Surviving Everyday Life: The Securityscapes of Threatened People in Kyrgyzstan 9781529211962

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“This book opens new territory and is a must-read for anyone interested in Central Asia, practices of security, and strategies for survival and well-being.”

“Recounts perceptions and practices of (in)security in everyday life with engaging detail and conceptual sophistication.” Morgan Y. Liu, The Ohio State University

Nina Bagdasarova is Professor of Psychology at the American University of Central Asia. Aksana Ismailbekova is Senior Researcher at the Leibniz-Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO). Conrad Schetter is Director for Research at the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC).

Moving beyond state-centric and elitist perspectives, this volume examines everyday security in the Central Asian country of Kyrgyzstan. Based on ethnographic fieldwork and written by scholars from Central Asia and beyond, it shows how insecurity is experienced, what people consider existential threats, and how they go about securing themselves. It concentrates on individuals who feel threatened because of their ethnic belonging, gender or sexual orientation. It develops the concept of ‘securityscapes’, which draws attention to the more subtle means that people take to secure themselves – practices bent on invisibility and avoidance, on disguise and trickery, and on continually adapting to shifting circumstances. By broadening the concept of security practice, this book is an important contribution to debates in Critical Security Studies as well as to Central Asian and Area Studies.

Series Editors John Heathershaw, Shahar Hameiri, Jana Hönke and Sara Koopman

Edited by Marc von Boemcken, Nina Bagdasarova, Aksana Ismailbekova and Conrad Schetter

Marc von Boemcken is Senior Researcher at the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC).

Surviving Everyday Life

Florian P. Kühn, Käte Hamburger Kolleg/Centre for Global Cooperation Research

ISBN 978-1-5292-1195-5

9 781529 211955

B R I S TO L

@BrisUniPress BristolUniversityPress bristoluniversitypress.co.ukk

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Surviving Everyday Life The Securityscapes of Threatened People in Kyrgyzstan EDITED BY MARC VON BOEMCKEN, NINA BAGDASAROVA, AKSANA ISMAILBEKOVA AND CONRAD SCHETTER

Volumes in this cutting-edge series move away from purely abstract debates about concepts and focus instead on fieldwork-based studies of specific places and peoples to demonstrate how particular spatial histories and geographic configurations can foster or hinder peace, security and development. Available now Doing Fieldwork in Areas of International Intervention A Guide to Research in Violent and Closed Contexts Edited by Berit Bliesemann de Guevara and Morten Bøås HB £75.00 | US $115.00 ISBN 9781529206883 288 pages June 2020

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International Advisory Board Rita Abrahamsen, University of Ottawa, Canada John Agnew, University of California, Los Angeles, US Alima Bissenova, Nazabaev University, Kazakhstan Annika Björkdahl, Lund University, Sweden Berit Bliesemann de Guevara, Aberystwyth University, UK Susanne Buckley-Zistel, Philipps University Marburg, Germany Toby Carroll, City University, Hong Kong Mick Dumper, University of Exeter, UK Azra Hromadžić, Syracuse University, US Lee Jones, Queen Mary University of London, UK Louisa Lombard, Yale University, US Virginie Mamadouh, University of Amsterdam, Netherlands Nick Megoran, Newcastle University, UK Markus-Michael Müller, Free University Berlin, Germany Daniel Neep, Georgetown University, US Diana Ojeda, Xavierian University, Colombia Jenny Peterson, The University of British Columbia, Canada Madeleine Reeves, The University of Manchester, UK Conrad Schetter, Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC), Germany Ricardo Soares de Olivera, University of Oxford, UK Diana Suhardiman, International Water Management Institute (IWMI), Laos Arlene Tickner, Del Rosario University, Colombia Jacqui True, Monash University, Australia Sofía Zaragocín, Universidad San Francisco, Quito, Ecuador

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE The Securityscapes of Threatened People in Kyrgyzstan Edited by Marc von Boemcken, Nina Bagdasarova, Aksana Ismailbekova and Conrad Schetter

First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Bristol University Press 1–​9 Old Park Hill Bristol BS2 8BB UK t: +44 (0)117 954 5940 www.bristoluniversitypress.co.uk © Bristol University Press 2020 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978-​1-​5292-​1195-​5 hardcover ISBN 978-​1-​5292-​1197-​9  ePub ISBN 978-​1-​5292-​1196-​2  ePdf The right of Marc von Boemcken, Nina Bagdasarova, Aksana Ismailbekova and Conrad Schetter to be identified as editors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of Bristol University Press. Every reasonable effort has been made to obtain permission to reproduce copyrighted material. If, however, anyone knows of an oversight, please contact the publisher. The statements and opinions contained within this publication are solely those of the editors and contributors and not of The University of Bristol or Bristol University Press. The University of Bristol and Bristol University Press disclaim responsibility for any injury to persons or property resulting from any material published in this publication. Bristol University Press works to counter discrimination on grounds of gender, race, disability, age and sexuality. Cover design by blu inc, Bristol Front cover image: Olga Kolos / Alamy Printed and bound in Great Britain by CMP, Poole Bristol University Press uses environmentally responsible print partners.

Contents List of Figures and Tables Notes on Contributors Acknowledgements Preface Nina Bagdasarova

vii viii x xi

1 Introduction Marc von Boemcken and Aksana Ismailbekova 2 Studying Danger in Central Asia: Towards a Concept of Everyday Securityscapes Marc von Boemcken 3 Security Practices and the Survival of Cafes in Southern Kyrgyzstan Shavkat Atakhanov and Abylabek Asankanov 4 Securing the Future of Children and Youth: Uzbek Private Kindergartens and Schools in Osh Aksana Ismailbekova 5 Selective Memories, Identities and Places: Everyday Security Practices of the Mughat Lyulis in Osh Hafiz Boboyorov and Shavkat Atakhanov 6 How to Live with a Female Body: Securityscapes against Sexual Violence and Related Interpretation Patterns of Kyrgyz Women Kathrin Oestmann and Anna M. Korschinek 7 Romantic Securityscapes of Mixed Couples: Resisting Moral Panic, Surviving in the Present and Imagining the Future Asel Myrzabekova 8 The Space–​Time Continuum of the ‘Dangerous’ Body: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Securityscapes in Kyrgyzstan Nina Bagdasarova

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1 23

47

71

91

117

153

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Postscript: Towards a Research Agenda on Security Practices Conrad Schetter

Index

203

211

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List of Figures and Tables Figures 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6 6.7 6.8

Functionality Model of Interpretation Patterns (FMIP) Priority attributes Recognition schemes Knowledge about typical courses of events Explanation patterns for sexual violence Societal expectations and respective behavioural scripts Securityscapes against sexual violence (1) Securityscapes against sexual violence (2)

123 129 131 134 136 139 142 143

Tables 3.1 3.2

Some catering places before and after the Osh events of 2010 New catering places established after the Osh events of 2010

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59 63

Contributors Abylabek Asankanov is Director of the Institute of History,

Archaeology and Ethnology of the Academy of Science of the Kyrgyz Republic, and Professor of History at the National University of Kyrgyzstan. Shavkat Atakhanov is Senior Researcher in the Department of the

Institute for Humanitarian and Regional Studies of the National Academy of Sciences of the Kyrgyz Republic, and Assistant Professor in the History Department of the Kyrgyz-​Uzbek University, Osh, Kyrgyzstan. Nina Bagdasarova is a professor at the Faculty for Psychology,

American University of Central Asia, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Hafiz Boboyorov is a research fellow at the Bonn International Centre

for Conversion (BICC), Bonn, Germany. Aksana Ismailbekova is a senior researcher at the Leibniz-​Zentrum

Moderner Orient (ZMO), Berlin, Germany. Anna M. Korschinek is a postgraduate student at the ESB Business

School Reutlingen, Germany, and the École de Management, Strasbourg, France. Asel Myrzabekova is a lecturer in the Social Sciences Division at the

American University of Central Asia, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, and PhD candidate at the University of Bonn, Germany. Kathrin Oestmann is a postgraduate student at the University of

Marburg, Germany (until 2018).

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Conrad Schetter is Director for Research at the Bonn International

Centre for Conversion (BICC), Bonn, Germany. Marc von Boemcken is a senior researcher at the Bonn International

Centre for Conversion (BICC), Bonn, Germany.

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Acknowledgements We are grateful to the Volkswagen Foundation for funding the research behind this edited volume. Without the trust and assistance of our informants in the field, this book would not have been possible. Earlier versions of the chapters were presented and discussed at research meetings of the Bonn International Centre for Conversion (BICC) and conferences of the Central Eurasian Studies Society (CESS). We thank all colleagues that provided helpful comments and constructive criticism to improve the individual contributions. In particular, we would like to thank Michael Brady, Aikanysh Eralieva, Mansur Kim, Georgy Mamedov, Olesya Moiseenko, Nurbek Omurov, Daniyar Orsekov, Madeleine Reeves, Mokhira Suyarkulova and Evgeniya Tsepilova. We also thank Steven Cox for language editing. Marc von Boemcken Nina Bagdasarova Aksana Ismailbekova Conrad Schetter

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Preface Nina Bagdasarova Academic activity is quite often imagined as the picture of a man sitting at a desk, absorbed in thought and sporadically writing. It is uncommon to insert other people –​and especially women –​into this picture and transform it into something completely different. Applying the concept of ‘scapes’, which is at the heart of this book, we may imagine such pictures as pointing to various ‘academic landscapes’ that frame and define the work of scholars in different parts of the world. In most places, academic landscapes have not been looking particularly sunny recently. In some universities, they are quite sombre and overcast; in others, the picture may be a bit brighter. Yet, the neoliberal discourse of ‘economic effectiveness’ affects scholarship everywhere. Academics at universities are extremely dependent on their formal status, which is usually measured in terms of their individually authored publications (even if some texts are published under several names). Under these circumstances, we often forget that an ‘academiascape’ could also be regarded as a group portrait of researchers engrossed in fruitful communication rather than a landscape featuring the lonely figure of a scientist surrounded by the formidable shapes of looming deadlines and reports. In any case, when we think about academia today, much of the fun and excitement of doing research seems to be seeping out of the picture that comes to mind. Research in and on Central Asia is no exception here. Most of the countries in the region cannot afford large and wealthy universities, nor do they have a tradition of independent academic work. Some of the papers and edited volumes on Central Asia reflect the neo-​colonial and neoliberal hierarchy of the contemporary world. Tables of content often contain only two types of text: conceptual introductions (and conclusions) written by Western scholars; and more empirical papers written by local researchers under their guidance.

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Fortunately, this book is an example of a different approach; it is the result of a team effort –​a partnership between German and Central Asian scholars who have created an academiascape that has brought back the joy of collective reflection and discovery. All members of the team participated in the conceptual work; at times, it even involved people who were not formally part of the project. The Bonn International Centre for Conversion (BICC) succeeded in building conditions for authentic collective creativity. Everybody interested in the issues of everyday security in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan could join the research. Between 2014 and 2018, the project team did not simply hold seminars and exchange papers; rather, we travelled together, met with an array of people in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, discussed many issues, and developed a range of ideas –​sometimes arguing and sometimes agreeing with each other. The words written on the following pages are probably not lively enough to convey the emotions and feelings that accompanied this enterprise. This project was a real adventure –​a fascinating and wonderful journey in the pursuit of knowledge. We hope that traces of this passion might be discernible in the chapters collected here and that our findings will be as exciting for others as they were for us.

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Introduction Marc von Boemcken and Aksana Ismailbekova This book is about security and insecurity in Kyrgyzstan. It explores perceptions of existential danger in the country  –​and the means employed for dealing with them, that is, for surviving. However, the stories and social practices collected here diverge from many other publications on the same issue. As has been frequently argued, security is anything but a straightforward object of inquiry. The threats in question and the ways in which they are engaged are very much a matter of perspective –​or, as we argue here, always tied to the particular securityscapes of certain actors. It is for this reason that we can expect to encounter multiple accounts of security and insecurity in any given space. This also holds true for our case of Kyrgyzstan, which is the smallest country in Central Asia. Nevertheless, the vast majority of both popular and scholarly accounts on security in Kyrgyzstan focus on a number of events that construct a fairly limited narrative of what danger is ostensibly all about here. It often evokes, for instance, the ‘Tulip Revolution’ of 2005 and the ‘Rose Revolution’ of 2010  –​ popular uprisings that were provoked by corruption and nepotism among political elites and the resulting poverty of large parts of the population (Ismailbekova, 2018a). It equally foregrounds interethnic animosities. In the summer of 2010, violent clashes between Kyrgyz and Uzbek residents in the southern cities of Osh and Jalalabad left several hundred people dead (Akiner, 2016). Kyrgyzstan’s ‘National Security Concept’ from 2012 counts ‘increasing separatist tendencies, interethnic animosities [and] ethno-​regionalism’ among the top domestic threats.1 More recently, the country has also been identified as a breeding ground for Islamic radicalization and violent extremism (Matveeva, 2018). Picking up a book on security in Kyrgyzstan, one

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can reasonably expect to read about some dangerous mixture of political instability, ethnic tensions and terrorism. The point of this volume is not to contest or challenge such a viewpoint. In fact, given the empirical material at hand, these threat perceptions appear to be quite warranted. Moreover, the data compiled here certainly concur with the observation that life in Kyrgyzstan can be dangerous indeed. Yet, the argument that we want to make is that this perspective alone sheds only partial light on security and danger in the country. Critical scholars warned some time ago against the elitist (and often foreign) framing of Central Asia, including Kyrgyzstan, around certain ‘discourses of danger’, pointing to the pitfalls of thereby oversimplifying far more complex phenomena (Megoran and Heathershaw, 2011). This becomes all the more problematic if such discourses are used to further a certain political agenda. As for the case of Kyrgyzstan, Natalie Koch (2018) has recently demonstrated how government representatives, both in Uzbekistan and within Kyrgyzstan itself, have drawn upon the two revolutions and the ethnic clashes of 2010 to problematize the country’s presumably too liberal political system and promote more authoritarian forms of rule. Not least against this background, we feel that it is important to highlight other accounts of insecurity in Kyrgyzstan. As Nick Megoran and John Heathershaw (2011: 18) contended: ‘the aim of any counter-​narrative to the discourse of danger must be to reveal some of the diverse experiences of danger as felt by individuals, families and communities’. Threat determinations are a prerogative neither of governments nor, for that matter, of international academics and other ‘security experts’. Although the degree and intensity of feeling threatened may very much vary from individual to individual, practices for recognizing and coming to terms with countless insecurities are part and parcel of everyday life, being something that each one of us does on a daily basis. Furthermore, whereas a number of articles have been written on security in Kyrgyzstan, much less is known about how perceptions of danger inform and guide the mundane (or not so mundane) lives of people in the country. With the collection of chapters here, we want to turn the table on security in Kyrgyzstan and provide a ground perspective on the issue. The contributions follow different individuals and observe how imaginations of endangerment play out in the various micro-​spaces of their daily lives. They show how security can be studied in cafes and restaurants (see Chapter  3 by Atakhanov and Asankanov), in kindergartens and schools (see Chapter 4 by Ismailbekova), marshrutka buses (see Chapter  5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov), bazaars, taxis

2

Introduction

(see Chapter  6 by Oestmann and Korschinek), virtual chat rooms (see Chapter  7 by Myrzabekova) and nightclubs (see Chapter  8 by Bagdasarova). Moreover, security touches upon seemingly trivial issues such as food and music (see Chapter 3 by Atakhanov and Asankanov), children’s education (see Chapter 4 by Ismailbekova), or romantic first love (see Chapter 7 by Myrzabekova). Everyday security practices do not necessarily stand in stark contrast to the ‘discourses of danger’ propagated on the national or international level. Fears of a threatened nation-​state, for instance, of external (or internal) enemies endangering an ideal of national unity and homogeneity, may very much seep into everyday life, informing the perspectives and practices of many ‘ordinary’ citizens. In at least part of the population of Kyrgyzstan, they have arguably coalesced into fairly widespread ethno-​nationalist sentiments. Grass-​roots social movements such as Kyrk Choro (‘40 Knights’, referring to the legendary 40 warriors that formed the personal guard of Manas, hero in the eponymous national epic) have readily embraced the image of a geopolitically, ethnically and culturally threatened nation, and pledged to proactively defend it against anything they deem as jeopardizing their ideal of a pure and untainted Kyrgyz identity. The ‘2010 events’, as the ethnic violence in Osh and Jalalabad is commonly referred to in the country, is testament to how disputes over national belonging can quickly spiral out of control and take an ugly and tragic turn of events. Severe ethnic tensions between the Kyrgyz and Uzbek populace in Southern Kyrgyzstan persist to this very day as many Kyrgyz perceive Uzbeks as ‘uncivilized’ and ‘dangerous’ (Abashin, 2011). Having said that, it would be unfair and, indeed, inaccurate to argue that the local take on security and danger in Kyrgyzstan exhausts itself solely in such ethno-​nationalist practices of othering. Nick Megoran’s work, in particular, has demonstrated how vernacular perspectives are far more diverse and may also run counter to discourses bent on the nation-​state as the principal referent object of security. For instance, he showed that especially young people and women in Kyrgyzstan are far more concerned about socio-​economic problems than about looming threats of national disunity and outside interference (Megoran, 2005). What is more, Megoran (2012) emphasized that nationalism itself can come in many guises and can equally include imaginations more open to ethnic and cultural heterogeneity –​and in Kyrgyzstan too, the struggle over the national vision remains far from resolved. Our starting point here follows this appreciation of local diversity around questions of security and insecurity. More specifically, this book traces the security practices of those whose fears do not neatly

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conform to popular narratives over ‘national security’ issues for one reason or another –​and whose voices are thus rarely (if at all) heard in debates surrounding questions of security in Kyrgyzstan. Nevertheless, and perhaps even for this very reason, a deep-​seated sense of existential anxiety is often a very concrete and acute day-​to-​day experience for them. Indeed, to the extent that security practice differentiates between self and other –​between that which belongs and that which is alien and unwanted –​it always generates new insecurities among those that are cast out, marginalized and sometimes directly targeted by societal, patriarchal, political, ethno-​nationalistic or ‘traditional’ norms. It is these marginal perspectives of endangerment and the corresponding practices of how to get along and survive them that we are interested in here –​be they encountered among minority ethnic groups (see Chapters 3, 4 and 5 by Atakhanov and Asankanov, Ismailbekova, and Boboyorov and Atakhanov, respectively), young women (see Chapter 6 by Oestmann and Korschinek), ethnically mixed couples (see Chapter 7 by Myrzabekova) or the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) community (see Chapter 8 by Bagdasarova). All the contributions to this edited volume apply the analytical concept of securityscapes (von Boemcken et  al, 2016, 2018; von Boemcken, 2019). It is inspired by the notion of ‘scapes’ first introduced by the ethnographer Arjun Appadurai (1996) in his book Modernity at large. In an abstract and general sense, ‘scapes’ refer to individually held imaginations of one’s self and of one’s place in the world. They are usually (though not necessarily) collectively shared and express themselves in social practices, that is, in the ways and means of ‘navigating’ certain ‘scapes’. Ever since Appadurai sketched out this idea more than 20 years ago, scholars have applied it to explore various different types of ‘scapes’. Some have used it to show how people relate to particular places, as in the concept of ‘borderscapes’ (Rayaram and Grundy-​Warr, 2007). Others have concentrated on how individuals perceive and come to terms with certain social conditions that they find themselves confronted with, for example, as in ‘warscapes’ (Nordstrom, 1997; Korf et al, 2010; Korf, 2013). Appadurai (1996) himself distinguished between ‘ethnoscapes’ (our sense of collective belonging), ‘ideoscapes’ (our political beliefs and our relations to political institutions, such as the state) and ‘mediascapes’ (the way in which we consume, access and disseminate information). This distinction was anything but randomly chosen, for Appadurai’s main intention was to draw attention to what he considered to be increasing gaps between different ‘scapes’ in the process of globalization. In the past, for instance, ethnoscapes, ideoscapes and mediascapes were often

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Introduction

closely connected with each other, being held together by the idea of the nation-​state that gave people a sense of themselves and their relation to others. Today, Appadurai argued, these ‘scapes’ are drifting apart in many places as nations no longer neatly correspond with states and information freely crosses over national boundaries. Now, and to be clear, when we apply our concept of securityscapes, we do not follow Appadurai’s original argument concerning some grand epochal shift that manifests itself in the demise of the nation-​ state. Especially in Central Asia (but equally in many other parts of today’s world), such a sweeping claim might well turn out to be rather premature (Heyman and Campbell, 2009). Our ambition is therefore far more modest. For us, the concept of securityscapes is primarily useful because it allows us to foreground the agency and creativity of individual people in security-​making. However, it does tie in with Appadurai’s overall intention to uncouple the study of social practices from a focus on the nation-​state as the principal point of reference. That is to say, by concentrating on the vernacular, securityscapes enable us to detect and understand security-​related perspectives and activities that do not necessarily correspond with those discourses of national and international security propagated by state representatives and global elites. From this point of view, the state does not necessarily appear as the sole and principal provider of security, as it does, for instance, in much of the literature on ‘human security’. Quite the contrary, a study of individual securityscapes may well shed light on the ‘dark side’ of the state: of the state as a source of insecurity for many people. Our concept of securityscapes corresponds nicely with at least two larger academic debates that have been ongoing for quite some time in the field of (Critical) Security Studies. On the one hand, it adds an additional layer to explorations of non-​state security practices, or ‘security beyond the state’ (Abrahamsen and Williams, 2011), which have so far largely concentrated on private militias or commercial security companies. On the other hand, it is heavily indebted to what has been referred to as the ‘ethnographic turn’ in security studies, calling for greater attention to how security functions in the everyday lives of people (Salter, 2013). Yet, the vast majority of publications on everyday security to date remain, in a way, state-​centric. They are concerned either with how national security discourses become incorporated into mundane, daily activities (Huysmans, 2011), or, vice versa, with how such practices actually resist these discourses (Stevens and Vaughan-​Williams, 2016). There is, of course, nothing wrong with asking these questions. However, in this volume, we want to explore the individual securityscapes of certain people on their own

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terms, that is, as distinct phenomena and quite irrespective of what elite conceptions take security practices to represent. Perhaps the most important overall finding of the contributions collected here consists in the identification and description of security-​ making activities that are fundamentally at odds with the way in which security is commonly conceptualized in orthodox (as well as critical) writings on the issue. This does not so much pertain to the general question of what a security practice is and how it can be distinguished from other ways and means of problem-​solving. Just as most approaches in this field of study, we argue that security –​and, by extension, securityscapes –​becomes excited by the perception and articulation of existential threats to oneself or to valued others. To go about security is a lot more than dealing with a mere nuisance: it is a matter of life and death, of survival, of seeking continuity against the threat of radical discontinuity. However, we do feel that the spectrum of possible practices for how to ensure security appears as unduly narrow in much of the academic literature. That is to say, security usually becomes apprehended as an act of boundary-​drawing: a practice or a set of practices for differentiating between the self and the other, between that which is same and that which is different, between friends and enemies (Philo, 2012). Security, then, is thought of as a certain type of activity that evokes an image of life-​threatening endangerment in order to set things apart. This can be observed across at least three related domains, namely, in the ways in which security carves up space, time and the human body. As regards space, the geopolitics of international relations is probably the best example for how security practices engender a territory pervaded by clearly marked lines of demarcation. They consist in guarding inter-​state borders that occasion a need for armament and military build-​up in order to deter and thwart possible attacks by those on the other side (Klein, 1994). Such operations of physical boundary-​drawing can also be observed (and maybe to an increasing extent) within societies itself, for instance, as in the growing popularity of so-​called gated communities in many parts of the world, protected by armed guards, high walls and barbed wire (Bigo, 2006). Besides cutting up territory in this manner, security can be seen as a practice for differentiating time, that is, for organizing time along a separation between past, present and future. Often, to secure something or somebody is to bring imaginations of the future to bear on the here and now. This is usually done through risk management. To navigate what has been conceptualized as a ‘riskscape’ involves calculating the probability of future events and arranging the present so as to minimize

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Introduction

the chance of these events materializing (Müller-​Mahn and Everts, 2013). Recent publications on ‘pre-​emption’ and ‘resilience’ have emphasized how risk management intensifies as the future becomes posited as ultimately unknowable and incalculable, that is, as something where anything might happen (Adey and Anderson, 2012; Amin, 2013; de Goede et al, 2014). Concordant risk-​or securityscapes are populated and charted by all-​the-​more ‘vigilante’ individuals, always on alert and prepared for any eventuality (Amoore, 2007). Finally, security commonly discriminates the human body itself –​ after all, its vulnerability and mortality presents the ultima ratio of any security practice to come about in the first place. Bodies are catalysts of irrational desires, evolving in multiple contingent directions, unpredictable, dangerous and, eventually, the very things that kill us. From a security standpoint, then, they appear as a fundamental problem. Critical literature has drawn on the work of Michel Foucault (1995) to foreground the ‘biopolitical’ techniques mobilized against corporeal messiness (Dillon and Lobo-​Guerrero, 2008): bodies become secured, categorized and separated in accordance to gendered, sexual and/​or ‘racial’ biological dispositions, needs, qualities, appetites and desires. They are assigned certain delimited spaces and disciplined to behave in specific ways in order to reduce the potential risks that they pose to themselves and to others. Scholars have noted the paradoxical violence at work here: the move to secure life, that is, to ‘make life live’ by cancelling out all bodily contingency, must wage a war against the living (Dillon and Reid, 2009), against ‘bare life’ (Agamben, 1998) –​ biopolitics becomes ‘necropolitics’ (Mbembe, 2003). Security practices targeting the human body generate new insecurities for those affected. This observation constitutes the point of departure for most of the contributions to this edited volume. As the chapters demonstrate, some bodies in Kyrgyzstan are thought to be in the ‘wrong place’ on the grounds of ethnic and/​or cultural belonging, some bodies are considered superior to others due to gender-​based classification, and some bodies are simply deemed ‘unnatural’ given their sexual appetites. In each and every case, biopolitical security practices condone or may even facilitate and provoke direct physical violence. Crucially, however, we want to argue here that these endangered bodies are by no means passive or, as Foucault (1995: 135) put it, ‘docile’. Applying the concept of securityscapes, we emphasize that they are often proactive and inventive agents that continually need to devise creative ways for securing themselves against biopolitical ordering. This begs the question of whether their security practices actually mimic those strategies of differentiation and boundary-​drawing

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that simultaneously threaten them, or whether they exhibit their very own and distinctive securityscapes. To be sure, moments of spatial, temporal and corporeal striation can certainly be observed in almost all of the securityscapes considered here. Following the violence of 2010, the Uzbeks in Osh in Southern Kyrgyzstan have increased their efforts to carve out clearly separated spaces of their own (Ismailbekova, 2015). The same goes for the Mughab or Lyuli people in the village of Jani Kishtak on the outskirts of the city (von Boemcken et al, 2018) –​as it does for the LGBT community, both in Osh and in the capital city of Bishkek (Bagdasarova, 2018). The securityscapes of individuals from all of these groups frequently involve practices of avoidance, hiding and separating oneself. They may depend, for example, on a knowledge of where one can safely go (and how to get there) and which places are better avoided. Security is about keeping things secret (see Chapter  7 by Myrzabekova), establishing safe spaces to withdraw to and hide (see Chapter  8 by Bagdasarova), and isolating oneself, drawing borders and boundaries to create distinct microcosms and shut out the outside world (see Chapter 4 by Ismailbekova and Chapter 5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov). Occasionally, boundary-​drawing may even result in moments of open confrontation, for instance, as when standing up to racist remarks (see Chapter 7 by Myrzabekova) or speaking back to sexual harassment (see Chapter 6 by Oestmann and Korschinek). Sometimes, the securityscapes in this volume also invoke imaginations of the future to guide present actions, thereby corroborating Appadurai’s (2013:  286) observation that future-​making is a ‘cultural fact’ of everyday life. Usually, these practices are tied to a certain conception of space. Ismailbekova argues here that since 2010, many Uzbek parents in Osh see their children’s future as outside of Kyrgyzstan, often in Russia. This is why they send them to Russian-​speaking schools, equipping them with the skills required to make a living abroad. Imaginations of a more secure future can also come in the form of daydreaming and escapism –​of imagining a utopia. In other words, future-​making is not simply a matter of rational calculation, that is, of pre-​emption and resilience; rather, it equally involves people harbouring certain hopes, expectations and aspirations (Appadurai, 2013: 295). This is particularly clear in Chapter 8 on the securityscapes of LGBT people by Bagdasarova. Many individuals from the LGBT community dream of some day leaving Kyrgyzstan, hoping for a better, less dangerous life in a different, more liberal and open-​minded society (‘San Francisco’). Some of the securityscapes explored here also contain elements of corporeal stratification. Bodies subjected to biopolitical discipline

8

Introduction

occasionally conform to hegemonic patriarchal demands in order to prevent violent sanctions  –​as Oestmann and Korschinek show in Chapter 6 on young women in Bishkek (see also Ismailbekova, 2014). Similarly, transgender people in Central Asia make a great effort to appear as either ‘male’ or ‘female’, and thus avoid any gender ambiguity (von Boemcken et al, 2018). Some females from the Mughab or Lyuli community also outwardly assume the roles expected of them; yet, and in stark contrast to transgender people, they actively cultivate (rather than hide) their otherness, presenting their bodies as ‘unclean’ and ‘polluted’ so as to deter and fend off any potential aggressors (see Chapter  5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov; see also von Boemcken et al, 2018). Importantly, however, the securityscapes explored in this book involve a lot more than strategies of inclusion and exclusion, confrontation, acting upon imagined futures, fixing bodies, and affirming hegemonic and patriarchal social norms. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the security practices of marginalized people, in particular, tell stories that run against the grain of orthodox conceptions of how to deal with perceived dangers. They frequently suggest alternative –​and possibly subversive –​ ways of going about security, which more conventional writings on the issue tend to downplay and neglect. Some may put far less emphasis on conflict, violence and the delineation of enemy-​others, foregrounding instead the importance of cooperation, with people helping each other in horizontally organized solidarity networks, whether by virtue of identifying with the same ethnic group (see Chapter 5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov) or simply by virtue of sharing the same predicament (see Chapter 7 by Myrzabekova). What is more, their relation to space may be not so much about drawing visible borders and boundaries as about (secretly) crossing them –​about remaining inconspicuous and hidden. As ‘exiles and bandits know very well’, Agamben (1998: 183–​4) once wrote, those who must ‘reckon with’ violence ‘at every moment’ find ‘the best way to elude or deceive it’. The navigation of dangerous spaces thus often relies on adaptation, disguise and continually changing the body, its movements and appearance. A common theme running through all the contributions here concerns various tactical manoeuvres that take place within –​rather than outside of –​the dominant order of things. One adapts to the system without submitting to it, without forfeiting one’s otherness, without becoming a part of it. Unlike conformity, adaptation is situational, temporary and performative. It is to go unnoticed in certain circumstances, to not raise any unnecessary attention, to pretend and to switch between roles depending on time and place. When moving

9

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

in public spaces, one must sometimes conceal any markers that could betray ones identity, be it as Uzbek (see Chapter  3 by Atakhanov and Asankanov), as Mughat (see Chapter  5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov) or as a member of the LGBT community (see Chapter 8 by Bagdasarova). Many chapters stress the importance of appearance, which may relate either to modest clothing, hairstyle and make-​up (see Chapter 6 by Oestmann and Korschinek), or, indeed, to the very way in which the body itself moves and conducts itself (see Chapter 8 by Bagdasarova). In order to successfully adapt to an alien environment, language skills are also crucial, whether the ability to speak without an accent (see Chapter 4 by Ismailbekova) or the ability to command multiple languages and switch from one to another as circumstances demand (see Chapter 5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov). Adaptation blurs the boundaries between what is considered as belonging and what is not. Here lies its possibly subversive potential, for whatever outwardly appears as a homogeneous mass turns out to contain multiple elements of disguised heterogeneity. Corporeal fluidity, then, allows some endangered people to defy social boundaries and/​or spatial borders. In some cases, this also influences the way in which their securityscapes relate to time. Instead of focusing on imaginations of the future, they may well be centred upon the here and now. As a transgender man from Bishkek pointed out, the future had become “unimaginable” to him, something that he could not fathom (Orsekov, 2017). His securityscape was confined to the present:  to surviving a succession of moments and getting through today without wasting any thoughts on tomorrow (see also Chapter 8 by Bagdasarova). Some of the ethnically mixed couples that Myrzabekova accompanied similarly refused to look ahead and plan or even imagine a common future. Again, all that mattered to them was the present as they were convinced that times to come would hardly permit them to stay together. All in all, the various securityscapes of threatened people collected in this edited volume tell stories of security and danger from Kyrgyzstan that markedly differ from most publications on the subject. This is not to claim that issues such as political instability, ethnic violence or Islamist terrorism are not worthy of attention or, indeed, irrelevant security concerns. However, it is to emphasize that perceptions of existential threats in Kyrgyzstan, alongside the ways of dealing with these dangers, surpass the well-​trodden paths charted by international political and elite discourses, as well as the accounts of (in)security put forward by governments in the region itself. Moreover, to make this argument is not simply to expand the catalogue of possible threats. By following

10

Introduction

the individual securityscapes of various people in Kyrgyzstan who are endangered on the grounds of their racial, gendered, sexual or political otherness, we want to shed light on a very different kind of security practice altogether: securityscapes that rely on trickery and deception, adaptation, going unnoticed and remaining invisible. In other words, security can also be understood as a practice of actively drawing upon ambiguity and fluidity rather than just rejecting and fighting it (von Boemcken, 2019). These findings are the result of three years of ethnographic study conducted between 2015 and 2018 by a team of scholars from Central Asia and Europe within the research project ‘Local Security-​Making in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan  –​The Production of Securityscapes through Everyday Practices’, which was supported by the Volkswagen Foundation. Unlike other international research collaborations in and on Central Asia, the design and set-​up of this project put a great emphasis on the participation and capacity building of academics from the region itself. Scholarly debates on Central Asia in internationally recognized journals continue to be dominated by European and North American scholars. They often take the lead in defining and developing the analytical frameworks through which the region ought to be studied. If local researchers are involved at all, they are merely hired as assistants to do the empirical groundwork along predefined pathways. Here, scholars from Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan played an active role in realizing this research project from the very start. Nina Bagdasarova from the American University of Central Asia in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan, and Hafiz Boboyorov, at the time employed with the Academy of Sciences in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, closely collaborated with the Bonn International Centre for Conversion (BICC) in the writing of the research proposal and in developing the framework of securityscapes back in 2014. The decision to adopt this particular perspective reflects a certain uneasiness of the involved scholars concerning the ways in which (in)security issues in Central Asia are overwhelmingly represented in contemporary academic writings. The aim was to demonstrate the far wider array of existential threats that many people in the region need to deal with in their everyday lives. It is with this purpose in mind that the volume gives those scholars, who are actually from the region, a voice in the debates directly concerning issues of (in)security in their home countries. Nevertheless, and despite the collaborative aspects of this project, the overall coordination and project leadership remained with the BICC, which is a peace and conflict research institute based in Germany. Hence, it also needs to be acknowledged that  –​at least in terms

11

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

of organizational and funding matters  –​the collaboration between project partners was not on an equal footing. Although this was for administrative reasons only and did not, to our knowledge, impact upon the contents of individual research undertaken, we are acutely aware of the ethical problems associated with such an imbalanced set-​ up, effectively creating a hierarchy between scholars from the ‘North’ and from the ‘South’. As mentioned earlier, we tried to mitigate this problem by giving scholars from Central Asia a proactive part in the research design and the development of our conceptual approach. The fieldwork informing the empirical chapters in this book was carried out independently by researchers from both Central Asia and Europe, who were free to choose their own cases. Over the course of the three years, the project explored the securityscapes of many different individuals, be they part of the Russian-​speaking middle class (‘Ruszabon’) or civil rights activists in Dushanbe, Tajikistan, or of the Uzbek or LGBT community in Kyrgyzstan. As diverse as the respective cases were, all involved scholars met at least twice a year in internal workshops, held alternately in Europe and Central Asia, to share and discuss their preliminary findings. Often, we visited important sites of field research together, including the meeting places of young people in public parks, Uzbek restaurants or an LGBT nightclub. We presented drafts of our research papers at both international and regional academic conferences, usually organized by the Central Eurasian Studies Society (CESS), where we had the opportunity to engage with international and local scholars from various disciplines. Prior to this edited volume, some of our findings have already been published. We first presented our overall analytical framework in a BICC Working Paper (von Boemcken et al, 2016). Empirical findings on the securityscapes of the LGBT and Lyuli community in Kyrgyzstan were published 2018 in a joint article in Central Asian Survey (von Boemcken et al, 2018). Additional individually authored results appeared in a special issue of the International Quarterly for Asian Studies on ‘Security Practices in Asia’, namely, on the Uzbeks in Osh (Ismailbekova, 2018b), the LGBT community in Bishkek and Osh (Bagdasarova, 2018), and the ‘Ruszabon’ in Dushanbe, Tajikistan (Boboyorov, 2018). Besides these empirically oriented contributions, the theoretical implications of these findings for wider debates in the field of Critical Security Studies were discussed in a separate journal article (von Boemcken, 2019). This edited volume presents the final and most comprehensive collection of the findings from our research project and almost all involved post-​docs and PhD students involved have contributed

12

Introduction

a chapter. Moreover, these chapters are not simply superficially refashioned versions of material already published elsewhere, but new and original contributions, both in terms of empiricism and analysis. While some of the social groups explored here have already been the subject of previous articles, such as the LGBT community (Omurov, 2017; Bagdasarova, 2018; von Boemcken et al, 2018) or the Uzbeks in Osh (Ismailbekova, 2018b), all the case studies here contain observations from the field that have not been published elsewhere to date. Some chapters also discuss their findings with a view to a broader set of analytical parameters. For instance, many of our publications so far have focused on the space-​making aspects of securityscapes. Here, especially the contributions by Ismailbekova and Bagdasarova demonstrate how securityscapes equally rely on certain conceptions of time, of imaginations of the future and of how (and whether at all) these imaginations impact upon social practices in the present. All the empirical chapters are based on thorough ethnographic field research, which was mostly conducted over a period of several months, sometimes years. It included semi-​structured and unstructured interviews, questionnaires, focus group discussions, and participant observation. Usually, the most valid data could be obtained by combining different methods, in this way avoiding personal as well as methodological biases and overcoming the possible deficiencies of using only a single approach. The informants themselves were identified by using a snowball method involving friends, relatives and acquaintances. Data collection was controlled by non-​probability sampling with a view to the status, age, gender and occupation of the informants. Insights on the securityscape of a single person were then compared to the securityscapes of other people in that person’s social environment. While none of the chapters here claims to come up with generalizable findings on the social groups that it studies, they all strived to take into account as many perspectives and angles as possible. The interviews tried to be flexible and interactive, using a non-​ hierarchical approach and building up an open dialogue with the informants by being polite and remaining comprehensible. One interesting method for understanding securityscapes was to ask informants to visualize ‘safe’ and ‘unsafe’ places by drawing a map of the spaces that they traversed in their everyday lives. Given the sensitive nature of the research topic, it was important to conduct interviews in a surrounding in which the informants felt that they could freely express their opinion. Whenever possible, researchers arranged to meet interviewees alone, even if this required meeting in a location

13

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

away from their homes or in separate rooms of their houses. However, limitations to this ideal did occur. In Kyrgyz culture, it is quite common for all family members to participate in any conversation held in their homes, which complicated the interview process at times. Research needed to remain sensitive to such situations and take into account that third-​party interference occasionally influenced and modified the kind of data obtained. Nevertheless, these instances were also an opportunity to observe different and sometimes even conflicting perspectives. Many contributions further corroborated their data by organizing more structured focus-​g roup discussions, held in living rooms, non-​governmental organization (NGO) apartments or local tea houses. Ideally, it was possible to compare the behaviour of an informant in such a group to the perspective that he or she shared in a private face-​to-​face interview. Apart from interviews and focus groups, the chapters place a great emphasis on participant observation  –​the authors followed the individuals that they studied in their daily routines (and excesses), they lived with them and sometimes even worked with them, thus often sharing their predicament and experiencing their fears from a first-​hand perspective. Research was thus able to document, among other things, social interactions and changes in family and friendship relations over extended periods of time. It could also conduct detailed situational analyses of certain events relevant to a person’s securityscape. Here, the objective was to compare what an informant says with how they act. In fact, it turned out that certain aspects of everyday security-​making are only rarely conscious and verbalized. It should also be noted that, if possible, individuals from the communities in question were invited to participate in the research themselves. Bagdasarova, for instance, trained selected members from the LGBT community in Bishkek in basic ethnographic methods. Following this, they observed, under her supervision, their own social environment, tracing the securityscapes of their friends and of themselves. The involved researchers from the LGBT community presented their findings at a regional CESS conference in Bishkek in July 2017. All in all, this participatory methodological approach proved highly successful. Not only was it a lot easier to gain the necessary trust of individuals from the case group in this way, but our research also encouraged them to consciously reflect on their everyday security practices. In discussions among themselves and with others, they had the opportunity to exchange thoughts on how to deal with the threats they faced in their daily lives and how their security could, possibly, be improved.

14

Introduction

Besides positive experiences, the project also posed a number of methodological and ethical challenges. A first problem was related to the question of positionality and perspective. Indeed, inviting members from the groups that we studied to, so to speak, study themselves may also have its downsides. The same goes for researchers conducting anthropological fieldwork within their own society and culture. As Cohen (1974: 8) pointed out, they ‘are themselves personally caught up in the same body of symbols which they try to decode, because most symbols are largely rooted in the unconscious mind and are thus difficult to identify and analyze by people living under them.’ It is, then, ‘hardly a fish that can discover the existence of water’ (Cohen, 1974: 8). As an anthropologist studying one’s own society, one might easily overlook many culturally embedded points of reference. Usually, the optimal starting point for fieldwork is to contrast the native system of meaning to the researcher’s own conceptual framework. The contribution by Oestmann and Korschinek, two German researchers, certainly profited from this approach. Conversely, local ethnographers may find themselves constrained by the rules and norms of their own respective society, and, arguably, do not have the ‘freedom’ to see things in the way that outsiders do. To an extent, this might also be true for many of the accounts collected in this volume and we cannot rule out that this ‘insider’ perspective has influenced our observations and findings. It is probably in parts mitigated by the fact that most Central Asian authors here went through Western higher education and lived for several years abroad. In other words, they have a very clear idea on what it means to look at their home countries from a non-​native perspective and can bring these experiences to bear on their own, original analyses. More importantly, and as stated earlier, if our aim is to give those scholars from Central Asia a voice in the debates surrounding (in)security issues in their home countries, then this is a methodological concern that we readily accept and put up with. A second challenge that we encountered was to gain the trust of individuals from our case groups. After all, our informants considered themselves highly endangered, and a deep-​seated suspiciousness towards strangers was usually an important part of their securityscape. In some cases, the ‘native’ position of the researchers further compounded this problem. For example, being an ethnic Kyrgyz herself, Ismailbekova found that her informants from the Uzbek community in Osh were initially very unforthcoming in sharing experiences about their everyday security practices. At first, they emphasized how good life was in the city and denied that they faced any security-​related problems. When conducting research on the ‘romantic securityscapes’ of ethnically

15

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

mixed young couples, Myrzabekova experienced the difficulties that face a female researcher inquiring what is widely regarded as a ‘taboo’ topic among both young and old men. Despite the participatory method, Bagdasarova encountered similar problems when trying to gain access to very intimate aspects of people’s private lives in the LGBT community. The findings collected here, then, do not purport to provide an exhaustive and full account of each and every aspect of individual securityscapes; they only recount those perceptions and practices that our informants were eventually prepared to share with us and that we could observe when accompanying them in their daily lives. This required a lot of patience. In the case of Ismailbekova’s research on the Uzbek community in Osh, a key informant finally convinced other potential respondents that the project was being conducted for scientific purposes only, and that they need not be concerned about potential repercussions since their identities would be protected. The third –​and by far most severe –​problem that we faced was related to the difficult political environment in which we conducted field research. Originally, the project was designed to explore various securityscapes in two countries of Central Asia:  Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan. However, it soon turned out that the authoritarian and increasingly repressive political system in Tajikistan presented a serious obstacle to carrying out this kind of research in the country. Tajik authorities are notoriously sceptical of social scientists, especially when they collaborate with European universities or research institutes. Such academics are frequently suspected to be foreign agents and there is a very real danger that they might be imprisoned on the charge of espionage. To conduct a project containing the word ‘security’ in its title only further compounded this problem. Whenever we could, we avoided using this term when describing our research to authorities and instead reverted to more harmless-​sounding expressions such as ‘local coping mechanisms’. However, this measure alone could hardly mitigate the difficulties. Our attempt to follow the securityscapes of Pamiri people living in the unstable and restricted Gorno-​Badakhshan Autonomous Region failed to obtain sufficient data. Another research effort in Tajikistan needed to be prematurely abandoned since we could not take responsibility for the risks to the securityscapes of the researchers involved. It is for this reason that all cases presented here are based on field research carried out in the comparatively more open and liberal political environment of Kyrgyzstan. Yet, in Kyrgyzstan too, we needed to tread carefully (see also Bekmurzaev et al, 2018). This was a matter less of our own security than of the security of the individuals from the social groups that we studied. In order to ensure

16

Introduction

their protection, we often needed to make an ethical trade-​off when presenting our findings, that is, we were careful not to give away too many details when describing their securityscapes, say, the location of a particular hideout. Related to this, it goes without saying that the various contributions here take great care to protect the anonymity of their informants. All of the following chapters use pseudonyms instead of real names. Where it appeared necessary, the authors have refrained from providing any background information that could be used to identify their informants. Chapter  2 by Marc von Boemcken situates the theoretical and empirical approach adopted here within the wider body of literature on security and danger in Central Asia. In doing so, it also further develops the analytical framework of securityscapes. This more conceptual contribution is followed by two chapters exploring the securityscapes of individuals from the Uzbek minority in the city of Osh in Southern Kyrgyzstan. The reason for selecting Osh as a site for field research was the ethnic violence in 2010, the recollection of which continues to govern the everyday fears and anxieties of its inhabitants. On the one hand, it has certainly resulted in a stronger spatial segregation between Kyrgyz and Uzbek residents (Ismailbekova, 2015); on the other hand, many Uzbeks hide any outward markers of their ethnic belonging when presenting themselves in public. Shavkat Atakhanov and Abylabek Asankanov demonstrate this by exploring the various changes in the Uzbek-​dominated catering sector of the city. Chapter 4 by Aksana Ismailbekova then focuses on the schooling practices of Uzbek parents in Osh, drawing attention to important shifts in their vision of what makes a secure future for their families. Notably, the Uzbeks were not the only minority group that suffered from the violent rampages throughout the city in 2010. The small community of Lyuli or, more precisely, Mughat people on the outskirts of Osh are likewise treated with great suspicion by many residents and widely regarded as social outcasts (von Boemcken et al, 2018). In Chapter 5, Hafiz Boboyorov and Shavkat Atakhanov show how the Mughat have, over time, developed their very own security practices in order to survive in what they consider a highly threatening, hostile environment. In particular, the chapter concentrates on the securityscapes of female collectors of alms and waste products, who are the main breadwinners and need to frequently leave their home community in order to generate sufficient income. Sexual assaults, for instance, are a very real threat when they move through the city –​and, again, adaptation to shifting circumstances turns out to be a key tactic for attaining a degree of security.

17

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

The focus on female Mughats sets the tone for the remaining contributions. Large parts of Kyrgyz society remain structured around highly patriarchal norms, and violence against women is commonplace. Literature on this problem has mainly considered the practice of ‘bride kidnappings’ in rural areas of the country (Kleinbach and Salimjanova, 2007). However, as Kathrin Oestmann and Anna M. Korschinek argue, it also concerns young women in the capital city of Bishkek. In order to avoid the ever-​present prospect of sexual harassment or even rape, they need to adhere to specific security measures that determine much of their daily lives. This involves, for example, remaining inconspicuous and constricting movements around certain times and places. Things get even worse when socially condoned violence against women becomes intertwined with ethnic identity politics. A particularly controversial topic here is ethnically ‘mixed’ relationships, which are at the centre of Chapter  7 by Asel Myrzabekova. If a Kyrgyz female decides to become involved with a non-​Kyrgyz partner, she can often expect to be ostracized by her family, in some cases, even beaten and threatened with death. The choice is often between hiding the relationship or running away with one’s partner and trying to make a new life for oneself in a different place. The question of how to deal with ‘non-​traditional’ sexual relations is high on the political agenda in Kyrgyzstan and very much an issue in public debates. It also pertains to same-​sex partnerships and any crossing of gender boundaries. As Nina Bagdasarova explains in Chapter  8, members of the LGBT community in Bishkek and Osh face similarly dire consequences if their sexual orientation or gender preference is found out. Their daily lives in public thus resemble a continual masquerade. Interestingly, Bagdasarova’s study of an LGBT nightclub in Bishkek goes on to show that the stress of having to keep disguising oneself may occasionally excite moments of excess and frenzy –​of experiencing one’s ‘true’ self in a temporary act of transgressing the norms of profane life. The book concludes with a reflection by Conrad Schetter on our main findings. He asks how the insights generated here can make a more general contribution to the future study of the everyday security practices of marginalized groups. On the one hand, Schetter emphasizes the importance of taking into account the factors of space and time when analysing security. He supports calls to analyse security practices beyond the limiting framework of the ‘nation-​state’. A stronger focus on individual future-​making activities, in particular, may very much enrich security-​related research. On the other hand, his reflection begs the question as to what extent similar observation could also be made

18

Introduction

among marginalized –​and often violently repressed –​people in other parts of Central Asia. Whereas one should be cautious not to unduly generalize any of the findings collected in this volume, it is clear that a fairly one-​sided and elitist perspective on security and danger also dominates political and scholarly debates in Central Asia as a whole. Ideally, therefore, this volume would only be a modest step towards more research in the future that highlights the diversity of everyday securityscapes in the wider region. Note 1

Our translation of the Russian-​language document, available at: www.vesti.kg/​ index.php?option=com_​k2&view=item&id=13270&Itemid=117

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Klein, B.S. (1994) Strategic studies and world order: The global politics of deterrence, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kleinbach, R. and Salimjanova, L. (2007) ‘Kyz ala kachuu and adat: non-​consensual bride kidnapping and tradition in Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 26(2): 217–​33. Koch, N. (2018) ‘Disorder over the border: spinning the spectre of instability through time and space in Central Asia’, Central Asian Survey, 37(1): 13–​30. Korf, B. (2013) ‘The certainty of uncertainty:  topographies of risk and landscapes of fear in Sri Lanka’s civil war’, in D. Müller-​Mahn (ed) The spatial dimension of risk: How geography shapes the emergence of riskscapes, Abingdon: Routledge, pp 68–​81. Korf, B., Engeler, M. and Hagmann, T. (2010) ‘The geography of warscape’, Third World Quarterly, 31(3): 385–​99. Matveeva, A. (2018) ‘Radicalisation and violent extremism in Kyrgyzstan: on the way to the caliphate?’, The RUSI Journal, 163(1): 30–​46. Mbembe, A. (2003) ‘Necropolitics’, Public Culture, 15(1): 11–​40. Megoran, N. (2005) ‘The critical geopolitics of danger in Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan’, Environment and Planning D:  Society and Space, 23: 555–​80. Megoran, N. (2012) ‘Averting violence in Kyrgyzstan: understanding and responding to nationalism’, Chatham House, Russia and Eurasia Programme Paper, 2012/​03, www.chathamhouse.org/​sites/​ files/​chathamhouse/​public/​Research/​Russia%20and%20Eurasia/​ 1212ppmegoran.pdf Megoran, N. and Heathershaw, J. (2011) ‘Danger and security in Central Asia’, Central Asia and the Caucasus, 12(3): 7–​18. Müller-​Mahn, D. and Everts, J. (2013) ‘Riskscapes: the spatial dimension of risk’, in D. Müller-​Mahn (ed) The spatial dimension of risk: How geography shapes the emergence of riskscapes, Abingdon:  Routledge, pp  22–​36. Nordstrom, C. (1997) A different kind of war story, Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Omurov, N. (2017) ‘Identity disclosure as a securityscape for LGBT people’, Psychology in Russia: State of the Art, 10(2): 63–​86. Orsekov, D. (2017) ‘ “A day, a week, a year … we do not know what is happening to us tomorrow …”: unimaginable future of transgender people as a part of their warscape’, paper presented at the Regional Conference of the Central Eurasian Studies Society (CESS) and the European Society for Central Asian Studies (ESCAS), American University of Central Asia, Bishkek.

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Philo, C. (2012) ‘Security of geography/​geography of security’, Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, 37(1): 1–​7. Rayaram, P.K. and Grundy-​Warr, C. (2007) ‘Introduction’, in P.K. Rayaram and C. Grundy-​Warr (eds) Borderscapes: Hidden geographies and politics at territory’s edge, Minneapolis, MN:  University of Minnesota Press, pp ix–​xl. Salter, M.B. (2013) ‘The ethnographic turn: introduction’, in M.B. Salter and C.E. Mutlu (eds) Research methods in critical security studies: An introduction, London and New York, NY: Routledge, pp 51–​8. Stevens, D. and Vaughan-​Williams, N. (2016) ‘Vernacular theories of everyday (in)security:  the disruptive potential of non-​elite knowledge’, Security Dialogue, 47(1): 40–​58. Von Boemcken, M. (2019) ‘Smooth security: creative adaptation, mimicry and deception in everyday securityscapes’, Critical Studies on Security, 7(2): 91–​106. Von Boemcken, M., Schetter, C., Boboyorov, H., Bagdasarova, N. and Sulaimanov, J. (2016) ‘Local security-​making in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan: the production of securityscapes by everyday practices’, BICC Working Paper 5/​2016. Von Boemcken, M., Boboyorov, H. and Badgasarova, N. (2018) ‘Living dangerously: securityscapes of Lyuli and LGBT people in urban spaces of Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 37(1): 68–​84.

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Studying Danger in Central Asia: Towards a Concept of Everyday Securityscapes Marc von Boemcken Introduction Books on security and danger in Central Asia could doubtlessly fill a small library. Many of them assume an outside gaze that presents the region as a foreign, hostile, and very unpleasant place. They emphasize threats such as geopolitical rivalries, Islamic terrorism, political instability, drug trafficking and organized crime, or political instability. Looking at Central Asia from the outside, for example, most people will probably think of the war-​ravaged landscape of Afghanistan first. Associations that come to mind include heavily fortified military bases, suicidal car bombings, poppy fields, religious fanatics and corrupt government officials. Furthermore, even when widening the gaze beyond this single –​unfortunate –​country, many of the dangers that have become manifest there seem at least latently simmering in the region as a whole. Take the case of religiously motivated violence: for many observers, Central Asia can be considered a worrisome breeding ground for militant Islamist groups. The networks of the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU)  –​ different parts of which are connected to either the so-​called Islamic State/​Daesh or al-​Qaeda and the Taliban –​allegedly also stretch across Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. Furthermore, the threat of Islamist terrorism continues to dominate debates on security and insecurity in the region, both in international policy circles and academic conferences. Yet, it should be noted that fears of Islamist violence are by no means reserved for

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the outside perspective alone. Central Asian governments themselves frequently evoke this danger: sometimes in order to justify repressive political action, such as the banning of the Islamic Renaissance Party of Tajikistan in 2015; and sometimes to excuse outright violence, such as the 2005 massacre committed by Uzbek security forces in the Fergana Valley, killing up to 600 demonstrators on the grounds of what was then labelled an ‘anti-​terror’ operation. In their critical interrogation of such ‘discourses of danger’, Nick Megoran and John Heathershaw (2011) urged scholars some years ago to broaden our understanding of what security and insecurity may mean in the region (see also Thompson and Heathershaw, 2005). How is it experienced by local communities or even individual people? Do they share these (inter)national and elitist discourses? Or, might they have a very different take on danger, maybe even an entirely different repertoire of social practices for dealing with the threats they face on a daily basis? Recent scholarship has begun to systematically and critically explore the diversity of security perceptions and practices encountered in the region. Particularly noteworthy is the book Critical approaches to security in Central Asia, edited by Edward Lemon (2018), which collects a number of insightful contributions that are both critical of hegemonic security discourses and attentive to experiences of (in)security at the local level. The chapters in this volume continue this endeavour and build upon the findings so far. They focus more specifically on the security practices –​or securityscapes –​of marginalized people in Kyrgyzstan. Before presenting the empirical findings, it is important to explain this volume’s fundamental take on security. Again, the approach here diverges from the more limited understandings underlying many writings in the field of Security Studies. Generally speaking, all the contributions here proceed from a perspective that relates security to an ensemble of social practices for coming to terms with the deep-​seated insecurities of life itself. Nothing ever stays the same; the psychological, social and cultural coordinates that provide people with a momentary sense of belonging and certainty keep shifting and being reinvented anew. What we hold dear today may be gone tomorrow, transformed into something altogether different, alien and maybe even threatening. Life is death, the intimate experience of inexorable change –​of being a mortal, dying body. Security, then, turns out to be an almost paradoxical enterprise –​a Sisyphean task that looks for the semblance of continuity amid existential discontinuity. Nevertheless, it is something that nobody can do without. We all build our securities, however temporary and fragile they may be.

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Many people can only partially rely on the concert of social institutions that others take for granted in their habitual security-​ making activities:  the state protects us from violence and provides social welfare; the nation and the family give us a feeling of belonging; and religion offers belief in an afterlife alongside moral norms for leading a ‘right’ and ‘proper’ life. While these institutional structures certainly bestow a degree of security on some people, they appear as sources of insecurity to others, namely, to those who, for one reason or another, do not conform to their respective prescriptions along civic, ethnic, biological, spiritual or moral lines. It is for this reason that a study of security cannot concern itself with an understanding of these collective social institutions alone. While the state, for example, surely has a role to play in the way in which some people negotiate their (in)securities, it should not be taken as an analytical category that could lay a serious claim to a comprehensive understanding of what security is –​really –​all about. In this edited volume, we apply the concept of securityscapes as a more flexible and encompassing lens for exploring individual security practices. This chapter locates the overall approach here within the field of Security Studies, particularly Critical Security Studies. It briefly reviews how different takes on the study of security have been applied to Central Asia, thereby revealing certain research gaps, which will then be addressed by the case studies in the chapters that follow. The chapter concludes by introducing the concept of everyday securityscapes that all the contributions have used in attempting to fill these gaps.

From national to human security The chapters in this volume differ on two accounts from what may be considered the orthodox approach to studying security. First of all, they install their focus on the security of individual human beings rather than on the security of states. While such a perspective is, of course, anything but original or new, the security-​related literature on Central Asia in particular remains dominated by a state-​centric bias and thus clearly located in the traditional disciplines of Cold War Security Studies and International Relations (IR). Many publications are concerned with geopolitics and inter-​state rivalry over natural resources and national boundaries (Blank, 1995; Horsman, 2001; Sievers, 2001; Gavrilis, 2008; Bichsel, 2009). Besides considering relations between states, security-​related research on Central Asia has also analysed states themselves as contested fields of political order. As evidenced by the civil war in Tajikistan (1992–​97), the revolutions in

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Kyrgyzstan (2005 and 2010) and recurrent eruptions of local violence, particularly in the Fergana Valley, internal social tension and conflicts pose a frequent challenge to political regimes. The growing popularity of nationalistic sentiments across the region has contributed to foregrounding heated debates over ethnic cohesion and the danger of disintegration in the face of secessionist tendencies (Roy, 2000; Hirsch, 2005). A number of studies join in this narrative when summoning the ghost of ‘Balkanization’ or, more precisely, the looming prospect of governments losing effective control over parts of their administrative territory (Abazov, 1996; Heathershaw, 2011; Afroz, 2014). Other threats that are commonly discussed include organized crime and drug trafficking (Mohapatra, 2007), as well as militant Islamists (Naumkin, 2005; Khalid, 2007; Heathershaw and Roche, 2011). Hence, whether they are concerned with external or internal threats, many studies take the state as the primary referent object of security –​either the Central Asian states themselves or the security of other powers with a stake in the region, especially the US (Anderson and Beck, 2000; Wishnik, 2002; Heathershaw, 2007; Nichol, 2010, 2013) and China (Ong, 2005). However, as is well known, since the early 1990s, several scholars as well as international organizations and advocacy groups have been calling for security-​related research and policies that install the individual human as the principal referent object (Paris, 2001; Glasius and Kaldor, 2005; Neack, 2007). Ken Booth (1991: 319), for instance, maintained that states are merely the ‘producers’ or ‘means’ of security, ‘not the ends’. Unlike human beings, they possess ‘no inherent right to survival’ (McSweeney, 1999: 87). At least in Europe and North America, this leitmotiv appears to have partially succeeded in challenging the hitherto dominant ‘states first’ perspective (Bosold and Werthes, 2006; Zedner, 2009:  39–​44). To some, albeit lesser, extent, it also influences research in and on security in Central Asia. A few studies discuss phenomena such as crime, drug abuse, unemployment or malnutrition in terms of the security threats that they pose to individual people (Olcott and Udalova, 2000; Peimani, 2009: 23–​41; Cummings, 2012: 153–​4).

From security as condition to security as practice Writings on human security in Central Asia are a much-​welcome and important contribution to studies on security in the region. Nevertheless, they also usually remain state-​centric, for although the state is no longer considered the primary referent object, they continue to regard it as the main provider of security (Duffield, 2005: 5;

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Schnabel, 2008: 95). What is more, and again adopting the orthodox perspective, the human-​centred approach conceives of security as a desirable condition of existence that may be objectively measured and determined through scientific inquiry and then improved upon by means of policy. Therefore, from both viewpoints, security expresses the ‘absence’ or, more accurately, the ‘low probability’ of a ‘threat’ to some referent objects (for the classic definitions, see Wolfers, 1952: 485; Baldwin, 1997: 13). The approach taken here is a different one. Besides switching its focus from states to humans as principal referent objects, a second distinctive characteristic of this volume is its attempt to study security as a set of intersubjectively construed social practices. Threats and referent objects do not exist in a self-​evident and unproblematic manner; rather, they are articulated within a conflictive political arena that constantly negotiates and renegotiates who or what ought to be secured against what kind of dangers. Security, it follows, is no more (or less) than what one person or another makes it out to be at any particular place or moment in time (Huysmans, 1998: 231); indeed, it can mean many different things to many different people. The question, then, is not so much what security ‘is’ as a ‘thing’ or a ‘noun that names something’; rather, we should ask what it does as a ‘principle of formation’ (Dillon, 1996: 16) or embodied social-​relational practice (Higate and Henry, 2010; Wilson and Bakker, 2016). With a view to the larger history of what has come to be known as Critical Security Studies, the undoubtedly most popular and influential theoretical appropriation of security practice was put forward by scholars associated with the Copenhagen School. They proposed a shift in academic inquiry from ‘security’ to ‘securitization’, that is, to political ‘speech acts’ that present an issue ‘as an existential threat, requiring emergency measures and justifying actions outside the normal bounds of political procedure’ (Buzan et al, 1998: 23–​4). For them, security consists in successful ‘securitizing moves’ that take politics beyond the ‘established rules of the game’ and, in doing so, instantiate states of ‘exception’ (Buzan et al, 1998: 26). This, of course, means that security is not necessarily a good thing. Barry Buzan, Ole Wæver and Jaap de Wilde (1998: 29) argued that ‘security should be seen as negative, as a failure to deal with issues as normal politics’. Usually, it is better to aim for ‘desecuritization’: the ‘shifting of issues out of emergency mode and into the normal bargaining processes of the political sphere’ (Buzan et al, 1998: 4). ‘Securitizing moves’ have been widely observed across Central Asia and the Caucasus. As one study concluded that the ‘authoritarian

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nature of Central Asian regimes promotes the securitization of the fight against international terrorism in order to justify limiting political and economic freedoms, strengthening power structures, and maintaining existing regimes’ (Chernykh and Burnashev, 2005: 141; see also Cummings, 2012:  155–​6; Lenz-​Raymann, 2014; Bashirov, 2018; Koch, 2018; Lemon and Thibault, 2018). Presidential speeches and official documents are commonly beset with an alarmist security language. Besides Islamic ‘terrorism’, the spectrum of ‘existential threats’ includes regime change and minority ethnic groups (as in Kyrgyzstan) (Megoran, 2012: 30) and secessionist movements (as in the Rasht Valley, Gorno-​Badakhshan or the Fergana Valley). The securitization of these issues has allowed governments to create highly militarized and/​or heavily policed spaces, possibly with far-​reaching implications for the daily lives of those dwelling within them. Other research has demonstrated how international organizations also attempt to securitize the trafficking of persons and narcotics in Central Asia, partly failing and partly succeeding in promoting exceptional policy measures (Jackson, 2005, 2006). John Heathershaw and Nick Megoran (2011: 589) pointed out how Central Asia thus becomes generally represented as an ‘obscure’, ‘oriental’ and ‘fractious’ place. Such portrayals may easily lend themselves to a process of securitization from without, for example, by driving a coercive politics of intervention in spaces imagined as ‘frontiers’ or ‘ungoverned territories’ (Afghanistan being a case in point here) (see Schetter, 2010; Korf and Schetter, 2012). Moreover, these ‘discourses of danger’ are not just about justifying the exceptional actions of pre-​g iven subjects. Chadd Thompson and John Heathershaw (2005) draw attention to the insight from post-​structuralist IR that the construction of danger has an equally self-​constitutive effect upon the negotiation of political norms. Conceivably, for example, it is only against the imagining of some distant, uncivilized, barbarous and dangerous borderlands that we may ‘know’ the ‘West’ as a place of enlightened civility (Caygill, 1993). A  similar argument may well be made for ‘discourses of danger’ enacted by Central Asian governments themselves (Koch, 2018). As David Campbell (1998: 13) put it: the ‘constant articulation of danger … is … not a threat to a state’s identity or existence:  it is its condition of possibility’. Just as in other regions of the world, the Central Asian state would exist only insofar as it partakes in the continual identification of threatening enemy-​others. It is thus that ‘discourses of danger’ evoke a specific imagining, revolving around the necessity of drawing clear-​cut and static distinctions between us

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and them, friend and enemy, order and anarchy, the normal and the exceptional. By doing so, they fix political bodies in time and space (Dillon, 1990; Walker, 1992; Klein, 1994). Whether concerned with the legitimization of exceptional actions or with the construction of political norms and subjects, the praxeological take on the study of security can easily be applied to Central Asia, and some studies have done so, producing interesting insights. Yet, again, both the securitization theory of the Copenhagen School and writings from post-​structuralist IR retain the state-​centric bias of more orthodox perspectives by primarily exploring the security practices of elites. What is more, these approaches remain largely concerned with speech acts and discourses, that is, with what certain actors (usually representatives of a state) say. However, as Theodore Schatzki (2002:  77), one of the pioneers of what has come to be known as ‘practice theory’, emphasized, practices do not exhaust themselves in ‘saying’ alone; they equally need to be studied in terms of their ‘doings’, that is, the concrete actions and behaviours of people in certain settings.

Human security as everyday practice In comparison to many other writings on security in Central Asia, the volume here shifts the analytical perspective along two axes: from national to human security; and from the study of security as objective condition to the study of security as a social practice, including both ‘sayings’ and ‘doings’. Taken together, the book is therefore concerned with, so to speak, human security practices. It proceeds from the observation that ‘everyone, not just academics and policy elites, does security’ (Rowley and Weldes, 2012: 526; see also Jarvis and Lister, 2013: 162). Security and insecurity are always situated, that is, radically localized, as integral to personal, human experiences that can assume a myriad of forms (Lemanski, 2012). By going to the margins –​to what Michel Foucault (2003: 27) once described as the ‘extremities of power’ –​that is, by listening to the voices and observing the behaviours of those people usually ignored by traditional Security Studies, we are likely to witness ‘more complex and nuanced conversations about in/​security’ (Rowley and Weldes, 2012:  518; see also Hönke and Müller, 2012). Against this background, we can observe that securitization dynamics in Central Asia may follow a messy bottom-​up rather than neat top-​ down trajectory. Thus, in her study of the 2005 ‘Tulip Revolution’ in Kyrgyzstan, Claire Wilkinson (2007) demonstrated how the overthrow of the government was preceded by a non-​linear series of securitizing

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moves instigated by popular, non-​elite movements. A similar argument can also be made for partially explaining the 2010 violence in the city of Osh in Southern Kyrgyzstan, where the activities of grass-​roots-​ level Kyrgyz national groups eventually succeeded in portraying the Uzbek minority as ‘an existential threat to Kyrgyz statehood’ (Megoran, 2012:  30). In both cases, empirical analyses from Kyrgyzstan show that securitization does not follow a linear, top-​down direction, but is driven by complex interactions between different, often local, agencies. Nevertheless, and although they foreground the importance of looking at non-​elite practices, these accounts continue to associate security with exceptional actions, the identification of threatening enemies and, ultimately, violence. The contributions to this edited volume argue that human, non-​elite security practice does not exhaust itself in exceptional and spectacular securitizing moves alone. In fact, and as others have pointed out, it may be just as much –​and far more commonly –​discerned in those habitual, routine and mundane behaviours that pervade and traverse the ‘banality of everyday life’ (Huysmans, 2009: 196; see also Crawford and Hutchinson, 2016). Of course, to study security as a vernacular social practice is not necessarily to ignore the possible importance of the state. As, for instance, Penny Harvey (2005: 138, cited in Rasanayagam et al, 2013: 10) noted, the notion of the ‘state’ exists only insofar as it becomes constructed, experienced and ‘entangled in mundane sociality’. First and foremost, statehood ought to be described and understood through an ‘ethnographic’ perspective that shows how the national becomes actually ‘located’ in ‘particular lives, bodies and materialities’ (Rasanayagam et al, 2013: 11). The same observation applies to the notion of ‘national security’. Huysmans (2009: 292, 205) stressed the ways in which the ‘everyday’ and ‘normal’ are anything but clearly separate from the ‘exceptional’ politics of security; rather, they are ‘saturated’ by a variety of ‘official’ discourses of danger:  ‘security spectacles and professional security practices exist within the detail of everyday life’ (Huysmans, 2009: 196). Similarly, in an ethnographic study on life in Israel, Juliana Ochs (2012:  12) demonstrated how ‘national discourses of threat and practices of alertness manifest themselves in intimate practices and personal relationships’. As national security becomes locally enacted, the clear-​cut distinction between exception and norm often begins to blur. Securitization proceeds through diffusely circulating ‘little security nothings’ (Huysmans, 2011; see also Simon, 2012), whether in the form of CCTV cameras, police patrols, warning signs or prohibitions against photographing certain buildings or objects.

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So far, studies have mainly concentrated on Western Europe and North America. However, such phenomena can be observed to an equal, if not more pronounced, degree elsewhere. In many urban spaces of Central Asia, the striking omnipresence of the state and state security makes itself felt in such mundane signs and objects on almost every street corner. Although less explicitly concerned with security, an edited volume published in 2013 comprises a rich body of ethnographic research on how Central Asian states are constitutively ‘performed’, that is, ‘experienced and produced in everyday encounters’ (Rasanayagam et  al, 2013:  5). At times, these states may well be ‘idealized’ (Rasanayagam et  al, 2013:  11; Beyer, 2013) or, at least, ‘implicitly invoked as a solid, benevolent, and powerful structure’ (Rasanayagam et al, 2013: 11; see also Laszckowksi, 2013; Liu, 2013; Reeves, 2013). In Kyrgyzstan, for example, the government was fairly successful in promoting a national Kyrgyz identity that has been embraced by large parts of the populace (Megoran, 2013). Crucially, however, the everyday enactment of (in)security narratives generated by the state (and disseminated by the media) is rarely a simple effect of indoctrination (Bubandt, 2005: 276). Everyday security denotes a highly heterogeneous and ‘messy’ field of practices (Hönke and Müller, 2012:  393; Rowley and Weldes, 2012:  515). Indeed, studies emphasizing a straightforward local appropriation of national or global discourses have been criticized for remaining ‘relentlessly top-​down in [their] perspective’ (Barnett, 2015: 264). To some extent, everyday life always eludes and transgresses state power, quite regardless of whether the regime is democratic or more authoritarian. Even if ‘official’ propaganda falls on fruitful ground, things may easily spiral out of control. Take Kyrgyzstan, for instance: although it was (and is) very much involved in promoting such a thing as a Kyrgyz identity, the Kyrgyzstani government hardly suspected increasing nationalist sentiments to explode into violence in June 2010 (Megoran, 2013). When Nils Bubandt (2005: 276) proposed the model of ‘vernacular security’, he was careful to stress that ‘ontological notions of safety and uncertainty’ in ‘local universes’ may either ‘accommodat[e]‌’ or, in fact, ‘undermin[e]’ the security project of national elites ‘in unexpected ways’. Similarly, Huysmans (2009: 202) noted that ‘everyday life’ consists of numerous ‘sites of activity where security policies cannot simply be imposed but inevitably have to negotiate a range of complexities’. Hence, ‘people work and rework security policies in light of the complex demands and experiences they need to deal with’ (Huysmans, 2009: 205). This point has, of course, been made by various theorists of social practice: people are not simply drones programmed to follow

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a script induced from without. Anthony Giddens (1984: 2) argued that practices are ‘continually recreated’:  their routinized, recursive performance in everyday life precisely constitutes the necessary agency through which they can be transformed and modified. In a similar manner, Andreas Reckwitz (2002: 255) drew attention to the ‘breaking’ and ‘shifting’ of social practices that may occur in those ‘everyday crises of routines, in constellations of interpretative interdetermancy and of the inadequacy of knowledge with which the agent, carrying out the practice, is confronted in the face of the “situation” ’. Michel de Certeau (1988) went even further when he likened everyday practices to forms of resistance. In his famous book The practice of everyday life, he shed light on the ‘clandestine forms’ of everyday practice that groups or individuals bring to bear against the ‘nets of discipline’ in which they are caught (de Certeau, 1988: xiv–x​ v). People often ‘conform’ to the ‘mechanisms’ of power ‘only in order to evade them’, appropriate them and then ‘reappropriate’ them for the purpose of subverting the dominant order of things (de Certeau, 1988: xiv). In this vein, studies of everyday life in Central Asia found that many people ‘manipulate’ the state’s ‘rules in pursuit of their own separate objectives’ (Rasanayagam et  al, 2013:  11; see also Trevisani, 2013; Werner and Purvis-​Roberts, 2013). Madeleine Reeves’s (2005) research on people living at the border of the Fergana Valley explored how local narratives frequently subverted the ‘nation-​state logic’ of fixed ethnic identity; indeed, they openly criticized the doings of state officials (see also Reeves, 2007, 2014). More recently, Renat Shaykhutdinov (2018) employed the analytical perspective of vernacular security to show how many Tatar-​speaking people in the Volga region questioned and contested hegemonic, state-​driven narratives surrounding a series of ‘terrorist attacks’ in July 2012. Moreover, Edward Lemon and Hélène Thibault (2018) demonstrated that counter-​extremism strategies in Tajikistan resulted not simply in the production of ‘docile’ bodies, but also in active resistance on behalf of those being securitized by the government. On the one hand, then, everyday security may reveal sites of proactive contestation and conflict. This is also supported by findings from other parts of the world. In their field research on local, non-​elite security practices in Great Britain, Daniel Stevens and Nick Vaughan-​Williams (2016: 42, emphasis in original) argued that ‘vernacular constructions, experiences and stories of (in)security have the potential to disrupt “official” accounts’ and thereby ‘challenge’ the ‘dominant framework … within which these policies are shaped’. The dissent between everyday practices and ‘elite’ discourses precisely opens up the space for a possible

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politicization of contentious issues that might have otherwise simply been taken for granted. On the other hand, however, everyday security practices may not relate to the state (or other elite discourses) at all. That is to say, instead of either playing the game or directly challenging its rules, they may play an altogether different game (Koopman, 2011). Already in 2005, Megoran (2005: 572–​4) found that the security concerns of ‘more marginal members of the [Kyrgyz] population’ (the poor, the young and women) revolved mainly around socio-​economic issues rather than some cultural or ‘geopolitical’ threat to the ‘Kyrgyz nation’. Even more poignantly, Katja Mielke, Conrad Schetter and Andreas Wilde (2011) suggested that the ‘social order’ of local village life in some regions of Afghanistan reproduces itself more or less completely independently of the state (see also Schetter, 2012; Wilde and Mielke, 2013). Bert Cramer (2018) arrives at a similar conclusion in his study of the rules and norms governing daily life in informal urban settlements in Kyrgyzstan (novostroiki). If this is the case, then an argument can be made that at least some expressions of everyday security do not require such a thing as a state or, more precisely, an armed organization laying claim to a legitimate monopoly of force. The precise relation between everyday security practices, on the one hand, and state or elite discourses, on the other, needs to be kept open and empirically established from case to case.

The concept of securityscapes This book is not the first study to explore the everyday security practices of different people across Central Asia. Some researchers have looked at the habitual ‘coping strategies’ of youths, farmers or women (Trevisani, 2007; Oberkircher and Hornidge, 2011; Alff, 2012). Others have charted the changes to everyday life in the aftermath of violent conflict (Ismailbekova, 2013, 2015). Although these works do not explicitly use the term ‘security’ in their research design and outline, they are very close to the approach taken here –​both in terms of the questions asked and the ethnographic methods employed. The contribution of this volume lies in  –​explicitly  –​recognizing the phenomena that it describes as security practices; in turn, expanding and possibly even partially challenging the orthodox body of literature that makes claims about danger and security in Central Asia. What are security issues in the region? Who provides security? How is security sought? As the various chapters here amply illustrate, there are no straightforward and uniform answers to these questions.

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In order to do justice to the complexities of everyday security practice, the volume proposes the concept of securityscapes as an overall analytical framework to guide its individual chapters (von Boemcken et al, 2016, 2018). It is inspired by the discussion of different ‘scapes’ originally put forward by the anthropologist Arjun Appadurai (1996). As he argued, people ‘navigate’ their day-​to-​day life in accordance with ‘deeply perspectival’ and individually held ‘imaginations’ of their own selves and their place in the world (Appadurai, 1996: 33). These mental maps eventually become shared across larger formations and express themselves within ‘an organized field of social practices’ (Appadurai, 1996: 31). It is for this reason that any social collective comes to know and conceive of itself as a community –​a ‘social fact’. Rather than be disregarded as some ‘mere fantasy’, the imagination needs to be taken into account as ‘a constitutive feature of modern subjectivity’ (Appadurai, 1996: 31, 3). Up until recently, this manifested itself most visibly in parts of the world as what Benedict Anderson (1991) called the ‘imagined community’ of the ‘nation-​state’. However, it was not least with a view to non-​Western regions, as well as to the ongoing dynamics of cultural and economic globalization, that Appadurai (1996: 19, 21) considered this specifically modern and Occidental construct to be ‘on its last legs’ and in a ‘terminal crisis’. He drew attention to ‘more dispersed and diverse forms of transnational allegiance and affiliation’ (Appadurai, 1996: 20), forming a ‘plurality’ of imagined communities –​or ‘imagined worlds’, as he preferred to call them (Appadurai, 1996: 5) –​ which ‘frequently operate beyond the boundaries of the nation’ (Appadurai, 1996: 8; see also Appadurai, 1996: 53–​4) and often even ‘contest’ and ‘subvert’ them (Appadurai, 1996: 33). Appadurai (1996:  33, 46, 37–​8) suggested the suffix ‘scapes’ to highlight ‘the fluid, irregular shapes of these landscapes’, ‘possessing no Euclidean boundaries, structures, or regularities’, and yet very much informing those ‘deterritorialized’ imaginations and practices of many people across various dimensions. For Appadurai (1996: 48, 34–​36), five such ‘scapes’ were particularly relevant for understanding contemporary transformations of social life:  ‘ethnoscapes’ (‘the landscapes of group identity’); ‘technoscapes’ (the ‘global configuration … of technology’); ‘financescapes’ (the ‘disposition of global capital’); ‘mediascapes’ (the ‘distribution of the electronic capabilities to produce and disseminate information’); and ‘ideoscapes’ (the ‘ideologies of states’ and the ‘counterideologies of movements explicitly oriented to capturing state power’). Appadurai’s (1996: 37) overall hypothesis was that ‘current global flows’ proceed ‘in and through the growing

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disjunctures’ between these five ‘scapes’. He mainly emphasized their respective divergence from the ‘ideoscape’ of the ‘nation-​state’. For instance, unbounded ‘financescapes’ undermine trust in the ability of governments to effectively control and contain global capital flows (Appadurai, 1996: 40), and many ‘ethnoscapes’ are clearly at odds with the territorial borders of ‘nations’. Now, Appadurai’s theory certainly has some appeal for studying the lifeworlds of people in regions of Central Asia. This is not just the obvious matter of several ‘ethnoscapes’ cross-​cutting national boundaries in the region (Schetter, 2005). Recent research by Madeleine Reeves (2014), in particular, has compellingly demonstrated that Central Asian borders do not simply denote static lines of demarcation, but are complex and contested fields of mobility and flux, simultaneously circumscribing everyday life as much as they excite transgression and local defiance of the ‘nation-​state’ grid. Here, and elsewhere, we may analyse such spaces in terms of ‘borderscapes’, that is, as ‘heterotopic’ and often ‘paradoxical zone[s]‌ of resistance, agency, and rogue embodiment’ (Rayaram and Grundy-​Warr, 2007: ix). Taking this point further, an argument can be made that the nation-​ state  –​or state, for that matter  –​does not just become contested in the everyday life on its borderlands; rather, disjunctures equally appear within that field of practice that has been most intimately connected to it, namely, security. To be clear, Appadurai did not refer to ‘securityscapes’ himself. Furthermore, while older publications have occasionally done so, they usually reinserted the term into highly state-​ centric accounts of security practice, whether about the ‘entrenching’ of the ‘imagined community of the nation’ (Weldes et al, 1999: 8), the distribution of ‘military-​scientific resources’ (Gusterson, 2004: xxi) or the top-​down imposition of ‘routine surveillance and violence’ (Wall, 2011:  240). By way of contrast, a concept of securityscapes more closely in line with Appadurai’s original emphasis on fluidity and disjuncture ought to be open to heterotopic transgressions from the normative universe that has for so long determined our analysis of security practice, particularly in Political Science. It takes seriously the agency of various individuals, each of them navigating their very own securityscape. As Kathrin Oestmann and Anna Korschinek demonstrate in their contribution here, a study of securityscapes can thus be fruitfully combined with interpretation pattern analysis. The starting point is always to understand how any one person brings certain imaginations of (in)security to bear on his or her daily live. More recent studies of securityscapes in different parts of the world have adopted a less state-​centric understanding of the concept;

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instead, employing it as an overall framework for charting how various imaginations and practices of (in)security govern the spatial and temporal complexities of everyday life (Maguire and Low, 2019). The concept of securityscapes posits (in)security as an ethnographic object of study:  something that can be encountered anywhere and everywhere in various mundane and routinized activities. At the same time, it is informed by what might be referred to as a sociological (and less ‘political’) understanding of the term ‘security’. In other words, ‘doing security’ is not so much about states and militaries, but, first and foremost, an epistemological reaction to the metaphysical unease and anxiety brought about by the contingent and finite nature of life itself (Kaufmann, 1970: xii; Luhmann, 1990: 134; Huysmans, 1998: 235–​7). Anthony Giddens (1991) alluded to every individual’s desire for ‘ontological security’, and Zygmunt Bauman (1999) further differentiated security practice as composed of a material dimension (which he termed ‘security’), a psychological dimension (‘certainty’) and a corporeal dimension (‘safety’) (see Chapter 8 by Bagdasarova). Thus, to study an individual’s securityscape is to follow the various ways in which any one person deals with that ‘existentially dangerous predicament of being a fragile body acutely aware of its vulnerability and mortality’ (von Boemcken, 2019: 6). Such a broad understanding would neither preclude the securitization of issues as existential threats requiring some sort of (usually violent) emergency measure, nor rule out the inscribing of fixed subject positions within a striated space of friends and enemies. Territoriality, geopolitics and/​or the state are not necessarily less important today than they were in the past. While Appadurai’s original writing does invite such a reading, we should be careful about assuming any grand, epochal shift (Heymann and Campbell, 2009: 136, 137, 140), especially when studying security practices. As pointed out earlier, for instance, empirical research on ‘everyday security’ has –​in some instances –​traced the way in which ‘national security’ discourses very much succeed in holding the mundane lives of citizens in their grip. Furthermore, even if there is no functioning state worth mentioning, Conrad Schetter (2005) has demonstrated that ethnoscapes in Afghanistan continue to rely on imaginations of territorialized space. Mei Ding (2018), in her study of marriage as a security practice among people of the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, has similarly emphasized the importance of boundary-​drawing. The point, then, is not that efforts of ordering –​ of drawing boundaries around things and people –​have become in some way less relevant; rather, the argument is that these practices are always simultaneously eclipsed by the messy and fluid reality of the

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everyday. In other words, there is no single and homogeneous story –​ or definition –​of what security (securing one’s self or others) means in concrete, experiential settings. This book provides ample evidence of the heterogeneity of securityscapes in Kyrgyzstan. It shows, not least, that the imagining, construction and social navigation of securityscapes is not necessarily about establishing and maintaining borders and boundaries –​about visibly constituting one’s self by distinguishing oneself from another. Securityscapes may equally cross –​and thereby defy –​boundaries (von Boemcken, 2019). Often, they consist of trickery and deception: of attempts to mimic the behaviour of others, to move from one place to another without being noticed, to switch identities, to hide, to pretend to be someone else and to continually adapt to shifting circumstances. It is by observing these kinds of behaviours that the following chapters make the, perhaps, most innovative and interesting contribution to ongoing debates on everyday security since they potentially challenge more orthodox and traditional conceptions of security –​not only in Kyrgyzstan or Central Asia, but equally in other regions of the world. References

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Wall, T. (2011) ‘Surveillance and violence from afar:  the politics of drones and liminal security-​scapes’, Theoretical Criminology, 15(3): 239–​54. Weldes, J., Laffey, M., Gusterson, H. and Duvall, R. (1999) ‘Introduction:  constructing insecurity’, in J.  Weldes, M.  Laffey, H.  Gusterson and R.  Duvall (eds) Cultures of insecurity:  States, communities, and the production of danger, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, pp 1–​34. Werner, C. and Purvis-​Roberts, K. (2013) ‘Cold War memories and post-​Cold War realities: the politics of memory and identity in the everyday life of Kazakhstan’s radiation victims’, in M. Reeves, J. Rasanayagam and J. Beyer (eds) Ethnographies of the state in Central Asia. Performing politics, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, pp 285–​310. Wilde, A. and Mielke, K. (2013) ‘Order, stability, and change in Afghanistan:  from top-​down to bottom-​up state-​making’, Central Asian Survey, 32(3): 353–​70. Wilkinson, C. (2007) ‘The Copenhagen School on tour in Kyrgyzstan: is securitization theory useable outside Europe?’, Security Dialogue, 38(1): 5–​25. Wilson, L. and Bakker, L. (2016) ‘Cutting off the king’s head: security and normative order beyond the state’, Conflict, Security & Development, 16(4): 289–​300. Wishnik, E. (2002) Growing U.S.  security interests in Central Asia, Carlisle: Strategic Studies Institute, US Army War College. Wolfers, A. (1952) ‘ “National security” as an ambiguous symbol’, Political Science Quarterly, 67(4): 481–​502. Zedner, L. (2009) Security, London: Routledge.

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Security Practices and the Survival of Cafes in Southern Kyrgyzstan Shavkat Atakhanov and Abylabek Asankanov Introduction The cafe ‘Timur’ is considered to be one of the first cafes in Osh City to have emerged just after the 1990 riots in Osh and Kyrgyzstan’s independence in 1991. The owner of this cafe, a man named Murat, acquired some land as private property in the city of Osh1 in early 1991. This plot of land was strategically located in a lively part of the city centre, close to the central market. Murat decided to enter the catering business by constructing a cafe and not a restaurant because the official requirements for constructing a restaurant were very high and would have necessitated considerable additional expenditure. Apparently, in the early 1990s, opening a restaurant was a difficult and financially risky endeavour. This was mainly because: a financial infrastructure was only just beginning to form in the new country; ordinary people lacked the means to purchase even bread; and, finally, a restaurant would attract attention not only from state fiscal and law enforcement bodies, but also from organized crime. Being relatively small, cafes do not generate profits as high as those of the bigger restaurants. Indeed, even when Murat’s financial situation stabilized and improved, he still considered the financial risks associated with building up a restaurant business as too great. Despite his opting for less risk, Murat used to collect and keep all the documents and certificates in case they would be needed in future.

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Another challenge for Murat was that the allocation of land, the cafe’s construction and general cafe operations were all inexorably linked to corruption. The decision to allocate land for the construction of the cafe was taken at the level of the mayor of the city and the governor of the region, who expected a certain ‘reward’ in return. In Murat’s case, this reward, or bribe, amounted to several thousand US dollars. Local Uzbek businessmen, like Murat, are often indifferent to the problems of documents and permits. However, Murat had been carefully collecting all the required documentation (related to selling, borrowing and buying the land, cattle and other goods) for 20 years to help him secure his business from arbitrary decisions by various government authorities. Despite the fact that he continued to pay bribes to state officials for setting up the cafe, he understood that the maintenance of documentation was important for securing his business. Due to the constant political changes in the country, newly appointed officials from law enforcement and fiscal bodies in Osh would try to find new reasons for demanding large sums of money from businesses, starting with bribes and leading to the expropriation of owners. In June 2010, Osh experienced riots and extreme civil unrest as Uzbeks clashed with Kyrgyz, with the latter asserting their assumed status as members of the ‘titular nation’. Although Uzbeks comprised a substantial portion (48 per cent) of the population in Osh, Kyrgyz from the countryside flooded into the city in June 2010 to vastly outnumber the Uzbeks and to destroy numerous Uzbek neighbourhoods. These clashes completely ruined the Uzbek-​run catering sector, including Murat’s cafe. However, having acquired and kept all the relevant documents, Murat was able to maintain his ownership of the cafe during and after the events of 2010. In addition to carefully managing the relevant documentation, our Uzbek cafe owner also needed to be a psychologist and a diplomat, to be mobile and agile, and, most importantly, to have acting skills in order to retain his cafe. After the events of 2010 in Osh, Murat was detained by officers from the interregional department for organized crime at the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Kyrgyz Republic, Southern Region. He was placed in a cell and interrogated in a rough manner. He was questioned about where he had been at the time of the events, who had accompanied him, what exactly he was doing and so on. From his interrogation room, he could hear the screams and moans of Uzbeks being tortured by policemen in other rooms. He reports that being Uzbek was already sufficient grounds for suspicion. At the beginning of his interrogation, Murat answered the questions of the police officers calmly. When they switched to a more abusive

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form of interrogation, he tried to apply diplomacy. However, his diplomatic approach did not have the desired outcome. Being savvy, he then decided to escape torture by pretending to have a heart attack. Clutching his heart tightly, he fell from his chair and began to choke. On seeing this, the police officers opted to avoid being involved in the death of a businessman in their custody. They picked him up and carried him outside where his relatives were already waiting for him. The story of Murat –​along with the way in which he concealed his business success, cultivated connections to state authorities, carefully complied with government rules and regulations, and navigated bureaucratic obstacles –​led us to make use of the concept of securityscapes developed by von Boemcken et al (2016) to describe people’s everyday practices of security-​making. The concept of a securityscape is defined as a strategy for making a secure life for oneself in response to perceived threats. It stresses individual agency in security-​ making (rather than relying on state or external security providers) –​ which is very clear in the case of Murat. The spatial dimension of the securityscapes of Uzbek businessmen centres neither on the past nor on the future, but simply on surviving in the present. We know that following the June 2010 events, there was irreversible damage inflicted on the economic foundations of the ethnic Uzbek segment of the population of Southern Kyrgyzstan (Karabekov, 2014). Cafes, restaurants and retail outlets belonging to Uzbeks were burnt down or passed into the hands of Kyrgyz businessmen (KIC, 2011). After the June events, the economic space of the Uzbeks of the city of Osh sharply narrowed (Abashin and Savin, 2012). However, Uzbeks still manage to dominate the catering sector in Osh and the surrounding regions. This leads to the question: how did Uzbek cafe owners find ways to cope with the 2010 Osh events and the difficult economic situation that they found themselves in? We collected field material for more than eight months on Uzbek security practices in everyday life, specifically, in the catering business, by making trips to locations in Osh of both compact and dispersed Uzbek residency. The methods that we used in conducting our research were primarily participant observation, qualitative interviews with both women and men, and focus group discussions among local youth. Before analysing securityscapes, it is important to first briefly consider the emergence of identity politics relating to food in Central Asia. After that, we will examine the development of the food business in Osh throughout the recent history of Kyrgyzstan. This section will be followed by a socio-​political backgrounder on Osh, examining the importance of patronage, corruption and criminal networks in

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securing one’s catering business. The subsequent sections deal with the different securityscapes of the cafe owners in Osh, such as choosing a cafe’s name, its choice of music and alcohol avoidance. We conclude by drawing together the key findings of our research.

Politicization of food and identity Historically, the population of Central Asia was divided into sedentary (Uzbeks and Tajiks) and nomadic peoples (Kyrgyz and Kazaks). The sedentary peoples were engaged in agriculture, craftsmanship and trade, and lived predominantly in urban areas. Cities have always been political, economic and cultural centres for the surrounding regions. Farmers cultivated fruit, vegetables and other crops, while merchants from abroad introduced and traded an additional variety of goods and foods (Starr et al, 2011). The nomadic population was engaged in the rearing of livestock (cattle, yaks, sheep, goats, horses). This is why the cuisine of the sedentary and nomadic peoples has typically diverged (Gubaeva, 1991; Kochkunov, 2010; Nalivkin and Nalivkina, 2016; Japarov, 2017). Before the emergence of the Soviet Union, there was no concept of the ‘nation’ (ethnos) in Central Asia. This means that Central Asia was divided not by nationality, such as Kyrgyz, Uzbek, Tajik or Kazak, but by regional identities, that is, whether people lived in, say, the vicinity of Osh, Tashkent or Samarkand. With the national territorial demarcations across Central Asia, which took place roughly from 1924 to 1936, local populations were divided along ethno-​national lines (Abashin, 2004; Starr et al, 2011; Megoran, 2012). The tradition of giving food the names of certain regions gradually disappeared during the period of the Soviet Union. However, it saw a resurgence following the years of independence of the Central Asian republics. Once again, one and the same dish prepared for consumption had regional characteristics and became referred to by different names based on the terrain where it happened to be prepared, for example, ‘Kashgar lagman’, ‘Samarkand bread’ and ‘Tashkent pilaf ’. Politics also actively began to intervene in the sphere of cuisine, with manoeuvring over the ethnicization of dishes. For example, Tajikistan took the initiative to introduce pilaf into the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) list of intangible cultural values.2 Yet, if one analyses the recipe for Tajik pilaf,3 one cannot find any difference to Uzbek and Uighur pilaf; they are generally the same. Another Tajik food‚ shurbo,4 is not markedly different from Uzbek shuirva.5 Nowadays, many ethnic terms are used to designate dishes, such as ‘Uzbek pilaf ’, ‘Tajik pilaf ’, ‘Uigur lagman’ and ‘Uzbek

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Security Practices and the Survival of Cafes

lagman’. As such, the population began to be divided not only on ethnic grounds, but also in terms of their cuisine. This reflected the wider context of increasing national consciousness and nationalistic discourse (even if not public) both within and in the competition between Central Asian republics (Laruelle, 2012). As Alymbaeva (2017) argues, food is used as an identity marker in drawing group boundaries. She shows how certain dishes have become a material expression of ethnic identities. ‘Food traditions’ are reinterpreted in the light of political changes. We therefore seek to establish how people have pursued food identity in the political context of security issues facing Uzbek minorities from the 1990s onwards.

Food business in the Soviet and post-​Soviet context During the Soviet era, there were about five large restaurants in Osh. These five restaurants, along with several dozen canteens, tea houses, bars, cafeterias, eateries and buffets, were the places where festive dining and feasts for large gatherings were held.6 During the Soviet period in Osh, the catering services could be divided into three categories: (1) cafes and restaurants, which were mostly visited by officials (the Russian-​speaking population and the party elite) and partly by the urban intelligentsia; (2) canteens, attracting the working class regardless of their nationalities, religions and residences; and (3) chaykhana (tea houses), largely used by the general public. The cooks in all these establishments were generally Uzbek nationals, but the waiters tended to come from the Russian-​speaking part of the population (non-​ Muslims) because, in their traditions, they are allowed to work in public, unlike Muslims (interviews, Osh, October 2017). Since these cafes and restaurants were owned by the government, there were no significant security issues arising from customers making threats or refusing to pay for food and services. The security situation radically changed in the years after independence, especially from 1991 onwards and right after the first Osh riots took place in 1990 (Tishkov, 1997; Liu, 2012). After independence, state property began to be privatized. As a result, many catering establishments passed into the hands of the Uzbek part of the population in Osh. In addition, during the years of independence, new catering establishments (cafes, tea houses and restaurants) began to be built in the city centre –​again, mainly owned by Uzbeks because, historically, they were settled traders. Our respondents –​mainly cafe and restaurant owners –​were asked to evaluate the security of their businesses during two eras. The first

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is the era of the first president, President Akaev (1991–​2005), which was marked by a high level of safety for catering businesses. Akaev pursued a policy of multiculturalism through the slogan of ‘Kyrgyzstan is our common home’, which, to some extent, maintained inter-​ethnic coexistence in the country and curbed ethno-​nationalist sentiments. Most of the leaders and law enforcement officers, who had worked within government structures since the Soviet era and were brought up in the spirit of internationalism, shared a critical view of dividing society along ethnic lines. Thanks to their engagement, the provisions of national law generally protected the rights of citizens regardless of their ethnic identity. This period is described by many as a prosperous time for Uzbek businessmen in the catering sector. Nevertheless, it was under the Akaev administration that a gradual intensification of nationalism began. Over time, the posts of old cadres of state and law enforcement agencies began to be occupied by representatives of the ‘titular nation’: officials educated in the years of independence and brought up in the spirit of jubilant patriotism. This trend was accompanied by a steady decline in the number of law enforcement officers who were not representatives of the ‘titular nation’. Protectionism and ethnic nationalism became manifest in all spheres of society, especially in small-​and medium-​sized businesses and individual entrepreneurship (Korneichuk, 2013). It was obvious that it was not possible to run a small-​and medium-​sized catering business without patronage from state authorities. There was a gradual yet palpable rise of nationalism, accompanied by a decline of multiculturalism. The second era we asked about is the time of President Bakiyev (2005–​ 10). Ethnic nationalism intensified during this period (Wachtel, 2013). As a result, law enforcement officers, mostly members of the Kyrgyz majority, were often criticized as they gave only light punishment for wrongdoing against minority ethnic groups or completely ignored the complaints against the Kyrgyz ethnic majority. That is, law enforcement officials often acted arbitrarily and selectively. Impunity generated even more offences. As a result, the safety of doing business in all spheres, including the catering business, declined. Adaptive social mimicry by minority ethnic businessmen, especially in the catering field, became an integral part of business. As mentioned earlier, during the Osh events, Uzbeks and Kyrgyz lost family members along with homes and businesses (KIC, 2011). Yet, in this politically sensitive situation, Uzbeks found ways of securing their catering businesses and thus their economic survival and livelihoods. The conflict made people resentful of others.

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Security Practices and the Survival of Cafes

Securityscapes: criminals, corruption and patronage It is well known that the catering businesses located in the busy parts of the city can quickly pay back investments and generate considerable profits. Sensing the smell of easy money, the members of organized crime groups imposed a tribute on all owners of cafes.7 If criminal gangs did not dare to act openly during the reign of President Akaev (1991–​2005), during the reign of President Bakiyev (2005–​10), they gained more freedom of operation –​as long as they belonged to the right ethnic group. As the physical or financial threat intensified, the owners of catering shops sought and found patrons among criminal gangs and the heads of the police. Protection was needed from figures within organized crime, the police and the fiscal authorities (tax and financial police) during the reign of President Bakiyev, and this became an integral part of the business environment. Thus, to protect themselves and strengthen their businesses, the owners of cafes and restaurants had to pay specific criminals for protection, or obshchak. Paying the mafia for protection was necessary not only for Uzbeks, but for all who were active in the catering business. However, according to our Uzbek interviewees, Kyrgyz businessmen engaged in catering generally paid less than their Uzbek counterparts to criminal gangs,8 to the police or to officials in the fiscal authorities. The owner of one catering business –​an ethnic Uzbek wishing to remain anonymous –​ revealed that he made regular payments to: high-​ranking officials from the mayor’s office and the regional state administration; employees of the fire service, the hygiene, health and safety authority, the power utility, the tax inspectorate, and the district militia; and the mafia.9 Businesspeople are aware of the differences between taxes and bribes. Although they are usually paid together in one sum, they then receive a receipt for less than they have paid. The cafe owner went on to say that he had provided catering services for senior officials from the mayor’s office, the regional state administration, the Central Internal Affairs Directorate of the region and the city’s internal affairs department, as well as the regional prosecutor, all free of charge. Furthermore, on occasions, the cafes were also compelled to serve the guests of top officials free of charge.

Elections and politics before and after the events of June 2010 In the course of the study, we found that some cafe owners choose to run for office in municipal elections. By becoming council deputies

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in local government, they hope to avoid unreasonable inspections by fiscal authorities. The deputies to the municipal kenesh (council) can enable them to check the activities of fiscal bodies, not least because the heads of these fiscal bodies have to report to the municipal kenesh every year. Before the events of 2010, being a deputy to the municipal kenesh placed the owner of a business in the catering sector in a quite prestigious position among Uzbeks, apart from the economic benefits that it conferred. Becoming a member of the municipal kenesh thus offered a way for Uzbek businessmen to protect their businesses from constant pressure from government officials. These businessmen would themselves be part of the government and enjoy its privileges. We shall now look at how this happened in the municipal elections in three different periods, highlighting their differences in relation to the larger political context. During the first municipal elections in 2002, there were 30 seats. It was not only Kyrgyz who ran as candidates; almost 170 Uzbeks also stood for election. Among the Uzbek candidates, the overwhelming majority were businessmen who owned cafes in the city.10 The election results show that 16 representatives of the Uzbek ethnic groups were elected, so more than half of the seats went to Uzbeks. Five years later, during the 2007 municipal elections, 120 Uzbek candidates ran for the 30 seats available. This time, they were all businessmen. According to the results, seven Uzbek cafe owners were awarded seats at the municipal council,11 including A. Mirzaaly (‘Cafes Osh and Turkistan’), P. Karymov (‘Cafe Chinara’), L. Dorinov (‘Cafe Gulnaz’), K. Muradilov (‘Cafe Molochnie’) and F. Tahorv (‘Cafe Venice’). It is important to mention here that many of these deputies were engaged in other businesses besides running a cafe, and some had long been active in politics, mostly in their communities, which helped them to secure their seats. However, with time, it became difficult for Uzbeks to be in politics. In the violent events of 2010 in Osh, many of those businessmen lost their cafes as a result of arson, and many of them left the country. After the June riots, the municipal elections in 2012 were conducted under a proportional representation system. They resulted in an unfavourable situation for the Uzbek part of the population, compounded by the fact that most elite Uzbeks went into exile after the June riots. Furthermore, during those events, the mandate of Uzbek businessmen as deputies on the municipal council did not save them from the carnage. On the contrary, it was the elected businessmen who suffered more than Uzbeks without a mandate –​first from the destructive violence and then from the actions of law enforcement

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agencies (police, prosecutors). One cafe owner reported that the material damage to his cafes in Osh from the violence during the June 2010 events cost him about 350,000 US dollars. In addition, law enforcement officials continued to extort money from cafe owners for several years. This is one reason why the ethnic Uzbeks were not ready to contest any new elections. After 2010, there were strong reservations among ethnic Uzbeks about participating in the political life of the country –​a scepticism that has continued in their mindset to this day. It is against this background that out of the 45 mandates available in the 2012 election, only seven were won by ethnic Uzbeks.12 Of these, only two had done business in the catering sphere before the events of 2010: one was the owner of the burnt-​down ‘Osh and Turkestan cafes’, representing the Respublika Party (Azim Mirzaaly); and the other was the now-​deceased owner of the burnt-​down cafe ‘Asyl’, representing the Uluttar birimdigi (‘Unity of Nationalities’) Party (Farhat Abdrahman). The other five people were either teachers or university instructors. We talked with one of the latter in 2013 at a seminar on the ways of resolving interethnic conflicts in the city of Bishkek and asked about his election to the city council. He thought that Uzbek businessmen had become reluctant to contest seats as they saw hardly any chance of informally (for instance, through bribery) strengthening their businesses by sitting in the kenesh. Before the elections in 2012, Farhat Abdrahman had created Uluttar birimdigi, an ideological party that opposed the views of the ruling Social Democratic Party of Kyrgyzstan (SDPK), and actively began to include well-​known Uzbeks to gain the support of the Uzbek electorate. However, many respected and well-​known Uzbeks of the city were now living abroad, or found that after the destruction of their businesses, they were not able to run for the council. However, most importantly, Uzbeks were afraid to get involved in politics because Uzbek politicians had been particularly subject to accusations and attacks during the events of 2010. This explains why the names among the list of ethnic Uzbek candidates now included more people who had previously been unknown in politics and business. Among the Uzbek deputies on the council in this term, there were no persons who ran a cafe. The vast majority of Uzbek-​run catering outlets were looted or burned down during the June events of 2010, and some passed into the hands of representatives of ethnic Kyrgyz. Some were completely wound up after their destruction. Those owners who managed to keep their cafes could not open up again for a long time because of security problems. Thus, the impact of the conflict made the goal of gaining

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a seat on the city council less attractive for ethnic Uzbek businessmen because this position failed to ensure the security of either a business or its owner. In other words, the severe consequences and damage brought about by the events of 2010 deterred Uzbeks from running for office. However, Uzbek businessmen chose other strategies to avoid the problems they faced, which we shall now explain.

Securityscapes after the June 2010 events: alcohol prohibitions and avoidance Another important aspect of the securityscape that Uzbeks have adopted in the aftermath of conflict is avoidance. This includes alcohol prohibitions, nightlife avoidance, the changing of names and language, and hiding their Uzbek identity. These strategies offered a way of camouflaging their business activities and protecting them from threats.

Alcohol prohibitions and nightlife avoidance Many members of the ethnic Uzbek community, seeking not to become the object of aggression by ethnic Kyrgyz, began avoiding visiting restaurants in the central and lively parts of the city during the evening, and especially at night, after the June 2010 events. Kyrgyz generally became the dominant customers of cafes and restaurants in the evenings. Conflicts between drunken young men and Uzbek service workers became a daily phenomenon. According to our cafe-​owner informants:  “the general outcome of such incidents was that the owners of the cafes and service personnel tended to be badly affected and even punished, while the drunken instigators were ignored by the authorities” (interview, Osh, 20 November 2017). This led to a gradual loss of faith in the law and in legal protection, prompting entrepreneurs in the catering sector to find new strategies for their security. In the Uzbek-​owned catering businesses newly opened after 2010, alcohol was banned on the premises. This move was initiated by the Uzbek owners, so there was no religious motive; rather, it was a security strategy. Although the sale of alcohol had previously brought in a lot of money for the cafe owners, it meant that guests all too often caused trouble. When losses from alcohol-​related problems began to exceed the income generated from alcohol sales, the owners of the establishments ceased selling alcoholic beverages and also prohibited visitors from drinking any alcohol brought with them. At the entrance of each cafe in Osh, one can often find a poster depicting the prohibition of

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alcohol. However, we did hear other explanations by our informants for the alcohol ban at these catering establishments. Some claimed that it was partly facilitated by the increasing significance of Islam in society; others thought that it was more a reaction to the 2010 riots, with proprietors fearing that further riots could be triggered by young men drinking and brawling. In any case, alcoholic beverages are now only sold in catering establishments in the city centre, where different ethnic groups reside.

Professional profiles of waitresses: adaptation and avoidance As mentioned earlier, since the early 2000s, a typical pattern in catering businesses was that the main cooks were Uzbeks while the service staff were mainly from the Russian-​speaking population. Russian-​speaking waitresses at cafes and restaurants used to communicate with clients only in Russian, but with a decrease in the number of Russian speakers in the local population, service staff began to prefer to speak Kyrgyz. Russian-​speaking female waitresses were in demand in all catering places, yet the number of Russians was declining from year to year due to migration outflows (Chotaeva, 2011). After 2010, one could notice more and more young Kyrgyz women working as waitresses at Uzbek-​owned cafes. Many of them were students at the universities in Osh. They are usually expected to wear traditional Kyrgyz clothes, to serve Kyrgyz customers and welcome them using the Kyrgyz address Kosh kelingizder! (‘Welcome!’). The strengthened role of religion among Uzbeks has kept them from working as waiters. The exclusion of Uzbeks from the catering workforce was further facilitated by various rumours about ‘love affairs’ between waitresses and cafe owners or chefs during the night shift. In the minds of the Uzbek community, attitudes towards the food-​serving profession grew increasingly contemptuous. It should be noted here that divorced women or widows would often work as waitresses due to the loss of their husband as the breadwinner. Female Uzbeks worked as waitresses when they found themselves in economic difficulties and could not find other paid work. However, young men would often refuse to pay their bills to Uzbek waitresses, and there were also cases when they would physically assault a waitress. Consequently, Uzbek women gradually worked less and less as waitresses and started seeking other jobs. In order to hide their ethnic identity, Uzbek waitresses often dye their black hair in light colours. They also adapt their names on badges to make them sound Russian. For example, the Uzbek female

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name Zulfiya was turned into ‘Zulochka’ or ‘Zulu’, Rozikhon would become ‘Rozochka’, and Gulnora would be rewritten ‘Gulychka’.13 Many Uzbek waitresses either wear a scarf (hijab) or a traditional Kyrgyz women’s vest, a distinctive sleeveless garment. The hijab, in particular, shields their bodies from unwanted attention while giving them mobility in public spaces (Boboyorov, 2017). Another important component of adaptation and avoidance is the use of the Kyrgyz language. When they did not speak Kyrgyz, Uzbek-​ speaking waitresses often became the target of insults by customers, especially poorer Kyrgyz from the countryside (interviews with Uzbek waitresses on their experiences with drunken customers, Osh, November 2017). Thus, Uzbek waitresses who worked in cafes began to communicate with visitors in Kyrgyz. This meant having to learn the language.14 The adaptation of waitresses, and of the catering business in general, to Kyrgyz rules and expectations became a means of survival.

Securityscapes: names and music avoidance Uzbek name avoidance The first generations of cafes began to appear in the early 1990s. During this time, the Uzbeks gave their cafes Uzbek names, for example, ‘Gulnaza’ or ‘Turkistan’. After the Osh riots of 2010, these names were sometimes replaced with Arab names, apparently in connection with the growing importance of Islam. One now finds names such as ‘Al Baraka’, ‘Al Mansur’, ‘Abu Bakr’, ‘Obi Zam-​Zam’ or ‘Sakhiy’. In the context of rising nationalism, some proprietors also chose neutral or European (often Russian) names as symbols of Westernization, such as ‘Mercury’, ‘Vstrecha’ or ‘Edem’. These were preferred because Arab names might provoke aggression among nationalists. However, Uzbek cafe owners mainly went with Kyrgyz names, like ‘Dostuk’, ‘Aiyn’, ‘Ala-​Too’, ‘Chynar’, ‘Issyk kul’ and ‘Kurmanjan Datka’ (see Table 3.1). They also began to decorate their cafes in the Kyrgyz style, displaying Kyrgyz symbols, signs and ornaments. Today, it is very rare to find cafes with Uzbek names, and they are usually located inside of Uzbek mahallas (neighbourhoods). Central Asian endings like bek (a common ending for Kyrgyz and Uzbek male names) or gul (a common ending for Kyrgyz and Uzbek female names) were appended. For example, the Uzbek cafe ‘Furhat’ is now called ‘Forhatbek’. When choosing a name for a new cafe, owners seem to choose neutral names (with endings like bek that exist among both Kyrgyz and Uzbeks), and prefer

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Table 3.1: Some catering places before and after the Osh events of 2010 Location (street name)

During the Osh events

After the Osh events

Owner

Dishes before and after the events

Cuisine

Kashgar/​Aigat

Masalieva, not far from the city sauna

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur

Venecia/​Remi

Masalieva, near Osh State University

Not plundered

Continuing its activities

Changed

Al-​Baraka/​Aiyn

Masalieva, near Sharipova School

Plundered and burnt down

Changed its activities

Not changed

Sogdiana/​Akordo

Masalieva, in front of the ticket office

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Gulnaz/​Yntymak

Masalieva, in front of the Imam Buhari mosque

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur

Al-​Mansur

Masalieva, in front of the Imam Buhari mosque

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur

Abu Bakr/​Kurmanjan Datka

Masalieva, near auto battalion

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur

Ala-​Too

Masalieva, in front of auto battalion

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

National

Osh/​Arena

Masalieva, near the cafe Ala-​Too

Plundered

Changed its activities

Not changed

European and national (Kyrgyz)

Security Practices and the Survival of Cafes

59

Old name/​new name

newgenrtpdf

Table 3.1: (Continued) Location (street name)

During the Osh events

After the Osh events

Owner

Dishes before and after the events

Cuisine

Kyrgyzstan

Masalieva, near the cafe Osh (currently Arena)

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

European, Uighur and National

Turkistan/​Issyk-​Kul

Masalieva, in front of the city hospital

Burnt down

Re-​established and continues to operate

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Aina

Masalieva, in front of Megacom

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur

Dostuk

Karasuu, near the market

Burnt down

Re-​established and continues to operate

Not changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur

Chinar

Kara Suu

Burnt down

Closed down

Evrazia

Navai, near the train station

Burnt down

Closed down

Changed

Sary Chelek/​ Mungush

Str Kyrgyzstan, in front of Osh Electricity

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Changed

Not substantially changed

Merkuryi/​Altyn/​Ordo

Kurmanjan Datka, micro-​district Frunze

Plundered

Continuing its activities

Changed

Not substantially changed

European and National

Viktoria/​Zhalal/​Abad

Lenina, micro-​district Frunze

Continuing its activities

Changed

Not substantially changed

European and National

Vstrecha

Lenina, micro-​district Frunze

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

European and National

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

60

Old name/​new name

newgenrtpdf

Table 3.1: (Continued) Lenina, micro-​district Frunze

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

European and National

Islambek/​Chynar

Lenina, micro-​district Frunze

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

European and National

Edem/​Tangem

Zhunusov, micro-​ district Frunze

Continuing its activities

Changed

Not substantially changed

European and National

Sahii/​Adigine

Pamir

Plundered and burnt down

Continuing its activities

Changed

Not substantially changed

Uighur, and National

Obi zam zam/​ Bayastan

Pamir

Plundered and burnt down

Continuing its activities

Not changed

Not substantially changed

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Atabek

SURVIVING EVERYDAY LIFE

Kyrgyz, Russian or foreign names. A survey of the menu of these cafes soon shows that the choices on offer have not changed much:  the menu typically includes soup Kazakh, shorpo (Kyrgyz soup), goulash, pilaf, shashlik and so on. Thus, while offering the same service, the cafes have abandoned their old Uzbek names as another strategy for protecting businesses in the catering industry. Unlike restaurants belonging to members of the ‘titular nation’, cafes belonging to the Uzbeks are not suitable for large corporate events, such as weddings, anniversaries or public and company holidays. Before the 2010 Osh events, Uzbeks, especially from the higher strata of Uzbek society, would sometimes celebrate weddings in restaurants. However, after the events, all layers of the Uzbek population stopped celebrating weddings in restaurants because they were concerned about the consequences. The owners of newly built cafes were well aware of this reluctance, which is why the newer cafes are not designed to cater for large ceremonies. In addition, recorded background music, as well as live musical entertainment, is now absent in most newly opened cafes. If there is recorded music playing, it is likely to be foreign or Kyrgyz music.15 Many cafes also prefer to promote a Muslim style, advertising their food and drinks as halal. During the collection of field material for this article,16 we visited the cafe ‘Kurmandzhan Datka’ during the day. At the time of this visit, the customers were predominantly Uzbek and the waiter who served us was Kyrgyz. Later in the evening, a colleague of ours again visited ‘Kurmandzhan Datka’ with her family. This time, the customers were predominantly Kyrgyz. Despite the fact that this restaurant is located in Sheit Tobo, which is an Uzbek mahalla, ethnic Uzbeks seem to avoid going there in the evening and at night, presumably because they are concerned about their security. However, not many Kyrgyz go there either, particular since it is located in an Uzbek mahalla. The same kind of picture can be seen in many other new Uzbek cafes located on the same street and opened just after 2010, including ‘Jasin’, ‘Saidia’, ‘Odnoklassniki’, ‘Tabaka Center’, ‘Al Baraka’, ‘Oomat’ and ‘Kurmandzhan Datka’. These places are located in an Uzbek community but the street serves as a main thoroughfare between the centre of the city and the new bus station. These are new cafes that were erected in the fronts of private houses in 2014. The owners of all these cafes are ethnic Uzbeks. It is a very busy street with taxis, intercity buses, city traffic police and traffic to the ‘Dostuk’ border checkpoint, which is shared with Uzbekistan, and to the airport. In other words, this street is one of the busiest highways, on which the flow of vehicles never stops, day or night (see Table 3.2).

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Table 3.2: New catering places established after the Osh events of 2010 Name

Location (street name)

Owner

Cuisine

Dishes on the billboard

Turkistan

Osmonova

Uzbek

Uighur

Shashlik, pilaf, manty, lagman, salad, chuchbara

Oomat

Osmonova

Uzbek

Durdana

Monueva

Uzbeks

Jasin

Kurmanjan Datka, on the way to bus station

Uzbeks

Grilled chicken

Odnoklassniki

Kurmanjan Datka, on the way to bus station

Uzbeks

Grilled chicken

Ata Bij

Kurmanjan Datka

Uzbeks

Al-​Baraka

Kurmanjan Datka

Uzbeks

Chiken Osh

Kurmanjan Datka

Uzbeks

Dastan

Monueva

Uzbeks

Uighur

Kurmanjan Datka

Kurmanjan Datka

Uzbeks

National cuisine

Shashlik, pilaf, manty, lagman, goulash, samsy, okroshka, salad Uighur

Shashlik, pilaf, manty, lagman, goulash, samsy, okroshka, salad

National cuisine Chicken dishes Lagman, samsy, shashlyk, kebab, manty, ganpen

Today, there are more than 300 cafes, restaurants and other catering places in the city, but only a few of these meet the high requirements of the wealthy. Essentially, all luxury cafes and restaurants belong to members of the ‘titular nation’. Accordingly, they are visited mainly by Kyrgyz. They include ‘Otor’, ‘Arzuu’, ‘Remi’, ‘Barsbek’, ‘Oligarch’, ‘Eldorado’ and ‘Blonder’. These expensive cafes and restaurants are mainly located in the western part of the city, where ethnic Kyrgyz form an absolute majority of the population. However, virtually all the cooks they employ are ethnic Uzbeks, though the waitresses can be either Kyrgyz or Uzbeks. Weddings (uy toi, kyz uzatuu toyi, uylonuu that), circumcisions (sunnot toi), mourning events (kyrk kunduk, zhyldyk), anniversaries (maareke) and public and company holiday celebrations are held here. By and large, Uzbeks do not visit these establishments for safety and security reasons, unless they are in the company of large

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groups of ethnically Kyrgyz friends or colleagues. Uzbeks do not organize such large events by themselves.

Uzbek music avoidance It is important to recall that during the reign of President Akaev, guests in catering establishments, especially in tea houses and cafes, were able to hear background music and listen to songs of various Uzbek music genres, including classical, lyrical and pop music. This phenomenon continued until 2007. On a trip to Osh and Jalal-​Abad oblasts in 2007, Tegizbai Bolotov, the state secretary of the Kyrgyz Republic, ordered the playing of Uzbek music in public catering places to cease. Bolotov is known as an ardent nationalist in the country, and his remarks were very painfully perceived among minorities, leaving a very negative impression among Uzbeks (Korneichuk, 2017). Ever since, Uzbek music has not been heard in public catering places, even in those where the owners are Uzbeks. Uzbek music was removed from cafes and restaurants because it symbolized ethnic Uzbek identity. Many Uzbeks have preferred to ignore this affront and avoid drawing attention to themselves. Ismailbekova (2015) argues that many Kyrgyz still play Uzbek music at restaurant wedding celebrations. She further points out that Uzbek music has not completely disappeared, but is still being played at small, private Uzbek gatherings. Regardless of possible exceptions, the low profile of Uzbek music in Osh cafes would seem to relate to the need to avoid trouble and to a general reluctance to provoke further violence (Ismailbekova, 2015: 48).

‘New brand’: Uighur cafe and lagman As already noted, many owners of catering establishments left the country during the June events (Ismaibekova, 2013). Those who stayed and continued their businesses were forced to change the name of their cafes to Kyrgyz or foreign names (see Table 3.1). A foreigner who is unfamiliar with the tense situation in Osh might look at the names of the catering establishments or the names of the cuisine and menu items and think that Osh is dominated by the Uighur community because of the prevalence of ‘Uighur lagman’, a dish famous in Central Asia (Pestov, 2013). In reality, this is certainly not the case. According to the 2009 Kyrgyz census in Osh, Uzbeks formed 48.31 per cent of the population, while Uighurs constituted just 0.34 per cent. Furthermore, according to our observations, all

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Security Practices and the Survival of Cafes

cooks and kitchen workers are Uzbeks (NSC, 2009), along with some ethnic Kyrgyz waitresses. During our ethnographic research, we visited the cafe ‘Yntymak’ (formerly called ‘Gulnaz’). We ordered a variety of dishes from the menu. The list of dishes on offer included lagman (consisting of noodles in broth, soaked in a sauce with vegetables, meat and spices). However, there was no information about the specific provenance of lagman. Our friend asked the waiter to bring the national (Kyrgyz) lagman, while we ordered the Uzbek lagman. Upon hearing this, the waitress was surprised and said that the national lagman and Uzbek lagman are the same. It is just that the ‘Uzbek’ dish is not written in the menu, but the national one is. So, we asked why the Uighur lagman was written in the menu. The waitress could not find a response to our question. This seemed intriguing to us. To clarify further, we went to several public catering cafes such as ‘Dastan’, ‘Durdan’ and ‘Ethas’. We asked the same questions everywhere: what is the difference between the national (Kyrgyz) lagman and the ‘Uzbek’ lagman? Nobody could answer. However, one cafe owner did try to address our question. According to him, during the Soviet Union, not only lagman, but also other dishes, were not divided according to national characteristics. The lagmans prepared at cafes and restaurants were the same everywhere. Differences only appeared in the recipes for various lagmans prepared at home, but not, he said, in cafe preparation techniques. In order to satisfy the high-​volume turnover of customers during the lunch break at cafes, cooks have had to prepare the lagman rapidly, using a conveyor method, often with hand-​held kitchen machines. However, at home, five or six people typically get together to make lagman in a manual way. Therefore, home lagman is considered to be more of a delicacy than lagman prepared at a cafe. The name ‘Uighur lagman’ was coined more recently, when a new marketplace in Kara-​Suu (15 kilometers from Osh City) opened. Here, some cafe owners hired Uighur cooks from China and made Uighur-​style cooking a feature of their advertising. Billboards showing ‘Uighur lagman’ began to appear. Yet, the so-​called ‘Uighur lagman’ cooking style is no different from the way ‘Uzbek’ lagman is prepared at home, as in the case of pilaf. ‘Uighur lagman’ became a mark of distinction for cuisines in catering establishments. As its popularity rose, cafe owners began to hire Uighur chefs for significant sums of money in order to raise their profile. During this period, Uzbek cooks began to master the subtleties of cooking a crisp Uighur lagman. From the time when ‘Uighur lagman’ appeared on billboards or menus, the Uighur cuisine turned into a profitable and safe venture for Uzbek businessmen.

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There was no ethnic hostility between members of the ‘titular nation’ and the Uighurs in the south of Kyrgyzstan, and specifically in the city of Osh. However, during this time, Uzbek names irritated certain members of the ‘titular nation’ after the 2010 events in the city. Following these events, the overwhelming majority of Uzbeks engaged in public catering began to write ‘Uighur cuisine’ or ‘Uighur lagman’ on their billboards and menus –​for the safety and security of their businesses. Despite this change in presentation, most establishments do not even employ a cook of Uighur nationality. Indeed, the same Uzbek cooks often work at the cafes as they did before the 2010 Osh events. With a strategy of changing menu names and billboards, Uzbek owners managed to continue operating with the old menus and with the same cooks. One security aspect is very important to highlight here, namely, that many Kyrgyz started seeing the Uzbek name with suspicion and distrust. The Uighur name, however, did not raise such negative connotations, even though many Kyrgyz are well aware that the cafe owners are actually Uzbek.

Conclusion Let us return to the story mentioned in the introduction to this chapter. The case of Murat is not unique. His case highlights the lived reality of many Uzbek cafe owners. Murat’s cafe still operates today, much as it did before, though he has had to change its name. Murat continues to collect and save all of the necessary documentation, and he continues to pay protection money to criminals and bribes to corrupt government officials. Like Murat, many Uzbek businessmen must be creative and find their own ways of ensuring the survival of their business. The securityscape of Uzbeks involves a pattern of behaviour that avoids Uzbek identity, such as in music and food names, and embraces the Kyrgyz language and culture. Had there been no danger or threat to Uzbek businessmen, they would not have gone through this painful restructuring of their businesses. However, as our research has revealed, Uzbeks have adapted to different socio-​political situations as circumstances changed. Ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union, these entrepreneurs in the catering business have engaged in a variety of security practices in order to keep their businesses running. During the Akaev era, Uzbek businessmen highlighted ‘Uzbekness’ by stressing their Uzbek identities, which contributed to an ethnic diversity in the city. They did this by giving Uzbek names to their cafes, hiring Russian-​speaking waitresses, selling alcohol and playing Uzbek music. This strategy was aligned to Akaev’s policy of shaping

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Kyrgyzstan as a ‘common house’ where many ethnic groups would live together. Running a cafe came with various risks and threats for the Uzbeks during the first days of private entrepreneurship. Nevertheless, in Osh, many accepted the challenge. Many Uzbek businessmen had opportunities to move from the cafe level to the restaurant level but they chose to stay within their existing niche as a less risky path. Their business strategy was guided by a generally positive evaluation of Akaev’s early period, even though tensions started to surface during his time. New risks and threats to businesses in the catering sector emerged with changes in the political situation of the country during the era of Bakiyev (2005–​10). In this period: the law started failing to protect the rights of Uzbeks; the private property and entrepreneurship of Uzbeks came under constant threat; and a high degree of corruption in relations between entrepreneurs and officials became commonplace at various levels of government, as well as in the law enforcement and fiscal agencies. It was during this period that many Uzbeks started changing their cafe names to Kyrgyz, Russian and European names, while Uzbek music disappeared from the cafes. This period marks the beginning of a gradual change that culminated in the Osh events and their aftermath. A dramatic change occurred after the Osh events of 2010. Driven by fear, Uzbeks had to restructure, rebuild and redesign their businesses. They adopted new Kyrgyz and Arabic names and changed the style and appearance of their cafes. However, their new security strategy, or securityscape, went far beyond simply changing the names of cafes. Uzbeks were prompted to change their hair colour, their clothes and their own names. They shifted to speaking Kyrgyz, avoided nightlife and began to assume different identities, like Uighur. This implies that they have had to hide their Uzbek identities because they see no near future for themselves in Kyrgyzstan with an Uzbek identity. In order to live in the present, they have to be something different, adopt new names and change the language they speak in public. In this sense, Uzbek businessmen have no past and no future, but live in the present by camouflaging their business activities in ways that are accepted by the community. Notes 1

2

Under the new laws of the Constitution of the Kyrgyz Republic of 5 May 1993, land could be acquired as private property. Murat registered his ownership in 1994. B. Faizuloev, ‘Na grandioznom festival tsvetov I plova v Hudjane prinyali uchastie okolo 10 tys chelovek’, www.news.tj/r​ u/n ​ ews/n ​ a-g​ randioznom-f​ estivale-t​ svetov-​ i-​plova-​v-​khudzhande-​prinyali-​uchastie-​okolo-​10-​tys-​chelovek

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4 5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12 13

14

15

16

‘Oshi palov –​nastoayashi tadjiksij plov’, https://​tarabkhona.wordpress.com/​2013/​ 04/​12/​ ‘Shurbo po tadjiski’, www.povarenok.ru/​recipes/​show/​44229/​ ‘Samaya luchshaya uzbekskaya shur pa’, http:// ​ o chenvkusno.com/​ samaya-​luchshaya-​uzbekskaya-​shurpa/​ Photo:  ‘Ten popular restaurants and cafes in Osh’, www.turmush.kg/​r u/​ news:260075 Bakiyev established horizontal links with criminal groups, including a well-​known criminal leader called Ryspek Akmatbaev. As a southerner, Bakiyev needed some support from among the business and political elites in Northern Kyrgyzstan. By establishing an alliance with this criminal leader, he could rely on both groups. By supporting Ryspek, Bakiyev could find a counterweight to other influential political, business and criminal elements that were backed by various state officials. The criminal groups on his side used threats and violence against state officials. By entering politics and Parliament, Ryspek was able to render himself immune to state prosecution and pursue his own interests (Marat, 2006). The criminal gangs include people from different ethnic backgrounds but their leaders are Kyrgyz. It is very difficult to know the amount of a bribe as it varies from one place to another and depends on the business’s profit. Unfortunately, we do not have the numbers. These are based on interviews with local authorities. There was a falsification of votes and other forms of election fraud, making it impossible for many Uzbeks to win. According to our informants, there was also a falsification of votes and fraud. Kyrgyz women also change their names but not because of security concerns; rather, it is to make their names short if they are too long. Many Kyrgyz and Uzbeks understand each other without any problems, but perfect proficiency in the language came to matter more, especially after the Osh riots. In exceptional cases, one may find an Uzbek drummer playing American Blues and Jazz. We investigated ten Uzbek restaurants; all of them followed the Kyrgyz rules, meaning waitresses wear traditional clothes, speak Kyrgyz and present a national Kyrgyz menu. For comparison, we studied four or five Kyrgyz restaurants.

References

Abashin, S. (2004) Ferganskaja dolina:  ėtničnost, ėtničeskie processy, ėtničeskie konflikty, Rossijskaja Akademija Nauk, Institut Ėtnologii i Antropologii Im. N. N. Miklucho-​Maklaja, Moscow: Nauka. Abashin, S. and Savin, I. (2012) ‘Osh 2010:  Konfliktuyshaya etnichnost’, in V.A. Tishkov and V.A. Shnirelman (eds) Etnichnost i religia v sovremennyh konfliktah, Moscow: Nauka, pp 23–​56. Alymbaeva, A. (2017) Food and identity in Central Asia, volume II, Halle and Zürich:  Centre for Anthropological Studies on Central Asia (CASCA), http://​casca-​halle-​zurich.org

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Boboyorov, H. (2017) ‘Tajikistan: between security and objectification of female body’, New Eastern Europe, 13 November, http://​neweasterneurope. eu/​2017/​11/​13/​tajikistan-​security-​objectification-​female-​body/​ Chotaeva, C. (2011) Sovremennaya mezhetnicheskaya situatsia v Kyrgyzstane:  po rezultatam sotziologicheskogo issledovaniya 2011 goda, Bishkek:  American University-​C entral Asia, http://​ e library. auca.kg/​xmlui/​bitstream/​handle/​123456789/​2221/​Chotaeva_​ Sovremennaia%20mezhetnicheskaia%20situatsiia%20v%20Kyrgyzstane_​ book_​2011.pdf?sequence=3&isAllowed=y Gubaeva, S. (1991) Naselenie Ferganskoi doliny v konse XIX-​nachale XX (etnokulturnye processy), Tashkent:  Ferganskyi gos.pedagogicheskyi institute im Ulugbeka Izdatelstvo ‘FAN’, pp 1–​49. Ismalbekova, A. (2013) ‘Coping strategies: migration, public avoidance, and marriage in the aftermath of the Osh conflict, Fergana Valley’, Nationalities Papers, 41(1): 109–​27. Ismailbekova, A. (2015) ‘Shifting borders:  coping strategies of inhabitants in the aftermath of the Osh conflict, Kyrgyzstan’, in M. Sökefeld (ed) Spaces of conflict in everyday life, Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, pp 33–​56. Japarov, A. (2017) ‘Meat distribution rules and significance of radial bone (kar zhilik) in Kyrgyz traditional knowledge’, in A. Alymbaeva (ed) Food and identity in Central Asia, volume II, Halle and Zürich: Centre for Anthropological Studies on Central Asia (CASCA), pp 127–​41. Karabekov, K. (2014) Mezhnatsionalnye konflikty:  kak ne dat im razgoretsya, Osh:Osh State University, pp 1–​16. KIC (Kyrgyzstan Inquiry Commission) (2011) ‘Report of the Independent International Commission of Inquiry into the Events in Southern Kyrgyzstan in June 2010’ https://​web.archive.org/​web/​ 20160131072740/​http://​www.cmi.fi/​images/​stories/​activities/​ blacksea/​kic/​kic_​report_​english_​final.pdf Kochkunov, A. (2010) ‘The ritual of hospitality in traditional and modern Kyrgyz culture’, Anthropology of the Middle East, 5(2): 36–​58. Korneichuk, V. (2013) ‘Natsionalism v Kyrgyzstane stanovitsya normoi zhizni?’, https://​paruskg.info/​glavnaya/​81592-​81592.html Laruelle, M. (2012) ‘The paradigm of nationalism in Kyrgyzstan: evolving narrative, the sovereignty issue, and political agenda’, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies, 45(1/​2): 39–​49. Liu, M. (2012) Under Solomon’s throne: Uzbek visions of renewal in Osh, Pittsburgh, PA: University of Pittsburgh Press.

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Marat, E. (2006) ‘The state–​crime nexus in Central Asia:  state weakness, organized crime, and corruption in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan’, Silk Road Paper, Central Asia-​Caucasus Institute Silk Road Studies Program. Megoran, N. (2012) Averting violence in Kyrgyzstan: Understanding and responding to nationalism, Russia and Eurasia Programme Paper, 2012/​ 03, London: Chatham House. Nalivkin, V. and Nalivkina, M. (2016) ‘Muslim women of Fergana Valley: a 19th century ethnography of Central Asia’, in M. Kamp (ed) Muslim women of Fergana Valley: a 19th century ethnography of Central Asia, Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, pp 29–​242. NSC (National Statistical Committee of Kyrgyz Republic) (2009) ‘National Census (NSC), vol. III (tables)’, Regions of Kyrgyzstan, Osh City. Pestov, A. (2013) ‘Lagman uighurskyi’, https://​cookingman.ru/​ cooking-​book/​myaso/​lagman-​uygurskiy.html Starr, F., Beshimov, B., Bobokulov, I. and Shozimov, P. (2011) Ferghana Valley: The heart of Central Asia, Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe. Tishkov, V. (1997) Ethnicity, nationalism and conflict in and after the Soviet Union, London: Sage Publications. Von Boemcken, M., Schetter, C., Boboyorov, H., Bagdasarova, N. and Sulaimanov, J. (2016) Local security-​making in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan: The production of securityscapes by everyday practices, BICC Working Paper, 5/​2016, Bonn: Bonn International Center for Conversion. Wachtel, A.B. (2013) ‘Kyrgyzstan between democratization and ethnic intolerance’, Nationalities Papers, 1(16): 971–​86.

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4

Securing the Future of Children and Youth: Uzbek Private Kindergartens and Schools in Osh Aksana Ismailbekova

Introduction How will the children grow up as patriots if the alphabet they use says that our homeland is Russia? (Altybaeva, 2017) These words, spoken on 13 April 2017 during a debate in the Kyrgyzstan Parliament by an ethnic Kyrgyz member called Ainura Altybaeva, express the strong resentment that exists against ethnic Uzbeks, for the quotation highlights a difference in the way many Kyrgyzstan Uzbeks feel: they do not generally worry that their children might grow up as ‘non-​patriots of Kyrgyzstan’. This is hardly their main concern. As my Uzbek informants reveal, the practices that characterize the everyday securityscapes of Uzbeks in Southern Kyrgyzstan point in a very different direction. They have chosen to encourage their children to learn the Russian language because members of the Uzbek community do not generally see a future for their children in Kyrgyzstan. This is why the majority of Uzbek children from economically stable families attend private Russian-​language kindergartens and schools, or take language courses in Russian. This phenomenon is in direct contrast to what the Kyrgyz government is doing at the larger level of policymaking, where it vigorously promotes the role of the Kyrgyz language, culture and tradition. All

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recent Kyrgyzstani presidents have actively championed the primary usage of the Kyrgyz language. In 2011, then President of the Kyrgyz Republic Roza Otunabaeva stated that ‘the younger generation of all ethnic minorities in Kyrgyzstan should eventually learn to speak Kyrgyz’ (Farangis, 2011). In 2013, Almazbek Atambaev, president from 2011 to 2017, again expressed an interest in promoting the Kyrgyz language, stating that ‘it is a disgrace to not speak the language of the country where one permanently lives’ (Baktybaev, 2013). The purpose of this article is to examine how Uzbek parents in Osh seek to make sense of their children’s future and act in ways that are acceptable to the state in response to the dramatic conflicts and political changes in Kyrgyzstan’s post-​Soviet environment. In times of insecurity and rapid change brought about by conflict, the Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan are finding creative ways of building a better future for their children. My aim is to discuss the emotional aspects of the security generated by the parents, looking specifically at how expectations and hopes are created, together with feelings of protection and dependency. I will analyse the future orientation and security-​making of Uzbek parents of children in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, through the prism of securityscapes –​a theoretical framework developed by von Boemcken et al (2016). According to von Boemcken et al (2016: 5; see also von Boemcken et al, 2018): ‘securityscapes can be understood as imagined worlds of security and insecurity that goad and structure the lives of people as they go about their daily business’. This perspective builds upon the earlier studies of Appadurai’s (1996) ‘scapes’ and ‘everyday practices of security’ (Gough et  al, 2016). Thus, securityscapes emphasize the individual agency of actors in seeking security. This is particularly evident in my area of enquiry, where the actors concerned do not and cannot rely on state-​funded education. In developing my argument, I shall also show how the options for Uzbeks are actually more diverse; however, their relationship to the Russian language and Russia is the key focus here. I argue that this orientation amounts to the making of securityscapes in everyday life. The key questions I pose are: how do parents decide on their children’s education and their future prospects? What practices do they use to achieve their ends and secure their children’s future? In order to answer these questions, I  shall first outline the socio-​political background, discussing the history, conflicts and local politics of the region. Second, I will provide ethnographic data from my research (conducted in October and November 2017), which clearly show the importance of learning the Russian language without an accent as a security-​making strategy, and demonstrate the performative dimension of a future in Kyrgyzstan.

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Third, I will show the incongruence between the parents’ hopes for the education of their children and the reality of the education process, which is marred by insecurity, lack of prospects and discrimination. Yet, this does not stop people from struggling and retaining hope for the future prospects and security of their children in Osh and Russia. In this regard, I introduce two different kinds of securityscapes: (1) those oriented towards present physical security in Osh; and (2) future-​oriented securityscapes aimed at material well-​being. The areas of Osh present an exceptionally strong case of these securityscapes since all of my informants have been heavily affected by the conflict there. However, it is important to point out here that my case study is not representative of the whole city of Osh, let alone Southern Kyrgyzstan. In some other neighbourhoods of Osh, as well as in other cities and villages of Southern Kyrgyzstan, we can find parents who have different strategies, often more effective. Furthermore, in some places, like Nookat, we might even find Uzbek parents who are proud of sending their children to Kyrgyz schools (Ismailbekova and Karimova, 2017). In other words, parental strategies regarding language selection vary from case to case, depending on the parents’ interests and motivations.

The Osh conflict Osh is the second largest city in Kyrgyzstan. It is located in the Fergana Valley and is often referred to as the ‘capital’ of the South because it is a focal point for wide-​ranging exchange networks, including inter-​ethnic marriages. Osh contains both of the country’s two main ethnic groups –​ Kyrgyz and Uzbeks –​in roughly equal proportions.1 The two groups have a long history of peaceful coexistence in the city and across the Fergana Valley, marked by interethnic marriages, friendships and a broad range of social and economic interaction. Nevertheless, ethnic tensions have occurred since the late Soviet period. They are partly related to Soviet nation-​building projects and partly to the new state’s efforts to establish its independence.2 Soviet Central Asia had ethnically mixed populations in many areas, and the boundaries of ethnicity itself were very blurred, such that it was impossible to determine distinctly even the very names of various Soviet nationalities, let alone their territorial boundaries (Tishkov, 1997: 30–​1). Despite the successfully completed formation of socialist nations, many Soviet citizens continued to express very vague feelings of ethno-​national belonging (Tishkov, 1997: 20). In 1990, and again in 2010, Osh drew international attention because of the eruption of extensive armed violence and large-​scale destruction.

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The Osh conflict that broke out in Southern Kyrgyzstan in the summer of 2010 was the worst conflict that the region had seen in years. The conflict, which involved the two ethnic groups of Uzbeks and Kyrgyz, erupted in the city of Osh on 10 June 2010 in the form of inter-​communal clashes. It then spread to the region of Jalalabad. As a result of this conflict, more than 470 people were killed and thousands were injured, with some sources claiming that the true figures are much higher.3 Hundreds of private homes were burned down and properties were looted. The report of an international inquiry commission stated that Uzbeks made up nearly 75 per cent of the 470 people killed, and that a ‘disproportionately high number’ of Uzbek-​owned properties were destroyed (KIC, 2011). The violence lasted for almost a week. During and after this conflict, thousands of ethnic Uzbeks and Kyrgyz fled from Southern Kyrgyzstan. The KIC report stated that about 111,000 people were displaced temporarily to Uzbekistan and that a further 300,000 were internally displaced (KIC, 2011). However, after the conflict, many Uzbeks returned to Kyrgyzstan. Large numbers of local people had to partially rely on their own strategies, such as migration, for survival. Those who already had ethnic and kin networks in Russia found it easier to find jobs and receive support from close social networks (Ismailbekova, 2013). The conflict erupted two months after President Kurmanbek Bakiyev had been ousted in a popular revolt, creating what the report termed a ‘power vacuum’ (KIC, 2011). The Kyrgyzstan Inquiry Commission (KIC, 2011) held leaders of the provisional government, the separatists (some of the Uzbek leaders), those who fought for power (for instance, the Bakiyev family) and criminal elements responsible for the conflict in Southern Kyrgyzstan. Moreover, nationalist rhetoric intensified in Kyrgyzstan as a result of specific features of the country’s elites, which are divided into numerous lineage and kinship factions built on regional and lineage identities. Competing for power, they often appeal to ethnic loyalties by emphasizing their ‘Kyrgyzness’. Indeed, they have been under pressure to prove that they represent the interests of their own particular Kyrgyz lineages (Ismailbekova, 2017). This is why non-​Kyrgyz external powers are presented as threats. In this context, Uzbeks are regarded as the most ‘dangerous’ group (closed borders to Uzbekistan, ‘uncivilized’, ‘Islamic threat’ and so on) (Abashin, 2011).4

Border issues: language and education As Landau and Kellner-​Heinkele (2012) highlight, with the nation-​ building processes in the first few years of Kyrgyz statehood, the

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Kyrgyz language was energized and mobilized in order to strengthen ethnic identity. The status of languages in Kyrgyzstan is that the national language is Kyrgyz and the official language is Russian. The Kyrgyz government categorically refuses to consider giving the Uzbek language any official status, even regional, but does formally recognize the Russian language as ‘official’. Even the term ‘Uzbeks’ is rarely mentioned in documents and speeches dealing with ‘ethnic relations’ (Reeves, 2010a, 2010b; Abashin, 2011). After the 2010 conflict, government officials started translating the nationalistic policy into political actions by introducing more Kyrgyz-​ language courses and reducing the Uzbek-​language courses available at local schools. In other words, one can see a drastic shift in the importance of the Kyrgyz language in the wake of the Osh events, though, as we shall see, the government’s initiative to promote the Kyrgyz language did not always have the intended impact at the local level. Another important aspect is the border issue and the role of the Uzbek language. The relationship between Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan was cold for many years; as a consequence, many Uzbek students were not motivated to learn Uzbek languages because there were no prospects for Kyrgyzstani Uzbeks to go to Uzbekistan after graduation. It was not until the end of 2017 that an improvement was seen in the bilateral relationship. Until then, the Uzbek language had been in decline due to the border closure.5 After the tragic events of 2010 in Osh, a number of schools that had taught their curriculum in Uzbek were either closed or forced to adopt the Kyrgyz language instead. The decrease in the number of Uzbek schools is also associated with the mass emigration of Uzbeks –​mainly to Russia.6 Furthermore, there has been a lack of Uzbek-​language textbooks and other teaching materials. Yet, the Kyrgyz language is still not a popular choice among Uzbeks because of the impossibility for Uzbeks to obtain state-​funded positions and other relevant jobs (interview, Osh, 23 November 2017). Many Uzbeks believe that they have few prospects in Kyrgyzstan, even if they master the Kyrgyz language (Ismailbekova and Karimova, 2017). Some parents prefer to send their children to Islamic schools and learn Arabic (Ismailbekova and Nasritdinov, 2012). Additionally, one very popular or, rather, widespread alternative that has provided some light at the end of the tunnel is for Uzbeks to learn the Russian language. As Liu (2012:11) argues:  ‘the nation state concept is a poor fit for Osh Uzbeks, who look to Uzbekistan for their ethnic identification and to Kyrgyzstan for their citizenship. The predicament of Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan is that they are caught between these two republics yet excluded from meaningfully belonging to either’.

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This hegemonic discourse of nationalist politics shaped outsider perceptions of interethnic relations in Osh. Moreover, the boundary delimitation, border control, mass violence in 2010 and elite struggle all contributed to the exacerbation of tensions on the border (Megoran, 2017). I will now go on to examine the parents’ security-​making strategy for their children’s future in this context, which takes the form of intensive Russian-​language learning  –​to be mastered without an ‘Uzbek accent’  –​through the prism of several institutions: kindergarten, school, university and professional qualifications. These local practices are in stark contrast to what the state is doing, for russophone educational and professional institutions offer a promising vantage point from which Uzbeks can imagine a better future and provide a strategy for ensuring their children’s security. Another aspect of the Russian language is that it has not overridden people’s non-​Russian ethnic identity (Finke, 2014). During Soviet times, Russian played the crucial role of an unofficial lingua franca for all ethnic groups (Ferrando, 2011).

Local kindergartens: early language skills During my interview with an Uzbek female informant, Rano opa, her three-​year-​old grandson approached his grandmother and asked where his schoolbag was. When I asked her in Uzbek where her grandson went to school, she told me that he was attending a special Russian-​ language kindergarten. Rano opa further stated that she could not see any future prospects for her offspring in Kyrgyzstan, which was why they were all taking intensive Russian-​language courses. After talking to Rano opa and others, I became interested in learning more about the newly opened Russian-​language kindergartens. Subsequently, I made several trips to the newly opened Russian-​ language kindergartens. Most of them were located in Uzbek neighbourhoods where local homes or ex-​Soviet stores had been turned into private kindergartens. The number of children enrolled varies from one kindergarten to another but the average number of children in each kindergarten ranges between 50 and 80. The language used in the kindergarten is exclusively Russian, even though the teachers are not native Russian speakers. However, the Uzbek teachers spoke Russian fluently and without an accent. Children attend the kindergartens from 7 am onwards and are collected by 6 pm. The kindergartens’ fees vary from 1,500 to 3,000 som (20 to 35 euros) per month. Costs depend on what each kindergarten has to offer in terms of location, staff and internal design.

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Commonly, Uzbek parents give several reasons for sending their children to such kindergartens. In the main, it is because the kindergartens are located in their Uzbek neighbourhoods (mahalla) and because the language of the kindergartens is Russian. Many parents start teaching their children Russian as early as possible so that they can avoid paying too much for attending a private kindergarten. They also believe that the earlier the children start learning Russian, the better they will speak it and the less likely they are to have ‘an accent’. The majority of children in such kindergartens are Uzbeks. Another advantage of attendance is that the children will find it easier to integrate into Russian kindergartens or the state school system once they move to Russia. The parents prefer not to send their children to the publicly funded kindergartens in Osh because the language of instruction in these kindergartens is either Uzbek or Kyrgyz. While these languages are useful if one wants to live in Kyrgyzstan, they are not seen as being of any use for survival outside the country, especially for the children’s everyday survival in Russia. Russian-​language usage remains a very important factor for many Uzbek parents themselves, which is another reason why all the private kindergartens use Russian as the main language. I shall now compare two private kindergartens in order to give an idea of the types of kindergarten available, their similarities and their potential differences. The first kindergarten is based in a building formerly used as a store in Soviet times and located in the Uzbek mahalla of Karakum in Osh City. Although this kindergarten is similar to the publically funded ones, the parents have to pay more. This kindergarten has more than 50 children enrolled in its programme at a cost of 1,500 som (20 euros) per month (by comparison, the public kindergarten costs approximately 1,000 som or 12 euros per month). However, this private kindergarten has not been renovated for a long time –​both its furniture and its building are in need of modernization. There is a sleeping room separate from the playroom. When I approached the kindergarten teachers, they greeted me in perfect Russian, telling me about the kindergarten and its teaching staff. The teachers also showed me their programme, in particular, the different Russian-​language children’s books that they read, the games that they organize and other entertainment that they offer on a regular basis. The other private kindergarten is located in a privately owned house located in the middle of Osh’s Uzbek quarter. The atmosphere inside is more like a home environment. In particular, the sleeping room and playrooms are not separated, but integrated, as is customary in

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the local dwellings. It was fully furnished and decorated in a European style. The children were free to move from one room to another and play games. These teachers also spoke to me in perfect Russian. The kindergarten takes children from the age of one. The teachers were all university graduates. This kindergarten had 75 children and cost 3,000 som (25 euros) per month. It had CCTV cameras installed both inside and outside. The kindergarten’s director can observe the children and the teachers at work. If we look at both kindergartens, there are marked differences between the two in terms of conditions, price and teaching. What they have in common is that all the instruction is in the Russian language, which seems to be a ‘calling card’ for many private kindergartens. Uzbek parents frequently say that they would rather send their children to a Russian-​language kindergarten, explaining that although their children speak Uzbek at home and Kyrgyz outside in the street, only the Russian kindergarten will provide for their children’s future education in Russia. By sending their children to the Russian-​language kindergarten, the children do not, they report, lose anything in terms of language, but gain a new one. Moreover, the Russian language is accessible to families from a range of income brackets. Both the economically stable and the economically unstable can usually find a place for their children because there are expensive and relatively inexpensive Russian-​language kindergartens available. Thus, almost all Uzbeks, regardless of their economic status, can afford to learn Russian. Indeed, opportunities are not limited to kindergartens alone as new private schools, with Russian-​taught curricula, are now mushrooming in the city.

Private schools: safety and security concerns It is not only Russian-​language kindergartens that are popular among local Uzbeks; as mentioned earlier, private schools are also sought after. Many Uzbek parents elect to send their children to Russian-​language private schools. Uzbek parents told me that “they do not want their children to go to Uzbek schools because graduates of such schools have no future” (interview, Osh, 18 November 2017). As a result, many of these private schools have been designed with the sole aim of introducing the Russian language. The Russian-​language public schools are full, and the demand for places is still high, especially for children from the outskirts of Osh City. At the same time, Osh still has 20 schools that continue to teach their curriculum in the Uzbek language. However, these are poorly attended and lack books and teaching aids (Nurmatov, 2011).

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Russian-​language teachers are also in great demand; their salaries can reach up to 1,000 US dollars per month. However, it is very important to highlight that, ideally, Russian-​language teachers must be native speakers, preferably of Russian origin, so that children can learn Russian without an accent. The importance of avoiding an ‘Uzbek accent’ was stressed strongly by both the parents and the teachers that we interviewed, and this is one of the strategies adopted by the private schools to attract children. Various reasons were given for the importance of speaking Russian without an accent –​in part, it is a desire to hide their local identities in Russia and, in part, it is a belief that as Russian speakers without an ‘Uzbek accent’, they would later experience fewer problems in a new life in Russia. The diverse teaching staff are primarily valued according to their Russian-​language skills and knowledge. Thus, the most desirable teachers are native Russian speakers with Slavonic origins. In second place are Uzbek teachers with a good knowledge of the Russian language. There is also another category of desirable teachers: retired teachers with a perfect knowledge of the Russian language, long teaching experience and a devotion to their profession. The latter tend to work more than the required hours and voluntarily teach additional lessons for the children. In fourth place are the Kyrgyz teachers who normally teach the Kyrgyz language and literature. The staff of most private schools consist of all these categories of teachers, from native Russian speakers to retired teachers. The salaries also differ from teacher to teacher, primarily depending on their Russian-​language skills. Private schools like ‘Bilim’, ‘Ilim Osh’, ‘Azia star’, ‘Talim abad’, ‘Bilim Ordo’ and ‘Gramotey’ have the best reputation. Every school offers eight classes per day. The schools provide textbooks for classes, as recommended by the Ministry of Education of the Kyrgyz Republic, but they also issue textbooks loaned by the Russian state for those subjects still taught in line with the Russian curriculum. Homework is usually done at school, during the afternoon. The schools provide three meals per day: at 8 am, 12.30 pm and 4 pm. These schools also teach additional languages, including English and Kyrgyz, and offer in-​ depth courses in mathematics and computer science. Both pre-​school and primary education is provided at the private schools. The price varies from one school to another but the average is between 6,500 and 7,000 som (about 100 US dollars) per month, which includes food and transportation. There is also some flexibility in terms of payment: many parents are able to pay when funds become available; some pay by monthly instalment; and others can pay in advance or at the end of the school year. Children from the outskirts

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and neighbouring villages of Osh oblast also come to the private schools in Osh. The classes are not overcrowded, with the limit for one class set at 20 children. An additional benefit of the private school is that parents are not required to provide money for repairing school buildings. The aforementioned fees cover all the costs related to the pupils’ school needs. The physical security aspect is also important at a private school. The children are kept inside the school premises from 8 am to 4 pm, and their parents are assured of their whereabouts during this time. Transportation is arranged for the children:  they are collected by minibus from home at 7.30 am and taken home after school between 4.30 pm and 5 pm. Many parents find it particularly convenient not to have to worry about whether their children reached school safely since this responsibility is assumed by the school. It is also common for the schools to have several CCTV cameras and, in addition, to employ security staff. Pupils are not permitted to go outside the school building without permission from their teachers. Child racketeering does not occur within the private school environment. Pupils themselves are well aware of the existence of racketeering in public schools, which is a major cause of conflict between adolescents. The seniors extort money from the juniors; if the latter refuse, they are beaten up. While this is a reality of life in some public schools,7 the children at private schools cannot leave the premises and get involved. The large gates make these schools a safe place to learn and play. Many parents mention the conveniences of private schools. While they work, their children are in good hands. The pupils are provided with hot meals, they get their homework done and they enjoy playtime in the afternoon. Children are not allowed to use mobile phones on the school premises. After school, children are brought home safe and sound. The fees are relatively affordable by local standards, so although the public schools are free, many parents prefer to pay the extra so that their children are well taken care of. The children’s parents have many different occupations. Many have full-​time positions or run a business. Some parents are migrants based in Russia and unable to take care of their children. These children are looked after by their grandparents. Another important category of children includes those who study in Russia and have come for a short while to Kyrgyzstan but plan to return to Russia in the near future. Other parents plan to take their children to Russia in the future and therefore have important reasons for their children to attend these private schools. One example of a private school is ‘Bilim School’, which opened in 2015. The building that this school is housed in was originally a cafe,

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but after the 2010 conflict in Osh, the locals turned it into a private school as a way of establishing a viable business (Ismailbekova, 2018). It now has 260 pupils. The books have been loaned to the school by the Russian state. The students have eight lessons per day and three meals are provided. Attendance costs 6,500 som (100 US dollars) per month. Ten minibuses transport the children from home and return them after school. Most of the pupils come from the city’s outskirts. The school employs teachers with long teaching experience. There are 20 teaching staff and they pay all the necessary state taxes. The school also has a preparatory course (‘zero grade’) for children to attend before they start their initial school year. Another school that I visited was an educational institution called ‘Azia Star’, which was opened in 2008 as a training centre offering short-​term courses. However, in 2012, an independently financed kindergarten was opened on its premises with all its business activities run under the umbrella of the training centre. In 2013, with growing local interest in Russian-​language tuition, the school’s board decided to open an elementary school. Then, in 2014, a private general secondary school was also opened in response to the high demand. There are now 380 students and 26 teachers (this number includes three teachers who hold a PhD, 21 teachers with the highest category rating and two teachers of the first category rating).8 The skills and abilities of students are assessed in two ways: awarding grades and awarding percentages. In addition to the general education that it offers, the school provides language lessons, sport and other relevant courses (such as art and theatre). Children have classes from 8 am to 1 pm, followed by lunch and time for play and rest. After the lunch break, they do their homework (2 pm to 4 pm) until it is time for snacks (4.05 pm to 4.20 pm) and preparing to go home. It seems that private educational institutions in Osh are more or less free to choose which textbooks they use. The children at these schools are taught according to the Russian curriculum and read Russian textbooks. One says: ‘Our homeland is Russia, the capital of our homeland is Moscow, and the President of our homeland is Vladimir Putin’ (Gezitter.org, 2014). According to the Head of the City Department of Education in Osh, Kushtar Kimsanov, the textbooks used in the country’s schools are monitored and issued by the Ministry of Education of the Kyrgyz Republic. Yet, this does not apply to private schools. It is the management of private schools, together with parental contributions, that provides the schoolchildren with textbooks. The core education offered in all schools in Kyrgyzstan must be based on textbooks approved by the Ministry of Education and published

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under its stamp. Schools are entitled to use textbooks that have not been approved by the Ministry of Education but only if they are used as additional teaching aids. Private schools, that is, private educational institutions, have to be licensed by the Ministry of Education and are required to conduct their educational activities and work on the basis of the relevant legal provisions (Gezitter.org, 2014). To sum up, private schools provide Uzbek parents with multilayered security strategies for their children: (1) parents have a feeling of physical security for their children from potential threats (school racketeering, traffic accidents, physical abuse and kidnapping) since the schools provide supervision in the form of security staff, safe transportation and closed gates; and (2) parents invest in the education of their children to give them a chance to learn Russian-​language skills in order to deal with everyday life and take advantage of economic opportunities in Russia. These private schools have been designed in response to the post-​conflict context, to parental needs and to the need to enhance the children’s future prospects. They provide an environment that is safe and protective, and offers adequate resources and facilities.

University: challenges and opportunities Before the June 2010 conflicts, there were two universities in Kyrgyzstan at which teaching was conducted in the Uzbek language: the Kyrgyz-​ Uzbek University in Osh and the Peoples Friendship University in Jalal-​ Abad. There was also the Uzbek Pedagogical-​Humanitarian Faculty of Osh State University, which was downgraded after the 2010 events (Megoran, 2017). After the violent unrest in Osh, the Kyrgyz-​Uzbek University was renamed the Osh State Social University, and teaching was conducted only in the Kyrgyz and Russian languages. However, in March 2017, Kyrgyzstan’s Ministry of Education agreed to revert to the university’s old name in an effort to maintain good relations with Uzbekistan. The latter university was closed down as a direct reaction to the 2010 violence. The Kyrgyz-​Uzbek University entered a period of decline right after the Osh 2010 events. Many Uzbek teachers emigrated to Russia or lost their positions. Consequently, the quality of education on offer significantly suffered, with many students deciding to quit the university and look for alternative universities elsewhere. Another factor is that, as previously mentioned, the border between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan was closed for many years, which meant that many students from Uzbekistan could not study in Kyrgyzstan because their qualifications and diplomas would not be valued or accepted in Uzbekistan. This

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was a political decision taken under the respective regimes of the previous presidents:  Karimov and Bakiyev. Only recently, in 2017, was an intergovernmental treaty between Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan agreed in order to develop mutual educational cooperation and allow students from both countries to be educated in the other. A few Uzbek students from Kyrgyzstan do enrol at the Osh State University or Osh Pedagogy University but the majority still studies at the Kyrgyz-​Uzbek University. They might actually envisage a future for themselves in Kyrgyzstan but it does not mean that they will stay in a Kyrgyzstan where the university language of instruction is Kyrgyz (with a few courses taught in Russian). Kyrgyzstani Uzbeks do not go to Uzbekistan to study because it is expensive, Uzbekistani diplomas are not accepted in Kyrgyzstan and education in many areas of Uzbekistan is in the Latin script. Despite the fact that the border has become more open, Russia remains the only point of reference for Uzbeks in terms of studying, working and living. There are several reasons why the majority of young Uzbeks decide not to study at university level, in this case, at the Osh State University or Osh Pedagogy University. According to my informants, some graduates of Uzbek secondary schools experience difficulties when entering universities: on the one hand, due to their lack of proficiency in the Kyrgyz language; and, on the other, because the universities did not accept applicants because of their ethnic affiliation. Many young Uzbeks also explained that their unwillingness to enter higher education was because they knew that they would not find any state-​ funded positions in the future. Without this prospect of a secure future in Kyrgyzstan, they instead opted to work in Russia, or at least plan to move to Russia. Some Uzbek intellectuals want their children to obtain degrees at the universities but do not see the Osh State University as a good choice. Rather, their children tend to apply to Russian universities. Every year, there is a call for students to study at Russian universities in accordance with arrangements under the 2010 intergovernmental agreement between Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Russia and Belarus on the creation of a unified educational space (BBC, 2011). Many Uzbeks apply for these university places and work hard to prepare for the entrance exams. Such universities offer places but parents still need to support their children by providing the basics for living in Russia. Rzhevskiy College, for example, accepted 267 Uzbeks from Osh. They came to Russia in order to study at the agricultural college, located in Rzhev in the Tver region. The young people, aged between 15 and 24, were admitted to study in the Tver region on account of

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their record of high achievement. Among them were chess champions of Kyrgyzstan, European champions in martial arts and polyglots who speak several languages fluently. They came from schools with a physical and mathematical focus (BBC, 2011). However, this does not mean that students from schools with a focus on humanities do not have equally high academic ambitions. As for the young Uzbek people who remain in Kyrgyzstan, there are two main alternatives to focusing on Russia and the Russian language. Many choose to go into business with their parents. Others opt to study at the madrassa (Islamic religious school). A young male informant who had decided against attending university claimed that young Kyrgyz boys beat him up after classes. As a result, he decided to leave and focus instead on trading within his family. He is still afraid of leaving his neighbourhood in case he is beaten up. To hide his ethnicity, he does not usually wear a dopu (traditional Uzbek male hat) and prefers to speak Russian. Another young man with whom I talked was offered a place at university but decided not to continue with his studies because, again, he had been beaten up several times by Kyrgyz students. Instead, he moved to a local madrassa to work and attend the mosque. In fact, madrassas might be just as much part of a future-​oriented securityscape as Russian-​language schools. Young people have a variety of options and opportunities after graduating from secondary school, and taking a university degree is not always the first preference for many. There are alternatives that can make better sense, depending on plans and prospects: some choose working; others studying at a madrassa; and others want to move to Russia for work. However, for certain categories of young people, entering higher education in Russia remains the best option. Whatever their choice, most young people would prefer to be fluent in Russian, Kyrgyz and Uzbek, for they could then switch language with ease according to whom they are speaking with, that is, with the Kyrgyz community they speak Kyrgyz, with the Uzbek community they speak Uzbek, and with international organizations they stick to Russian.

Conclusion The future plans and language-​learning motivations of post-​conflict Uzbeks are varied and have changed since the 2010 conflict in Osh. The violent unrest triggered a sharp escalation in ethno-​nationalistic politics, contributing massively to the outmigration of the Osh Uzbeks. Some Kyrgyz government authorities used economic and political pressure to marginalize minority groups, especially the large

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Uzbek community. The minority groups suffered from the seizure of their properties, job losses and frequent verbal and physical abuse (Ismailbekova, 2013). Conflict-​affected families and households were therefore forced to find new ways to deal with the uncertainty and insecurity. They adopted new security strategies, including alternative educational arrangements. Uzbek parents feel that they are ultimately forced to send their children to Russian-​language kindergartens and schools. This reflects a broken relationship between Uzbeks and the Kyrgyz state that goes back at least to 1990 since the absence of justice has created a strong feeling of alienation. Many Uzbeks prefer their children to study Russian from as early an age as possible, starting at kindergarten and continuing through Russian-​language schools, in the hope that their children will later be able to study at the Russian higher educational institutions. The demand for places has incentivized Uzbek businessmen to open private kindergartens and schools, where they can appoint their own teachers. We see here how people collectively imagine a future and this imagining assumes a common form in the shape of learning the Russian language. In seeking to build a better future for their children, they engage in an alternative future-​making process that expresses their feelings of ‘not belonging’ in Kyrgyzstan (Liu, 2012) in the face of insecurity and a lack of prospects. While many school graduates prepare for higher education at a Russian university, language skills are also important for young professionals staying in Osh, for they must be able to deal with several languages at the same time in order to be successful. There is another young group of potential students who are daunted by the challenges of attending university and instead choose to continue their education in a madrassa. Therefore, the question remains: why do some Osh Uzbeks choose Russia for their children rather than other destinations? Their decision to move to Russia is based partly on the previous migratory experience among Osh Uzbeks, the growing Uzbek diaspora in Russia and historical ties. Many migrants are attracted to Russia because of its extensive labour market, its stable political environment and a relatively prosperous economy (Schmidt and Sagynbekova, 2008). In addition, they share historical memories (‘Soviet brotherhood’) and a similar mentality with Russians. As for the documents required, they only need an internal Kyrgyz ID card –​not even an international passport –​to enter Russia. They can thus move to a country where there are close family members and cultural ties, common systems of transport and communication, Russian as a shared language, and a similar education system. Indeed, learning Russian not only offers employment prospects,

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but has now become a primary means of seeking protection. Of course, there is also a discourse on Russia as a destination full of insecurities itself; however, these concerns have somehow become blurred in the very difficult context of Osh. Here, Russia is seen as offering the only viable alternative to an insecure life. It is important to highlight another interesting aspect, which is the attempt to hide one’s Uzbek identity. Does the desire to speak Russian without an accent arise from a rejection or overcoming of ethnic identity –​or is this identity still very much intact? From my observations, Uzbeks speak Uzbek to their children at home, so we must regard Russian-​language learning as an additional security-​making strategy in which Uzbeks seek to provide their children with a secure future within the confines of the limited possibilities available to them. Moreover, I have also focused on how different feelings of security and insecurity are bound up with private space-​making (as seen in the emergence of Russian-​speaking kindergartens and schools), with the imagining of various de-​territorialized ‘outsides’ and with material configurations of visibility and invisibility (as seen in the private schools with their own security guards and strict rules). Furthermore, the significance of the cafe turning into a private school also tells us more about the use of space geared not to becoming more profitable, but to becoming more secure. Another important aspect is the temporalization of security: the ways in which imaginations of security get mapped onto pasts and futures. Therefore, Uzbeks are not only rejecting their future in Kyrgyzstan and trying to find a future in another place, like in Russia; they are also breaking with the past and starting this future in a new time, through the next generation in a new land. However, at the same time, security and insecurity are not stable states, but have certain rhythms and dynamics: moments of sudden escalation and release. In any case, questions of security and insecurity are now fundamentally bound up with the future prospects of one’s children. However, the temporalization of security also means that a long period of continuous insecurity can be ended by moments of sudden rupture. Indeed, there is a sense among Uzbeks that the opening of the border with Uzbekistan will reverse certain spaces of insecurity. Notes 1

Ethnic Kyrgyz comprise 72 per cent of the population in Kyrgyzstan. The largest minority are the Uzbeks, comprising 14 per cent of the population. The pre-​ conflict population of Osh numbered 258,000 individuals, with almost equal ethnic shares: Uzbeks (48 per cent) and Kyrgyz (43 per cent) (National Census, 2009).

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3

4

5

6

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Thus, Central Asian ethnic and national identities were at least partly created by Soviet rule. During Stalin’s regime, ethnicity served as a guiding principle and, as a result, the Fergana Valley was divided into the three national republics of Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan (Tishkov, 1997; Abashin, 2011). Damien McElroy, Richard Orange and Andrew Osborn (2010) state that the official death toll rose to 124 but Russian sources reported that at least 700 had been killed and more than 1,000 wounded. After the mass emigration of Uzbeks in the 1990s, this largest grouping among the non-​Kyrgyz groups in Kyrgyzstan (one in seven Kyrgyzstani is Uzbek) has become almost invisible in the public arena: their leaders are no longer represented in the highest political elite, nor do they hold key government positions, while the number of seats they occupy in Parliament does not reflect the numerical ‘weight’ of their ethnicity. According to official data, the Czech online magazine TOL reports, in 2003, the number of Uzbek-​speaking primary and secondary schools in Kyrgyzstan came to 141, while in 2008, there were 129. However, according to the Ministry of Education of Kyrgyzstan, there were only 91 (Valsamaki, 2012). The border with Uzbekistan was closed until 2017. Therefore, Uzbekistan was not the first option. Bullying in some schools takes the form of personal vendettas but at the level of a verbal skirmish. Sometimes, conflicts are resolved without a fight, that is, ‘one can agree’ or ‘negotiate’ (dogovoritsya). Fights between pupils are most often due to the fact that some children demonstrate a desire to dominate others. The cause of the fight can be anything. For example, it may be enough to accidentally touch someone in the course of a game. This can immediately spiral into quarrels between pupils. However, schoolchildren often quickly forget about the conflict. According to the pupils themselves, they are divided into ‘their’ group and the ‘strangers’ based on place of residence and schools attended. The fights inside one school occur most often among children from disadvantaged, incomplete or low-​income families, or in situations where some children attempt to intimidate children from low-​income families. In certain schools, fights are common, with some pupils even carrying knives for self-​defence. Some students smoke, use nasvai (oral snuff) and constantly require money from children in junior classes. The categories assigned to teachers depend on their personal contribution to the improvement of the quality of education: (1) by improving the methods of education and upbringing, innovation, and the development of new educational technologies; and (2) by actively disseminating their own experience in terms of improving the quality of education and upbringing.

References

Abashin, S. (2011) ‘Natsionalnoe stroitelstvo v Kyrgzystane I problema uzbekskogo menshinstva. Fergana.ru’, www.fergananews.com/​article. php?id=7126 Altybaeva, A. (2017) ‘Kak deti vyrastut patriotamy esli v azbuke govoritsya chto nasha rodina Rossia’, http://​ k abar.kg/​ n ews/​ a.altybaeva-​kak-​deti-​vyrastut-​patriotami-​esli-​v-​azbuke-​govoritsia-​ chto-​nasha-​rodina-​rossiia/​

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Appadurai, A. (1996) Modernity at large: Cultural dimensions of globalization, Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Baktybaev, Z. (2013) ‘Atambaev: Kyrgyzcha biluu shart’, www.azattyk. org/​content/k​ yrgyzstan_p​ olitical_e​ conomy_s​ ecurity/2​ 4931906.html BBC (British Broadcasting Corporation) (2011) ‘God posle Osha: uzbekskie student v rossikskom Rzheve’, Russkaya Sluzhba BBC, www.bbc.com/ ​ r ussian/ ​ r ussia/ ​ 2 011/ ​ 0 6/ ​ 1 10602_ ​ r zhev_​ college_​uzbeks_​osh Farangis, N. (2011) ‘Language:  a sensitive issue in Kyrgyzstan’, www.rferl.org/​content/​language_​a_​sensitive_​issue_​in_​kyrgyzstan/​ 24246394.html Fer rando, O. (2011) ‘Policies and practices of language education in post-​Soviet Central Asia between ethnic and civic consciousness’, in M. Bassin and C. Kelly (eds) Post/​Soviet identities, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp 255–​77. Finke, P. (2014) Variations on Uzbek identity: Strategic choices, cognitive schemas and political constraints in identification processes, London and New York, NY: Berghahn. Gezitter.org (2014) ‘Shkola, kotoroi detei uchat “Nasha Rodina-​ Rossia” ne otnositsya s Oshskomu gorupravelniyu obrazovania, potomu chto eto chastnoe uchebnoe zavedenie’, 4 December, http://​ m.gezitter.org/​society/​35513_​shkola_​v_​kotoroy_​detey_​uchat_​ nasha_r​ odina__​ r​ ossiya_n ​ e_o ​ tnositsya_k​ _o ​ shskomu_g​ orupravleniyu_​ obrazovaniya_p​ otomu_c​ hto_e​ to_c​ hastnoe_​uchebnoe_​zavedenie_​_/​ ​ Gough, Katherine V., Chigunta, Francis and Langevang, Thilde (2016) ‘Expanding the scales and domains of (in)security: youth employment in urban Zambia’, Environment and Planning A, 48(2): 348–66. Ismailbekova, A. (2013) ‘Coping strategies: migration, public avoidance, and marriage in the aftermath of the Osh conflict, Fergana Valley’, Nationalities Papers, 41(1): 109–​27. Ismailbekova, A. (2017) Blood ties and the native sons: Poetics of patronage in Kyrgyzstan, Indiana, IN: Indiana University Press. Ismailbekova, A. (2018) ‘Secure and insecure spaces for Uzbek businesspeople in Southern Kyrgyzstan’, International Quarterly for Asian Studies, 49(1/​2): 41–​60. Ismailbekova, A. and Karimova, B. (2017) ‘Ethnic differentiation and conflict dynamics: Uzbeks marginalization and non-​marginalization in Southern Kyrgyzstan’, in A. Chappatte, U. Freitag and N. Lafi (eds) Understanding the city through its margins:  Pluridisciplinary perspectives from case studies in Africa, Asia and the Middle East, New  York, NY: Routledge, pp 161–​84.

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Ismailbekova, A. and Nasritdinov, E. (2012) ‘Transnational social networks and trajectories of religious practices and discourses of Kyrgyz Dawatchis’, Transnational Social Review –​A Social Work Journal, 3: 177–​95. KIC (Kyrgyzstan Inquiry Commission) (2011) ‘Report of the Independent International Commission of Inquiry into the Events in Southern Kyrgyzstan in 2010’, https://​web.archive.org/​web/​ 20160131072740/​http://​www.cmi.fi/​images/​stories/​activities/​ blacksea/​kic/​kic_​report_​english_​final.pdf Landau, J.M. and Kellner-​Heinkele, B. (2012) Language politics in contemporary Central Asia:  National and ethnic identity and the Soviet legacy, London: I.B. Tauris. Liu, M. (2012) Under Solomon’s throne: Uzbek Visions of renewal in Osh, Pittsburg: University of Pittsburgh Press. McElroy, D., Orange, R. and Osborn, A. (2010) ‘Russia prepares to move in to stop Kyrgyzstan violence spreading’, The Telegraph, 14 June, www.telegraph.co.uk/​news/​worldnews/​asia/​kyrgyzstan/​ 7827699/​Russia-​prepares-​to-​move-​in-​to-​stop-​Kyrgyzstan-​violence-​ spreading.html Megoran, N. (2017) Nationalism in Central Asia:  A biography of the Uzbekistan–​Kyrgyzstan boundary, Pittburgh:  University of Pittsburgh Press. National Census (2009) ‘Regions of Kyrgyzstan, Osh City’, National Statistical Committee of Kyrgyz Republic, 3 (tables), www.stat.kg/​en Nurmatov, E. (2011) ‘Uzbekskie shkoly peredut na latinitzu’, 18 November, https://​r us.azattyk.org/​a/​kyrgyzstan_​uzbek_​school_​ kyrgyz/​24394584.html Reeves, M. (2010a) ‘A weekend in Osh’, London Review of Books, 32(13): 17–​18. Reeves, M. (2010b) ‘The ethnicisation of violence in Southern Kyrgyzstan’, Open Democracy, 21 June, www.opendemocracy. net/​ o d-​ r ussia/​ m adeleine-​ reeves/​ e thnicisation- ​ o f- ​ v iolence- ​ i n-​ southern-​kyrgyzstan-​0 Schmidt, M. and Sagynbekova, L. (2008) ‘Past and present migration patterns in Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 27(2): 111–​27. Tishkov, V. (1997) Ethnicity, nationalism and conflict after the Soviet Union, London: Sage Publications. Valsamaki, A. (2012) ‘Uzbeksi yazik na yuge sokrashayutsya’, Azattyk, 5 October, https://​rus.azattyq.org/​a/​uzbek-​language-​in-​southern-​ kyrgyzstan/​24729124.html

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Von Boemcken, M., Schetter, C. Boboyorov, H. Bagdasarova, N. and Sulaimanov, J. (2016) Local security-​making in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan: The production of securityscapes by everyday practices, BICC Working Paper, 5/​2016, Bonn: Bonn International Centre for Conversion. Von Boemcken, M., Boboyorov, H. and Bagdasarova, N. (2018) ‘Living dangerously: securityscapes of Lyuli and LGBT people in urban spaces of Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 37(1): 68–​84.

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Selective Memories, Identities and Places: Everyday Security Practices of the Mughat Lyulis in Osh Hafiz Boboyorov and Shavkat Atakhanov

Introduction In his novel The day lasts more than a hundred years, the prominent Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aytmatov (1982) compares Sabitzhan, the book’s main character epitomizing Soviet youth, with a mythological figure called Mankurt, who acts as a slave of the conquerors due to his loss of memory. Legend has it that the Zhuan-​Zhuan tribe, the powerful conquerors of the Kazakh steppes, used a special technique to wipe out the memory of local people: they shaved their hair off, wrapped their shaved heads in an tripe freshly cut from a camel and left them for several days in the Kazakh steppe. In the sun, the tripe dried and clung ever-​more tightly to the scalp of the victims. As a result, their hair did not grow outwards but was directed inwards to penetrate their brain. Most captives died from this unbearable suffering but a few sturdy and muscular men would survive. The survivors could not remember who they were and what their virtues or destiny had been. The Zhuan-​Zhuan conquerors then used these Mankurts as memoryless slaves to suppress their own people. Here, Aytmatov is exploring the loss of memory and identity of the oppressed groups of the Kazakh steppe during three invasions: by the Zhuan-​Zhuan tribe; by the Bukhara Emirate; and by the Soviet Union.

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He defines the problem from the perspective of a class antagonism that divides slaves and slaveholders, or victims and victors. This chapter, which draws on data collected through ethnographic field research, also reflects on the question of how the hegemonic demands of dominant local groups endanger minorities and thus influence their social and cultural life. However, in contrast to Aytmatov’s narrative about the dominant role of the external conquerors in wiping out the memory of local groups, the Lyuli subgroup of Mughats, a minority group in the suburban area of Osh City, Kyrgyzstan, do not always have their memory wiped out; rather, they develop certain security practices in response to the demands of the dominant local groups and the economic deprivation in which they find themselves. Mughats generate these practices by learning from their own or their elders’ selected experiences of risk. This leads them to conceal their historical origin, mimic others’ behaviour, adapt their identity and language to hegemonic demands, and restrict their movements to certain spaces. They have maintained security practices such as adaptation, mimicry and avoidance in a post-​Soviet city that has experienced major interethnic conflicts, including the most violent clash in June 2010, known as the Osh riots (see Chapter 3 by Atakhanov and Asankanov, Chapter 4 by Ismailbekova, and Von Boemcken, Boboyorov and Bagdasarova 2018). To begin with, we briefly review historical records and scientific literature on the various subgroups of Central Asian Lyulis. Then, we introduce the Mughat community living on the outskirts of Osh City. After reflecting upon the methodological approaches and challenges of our field research in this community, we discuss some empirical cases, including the security practices of female collectors of alms, food leftovers and scrap metals, state and formal-​sector employees (including teachers, students, a postwoman and a trader), and passengers on public transport. We conclude the chapter by presenting an overarching classification of the key security practices of the Mughats as they deal with existential threats encountered in everyday life.

Lyulis of Central Asia Scholars and travellers have often recorded their, usually brief, observations of the Lyulis of Central Asia, beginning in the last quarter of the 19th century. Grebenkin (1872: 117) and Sobolev (1874: 310) first mentioned the Mazang, Lyuli and Jugi groups of Zarafshan Valley and described their economic activities. Middendrof (1882), Kushelevskiy (1891) and Engelgardt (1886) observed settled Lyulis

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and nomadic Multans, Balujs, Mazangs and Agas in the Fergana Valley. Other scholars (Shuyler, 1877; Landsdell, 1885; Troitskaya, 1937; Snesarev, 1960; Oranskiy, 1983; Bekmukhammedov, 1968) depicted the lifestyle, bilingualism and economic activities of Mazang, Jugi, Lyuli and Koshghari communities in different parts of Central Asia. Pevtsov (1949:  112), Valikhanov (1985:  327) and Digard (2012:  3) wrote about the economic activities, including craftsmanship skills (such as blacksmithing, making jewellery and small articles of everyday use, wood carving, and garment weaving), of the Lyuli and Multani groups of the Fergana Valley. The historical origins of the Lyulis of Central Asia are obscure since we know little apart from local stories and beliefs (Vilkins, 1880; Nalivkin, 1886; Geyer, 1909; Marushiakova and Popov, 2003; Akiner, 2004; Digard, 2012). Often, they have adapted to the linguistic, ethnic and religious characteristics of the respective dominant groups. The latter have given them different names and ascribed to them ethnic and historical origins according to their geographic settlement, social status or profession. Digard (2012: 2) mentions more than 27 different names applied to Lyuli groups across Central Asia, Afghanistan and Iran. Soviet scholars (Nazarov, 1970; Demetr, 1980; Oranskiy, 1983) divided Central Asian Lyulis into distinct groups based on the ethnonyms of ‘Mughat’, ‘Ghurbat’, ‘Jugi’, ‘Lyuli’, ‘Multani’ and ‘Mazang’. Some names refer to internal divisions and differences (such as ‘Mughat’ and ‘Aga’), others reflect categories imposed either by other ethnic groups (such as ‘Jugi’ among Tajiks and ‘Lyuli’ among Uzbeks and the Kyrgyz) or by the ethno-​ national policies of the Soviet Union (such as ‘Tajik’ or ‘Uzbek’). Place is also important for the designation of distinct names, such as ‘Mughati Samarqandi’ (‘Mughats from Samarkand’) or ‘Multoni’ (‘from Multan of Pakistan’) (Akiner, 2004: 300–​1). In Central Asia, including the Fergana Valley and the site of our field research, ‘Lyuli’ has been accepted as an overarching name for all subgroups, though they call themselves differently, for instance, ‘Aga’ and ‘Mughat’ in the city and region of Osh. The transformation of Lyuli identity during the Soviet period was partly due to an ethno-​national policy that defined small groups as subgroups of ‘titular nations’. Except for a few occasions, the Soviet censuses systematically ignored Lyuli groups (Digard, 2012: 2). The 1959 census counted about 10,000 Lyulis in Uzbekistan and Tajikistan (Akiner, 2004: 299). Furthermore, the Lyulis of Central Asia did not struggle for their right to self-​determination, with most of them content with being categorized as ‘Tajik’ (Marushiakova and Popov, 2003).

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Apart from these observations and accounts of the identities, historical origins and economic activities of the Central Asian Lyulis, there have been few scholars (Nazarov, 1970; Atakhanov, 2017) who actually conducted ethnographic field research on these groups. Akiner (2004: 299) admits that these ‘minorities are [the] least studied groups of Central Asia’. The Central Asian Lyulis led a peripatetic and nomadic life before they settled down in certain areas due to the forced sedentarization policy of the Soviet Union (Berland and Salo 1986; Akiner, 2004; Atakhanov, 2017). Before the Soviet era, Central Asian Lyulis used to stay in the villages of settled peoples (so-​called sarts –​a common term used for Uzbeks, Tajiks and Uighurs in the Fergana Valley) in wintertime. In the summer, they moved to bazaars, streets and steppes to serve both settled and nomadic peoples (Akiner, 2004: 301). They made and supplied handmade articles for everyday use and provided healing, fortune-​telling and entertainment services (Digard, 2012: 2). Besides these activities, scholars observed the Lyulis’ inclination to begging and thieving: ‘Their chief occupation, however, was begging and collecting alms. This was practiced mainly by the women’ (Akiner, 2004: 303). Their wage-​free household labour, their lack of interest in accumulating material wealth and capital, and their limited markets and spatial mobility (due to Soviet restrictions on private crafts and trades) reinforced women’s central economic role as collectors of alms, food leftovers and scrap metals.

The Mughats of Osh City In Osh City and the Osh region, there are two subgroups of Lyulis defined internally as ‘Aga’ and ‘Mughat’. They inhabit a multi-​ethnic residential area and an isolated community, respectively. Agas have preserved their craftsmanship skills, which are important for their economic survival and integration with Uzbeks in Osh City and the region. Our ethnographic study focuses on the everyday security practices of the second Lyuli subgroup in Osh, a community who refer to themselves as ‘Mughat’. Mughats mainly depend on marginal economic activities, including begging for alms and collecting scrap metals from other groups. Thus, they remain isolated from other dominant groups, including Uzbeks and Kyrgyz. The Soviet authorities had sedentarized this peripatetic subgroup in Jani Kishtak, a mahalla1 of the Karasuu district located on the western edge of Osh City. They were officially registered as ‘Tajik’ because they speak a Tajik dialect, which is an attribute that has also shaped their identity vis-​a-​vis other majority groups.

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Today, the Mughat community of Jani Kishtak numbers about 700 households, with a total population of some 4,500 people. They claim to have relatives in different parts of the Fergana Valley, including Andijan Province of Uzbekistan and Sughd Province of Tajikistan. In 1956, the Soviet government issued a decree ‘On the Enticement of Wandering Gypsies [Lyulis] to Labour’ (Ventsel, 2012), which forced members of the Central Asian Lyuli subgroups to work in the agricultural sector. As part of this legacy, each individual member of the Mughat community in Jani Kishtak has a small plot of land, measuring 0.08 hectares, for agricultural purposes. They often rent out such plots to the adjacent Uzbek community (interview with Tulanzhan, 3 May 2016). The Soviet Union also introduced a state monopoly in manufacture, which deprived Mughat artisans of markets on which to sell their handmade products. Some artisanal masters have been able to sustain their craftsmanship but their services are now largely confined to their own community (interview with Narzullo, 5 May 2016). Unlike other groups in and around Osh, Mughat men rarely migrate to Russia and Kazakhstan as labourers, in part, due to their lack of personal documentation (passports, birth certificates and so on). Instead, they are employed locally, serving the seasonal demand for unskilled labour, especially hard and low-​paid work in house building or trench digging. Compared to these sources of livelihood, women’s economic activities (collecting alms, including food leftovers, dry fruits, plastics, metals, wool and hair, as well as begging and stealing) provide the main income of families. Therefore, female collectors cannot give up their activities despite the risks involved. The Mughat community of Jani Kishtak is one of the most inward-​ looking groups in Kyrgyzstan. Their kinship relations are built on an endogamous principle, and very few exceptions are made for exogamous marriage. Over the last two decades, there were only two interethnic marriages with Uzbeks and, as a consequence, both families were ostracized and expelled from the community. However, for the last ten years, intergroup marriages between Mughats and Agas, the other Lyuli subgroup who are assimilated with Uzbeks, are more or less accepted by both subgroups (interview with the President of the Lyuli Association, 6 May 2016). Moreover, the community does not allow its members to use public services, including the police and medical institutions. Few Mughats are employed in the public sector, an exception being six teachers at the Jani Kishtak School. There are currently 560 Mughat children studying at the Jani Kishtak School and 106 children at the school serving the Uzbek mahalla. Nevertheless, most of these children cannot move on to professional and higher

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education since the Jani Kishtak School only offers an incomplete secondary education. Indeed, the family and community members do not generally allow their children to complete secondary school elsewhere. The teachers assert that only a few Mughats aim to continue their education after the compulsory primary classes. Despite the social and economic isolation of the Mughat community, some members do aspire to adapt personally or collectively to the hegemonic demands of other groups. In recent years, the number of students at higher education institutions has slightly increased. Four men and two women have graduated from or are studying at technological, pedagogical and medical academies in Osh City (interviews with: Madanov, 4 May 2016; Myachkova, 12 May 2016; and Abzalova, 12 May 2016). Mughats have also built and decorated a mosque and cemetery to demonstrate their submission to hegemonic demands. More Mughat men are becoming devout ‘Tablighi Jamaat’, a global Sunni Islamic missionary movement led in Kyrgyzstan by elite Kyrgyz preachers. It is worth noting here that some historical observations show that existential threats have long been central to the religious mimicry of Central Asian Lyulis. Eugene Schuyler, an American diplomat who visited Central Asia in the 1870s, claimed that ‘externally they are Muslims but they do not follow the religious rules’ (Akiner, 2004: 301).

Methodological approaches and challenges We conducted field research among Mughats in the Jani Kishtak mahalla from May to December 2016 and again between May and June 2018. We employed participant observation of the everyday lives, ceremonies and economic activities of the community members. This method was also important for building trust and conducting interviews. Observing and participating in everyday life of one of the most closed communities in Kyrgyzstan was possible due to our access to some key informants who allowed us to follow and experience their practices. They talked about their security concerns and experiences, allowed us to enter their private spaces, and joined us when walking around and inside the community. Furthermore, we conducted semi-​ structured interviews with 23 informants (mostly Mughats), as well as semi-​structured and expert interviews with two local scholars and nine representatives of other ethnic groups (including Kyrgyz, Uzbeks, Tajiks and Russians, as well as Agas), who have different degrees of interaction with the Mughats.

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At the outset of our field research, we gained easier access to the Mughat community thanks to our knowledge of the Tajik language. To build trust with the Mughats, we asserted their claim that their religious practices were similar to the practices of other groups. The belief, held by other groups, that Mughats do not observe Islam properly or even secretly worship a pagan god causes distrust and offence. However, in the main, this narrow scope of trust only allowed us to explore the cultural history and commonplace social problems of the Mughats, which are inherent to other groups as well. Some informants and other community members got annoyed when we started making regular visits to Jani Kishtak, entering households and interviewing different people, particularly women. To cope with this challenge, we combined our research work with observation of ongoing community practices that guests are also allowed to participate in. This gave us a chance to witness the challenges and threats that individuals, including female workers, face during their everyday economic activities. We also realized that our approach to field research was considered highly sensitive and had various political and cultural implications. Some members of the Mughat community challenged our research fearing that they would report to the state on the practices of female and child collectors of alms, food leftovers and scrap metals. Thus, for ethical reasons, and especially for the security of our informants, throughout this chapter, we have anonymized their names, as well as some of the places that Mughats visit while hiding their identity. Halfway through our field research we found that trust was still mainly limited to a few key informants, so we had to employ other methodological tools to crosscheck and generalize our findings. We decided to meet regularly with some key informants as well as research assistants from among the Mughat community at a tea house located on the main road between the community and other parts of the city. Mughat men and women regularly visited this place for lunch and for chatting after their day’s work, as well as on non-​working days. Many Mughats come to the tea house, which is adjacent to a school, a mosque, a medical centre, a police station and a departure point for male and female work teams. At the tea house, we observed routines and interactions, and managed to organize four informal focus groups composed of Mughats, as well as one focus group consisting of their Uzbek neighbours. In addition to this, we conducted 11 semi-​structured interviews and a couple of in-​depth interviews (life histories).

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Security practices of Mughat female collectors In contrast to other cultural groups in Central Asia and Afghanistan, among Lyuli people, including the Mughat subgroup, women play a more important economic role than men. It is typical of all Lyulis in Central Asia and other regions that ‘[w]‌omen are an important source of income, if not the main source in most groups’ (Gmelch, 1986: 320). The economic role of women is partly due to the existence of ‘purdah neighborhoods’ (Gmelch, 1986:  321), that is, private domains of Muslims that are closed to non-​mahram (all men except for close relatives such as fathers, brothers, husbands and sons). This arrangement prevents Lyuli men in Central Asia from wandering into Muslim neighbourhoods to collect alms, food leftovers and scrap metals since any access would be considered as an intrusion into the private domain of Muslims. They have learned to comply with this limitation on their mobility from their own experience or the experience of their elders. While women’s economic activities outside of their community are not safe either, Lyuli females have developed certain habitual and ritual practices to safeguard their bodies from physical and sexual assaults. These practices are generated through rituals, memories and narratives within their families and communities. Already in childhood, women maintain their untouchability by presenting their bodies as defiling and ritually unclean, for instance, by wearing ragged clothes to represent them as not only poor and untouchable, but also possessors of magical power. Other security practices employed by these women during their outdoor economic activities include: using a baby or a young child, both to elicit pity and to prevent assault; fortune-​telling and healing, both to collect alms and bestow spiritual power on themselves; and changing their names, languages, identities and professed powers as they adapt to their respective client population group. They frequently switch between different identities. In some contexts, they highlight their Lyuli identity, while in other contexts, they ignore and hide their ethnic origin or even debase themselves in cases where they cannot hide, imitate the linguistic and other cultural traits of other groups, or adapt their own lifestyle to the hegemonic demands of a particular society. Although scholars have also observed these peculiarities, they tend to consider them as mere habits and fail to make a connection to security practices (Gmelch, 1986: 314, 320–​2, 325; Akiner, 2004: 305). Our ethnographic research demonstrates that in and around Osh City, the Mughats, including their female collectors, develop similar practices to secure their everyday life and economic activities. As discussed later, they visit certain places, do not go out alone or during

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the evenings, avoid unfamiliar sites, adapt their behaviours and identities to hegemonic expectations, and try not to get involved in conflicts with other groups.

Darbadar When doing darbadar (a Tajik word meaning ‘door to door’, ‘house to house’, ‘vagabond’) Mughat female collectors visit specific places, including certain streets, residential areas, bazaars and mosques across Osh City. In these places, they collect alms, food leftovers and scrap metals from residents, pedestrians, traders and those praying. The collectors only work in places where they are acquainted with local residents and frequent visitors, and have familiarized themselves with their psychological dispositions and social status. They know how to approach their ‘clients’, that is, local people who are more inclined to give alms and food leftovers. The Mughat elders take small children along when doing darbadar and teach them these skills. The other important security practice is to restrict their darbadar work to the Uzbek quarters and mahallas of Osh City and its surroundings. The female collectors visit the old city: Shahidteppa in the western part of the Central Bazaar; Osh District in the eastern part of the Bazaar; the mikrorayons (micro-​districts) of Cheryomushka in the central-​western part of the city; Turan in the southern part of the city; and Amir Temur in the eastern part of the city. They also visit Uzbek-​dominated as well as mixed mahallas, quarters, bazaars and public places of the Karasuu district, situated around and inside Osh City. Moreover, when working in Uzbek residential areas, the female Mughat collectors do not visit unfamiliar or aggressive families so as to avoid the risk of physical and sexual assaults. The trusted inhabitants of the Uzbek residential areas know them, their parents and their kinsmen. For centuries, Mughats have learned Uzbek dialects and traditions, and therefore know how to approach them. The long and frequent interactions between the Mughat collectors and Uzbeks have built mutual trust, while in other places, Mughats would be seen as a threat and the locals would lock their doors or expel them from the area. The female collectors avoid visiting the Kyrgyz-​dominated quarters in Osh City. These quarters include the micro-​districts of Anar and Tuleyken in the western part, Manas Ata in the northern part, Yugovostok in the south-​eastern part and Elitnyy gorodok (‘Elite Town’) located near the regional president’s residence in the city centre. Since the collectors speak Uzbek, this may be a cause of danger in their encounters with the local Kyrgyz residents, who live in multi-​storey

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buildings. In order to reach individual households, the collectors have to use staircases in these buildings, which are often dark, isolated and thus difficult to escape from in dangerous situations. It is even more dangerous to visit Elitnyy gorodok, an area where the mansions of the wealthy Kyrgyz are not only surrounded by high walls, but also protected by aggressive guards and dogs. Another extremely dangerous area is Yugovostok, where universities, colleges and a student campus are located, because aggressive and racist young people gather here and pose a threat not only to Mughat collectors, but also to any non-​Kyrgyz. Sanobar (born in 1997) collects alms at the public mosque of Uzbeks located in Sardar mahalla in the northern outskirts of Osh City. Only a few Mughats can visit the Central Mosque, which is located in the eastern part of the Central Bazaar and dominated by praying Kyrgyz. Due to the intolerance of Kyrgyz towards the Mughat collectors, it is not safe for Mughats to take and change minibuses (marshrutka) to this mosque or to other Kyrgyz-​dominated places in the central and eastern parts of the city. Indeed, the collectors rarely visit these parts of the city, with their predominantly Kyrgyz population. Just like other Mughats, Sanobar is particularly fearful of the Kyrgyz due to the ethnic conflict in June 2010. This collective memory is compounded by her personal experience. Two years ago, near the main traffic lights, a Kyrgyz driver, she asserts, intentionally ran over her mother and broke her leg. Since then, her mother does not go to that place, but instead travels to the Central Bazaar every day to sell herbs. However, remaining within Uzbek residential areas and avoiding Kyrgyz-​dominated places cannot ensure that female collectors will not face dangerous encounters. Hence, they develop a combination of strategies involving mimicry and collective protection or accompaniment to secure themselves from unforeseen circumstances while engaged in darbadar. During their adolescence, Sanobar and Anora (born in 1986) did not fear travelling alone, even to unfamiliar places, in order to collect alms, food leftovers and scrap metals. They went on darbadar to individual households in different mahallas and quarters without taking any special precautions. However, unpleasant and dangerous encounters, especially the threat of rape, taught them to adopt the elaborate security practices of older collectors. Anora and her elder sister Umida (born in 1992) take two children aged around seven or eight years with them. They do this not only to take care of them, but also for security reasons. Indeed, it is a common practice of female collectors to take children with them since it wards off abrupt conflicts and assaults. If they pretend to be impoverished or widowed mothers with hungry orphans, there is less

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risk of falling victim to interethnic hatred and sexual harassment. Local moral norms make it unacceptable to offend and hurt women with children. Anora and Umida, for example, send their children ahead to address a homeowner. If he does not react aggressively, the adults can approach and ask for alms, scrap metals and food leftovers. Small children will also evoke compassion on the part of some people, even though there are a growing number of people who condemn Mughats for exploiting children and training them in ‘dirty’ work (begging and larceny). Mughat elders hide their own and their children’s identity from surveillance, registration and persecution by state authorities. They do not speak their names and do not allow people to take photos of them. Many collectors do not even have identification documents, including birth certificates and passports. They resist being registered and photographed by the local authorities. One reason why some parents do not allow their children to go to school is that schools are required to produce and display the children’s photos and identification documents. This habitual practice secures their everyday livelihood since it makes it easier for their children to accompany and help them in performing darbadar activities, including begging for alms, collecting scrap metals and committing petty theft. As a teacher of Jani Kishtak School told us, nine out of 18 pupils in her class do not have birth certificates (interview with Myachkova, 12 May 2016, Osh City). Other teachers (interview with Rustam and Oybek, 4 May 2016, Osh City) also asserted that almost half of the schoolchildren do not have birth certificates and 20 per cent of them regularly miss classes. Mughat female collectors practise mimicry while working near mosques, bazaars, crowded streets, parks and the Aravanskiy crossroads in the city centre of Osh, and around gatherings during holidays. In each place, they dress differently and adopt specific roles (healer, fortune-​teller, fortune-​bringer, magician, curser and old or poor widow) intended to meet the expectations of local people, such as people praying, traders, visitors, people celebrating and other pedestrians. When Sanobar begs at the public mosque of Uzbeks in a mahalla on the outskirts of Osh City, and sometimes at the Aravanskiy crossroads, she plays the role of a poor and sick old woman with a child. She is herself childless and therefore takes her ten-​year-​old brother-​in-​ law, introducing him as her own son. For the last two years, Sanobar wears a paranja (burqa), which an Uzbek woman had given to her mother. Under the paranja, Sanobar acts as if she was a lame and elderly hunchback, telling people about her hopeless situation as a widow. It is expedient to play this role, especially at the public mosque of Uzbeks, because the Islamic norm of mahram (here, in relation to escorts in

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public spaces) demands women to wear a paranja concealing their body and face from other men. Usually, people praying at the mosque give generous alms to such women due to their moral commitment and their belief that mercy fulfils their material and spiritual aspirations. Sanobar also conceals her Mughat origin because people attending the mosque would otherwise not trust her and give her alms.

Shamanda In the summertime, female collectors may travel for shamanda (from the Tajik ‘shabmonda’ [‘staying overnight’], that is, travelling to remote regions with overnight stays for several days) and visit various regions of Kyrgyzstan, including Bishkek City, the Jalalabad and Chuy provinces, and the border regions of Kazakhstan. Shamanda entails higher risks than darbadar in terms of the probability of dangerous encounters, including police checks and detention, robbery, and sexual assault. On these longer ventures, the collectors seek security by travelling in groups accompanied by an old, reputable and experienced woman, by using mobile phones, and by hiring familiar Kyrgyz drivers and using older minibuses. We shall now elaborate on these points. The female collectors travel to remote regions as a group of five to 15 women. As a team, they can both collect more and also protect each other. As Anora informed us, she has personally faced sexual harassment and assaults on several occasions. Once a man forced her into his house, and she only managed to escape rape by loudly calling for the women in the group to rescue her. Therefore, for her and her group, an important security practice is to collect alms and scrap metals not far from the agreed places where the group operates during a shamanda. Knowing that it is dangerous to go too far away alone, they always stay close to each other. Working in a group also protects the women from police checks and detention. In the event of police harassment, the group of collectors would shout to attract the attention of passers-​by since the public is critical of officers who might blackmail beggars and extort money from them. The second point concerns the security practice of being accompanied by old, reputable and experienced women who lead the group during shamanda. These women are in charge of maintaining internal discipline, and ensure that the young women, in particular, abide by endogamous norms and patriarchal values. They also have knowledge of the most secure routes and the best places to collect alms and scrap metals. In remote regions, they know reliable people who will rent out their houses to the group. Moreover, the leaders

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of shamanda groups are in a favourable position to settle domestic conflicts and prevent domestic violence against younger collectors since they belong to the same urugh (descent group) or top (wider kinship group) as other group members. ‘Urugh’, ‘top’ or ‘topar’ (from Tajik ‘tabor’, meaning ‘kinsmen’) are internal structures of kinship ties in Lyuli subgroups (Nazarov, 1970:  173; Akiner, 2004:  302–​3; Digard, 2012:  3). Members of these subgroups help each other in their daily lives and provide mutual support in times of hardship and during ceremonies and feasts (funerals, circumcisions and weddings). The female collectors also travel to remote regions for shamanda with the members of their subgroups. The availability of mobile phones is another security practice of shamanda collectors. In particular, Anora and other collectors in her group take mobile phones when they travel to remote regions. If something serious happens to her or to her family at home, the family members will know about it and take timely action. Thus, the mobile phone gives her a feeling of confidence and security. Using the services of familiar Kyrgyz drivers of minibuses for travelling to remote regions is another important security practice of shamanda collectors. The most reliable drivers among the Mughat collectors are old Kyrgyz men, who are able to pass police checks smoothly and deal calmly with malevolent local people. What is more, the older minibuses do not attract the attention of policemen and robbers. Despite their various security practices, the collectors still face dangerous incidents during shamanda. In such instances, they revert to proactive and spontaneous measures, not least projecting their ostensibly spiritual and magical powers. For example, female collectors actively demonize their bodies. “When a man attempted [to commit rape]”, Anora said, remembering the incident: ‘I stopped him by raising [my] hands to appeal to Allah. I told him: “Stop! Don’t approach. Allah sees all.” This was apparently not enough; temptation was evident from his eyes. Then, I continued: “If you touch me, your seven generations will be haram[2] and cursed.” ’ (Interview, 13 July 2016) At the same time, she actively gestured to her amulets to underline her magical power. Mysterious looking jewellery, odd behaviour, a stern tone of voice and a deliberate choice of words are elements that help the Mughat women to pretend that they have magical and sacred powers. In this way, they can protect their bodies by making them seem ‘untouchable’.

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For a similar reason, the Mughat collectors do not deny widespread myths and stereotypes centred on their ability to curse people sexually. Although this notion discredits their group dignity, it does help them to maintain endogamous marriages within the community and underscores their sexual untouchability outside the community. Moreover, and as the earlier account shows, the myths also help them to survive dangerous situations. A myth warning that seven generations will be haram if anyone lays hands on a Mughat woman is employed to safeguard the female collectors who leave their communities daily (darbadar) or for several days (shamanda). Other myths surrounding Mughats’ supposed cannibalism, incest and non-​Islamic ways of life serve the same purpose. At the same time, female collectors try to look unattractive. Although they know that this irritates other people and can thus give rise to conflicts, they still see an advantage in wearing dirty and ragged clothes to prevent sexual assault. Untidiness is a security practice that has gradually developed into a habit and a norm of communal dignity (nomus). Other habitual and security practices, which also reflect the complex of nomus, are related to patriarchal norms imposed upon women. In contrast to other groups, Mughat women have an economic commitment to support their families through outside work. This commitment makes it hardly possible to observe the Islamic norm of mahram, which demands that women should wear Islamic garments hiding their body and face in public places and never leave the private family sphere without being escorted by male relatives (fathers, brothers, husbands and sons). The Mughat women do not observe this norm, which would severely restrict both their darbadar and their shamanda economic activities. Rather, they follow other norms that reinforce the patriarchal bonds in their community. The Mughats, as well as some other groups, assert that Mughat men are ‘stricter in nomus’, that is, they are particularly jealous and aggressive towards those of their women who leave the community alone. Hence, the female collectors normally leave the community for darbadar and shamanda in the company of other women and children.

Concealment and adaptation of identities in the formal sector of employment An increasing number of Mughats aspire to withdraw from their traditional lifestyle and economic activities. If they do so, they need to conceal and adapt their identities. Six men and one woman from the

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community of Jani Kishtak graduated from universities and colleges, and currently work as school teachers and formal-​sector employees. For Mughats, these are non-​traditional economic spheres, where they are isolated from their community. Since the dominant Kyrgyz do not tolerate other groups, these employed Mughats have to develop distinctive security practices. Just like other Mughats, state and other formal-​sector employees and students from the Mughat community tend to avoid places where the cultural and entertainment activities of Kyrgyz take place. Above all, it was in the aftermath of the violent interethnic conflict between Kyrgyz und Uzbeks in 2010 that minority ethnic groups ceased visiting central public places such as Toktogul Park, the movie house, the city theatre and the adjacent Navoi Park. Despite being a student, Ergash (born in 1995) avoids visiting these places alone. From our female respondents, only Khursanoy (born in 1997) visits them. However, she admits that she would not do so if she were alone and if her companions were not Kyrgyz students, but Mughats and Uzbeks. Instead, most Mughats visit the newly built Akbura entertainment park on the outskirts of Osh City, which is a place where Uzbeks, Agas and other minority groups also gather and celebrate their holidays. Besides avoidance practices, Mughat state and formal-​sector employees, as well as students, conceal their ethnic origin as a security measure when making their daily visits to various public places. Oqibat (born in 1955) is originally from another Lyuli community in Uzbekistan. In 1971, she married a man in Jani Kishtak. Since 1987, she has worked as a postwoman, regularly taking the minibus to visit public locations and state institutions. In such places, Uzbeks are tolerated more than Mughats, so she finds it more convenient to identify herself as an Uzbek and thereby hide her Lyuli origin. Khursanoy studied at the Teacher Training College of Osh City, specializing in primary education. She is the only Mughat girl who, for three years (from 2013 to 2016), travelled every day alone between the community and the college. Ever since, she has observed an appropriate dress code and constantly checks on her make-​up when going to work at Jani Kishtak School or visiting other public places. These practices on her own body, which are not at all common among Mughat women, are in line with other minority groups, including Uzbeks. In her situation as a public employee, she is kept secure by not being recognizable prima facie as a Mughat. She recalls that her interactions with fellow students over a lengthy period at college did eventually lead to her ethnic origin being revealed but she managed to mitigate the resulting tensions and disdainful encounters. As she

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explained, “[a]‌t the outset, they were more aggressive but then they could not find excuses anymore in view of my elegant clothes and permanent care for my appearance”. For Khursanoy, as well as for Tulanzhan (male, born in 1977), Ergash (male, born in 1995) and other formal-​sector employees interacting with the public, dress style, body care, the manner of communication and linguistic skills are important security practices. In formal-​sector jobs, they cannot permanently hide their ethnic belonging, but they can make it less apparent and less relevant. The informants asserted that they made every effort to conceal their ethnicity at least in the first year of study or work in order to avoid conflicts. Like other Mughat students, Ergash hid his ethnic origin and introduced himself as a Tajik during his studies at the Osh Teacher Training Institute. For this purpose, he was able to show his passport in which his ethnicity is indicated as ‘Tajik’. Similarly, Khursanoy and her brother introduced themselves as Tajiks when they studied at the college and the university. Their clothes and make-​up, as well as their socializing with Tajik and Uzbek students, helped them to look as if they belonged to other groups. The concealment of one’s ethnic origin by hiding the actual place of residence is another security practice of both state and formal-​sector employees, as well as students. Local people, including Kyrgyz and Uzbeks, often ask about ethnic and tribal origins, clans, kinsmen, and the place of residence. The identification of group belonging not only indicates social status, but may also serve as a trigger for ethnic and religious enmity and confrontation. In a country where any minor social and economic discontent may quickly develop into a serious interethnic conflict, the Mughats, and especially those involved in the state and formal sectors, prefer not to reveal their current place of residence, but rather to give a wrong address. When Mughat students return home on the minibus, they usually ignore the stop in Jani Kishtak and get off at the next stop for the Uzbek mahalla instead. While studying at the university, Ergash and Soat (a 28-​year-​old male) hid their place of residence, telling classmates that they were from Zhiydalik –​the neighbouring Uzbek mahalla. They had to lie and to invent stories when their classmates asked them about details and residents of Zhiydalik. Since the Soviet period, educated Mughats were officially registered with a different ethnicity, mainly ‘Tajik’, in their identification documents (birth certificate, passport and so on). However, this practice decreased in the aftermath of the 2010 violence between the Kyrgyz and Uzbeks, and even more so after 2012 in the wake of further

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incidents between the Kyrgyz and Tajiks inhabiting border regions. Today, they are increasingly recorded as ‘Lyuli’ in such documents, with other ethnic categories (Tajik, Uzbek and also Kyrgyz) only appearing in exceptional cases. The female collectors and seasonal workers still resist documentation since a lack of identification documents serves as a security strategy (interview with the President of the Lyuli Association, 6 May 2016, Osh City). Another practice of identity concealment used by Mughats in state and other formal-​sector employment, and sometimes also traditional workers (including female collectors and hired day labourers), is to introduce oneself with an ethnically ‘neutral’ name or with the Kyrgyz version of one’s name. For this reason, a 39-​year-​old teacher changed his Uzbek name Tülanzhan (as it appeared in his passport) to its Kyrgyz version: Tөlөn or Tөlөnbay (ө being a Kyrgyz letter). Ergash, Ibrohim and Khursanoy also changed their names to the Kyrgyz versions: Ergesh, Ibragim and Kursanay, respectively. The Mughats’ mimicry of spoken languages is another way of concealing and adapting their ethnic identity. Before the 2010 events, only few Mughats would widely speak Kyrgyz, Uzbek and Russian. Today, they speak the Mughat language (a Tajik-​Persian dialect with Sanskrit elements) only in their community and in the absence of other ethnic groups. Outside of their community or in the presence of other ethnic groups, Mughats use this ‘secret language’ only as an ‘SOS signal’, that is, for security reasons (interview with the President of the Lyuli Association, 6 May 2016). Scholars have also observed this practice and refer to this secret dialect as ‘argot’ (Ivanov, 1922; Andreev, 1924: 26; Akiner, 2004: 300; Digard, 2012: 4). Outsiders should not be able to understand them, especially when they speak about sensitive issues. In the presence of other ethnic groups, they switch languages easily but, if necessary, they either speak Mughat or use secret Mughat words. These words express sensitive topics and phenomena, including distinct appellations for ethnic groups: ‘Kaltu’ for Kyrgyz, ‘Deghoy’ for Uzbek and ‘Ligor’ for Russian. For the same purpose, they also use a distinctive Tajik dialect with argot elements when in the presence of Tajiks. The Mughat men, who often work as hired day labourers, use the Mughat dialect among themselves to arrive at a common position when settling disputes with their employers. Often, a group of workers has a mediator, called a ‘brigadir’ (a Russian word for brigadier or team leader), who is in charge of settling conflicts. When someone is angered by his treatment, the brigadir tries to calm him down in the Mughat dialect, and then speaks with the employer in order to resolve the situation.

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Despite the high degree of illiteracy among Mughats, they commonly speak several languages and dialects. Speaking the languages and dialects of larger groups is an important security practice for them. Most Lyuli subgroups of Central Asia have always adopted the languages and dialects of other groups (including Tajiks and Uzbeks) and are practised in skilfully switching from one to the other in given contexts (Grebenkin, 1872; Khoroshkhin, 1876; Akiner, 2004; Digard, 2012). By contrast, most Kyrgyz do not speak the languages of other ethnic groups, including Uzbeks and Mughats. Hence, all other groups have to speak Kyrgyz and its local dialects to avoid conflicts. Therefore, after the 2010 riots, the official language of the Jani Kishtak School changed from Uzbek to Kyrgyz. Moreover, formal-​sector employees and female collectors have switched from Uzbek to Kyrgyz as a means of interethnic communication. To secure their everyday life in Kyrgyz society, Mughats have to also master the local Kyrgyz and Uzbek dialects. Knowledge of the standard languages of the dominant groups is not enough to develop trust and security in interactions with those groups. Like many educated Mughats, our informant Tulanzhan is skilful in speaking local dialects of both Kyrgyz and Uzbeks. Before entering the Osh Teacher Training College, Khursanoy improved her knowledge of standard Kyrgyz in the framework of a computer and language course supported by a non-​governmental organization (NGO). At the beginning of her studies, she mostly talked in Tajik and Uzbek with her Tajik and Uzbek friends, which prompted displeasure on the part of Kyrgyz students. They demanded that she only spoke in Kyrgyz, which forced her to improve her skills of both standard Kyrgyz and its local dialect. Since other people will find out about the Mughats’ ethnic origin sooner or later, they also develop proactive practices that go beyond concealment and exalt their social status. Hence, Mughats employed in the state and formal sectors tell narratives that highlight an intra-​ ethnic division based, in particular, on their membership of the urugh (descent group). They tell outsiders that their descent group did not collect alms, food leftovers, waste or scrap metals. Tulanzhan (interview, 3 May 2016) divides the Mughat community into six to seven urughs, which can be either ‘jirik’ (Uzbek word for ‘big’, ‘wealthy’) or ‘past’ (Tajik word for ‘lower’, ‘inferior’). He claims that the jirik families do not wander the streets to “ride the donkey”, that is, to collect alms, wastes and leftovers. Indeed, there are no kinship relations between these two groups, except for some cases where daughters have run away to join their beloved’s family. State and other formal-​sector employees tell such stories about their urugh origin in order to mislead

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outsiders about their community’s social life and economic activities. Tulanzhan, who teaches at the Jani Kishtak School, uses this narrative to claim that he and his wife belong to a noble urugh line. Presenting himself and his family as from jirik urugh in this way gives him added security for his frequent presence in public, including his visits to administrative institutions located three to four kilometres away, such as the Department of Education of Karasuu District. In the aftermath of the 2010 riots and the post-​conflict atmosphere of Osh City and the region, Mughats began to develop more proactive practices with regard to their ethnic origin. The more educated Mughats highlight their Lyuli origin in order to show that they are different from Uzbeks and Tajiks. Furthermore, the recent incidents in the Kyrgyz–​Tajik border region, as well as in some Tajik residential areas in the southern part of Kyrgyzstan, taught the Lyuli that being Tajik can be just as risky as being Uzbek. Above all, it was in the wake of the 2012 and 2013 Tajik–​Kyrgyz border incidents that the Kyrgyz started identifying Tajiks as Uzbek ‘separatists’ and labelling them as ‘sarts’.3 Following this new threat, educated Mughats now convince their people to take pride in their ‘Indian-​Arian’ origin instead of being ashamed of it. Some community leaders, including teachers and the President of the Lyuli Association, have suggested giving the name of one of their noblemen to the Jani Kishtak School, which is currently named after Mirza Tursunzada, a prominent Tajik poet of the Soviet era.

Security practices in the marshrutka The marshrutka (minibus), the main mode of public transport in Osh City, is a public space where representatives of different ethnic groups interact and communicate with each other. In the aftermath of the 2010 riots, it became even more of a hotspot of interethnic tensions and conflicts. Minibuses operating on the 142 and 142A lines travel through Jani Kishtak on their way to the central part of Osh City. The 142 comes in from the mostly Kyrgyz-​settled airport area and the 142A from VLKSM (142A), which is mostly settled by Uzbeks. In response to both psychological and physical assaults in the minibus, Mughats have developed both distinct and shared security practices involving mimicry and avoidance, as well as boundary-​drawing. As already mentioned, Mughat female collectors regularly take public transport to travel to other parts of Osh City and its adjacent districts. Their ragged, dirty and smelly clothes, as well as sacks with collected food and scrap metals, have an ambivalent effect. They provide security

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by making them untouchable, as noted in other cases, but they also perturb and provoke Kyrgyz and Uzbek passengers, who often seek to humiliate and offend them. In such situations, not only Mughat collectors, but also formal-​sector Mughat employees, cannot avoid being recognized and conceal their belonging. Their common practice to avoid conflicts is to pretend to be engaged in conversation or to avert their eyes from other passengers and gaze at the landscape passing by outside the window. Most Mughats restrain themselves when insulted, not wishing to get involved in a conflict between their people and the Kyrgyz passengers. However, some Mughats intercede for their people if Uzbeks are on the other side of the conflict. This often happens on line 142A, along which mainly Uzbeks travel. They know that Uzbeks do not escalate the situation and turn violent, as the Kyrgyz usually do. In the case of Kyrgyz passengers who do not calm down, but seek to aggravate the tensions, the female collectors concede to these offenders, suffer their oppression and accept the accusations being levelled at them. According to Anora, she cannot behave otherwise since nobody, including the police, would take her side. When these avoidance practices do not prevent ethnically driven conflict, the Mughat women, both collectors and state and other formal-​sector employees, said that they might remind the offenders of their religious commitment to non-​violence against fellow believers. In such situations, Oqibat, who has worked as a postwoman in Jani Kishtak since 1987, reports that her last resort is to evoke religious commitment. Her favourite argument is that “[o]‌ther people should respect the Lyulis, because we all, including Lyulis, come from Adam and Eva” (interview, 3 June 2016). Speaking about her experience with similar situations, Anora, the collector of alms and scrap metals, says: “[a]ll are equal before God, and ethnic division is an unforgivable sin” (interview, 26 August 2016). She therefore feels that she has to behave decently, politely and subserviently on public transport, as one would expect from a ‘proper Muslim’. Nevertheless, she does change her behaviour and manner when using public transport, covering her face with a headscarf so as to be recognized as an ‘exemplary Muslimah’. This practice does not usually play a decisive role, with Mughat women resorting to it as their last choice. Besides Mughat collectors and seasonal workers, state and other formal-​sector employees (students, teachers, traders, administrators and mahalla leaders) also claimed that using public transport was their main challenge. Although some of them have learned how to adapt to the demands of other passengers in a marshrutka, they still cannot avoid some conflicts, especially during

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peak hours when the minibus is full and space is tight. Physical contact with Mughat collectors, in particular, can make Kyrgyz and Uzbek fellow passengers angry. When a conflict escalates, other ethnic groups do not distinguish between, for instance, Yulduz (a female trader born in 1994) or Khursanoy (the only female Mughat teacher) and the female collectors who wear ragged clothes and carry dirty sacks full of metal objects and food leftovers. This situation invalidates their individually developed avoidance strategies. Their clean and fashionable clothes, make-​up, cosmetics, and perfumes would not help if they were not distant and able to go unnoticed by wearing sunglasses and earphones, moving aside, and finding inconspicuous seats. If identified and confronted, they try to avoid involvement in conflict by ignoring and tolerating reproaches, insults and attempts at violence. Just like the collectors, they resign, pretend not to hear or see anything, and avert their eyes. In cases where female collectors are not present on a minibus or their presence does not lead to conflict, the avoidance practices of state and other formal-​sector employees do tend to ensure their security. However, such mimicry and avoidance practices also have a negative side, for they can jeopardize these Mughats’ connection with their community. Other Mughats, especially female collectors, have condemned Khursanoy for being different. They claim that if she distances herself from them by wearing different clothes and visiting unfamiliar places, sooner or later, she will become a ‘whore’. They interpret her refusal to marry a man whose family mainly relies on the income of female collectors as a moral debauchery that will eventually alienate her from the community. However, they cannot condemn Yulduz too openly because she works together with her husband and travels with her small daughter to transport the goods she sells. As the first and only petty trader in the Mughat mahalla, she takes the minibus every day into the city centre, where she buys her wares at the Central Bazaar. The state and other formal-​sector employees also use their linguistic skills to avoid conflict with Kyrgyz and Uzbek passengers. They speak the Kyrgyz language in the presence of Kyrgyz, who would not tolerate loud and long conversation in other languages. As Yulduz asserted, the pressure to comply with this demand became noticeably stronger after the 2010 riots, and she only started speaking Kyrgyz after being requested to do so several times. In the absence of Kyrgyz passengers, she speaks either Tajik or Uzbek. Khursanoy and her cousin were once on a minibus talking in their Tajik dialect and sometimes switching to Uzbek when a Kyrgyz demanded in a

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rude and threatening tone that they only speak in Kyrgyz. In such a situation not only Khursanoy, but also other Mughats, would not respond, but rather keep silent or briefly mumble something in Kyrgyz. Breaking off a conversation with companions and giving only a short answer to a mobile telephone call, saying ‘I’m in a minibus’, are common security practices of both Uzbeks and Lyulis, including Mughats. Tulanzhan, the other young teacher at Jani Kishtak School, also avoids speaking loudly or boldly on public transport. When greeting people from other ethnic groups, he speaks their languages and dialects, and abides by their style of greeting. Only Oqibat told us that she does not normally use avoidance on public transport and in public places. Instead, she responds to conflicts more proactively. However, from her own personal experience, she knows the consequences that this may entail. When Mughat collectors encounter threats and aggression from other passengers, she intervenes, using various strategies depending on the context. If the Kyrgyz are on the other side of a conflict, she first of all calms down her own people in their language with a courteous tone and then tries to settle the conflict by asking the Kyrgyz in their language for compassion or even by having to beg for mercy. If this does not help, her response will again depend upon the circumstances: while she would openly fight with Uzbeks, she always concedes to Kyrgyz, as do many others.

Conclusion This chapter has discussed the everyday security practices of a minority group of Mughats who inhabit a suburb of Osh City. In response to existential dangers in their everyday life, they disregard their historical and ethnic origin, adapt their identities to hegemonic demands, and restrict their movement to certain safer spaces. Economic occupations play an important role in the development of security practices by Mughats. We have observed some distinctive practices acquired by traditional workers (the female collectors) and state and other formal-​sector employees (teachers, students, a postwoman, a petty trader and an NGO worker). The central security practices of traditional workers, especially female collectors, are the avoidance of certain places, collective protection (teamwork and accompaniment), mimicry and the adoption of other behaviours and identities. While performing their economic activities, they follow these practices to secure themselves from physical and sexual assaults. The female collectors dress in certain ways and adopt

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specific roles, such as healer, fortune-​teller, ‘curser’ or widow, that meet the expectations of other groups. When travelling to remote regions, the female collectors have again developed a certain set of practices for their collective protection, including travelling in groups, being accompanied by older and experienced women, having access to mobile phones, and hiring familiar Kyrgyz drivers. These practices secure them from arbitrary police checks and detention, robbery, and sexual assault. In some cases, traditional workers respond to threats by pretending to have magical powers that can place a curse on potential offenders. What is more, they do not reject, but rather propagate, myths about their sexual perversity in order to maintain their endogamous marriage system and sexual untouchability. The effectiveness of these myths is further enhanced by wearing unkempt and ragged clothes that make the collectors look unattractive. For the Mughats, their inward-​looking community and their adherence to patriarchal norms of nomus, especially the Islamic norm of mahram, are also important to the protection of women from sexual assault in unfamiliar and remote places. Some Mughats employed in state institutions or other formal-​sector jobs have developed some distinctive security practices designed to conceal their ethnic origin and thus make their regular interactions in public spaces safer. They mimic appropriate dress codes and make-​ up, and acquire communication and linguistic skills to resemble other groups. They also present identification documents that indicate a different ethnicity, introduce themselves with ethnically ‘neutral’ names, hide their actual place of residence, speak Kyrgyz in public places and tell or invent narratives about intra-​ethnic divisions. In the aftermath of the 2010 riots and the tense post-​conflict atmosphere, Mughats began to adopt more proactive practices. For instance, they now highlight their Lyuli origin in order to show their difference from Uzbeks and Tajiks. Both segments of the Mughat community that we surveyed have developed similar security practices for travelling on public transport, which has been a hotspot of interethnic tension and conflict ever since the 2010 riots. These practices include, again, mimicry, avoidance and boundary-​drawing skills. Mughats often avoid conflicts with members of other ethnic groups by displaying passive behaviours, such as speaking Kyrgyz or keeping silent. When avoidance practices fail to prevent conflicts, especially on public transport, Mughats will rarely respond proactively to the conflicts, but rather appeal to norms of non-​violence that fellow believers might share.

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Notes 1

2 3

In the traditional urban settings of Central Asia, including Osh City, the mahalla is a primary residential unit and neighbourhood. It is mutually organized and governed by both the residents and local authorities. Haram is any act that Islam forbids. Historically, sart is a name for settled peoples in the Fergana Valley, including Tajiks, Uzbeks and Uighurs, vis-​a-​vis nomadic tribes.

References

Akiner, S. (2004) ‘Enduring strangers:  Mughat, Lyuli, and other peripatetics in the social fabric of Central Asia’, in J.C. Berland and A. Rao (eds) Customary strangers: New perspectives on peripatetic peoples in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia, Westport, CT: Praeger, pp 299–​307. Andreev, M.S. (1924) ‘Nekotorye rezul’taty etnograficheskoy ekspeditsii v Samarkandskoy oblasti v 1921 godu’ [‘Some results of ethnographic expedition to Samarkand Province in 1921’], Izvestiya Turkestanskogo otdeleniya Russkogo geograficheskogo obtshestva, 17: 123–​6. Atakhanov, Sh.T. (2017) Farghona Vodiysi Lulilari: Tarikhiy-​Etnologik Tadqiqot [The Lulis of Fergana Valley:  Historical-​ethnological research], Osh: Alfa. Aytmatov, Ch. (1982) I Dol’she Veka Dlitsya Den’ [The day lasts more than a hundred years], Leningrad: Leninizdat. Bekmukhammedov, Kh. (1968) ‘Lu and Li’, Fan va turmush, 6: 12–​13. Berland J.C. and Salo, M.T. (1986) ‘Peripatetic communities:  an introduction’, Nomadic Peoples, 21/​2: 1–​6. Demetr, N.G. (1980) ‘Etnonimiya sredneaziatskikh tsygan’ [‘Ethnonym of Central Asian Gypsies’], Onomastika Sredney Azii, 2: 63–​6. Digard, J.-​P. (2012) ‘Gypsies of Persia’, Encyclopedia Iranica, www. iranicaonline.org/​articles/​gypsy-​i Engelgardt, N. (1886) ‘Ocherki Kokanda’ [‘Study of Kokand’], Turkestanskie vedomosti, 4: 13–​14. Geyer, I.I. (1909) Ves’ russkiy Turkestan [All Russian Turkestan], Tashkent: B.I. Gmelch, S.B. (1986) ‘Groups that don’t want in: Gypsies and other artisans, traders, and entertainer minorities’, Annual Review of Anthropology, 15: 307–​30. Grebenkin, A.D. (1872) ‘Melkie narodnosti Zarafshanskogo okruga’ [‘Small Groups of Zarafshan County’], Turkestanskiy sbornik, 57: 116–​17. Ivanov, V.A. (1922) ‘Old Gypsy-​Darwish jargon’, JASB (N.S.), 18(7): 281–​91.

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Khoroshkhin, A.P. (1876) ‘Narody Sredney Azii (Istor iko-​ etnograficheskie etyudy)’ [‘Peoples of Central Asia (historical-​ ethnographical studies)’], Turkestanskiy sbornik, 116: 509–​10. Kushelevskiy, V.I. (1891) ‘Materialy dlya meditsinskoy geografii i sanitarnogo opisaniya Ferganskoy oblasti’ [‘Materials for medical geography and sanitary depiction of Fergana Province’], Novyy Margilan, 3: 155–​8. Landsdell, U.H. (1885) Russian Central Asia (vol1), London: Sampson Low, Marston, Searle and Rivington. Marushiakova, E. and Popov, V. (2003) ‘Ethnic identities and economic strategies of Gypsies in the countries of the former USSR’, in T. Herzog and W. Holzwarth (eds) Nomaden und Sesshafte –​Fragen, Methoden, Ergebnisse, 1, Halle:  Orientwissenschaftliche Hefte, 9(4/​ 1): 289–​310. Middendrof, A. F. (1882) Ocherki Ferganskoy doliny [Studies of Fergana Valley], Saint-​Petersburg: B.I. Nalivkin, V.P. (1886) Kratkaya istoriya Kokandskogo khanstva [Short history of Kokand Khanate], Kazan: Tipografiya Imperatorskogo Universiteta. Nazarov, K.K. (1970) Vliyanie Oktyabr’skoy revolyutsii na polozhenie i byt sredneaziatskikh tsygan (na primere trygan, zhivutshikh v gorode Samarkande i Samarkandskoy oblasti) [Influence of the October Revolution upon the situation and economic life of Central Asian Gypsies (in the case of Gypsies living in Samarkand City)], Moscow: Academy of Sciences of the USSR. Oranskiy, I.M. (1983) Tadzhikoyazichnye etnograficheskie gruppy Gissarskoy doliny (Srednyaya Aziya) [Tajik-​speaking ethnographic groups of Hissar Valley (Central Asia)], Moscow: Nauka. Pevtsov, V.P. (1949) Puteshestvie v Kashgariyu i Kun’-​Lun’ [Travel to Kashgharia and Kun’-​Lun’], Moscow: Gosizdat. Shuyler, E. (1877) Turkistan: Notes of a journey in Russian Turkistan, Khokand, Bukhara, and Kuldja, New  York, NY:  Scr ibner, Armstrong & Co. Snesarev, G.P. (1960) ‘Sredneaziatskie tsygane’ [‘Central Asian Gypsies’], Kratkoe soobtshenie Instituta etnografii AN SSSR, XXXIV: 24–​9. Sobolev, L.N. (1874) ‘Geograficheskie i statisticheskie svedeniya o Zerafshanskom okruge’ [‘Geographical and statistical information about Zerafshan County’], Zapiski Russkogo geograficheskogo obtshestva po otdeleniyu statistiki, 6: 310–​11. Troitskaya, A.L. (1937) ‘Iz otchyota o komandirovke v 1936 god v natsional’nye rayony sredneaziatskikh respublik’ [‘From the report on a field trip in 1936 to national districts of the Central Asian Republics’], Sovetskaya etnografiya, 4: 10–​11.

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Valikhanov, C.C. (1985) ‘Ocherki Dzhungarii’ [‘Studies of Jungaria’], Kazak Soviet Encyclopaedia, 3: 327. Ventsel, T.V. (2012) ‘Tsygane’ [‘Gypsies’], Bol’shaja sovetskaja entsiklopedija, http://​slovar.cc/​enc/​bse/​2058162.html Vilkins, A.I. (1880) ‘Sredneaziatskaya bogema’ [‘Central Asian Bohemia’], Izvestiya Imp. Obtshestva lyubiteley estestvoznaniya, anropologii i etnografii pri Moskowskom universitete, 35(1): 434–​61. Von Boemcken, M., Boboyorov, H. and Bagdasarova, N. (2018) ‘Living dangerously: securityscapes of Lyuli and LGBT people in urban spaces of Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 37(1): 68–​84.

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How to Live with a Female Body: Securityscapes against Sexual Violence and Related Interpretation Patterns of Kyrgyz Women Kathrin Oestmann and Anna M. Korschinek

Introduction I never knew I was a victim every day I would wear long skirts to not attract men I’ve always wanted to wear what my real voice would whisper But what I wanted to wear was up to them I never knew I was a victim every day When somebody slapped my butt at middle school I was angry but never told that to anybody As I thought I might be guilty myself of attracting him I never knew I was a victim everywhere I went At school, in bazaars, in streets, and shops When men, adult men, would stare at a teenage girl –​ me I felt as if they were intruding in my private zone I restrict my freedom every day and anywhere I go I do not go out at night because I do not want to become a ‘real’ victim I do not wear what my soul wants because I do not want to attract men

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I do not know how I  should behave, or else, I  want to become invisible I never really knew I was a victim till now But does that change the status quo? (‘I never knew I was a victim’, a poem by a young Kyrgyz woman) This poem was written by one of the women who contributed to this research. It outlines a conflict that many women in Kyrgyzstan face every day: the risk of encountering sexual violence. Throughout the whole country, such incidents, and other gender-​based crimes like domestic violence and bride abductions, are widespread (Kleinbach et al, 2005: 198; Moldosheva, 2008: 7–​11). However, despite this reality, some statistical surveys have tended to produce quite low numbers of registered crimes like rape or related assaults (National Statistical Committee of the Kyrgyz Republic, 2012: 126), as well as very low prevalence rates of physical sexual harassment (Civil Union ‘For Reforms and Results’, 2015: 14–​15). The gathering of realistic data sets related to these topics is complicated by a widely shared assumption that sexual violence is a normal feature of daily life in Kyrgyzstan’s highly patriarchal society (Moldosheva, 2008: 7–​9). Moreover, many women themselves do not consider verbal or other forms of non-​ physical harassment as sexual violence (Jeenbaeva, 2013). Nevertheless, living with a female body in Kyrgyzstan implies a constant  –​indeed, on a daily basis  –​confrontation with whistling, degrading comments or inappropriate approaches, as well as more serious assaults (Kleinbach et al, 2005: 198; Moldosheva, 2008: 7–​11; Jeenbaeva, 2013). On these grounds, this article aims to trace how Kyrgyz women cope with this risk setting in terms of securityscapes, understood as individual, coordinated micro-​security strategies applied on an everyday basis. As described in the poem that opens this chapter, such securityscapes can include not going out at night or choosing to wear specific clothing. The concept of securityscapes will be linked to the approach of interpretation pattern analysis in order to examine in more detail how different aspects of risk settings and societal features, like societal expectations and behavioural restrictions, determine securityscape choices. Interpretation patterns encapsulate the shared interpretations and assumptions of individuals about their environment and societal context. In this way, they enable individuals to recognize, explain and orient themselves in specific situations. In addition, they are intrinsically linked to corresponding behavioural scripts that enable individuals to

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choose actions deemed appropriate to their social context (Höffling et al, 2002: para 4; Ullrich, 1999: 1–​2; Oevermann, 2001a: 10). When applied to encounters containing potential or actual sexual violence, these actions can also assume the form of securityscapes. It is along these lines that an interpretation pattern related to sexual violence enables women to recognize and come to terms with potentially dangerous situations that may involve sexual violence, and to apply appropriate and promising securityscapes to ensure their optimal safety. To examine these security measures and the related interpretation pattern comprehensively, this chapter introduces the authors’ Functionality Model of Interpretation Patterns (FMIP). This model is applied in a qualitative research design that includes group discussions, individual interviews, a self-​reporting method and inductive content analysis. As suggested at the outset of this chapter, the term ‘sexual violence’ encompasses a wide spectrum of actions, starting with non-​physical approaches such as staring, commenting or harassing gestures, through ‘accidental’ touching and actual groping, and ending with oral, vaginal and anal rape. Since the term is open to different interpretations, in order to ensure a common understanding, the research here is based on the following definition: ‘sexual violence’ refers to every action (verbal or non-​verbal, physical or psychological) directed against persons due to their gender and considered by them as a transgression of their personal limits –​a definition that partly relies on that of the United Nations Human Rights Office of the High Commissioner (2014: 1). Therefore, this chapter analyses securityscapes not only against rape or other physical assaults, but also against all forms of harassment, such as staring, catcalling or the making of degrading comments. In developing this analysis, the following sections will present, first, the theoretical framework, second, the applied research design and, third, the findings on the securityscapes and interpretation patterns of Kyrgyz women in relation to sexual violence.

Theoretical framework In accordance with the approach of this volume, securityscapes are understood as a set of coordinated everyday security practices used by individuals to ensure their survival and optimal coping with daily challenges (von Boemcken et al, 2016: 7; 2018: 69–​71). Securityscapes are derived from socially shared imaginations about hazard and safety, and crystallized in individual representations of situational risk assessments and respective measures of self-​protection. Due to their systematic nature, securityscapes differ from ad hoc reactions to dangers

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and only refer to systematic and, in terms of the overall type of action, recurring security measures. Therefore, hitting a perpetrator as a spontaneous knee-​jerk act of self-​defence would not be categorized as a securityscape, whereas taking self-​defence classes or carrying a knife to pre-​emptively ensure one’s safety in case of emergency does comply with the definition of securityscapes (see Chapter 2 by von Boemcken; see also von Boemcken et  al, 2016:  8). The individual representations of securityscapes vary depending on the risk settings that an individual is exposed to, as well as on personal, contextual and societal factors (von Boemcken et al, 2016: 10). In addition, a securityscape can be applied in several ways by the same individual. For example, telling white lies to men approaching inappropriately in order to get rid of them can be executed in many ways. Thus, securityscapes can be considered as recurrently applied acting strategies like ignoring, avoiding or making oneself unapproachable, subsuming a variety of related subsidiary and situationally adapted actions aimed at ensuring one’s own safety. This safety does not just refer to safeguarding individuals’ physical survival, but also refers to their social or spiritual survival, or the persistence of their social groups (von Boemcken et al, 2016: 10). For instance, being raped does not deterministically lead to death, but can, next to the physical damage, also harm the affected women psychologically. Moreover, and this is particularly pertinent to Kyrgyzstan, losing one’s virginity through rape can result in ostracism, thus endangering social survival because the raped woman is no longer considered to be ‘pure’ (National Statistical Committee of the Kyrgyz Republic, 2016: 133–​4). To ensure this social survival, security strategies such as avoiding specific areas or choosing evasion routes if encountering a group of men could be used. These securityscapes can be applied intentionally as well as unconsciously, for example, when a woman automatically chooses better-​lit streets to avert the danger of sexual assault without actively reflecting on the decision to do so. These and similar unobtrusive securityscapes do not run counter to the patriarchal norms of society and may even comply with them. Thus, the concept of securityscapes also refers here to a balancing act between demonstrating an individual’s agency within societal structures and reproducing the very societal foundation that causes the need for the individual’s actions (von Boemcken et al, 2016: 9). Ways of applying securityscapes that would challenge the status quo might, for instance, include measures aimed at educating, confronting or deterring perpetrators to minimize the risk of sexual violence in the future –​even though they could mean a possible increase of danger in the current situation.

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To encapsulate the different features determining the choice of different securityscapes, the concept of securityscapes can be linked with the framework of interpretation pattern analysis. This approach was developed in the field of the ‘sociology of science’ by Oevermann (1973) in the 1970s and has since been revised several times (Arnold, 1983; Lüders, 1991; Meuser and Sackmann, 1992; Ullrich, 1999; Oevermann, 2001a; Plaß and Schetsche, 2001; Höffling et al, 2002; Becker, 2007; Müller, 2013). Oevermann understands interpretation patterns as intersubjectively shared knowledge about norms, social values and common understandings that determine the spectrum of possible, socially accepted actions for individuals (Oevermann, 1973: 3–​ 4, 12–​13; 2001a: 5–​6, 9, 21). This implies that interpretation patterns influence the thoughts and decision-​making processes of all members of a society or a specific societal group and can thus be understood as their guiding principle for actions (Schetsche, 1992: 66–​8; Ullrich, 1999: 2; Oevermann, 2001a: 10; Höffling et al, 2002: para 5). Along these lines, interpretation patterns provide individuals with systematic, recurrently deployed behavioural scripts for dealing with their everyday challenges (Oevermann, 2001b: 539). Subsequent to Oevermann’s theoretical approach, several scholars have developed the concept further and applied the framework in their empirical research (for example, Höffling et  al’s [2002:  paras 13–​25] analysis of interpretation patterns in relation to corruption in Germany). In these works, interpretation patterns are conceptualized as reducing the complexity of social situations, enabling the recognition of specific situations and creating a moral framework for possible actions (Ullrich, 1999: 2–​5; Plaß and Schetsche, 2001: 525–​7; Becker, 2007: 81). They thus contribute significantly to the establishment of collective communities sharing the same interpretation patterns (Plaß and Schetsche, 2001: 525–​7). To perform this function, interpretation patterns have to be intersubjectively shared by the members of one society or one specific societal group, which is considered as the constituting factor for their emergence (Ullrich, 1999: 2; Plaß and Schetsche, 2001: 527; Höffling et al, 2002: paras 4–​7). Every individual sharing a general interpretation pattern possesses his or her own individual representations of that pattern, which can differ to a certain extent due to personal expectations, opinions and beliefs (Oevermann, 1973: 10; Ullrich, 1999: 3; Höffling et al, 2002: para 5). However, the baselines of individual representations have to be compatible to be classified as belonging to one general interpretation pattern (Ullrich, 1999: 3; Höffling et al, 2002: para 6). In this regard, the exact degree of consistency has not yet been defined in the relevant publications.

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Nevertheless, collecting single representations of individuals and identifying their overlap is perceived as a promising way to detect general interpretation patterns (Ullrich, 1999:  3; Höffling et  al, 2002: paras 5–​6). Apart from some initial approaches by Höffling, Plaß and Schetsche, no comprehensive attempts have yet been undertaken to establish an applicable model of the inner structure and functionality of interpretation patterns (Plaß and Schetsche, 2001; Höffling et al, 2002). Based on these first endeavours, the FMIP was developed by the authors to encapsulate the factors determining women’s securityscape choices in the face of sexual violence. In general, the FMIP is composed of components referring to: threat perception and assessment (priority attributes of situations perceived as risky, recognition schemes for respective settings and knowledge about typical courses of events); societal influences (explanation patterns related to hazardous situations, societal expectations and related behavioural scripts); and threat-​response actions like securityscapes. The baselines of the components are partly borrowed from Höffling, Plaß and Schetsche’s approach but adapted and developed further to capture interpretation patterns more comprehensively. It is crucial to mention that this model does not show the process of classifying and interpreting situations in the sense of cognitive psychology. Instead, it should be understood as a schematic approach to explain the single components of, and their functionality within and outside of, interpretation patterns. As demonstrated in Figure 6.1, it is assumed that potentially dangerous situations catch women’s attention via priority attributes, which might include an insecure feeling, unusual noises, the presence of men or men acting suspiciously. These priority attributes are closely linked to recognition schemes, which here are locations or social settings generally perceived as unsafe. They could, for instance, refer to specific parts of the urban fabric like roads or means of transportation perceived as likely scenes of sexual assault. These recognition schemes usually feature priority attributes that could lead to a perceived aggravation of risk: walking in the streets at night might be considered more dangerous than in the afternoon. In the course of noticing situations via priority attributes and classifying them into recognition schemes, related knowledge about typical courses of events is activated. This includes, for example, knowledge about likely perpetrators, victims, triggers for sexual violence, aggravating factors and potential worst-​case outcomes of situations. Such knowledge is assumed to rely partly on experiences that individuals may have encountered in their past, and partly on societal expectations with respective behavioural scripts and explanation

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Figure 6.1: Functionality Model of Interpretation Patterns (FMIP) REPRODUCTION OF SOCIETAL STRUCTURES AND RELATED SITUATIONS

SECURITYSCAPES

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SITUATION

EXPLANATION PATTERNS SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS KNOWLEDGE ABOUT

PRIORITY

TYPICAL COURSES OF

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BEHAVIOURAL SCRIPTS

RECOGNITION SCHEMES ATTRIBUTES

EVENTS RELATED TO THE SITUATION

SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS EXPLANATION PATTERNS

PERSONAL EXPERIENCES AND OTHER THIRD VARIABLES

OTHER ACTIONS

REPRODUCTION OF SOCIETAL STRUCTURES AND RELATED SITUATIONS

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patterns for why specific situations and related actions occur. For example, societal expectations  –​like men should engage in sexual violence –​could interact with the perception that even being recognized by them can trigger sexual violence, eventually driving women to seek invisibility by choosing inconspicuous clothing. This also shows how closely societal expectations and behavioural scripts are related –​in general, every behavioural script relies on societal expectations, but in comparison to these broader universal requirements, for instance, related to overall gender roles, behavioural scripts influence women’s actions on more of a day-​to-​day basis. Thus, behavioural scripts could include expectations like women should cover their bodies or should not be in public spaces. Furthermore, with regard to the topic of this research, behavioural scripts could also refer, for instance, to women’s appearance, actions and behaviours in relation to men or to encounters with sexual violence. Due to their close interweaving, societal expectations and behavioural scripts are examined together in the analysis. In general, societal expectations and, in particular, the respective behavioural scripts determine the mode of an individual’s actions. They thus ensure that actions are in conformity with the accepted standards of society by optimizing individuals’ agency at the same time. Transferred to sexual violence within a patriarchal society, actions like these could be, for example, behaving passively, dressing unremarkably or exiting unsafe situations as fast as possible to reduce the risk of sexual violence. Societal expectations and the respective behavioural scripts are also closely linked to another component of interpretation patterns: explanation patterns. Applied to this research, they provide individuals with explanations and justifications for why sexual violence occurs, why perpetrators act as they do and why women need to protect themselves. In this regard, cultural aspects associated with societal expectations are understood here, in particular, as a significant influence on an individual’s reasoning. In sum, all the described components of interpretation patterns determine women’s actions within specific situations. As pointed out in Figure 6.1, these actions can be particular securityscapes adapted to respective situations as well as uncoordinated, spontaneous and non-​ recurrent behaviours. Both theoretical concepts combined in the model emphasize the function of reproducing societal settings by exerting specific interpretations and behaviours (Plaß and Schetsche, 2001: 526; von Boemcken et al, 2016: 9). This function is also included in the FMIP, as depicted in Figure 6.1. Nevertheless, it can be assumed that some securityscapes, like educating others or confronting perpetrators, are

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aimed at breaking the underlying societal foundations, which could thus interrupt the reproduction cycle and, moreover, indicate the first signs of transforming the prevailing interpretation pattern. In general, the model should not be understood as providing deterministic, invariable modes of actions. As already mentioned, individual representations of the general model, along with other factors such as personal experiences or specific contextual factors, function as third variables and can also influence securityscape choices. In addition, the single components of an interpretation pattern are conceived as potentially impacting on each other reciprocally and will thus not be completely distinctive. However, despite these limitations, the FMIP enables researchers to grasp the underlying societal and contextual factors that define an individual’s securityscape choices. It specifies the theoretical framework for interpretation patterns and securityscapes in greater detail, and also facilitates empirical analyses by providing a conceptual approach that can easily be operationalized. In this way, the model can be applied to produce comprehensible, transparent and replicable case studies. Before shedding light on the results gathered throughout the research process, the design created to capture the various components of the pattern and the resulting securityscapes will be outlined.

Research design Due to its explorative nature, this research was conducted through a qualitative approach. With regard to tracing interpretation patterns, researchers have discussed various qualitative options, for example, Ullrich (1999: 7) uses sequence analysis, while Höffling et al (2002: para 12) suggest conducting media analysis. It should be noted here that explorative qualitative research can only provide knowledge about tendencies rather than fixed, generalizable statistical distributions. Despite this, it enables a deeper understanding of the background factors that can explain certain behaviours, as aimed for in this chapter (Blatter et  al, 2018:  9, 47). Therefore, three different qualitative approaches –​focus group discussions, individual interviews and a self-​ reporting method –​were chosen to capture the interpretation pattern and securityscapes as comprehensively as possible. This specific design was developed to enable a participatory research process, thereby reducing the risk of producing biased results. As suggested by several researchers, focus group discussions were conducted as the first component of the design (Ullrich, 1999:  8; Höffling et al, 2002: para 12; Kühn and Koschel, 2011: 33; Blatter

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et al, 2018: 80). This method was chosen for its limiting effect on the influence of the researchers: group discussions convey more power to the participants by enabling them to introduce their own perspectives and thus facilitate comprehensible insights (Madriz, 2003:  366–​9). According to normative feminist approaches, this method also provides the participating women with an occasion to reflect mutually on the structural causes of their experiences and to develop action and solution strategies for the future (Madriz, 2003: 364, 375). In general, group discussions provide a more natural setting for conversations than individual interviews, which can significantly facilitate the discussion of sensitive topics like sexual violence (Madriz, 2003: 364; Kühn and Koschel, 2011: 36, 230). In this regard, the discussion groups were intentionally composed of three to five participants in order to ensure a more private setting. Nevertheless, it can be difficult for some people to discuss sensitive topics in a group setting (Kühn and Koschel, 2011: 115, 229). Another aspect possibly distorting any data gathered in group discussions is social desirability, which can lead participants to give inaccurate information (Kühn and Koschel, 2011: 238, 243). To minimize these factors, qualitative individual interviews and a self-​reporting method were additionally included in the research design. Following the approach described by Ullrich (1999: 10, 17) and Oevermann (2001a: 29), the interviews and group discussions were conducted using a semi-​structured discursive approach, including reasoning questions, to optimize the detection of interpretation patterns. In addition, an ethnographic self-​reporting method in the form of journals was used subsequent to the group discussions and interviews. This gave the participants an opportunity to report detailed information about their experiences of sexual violence in written form closer to the time of the encounter. Self-​reporting was chosen to ensure comprehensible data (Kunz, 2015: 147–​8) and reduce the effects of social desirability to a minimum as the journals were filled in anonymously (Kunz, 2015: 151). It is important to highlight that some respondents specifically mentioned that they could only share their experiences, opinions and thoughts because of the researchers’ foreign cultural background. This aspect also helped to clarify the interpretation pattern because many factors considered as common knowledge by the participants were made visible to the researchers due to cultural differences. To gather comprehensive data, a recruitment plan was developed, which aimed at mixed groups and combined heterogeneous and homogeneous features. Hereby, the homogeneous factors were the gender and age of the participants, who were mostly in their early

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20s (one participant was 17 years old). The research design focused on young women as they are especially prone to encountering sexual violence (United Nations Women Country Office in the Kyrgyz Republic, 2017: 6). Due to this, it was expected that the participating women face similar risk settings and share comparable experiences in relation to sexual violence (Kühn and Koschel, 2011: 79). In addition, only university students were recruited. This ensured a similar level of knowledge related to the topic and language abilities (Kühn and Koschel, 2011:  80). Regarding the heterogeneous features, the recruitment plan contained women from urban and rural areas, from different regions and milieus, with different marital status, and with and without children (Helfferich, 2011: 173; Mann, 2016: 78). Overall, two group discussions, seven individual interviews and eight self-​reporting journals were conducted. To analyse these data and to identify the commonly shared securityscapes, as well as the overlap of the individual representations of the related interpretation pattern, inductive content analysis in accordance with Mayring (2010) was undertaken. This approach was chosen to minimize bias in the results and to make the steps of interpretation and generalization more transparent (Mayring, 2010: 59, 84).

Analysis To visualize the results, the chapter provides diagrams presenting the securityscapes and interpretation patterns. These include all the subcategories and related intermediate and supercategories detected by the analysis. The subcategories are depicted in bubbles, whereas the intermediate and supercategories are highlighted by shading or pattern gradation. The size of the single bubbles indicates how many participants mentioned the respective subcategory. Thus, bigger bubbles as well as bubble clusters belonging to the same pattern group indicate shared information, interpretations and security measures likely to belong to the general interpretation pattern. On this account, commonly shared subcategories will mainly be discussed, as well as those once-​named subcategories that fall within the realm of a frequently mentioned intermediate or even supercategory. The diagrams also include data derived from the participants’ self-​reporting journals in order to display the different components as comprehensibly as possible. Due to the anonymity of the self-​reporting method, the journals were not assignable; therefore, the pictorial representation of some categories could be enlarged. To ensure transparency, the numbers of respondents and journals referring to the same information are also displayed here.

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To bolster the analysis, a number of quotations from the transcripts will be provided throughout this chapter. Their language and grammar have been adjusted where needed for the sake of clarity, and paralinguistic signs such as ‘errs’, stutters, laughs and hums used by interviewees as part of their narration were only included where deemed necessary. The quotes, which are assigned to alias names chosen by the participants, function as a reminder that the stories and information recorded represent a human being with her own experiences, thoughts and struggles.

Risk assessment and threat perception: priority attributes, recognition schemes and knowledge about typical courses of events As illustrated in Figure 6.2 on priority attributes, the female respondents predominantly mentioned several characteristics of men that draw their attention to specific situations and cause them to be on high alert. In this regard, they frequently referred to spotting men, especially when men gather in groups, as described by Zulaika: ‘I don’t really feel threatened, but I don’t really feel secure either, when I’m passing and there is a group of men or males passing by because they are ALWAYS making some comments. It’s not like you can walk peacefully … most of the time, you face certain comments like:  “Oh, you’re a pretty girl” or something. Or:  “Give me your number!” ’ (Zulaika) Moreover, the groups of men described here function more strongly as a priority attribute if their mere presence is combined with other attributes like loitering in the streets or drinking alcohol. Also related to encountering men in general or groups of men in particular, some participants described situations that require special caution, for example, when they encounter young men or policemen, or when there are more men than women. As another set of priority attributes, the women described specific behaviours of men that trigger their alertness. Inappropriate approaches and suspicious behaviours can be distinguished here. Under inappropriate approaches, respondents mentioned inappropriate sounds, gestures, intonations and physical proximity. In this regard, the women also referred several times to staring, as described by Ayim: “And I can feel that somebody is staring at me, so I don’t look

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Figure 6.2: Priority attributes

CHASING 2|1

TAXI DRIVERS TAKING OTHER ROUTES THAN USUAL 1|0 MEN BEHIND ONE’S BACK 1|0

CHARACTERISTICS OF MEN DARKNESS

NIGHT-TIME 8|4

MALE BEHAVIOR

INAPPROPRIATE PHYSICAL PROXIMITY 1|1 DARKNESS 2|2

INAPPROPRIATE APPROACHING 3|2 INAPPROPRIATE INTONATION 1|0

•

SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOUR

•

INAPPROPRIATE APPROACHING

LONELINESS INAPPROPRIATE SOUNDS 1|0

CROWDS

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LOITERING MEN 2|1

INSOBRIETY 2|1

MORE MEN ARE PRESENT THAN WOMEN 1|1 YOUNG MEN 2|0

GROUPS OF MEN 6|3

POLICEMEN 2|0

MEN IN A CAR 0|1 BEING ALONE 5|6

MAN/MEN 4|2

AFGHAN MEN 1|0

CROWDS 2|3

OLD MALE FAMILY MEMBERS 1|0

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

How to Live with a Female Body

INAPPROPRIATE GESTURES 1|0

STARING 4|3

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at them, but I feel it and I try not to look at them because I don’t know what will happen if you look back and answer them.” At this point, it is important to mention that inappropriate approaches can function as priority attributes as well as equate to incidents of sexual violence. However, in the context of this research, staring and other inappropriate approaches were only understood as priority attributes if the respondents referred to them as raising their alertness. In addition, the women named various suspicious behaviours causing them to be on high alert, like being chased. Next to these priority attributes that refer to the features and behaviours of men, the participants mentioned other factors that also raise their attentiveness. One of the most shared factors is ‘being alone’, which includes not only being alone in isolated or remote places, but also being unaccompanied within an otherwise more crowded setting. Related to this, several women also referred to crowds as a trigger for their attentiveness. Furthermore, and often in combination with loneliness, the women frequently mentioned night-​time and darkness, as described by Shirin: “I’m REALLY afraid of it [sexual violence]. I’m SO much afraid of it that, especially at night, I’m just running, right?” In addition to the priority attributes described earlier, the participants discussed various locations and settings that they perceive as dangerous in terms of potentially encountering sexual violence. As depicted in Figure 6.3, these are mainly public spaces, in particular, outdoor spaces like roads where many of the participants have encountered sexual violence, ranging from whistling, being chased and groped, to attempted rapes. Moreover, rural areas were another outdoor space frequently mentioned as potentially dangerous. This perception is exemplarily described by Amina with the following words:  “I feel insecure going to really remote places travelling by myself because I’m scared of being kidnapped.” As indicated in this quote, rural areas are classified as unsafe due to the risk of bride abductions. Furthermore, another outdoor recognition scheme often identified by the women is bazaars, as described by Aichurok: ‘You know Osh bazaar? I’m really afraid to go there, you know? I feel uncomfortable to go there, and I try not to go there because men are  –​they’re awful, when you’re just walking  –​ HOW they’re looking at you, they’re SCANNING your body and, yeah, it’s awful … they are treating you as an object.’ (Aichurok)

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Figure 6.3: Recognition schemes CYBERSPACE SOCIAL MEDIA 1|1

PUBLIC SPACES

CAR TRAFFIC 0|1

• INDOOR

CONSTRUCTION SITES 4|0

• OUTDOOR • MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION

BAZAARS 5|2

RURAL AREAS 8|0

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POLICE STATIONS 1|0 MARSHRUTKAS 4|1

BARS/CLUBS 2|1 SCHOOLS 1|0

ROADS 5|6 BANKS 1|0 MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION 1|0

TAXIS 2|0 BUSSES 1|2

FAMILY GATHERINGS 1|1 PRIVATE SPACES 1|1

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

How to Live with a Female Body

PARKS 1|0

PRIVATE SPACES

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In addition to the outdoor recognition schemes already discussed, some respondents also mentioned construction sites as areas where sexual violence, mostly verbal offences like unwanted comments or whistling, occurs. As depicted in Figure  6.3, the research participants also referred to several modes of transportation as places where they frequently encounter sexual violence. Above all, the women discussed marshrutkas, the local minibuses that are typically crowded. However, they also named taxis and buses as unsafe spaces, as described here in one of the journals: ‘In a bus, a young man was standing above me (I was sitting) and intently looking at me, especially the décolleté. He didn’t do anything and I felt “used” and didn’t like it’ (anonymous). In contrast to such public recognition schemes for outdoor spaces, the participants also referred to indoor public recognition schemes, mainly mentioning bars and clubs. Alongside the public spaces, some women also discussed private spaces, like family gatherings or someone’s private home, as potentially dangerous settings. For instance, one woman described anonymously in a journal how she was abused by her uncle throughout a family gathering: When I  was home our relative came to visit us. I  was washing the dishes at home and my uncle was sitting next to me. Out of the sudden he touched my butt for like three seconds and let off. I was very shocked but did not say a word out of shock. He just looked at me and laughed. I started avoiding him after that. Especially, after all of our relatives went together to the lake to swim and my uncle (the same uncle) just kept staring at my body. (Anonymous) Throughout the research process, most participants predominantly discussed street harassment and only seldom referred to sexual violence occurring in more private settings. This could be explained by the difficulties of acknowledging to oneself or to others that violence within one’s own family occurs; however, it could also result from the interview guideline, which gave more weight to street harassment and violence. In contrast to the data gathered, global statistics and surveys on other regions and countries indicate that abuses are often committed by people known to the person facing the assault (United Nations Entity for Gender Equality and the Empowerment of Women, 2013:  5; United Nations, 2015:  2). In relation to Kyrgyzstan, no respective statistical data of this kind could be found, but studies from other societies suggest that similar prevalence rates and distributions

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should be assumed for this country. Accordingly, the women also described a generally high potential for violence within families, and some respondents reported incidents of sexual violence in groups of friends. This preliminary finding indicates a need for further research to examine sexual violence within private spaces and the related securityscapes aligned to this specific setting. Lastly, as part of cyberspace, social media was also mentioned as a recognition scheme in which verbal harassment in the shape of inappropriate approaches or unwanted comments occurs. As described in the theoretical section earlier, the initial recognition of potentially dangerous situations via priority attributes, and their classification into recognition schemes, activates the women’s knowledge of typical courses of events that predict likely orders of actions. As depicted in Figure 6.4, in this regard, the women referred to information that they had about the likely perpetrators and victims, the triggers for sexual violence, the worst-​case scenarios envisaged, the factors that cause increasing and decreasing danger, the question of guilt, and law enforcement options. As insinuated in the figure, the women discussed several likely perpetrators but predominantly mentioned uneducated men and men from rural areas. In comparison to this, they only rarely referred to likely victims, though ‘sexy’ women were named by some participants. This does not necessarily imply that their knowledge about typical courses of events does not include more details. Rather, the features related to likely victims are taken up within the next supercategory: triggers for sexual violence. In this regard, above all, the respondents mentioned factors that relate to the appearance of women, like wearing revealing clothes, walking beautifully, generally being a woman or wearing make-​up, as described by Begimai: “[I]‌f I will look good, beautiful, if I would do make-​up, it will be worse and they will start talking to you…. Yeah, if you are walking very beautifully, they will say like: ‘Oh, girl’.” As indicated in the figure, the women mentioned not only triggers for sexual violence, but also risk-​decreasing factors. However, there were too few mentions to factor into the general interpretation pattern. The participants also named several factors aggravating dangerous situations, mainly in connection with ignoring or resisting sexual assaults. As worst-​ case outcomes of such situations, the women described rape and bride abduction above all, as expressed by Zulaika and Alina II: “I’m probably afraid that they’re just gonna attack me. Or, for example, even rape me. So, I just don’t feel comfortable” (Zulaika); “[I]‌n the mountains, there is a practice of kidnapping … they can steal girls, rape them and then say: ‘Well, you are used, you cannot marry again’ ” (Alina II). As

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Figure 6.4: Knowledge about typical courses of events ANSWERING SEXUAL VIOLENCE LEADS TO AGGRAVATION 1|0 POLICE WILL PURSUE PERPETRATORS 0|1 IGNORING LEADS TO AGGRAVATION

WOMEN DO NOT REPORT SEXUAL VIOLENCE IN EXCHANGE FOR TUT MONEY 1|0

2|0

RESISTANCE LEADS TO AGGRAVATION 3|1

LAW ENFORCEMENT IS NOT GUARANTEED 5|0

PASSING GROUPS OF MEN 1|0 MEN WITH MANY FEMALE FRIENDS IN SOCIAL MEDIA ARE MORE LIKELY TO CYBER HARASS 1|0 DRINKING ALCOHOL

VICTIM BLAMING 8|1

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MEN FROM LOWER CLASSES 1|0 MEN FROM RURAL AREAS 6|0 WEARING HIJABS 1|0

OLD MEN ARE MORE LIKELY TO HARASS VERBALLY 1|0

UNREMARKABLE BEHAVIOR 1|0

BEING ACCOMPANIED BY POTENTIAL HUSBANDS OR CHILDREN 1|0

RAPE AS WORST-CASE SCENARIO 5|0 BEING RAPED RESULTS IN OSTRACISM 1|0

LAW ENFORCEMENT IS NOT GUARANTEED DUE TO CORRUPTION 3|0

1|0

OLD MEN ARE MORE LIKELY TO CYBER-HARASS 1|0

WALKING BEAUTIFULLY 2|0

WEARING MAKE-UP 1|0

BORED MEN WEARING REVEALING CLOTHES 0|1 3|0 ‘GIRLY’ BEHAVIOUR 1|0

UNEDUCATED MEN 5|1

YOUNG TAXI DRIVERS 1|0 SEXUALLY UNEDUCATED MEN 1|0

WOMEN WHO HAVE SUFFERED BRIDE ABDUCTION ARE PRESSURED TO STAY WITH THE PERPETRATOR 3|0 SEXUALLY UNEDUCATED WOMEN 1|0 BRIDE ABDUCTION AS WORST-CASE SCENARIO ECONOMIC DEPENDENCE 5|1 FACILITATES SEXUAL VIOLENCE 1|0

BEING A WOMAN 2|0 SMOKING 1|0 TIMIDITY 1|0

AGGRAVATION OF DANGER LAW ENFORCEMENT IS •

NOT GUARANTEED

•

AVERTED

•

GUARANTEED

TRIGGERS FOR SEXUAL VIOLENCE GUILT LIKELY VICTIMS RISK-DECREASING FACTORS WORST-CASE SCENARIOS •

RAPE

•

BRIDE ABDUCTION

SEXY WOMEN 2|0 YOUNG WOMEN 1|0

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

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RESISTANCE LEADS TO HUMILIATION 1|0 PERPETRATORS WILL NOT BE BLAMED 1|0

POLICE WILL NOT PURSUE PERPETRATORS 3|0

LAW ENFORCEMENT IS NOT GUARANTEED DUE TO OFFICERS BEING MALE 1|0

LIKELY PERPETRATORS

How to Live with a Female Body

indicated by the preceding quote, abducted women are pressured to stay with the perpetrator. This was also mentioned by several participants, who said that bride abduction is the worst-​case scenario (see also National Statistical Committee of the Kyrgyz Republic, 2016: 133–​4). One woman also reported that being raped would lead to ostracism, which refers profoundly to the question of guilt. On this question, most participants noted that women who experience sexual violence will then be blamed by society, instead of the actual perpetrators. This is described by Shirin and Begimai with the following words: ‘And in the villages, if the girl was raped, what the family is doing is really blaming the girl … they say: “Why were you going outside? Why were you going outside in the dark?” And they just isolate this girl … ALL [people in] the village will be blaming her.’ (Shirin) ‘It’s easier for men who committed harassment or violence; they will just easily blame women like: “She was wearing a short dress, was looking like this.” ’ (Begimai) The final supercategory related to knowledge of typical courses of events refers to information about law enforcement in Kyrgyzstan. In this regard, most participants agreed on the perception that law enforcement does not work and that the police would not pursue perpetrators (see also Moldosheva, 2008: 9–​11). As an explanation, some participants described corruption as the main factor. In addition to these factors related to risk assessment and threat perception, the women also described societal influences that shape their behaviour. These will be outlined in the following section.

Societal influences: explanation patterns for sexual violence, societal expectations and related behavioural scripts The FMIP contains three components related to societal influences: explanation patterns for the occurrence of sexual violence and the resulting necessity to apply securityscapes; societal expectations; and related behavioural scripts. Regarding explanation patterns, several women mentioned patriarchal structures within their society as a reason for the occurrence of sexual violence, namely, the perception that men are considered more valuable than women. In addition, and as depicted in Figure 6.5, the women discussed various cultural

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Figure 6.5: Explanation patterns for sexual violence

SOCIAL LEARNING 1|0

MEN HARASS BECAUSE NO ONE TAUGHT THEM HOW TO APPROACH WOMEN APPROPRIATELY 1|0 VERBAL HARASSMENT IS NOT CONSIDERED AS SEXUAL VIOLENCE 2|0 NORMALIZATION OF SEXUAL VIOLENCE MEN HAVE TO HARASS 8|1 0|1

SEXY CLOHTES 2|0

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LAUGHTER 1|0 WOMEN ARE SEXUAL OBJECTS 2|0 WOMEN ARE INSECURE 1|0 WOMEN ARE NOT HUMAN BEINGS 1|0 ALMIGHTY MEN 1|0 PATRIARCHAL SOCIETY 5|0

WOMEN ARE LIKE CHILDREN AND HAVE TO BE CONTROLLED 1|0 MEN ARE MORE VALUABLE THAN WOMEN 2|0 IDIOMS LIKE ‘BEATING SIGNALS LOVE’ 2|0 BRIDE ABDUCTION AS PART OF CULTURE 1|0

UNEDUCATED MEN CANNOT CONTROL THEMSELVES 1|0

MEN HARASS DUE TO STRONG SEX DRIVE 2|0 MEN HAVE A RIGHT TO HARASS 1|0

MEN HARASS DUE TO INSTINCTS 1|0

SEXUAL VIOLENCE AS A JOKE SEX IS REQUIRED FOR 1|0 MEN’S HEALTH 2|0 MEN HAVE TO BE SEXUAL VIOLENCE AS SEXUALLY EXPERIENCED A GAME 1|0 2|0 MEN ARE MORE POWERFUL THAN WOMEN 3|1 NO MEANS YES 1|0 WOMEN ARE MEN’S PROPERTY 2|0 MENTAL ILLNESS 2|1

MEN HARASS BECAUSE THEY WANT ATTENTION 1|0

SOCIAL LEARNING

•

LACK OF KNOWLEDGE

ASSUMED BELIEFS OF MEN ABOUT •

INFERIORITY OF WOMEN

•

INDICATORS OF SEXUAL AVAILABILITY OF WOMEN

•

THAT MEN HAVE TO HARASS

•

SEXUAL VIOLENCE IS NORMAL

PATRIARCHAL SOCIETY

WOMEN ARE AVAILABLE TO MEN 1|0 MEN HARASS WOMEN BECAUSE THEY ARE WOMEN 1|0 MEN HARASS TO COVER UP THEIR TIMIDITY 1|1

•

SEXUAL VIOLENCE AS AMUSEMENT

SEXUAL VIOLENCE IS PART OF MEN’S NATURE 1|0

WOMEN ARE WORTHLESS 0|1

NORMALIZATION OF SEXUAL VIOLENCE

•

MEN HARASS BECAUSE THEY WANT TO FEEL SUPERIOR 1|0 MEN HARASS BECAUSE THEY FEEL ALONE 1|0

CULTURAL JUSTIFICATIONS

MEN’S NATURE MENTAL ILLNESS INFERIORITY OF MEN

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

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SEXUAL VIOLENCE IS NORMAL 1|1 DRINKING ALCOHOL 1|0

MEN HARASS DUE TO LACK OF SELF-CONTROL 2|0

MEN HARASS DUE TO SEXUAL DISSATISFACTION 2|0

How to Live with a Female Body

justifications for sexual violence, for instance, as surrounding bride abductions or immediately expressed in sayings like ‘beating signals love’. This indicates how deeply ingrained patriarchal structures are in Kyrgyz society. It is also mirrored in the contributions of the participants related to a certain normalization of violence in which sexual violence is described as a normal feature of women’s and men’s lives. Thus, some women emphasized that society does not generally consider street harassment as harassment (see also Jeenbaeva, 2013). Another frequently discussed way of explaining why sexual violence occurs in Kyrgyzstan is ‘men’s nature’. More specifically, the women stated that men would harass due to a strong sex drive, sexual dissatisfaction and a lack of self-​control. In addition, the participants related sexual violence to men’s desire for amusement, for instance, when they understand harassment as a game or a joke, as described by Zulaika and Ayim: ‘I feel like they whistle and they don’t even refer to it as harassing women. They’re just like: “Oh, you know, it’s just for fun.” But then, well, for women, it’s not really funny.’ (Zulaika) ‘[T]‌hey have those instincts inside and they love playing, so they’re playing. Their sense of playing, and using people, and getting their enjoyment, I think, stays in their blood. In that way, they continue oppressing girls.’ (Ayim) Moreover, the women also referred to mental illness as an explanation for why men would engage in sexual violence. Alongside this explanation, the participants also claimed that men would harass them in order to compensate for their inferiority and weaknesses. As depicted in Figure  6.5, all of the aforementioned explanation patterns are also mirrored in what some of the participants perceived to be the beliefs of men –​mainly referring to an assumed inferiority of women. In this regard, the participants stated that men perceive women as less powerful and as their property, as described by Begimai: “Men think that they’re MORE powerful and they’re not afraid of anything, they only think that women are a kind of property.” In addition, some women reported that they think men perceive women as sexual objects like sex toys or dolls. Other assumed beliefs of men refer to the normalization of sexual violence, to alleged indicators of the sexual availability of women and to men’s urge to harass, as described by Aichurok and Adelina: “[T]‌hey’re saying … ‘Come on! 137

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It’s because we’re human beings, we eventually need to do this rape’ ” (Aichurok); “They are saying: ‘We need it for our health, we need it for our health’ ” (Adelina). Alongside these explanation patterns, which act as societal influences determining women’s securityscape choices, the participants also offered bits of information related to the interpretation pattern components, societal expectations and related behavioural scripts, which are depicted in Figure 6.6. In general, all societal expectations can be understood as behavioural scripts, but for this analysis, only aspects that refer to daily situations and decisions were included because they are more critical in determining the women’s mode of security measures. Before describing these behavioural scripts, the more general societal expectations reported by the participants will be outlined. In this regard, the women frequently stated that discussing topics related to sex, including sexual violence, is taboo, as described by Ayim: “[W]‌e don’t have sex education … and of course [nothing about] sexual harassment. So, it’s such a sensitive topic and we don’t discuss it because we think that it’s shameful, which is so bad.” The expectations towards women most frequently mentioned are related to their civil status and life perspective. Hereby, the participants recurrently described how women are required to marry early and to become housewives and mothers, as expressed by Adelina: “I really don’t like that in Kyrgyz families, there is inequality between men and women. Basically, all of the men think that women have to stay at home, they should cook, they should take care of children, yeah.” Moreover, the women also described how they have to fulfil several expectations regarding their future husbands. For example, they should not marry foreigners, but someone from their region or even from their own village (see Chapter 7 by Myrzabekova). In addition, the women reported that they should never get divorced, even if facing domestic violence, due to the stigma surrounding divorced women. As indicated in Figure 6.6, many women mentioned that by far the most important precondition for marriage is that they are expected to be virgins, as described by Adelina: “[I]‌f you have sex, you will be considered as not pure, you’re used by someone. And actually, boys, they want to have sex and then they have sex and then, when it’s time to get married, they are looking for girls who are virgins.” In addition to these societal expectations placed on women, the respondents discussed several expectations directed at men. With regard to men’s position within the family, the respondents described how men are expected to dominate their wives and to control them, as stated by Shirin: “[M]‌en decide everything –​if a woman can go to her relatives … she should beg him, like: ‘Can I go to my mom’s house 138

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Figure 6.6: Societal expectations and respective behavioural scripts WOMEN WHO HAVE SUFFERED BRIDE ABDUCTION SHOULD STAY WITH THE PERPETRATOR 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD BLAME THEMSELVES IF THEY EXPERIENCE SEXUAL VIOLENCE 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD ENJOY VERBAL HARASSMENT 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT USE VIOLENCE TO PROTECT THEMSELVES 2|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT RESIST SEXUAL VIOLENCE TO NOT JEOPARDIZE FAMILY’S REPUTATION 2|0

WOMEN SHOULD OBEY 2|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT BE OUTSIDE AT NIGHT 5|0

WOMEN SHOULD BE OBJECTS 3|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT GO TO BARS/CLUBS 1|0

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WOMEN SHOULD NOT DRINK ALCOHOL 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT SMOKE 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT WALK SEXY 1|0

S PT

RI

WOMEN SHOULD NOT BE TOO ATTRACTIVE 1|0 WOMEN SHOULD COVER THEMSELVES 8|0 WOMEN SHOULD BE BEAUTIFUL 1|0 WOMEN SHOULD NOT WEAR MAKE-UP 1|0

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HA

BE

AL

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MEN SHOULD BE DOMINATORS 1|0 MEN SHOULD BE AGGRESSIVE 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD BEHAVE MODESTLY 2|0

WOMEN HAVE TO FULFIL SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS PERFECTLY 2|0

MEN SHOULD BE KINGS OF THE FAMILY 2|0

MEN SHOULD HAVE SEX 3|0

MEN SHOULD BE DICTATORS OF THE FAMILY 4|0 MEN SHOULD HARASS 1|0 MEN SHOULD ABUSE THEIR WIVES AFTER THE WEDDING 1|0

WOMEN SHOULD NOT GET DIVORCED 2|0

WOMEN ARE BORN TO GET MARRIED 4|0

WOMEN SHOULD GET MARRIED EARLY 4|0

WOMEN SHOULD ONLY MARRY MEN FROM THEIR REGION 2|0 SEXUAL VIOLENCE SHOULD NOT BE DISCUSSED WOMEN SHOULD 5|0 NOT MARRY FOREIGNERS 5|0 TOPICS RELATED TO WOMEN SHOULD ONLY MARRY SEX ARE TABOO SOMEONE FROM THEIR VILLAGE 4|0 1|0

ONLY VIRGIN WOMEN ARE APPLICABLE FOR MARRIAGE 5|1 WOMEN SHOULD BE GOOD HOUSEWIVES 7|0

WOMEN SHOULD BECOME MOTHERS 3|0

EXPECTATIONS ABOUT WOMEN’S BEHAVIOUR •

RESTRICTIONS

•

REQUIREMENTS RELATED TO MEN

•

IN CASE OF SEXUAL VIOLENCE

EXPECTATIONS ABOUT WOMEN’S CIVIL STATUS AND LIFE PERSPECTIVE •

MARRIAGE

•

HOUSEWIVES

•

MOTHERHOOD

EXPECTATIONS ABOUT MEN’S BEHAVIOUR •

MEN AS PERPETRATORS

•

MEN AS DOMINATORS

•

SEXUAL ACTIVITIES

EXPECTATIONS ABOUT WOMEN’S APPEARANCE TOPICS RELATED TO SEX ARE TABOO

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

How to Live with a Female Body

WOMEN SHOULD PLEASE MEN 1|0

MEN SHOULD CONTROL THEIR WIVES 2|0

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for two days? Can you give me 20 soms to pay for the marshrutka?’ It’s very usual, but it’s a dictatorship.” The women also mentioned that, in stark contrast to women, men are required to engage in sexual activities before their wedding. A few women also stated that societal expectations even require men to engage in sexual harassment and violence. As already noted, societal expectations also include more specific behavioural scripts that influence women’s securityscape choices on an everyday basis. In general, these refer to standards of appearance and the actual behaviours of women. In relation to standards of appearance, the women frequently mentioned that they are expected to cover their bodies and, essentially, to look inconspicuous. Next to this, the women also named some behavioural scripts referring to their behaviour. In this regard, they described several restrictions that they have to comply with, some requirements towards men and behavioural scripts in the event of sexual violence. As restrictions, they mainly emphasized that they are expected not to be outside at night. In addition, the women reported that they are expected to behave modestly and, in general, to fulfil all societal expectations towards them perfectly, as described by Ayim: ‘[W]‌h enever we go to … big gatherings, she [the grandmother] would always say … “You have to be REALLY modest, and sit really quiet, and … just be a treasure to enjoy.” … [T]here are so many things that you should abide by, and that makes you a TRUE girl, which is imposed by the society.’ (Ayim) In addition to the aforementioned restrictions, the women described some behavioural scripts related to men, like obeying them. They mainly emphasized that they should behave like objects that are designed to please men, as highlighted by Aichurok and Ayim: ‘[Y]‌ou are an OBJECT, you are female, you are an object, and what matters is your beauty … when you start talking with them, they don’t really listen to you.’ (Aichurok) ‘[S]‌ociety tells you how to behave. So, they’re [women] shaped in the way the society wants … they are the ones who are shaped in a way to delight men.’ (Ayim) Collated with the aforementioned triggers for sexual assaults, there is a perception that any deviation from the behavioural scripts may

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result in sexual violence. It is along these lines that the behavioural scripts outline a framework in which women can choose and apply securityscapes –​in accordance with societal expectations and in line with their social background. Thus, these societal features significantly determine the mode of women’s security measures. This becomes especially apparent while analysing behavioural scripts for specifically encountering sexual violence. The women mainly emphasized the expectation placed on them to endure sexual violence, primarily so as not to jeopardize the family’s reputation. Moreover, some women reported that they should not use violence to protect themselves. All these factors related to women’s threat perception, risk assessment and societal influences determine their securityscape choices, which will be discussed in the next section.

Threat response: securityscapes In total, the women described 62 securityscapes, which are depicted in Figures 6.7 and 6.8. For instance, they named a number of ways to protect themselves by specifically avoiding unsafe locations, such as public spaces at night or bazaars, and by staying inside after dark. In particular, staying inside at night complies with the respective behavioural script described earlier. Apart from the spaces mentioned, the women also named unsafe persons to be avoided, including assumed perpetrators like policemen or sellers at bazaars, as well as reoffenders known to them. In contrast to these avoidance strategies, the participants also described several securityscapes that relate specifically to choosing a safe environment, whether a location or social setting. The latter aspect was only made apparent by their naming of examples, such as: checking the profiles of men who had sent friend requests on social media in order to prevent cyber-​harassment; choosing really old taxi drivers because they are perceived as less dangerous; or selecting friends carefully to avert unsafe situations from arising with them. For example, regarding the choosing of safe places, one woman described how she tries to sit next to other women on buses to prevent harassment by males sitting next to her. She also mentioned that she takes taxis instead of walking home, while another woman stated that she only uses official taxi companies on the assumption that the drivers would lose their job if they harmed her. Furthermore, some women described how they develop security plans involving the careful advance planning of routes, transportation and security arrangements in order to minimize the risk of encountering sexual violence.

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Figure 6.7: Securityscapes against sexual violence (1) PRETENDING TO BE CONFIDENT 1|1

WALKING CONFIDENTLY 1|0 DISPLAYING AGGRESSIVE FACIAL EXPRESSION 0|1

PROTECTION PRAYERS 1|0

DISPLAYING CONFIDENT FACIAL EXPRESSION 3|0

CALLING SOMEONE 1|0

CARRYING WEAPONS 1|1

TAKING SELF-DEFENSE CLASSES 1|0

FACILITATING HELP THROUGH SECURITY AGREEMENTS 1|0

HAVING PHONE AVAILABLE 1|0

ORGANIZING COMPANY 3|0

SECURITY AGREEMENTS

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ASSURING HELP IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

CHOOSING SAFE ENVIRONMENT CHOOSING SAFE PLACES 3|0 TAKING TAXIS 1|0

CHECKING PROFILES OF MEN WHO SENT FRIEND REQUESTS IN SOCIAL MEDIA 2|0

USING ONLY OFFICIAL TAXI COMPANIES 1|0

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CHOOSING REALLY OLD TAXI DRIVERS 1|0

INDIRECT CONFRONTATION 3|0

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SAFE LOCATIONS

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SAFE SOCIAL ENVIRONMENT

AVOIDING UNSAFE ENVIRONMENT

SITTING NEXT TO WOMEN IN BUSSES 1|0

CHOOSING FRIENDS CAREFULLY 1|0

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UNSAFE LOCATIONS

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UNSAFE PERSONS

DEVELOPING SECURITY PLANS

DEVELOPING SECURITY PLANS 2|2

TEACHING MEN TO NOT HARASS IN THE FUTURE 1|0 EMPOWERING OTHER WOMEN 1|1

AVOIDING BAZAARS 2|1 AVOIDING REOFFENDERS 0|1 AVOIDING SELLERS AT BAZAARS 1|0 AVOIDING POLICE MEN 1|0

AVOIDING RURAL AREAS 1|0 STAYING INSIDE AT NIGHT 7|0

WAITING INSIDE SCHOOL UNTIL BOYS LEAVE THE AREA 1|0

CONFRONTATION EDUCATION OF OTHERS ENHANCING ABILITY TO PROTECT ONESELF THROUGH •

EXTERNAL MEASURES

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INTERNAL MEASURES

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

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DIRECT CONFRONTATION 5|2

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newgenrtpdf

Figure 6.8: Securityscapes against sexual violence (2) SHOPPING AS FAST AS POSSIBLE ON BAZAARS 1|0 WALKING FAST 4|1

OUTDISTANCING CHASERS 1|0

EXITING SITUATIONS

GO ALONG TO GET ALONG 2|0

IGNORING FAKE BOYFRIEND 1|0

RUNNING AWAY 3|0

WHITE LIES 2|0

EXITING BUSSES 1|0

SEEKING INVISIBILITY THROUGH •

ACTIONS

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APPEARANCE

WHITE LIES

IGNORING 10 | 6

ESTABLISHING DISTANCE THROUGH

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BEING ON RED ALERT 0|1

MONITORING ENVIRONMENT 1|0 NOT DRINKING TOO MUCH ALCOHOL 1|0

AVOID TALKING 1|0 AVOID LAUGHING AND SMILING 1|0 WEARING HIJABS 1|0

CHOOSING EVASION ROUTES 4|0 FAKING PHONE CALLS 1|0 WEARING HEADPHONES 2|0

BLOCKING PERPETRATORS IN SOCIAL MEDIA NOT WEARING 1|0 REVEALING CLOTHES KEEPING MEN AT DISTANCE 2|0

3|0 HIDING BREASTS 1|0 DEGRADING OWN APPEARANCE 2|0

WALKING LIKE A ROBOT 1|0 SEEKING INVISIBILITY 1|0 NOT WASHING HAIR BEFORE GOING TO BAZAARS 1|0 NOT WEARING HIGH HEELS 1|0

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ESTABLISHING PHYSICAL DISTANCE

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MAKING ONESELF UNAPPROACHABLE

GO ALONG TO GET ALONG MONITORING ENVIRONMENT

TYING ONE’S HAIR BACK 3|0 NOT WEARING MAKE-UP 1|0

Notes: Surface area of bubbles depicts proportionate amount of cases referring to the same proposition. First number below category names: participants referring to the category [N=14]; second number: journals referring to the category [N=8].

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EXITING MASHRUTKAS 1|0

EXITING SITUATIONS 5|0

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Among the different ways of ensuring their safety, the women also discussed securityscapes that fall into the category of ‘seeking invisibility’. This refers either to actions or aspects related to the participants’ attempts to degrade their own appearance. For instance, the women described how they do not wear revealing clothes, high heels or make-​up, how they hide their breasts, and how they do not wash their hair before going to bazaars, as described by Begimai and Ayim: ‘[I]‌f I go to the bazaar, I don’t use make-​up. I don’t look beautiful, look good … my hair will be very dirty … I will look very ugly, I will try to, because I don’t want to get attention of boys, because I don’t want that. So, I just dress up very badly, very ugly.’ (Begimai) ‘[A]‌lways, since I have boobs, I try to hide them as much as I can and walk like this [mimics huddling up] and not have my hair like [mimics wearing open hair].’ (Ayim) As indicated in Ayim’s statement, another securityscape related to degrading one’s own appearance is to tie one’s hair back, which was mentioned by other participants too. One woman additionally described how she wears hijabs covering her hair as a means of protection. In general, securityscapes aimed at degrading one’s own appearance comply with the behavioural script that women should cover their body and look unremarkable. Along these lines, the participants also described several actions that they take so as not to catch the attention of likely perpetrators. Examples of such actions include being quiet, that is, not talking or laughing, as well as smiling and walking like a robot: “I feel that somebody is staring at me, first of all, and I’m like: ‘Okay, somebody is staring at me, I should … walk like a robot, not move my butt, so they don’t get attracted even more’ ” (Ayim). With regard to another category of securityscapes, the women referred several times to strategies aimed at facilitating help through security agreements or through emergency backup. These securityscapes mainly involve measures to be in company and arrange other specific security agreements, as described by Amy: ‘[M]‌y friends, for example, when I am going home with a taxi, they are always taking a photo of the number of the car and they are saying … “don’t turn off your phone”. Or sometimes they say: “I will talk to you when you will

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be in the taxi” and then, we talk to each other when I’m on my way.’ (Amy) Amy’s way of ensuring safety was echoed by other women, who also mentioned phone-​related examples of assuring help in case of emergency, such as having their phone available or pre-​emptively calling someone. An additional category of securityscapes subsumes measures aimed at establishing distance to potential or actual threats, either by creating physical distance or by making oneself unapproachable. In the former case, the women predominantly reported their use of evasion routes if they spot something or someone suspicious. In addition, some participants also mentioned making fake phone calls or wearing headphones to make themselves unapproachable to potential perpetrators. Another category of securityscapes frequently described by the respondents is exiting situations to ensure safety. This includes, for instance, walking fast or running away to escape dangerous settings. In addition, the women reported how they exit buses or marshrutkas if they feel unsafe or experience sexual violence. As an important precondition for recognizing unsafe situations and potentially exiting them, some respondents described how they constantly monitor their environment and are on high alert to increase their reaction time. As depicted in Figure 6.8, by far the most frequently mentioned securityscape is ignoring sexual violence. This could be explained, for instance, by the participants’ assumption that resistance aggravates danger in certain situations, as well as by societal expectations to obey men and to endure their sexual assaults. In relation to this, some women also reported using white lies, like faking a boyfriend, to ensure their safety while not openly rejecting and confronting perpetrators, as described on a more general level by Amina: ‘I cannot be harsh to the person, I  cannot say:  “You are being rude to me. Can you just fuck off!” I  cannot say:  “Fuck you!”, right? And I  cannot say it and then, I have to just come up with some kind of excuses, saying like: “I’m going somewhere”, even if I’m not going there, and I just try to get rid of that person.’ (Amina) It is along these lines that some women also described how they would play along with the situation in response to sexual violence in order to ensure their safety and, thus, to get along.

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In general, all the aforementioned securityscapes can be considered as rather unobtrusive measures resulting from societal expectations and behavioural scripts, as well as factors related to threat perception and knowledge about typical courses of events. As a slightly different category of securityscapes, the women pointed out numerous ways to enhance their own ability to protect themselves. These measures can involve either internal or external aspects. As ‘external’ measures –​ understood here as being visible from the outside –​the participants mainly mentioned securityscapes related to displaying confidence. Thus, some spoke of pretending to be confident in situations perceived as dangerous and of displaying a confident facial expression to deter potential perpetrators. In addition to such external measures, the respondents discussed ‘internal’ measures to enhance their ability to protect themselves. These were categorized as internal in the sense of being invisible from the outside, like carrying weapons such as knives, tasers or pepper spray. Also, in contrast to the more unobtrusive securityscapes, some women mentioned actions to directly confront perpetrators and to show them in this way that they perceive their behaviour as sexual violence. In general, the women differentiated between direct and indirect confrontation. Direct confrontation refers to immediately telling perpetrators that their behaviour is a transgression of personal limits, as described here by Zulaika: ‘I just feel really uncomfortable in these moments and I usually try to say that because that person will be a little bit ashamed, at least for a while, of what he’s doing and maybe he will realize what he is doing is wrong. But I don’t do it often, which I feel kinda guilty that I don’t do it often, because I don’t wanna start a conflict … but most of the time, I try to say, so OTHER people will also realize that’s something wrong.’ (Zulaika) As indicated in the preceding quote, securityscapes aimed at confronting perpetrators are perceived as possibly making things worse, that is, as exacerbating the immediate safety situation. For instance, Zulaika mentioned that she does not always confront perpetrators so as to avoid further conflict. However, as is also pointed out in the quote, direct confrontation is used as a way to educate perpetrators and bystanders in order to improve the overall situation and thus the general safety level in the future. This can also be achieved by confronting perpetrators indirectly, which means letting them know that their behaviour is

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perceived as wrong without establishing direct contact with them. This could, for instance, be done within cyberspace but also by talking loudly about perpetrators’ behaviour with other people while they are still present. In relation to this, some women also mentioned their efforts to specifically educate others by either teaching men not to harass women in the future or by empowering other women to strengthen their own agency and thus their ability to protect themselves. Like confrontational securityscapes, this category focuses not on the personal level, but rather on the survival of women as a social group. It also aims at challenging and dissolving currently prevalent societal structures that make it necessary for women to protect themselves against sexual violence. Consequently, the application of securityscapes that confront perpetrators and educate others does not reproduce societal foundations, which is not the case with the less obtrusive securityscapes described in the section on the FMIP. This could indicate the first signs of a shift in the current interpretation pattern and the related catalogue of security measures. To sum up, the analysis highlights that Kyrgyz women tend to apply rather unobtrusive securityscapes, either used preventively, such as in the choice of specific clothing or safe areas, or reactively, like telling white lies or ignoring sexual violence. What largely determine the choice of such unobtrusive securityscapes are societal expectations and behavioural scripts that require women to behave modestly and unremarkably, and to obey men. This choice is also influenced by the perception that resistance could increase danger, as well as the possibility of the victim being blamed for sexual assaults when confronted by a flawed system of law enforcement.

Conclusion: how to live with a female body The aim of this research was to identify the securityscapes applied by Kyrgyz women to protect themselves against sexual violence and to detect the factors that determine their securityscape choices. To this end, the FMIP was developed. It is composed of aspects related to threat perception, including: priority attributes, recognition schemes and knowledge of typical courses of events; societal influences like explanation patterns for sexual violence, societal expectations and related behavioural scripts; and securityscapes as threat responses. In summary, the securityscapes mainly reported by the women covered strategies like ignoring sexual violence, exiting unsafe situations, degrading their own appearance to become inconspicuous and trying

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to ensure a safe environment. Thus, the women predominantly apply rather unobtrusive, non-​confrontational securityscapes, either pre-​emptively or reactively, to protect themselves. Aspects of their societal background knowledge, such as behavioural expectations to obey, to endure violence and to be objects, as well as perceptions of malfunctioning law enforcement, victim blaming and possible worst-​ case scenarios, determine these securityscape choices and impede the more confrontational strategies of resisting perpetrators. Thus, living with a female body in Kyrgyzstan implies being confronted with a strong structural power imbalance between genders, expressed inter alia through women’s daily experiences with sexual violence, which women can primarily oppose by inconspicuously defusing its symptoms  –​ while being failed by societal and institutional support systems. In general, this analysis shows that by embedding the concept of securityscapes into the framework of interpretation patterns, it is possible to highlight the underlying structural power relations within society and to examine the ways in which they shape situational interpretations and the scope of action regarding securityscapes. In the case of the security measures taken by Kyrgyz women against sexual violence, this scope is rather narrow and associated with many ubiquitous limitations, constraints and emotional challenges, as also suggested by Jeenbaeva (2013): So how is it possible to be content with harassment that limits my self-​expression, restricts my freedom of movement and keeps me in constant fear of an attack? And why should I suffer and police myself all the time? I always feel extremely angry and frustrated about having to use these tactics, because it is not my fault, and the other party needs to change their attitude, and not me who is being harassed. References

Arnold, R. (1983) ‘Deutungsmuster. Zu den Bedeutungselementen sowie den theoretischen und methodologischen Bezügen des Begriffs’, Zeitschrift für Pädagogik, 29(6): 893–​912. Becker, M. (2007) Alltagsweltliche Deutungsmuster zu Kriminalität und Kriminalitätsbekämpfung: Eine qualitative Untersuchung, Düsseldorf. Blatter, J., Langer, P.C. and Wagemann, C. (2018) Qualitative Methoden in der Politikwissenschaft: Eine Einführung, Wiesbaden: Springer.

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Civil Union ‘For Reforms and Results’ (2015) ‘International public safety survey in Kyrgyzstan 2015, final report’, http://​wp.unil.ch/​ icvs/​files/​2016/​02/​KyrgyzstanCrimeSurveyReport-​ENG.pdf Helfferich, C. (2011) Die Qualität qualitativer Daten: Manual für die Durchführung qualitativer Daten, Wiesbaden: Springer. Höffling, C., Plaß, C. and Schetsche, M. (2002) ‘Deutungsmusteranalyse in der kriminologischen Forschung’, Forum Qualitative Sozialforschung/​ Forum: Qualitative Social Research, 3(1): 1–​31. Jeenbaeva, A. (2013) ‘Kyrgyzstan: the problem of street harassment in Bishkek’, www.stopstreetharassment.org/ ​ 2 013/ ​ 0 8/ ​ s treet-​ harassment-​in-​bishkek/​ Kleinbach, R., Ablezova, M. and Aitieva, M. (2005) ‘Kidnapping for marriage (ala kachuu) in a Kyrgyz village’, Central Asian Survey, 24(2): 191–​202. Kühn, T. and Koschel K.-​V. (2011) Gruppendiskussionen in der Praxis: Ein Praxis-​Handbuch, Wiesbaden: Springer. Kunz, A.M. (2015) ‘Log-​und Tagebücher als Erhebungsmethode in ethnographischen Forschungsdesigns’, in R. Hitzler and M. Gothe (eds) Ethnographische Erkundungen: Methodische Aspekte aktueller Forschungsprojekte, Wiesbaden: Springer, pp 141–​62. Lüders, C. (1991) ‘Deutungsmusteranalyse:  Annäherungen an ein risikoreiches Konzept’, in D.  Garz and K.  Kraimer (eds) Qualitativ-​empirische Sozialforschung:  Konzepte, Methoden, Analyse, Opladen: Westdeutscher Verlag, pp 377–​408. Madriz, E. (2003) ‘Focus groups in feminist research’, in N.K. Denzin and Y.S. Lincoln (eds) Collecting and interpreting qualitative materials, London: Sage, pp 363–​88. Mann, S. (2016) The research interview: Reflective praxis and reflexivity in research processes, London: Palgrave Macmillan. Mayring, P. (2010) Qualitative Inhaltsanalyse: Grundlagen und Techniken, Weinheim/​Basel: Beltz. Meuser, M. and Sackmann, R. (1992) ‘Zur Einführ ung: Deutungsmusteransatz und empirische Wissenssoziologie’, in M. Meuser and R. Sackmann (eds) Analysen sozialer Deutungsmuster: Beiträge zur empirischen Wissenssoziologie, Pfaffenweiler:  Centaurus, pp  9–​37. Moldosheva, A. (2008) ‘Violence against women in Kyrgyzstan: Baseline assessment’, www.un.org/w ​ omenwatch/​ianwge/​taskforces/​ vaw/​kyrgyzstan_​baseline_​assessment.pdf Müller, M. (2013) ‘Deutungsmusteranalyse in der soziologischen Sozialpolitikforschung: Überlegungen zu einem qualitativen Forschungsansatz’, Zeitschrift für Qualitative Forschung, 14(2): 295–​310.

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National Statistical Committee of the Kyrgyz Republic (2012) ‘Women and men in the Kyrgyz Republic: 2007–​2011 compendium of gender disaggregated statistics’, http://​stat.kg/​en/​publications/​ sbornik-​zhenshiny-​i-​muzhchiny-​kyrgyzskoj-​respubliki/​ National Statistical Committee of the Kyrgyz Republic (2016) ‘Gender in society perception study: knowledge, attitude, practice. National survey results, 2016’, www.stat.kg/​ e n/​ p ublications/​ gender-​v-​vospriyatii-​obshestva/​ Oevermann, U. (1973) ‘Zur Analyse der Struktur von sozialen Deutungsmustern’, unpublished manuscript. Oevermann, U. (2001a) ‘Zur Analyse der Struktur von sozialen Deutungsmustern’, Sozialersinn, 1: 3–​33. Oevermann, U. (2001b) ‘Kommentar zu Christian Plaß und Michael Schetsche: “Grundzüge einer wissenssoziologischen Theorie sozialer Deutungsmuster” ’, Sozialersinn, 3: 537–​46. Plaß, C. and Schetsche, M. (2001) ‘Grundzüge einer wissenssoziologischen Theorie sozialer Deutungsmuster’, Sozialersinn, 3: 511–​36. Schetsche, M. (1992) ‘Sexuelle Selbstgefährdung des Kindes durch Onanie: Ein Modell zur Binnenstruktur von Deutungsmustern’, in M. Meuser and R. Sackmann (eds) Analysen sozialer Deutungsmuster. Beiträge zur empirischen Wissenssoziologie, Pfaffenweiler:  Centaurus, pp  49–​69. Ullrich, C.G. (1999) ‘Deutungsmusteranalyse und diskursives Interview. Leitfadenkonstruktion, Interviewführung und Typenbildung’, Working Papers –​Mannheimer Zentrum für Europäische Sozialforschung, 3: 1–​32. United Nations (2015) ‘Violence against women’, https://​unstats. un.org/​unsd/​gender/​downloads/​Ch6_​VaW_​info.pdf United Nations Entity for Gender Equality and the Empowerment of Women (2013) ‘Ending violence against women and girls:  programming essentials’, www.endvawnow.org/​uploads/​ modules/​pdf/​1372349234.pdf United Nations Human Rights Office of the High Commissioner (2014) ‘Sexual and gender-​based violence in the context of transitional justice’, www.ohchr.org/​ Documents/​Issues/​Women/​WRGS/​ OnePagers/​Sexual_​and_​gender-​based_​violence.pdf United Nations Women Country Office in the Kyrgyz Republic (2017) ‘Professional and marriage choices of youth in Kyrgyzstan’, http://​kg.one.un.org/​content/​unct/​kyrgyzstan/​en/​home/​news/​ e-​library/​2017/​un-​women-​presents-​a-​research-​on-​-​professional-​ and-​marriage-​choic.html

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Von Boemcken, M., Schetter, C., Boboyorov, H., Bagdasarova, N. and Sulaimanov, J. (2016) Local security-​making in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan: The production of securityscapes by everyday practices, BICC Working Paper, 05/​2016, Bonn: International Centre for Conversion. Von Boemcken, M., Boboyorov, H. and Bagdasarova, N. (2018) ‘Living dangerously: securityscapes of Lyuli and LGBT people in urban spaces of Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 37(1): 68–​84.

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Romantic Securityscapes of Mixed Couples: Resisting Moral Panic, Surviving in the Present and Imagining the Future Asel Myrzabekova

Introduction In 2011 and 2012, shocking videos of the abuse and torture of Kyrgyz female migrants in Russia were posted on the Internet. The videos captured scenes of beating, insults and death threats, as well as women being forced to get naked. These acts of violence were committed, filmed and posted online by their compatriots, a group of ethnic Kyrgyz male migrants in Russia, who called themselves ‘patriots of the [Kyrgyz] nation’. They claim to have punished the female ‘traitors of the [Kyrgyz] nation’ for being ‘morally loose’ and ‘having relations with men of other ethnicities [non-​Kyrgyz]’ (Ibraeva et al, 2015: 4). These cases are indicative of a violent ethno-​nationalist sentiment that has emerged in contemporary Kyrgyz society. They also highlight the following phenomena: (1) the role of the media in promoting rather than countering ethno-​nationalism; and (2) the securitization of mixed couples/​marriages seen as a threat to the Kyrgyz nation. Similar cases can also be observed in Kazakhstan, where male ‘patriots’ who are on social media, also referred as ‘uyat men’ (uyat from Kazakh/​Kyrgyz/​ Uzbek can be translated as ‘shame’), shame women for moral ‘crimes’

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(marrying foreigners, prostitution, promiscuous behaviour and so on) (Kumemov, 2018).1 The monitoring and shaming of women for moral ‘crimes’ and the crossing of ethnic boundaries is a global phenomenon and not unique to Central Asia. A number of scholars worldwide have illuminated this problem in their works on honour and shame, the control of women’s sexuality, and honour and moral crimes. These include, for example, Goddard’s (2013) work on the control of women’s sexuality in Nepal, Yeşilçiçek’s (2017) study of violence against women in the name of honour in Turkey, research on women from minority groups murdered in the name of honour in Britain (Gill, 2017) and research on patriarchal social control over young women’s clothing and bodies (Honkatukia and Keskinen, 2018). In Kyrgyzstan, the suppression of women is often discussed in the context of bride kidnapping/​abduction, which is referred to in the Kyrgyz language as literally ‘grab and run’ (ala/​alyp kachuu). This criminal practice of stealing a woman to marry her may be ‘colloquially used to describe a wide variety of qualitatively different actions, ranging from consensual marriage (women who help arrange their own “kidnapping”) to kidnapping and rape [forced marriage]’ (Amsler and Kleinbach, 1999: 186). Every year, about 12,000 girls and women are forced to marry their kidnapper or forced into early marriage. This means that 13.8 per cent of Kyrgyz women under the age of 24 marry their kidnappers (UN Women, 2016; UNICEF, 2018). It is therefore not surprising that there is an increased scholarly interest in bride kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan (Amsler and Kleinbach, 1999; Handrahan, 2004; Kleinbach et al, 2005; Kleinbach and Salimjanova, 2007; Werner, 2009; O’Neill Borbieva, 2012; Ismailbekova, 2013). It is important to note that despite the criminalization of bride kidnapping both during the Soviet period and in contemporary Kyrgyzstan, there is a widespread acceptance of this practice in the country (Halle, 1938: 129; Criminal Code of the Kyrgyz Republic, 1997, Article 155; O’Neill Borbieva, 2012). Thus, according to Human Rights Watch (2006), there is a low frequency of ‘actual reporting by women abduction victims to the police’, along with a high degree of ‘police non-​responsiveness to cases’. Even when the abductions are formally investigated, ‘prosecutions for the crime of bride-​kidnapping are extremely rare’ (Human Rights Watch, 2006). In comparison to bride kidnapping, less research has been conducted on attacks against women in ethnically mixed relationships in Kyrgyzstan. In this category of violence, there is a compounding of nationalist/​racist sentiments and the general suppression of women

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in Central Asia. The cases presented here illustrate the subjective and emotional perspectives of mixed couples in Kyrgyzstan. Both female and male partners share experiences of insecurity related to both verbal and physical violence, including death threats, as well as the loss of the partner or the family. I use the analytical perspective of securityscapes, which is understood here as the ways in which mixed couples navigate their daily lives in a patriarchal and ethno-​nationalist environment, dealing with everyday threats and harassment. I illustrate how individuals in mixed couples, especially female informants using both individual and group/​virtual cognitive (imaginary, conscious) and emotional means, challenge accepted moral and sexual values. They are active agents and by navigating their securityscapes, they resist these racist/​nationalist sentiments, as well as the practices of moral monitoring and the suppression of women’s rights in Central Asia. Some mixed couples use security strategies that help them to keep their relationship a secret. They do not really see a common future since they are not willing to sacrifice their ties to their family and community. These mixed couples try to live only in the moment and do not think about a future together. However, in other cases, independent Central Asian women do ‘cross the boundary’ and get married to foreign/​ outsider/​out-​g roup men. They resist and break through patriarchal and ethnic boundaries by openly showing themselves in an ethnically mixed relationship and actively resist harassment and violence. These women shout back at insults and defend themselves from attacks. They are mobile, active and always prepared to take risks, such as losing all ties to their families. Their securityscapes rely on available family/​ friend networks or on self-organized groups connecting to Internet-​ based solidarity forums. Inspired by Kasymova’s (2010) study on interethnic and interfaith marriages in post-​S oviet Tajikistan, this study explores the transformation of gender regimes and norms in the private life of modern mixed families in Central Asia, particularly in Kyrgyzstan. When women in Kyrgyzstan decide to have a mixed relationship/​ marriage, they ‘break’ the normative rules of the patriarchal gender order, that is, the norms of endogamy. By actively choosing her partner, whether out of feelings and mutual sympathy, or out of financial and physical survival, a woman ignores the opinion of her parents and relatives, and does not pay attention to the ‘moral panic’2 in her society (Kasymova, 2010: 147–​8). From the perspective of the majority, the woman neglects her ethnic and cultural belonging and does not care about the ‘preservation of the nation’ or religious ‘purity’. By tracing the securityscapes of such women, I want to emphasize their ‘ability

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to define their life-​choices and to pursue their own goals, even in the face of opposition from others’ (Kabeer, 2001: 21; see also Mishra and Tripathi, 2011). This chapter consists of two parts. First, I present a larger historical perspective as well as a literature review of the works of scholars on intermarriage and nationalism. Second, I deal with the ethnographic materials and analyses of the presented narratives of interethnic/​ international couples in contemporary Kyrgyzstan.

‘Friendship among nations’: mixed relationships during Soviet and post-​Soviet times When comparing the Soviet and post-​Soviet periods, it must be emphasized that mixed relationship/​marriages in Central Asian countries underwent two major transformations. The first is related to a shift from multiculturalist discourses and practices to a nationalist/​ racist sentiment. The second is related to gender regimes and norms of modern mixed couples in Central Asia, in other words, to traditional/​ patriarchal versus modernist/​democratic discourses and practices. Nevertheless, there is also a continuity of practices and beliefs related to the tabooed exogamy for women and xenophobia as a legacy of Soviet rule. The Soviet state banned marriages with (non-​Soviet) foreigners since they were considered to be dangerous, ‘disloyal’ and ‘politically immature’ practices (Ibraeva, 2006:  16). Such marriages were recognized as invalid by a special decree, which was only abolished in 1969. However, in the 1980s, it was still considered as disloyal to marry foreigners. By way of contrast, interethnic and interfaith marriages within the space of the Soviet Union were encouraged by the party and Komsomol since they were considered as a pledge for a long-​lasting friendship of nations in the multicultural state. ‘Mixedness’ was seen as an instrument in the creation of the Soviet people (Ualieva and Edgar, 2011). These marriages conformed to modern and progressive discourses, especially in those cases when Muslim men married Russian or Russian-​speaking women (Edgar, 2007; Kasymova, 2010). However, interethnic marriages were encouraged mostly for Muslim men in Central Asia, whereas different rules applied to women. According to Kasymova (2010), for example, in Tajikistan, only women with a marginal status (orphans, immoral women) could marry foreign/​ outsider men. Even in the later Soviet period, Kasymova (2010) argues, educated and emancipated Tajik women had to conceal their

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marital status with non-​Muslim men; otherwise, they would risk being ‘publicly ostracized’. Their families would actively protest against mixed intimate/​romantic relations and marriages (Kasymova, 2010: 133–​4). A similar argument is made by Ualieva and Edgar (2011) in the case of Kazakhstan. In the post-​Soviet period, this trend changed as an increasing number of women decided to marry male foreigners, in other words, outsiders/​ strangers in broader terms (Kasymova, 2010). Kasymova (2010) notes that this was related to the open-​door policy and democratic discourses after the fall of the ‘Iron Curtain’, which gave women opportunities to be mobile and to freely choose their partners. Ualieva and Edgar (2011) also confirm this shift for Kazakhstan. However, this new freedom conflicts with nationalistic and racial sentiments in Central Asia. Ualieva and Edgar (2011) emphasize that in modern Kazakhstan, there is a tension between the promotion of multi-​nationality and ‘Kazakhstani’ national identity. Laruelle (2012: 39) argues that nationalism facilitated the ethnic clashes between Uzbeks and Kyrgyz in the south of Kyrgyzstan in 2010: ‘nationalism has therefore become an engine of an interpretative framework … [it] enables society indirectly to formulate its perception of threat … [with] transformation towards a more ethno-​centered patriotism’. These sentiments have become more and more visible and audible as the demands of Kazakh and Kyrgyz ‘patriots’ are being frequently covered in the social and mass media. The articulation of xenophobic fears in rising nationalist and racist discourses in Central Asia also has a gender dimension. The main argument of nationalist groups is the need to preserve a pure ‘gene pool’. In the words of Armstrong, these patriots can be described as ‘boundary/​border guards’:  ‘[b]‌order guards can identify people as members or non-​members of a specific collectivity. They are closely linked to specific cultural codes of style of dress and behavior as well as to more elaborate bodies of customs, religion, literary and artistic modes of production, and, of course, language’ (Armstrong, 1982, quoted in Yuval-​Davis and Stoetzler, 2002: 334). ‘Boundary/​border guards’ in Central Asia believe that women within their collectivities should be controlled and not allowed to have sexual relations with men from other groups. It is therefore not surprising that the increasing freedom of women to choose their partners is creating a ‘moral panic’ (Kasymova, 2010: 128). Negative and aggressive perceptions towards women in mixed relationships or marriages are becoming stronger in Central Asia. Discourses of danger promote the perception that women must remain within their ethnic or national group –​and those that refuse to

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do so are described as betraying their community and endangering its future. In fact, unlike in ‘classical patriarchy’ (Caldwell, 1978, cited in Kandiyoti, 1988), where the ‘patriarchal extended family is the central social unit’ (Yuval-​Davis, 2004: 7), we often find complete strangers now taking the initiative in becoming ‘boundary/​border guards’. These nationalistic and patriarchal discourses can be considered as a continuation of perceptions that existed during the Soviet period, when marriages with foreigners/​outsiders (for example, those who, in most cases, do not belong to their ethnic group or do not share the same citizenship or religion) were tabooed and women were not allowed to freely decide on the relations that they engaged in. Arguably, then, today’s ‘moral panic’ –​targeting women who actively opt for mixed marriages with foreign men –​is a part of the Soviet legacy.

Romantic securityscapes of mixed couples in Kyrgyzstan In this part of the chapter, I will present the experiences and reflections of interethnic/​international couples who are married or dating and living in Kyrgyzstan. The presented empirical data were collected using in-​depth interviews conducted between 2015 and 2018 with mixed couples (interethnic, interracial, international, interfaith) in the age group of 18–​35 (27 years old on average). All the names of informants appearing in this chapter are pseudonyms, and in two cases, the informants did not want to reveal their ethnic and country background; thus, only general information is provided here. The citizenship of the African informants and spouses was also concealed to ensure the protection of personal data. The cases of mixed couples were chosen based on the time-​frame element, as well as to illustrate the diversity of securityscapes in terms of the informants’ background and status (dating, married, with children, second marriage, ethnicity, origin and religion). Mixed couples make their own choices and break through ethnic/​racial boundaries. They have to deal with ‘uyat men’ and ethnic/​racial boundary guards on a daily basis. The analytical section concentrates on describing the main problems specific to mixed couples in Kyrgyzstan and compares various strategies of how mixed couples deal with these threats. One of the main ways of dealing with the threat that was common to almost all mixed couples was avoidance. However, strategies also differed according to context. Thus, I  present a range of different individual ways in which couples navigate their securityscapes. On the one hand, the first two couples –​‘Diana and Paul’ and ‘Aigerim

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and Hamid’ –​prefer to avoid thinking about their future together as at least one of the partners is not willing to risk losing their families and community; they would rather sacrifice a future with their loved one. Both of these mixed couples live for the present and cherish their secret time together in the ‘here and now’, without fantasizing about the future. On the other hand, the cases of ‘Alina and David’ and ‘Gulya and Arthur’ illustrate how couples build security for themselves when the boundaries are crossed. Their stories show how they have had to find ways to resist and struggle against a hostile family and a xenophobic environment. In particular, Alina and David chose to fight and resist racist and nationalist attacks. However, these proactive strategies are also situational. Depending on the context, the couple has also employed avoidance strategies and looked for safe spaces and circles of trusted people, such as family/​friend networks. Gulya and Arthur lived illegally in Russia for a while until she was deported to her country of origin.3 However, Gulya and her children had to flee her country in order to hide from her own brothers. She found support in a women’s solidarity group (an online forum created by women who have similar interracial relationships) and sought asylum in Kyrgyzstan. Meanwhile, Arthur was left behind in Russia, trying to earn money and hoping for a family reunion in a new country, neither Russia nor Kyrgyzstan. These cases show how brave, creative and active these individuals are.

Living in the moment: losing either the loved one or the family –​a female perspective The future can be imagined in different lights, not only positive and rainbow coloured, but also negative and dark. Few fantasies are seen as safe, secure and certain for mixed couples in Kyrgyzstan. The following two cases illustrate how the crossing of social boundaries can threaten the precious relationship with family members, leaving mixed couples with a choice between the partner they are dating and their parents and family. For two years, Diana, a 26-​year-​old Muslim with a Caucasian background4 has been dating Paul, a 28-​year-​old Christian who comes from one of the Central African states. Currently both work in Bishkek. Diana’s parents and relatives live in one of the post-​Soviet states. She used to be married to a man from her ethnic and religious group, and had a painful divorce. After separating from her ex-​husband, Diana left the country where her family and ex-​husband reside and moved to Kyrgyzstan. In Bishkek, she enrolled at the university and graduated. Now, she works and focuses on her career and self-​realization.

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Diana describes her current relationship with Paul by saying that the difference in comparison to her first marriage is like ‘night and day’. Speaking of her past bitter experience in relationships, Diana says that she was expected to follow the traditional views, in which ‘husbands work, wives care for home and family … and marriage is for a “lifetime” ’ (Walters et al, 2002: 437). According to her perception, there was no mutual respect. She was not respected as a person since she was forbidden to pursue her future plans to continue her studies and realize her potential: ‘That is our mentality. You are a woman and must be silent, you sit at home, wash socks, cook, there are his 350 relatives you have to take care of, serve them.… I chose my ex-​husband, I loved him, but we were different, had different world views. We married when I was 18 years old, I did not think much, we lived together for a year and a half; he would beat me constantly. I would say that we both needed to continue our studies. Before the marriage, he promised me that, and I would remind him about that, and he would say that I must forget about studies. I would say that he did not stand by his words and promises, and that made him burst into anger. It was like I was saying that he was not a man anymore, and that was how it all started, he would beat me even when I was pregnant. He did not respect either me or my relatives.’ (Diana, 26, Caucasian Muslim female) When speaking about her boyfriend, Paul, she accentuates that they have an egalitarian relationship. When she succeeds and fulfils her projects at work, he is happy for her. Paul encourages her and does not limit her freedom and self-​realization. That is most important for her. In her previous marriage, Diana thought that she “was decaying” when staying at home and only working for her ex-​husband’s family. Although Diana believes that mixed couples are more harmonious and there is more mutual understanding and respect, she has to keep her relationship secret from her parents: ‘There is one issue: my relatives, my parents do not know about him [Paul]. That is a secret that I have been keeping for about two years. His parents know about me and we talk over the phone. But it is a problem with my side. He asks me to tell my parents about us. My family are religious

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and I would even call them racist. They generally do not accept this.’ (Diana, 26, Caucasian Muslim female) Diana recalls instances when her relationship with Paul was condemned by society, as when they heard people shouting out, “Oh, these Negrs!”5 She emphasizes that people do not understand interracial couples: “Our people do not know that it’s normal for people to be dark skinned or black; they just use this inappropriate and rude ‘Negr’, a word that makes my ears tingle.” Coming from a traditional and patriarchal family and community, Diana reckons that her current relationship threatens her relations with her family. This sense of endangerment comes from her experience of one of her female relatives, Amina, marrying a man called Ali, who belonged to a different nationality. Even though Ali and Amina were both from traditional Muslim families, the fact that Ali was from a different ethnic group was a huge problem for Amina, who was ostracized by her family for crossing this ethnic boundary. Diana remembers how Amina was called all the worst words: ‘[I]‌n our [community], the most important thing for a husband, let him be a drug addict or drunkard, is to be from one’s own group. And they do not care if the girl is happy or unhappy. And when Amina got married, all [family and relatives] turned away from her, all refused her. Amina went abroad with her husband; they got settled there.’ (Diana, 26, Caucasian Muslim female) Diana was afraid of a repetition of the same scenario, believing that her father would never understand her choice, and she was conscious that she did not want to sacrifice herself for these traditional prejudices. Dating Paul secretly was safe and secure for her private life. Yet, by living together openly, marrying or introducing him to her family, she would risk being ostracized and isolated by her family: ‘No, it’s not safe [relationship]. This is morally very difficult because society presses, society condemns, and first of all the family. It seems to me that if the family supports the girl, then you care less about anything and go forward. But if the family does not approve a relationship, it is very difficult to remain in it without family support; it is hard to stay alone. Because again, from my past experience, I realized that a man who is now your man can tomorrow become a stranger. There is uncertainty. You need your family, still

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need it. It is very hard and not secure to be left without the support of the family, it’s very hard.’ (Diana, 26, Caucasian Muslim female) Knowing about these uncertainties, Diana navigates a securityscape that tries to avoid talking about the future and family with Paul. She deflects and diverts from her private life when speaking over the phone with her parents, who live in another post-​Soviet state. She has found a place and time –​the present –​where she can heal the wounds of her unhappy marriage and find some security by being mobile and secretly active. She does not try to change the opinions of her parents on interracial couples and tolerance; nor does she imagine a future with Paul, preferring instead to enjoy the momentary safety of the present.

An impossible choice between the loved one and family: boundaries exist not only for women Another case again shows a social boundary based on ethnicity that can become a solid barrier for a couple. Aigerim, a 21-​year-​old Kyrgyz female student, is dating Hamid, a 23-​year-​old Ahiska Turk. For the Ahiska Turks, it is not only women who are subject to the ‘reproducers of [a]‌boundary’ and ‘signifiers of differences’ (Anthias and Yuval-​Davis, 1989); they draw boundaries for both men and women, controlling them to comply with the ethnic endogamy rules. The Ahiska Turks are a heterogeneous and stateless minority group that was deported in 1944 by Stalin to the Central Asian republics from Southern Georgia (Panesh and Ermolov, 1994; Aydingün, 2002). Mixed marriages among Ahiska Turks are not accepted even with other Muslim communities (Aydingün, 2002: 192). Aigerim and Hamid have been dating for more than a year. They met at work, and Aigerim is sure that Hamid can be trusted. In her words, he proved to be a “reliable and serious, trustworthy, tolerant, mature, and calm person”, having an ideal character and being able to support his future family. Aigerim describes their relationship in terms of them being good friends who do not have any conflicts, and adds that they cannot spend a day not seeing or talking to each other. When they started dating, Hamid warned her that he was “not sure that something will turn out” of their relationship. However, Aigerim believed that there was nothing to lose. She thought that, sooner or later, she would break through that barrier and they would get married. Growing up in an international community, Aigerim had never thought about ethnicity as a serious barrier:

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‘I am Kyrgyz. I grew up as “oruschalysh” [Russified], grew up among Russians and Germans. At school, I dated with Russian boys and it was normal for me. Parents never said anything. I never thought about nationality. I worked in a cafe and saw many mixed couples, Turkish men marrying Kyrgyz women.’ (Aigerim, 21, Kyrgyz female) For a while, Aigerim was able to imagine her future with Hamid. However, a female friend from the Ahiska Turk community then warned her, saying: “You must not even have any hopes. There is no point in continuing this story and spending your time on a hopeless relationship. Never will an Ahiska Turk marry a Kyrgyz.” Over time, Aigerim started to understand how insurmountable the barrier is. For his part, Hamid is constantly reminded and cautioned by his mother that he must never do anything like his cousin, who got married secretly to a Russian woman and brought disgrace and disrespect upon his family. The cousin came home with a one-​year-​old baby. This led to ‘moral panic’ in his community and family. While that “disgraceful” act of his cousin’s brother makes Aigerim hopeful that she and Hamid might also be able to get married, Hamid fears that his misbehaviour could “kill the grandmother”. For him, marrying Aigerim would mean burning his bridges to the family and losing the respect he receives as the oldest brother, who should be a role model. Aigerim is aware that Hamid has been thinking about sacrificing his relationship for his family. However, his parents have already chosen a woman from his community and arranged a wedding in the autumn.6 Therefore, Aigerim now understands that: ‘Their ethnic group is very closed. They are few in number and want to preserve purity. They marry only their own members and it is even better if it’s someone they know close enough. He says to me, “If I bring you home, my grandmother may die.” I say that I will not force him; I want him to decide.’ (Aigerim, 21, Kyrgyz female) Just like the previous couple, Aigerim and Hamid avoid talking about the future and marriage: ‘Now, we do not talk about this [mixed marriage], very painful topic … nationality … his parents tell him that, in the fall, he must get married. I’m telling him to marry. I  do not have any choice. We want to be together, but

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I understand him. He cannot tell them the truth: he won’t go against his parents.’ (Aigerim, 21, Kyrgyz female) Aigerim recalled how Hamid has already made several attempts to distance himself and withdraw from her when she left to travel to another city to visit her parents for holidays. During this time, Hamid called and texted Aigerim less frequently. Later, when she returned to Bishkek, he admitted that he had planned it this way to make the separation less painful. Aigerim and Hamid have also become aware of the existence of ethnic boundaries in Bishkek when they walk together in public places. Once, for example, when they were in the city centre next to some construction sites, three male workers shouted at Aigerim from the second or third floor of a building: “Are there no Kyrgyz young men for you?” (“Saga emne Kyrgyz bala kalbady by?”). Displeased by the offensive remark, Hamid, who speaks good Kyrgyz, shouted back to the man from the building, “Brother, I am also Kyrgyz” (“Baike, men da Kyrgyzmyn”). Even though he had responded well, the incident ruined the atmosphere between them: ‘Whenever we are in the street, we always hear that from strangers, mostly from men, both young and elderly: “Look at that Kyrgyz girl. Wasn’t she able to find a Kyrgyz?” [“Mogu Kyrgyz Kyrgyzdy karasan. Kyrgyzdy taabyp kalbaptyr by?”] After these remarks, the mood is spoiled. That is so terrible.’ (Aigerim, 21, Kyrgyz female) Aigerim always notices how people stare at her and Hamid in the street. Hamid also notices that everyone looks at them walking and holding hands. To cope with this social pressure, they sometimes employ humour, a kind of ‘joking avoidance’, for instance, by calling such people ‘Nazis’. However, they do not want to escalate a conflict in the streets, so they usually do not say anything back and quietly pass by. Aigerim recalls that she has also seen some videos of Kyrgyz women who were beaten up by Kyrgyz male and female compatriots in Russia for dating non-​Kyrgyz men. One such video showing female attackers depicted the humiliation and violent punishment of a Kyrgyz woman for dating an Uzbek. According to Aigerim, “Girls gather and beat up a girl for dating men from another ethnic group.” When walking in the streets, Aigerim and Hamid avoid very crowded places and construction sites, and instead meet in small parks, quiet cafes and coffee shops.

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Just like the previous couple, Aigerim and Hamid enjoy their time together in the present, cherishing the moment. They try to avoid any conversations about plans for building a future together since they do not want to sacrifice their bonds with family and community. The dating stage seems quite safe for them, whereas marriage and being seen as a couple by others appears to be too dangerous. The solution is simply not to inform their family members of their relationship.

Direct action, ‘crossing boundaries’ and fighting to be together Unlike the previous two couples, who have remained at the dating stage, another mixed, interracial couple has gone further. Alina, a 29-​ year-​old Kyrgyz female, and David, a 31-​year-​old male citizen from a West African state, chose to be together and actively resist ‘the moral panic’ and fight against ethnic ‘boundary/​border guards’. They use different, situational and contextual strategies. Sometimes, they also opt for avoidance. Yet, in other cases, they are more proactive and protect themselves by means of a verbal and physical attack: answering/​ shouting/​fighting back. In most cases, they can rely on the support of friends, family and relatives. Unlike the other cases described in this chapter, Alina and David can rely on their family for support, especially from the extended family on Alina’s side. As Tartakovskaya (2010) has argued, family and friends can become a ‘shelter/​refuge from threats’ of various kinds that come from the outside world, whether in the form of social or economic instabilities and insecurities, including threats from ‘boundary guards’. David was invited to Kyrgyzstan to work when he was 21. They met in 2013 when he was 27, six years after he arrived in Kyrgyzstan. At that time, he spoke English and only poor Russian. In order to learn the Russian language, David made connections via the Internet, which is how he met Alina, who wanted to learn English in exchange. At the beginning of their relationship, David was wary of the local traditions in Kyrgyzstan, which he described in the following way: “Local men are ‘jealous’ towards Kyrgyz women and call them ‘our girls’.” David was also concerned about the difference in religious backgrounds since he was a Christian while Alina was a Muslim. Back in 2013, he first wanted to be just friends with Alina and did not see any future for himself in Kyrgyzstan. However, they later became closer and David eventually converted to Islam and got married to Alina, and they now have a child.

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After their marriage, Alina and David posted photographs of the wedding on social networks to make their relationship public. On the one hand, this endangered their everyday life as anyone could now get personal information and identify the couple. Taking into account the impact of this publicity, they had to find ways to secure themselves in an intolerant and racist environment. Alina, in particular, hates the word ‘Negr’ or people poking fingers and saying: “Look Negr, black.” That makes her angry and she counters them verbally. For David, hearing the ‘N’ word when people see him in public spaces has become banal as an everyday thing: ‘I’ve got used to the words. I cannot say that people are bad; it’s their mentality. So, I usually do not pay attention and do not get offended. In the first years, I did not know the Russian or Kyrgyz languages, and did not understand the offensive words, but now I understand every word and get offended sometimes, sometimes I do not pay attention. Not everyone can love me, I understand. When I saw that Kyrgyz fight with Kyrgyz, then I started realizing that they can treat each other badly too, which is why now I do not pay much attention to it. It calms me down. We do not care what other people think about us, we do not live for someone else, we live for ourselves, we are comfortable.’ (David, 31, West African, male) There have been many episodes when Alina had to protect her husband from moral monitors and xenophobic, racist attacks. She does not tolerate any kind of racist behaviour and attitude towards him and her marriage. Alina engages actively and directly with those who attack her family, for example, shouting back and confronting them verbally and physically –​showing them that she is not afraid and has her voice. One such episode was at a store, where a stranger came up to David and spoke in Kyrgyz saying: “Do you want me to shoot you down?” When Alina saw this, she intervened and tried to talk to the man to distract him: “What do you want? Talk to me!” This way, she showed the stranger that David was not alone and that such behaviour would not be ignored and go unchallenged. The stranger did not reply to Alina and left with a hostile look, barging David with his shoulder. Alina deals with similar situations by always talking back to racist ‘boundary/​border guards’, showing that she is ready to fight back and is not afraid of them.

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For Alina, gender and class status definitely make a difference. She believes that if a Kyrgyz man chooses a foreign/​outsider/​out-​g roup partner or wife, he is considered a krutoi (cool, attractive, respectable). It is different in the case of women, who are treated badly if they are with foreigners/​outsiders/​out-​g roup members. What also matters is whether the bride or groom is “rich [and] acceptable [or] poor [and] not satisfactory”. When she goes shopping, Alina is sometimes approached by women who ask her in the Kyrgyz language: “Don’t you have anyone else? You’re a normal young woman [meaning healthy, attractive, adequate].” In these situations, Alina reacts emotionally. She says that they should mind their own business and that, anyhow, she is not a Kyrgyz as one of her parents is Kazakh. This way, she emphasizes that she is not obliged to comply with any boundaries for biological or social reproduction and does not belong to some ‘pure’ pool of the Kyrgyz nation. These confrontations are just a few of the many episodes that the couple has had to go through when in public places. There are cases when the couple uses avoidance strategies to decrease the amount of stress and defuse a threatening situation. For example, David and Alina try to avoid the bazaars. Instead, they buy their groceries at big supermarkets. David avoids using public transportation or walking on the streets. He bought a car so that he is not harassed on the street. As he states: “It feels safer when I’m driving my car. You just pay for your petrol and that is it; you can close your windows and hear nothing, just the music in my car.” However, Alina adds that there is always a possibility that drivers might block the road and make driving very dangerous for racist reasons when they see David driving the car. She believes that such attacks will never end. Another strategy of how to come to terms with these disturbing, and in some cases dangerous, encounters is to look for support from Alina’s family and their mutual friends. Alina and David only go out with friends and in big groups. It helps if these friends are Kyrgyz. David says: “When people see two or three Kyrgyz men in our company, no one says anything; when I’m alone, I hear and experience a lot of things.” To gain a sense of security, Alina and David had to move out of the capital to one of the villages where Alina’s family and relatives live. Here, the couple feels safe and supported. In comparison with the experiences of other mixed couples, Alina and David have been able to build a safe haven and hide among the relatives/​family from a hostile social environment characterized by racial discrimination and intolerance.

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Interestingly, David stated that he felt more secure after the birth of their child since strangers stopped harassing and attacking him and Alina in public places: “Everything is fine when we’re with my child. However, when we are together, just the two of us [Alina and David], I have to walk apart from my wife; we cannot hold hands. She starts walking faster and runs ahead of me.” David imagines a future with his family abroad –​in a place where society would be much more tolerant and open-​minded towards interracial families. Alina and David are constantly working, together with their relatives and friends, towards a better future, hoping to become safe and secure in another place. Alina has also become a member of several online forums and groups that address the issue of interracial partnerships. In these online groups, she receives support and finds an understanding environment. This helps her not to feel so alone. She also gets to know other women in a similar situation and learns how they cope. In one of these forums, she got to know the story of Gulya, a 35-​year-​old Central Asian woman7 who had three children and was forcefully separated from her husband, who is from Central Africa.

Future without a loved one but not left alone: women’s self-​organized solidarity groups Gulya had been living in Russia with her second husband, Arthur, from Central Africa. Just after getting divorced from her first husband, who abused her, she started a new independent life and decided to go to Russia, leaving her first child with her mother. She explained that it was common practice in her community for a divorced woman to be remarried against her will and have any children she might have from the previous marriage taken away. In the words of Gulya: ‘You are like an object that can be passed on so that everyone is in peace, and whenever you do your own choice, they are agitated and you never please them. What if in your nation, there are no adequate men and you find your happiness outside your ethnic group … my first husband was a drug addict, beating me for nothing. I was just passing by and get hit, he could take off his socks and threw them into my face saying, “Wash it, fast!” I had bruises and was beaten every other day. Of course, you will run away from such a man. And my Arthur respected me so much … it was

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different; he never beat me. He would be understanding and supportive. A good father, a good Muslim. Taking care of us. So what that he is black? He is a good and decent man. Became a father to my eldest daughter, helped to bring her to Russia. Children love him. I had never seen anything bad from Arthur.… Why can I not be with an African when I found my happiness with him?’ (Gulya, 35, Central Asian female) For some time, both Gulya and Arthur lived illegally in Russia. Arthur was periodically arrested by the police when coming from or going to work. This happened two or three times per month and he was always released once he had paid bribes. One evening, when he was arrested, Arthur called and Gulya went to see him, thinking that the policemen would let him go when they saw that he had a seven-​month-​pregnant wife and two children. However, as soon as the police found out that she was staying in Russia illegally too, Gulya and her children were deported. That happened two years ago in the winter. Arthur was released after promising to buy tickets to his home country but he managed to stay on. This is how Gulya recalls that time: ‘No one was waiting for me in my homeland; it was all spontaneous. I had not seen my mother for nine years then. She cried, was happy, on the one hand, and sad, on the other. I was lucky that both brothers were in Moscow at that time; otherwise, it could have ended tragically. The next day, my mother started asking me to leave before my brothers would arrive.’ (Gulya, 35, Central Asian female) So, Gulya, pregnant with her third child and having two other children by her side, was deported to her homeland (one of the Central Asian countries). However, at ‘home’, she was afraid for herself and her children’s lives because her family would not accept her second marriage. When she arrived home, she recalls, there was also social pressure on her mother. She is in her 60s and participates in the monthly gatherings. Once, her mother said: “I cannot go to these gatherings; they’ve started asking me about your return, asking why you arrived pregnant and with two children. What about our [men], why did she marry an African?” The community started humiliating and shaming her mother. Gulya emphasized that her

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brothers, who were in Moscow, also heard similar reprimands in the chaykhana (tea house). They knew that she was home again after her deportation and realized that she had hidden her family status from the family. They started calling her from Moscow, shouting that she must leave before they arrive; otherwise, they would “tear off her head, slaughter her”. Unlike Alina, who was protected and supported by her family and relatives in her village, for Gulya, the main threat came from her own family: ‘The most dangerous people are those who are the closest. I did not expect that from my closest relatives; that was too much. I was scared of everyone, everyone was dangerous, but I understand my family. It’s all because of the social pressure; if it weren’t for that, everyone might have been happy for me. The most threatening thing was the possibility that my sisters would be divorced because of me. Me, and my love, was destroying everything.’ (Gulya, 35, Central Asian female) Social pressure and isolation left Gulya without any support. First, she contacted her closest relatives and asked for help. However, her eldest sister refused to help her saying: “That day [when she came back], I quarrelled with your brother-​in-​law; he beat me, he wanted to kick me out, saying that you must find me another husband”. The other sister of Gulya endured similar abuses and humiliations. Everyone was afraid to help. Gulya felt guilty. She believed that she had hurt everyone and that her family had suffered because of her: “I thought if I had not done that [marry Arthur], now it would be better for everyone.” After the threats from her brothers and the suffering of her mother, Gulya moved away from the village and rented an apartment in a different place. This is how she recalls her experience of living in the new district: ‘People were not welcoming; they might shout at us when seeing us in the street. We didn’t get out, all winter and summer, for nine months, even for about a year, we were, I can say, hiding. We would go out only in the evenings when it gets dark, or I would go to do grocery shopping on my own or with my eldest daughter [from her first marriage].’ (Gulya, 35, Central Asian female)

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Arthur was released after Gulya’s deportation and started sending her money. It had been almost a year since Arthur had promised to Gulya, “Give me a month, I  will have you back!” However, after about a year, he again had a misfortune. He disappeared, and a couple of days later, he called Gulya from an unknown number, saying: “I’m in prison, they set me up. I cannot help you, I’m sorry. It happened. I am sorry for everything. Sorry.” With Arthur’s imprisonment, Gulya did not have the money to pay for her rent. The landlord wanted her to move out but gave her an additional two months, seeing her dire situation with two children and a newly born child. Eventually, however, Gulya and her three children became homeless and lived in the streets, not knowing where to go. She was alone, with no money and no one to take care of her and her children. The only means she had to find help was her smartphone. When looking for a way out, she found a closed online group called ‘Married to an African’. She joined the group, shared her story and women in that forum gave her feedback and offered their help and support. Discussing her situation, they thought one solution was to leave her homeland in order to be safe. They discussed many options, including South Korea, France and Belarus. However, in order to go to the first two destinations, Gulya would have needed a visa and money for the tickets. Furthermore, as Belarus has a customs union with Russia, she would have problems entering that country too, having already been deported from Russia. The cheapest, safest and closest country to reach from her homeland was Kyrgyzstan. The members of the forum, all women married to African men, collected the money for her trip to Kyrgyzstan. Those who lived in Kyrgyzstan found a small house in Bishkek, collected clothes and food, and brought everything that the family needed to get started. Even today, six months after she moved to Kyrgyzstan, some of them still call and ask whether she needs help. Gulya and her children are now physically secure from the death threats of her brothers and did not face as much social pressure. Gulya says that she feels calm in Bishkek. As an ‘outlander/​stranger’, she can move freely and does not have to “care what people say. Here, no one says anything or does anything bad. I  go untouched and unnoticed, being different in Bishkek, and can say openly who I am, my nationality; no one says anything. When I’m with children, people show their interest, greet, but it is not bad.” This is possible because, unlike the previous cases in which interracial couples in Bishkek were dealing with racism, as a stranger and outsider, Gulya is not monitored by the ‘ethnic boundary guards’.

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Members of the online forum also told Gulya how to claim refugee status with an international organization and, in this way, legalize her and her children’s residency in Kyrgyzstan. This is how she recalls this experience: ‘Only Allah knows and I know. My daughter is growing; she already understands some things. When I went to their [international organization’s] office, I could not talk. They saw me and were alarmed. They hurried to bring me water and sedatives. I was so scared. I was all alone. There, back in Moscow, I  had my husband, and we’d gone through everything together. In times when he did not have a job, I would work, and vice versa. And we were never devastated and desperate when we were together. And I was then all alone; everyone had rejected me and excluded me.’ (Gulya, 35, Central Asian female) The staff at the international organizations’ office accepted her documents and started working on her case. She now receives a small monthly allowance of about 100 euros. This is how she survives, pays the rent and feeds her three children. Moreover, her husband was recently released and has started sending money again. In January 2018, Gulya was scheduled for an interview and would know about the result of her application for refugee status. Reflecting on her present situation, she said that she was cheerful and had started smiling. Gulya’s life was divided into before and after her deportation from Russia, so when she told her story, she constantly shifted from the past to the present, feeling insecure and uncertain about a future without Arthur. She survives in the present and tries not to lose her hope for a more certain and stable future in which she and her children will be physically, emotionally and financially secure. Arthur keeps promising to find a way for them to be together, not in Russia or Kyrgyzstan, but in Turkey. He keeps promising to earn enough money to move with his family. However, Gulya has little hope for or belief in a future with Arthur. All that she hopes for is that she can continue to provide for her children.

Conclusion This chapter has traced the securityscapes of ethnically/​racially mixed couples in contemporary Kyrgyzstan. As was argued, deep-​seated uncertainty and heightened anxiety are common in their lives. They

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always have to be ready for threats and dangers, which may come from complete strangers on the streets and in public spaces, as well as, in some cases, from close family members. A specific focus was on the everyday security strategies of females in mixed relationships. These women have to deal with the dual pressures of racism and the oppression of females in a patriarchal society that controls women’s bodies and restricts their freedom to choose a partner. The first two cases showed how mixed couples prefer living for and in the present, without trying to imagine a ‘future together’. In the first case, it was Diana who considered her relationship with Paul to be doomed due to her fear of crossing social boundaries and losing her family in the process. In the second case, Hamid reflected on his relationship with Aigerim in a very similar manner. Interestingly, this case illustrates how ethnic boundaries do not only apply to women; men may equally be under pressure from the endogamy rule. Another similarity can be discerned between Diana and Gulya: both had previous experiences of being abused in former marriages to members of their own ethnic groups. They got divorced, rebelled against patriarchal norms, moved away from their families and started an interracial relationship. The securityscapes of mixed couples mainly consist of avoidance strategies when dealing with everyday harassment. This includes, for example, avoiding crowded places, parks, bazaars or construction sites, and interactions with aggressive groups of young men. Instead, mixed couples tend to choose to meet in small cafes, go shopping in big supermarkets with security and visit well-​known places, preferably in the company of friends and family. More importantly, however, the findings show that women in mixed relationships are not simply passive victims of racist and patriarchal sentiments, but proactively resist. In the final two cases, the women had actually crossed the social boundary and married. Alina resists by shouting and answering back to social intolerance and draws attention to her own ‘mixed’ origin, thereby calling into question notions of ethnic ‘purity’. Alina and David also rely on their network of friends and family. By contrast, Gulya was left without any family support in a foreign country. She even received death threats from her closest relatives: her brothers. Yet, in the end, she was not all alone, but managed to build her securityscape around the solidarity of an online forum of women in similar situations who helped her to find a secure place to live. The securityscapes of mixed couples collected here tell stories of women’s agency. For all the racism, nationalism and patriarchy in Central Asia, and for all the dangers that women face, particularly in mixed

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relationships, there are potential opportunities for alternative choices that may help women to be more independent and emancipated, and to break out of the dominant social structures. Notes 1

2

3 4 5

6

7

As one such man stated in an interview, ‘girls who want to spoil the genes of Kazakhs will not do us any good’; therefore, ‘[w]‌e need to get rid of Kazakh women who want to get married to foreigners’ (Nur.kz, 2017). The concept of moral panic was developed in the UK by Stanley Cohen (1972) in his book Folk devils and moral panics. A ‘moral panic’ occurs when a ‘condition, episode, person or group of persons emerges to become defined as a threat to societal values and interests’ (Cohen, 1972: 9). This informant wanted to conceal the name of her country of origin. This informant did not want to reveal her ethnic background. Negr (негр) is a word used both in the Russian and Kyrgyz language for ‘negro’ –​ the original name for people with African roots. It comes from the Latin word ‘niger’, which means ‘black’. Despite the fact that the word for ‘negro’ did not have a negative connotation in Russian –​from this word comes the name of the race ‘negroid’ –​the word negr (негр) began to be considered as offensive in the 21st century by analogy with the American ‘nigger’. The interview was conducted in the summer of 2017 and the wedding was expected to be arranged in the autumn of 2017. The country of origin of Gulya is not mentioned in order to protect her identity.

References

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Gill, A. K. (2017) ‘Women murdered in the name of “honor” ’, in F.  Brookman, E.  Maguire and M.  Maguire (eds) The handbook of homicide, Chichester: John Wiley & Sons Inc., pp 149–​164. Goddard, V. (2013) ‘Honour and shame:  the control of women’s sexuality and group identity in Naples’, in P. Caplan (ed) The cultural construction of sexuality, London: Routledge, pp 178–​204. Halle, F. (1938) Women in the Soviet East, translated from the German by Margaret M. Green, New York: E. P. Dutton and Co., Inc. Handrahan, L. (2004) ‘Hunting for women:  bride-​kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan’, International Feminist Journal of Politics, 6(2): 207–​33. Honkatukia, P. and Keskinen, S. (2018) ‘The social control of young women’s clothing and bodies:  a perspective of differences on racialization and sexualization’, Ethnicities, 18(1): 142–​61. Human Rights Watch (2006) ‘Bride-​kidnapping’, www.hrw.org/​ reports/​2006/​kyrgyzstan0906/​3.htm#_​Toc145487967 Ibraeva, G. (2006) ‘Study of intergenerational dynamics of matrimonial strategies of women and men in Kyrgyzstan of Soviet and post-​Soviet time (Frunze/​Bishkek City 1980–​2005)’, in I. Tarkovskaya (ed) Gender studies: Regional anthology of studies from eight CIS countries: Armenia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Moldova, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, Moscow: OOO ‘Variant’, Institute of Social and Gender Politics, p 512. Ibraeva, G., Moldosheva, A. and Ablezova, M. (2015) ‘ “We will kill you and we will be acquitted!” –​critical discourse analysis of a media case of violence against female migrants from Kyrgyzstan’, Die Zukunft geistlicher Bewegungen, 26: 3. Ismailbekova, A. (2013) ‘Migration and patrilineal descent: the effects of spatial male mobility on social female mobility in rural Kyrgyzstan’, Crossroads Asia Working Paper Series, 12. Kabeer, N. (2001) ‘Resources, agency, achievements’, Discussing Women’s Empowerment:  SIDA Studies, 3:  17–​54, www.sida.se/​ contentassets/​5e45d330e16743179cefc93de34e71ac/​discussing-​ womens-​empowerment-​--​ t​ heory-​and-​practice_1​ 626.pdf#page=19 Kandiyoti, D. (1988) ‘Bargaining with patriarchy’, Gender & Society, 2(3): 274–​90. Kasymova, S. (2010) ‘Rasshiraya g ranicy:  mejetnicheskie I mejkonfessionalnye braki v postsovetskom Tajikistane (na primere brakov Tajikskih jenshin s inostrancami)’, Laboratorium. Jurnal Socialnyh issledovaniy, 3: 126–​49. Kleinbach, R. and Salimjanova, L. (2007) ‘Kyz ala kachuu and adat: non-​consensual bride kidnapping and tradition in Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 26(2): 217–​33.

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Kleinbach, R., Ablezova, M. and Aitieva, M. (2005) ‘Kidnapping for marriage (ala kachuu) in a Kyrgyz village’, Central Asian Survey, 24(2): 191–​202. Kumenov, A. (2018) ‘Kazakhstan:  morality mavens monitoring women’, Eurasianet, 25 January, https:// ​ e urasianet.org/ ​ s /​ kazakhstan-​morality-​mavens-​monitoring-​women Laruelle, M. (2012) ‘The paradigm of nationalism in Kyrgyzstan: evolving narrative, the sovereignty issue, and political agenda’, Communist and Post-​Communist Studies, 45(1/​2): 39–​49. Mishra, N.K. and Tripathi, T. (2011) ‘Conceptualising women’s agency, autonomy and empowerment’, Economic and Political Weekly, 46(11): 58–​65. O’Neill Borbieva, N. (2012) ‘Kidnapping women:  discourses of emotion and social change in the Kyrgyz Republic’, Anthropological Quarterly, 85(1): 141–​69. Panesh, E.K. and Ermolov, L.B. (1994) ‘Meskhetinsky Turks under the conditions of the modern ethnic processes in the USSR’, Belleten-​ Türk Tarih Kurumu, 57(219): 589–​607. Stanley, C. (1972) Folk devils and moral panics: The creation of the mods and rockers, London: MacGibbon and Kee. Tartakovskaya, I. (2010) ‘Gender relations in the private sphere: post-​ Soviet transformations of family and intimacy’, Laboratorium. Social Research Journal, 3: 5–​11. Ualieva, S. and Edgar, E. (2011) ‘Interethnic marriages, mixed origin and “friendship of people” in Soviet and post-​Soviet Kazakhstan’, Nekrikosnovennyi Zapas, 6: 234–​44. UNICEF (United Nations Children’s Fund) (2018) ‘UN statement on bride kidnapping and child marriage’, 31 May, www.unicef.org/​kyrgyzstan/​ press-​releases/​un-​statement-​bride-​kidnapping-​and-​child-​marriage UN Women (2016) ‘Stopping bride kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan’, 9 August, www.unwomen.org/ ​ e n/ ​ n ews/ ​ s tor ies/ ​ 2 016/ ​ 8 /​ stopping-​bride-​kidnapping-​in-​kyrgyzstan Walters, L.H., Warzywoda-​Kruszynska, W. and Gurko, T. (2002) ‘Cross-​cultural studies of families:  hidden differences’, Journal of Comparative Family Studies, 33(3): 433–​49. Werner, C. (2009) ‘Bride abduction in post-​S oviet Central Asia:  marking a shift towards patriarchy through local discourses of shame and tradition’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 15(2): 314–​31. Yeşilçiçek, Ç.K. (2017) ‘Attitudes of Turkish academics regarding violence against women in the name of honor’, Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 33(20): 3232–​54.

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Yuval-​Davis, N. (2004) ‘Gender and nation’, in R.  Miller and R.  Wilford (eds) Women, ethnicity and nationalism, New  York, NY: Routledge, pp 30–​40. Yuval-​Davis, N. and Stoetzler, M. (2002) ‘Imagined boundaries and borders: a gendered gaze’, European Journal of Women’s Studies, 9(3): 329–​44.

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The Space–​Time Continuum of the ‘Dangerous’ Body: Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Securityscapes in Kyrgyzstan Nina Bagdasarova

Introduction I am sitting on the bench talking with my respondent about his everyday life in the ‘here and now’, which he seems to perceive positively and with a great optimism. He is a university student, wearing bright crimson pants and a yellow cap. The day is sunny and the park is quite crowded. People are walking along the avenue. They look at him for a second and pass by. One young mother with a stroller smiles at us. We do not notice how a group of young men have stopped nearby. One of them says several insulting words in Kyrgyz. My respondent replies rather rudely. In response, the speaker spits in his direction, and the group moves on, constantly looking back. “Do you see? That’s why I’m going to move to San Francisco!” His tone stays optimistic but it becomes clear that his enthusiasm for studying and participating in extracurricular activities is not (or, at least, not only) about the ‘here and now’, but mostly about his future. His brave and provocative behaviour suddenly assumes a shade of detachment and alienation, creating a distance between him and his environment. I know that in the world of animals and insects, bright colours are the perfect means for ‘protective aggression’, warning others not to approach, but I have

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just understood that for this young gay man from Bishkek, they are also a vehicle for escape –​to escape not ‘to somewhere’, but just ‘out of here’. Actually, he was the only respondent of mine who had the guts to dress in this way when walking through the city. Still, his reaction to the abuse belied his vulnerability and bravado because this kind of behaviour is really risky and he is completely aware of the risks. At that moment, I saw why he wanted to leave for San Francisco. Indeed, I came to see some kind of ‘San Francisco’ behind each and every story that I collected during my research. During Soviet times, male homosexuality was criminalized in Kyrgyzstan. Transgender people and lesbians were mostly considered within a psychopathological framework. Yet, at the end of the 1980s, a discourse of the ‘normalization’ of homosexuality, as well as some sexual practices, emerged due, in large part, to perestroika, that is, the liberating reforms that brought some previously forbidden topics into the public domain. In 1998, homosexuality was decriminalized. During the 1990s and early 2000s, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) culture became part of the public space. It was now visible, at least in urban areas, thanks to the changes taking place in the socio-​political and economic spheres that demanded a more open dialogue between state authorities and active parts of society after the removal of the ‘Iron Curtain’. International donors introduced a number of projects on HIV/​AIDS prevention to Kyrgyzstan and helped to institutionalize several LGBT-​friendly non-​governmental organizations (NGOs). At the same time, economic liberalization enabled some people to open businesses connected to LGBT culture. Until 2007, there were several nightclubs and discos catering for the LGBT community in Bishkek, and literature on LGBT lifestyles, including fictional works, non-​fiction academic books and popular periodicals, had become widely available. It was possible to buy this kind of literature even from the small news-​ stands that are found all over the country, including rural areas. However, the situation started to change again after 2005 when the first president of Kyrgyzstan, Askar Akaev, was deposed during the ‘Tulip Revolution’. The rule of his successor, Kurmanbek Bakiyev, was characterized by rising authoritarianism and ethno-​nationalist rhetoric. It was during his presidency that LGBT issues increasingly acquired negative connotations. For example, a school textbook on sexual education that mentioned different sexual orientations was withdrawn from schools. However, many teachers and parents agreed with this policy, claiming that such information was incompatible with local traditions and attitudes.

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Bakiyev was himself overthrown in April 2010. Dozens of people died in the course of these revolutionary upheavals and mass protests. What is more, hundreds were killed and injured in interethnic clashes in June the same year between the Kyrgyz majority and Uzbek minority groups living in the south of Kyrgyzstan. The political crisis of 2010 brought about an intensification of ethno-​centric discourses on the ‘true traditional values’ of the Kyrgyz nation. Feminists, minority ethnic groups and LGBT people were all presented as a ‘threat to the nation’, alongside radicals, violent Islamist extremists and terrorists. These trends coincided with a growing conservatism in Russia’s politics, which also influenced developments in Kyrgyzstan (Human Rights Watch, 2014a). Following Russia’s adoption of the ‘anti-​gay propaganda’ law in 2013, Kyrgyz politicians initiated their own legislative process, passing an analogous law in 2014 and demanding the prohibition of sex education brochures for teenagers that had been issued in 2011/​1 2. Although the law was later suspended, public attitudes towards minority sexual groups drastically worsened in those years. Attacks on LGBT activists and NGOs increased and became even more severe after 2014 (Kyrgyz Indigo, 2015, 2016, 2017; Human Rights Watch, 2014a, 2014b). Sometimes, these attacks have taken the form of organized persecutions with the involvement of so-​called ‘patriotic movements’ like ‘Kyrk Choro’ or ‘Kalys’ (Azattyk, 2015; Labrys, 2015). Under these conditions, security issues have become an important part of everyday life for the LGBT community. My research project was dedicated to exploring the everyday security practices of LGBT people in contemporary Kyrgyzstan. Fieldwork was conducted in two cities: Bishkek, which is the capital of Kyrgyzstan; and Osh, the second largest city in the country. A  participatory method was designed and applied. A number of LGBT community representatives went through basic training in ethnographic field research and six people were eventually chosen to collect data. In 2016/​17, they compiled 15 case studies of individuals (12 in Bishkek and three in Osh), including gay and lesbian homosexuals, as well as bisexual and transgender persons. The data collected in these case studies were augmented by semi-​structured interviews with police officers, doctors and activists. Our fieldwork also included participant observations of official and informal events of various kinds, including regular visits to ‘London’, an LGBT-​community nightclub in Bishkek, over the period 2016–​18. The language used in the interviews was predominantly Russian.

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Space, time and everyday security Zygmunt Bauman’s notion of Sicherheit contains three aspects of secure existence for the individual: a material dimension (‘security’); a psychological dimension (‘certainty’); and a corporeal dimension (‘safety’) (Bauman, 1999; Lemanski, 2012). The concept of securityscapes that we use for this analysis covers all of these dimensions. It also addresses those existential threats perceived as interrupting or radically changing practices connected to certain values, norms, contacts and material objects. The dimension of safety is associated with the physical state of the human body, which might be injured, fall ill or simply die. The existential threat at this level pertains, quite obviously, to the body itself. The security dimension involves the issues of economic or political stability. The notion of certainty is closer to communal factors that include feelings of belonging. Anything that endangers a certain way of life, whether expressed in a circle of friends or colleagues, or a set of shared values and norms, might be considered an existential threat within this dimension. It might also concern spiritual aspects of life, which are connected to one’s religion or involvement with memories and historical or symbolical narratives and identities. The concept of securityscapes catches all of these aspects at once and helps us to understand the production of everyday security for different types of groups (see Chapter 2 by von Boemcken; see also von Boemcken et al, 2016, 2018). Here, I argue that LGBT people create specific securityscapes in response to configurations of existential threats, among which the corporeal dimension of safety is central. Their securityscapes consist of several types of practices within specific space–​time continua. For my analysis of spaces, I used the category of ‘other spaces’ (that is, utopias and heterotopias) suggested by Michel Foucault (1984). He described utopias as sites ‘that have a general relation of direct or inverted analogy with the real space of Society. They present society itself in a perfected form, or else society turned upside down, but in any case these utopias are fundamentally unreal spaces’ (Foucault, 1984: 3). Unlike utopias, heterotopias are real places: places that do exist and that are formed in the very founding of society which are something like counter-​sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted. Places

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of this kind are outside of all places, even though it may be possible to indicate their location in reality. (Foucault, 1984: 3–​4) Heterotopias might be deviant spaces like prisons or psychiatric institutions. They have precise and determined functions (like cemeteries) and may combine incompatible spaces (like cinemas, where the world existing on the screen combines with the theatre). They might also be linked with ‘slices of time (heterochronies)’, for example, as in museums and libraries, or festival sites that only exist for a specific period of time. Sometimes, heterotopias may also be connected with utopias because they create a space of illusion (as in brothels) or ideal perfection (like the colonies of the first Puritans in the US) (Foucault, 1984). My ethnography shows that the lives of LGBT people are strongly connected to heterotopian/​heterochronian places and moments interrupting everyday routines, which play an important role in community life, supporting feelings of belonging and sharing common values and meanings. At the same time, utopian perspectives also shape attitudes towards reality among many LGBT community members. Besides these spatial characteristics, I have tried to conceptualize the temporal features of LGBT people’s securityscapes. In general, anthropological research distinguishes two perceptions of time. The first refers to a sequence of measurable moments directed from the past to the future, which helps people to act on the present and create plans for the future by reflecting upon the past. However, this continuous time flow might be interrupted by special periods when time seems to stop. This second type of perceiving time is considered as not linear, but deep. It is disconnected with mundane reality and defined by unusual and extraordinary practices. Giorgio Agamben (1993:  104) traced the idea of this kind of time to Aristotle, who connected it to pleasure:  ‘Pleasure was a heterogeneous thing in relation to the experience of quantified, continuous time … pleasure unlike movement does not occur in a space of time but is “within each now something whole and complete”.’ Agamben himself located this alternative time in activities such as playing or in events that interrupt history and create moments for change and liberation (Agamben, 1993: 78–​80, 99–​104).1 This division is also very close to the classification provided by Roger Caillois (1959), who counterposed ‘mundane’ to ‘sacred’ times. He argued that mundane activity is strictly regulated by rules, norms and taboos. During these periods, time is measured and organized

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in a rational way. Outside of these periods are the times of festivals. Referring to Émile Durkheim, Caillois (1959: 99) makes a: distinction between the sacred and profane that festivals afford, in contrast to working days. In effect, they oppose an intermittent explosion to a dull continuity, an exalting frenzy to the daily repetition of the same material preoccupations, the powerful inspiration of the communal effervescence to the calm labors with which each busies himself separately, social concentration to social dispersion, and the fever of climactic moments to the tranquil labor of the debilitating phases of existence. He also highlights that the times of festivals are times of transgressing rules and breaking taboos: ‘Debauchery and excess of all kinds, the solemnity of the ritual, and the severity of the previous restrictions are equally united to make the environment of the festival an exceptional world’ (Caillois, 1959: 99). During my participant observation and interviews, I  paid close attention to the specific rhythm of life lived by LGBT people. As I found, it can be described through a regular alternation of tension and relaxation, which is very much similar to Caillois’s description of mundane and sacred times. Indeed, in the LGBT community, these alternations are much more obvious and significant than in the life of most other people. To be identified as an LGBT person is dangerous, and it is necessary to conceal this identity almost always and everywhere. To reveal one’s belonging to the community requires special conditions that minimize the risks and dangers of being exposed. For me, the biggest part of the tension that LGBT people experience is connected to everyday activity (mainly at workplaces or universities). At the same time, the opportunity to release oneself from this excessive self-​control has immediate associations with specific occasions when they can gather away from strangers (especially to have drinks and to dance, and not just to talk or participate in some conventional activity). Besides, some practices for relieving tensions are definitely more transgressive and energy-​consuming, right up to the point where the term ‘relaxation’ might not be applicable. To spend time at the community nightclub in Bishkek or at a private gathering in Osh always means to participate in a ‘rave’ or ‘wild’ party as a far more open and unlimited form of self-​expression. People do this regularly (at least once or a couple of times per month) and it seems really important to them.

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Speaking of the socio-​spatial aspects of this ‘relaxed’ form of spending time, we should note that spaces for ‘leisure and pleasure’ play a significant role for many LGBT people. In a US study, for example, William Leap (2009) asked his respondents to map Washington DC as ‘a gay city’ and received some unexpected responses. The maps they produced were marked with bars and discos: ‘In fact, while “where I go to play” was frequently indicated on these maps, “where I live” and “where I work” were uniformly excluded’ (Leap, 2009: 205). Yet, these special places obtain their meaning only with regard to specific times ‘in contrast to working days’ (Caillois, 1959: 99). As I will try to show in my analysis, there are similar spatiotemporal distinctions in the perceptions and lived experiences of the LGBT people that we interviewed, and these distinctions are determined by the idea of ‘the safe place’. In this regard, there is one more aspect of the temporal dimension that must be taken into consideration. In addition to this division between two types of ‘observable’ time or ways of spending time (in general, ‘working days’ and ‘festivals’, which are split into two different ‘scapes’) there is another spatiotemporal aspect to the securityscapes of LGBT people that is closely connected to the future in terms of time, as well as to the imagination in terms of the definition of spaces. It is a question of a safe environment that may negate any inner tension and control. A lot of my respondents talked about ‘some day’ in the future when they will be able to move to another country where LGBT people are welcomed and not persecuted. Quite often, this idea of a utopia –​an ‘ideal future in an ideal place’ –​is not connected to any practical decisions or plans (though it sometimes is), and is situated somewhere in an imagined West. Still, the very possibility of thinking about such places impacts in many ways on people’s vision of security and insecurity within the LGBT community in contemporary Kyrgyzstan. My research concentrates on the temporal and spatial characteristics of LGBT people’s securityscapes in order to show their indivisibility within specific space–​time continua related to security practices. The argument centres on the idea of the ‘wrong body’: the kind of body that does not fit with its environment, but must try to adjust to it in different ways. Yet, this adjustment is never complete and never satisfying. This body stands apart from other bodies and seems abnormal in spite of all the efforts and strategies put into disguising or camouflaging it. This everyday life as a constant mimicry is one space–​time continuum in which this body lives. Mimicry requires a lot of energy and creates a lot of tension. As a result, this ‘wrong body’

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goes in search of an environment where it can feel perfectly right and well, and this produces another space–​time continuum: one that interrupts the veiled and dissembled type of its existence and provides the body with an opportunity to be authentic and truly free. This second continuum is about specific places and times of gatherings where LGBT persons can relax and express their shared need to belong to bodies of the same kind. These are the times and places for festivals. However, the longing for the safety and opportunity to always be accepted by everybody then leads to a third space–​time continuum that allows this body to feel happy, at least through its imagining of an ideal utopian future elsewhere –​a site where there will be no need to conceal and transform the body’s needs and desires. The logic of my argument here is by no means biological, but it does focus on the strong connections between LGBT securityscapes and fundamental aspects of human existence: body, space and time.

The dangerous body in mundane reality A key security issue that repeatedly appeared in all interviews and observations might be called the ‘problem of the “wrong” body’. The everyday routines of LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan are riddled with bodily concerns. The body is a traitor because it stands out against the general background of other bodies surrounding it. It moves differently, it speaks differently, it appeals to unusual dress to feel comfortable and, as a result, it looks so different that it requires almost permanent control. The majority of our respondents talked about a search for ‘appropriate’ clothes for everyday activities. One of our gay respondents told us that he gave up wearing scarves because he was afraid of being perceived as “gayish” by appearing in accessories very popular among women but not commonly worn by males in Kyrgyzstan. A transgender man said that he never wears bright colours in an effort to “look like a real man”, though he would very much like to have something beyond grey and black. An LGBT activist in Osh even warns all young people coming to Osh from the villages to avoid “orange pants and pink T-​shirts” (von Boemcken et al, 2018). All these efforts illustrate two security-​making strategies that are perhaps most in demand: mimicry and adaptation. To remain secure, one must not be identified as LGBT. ‘Not being spotted’ is an important task. Indeed, this imperative concerns not only one’s own body, but also other dangerous bodies as well. During an interview, a young LGBT activist from Bishkek discussed a recent case of a fight between three cross-​dressers in a cafe, which was covered by

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several local media stations (News Asia, 2017). The cross-​dressers broke a journalist’s camera because they did not want to be filmed. Members of the LGBT community then had to collect money in order to help them pay for the damage. Surprisingly, my respondent’s indignation was directed not towards the behaviour of the journalist, but towards the cross-​dressers, who, according to him, “looked lousy”. In his view, “If you’re going to a public place, you have to match the others; otherwise, you are guilty [of attracting attention to] yourself.” He showed me several pictures on his smartphone and asked me to note the difference between the “classy guys” who were indistinguishable from “real beauties” and the so-​called “heroes” of this media story. With some bitterness, my informant continued to explain that some community members do not understand the “standards” and create disturbances that affect the safety of the community as a whole. The incident was widely discussed among other LGBT people. Another respondent shared with me her bewilderment at the accusations by community representatives and the lack of protest against the journalists’ intrusiveness:  “I do not understand this attitude. People say that they [the cross-​dressers] ruined LGBT people’s reputation and put everybody at risk. Like we are not normal people, but always have to be sweet and polite.” Meanwhile, many subsequent comments on the incident (including posts and comments on Facebook) concurred with the opinion of my first respondent that the cross-​dressers were to be criticized not so much for their violent response to the journalist’s action, but for their “lousy appearance”. In other words, they were guilty because they “were identified” (personal interviews, December 2017). This case confirms that ‘crossing boundaries’ is sometimes extremely dangerous, and people using this strategy to secure themselves, like the young man I described at the beginning of this text, are usually at risk of being abused or even attacked. Yet, demonstrating your full right to be as you want to be might work if done strongly and convincingly enough to establish a distance between yourself –​as an outstanding, unusual person –​and other people. In fact, many other people are not so much interested in, or confident about, the ‘wrongness’ of LGBT existence. Therefore, this kind of protective aggression might be quite an effective security strategy. This desire to blend in with the mainstream is even more prominent among people who do not consider themselves as activists or active members of the LGBT community. My interviews with men having sex with men (MSM) but not taking part in any gay community activities demonstrated a high level of aggression towards young men who “look like gays”. As one respondent recalls:

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‘I arranged the meeting through the Internet and I asked him about his image … is he, you know … about “mannerisms”. He said he looked normal. And then we talked by phone and he sounded OK. But when he appeared in the alley! His jeans, his T-​shirt … and how he walked. And when he approached and started talking, I was just amazed. I told him that he promised to look normal. And I told him never to look for me again! Never!!!’ (Personal interview, October 2016) Among other motives, like an internalized homophobia, I definitely found that all such cases present an obvious fear of being identified as gay and getting into danger. Yet, the search for a partner who ‘looks normal’ does not save a person from having the ‘wrong’ desires and needs. The problem is not only the outfits that people might wear, but their bodies as such, that is, a certain plasticity, mannerism or tone of voice. One of the gay respondents in Osh characterized his life as the life of an “actor performing on various stages”. He said that: he uses one voice at home when speaking with his wife and children; he employs another voice when talking to his employees at work as a state official; but he adopts a third voice while working with his colleagues in the NGO. He only stops controlling his voice and manners when he is dating or attending private parties with close friends (personal interview, December 2017). These problems concern not only LGBT people who have to adjust to the environment with their appearance and behaviour; even if one looks ‘normal’, the body might still pose a danger. The case of two male lovers described elsewhere can be used to illustrate what is possible (von Boemcken et al, 2018: 79). One of the male bisexual respondents that we interviewed fell in love with a younger man without previous homosexual experience, who had a wife and two children. This respondent did not have any problems with his own sexuality and told us that nobody would suspect that these two men are in love. Nevertheless, we found that his anxiety about his partner’s situation was enormous due to the possible consequences of revealing their relationship. Indeed, he identified this fear for his lover as the most awful problem that he was facing at that time. Therefore, the prevailing situation is threatening even for those bodies that do not stand out from their surroundings and seem in harmony with their minds. In other words, the danger of being caught is ever present and one is always put at risk –​if not oneself, then somebody one loves.

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Thus, our respondents usually perceived their bodies as something extremely dangerous and vulnerable at the same time. On the one hand, the body is the object of real physical threats: it might be raped, beaten and eventually killed. On the other hand, it is the main reason for the attacks: it may easily betray the owner –​any wrong movement or intonation may trigger aggression. Still, it is alive and it inevitably looks for places and moments to relax.2 For all our respondents, to feel completely secure means “to be yourself ” (byt’ soboi): to drop one’s guard, to let go and to behave in a way and manner that is suitable, comfortable and pleasant, above all, for one’s body and mind. As such, this need presents the problem of finding a ‘safe place’.

The dangerous body in search of safe places There are not many places where the dangerous body may behave in the way it desires. For most people, the ‘natural’ place to relax is at home. However, this opportunity is only available to very few of the LGBT people that we talked to in Kyrgyzstan. Most of our respondents were young people still living with their parents who did not know about or did not approve of their sexual orientation. Some of them were even living with wives and children who were not aware of their homosexuality. Another respondent shared an apartment and hid his orientation from his flatmates. Dating may be an option to relax; however, this is also not always a secure enterprise. Our interviews showed that the majority of dates are arranged through the Internet and one cannot predict what a possible partner will look like. One of our respondents arrived at a date and was met by a group of three aggressive homophobes who started beating him up. When he called for the police, he was accused of provoking a fight and had to pay a fine in order to leave the police station. Similar stories are constantly circulating in the LGBT community, and people have developed a variety of measures to prevent such situations. What is more, health issues, especially the risk of HIV and sexually transmitted diseases (STDs), are also a critical factor preventing any real comfort when dating strangers and engaging in sexual intercourse with them. Some of our interviewees considered the offices of an LGBT-​friendly NGO as a secure place. For some, the NGO might even be a substitute for home. As one young activist from Osh, who did not have his own apartment, but spent a lot of time in the apartment of his LGBT friend, put it: “When we are meeting at the NGO … OK.… It is almost like I might be at home with friends. Maybe, here it is more interesting

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but the feeling of being together is similar. Even if you come here to get the HIV test [laughing]” (personal interview, October 2017). At the same time, NGO offices install various security devices and technologies. People that visit these places are therefore constantly reminded of their insecurity, and this makes it difficult for them to relax. One activist told us that “it is great to be among people of your kind” (byt’ sredi svoikh) but “it sometimes betrays us”. For example, in Bishkek, the community members often smoke outside their NGO office, which is situated on the ground floor of an apartment building. The neighbours raise the issue of smoking in the yard all the time; however, listening to the discussions between the tenants of the building and the NGO people, it becomes obvious that this is just an excuse to start an argument and suggest that the office moves away. The group of ten to 12 people looking too ‘strange’ is what disturbs the tenants, not the smoking. One episode during my participant observation is quite illustrative. A woman started arguing about smoking under her windows, saying the smoke was coming into her kitchen. The smoking LGBT people from the office moved farther from her windows but she did not stop complaining. One of the NGO administrators started to mediate, discussing a distance that would be acceptable to her. She claimed that she has children and that because smoke is very harmful, smoking would not be tolerable in any way and in any part of the yard. At the end of her tirade she added: “Other people here also have children. They all support me. We will speak to the landlord of these premises because you have to move. Our children should not have to look at this!” “Look at what?” asked one of the NGO officers. “Look at you!” was the answer. As this account illustrates, the NGO spaces might, in a sense, be regarded as ‘grey zones’ between public and private spaces, that is, places where people may gather without entirely revealing their identities. The situation becomes more severe for groups of LGBT people meeting in public places. One of the activists shared a remarkable story: ‘Once we were in Osh and conducted a seminar in our friendly NGO office. After the seminar, our working group with several colleagues from Osh decided to go somewhere to have a dinner. One of the Osh guys recommended a bar where he worked as a ‘decent’ place. But when we came there, the waiters in the bar became very aggressive and refused to serve our table. When we quit the bar and went out, several of them followed us to the street and tried to attack us, so we had almost to run away! And this young guy that invited us there, he had to move to Bishkek in

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several days! And before his departure, he lived in secrecy because he was afraid to come home and being revealed [as gay]. That was an awful story. I was especially amazed that it was the waiters who behaved this way.… It was about their work and their money.… Still, something in our appearance or manners was so unacceptable for them that they chose to attack us. Maybe they already suspected this guy before? I don’t know.… Or maybe being in company belies our manners or something. But after all, it is difficult to survive in Osh, that’s true.’ (Personal interview, May 2018) This story shows that you have to avoid public spaces as much as possible in order to be safe (especially in certain localities). Still, according to some interviews, it does not suffice to simply be together (sredi svoikh) in the NGO office or at home in a private apartment: ‘I do relax when I am not at work or in the city. I feel free at my place. I can stay naked if I want and behave in any way. I can invite my friends round and we can chat or listen to music.… It is very nice to sit together like this … drinking beer … speaking about anything.… But, you know … we almost always end up in the club. Somebody says:  “Let’s go to dance!” and we go to “London”. It is like it is not enough just to sit and talk, like something is missing.’ (Personal interview, December 2017) What is missing here is a specific state of body and mind that LGBT people associate with full freedom. The totality of self-​control should be interrupted for a while in order to take off the masks and reach a point of ‘complete security’. In a way, this point of ‘complete security’ coincides with the point of ‘complete insecurity’ because to reach it means not just crossing the usual limitations, but also abandoning all the usual defences. These moments are quite special in terms of time perception:  they are ‘outside’ of everyday life and of the ‘normal’ timeline. Furthermore, they require specific spaces to come about. All in all, this creates a space–​time that assumes the form of what Caillois (1959) called the ‘festival’.

‘London’ There is a former ‘trade-​cultural centre’ in one of the residential areas of Bishkek. The Soviet modernist-​style building was originally built of

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concrete and glass. Now, it is divided into dozens of small venues with separate entrances and porches. One grey door is almost unnoticeable among the many colourful posters and signboards covering the walls. However, it has no sign of its own. It appears locked and abandoned during the daytime when all the other enterprises in the building are busy. Life behind this door only starts after 10 pm every Friday, Saturday and Sunday, when the LGBT club ‘London’ opens (Bagdasarova, 2018). Taxis and pedestrians move through the dark and silent environment of the surrounding apartment buildings and stop nearby. In order to enter the club, you have to ring a bell and wait for an answer. Once the door opens, it is silent, only dim light is visible from the inside. People meet you in the hall to greet you. You are only allowed to go further if you are recognized or provide the guard with a reliable reference; otherwise, you will be stopped and escorted out. Only after walking down the semi-​dark and silent corridor does the treasured door to the club open and you dive into a room full of deafening music and flashing lights. On the left-​hand side is a dance floor with a bar and several tables on the right. The club is crowded and you try to spot someone you know in order to find a seat at one of the tables or a place at the bar. The tables are there for having drinks, and they do not even look like proper tables, simply the countertops screwed onto drawers. As the club is called ‘London’, there are some decorations in the colours of the Union flag. In general, however, the interior design is extremely minimalistic. The room is very noisy. People hug each other and exchange greetings. To have a conversation, you need to go through another door into the smoking area with an old sofa and ‘pillow’ seats in front of a boarded-​up window. The calm here stands in stark contrast to the dance hall, and people sit around smoking and talking. People sit here to have a break, and even if you have never met any of them before, you are likely to be approached and greeted as if you were a good friend. After a while, everybody goes back to the dance floor and new people occupy the smoking area. The majority of customers are quite young. There are no people over 40 and not so many in their 30s. The people on the dance floor look completely immersed and are obviously enjoying their movements. The music is so loud and the place is so crowded that visitors need to keep their heads very close to each other in order to exchange a few words. After midnight, the atmosphere within the club becomes even more exhilarating and emotionally charged. Everyone looks excited now, but in a couple of hours, after everybody has become very drunk, this exhilaration might easily switch from dance to aggression, from hugging to fighting.

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It is difficult to describe the atmosphere and excitement in the club with words. However, it is apparent that the degree of open self-​expression is rather unusual. One of our interviewees compared ‘London’ to other discos: ‘I go out with colleagues or with other straight friends sometimes. We were recently at one club with dancing and Karaoke on March 8th, for Women’s Day celebration. I  drank a lot. But I  didn’t feel like dancing the way I wanted.… I mean, at “London”, with the same amount of alcohol, I would be already … WOOHOOO!!! Flying over the dance floor.… But it is completely different in other places. “London” is like another universe.’ (Personal interview, May 2018) Especially younger customers (people around 20) appear to be almost addicted to ‘London’. One of our respondents, a lesbian girl aged 19, almost cried when she remembered the time when ‘London’ was closed for several months in 2017: ‘I cannot imagine my life without this place. Really! I don’t know what I would do without “London”. When it was closed for some time, I went crazy. I even started praying for its reopening. So stupid! But I didn’t know what else I could do. Thank God it was not too long. I hated it.… No, no, no!!! Not again!’ (Personal interview, April 2018) Even when taking into account the mood of exhilaration at the time of the interviews, many customers feel much the same way. A transgender girl stated that the club was a place to relieve tension and anxiety. According to her, she likes to get drunk in order to stop having to constantly adapt to her environment. Time and space matter a lot here: ‘I am going to “London” for that. It is useless at home and it is impossible in other clubs. I just don’t drink in these places because I am always on alert. I have to be. “London” is the only place where I can do it properly and try to forget this entire outside world.… And feel exactly who I am.’ (Personal interview, May 2018) Another respondent, a gay man aged 32, said that he was sincerely confused about the motivation for frequently visiting ‘London’: “It is

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quite mysterious why people come here. Speaking objectively, it’s an awful place. The interior is awful … the music is awful … the toilets are just … yuckkk.… No food.… Drunkards around.… But I would not trade it for any fancy restaurant.… Never!” (personal interview, May 2018). Caillois’s concept of the festival might help to explain the attraction and attachment of many visitors to ‘London’. Again referring to Durkheim, he tried to relieve the notion of the festival of its mythological and religious content: Without doubt, a ritualistic meaning can be denied to the excesses of the festival, and they can be considered merely as discharges of energy. ‘In this way, one is outside the restraints of the ordinary conditions of existence,’ writes Durkheim, ‘and one is so adjusted to it that he places himself beyond the bounds of ordinary morality.’ To be sure, the unrestrained movement and exuberance of the festival corresponds to a kind of de-​tumescent impulse. (Caillois, 1959: 100) This metaphor of getting rid of something excessive also corresponds to George Bataille’s (1988) ideas of transgression and irrational waste. Indeed, Caillois expresses his gratitude to Bataille, saying that some parts of his Man and the sacred cannot be separated from his conversations with Bataille on festivals (Caillois, 1959: 15). Certainly, a visit to ‘London’ involves a release of tension. Yet, the need for release does not explain this phenomenon entirely. In modern societies, there are a lot of other practices for taking a rest from the everyday, or ‘discharging’, like vacations, for example. What Caillois considered much more important for the authentic festival experience was the dimension of collective involvement: It seems to be a summation, manifesting the glory of the collectivity, which imbues its very being.… In fact, when these exhausting and ruinous festivals are abandoned … society loses its bonds and becomes divided.… They constitute an interruption in the obligation to work, a release from the limitations and servitude of the human condition.… But it seems that in the course of their evolution, societies tend toward indifference, uniformity, equalization of status, and relaxation of tensions. The complexity of the social organism, to the degree that it is admitted, is less tolerant of interruption of the ordinary

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course of life. Everything must continue today the same as yesterday, and tomorrow as today. The festival is then succeeded by the vacation. To be sure, it is always a time of free activity, of interruption in the pattern of work, but it is a phase of relaxation, not paroxysm. The values are found to be completely reversed.… unlike the festival, vacations constitute not the flow of collective life but its ebb. (Caillois, 1959: 126–​7) The sense of such a thing as an LGBT ‘community’ becomes very important here. As previous research has shown, a specific LGBT community began to develop in Kyrgyzstan in the late 1990s (Kirey and Wilkinson, 2010). Local activists and international networks invested time and effort in creating a new sense of belonging and identity among people considering themselves as sexual minorities. Our interviews demonstrated that such an identity is extremely valuable for many of our respondents. This is not directly connected to only their sexual life. One of our interviewees, a 24-​year-​old gay respondent, compared visiting ‘London’ to dating practices: ‘Dating is different.… And it does not have anything in common with “London”. I  have never met anybody to date in the club. OK! Maybe once or twice in six years.… For sex, I use the Internet and social networks. London is for having time with friends.… I mean really close people. Dating is more about sex.… I cannot say that I don’t have any relationships for that. I do! I have several partners that I  am seeing regularly, the attitude is important … and personalities of my partners do matter … but still.… You know … it is like … something technical. For my soul, for real contact, I go to the club! And I do it with the friends, not with the partners.’ (Personal interview, May 2018) Certainly, the use of online social networks influences the sexual life of many LGBT people. However, this does not change their perception of the club. The same respondent noted that many people who use the Internet for dating never come to ‘London’. He explains this with what he called their ‘internalized homophobia’, that is, the fear of accepting one’s own homosexuality and being publicly identified as gay. Not all MSM or lesbian girls identify themselves with the LGBT community. There are many who do not visit ‘London’. Yet, for those people that do go there, the nightclub and the time spent there can be

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described as a separate space–​time continuum (like the Foulcauldian heterotopia and heterochronia) that helps LGBT people to abandon their mundane reality full of tension and over-​control, and to instead celebrate their belonging to a community that makes them special and unique. Imagining an ideal environment for coming together with people ‘of your kind’ is a fuel that drives the nightlife at the LGBT club in Bishkek.

‘San Francisco’ Except for these specific occasions when people meet up at ‘London’, the everyday lives of LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan are full of tension and insecurity. It is not only a matter of choosing more or less safe spaces to navigate through, but also about choosing the right time or company to do so. Feelings of insecurity produce a level of concentration that forces one to be fully present in the here and now. Often, there is no time for entertaining memories and analysing the past; nor is it possible to seriously think about the future. This perception of time creates a specific type of space–​time where the imaginary future collides with a safe place to live. The idea of leaving Kyrgyzstan and moving to another country where one’s sexual orientation will not make one insecure and limit one’s freedom sometimes seems to be a kind of obsession, especially among younger members of the LGBT community. Many of them try to learn English and forge international connections. Yet, in many cases, the ‘imaginary West’ remains largely a matter of dreams and unrealistic plans. Respondents usually spoke about this possible future in an exalted and exaggerated manner: ‘After graduation I’ll just take my stuff and go abroad, probably to the US. And there my real life will start. And there I  will be open to everybody because there it is normal.… Not just normal –​it is even welcomed. For example, in San Francisco, there are the huge flags of LGBT [showing with the hands how huge the flags are]. When I’m thinking about that, I am like WOOHOO!!! I want to hang out! I want a nightlife! I want an ordinary life, and I want an ordinary person to be around, and I want him to understand me, and I want to understand him, and I want us to love each other.… And I know for sure that I will love him so much and he will love me.… I want to find my only man once and forever –​exactly like this! And I actually aspire

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to go there because of same-​sex marriages. Because people have different thinking there, and there, I will be able to realize myself.… I mean, in some business.… Maybe as a model or something else.’ (Personal interview, May 2016) This enthusiastic speech was made not by a teenager, but by a young man aged 20 in his third year at university. Both his enthusiasm and the set of beliefs that inspire it are very typical for young LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan. The question here is not so much an image of the ‘West’, whether based on stereotypical ideas of a totally open and tolerant society or on actual knowledge. Rather, the main point is the faith in some ideal place where happiness is possible because the ‘otherness’ of one’s personality is fully accepted. Along with these narratives of a gay paradise in the West, there are other stories that are structurally identical to them, though their content is rather opposite. Some of our young respondents permanently speak about leading a ‘normal’ life in their future, which is necessarily related to the idea of an ordinary heterosexual family. A young lesbian girl aged 20 had been involved in serious relationships with women twice and was on the way to her third romance with a girl. She remarked that she had never had sex with a male because men were not attractive to her. Nevertheless, she was planning to get married to a man some time and have “a normal family without all these passions, tears and betrayals” (personal interview, June 2016). In a similar manner, a young man who lives separately from his parents in order to have regular sex with other men described his future family life as a devoted husband and good father: “I will love my wife and I am not going to cheat on her. I hate this. And I am going to be a good father to our children. I believe I will make it and I will have a happy family. I’m sure I will!” (personal interview, May 2016). Again, this is not a question of ‘true’ homosexual preferences, and it does not mean that the sexuality of any person might not change at some time in the future. We found similar narratives among bisexual people and gay people with heterosexual families who were trying to build relationships with their spouses and kids. The point here is their very strong belief in the possibility of fixing –​in the future –​something that is presently perceived as completely wrong. All these cases illustrate an urge to be accepted and to meld in among other people as someone completely normal. In the ‘here and now’, it is just impossible. Hence, one’s desires might only come true in the future. For the time being, they are confined to the place of one’s imagination. This imagined space–​time continuum is an ideal

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securityscape without any threats or dangers, that is, a continuum that is welcoming for everyone.

Conclusion: utopia, heterotopia and everyday security Our analysis shows that the perception of space and time among LGBT people in contemporary Kyrgyzstan can be described with reference to various types of securityscapes. The first one involves the space–​time continuum of mundane everyday life. This is the space and time shared by the majority of people. It is defined by a measurable timeline directed from the past to the future and consists of various spaces of vulnerability. Navigating these spaces requires the individual to adapt to the norms and rules of territories, and to mobilize the resources of social networks on different scales (Etzold and Sakdapolrak, 2016; Bagdasarova, 2018). Mimicry, avoidance and the negotiation of boundaries are the main strategies of everyday security practices on this continuum (von Boemcken et  al, 2018). For the majority of LGBT people, it is associated with a high level of stress and constant self-​control. Besides this securityscape, there are various continua that might be described as ‘other spaces’ in Foucauldian terms (Foucault, 1984). First of all, there are the heterotopias of friendly NGOs or private apartments that are more or less separated from the intrusive norms and rules of the ‘outside world’. Inside these definite spatial boundaries, it becomes possible to break the rules. Nevertheless, such ‘private’ heterotopias remain part of the same time flow and can thus, in many ways, be regarded as an extension of the continuum of everyday life. By contrast, the heterotopia of the community nightclub ‘London’ is connected to a certain heterochronia, namely, the ‘time of festival’. Herein, all obligations of everyday life become suspended as its rules and norms are transgressed. The territory of the club, together with this special time, constitutes a continuum that can be considered as completely separate. The place of the club does not simply exist in a heterotopic reality; it also contains the utopian characteristics of an ideal community composed of special people, who share their very own set of feelings and meanings. Time stops here for a while and neither the past nor the future can penetrate it. Apart from the space–​time of the nightclub, which is created and reproduced for very special people celebrating their ‘otherness’, there is a further continuum based on the fantasy of ‘normality’ and

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the desire to merge with the majority. This is a pure utopia because there is no such place for LGBT people in the current reality of Kyrgyzstan. The time of this imagined space lies in the future. It evokes the space–​time continuum of a perfectly safe and secure environment where everyone is welcome and the usual threats facing LGBT people simply disappear. All of these continua are interconnected through the body, which is the main source and, at the same time, the main object of existential threats. The ‘dangerous body’ of an LGBT person does not fit into its environment; it looks different, it sounds different and it moves differently. Even if its outwards appearance may seem perfectly inconsequential, it is still in a permanent conflict over its unacceptable inner drives. To deal with any existential threat in terms of economic stability, community belongingness or spiritual interests means to situate the dangerous body of LGBT people in the right place at the right (suitable) time. This situation produces specific relations between people, space and time, which we have analysed as a structure of LGBT people’s securityscapes in contemporary Kyrgyzstan. Notes 1

2

Agamben (1993:  104) puts it the following way:  ‘For history is not, as the dominant ideology would have it, man’s servitude to continuous linear time, but man’s liberation from it: the time of history and the cairós, in which man by his own initiative, grasps favourable opportunity and chooses his own freedom in the moment’. Using the concept of Kairos, Antonio Negri (2003) built a new ontology based on the idea of time instead of a spatial inverse. He also connected it to moments of ‘flights’ out of history, freedom and liberated subjectivity. The search for a secure place to be ‘authentic’ does not have (from our point of view) anything in common with any ‘irreducible’ biological basis of homosexuality or an essentialist approach to LGBT identity. It is a simple fact that was revealed in the course of our field research. We do not try to provide an explanation for this phenomenon, but, instead, simply try to describe it through the lens of securityscapes.

References

Agamben, G. (1993) Infancy and history, New York, NY: Verso. Azzatyk (2015) ‘Labrys zayavila o napadenii na svoi ofis v Bishkeke’ [‘Labrys announced an attack on its office in Bishkek’], https://​rus. azattyk.org/​a/​26948520.html Bagdasarova, N. (2018) ‘Securing an LGBT identity in Kyrgyzstan: case studies from Bishkek and Osh’, International Quarterly for Asian Studies, 49(1/​2): 17–​40.

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Bataille, G. (1988) The accursed share: An essay on general economy (vol 1), New York, NY: Zone Books. Bauman, Z. (1999) In search of politics, Cambridge: Polity Press. Caillois, R. (1959) Man and the sacred, Illinois, IL: The Free Press of Glencoe. Etzold, B. and Sakdapolrak, P. (2016) ‘Socio-​spatialities of vulnerability:  towards a polymorphic perspective in vulnerability research’, DIE ERDE, 147(4): 234–​51. Foucault, M. (1984) ‘Of other spaces:  utopias and heterotopias’, Architecture/​Mouvement/​Continuité, 5: 46–​9. Human Rights Watch (2014a) ‘Dispatches:  why life may get even more difficult for LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan’, www.hrw.org/n ​ ews/​ 2014/0​ 6/1​ 7/d​ ispatches-w ​ hy-l​ ife-m ​ ay-g​ et-e​ ven-m ​ ore-d​ ifficult-l​ gbt-​ people-​kyrgyzstan Human Rights Watch (2014b) ‘World report 2014: Kyrgyzstan’, www. hrw.org/​world-​report/​2014/​country-​chapters/​kyrgyzstan Kirey, A. and Wilkinson, C. (2010) ‘What’s in a name? The personal and political meanings of “LGBT” for non-​h eterosexual and transgender youth in Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 29(4): 485–​99. Kyrgyz Indigo (2015) ‘News release: a brief overview of the situation of LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan for 2014’, http://i​ ndigo.kg/w ​ p-c​ ontent/​ uploads/​2017/​03/​News-​release-​2014.pdf Kyrgyz Indigo (2016) ‘News release: a brief overview of the situation of LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan for 2015’, http://i​ ndigo.kg/w ​ p-c​ ontent/​ uploads/​2017/​03/​News-​release-​2015-​.pdf Kyrgyz Indigo (2017) ‘News release: a brief overview of the situation of LGBT people in Kyrgyzstan for 2016’, http://i​ ndigo.kg/w ​ p-c​ ontent/​ uploads/​2017/​03/​News-​release-​2016.pdf Labrys (2015) ‘Disruption of the LGBT human rights activities in Bishkek: chronicle of events’, www.labrys.kg/​en/​news/​full/​686.html Leap, W.L. (2009) ‘Professional baseball, urban restructuring and (changing) gay geographies in Washington, DC’, in E. Lewin and W.L. Leap (eds) Out in public: Reinventing lesbian/​gay anthropology in a globalizing world, Chichester: Wiley-​Blackwell, pp 202–​22. Lemanski, C. 2012. “Everyday human (in)security: Rescaling for the Southern city.” Security Dialogue 43 (1), 61–​78. Negri, A. (2003) Time for revolution, Bloomsbury: Academic. News Asia (2017) ‘Dva militsionera i zhurnalistka stali zhertvoi napadenia v Bishkeke’, 8, www.news-​asia.ru/​view/​ks/​companies_​ news/​10642 and www.youtube.com/​watch?v=hmXlHfqUa50

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Von Boemcken, M., Schetter, C., Boboyorov, H., Bagdasarova, N. and Sulaimanov, J. (2016) Local security-​making in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan: The production of securityscapes by everyday practices, BICC Working Paper, 5/​2016, Bonn: Bonn International Centre for Conversion. Von Boemcken, M., Boboyorov, H. and Bagdasarova, N. (2018) ‘Living dangerously: securityscapes of Lyuli and LGBT people in urban spaces of Kyrgyzstan’, Central Asian Survey, 37(1): 68–​84.

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Postscript: Towards a Research Agenda on Security Practices Conrad Schetter

Introduction This book has followed an explorative approach to detect securityscapes, which we understand as imaginary concepts that reveal themselves in everyday practices and highlight the spatial as well as conflictive dimensions of security. This explorative character is underscored by the high number and wide variety of case studies discussed in this volume. Our aim has been to study security from ‘below’ by putting the practices of the individuals concerned at the centre of our research approach. We have described and analysed different types of securityscapes of people who perceive themselves –​for different reasons –​as marginalized in their own society. Our intention here is to understand how individuals manoeuvre their everyday life through situations perceived by them as risky and insecure. We have explored a wide variety of insecure situations, ranging from vague and amorphous feelings of uncertainty, to concrete and explicit exposure to physical harm. Confronted with such security threats, our interest has been to understand security practices that find their expression in common routines of avoiding, separating, mimicking, hiding and so on. Through a collection of individual case studies, we present and discuss the security practices of diverging social groups. We included minority ethnic groups such as Uzbeks and Lyulis in the city of Osh, and socially marginalized groups such as the LGBT community, but also young females and interethnic mixed couples. As a general finding, our research detected diverging sets of repertoires of security practices

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and securityscapes for different social groups and communities. A key conclusion is that everyday security practices are framed, above all, by the positionality of the actors and very much depend on the very specific context of (in)security. The conceptual pathway of our research was pre-​structured by two distinct decisions: first, we chose the state of Kyrgyzstan as the common point of reference for our research; and, second, we focused on the everyday security practices of marginalized groups. Both decisions were necessary to make our different case studies comparable. However, we are aware that such decisions meant that our research excluded certain other aspects of security practices that might be of interest for future research. This is why some methodological and conceptual considerations, which we draw from the lessons of our explorative research experiences, can be conducive to further research on security practices.

On the national level All of the case studies in this book were chosen within the national context of Kyrgyzstan. Therefore, one might rightly ask questions as to why the level of the nation-​state became the focal point of our research on security practices, and why Kyrgyzstan, in particular, matters for investigating the everyday practices of security-​making. The simple answer to the first question is that very little research has so far been done in the emerging field of everyday security practices that combines security studies with anthropological field methods (Ochs, 2012; Jarvis and Lister, 2013; Salter, 2013; Stump, 2017). This is why we generally find that more empirical investigations of everyday security practices are urgently needed on all scales –​locally, nationally and regionally. While we chose the national level as a point of reference for this book, our research concentrates on securityscapes in local settings. It thereby suggests a possible alternative to the state-​level study of security. How does security play out in, for instance, a village, a town or a border region? Due more to an unexpected cumulation of case studies than to a long-​term strategy, three out of the seven empirical chapters presented here collected their empirical material in the city of Osh (see Chapter 3 by Atakhanov and Asankanov, Chapter 4 by Ismailbekova, and Chapter 5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov). As a result, through the prism of different individuals and communities, this book provides a set of varying narratives about diverging securityscapes in a single microcosm. Thus, the securityscape of an Uzbek manager of a chaykhana, for example, differs from the securityscapes of the

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members of the Mughat community (see Chapter 3 by Atakhanov and Asankanov, and Chapter  5 by Boboyorov and Atakhanov). In addition, the security practices of members of the LGBT community in Osh City differ decisively from those found in the ‘cosmopolitan’ environment of the capital, Bishkek (see Chapter 8 by Bagdasarova; see also Bagdasarova, 2018). By focusing on Kyrgyzstan, we departed from the pre-​assumption that the nation-​state decisively shapes the political institutions that define the inclusion and exclusion of segments of society, the arrangements of (in)security, and how violence is organized. However, we were aware of the fact that it is not only the nation-​state, but also the social fabric itself, that is decisive for social differentiation and the exposure of social groups to certain security risks. The chapters on ‘romantic securityscapes’ (see Chapter 7 by Myrzabekova) and on young women in Bishkek (see Chapter 6 by Oestmann and Korschinek) underpin this understanding that societal norms, values and institutions, which sometimes even contradict the rule of law imposed by the nation-​state, determine concrete securityscapes and expose some social groups (such as young females) to certain risks. Finally, we have to answer why we chose Kyrgyzstan as the locality for our empirical research and not another country. We treat Kyrgyzstan as an entry point for additional research on securityscapes, for it would be of great interest to conduct more empirical research in other countries of Central Asia or even across the entire post-​Soviet region in order to fine-​tune the concept of securityscapes. Still, the question as to what extent certain trajectories rooted in the historical past of the Soviet Union or even in pre-​Soviet times have an impact on temporary security practices remains unsettled. While the (pre-​)Soviet legacy has kept a legion of researchers busy over the last 30 years, we believe that particular everyday practices can tell us much about historically congealed commonalities and differences within and between societies. Concretely, it would be interesting to ask to what extent everyday practices of avoidance, which structured many of the securityscapes that we studied in this book, can be traced back to the same historical period of time. Another direction for future research would be to understand whether and how the security practices of certain social groups resemble each other across different places of the world. For instance, what are the similarities and differences between the securityscapes of LGBT communities in Kyrgyzstan and in other countries? Do LGBT communities living in either more liberal or more authoritarian/​ repressive states follow different security practices?

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On marginalized groups By choosing the national framework, of course, the question emerges as to what drivers define the social boundaries of a society and hence of social marginalization. Our approach targeted some groups that, due their intrinsic motivations, perceive themselves as marginalized in mainstream society. However, as the example of mixed couples demonstrates, we also included individuals who were not stigmatized per se as inferior due to their social status, ethnic belonging or sexual orientation. Some of the females involved in a mixed relationship belonged to the ethnic Kyrgyz middle class but were afraid of becoming socially marginalized or excluded from their families should their secret relationship be disclosed. They were sitting on the fence of marginalization. By focusing on marginalized groups, we did not address the securityscapes of members representing mainstream society, but we do see this as an additional field for future research. A comparison of the securityscapes of ‘ordinary’ members of society with the ones of marginalized communities might offer interesting insights into the emergence of everyday practices. On the one hand, one can argue that the security practices of marginalized groups (such as mimicking, hiding and avoiding) do not differ much from the practices of other social groups since the repertoire of available social practices is limited. On the other hand, we need to take much more into consideration the ways in which securityscapes relate to each other. This is a caveat of research designed to understand the dynamics, positionalities and trade-​offs between the securityscapes of various social groups. How do security practices, as well as boundaries and assemblages of securityscapes, influence, compete or even coalesce with each other? How do securityscapes change over time? This brings us to the final question: what role does the dimension of time play in the making of security practices?

On time This volume has focused strongly on everyday security practices expressed in spatial arrangements. The aim of this book was to understand the mental mappings, the spatial behaviours and the everyday routines of marginalized people. While gaining manifold insights into the everyday landscape of security, over the course of our research, we also realized the importance of the dimension of time.

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On the one hand, we have observed that securityscapes are based on past experiences. As elaborated in all of the chapters of this book, security practices revolve around the subjective life story of each individual, as well as the exchange of thoughts about past experiences with friends, colleagues and family members. Thus, to a large extent, lessons learned from the past provide fertile ground for everyday practices used in the present. Practices  –​even if they are counter-​ intuitive –​are mirrored against the past experiences of the individual and of his or her respective social group. However, what about the future? It would be a shortcoming to make reference only to the past if our research wants to understand the securityscapes of the present. Therefore, this volume includes two telling examples of how future securityscapes have an impact on the present situation. The first is that within the LGBT community, moving to ‘San Francisco’ became the virtual securityscape of the future, operating as an imagination of hope. As Nina Bagdasarova writes in Chapter 8, ‘I came to see some kind of “San Francisco” behind each and every story that I collected during my research’. ‘San Francisco’ represented the ‘dreamscape’ (Jasanoff and Kim, 2015) of the Kyrgyz LGBT community, where no security practices such as mimicking or avoiding would be needed anymore; it is the place where you believe you can behave as you are. In the words of one interviewee: “I want an ordinary life, and I want an ordinary person to be around, and I want him to understand me, and I want to understand him, and I want us to love each other.” However, such ‘dreamscapes’ should not only be seen as detached places of future aspiration (Appadurai, 2013), but also understood as having repercussions on life in the present and as part and parcel of everyday securityscapes. The individual might even need future projections to endure the present situation. This is why ‘dreamscapes’ should be seen as an integral part of securityscapes. The second example is given in Chapter 4 by Aksana Ismailbekova when she shows how Uzbek families secure the future of their children. A  key finding of her empirical research is that parents motivate their children already in kindergarten to learn the Russian language accurately. The argument is that they see the future of their children neither in Kyrgyzstan nor in Uzbekistan, but in Russia. Russia is seen as a space of aspiration for one’s own children to escape the uncertainty, insecurity and marginalization that determines the life of Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan. Russia is seen as a safe haven, that is, a place where one’s children would be free from all the limitations and dangers that they

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face in Kyrgyzstan. Moreover, it is a space of hope for a better economic life than the one available in Kyrgyzstan. One can conclude that in both cases, everyday security practices are enriched by certain existing, but extra-​territorial, ‘dreamscapes’, which have strong repercussions on them. In the case of the LGBT community, it provides the canvas on which the community can paint its dreams about what an ‘ordinary life’ might look like. In the case of the Uzbek children, the practice of learning Russian is legitimated and determined by the vision of an alternative life in Russia. Therefore, a difference between both imagined spaces is that members of the LGBT community of Kyrgyzstan are probably only familiar with San Francisco through vague stories and the media: it remains a utopian space. By contrast, many Uzbeks from Osh have been continuously migrating to Russia for many decades in order to work there. Their imagined space is thus based on the manifold concrete experiences of family members. Ismailbekova (2012) even argues that –​against the background of the recurrent ethnic riots in Osh City since 1990 –​the Uzbek community of Osh deliberately sends its young males to Russia for protection. This is why, for the Uzbeks of Osh, Russia becomes a realistic extension of their own securityscapes. In a nutshell, the difference between both future extensions of securityscapes is that for the LGBT community of Kyrgyzstan, ‘San Francisco’ remains a virtual space of possibility, while for Osh’s Uzbeks, Russia is a realistic space of probability (Amoore, 2013). Interestingly enough, the case studies in this volume discovered hardly any dystopias. None of the securityscapes made references to visions of the future that are seen as menacing or threatening. In the case of Kyrgyzstan –​as in all of Central Asia –​a certain nation-​state ideology that presents the ‘national identity’ as essentially threatened might be seen as a dystopia. From the perspective of the marginalized groups studied in this volume, any kind of draconian exclusion could equally be envisaged in the gloomiest colours as a dystopia. However, in our interviews, we found hardly any evidence of their imagining such dystopias. Therefore, one could conclude that their survival in the present is only possible if the future is seen as open –​or, at least, if they can hope for a positive change in the current situation. I believe that studying securityscapes provides a significant contribution to the overall field of Security Studies, which too often remains focused only on hard, state-​oriented physical security. Our aim is that Security Studies gives much stronger consideration to the concerns of people who are marginalized and oppressed. The issue is not only to bring their everyday practices to wider attention, but

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also to give them a voice. For sure, we hope that the approaches, concepts and methods that we have applied in this book can be of use for future research. References

Amoore, L. (2013) The politics of possibility, Durham:  Duke University Press. Appadurai, A. (2013) The future as a cultural fact: Essays on the global condition, New York, NY: Verso. Bagdasarova, N. (2018) ‘Securing an LGBT identity in Kyrgyzstan: case studies from Bishkek and Osh’, International Quarterly for Asian Studies, 49(1/​2): 17–​40. Ismailbekova, A. (2012) ‘Coping strategies: public avoidance, migration, and marriage in the aftermath of the Osh conflict, Fergana Valley’, Crossroads Asia Working Paper Series, 4, www.zef.de/​fileadmin/​ webfiles/​downloads/p​ rojects/c​ rossroads/p​ ublications/​Ismailbekova_​ Coping_​Strategies.pdf Jarvis, L. and Lister, M. (2013) ‘Vernacular securities and their study: a qualitative analysis and research agenda’, International Relations, 27(2): 158–​79. Jasanoff, S. and Kim, S.-​H. (eds) (2015) Dreamscapes of modernity: Sociotechnical imaginaries and the fabrication of power, Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Ochs, J. (2012) Security and suspicion: An ethnography of everyday life in Israel, Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Salter, M.B. (2013) ‘The ethnographic turn: introduction’, in M.B. Salter and C.E. Mutlu (eds) Research methods in critical security studies: An introduction, London and New York, NY: Routledge, pp 51–​8. Stump, J.L. (2017) ‘Studying everyday security politics:  a note on methods of access’, Critical Studies On Security, 5(2): 212–​15.

209

Index A Abdrahman, Farhat  55 abuse  85, 153 academic research  11–​12 Academy of Sciences, Tajikstan  11 adaptation  9–​10, 32, 37, 52, 92, 98, 186 in employment  104–​9 of female collectors  101, 112 Afghanistan  36, 93 Agamben, Giorgio  183 Agas  93 aggression  112 agricultural sector  50, 83, 95 Akbura entertainment park  105 Akiner, S  94 alcohol  50, 56–​7 Altybaeva, Ainura  71 Alymbaeva, A  51 ambiguity  11 American University of Central Asia  11 analysis  127–​8 Anderson, Benedict  34 Andijan Province  95 ‘anti-​terror’ operation  24 Appadurai, Arjun  8, 34–​5, 72 Modernity at Large  4 appearance  98, 147, 154, 186, 188 importance of  10, 105, 106 inconspicuous  118, 124, 133, 144 Arabic  75 Armstrong  157 authoritarian rule  2, 16 avoidance  92, 110–​13, 120, 144, 158, 164, 198 Aytmatov, Chingiz The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years  91

B Bagdasarova, Nina  11 Balujs  93 Bataille, George Man and the Sacred  194 Bauman, Zygmunt  36, 182 bazaars  2, 94

begging  94 behavioural patterns  118, 124, 139 belonging  24, 182, 197 biopolitics  7 birth certificates  see documentation Bishkek  8, 9, 10, 11 Boboyorov, Hafiz  11 Bolotov, Tegizbai  64 Bonn International Centre for Conversion (BICC)  11–​12 border issues  74–​6, 82, 109 borderscapes  4, 35 boundary-​drawing  6, 7, 8, 36, 109 ‘boundary guards’  157, 158, 165 bribes  48, 53, 66 bride abductions  118, 130, 133, 135, 154 Britain  154 burqa  101 Buzan, Barry  27

C cafe owners and elections  53–​6 cafes  2, 51, 58, 64, 67 Caillois, Roger  183, 194 Campbell, David  28 catering businesses  47, 51 CCTV  30 Central Asia  23, 25 borders in  35, 50 human security in  26–​8 people of  33–​4 Central Asian Survey  12 Central Eurasian Studies Society (CESS)  12, 14 ceremonies and feasts  103 Certeau, Michel de Practice of Everyday Life  32 children collecting alms  99, 100 children’s education  3 see also schools children’s future  8, 71, 72, 73, 76, 85, 207 clothing  see appearance

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Cohen, A  15 collecting scrap metals  94 concealment  104–​9 cooks  57 cooperation  9 Copenhagen School  27, 29 corporeal fluidity  10 corruption  1, 53 counter-​extremism  32 course of events  134 craftsmanship  93, 94 Cramer, Bert  33 criminals  53 Critical Security Studies  5, 27 cross-​dressers  187

D danger, experience of  2, 184 dangerous body  186, 189, 199 dangerous spaces  9, 100, 118, 132, 141 ‘darbadar’  99–​102 dating practices  195 daydreaming and escapism  8 deception  11 detention  102 Digard,  J-​P  93 Ding, Mei  36 discourses of danger  28, 30, 157 displacement  74 documentation  47, 48, 95, 101, 107 domestic violence  103, 118 door to door  99–​102 ‘dreamscapes’  207–​8 drug trafficking  26 Durkheim,Émile  184, 194

E education  17, 85 elections  53–​6 emigration, mass  75 Engelgardt, N  92 English, learning  196 ethnically mixed couples  4, 10, 15, 18, 172 ethnic identity  18, 32, 57 ethnic violence  3, 10, 17 ethno-​regionalism  1 ethnoscapes  4, 34, 35

F family, sexual violence within  132–​3 farmers  50 female collectors  17, 92, 94–​6, 98–​104, 109, 112 female migrants, abuse of  153 Fergana Valley  24, 26, 32, 73, 93, 95 festival  194

field research  12, 13–​16, 92, 96, 181 food and identity  3, 49–​51, 62, 64–​6 formal-​sector employment  104–​12 Foucault, Michael  7, 29, 182, 198 freedom  157, 184, 196 Functional Model of Interpretation Patterns (FMIP)  119, 122–​5, 135, 147

G gay men  180, 187 see also LGBT gender issues  7, 9, 118, 124, 148 Germany  11 Giddens, Anthony  32, 36 Goddard, V  154 Gorno-​Badakhshan Autonomous Region  16 grandparents  80 grass-​roots social movements  3 Great Britain  32 Grebenkin, A.D  92 groping  see sexual violence gypsies  95

H hair dyeing  57, 67 handmade articles  94, 95 harassment  see sexual violence Harvey, Penny  30 healing, fortune telling  94, 98, 113 Heathershaw, John  2, 24, 28 heterotopias  182–​3, 198 hiding  8, 9, 37 see also concealment higher education  96 hijabs  144 HIV/​AIDS  180, 189 Hoffling, C  125–​6 homosexuality  180 honour  154 housebuilding  95 human bodies  7 human security practices  see security practices/​securityscapes Huysmans, J  30, 31

I identification documents  see documentation identity concealment  104–​9, 184, 185 ideoscapes  4, 34 imaginations of the future  6, 10, 34, 85, 173 ideal place  159, 185 ‘San Franciso’  179, 180, 196, 207 inappropriate approaches  118, 128, 130

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INDEX

interethnic animosities  1 interethnic marriages  73, 95 interfaith marriages  156 international policy  23–​4 International Quarterly for Asian Studies  12 internet groups  3, 168 internet videos  153 interpretation patterns  121, 122 interracial couples  165 interrogation  48–​9 invisibility  11, 144 Iran  93 ‘Iron Curtain’  157, 180 Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan (IMU)  23 Islamic norms  104, 113 Islamic radicalisation  1 Islamic Renaissance Party of Tajikistan  24 Islamic schools  75, 84 Islamic State/​Daesh  23 Islamist terrorism  10, 23–​4, 26, 28 Ismailbekova, A  64, 208 isolating  8 Israel  30

J Jalalabad  1, 3, 74 Jani Kishtak  8, 95, 105 Jani Kishtak School  95, 101, 109 Jugi  92, 93

K Kasymova, S  155, 156 Kazakhstan  157 Kellner-​Heinkele,  B  74 killed/​injured  74 kindergartens  2, 71, 76–​8, 81 kinship relationships  95 Koch, Natalie  2 Korschinek  15 Koshghari  93 Kushelevskiy, V.I  92 Kyrgyz  1, 31, 94, 99, 100 language  71, 75, 108 male ‘patriots’  153 taxi drivers  102, 103, 113 women and sexual violence  117–​25, 141–​7 Kyrgyzstan  1–​2 government  31, 71 Inquiry Commission (KIC)  74 Kyrgyz-​Uzbek University  82, 83 Kyrk Choro  3, 181

L land  95 Landau, J.M  74

language courses  71 language skills  10, 58, 72, 107, 108, 111, 113 Laruelle, M  157 law enforcement  135 Lemon, Edward Critical Approaches to Security in Central Asia  24, 32 lesbians  195, 197 LGBT  4, 8, 16, 18, 180, 205, 207–​8 community  195, 196 everyday security  182–​6, 198 liberal political system  2, 16 Liu, M  75 living in the moment  159–​62, 173 Lyulis  8, 9, 17, 92–​4, 109

M magical powers  103 main breadwinners  17, 57, 95, 98 make-​up  see appearance marginalization  4, 9, 18, 205, 208 marriage  36, 73, 95, 138, 154, 156 marshrutka  109–​12 massacre  24 Mayring, P  127 Mazangs  92, 93 meals  80, 81 media, role of the  153 mediascapes  4, 34 Megoran, Nick  2, 3, 24, 33 men, behaviours of  128, 130 men having sex with men (MSM)  187, 195 methodology  13–​16, 96–​7 Middendrof, A.F  92 Mielke, Katja  33 militarised places  28 mimicry  7, 37, 185, 186, 198 and Mughats  92, 96, 100, 107, 109, 113 minibuses  80, 100, 102, 105, 109–​12, 132 mixed couples  153, 155, 156–​9, 158, 165 ‘mixedness’  156 mobile phones  102, 103, 113 money extortion  55 moral crimes  154 ‘moral panic’  155, 157, 165 mosques  96, 100 Mughab  8, 9 Mughats  10, 17, 18, 92, 94–​6, 205 female collectors  98–​104 language  107 Multani groups  93 multiculturalism  52 music  3, 50, 62, 64, 67 Muslim families  161 Muslim neighbourhoods  98

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N names, altering  57, 67, 98, 107 nationalism  3, 26, 30, 31, 52, 74, 84, 153, 157, 180 national security  1, 3, 25–​6, 30 Nepal  154 nepotism  1 nightclubs  3, 18, 180, 181, 184, 191–​5 nightlife  56, 67 night-​time  118, 130, 140 nomadic peoples  50, 93, 94 non-​governmental organizations (NGOs)  180, 181, 189–​90 non-​violence  110 Nookat  73

O Occidental construct  34 Ochs, Juliana  30 Oestmann, K  9, 15, 18, 35 Oevermann, U  121 official documentation  see documentation ‘On the Enticement of Wandering Gypsies to Labour’  95 oppression  110, 208 organized crime  26, 53 Osh conflict (1990)  47, 51 Osh conflict (2010)  1, 3, 30, 48, 49, 55, 73–​4, 92 Osh Pedagogy University  82, 83 Osh State University  82, 83 Osh Teacher Training College  108 ostracization  18, 95, 120, 135, 161

P Pamiri people  16 paranja (burqa)  101 participant observation  96 passengers on public transport  92 patriarchal society  118, 135, 137, 154, 158, 173 patriotic movements  181 personal documentation  see documentation Pevtsov, V.P  93 physical security  82 physical violence  155 place of residence  106 plot of land  95 policed areas  28, 30, 102, 103, 113 political elites  1 political speeches  27, 28 popular uprisings  1 postwoman  105, 110 President Akaev  52, 53, 64, 66, 180 President Bakiyev  52, 53, 67, 180 private militias  5 private schools  78–​82

property seizure  85 protection payments  66 public services  95 public spaces  105, 130, 191 public transport see minibuses  110 ‘purdah neighbourhoods’  98

Q qualitative research  125 quiet, being  144

R racist remarks  8, 166, 167 rape  18, 118, 120, 130, 133, 135, 154 see also sexual violence Reckwitz, Andreas  32 Reeves, Madeleine  32, 34–​5 regime change  28 regional identities  50 registered crimes  118 research in Kyrgyzstan  204–​5 research methodology  125–​7, 203 restaurants  2, 51, 62, 63 risk assessment and management  7, 118, 119, 128–​35, 158–​65 Rose Revolution (2010)  1 running away  18 Russia  8, 80, 83, 85, 181 Russian  57 Russian language  12, 51, 57, 75, 84 kindergartens  76–​8 schools  8, 71–​3, 78–​82, 85 ‘Ruszabon’  12 Rzhevskiy College  83

S safe spaces  8, 159, 185, 189, 207 ‘San Franciso’  179, 180, 196, 207–​8 ‘scapes’  4–​5 Schetter, Conrad  33, 36 schools  2, 71, 75, 78–​82, 84, 96 Schuyler, Eugene  96 seasonal labour  95 secondary schools  81, 96 secure future  17 securitization theory  28–​9 security companies  5 security of states  25–​6 security practices/​securityscapes  4–​6, 29–​32, 33–​7, 206–​8 and cafe-​owners  49, 53, 56, 58, 64 and LGBT community  181–​2, 196, 198 and Lyulis  92, 98, 104, 109 and mixed couples  158, 159 and sexual violence  117–​25, 141–​7 and Uzbek children  72, 76, 86 Security Studies  5, 24–​5, 208

214

INDEX

segregation  8, 17 sex education  138 sexual violence  118–​19, 122–​5, 128–​36 assaults  17, 102, 113 harassment  8, 18, 118, 130, 132, 137 shamanda  102–​4 shared values and norms  182 Shaykhutdinov, Renat  32 Sobolev, L.N  92 social institutions  25 social media  133 social mimicry  52 social networks  195 social outcasts  17 social status  108 societal expectations and influences  118, 122, 124, 135–​40, 147 socio-​economic problems  3, 33 solidarity networks  9 Soviet citizens  73 Soviet Union  50, 51, 66, 91, 93, 95, 156 space–time continuum 185, 186, 196, 197, 198, 199 state-​funded education  72 staying overnight  101 Stevens, Daniel  32 street harassment  see sexual violence students  57, 83, 96, 100, 179 Sughd Province  95 Sunni Islamic movement  96

T Tablighi Jamaat  96 Tajik  94, 96, 106 Tajikistan  155 Tajikstan  11, 12, 16, 95 Taliban  23 Tartakovskaya  165 Tartar-​speaking people  32 taxis  2, 132, 141 teachers  79, 95, 105, 109, 112 tea-​houses  51, 64, 96 terrorism  24, 32 textbooks  79 theoretical framework  119–​25 Thibault, Héléne  32 thieving  94 Thompson, Chadd  28 threat perception  128–​35 threat responses  141–​7 ‘titular nation’  48, 52, 62, 63, 66, 93 tolerant society  197 torture  153 transgender  9, 10, 180, 181, 186, 193 transportation  80, 82, 132 trickery  11, 37 Tulip Revolution (2005)  1, 29, 180 Turkey  154

U Ualieva  157 Uighur-​style cooking  65–​6, 67 Ullrich, C.G  125–​6 unclean bodies  9, 98, 109, 110 United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization (UNESCO)  50 universities  82–​4, 83 untouchability  98, 103, 104, 110, 113 utopias  8, 182, 185 ‘uyat men’  153, 158 Uzbekistan  2, 62, 75, 95 Uzbeks  3, 10, 64, 71, 75, 94, 204 and alcohol  56–​7 businessmen  51–​2, 53–​6 catering sector  48–​9 neighbourhoods  99 as parents  8, 17, 72, 207 violent clashes  1, 24, 48, 74

V Valikhanov,C.C  93 Vaughan-​Williams, Nick  32 verbal offences  132, 133, 155 ‘vernacular security’  31, 32 violence (Uzbekistan, 2005)  24 violence (2010)  31, 82, 106, 109, 181 violence against women  18, 137, 154 see also sexual violence Volga region  32

W Wæver, Ole  27 waiting staff  51, 57 whistling  see sexual violence widows  101 Wilde, Andreas  33 Wilde, Jaap de  27 Wilkinson, Claire  29 women  3, 18, 57, 102, 154 suppression of  137, 154 and violence  18, 117–​25, 141–​7, 153 see also female collectors work  83, 95, 104–​12

X Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region  36

Y young people  3, 83, 84, 100, 208 young women  4, 9, 18, 127, 154

Z Zarafshan Valley  92 Zhuan-​Zhuan  91

215

“This book opens new territory and is a must-read for anyone interested in Central Asia, practices of security, and strategies for survival and well-being.”

“Recounts perceptions and practices of (in)security in everyday life with engaging detail and conceptual sophistication.” Morgan Y. Liu, The Ohio State University

Nina Bagdasarova is Professor of Psychology at the American University of Central Asia. Aksana Ismailbekova is Senior Researcher at the Leibniz-Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO). Conrad Schetter is Director for Research at the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC).

Moving beyond state-centric and elitist perspectives, this volume examines everyday security in the Central Asian country of Kyrgyzstan. Based on ethnographic fieldwork and written by scholars from Central Asia and beyond, it shows how insecurity is experienced, what people consider existential threats, and how they go about securing themselves. It concentrates on individuals who feel threatened because of their ethnic belonging, gender or sexual orientation. It develops the concept of ‘securityscapes’, which draws attention to the more subtle means that people take to secure themselves – practices bent on invisibility and avoidance, on disguise and trickery, and on continually adapting to shifting circumstances. By broadening the concept of security practice, this book is an important contribution to debates in Critical Security Studies as well as to Central Asian and Area Studies.

Series Editors John Heathershaw, Shahar Hameiri, Jana Hönke and Sara Koopman

Edited by Marc von Boemcken, Nina Bagdasarova, Aksana Ismailbekova and Conrad Schetter

Marc von Boemcken is Senior Researcher at the Bonn International Center for Conversion (BICC).

Surviving Everyday Life

Florian P. Kühn, Käte Hamburger Kolleg/Centre for Global Cooperation Research

ISBN 978-1-5292-1195-5

9 781529 211955

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Surviving Everyday Life The Securityscapes of Threatened People in Kyrgyzstan EDITED BY MARC VON BOEMCKEN, NINA BAGDASAROVA, AKSANA ISMAILBEKOVA AND CONRAD SCHETTER