finally, Xojiniyaz came to be traveling straight west on the footpath on the northern side of Bariköl. Although he had just told Qurban not to worry about him, that God loved the lonely, but, it must be because he had left his mother and father, his blood relations and homeland, part of his heart wanted to cry. Thinking of his own fate to come, tied up in thoughts from which he could not untangle himself, he did not sense how long a road he traveled. Even the soul-cutting early spring wind was unknown to him. Riding on like this, just as he was climbing a small hill, he saw a lone rider up ahead, came to his senses as if suddenly waking up, and began to observe the rider carefully. That lone rider was wearing a Kazakh tumaq pushed low on his head and a knotted leather cord tied around his waist. His emaciated brown horse seemed to be limping. He was, in any case, an observant man, as he turned around, sensing Xojiniyaz riding two hundred paces behind, became alarmed and stopped his horse.

“What kind of person could this be, traveling alone in the wilderness?” thought Xojiniyaz. “So, what should I do? Should I go to his side? Or…”

As though Xojiniyaz’s red-black horse was glad to have found such a companion at last, she neighed and quickened her steps. The rider greeted Xojiniyaz from a distance. He was a strong young man, about twenty-three or twenty-four, light-haired, with deep-set eyes, and he must have been afraid of the rifle on Xojiniyaz’s shoulder, as he tried to make himself appear extremely helpless. After Xojiniyaz saw this, without falling to excess suspicion, he began to converse with him in a friendly manner. The close relationship between the Uyghur and Kazakh languages was of great assistance to them. According to this young man, his name was Qamza, and he has come, it seems, from Altay to Bariköl to visit relatives. His work complete, he has returned to his native land. Xojiniyaz introduced himself with the name Ishaq and said that he had an older brother in a place called Chinggil and that, though he had never been there before, he was trying his luck at visiting him. In his own heart, he was glad that, having come to this Kazakh land that he had never before seen, he had ended up being a companion with a man of that very land. This happiness was reflected in his smiling face and gentle voice. Qamza, too, seeing this situation, felt at ease. Even when Xojiniyaz confessed that he had feared him to be a road-blocking highwayman, he laughed and said:

“I’m glad, too, to be a companion to a good man such as you. I’ll take you where you’re going myself. Come, let’s get out your näshwal [a form of narcotic].”

Xojiniyaz said he did not smoke näshwal.

“Do you have toqach [a small, round, hard loaf of bread]?” asked Qamza.

“Yes, but, if you eat it hard, it’ll get caught in your throad. If there was somewhere to bed down ahead of us, we could boil some tea and then eat it. I’m hungry, too,” said Xojiniyaz light-heartedly.

“Alright,” said Qamza, agreeing. “Behind that ridge, there’s a spring. Let’s boil some tea there and drink.”

Qamza’s brown mare was truly lame. So, Xojiniyaz was forced to reign in his red-brown horse as they rode. Qamza, riding one or two paces behind, ruminated as he looked at the dark red-brown horse. One of his eyes was on the horse, and the other was on the rifle. This rifle was a short five-barrel taken from the soldiers of Jian Daren in the war in the Aqchuq Valley [?], and it was the first time Qamza had seen such a rifle.

“Hey, Ishaq, you’ve got a nice rifle there. We won’t go hungry on the road, now,” said Qamza without taking his eyes from the rifle.

Xojiniyaz lied and said that he had borrowed the rifle from a relative to take it on the road and asked:

“Is there anything to shoot and eat on the way?”

Qamza said that there were game animals, such as deer, mountain sheep, and goats along the way and that even ferocious beasts like wolves, foxes, bears, and leopards were very many, and he fell into a long discussion of the Altay Mountains. The discussion became more lively as they came to the spring Qamza had mentioned and as they sat drinking the thick tea boiled in the kettle and eating the buttery toqach. The important this was, Qamza, as it turned out, was very familiar not only with Altay, but with Chöchäk. This was exactly what Xojiniyaz had been waiting for. In his turn, he persistently put forth questions, asking about that land’s climate, terrain, towns, and routes of travel in detail, and learned many things about the habits and traditions of the Kazakh people.

They traveled a few days along the road in this manner, with warm conversation and entertainments, and came to not even notice their tiredness. However, the way Qamza would steer away from places where people collected was suspicious. This tendency of Qamza’s seemed a bit strange to Xojiniyaz. On the other hand, he was happy that it was helpful to him, as well.

“Another half-day and we’ll reach the territory of Chinggil,” said Qamza when they had come to a thick woods. He then suggested that they sleep there that night and, the next day, travel on. Xojiniyaz acceded to this suggestion. Then, after they had lit a large campfire and fed themselves excellently on kebabs of roasted meat and strongly-infused tea, they staked their horses well and fell asleep, contented, by the fire. Only the calls of near and distant birds and Qamza’s snores broke the nighttime silence.

In the middle of the night, Xojiniyaz was suddenly awakened. Qamza, who had lain snoring at his side, was no longer in his place. “Qamza, Qamza,” called Xojiniyaz, but there was not a sound from anywhere. He stepped out of his bed and looked around. The dark red-black horse that had been tied to Qamza’s lame mare seemed to have disappeared. He also found that the rifle he had placed under the saddle upon which he had rested his head was gone.

“Hey, bastard, you ran off with my horse and rifle! They say, if you travel with evil, you’ll get stuck halfway down the road, and, oh my goodness, now what do I do?”

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 52-54. New readers are encouraged to start from the beginning, Chapter One, Part One. This translation is presented for information and entertainment purposes only. New sections will be posted every Sunday, pending their completion and the satisfaction of the translator. It is also a work in progress – comments are welcome, especially on the (questionable) quality of the translation.

In Chapter Two, Part Five, the mysterious stranger Xojiniyaz was about to tell his story…

Chapter Three: “House Leopard”

“If not for the friendship of people, for what other purpose was the world created?”

- Abduraxman Jami

1

“Isn’t this young man the one who was in the notices from the General’s yamen?”

“You’re right, his thick eyebrows and round eyes, the whiteness of his face with his broad shoulders, hmm… It’s him.”

“I’d say you still haven’t observed his hands. Aren’t they longer than others’?”

“Right, right, they seemed that way to me, too. If he hadn’t said ‘I’m from Toqsun, my name’s Ishaq,’ he’d be the fugitive Xojiniyaz the notices talked about!”

“Alright, then what’ll we do? Do we say ‘I didn’t see anything at all!’ and get out of here, or…?”

Two young Kazakh men hobbled their horses in the black of night, in which nothing was discoverable, and talked in low voices. The mountain wind that gusted out of the east carried their words to the ears of Xojiniyaz Palwan, who sat, hiding, at the base of a great pine not five or ten steps away.

“Alright, so tell me, what’ll we do?” repeated one of the young men.

“I think it’s a lie that he’s Ishaq from Toqsun. Tomorrow morning, we’ll inform the bay, tie up his hands and feet, steer to the city, and turn him in at the yamen. If our luck is good and this is Xojiniyaz, we’ll get twelve ingots; if not, whatever. What do we have to lose?”

“In that case, may it be so. Come on, then, let’s get some shut-eye.”

After they had returned to their yurt twenty paces away, from the skylight of which a dim light could be seen, Xojiniyaz Palwan stood up and muttered, “Hey, thugs, your bad intentions will come back to you. Xojiniyaz Palwan won’t be taken alive!” He tore out a handful of grass and, chewed it, and began to spit.

“What do I have to do?” he thought, tearing up the ground just like an angered lion as he paced around in the darkness. A moment later, as though he had recalled something, he suddenly entered into clarity, and began to observe carefully the beaver-black dome of the sky. Sparse stars shone in the cloudless sky. His sharp eyes fixed on one of the points. This was the Iron Peg [Polaris]. “Ah, I’ve found it. In front of me is the shaded side, behind me is the sunny side, on my right-hand side is sunrise, and on my left-hand side is sunset. The further I walk towards sunset, the further I get from Qumul,” he said, deciding in his own mind. Then, going over to the horses that stood grazing, he took the hobbles off a familiar chestnut brown horse with a white dot on its head and hastily saddled it. He found the saddles that sat in front of the young men’s yurt, cut the stirrups[?] from both, and threw them far away. Making use of the nighttime darkness, just as he retrieved his fur coat from the tiny hut-like tent in front of the sheep pen, he tossed a piece of barley bread to the white-necked dog who was following him, mounted his chestnut brown horse with a white dot on its forehead, and, getting on the road, said, “Goodbye, Alipbay, I hope you’re happy with me. I’ve left my mare and ridden off on one of your horses. If I reach my destination safely, I will certainly return it.”

Read on in Chapter Three, Part Two!

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 44-51. New readers are encouraged to start from the beginning, Chapter One, Part One. This translation is presented for information and entertainment purposes only. New sections will be posted every Sunday, pending their completion and the satisfaction of the translator. It is also a work in progress – comments are welcome, especially on the (questionable) quality of the translation.

In Chapter Two, Part Four, Mäxsut Muhiti located a doctor for the injured Häsän Dolan, and Burhan Shähidi petitioned for the release of Yunus Bäg from jail…

Three days later, Yunus Bäg was released from jail. However, as though his having studied at a xuetang was not recognized, no work was given to him. Afterwards, with Mäxsut Muhiti’s invitation, he ended up teaching Chinese to an upper-level class at the Noghay Mosque’s school.

In the meantime, Ürümchi’s short-lived, precious summer ended, and autumn came in. Almost every day, the weather was overcast and depressing. Oh, indeed, the rain would fall and the chilly autumn winds would howl down the streets. Often, the wind would blow and strip the trees. Clusters of withered leaves wandered about in vagabondage like orphans and refugees, left without a homeland, unable to find anywhere to go.

On a day such as this, Häsän Dolan, too, said goodbye to the world. Sarixan and Tursun were as though drowning in the waves of their hot tears, about to lose consciousness.

“I tried every method I was able. There was nothing I could do,” said Doctor Pitrof in an extremely pained voice.

“Everyone is satisfied with you. A blood relative would do as much,” said Mäxsut Muhiti, pressing the doctor’s hand firmly.

The next day, after morning prayer, the funeral prayer was read, and some people carried Häsän Dolan’s coffin to the Hangching Cemetery. Mr. Häydär, Tahirbäg, Mäxsut Muhiti, and Yunus Bäg were among them.

When they had arrived at the cemetery, Mr. Häydär came to kneel before a pair of graves a little ways away and watched the people loudly chanting the Qur’an. These were the graves of Tömür Xälpä and Amanqul. Mr. Häydär’s thoughts were like birds flapping their wings far away, and they began to soar to who knows where. His dear friend in those times, Tömür Xälpä, Amanqul, and their lamentable end; bringing their coffins to this cemetery together with Gamaza the Tunggan; how the grave, dark and cruel as a tyrant king’s soul, had swallowed up in just a moment swallowed up courageous heroes like a tiger – sad memories like these passed in rows before his eyes, and he became morose, and they were urging tears from his eyes. Though he would come to this cemetery on every day of rest and at the time of every holiday and feast and dedicate his reading of the Qur’an to Tömür Xälpä and Amanqul, today, seeing a stranger come before Tömür Xälpä’s grave, for some reason, he could not restrain himself, and the urge came to cry out and weep.

After Häsän Dolan was buried, when the mosque’s imam began the chanting of the Qur’an among a semicircle of people, that stranger joined the crowd. Mr. Häydär did not take his eyes off of this stranger and, as he looked at him, he seemed to feel that the stranger had something his appearance that was pleasing to the eye.

This man was a, broad-shouldered, red-cheeked man of medium height, about forty years old, with a luminous face, with black eyes, sharp like those of an eagle, under thick eyebrows, and his chin covered with a thick black beard. The whip that hung on the wide belt he wore over his long, black corduroy cotton shirt and the brimmed white felt hat on his head showed that he was from a far-away place, newly come to Ürümchi. After the prayers, everyone rose from their seats. Mr. Häydär noticed that this man’s hands were a little longer than those of others.

“Who could this be?” thought Mr. Häydär. “He may be one of Tömür Xälpä’s relatives! Looking at his face and body and his clothes, he seems like someone from over in Qumul. There had also been some men of this countenance among Tömür Xälpä’s boys. If by some chance he turned out to be one of Tömür Xälpä’s relatives or boys, what a wonderful thing it would be.”

Thinking thus, he drew nearer to the stranger. As for the man, he went before to Tömür Xälpä’s grave with easy steps and stood silently, folding his hands. Signs of anguish were apparent on his dignified face. Mr. Häydär came over from off to the side and greeted him. The man immediately returned his greeting, shook Mr. Häydär’s hand with two of his own, and began to regard him as though surprised. This tall man, with his blond bangs showing below his truly black hat and his short moustache shot through with white, with his brown eyes kindly smiling, wearing a black serge coat and a grey scarf wrapped around his neck, seemed to remind him of a Tatar Muslim he had met sometime when he was on Russian soil.

“Don’t tire yourself, brother, and forgive me for drawing you into conversation without knowing you,” said Mr. Häydär without releasing his hands.

“What does sir mean? They say to answer respect with respect. I am very happy that sir has come before me with respect,” said the stranger humbly.

Mr. Häydär noticed his pronunciation and simplicity and, trusting his suspicions, threw a hand up to his broad shoulders and said, “If I’m not mistaken, I’d say you came from Qumul. Are you one of Tömür Xälpä’s relatives?” The stranger, as though acting rather cautiously, did not reply. Mr. Häydär continued:

“Don’t worry. I put the late Tömür Xälpä into the ground with my own hands, and this grave was made under my own guidance. My name is Häydär. I’m a teacher.”

The stranger’s round eyes started dancing around. This was because, some months ago, when he had asked a trader out of Ürümchi where Tömür Xälpä’s grave might be, the man told him not only where the grave was, but even related in detail with whose hands the grave had been made. Ever since then, he had firmly fixed the name Mr. Häydär in his heart and, having come to journey fatefully this time to Ürümchi, had kept in mind having a meeting with this teacher. Finally, just this wish had suddenly ended up coming true. Thus, unable to contain his own excitement, stretching his arms out wide, he embraced Mr. Häydär and, his tears flowing, said his own name only with difficulty.

This man had been one of Tömür Xälpä’s important comrades-in-arms, Xojiniyaz Palwan, also known as Xojiniyaz Hajim, who would become famous throughout Xinjiang.

“You’re Xojiniyaz Palwan?” cried out Mr. Häydär, holding him to his breast in turn.

As Mäxsut Muhiti and the others were waiting for him yet at the side of Häsän Dolan’s place, observing this situation and being surprised by it, Mr. Häydär gestured for them to come over and introduced this stranger to them. He said, “The one who stands before us, it seems, is he who was mentioned in announcements posted up in many lands by the General’s Yamen of King Sha Mäxsut and for whose capture twelve ingots were promised, Xojiniyaz Palwan.” Unable to contain their excitement, they all embraced him. A little after, Mr. Häydär invited them all for breakfast together at his home.

“So, you’ve finally gotten those twelve ingots, huh, sir?” joked Mäxsut Muhiti, getting on the road.

“Unfortunately, lucky for me, the shadow of the Angel Azrael seems to have fallen over the head of King Sha Mäxsut, who was to offer the reward, and his supporter General Yang has ended up going to Hell, as well,” said Mr. Häydär.

Everyone laughed.

So, they came to sit in the spacious room, growing dim with the late autumn sun, drinking tea and falling into animated conversation. Over the course of the conversation, Xojiniyaz Haji’s reason for coming to Ürümchi was cleared up. It became evident that, since King Sha Mäxsut had fallen ill with paralysis of the mouth, he had come to the intention to place his son, Näzär, on the throne and, with the goal of having his confirmed in the General’s yamen, sent many gifts and several emissaries before Yang Zengxin. As Yang Zengxin delayed with various trivialities, the Fan Yaonan incident occurred. Thus, Sha Mäxsut, with the excuse of making known his grief for Yang Zengxin, sent many gifts before Jin Shuren, along with his own taiji, Yüsüp Bäg. Xojiniyaz had come to Ürümchi as the chief of this very Yünüs Bäg’s guards and, over the past few days, being in Yüsüp Bäg’s service, had found the opportunity today to come to the grave.

Their conversation was so animated that, when lunch time came, no one but their host noticed. Extreme feudal hardship and the tyrant’s mad aggressions, the tricks and traps of sweet and evil gossip, cloaked in saintliness, and the detestable traditions of ignorance made legacy by the ignorance of the Middle Ages – Tömür Xälpä, the innocent sacrifice to these; Sha Mäxsut, who had sucked the hot blood of the people of Qumul for more than fifty years and who was cursed to lay paralyzed; Yang Zengxin, the defender of darkness and ignorance and parasitic ruler, and his fortuitous life; the fruitless result of Fan Yaonan’s political change; the lamentable end of the yellow-bearded carriage driver Häsän Dolan – these were the themes of the conversation. The common hopes that permeated the conversation, which is to say hopes of extraction, somehow, from oppression and tyranny, slowly brought them closer yet to Xojiniyaz Hajim, who had been a stranger just a little before, and, as the string of raw silk that strings together the beads of a rosary, it was tying the thread of friendship from soul to soul.

After lunch, before the guests dispersed, Tahirbäg invited all of those under Xojiniyaz Haji’s leadership to lunch the next day.

The next day, the conversation at Tahirbäg’s house became even more animated. Burhan Shähidi was there, as well. They finally heard of the Haji’s remarkable adventures after Tömür Xälpä’s uprising.

These adventures will be recounted to the reader below.

Read Xojiniyaz’s story in Chapter Three, Part One!

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 38-44. New readers are encouraged to start from the beginning, Chapter One, Part One. This translation is presented for information and entertainment purposes only. New sections will be posted every Sunday, pending their completion and the satisfaction of the translator. It is also a work in progress – comments are welcome, especially on the (questionable) quality of the translation.

In Chapter Two, Part Three, Mäxsut Muhiti went to seek a doctor for a badly-injured Häsän Dolan…

Not long after, a tall man clutching a little doctor’s bag came into the room with Mäxsut Muhiti. He greeted the guests in Russian and set immediately to work. This was the Russian consulate’s doctor, Pitrof. After Pitrof thoroughly examined the wounded man, he at once gave him a shot. Finally, to those in the room:

“His waist is broken, three ribs are snapped, his liver is badly poisoned, and his heartbeat is very faint,” he said, sighing.

“Is there hope of recovery?” asked Mr. Häydär.

“He should have been put up in hospital. Unfortunately, in your land, this is not possible.”

“Truly,” said Tahirbäg, “in our land, wherever there should be a hospital, there are only yamens to trouble people. Wouldn’t there be a way to put him up in your hospital?”

“This, it would be against diplomatic regulations. It’s only possible for me to continue making house calls.”

“Thank you, this is itself a great help,” said Mäxsut Muhiti, grasping the doctor’s hand.

Dr. Pitrof promised to continue treating Häsän Dolan as long as he was able. Everyone thanked him and saw him out together. Mäxsut Muhiti passed a handful of paper money to Sarixan and said, “Keep paying his expenses.” Seeing Sarixan’s continued hesitation, Mr. Häydär said, smiling, “Take it, take it. I’ll keep coming to see him, and we’ll keep coming by.”

In the meantime, Burhan Shähidi was on his way from Turpan. Since he knew what a suspicious and intolerant person Jin Shuren was, finding fault where there was none, he was worried that he would be implicated in the case of Fan Yaonan. However, since Yang Zengxin, a day before he had perished, had sent him to inspect road construction in Turpan, he was not especially worried. Just as was said, after Jin Shuren called him in front of him and asked him once of the situation, Jin said, “Keep working in confidence,” told him of some worries regarding the Kazakhs in Nanshan, and sent him to investigate the situation. This situation showed that Jin Shuren yet trusted Burhan Shähidi. Thus, after Burhan Shähidi returned from the mountains, he discussed matters with Mäxsut Muhiti and the others and set to work getting Yunus Bäg released from jail. For this reason, it would be absolutely necessary to meet with Jin Shuren himself.

“Emperors are like tigers, or so I have heard,” said Burhan Shähidi to his companions. “When tigers are hungry, it seems, they may even eat their own young, but, as for when their bellies are full and they lay on their backs, they do not even attack a gazelle that suddenly appears before them, but, it seems, may even play with them. No matter how true this may be, it does reflect one aspect of rulers’ dispositions. I will meet with Jin Shuren, but I think that, in order to make him listen, it is absolutely necessary to find the appropriate moment.”

Mäxsut Muhiti and the others agreed with this opinion.

Jin Shuren finished performing the mourning ceremony for Yang Zengxin, and, one day when he was peacefully absorbed in his daily work, he burst into his office around teatime and cheerfully greeted the yamen official (Burhan Shähidi was also among them) who stood, bowing, on the threshold. His mood seemed merry and his steps were vigorous. Since Burhan Shähidi had seen this people under the influence of opium become this vigorous and kind, he thought to himself, “The appropriate moment has arrived.” A few hours later, he entered Jin Shuren’s office with permission and, with all the trappings of etiquette, broached the subject of Yunus Bäg.

Jin Shuren just some few weeks before had been standing in the middle that luxurious, spacious office that belonged to Yang Zengxin, his head held high. He was a tall, crane-necked, droopy-eyelidded, beady-eyed, rather ugly man. His thin, grey, high-collared long satin shirt made him seem even taller. His recently-shaved bald head did not seem to go with his height. The white shayi silk shirt that could be seen from behind his half-open collar made his opium-blackened face seem even darker. This man was originally from Hezhu County in Gansu Province, and, when he was studying in places of learning in Gansu, he was already a follower of Yang Zengxin. In 1908, after Yang Zengxin had, on the orders of the Manchu Khan, come to Xinjiang from Gansu to work as an official, Jin Shuren had come, too, seeking refuge with him, and, with Yang Zengxin’s benevolence, governed Aqsu, the old city of Kashgar, Ürümchi, and other areas; in 1926, he had been raised to the Chief of the Bureau of Administrative Affairs. Then, unexpectedly, with the death of Yang Zengxin, good fortune came to him, and he was himself surprised when he became the highest official of a land as wide and as rich as Xinjiang, which took up one sixth of China’s land area. As they say, “When fortune comes, a fly on his head; on the day the Sumurgh comes, it will come to his side,” and, when many military and administrative officials, such as the education official Liu Wenlong, with knowledge and reputation many times his own, and Zhang Peiyuan, leader of many military forces, stood before him with their hands crossed in deference, he felt as if in a nighttime dream. However, as his own situation was revealed to him, he began to worry and think to himself, “On a bad day, wouldn’t these people be my enemies?” As the saying goes, “When the water doesn’t come, build a dam,” and he began to consider measures to face the enemies in his imagination. As he thought of it, the measures his master Yang Zengxin had used to rule would absolutely need to be his only guide. This is to say, on just this day, as this man named Burhan Shähidi, in the name of respected locals such as the head of the Yihui (Consultative Assembly), Rozi Hajim, and the delegate to the Presidential Election Committee, Tahirbäg, was politely requesting the release of a student named Yunus Bäg, if he took this opportunity, wouldn’t it capture the people’s hearts? What’s more, there was no evidence of Yunus Bäg taking part in this evil scheme. He had only been apprehended on suspicion of being an accessory. As such, wouldn’t freeing him be making jewels out of eggs?

Jin Shuren, thinking just these thoughts, took a seat at his work desk and suddenly asked:

“How long have you known Yu Wenbing?” (He meant Yunus Bäg.)

“Ten years,” said Burhan, not breaking contact with his appraising eyes.

“What did he think of General Yang?”

“He was very faithful.”

“In that case, how can you explain his closeness with the rebel Fan Yaonan?” asked Jin Shuren, knitting his brows.

“As the honorable General is aware, all teachers are fond of superior students. If only the honorable General were also a teacher, I think he would also be very fond of superior students. Even though Yu Wenbing is a Uyghur, he was one of the superior students at a Chinese-language school. His skill in oratory and composition surprises people. In the future, he may become one of the General’s faithful and component workers.”

Burhan Shähidi used the word “general” as much as possible and said it with a clear emphasis. Although Jin Shuren had announced himself publicly as the Chair and Chief Commander of the Xinjiang Provincial Government, having always been an administrative official, no one had yet called him “General” to his face. So, every time his ears heard the word “general”, a kind of satisfaction was reflected on his face. Finally, he came to ask, “Who will vouch for Yu Wenbing?” Then, Burhan Shähidi, thinking that all had gone well, emphasized once again that the local leaders Rozi Hajim and Tahirbäg would be able to vouch for him.

“And you?” said Jin Shuren.

“If the honorable General recognizes me as being qualified, with all my strength, I will also vouch for him.”

The Awakened Land – Chapter Two, Part Five

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 33-38. New readers are encouraged to start from the beginning, Chapter One, Part One. This translation is presented for information and entertainment purposes only. New sections will be posted every Sunday, pending their completion and the satisfaction of the translator. It is also a work in progress – comments are welcome, especially on the (questionable) quality of the translation.

In Chapter Two, Part Two, as the strictures of martial law eased, life in Ürümchi began to return to a certain normalcy…

3

As this conversation was going on, Mr. Häydär, in his elevated courtyard house’s spacious living room, with its windows opened to the road, was sitting with Tahirbäg and Mäxsut Muhiti, drinking koumiss and conversing gravely. These days, this slender Tatar teacher who had with his own hands put Tömür Xälpä in the ground came at last to appear a little hunched. The thick dust on the turning wheels of Heaven had alighted heavily, too, on his yellowish curly hair and short moustache.

“That day, looking at how Mr. Fan said, ‘I’ll call you all tomorrow to the General’s yamen,’” said Mäxsut Muhiti, fixing his day-dreamer eyes on the fluttering window curtain, “he seems to have really believed in himself. He must have thought that, if he saw Yang Zengxin off to the next world, it would all be over. Usually, when you kill a snake, crushing its head is sufficient. But the snake that was entangling the people of Xinjiang was not a one-headed snake; its whole body had to be crushed away.”

Mr. Häydär gazed at Mäxsut Muhiti with a curious ihtiras as though looking at him for the first time. Of course, Mäxsut Muhiti had taken a seat in the deepest part of his soul’s house, and every time he looked at him, his home – the beautiful city of Ufa, the childhood times passed there, his youth spent in the ancient city of Qazan and masters like Rizayidin binni Päxirdin who had cast the light of learning on his heart, and the days spent with the poet Abdulla Toqay, who had shone like a star in the heavens of Tatar literature, would come to his memory. The things Mäxsut Muhiti had said, when he had gone from the foothills of the Heavenly Mountains to distant Tatarstan, about the pitiable life of his people in benightedness and the mists of ignorance, still seemed to ring in the bases of his ears, and the young shoots that had grown up, after he had, with the invitation of this Uyghur educator, come from Qazan to the Junghar-Turpan Depression, in the long years passed with some comrades-in-arms in front of a blackboard, swallowing chalk dust, were as clear as a row of kariz trees before his eyes. Remembering days devoted to passing the spring of youth with hopeful labor and those comrades-in-arms who were with him in those days offered some comfort, as though with some miracle his graceful youth had returned.

As Mr. Häydär was coming to life with just these fine feelings, Tahirbäg added to Mäxsut Muhiti’s words thus:

“It seems that we have escaped from this vow and become bound to an oath of blood. Looking at Jin Shuren’s manner, he doesn’t seem to rely, like Yang Zengxin, on trickery, but on swords. In the twinkle of an eye, he’s linked more than ten men to Mr. Fan and executed them. He’s tossed over a hundred in prison under suspicion.”

“What will be the fate of Yunus Bäg?” said Mr. Häydär, worried.

“You could say that, with Mäxsut Muhiti’s gold, we’ve kept him out of mortal danger, for now. However, Mr. Burhan will be necessary to get him out of prison.”

“You’ve thought this out,” said Mr. Häydär, cheering up a little. “Mr. Burhan’s reputation in the yamen may finally come to use. According to his family, he should return from Turpan in one or two days.”

“In our homeland,” said Tahirbäg, beginning to speak again, his voice a little louder, “the lives of some people who possessed grand ideas have, in the end, turned to tragedy. Looking at the situation, it seems that the heavy-handed rule of Jin Shuren will cause the heroes of this tragedy to increase.”

Mäxsut Muhiti, lowering his koumiss-filled cup, said:

“If this heavy-handed rule goes on, the common people will wake up more quickly, I believe. As a child is lulled, it will fall fast asleep; if you shout out loudly, it will assuredly wake right up. Just as the sermons the priests give in the name of the Prophet Jesus put Russia to sleep for quite some time, the whip of the Four Emperors woke the Russian people up just the same. In my time in Moscow eight years ago, I heard words with precisely this meaning from a Russian person.”

At that time, a young child around the age of fifteen, wearing an old velvet doppa on his head, a white homespun shirt, black sateen leather trousers, and patched leather shoes enter the courtyard and slowly knocked on the half-open door. Mr. Häydär poked his head out of the living room’s window that faced the courtyard and said, in a soft voice, “Ah, are you Tursun? Come on in, boy, come on in.”

The child entered the living room through the corridor and politely greeted them. As though in awe of the guests, he ended up standing just inside the threshold, offering his hands. The fog of some deep affliction seemed to be piled up on his apple-round face and smiling bright dark blue eyes. Mr. Häydär said to his guests, “This is my student Tursun. His father is master Häsän axun, or Häsän Dolan, who drove Mr. Fan’s carriage,” and asked Tursun after Häsän axun.

Tears welled up in the child’s eyes, and he told how, some days before, his father had vanished; how they certainly couldn’t have come looking for his father because of the martial law; how, that morning, two soldiers had put his father in a four-wheeled cart and brought him home, half-dead; and how, in a moment of clarity, he had thought, “I should say goodbye to my teacher, if only he would come to me” and sent himself to this place. He turned away to hide his tears. Tahirbäg and Mäxsut Muhiti, suddenly recalling that yellow-bearded man, came almost simultaneously to Tursun’s side. Mr. Häydär stroked Tursun’s head and told him, “Don’t cry, boy, don’t cry! We’ll hear some news.”

“We’ll go, too,” said Mäxsut Muhiti, doing up his suit’s buttons.

The child left the room and ran as though he flew. Their house was in an ugly apartment block located on the narrow road across from the Soviet consulate. Häsän Dolan lay with his head bandaged on a resting platform in a dried-up low room. His wife Sarixan was waiting in front of the door for Mr. Häydär and the others with tears in her eyes. Häsän Dolan saw them and wanted to raise his head from the pillow, but lacked the strength. The guests sat close to him and began to ask him how he was. Häsän Dolan, as though listening with difficulty, thanked them and said, in the end:

“It seems like they have crushed my bones; at last there is no hope for this soul. I have given my only son, Tursun, to God, and otherwise to all of you. It would not be strange if he grew up under the patronage of education.”

Mr. Häydär spoke some comforting words to the ill man, muttering, “Could someone possibly have done this just to know where Mr. Fan’s car had been driven?” Everyone remaining there understood that this had been the reason for his arrest and for his torture. As for Häsän Dolan, since he did not want to tell them that they had done this because, under questioning, he had not said their names, he simply said, moaning, “The intentions of the new General remain evil; please be careful.” At that moment, his eyes, lightless as the dim stars that flicker among the clouds, seemed as though about to close.

Mäxsut Muhiti said, “No matter what, I’ll be back with a doctor,” and walked hurriedly outside. A silence fell over the interior of the room. Only the slow weeping of Sarixan and Tursun could be heard from the hallway.

>> Read Chapter 2, Part 4…

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 29-33. 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.

In Chapter Two, Part One, we witnessed the further interrogation of Fan Yaonan’s carriage driver. Part Two has, one might say, a certain resonance with life in Xinjiang today…

2

The atmosphere of peace and order that appeared as a result of Yang Zengxin’s “prudent” policies for administering Xinjiang had made Ürümchi seem like one dozing with his eyes half-closed under opium’s sweet high, silent, preoccupied. In black-doored courtyards, in low rooms, , flighty wives with their shameless laughter accompanied, on dap and dutar , spirited street songs that stripped the self-important sons of rich men like a young camel who will lose his fur in spring, in only a few months’ time; on the supas[1] of houses with blue curtains half-open, burning sheshä smoke and, from houses on crooked streets, the smells of näshä; the sounds of the clattering dice day and night in the gambling houses and the sound of someone saying “All in!” on a casino game of knuckle bones; in the many restaurants and taverns, people’s ceaselessly-hollered “gaoxing, gaoxing” and the shouts of “xanläylun” – these things made some people’s ears deaf and eyes blind. Not only did people seem as free as ants, raising and consuming their own daily bread, their hearts were divided half into their cradles, and they slept in a careless semi-consciousness. It was as though they had forever forfeited the greatest bestowal that nature has given humanity – feeling and sense, consciousness and reason…

The pandemonium that started with the sounds of a few bullets fired from the pistols of Fan Yaonan’s party suddenly shattered this “tranquility”. Then the city of Ürümchi was shocked like one suddenly frightened awake from a deep sleep by an earthquake. Over the course of three days of martial law, the city’s doors were locked, and all stores large and small, restaurants, and taverns were shut down. Rifle-wielding soldiers patrolled the streets. Horsemen, their sabers unsheathed, exited the city center and galloped about. Hundreds were taken prisoner. These things placed a terrible fear on the people’s soul. Everyone was worried for themselves, as old maids worry for a husband, and all people began to think about their own today and tomorrow.

The tall, hairless-faced owner of the opium store, a man named Wang Biao, who opened for business with the end of martial law, lowered his brows and spoke to his first customer thus:

“Hey, it’s gotten bad, hasn’t it, my sister. So if this new General puts restrictions on opium, my store will get sluggish, and I’ll be finished! General Yang was really broad-minded. As a result, wealth was getting abundant, and the times were getting easy.”

“You’ll have no trouble, Your Excellency,” said a thin, small-footed grandma, dividing up the opium, wrapped in yellow paper, and putting it in her pockets. “From what I hear, the new General’s a heavy smoker, himself. Didn’t the ancient wise men say, ‘That which you do not see fit for yourself, you should not see fit for others?’ Bye, then, I’m off, I’ve got a terrible craving.”

* * *

The bespectacled owner of a stylish shop in the city of Ürümchi located on the corner of an intersection wrapped pile after pile of paper money in cloths and slowly whispered to the white-capped young man who stood politely before him:

“Be quick, my child. Change these bills into gold and come back. Let’s not end up biting our lips again, holding onto General Yang’s bills…”

“Instead of getting gold, couldn’t we just get some textiles, Dad?” said the young man, buttoning under his armpit his long, collarless blue silk shirt, the tails of which kept falling to his ankles.

“Hey, you youths think so very simply. As they say, when the king changes, the world changes. Gold is what doesn’t burn in fire, what doesn’t tarnish in water. In the panic of the world, textiles are a burden to people. Starting today, if the price goes up just a little, all the textiles in the world will yet have to be changed to gold!”

* * *

“Take a listen to what I say,” said black-bearded, great-bellied Mamut Dokar, causing Turdi Alighay, who sat before him with his legs folded underneath his chair, to straighten up nervously. “Starting today, don’t even sell a grain of wheat. Take this money here. Tell some of those guys of yours, starting tomorrow, they should block all of the roads to Changji, Turpan, and Guchung and buy all of the grain that comes through. You yourself hire two day laborers and build the granaries.”

“Even if it’s barley or corn, should we buy it?”

“Hey, stupid, what am I saying? Even if it’s millet, buy it. Tomorrow or the next day, the price will multiply by ten. The times when ‘barley and wheat are rice, and pearls are rocks’ seem to be returning. Got it?!”

* * *

That day, after the midday prayer, as two men with the countenance of mullahs sat resting on the resting supa of the Könchi[2] neighborhood’s mosque, discussing some topic with interest, one of them, cleaning his turban which had gotten dirty, spoke thus to his nearby companion:

“Truly, sir, truly. Whomever your older brother marries, it seems she will be your sister-in-law. So Yang left us, so Jin came to us. Whoever is emperor, they will be emperor, and to people like us, the communities of the Way[3], it is all the same. In short, if there is no trouble to our mosques and xaniqas[4], no disturbance of the judgments of shari’a, if we can do our peaceful worship in this evanescent world and then gather our sins for the immortal world, we will be thankful for this.”

“Insha’alla, may that it be as he says, my master. According to some holy stories that lighted upon his humble servant’s ears, that gentleman who shot General Yang may have perhaps had some support for the heretic Jadids.”

“The Jadids?”

“Yes, the Jadids.”

“Ya’alla, generous God himself, it seems, has protected us! If those devils had achieved their goals, the Jadidist gentlemen would have made a lucky roll and opened ‘scientific’ schools, and we’d have obeyed them in enticing our children from religion! Hey, hey, hey. General Yang was an outstanding figure, wasn’t he. He was especially good to people like us from the communities of the Way, so concerned about our mosques and xaniqas.”

>> Read Chapter 2, Part 3…

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter Two, pp. 25-29. 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.

In Chapter One, Part Four, the plan of the progressive official Fan Yaonan to take control of the Xinjiang government failed in bloodshed. Fan Yaonan’s carriage driver has been detained for questioning…

Chapter Two: The Stranger

“What is the use of vows? They are not what binds people. If you feel in a certain way about a thing, that binds you to it; if you don’t feel that way, nothing else can bind you.”

- E. L. Voynich, The Gadfly

1

The soldiers tied the half-stripped carriage driver to a pillar and began to whip him. In a moment, they made his hairy chest and broad shoulders as mottled as a tiger’s skin. Drops of blood were leaking out from the tracks of the whip. As for the carriage driver, his bald head falling back against the pillar and his eyes closed tightly, he was shaken by every blow from the whip, but he said not a word. His soiled badam doppa lay crushed under the soldiers’ boots.

Around this time, that fat officer stumbled in and, grabbing his beard, said, “Yes, very singku. Now maybe you have come to your memory. So, tell me, recently, whose homes did he visit?” He began the interrogation again. The mouse-moustached interpreter translated for him in his thin voice just like that of a woman. However, as the carriage driver, having driven Fan Yaonan’s carriage a long time, knew Chinese quite well, before the interpreter was finished speaking, he opened his eyes wide, riveting them upon the interrogator, and said, “I told you I don’t remember! I don’t remember!” At that instant, indescribable sparks of rage were jolting from his eyes and tongue. The interrogator unconsciously let go of his beard and retreated a step. But, catching himself, he began angrily to slap the carriage driver. A moment later – perhaps his hand may have hurt – he ceased his hitting and yelled, “You will not say, no?!”

As this light haired man with deep-set eyes was originally from Mäkit, people called him Häsän Dolan. Once upon a time, he had left his hard life, going to “the other side of the mountain” across an icy mountain pass, then spent his youth wandering among the coal mines of Ghulja and later serving in the ranks of the horse grooms of the wealthy Uyghur of Ürümchi, Rozi Haji, having a home and hearth. After Fan Yaonan was appointed to the mayorship of Ürümchi, he had begun, through Rozi Haji’s introduction, to drive Fan’s carriage. Because, as he himself had said, “Mr. Fan was a dishonest, but also a compassionate and gentle man,” Fan would often ask after him, took care of him, and would pour his heart out to him as to a friend. Those words that Fan Yaonan had explained to him with simple expressions and “occasional hand signals” especially seemed somewhat strange to him, but felt as a lamp lit to a dark room:

“It’s not right to call you chantou. Your original name is Uyghur. It is even written as such in our ancient books.” “Uyghur, Han, Kazakh, Uzbek, and other nationalities are blood relatives to each other. They must be equal, and none of them looked down upon. Among the government’s yamuls, there is not one official from a local nationality. This is not good.” “The current yamuls are like a bunch of hordes of bedbugs that drink the blood of the common people. The officials are tyrannical, black-hearted, corrupt opium addicts, and, until they are gone, the common people’s days will not be good.”

One day, when Fan Yaonan saw a Soviet-made notebook and two pencils held in Häsän Dolan’s hand, he said, “How are your son’s studies?” Häsän Dolan told him how his son was just about to finish his fifth year, but that, from now on, there was no higher school in which he could study in his mother tongue.

Of course, in those days, there was only one elementary school in Ürümchi that taught in an ethnic language, and this was the “Noghay” mosque school built with money from wealthy Tatars and Uzbeks in the Nanliang District. Mäxsut Muhiti had invited the teachers from Tatarstan, and one of them was the man known as Mr. Häydär.

After Fan Yaonan heard Häsän Dolan’s words, he said, in a pained voice:

“This is what you’re seeing: up until now, Xinjiang hasn’t had a single school started by a government of the local nationalities, and now the government absolutely does not want there to be education among the local nationalities. However ignorant the people are, that’s how happy the government will be. This is because, they think, leading an ignorant people is easy.”

As Häsän Dolan was listening to such words as these, he was coming to understand that Fan Yaonan was indeed different from other officials, and his rather hairless, emaciated face, too, seemed luminous to the eye, and his voice was become more pleasing to the ear. He was, then, not just Fan Yaonan’s carriage-driving servant, but was known perhaps as Fan Yaonan’s sincere friend, and he believed that, if Fan Yaonan were Xinjiang’s General, it would certainly be a benefit to the land.

“Hey, blood-suckers, I understand very well why you’re troubling me,” thought Häsän Dolan while under interrogation. “You’ve not had your fill of Mr. Fan’s blood, and now you want to eat the heads of those close to him. Would I tell you that Mr. Fan had gone to see Tahirbäg, that he met with Mäxsut bay, that he went last week to Mr. Häydär’s house, as well? Curse this tongue of mine. If I die under blows, may I die that I do not speak their names. If my life is ruined for goodness, and my death for evil, may all the good people disappear in your hands? No, no! Look, this round-as-a-skin-bag rat, he means to slap me as though slapping a small child, does he still want to open my mouth! Stop, vermin, you’ll really see…”

“Will you talk, or not?!” yelled the interrogator once again.

“Free my hands, then I’ll talk,” said Häsän Dolan. The interrogator thought for a moment, then gave a signal to the soldiers.

When Häsän Dolan had for a moment massaged his hands’ wrists and joints, freed from the rope, he said, “Here’s what I say,” and, with one blow from his fist, felled the interrogator. Stumbling away with the shackles on his feet, he, too, fell to the ground. The soldiers panicked and, in the upset, surrounded him on all sides like hungry wolves.

>> Read Chapter 2, Part 2…

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter One, pp. 20-24. 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.

In Chapter One, Part Three, the progressive official Fan Yaonan succeeded in his plan to overthrow Yang Zengxin. We last left him and his party making their way to the General’s yamen…

3

The General’s yamen was not very far from the scene of the incident. Fan Yaonan forced his way into the Military Office, located in the yamen’s third hall. He retrieved Yang Zengxin’s name stamp, wrapped in yellow cloth, from its case, and abruptly called high-level officials to a meeting, sending messengers with the urgent news.

Chief of Bureaucratic Affairs Jin Shuren had left that ceremony with a craving for opium, lying down under the “shisha dome”. When he read the urgent news brought by a messenger, he was momentarily dumbfounded, then got up from the kang and began to pace back and forth. Previously, since he had, with his submissive and obedient nature, served his master, looking upon Yang Zengxin’s face and being seen warmly in his eyes, he had been moved from the Ambal of Ürümchi to his present position. “What must be done?” he found himself thinking feverishly.

At that moment, the son of that military officer who had eaten fire together with Yang Zengxin, Regiment Commander Du Gaoji, entered in a panic and asked Jin Shuren, invoking protection on the basis of their being of the same geographical extraction, for help in taking revenge on Fan Yaonan in the name of his father. Right behind him, another old compatriot of Fan Yaonan’s, the military officer Zhang Peiyuan, came in and said that he had mobilized an entire battalion of soldiers to punish Fan Yaonan. Just then, Jin Shuren, as though having located some new intelligence, became filled with energy and left the room in the manner of a commander-in-chief of all the forces gathered to exact General Yang’s revenge. Shortly, several hundred rabble soldiers came to action and surrounded Fan Yaonan’s party.

After an exchange of fire lasting more than an hour, Fan Yaonan, whose companions had all perished, desired to shoot himself, but, as all of the ammunition in every pair of Mausers was depleted, he came to be taken alive by his enemies.

The “victors” had tied him to a pillar, and they were forcing him to give the names of his collaborators. As for him, as though taking no notice of the continuously-striking whip, clubs, and hard fists, he held his head high and his lips tightly closed, saying nothing. Even his sparse moustache was pulled out. His entire body was drenched with blood. Again, he brought no one’s name to his tongue.

Finally, Jin Shuren burst in and began to pull off his flesh from his thin body, piece by piece, with pliers. At that moment, Fan Yaonan spat, hard, at Jin Shuren. A piece of flesh mixed with blood connected with Jin Shuren’s face. This was his chewed-off tongue. Du Guoji pulled out his sword and plucked out both of his eyes. After this, realizing the uselessness of interrogating him, Jin Shuren shot him dead by his own hand. Soldiers threw his body from the top of the yamen wall to the street. That night, a middle-aged woman who worked as a servant in Fan Yaonan’s house and that yellow-bearded carriage driver found a carriage and took his body away to a cemetery in Liudaowan.

Hence, two great characters on Xinjiang’s political stage disappeared in the one same day. Headmaster Zhang Zhongshi had met with tragedy in that firefight. The official who had given the general’s seal to Fan Yaonan was likewise shot dead that day.

The next day (the Eighth of July), notice papers, impressed with the great four-cornered red stamp, were stuck up at every bend in Ürümchi’s roads. These notices were written in Chinese and Uyghur, and Jin Shuren had declared himself the Xinjiang government’s provisional Chairman and commander. That night, martial law was declared in the city, and arrests began. Among the arrested were the young man called Yunusbäg and that yellow-bearded carriage driver.

The carriage driver was interrogated that very night. An officer, fat like a wineskin, with uncreased eyelids, questioned him with the help of a mouse-moustached man with hands and feet fine like those of a mantis.

“Who sent you to bury the body of the rebel Fan Yaonan?”

“I went under my own volition.”

“What do you mean, you went under your own volition? Hadn’t you heard that he had shot General Yang?”

“I had heard,” said the carriage driver, clanging the shackles on his feet.

“Then, why did you show favor to that rebel, why do you mourn for him?”

“Mr. Fan was a dishonest, but also a compassionate and gentle man. For so many years I have driven for him, and he never one gave me grief.”

“Save your words. Recently, whose houses did he go to?”

“I don’t remember!”

“Speak kindly. Whose houses did he go to?”

“Whose do I remember? Wherever he said to go, I would drive him there in my carriage.”

“In that case, it seems we will have to cure your forgetful disease,” said the interrogator, jumping to his feet.

Four soldiers with their sleeves rolled up to their shoulders burst in like bullets and stripped the carriage driver.

>> Read Chapter 2, Part 1…

The following is a serial translation of Abdurehim Ötkür’s 1985 historical novel Oyghanghan Zemin, Chapter One, pp. 14-20. 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.

In Chapter One, Part Two, the progressive official Fan Yaonan and his co-conspirator Zhang Zhongshi set their plan to assassinate Yang Zengxin in motion. When we last left Fan Yaonan, he was admiring his friend Tahirbäg’s library.

Having viewed the books and journals, Fan Yaonan briefly investigated those in languages with which he was unfamiliar and said, finally:

“This library of yours has gotten quite rich. It seems one could sit in this room and see a large part of the world. If libraries like this became more plentiful in Xinjiang, it would be as though rays of sun had scattered here, and it would slowly begin to be enlightened.”

“At that time,” laughed Mäxsut Muhiti, “it’ll be rough for ignorant bats like General Yang, and for them mouse holes will seem as palaces.”

Everyone laughed. A short while later, Fan Yaonan begged his leave, and Tahirbäg and the others saw him off at the gate.

“Oh, I wanted to say, hasn’t anyone seen Mr. Burhan?” asked Fan Yaonan, stopping before the door. Tahirbäg said that he was preparing to go to Turpan the next morning, having received an important order from General Yang.

“Farewell,” said Fan Yaonan, getting into his carriage. “See you tomorrow. I’ll call you all tomorrow to the General’s yamen.”

Regret for the past, dissatisfaction with the present, hope for tomorrow – this is a sort of rational formula that interminably governs human life. Usually, however, humanity’s tomorrow is accompanied by unexpected events. Perhaps for this reason, despite their having been together for so long that day, Fan Yaonan’s “I’ll call you all tomorrow” rather surprised Tahirbäg and the others. As though their souls sensed something, they began to worry.

“Why would he call us tomorrow?” asked Tahirbäg, whispering slowly.

“Hey, I dunno, I didn’t understand anything,” said Mäxsut Muhiti, shaking his head.

2

Just as he had said, the next day in Ürümchi, an entirely unexpected incident came to pass.

Although this day was a Sunday, as the sun moved through the vapor from its apex, the carriages of military and government officials had begun to flow en masse towards a luxurious courtyard house that stood in view of the Buddhist temple standing upright on a mound of earth by Ürümchi’s North Gate. As the Teknikum of Russian Governmental Law, in those days considered Xinjiang’s place of highest learning, was located in just this courtyard, as we said above, the graduation ceremony of the first class of students was to be held there that day. In a long hall decorated with red and green banners, more than a hundred people were sitting quietly, all waiting for someone or other.

Right at the moment when tea was being served, among the melodious sounds of the military orchestra, a striking man with a high collar, a colorful ribbon under a short white military jacket, and all kinds of shiny medals pinned to his chest appeared on stage with a small group of others. In response to thunderous applause, this man straightened his gold-embroidered, white-tasseled peaked cap, smiled and waved at the people in the hall, and took a seat in deepest part of the stage. This was Yang Zengxin. The Soviet Consul, Kawlof, also took his seat with the high-level officials in this party.

The attention of everyone in the hall was on Yang Zengxin. It was as though they were looking for the first time at this pleasant, talented, intelligent, and respect-worthy elder statesman. They did not move their eyes from him. He, himself, sat among his loyal followers, smiling evenly with kindness to everyone, a compassionate elder sheikh. Only the Consul Kawlof alone, expelling light blue rings with the tobacco in his mouth, sat as though entirely unconcerned, holding himself upright.

After Fan Yaonan had come to the podium and finished joyously announcing the commencement of the ceremony, and once he had finished declaring “My deep gratitude for His Excellency General Yang’s honoring us with his presence,” he invited the Chief of the Bureau of Education to speak. After that, with Fan Yaonan’s invitation, among the sounds of joyful applause, Yang Zengxin crossed over to the podium. Despite his having aged, he held his massive frame erect and spoke spiritedly in a booming voice. Finally, he concluded his long-drawn-out speech with these words:

“I don’t have a lot to say to you all. To sum up, I only have one sentence to say: You are all Xinjiangese, just tomorrow you will enter society, don’t mess up this place’s business. You should keep in mind: if, in the positions to which you will go, there happens to be any kind of activity that talks of ‘Revolution, revolution,’ my sword will play first upon your heads…”

As he spoke, the Chief of the Bureau of Administrative Work, Jin Shuren, succumbed to a craving for opium and sat yawning deeply. Finally, he curled up and held his belly and, just when Yang Zengxin’s speech had ended, asked for and received his permission to leave.

After the student representative Yunusbäg’s words, the ceremony concluded, and the guests were invited to a banquet.

Some soft chairs had been placed in a smallish hall in the interior of the courtyard. Yang Zengxin was placed at a table in the middle with some high-ranking officials. At the next table, the Consul Kawlof, in a grey suit and trousers, sat with his pretty wife, dressed in a white hat and a white blouse. Fan Yaonan and several other chief officials sat at this table, as well. In his capacity as this teknikum’s Chief Invigilator, he too sat in the manner of a master of his house. The rest of the tables were likewise filled with officials. Commonly-dressed footmen stood fanning the guests with large fans made of birds’ wings. Workers with white aprons spread under their blue shirts, perspiring, shuttled back and forth between the kitchen and the middle of the hall. Yang Zengxin’s eight personal bodyguards and those of other officials were being treated as guests in separate houses in the exterior courtyard.

Yang Zengxin would sort of shake his massive frame and dexterously extend his fat fingers to sit and joke, “Gaoxing,” with the official sitting next to him and win over his own enemies, cackling in a booming voice. At the other tables, as well, the sound of laughter rang out, “Gaoxing, gaoxing.”

In the meantime, the Teknikum’s Headmaster, Zhang Zhongshi, pushed the bottle standing before him towards Fan Yaonan.

“Ready?” said Fan Yaonan, looking at him.

“Hm,” said Headmaster Zhang Zhongshi, suddenly glancing at the short servant holding a fan next to the table where Yang Zengxin was sitting.

Fan Yaonan filled the glasses with alcohol, stood up, and invited Consul Kawlof to make a toast. Simultaneously with the invitation, that short, fan-holding servant pulled a pistol from his bosom and pulled the trigger. Like kernels of corn, two pieces of lead, like flower buds, made Yang Zengxin’s massive form shudder. This man, who had drunk the blood of some tens of heroes like Tömür Xälpä, who had been the death of stars of learning and knowledge like Abduqadir Damolla, and who had lived happily sitting on the despotic throne for seventeen years, continuing the darkness of the Middle Ages in the environment of the twentieth century, screamed loudly and, lost for words, with the third shot, fired by Fan Yaonan, fell to the ground on his face. That military official who had enjoyed himself with him, gaoxing – he, too, ate fire with another companion of his and became free of life.

In the hall, filled with whitish smoke from the pistols of Fan Yaonan’s party, a terror like that of the Day of Judgment was prevailing. The sound of rifles pervaded the outer courtyard, as well. One of Yang Zengxin’s half-drunk bodyguards who was still left alive was kneeling at the base of a wall, prostrating himself, begging someone for his life. When another one, quite possibly the leader of the bodyguards, resolutely resisting Fan Yaonan’s party, came to the threshold of the inner hall, a bullet sent him tumbling. Someone took his Mauser, lying on the ground, and clamped it to his belt. At that moment, as Yang Zengxin’s corpse was being thrown around, the eye of Fan Yaonan, who had seized the key from Yang’s pocket, came to rest on Consul Kawlof. Kawlof was leading his wife, whose face had turned as pale as a wall, hurriedly out the side door.

“You’re in no danger at all!” Fan Yaonan shouted, his Russian pronunciation a little broken.

Fan Yaonan, who up until this moment had been known to people as a schoolboy, had finally, like a commander of the front lines waving his hands, expertly given orders to his own companions and thus got his own troop of twenty or so men behind him and headed, running, towards the General’s yamen.

>> Read Chapter 1, Part 4…

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…