Bringing the mosque home and talking politics: women,domestic space, and the state in the Ferghana Valley(Uzbekistan)

Svetlana Peshkova

Published online: 12 August 2009# Springer Science + Business Media B.V. 2009

Abstract In this article I argue that domestic space has to be theorized as animportant center of religious practice and socio-political activism. Born-again anddevout Muslim women in the Ferghana Valley (Uzbekistan) use domestic space asan important sacred place for religious observance and socialization equal to themosques. This sacred place has a special meaning for born-again and devoutMuslims as it carries a promise of personal and social change. In the context ofreligious and political persecution by the Uzbek state, domestic space is experiencedas a politically safe place and as a critically important site of socio-political criticismand activism, as some intimate in-house discussions about religious, political, andsocial oppression take a form of public protest on the streets.

Keywords Islam . House . Socio-political activism .Muslim . Uzbekistan . The state

...we have a desire to go to the mosques, but in Uzbekistan only men go there.We [women] are not very upset because the Qur’an says that one needs to readwithin a group and we do just that at our meetings (interview, 2002).

Ugar used to be a street boy, you know, he was drinking, fighting, andsmoking. In 1994 something happened, I do not know what, and he began toread namoz [ritual prayer],1 study Arabic, and his life has changed, onehundred per cent. But he suffered because of his faith. He was set up by the

Cont Islam (2009) 3:251–273DOI 10.1007/s11562-009-0093-z

S. Peshkova (*)Department of Anthropology, University of New Hampshire, Huddleston Hall, # 310, 73 Main Street,Durham, NH 03824-3532, USAe-mail: speshko@gmail.com

1 Ritual prayer(s) performed five times a day (Uz. Namoz and Ar. salat) is one of “the five pillars” ofIslam.

police when the government was fighting against Wahhabists2 here. They[police] planted drugs in his suitcase. He ended up in prison. Now he is out butstill is a deep believer. You know, he was innocent. He was guilty of one thing:trying to change his life and live like true Muslim. Our system [government]does not want us to lead Muslim lives. If we do, they will stop makingmoney.... We are all set up in this country. We have to steal and live criminallives. Many people suffer innocently if they try to break away from this life.Our police officers do not know our rights. It [police] does not want us to knowand does not respect these rights anyway. All it [police] needs is money. I used tobe a driver. I know plenty. There were five young men in Margilon that werearrested as Wahhabists. There were no evidences against them. One of them waskilled, beaten to death. They [police] threw his body in the canal and some peoplelater fished his body out. Another one was raped.... When some people in Tashkent[capital of Uzbekistan] found out about it, they punished those officers who did it.But nothing has changed. Some Muslims in one zona [correctional facility] inKarakalpakistan, I know it for a fact, are political and religious prisoners who aretortured and live in inhuman conditions (personal communication, 2002).

In October 2002, a young man from the Ferghana Valley (Uzbekistan), 3 Ulugbek,told me this story. Like many other stories it demonstrates that consistent religiousobservance by some Muslims in Uzbekistan was suspect, read as a sign of politicalaffiliation by the Uzbek government whose abuses of power and persecutions ofdevout Muslims are well documented4 (International Crisis 2007; McGlinchey 2007;Kandiyoti and Azimova 2004; Human Rights Watch 2005). This increased religiousobservance by some Muslims is a part of a religious renewal in post-Soviet CentralAsia in which some locals transform from being culturally or secularly Muslim(celebrating some religious holidays or occasionally participating in religious rituals)to being devout. This transformation is expressed through consistent performance ofritual prayers, participation in communal religious rituals, observance of dietaryrestrictions, adoption of particular forms of covered dress,5 cultivation of pietythrough spiritual exercises (e.g. zikr)6 and religious education (cf. Mahmood 2005).

2 In my experience the term was used in the Valley in reference to those who (1) wanted to purify, to differentdegrees, existing religious practices from innovations; (2) were reported by the mass media (reflecting suchgovernment sources as the national security service [former KGB]) to desire an Islamic state by overthrowingexisting government; and (3) to those in agreement with certain principles outlined in theKitab at-Tawhid by Abdal-Wahhab (reported by one interlocutor to be available in the Valley since late 1970s). The term was also usedto slander one’s opponents and to justify the state’s authoritarianism by politicians and political commentators.Louw (2007:30–33) has a useful discussion about the state’s use of the term. Those referred to as “Wahhabists”were not, to my knowledge, the supporters or representatives of the Hanbali school (of jurisprudence) of SunniIslam widespread in Saudi Arabia. For a detailed discussion of Wahhabism see Algar (2002).3 My research was conducted in the part of the Ferghana Valley that belongs to Uzbekistan. The Valley isshared among Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. In light of the on-going persecution of devout andborn-again Muslims in Uzbekistan, the names of the interlocutors have been changed. When quotingindividuals I omit references to a particular city or village.4 On the theory of oppression and violence perpetuated by states, see Rashid Omar’s dissertation“Religion, Violence & the State: A Dialogical Encounter between Activists and Scholars.” DoctoralDissertation in Religious Studies, University of Cape Town, South Africa (December 2005).5 For women it is usually a scarf that covers one’s hair and neck (two scarves for some) and a long, loose dress.6 In this case a devotional practice that consists of repeating such phrases as la illaha illa’llah [Ar. there isno other God but Allah].

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These transformed Muslims I refer to as “born-again.” Not every inhabitant of theValley is Uzbek, not every Uzbek is a born-again, and not every born-again isUzbek. Local communities include several ethnic groups such as Tajiks, Kyrgyz,Koreans, Russians, Roma and Jews; among these are Christians, Jews, Buddhists,Hare Krishna, and agnostics. There are also Muslims who continued to be devoutbefore, during, and after the Soviet rule. There are atheist (born into Muslim familiesbut lacking belief in God) Muslims as well.7 In this article I focus on the devout andborn-again Muslims’ socially “active religiosity” that I, following Bayat (2005), taketo include not only increased religious observance but also socio-political activism.

I have heard stories similar to Ulugbek’s recollection of persecution and abuse inprivate conversations with local people and at several social gatherings taking place indomestic spaces. These included ihsons (ceremonial gatherings and feasts to expressone’s gratitude to God, to make special requests and to gain religious merit andblessing),8 life-cycle ceremonies, gap (gathering of one’s social network), mavlud(celebration of the Prophet’s birth) and dars (religious lesson) at local home-schools(cf. Kandiyoti and Azimova 2004). In some cases verbal criticism of contemporarylife in the Ferghana Valley was preceded or followed by public protests outsidedomestic space. At least three public protests took place during the second part of myethnographic fieldwork in 2002–2003. The participants in these protests suffered orfeared various degrees of the Uzbek state’s disciplinary action against them.

Following Foucault (1978), I take the state to mean an aggregation of variousadministrative and law enforcement institutions, constituted by individuals behavingin patterned ways. This aggregation has an authority to make rules that govern peopleliving within a particular territory (and beyond) and to enforce these rules throughtechniques of power at every level of social organization, such as the police, themahalla (neighborhood) committee and the family. Despite on-going persecution bythe state socio-political activism beyond domestic space continued to be vibrant in theValley. In 2005, one of these protests culminated in the massacre of civilians bygovernment forces in the Valley’s city of Andijan (Andijon) (Khalid 2007:192–198;Human Rights Watch 2005). In this context individual homes were safer environmentsthan other public spaces, such as the streets or the mosques, for expressing one’ssocially active religiosity through verbal criticism of the existing regime.9

7 These descriptive adjectives refer to various feelings about and ways of expressing in words and actingout one’s religiosity.8 The definition I use is a direct translation of the local women’s definition of these occasions. By hosting suchceremony a household (not just its individual members) gains religious merit and blessing. Similar ceremonialoccasions based on individuals sponsoring feasts in their homes or at the sacred sites take place in otherMuslimcommunities. For instance, in Malaysia, Bosnia, and Ajaria these occasions have been analyzed as a way ofestablishing and solidifying interpersonal connections and networks (see Bringa 1995, Being Muslim theBosnian way: identity and community in a central Bosnian village. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton UniversityPress, and Neuburger 2004, The Orient within: Muslim minorities and the negotiation of nationhood inmodern Bulgaria, Cornell University Press). In Turkish villages Mevlud celebrations have similar elements(see Tapper and Tapper 1987, The Birth of the Prophet: ritual and gender in Turkish Islam. Man 22(1):69–92). Abramson and Karimov (2007) translate ihson as “pilgrimage” (p. 320).9 Although McGlinchey (2007) suggests that there are limits to the Uzbek state’s control of local mosques,during my research Ferghana and Margilan cities’ mosques were not only patrolled by the local militsia(police) but also were talked about as “unsafe” spaces where the government’s informants abound.

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Gradually, after Uzbekistan’s independence from the Soviet Union in 1991, thestate’s inability to effectively control domestic space resulted in both secular andreligious authorities’ criticism of social and religious gatherings as possible sites ofconspicuous consumption and dissemination of not “politically correct and correctlypolitical” versions of Islam (Kandiyoti and Azimova 2004:337; Papas 2005:39). Thestate was relentless. A number of interlocutors pointed out that its surveillance ofdomestic space was on the rise in 2002–2003. One mechanism actively involved insurveillance of domestic space was the mahalla committee (see Bogner and HumanRights Watch (Organization) 2003; Massicard and Trevisani 2003); its representa-tives made informal religious teachers sign statements promising not to teach minorsand reported to the national security service office on various activities in theirneighborhoods. In personal communications some of these teachers complained ofgovernment informants among their students.

At female homosocial gatherings to which I was privy, there were often competingassessments of social life in an independent Uzbekistan. Some discussants insisted thatsocio-political and economic realities in the Valley and Uzbekistan at large should not becriticized, questioned and/or altered for the semblance of social stability. Others foundthe abuse of power by various state agents appalling and called the president a criminal(cf. Abramson 2000; Khalid 2007; Naumkin 2005). Yet others insisted that their socio-economic lives had improved and their ability to lead “better Muslim lives” increasedafter the independence (interviews, 2001–2003) (also Fernea 1998). While recogniz-ing this diversity in individual experiences of and opinions about religious observanceand socio-economic changes in post-Soviet Uzbekistan, I argue that the house has tobe analyzed as a critically important center of religious practice and socio-politicalactivism (both talk and action) in the situation of existing political opposition to thestate and the state’s on-going persecution of devout Muslims.10 In this article Idemonstrate that in such context the house must be theorized not only as the women’splace (e.g. Ridd 1981; Pellow 2003; Massey 1994), but also—and more importantly—as a safe place. I enter an analysis of the house as a safe place for born-again anddevout Muslims’ socio-political activism through a discussion of women’s religiousobservance in domestic space.

Studies of space and place are one lens through which to understand religiousrenewal and socio-political activism in post-Soviet Central Asia. Space is anessential component in theorizing social relations of subordination and domination(e.g. Rosaldo 1974; Ortner 1974), gender hierarchies (e.g. Ardener 1981; Bourdieu2003), social and individual power and empowerment (e.g. Hugh-Jones and Carsten1995; Erdreich and Rapoport 2006; Torre 2000), transformation of identity (e.g.Kondo 1991; Ong 1990), social change (e.g. Pellow 2008; Abramson and Karimov

10 There are numerous sources documenting the government’s persecution of the religious and politicalleaders and civilians, who by hearsay might be sympathizers or silent supporters of religious or politicalopposition (see http://www.eurasianet.org/resource/uzbekistan/links/uzrt916.html, accessed May 6, 2008;http://hrw.org/english/docs/2007/11/07/uzbeki17229.htm, accessed May 6, 2008; http://hrw.org/reports/2007/uzbekistan1107/, accessed May 6, 2008). The US Department of State refers to Uzbekistan as anauthoritarian state in its annual report on human rights practices (2007). Citing a lack of reliable data as themain reason this report is ambivalent about certain human rights abuses. The report recognize arbitrary on-going political and religious persecution by citing several court cases (see http://www.state.gov/g/drl/rls/hrrpt/2007/100623.htm, accessed May 6, 2008)

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2007; Henkel 2007), individuals’ resistance (e.g. Castells and Susser 2002), andsocio-political mobilization (e.g.Wiktorowicz 2005). I argue that in the first decadeof the 21st century in the Ferghana Valley, domestic space enabled socially activereligiosity of born-again and devout Muslim women and men, who inhabited thisspace in particular, understood as Islamic, ways (cf. Henkel 2007:63). When read asIslamic in terms of meaning, domestic space was then experienced as a sacred andsafe place as it carried a promise of change and thus enabled one’s cultivation ofpiety through religious observance and one’s expression of socio-political criticism.

My initial interest in born-again and devout Muslims in the post-Soviet CentralAsia stemmed from my short-term project in the city of Tashkent in 1998, where Imet and interviewed three Uzbek women claiming social and physical trans-formations, expressed through healing and increased social respect, as a result oftheir re-discovered faith. While researching existing reproductive practices in theFerghana Valley in the summer of 2001, I came across otinchalar (women religiousleaders). Their local importance was highlighted by the interviewees on severaloccasions. During the second stage of my research (in 2002–2003) in the cities ofFerghana (Farg`ona) and Margilan (Marg`ilon) and some surrounding villages(qishloqs), I identified thirty otinchalar but focused on five of these and theirstudents. I participated in various religious ceremonies and attend religious classes,interviewed about one hundred women and ten women’s husbands, encounterednumerous others, and held discussions with several male and female secular andreligious leaders. I collected a life history of a famous otincha (singular form of theword otinchalar) in the city of Ferghana, while being taught by her and otherotinchalar in the city of Margilan. I observed and asked questions while beingquestioned and observed by otinchalar and others. The code switching from Russianto Uzbek and occasionally to Arabic so prevalent in my fieldwork is reflected in thisarticle (cf. Abramson 2000).11 The prevalence of the former is in part a result of “theSoviet attempt to remake Central Asia” by linking general education and socialadvancement to Russian language (Khalid 2007:4). The use of Arabic can signalcertain individuals’ familiarity with sacred texts in Arabic, such as the Qur’an (as anUzbek interpretation of the Qur’an was often used), and with religious vocabularypertinent to ritual practice. It also reflects a growing competence in religiousknowledge by some of my interlocutors.

My access to female religious ceremonies and my lack of access to the religiousceremonies officiated by men explains my focus on former as a way of theorizingdomestic space. This lack of access in some ways impeded my research yet it also offereda unique opportunity to focus in-depth on women’s use and experience of space. In orderto fully understand this role of domestic space in religious renewal, below I offer a briefreview of geographic, historical, religious and political landscapes of the Ferghana Valley.

11 In the summer 2001 my research was carried out in Uzbekistan’s villages of Oltariq, Rishtan, Yasyavan,Okhunboboyev rayon, and in the cities of Ferghana, Andijon, Namangan, Kokand, and Margilan. During myresearch in 2002–2003 in the Valley I attended about ten ihsons (ceremonial gatherings to honor God and tomade special requests), three bushik toi (a celebration of the birth of one’s child), one sunnat toi (a celebrationof the boy’s circumcision), about ten iftors (breaking of the fast during the month of fasting Ramazan [Ar.Ramadan]), five weddings (kelin toi), six maraka (commemorating the deceased), about fifteen classes at thelocal home-schools, one taborak (ceremony before marriage), various gap and other meropryatia (socialoccasions) that included birthdays and social outings at the local restaurants and individual homes.

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Geographic, historical, religious and political landscapes

Post- Soviet Central Asia, a vast geographic territory, often referred to for various reasonsto as “Islamic,” or “Muslim,” (e.g. Eickelman 1993) includes five independent countries:Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan.12 Raiding the regionsince the 670s CE, Arab armies incorporated parts of Central Asia into the Umayyadcaliphate by the beginning of the 8th century CE. This marked a start in the long-termgradual process of the Islamization of Central Asia facilitated greatly by Sufi tariqats(spiritual orders) (Khalid 2007:25). The social formation of the region as a center ofscience, art, philosophy and Qur’anic studies, reached its pinnacle in the 15th century.Famous for rich scholarly and scientific productions in astronomy, mathematics,theology, linguistic studies, and architecture, the region became the backbone of AmirTimur’s (or Tamerlane) empire (Egger 2008). In the post-Timurid historical period, theFerghana Valley became part of the Kokand khanate and rose to prominence as one ofthe centers of Islamic learning in the region. The Valley was conquered by the RussianEmpire in the 1870s and came to be known as the Ferghana Province of Russia’sTurkistan Territory. As a part of the Soviet Union’s establishment of national republicsin the early 1920s, the Valley was divided between the Uzbek and Kyrgyz (Qyrghyz/Qara-Qyrghyz at the time) Soviet Socialist Republics (SSR) with a part later assigned toTajik SSR. After the disintegration of the Soviet Union (in the early 1990s) the Valleyremained divided among the respective nation-states.

Vibrant religious practices in the Valley were interrupted in 1927 by the socio-politicalcampaign hujum (assault), a systematic attempt to eradicate Islam (understood by theBolsheviks, later known as the Communist party, as an oppressive social system) andestablish a secular socialist state. Gender became a central trope of this campaign. Inthe name of liberating Central Asian women from the shackles of religious oppression,many mosques and madrasa (religious schools) were closed or destroyed, while someclergy were executed and/or exiled (Keller 2001:175–211; Northrop 2004; Massell1974). Shariat (an Islamic law)13 and customary law (odot) were to a great degreereplaced with secular laws that articulated principles of equality and assured women’sability to work outside the house. The newly created educational, professional andpolitical opportunities for women’s active participation in social life had mixedoutcomes and consequences on both social and individual levels (Tokhtakhodjaeva1995; Kamp 1998; Fernea 1998; Sahadeo and Zanca 2007:86).

A long-term result of this campaign was the formalization of some religiousactivities and institutions through registration and politico-economic control by thestate (Keller 2001:245).14 Other religious activities, including those taking place in

12 For the purposes of the article I accept the commonly used terms referring to the post-Soviet countriesin Central Asia, although locally and officially they are referred to in different terms, e.g. KyrgyzRespubllikasy, or Uzbekiston.13 Following An-Na’im (2002), I take Shariat (Ar. al-Shari’ah) to mean “the general normative system ofIslam as historically understood and developed by Muslim jurists… [which] includes a much broader setof principles and norms than legal subject matter as such” (p. 1).14 Kamp (2006) states that maktabs and madrasas in pre-Soviet Turkistan were also “supported andregulated by the state and religious foundations (waqfs)” (p. 79). In this sense the state has alwayscontrolled formalized religious practice and education.

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domestic space, became defined as informal and could not be effectively controlledby the state. Informal religious leaders, both men and women, continued to be highlyrespected reservoirs of religious knowledge within local communities. Theirlegitimacy increased with the decreased availability of religious education andreligious literature in the region.

The process of “recovery of national memories and national legacies” began inthe late 1980s and actively continued after Uzbekistan’s independence (Khalid2007:117). Religious renewal became an important part of this process. In thecontext of dramatic economic instability, institutionalized corruption and ex-Communist elites struggle for power (Liu 2003; Bazin 2008:10), the secular stateof Uzbekistan increased its control over religious activities considering these to bepotentially subversive (McGlinchey 2007; Khalid 2007; Kamp 2006; Babadjanov2004). Islam, a potent symbolic resource for the expression of one’s desire for justiceand feelings of dignity and “an organizing principle for oppositional politics” onceagain became a suspect for the state (Schoeberlein 2001:338). The state justified itsauthoritarianism by referencing “Islamic terrorism.” The Valley in particular hasmade headlines as numerous scholars, politicians and journalists, both local andforeign, began to refer to it as a center of extremist or terrorist activities (e.g. Olcottand Babajanov 2003; Lubin and Rubin 1999). In this context domestic space becamea critical site for the formation and expression of public and private religiosities andpolitical dissent.

Even if a relatively recent “strand of radicalism” referred to by some scholars as“jihadist” is present in the Valley (Khalid 2007:16), lived experiences of localMuslims cannot be reduced to “Islamic radicalism” (e.g. Rotar 2006). Local Muslimscontinue to imagine, feel and inhabit “being Muslim” in diverse ways (Marranci2008:3), including honoring and venerating sacred persons and places (e.g. tombs oflocal saints), remembering one’s ancestors with a prayer and an alcoholic beverage,observing uroza (ritual fasting during the month of Ramadan) and performing namoz(ritual prayers) and hajj (pilgrimage to Mecca), celebrating navruz (a first day ofspring, an historically Zoroastrian holiday) and using fire in ritual practices (e.g.Montgomery 2007; Abramson and Karimov 2007; Rasanayagam 2006; Privratsky2004; Khalid 2007:21–22; Gorshunova 2000; DeWeese 1994; Louw 2007). Thisplethora of practices continues to fuel debates about the proper “Islamic way of life”as part and parcel of religious renewal in the Valley. 15

Following Mahmood (2005), I take religious renewal to mean a broadly definedset of numerous associational activities centered on discussions about and practicesof Islam. These activities are not limited to “state-oriented political groups but [refer]more broadly to a religious ethos or sensibility that has developed withincontemporary Muslim societies,” which is also expressed through a “palpable publicpresence” of various religious symbols (Mahmood 2005:3). I expand Mahmood’sdefinition of religious renewal by including discussions about and desires for changein various aspects of socio-political and economic life in addition to discussions

15 Musil'mon bulib yashash in Uzbek means “Islamic or Muslim way of life.” This phrase was used byseveral interlocutors during the research, while others used the Russian phrases zhit’ po-Islamski andIslamaskij or Islamskaya as adjectives to describe their lives in general, some objects in particular such asvarious forms of covered dress.

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about Islam and spiritual exercises as techniques of producing disciplined subjects.Some of the Valley’s Muslim women inhabited and manifested this renewal not onlyby actively engaging in religious rituals and participating in various discussionsabout an Islamic way of life but also by taking part in socio-political criticismsometimes expressed through public protests.16 In one interview, a born-againdevout Muslim in her late thirties named Naina-hon vehemently stated, “We want toteach people how to zhit’ po-Islamski (to live Islamically, Islamic way of life). Thatis it. No war, no abuse of power...[We want a] khalifah, a religious leader likeMuhammad to be our government” (interview, 2003). Not all born-again and devoutMuslim women desired an Islamic state. One interlocutor stated that “[i]f we are realMuslims we do not need to be the government and the only authority” (interview,2001). Yet they all desired change in various aspects of their lives. This desire forchange constituted their socially active religiosities. Domestic space became animportant center for the expression of these religiosities and a locus of religiousrenewal in the Valley.

Domestic space and religious renewal

Since Uzbekistan’s independence from the Soviet Union, as a part of religiousrenewal a growing number of born-again and devout Muslims in the Valley havecome to understand their domestic space in significantly different ways (cf. Henkel2007). They invested domestic space with meanings reflecting their understandingsof Islamic values and norms, expressing these spatially. Nodira-opa, a born-againMuslim, decided to add an additional room for ritual cleansing (tahorat) in her houseand visually mark the direction of prayer—which was, according to her, veryimportant to many born-again and devout Muslims—by painting a representation ofthe Ka’aba on the wall (interview, 2003). Some Muslims marked the direction ofprayer with a particular poster or a calligraphic sign. Yet others replaced existingdecorations (such as various art paintings) with Islamic calligraphy displayingQur’anic verses or religious vocabulary such as bismallah (in the name of Allah), orposters, many featuring photographs of Ka’aba brought back from the hajj or boughtat a local bazaar.

Some local women understood their increased religiosity to also mean decreasedinteraction with strangers outside the house, thus defining domestic space as the onlyappropriate place for Muslim women. Although spatial rules inside and outside thedomestic space of born-again and devout Muslims both informed and were informedby a religious discourse defining the house as a socially appropriate space forMuslim women, these rules were understood, defined and experienced by differentindividuals, in different ways, at different times. The social reproduction of theserules depended not only on agents’ definition and experience of these rules (cf.Mahmood 2005). It was also reflective of changes in a larger socio-political andeconomic context, such as economic necessity and political repression by the state.

16 Khamidov (2008) also points out women’s active participation in the protests.

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Globalization “without capitalism” (Adams 2002:2), entered post-Soviet CentralAsia in the 1990s in the forms of growing state authoritarianism, crumbling localeconomies and industries, trafficking in women, increased migration, and contestedeffects of media industries (democratizing and not) (cf. Megoran 2002; Bazin 2008;Jobborov and Thompson 2002; Sulaimanova 2002). In the context of rapideconomic changes, local women became important wage-earners by venturingoutside the house and sometimes outside the country (cf. Tabishalieva 1998:98).Their acute presence in spaces other than domestic was different from Soviet timesfor two reasons. First, during Soviet times women were encouraged to work outsidethe house; after Uzbekistan’s independence they were not (Akiner 1997; Tabisha-lieva 2000). Second, all local men, unless disabled, had a job. If some womendecided to stay at home or trade at the bazaar, local men employed in various sectorsincluding collective farms and factories were considered to be the main bread-winners, both as a cultural expectation and as a result of their higher wages(although women often performed more physically-demanding labor such as cottonharvesting). In the 1990s and early 2000s these government-owned industries wereeither privatized or were unable to pay wages for several months at a time. Thus, inmany cases women became the only breadwinners in the families; if not it took twoindividuals working full-time and often more than one job to be able to provide forthe family. Devout or not, born-again or not, women had to venture outside thehouse in order to make a living, not as a choice but as a necessity; mainly nouveauriche women continued to exercise their choice not to work outside the house (Bazin2008:19).

Some born-again and devout Muslim women, who defined domestic space as theonly appropriate place for Muslim women, became the only wage-earners as aconsequence of their husbands’ arrests and detentions. Marfua, a devout Muslim inher fifties, reported in one interview (2002) that she had to go work “outside thehouse, on the streets” and sell doppa (headgear) that she made at the bazaar, despitestrongly believing that a “true” Muslim woman should stay in the house. Herhusband, a domla (here an informal religious teacher), also encouraged her to “stayinside” and leave only to visit her relatives and her married daughter. They lived a“modest and pious life” raising five children and caring for each other. He “used toteach local kids Islam” and was arrested in 2001 on the charges of “spreading leafletsagainst the government [containing antigovernment messages].” Marfua feared for hislife. She insisted on her husband’s innocence and accused local police of planting theevidence inside packs of cotton in the barn during one house-search, only to find itduring a second search. He was sentenced to eight years of hard labor in a “camp” inKarakalpakistan and she became “the mother and the father and the provider” to herfive kids by making a living through stitching and selling doppas (interview, 2002).

Thus, gendering of space inside and outside born-again and devout Muslims’domestic space was maintained through social practices. It was not absolute butinhabited by individuals in different ways, often informed by the state’s politicalpersecution and economic restructuring. These actors’ understandings and experi-ences of domestic space reflected material processes engendering these under-standings and experiences.

Individual domestic space in the Valley was dynamic. It changed size and shapedepending on the number of inhabitants and their marital status (cf. Zhilina and

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Tomina 1993). It was also transformed situationally; depending on the occasion aroom in an individual dwelling could be re-defined in terms of its function. One’smehmonhona (living or guest room) could be defined as a study room during a dars(religious lesson), as an eating area during iftor (breaking of the fast), or as a sacredplace during an evening prayer or religious ceremony. These transformationsmanifested the multivocality of domestic space, illustrating various meanings that ithad for its inhabitants and visitors (Rodman 1992: 643–647).

Individual domestic space was also multilocal; it was not experienced uniformly byits inhabitants and guests (Rodman 1992: 643–647). Socio-economic distinctionsamong individuals influenced experiences of domestic space: wealthy and poor born-again and devout Muslim families experienced their domestic space in different ways.The former were likely to emphasize comfort. They had the means to achieve it. Thelatter emphasized the simplicity of their new Islamic living. For instance, Shahida, aborn-again Muslim, was able to amass some capital for building a new room forreligious studies and observance as a result of her business trips to China and herhusband’s stable work for a police department. This room, in her words, would “makeeveryone feel more comfortable,” particularly those women who would like to avoidmeeting her husband when gathering for a dars or a religious ceremony (interview,2002). On the other hand, Ugar’s apartment’s (he is the born-again Muslim whosestory is narrated at the beginning of this article) striking simplicity both in terms offurniture and the quality of the materials used was explained by his understanding of“true Islamic living.” He stated that “a deep believer” did not need much. All heneeded was his “new wife,” who was a devout Muslim, “and God” (interview, 2002).

The meaningful features, such as marking the direction of prayer, creating a placefor ritual cleansing and separate rooms for religious observance and education,enabled the occupants’ socio-religious practices which, in turn, reproduced themeaning of domestic space for them as Islamic. When read as Islamic in terms ofmeaning, domestic space was then experienced as sacred, as different from otherspaces and places. Both the meaning and experience of space were not absolute.They reflected the agents’ understandings of being a good Muslim and wereinformed by a larger socio-political and economic context. The mutual constitutionof domestic space and everyday socio-religious practices was reproduced throughsuch practices as ritual prayers and Qur’anic recitations, which sacralized thedomestic space, while being enabled by this space.

Space, religion, and gender

Social relations within a given community both structure and are structured by theliving space (Pellow 2008:2; Tabishalieva 1998:18). The living space is gendered asthe relations between males and females in a given society inform the division ofspace into female and male domains (Massey 1994: 178). This has been observed invarious societies, such as Saudi Arabia (e.g. Doumato 2000), Nigeria (e.g. Pittin1996), Ghana (e.g. Pellow 2003), Afghanistan (e.g. Shalinsky 1980), Iran (e.g.Betteridge 2000), and Bosnia (e.g. Bringa 1995).

Socio-spatial dynamics during religious ceremonies was one example, on twolevels, of the gendering of space in the Valley. First, while both men and women

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could perform religious ceremonies in domestic spaces, and at sacred sites, only mencould carry out their religious observances and socialize at the mosques (Kamp2006; Troitskaya 1929). Second, religious ceremonies performed in domestic spacesby born-again and devout Muslims were homosocial; they were carried out bywomen and men in separated spaces. Competing discourses about Islamic“orthodoxy” and corresponding contextual practices and spatial constraints (suchas a lack of space in general) were some of the elements that reproduced thisgendering of space inside and outside the mosques.17

The Valley was not unique in terms of men’s connection to mosques and women’sconnection to domestic spaces and sacred sites; neither was it unique in terms of thehomosocial nature of religious practice by devout and born-again Muslims (e.g.Betteridge 2000:136; cf. Friedl 1989). Rather, it was the state’s repression thatamplified the importance of domestic space in the Valley not only as a place forfemale religious observance but also as a critically important arena for women’ssocially active religiosity expressed through religious observance and socio-politicalcriticism.

Particular sets of historical, socio-political and economic developments in asociety engender spatiality of women and men’s religious observance. In somesocieties, such as the United States, during congregational prayer the mosque isgendered with appropriate separate places relegated for men’s and women’s use:women can pray behind the men’s lines, in separate rooms, behind the curtain, on abalcony or in domestic space (e.g. Kahera 2002:128; see Holod et al. 1997). In theValley the mosque was men’s space. Some local Muslim women, such as Leila, aborn-again Muslim, were convinced that the “correct” understanding of Islamrequired women to avoid the mosque because women were understood to be morallyinferior to men and preoccupied with worldly affairs. As she explained in oneinterview (2002) “[i]n the masjid [mosque] our eyes will go where they are notsupposed to go and our mind will be distracted from Allah. We will be thinkingabout how much money she spent on that dress or this piece of gold. We will not bethinking about God.”

Whether it is explained through a reference to women’s moral inferiority, theirdangerous sexuality controlled by spatial separation (cf. Holod et al. 1997: 21), orthe code of modesty and privacy (cf. Kahera 2002:135), the gendering of space interms of religious observance is culturally and socially reproduced and contested byindividual actors inhabiting these discourses. Thus it changes over time (Low andLawrence-Zuniga 2003:12). Muslim women in different places and at different times

17 Asad (1986) defines Islam as a “discursive tradition”. The adherents of this tradition are activelyengaged in production of orthodoxy—“the establishment of a dominant version of religious tradition inspecific historical conjunctions through a discursive process that extends in time and space” (Makris,2007: 38). In the process of production of “orthodoxy” a range of opinions addressed gendering of space.Some interpreted sacred sources (the Qur’an and Hadith literature [Ar. ahadith – reports about sayings andpractices of the Prophet Muhammad and his companions]) as neither precluding nor fostering women’sparticipation in the mosque’s activities. Others insist that a house, not the mosque, is the most appropriateplace for women’s religious observances. [Here I am referring to the Sunni positions, as many devout andborn-again Muslims claimed to follow the Hanafi mashab (Ar. madhab) one of the schools ofjurisprudence in Sunni Islam.] These differing positions are historically contingent and are inhabitedvariously by devout individuals.

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continue to exhibit varied responses to defining the mosque as a male space. Someof them struggle to carve their place in the mosques (Egypt see Mahmood 2005),choose not to attend the mosques (Iran see Friedl 1989), have or build their ownmosques (China see Gillette 2000; Jaschok and Jingjun 2000; Somalia see Samatar2005), or use local shrines as “women’s spaces” (Bosnia, Iran, Uzbekistan: seeFriedl 2000; Gorshunova 2000; Bringa 1995).18 In the Ferghana Valley, definition ofthe mosque as men’s space went largely uncontested, as domestic space continued tobe an important center of women’s religious observance, where local womenreligious leaders (otinchalar) led them in constructing their identity as devoutMuslims (Kandiyoti and Azimova 2004:342).19

Women’s leadership is well documented in various societies, such as Indonesia,Iran, Philippines, Egypt, China, Kazakhstan and Afghanistan (e.g. Hoodfar 2001;Mahmood 2005; von Doorn-Harder 2006; Jaschok and Jingjun 2000; Horvatich1994; Shalinsky 1996; Privratsky 2004). In anthropological literature on post-SovietCentral Asia, otinchalar are variously described as female clerics/mullahs (Fathi1997; Kramer 2002); a distinctive age-group of elder women who act as guardians oftradition (Alimova and Azimova 2000; Corcoran-Nantes 2005); a mechanism offemale religious education (Constantine 2007; Kamp 2006; Kandiyoti and Azimova2004), women preachers (Sultanova 2000; Imamkhodjaeva 2005), and as amechanism of conflict mediation within local families (Gorshunova 2001). Thesewomen, important religious leaders, were capable of transforming domestic spaceinto a sacred place for religious observance on certain occasions in the Valley.

“We are the followers of Imam Azam,20 we are a part of Hanafi mashab [Ar.madhab, a school of jurisprudence]: that is why!” stressing every word respondedFeruza-opa, a famous otincha, to my question about women’s inability to attendlocal mosques (interview, 2002). In an interview, one respected informal malereligious teacher insisted that in his understanding of Hanafi mashab’s principles,only older women were allowed inside the mosque:

Only after they turn fifty can they attend the mosques, but they do not want to.They do not go. Some women brought this question [why they were notallowed to attend the mosques?] to our imams several times, but the imams didnot allow them to go inside the mosques based on odot [customary practices](interview, 2002).

18 In the Valley both men and women visit local shrines.19 I was told that in Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, a very small number of women did attend one ofthe mosques. Imamkhodjaeva (2005) refers to the prohibition on women’s attendance of the mosques inthe past tense. My feeling is that her data is gathered in the capital and also at the time when the regimewas toying with the idea of “safe” Islam (1991–1995). During my research in the 2001-2003 thisprohibition, both overt and covert, was still in action. Even if women in the Valley were to be explicitlyencouraged to go to the mosques, in my opinion, it would be a long term process until they decide to do soin great numbers.20 The word “Imam” here is used probably as honorific, referring to important and influential individualand religious leader. In general it means a prayer leader and a scholar. I take it to be a reference to Al-Imam al-A’zam, Nu’man bin Thabit bin Zuta bin Mahan, known as Abu Hanīfah (699—767 CE), thefounder of the Sunni Hanafi school of Islamic jurisprudence.

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Although Hanafi mashab was said to provide a theological rationale for localreligious practices (and Hanafi theologians and jurists neither prohibit norrecommend women to attend the mosques), actual religious practices in the Valleywere highly heterogeneous and contested (cf. Babadjanov 2004).

Be that as it may, other Muslim women and men cited neither Hanafi mashab’sposition nor odot as the main reasons for women’s absence from the mosques. Theystressed the issues of space rather than theological positions as important structuringelements of religious observance in the area. Another informal male religious leaderinsisted that the lack of physical space at the local mosques was the main reason forwomen’s inability to attend the mosques:

I agree that masjid [mosque] is only to be visited for praying to Allah. Men donot, and should not go to masjid in order to see women. After the Prophet’sdeath, men and women were separated. During his time they were not. Masjidis not a cinema hall. There should be at least a two-person distance between aman and a woman in a masjid. Our masjids are too small. They do not haveenough space and were not built to accommodate such mixed gatherings.Additionally, we do not have proper, sometimes any, facilities for tahorat [aritual cleansing ceremony performed prior to ritual prayer]. We do not haveseparate entrances (interview, 2003).

Those women who traveled outside the Valley, either for hajj or business, alsoagreed that a lack of appropriate space defined as women’s place was an importantreason why women did not attend local mosques. One interlocutor reported that “insome places where there is a separate place for women, women go. We saw it inMecca and Medina. But we do not have it, so we do not go” (interview, 2002). Otherwomen defined the mosque as exclusively male space, but did not feel left out asthey learned about various discussions at the mosques from their husbands(interview, 2002). There were some local otinchalar, such as Fatima-hon, who wereambivalent about existing gendering of the mosque as men’s place. She saw a choiceto go to the mosque as desirable but either did not care enough or was afraid tochallenge this gendering of space (interview, 2003). Although the interlocutorsproduced a variety of responses about women’s inability to attend the mosque, mostof them agreed that only in domestic space can women truly be a part of the faithcommunity and nurture their piety.

Historically, the hujum (attack) campaign and its consequences in the first part ofthe 20th century hindered any creative efforts in the production of women’s space inthe local mosques; especially the efforts by Muslim reformers in the late 19th andearly 20th century (jadids) to include women in a public life outside the house(Khalid 1998). In the post-Soviet period the initial impetus to re-open and constructmore mosques that could have incorporated separate physical spaces for women wasinhibited by the government’s fear of growing political and religious opposition. Theformal religious leadership—contemporary Muslim scholars and local imams—werereluctant, incapable, or disinterested in developing a legal position allowing orencouraging women to attend the mosques. A very small number of otinchalar, theinformal leaders, expressed a desire to attend mosques; a majority of themdiscouraged it. To encourage local women to contest existing gendering of spacewould lead to the loss of power by otinchalar as religious leaders to local imams, as

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women were not able to lead men and women in prayer at the mosque.21 Hence,customary practices, opposition from and reluctance of local religious leaders, and alack of physical space continued to construct mosques as male spaces and homes asfemale spaces for religious observance and socialization (cf. Rendell et al. 2000: 103).

Local women’s lack of access to the mosques constrained them from participatingin congregational life (if congregation includes men only) and worship. Yet, itsimultaneously enabled them to have religious and social experiences in other ways,as any spatial segregation both enables and constrains human action (Giddens andTurner 1987; Giddens 1984; e.g. Donley-Reid 1990). Rather than focusing on andcriticizing their acute absence at the mosques and their gender subordination(e.g. Bourdieu 2003), their presence in other spaces, their various encounters andexperiences, should be understood and theorized as spatially enabling. Furthermore,rather than resisting or promoting spatially enabled subordination and inequality(e.g. Massey 1994), many local women saw their religious practice and socialactivism in domestic space to be equal in importance to worship in the mosques, asthe opening quotation exemplifies, “The Qur’an says that one needs to read sociallywithin a group and we do just that at our meetings” (interview, 2002).22 ThisQur’anic based definition of religious practice detached from a particular physicalcontext and embedded in a social context (“within a group”) allowed local women toparticipate in religious practices and spiritual exercises (such as zikr) that nurturedtheir piety in the spaces other than the mosques. This piety was manifested throughvarious practices in the house, not only a private space, but also occasionally apublic place for religious and other social events.

Individual domestic space was one of these other important spaces. The mosquesin the Valley did not “have a monopoly on sacredness, since the dwelling place(among others) also [provided] alternative notions of sacredness and sacred places”(Kong 1993:353; e.g. Privratsky 2004:163). Local Muslim women, like men,conducted namoz (daily ritual prayers) in their homes, and participated in suchreligious ceremonies as ihson. Yet, domestic space had more symbolic importancefor the women than it did for local men: it was a space where they could developtheir social networks and construct their identities as devout Muslims by themselves,unmediated by men and formal religious and secular authorities. Women’s leadershipand agency made these places and activities critically different from, but equal inimportance to, the mosques.

These exclusively female religious ceremonies in the domestic space, officiatedby otinchalar, included elements similar to the rites conducted at the mosques:

When we get together at the ceremonies we read the Qur’an. Some womenmay cry. Others talk and discuss different things, and some gossip. Duringihson when we get together is also like the mosque. While buying andpreparing food for ihson we spend money on God. We celebrate God and

21 There are women who challenge gendering of leadership at the mosques in other socio-culturalcontexts, such as Amina Wadud’s leadership during a gender-mixed prayer in New York City (USA) in2005.22 Although the interlocutors did not provide a particular Qur’anic reference addressing the importance ofcongregational prayer, surah (chapter) Al-Baqarah (Calf or the Cow) speaks about it in the ayat (verse)23. There are also ahadith addressing this in the collections of Bukhari, Muslim, and Tirmidhi.

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worship Him.... We read hatma Qur’an [recitations from the Qur’an], or ashir[memorial service for Ali’s family], or Mavlud. Then masala [didactic stories]begin, and then hikmatlar [religious hymns]. The last two, masala andhikmalar, touch you and open your soul to God (interview, Fatima-hon, 2002).

As Fatima-hon’s quotation explains, these women, like local imams, led theprayers, recited the Qur’an, told didactic stories, answered religious and socialquestions, and provided a degree of religious education on occasion.23 Like imamsthey had the power and ability to facilitate sacred place-making in domestic spacesthrough the recitation of the Qur’an, whereby a house became as sacred as themosque at the time of prayer. In light of religious and political persecution, womenconsidered the sacred place in one’s home to be a safer place for a gathering than amosque. It enabled women to express and foster their religious piety, to receive adegree of religious education, to develop social networks, to participate incongregational worship (if the congregation is defined as women only), and toengage in socio-political activism. It is in this sense that the mosque came towomen’s houses on particular occasions.

Making place in a space

According to local women, domestic space was sacralized in terms of meaningduring religious ceremonies led by otinchalar. These ceremonies would often start inthe courtyard or at the gate with duo, an individual supplication which would beperformed by an otincha on behalf of someone, usually the hostess, and/or pataha(blessing/prayer).24 The main parts of these ceremonies were often conducted insidethe mehmonhona (living or guest room), where the otincha and other women couldcreate the sacred place through conscious efforts and ritual practice (cf. Mahmood2001; Bell 1997:74,84).

The otincha facilitated sacred place-making by using her major assets: knowledge ofArabic, ability to recite the Qur’an, and knowledge of the local ceremonial practices.Only a few otinchalar were able to read, speak, or understand Arabic but they hadenough skills to recite some sections from the Qur’an by memory. Fatima-honcommented on the importance of Qur’anic recitation,

Angels descend from heaven when the Qur’an is read. The powerful nur [thedivine light which comes from God] emanates from the pages of the HolyBook and from the spoken word. But when several voices join together in theprayer and reading of the Qur’an this light, nur, becomes forty times morepowerful and we find ourselves in a sacred place. Everything in the room isholy, blessed, at that moment; it is all in the light! (interview, 2002).

Hence, sacred place-making was a process by which the otincha created an initialimpetus through her recitation of the parts of the Qur’an. The final stage of theprocess was a social event that included all of the women in the room.

23 Many of these women taught religious and ceremonial knowledge to the students at their home-schools.24 As pointed by one of the anonymous reviewers, pataha maybe is a dialectal form of fatiha, i.e. al-Fatiha (the Opening) surah (chapter) of the Qur’an. In this case it can mean both a blessing and a prayer.

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During several interviews local women pointed out that the power of the nur waspresent during namoz but not necessarily to the same degree. At the time of religiousgatherings it increased exponentially in direct correlation to the amplified soundproduced by the women—“[b]ut when several voices join together in the prayer ...nur, becomes forty times more powerful,”—thus making one’s domestic space moresacred. The ceremony then would continue with expression of gratitude to God andthe Prophet (salovat) for the ability to receive the divine light and blessings. Thus,the women guided by the otincha produced sacred place in domestic spaceindependently through their agency and initiative, unmediated by male religiousauthorities and often undetected by secular ones.

The sacredness of the place was not accepted as normative by the women presentat the ceremonies. Rather it was experienced through one’s words, tears and physicalmovements. At one ceremony during the Qur’anic recitation the women inattendance partook of the sacredness of the nur with their hands, pouring thisdivine light over their heads while experiencing different emotional states. After thesacralization of space some women continued repeating “Allahu Akbar” (God is theGreatest!), and “Khudoga shukur” (Thanks to God!) as their physical behaviorbecame very different from what I had observed on arrival. Tears, closed or wide-opened eyes, covering one’s eyes with hands, physical movements from one sideto the other and exclamatory expressions of gratitude characterized this body ofthe believers and their physical bodies. Some of the women had similarresponses to the didactic stories and religious hymns (cf. Sultanova 2000). Themultilocality of the place was exemplified by these qualitative shifts in individualbehavior, which in turn signaled a qualitative transformation of space into a sacredplace, a different public place.

In the context of an unstable economy and political oppression, a desire to changeone’s condition (whether economic or social) infused religious practice in the Valley.“Allah has called Himself the nur of the heavens and the earth. He is the One whobestows the nur upon humans. The nur changes people’s conditions,” continuedFatima-hon in her explanation of religious ceremony (interview, 2002). In the sacredplace described above, the women attempted to produce positive changes in theirown and their families’ lives though prayer, hymns, and various expressions ofgratitude. They were skillfully instructed by the otincha to communicate directly toAllah without asking local saints or spiritual figures such as Bibi Seshanbe (LadyTuesday) (Kandiyoti and Azimova 2004; Louw 2007) to change their conditions. Insubsequent interviews, one woman shared asking God for help in finding jobs forher children in Russia, as the wages received in Russia were considerably higherthan the local ones. Another woman pleaded with God to facilitate a swift return of ason-in-law arrested on the charges of “Wahhabist” activities. She reported askingGod for amnesty and for President Karimov’s health as “only he could announceamnesty.” Hence, the sacred place created in domestic space on such occasions wasalso experienced by some women as a safe place which carried a promise of personaland social change.

Such sacred places created in domestic space were as important as theircounterparts at the mosque. These places were loci of potential positive changeand encouraged local women’s socially active religiosity and political participation.These religious ceremonies did not end with supplications and promises, but

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continued with various conversations about personal, familial, communal (mahalla)and larger socio-political problems and issues. Some of these discussions led towomen’s political protests (cf. Holmes-Eber 2003).

From talk to action and vice versa

In my experience, the process of socialization that took place in domestic space duringreligious ceremonies included various subjects, such as the socio-political and economicsituation in the Valley and the country. At one ihson in early March 2003, after theQur’anic recitations, duo, salovat, masala and hikmatlar, several women engaged inradical criticism of the Uzbek government for its inability to sustain local economicdevelopment. The discussion started before the religious part of the ceremony byexpressing concern over the reported death of President Karimov—an event, which, somesaid, was announced on the TV channels retransmitted from the Russian Federation (areport which later was proved to be false).25 This larger political issue, directly connectedby the women to the local economic problems and possible changes in the government,the women hoped, might bring some improvement to the Valley’s economy.

After the supplications and promises during this ihson, women moved to adiscussion of a new tax law requiring local businesses to pay seventy per cent of thegross sale price to the local tax department. One businesswoman, a born-again Muslim,Alima-opa, passionately insisted that “many people in Uzbekistan are not happy withthe government, although they do not openly say it.” She shared a story about officialcorruption and extortion during her trip from China with the commodities acquiredthere for resale in the Valley, complaining about growing corruption – “we have tobribe whoever inspects us on the way.” Her criticism of the current government and thetax law included a comparative aspect of the living and legal standards of post-Sovietexperience in Uzbekistan and a recognition of their necessity driven law-breaking:

We used to have imported goods in the Soviet Union and at the beginning ofour independence. Uzbek people are used to foreign produce and good quality.But with this new tax law we have nothing—no goods, no quality. Locallyproduced goods are of a bad quality, while the foreign goods are taxed soheavily that we make no profit. We have no interest in doing business legally[as a result of this new law], or doing it at all. But we have to feed our families.

The criticism of the government built up to criticism of the current social structure ofUzbekistan and a lack of social justice. According to other women passionately joiningthe conversation, not only the tax department, but also the police and the Ministry ofInternal Affairs were complicit with and contributed to the growing corruption in thecountry. This moral declinewas reflected in economic decline. One participant remarked:

The local police officers, even the traffic police, are making money off usbusinesswomen. We have to bribe everyone on our way and there is nothingwe can do about it. We are more vulnerable than men [although some local

25 I was told later that the Uzbek press insisted that the false news of Karimov’s death was produced bythe Russian authorities because of the president’s support of the pending American invasion of Iraq(2003).

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businessmen reported extortion as well]. Now the tax police, local policeofficers, and traffic police are happy: they make money. So you see the lawsbenefit those who are in the positions of authority, not us, not our Uzbekproducts, and not the Uzbek people. But truly nobody is happy. People aresimply afraid to say anything. We Uzbeks are like sheep: we keep silent.

This criticism of the flawed social structure and recognition of their reluctance tochallenge it extended to the self-criticism, “We Uzbeks are like sheep....” Further, inthe women’s criticism structural and individual moral declines were mutuallyconstituted: the police demanded money, and the women “[had] to bribe everyone.”

These women also questioned the ideal of representative democracy as people’srule, which was widely espoused by the state that failed to put it into practice. Oneparticipant fervently stated:

If the president wants to help his people, he needs to be among the people. Heshould see and hear what people want, what they say about him and hisgovernment. Maybe we people could give him some good advice. But he neverlistens to the people. Instead, he keeps us scared.

In the women’s assessment, the state not only failed to implement people’s rule, italso actively worked against a possibility of people’s rule through the use ofviolence, both actual and implied.

These discussions about social justice that took place in domestic spacedemonstrated women’s social activism which sometimes was expressed in politicalprotests (see Human Rights Watch 2002; (UDD) 2002). In the fall of 2002, severalborn-again and devout Muslim women in Margilan organized and attended a publicmeeting protesting against the president’s incomplete amnesty, which did not includereligious and political prisoners. This protest and its results were actively discussedby local women (some of them participated in the protest) at another religiousgathering that I attended later that week. In the spring of 2003, another public protestby local women in Margilan targeted the lack of gas and electricity in the area.According to the women who discussed this action several days later during dars(religious lesson), several local women (devout and not) organized a protest groupand went to the regional mayor’s office. The regional mayor “promised to give moregas in the canisters for every family.” The women were doubtful that the mayorwould fulfill his promise. They were also afraid of persecution for “causing trouble”(participant-observation, 2003).

Women, domestic space, and the state in the Ferghana Valley

My ethnographic research and anthropological analysis of domestic space in post-Soviet Uzbekistan, demonstrates that religious renewal is not limited to religiousdiscourses and the mosque and it is not the sole prerogative of men (cf. Mahmood2005; Privratsky 2004; Louw 2007; Deeb 2006). In the Valley the sacred placescreated in domestic spaces became safe places for religious observance and socio-political activism of born-again and devout Muslim women; places where they couldexpress their socially active religiosity. The sacred places created in domestic spaces

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carried promises of personal and social changes and thus provided devout and born-again Muslim women with safe arenas for religious observance. These sacred placeswere also safe public places enabling socio-political discussions, a first step forlaunching into the unsafe public spaces outside individual homes. The domesticspace became a safe place for information exchange precisely because it was definedas a homosocial religious occasion, and not a political one. This safe place was noteasily accessible to the secular and religious authorities, such as the local policedepartment or the office of the imam, who attempted to control domestic space bypublicly criticizing these occasions at the mosques and in the print media as wastefuland not Islamic. Nodira-opa heard from her husband that women’s religious andsocial gatherings, such as ihson and gap, received a negative assessment in one ofthe local mosques where an imam encouraged local men to “[t]ell your women not togo to ihson and gap so often; let them stay at home and pray” (interview, 2003).

In spite of these challenges, local women were not willing to give up theirhistorical (cf. Fathi 1997) and, according to them, Islamically legitimate spaces ofempowerment and support. For Fatima-hon, Islam required a social environment forstudying and prayer, while for Nodira-opa, socio-economic changes in the post-Soviet Uzbekistan and women’s active participation in the local economy madewomen’s religious and social gatherings legitimate and as important as the onesattended by the men:

Yes many women go to ihson and gap. Women more often than men do. Youknow why? Because our lives have changed. Women make money, moremoney than men, or equal. Women go to bazaars, sell and buy things. Womenare as important as men.

Thus, both religious observance and socio-political activism became criticallyimportant elements of religious renewal in the Valley, as the process of socializationduring religious ceremonies taking place in domestic space included spiritual andsocietal matters. Economic and socio-political problems in the Valley and post-Soviet Uzbekistan and a desire for change saturated women’s discussions andrequests made to the Divine. Some of these discussions informed and were informedby public protests in the Valley. These discussions and public protests were alsoexpressions of these women’s socially active religiosity that cannot be reduced toIslam as symbols, language, and ideology, but is historically situated and engenderedby particular socio-political and economic context of post-Soviet Uzbekistan’sFerghana Valley.

In order to fully understand the role of domestic space in contemporary lives oflocal women and men in the Valley, Muslim and not, devout and not, it is necessaryto further investigate the discussions that take place in domestic space between localmen and women, either friends or relatives. Religious observance and politicalactivism of born-again and devout Muslim men are also embedded in domesticspace. More research is needed to make a thorough scholarly assessment of the roleof domestic space in these religious and socio-political activities. While theimportance of the house as a critical center for religious observance may not holdtrue for those Uzbeks and non-Uzbeks in the Valley who are secular, it isindisputable that the domestic space still provides them a degree of safety inexpressing political dissent and social criticism of existing social structure.

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Acknowledgments I extend my thanks to Professor Asma Afsaruddin, University of Notre Dame(South Bend, IN, USA), Professors Robert Rubinstein and Richard Pilgrim, Syracuse University(Syracuse, NY, USA), and the anonymous reviewers for Contemporary Islam: Dynamics of Muslim LifeJournal for their careful reading and helpful comments on a draft of this article.

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