Suddenly, the Uyghur taxi driver could no longer wait as promised. It had all been smiles until that moment, when he received a series of calls on his cell phone. "Look, the road is fenced, didn't I tell you? You can no longer continue, today's rains have damaged the road. I turn around. You have to come back with me, or you are going to be stranded in the desert ”. By then, there were already five cars following us on the edge of the Taklamakan desert, in southern Xinjiang, on a lonely road. The one that was to take us to Imam Asim's shrine.
We decided to continue on foot. Behind the fences someone had hastily put up, the road was in perfect shape. But a couple of kilometers from our goal, half a dozen masked men, without identifying themselves, cut us off. "It cannot continue," they claimed, "because of the pandemic." The pandemic? There are hardly any cases of covid in China, nor has any been detected in Xinjiang for almost a year, we are alone in the middle of the desert, vaccinated and we have just tested negative in a PCR test. There is no perceptible risk of contagion. "You can't go on." See the sanctuary even from afar? "You can't go on." Could it be that the sanctuary is demolished? "You can't go on."
For centuries, the tomb of Imam Asim has been a traditional pilgrimage site for the Uyghurs, the Turkmen-speaking and ethnic Muslim minority originally from Xinjiang in western China. According to tradition, the imam was a military leader who died a millennium ago in a battle against the Buddhist kingdom that then existed in the oasis city of Hotán. The clay construction, surrounded by prayer flags of all colors, was one of the places recommended as essential in all tourist guides. Women who wanted to get pregnant came to pray to him to beg for a child. The peasants, good harvests. Its festivals in spring brought together thousands of families.
But since 2018, satellite images of the area only show an empty lot where a mosque was erected.
Only the grave itself seems to remain standing.
The Australian think tank ASPI, in its September 2020 report
Cultural Erasure: Tracing the destruction of Uyghur and Islamic spaces in Xinjiang,
lists the relic as "destroyed."
We cannot get to verify it.
The half dozen men keep blocking our way.
The vehicles that were following us are still stopped for several dozen meters.
We clearly have the upper hand to lose.
We give up.
Looks are deceiving
Normalcy reigns in Xinjiang, say the Chinese authorities. "Come and see for yourself," invite their spokesmen to foreign journalists. At first glance, it seems true. A closer look reveals that the picture is considerably more complex.
Embraced by the snow-capped peaks of the Tian Shan mountain range and the Kunlun massif, dominated by the dunes of the inhospitable Taklamakan desert - a former terror of merchants and the most experienced explorers, which buried entire civilizations under its sands - the present Xinjiang's Autonomous Uyghur was for centuries a melting pot of cultures, a key crossroads on the Silk Road. A millennium ago, Muslim armies and holy men made it an enclave of Islam. The Uyghur ethnic group, once more than 75% and today only half of the population (about twelve million people) after decades of immigration
have
(the majority ethnic group in China), has more physical and linguistic similarities with the Turkmen peoples of Central Asia than with the rest of the Chinese population.
It was not until the reign of Emperor Qianlong, in the 18th century, that Xinjiang - in Mandarin, "new frontier" - became firmly within the Empire of the Center.
In front of the Id Kah mosque, at the time of the prayer that precedes the Iftar, a young Uyghur takes a photograph with an impersonator of the Monkey King, hero of the Chinese fable 'The Journey to the West', on April 9 in Kasgar.Gilles Sabrié
Although within the empire it does not mean integrated into it. The Uyghurs - and the Kazakh and Kyrgyz minorities, among others - in Xinjiang maintained their language and customs; its adobe houses in winding streets; its cuisine based on lamb and bread; their Muslim religion. With the arrival of the People's Republic,
Han
migration
and the exploitation of the area's natural resources began.
The global war on terrorism, China's denunciations of the existence of radical Islamic groups in the region, and a series of ethnic riots and attacks - in 2009, in Urumqi, more than 200 people died; In 2014, a knife attack at the Kunming train station, in the south, left 31 dead and about 140 wounded - they changed the rules of an increasingly unstable coexistence. The 2014 “Strike First” campaign against terrorism, in which hundreds of people were arrested and dozens executed, was followed by the criticized re-education campaign in 2016.
More than a million Uighurs and other ethnic minorities, according to UN agencies and experts, were interned in re-education centers. Or, as the authorities describe them, “training centers” for learning Mandarin, civic notions and a trade, so that students expunge possible radical ideas and also can compete on equal terms with the
Han
at the time. to look for work. Having spoken with relatives abroad, having a prohibited application on the phone or having observed Ramadan could be some of the suspicious behaviors that motivated the confinement.
But since 2019, as inmates have graduated, some of these camps have been emptied, converted into boarding schools for teenagers or schools for Communist Party officials. Those who are still held in those who remain or have been transferred to prison are considered the most difficult cases. Having apparently determined that it has met its objectives and broken the Uighur resistance, China seems to have decided that the time has come to change strategy.
The West has increased its pressure on the human rights situation in this region: countries like the United States, the Netherlands or Canada accuse Beijing of “genocide”; This week, the Senate in Washington passed a bill that bans products from Xinjiang, amid accusations that some of the former inmates in the camps have been integrated into forced labor programs (something that China strongly denies). Instead, Beijing wants to promote the idea of a peaceful region where different ethnic groups live together in harmony. A region where tourists can travel smoothly to enjoy spectacular landscapes and the perceived exoticism of the old oasis cities. Local authorities expect more than 200 million visits to Xinjiang this year, up from 158 million last year. By 2025,they estimate to reach 400 million.
In the four towns that we visited over the course of eight days - Urumqi, the capital, and the oasis cities of Kashgar, Yarkand and Hotán, in the southwest of the region and with a majority Uighur -, the first impression is of that normality that proclaims Beijing. You can hear both Mandarin and Uighur spoken. In bazaars and markets, unveiled women sell the region's typical round breads, watermelons, blackberries, nuts; Men wearing
doppa
, a traditional Muslim hat, prepare pieces of meat or carve copper ornaments. Flocks of Uyghur children play ball in the squares; old men in white shirt and jacket go for a walk. Most of the males are neatly shaved; although from time to time some are seen (we count a dozen in eight days), beards are still a striking exception.
On walls and pergolas there are many posters with drawings of
smiling
Han
and Uighurs and messages about racial harmony: "Ethnic groups should be as united as the grains of a pomegranate", a saying of President Xi Jinping, is one of the most repeated slogans.
As in the rest of China in the days leading up to the 100th anniversary of the Communist Party, images of a smiling President Xi Jinping proliferate.
The logo of that anniversary, and other patriotic messages, appear ubiquitous in shop windows, LED screens in taxis, in the form of floral decorations in the most unexpected corners.
In the more touristy areas, groups of Han tourists stroll through the old city of Kashgar, the Grand Bazaar of Urumqi, or the Yarkand market, praising the tranquility seen in the streets.
A closer look reveals other details.
Striking a conversation is tricky.
Most of those with whom we try to talk avoid questions, or answer with monosyllables and vagueness.
Having communication with foreigners has been one of the reasons for internment in re-education centers.
And as in the vicinity of the tomb of Imam Asim, foreign journalists are constantly followed, by groups of men on foot or on motorcycles, who never identify themselves and do not answer if they are questioned.
But they are always close enough to prevent a free chat.
Security and silence
The presence of the security forces is more relaxed than three or four years ago:
checkpoints
have disappeared
on the streets of cities, and some of the "convenience stations" that proliferated in the last decade. But the police presence, in riot gear, is still constant. The entry and exit of children in schools is surrounded by security. There is still fear of an attack with knives: those used by butchers in their shops, cooks in their restaurants or even vendors who offer pieces of watermelon and melon in street stalls must always be chained to a fixed place. Refueling gasoline is an operation that requires patience: the car must be subjected to a thorough inspection at the entrance of the service station, where only the vehicle and its driver can enter; if there are passengers, they must wait for the next.
In Urumqi, entering residential complexes requires going through a facial recognition system.
Every few meters in the streets, circular plates, similar to a traffic sign, show a number: they serve to indicate the position by telephone and for the police to appear almost instantly in case of incidents.
In the capital of Xinjiang, in the immediate vicinity of any mosque there is always at least one police station.
Surveillance cameras are ubiquitous: inside taxis, inside stores, in restaurant lounges.
In the old town of Kashgar, many camouflaged with ocher paint, their cables behind lattices.
Police use scanners to monitor passengers arriving at Yarkand station on April 10.Gilles Sabrié
The need to scan the health radar application against covid is constant, much more than in other provinces in China. The reason does not seem so much the fear of infections, given the scarcity of infections, but as a control tool over the movements of each individual. In Kashgar, many portals display a QR code, which must be scanned every time someone enters or leaves and connects with the neighborhood authorities. Intercity traffic controls persist, although in less quantity - and less intensity - than just a couple of years ago.
Perhaps as scars from the re-education campaign, in the ancient city of Kashgar several houses display small signs on the door proclaiming in Mandarin that "this is a peaceful family" or "this is a civilized family." Others, with the padlock in place, carry a handwritten inscription with the Chinese characters for “empty house”.
As significant as what is seen is what is not. Absent from public life is any allusion to the Muslim religion. References to Uyghur culture seem limited to stereotypes of exclusively tourist consumption. In bookstores, titles are sold in the Uyghur language, mainly classics or volumes on general culture, food and agriculture. State television offers channels in this language, with series in Mandarin dubbed into Uyghur. But you don't see titles or programs specifically dedicated to promoting local culture; there are also no scores to learn traditional music.
In Urumqi, the Koranic inscriptions in Arabic letters have been removed from the exterior of the mosques. In Kashgar, only a handful of mosques retain their function. In these, the national flag flies above their domes and the inscription "Loving the Fatherland, Loving the Party" has been placed on the front; the rest have had their minarets torn off. In the prayer hall of the largest in the city, the historic Id Kah, the Islamic decorations have disappeared; only a vague shadow remains on the white wall.
In the four cities, cranes and bulldozers slowly devour the neighborhoods of traditional houses still standing. In Kashgar, Yarkand and Hotan, the old hulls have been demolished and rebuilt. Beijing says these jobs are necessary to ensure a better quality of life for residents. That old buildings are unsanitary, at risk of collapse in the event of a storm or earthquake. But in this frenzy, numerous mosques, and other cultural relics of Uyghur culture, have been demolished. The alleys leading to the Altun Mosque in the center of Yarkand have been transformed into a huge square; the old town of Kashgar, of special historical resonance for the Uyghurs and the first to be demolished around 2010, has lost its huts clustered one on top of the other; the adobe has become concrete,covered with a thin layer of clay or ocher stucco plates.
In Hotan, where those who followed us to the shrine will be hot on our heels as we leave the city, Imam Asim's tomb was not the only relic to fall. Where the tower of the Grand Bazaar stood, in June there was a large fenced-in wasteland. The popular Id Kah mosque in that city also disappeared. In the process of urban renewal, traditional Muslim cemeteries have been excavated and the remains moved. That this city seems particularly affected may be due, according to Professor Rian Thum of the China Institute at the University of Manchester, that the Chinese authorities "are particularly concerned about Hotan, because Hotan has a reputation for being especially conservative."
There the new old city, still under construction - and, like Kashgar's, with a certain theme park air - is proudly displayed. Between modern cafes and minimalist boutiques, the rebuilt buildings in Hotan display before and after conversion photos on their doors. And, above all the photos, the same message, in Mandarin and Uighur: "The decrepit has become new, we are grateful to the Communist Party."