The Silent Steppe: The Memoir of a Kazakh Nomad Under Stalin by Shai͡akhmetov Mukhamet; Butler Jan

Author:Shai͡akhmetov, Mukhamet; Butler, Jan [Shai͡akhmetov, Mukhamet; Butler, Jan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Shai͡akhmetov, Mukhamet, Collectivization of agriculture, Teachers, Ethnic relations
ISBN: 1585679550
Publisher: New York, N.Y. : Overlook/Rookery Press
Published: 2007-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

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In the days of that appalling famine, you would see hordes of homeless beggars wandering along the main roads between the towns and villages. But the roads between the small aul in isolated areas were uncannily deserted. There was very little movement between the main estates of the collective farms, and the traditional socialising that went on between people in neighbouring aul had almost ceased due to the lack of transport.

It was along one of these deserted roads that I walked fifteen kilometres without meeting a soul, until I reached the aul that had once been the centre of the Topterek collective farm. I had never been to it before, because it had only been set up over the past two years, during collectivisation - so I did not know how to find the houses of my closest relatives. I stopped by the first hut I came to, unsure whether to go inside and ask directions. Fortunately, a boy came out of the next hut, pointed to the one I was standing beside and told me it belonged to Rakhimzhan and Alzhan Mukazhanov - the cousins who had looked after our hidden rugs, and sent me off on my terrifying ride across the frozen Irtysh.

I did not know what kind of reception to expect. Though renowned for their hospitality, Kazakhs react differently to guests they have never set eyes on before, particularly when they turn out to be relatives from some distant aul asking for charity ‘in God’s name’ and calling themselves ‘God’s guests’. The welcome extended to these guests depends first on the hosts financial circumstances and then on his generosity and sense of obligation. It was two years since my relatives in this village had seen me: how was I to know if they would guess that the emaciated lad was the same boy they had known? Then you had to take into account that the famine had forced many of the most welcoming people to renounce their national traditions of hospitality and duty to close relatives. I went into the two brothers’ house with great trepidation, like a hunter creeping up to the den of a sleeping bear.

I carefully opened the door into the front room and quietly stepped inside. There were three women sitting in the room who, I could tell at once, were the grandmother and her two daughters-in-law - Aimysh, the elder of the two, and Nukhan. Catching sight of me in the doorway, all three stared at me with eyes full of wonder and fear. A second later, as though at the wave of a magic wand, all three gasped in unison, ‘Oibai-ai [My God], it’s Mukhamet! Is it really you?’

Sitting up on a bed, wrapped up to her waist in blankets, the other grandmother Maria called me to her in a quavering voice, embraced me and hugged me tightly to her for a long time, kissing me. Her daughters-in-law then came up and did the same, if less effusively. Then they started

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