‘Something innocent yet dangerous emerged’ … Yalkun and Rabia on their honeymoon in Mardin, Turkey, October 2020. Photograph: Courtesy of Yalkun Uluyol View image in fullscreen ‘Something innocent yet dangerous emerged’ … Yalkun and Rabia on their honeymoon in Mardin, Turkey, October 2020. Photograph: Courtesy of Yalkun Uluyol A moment that changed me Uyghurs A moment that changed me: I found a forbidden novel – it led to a dangerous, lasting love Growing up in the Chinese region of Xinjiang, romance was frowned upon – as was much of my Uyghur culture. But one day, exploring a strange house, I found a gateway to both worlds
Prefer the Guardian on Google M any people have a book that changes their life. For me and my wife, one book in particular changed our destinies for ever. We have been in love since we were teenagers, and today we are happily married – all because I accidentally discovered a forbidden novel in someone else’s house.
It was a hot summer’s evening in 2009, in Kumul, Xinjiang . I was 16 and my father insisted I accompany him to visit a distant relative, where they would spend hours chatting about the old days and feasting as if they hadn’t eaten in years. As the well-behaved teenager I tried to be, I sat politely, nodding at their stories and pretending to absorb their “life lessons”, attempting to hide my boredom. The living room, with its small windows and bright lighting, was unbearable.
Desperate to escape, I asked for permission to explore the host’s study, a room lined with hundreds of books. As I browsed the neatly arranged shelves, a seven-volume Uyghur novel caught my eye. Hidden in a corner, perhaps intentionally concealed, it seemed to call to me. I asked if I could borrow it. The host lowered his voice. “It’s a well-written book about the brutalities of the Cultural Revolution,” he said quietly. “It’s banned by the government. Don’t show it to anyone, don’t take it to school, and return it when you’re done.” It was titled Leyighan Bulaq (The Muddy Spring) and written by the famous Uyghur novelist Jalalidin Băhram.
We arrived home around midnight, but curiosity consumed me. I opened the first volume and couldn’t stop reading. I became obsessed with its characters – teachers in a rural area of my homeland – who endured forced labour, assimilation and political indoctrination. Centred on three young couples, the story was all about friendship, love and resilience.
View image in fullscreen Yalkun Uluyol in Kumul, Xinjiang, China, in December 2009. Photograph: Courtesy of Yalkun Uluyol Despite my promise, I decided to share the book with another bookworm in my class – Rabia, my closest academic rival and secret friend. We exchanged handwritten notes about books, our only way of “talking” in a conservative Muslim town where friendships between boys and girls were unwelcome. Rabia was very shy, avoiding me at school, but the notebooks we wrote to each other in created a private world.
I couldn’t keep this precious novel from her. Ignoring all warnings, I smuggled it into school and slipped it into her bag along with my notebook. “The friendship in this book is so pure,” I wrote. “I cherish our friendship the same way.”
We had exchanged notes before, but this time something shifted, something innocent yet dangerous emerged: love. Through our notes, we talked about the characters and events, gradually blending our own feelings into the discussions, writing as though we ourselves were characters in the story. On…