Lali broke loose from Ana’s hold and ran down the road. Mehrigul slid off the cart. Held the soft goodness of Lali tight to her, until Lali wiggled free and pulled her down so she could whisper.
“Na wei nushi xihuan ni de Lanzi ma?” Lali said. “Did the lady like your basket?”
Mehrigul flinched at the sounds of the Mandarin. “Let’s only speak our beautiful Uyghur tonight. Our secret language can wait for another day,” she said. “You see, this is a very special occasion. The lady did like my basket.” She gave Lali another hug.
“Lali, there’s a package for Ana on the cart. You run along. Take it to her right away. Then you must help her. Do whatever she tells you.” Mehrigul rubbed her belly and licked her lips, and Lali did the same. “Go,” Mehrigul said, pushing Lali on her way.
Surely Ana would guess that the day had been a success. She would notice that the white cotton bag she’d made for Mehrigul no longer swung from her arm.
It was hard to stay at Ata’s side. There was nothing to be done with the cart that he couldn’t do by himself, but Mehrigul knew she couldn’t run ahead. Whatever version of the story was told, it had to be Ata’s.
They both walked beside the cart, heading around the back of the house toward the shed. In spite of the pain in her hands, Mehrigul raked dirty straw from the shed and carried in fresh. As Ata was releasing the donkey from the harness, she took the bucket to get water from the spigot.
“Mehrigul?” a quiet voice called as she headed back to the shed.
“Chong Ata?” He was by the door of his workroom, squatting in the darkness. “Oh, Chong Ata.” She dropped the pail and ran to him. Squatted beside him. “The American lady loved our basket. She thought it very valuable. Because of the bamboo.”
“No, Granddaughter, because of what you did with it. Anyone can prepare bamboo.”
Mehrigul put her hands over Chong Ata’s as they rested on his knees. “You must teach me how. I want to learn everything your father taught you. Weaving is not enough to know. And we will somehow gather tamarisk from the desert. Only you, Chong Ata, can teach me how to weave the spirit of our people into a basket.”
“That cannot be taught, Mehrigul, but it is something you already know. I saw it in your basket. Still, there will be much for you to learn. Come spring . . .” He paused. His head fell to his chest as he looked away. “There will be much we can do,” he said in a voice Mehrigul could hardly hear.
She heard and could only think of the love and wisdom she must leave behind if forced to go. Or . . . that Chong Ata might leave her even if she wasn’t sent away. “I hope, Chong Ata, that we—that you—will have a good, warm winter, so we can get to our work when spring arrives.” Mehrigul urged him to his feet. “Come,” she said, “you go inside. I’ll take the pail to Ata.”
Mehrigul was thankful for the darkness that swallowed the lingering traces of daylight. It hid the moisture that clouded her eyes.
Ata did not ask what had taken her so long. He took the pail and put it in front of the donkey, now roped inside the shed. He had gathered the twigs they needed for the night. They each picked up a bundle and headed for the house.
By the time they had laid the twigs at the door, Ana was beside them. She had a basin in one hand. In the other she held a copper pitcher. She gestured to Ata to hold his hands over the basin.
For a moment, Ata stood stiffly beside her. Slowly, as if lifting heavy weights, he raised his hands. Mehrigul wondered why he was resisting this return to their long-abandoned ritual. A practice that seemed to have no place in these times—primitive, Chinese officials called it. They feared the customs the Uyghurs clung to. Was Ata afraid they might get caught and punished?
He held his hands steady while Ana poured water over them. He rubbed his hands together. Twice more the ritual was repeated. As was the custom, Ata did not shake his hands dry; that would have been impolite and unlucky. He waited until Lali, who stood beside Ana, offered him a towel. He used it and returned it to her.
Ata’s black eyebrows were still pinched together, suggesting some kind of lingering distrust or anger, as he went inside the house. With the yuan in his pocket, couldn’t he allow himself a few moments of contentment with his family?
Mehrigul’s legs almost collapsed under her as her thoughts overwhelmed her. He still had the yuan, didn’t he? He’d left her, gone off into the market. What if he’d owed money . . . maybe to people like Osman? And had already paid it off?
Mehrigul barely felt Lali take her arm and lead her to the ritual bowl. She knew she must not let her fears disturb the sanctity of the honor Ana was bestowing upon her. She held up her hands. Three times Ana sprinkled water over the bandages. Three times Mehrigul rubbed her hands and tried to let the power of the ritual washing calm her. Lali lifted the towel and gently patted the wet cotton, then walked with Mehrigul to the eating cloth and helped her to sit at Chong Ata’s side.
“Lali, come, bring tea to your ata and Mehrigul. They’ve had a busy day at market.” Ana was already at the kitchen ledge, pouring tea into bowls.
The tea was set in front of them in a most solemn way. Lali had never tried so hard to please. Mehrigul forced her lips into a straight line to keep from smiling. For a moment she let the warmth and tenderness she felt for Lali and Chong Ata, and even for Ana, overcome her fears. Hard times had weighed down the family for years. Their survival had only lately become Mehrigul’s burden, too. Perhaps she understood more now.
As she reached to cup her hands around the tea bowl, to feel its warmth, Mehrigul saw that everyone was looking at her. She lowered her head. “Ata?” she said.
“Perhaps Mehrigul would like me to tell her news,” he said.
Mehrigul pulled her hands back. Folded them in her lap. She hated the mocking way he’d said the words. She didn’t know what to expect, but Ata knew he’d have to say something, at least about the money. Pati and her mother knew.
She heard Ana catch her breath. When she looked up, Ata was silently laying out money on the eating cloth. One-hundred-yuan notes. There were twenty of them. Ata had not spent her money for the mutton, or for her scarf.
“The American lady paid a high price for Mehrigul’s basket,” Ata said. “There is an arrangement for her to buy more, if Mehrigul is not—”
“My sister’s famous,” Lali said, her eyes growing wider and wider.
“I was very lucky, Lali, that someone saw my basket and really wanted it.” Mehrigul beckoned to her sister. “Come, sit next to me. I haven’t changed one bit.”
With Lali nestled close, Mehrigul looked again at Ata. What was he about to say when Lali interrupted? He sat hunched over, his hands in front of him. Again and again he pressed his thumb into his palm.
“The man with the American lady was Uyghur,” Ata said, fixing his eyes on the yuan. “His name is Abdul Khalil. He grew up in a nearby township and now lives in Hotan, where he works as a guide.” He paused. “I trust him.
“He . . . ah . . .” Ata dropped his head, his chin tight to his chest, his hands pressing nervously up and down his thighs. “He thought Mehrigul might go back to school—if she’d be foolish enough to want to waste her time doing that.”
No! I said it, Ata. I want to go back to school. Is it foolish to want to give myself some chance of making a life here, with my own people? Is it foolish to not want to be sent away to work in a factory? The words screamed in Mehrigul’s head, but only a gasp escaped from her mouth.
If Ata heard, he did not show it.
Silence hung over the room, as if no one dared breathe. Lali’s eyes were shifting uneasily from Mehrigul to her ata, and Ana’s hand crept to Lali’s arm to still her.
Slowly at first, then more rapidly, Ata’s body pitched back and forth, his mouth tightly drawn, holding back words Mehrigul could not guess at.
With a suddenness that caught her off-guard, Ata turned to her, his eyes fierce, piercing. “Could you do that? Go to school and have time to make more baskets?”
“Yes . . . Ata . . . I think I can.” Mehrigul’s voice trembled. Why was he so angry when he asked that question? She forced herself to keep a steady gaze.
And then she understood. Ata wasn’t angry. He was afraid. Frightened that Mehrigul might fail. If she did, everything would be lost, for all of them. Ata had given up all hope when Memet left. He was afraid to hope again, to believe his family had been given another chance.
Mehrigul now had some trust that her ata might fight for her to stay home with her family. And, with Abdul’s support, that might be allowed to happen.
She softened her face. Placed her hands on her heart. “Yes, Ata,” Mehrigul said. “With everyone’s help, I will be able to make baskets that someone wants to buy.” She wanted to, with all her being. She was proud to be the one chosen to carry on the family’s tradition. Chong Ata’s tradition. Silently, she asked again that the wish on her token be granted. To let her hands make beautiful work, and to give her the strength to carry on.
She would find a new secret place and tie another piece of cloth to a stem that reached for the sky. This time, she would ask for God’s help in letting her baskets tell the story of her people’s desire to be free. Each would carry that hidden message in the flow of the vines and branches. Some would be bright and colorful with scraps of Pati’s felt, to show the true nature of their Uyghur hearts. They would all have a meaning that the Han would never understand or try to destroy with a gun.
Maybe those who liked and bought her baskets would somehow know.
Everyone was watching her again. Mehrigul was not used to being the center of attention. Ill at ease, she pressed her arms against her sides. She felt her package, the gift from Ata she’d kept in her pocket. She took it out and held it up for everyone to see.
“Ata gave this to me,” she said.
“Oh, it’s pretty,” Lali said, pulling at an end, feeling it with her fingers. “And so soft.”
Ana rose and went to Mehrigul. She removed the old scarf and reached for the new one, tying it loosely in back so the fullness of Mehrigul’s jet-black hair framed her face. “It is lovely,” Ana said.
Again there was an awkward silence in a family that had grown unused to sharing more than the basic needs of survival.
Until Ata spoke, asking Lali to bring him the rawap.
For a moment he just held the instrument across his chest, cradling it in his arms. Slowly, his right hand moved across the small, bowl-shaped body, plucking strings that had fallen out of tune from many weeks of neglect. Ata slid his other hand over the long neck to the tuning pegs, leaning his ear close to the strings as he adjusted the pitches. Soft, mournful chords began to fill the room.
Mehrigul closed her eyes and tried to bring back a memory from long ago, when her uncle and aunt, their family, relatives, and neighbors sat outside their house at harvest time, playing instruments, dancing, singing—before they had been driven away by hard times and distant promises of a better life. There had been sad songs, but there had been lively ones, too.
So very long ago.
The sounds Ata made on the rawap now were filled with grief. Sounds that told what lay in his heart unsaid.
Then a melody began to emerge from the chords. One Mehrigul knew. A song Memet had heard in the cafés in Hotan, and played and sung for them:
When a tree is covered with ripe fruit it bows down
Don’t be proud
Those who stand tall and bear no fruit take the fruit of others
Don’t be proud
Ata stopped singing. Only his fingers moved, repeating the chord he had stopped on over and over. Creating sounds that wept for him, and with him. Wept for the oppression of his people.
“No, Ata,” Mehrigul said. “We can’t let them take from us what is ours. Our soft hearts must not betray our spirits.” She lowered her eyes. Maybe she’d said more than was her place, but she had no urge to take back her words.
“Let’s finish the song,” she said.
Ata stopped strumming. “Don’t be proud,” Mehrigul whispered. “Don’t be proud.”
Finally, Ata nodded. He took a firmer grip on the rawap. A different swell of notes sounded—the lead into the next line.
We live our lives unequal but in the grave all are the same dust . . .
Mehrigul sang along in a quiet voice. If she was given a chance, here in their own land beside the desert in the shadow of the mountains, she would make herself heard.
A Note from Mamatjan Juma,
Uyghur Service Editor, Radio Free Asia
I read The Vine Basket with joy and tears. I loved it.
The story takes place in a small community on the edge of the Taklamakan Desert in East Turkestan’s (Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region’s) Hotan prefecture. I grew up in a similar village. Life was simpler and happier then, when my Uyghur culture was dominant in the region. Still, I was filled with nostalgia when I read this book. I strongly recommend it for those who want to learn about what life is like in the lesser-known parts of China.
The Vine Basket touches on many aspects of the Uyghur political situation. It describes the experiences of a teenage girl struggling to find her way in a world where Uyghurs trying to live a traditional lifestyle are prohibited from doing so because of the Chinese government’s repressive cultural and ethnic policies. Many observers feel that Uyghur identity, culture, language, and religion are in danger of being lost forever. This book could almost be read as a handbook for young Uyghurs dealing with the pressures of modern society in East Turkestan.
The author’s care and hard work have given us a story that has never been told before. I am personally indebted to her for telling it so well.
Author’s Note
The Uyghur people live in a region of the People’s Republic of China called Xinjiang. The Uyghurs call it East Turkestan. I have traveled there, to the ancient city of Hotan, which lies along the path of the old Silk Road at the southern edge of the vast Taklamakan Desert. The wind from that desert blew sand and dirt into my face and pummeled the building where I stayed until, at last, a miraculous rain fell to clear the air and refresh the land. I visited the surrounding countryside and watched corn being ground between two huge stones at the grist mill and walked beside the millstream. I purchased a hard-boiled egg at the local market. What I remember most is a young Uyghur girl who offered me a peach from her family’s orchard as I stood with my guide watching her grandfather weave a willow basket in the front yard of their home.
Sometime later I learned that Uyghur girls were being forced to work in Chinese factories far from their homes and families, that local cadres had quotas to fill and that the girls were given no choice. This was a story I wanted to tell. The young peasant girl who had offered me a peach became Mehrigul, and I imagined what her life might be.
The Uyghur people are distinct from the Chinese. Their physical appearance, their language and customs, and their Muslim religion are more like those of the Turkic peoples of Central Asia, in countries such as Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, than those of the Chinese. The Uyghurs established their own country and their own identity two thousand five hundred years ago. Though their Islamic identity can be traced to A.D. 934, when the city of Kashgar became one of the major learning centers of Islam, over the centuries they have been dominated by many different rulers—among them the Mongol leader Genghis Khan and the imperial powers of China’s Qing Dynasty. Their sparsely populated land of great deserts and high mountain ranges is hard to defend. People live in separate oasis towns, more loyal to their own oases than to any national state. Even so, the Uyghurs preserved their own language and culture. They lived as they had from the earliest time of the old Silk Road, managing their limited resources of land and water and continuing their rich tradition as expert craftsmen and traders.
Then, in 1949, the People’s Republic of China discovered that the Uyghur homeland had an abundance of coal, oil, and gas reserves, in addition to gold and precious metals. The Han Chinese, with full
support from the Communist regime, rapidly took over. By 2000, census figures showed that the number of Uyghurs in East Turkestan had shrunk from 90 percent of the population to less than half.
The Uyghurs protested the invasion of their homeland. The authorities responded with punishments. Though the Uyghurs practice a moderate form of Islam and are themselves wary of Muslim extremists, the authorities made an even greater effort to suppress them after the attack on the World Trade Center in 2001, with the excuse that all Uyghurs were potential terrorists. Uyghurs who take part in peaceful protests to protect their land and their distinct identity are sent to reeducation camps or prisons; many are tortured or executed. Such things as teaching religion to a minor and having a copy of the book Dragon Fighter, written by Rebiya Kadeer, the exiled leader of the Uyghur people, are considered criminal.
Unlike most of East Turkestan, the Hotan area where Mehrigul lives was left alone by the Chinese; it lies between the Taklamakan, one of the world’s largest deserts to the north, and the Kunlun, one of the highest mountain ranges to the south. The area long remained a major stronghold of a pure Uyghur culture. In 2000 the population was 96.4 percent Uyghur. That has changed. The government is modernizing the city of Hotan; there is a new covered mall and supermarkets to attract tourists, although the ancient Sunday bazaar is of greater interest. There are discos and nightclubs. As the Han Chinese population in the area grows, land is being taken from the Uyghurs and their careful conservation of the water supply is being ignored. Uyghur teachers who do not speak Mandarin are being replaced; jobs created by the government are offered to the Han Chinese.
Memories of ancestors who have been one with their own land for centuries linger in the minds of the Uyghurs. The Uyghurs understand their bargain with the desert, the windblown sands from the Taklamakan that from time to time sting people’s faces and bury their fragile oasis in a layer of sand. There is no escape from this timeless force of nature. The people cover their faces, shut their doors, yet the sand seeps through the weave of the cloth, the cracks in the walls. It passes. They return to their fields, their trades. As long as the spirit of their ancient culture remains true, they can endure.
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