This article introduces the work of Shahnoza Ochildiyeva, a second-year student at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan (UzJOKU). Specializing in English Philology and Language Teaching, Shahnoza is not only dedicated to her academic development but is also emerging as a young poet with a strong passion for literature and linguistic expression.

Her translation of Ozod Sharafiddinov’s insightful essay Understanding Cho’lpon reflects both her scholarly interest and her commitment to bringing influential literary works to a wider audience. This piece highlights her growing contribution to literary studies and showcases the depth of her engagement with Uzbekistan’s cultural and intellectual heritage.

Writer: Ozod Sharafiddinov
Translator: Shahnoza Ochildiyeva

UNDERSTANDING CHO’LPON

They say that when a scientist makes a world-shaking discovery, in order for people to understand it, he must bring this discovery down from the heights of thought to the ground of everyday life — translating it from the language of abstract and complex formulas into the language of familiar notions and simple concepts.

In art, however, the opposite is true. The poet, too, makes world-shaking discoveries — he creates a beautiful world filled with unique colors, enchanting radiance, magical meanings, and treasured wisdom. Yet, to comprehend and convey this world, it cannot be simplified or translated into ordinary, mundane speech. When we attempt to alter it, the beauty fades; the charm of the work disappears, and those poetic lines that just moments ago sent tremors through the soul turn into powerless chains of words.

To grasp the discovery created by the poet, one must inevitably rise to the very height of that discovery. Only when a person’s heart beats in unison with the poet’s heart — only when it, too, thirsts for the refinement that lives within the poet’s soul, only when it opens itself to beauty as the author’s heart does — only then can one perceive the supreme beauty that has been revealed. And this, indeed, is an exceedingly difficult task.

Of course, not everyone attains the fortune of rising to the heights to which the poet has ascended. After all, although the notion of “the people” is frequently invoked, it never signifies a uniform or wholly equal entity. There are always distinctions — the people, the crowd, the common folk, and the wise. Usually, it is only those whose hearts are awake, who thirst for truth and beauty — the wise — who are able to perceive the world of refinement created by the poet; and it is they who, in turn, awaken the heedless to its beauty. In this way, the beauty created by poets becomes the property of the people and serves to elevate their spiritual world.

Unfortunately, as noted above, this process is by no means an easy one. How many poets have lived their lives lamenting that they were not understood, complaining of being unappreciated, suffering from the lovelessness of their contemporaries! Even a poet like Pushkin, in a number of his works, referred to those unable to approach the realm of beauty as “the common rabble” (or “the crowd”) and expressed his disdain toward them.

The so-called “Marxist” literary scholars who once hailed Pushkin as “the great poet of the people” were, however, deeply troubled by such “skepticism” and “arrogance toward the people,” for they could not fit it into their rigid concept of class character. Yet this was not difficult to explain: it would have sufficed simply to acknowledge the truth that not everyone is granted the fortune to ascend to the divine abodes of beauty.

Abdulhamid Sulaymon og‘li Cho‘lpon (Choʻlpon; 1897–1938) was one of the foremost Uzbek poets and translators of the early twentieth century. He was among those rare poets who possessed the ability to create — and indeed created — a world of poetry that was both unique and unparalleled.

Cho‘lpon began his literary career in 1914, yet his creative flight truly soared during the 1920s. Especially between 1920 and 1927, his inspiration gushed forth like a vibrant spring and surged like a storm overflowing its banks. During this period, in addition to publishing three poetry collections, Cho‘lpon composed numerous poems, short stories, articles, and essays, wrote dozens of plays, and enriched Uzbek literature with a remarkable series of masterful translations. These works formed the foundation of his extraordinary literary reputation. Notably, some literary critics abroad sought to assess the essence of his creativity with fairness and objectivity.

They characterized Cho‘lpon as a passionate and, at the same time, exceptionally sensitive and delicate-hearted artist — and therefore, perhaps unsurprisingly, a fearless one. In their view, Cho‘lpon could never imagine himself as separate from the people, apart from the life and spiritual world of his contemporaries, for whom he served as a poetic source of inspiration. The full range of tones within Cho‘lpon’s lyricism emerges precisely from this connection.

Now let us turn to the fate of this great poet. Cho‘lpon — a figure who deserves to be the pride of any world literature, who in any cultured society would be recognized as a divinely gifted genius and revered as a “master” and “teacher” — what kind of destiny did he encounter?

It is well known that this poet, who “could not even imagine himself apart from the people, separated from the life and spiritual world of his contemporaries,” was subjected to condemnation for nearly seventy years. During this time, no slander was left unspoken against his name; a kind of competition in denouncing and humiliating him reached its peak. In hundreds of articles, books, and lectures, he was branded with labels such as “bourgeois poet,” “Jadid,” “ideologically corrupt,” “singer of the basmachi,” “nationalist,” “counter-revolutionary,” “a fool who did not understand the October Revolution,” “an alien element poisoning the minds of youth,” “enemy of the people,” and countless others. Not for one year, not for ten — but for almost seventy years.

This raises a question: could it truly be that throughout all those years, among a people as numerous as the Uzbeks, not a single enlightened person could be found who genuinely understood Cho‘lpon — who recognized that he was a truly great poet and was not afraid to proclaim this truth? Could it really be that our people were so ungrateful as to fail to appreciate the stream of clear water flowing right before them? Could it be that our people were so blind and deaf to beauty?

It is indeed a profoundly difficult and complex question. During the Soviet era, we had become accustomed to speaking of the people only in vague, pompous, high-sounding phrases: the people are wise, the people are great, the people are magnanimous, the people are creative, the people are the builders, and so on. Yet to say — or even to suggest — that the people’s thinking might be limited, that their cultural level might be insufficient, or that they might fail to honor their own true sons, was impossible. Regardless of whether such statements were fair or unfair, they would immediately be deemed disrespectful toward the people, a form of slander against their name.

And yet, Cho‘lpon, Abdulla Qodiriy, Fitrat, Usmon Nosir, Habib Abdulla — and how many more great figures could we recall, whose lives unfolded amid tragedy! — their lives, their fates, their suffering all played out before the eyes of the people. But the people, as though their mouths were filled with ashes, remained utterly silent, standing by as mere spectators — not only silent spectators, but at times, failing to grasp the essence of what was happening, they would even applaud, and with choked voices cry out, “Death to the nationalists!” Yes — their eyes bloodshot with rage, their mouths foaming, they would scream in frenzy. And alas, in those moments, not a single brave soul rose up to say, “Brothers, what are you doing? These are the flowers of the nation! These are the heroes who sacrifice their lives for the nation!” Yes, this is a fact — an undeniable truth.

However, despite this bitter truth, one cannot quite bring oneself to say that throughout seventy years not a single person among our people was capable of understanding Cho‘lpon. For indeed, though very few, there were such courageous individuals. Alongside Boymirza Hayit, whose article we cited earlier, figures such as Zaki Validi — a prominent leader of Tatar-Bashkir culture — Vali Kayumkhan, one of the leaders of the Uzbek émigré community, and Dr. Ibrahim Yorkin, who went to study in Berlin in the 1920s and remained there — all expressed the highest admiration for Cho‘lpon. They regarded him as one of the most talented literary artists of the twentieth century. However, the reality is that all of them voiced these opinions while living abroad, and because of the towering, impenetrable Iron Wall that stood between our socialist homeland and the outside world, their words never reached us. So what about within our own country? Was there any sincere assessment, any warm word ever spoken about Cho‘lpon here? Yes — even here, such views were expressed. There were times when Cho‘lpon’s works were warmly received by critics and met with positive responses.

The first scholar to express warm and thoughtful views about Cho‘lpon in the press was Zarif Bashariy. Originally from Tatarstan, Bashariy lived in Uzbekistan during the 1920s. He wrote extensively in Uzbek, published short stories, produced translations, actively participated in literary debates of the time, and even compiled an anthology of modern Uzbek literature, which was published in Kazan in 1929. On May 4, 1923, Zarif Bashariy published a review of Cho‘lpon’s first poetry collection, Awakening (Uyg‘onish), in the newspaper Turkiston. At the very beginning of his review, he wrote: “Comrade Cho‘lpon is one of the foremost among recent Uzbek poets, and being truly worthy of the title of poet, his works can and should be examined and critiqued through the lens of true literature and poetry.”

He then described Cho‘lpon as “a poet of genuine heart and feeling” – that is, a sensitive lyricist—and supported this characterization with illustrative examples. Through his analysis, the critic emphasized the vivid imagery in Cho‘lpon’s poetry, the depth of his emotions, and the poet’s remarkable mastery of language.

Another critic, Vadud Mahmud, in his review of the collection Buloqlar (Springs), wrote that “a new coat has been put on contemporary Uzbek literature,” revealing that the one who had clothed it in this coat was none other than Cho‘lpon himself. Mahmud reflected on the artistic qualities of Buloqlar, and, quoting from the poem The Death of Labor, affirmed that “so much poetry, so much awakening melody” is present within it. At the same time, he observed that “the poet vividly and movingly depicts the grief of the nation, the groaning souls of slaves, and the angels who weep within their hearts — the mothers and young women of the East.” Although Vadud Mahmud may have allowed himself a touch of rhetorical exaggeration in this passage, it can nonetheless be said that he penetrated deeply into the essence of Cho‘lpon’s poetic world.

In 1924, two issues of the newspaper Zarafshon published articles titled Young Uzbek Poets and Cho‘lpon. The author, Abdurahmon Sa’diy, examined Cho‘lpon’s work in considerable detail and described the poet with a very brief characterization:

“He burns and he makes others burn.”

The article also argued, with supporting evidence, that Cho‘lpon was “truly a romantic poet of the heart (a lyricist).”

Similarly, albeit in a very brief form, Abdulla Qodiriy, in his short foreword to Cho‘lpon’s book Secrets of Dawn, rejected the reproaches circulating in the press that labeled the poet as “a weeping poet.” Qodiriy argued that while tears frequently appeared in Cho‘lpon’s verses, the poet sought “to bring forth blossoms from those tears.”

Another common feature of these early articles on Cho‘lpon was that their authors strove to present an entirely impartial assessment of his poetry. Thus, alongside acknowledging the poet’s strengths, they also pointed out certain weaknesses and shortcomings.

Interestingly, one particular flaw emphasized in both articles would, in later years, be magnified and turned into one of the principal arguments for wholly discrediting Cho‘lpon’s poetry.

Zarif Bashiriy wrote:

“No matter how frequently Comrade Cho‘lpon writes or speaks the words ‘nation’ and ‘people,’ he is not a people’s poet. He is rather the poet of the intellectuals who are close to the people. In his style and spirit, true populism is scarcely present.”

A year later, Abdurahmon Sa’diy published another article in which he stated:

“Cho‘lpon is not the poet of the masses—the people, but of the educated, the intellectuals. The broad populace cannot easily comprehend him. Yet, at the same time, he is a ‘narodnik’ poet who writes of the people’s sorrows—without dividing them into any particular class. Indeed, the very essence of Cho‘lpon lies in this profound quality.”

It should be noted that at the time these words were written—namely, in 1923 and 1924 – the assertion that a poet was “not a people’s poet, but an intellectuals’ poet” was not perceived as a political accusation. Thus, such “faults” passed without serious repercussions. Later, however, the very label of “not a people’s poet, but an intellectuals’ poet” would become a dreadful political charge—one that inevitably drew a writer to the brink of death. We shall return to this matter in due course.

For now, let us conclude our reflections on the early reviews of Cho‘lpon. However impartial these critiques may have been, and however much warmth and attention they radiated toward a newly emerging young poet, we cannot regard them as significant achievements in understanding Cho‘lpon. At best, they were but the first steps – the lowest rungs on the towering ladder that leads to Cho‘lpon’s true stature. Perhaps, had there been favorable circumstances and a society genuinely invested in deeper understanding, one could have ascended those steps and discovered some of the profound dimensions of the world Cho‘lpon created. Yet that was not to be.

On the contrary, the process was cut short at the very outset. No ardent devotee of poetry, no fiery spirit wholly consumed by the passion for beauty and refinement, arose to scale the heights of Cho‘lpon’s genius and grasp his essence. Why was this so? This pressing question – looming large before us once more – we shall postpone answering, as we now turn to the remarkable events unfolding around Cho‘lpon during those years.

After Abdulla Qodiriy’s preface was published in The Secrets of Dawn (Tong Sirları), scarcely a year had passed when, on February 14, 1927, the newspaper Qizil O‘zbekiston (Red Uzbekistan) published an article signed “Ayn” under the title Uzbek Poets: Cho‘lpon. In a note appended at the end of the piece, the editorial board announced that, with this article, they were opening a discussion about Cho‘lpon and invited “all interested comrades” to take part in the debate. It did not take long for such “comrades” to appear. Soon afterward, the 22-year-old Oybek entered the discussion with an article entitled Cho‘lpon: How Should One Critically Examine a Poet? Not long thereafter, Usmonxon joined the debate as well — his article The Critic’s Critic sharply challenged Oybek’s views. Oybek, compelled to respond once more, returned to the pages of the newspaper in its August 29, 1927, issue with the article To the Author of “The Critic’s Critic”, defending his position.

The debate concluded shortly thereafter. Its final note was sounded not in the press but in October of that same year, on the 4th and 5th, when Akmal Ikromov, First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan, delivered his address at the Congress of Uzbekistan’s Cultural Workers held in Samarkand.

I am firmly convinced that not only in determining the fate of Cho‘lpon, but also in shaping the subsequent development of modern Uzbek literature and in setting the course of literary criticism and scholarship, this debate played an immensely significant role. For this reason, it is worthwhile to reflect in greater detail on its content—on the issues around which the discussion revolved, on the conclusions that were reached, and on the guidance that was offered to the rising generation of writers. Many of the so-called “virtues” that Uzbek literature later acquired as a literature of socialist realism can, in fact, be traced back to the very roots of this debate.

As mentioned above, the discussion in the press began with Ayn’s article. “Ayn” was the pen name of the literary scholar and critic Olim Sharafiddinov. What is important here is that Sharafiddinov was not some incidental figure who entered the literary world out of personal ambition. In later years, through many of his studies, he demonstrated both a profound knowledge of literary history and the ability to articulate insightful and instructive reflections on the essence of literature. Notably, his critical biographical essay Alisher Navoi, published in 1940 and reprinted several times thereafter, became a major event in the literary life of the period. For many literary scholars who would later go on to produce significant works, this book served as an invaluable reference.

Therefore, when the Academy of Sciences of Uzbekistan was established in 1943, it surprised no one that Sharafiddinov was among the first literary critics elected as a corresponding member. He later volunteered for the front and perished on the battlefield—a fact that inevitably commands respect for his character. Yet, as the saying goes, “Plato, you are my friend, but truth is dearer to me.” Facts remain facts: they may be interpreted in various ways, but they cannot be altered. And the fact is this—already in that distant year of 1927, Olim Sharafiddinov set in motion the regrettable process of turning literature into a servant of the dominant ideology.

In this article, Olim Sharafiddinov was among the first in Uzbek literary studies to adopt the principles of Marxist methodology. That is, he approached literature entirely through the lens of class theory, advancing the view that it must serve as an instrument of proletarian ideology. As he approvingly wrote: “Our young poets have begun to depict and bring to life, in an attractive manner, the class aspirations, interests, and ideology of the poor.”

Of course, in the article, Sharafiddinov strives, as much as possible, to present himself as impartial. For this reason, he does not ignore some of the poet’s positive qualities. He acknowledges that Cho‘lpon was “the most prolific writer” and “a poet who occupies a certain place in literature.” Yet Sharafiddinov does not stop at stating this fact; he also defines the nature of that “place”:

“By breaking and dismantling the narrow framework of old classicism, by simplifying its style of expression and its language – otherwise incomprehensible to the masses – in order to bring it closer to the people, he (Cho‘lpon) provides us, in this simplified manner of expression and plain language, with practical examples.”

When it comes to Cho‘lpon’s language, Sharafiddinov, in particular, cannot restrain his admiration; he praises the poet profusely, offering him the highest accolades: “Today’s Uzbek literary language is, without a doubt, the language of Cho‘lpon. The entire literary youth regards his language as a model and seeks to emulate it.”

However, the moment Sharafiddinov dons the lens of “class consciousness,” everything becomes confused and distorted. Even the slightest deviations in Cho‘lpon’s poetry now appear to him as dangerous faults—subversive crimes that allegedly undermine Soviet authority. The principle of “classness” required that every researcher answer one crucial question: To which class does this poet or writer belong? Whose interests do his works serve? Which class’s worldview finds expression in his creations?

For seventy years, Soviet literary scholars attempted to answer these questions for every writer—indeed, for every single work—and in doing so, they gravely damaged literature. For while such questions might seem straightforward, in reality they were extraordinarily difficult to answer. In the abstract, the notion of the “class nature of literature” might have seemed plausible. But once a concrete individual was brought into the discussion, resolving the issue became virtually impossible.

Indeed, how could one define Pushkin in terms of class? Was he a poet of the peasantry, a representative of the nobility, or perhaps a voice of the urban artisans? And what of Alisher Navoi? Whose representative was he? Did he serve the interests of the ruling exploiters, or did he embody some other class identity? It is clear that, when posed in this way, such questions only distort the essence of literature and reduce the poet to a caricature.

In this article, Olim Sharafiddinov was among the first in Uzbek literary studies to adopt the principles of  Marxist methodology. That is, he approached literature entirely from the standpoint of class theory, advancing the view that it must serve as an instrument of proletarian ideology. As he approvingly wrote: “Our young poets have begun to depict and bring to life, in an attractive manner, the class aspirations, interests, and ideology of the poor.”

Of course, in the article, Olim Sharafiddinov strives, as much as possible, to present himself as impartial. For this reason, he does not ignore some of the poet’s positive qualities. He acknowledges that Cho‘lpon was “the most prolific writer” and “a poet who occupies a certain place in literature.” Yet Sharafiddinov does not stop at stating this fact; he also explains the nature of that “place”: “By breaking and dismantling the narrow framework of old classicism, by simplifying its style of expression and its language—otherwise incomprehensible to the masses—in order to bring it closer to the people, he (Cho‘lpon) provides us, in this simplified manner of expression and plain language, with practical examples.”

When it comes to Cho‘lpon’s language, Olim Sharafiddinov, in particular, cannot restrain himself; he praises the poet profusely, offering him the highest accolades: “Today’s Uzbek literary language is, without a doubt, the language of Cho‘lpon. The entire literary youth regards his language as a model and seeks to emulate it.”

However, the moment Sharafiddinov puts on the “class-consciousness” lens, everything becomes confused and distorted. Now, even the slightest deviations in Cho‘lpon’s poetry appear to him as dangerous faults, as if they were subversive crimes undermining Soviet authority.The principle of “classness” demanded that every researcher answer one crucial question: To which class does this poet or writer belong? Whose interests do his works serve? Which class’s worldview finds expression in his creations? For seventy years, Soviet literary scholars attempted to answer these questions for every writer — indeed, for every single work — and in doing so, they gravely damaged literature. For while such questions might seem straightforward, in reality they were extraordinarily difficult to answer. In the abstract, dismissing an author or a particular text, the notion of the “class nature of literature” might have seemed plausible. But once a concrete individual was brought into the discussion, resolving the issue became virtually impossible. Indeed, how could one define Pushkin in terms of class? Was he a poet of the peasantry? A representative of the nobility? Or perhaps a voice of the urban artisans? And what about Alisher Navoi? Whose representative was he? Did he serve the interests of ruling exploiters, or did he embody some other class identity? It is clear that when posed in this way, such questions only distort the essence of literature and reduce the poet to a caricature.

Nevertheless, the Marxist principle was uncompromising: To which class does the poet belong? And since the demand was absolute, the scholar was compelled to provide an answer. If the facts did not support his claim, he would twist them until they complied. For this reason, Olim Sharafiddinov concluded: “Cho‘lpon is not the poet of the impoverished masses. He is the poet of nationalist, patriotic, and pessimistic intellectuals. His ideology is their ideology. He strives and yearns along this path. It is their concerns that stir and inspire him.”

It should be noted that this very idea had already been voiced by Zarif Bashir and Abdurahmon Sa’diy. They, too, had claimed that Cho‘lpon was a poet of the intelligentsia. Olim Sharafiddinov merely added a slight “clarification,” attaching to the intelligentsia the labels “nationalist, patriotic, and pessimistic.” And it was precisely through this subtle “clarification” that the simple statement “Cho‘lpon is not the poet of the impoverished masses” was transformed into a dreadful indictment. Such is the strange trickery of the principle of class orientation—it allows the critic to perform rhetorical sleight-of-hand, thereby blinding the reader’s eyes (or clouding the reader’s mind). But let us set these points aside and approach the issue from another angle. Very well, let us concede hypothetically that Cho‘lpon was indeed a poet of the intelligentsia. Yet who has ever proven, when, or where, that a poet of the intelligentsia cannot at the same time be a poet of the people?

From the continuation of the article it becomes clear that the author calls Cho‘lpon a poet of the intelligentsia precisely because he yearned for freedom, because he desired to see his homeland free and prosperous, because he loathed the shackles that left bloody marks on human bodies, and because he called upon the oppressed to reclaim their dignity with cries of “Wear no chains, bow to no one!” But then a question inevitably arises: are the feelings of freedom, the longing for liberty, and the wish to walk proudly with one’s head held high and cap upon the head really traits exclusive to the intelligentsia? Could it be that the “impoverished masses,” both under Tsarist rule and under the Soviet empire, had entirely accepted colonial oppression and lived in indifference to freedom? On the contrary, was it not precisely because Cho‘lpon, in his poems of the early 1920s, so vividly expressed the anguish of the entire nation that he earned the love of the whole people? And is this not the very first factor that secured the timelessness of his poetry?

Another curious “virtue” of the Marxist principle is that it can disregard even the most elementary logic upon which any form of scholarly reasoning must rest. Olim Sharafiddinov follows precisely this path: throughout his article he strives, at all costs, to “prove” the senseless and inconsistent claim that “Cho‘lpon is not a people’s poet, but a poet of the intelligentsia.” In doing so, he gradually strays farther and farther from the requirements of logical reasoning—without even realizing it. He writes: “Cho‘lpon is a dreamer. For nationalists, intellectuals, and those who have embraced this ideology, nothing is sweeter or more delightful than dreams.”

But why, one might ask, should dreaminess be a privilege reserved solely for “nationalists and intellectuals”? Why should other groups be denied the possibility of indulging in things that are “sweeter and more delightful than dreams”? Clearly, dreaminess is being presented here as a flaw, a fault, and is being used as yet another pretext for disparaging Cho‘lpon. All of this is done artificially, in a forced and contrived manner.

For any critic reflecting on a poet or on a work of art, there exists one necessary rule: above all else, the critic must turn to the text itself. For him, the artistic text must remain sacred, the most authoritative source of all. Yet in Sharafiddinov’s article, as a result of his devotion to Marxist principles, we encounter a dangerous tendency that later became widespread in Soviet literary studies and criticism—disregard for the literary text. The poet may say one thing in his verse, but instead of trying to understand that statement, instead of grounding his arguments in it, the critic pays it no heed whatsoever. Instead, he subordinates literary facts to his predetermined ideological conclusions. For instance, in many of his poems Cho‘lpon declares himself a “poet of the earth,” whose constant quest and dearest desire is the “star of the earth—the daughter of the earth”; he states that even a simple leaf is more precious to him than celestial angels. Yet the critic does not bother to ponder such lines at all. He simply pushes ahead with his “class-based” conclusions: “In roaming the heavens with ‘mad frenzy,’ he sometimes grows weary, yet refuses to descend to earth and take delight in it. Should he happen to return to earth, he feels only humiliation, baseness, and wretchedness, sensing that his soul is bound in chains.”

The critic, of course, never pauses to consider whether there may indeed be “humiliations, injustices, and degradations” on earth, and if the poet suffers from them, what fault lies in that? For the “principle of class-consciousness” has already furnished him with the answer: the poet is a nationalist, and therefore he portrays earthly humiliations in his poetry.“Whenever he descends to earth, he becomes an ardent nationalist. For he sees before him those foreigners who are the source of degradation and injustice. They are the Russians. He makes no distinction among them, placing all Russians in the single category of colonizers.”

Yet here too the critic is unjust. Cho‘lpon had always distinguished between Russians, never once condemning all of them indiscriminately as colonizers. Ample factual evidence bears this out. Let us leave this debate aside, however, and acknowledge at least one point where the critic was right: disputes inevitably involve argument, contradiction, and criticism.   The fact is, in Usmonxon’s article we encounter yet another flaw that later “flourished” in Soviet criticism. Labeling Cho‘lpon and his so-called “cho‘lponism” as “extremely harmful” for the younger generation, he hurls offensive accusations: “Cho‘lpon lacks perseverance and an independent worldview,” “he flits from branch to branch,” “he misunderstands the role of a poet,” “he is no progressive artist, but a decadent dreamer.”

And yet, by the time this article was written, Cho‘lpon had already published three volumes of poetry, staged dozens of dramatic works, written hundreds of articles, translated numerous texts, and was widely recognized by the public as a talented creator. Could such a figure—without the slightest pause for reflection or consideration—really be dismissed as someone who “does not understand,” who “has no worldview,” who is “unstable,” “directionless,” “decadent”? Yes, it was possible—for Marxist literary criticism and Soviet critical practice were notorious for precisely this kind of rashness.    In thousands of articles and books produced thereafter, critics and literary scholars treated genuine talents with disdain, addressed poets and writers in the tone of prosecutors, and presented their own words as the most complete, indisputable truth. For many of them, issuing judgments on writers seemed far more important than analysis or careful study of texts. As a result, Soviet literary criticism acquired a reputation for being among the most tactless, inconsiderate, crude, and harsh in the world. And yet, despite these flaws, even from the 1927 debate some positive lessons could have been drawn. In particular, Oybek’s articles contained points that might have served as a foundation for combating dogmatism and vulgar sociologism in literary studies—protecting creative individuals from gratuitous attacks and baseless accusations. But this did not happen. Unfortunately, official circles instead chose to defend the positions of Olim Sharafiddinov and Usmonxon. On October 4, 1927, at the Congress of Cultural Workers of Uzbekistan held in Samarkand, Akmal Ikromov, First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan, delivered a report that concluded the debate on Cho‘lpon with these words:“Through Ayn’s article on Cho‘lpon’s work, we have had a series of debates. Ayn rightly emphasized the ideological inconsistency of Cho‘lpon’s oeuvre. I will not presume to assess the literary value of this critique, but I will repeat once again: in the sphere of ideology, there can be no doubt about the necessity of such sound criticism.”

Thus, with the “fatwa” of the so-called “cultural workers,” Cho‘lpon’s name was tarnished. He was proclaimed a poet of the nationalist intelligentsia, alien to the impoverished people, and his creativity was deemed ideologically harmful. In this way, the first spiritual execution of Cho‘lpon took place. Ironically, fate decreed that precisely eleven years later, on that very same date—October 4—he would be shot dead. In general, the existing order in socialist society was exceedingly peculiar: once a writer or poet lost ideological trust, the noose cast around his neck would tighten more and more until it suffocated him to death. In such cases, the ideologues were immediately assisted by the administrators, who—astonishingly—would proceed with absolute unanimity until the punishment process was fully carried out.

 From May 5 to July 17, 1932, the “criminal” case of  Shamsi Badridinov, the Prosecutor of the Supreme Court of Uzbekistan, was heard. Unsurprisingly, he was sentenced to execution as an “enemy of the people.” At this trial, a man named Katanyan delivered the indictment speech, striving by any means to give Badridinov’s case a political coloring. To this end, he even attempted to drag into the case the names of poets whose ideology was considered “corrupt,” though without explicitly mentioning them. Katanyan stated: “At the same time, in 1927–29, during this very assembly, certain poets recited and declaimed their imaginative verses dedicated to Fergana. In these poems, it was said that flowers had ceased to bloom in the beautiful Fergana Valley, that the nightingale’s song had fallen silent, and that the people had grown sorrowful. Such sorrow resonated with those who longed for the landlord era, those who had fled into clandestine work, those whose hearts were filled with visions of black reaction returning in their dreams.” (Katanyan, from the indictment speech at Badridinov’s trial, Qizil Uzbekistan,June 16, 1932). 

 There is indeed a reason why we are dwelling in such detail on the 1927 debate and the subsequent events. The fact is that from these occurrences—though they took place nearly seventy years ago and are now almost forgotten—one may derive a conclusion of extraordinary significance, not only for literary studies but for our spiritual life as a whole. You may recall that at the beginning of this article, we reflected on the idea that within our nation there emerged no enlightened individuals capable of rising to the poetic heights attained by Cho‘lpon. It now becomes clear that the issue did not lie in the people’s lack of cultural and spiritual maturity, nor in their inability to perceive the realm of beauty that Cho‘lpon had unveiled. The true issue lay in the relentless dictates of the ruling ideology and, moreover, in the hostility of those in power—above all, the officials of the Communist Party—toward art and literature, in their fear of every thinking, independent-minded individual. For a person who thinks is capable of discerning the true face of the new regime and the system being constructed, and of revealing it to all. That is why, in their view, it was better that such people did not exist at all.

If you have noticed, the articles written during the 1927 debate, as well as Akmal Ikromov’s speech and Katanyan’s threats, all share one common feature: they resemble the proverbial warning, “Daughter, I speak to you, but it is meant for my daughter-in-law.” On the surface, their words were directed primarily at Cho‘lpon—aimed at exposing him, breaking his spirit, and turning him into a poet “of their own ranks.” At the same time, however, these writings carried a hidden message intended for others as well: “Brother, be cautious, never deviate from the line we have drawn, do only what we command, say only what we permit, and never dare to call the foul swamp in which you live by its true name. Otherwise, the fate of Cho‘lpon will befall you too. In an instant, you will find yourself branded an enemy of the class.”

In a reality where such threats were constantly carried out, a true kingdom of fear was established. Once fear comes to dominate people’s hearts, their spiritual life becomes paralyzed, and their yearning for beauty withers away. Even the most enlightened minds lose their strength and can no longer rise to the heavenly realms of beauty. To comprehend the beauty created by great artists, to grasp its essence, to unveil its mysteries, and to transform it into a treasure of the heart—this requires an attitude not of the butcher, the prosecutor, or the executioner, but of love and benevolence toward the artist. The key to the world that an artist has cultivated does not lie in some magical incantation such as “Open, Sesame!”; it lies in society’s respect, goodwill, and affection toward its artists. And for this to exist, society must establish a realm of freedom—so that every individual, in expressing their feelings and voicing their thoughts, need not fear consequences, persecution, or punishment.

***** ****** *****

The first act of the long and multi-layered tragedy of “the transmormation of literary criticism into mankurt (Mankurt-in Turkic legands, a person who has lost memory of their parents, homeland, turning into a mindless slave.)” unfolded in precisely this manner. But a question arises: why did the first act of this tragedy occur specifically in 1927, that is, ten years after the Bolsheviks (a radical faction of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party) had come to power? I attempted to address this question in my monograph entitled Cho‘lpon. In that work, I wrote: “On June 18, 1925, the Central Committee of the RCP(b) adopted a resolution ‘On the Party’s Policy in the Sphere of Artistic Literature.’ It noted the existence of various literary groups and currents at the time, and proclaimed as the Party’s principal ideological task the establishment of the hegemony of proletarian literature. True, the resolution stated that such hegemony should be achieved through ‘free creative competition.’ However, immediately after the resolution was passed, all talk of ‘free creative competition’ was quickly forgotten, and instead, this so-called hegemony was imposed through violence, beatings, humiliation, and abuse. The creative freedom that had briefly existed in the first years of the Revolution began to collapse. Literature was now proclaimed to have a single purpose: to depict and glorify the life, ideology, and experiences of the poor. In short, a struggle began to transform literature into a sycophant of the new regime, a servile mouthpiece of politics.”

I must apologize for quoting at such length from my own monograph. After its publication, some colleagues who read this passage expressed surprise: “Is it really the case that the roots of ideological coercion go back only to 1925? Could it be that from 1917 until 1925 the Bolshevik regime actually tolerated freedom in the spheres of ideology and literature?” In fact, the prelude to the tragedy whose first act was staged in 1927 leads not to 1925, but directly back to 1917 itself. From the very moment the Bolsheviks seized power, they sought to seize control of ideology. Although they formally recognized freedom of speech, in practice they proceeded by banning, prohibiting, and repressing almost everything. Consider Lenin’s speeches during the early years of the Revolution, delivered in various contexts. In them, the “great leader” vigorously defended the severity of Soviet rule and its politics of terror—claiming that violence committed in the name of the majority, acts of terror carried out in the interest of the working people, were in fact examples of true freedom. In reality, however, Soviet power pursued a policy of ruthless hostility toward the intelligentsia. During those years, millions of intellectuals were imprisoned, their property confiscated; many were executed, and others were forced into exile abroad. From the outset, the Bolsheviks sought to cultivate society in an atmosphere of hatred and mistrust toward the intelligentsia. This policy was not limited to the centers of power in Russia or Ukraine, but was implemented widely in the provinces as well, including Turkestan. From their very first steps, the Bolsheviks subjected the local intelligentsia to harsh persecution and denied them any opportunity for free activity. Here it is worth recalling one fact cited by the prominent literary scholar Abdurauf Fitrat in his 1928 article Loose Stitches. Fitrat notes that as early as 1919, the scholarly meetings of the Chig‘atoy Gurungi literary circle were held under the watchful eyes of armed Red Guards. One can only wonder: what kind of scholarly conversation could those poor intellectuals have had, with rifles pressed to their foreheads?

The Bolsheviks never shied away from employing the most vile and ignoble methods in their pursuit of restricting and persecuting the local intelligentsia — they not only turned friends against one another but even forced family members into becoming enemies, compelling them to spy and denounce each other. In his memoirs, the prominent scholar and public figure Zaki Validi, well known during the revolutionary years, recounts a highly characteristic incident. In 1920, while residing for some time in Bukhara, he avoided free and open communication with Bukharan intellectuals, for the Soviet administrative organs sought to exploit anyone who visited a persecuted intellectual as an informer or secret agent.

As for literature and art, by the 1920s the Soviet regime had already established a regime of “rigid censorship” — a policy against which even Olim Sharafiddinov’s later advice came too late. From its earliest steps, the Soviet government deliberately pursued a course of suppressing creative freedom, erecting barriers to the activity of the intelligentsia, and cultivating in the working masses an attitude of mistrust towards them. This policy was carried out with considerable vigor. Yet, despite these efforts, the systematic spiritual annihilation of individual poets and writers began only after 1925, following the resolution of the Central Committee of the RCP(b). Cho‘lpon was among the very first victims of this campaign. Those “cultural workers” who denounced him may have believed at the time that they were serving the party and the people’s interests, but in reality, they were paving the way for Stalin’s despotism in the realm of ideology, literature, and art. When they condemned Cho‘lpon and applauded his disgrace, they were, in fact, burying creative freedom itself and sounding a funeral march over its grave. In this way, the wings of the emerging young Uzbek literature were clipped, depriving it of the chance to soar for nearly sixty years.

Before long, Bolshevik ideological policy began to yield its “new results.” At this stage, another characteristic of Marxist literary scholarship and criticism — which served as the primary instrument for enforcing this policy — came to the fore. Literary studies and criticism increasingly borrowed methods from the art of warfare, applying them directly in their practice: they sought to “strike while the iron was hot,” aiming to deliver decisive blows against their “enemies,” leaving them stunned, bewildered, and unable to recover, while intensifying a full-scale offensive across the entire ideological front. As a consequence, not only Cho‘lpon but virtually all leading Uzbek writers were struck down with crushing force. In 1929, Sotty Khusain published an exceedingly lengthy article entitled “Past Days and “Past Days”, in which he portrayed Abdullah Qodiriy — who by then had already earned immense respect and admiration among the people — as a narrow-minded man with a corrupt ideology, a nationalist swayed by petty-bourgeois influences, selfish and alien to the poor, incapable of finding his rightful path. Abdurauf Fitrat was relentlessly subjected to the sword and scourge of criticism. Later, Botu was denounced and even imprisoned. Even newcomers to literature such as Abdulla Qahhor and Mirtemir did not escape imprisonment. Literature was not to be allowed to stand upright. It was expected always to bow before the ruling ideology and remain ever ready to fulfill its dictates. To ensure this, the bonfire of purges could never be extinguished; it had to burn incessantly, constantly fed with fresh fuel. Many of our scholars and critics of the 1930s carried out this dark work with eagerness — and, indeed, with pride.

After being denounced at the 1927 Congress, the thirty-year-old Cho‘lpon entered the darkest, most tragic decade of his life — a period filled with endless dramas and misfortunes. For ten long years, excruciating spiritual torment gnawed at his body and shattered his nerves. His works ceased to be published, his name was blacklisted, and even close friends, upon seeing him on the street, would cross to the opposite side to avoid him. Recognized neither as a Soviet writer nor definitively condemned as a bourgeois one, Cho‘lpon was left in limbo. Yet throughout these years, articles attacking him never stopped appearing. Of course, as a man of extraordinary talent, Cho‘lpon did not cease writing after 1927; but no matter what genre or form he attempted, every one of his works without exception was branded as “ideologically harmful” or “nationalistic in spirit.” Even in his translations, critics claimed to detect traces of nationalism. The term “Cho‘lponism” began to appear in articles with increasing frequency. Meanwhile, the times grew harsher. The policy of collectivizing agriculture devastated the countryside within two or three years — not only did it destroy millions of genuine peasants and their livelihoods, it also shattered agricultural production as a whole. The result was a terrifying famine that swept across the entire country, provoking widespread public discontent. In such circumstances, the people’s fury needed to be redirected. Once again, the old tried-and-tested method was employed: all failures were blamed on “masked class enemies” and supposed counterrevolutionary forces lurking in the shadows. And who were these “enemies”? Inevitably, the intellectuals. Thus arose the sinister theory that “as socialism develops, class struggle intensifies.” This was no mere abstract theory, but a predatory and bloodthirsty one. Its implementation demanded millions of new victims as “proof” of its validity. And so it happened: from the early 1930s onward, a fresh wave of purges swept across the entire Soviet Union, and Uzbekistan was no exception. Some of the most tragic examples of this can be seen in the trials of Mannon Ramziy, Botu, and even Saidulla Qosimov, the Chairman of the Supreme Court of Uzbekistan. These public trials were deliberately staged to terrify the population, and above all, to intimidate and silence skeptical intellectuals. Naturally, in such a climate, the storm clouds over Cho‘lpon grew ever darker. The ceaseless insults, slanders, and accusations — labeling him a “nationalist” and then a “class enemy” — gradually shaped public opinion, paving the way for his eventual arrest. It was during this time that, on the advice of Fayzulla Khojaev, Cho‘lpon left Tashkent for Moscow, where he found work as a translator in the apparatus of the Central Executive Committee of the USSR. Perhaps this fact delayed his arrest by several years. Yet even if imprisonment was temporarily postponed, the “witches’ sabbath” surrounding him never ceased. The press continued to flood with humiliating, defamatory articles filled with lies and slander against him.

The authorities feared Cho‘lpon to such an extent that they monitored his creative output with extraordinary scrutiny. In the early 1930s, the Central Asian Bureau of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) operated in Tashkent, headed at the time by a man named Zelensky. According to some accounts, every single work of Cho‘lpon — both published and unpublished — was translated into Russian and delivered directly to Zelensky. In such an atmosphere, whenever the torrent of insults against Cho‘lpon seemed to subside even slightly, someone close to official circles would publish an article that reignited the assault, giving a new “license” for this campaign of vilification to continue. For evidence of this, let us consider one example. On January 15, 1931, Pravda Vostoka published a piece by M. I. Sheverdin titled The First Major Work of Uzbek Proletarian Literature.The irony was striking: this man, who neither knew the Uzbek language nor had any genuine familiarity with Uzbek literature, had made it his mission to slander and belittle the true talents of the nation while elevating untalented writers with incoherent and amateurish works. In 1927, he had already attempted to discredit Abdulla Qodiriy’s Bygone Days. Now, while praising Umarjon Ismoilov’s utterly mediocre novel Cotton Pickers as “the first major work of Uzbek proletarian literature,” he simultaneously found it necessary to trample on Cho‘lpon, Fitrat, and Abdulla Qodiriy: “Bourgeois writers such as Fitrat (Arslon), Cho‘lpon (Yorqinoy), Qodiriy (Bygone Days, Scorpion from the Altar), and Elbek Muhammadjonov (Experiments with Life) occupy the extreme right wing of Uzbek literature. There is no need here to discuss at length the pan-Turkist tendencies in Fitrat’s works, the defeatism in Cho‘lpon’s writings, Qodiriy’s glorification of the trading bourgeoisie and feudalism, or Muhammadjonov’s chauvinism.”(Note the rhetorical maneuver: he says everything he wishes to say, then dismisses it with the phrase “this is not the place to discuss it further,” as if modestly stepping aside.)  Statements of this kind, especially when voiced in the press by such a “respected figure” as Mikhail Ivanovich Sheverdin, were often accepted as guiding principles by many Uzbek literary scholars. After such warnings, even Cho‘lpon’s acquaintances would completely change their stance and pledge themselves to the service of the ruling ideology. As mentioned earlier, Abdurahmon Sa’diy had once written warmly about Cho‘lpon in 1924. Sadly, whether due to weak conviction or some other cause, by the 1930s he began mercilessly attacking him. In his article Class Struggle in Contemporary Proletarian Literature and in his textbook Uzbek Bourgeois Literature, Sa’diy repeatedly branded Cho‘lpon as a “jadid, bourgeois writer, and fervent nationalist.” Another example is Otajon Hoshim, a brilliant Marxist scholar who had earned considerable renown in the early 1930s and made significant contributions to the social sciences. Privately, Hoshim admired Cho‘lpon deeply, often reading his poetry aloud to relatives and encouraging them to memorize it. He had become acquainted with Cho‘lpon during his student days in Moscow, where they developed a genuine friendship. Yet in his published writings, even he felt compelled to join in the chorus of denunciation.

In short, the first half of the 1930s witnessed a flood of articles written with great passion and zeal, all seeking to expose and condemn Cho‘lpon. Naturally, it is impossible to review them all here, so only a few representative examples have been provided.

Among those who harshly condemned Cho‘lpon on the basis of “deep theoretical grounds” was Miyonbuzruk Solihov. The irony lies in the fact that he was, in truth, one of the most erudite literary scholars among the Uzbeks. Author of dozens of books and articles, he produced a monograph on the history of Uzbek theater that even today continues to attract scholarly attention for its richness of material.He had studied not only in the madrasas of Turkistan but also at Istanbul University, and had served in diplomatic posts in Kabul. Yet, tragically, even such a highly cultured and profoundly learned man became an active participant in the campaign of vilification against Cho‘lpon. It seems that he, too, sensing that the ground beneath his feet was crumbling, sought to save himself by displaying loyalty to the dominant ideology.To this end, in 1933 he published a book titled Manifestations of Nationalism in Uzbek Literature. But even this act of loyalty could not shield him from the storm of repression. It must be noted that Solihov’s book, while rich in material, is driven by a singular purpose: to brand Cho‘lpon and Fitrat as “nationalists.” For this, he did not shy away from distorting literary texts in his interpretations. For example, when writing about Cho‘lpon’s collection Awakening, he remarks: “Some of the poems here resemble speeches delivered to encourage soldiers engaged in battle.” He then quotes a passage from the poem People and concludes that it is ideologically harmful: “Naturally, it is impossible to consider the ‘people’ in this poem as the proletarian masses. What is meant here, in the imagination of the national democrats, is a ‘people’ that includes the wealthy, the clergy, the basmachi, and the oppressors.” One cannot help but wonder: what exactly was this critic demanding from the poet? Was it truly expected that every time a poet used the word people, he should append a note explaining that “this does not include basmachi or oppressors”?

Regarding The Secrets of Dawn, Miyonbuzruk concedes that “this collection shows that its author has grown considerably in terms of lyricism and artistry.” Yet he immediately hastens to add a “but”: “…in this collection there is no sign whatsoever of the poet’s ideological development toward the Soviet side.” In Miyonbuzruk’s interpretation, not only Cho‘lpon’s poetry but even his dramatic works are said to be poisoned with the venom of nationalism. For instance, he argues that in the play Yorqinoy, Cho‘lpon openly promotes the bourgeois order:

“This play idealizes the basmachi movement that was already dying out in the country. As a result, it seeks to show that on the basis of national democracy, one could establish a constitutional monarchy, that is, a khanate with a representative assembly.” Yet anyone who reads Yorqinoy with fairness will see clearly that there is not the slightest trace of “idealization of the basmachi movement,” nor any mention whatsoever of “a constitutional monarchy with a parliament,” as Miyonbuzruk claims. Could it be that he interpreted the actions of the character Po‘lat—who abandons the palace and withdraws to the mountains in order to fight against tyranny and to demand justice and truth—as “idealizing the basmachi”? Was it really possible for him to take Po‘lat’s words—“The crown, the throne… this burden that you have placed upon me… I must bear it, however heavy it may be… Behind the throne stands the homeland, the nation, the people… One must think of them. One must care for their suffering… If you have given me the crown and throne so that I might exploit them like the khans of old, then I return them to you. I have no need for such a throne! If the throne you have given me cannot heal the nation’s pain, then I reject it…” as a call for “constitutional monarchism”? If so, would this not mean that the dozens of our classical poets who sang of the ideal of the enlightened or just ruler—even the great Alisher Navoi—should also be branded as “propagandists of constitutional monarchy”? By such logic, could one not affix to them as well the label of “promoters of bourgeois ideology”? When a critic puts aside the text itself and instead attributes to the author ideas born only of his own imagination, and then draws “ideological” conclusions from them, this cannot be called scholarship. Such a method makes it possible to accuse any poet of any crime at will.

Miyonbuzruk’s attacks were in fact more dangerous than many other polemics of the time. For the majority of such articles were written in a rather shallow, offhand manner, relying less on evidence and more on crude rhetorical devices of the “I say—you say” variety, typical of careless polemicists. By contrast, Miyonbuzruk’s book was at least a book, and it appeared to contain “pseudo-scholarly” arguments. This had the potential to mislead the public, pushing them toward the conclusion: “So, Cho‘lpon truly was a counterrevolutionary element after all.One further point must be made in connection with Miyonbuzruk’s book: beginning from 1927, Uzbek literary criticism itself became deeply infected with the malady of vulgar sociologism, as critics strove to apply “Marxist methodology,” adhere to the “principle of class character,” and adopt the methods of socialist realism. Vulgar sociologism was such a pernicious disease that recovery from it was nearly impossible. The same affliction overtook both scholarship and criticism, and even today we have not entirely rid ourselves of it. It proved so resilient that, no matter how often it was driven out through the door, it would creep back through the cracks, returning in slightly altered form, with a new mask, but with the same essence. Where, then, did this affliction originate? What was its true nature? The roots of vulgar sociologism lay in the doctrine that “literature is a social phenomenon; every movement, every change, every quality within it is determined by social life, and, above all, by class struggle.” Soviet scholars who strictly adhered to this maxim gradually forgot that literature is first and foremost an artistic phenomenon. They ceased to consider its aesthetic nature altogether.The result was that works were treated merely as bundles of themes and ideas. Characters were judged solely by their class affiliation. Ultimately, this led to the effective erasure of literature as an art: there was no longer any need for such notions as “talent” or “genius,” and no distinction remained between a truly great artist and an ordinary rhymester, or even a mentally disturbed scribbler suffering from the “write-write” disease. Literary critics, in turn, took the easy way out. No longer did they analyze the text or seek to identify the laws of artistic thought. Instead, they would summarize the content of a work—sometimes eloquently, sometimes clumsily—and then pronounce their reflections on its “ideas” or “ideological problematic.” Under such a “methodology,” where the artistic text itself was disregarded, it became just as easy to elevate a mediocre writer to the skies with baseless praise as it was to vilify a true artist and drag him into the dirt.

Thus, the 1930s proved extremely difficult for Uzbek literature, as for other national literatures within the former USSR. The movement begun in the latter half of the 1920s to establish the hegemony of “proletarian literature” turned, in the 1930s, into a full-scale assault designed to plant the banners of socialist realism upon the literary landscape. In other words, Cho‘lpon, together with Abdulla Qodiriy, Fitrat, Usmon Nosir, and dozens of other writers, came under the ruthless barrage of ideological artillery. The process of turning literature itself into a mankurt—just as had already been done with scholarship and criticism—was in full swing. What the ruling ideology demanded was a servile literature that would bow perpetually before it; a sycophantic literature that would approve of everything in life. Above all, it despised independent, gifted writers—those who probed deeply, who asked inconvenient, barbed questions that struck at the very core of things. Hence the slogan arose that “talent is a construct invented by bourgeois scholars,” and the maxim “from the factory floor to literature” gained currency, as attempts were made to transform model workers into writers.

At the beginning of the 1930s, an anthology entitled Our Glory was published, consisting of works by nearly one hundred such “homegrown” writers—poems, stories, and sketches. Strikingly, not a single one of these authors, despite their highly publicized debut, survived in literature in the years that followed. Yet the ruling ideology continued to support these makeshift writers of humble origin. It was aided in this by criticism—castrated and mankurtized—which faithfully carried out this work. The ongoing spiritual and physical terror in literature was aimed, first and foremost, at breaking the will of writers and intellectuals, bending them into submission, and uprooting their human dignity altogether. And it must be said that in more than a few cases, the ruling ideology succeeded in this sinister aim. One striking example: throughout the 1930s, the name of Anqaboy Khudoybakhtov frequently appeared in the press. This young man from Bakhmal worked as a journalist, later as a party official, and often intervened in the affairs of writers. When Botu was arrested in 1930 and sentenced to death, Anqaboy published an article in Qizil O‘zbekiston on February 3, 1931, entitled The Torn Mask, in which he tore off Botu’s “half-remaining mask,” branding him as the bitter enemy of the poor. In doing so, he demonstrated his ideological soundness and paraded his loyalty to the ruling order. But exactly one year later, on February 4, 1932, the same newspaper carried an article by X. Burlak and R. Choragul entitle Two Harmful Books, which exposed the political errors in Anqaboy’s own work. What was most astonishing, however, was that in the very same issue the newspaper also published Anqaboy’s response to the criticism. Perhaps world history has never witnessed such swiftness. In his Letter to the Editorial Board, Anqaboy accepted the criticism “with Bolshevik courage”: “… My first book is harmful; it must absolutely not be used… I take full Bolshevik responsibility for the grave damage my first book has caused, and I demand that it be withdrawn from use.” This recalls precisely the grotesque image in Gogol’s tale of the noncommissioned officer’s wife who beat herself with her own fists. Of course, there is nothing wrong if a person publicly apologizes for his actions—even in the press. But to demand that one’s own book be “absolutely not used” and “withdrawn from circulation” could only come from someone stripped of every shred of dignity. Moreover, such groveling acts of contrition did not save him: Anqaboy was later arrested and, like other “enemies of the people,” executed on October 4, 1938. Thus, the 1930s proved extremely difficult for Uzbek literature, as for other national literatures within the former USSR. The movement begun in the latter half of the 1920s to establish the hegemony of “proletarian literature” turned, in the 1930s, into a full-scale assault designed to plant the banners of socialist realism upon the literary landscape. In other words, Cho‘lpon, together with Abdulla Qodiriy, Fitrat, Usmon Nosir, and dozens of other writers, came under the ruthless barrage of ideological artillery. The process of turning literature itself into a mankurt—just as had already been done with scholarship and criticism—was in full swing. What the ruling ideology demanded was a servile literature that would bow perpetually before it; a sycophantic literature that would approve of everything in life. Above all, it despised independent, gifted writers—those who probed deeply, who asked inconvenient, barbed questions that struck at the very core of things. Hence the slogan arose that “talent is a construct invented by bourgeois scholars,” and the maxim “from the factory floor to literature” gained currency, as attempts were made to transform model workers into writers.

At the beginning of the 1930s, an anthology entitled Our Glory was published, consisting of works by nearly one hundred such “homegrown” writers—poems, stories, and sketches. Strikingly, not a single one of these authors, despite their highly publicized debut, survived in literature in the years that followed. Yet the ruling ideology continued to support these makeshift writers of humble origin. It was aided in this by criticism—castrated and mankurtized—which faithfully carried out this work. The ongoing spiritual and physical terror in literature was aimed, first and foremost, at breaking the will of writers and intellectuals, bending them into submission, and uprooting their human dignity altogether. And it must be said that in more than a few cases, the ruling ideology succeeded in this sinister aim. One striking example: throughout the 1930s, the name of Anqaboy Khudoybakhtov frequently appeared in the press. This young man from Bakhmal worked as a journalist, later as a party official, and often intervened in the affairs of writers. When Botu was arrested in 1930 and sentenced to death, Anqaboy published an article in Qizil O‘zbekiston on February 3, 1931, entitled The Torn Mask, in which he tore off Botu’s “half-remaining mask,” branding him as the bitter enemy of the poor. In doing so, he demonstrated his ideological soundness and paraded his loyalty to the ruling order. But exactly one year later, on February 4, 1932, the same newspaper carried an article by X. Burlak and R. Choragul entitled Two Harmful Books, which exposed the political errors in Anqaboy’s own work. What was most astonishing, however, was that in the very same issue the newspaper also published Anqaboy’s response to the criticism. Perhaps world history has never witnessed such swiftness. In his Letter to the Editorial Board, Anqaboy accepted the criticism “with Bolshevik courage”:

“My first book is harmful; it must absolutely not be used…I take full Bolshevik responsibility for the grave damage my first book has caused, and I demand that it be withdrawn from use.”

This recalls precisely the grotesque image in Gogol’s tale of the noncommissioned officer’s wife who beat herself with her own fists. Of course, there is nothing wrong if a person publicly apologizes for his actions—even in the press. But to demand that one’s own book be “absolutely not used” and “withdrawn from circulation” could only come from someone stripped of every shred of dignity.Moreover, such groveling acts of contrition did not save him: Anqaboy was later arrested and, like other “enemies of the people,” executed on October 4, 1938.

The creative atmosphere of the 1930s was indeed dreadful. Yet, no matter how terrifying the environment was, some writers neither succumbed to its pressure nor betrayed their convictions and faith. Among them was Cho‘lpon. Of course, it would not be entirely correct to say that “the circumstances had no impact on Cho‘lpon.” In some of his poems, one can notice tendencies of adapting to the demands of the time. This is not surprising — when the era itself turned away from him, he was inevitably forced to turn toward it. However, such works in Cho‘lpon’s oeuvre were not many. What is most astonishing is that, regardless of how severe the circumstances were, Cho‘lpon  never ceased to create. In a speech he delivered at a 1937 Writers’ Union meeting, Cho‘lpon listed his recent works: “It has been two years since I returned from Moscow. During this time, I translated Gorky’s novel Mother, the play Yegor Bulychov, Pushkin’s Dubrovsky and Boris Godunov, as well as 25 of his poems, and Lahuti’s Journey to Europe. I also undertook several smaller works. Beyond that, between 1935–1937, my novel Night and Day and my poetry collection The Melody were published. Another poetry collection, The Chorus, has been completed and submitted to the publishing house.”Now, just imagine — in a period when a devastating storm of repression was raging across the country, primarily destroying intellectuals and writers; when decent authors were one after another mysteriously “disappearing”; when the press continued its campaigns of whitewashing and slander, leaving no space for free thought or proper writing — despite all this, such immense work was accomplished! How should such a person be judged? In my view, this points only to one truth — Cho‘lpon was not only a man of iron will, but his talent possessed an extraordinary force. Just as a spring from the depths of the earth bursts through to the surface regardless of obstacles, Cho‘lpon’s talent, no matter how dense and terrifying the surrounding darkness, pierced through it and compelled him to create. This is one of the most vital aspects of Cho‘lpon’s personality. If literary criticism had been impartial, grounded in genuine scholarly principles, serving the cause of truth rather than acting as the servant of the ruling ideology, it would have analyzed not only Cho‘lpon’s works but also these extraordinary traits of his character. Unfortunately, the criticism of that time was incapable of such a task. Indeed, criticism never ignored Cho‘lpon, but the kind of attention it gave him was far more dreadful than neglect itself.

From the mid-1930s onward, the stream of articles denouncing Cho‘lpon  grew even more intense. Naturally, these writings contained not the slightest attempt to understand him. On the contrary, as the fateful year of 1937 drew closer, such articles lost any trace of caution or humanity. They resembled one another so much that they seemed almost commissioned by a single organization. Facts were deliberately ignored, poetic excerpts were twisted and distorted, and without presenting a single shred of real evidence, the same old accusation — “Cho‘lpon is a nationalist” — was repeated again and again. The situation reached the point where reviews began to appear about Cho‘lpon’s books that had never even been published. One such review, written by Tuygun, was printed in Yosh Leninchi (“Young Leninist” was a youth-oriented publication promoting Leninist ideas and socialist values during the early Soviet period.) newspaper on May 22, 1937 — on the eve of Cho‘lpon’s arrest. Tuygun had entered literature in the late 1920s. In the early 1930s, he published four or five volumes of poetry and later attempted to write plays, but he remained a mediocre figure. Unable to secure a respectable place in literature through his pen, he sought to gain prestige by portraying himself as a loyal citizen. In this pursuit, he went so far as to openly denounce his fellow writers. Indeed, the article in question is less a work of criticism than a denunciation whispered into the ears of the authorities. This review concerned Cho‘lpon’s poetry collection The Chorus (Jor), which had been submitted to a publishing house but never saw the light of day, ultimately disappearing altogether. Apparently, Tuygun had first written the piece as an internal review, but then, without the slightest hesitation, published it in the press. His method of “analysis” was strikingly primitive: he would copy a few lines of verse, tear certain phrases out of context, and on that flimsy basis draw his own “deep” conclusions. For instance, from the poem Autumn (Kuzak), he selected the following passage:

Fruits tumbled heavily from the boughs,
With withered faces, they touched the ground.
The cold soil drank them deeply,
Yellowed like orphans, they wandered around.     

Then follows his “analysis” of the excerpt: “In expressions such as ‘withered face,’ ‘cold soil,’ and ‘yellowed like orphans wandering,’ one can clearly sense the mood present in Cho‘lpon’s earlier poems written in the spirit of bourgeois nationalism.” On the basis of such remarks, the reviewer concludes that Cho‘lpon still remained faithful to his “nationalist-bourgeois ideas.” Here, one must indeed acknowledge the “skill” of the critic. Just as it was said that “there is no fortress the Bolsheviks cannot take,” so too, for Tuygun, there was no line or even a single phrase from which he could not extract “traces of bourgeois nationalism.” Any expression, whatever its context, could be twisted into the meaning he desired. For example, from the same collection, he cites a passage from the poem The Spring of This Land:

The spring of this land is deeply drenched,
The sun seems to play with clouds above.
Whenever I see it, like a cheerful child in hiding,
It teases me, playful and deceiving.

A simple springtime scene. Yet Tuygun still manages to dig up suspicion from beneath this ordinary description: “Here it is clear that in 1936 Cho‘lpon deepened his old tunes. He still fails to see spring in spring itself, perceiving instead that he is covered by clouds. The ‘sun’ to him is unfaithful. Whenever he looks, it is hidden; his heart longs, and he is left suffocating…” To draw such “political” conclusions from the passage above, one must, to put it mildly, be lacking in fairness. It is worth noting, however, that Tuygun was among those who displayed great zeal in “exposing” Cho‘lpon —indeed, in the single year of 1937 alone, he published more than five articles in newspapers and journals, both in Uzbek and Russian, attacking Cho‘lpon and other so-called “enemies of the people.” For this reason, at that time he could be considered one of the most “politically vigilant” among Uzbek writers.  He relentlessly denounced Cho‘lpon as an enemy, yet proved incapable of providing any solid evidence or convincing arguments. Still, the fact remains that in those years, to brand someone a “nationalist” or an “enemy of the people” required no real proof at all.

After Tuygun’s article was published, Cho‘lpon was arrested. At this point, I do not mean to claim that “Tuygun alone was responsible for Cho‘lpon  arrest.” At that time, in addition to Tuygun’s, a number of other articles had been published against him. I believe that even if such articles had not appeared, the administrative organs would not have spared Cho‘lpon —for, first, the materials that had been gathered against him over the course of two decades already demanded that he be silenced. Second, by 1937 the machinery of repression was whirling across the entire country with unprecedented ferocity. Nevertheless, Tuygun’s article and others like it cannot be regarded as harmless or unrelated to the repression. There is no doubt that such writings, by instilling slander and false accusations about writers and poets into the public consciousness, poured water into the mill of the purge and facilitated the work of Stalin’s executioners.

Thus, in the summer of 1937, Cho‘lpon was arrested; after a year of horrific torture, on October 4, 1938, he was executed by shooting. The second act of the long, multi-scene tragedy—whose author and director were the Soviet government and the Bolshevik Party, and whose performers were the administrative punitive organs along with local literary critics—thus unfolded, culminating this time in Cho‘lpon’s physical annihilation.

***** ******* *****

   Cho‘lpon was executed. Along with him, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the most genuine sons and daughters of the nation—writers, poets, scholars, statesmen, military leaders, skilled farmers—were also shot. Yet even this did not mark the dawn of dark nights; the dreadful tragedy that befell the people did not end—its subsequent acts were yet to unfold. Meanwhile, fascists invaded the country, and the bloodiest, most merciless, and most destructive war in history began. Consequently, Stalin’s repressions somewhat subsided, or rather, took on a different form. Finally, with the victory in 1945, the spring brought new hopes to the people—the victorious people, though still cautious, believed in living a more decent life and attaining at least a fragment of happiness. The general sentiment was that the supreme leader, who had ensured victory for the Soviet people, would now relax the oppression, give people some relief, and life would truly become joyful and lively. Many sincerely believed this. Human beings are remarkably strange creatures—they can be both blind and deaf at will—they see what they want to see and ignore what they do not want to see; they seek knowledge only if they wish to. Otherwise, would they not draw lessons from thirty years of history, from unspeakable sufferings, from indescribable humiliation? Yet they did not. Once again, the people were captivated by a few lofty speeches and grand promises of the “father of nations,” tightened their belts, and marched steadily toward a “bright future.” Indeed, the ruling communist ideology was cunning and resourceful—it used literature and art, as well as mass media, to poison the public consciousness. People had come to interpret life according to the headlines of Pravda, making them easy to manipulate. Even after the war, this continued—the people expressed gratitude to the “great genius” for their “happy” life, while the “great genius” initiated new waves of repression. In 1949–1950, Stalin’s heavy hand fell once again primarily on writers. This time, Shuhrat, Shaykhzoda, Said Ahmad, Mirzakalon Ismoiliy, Hamid Sulaymon, and many other Uzbek writers and poets were imprisoned. Under such conditions, understanding Cholpon was impossible; even mentioning his name was forbidden. In textbooks, the phrase “Cholpon—the nationalist” disappeared, replaced by a vague term: “a group of bourgeois nationalists.” In March 1953, Joseph Stalin passed away. That very month became a period of mourning for the entire nation—regardless of age, gender, or social standing, people collectively grieved for Stalin. In every workplace, household, square, and street, there was lamentation and weeping. Newspapers carried messages of condolence from all corners of the world, printed within black borders. Few could have imagined that, following these somber and oppressive days, brighter times might eventually emerge. At the 20th Congress of the Communist Party, Nikita Khrushchev displayed remarkable courage by publicly revealing the truth about Stalin: his cruelty, his tyranny, and the fact that millions had perished under his rule. These revelations shocked many, as they had long revered Stalin as an ideal. Others, however, received the disclosure with relief and even satisfaction. Intellectuals, particularly a large group of writers, began to view life with renewed hope. For the first time in many years, a figurative warm breeze seemed to touch their hearts, heralding the possibility of new circumstances, new life, and a revitalized creative spirit. Indeed, in the following three to four years, literary works characterized by a freer spirit began to emerge. Writers, poets, playwrights, publicists, and even literary scholars and critics increasingly exposed the accumulated injustices of the Soviet regime. Yet, as literature delved deeper into these issues, a series of critical questions arose: if the much-vaunted socialist society had allowed such systemic violations, with millions imprisoned, exiled, or executed without just cause, could the society they had built truly be considered a “reign of evil”? And if so, who bore responsibility? Stalin? What of the Politburo that stood beside him? The Central Committee, considered the intellectual core of the Party, where had it been? Was the fault concentrated in a single individual, or did the socialist system itself cultivate a disposition to idolize a singular leader?

As these inquiries deepened, even the most sensitive secrets began to surface. Consequently, measures were promptly taken. The initial optimism of liberalization was soon curtailed: the gaps through which the fresh air had entered were closed, the partial freedoms granted were rescinded, and the ideological foundations, unsettled by these brief liberalizing currents, reasserted their authority. Once again, censorship, prohibitions, and political persecution resumed, and the apparatus of control regained its former power. Once again, ideological enemies began to be sought. N.S. Khrushchev had lavishly criticized Stalin’s “theory that class struggle intensifies as socialism develops.” Now, a new “theory” emerged: “While the socialist camp and the capitalist camp may live together peacefully, the ideological struggle between them will never cease; on the contrary, it will only intensify.” This notion was akin to saying, “If you are friends with someone, keep your sword at your side.” In short, due to the measures taken by the leaders, things essentially remained “Nothing new under the sun” True, even a person who once breathed freely outdoors finds it difficult to return to a cage, but if an entire country is a single, unified cage, what can be done! All of these circumstances were, of course, directly connected to Cho‘lpon’s fate — under such conditions, the third act of Cho‘lpon’s tragedy was enacted.

Even after Cho‘lpon was executed, the devotees of the ruling ideology continued to treat his name with a fear as if it were fire. Consequently, they launched a campaign to erase Cho‘lpon’s name entirely from the history of literature. His books were seized in libraries—kept in special rooms behind iron doors, access strictly forbidden. Photographs of Cho‘lpon previously published in journals were blacked out, and his name was removed from books and articles. He could only be referred to as a “traitor to the homeland, nationalist, spy, or enemy of the people.” Even quoting fragments of his poetry to prove his hostility could be interpreted as “promoting Cho‘lpon’s work under the guise of criticism.” Naturally, reading his books was strictly prohibited. However, nothing can block the rays of the sun. The fiery Word, spoken in the path of truth, lives forever. Nothing can hinder its journey to reach human hearts. Even under such conditions, there were people who secretly read the works of Cho‘lpon and Abdulla Qodiriy. Personally, I read O‘tkan Kunlar (Bygone Days), Mehrobdan Chayon (Scorpion from the Pulpit), and Kecha va Kunduzi (Day and night) during the war years while attending school. I was not alone; the entire class read them. I do not recall exactly where we found these books, but I do remember that each book was given to a single student for one evening only—we had to finish reading it by morning and return it. Interestingly, we all managed to do so—once we started reading in the evening, we spent the night immersed in a kind of intoxicating mix of emotions and anxiety, closing the final page at dawn. Of course, we had heard that Qodiriy and Cho‘lpon were considered “nationalists” and that one should not succumb to their “poisonous ideas.” Yet, in our tender minds, we could not grasp what these “poisonous ideas” actually were. As soon as we began reading the novels, we were captivated by their magic, forgetting the authors’ supposed “nationalism.” In this way, until 1956, we lived with warm and vivid impressions of their works in our hearts, while in our minds coexisted the official notion that “they are enemies and traitors to the homeland.”

From that year onward, innocent victims who had survived the shootings and endured life in exile and labor camps began to return. At a congress of Uzbek intellectuals, Nuriddin Akramovich Muhiddinov, then First Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan, announced the rehabilitation of the great Uzbek writer Abdulla Qodiriy amid the enthusiastic, standing ovation of the entire hall. At that time, there were still some people in the audience who had seen Qodiriy in person and possibly interacted with him. Many openly wept during the announcement. Shortly after, Cholpon was also rehabilitated. With remarkable promptness, the Writers’ Union established a commission to study Cholpon’s literary heritage, placing him alongside other victims of repression. The chairman of the commission was Bahrom Rahmonov, then First Secretary of the Writers’ Union, and the members included Uyghun, Mirzakalon Ismoiliy, Ghulom Karimov, and myself. Naturally, I was pleased to join the heritage commission with the hope that “Cholpon’s work will now be studied objectively, assessed fairly, his ideological shortcomings and nationalism identified, and the healthy portion of his literary legacy restored to the people.”

I realized that Cho‘lpon  was a poet of extraordinary caliber—even stronger than many poets who were somewhat recognized at that time. Naturally, some of his works contained elements of “nationalism,” but even now (that is, in the early 1960s) there were many pieces that could be presented to readers without hesitation. Reaching this conclusion, I began to express this view at meetings of the Writers’ Union. My main point was as follows: “Cho‘lpon is a complex poet. His poetry of the 1920s contains nationalist elements, and some works are ideologically alien to us. Yet, as Soviet reality developed, it also had a positive influence on Cho‘lpon, and by the late 1920s, he had adopted a Soviet stance. He can rightly be considered a Soviet poet. It would be wrong to exclude such a great poet and talented writer from the framework of Soviet literature.” Today, the correctness of this view is self-evident. At the time, however, this was a cautious, somewhat understated statement, phrased with diplomatic moderation. One could still detect the lingering traces of ideological poison deliberately implanted in our consciousness by the ruling authorities. Yet, even such a mild opinion provoked anger among some colleagues and, especially, the ideological leaders. Later, I learned that, on one hand, they feared harming the reputation of our foundational figure in Uzbek Soviet literature, the great classic Hamza Hakimzoda; on the other hand, they were determined to suppress any discussion that would openly reveal the true causes of Cho‘lpon’s tragedy, which occurred in 1937. These leaders resisted with tooth and nail any attempt to restore Cho‘lpon and reintegrate him. They explained to me: “Do not worry too much, comrade. True, we have rehabilitated Cho‘lpon, but only as a citizen. We have not rehabilitated him as a poet, and we will not do so.” However, the situation soon proved less promising than I had expected—the commission, for some reason, did not hurry to begin its work. Later, Bahrom Rahmonov passed away, and the work once again stalled. Afterward, I submitted one or two appeals to the Writers’ Union. Colleagues advised me not to rush things. I could have continued patiently, but I knew that one day the public would ask, “Well, comrade, as a commission member, what work have you done? How will I answer?” With that thought in mind, I began independently to locate and study some of Cho‘lpon’s works. At that time, some senior colleagues became so enraged that they even struck their chests, shouting, “You will only rehabilitate Cho‘lpon over my dead body!” I could not, and to be honest, still cannot, understand the reasoning of our ideological leaders. How can one separate a person’s poetry from their citizenship? Where does the boundary lie—at the waist? Which part is the poet, and which part the citizen? After all, every poet’s civic identity is expressed in their poetry, and conversely, their poetic identity manifests through their civic life. In short, no one provided me with a coherent answer to these questions.

Consequently, I did not abandon my own views. On the contrary, I elaborated on them in considerable detail in my article Yillar va Yo‘llar (Years and Roads), published in 1967. As a result, I was labeled an untrustworthy individual, accused of undermining the foundation, ideological core, and party alignment of Soviet literature. I was placed on blacklists as a “propagandist of Cho‘lpon,” and thus, by extension, as someone inclined toward nationalism.

Once again, I suffered an “ideological blow” in 1969. This was connected to the events surrounding the book Tirik Satrlar (Living Lines). I wrote in detail about these events in my article The Difficult Fate of Tirik Satrlar, so here I will only briefly mention them. The book Tirik Satrlar included 23 of Cho‘lpon’s poems. If I am not mistaken, in 1967, the journal Uzbek Language and Literature published an article titled The Soviet Government and Fine Arts featuring 3–4 of Cho‘lpon’s poems. After Cho‘lpon had been condemned, it was only thirty years later that his works appeared in print for the first time. In Tirik Satrlar, a relatively extensive selection of his poems was presented—the publication of this book essentially marked Cho‘lpon’s rehabilitation as a poet. Naturally, all 23 poems had passed the scrutiny of censorship. Moreover, according to the procedures of that time, the Ideology Department of the Central Committee reviewed the book twice before granting permission for its printing. The book was printed, and distribution was initially approved. However, the book never reached retail outlets—it fell under the wrath of Sharof Rashidov and was banned. Existing copies were collected, and eventually the entire print run was destroyed. By 1967, it was clear that our society had made little progress in the field of ideology; there was no basis to claim that our dear Party had ended persecution and bans in the literary sphere and adopted a genuinely new policy. Everything was still decided by a single individual holding the highest office, while the rest—mentally subordinate—merely acquiesced, hands folded, approving whatever was decreed. Any talk of creative freedom remained nothing more than a myth.

The banning of Tirik Satrlar (Living Lines) indefinitely delayed the republication of Cho‘lpon’s works. What was particularly striking about these events was that in Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, and in neighboring republics such as Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan, the works of rehabilitated “former nationalist” writers were being published swiftly and systematically. Only in our country did slowness and indecision persist. This was perhaps due to an excessive devotion to civic loyalty, or a firm belief in the saying, “If you have no troubles, even the tail cannot wag the plow.” By this time, I had gained some understanding of the hidden workings of ideological affairs. Although the ideological machinery was cumbersome, disorganized, and unwieldy, it was extraordinarily powerful. Anyone caught in its gears was doomed to be crushed, and fighting it alone achieved nothing. As the saying goes, “A vain struggle will break your back.” The ideological machine spared no one and knew no mercy. Therefore, we could only wait patiently, hoping for the “right time” when Cho‘lpon might be rehabilitated. Yet one thing I could never understand was the behavior of certain literary scholars, who, despite being experienced and skilled, and entrusted to serve the truth, stubbornly clung to meaningless arguments about Cho‘lpon being half citizen, half poet. I understand that scholars are human—they have their own lives to live and their own survival to ensure. Survival often requires compromise. When the ruling ideology declares “Cho‘lpon is a nationalist and an enemy,” few have the courage to openly oppose it. But why should a scholar go to extremes, trying to be “more papal than the Pope”? Why betray the truth, stifle their conscience, and “prove” Cho‘lpon’s alleged hostility with false or fabricated evidence? I am not here referring to unscrupulous individuals who, pursuing personal gain, have written articles or defended dissertations that trample both science and humanity. Such critics or so-called “scholars” resemble a drum-bearer’s apprentice—before even hearing the drumbeat, they grab the stick and start pretending to play. My complaint is directed at serious scholars—their indifference, laziness, and their neglect of the fate of a poet whose work they once studied, perhaps even debated with, argued about, or walked alongside.

In 1965, Mahmudali Yunusov’s book “Problems of Tradition and Innovation” was published. The book reflects on the issues of tradition and innovation based on materials from Uzbek poetry of the 1920s. The author meticulously studied articles published in the periodical press of those years, as well as certain books. Naturally, the research contains a number of relevant observations and reflections. However, the book’s main weakness lies in the fact that it does not derive scientific conclusions from the rich factual material; instead, it tends to adapt all the material to predetermined conclusions. This, in turn, serves to confirm the dominant ideological conception of the events of the 1920s.

One chapter of the research is titled The Bourgeois Nationalist Trend in Poetry and Its Decline, which in itself demonstrates the author’s approach based on ready-made frameworks. The researcher does not pause to consider the complexity of the period’s realities or the inherently contradictory path of the creators’ work — for him, the nationalism of Cho‘lpon, Fitrat, Elbek, and Botular is an indisputable fact. Consequently, he writes with a certainty that leaves no room for reflection on Cho‘lpon’s “ideological evolution”:”No matter how much one tries to restore the past, when reviewing the works of this poet, who ‘could not endure the sun’s light and sank to the ground,’ it is not difficult to perceive his unique ‘evolution,’ or more precisely, the stages of change in his bourgeois nationalist views. These stages begin with the strong intensity of affective intent, promoting counter-revolutionary activity; then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he is plunged into sorrow by inevitability, ‘with the last tear left in his eye and a desire to achieve action’; and finally, in his heart, ‘there is neither rebellion, nor surge, nor storm, nor fire,’ leaving only in his eyes ‘the heavy light of surrender.’”

In 1967, the Institute of Language and Literature named after A.S. Pushkin published a three-volume work titled History of Uzbek Soviet Literature. Naturally, in this book, as well as in the 1970 Russian-language edition published in Moscow, History of Uzbek Soviet Literature, the literary processes of the 1920s were presented according to the dominant ideological framework. That is, the October Revolution opened a new era in human history, bourgeois nationalists rejected the revolution, and a struggle ensued between them and the young Soviet forces, in which the Soviet ideology ultimately triumphed. Any event or fact from the 1920s was interpreted through this framework. If an event or fact did not fit the framework, it was forcibly adjusted to conform. To avoid remaining purely abstract, an example can be provided. In the first volume of the book, Cho‘lpon’s nationalism and his inability to see the Soviet system are repeatedly emphasized, and an attempt is then made to substantiate this view. For this purpose, an excerpt from the poet’s poem  I Miss the Spring  is presented

The grass and salt
it by bit
Have begun to wither.
Leaves turning yellow.
The soil, painted,
Has begun to die, has begun to die.

This excerpt is commented on as follows: “He sees only annihilation in life, perceiving the steppe as salt, bitter, and poisonous.”Reading this, one cannot tell whether to laugh or to cry. The author’s zeal for “exposing” is so overwhelming that it never occurs to them that the word “salt” in the poem is not the ordinary “namak” used in food, but rather signifies “barrenness, vastness.” According to their logic, let us assume “salt” still means food seasoning—why then should a substance that adds flavor to food signify “bitter” or “poisonous”?

Secondly, had the authors bothered to read the continuation of the poem, they would have realized that the poet is not seeing only annihilation in life. The continuation reads:

No… death is not there!
There is merely a single dying out, a single extinguishing.
One dies out… extinguished, yet there is rebirth.
There will be springs again,
Tulips again.
Again you, moon… and free wishes!

It is evident that the authors either did not understand the poem at all or selectively extracted only the parts that suited their purposes, weaving the above slander under the confident assumption that “no one will ever read the rest of the poem.” When encountering such examples, a thought comes to mind — it is often lamented that the enforcers of communist ideology were extremely ruthless and strict. Indeed, this is true. They mercilessly swept away any obstacle that stood in their way. They ruled without regard for the people or the creators, paying no attention to them at all. However, why were they so harsh and relentless? Could their severity, at least in part, have been due to the mediocrity or lack of firm convictions among our scholars — their inability to defend them courageously if necessary, their readiness, when required, to bind anyone hand and foot and deliver them to the feet of those enforcers? Yashin’s words astonished me. I had previously had one or two conversations with Komil Yashin on this matter. Yashin, in particular, had an exceptionally deep knowledge of Cho‘lpon’s works. He knew many of Cho‘lpon’s poems by heart and would readily quote them to support his points. Although he never explicitly said, “I am an admirer of Cho‘lpon’s poetry,” his respect and goodwill toward these poems were immediately evident. In conversations from the early 1960s, it is clear that he approached the matter of publishing Cho‘lpon’s poems with great caution. After all, the times were different then. But what about now—in 1987?

Could it be that the times of strict prohibitions and fear still persisted? Regardless, on that day Komil Yashin voted against the rehabilitation of Cho‘lpon and Fitrat. In earlier times, such a stance would undoubtedly have prevailed. Yet by 1987, even the Central Committee Secretary had to take public opinion into account. Thus, the council reached a decision to publish the works of Cho‘lpon and Fitrat and to re-evaluate their contributions. However, for a considerable time afterward, little real change occurred. True, newspapers and journals began featuring excerpts from Cho‘lpon’s works and some information about him, but this activity remained sporadic. The publication of his larger works still faced internal resistance.For instance, the release of Cho‘lpon’s novel Day and night encountered significant obstacles: the manuscript, submitted to the journal Sharq Yulduzi, was repeatedly halted, and it was eventually allowed to be published only with a preface acceptable to the authorities. This preface had to emphasize that “Cho‘lpon had been a nationalist, had many ideological errors, and later changed under the influence of Soviet reality.” I was tasked with writing this preface. At one time, I supported this perspective, but by 1988 my views had changed. Nevertheless, wishing the novel to be published, I placed that official line at the center and wrote the preface accordingly. In this way, the novel was finally published in 1988. In 1991, Once Again I Took Up My Pen was also published.

However, the decisive steps toward truly understanding Cho‘lpon, in terms of their essence, were taken only after 1991—once our republic embarked on the path of independent development. In several of his speeches, the first President of our Republic, I. A. Karimov, expressed the sentiments of the Uzbek people, accorded Cho‘lpon great recognition, and cited excerpts from his poetry, emphasizing the poet’s resonance with contemporary life. The awarding of the newly established Alisher Navoi State Prize to Cho‘lpon, alongside Abdulla Qodiriy and Abdurauf Fitrat, carries profound symbolic significance in our republic.

Every year, in our republic, Cho‘lpon Days are held in his native city of Andijan, reflecting the deep admiration of our people for this great creative figure. The “Khazina” creative production association has prepared to publish Cho‘lpon’s three-volume Collected Works and a research book titled The World of Cho‘lpon. At the Cho‘lpon Publishing House, his book What Is Literature? was also released. All of this testifies to the genuine return of Cho‘lpon to our literary and cultural sphere. These developments are certainly positive, yet no matter how significant, they do not yet signify that we have truly understood Cho‘lpon. Understanding Cho‘lpon does not mean glorifying him or elevating him to the skies, nor idealizing him, nor naming streets or cultural institutions after him. To understand Cho‘lpon is to grasp the inner laws of the art of words, and to comprehend how these laws manifest in his poetic work. Understanding Cho‘lpon means internalizing his great universal ideas and his lofty human feelings. To understand Cho‘lpon is to see the homeland—our ancient Turkistan—through his eyes and to love it with his heart. In short, Cho‘lpon must become a part of the inner world of every literature enthusiast. For this, his legacy must be studied with breadth and insight, based on new ways of thinking.

I wish to emphasize with joy that today among us there are insightful scholars capable of conducting this research, scholars who have both the intellectual right and the moral authority to do so. In this regard, experienced researchers such as Naim Karimov, Salohiddin Mamajonov, Umarali Normatov, Sirojiddin Ahmedov, and Sherali Turdiev have already made significant contributions.What fills me with hope for the future is that among today’s Cho‘lpon scholars there are talented young researchers such as Dilmurod Quronav, Ulug‘bek Sultonov, and Normamat Yo‘ldoshev. Their thinking is free from the ideological poisons that have long plagued our minds; their approach to literature and their understanding of it transcend the traditional patterns characteristic of our generation. Most importantly, they are not guided by fear. They do not seek to please anyone or to gain favor. Perhaps for this reason, I believe they will restore literary studies to its authentic essence. I also believe that they will demonstrate genuine dedication in understanding Cho‘lpon and will build the bridges that elevate all of us to the heights of his vision.

1994 
Ozod Sharafiddinov