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Imagining Re-Engineered Muslims in Northwest China

While perusing the news from Northwest China in mid-April 2017, I came across a story about a Uyghur official who refused to smoke cigarettes in front of other devout Uyghurs. The Communist Party leader was publicly shamed and demoted for his failure to remain resolute in his “commitment to secularization.” Smoking, the state declared, was a personal choice that must be protected.By this logic, an individual’s right to smoke is thus a fundamental form of freedom: freedom to consume the secular. Smoking, like secularism, is a manifestation of the norms of Chinese citizenship. Any attempt at limiting it, in favor of respecting religious practices, is symptomatic of a social malady. The story, published by the Associated Press on April 11, 2017, reminded me of my own experiences of smoking with Uyghur friends.

It made me think of a time when I was smoking cigarettes with a Uyghur friend as we wandered the back streets of Kashgar. We were on the prowl for late-night bowls of hand-pulled noodles or laghman. As we walked down an alleyway leading up to the restaurant we happened across a neighborhood mosque. My friend whispered to me that we should turn our cigarettes away from the mosque, shielding the mosque from them with the back of our hands. Our palms cupped upward, the lit end facing away, we walked by the front of the mosque and continued on our way. “It’s a sign of respect to do this,” my friend said.

A common sense form of Uyghur morality is now being read as a kind of religious extremism. If you don’t smoke in front of those you respect, the state is saying it is fair to assume you are sympathetic to “those who wear the short pants.”

As I read through the story of the Uyghur official refusing to smoke in front of older men from his community, this memory came back to me. In both cases it seems as though we have indigenous, Islamic norms of respect and moral values being pitted against secularism and socially-mandated individual choice. A common sense form of Uyghur morality is now being read as a kind of religious extremism. If you don’t smoke in front of those you respect, the state is saying it is fair to assume you are someone sympathetic to “those who wear the short pants” (kalte ishtanliqlar); or what Uyghur villagers often refer to as “wahabi.” That is, you are someone who has been influenced by the orthopraxis of reformist Islam and now wears pants that end above your ankles in the manner of the devout. If you don’t smoke in front of your elders, you must be someone who has been influenced by the teachings of the Tabligh Jama’at, the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, Turkey-based Uyghur Salafi movements, or, from the state’s perspective, teachings that are even darker and more nefarious.

Reading the story of the shamed Uyghur official I was struck by something that the scholar Adrian Zenz said in the Associated Press version of the story. He said that what the state is attempting to do in Northwest China is “re-engineer” Uyghur society by removing any trace of Islamic influence. The type of human engineering he was referring to is, of course, a modernist, secular project. As Ann Anagnost puts it in the introduction to her co-edited volume Global Futures in East Asia, human engineering refers to “projects to create new kinds of subjects for political and economic transformation” (8). Often these sorts of projects are pitched as a kind of “progress,” as an emancipation of individuals from the hierarchical rule of the past. Often the goals of these projects shift over time, which is what makes the current situation in Northwest China one of “re-engineering” as Zenz correctly notes. Initially the “liberation” of the Uyghurs by the Chinese state, was one that intended to foster class struggle among indigenous religious minorities and, through this, call into existence a form of socialist equality and an erasure of historical differences. With the failure of the Chinese communist engineering project in the 1980s and the turn instead toward state-directed capitalism the project shifted. Now the promise of human engineering rests in the immersion of indigenous religious minorities in secular education systems. This secularization holds out the promise of sophisticated cultural and economic achievement through science, rationality and entrepreneurship. It also turns on the education of the consumer and the protection of the free flow of goods. These are the reasons why the consumption of cigarettes can become a locus of moral concern. By not smoking a Chinese state-produced cigarette in front of devout Uyghurs, the official was positioning himself in opposition to the engineering of the state.

Of course, for many members of an indigenous minority such an engineering project often feels much like a process of social elimination, in this case the elimination of Uyghur Islamic knowledge, history and religious institutions. As in other settler-colonial contexts (see Patrick Wolfe 2006), being forced to speak the language of the colonizer, prohibited from performing religious practice and compelled to perform secular rituals imposed by the colonizer functions as a form of epistemic violence and structural oppression rather than a liberation of indigenous minds.

A black and white reproduction of a Uyghur farmer propaganda poster from Mekit County, Kashgar Prefecture, in 1975. The caption reads: “Intellectual youth learning horse shoeing.”

The History of Uyghur Visual Engineering

By describing the forced smoking story as symptomatic of a re-engineering project, Zenz is pointing us toward the continuities between the current secularization project and the projects that were put in motion in 1949 that culminated in Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution in 1966. During that time hundreds of mosques were demolished, Uyghur mollas were disgraced and imprisoned. It was also around this same time that Uyghur farmers were mobilized as propagandists. As in other locations across the nation Uyghurs were tasked with producing an authoritative visual language while maintaining their status as productive members of society. In their leisure time at the end of the day, in county level art centers, they were taught to paint murals, posters and banners. The works of visual art they produced demonstrated their ability to act as ideological agents in mobilizing farmers in revolutionary socialist struggle. It projected the role they played in the proletarianization of urban elites (see the above image). Of course this art production was under tight party control, the national level cultural ministry dictated the parameters of what was to be produced to provincial level organs who in turn did the same at the level of the prefecture on down to the county. This is how art styles that focused on re-engineering the lives of Uyghur farmers first arrived in rural Xinjiang. As the Uyghur author Qıyum Bawudun (1997) has noted, beginning in the Cultural Revolution this new aesthetic style began to focus on the construction of a “moral” civilization that placed a priority on socialist-materialist ideology.

From the very beginning then, Uyghur farmer propaganda, painted by untrained rural Uyghurs for other rural Uyghurs, was focused on moral edification. It is easy to dismiss propaganda as simply a tool of the state for engineering the disciplined subjects it desires. But it is more than this. Propaganda can produce a style of seeing and acting in the world. Although the social reforms of the 1980s introduced new forms of commerce, much of the socialist cultural industry continued on, particularly in Northwest China.

In the decades after the death of Mao in 1976, the socialist cultural industry became a way for Uyghur farmer painters to achieve province and country-wide recognition in propaganda painting contests. Villages and counties competed against each other to see who can produce the most and the best forms of propaganda. Not only did this production promote the ideological agenda set in Beijing, it also became a tool of distinguishing the cultural acumen of local communities. As the successive waves of “hard strike campaigns” were put in motion in the 1990s to root out ethnic separatism, religious extremism and, after September 11, 2001, terrorism, Uyghur cultural production units were given even more incentives to continue to produce paintings and murals. This is why, even today, local propaganda production reaches the most basic levels of social life in Southern Xinjiang. Small children to elderly farmers who have never learned to speak Chinese understand what is being communicated in the paintings and murals. It is how the state communicates the vision of its project, how people communicate their own positions within the engineering project and one of the ways people learn how to perform within the limits of what is permitted.

An award-winning Uyghur farmer painting that responds to the Chinese President Xi Jinping’s 2014 call for the Uyghur masses to slaughter Uyghurs suspected of terrorism like vermin.

The most recent turn in this visual language, toward the support of the “People’s War on Terror” which was announced in by President Xi Jinping in 2014, has it’s own style as well. Much of it borrows from the counter-revolutionary imagery of the Maoist past. The representation, for example, of suspected terrorists as humans-becoming-vermin (pictured above) recalls the representations of counterrevolutionaries during the Maoist period. Because the new propaganda is now explicitly aimed at an Islamic target, there is also a “secularization” ethos to the new murals.  In these paintings the exchange of certain commodities are protected while others are prohibited. Yet despite these variations in the engineering project, capitalist secularism instead of Maoist socialism, much remains the same. As was the case during the Cultural Revolution, in our current moment thousands of mosques are being destroyed, Islamic teachers or mollas and their followers or talip are being imprisoned and placed in indefinite detention in political reeducation labor camps. Of course the rise of transnational communications that has accompanied the secular, colonization of the Uyghur homeland has also given rise to increased reception of global Islamic movements, and this, more than an intensification of indigenous Islamic traditions, is what is driving the Uyghur turn toward reformist Islam.

In what follows I will present a series of images of murals produced after the beginning of the “People’s War on Terror” by a single propaganda team of Uyghur artists in a village named Seghin Soget near the oasis town of Kucha.[1] Seghin Soget is known throughout the Kucha region as a center of religious life. There is even a popular saying among local Uyghurs that states that “the (religious) stability (muqimliq) of Southern Xinjiang lies in Kucha, the stability of Kucha lies in Seghin Soget.” As one Uyghur woman from the Kucha area told me, “They are true believers in Seghin Soget.” Viewing the current propaganda from Seghin Soget might thus be seen as symptomatic of how the most devout are being reimagined by the state. Along with the images I will provide an analysis of the themes and styles that emerge from them, followed by some concluding remarks.

Imagining Secular Uyghurs

“Interfering with the normal life of others by prohibiting them to listen to the radio or watch TV is an act of religious extremism”

The re-engineering of Uyghur lives begins in the home. One of the primary objectives of the state development campaigns in the late 1990s was bringing state television into the homes of every Uyghur. In many locations televisions were provided free of charge. Not only was this a way of communicating state goals, achievements and criticism with a mass audience, it was also a way of introducing commercial advertising centered around urban development and cultural sophistication. Television programing also allowed the state to control the dominant representation of Uyghur ethnicity through Uyghur language operas, talk shows, dramas and comedies.

With the arrival of 3-G networks in 2010 many young Uyghurs began to circumvent this centralized form of mass communication by instead relying on their smart phones for news and entertainment. As new Islamic teachings began to circulate on these same networks many Uyghurs began to see state television as harmful. Since it was directed against Islamic orthopraxy, and increasingly centered around patriotic programming, many devote Uyghurs began to abstain from watching it. Now, as this image indicates, people are being pressured to begin watching state media again. In some cases, certain propaganda programs such as the mini-series Anarxan, which presents Uyghur traditions as oppressive and in need of Chinese liberation, have become mandatory viewing.

“Forcing students to believe in religion is illegal religious behavior.”

“Prohibiting haram products is an excuse to interfere with the normal behavior of others.”

Engineering Uyghur minds continues outside of the home in the domain of education as well. For decades it has been illegal for Uyghur youth under the age of 18 to study religion. Teaching one’s children how to pray or encouraging them to fast during Ramadan has come to be considered a form of religious extremism. In fact, the education system has been set up in direct opposition to religious education. As has been widely reported, during Ramadan Uyghur children are forced to eat and drink at school; they are often held at school during prayer times so that they cannot pray on their own.

Of course, prior to the start of the “People’s War on Terror” in 2014, many parents sent their children to neighborhood teachers for an informal education in Islam. Now, basic knowledge of Arabic, is considered a sign of religious extremism. Children are frequently questioned by their teachers regarding their knowledge of Islam and their parents’ religious practice. Recently there have been reports of children being taken from parents suspected of religious extremism. This component of the reengineering project is called a rectification of Islam.

As in the smoking story that I used to introduce this essay, refusing to consume haram products is now also considered a political act. Since 2009, around the time the most recent turn to reformist Islam began, Uyghur men across Southern Xinjiang have stopped drinking in public. Many of them refuse to drink in private as well. This stands in marked contrast to the widespread alcohol consumption that existed prior to the most recent secularization project. In fact, up until 2009 anti-alcoholism was one of the main features of Uyghur-language state television programing and propaganda work prior to this turn toward abstinence. Now, with the implementation the “People’s War on Terror,” the state is taking a stand in support of free circulation of haram products as approved commodities, even while in other parts of China there are active campaigns against excessive alcohol consumption and smoking in public.

Engineering “Permitted Differences”

The anthropologist Louisa Schein (2000) has described the Chinese form of multiculturalism as one of “permitted differences.” This politics of recognition is premised on the role of the state in dictating the terms of religious and cultural expression. Indigeneity is thus subject to the sovereignty of the state; permitted differences are “a gift” allowed by the state. Any attempt to deviate from this gift of permitted difference is seen as a challenge to the state and thus a manifestation of what the state refers to as the “three evil forces”: separatism, extremism or terrorism. Since 2014 the enforcement of permitted differences has become a part of daily life. It now invades the most intimate aspects of Uyghur sociality.

“Wearing ethnic costumes is a way of inheriting and carrying forward ethnic culture, wearing a burka is a betrayal of ethnic culture.”

“Discriminating against those who do not worship and do not fast by not eating the food they prepare is a form of religious extremism.”

The engineering of difference begins with engineering the appearance of the body. Uyghur women and men are now tasked with grooming and clothing themselves in such a way that they perform their identity properly. During the “People’s War on Terror” this means that Uyghurs are tasked with wearing doppa, the traditional prayer hat, that has come to mark their ethnic difference. Uyghur women are told to wear dresses made of etles, the colorful silk fabric we see represented in these murals, or mass-produced Western-style clothes made in Chinese factories. They are told that their dresses cannot extend past the knee. Dressing in accordance with Islamic moral convictions that deviate from this standard is not permitted. Not sharing food with those who practice their faith differently is also prohibited.

“Do not prevent others from playing music, singing and dancing at wedding ceremonies.”

“A nikah (Islamic marriage ceremony) without a marriage certificate is illegal.”

“Reading a talaq divorce (Islamic divorce procedure) without fulfilling legal procedures is illegal.”

The engineering of proper ethnic difference is also related to the comportment of the body and the regulation of intimacies between people. Since 2009, Uyghur marriage ceremonies have become a major source of contention. Around that time, the focus of marriage ceremonies as festive celebrations, on eating, drinking and dancing, began to shift to that of moral instruction. Since mosques are tightly regulated by the state, people began to use the ceremony of the marriage in courtyards of the home as a space in which to invite molla to offer teachings in Islamic orthopraxy. One of the outcomes of this shift in focus was a new reluctance to turn Islamic marriage ceremonies into festive occasions. Just as Uyghurs began to stop drinking, pious Uyghurs also began to stop dancing.

In 2014 the state began to intervene in these ceremonies, demanding that weddings include music and dancing. If state representatives did not observe dancing at the wedding the new couple faced having to pay a fine of over 3000 yuan. Islamic divorce procedures were also outlawed in order to prevent pious men from divorcing wives who did not meet their standards of piety.

“Teaching informal groups or the private instruction of talip (followers of Islamic teachers) is a form of illegal religious behavior.”

Of course the hand of the state goes far beyond marriage. It also regulates Islamic gatherings in general, preventing all forms of unapproved Islamic teaching. The indigenous practice of oral storytelling, of gathering to practice ecstatic Sufi traditions and epic performances of the history of Uyghur Islam are thus being eliminated. Or, perhaps worse, they are being appropriated for forced wedding celebrations and patriotic “healthy” dance parties, or saghlam meshrep, that have now become an obligation for Uyghur farmers across Southern Xinjiang. This of course has the effect of alienating Uyghurs from their own indigenous practices and knowledge traditions; traditional meshrep activities that centered on moral instruction have been labeled “unhealthy,” or saghlam emes. What might look like a simple gathering of neighbors is now a tense situation that is closely monitored by local officials.

Even in death there is no escaping these deep tensions.  Now a lack of audible mourning at funerals is now seen as a challenge to the parameters of acceptable difference. Funerals are seen as extremist if the relatives of the dead do not mourn loudly; yet, at the same time it is now illegal to hire Sufi mystics to perform the mourning ceremony as many Uyghurs have done in the past.

“Listening to illegal teachers is a form of illegal religious activity.”

“Prohibiting the relatives of the dead from crying and performing filial piety in the nazir (Islamic funeral rite) is a form of religious extremism.”

The Force of the Engineer

Another dominant theme that emerges from viewing contemporary Uyghur propaganda is the sheer force of the state. These images tell a story of surveillance and merciless force. Uyghurs who follow Salafi teachings are represented as dark, shadowy figures caught in the net of the machine of the state. The state in these images is a deep state with spies everywhere and technology that can observe every download every transaction. The message of this story is that the state is powerful. It has guns, police, ships and planes and seals, courts, laws and prisons. There is no escaping the sovereignty of the state. It is futile to resist its moral instruction.

“Unite as one heart, crack down on the ‘Three Forces.’”

“Build a net over the sky and traps across the earth (asmanda tor, yerde qapqan) so that terrorists have nowhere to hide, no way to escape.”

“The use of the Internet to download and disseminate violent terrorism audio and video content will be subject to severe (qattiq) legal punishment.”[2]

“Crack down on the ‘three forces’ to maintain social stability!”

Establish a legal consciousness, recognize the reactionary nature of the “three forces!”

The “three forces” that are continually referenced in these images of state force are shorthand for the “three evil forces” that the Chinese state has identified as the source of resistance to their re-engineering project. The three forces are ethnic separatism, religious extremism, and violent terrorism. In the Uyghur these forces are often referred to as “elements,” or unsurlar, a term that immediately recalls the counterrevolutionary rhetoric used in the Cultural Revolution to impugn all “black elements” that resisted the dominance of communist engineering.

By regulating the bodies and homes of Uyghur Muslims the Chinese state is attempting to assert its will in every aspect of Uyghur life. From raising children, to marriage and death the state is there to regulate Uyghur morality. It is there to dictate who you meet with, whose food you eat, what you drink, how you dress and whether or not you dance. The state is there to make sure you sleep only in approved locations. It is there to invade your home and make sure you have only approved literature, that your smart phone is “clean,” that there is not a surplus number of slippers by the door to your home. The state is there to tell you what is reactionary and what is secular; what is extreme and what is a permitted tradition.

The goal across this visual imposition is to transform the minds of viewers. By both demonstrating the promise of secular achievement and the force of Chinese control these images create an atmosphere of inevitability. Uyghur farmers seem to have no choice but to accept secularization and the elimination of unpermitted Islamic practices.


The state photographer Zheng Yanjing who took the images of these Uyghur propaganda murals lauded them as an example of the way “masses” of farmers in Southern Xinjiang have come to understand “the dangers of religion” (Zheng 2016). To his thinking, they are examples of how Uyghur farmers are engaged in a struggle for secularism against the tyranny of religious dogmatism. Of course, this is not the way the many Uyghurs I have spoken with about these murals feel. To their thinking, they are examples of the imposition of the state in their lives. These are images that make them deeply anxious because they demonstrate that in the eyes of the state all of them are extremists until proven otherwise. Unless they dance at weddings and refuse to practice their faith according to their convictions, they are suspect.

By the logic of this images, the way my friend and I turned our cigarettes away from the mosque as we walked by was a sign of our deference to religious extremism. The way we raised our hands and offered a prayer after a meal, the way we greeted each other with the Arabic greeting “assalam alaykum” was a sign of our lack of secularism. Every action in public and in private is coded in these ways. It is impossible to know who to trust. No one knows who will be arrested tomorrow and forced to inform on his friends and family. There is no recourse to justice. Guilt is easy to assign and impossible to escape.

As one Uyghur friend told me recently, “I am deeply worried about the safety of my family. It looks like they are targeting people of all walks of life. I don’t know if this is a temporary storm, or a long-term policy. It is definitely not sustainable. But maybe it does not matter to the party.”

There are often ways to resist human engineering projects. In small-scale communities, something Nancy Fraser (1990) calls counter-publics, people can often find solidarities in resisting ideological imposition. But in Northwest China the current engineering project seems so totalizing, so extreme, that it is becoming increasingly difficult to imagine a way out. It is becoming difficult to think beyond the state’s imagination of Uyghur Muslims.

This essay first appeared in the journal Milestones: Commentary on the Islamic World.


[1] All of these images were taken by the Xinjiang-based photographer and journalist Zheng Yanjiang for the state news organization Tian Shan Network. They are reproduced here with the stated permission of the photographer.

[2] This term, “severe” legal punishment, is understood to mean that there will be a summary judgement that will result in 10-20 years of imprisonment or the disappearance of those that are judged guilty.

Works Cited:

Anagnost, Ann, Andrea Arai, and Hai Ren (Eds). (2013). Global Futures in East Asia: Youth, Nation, and the New Economy in Uncertain Times. Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press.

Associated Press. (2017). “China punishes official for not daring to smoke near Muslims.” Published April 11. Viewed on April 14, 2017 at

Bawudun, Qıyum. (1996). Mekit Dıhqanlar Resimler Toplimi (A Collection of Peasant Paintings from Mekit County). Ürümchi: Xinjiang Fine Arts and Photography Press.

Fraser, Nancy. (1990). “Rethinking the Public Sphere: A Contribution to the Critique of Actually Existing Democracy.” Social Text, (25/26), 56-80.

Qeshqer Edibiyat-Senıti. (1975). “Makit Dihanliri Rasimleridin” (Paintings from the Farmers of Mekit County). Kashgar Literary-Arts, 5, 79-82.

Schein, Louisa. (2000). Minority Rules: The Miao and the Feminine in China’s Cultural Politics. Durham: Duke University Press.

Wolfe, Patrick. (2006). “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native.” Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387-409.

ZHENG Yanjing, (2014). “库车色根苏盖特村农民画笔下的‘去极端化’”(‘Extremism’ as Painted by the Farmers of Kucha, Seghin Soget Village).  Tian Shan Wang. Viewed on April 14, 2017 at

Book Review: The Sacred Routes of Uyghur History

This review first appeared in the journal Milestones: Commentary on the Islamic World on March 1, 2017

Rian Thum, The Sacred Routes of Uyghur History, Harvard University Press, 2014, 336 pp.

Historical scholarship on the Uyghurs often focuses on the imperial ambitions of the states that surrounded Chinese Central Asia and, in turn, the political intrigue that surrounded the emissaries of those states. Instead of asking how Uyghurs themselves imagined their community, these studies focus on relations of conquest and resistance and the gravity of wealth and power. Of course, the colonial domination of the Uyghurs is an important part of their history, but it is not the beginning of their story.

Rian Thum’s work seeks to amplify how Uyghurs themselves imagined their community prior to the state, prior to modernity, perhaps even prior to Islam.

Drawing on an ethnography of oral traditions and an extensive archive of sacred texts from shrines across the Uyghur homeland, Rian Thum’s work does something different. It seeks to amplify how Uyghurs themselves imagined their community prior to the state, prior to modernity, perhaps even prior to Islam.[1] In essence, Thum is arguing that the identifications of the Uyghurs are not centered around a national imaginary or ethnic community, but rather it was articulated through the oral recitation and amendment of sacred texts during pilgrimages to the shrines of the “bringers of Islam” (wali). Since the arrival of Islam in the tenth century (and perhaps even before this), the telling of the stories of mythic heroism and morality tales have functioned as a kind of collective memory that, in turn, has constituted, what I refer to below, as an “indigenous sovereignty” made up of social ties to land and to a constellation of people.

In Thum’s telling of this story, a lifeworld appears without being explicitly labeled as Islamic. He argues that the Turkic people that today have come to be identified as Uyghurs in fact have a complex history of attachment to land and to faith. The texts that were recited and amended during shrine pilgrimages served as founding myths that rooted people in place, much as centralized Islamic political, legal and religious formal institutions shaped contemporaneous Islamic societies elsewhere. The geographic and political isolation of the Turkic population of Chinese Central Asia coupled with pre-Islamic animist knowledge systems allowed shrines to function as informal institutional opportunities for popular participation in communal authorship. Thum argues that this performative aspect of Uyghur Islamic cultural life led to a powerful fixing of meaning to points in space (123). Sacred spaces and the practices associated with them thus tied people to the earth and to each other in profound ways. Through this, an element of timelessness was built into places in the landscape of the desert. Places themselves became sacred, not merely sites of first encounter with a new religious system. This place-edness made the production of history extremely intimate. Through this process history was made and the personal was bound to the earth; the past came to be understood as imminent in the present. In practice, the shaykhs who tell the stories of the heroes of the past, and the pilgrims who listen and question their telling, came to understand themselves as conduits of sacred history.

Some shaykhs still know the stories, as Thum shows us through beautifully rendered ethnographic vignettes, but much of the richness of Uyghur connections to the land and the sacred past has been lost through the ongoing process of Chinese settler colonialism.

Throughout the second half of the book Thum argues that the arrival of the modern nation state in the late nineteenth century had a deep impact on the Uyghur relationship to shrines. A new emphasis on literacy and other practices of knowledge production, profoundly altered the way Uyghurs began to conceptualize their position in the modern system of nation states. Not only did the state begin to control access to shrines and regulate the authority of those who care for them, new technologies and genres of communication began to fragment an indigenous reading of the past. Thum shows how in the 1930s and 1940s, around the time of the founding of the first East Turkistan Republic, Uyghur politicians used newspapers to circulate Soviet and Chinese inspired forms of nationalist Uyghur recognition.[2] Skipping ahead to the 1980s, he notes how sacred myths of Uyghur Islamic history were taken up again in historical novels that reflected the socialist realist ethos of what had then become part of the People’s Republic of China. The heroism of the “bringers of Islam” still circulates, but now it has been shaped by modernist politics and much of the participatory nature of communal story telling has been lost. Some shaykhs still know the stories, as Thum shows us through beautifully rendered ethnographic vignettes (21-22), but much of the richness of Uyghur connections to the land and the sacred past has been lost through the ongoing process of Chinese settler colonialism.

Thum is making a number of valuable contributions to the anthropology of Islam through this work. In the broadest sense he makes us consider the importance of internal migration and storytelling as a means of forming an Islamic society without the hegemonic force of formal Islamic institutions, prior to modernization and the presence of imperial powers. Reading this through the lens of Native American scholarship on decolonization, I see the social formation that Thum is describing as a form of indigenous sovereignty, or land-based claims to local authority. This sovereignty does not depend on recognition from a nation-state, the disciplining effect of dominant Islamic discourses, or the mass-circulation of print media. Sovereignty, or what Thum refers to as “identity,” can exist in other ways.

By presenting a model of decentering Islamic knowledge production, Thum is making an argument for the importance of analysis of Islamic societies that might previously been read as peripheral to centers of Islamic knowledge and power.

In order to draw out the work Thum is doing here it is helpful to see his work in contradistinction from other historical-anthropological investigations of the of Islamic societies, such as Brinkley Messick’s 1992 ethnography The Calligraphic State. In his study, Messick considers the relationship between writing and political-religious authority in Yemen from the late nineteenth century to the present. He argues that the use of texts, such as legal contracts and religious commentaries formed a discourse that sustained a complex social collectivity. Thum does something similar by focusing on the way manuscripts were deployed in shrine contexts, but unlike Messick he shows that in the Northwest China popular religious authority was not dependent on a formal education or legal systems. Instead people across a wide geographic space understood their history through the oral telling and textual amending of mythic stories of the past. By presenting a model of decentering Islamic knowledge production, Thum is making an argument for the importance of analysis of Islamic societies that might previously been read as peripheral to centers of Islamic knowledge and power. His reading of space, performance and the genealogy of religious authority thus has much to offer as a point of comparison to other deemphasized locations across the Islamic world.

Reading this through the lens of Native American scholarship on decolonization, I see the social formation that Thum is describing as a form of indigenous sovereignty, or land-based claims to local authority.

Methodologically, Thum is indebted to the genealogical approach of his advisor Engseng Ho. In The Graves of Tarim (2006), Ho narrates a decentered movement of a collectivity over hundreds of years around the Indian Ocean. He examines points of exchange that centered around writing and relatedness that allowed the Hadrami Yemeni descendants of Prophet Muhammad to find feelings of belonging in three distinct regions around the ocean and yet maintain cosmopolitan connections between these regional communities. As in Thum’s work, Ho draws out the tension between anthropology and history to uncover the way religion can bind people to place and across time and space. Thum builds on this approach by reading claims to space through points of encounter at shrines and in texts to argue that what has come to be understood as Uyghur identity was first built out of embodied encounters with the past. Thum’s multi-sited, multi-modal methodology thus shapes the way his theorization of social complexity emerges from the book.

From the perspective of an anthropology of the Uyghur present, Thum’s signal contribution is his forceful argument for the prior-ness of Uyghur sovereignty and religious authority. He is purposefully asking us not to think about the emergence of Uyghur identity in relation to Chinese, Russian or British imperial power or anti-colonial resistance. What Thum is presenting, is a genealogy of a Uyghur insistence on sacred space through a refusal to be reduced to a modernist ethnic identity. As scholars of decolonization such as Audra Simpson (2014) and Carol McGranahan (2016) have noted, “refusal is not another word for resistance.” Rather, unlike resistance to the state, it rejects external state and institutional structures in favor of the prior-ness of indigenous sociality. They, like Thum, argue that this insistence on a prior-ness to the state is social and affiliative in the way it calls a community into existence. There is a willfulness here. A politics of laying claim to the sociality that underlies human relationships.

Thum’s signal contribution is his forceful argument for the prior-ness of Uyghur sovereignty and religious authority. What Thum is presenting is a genealogy of a Uyghur insistence on sacred space, and through this, a refusal to be reduced to a modernist ethnic identity.

Given the sacred routes of their history, Uyghurs can thus see themselves as engaged with a prior system of knowledge, even as they inhabit the Chinese world of the colonizer. Since their history is not dependent on recognition from the state, an insistence on sacred historical spaces helps explain how limited forms of sovereignty persist despite efforts by the state to eliminate them. Understanding the role of shrines and oral traditions in shaping the Uyghur experience of the world gives us a sense of the stakes involved in preserving shrines both in form and function. Now as the Chinese state converts these sacred spaces into sites of consumption for Han tourists we see the sovereignty of the Uyghurs being challenged. Considering the deeply embedded nature of this older form of local Islam also demonstrates the importance for thinking carefully about what is at stake as large numbers of the Uyghur population begin to turn toward new Reformist or Salafi forms of Islam.

[1] In taking this approach Thum is following in the methodological trajectory of Ildikó Bellér-Hann’s Community matters in Xinjiang, 1880-1949: towards a historical anthropology of the Uyghur (Brill, 2008).

[2] For an excellent account of this transformation see David Brophy’s Uyghur Nation: Reform and Revolution on the Russia-China Frontier (Harvard University Press, 2016).

Works Cited

Ho, Engseng. (2006). The graves of Tarim: genealogy and mobility across the Indian Ocean. Vol. 3. Univ of California Press.

McGranahan, Carole. (2016). “Theorizing Refusal: An Introduction.” Cultural Anthropology 31, no. 3: 319–325.

Messick, Brinkley. (1992). The calligraphic state: Textual domination and history in a Muslim society. Vol. 16. Univ of California Press.

Simpson, Audra. (2014). Mohawk Interruptus: Political Life across the Borders of Settler States. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press.

The Best of 2016

Perhat Khaliq speaks to the audience at the Seattle Asian Art Museum in March 2016. | Photo by Lisa Ross

It has been something of a slow production year here at the Art of Life in Chinese Central Asia. Dissertation writing, conference travel and website development have taken some time away from producing new content. Yet we did have a chance to be a part of Perhat Khaliq’s first visit to the United States. And over the past year we have published a few new pieces, including a long-form photo essay on the work of the Xinjiang-based Han Buddhist photographer Tian Lin and an in-depth essay on the way Uyghur young people are using  social media to critique government elites and ostentatious displays of wealth. Both of these two projects were two of our top five pieces in 2016.

Below is a list of our top five most popular posts for the past year. Thanks as always for reading!

1. Ms. Munirä’s Wedding Gifts: Trolling Uyghur Elite Society

Back in April 2016 the daughter of a well-to-do Uyghur border official in Kashgar, a woman known now simply as Ms. Munirä, got married. Like many weddings of wealthy Uyghurs, it was an ostentatious affair. Since Uyghur weddings are often seen as the joining of two families, it is important that each family demonstrates their wealth and prestige. One of the key moments of this demonstration is when the bride wealth which is given to the bride’s family by the groom’s family is announced to the attendees of the wedding at a party that proceeds the wedding called a “big tea” (or chong chay). In many cases this is a low-key affair. But in some cases, as in Ms. Munirä’s case, it takes on the appearance of luxury product exhibition. In an extravaganza such as this, an announcer called a “box opener” (snaduq echish) proclaims to all in attendance what has been given and what makes the quality of the gift extra special while a relative displays her family’s contribution to the wedding.

2. Äskär: an Independent Uyghur Musician

An image from Äskär Memet’s 2015 self-titled album.

Recently a Uyghur intellectual told me that the most important representations of Uyghur life are in music. Literature and film are also important but because these cultural mediums have a shorter history and smaller industry among Uyghurs, music continues to be the main mode of expression that circulates beyond intellectuals and cosmopolitan urbanites into the homes of every Uyghur family. It is because of this that most Uyghurs encounter abstract cultural concepts through music and oral poetry. Since the 1980s with the introduction of the cassette and then in the late 1990s the VCD, music has become a ubiquitous form of cultural representation. Since music has such an important place in Uyghur cultural life, in this blog we have detailed the rise of pop stars such as Abdulla, Erkin, Perhat Khaliq, Ablajan and others. But these mainstream pop singers have not always been mainstream. In fact most of them owe the start of their success to an anti-pop star—the first truly urban, heavy metal Uyghur musician, the iconoclast Äskär Memet.

3. Uyghur Comedy, Abdukerim Abliz and Cultural Citizenship

It is difficult to understate the importance of the comedy of Abdukerim Abliz, the most famous of contemporary Uyghur comedians, in Uyghur popular culture. Abdukerim is a tall distinguished-looking man from Kashgar famous for his carefully groomed mustache. Like other suave comedians (Stephen Colbert springs to mind) Abdukerim not only embodies a masculine ideal, he parodies it. Yet for all his quick-witted use of language, metaphor and jaw-line, Abdukerim has something serious to say about Uyghur society. By making them laugh he is trying to mirror how his Uyghur audiences act, talk, and think about common sense issues in Uyghur society.

4. The Uyghur Restaurant Chain Herembağ comes to America

Back in April 2015 signs of the famous Uyghur restaurant chain Herembağ (Eden/海尔巴格) began to appear on the streets of San Francisco. A few months later, a location in Fremont was opened in a renovated hot pot restaurant with promises of a third Bay-area location in San Mateo. Like their restaurant locations from Beijing to Astana, Kazakhstan, the American version of Eden serves an upscale version of the traditional Uyghur pasta, lamb and rice dishes, as well as Hui-inspired northwest specialties such as Big Plate Chicken (dapanji) and Turkish-style döner kebab. To understand how Herembağ has the ambition and resources to plan to open 10 new restaurants in North America, you have to understand how it transformed Uyghur food culture in Xinjiang.

5. Buddhist Photography on the New Silk Road


An image from Tian Lin’s photography project in Yamalik, Ürümchi, 2004-2016

In this essay, I argue that Tian Lin’s Buddhist photography produces a politics of living otherwise. By reframing migrant life in the city Tian Lin is also demonstrating what a practice of living-with others looks like. In the following six sections I discuss how Tian Lin finds himself in the middle of the history and geography of ethnic politics between Uyghurs and Han, the resurgence of religious​ faith across China, and the emergence of documentary photography in contemporary Chinese arts. I then turn to Tian Lin’s images​ and the politics they signify. Finally I conclude the essay by summarizing Tian Lin’s photo project and what makes it significant in the art and politics of Chinese Central Asia.

The Art of the Bazaar: A Photo Essay

Every Friday Muslim migrant men fill the streets surrounding the mosque in the Ürümchi neighborhood of Black First Mountain (Heijia Shan). They come to pray. After the noonday (zohr) prayers and straining to hear the weekly message from the imam, they tuck their rugs under their arms and buy their meat for the week. Thousands come, Uyghurs from the countryside who are in the city working as day laborers in demolition sites or hawking goods on the streets, to perform their ritual ablutions and stroll through one of Ürümchi’s last remaining bazaars. For centuries bazaars and mosques have been a linked ritual space for Muslims in Chinese Central Asia.

After praying, Muslim migrants to the city tuck their prayer rugs under their arm and stroll through the Friday bazaar.

Following the protests and subsequent violence of 2009, this neighborhood was one of the first areas targeted for urban cleansing. The degraded housing of the nearly 10,000 Uyghur migrants in the neighborhood was leveled. Each family was registered or forced to leave. Those who were not expelled from the city were offered partially-subsidized housing in newly built 20-story apartment buildings as compensation for the loss of their former homes. In the summer of 2015 only two “nail houses” (dingzihu) owned by elderly Uyghur sheep farmers from Kashgar remained standing. By the autumn of that year they were demolished as well.

The “nail houses” of Uyghur sheep farmers in the Ürümchi neighborhood of Heijia Shan

As a result of the demolition of Uyghur migrant housing, the neighborhood has become one of the centers of recycling in the city. Recent Han migrants from Anhui and Henan have set up fiberglass, cardboard and glass sorting spaces. They traveled thousands of kilometers to the Central Asian frontier because they heard that work for Han settlers pays well and the rent is cheap so far from the population centers of the nation. For many of them, farming back in their home provinces is no longer a tenable livelihood. On Fridays their work slows, since the Uyghur scrap-gathers who supply them are taking time off to attend the mosque.

Han migrants from Henan secure a load of washing machines to be sent to a recycling center in the Uyghur neighborhood of Heijia Shan.

Uyghur second-hand furniture and appliance sellers have built ad-hoc warehouses on the margins of the demolition zone. Next to new walls and rutted dirt pathways they arrange their wares for migrants who come for the Friday market. Camels and sheep are slaughtered and eaten — roasted on skewers over open coal-fired grills — along the same pathway. Men gather in clumps and discuss the merits of kidney medicine, the newest smart phones, and the latest news.

A camel’s head advertises the freshness of the meat for sale at the market.

Plain-clothes police also come looking for wanted men every Friday — they scan the crowd looking for who has come to pray. Since the mosque at the center of the bazaar is known to be preferred place of worship for migrants and the homeless Muslims of the city, it is watched more closely than other mosques in the city. Every few weeks warehouses and restaurants are closed due to a lack of official permits, but still the bazaar goes on in the rubble of Ürümchi’s past.

Plain-clothes police also come looking for wanted men every Friday.

This photo-essay first appeared in the 2015 Social Science Research Council’s International Dissertation Research Fellow Photo Essay Competition