Borders divide Central Asians

By Adiba Ataeva
In western Uzbekistan

It's six o'clock in the morning and the pitiless sun is already dissipating the coolness of night.

Uzbek traditions withstood decades of Soviet rule

The roads are empty, but alongside them in the cotton fields, farmers are already at work, clearing the weeds.

We set out early to avoid the heat of the day, and now our car is fast approaching the border with Turkmenistan.

Looking at the clear blue sky, I think that for the first time in six years, I will be able to visit our ancient graveyard, offer prayers beside my ancestors' graves and at the Shrine of Ismamut Ata.

The shrine is thought to be that of one of the Prophet Mohammed's disciples, who came to Central Asia in the 7th Century, just before the Arab army, to convert local Zoroastrians to Islam.

His shrine is in the middle of the cemetery and over the centuries, its own walls became buried under other graves.

This region came under the Khiva khanate - a system set up by local rulers, before the Bolsheviks occupied it in 1920.

When the Soviet government carved up Central Asia into five republics, most of the Khiva khanate was given to Uzbekistan and the rest went to Turkmenistan.

By this twist of fate, villagers, who bury their dead in the cemetery, were separated from their ancestors by an internal border. This caused no problem for almost 70 years of Soviet rule, because borders within the USSR were largely symbolic.

As a child I remember going to the graveyard every August.

It was a tradition for people from the villages and their relatives in the cities to go to the cemetery on an annual pilgrimage. The elders would decide the day of the pilgrimage and the news would spread quickly by word of mouth.

In all, at least 100,000 people travelled to the graveyard, and some would stay for three days.

When everyone had gathered there, the area looked like a huge campsite.

Each extended family would pitch a tent, sacrifice a sheep, cook in huge pots, visit the tents of endless relatives, and go to the market set up nearby.

Then, my mother would wash me, cover my head with a scarf and take me to the graves and to the shrine.

Border tensions

But the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991 changed everything.

Uzbek President Islam Karimov has tightened security

When I last tried to visit the graveyard four years ago, the Central Asian borders were already very real - with guards, border posts, visas and even border tariffs imposed between neighbours.

Every time a row erupted between two Central Asian states, borders could be sealed without prior warning.

The war against terrorism has made things even worse.

Uzbekistan has planted unmarked minefields along its borders with Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan - which have killed several dozen ordinary citizens. Visiting a relative on the other side of the frontier has become risky.

Back in 1999 I couldn't cross the border. Turkmen soldiers turned me back. I told them I had travelled thousands of miles to get blessings at the shrine - but it didn't help.

I realised then that from now on, there would always be an invisible wall between the graveyard and us. The feeling was so painful that I cried.

Divided families on both sides of the border kept complaining to the Turkmen and Uzbek governments.

In the end, both agreed that people from border areas could cross the frontier for five days, but they would have to pay $6 each. An average monthly salary here is about $15.

Abandoned by luck

Our car is slowing down - we have reached the border. It doesn't look busy - several young boys run towards us offering cans of petrol smuggled from Turkmenistan.

We have all our paperwork at hand - all the right stamps in our passports and enough money. I am sure we'll have no problem this time.

My father goes off to talk to the border guards.

After a few minutes he comes back. Avoiding my eyes, he tells us that the Turkmens have sealed off the frontier for 10 days. Apparently, an important meeting is being held in the border town, and there is nothing we can do.

Feeling empty and helpless, we turn back, heading home. On our way, we stop in the village my parents came from and have tea with my father's friend. We talk about the graveyard, recalling happy memories of our pilgrimages and how things were once much simpler.

"But now our life here has become extremely hard," he tells us. "People have no money, no jobs. We are struggling to live. Luck has left us. This is all because we don't get blessings from the shrine any more."

I don't know when I'll visit Uzbekistan again, but every time I am there, I'll keep going to the border, hoping that one day I'll make it to the other side.