SINGING THE KYRGYZ MANAS

SINGING THE KYRGYZ MANAS

SAPARBEK KASMAMBETOV’S RECITATIONS OF EPIC POETRY

✦

By

Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov

With

Razia Sultanova, Gulnara Kasmambetova and Gouljan Arslan

SINGING THE KYRGYZ MANAS SAPARBEK KASMAMBETOV’S RECITATIONS OF EPIC POETRY by Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov

First published 2010 by GLOBAL ORIENTAL LTD PO Box 219 Folkestone Kent CT20 2WP UK www.globaloriental.co.uk

© Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov 2010

ISBN 978-1-906876-38-8

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue entry for this book is available from the British Library

Set in Times New Roman 11 on 12 pt. Printed and bound in England by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wilts

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations vii CD Contents vii Preface ix List of Contributors xvi

Part I Episodes from the Manas 1 1 Manas is born 3 2 The marriage of Manas to Kanıkey is arranged 11 3 The Great Battle 25 4 Semetey’s childhood 32 5 Semetey returns to Talas 38 6 The marriage of Semetey 44 7 Semetey takes revenge for the death of his father, Manas 56

Part II 63 1 Oral epic poetry and the Manas 65 2 The Kyrgyz Manas: recorded, performed and studied 91 3 The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 115

References 133 Index 141

ILLUSTRATIONS

between Part I and Part II

1 Manas (Episode One) 2 Manas and Kutunay (Episode One) 3 Manas rides into battle (Episode Three) 4 Manas with his warriors (Episode Three) 5 The horse race (Episode Four) 6 The white fish at the lake (Episode Six) 7 Ay-čürök as the swan maiden (Episode Six)

CD CONTENTS

CD1 Track 1 Semetey’s childhood 27.45 CD1 Track 2 Semetey returns to Talas 36.03 CD2 The marriage of Semetey 56.00

Recorded at the AHRC Research Centre Studio, SOAS, in April 2006. Recordings engineered by Jeremy Glasgow, edited by Jeremy Glasgow and Keith Howard.

CD catalogue numbers SOASIS 21 and SOASIS 22. © and ℗ SOAS 2009

PREFACE

Today, the Kyrgyz Manas is one of the most celebrated epic heroic poems in the world. At the turn of the new millennium it was appointed a UNESCO ‘Masterpiece in the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity’, signalling its global significance. It sits alongside Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, or the South Asian Māhābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa, although politics and language have during the twentieth century conspired against allowing it to become as well known: while the Manas has long been considered important by European and American scholars researching epics, the difficulty of access to Kyrgyz lands during the Soviet period meant that it featured only marginally in the classic works of Milman Parry and Albert Lord. During the twentieth century, Soviet scholarship celebrated its length, and the compilations of texts from two great bards, Sagımbay Orozbaqov (1867-1930) and Sayaqbay Qaralaev (1894-1971), were held up in triumph: Sagımbay’s Manas, stretching to 180,000 verse lines, was measured as four times larger than the Persian Shahname and some forty times longer than the Iliad; Sayaqbay’s, at 500,533 verse lines, was twenty times the length of the Iliad and Odyssey put together, and two-and-a-half times the length of the Māhābhārata. To the Kyrgyz, the Manas has a distinct and deeply respected significance, as a repository of national heritage. At a state celebration of its supposed 1,000-year history in 1995, the Kyrgyz President, Askar Akayev, announced that all Kyrgyz citizens should follow the ‘seven principles of Manas’ – national unity, generous and tolerant humanism, international friendship and cooperation, harmony with nature, patriotism, hard work and education, and strengthening the state. Today, episodes from the Manas feature at private and public celebrations, and where once bards performed for villagers or khans, they now appear on national and international stages and on TV. The Manas, then, overflows with iconicity; episodes provide storylines for theatrical productions and for children’s books, and images feature on billboards and in adverts. A considerable body of material has been published on the Manas, beginning with the nineteenth-century collections by Rotmistr Čokan Čingisovich Valikhanov (1835-1865) and Wilhelm Radloff (1837-1918; Vasilii Vasilievič Radlov). The primary focus of the majority of this material x Singing the Kyrgyz Manas is on poetry as text. Textual analysis is of course of immense value, and so in this volume we survey what has been done by others. But, our focus here is rather different. When a bard sings for a Kyrgyz audience he tells familiar stories, of the exploits of heroes, of great battles, of births, marriages and deaths, and so we attempt to offer stories that are both readable and familiar, supplementing these with illustrations, in a way that avoids the textual complexities that academic accounts of oral literature can introduce. This is not a criticism of the great work done by those who translate the texts faithfully into a close English poetic equivalent, amongst whom the most respected name is Arthur Hatto. Their contributions retain many of the place names, personal names, and epithets of the original, but in so doing they remove the immediacy of the familiar known to the audience for whom the bard sings. This is not a volume that seeks to provide fully detailed and close translations. In addition to print translations, Hatto’s amongst them (particularly, Hatto 1990), we note that several episodes are available in translation and in different degrees of accuracy and detail on the Internet. This is a suitable point at which to indicate that web sources on the Manas are not all as reliable as one might hope, not least, broadly stated, because of the difference and distinction between Soviet/Kyrgyz scholarship and European/American scholarship. In contrast to most previously published material, we also focus on one septegenarian contemporary performer, Saparbek Kasmambetov. This book celebrates his life, and his renditions of episodes from the Manas. For many scholars, the golden age of epic poetry has passed, and the great bards have died, not least because orality is today tempered in an increasingly literate world. Now, because Saparbek went to school, then trained and worked as an electrician and administrator, he is not Sagımbay or Sayaqbay. Unlike his predecessors, he can read Manas texts, and he has written his own – first, back in the late 1940s, in a green notebook requested by the Academy of Sciences that still sits in a Bishkek archive, and more recently in two celebrated volumes that explore lesser-known heroes. He is, as we hope readers will agree, a bard of the first order, retaining the oral tradition he inherited while adding detailing and other elements to his storytelling – much as we would expect from any great singer of tales. Part 1 of this volume translates seven episodes from the Manas, as sung by Saparbek. The accompanying CDs contain recordings of some of these, and our translations of all the episodes are based on Saparbek’s recordings. As we have already indicated, in our effort to let the stories be told we have not provided absolutely literal translations. The translation and editing of the episodes was undertaken with Saparbek’s daughter, Gulnara Kasmambetova, and the accompanying illustrations are by Saparbek’s granddaughter, Gouljan Arslan. Preface xi

Part II of the volume comprises three chapters. First, in ‘Oral Epic Poetry and the Manas’, Howard considers epics and the literature available on them in English and European languages. Second, recognizing that this literature is often distinctly different in approach and at times in substance to that written by Soviet and Central Asian scholars, Keith Howard and Razia Sultanova then explore, in ‘The Kyrgyz Manas: Recorded, Performed and Studied’, some of the pertinent and extensive body of material published in Russian. Third, Saparbek Kasmambetov tells his life story, as related to Gulnara Kasmambetova in the same style as he uses to recite episodes of the Manas, but edited and interwoven with additional material by Howard. Saparbek first visited SOAS in 2005, when he was invited by Razia Sultanova to demonstrate epic recitation to her BA degree students. He returned in February 2006 to take part in the conference ‘Music of the Turkic-Speaking World, Performance and the Master-Apprentice System of Oral Transmission’ organized by Razia Sultanova with Rachel Harris, Keith Howard, Alexander Knapp, Dorit Klebe and Janos Sipos, sponsored by the AHRC Research Centre for Cross-Cultural Music and Dance Performance. That conference led to the setting up of the ICTM (International Council for Traditional Music) Study Group on Music of the Turkic-Speaking World. The audio CDs for this volume were recorded in April 2006 when, as part of a graduate training project, a group of students were invited to spend three days with Saparbek. They provided the audience for the recordings, and are present in the background to the excerpts from the many hours recorded that we have included here. We admit that this group hardly constituted the sort of knowledgeable, familiar and responsive audience that would best suit Saparbek’s epic storytelling. But then studio recording is itself an artifice that is often considered – though rarely by record producers, and rarely featuring on commercial audio recordings – inferior to recordings that feature the local setting, with its spontaneity, interruptions, and background soundscapes. A studio recording concentrates solely on the singer, musician, or poet. Here, in order to faithfully preserve the performance occasion, we have applied a very light touch in editing the recordings, retaining occasional pauses, coughs, and points at which Saparbek clears his throat. The art of singing epic poetry presents challenges to those unfamiliar with Kyrgyz since, however skilful the bard, the core alternation of repeated melodic motifs in pacing lines of regular length with intoned initial, transitional and cadential declamations of flexible length offers limited musical variety. The restricted palette provides much of the reason why we have elected not to offer a lengthy musical analysis; a second reason would be that to do so would repeat what is already available elsewhere. Readers are invited to complement the brief discussions offered here (within both ‘Oral Epic Poetry and the Manas’ and ‘The Kyrgyz Manas: Recorded, Performed and Studied’) by referencing Prior’s extended notation and xii Singing the Kyrgyz Manas discussion of the six wax cylinder recordings of an earlier bard that survive from the beginning of the twentieth century (Prior 2006: 16–82; 95–110). This volume is part of a series sponsored by the AHRC Research Centre. The Research Centre was established in September 2002 as a joint venture between SOAS, the University of Surrey and Roehampton University, funded by the (British) Arts and Humanities Research Council. The Centre explored questions raised by the performance of music and movement (and by extension, other performance activities), and their interrelationships, in artistic practice beyond the European art and popular music canons. To do so, it sought to establish: a synthesis between the performance concerns of different disciplines within academic research, exploring and addressing a discrete set of activities that have performance at their core; methodologies and techniques utilized in analysis to evaluate their appropriateness and efficacy in resolving research questions that have performance at their core; acknowledgement of common music, dance, and other performance arts’ concerns of cultural coding – aspects of performance determined by social and cultural contexts. The Centre’s approach shifted the focus of study to take on-board and explain the perceptions of performers from Asia and Africa about their own music and dance, and about its transformations and adaptations. This is precisely what we do in this volume, not least by challenging some of the received understandings and interpretations of epic heroic poetry that have been put forward – whether informed by the Milman Parry and Albert Lord theoretical model of epic poetry or by the Soviet/Central Asian philosophical and folkloric tradition – through the performance, and the documentation of that performance, of a contemporary bard, Saparbek. Each volume in the Research Centre’s series celebrates one or more performer, presenting discussions of, inter alia, training, context and repertory. Each is the result of a collaborative research project, in which performers have worked alongside academics and others – in this case including family members of the bard – to record, edit and master audio materials, and to discuss their background, experience and understanding of the performance tradition for which they are renowned. Our intention is not to offer an overview of a single music, dance, or other performance culture, nor to present an exhaustive account of, say, epic poetry or the Manas; many other publications seek to do this, as our list of references hopefully indicates. Rather, we have endeavoured to bring these master performers to readers, listeners and viewers, allowing them a voice while at the same time unravelling salient aspects of performance. Why? Well, the world is getting smaller. While scholars within the fields of ethnomusicology, dance anthropology and to some extent folklore have, and rightly, prided themselves on conducting fieldwork among responsive musicians and dancers in obscure and remote places, the artists all too often Preface xiii remain distant to the resulting ethnographic representations. With Airbus and Boeing competing to produce ever-larger airplanes, this approach is no longer tenable. Musicians and dancers, just as do scholars, travel the world. The romantic notion of an illiterate bard sitting in a yurt on the steppes no longer has relevance in the contemporary world, and can mislead us into thinking that the vibrant, thoughtful and incisive performers of today are no more than a pale echo, or perhaps an imitation, of former glories. More so, when the analysts and critics of their performance use theoretical models of what once might have been. Again, distance is problematic where the performance presented uses a language far removed from the familiar. Even though it seems to be a rule within the commercial ‘world music’ genre that vocalists should sing in any language other than English, the mix of familiar and Otherness represented in the commercial genre is quite different from recitations of the Manas. It seems, then, that the deterritorialized world for which Arjun Appadurai famously argued (e.g., 1990), or the hyper- consumerism of much of the global economy and its cultural forms (for which, see, for example, Gómez-Pena 2001), has not – fortunately – reached and impacted on Saparbek Kasmambetov and his fellow Kyrgyz bards. Many ethnomusicologists, dance anthropologists and folklorists would claim that their ethnographies offer faithful accounts that have been painstakingly collected, checked and cross-referenced against all available materials, publications and archives. In some cases, cross-referencing requires a return to the field, to allow reflection and, perhaps, additional discussion and deliberation. In the 1980s and 1990s, many trumpeted the benefits of ‘emic’ accounts, (e.g., taking ethnomusicological texts, Hugo Zemp (1981), Steven Feld (1982) and Marina Roseman (1991)). They talked about how to capture what musicians, dancers, and actors thought about their performance arts, and how to translate the metaphors used within the culture studied into a familiar language. Our approach here in presenting (and illustrating) translated episodes of the Manas represents our own take on this issue as well as our attempt to avoid fetishising Otherness. In the 1970s and 1980s, ethnographies relating performance traditions tended to follow trends in anthropology, often with a touch of delay. Still, all too often, the production of performance is discussed as if confined by its locale, with populations largely considered impervious to the global media or resisting change, maintaining and conserving their traditions. By the 1990s, calls to preserve the intangible heritage – performance arts and crafts – were becoming louder. Following Alan Lomax (1985: 40–46), and his comment that the world is an agreeable and stimulating habitat precisely because of cultural diversity, the standardization of culture by the global media, and cultural production made for us rather than by us, began to be questioned. What better way of celebrating diversity than allowing musicians, dancers, and other performance artists a voice? How, though, can scholars share xiv Singing the Kyrgyz Manas ownership of accounts with them? This volume is but one stage on the journey.

Notes on Romanization

No single romanization system has yet been commonly accepted as standard for Kyrgyz terms. Indeed, there are frequent discrepancies in the romanizations of terms in the published literature. Here, our aim is primarily to aid readability by a broad as well as a specialist audience. For Kyrgyz terms, we have been guided by Thomas Pedersen’s summary of romanization systems (http://transliteration.eki.ee/pdf/Kirghiz.pdf, accessed on 31 March 2009). The ISO9 table for transliterating Cyrillic (International Organization for Standardization, 1995) has proved useful, and for the Cyrillic ‘ң’, rendered previously as ‘ŋ’ or ‘ng’, we adopt the ISO’s ‘ņ’. Similarly, ž for Ж, č for Ч, and š for Ш. As a general guide for those unfamiliar with Central Asian languages, ‘ņ’ is pronounced reasonably close to ‘ng’, ‘č’ close to ‘ch’, ‘š’ to ‘sh’, and ž to ‘zh’. Long vowels are indicated by doubling the vowel symbol. We do not, however, adopt the additional ISO9 diacritics for vowels that complicate matters; we retain the common rendering of ѳ as ö (rather than ISO9’s ô) and ү as ü (rather than ù). Note an immediate mismatch: ‘Kyrgyz’ in the ISO system, but ‘Kirghiz’ in the URL address cited above. We adopt the now-common and generally accepted ‘Kyrgyz’ and ‘Kyrgyzstan’. In fact, the Cyrillic ‘ы’, rendered variously in previous publications on the Manas as ‘ï’ or ‘ı’, is in the ISO system rendered as ‘y’. This is somewhat problematic because, first, there is a different expectation of the pronunciation of ‘y’ in English, as well as a potential resultant confusion between Cyrillic ‘ы’, and ‘й’, the latter formerly romanized most commonly as ‘y’ rather than the former. In respect to pronunciation, and to give a better sense of pronunciation, in the episodes from the Manas (and where characters or places from the epic are discussed in later chapters), we have tended to use ‘ı’ rather than ‘y’ for Cyrillic ‘ы’ in personal names, geographical names, and ethnonyms – the exception, though, being ‘Kyrgyz’. In this, we have been guided by the practice of Arthur Hatto (e.g., 1990: 607–23). Our reason is because of the common Kyrgyz finals, for which ISO9 would require ‘-ej’ and ‘-aj’ in, for example, ‘Semetej’ (where the pronunciation is more readily appreciated as closer to ‘-ey’ or ‘-ei’), and ‘-baj’ for a rich person (where the pronunciation is much closer to ‘-bay/-bei’). Our solution is to retain ‘-ey’ and ‘-ay’, as in ‘Semetey’ and ‘-bay’. Common spellings are used for familiar geographical names, notably ‘kul’ rather than ‘köl’ for ‘lake’. But, to respect Saparbek’s pronunciation, in Preface xv the Manas episodes Bukhara is rendered as ‘Bukar’, and Andijan as ‘Andıyan’. For other scripts we have adopted standard romanization systems, for example, IAST (International Alphabet of Sanskrit Transliteration) for South Asian terms and McCune-Reischauer for Korean.

CONTRIBUTORS

This book is primarily by, and about, Saparbek Kasmambetov. The contributors are:

Gouljan Arslan, who produced the illustrations for this volume, is the granddaughter of Saparbek. She received her education in London and Oxford, where in 2009 she graduated from St Hilda’s College, University of Oxford.

Keith Howard is Associate Dean, Research, at Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney. He is the author or editor of fifteen books and author of more than 100 articles on the music, culture and religious rituals of Korea, Zimbabwe, Nepal and Siberia. In addition to being a regular broadcaster and occasional musician, he was director of the AHRC Research Centre for Cross-Cultural Music and Dance Performance from 2002-2007, founder of the SOASIS CD and DVD series and founder, director and licensee of OpenAir Radio.

Gulnara Kasmambetova is Saparbek’s eldest daughter. She is Senior Producer, Kyrgyz Service at the BBC World Service in London. She produces and presents daily news and current affairs programmes and weekly TV debates. She graduated from the Foreign Languages Faculty at Kyrgyz National University in Bishkek and the Philosophy Faculty at Rostov-on-Don in Russia. Before joining the BBC she worked as a regional youth organization leader, and as a lecturer at Rostov-on-Don State University and at the Women's Pedagogical University in Kyrgyzstan.

Razia Sultanova is Fellow at the Central Asia Forum, University of Cambridge. She is the author of books published in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan (Poyushee slovo Uzbekskih Obryadov (1994); Rhythm in Shashmaqam (1998)), and, in Britain, From Shamanism to Sufism: Women and Islam in Central Asian Culture (IB Taurus, 2010). She has been guest editor of Ethnomusicology Forum (‘Music and Identity in Central Asia’; 2005) and Cahiers de musique traditionelles (‘Entre Femmes’; 2005) and Contributors xvii has contributed to the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, MGG, and Garland Encyclopedia of World Music. She produced regular BBC World Service programmes on Central Asian music from 1994-1998, and remains active as a consultant for UNESCO and other organizations. xviii

PART ONE

EPISODES FROM THE MANAS

EPISODE ONE

MANAS IS BORN

My gratitude to Allah, for giving me the ability to sing! Let me start telling the great story of Manas.1 I start with the birth of Manas, whose father was Jakıp, whose ancestor was Nogay, who had seven forefathers. Jakıp lived at the time when the Kalmaks from China invaded our lands. Our people fled their beloved pastures, heading west to the Altai Mountains. Sixty families fled, tears streaming down their cheeks. They vowed never to forget their sorrow. Jakıp, too, married to the hero Böyön’s daughter Čıyördı, and also with a second wife, Bagdılöt, shed many tears.2 His sorrow at leaving was compounded by the fact that he had no child. One day near Kara-kul, the water from which flows down to Lake Kundus, an old man appeared as Jakıp dreamt. ‘Listen to me carefully,’ he said. ‘When the full moon gracefully floats in the sky, flirting with the stars above Koš-bulak Spring, next to which you have fallen asleep, otters will play great games. Their loud and piercing barks and bays will celebrate giving away in marriage their female pups to their chosen hounds. They will be full of generosity, for during this magical night pearls will stream down, glistening in the water of the spring.’ It was the wise man Küldür, known far and wide for spells that brought good fortune. ‘Jakıp, Nogay’s son, you have travelled many roads. You have endured many trials. Your flocks are sold and your wealth spent. You suffer in poverty. Come to Koš-bulak Spring on Friday night, when the full moon gracefully floats in the sky, flirting with the stars. Take care not to touch any of the creatures you see. Revere them from the bottom of your heart. Then they will share their wealth with you.’ And with this, the wise man vanished.

1 Each singer, manasči, gives a personal introduction when they begin to recite. 2 Some renderings have Čıyrdı/Čïyrdï or Čyördı/Čyördï (also known as Č akan, Čıyrıčı, etc) and, unlike Saparbek, identify her as the same person as Bagdılöt (or Bagdı-döölöt). 4 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

As night fell on Friday, Jakıp took his steed Tuu-čunak, loaded him with bags, and rode to the spring. What a magnificent scene greeted him! Thousands of otters, their silvery coats glistening in the moonlight, paraded, danced and played. Fantastic sounds filled the air. Keeping time to their music, young male hounds paired off with bitches. Beyond the music, Jakıp could hear something more. It was the sound of pearls rustling as they flowed by, floating in the current of the spring water! He bent down and picked up pearl upon pearl, filling his bags. The otters saw he meant no harm, and allowed him to take all the pearls he wanted. As dawn broke, the otters vanished. No trace of their celebration was left. Back home, the people were amazed as Jakıp showed them, one by one, the beauty, shape and weight of each pearl. Jakıp sold each and every one, amassing an immeasurable fortune. With this he bought many thousand sheep, cattle and horses. His flocks were so huge that they covered the landscape, making the hills seethe with life. Still, Jakıp longed for a son. One day as he rode his steed Tuu-čunak he asked: ‘With all this wealth, who am I living for? For who do I spend so much effort keeping my flocks safe? Why hasn’t Almighty God given me a son? Without a son, who will inherit my wealth when my days have been counted?’ He shed many a tear. Then, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep. A wonderful vision came to him as he dreamt. Who would have expected it! A mighty eagle descended from the sky! What a terrifying sight! When it flapped its wings it looked like a dragon! When it swung its tail it was a lion! The eagle gently settled on Jakıp’s shoulder. Poor Jakıp considered his situation. ‘Surely this beastly bird will not leave me alive, unless I am truly dreaming. But if this is a dream, then Almighty God has heard my pleas and sent a sign.’ Let’s leave Jakıp in his predicament. What was his wife, Čıyördı, doing? She was unaware of her husband’s plight, of the eagle. But she knew her own sorrow full well, because her skirt had never been bloodied in childbirth. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was waiting for Jakıp to return and comfort her, but he was late. She, too, fell asleep. What happened? She dreamt. She dreamt that she was given an apple, round and shiny as life itself. Eat it, poor woman, for maybe you will then see what Almighty God has prepared for you! When she bit into it, her body was filled with life. She looked up and saw an immortal white eagle seated on her yurt. But she woke with a start, hearing a scream from Büdıbek’s wife. I should explain. When Jakıp fell asleep, his horse Tuu-čunak broke loose. Büdıbek’s son, Majık, was with him and he ran after the horse to catch it. But Tuu-čunak was no normal horse, and quickly disappeared from sight. Majık followed. Büdıbek’s wife had now come to Čıyördı’s yurt, lamenting what had happened. ‘You rich people know nothing of the worries besetting us poor. You are blind to us. Your richness hangs like fat, covering your eyes. You Manas is born 5 are preoccupied with wealth. Because you have no children, you know nothing of their inestimable value. Do you not know what has happened? My son ran after Jakıp’s horse and has disappeared. Do you not care? You don’t spare a thought for the safety of my helpless child. Where is he? Has he been torn asunder by wolves and tigers? My child tried to please your husband, that wretched Jakıp. He tried to catch his horse.’ The misery of having no child! Čıyördı’s sorrow was talked about so unkindly. She felt her anger rise. Why was her husband so late? When Jakıp arrived, she shouted at him rather than greeting him as she should. Where was Majık? Rather than welcoming him into the yurt, she sent him out to look for the child. He left. At dawn the next day, in the forest near the Kermay River, Jakıp couldn’t believe what he saw. There was his horse Tuu-čunak, but the skin of a tiger was draped across it. ‘Oh! My destiny! Majık, Büdıbek’s son, has been eaten by a tiger!’ But then he saw the boy. Jakıp was puzzled, for it didn’t look as if Majık had been scratched or bitten once. He felt his joy welling up, but still he told Majık off. ‘You are so irresponsible! Why did you disappear for so long, bringing dismay to your parents and me?’ Majık then told Jakıp what had happened. He had the most wonderful time, he said. He had met forty čilten, the half-human half-spirit boys who live between this world and the world of spirits. A tiger was preparing to pounce on him, but the čilten surrounded it and killed it, skinning it and giving him the hide. Jakıp stood glued to the spot! He couldn’t believe this story. There was, though, a fresh skin draped over his horse, and how could youthful Majık have killed a tiger? This must surely be a sign from Almighty God. Jakıp returned home, leading Tuu-čunak covered with the tiger’s hide. He returned with Majık. He returned Majık to Büdıbek, giving him the tiger skin as compensation for the trouble his horse had caused. He called his shepherds who were tending his flocks to bring his forty finest horses as a sacrifice. He called people from all the tribes. For many days they feasted. And as the feast reached its end, Rich Jakıp addressed a council. ‘Oh, wise men! I had a most unusual dream. My wife, too, had a dream. Please interpret them.’ Wise Ak-Balta came forward. ‘The eagle you saw high in the sky is a symbol of eternity, a fame that will be timeless. The dragon you saw is a sign that someone who will be fierce in battle is coming. The lion you saw is a sign that someone with a brave heart is coming.’ Jakıp was impatient to hear more, but Ak-Balta stood, deep in thought. Čıyördı interrupted, asking about her dream. Bagdılöt, too, had also dreamt that fearless falcons were sitting on her yurt (in those days, first and second wives customarily lived in separate yurts). Ak-Balta offered his interpretation. ‘From the mosaic of your dreams, I predict that Jakıp will be blessed with a son by Čıyördı, and with more sons by Bagdılöt.’ Now, Rich Jakıp might have deserved his reputation for meanness, but hearing this 6 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas news brought out his generosity. He slaughtered many more sheep and cattle and horses, and the feast continued for many days. One year later, Čıyördı began to crave for the heart of a lion. She gave a bar of gold to Jakıp’s chief horseman, Suleyman, and ordered him to kill a lion. Now, it is difficult to trap a lion, so many days passed. And even in those days, lions were rare. When cornered, it was still a struggle for a man to kill a lion. It would struggle and struggle until overcome. But, Suleyman did kill a lion. Quickly, he brought the heart, still dripping with hot blood, to Čıyördı. She boiled it in a cauldron, and ate it, leaving not one drop of bouillon. In this way, she satisfied her craving. She was with child but, after such an extraordinary craving, what sort of child would she give birth to? Months passed and her time came. Forty women surrounded her as Čıyördı screamed out. She fought, scratching and bruising all forty. Her labour lasted nine whole days. Rich Jakıp could not bear it. ‘In my whole life I have never heard the cries of a child at birth, and if I hear them now I will surely die from a heart attack!’ He mounted his steed Tuu-čunak and rode off to inspect his flocks of horses as they grazed on the mountainside. ‘If it is a girl, I will give a gift of forty horses, but don’t come for me since I will want to be left in peace. If it is a boy, I will give my best racehorse to the man who brings me the news.’ Čıyördı was giving birth. It was as if a huge battle was waged, such was the commotion in the midst of the forty women. After nine days, the baby’s cry burst forth. The cry was so loud that nearby trees shed their leaves. It was a boy. Büdıbek’s wife cut the cord. Bagdılöt went to lift the baby, but it was as heavy as a twelve-year-old. She almost dropped it. She put butter on her finger for the baby, as was the custom, and put her finger in his mouth. He was so strong and hungry he almost sucked the soul from her body! Rather than taking the normal finger of butter, he took nine bowls filled to the brim! ‘He will be a bloodthirsty man!’ exclaimed somebody, noticing the baby held a congealed lump of blood in his right palm. Now, look at this, honest listeners, for there was something written in the baby’s left hand. It was a strange sign. Nobody could read it. Nobody knew its meaning. All the men who had gathered wanted Jakıp’s best racehorse, so they all ran off to find him. All but one, for Ak-Balta stood watching. His wife scolded him. ‘Why are you day-dreaming? Go and search for Jakıp! Don’t you want his generous gift? Tell him the wonderful news!’ Ak-Balta couldn’t bear her nagging, so mounted his horse and rode off to find the father. He knew where Jakıp kept his favourite horses, and that was where he went. He found Rich Jakıp, who crouched staring at his most cherished horse as it gave birth to a foal. Jakıp used his sleeve to wipe the birth fluid from the foal, muttering that if his own child was a boy then this foal would become his battle steed. It is said that heroes are born at the same time as their horses. He rose as he heard Ak-Balta calling. ‘Joy, joy, Jakıp!’ Could Manas is born 7 the news be good? ‘Joy, joy, Jakıp! You’re blessed with a son.’ Jakıp fainted. Ak-Balta filled his white cap with water, and threw it over Jakıp, bringing him to his senses. Jakıp, dazed, asked to be led to his wife, to see his long-awaited son. He burst into tears as he saw the baby, the child foretold in dreams. He ordered a feast and, although Rich Jakıp might have deserved his reputation for meanness, he slaughtered many sheep, cattle and horses. People from near and far were invited. Never before had they known such a well-provisioned feast, and for years afterwards men talked about the games, the dances, and the sweet flirtatious glances of the girls at the feast. Three months passed, but the son still had no name. Čıyördı scolded her husband for looking after his herds, for storing his wealth, rather than calling the people to a feast to chose a propitious name. Jakıp, mean as he was, knew another feast was needed. So, people from near and far gathered once more. On the last day of celebration, Jakıp and Čıyördı petitioned the people to choose a name for their son. Uneasy silence fell. The people slowly whispered all the names they could think of. No name seemed suitable for this baby, who at three months looked like he was six years old. Jakıp pleaded with them, for having thrown such a feast he wanted to resolve the matter. Nobody uttered any name. Finally, an old dervish with a long white beard spoke. Everybody looked at him. Which tribe was he from? Who had he come with? Who was he? ‘God has given this child a name. A name has been allocated in the realm of Almighty God. His name is inscribed in his palm. He is Manas.’ Everybody whispered, ‘Manas’. And, before they realized the power of this name, the old dervish disappeared. When the boy turned three, he was as strong a presence as big puffy clouds. When he turned four, he was as restless as unstoppable wind. He would catch little lambs in play and dash them against rocks, killing them. When he turned five, almost all the calves had disappeared from the village. He didn’t understand that his playing brought death to the poor beasts. When he turned seven, no other boy would come near him, since if he took their hand he would crush it, and since if he kicked them their shins would fracture. People stopped greeting Jakıp and his family. ‘What a monster! Soon, all living things in our village will be dead! Don’t go near Jakıp’s house if you want to live! His son plays with living creatures as if they are toys made from stone!’ Still, his parents spoilt the child, and allowed him to do anything he wanted. They wouldn’t listen to the complaints. Soon, they started to notice that everybody avoided them. Čıyördı finally faced her husband. ‘Please take your unruly son and send him to the shepherd Ošpür. Since Ošpür lives far away, the villagers will return to living in peace. Ošpür will get our son to look after his sheep, and this will teach him skills and make him more sensitive towards animals.’ By this time, Rich Jakıp, too, had begun to 8 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas despair of the child’s behaviour. He feared his temper. And so he was only too glad to follow Čıyördı’s request. It was a challenge to get Manas to leave. Rich Jakıp promised him adventures if he journeyed with him to Ošpür. Excited by the prospect, the boy agreed to go, and father and son left to find Ošpür. Jakıp-kan3 discovered Ošpür had a son the same age, Kutunay. The boys’ eyes lit up when they saw each other, anticipating the hours of play to come. Ošpür, though, said: ‘No, boys, you’re not going to play all your time. You will look after the lambs, and for this you will be rewarded.’ Thinking the boy in good hands, Jakıp-kan left in high spirits. Ošpür took the two boys to where he had corralled a flock of lambs, and left them. He expected them to become hungry, and to suffer hardship as they defended the lambs from wolves. But how mistaken he was! Hidden from him, alone, the two had so much freedom. They summoned boys from the villages all around and all, fearing Manas, came running. Manas and Kutunay formed an army! They practised war drills, endlessly. They staged battles, endlessly. The boys divided themselves into archers and horsemen. In truth, I should tell you that the horsemen rode foals, because of their childlike stature. They exhausted those foals they had separated from mares. They threw stones at each other, endlessly. They kicked each other, endlessly. They competed in games, endlessly. And, of course, Manas had to feed his army, and as he did so, people began to see the army that he had assembled. People now forgot how they had complained to Jakıp, how they had avoided him because of his unruly son. Now, they began to pity him. Jakıp, they remarked, had begged God to give him a son, but now the son had become a bully, an utterly uncontrollable bully. In the meantime, across the border in China, the canny Chinese had a sacred book, the Dangsa,4 in which the name ‘Manas’ was written. Manas, it

3 Kan/khan: the ruler or leader of one or more tribal groups. There is significance in introducing the term here. Saparbek is reflecting on the democratic nature of Kyrgyz society, because the ruler went to a shepherd and begged him to take in his son; although the ruler may have had authority, it was the people who decided what would happen. Councils of the people – the feasts already encountered – were where decisions were taken. 4 At this point, we have a good example of Saparbek’s historical perspective. The title of this book indicates a text most likely written at the end of, or shortly after, the Tang Dynasty (618-907). Today’s Xi’an was the capital at the time of the Tang Dynasty, but in a later episode Saparbek names the Chinese capital as Beijing. To him, the Chinese are ‘Kıtay’ (as they are referred to hereafter), much as with nineteenth-century bards, but note that the Mongolian Qıtay, who founded an empire in northern China at the beginning of the tenth century, are not implicated in this identification – Hatto (1977: 273) notes that the name has long since been transferred to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) Chinese. Manas is born 9 was written, would be born to the Kyrgyz. Manas, it was written, would one day march eastwards and smash Kıtay hearts to pieces. Now, fearing the prophecy, they sent an expeditionary force to the Kyrgyz lands, instructing them to kill every new-born boy. At that time another unusually large child had been born in the borderlands. The Kıtay thought this child must be Manas. They did not realize that some Kyrgyz had fled invasion and settled in the Altai Mountains. So, the Kıtay took their time searching, and it was a full nine years before they reached the Altai. This is why Manas was not murdered when he was still a child. By the time the Kıtay reached the Altai, his exploits were known far and wide. Two years had passed since Čıyördı petitioned Jakıp. She could no longer bear the separation, and nagged him to fetch Manas. But before he could do so, Ošpür came to the yurt and told Jakıp he could no longer control Manas. Manas, he said, refused to listen to advice or obey commands. Nagged by both, Jakıp agreed to fetch Manas. When he found him, Manas was having so much fun playing with his army that he didn’t want to return home. Jakıp told him how much his mother missed him. He told him she cried all the time. He told him how she berated her husband for taking Manas away. Then Jakıp shifted tack. The army of boys, he said, needed to rest. And so it was that Manas set out for home with Jakıp. During their journey, they met the Kıtay force. The Kıtay recognized Jakıp-kan: ‘Foolish Jakıp, you have failed to pay us tribute. You owe us, and you think that by hiding in the Altai you can escape our wrath!’ Thirty Kıtay started beating Jakıp. Manas looked on from the side, confused. He asked Imanbay, who looked after their horses, what was happening. Imanbay explained the enemy had forced them to flee from their lands and now required tributes. Manas’s eyes flared. His temper rose. He picked up a stick and lunged at one of the Kıtay. With a single strike, the man crumpled to the ground, dead. With no effort, he killed twenty more, crushing their skulls, dashing them on the rocks. Blood was everywhere. Those Kıtay who had not been killed fled, astonished by this sudden show of strength. ‘What have you done, my son?’ lamented Jakıp. ‘That was an expeditionary force, and you killed the leader, spilling his blood and smearing his brain over the rocks. What horror you will bring on us! Those who fled will report, and an army will be sent.’ Manas was in no mood to listen. Riding his young filly he set off in pursuit of the fleeing Kıtay. His father, fearing he would lose the child, rushed after him. ‘Stay, please stay. They may have set an ambush for you! We should pay the tribute and settle our account, for we have killed and must accept guilt. We want to live in peace, but what will be our fate if we give them reason to rise up in anger against us?’ Manas stopped chasing the enemy. Father and son continued their journey home. When they arrived, Čıyördı embraced her son. 10 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

The Kıtay leader, Esen-kan, called his captains, Joloy and Nez-kara. He ordered them to bring Manas to him, alive. Sixty great warriors prepared themselves. Sixty camels were provisioned with all they would need for a long journey. ‘If you fail to bring Manas to me alive, you will die’, he warned. ‘Be canny, take care. Don’t let Manas know your intent, or he will fight!’ The captains did as they were told. After a long journey, they found Manas and carefully surrounded him. He was playing with his friends, throwing the round knee bones of sheep in the Kyrgyz form of tiddly-winks. Nez-kara moved forward when it was Manas’s turn, positioning his camel between Manas and the bone lying at the centre that he was trying to hit. Manas shouted at him to move, but Nez-kara stayed where he was. Enraged, Manas threw his bone at the camel, instantly killing it. Sixty warriors jumped on Manas, little realizing how soon death would come to each and every one. Manas despatched them effortlessly, then tethered the sixty camels together and led them, still fully provisioned, back to his people. Wise Ak-Balta spoke. ‘Finally, we have our defender. We have a Kyrgyz who can lead us. Now comes the time when we must gather our scattered people. Now we should prepare our arms, and make ready for when Manas comes of age.’ And so the Kyrgyz gathered and began to plan the journey back to their land, to the land of Talas.5

5 ‘Talas’ indicates the Kyrgyz lands to the northwest of the country, rather than today’s Taraz in Kazakhstan.

EPISODE TWO

THE MARRIAGE OF MANAS TO KANıKEY IS ARRANGED

Azız-kan married a Kyrgyz woman of exquisite beauty. Her mother had been enslaved when the Kıtay conquered the Kyrgyz. Their son, Almambet, was gifted with phenomenal intelligence. The Kıtay recognized his intelligence and recruited him with five others into a special military training school. He was more intelligent than his peers, and during his training he found Chinese accounts of Manas. Nobody noticed him reading about Manas. He became so overwhelmed by the generosity of the great hero that he decided to run away, to defect and offer himself as a servant to Manas. But he decided the best time to defect would not be for a while. Six months before the time he had decided on arrived, the six boys began to learn how to kill Manas. It was at that time that Azız-kan beat his wife. Almambet was so ashamed by this that he killed Azız-kan. He quickly had to make his escape, and so began his search for Manas. Many months passed before he found the great hero. He prostrated himself before Manas, declaring that although he was the son of a traitor he wished to join his followers. Many Kyrgyz objected. How could Almambet, the son of a traitor, ever be trusted? But Manas displayed the generosity for which he was famed. He welcomed Almambet as his own son and threw a massive feast. Eventually, guests began to depart, carrying gifts on their laps as they rode off on their horses. Those with long journeys were invited to stay one more night, and another feast was held. Manas, it was noticed, was deep in thought. He was asking himself where an exquisitely beautiful girl could be found. Could a girl be found whose fame stretched far abroad not just for her looks but also because of her masterful needlework skills? ‘I would like to find such a girl and marry her to Almambet!’ he declared. During the following days, Almambet twice visited Jakıp’s yurt, looking for Manas. He wanted to know what he was planning. Manas was nowhere 12 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas to be found. Before he left the second time, Almambet spoke to Kara-bök,1 a young woman who did the domestic chores in the yurt, asking where he was. ‘Where might I find his horse?’ he asked. ‘Maybe Manas is at the yurt of his sweetheart,’ Kara-bök giggled. Who was this? Where was her yurt? Kara- bök again giggled. ‘Maybe he is at the yurt of his sweetheart, Akılay.’ Who was Akılay? Where was her yurt? Kara-bök again giggled. ‘Haven’t you seen my new sister-in-law? Go and talk with his new sweetheart, Akılay.’ With that, Kara-bök pointed the way. Almambet arrived at Akılay’s yurt, and from his saddle shouted out. ‘Is the master, Manas, here?’ Young Akılay was a warrior, and didn’t take kindly to arrogance like this. Why, here was a man who didn’t even bother to dismount from his steed! She didn’t move a finger. She didn’t stand up. She merely called from within: ‘I haven’t seen him.’ Then, just as Kara-bök had done, she giggled. ‘Perhaps he is with his first wife. It would seem as though he is unable to turn his head from looking at her, for he hasn’t visited me this year.’ Almambet had thought Manas was a bachelor, and didn’t understand these two women. Both seemed to be making fun of him and of Manas. I will tell you now that Kara-bök and Akılay were both wives to our hero, but he was avoiding both. Almambet rode back to Jakıp’s yurt, and arrived just as Manas returned. Jakıp came out, asking where he had been. Manas replied that he had been searching for a girl of exquisite beauty. He had been searching for a girl skilled in handiwork, a Kyrgyz girl, or a Kalmak girl, or a Kipchak girl. He had been searching for a girl to marry Almambet, and had looked in many places. He had sent enquiries as far as Samarkand. He had searched for eight days. ‘It doesn’t suit you, Almambet, a full-blooded man, to live without a wife!’ Almambet suddenly realized what was going on. His moustache rose a little as he smiled. One side of his moustache trembled slightly as he tried to stop himself from laughing. ‘What about you? You are my senior, so surely you must look for your own wife first? It would not be proper for me to marry first! And, if you have not found a suitable girl after eight days of searching and making enquiries, then this is no easy task!’ Both ends of his moustache trembled, rising and falling as he warmed to his joke. ‘Kara-bök and Akılay have just had fun with me, telling me you were likely to be found spending time with your first wife, or with your second wife. Since both are your wives, I now see that they were mocking you!’ Manas had to hide his embarrassment. He turned his back to Almambet and Jakıp, whipped his horse, and galloped off. He was gone ten more days, too embarrassed to return.

1 Kara-börök in some versions. The marriage of Manas 13

Now, let me tell you what had happened. Some time before, as Manas returned from the Altai Mountains, he had entered a gorge where the Kanguru people had set an ambush. Three hundred warriors led by Kara-bök were waiting for him. He had fought with his customary ferocity and defeated them. As was the custom, Kara-bök should have become his bride, and so she joined him. But, Manas questioned how anybody he had beaten in battle could ever make a proper wife. Then, his way was blocked by Tajiks under Kara-tegın as he reached the lower valleys. He would have fought them, too, but Kara-tegın saved himself by giving him Šooruk’s daughter Akılay. So, Manas gained a second bride. But, he questioned how a girl given as a gift to avoid defeat in battle could ever make a proper wife. Manas eventually gathered his strength and returned to Jakıp. ‘Father, I am now thirty years old. It is time for you to marry me, according to my heart’s wish. Please ask the family of a girl whom I can love to give their daughter’s hand to me. Am I not of an age when glorious gifts can be given to future parents-in-law?’ ‘My bride should not be a simple girl born to a prominent family. My bride should not be playful like a girl who winks at the boys. My bride should not be the daughter of peri, mischievous spirits able to suddenly change form. She should not be a poor girl wearing a little hat with a single feather as its only decoration, for such a girl will be mean in everything she does. She should not be the daughter of a man with a desire for revenge stored deep in his heart, for such a girl will never let go of resentment. She should not come from an impoverished family, for such a girl will never be able to think big. She should not be the daughter of a wealthy man if that man takes on the air of aristocracy but behaves selfishly. She should not have cracked heels or thick cheeks, for such a girl will surely be a slave’s daughter. She should not have been brought up without knowing the love of a father, for how can such a girl appreciate a husband? She should not be the daughter of an unmarried woman, for such a girl will lack morality. She should not be the only daughter of a khan who has died, for such a girl will be surrounded by male servants each jostling to be her suitor.’ ‘You have lived many years, father, and have the wisdom that comes with age. Open your eyes wide! Talk with those around you! But, carefully discern the truth behind what you see and hear. Even though you are old and wise, be alert when veils are drawn over your eyes!’ And so, having told Jakıp what his wife should not be, Manas continued: ‘My bride should be lithe as a young birch yet tender, fresh yet strong. Her hair should fall gently from her face, with a fringe that unlike a Mongol blows in the wind. Her forehead should be wide, set with brilliant bright eyes, eyes black like the kaukhar stone. Her teeth should be strong, arranged like little white rocks in two regular rows. She should walk swiftly yet carefully. She should be a daughter of the people, yet she should be 14 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas exceptionally reserved. She should think long and deep about everything she says and does, yet she should be able to focus on any matter. She should be generous, yet able to foresee the results of her deeds and words. Her politeness should be matched by an ability to draw people close, for she should be a diplomat who brings enemies together.’ ‘She should be charming. She should think deeply. She should know when to be severe in her treatment of others. She should appreciate intelligence. Her handiwork skills should match her intelligence. She should be balanced, feminine but wise. She should be grounded, like a stone. Her intelligence should be matched by her conscience and by the depth of her soul. She should not be mean, but neither should she be wasteful. When the greedy and mean experience her generosity, they should feel sated. When she speaks, her voice should be sweet as honey. She should have dignity, so that she cannot easily be reproached. Now, because my name is Manas, no matter how good or bad I may be, I deserve such a bride. You, father, have countless sheep and horses, and it is no time to be mean as you seek my bride!’ And so it was that Manas left his hopes with his father Jakıp. Jakıp worried how he could find such a girl. He loaded two horses with sixty jambı gold ingots, reckoning that a display of wealth would make him seem a worthy father-in-law. He took slaves, reckoning they could form part of a dowry. And with his manservant Booke, the singer’s son Meņdi-bay,2 and Alıbek’s son Jökör, he set out on the road to Samarkand. He followed long rivers. He followed rapidly flowing rivers. He followed slow and broad rivers. He searched every yurt erected on their banks. He looked for every yurt on mountain slopes, at the edges of forests, nestled in valleys. Sometimes he would go around in circles to make sure he had not missed a single homestead. He visited everybody he heard was articulate, intelligent or wealthy. He visited everybody with provenance. He looked everywhere for daughters who might make suitable brides. He looked closely at mothers, since the Kyrgyz say that an apple doesn’t fall far from the apple tree. But he found no girl who anywhere near met the requirements of Manas. He travelled on until he reached the huge city of Tashkent. He entered its gates. What a wealthy place! It seemed as though gold flowed down each and every street. It seemed as though gold lined the clay-walled houses leaning in from both sides of every street. The streets were narrow and the houses jostled for space, yet he found no girl who anywhere near met the requirements of Manas. ‘Oh! My unreasonable son! Oh! My demanding son! Has he given me a task that can be filled if among these thousands on thousands there is no single girl who matches his requirements? If there is no

2 In Radloff’s text, Meņdi-bay is the counsellor of Temir-kan. The marriage of Manas 15 suitable girl here, where can she be found?’ Jakıp was desperate. Such was the fame of this heavily populated city, yet within it there was no girl who met the requirements of Manas. He travelled on. He had heard that Bukar3 was a city of knowledge, where people were intelligent, where mighty leaders and wealthy families were educated. Surely it must be home to a girl with unrivalled intelligence? He entered its gates and began to question its people. Gossip spread like fire: ‘Have you seen that old and arrogant man who shows his great wealth to all?’ ‘It is most likely that he seeks a tokol, a young concubine, to warm him in his old age. His grave is closer than his wedding bed, yet still he looks for young blood!’ ‘If it was not for his wealth, nobody would want to show him even their ugliest daughter!’ One man known to keep up with daily affairs said: ‘I hear he is the emissary of a powerful spirit. He seeks a wife for the spirit, so save your souls. Avoid him and don’t talk with him. Keep away!’ Another corrected them all: ‘You silly people! He comes from the Kyrgyz. His people sent this old man on a long journey to find a suitable bride for their leader. They want to become powerful. This is a once-in-a- lifetime chance to improve your lot, so impress him with your daughters!’ Soon, Jakıp had seen 600 girls. None met the requirements set by Manas. ‘Oh! Miserable me! In my old age I have been forced to chase the dream of my son.’ He asked Almırza, a powerful Bukar, to help search for a suitable bride, giving him two gold ingots. Almırza returned to Jakıp two days later, reassuring him that if anywhere could provide a bride who met or exceeded the conditions set by Manas it would be Bukar. There was one girl who came close to what Manas had asked for, he said. This was Sanir Abiga, the daughter of Temir-kan, who would later be renamed Kanıkey by Manas’s brave ally, Košoy. Temir-kan was also known as Šaatemır.4 ‘Temir-kan rules thirty cities. Forty girl-friends, all of them warriors, guard his daughter. But to marry her is surely impossible. She is no ordinary girl, for she has been taught and guided through her life by two invisible spirits. If you search for a century, you will find no girl who comes closer to your son’s dream. But capturing her will prove a huge challenge, for many suitors have come to claim her hand. Many have died in mysterious circumstances, while many more have never dared to face her and tell her of their wish.’

3 Bukhara. 4 Saparbek usually refers to Temir-kan as Šaatemır and, in this episode, to Jakıp as Jakıp-kan, thereby reducing the importance of Temir-kan and emphasizing the high status of Jakıp. 16 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Jakıp gave two more gold ingots as a bribe so that he could glimpse Sanir Abiga. Almırza gave one ingot to the head of Temir-kan’s security detachment and, at an agreed time, a guide arrived to take Jakıp and Almırza to the edge of a secret garden. It was a beautiful place, full of the wonderful songs of birds of every species, full of fruits and berries ripe and ready to be picked and eaten. Jakıp carefully hid himself among the thick bamboo plants that fringed the garden. He patiently waited. He waited a long time. Eventually, forty-one girls entered the garden. They wore flowing silk dresses with long sleeves, and their skirts blew in the breeze. To Jakıp they seemed a mirage, for each was so slender and youthful. They began to play, bursting out in joyful laughter. The laughter rang in Jakıp’s ears like tiny bells. Weary of play, they wandered the garden, picking fruits and berries. Two were more exquisite than the others. These, although Jakıp did not know it, were Sanir Abiga and her close companion Alooke. The two left the group as they sought the ripest berries, and Jakıp’s heart almost leapt from his chest as they walked straight towards him. Sweat poured from his brow as he crouched, still as a statue, wishing he could hide himself better, wishing the earth beneath his feet would swallow him up. The two girls came right to the spot where he crouched, picking berries. But they failed to see him. They stretched on tiptoe for berries and Jakıp saw their shapely bodies beneath their silk dresses. He was transfixed. He knew no words to describe their beauty. He sat, silent and unflinching, holding his breath, wishing in that glorious moment to be turned to stone. Sanir Abiga’s rich black hair was tied tightly in a single long plait woven with gold and silver threads. The plait coiled over her hair. Her black eyebrows looked like a swallow’s wings. Her pitch black eyes shone like a camel’s eyes. Her forehead was broad, shaped like the moon. Her waist was firm. Her chest curved like an antelope’s breast and her back was straight and strong. Her voice was wonderfully clear and her words sweet as honey. Although clothed in such a simple shift dress, she was far and away the most outstanding girl, outshining each of her forty friends. She was at the centre of everything, as the girls collected kokok berries and shared them out, as the girls turned away from each other to secretly devour the delicious fruit. Jakıp knew that Manas would fall for Sanir Abiga and marry her. Jakıp, though, was no ordinary man. He foresaw the destiny of Sanir Abiga. He saw the nape of her neck was narrow, and knew she could only have a single child. ‘I suffered for so long before gaining my own child, so how can it be that my descendents will face the same hardship?’ He foresaw that her child was destined to leave the family as a baby, although it was the custom for a son to stay until the father died. ‘Can this be the destiny of my lineage? What misery!’ He foresaw that she would give birth not in her youth, but in middle age. ‘Am I to plunge into a pit of despair, for I may not live to see the birth of my son’s heir?’ The marriage of Manas 17

He stared at her, mesmerized. Nobody, he thought, would find a single shortcoming in her. What luscious, long hair! What clear black eyes! What eyes shaded by long lashes so fine that not even a single particle of dust could settle on them! What eyes that would cry for a lost husband! What a lithe body, on which not even a single particle of dust could settle! He stared at her, mesmerized. How kind she was! Her kindness would melt any opponents. How accomplished she was! She would mend clothes, ropes, and anything that had been torn. She would mend relationships and resolve quarrels. Even when she knew she has been wronged, she would be generous. How youthful she was! Yet she had great maturity in thought and word. She would hold strongly to what she thought. She would say what she meant. She would never need to repeat herself. She would speak with the authority of a statesman yet remain modest without any hint of arrogance. She would always be charitable and kind to the poor. She would always win over the arrogant. She would treat a poor man as an able man. She would treat an able man as a wealthy man. She would treat a wealthy man as a powerful man. She would treat a powerful man as a human being. She would treat a young man as a gentleman. She would be a new bride every day of her life. She would treat her husband as a king. She would play with her king every single night as a new bride. Yet, she was destined to give birth to just a single heir. ‘Oh, what misery!’ And so, as he looked from the bushes, the canny old Jakıp proved his vast wisdom. When the flock of girls flew back inside the palace, Jakıp-kan emerged from his hiding place. He went straight to Šaatemır’s palace and marched into the throne room. He went up to the elaborately decorated throne covered in plush and sat on it. He straightened his back, raising his height as if, haughtily, he was about to lecture his subjects. Astonished and affronted, a bek prince and two guards who had been policing the room shook themselves. What did this old, small, frail man think he was doing? He didn’t look powerful. He didn’t look like a rival khan. He wore plain clothes designed for journeying, not the fashionable splendour of a leader drawing his subjects’ admiration. He began to chat to people around him in a way no leader would ever do. Why was he so confident? Surely, they thought, this man was so old he had forgotten how to behave. Surely, they thought, this man was so old he no longer knew what he was doing. They approached Jakıp-kan, ready to throw him out. ‘Listen, old man! You are so bald that you appear ready to be put in your grave. Your back is bent over, forcing your gaze downwards towards your grave. You chat to people about nothing, as if you come from the mountains and know no better. Perhaps you are brave, but you know little about the ways of the worldly traders of our city. You perch on the throne of the powerful khan, and don’t know where you are. We noticed when you arrived you were not leading a flock of sheep. We noticed when you arrived you were not 18 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas weighed down by purses of gold hanging from your belt. So, maybe you came by mistake. Maybe you were invited to a feast at the palace, and if so then get off the thrown and walk over to the gathering hall where others wait. This throne is not where you belong!’ Jakıp-kan felt his heart pierced. He was not the sort of person to beg, but why should he when custom dictated that an elderly man should be revered and respected for his wisdom? Could it be that in Bukar only a person’s title and wealth mattered? He felt his anger rise. ‘I came here not by accident! I came here not to beg! I came here not to listen to stupid words from unworthy fellows! If you think yourself worthy of my attention, open your eyes and recognize who sits before you! What does it matter if a man sits on the khan’s throne? Think of reasons why you should revere me. I am the one who has just seen forty-one young and nubile maidens dressed up like embroidered dolls in dresses that blow in the breeze. Whose daughters are they? If they are daughters of your khan, I will look after them better than the khan. If they are daughters of your princes, I will look after them better than the princes. True khans and true princes should revere an emissary sent to ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage. How can it be that in Šaatemır’s land an emissary is not respected? What message does the khan send out about his daughter? Go to him and say an emissary has come to ask for the daughter’s hand. You, prince, have pierced my heart with your cruel words. I am here on a glorious mission, and nobody has any right to behave in such a disrespectful way!’ The prince was in no mood to apologize. He looked straight at this old man. ‘No fool would give their daughter to a man from the mountains! Šaatemır will be outraged if he hears an old bent man has spied on the girls no man is allowed to see! You speak a strange tongue, not the Persian of Bukar, and we have no idea who you are.’ ‘If you want to know who I am, stop trying to intimidate me,’ Jakıp-kan shouted back. ‘I am the son of Nogay. I come from the Altai, from far away, from as far as the black mountain, Kara-tor. My people are the Kyrgyz, whose lands stretch to Andıyan.5 I was praying in the bushes when I saw the khan’s daughter. The maidens walked close to me, and I could not fail to see them. If you do not stop insulting me, I will spill your blood. You would surely not slaughter a man who asks for the hand of the daughter of your people? I am not afraid of you, for if you try to kill this one old man I will kill three old men like you before my soul departs the world. I am not afraid of you, for if you kill this one old man slaughter and death will descend on the people of Bukar!’ At that moment, the Muslim call to prayer sounded. Šaatemır with his entourage converged on the mosque among a throng of people. Unable to

5 Andijan. The marriage of Manas 19 persuade Jakıp to leave, the prince stopped Šaatemır as he left the mosque after praying. ‘An old man who claims to come from as far away as the Altai, who claims to rule the lands to Andıyan, who claims to be the son of Nogay, is in the throne hall refusing to leave,’ he clumsily reported. ‘He sits on your throne, although I have insisted that none but you may rest on it. He speaks not as a commoner, although he has a strange accent. He is determined and persistent, claiming to be on a mission to find a girl to marry. He has even seen the palace maidens! He threatens us. His behaviour is so unsettling that I felt I should report to you before putting him to the sword.’ Šaatemır’s anger rose, but he swallowed his temper as a thought flashed through his mind: could there be a connection between this son of Nogay and the legendary Manas from whom the Kıtay once fled? He turned his anger on the prince and the two guards. ‘Why have you failed to ask who he is? Have you checked if he has servants and troops? Have you checked the quality of his horses? Are you sure that in his old age it is he who wants to marry a maiden? Why did you fail to find out more before running to me? Return to him. Calm him down. It is clear that if he talks in such a way he cannot be a simple man. Find out if he wants to marry or if he is looking for a bride for a relative. Does he have any sons? How did he see the palace maidens?’ Terrified, the prince and guards ran back to Jakıp-kan. Darkness was falling, but Jakıp still sat on the throne. The three attempted to greet him, but got no reply. They began to quiz him. We are concerned for your safety. We worry that the city guards will find you and beat you to a pulp. Have you come alone? Do you have friends with you to ensure your safety? Do you have horses harnessed, ready to escape an attack? Do you have money to pay for food and lodgings? With this last question, Jakıp’s patience finally snapped. ‘You poor, miserable creatures! Your city has been conquered so many times that you no longer trust visitors! Your people have been so severely beaten that you no longer respect visitors! You poor, miserable men. Despite your orchards bursting with fruit and your splendid houses, you ask me for money for food and lodging! If your people are that poor, I will put coins in each and every hand!’ Jakıp-kan was cunning. He knew that the very richness of Bukar was the reason why so many tribes had fought for it. He knew that a strategic marriage of Šaatemır’s daughter would strengthen the city. ‘What meanness, when you fail to respect guests! What cowards you are, for I see whips hanging ready in this hall! Rather than caring for guests, you starve them. You ply them with questions to discover their wealth, their strength, and their identity. You may think I am a lonely old man who struggles to stand on his feet, but I am Jakıp, the son of Nogay!’ With that, he listed all his ancestors, ending by naming his son, Manas. 20 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Manas? The prince, whose name was Abdukalık, thought his heart would leap out of his mouth. He hurriedly ran off to tell Šaatemır. ‘Sir, we are doomed! Sir, we have brought anger and wrath on ourselves! Sir, how could we have known that this frail old man was the father of Manas? Sir, even when he uses simple words, telling us he is our guest, he threatens us! How did he come among us unnoticed? How did he find out everything about us?’ Šaatemır considered the situation. ‘We are being tested as we may be but once in a lifetime. It is strange he came among us unnoticed, but this merely indicates that Manas commanded him to do so.’ What were they to do? ‘Take him to the palace. Arrange a feast. At all times, be polite and use utmost care in what you say. Never question where he comes from. Ask him who wants to marry. Ask him which maiden has caught his eye. Without his entourage and without any horses he will tell us.’ Abdukalık took Jakıp-kan to the palace guest quarters. He gave him food and drink, and began to ply him with questions. Who wanted a bride? Which maiden he had seen? Jakıp was cunning. Manas, he replied, had conquered many lands, defeating many people. Manas had taken Andıyan, and now had instructed his father to find a suitable bride. Jakıp had searched far and wide. The prince persisted with his questions. ‘You have travelled great distances, searching endlessly for a bride. Which maiden have you found in Bukar for Manas?’ These were diplomatic exchanges, and they continued day after day. The prince patiently asked questions. Jakıp-kan carefully framed answers. Both tried to elicit details that the other tried to keep hidden. Had Jakıp brought countless Kyrgyz warriors? Were his troops hiding in the nearby mountains? Why did he pretend to be a helpless old man? If he was truly the father of Manas, how did he get to Bukar? Did he have horses close by? Jakıp, for his part, encouraged the prince to believe he was telling the truth. The prince, for his part, wondered whether Jakıp was an imposter. If he threw him out of the palace and called his bluff, would he bring calamity on Bukar? The prince kept reporting back to Šaatemır, and Šaatemır kept sending him back with more questions. Jakıp-kan was fed well. He drank well. He rested in a luxurious chamber. He still hid much, so five princes were sent to question him. ‘How did you, respected and wise man, come to take on such a troublesome task? How did you, respected and wise man, travel such huge distances? Surely you had guards to saddle your horses? Surely you had people to look after your needs? Surely you came with helpers, for despite your age you are in rude health?’ Such was the urgency of the task, Jakıp responded, that he had hurriedly left. He had sent his troops and people, his flocks and horses, into the mountains to await his return. Šaatemır’s mind was in turmoil. He still didn’t know Jakıp’s wealth or position. But Jakıp-kan continued to drip-feed information. He had expected to be invited in as an honoured guest in the palace, he said. He had assumed The marriage of Manas 21 he would be fed and entertained, he said. Why would he need companions and helpers? He had walked to the city and paused to pray at the Kuuray bushes on the outskirts, he said. As he knelt, he had heard laughter. He thought the sound was a spring joyfully gushing forth from the rocks, but then he saw a group of beautiful maidens picking juicy berries. He had crouched in the shadows, making himself invisible. He had seen their youthful beauty. One was beautiful beyond description. She was so exquisitely special. She was the maiden he had looked for far and wide. She was the maiden that his son might fall in love with. He would do what was required. He would ensure the marriage to Manas. She was the bride, whether a khan’s daughter, a prince’s daughter, a villager’s daughter, or a spirit’s daughter. The princes reported back and Šaatemır continued to quiz them. How had Jakıp come to see the maidens? He knew Sanir Abiga must be the one Jakıp had chosen, but why would he not name her? Perhaps he had a cunning plan. Perhaps he just pretended to seek a bride for Manas. He didn’t doubt Jakıp’s determination, but realized that he would not leave until he had completed his mission. There was one secret that Jakıp-kan kept: he wasn’t certain that the maiden he had set his eye on was indeed Sanir Abiga. One morning he rose at the crack of dawn and, accompanied as he always was by a prince trusted by Šaatemır, he went for a walk. As he passed an orchard in the palace grounds, he caught a glimpse of the fairy-like girl. He asked who it was and, without thinking, the prince told him it was Šaatemır’s daughter. Jakıp felt joy beyond belief! The chance encounter had confirmed the girl’s identity. After the many days sequestered in the palace, Jakıp-kan’s mood lightened. He decided to play a game. He told the prince he would give a dowry of whatever the father asked for the right maiden. He would be generous in order to honour the maiden. But, of course, if her father refused to give her hand in marriage, the Bukar would regret it. The trusted prince told Šaatemır, ‘He keeps saying how rich he is. Now he says he will pay whatever dowry is demanded. He tells us he will not be mean, yet at the same time he threatens all the Bukar, saying that if the father refuses all will suffer!’ Jakıp-kan decided the time had come to put pressure on Šaatemır. He could afford to laze in the palace no longer, he announced, so the princes should ask Šaatemır to hold a council in order to answer his request for Manas’s bride. Now, Šaatemır knew Jakıp had a plan. He knew that if his request was not met there would be trouble. He ordered a council to assemble to consider the city’s fate. He summoned all people whose tops could be seen – those who were bald – all princes and senior residents of each district, all judges and warriors, all mullahs and muftis. The council was bigger than had ever been seen before. Šaatemır told those assembled 22 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas that the marriage of his daughter was of national importance. It was a matter of war and peace. All who had assembled, rich and poor, strong and weak, wise and senior, listened as he told them they must make a strategic decision. Jakıp from the Altai Mountains, he said, was a guest in the palace. He was the father of Manas, and Manas had sent him to find a bride to satisfy his heart. The success of Jakıp’s mission depended on the council’s decision. ‘The hand of Temir-kan’s daughter has been asked for. Among you, are any ready to saddle horses and ride into battle? Among you, are any willing to lose hands and feet, to take bullets or swords, to lose your life? Among you, are any prepared to knock enemy soldiers from their saddles? Among you, are any willing to fight the Kyrgyz, whose warriors are fearless as wolves, for whom battle gives meaning to their lives? Are all of you ready to battle the Kyrgyz of the Altai? We know that if we don’t give our daughter’s hand in marriage we face a mighty battle. Among you, are any sufficiently skilled at debating to settle terms? Among you, are any sufficiently skilled at persuasion to make Jakıp change tack?’ All sat still, avoiding Temir-kan’s gaze. Whispers began to echo in the chamber: ‘The fate of a maiden is to marry and find happiness with her husband. Marriage offers the best chance of happiness for a daughter.’ ‘The khan’s daughter is sixteen-and-a-half years old, and who knows how many days or years will pass before a suitor is found among our people? She could be an old maid before another comes forward.’ ‘Do we know how old Manas is? If we are to believe what we have heard, his deeds are so glorious that it would be no bad thing for us to become his relatives.’ Abdukalık was the first to speak loudly. ‘Why should we give our daughter away to this man from the mountains? Each of you owns horses, camels, sheep and goats and could benefit from more. As a dowry, you should each request a gift of nine of each, so that Jakıp will be forced to assemble a massive herd. The Kyrgyz love their lives herding flocks on the mountain pastures, but imagine the challenge to raise such a huge herd! Why, Jakıp will give up his quest and leave us be!’ Šaatemır decided that, with this potential solution in mind, he should finally meet Jakıp. He rose and left with Abdukalık, Akulbay, Isa, Tölöbek, and others. Just at that time, Jakıp-kan’s jıgıts, his warriors, companions and servants, arrived at the palace with horses ready saddled. Jakıp-kan exchanged pleasantries and greeted Meņdi-bay, Jökör the son of Alıbek, and the three others. Šaatemır saw the small group. Turning to those with him, he remarked, ‘Look, he is virtually alone. He has so few companions! What fools we are if we give him our daughter as the wife to his son!’ Šaatemır’s companions began to debate the dowry. ‘How many animals can we ask from him? Thousands of horses? No, he will be hard pressed to find a hundred. Six hundred sheep? No, five hundred. Will that still be too The marriage of Manas 23 many?’ ‘What about gold?’ asked Abdukalık. ‘Can we ask for a thousand gold coins?’ ‘Thirty coins will be as much as he can pay, for while our city has wealth the Kyrgyz mountain herders have surely never seen much gold!’ ‘I have no intention to give my daughter away,’ Šaatemır said, firmly. ‘No matter how large the dowry, the Kyrgyz have unimaginably large herds of horses and sheep. We cannot resolve the situation by debating the dowry size, so the best we can do is prolong the time it takes to assemble. We must set as troublesome a task as possible. We will demand sixty Bactrian camels, thirty female with black heads and white bodies, thirty male with white heads and black bodies. We will demand two hundred high endurance camels. We will demand five hundred horses, all with white spots on their foreheads, two hundred of which must be white with black tails, two hundred black with white tails, and one hundred thoroughbred racehorses. We will demand fifty thoroughbred black bulls, fifty thoroughbred yellow bulls, and fifty bulls with spots. We will demand two thousand white and two thousand black sheep. And we will demand forty thousand red gold coins and a thousand jambı gold ingots each weighing 500 grams. Raising such a dowry will, surely, prove impossible. But if the Kyrgyz want our daughter then this is their task.’ With that, Šaatemır donned his splendid cloak and crown. As he approached Jakıp-kan, his heart sank as he recognized the old man’s bravery and stoicism, his dignity and confidence, his strength of character. This truly was the father of Manas! He came dressed in splendour, but the Bukar khan suddenly felt small and insignificant. He rushed forward to greet Jakıp-kan, blurting out a series of questions. ‘How are your people? Why did you come without forewarning us? Are you really looking for a bride for your son?’ Šaatemır continued, ‘I am told you have set your eyes on winning our daughter. I convened a council, as you asked, and my people have agreed that our daughter is a suitable bride. But she is too young, barely sixteen- and-a-half. But, if it be God’s will, the marriage will be successful, and the bride and groom will savour each other’s company.’ ‘Amongst the Kyrgyz, a girl of ten with sufficient strength is not too young for marriage,’ Jakıp retorted. ‘What strength?’ ‘Strength sufficient to stay standing if a man throws his fur hat at her!’ ‘I am here to become your relative,’ Jakıp continued. ‘We should happily join our families. The aspirations of our children are our most treasured possessions, so fear not that I come to take your daughter by force.’ ‘I have three sons and two daughters’, said Šaatemır. ‘One is already engaged. All have enjoyed blissfully happy childhoods. Is it Sanir Abiga, the jewel of my life, the jewel of my eye, that you wish to be the bride of your son?’ Jakıp-kan confirmed that it was indeed Sanir Abiga, who would later be called Kanıkey by Manas’s brave ally Košoy. To show goodwill, he called 24 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Meņdi-bay forward with a bag from which he took a gold ingot and ten pieces of solid gold each the size of a horseshoe. The eyes of those accompanying Šaatemır lit up. The old man they had thought was close to his grave had immense wealth! A crowd gathered, each and every person from Bukar jostling to get the best glimpse of this magnitude of gold. How wealthy the son must be if the father could give away so much gold! How skilful the son must be now they knew the diplomacy of the father! What did the son, Manas, took like? Would he be a good match for Sanir Abiga? It will be a man on whom fortune shines who gains her hand! Jakıp threw gold coins into the crowd, impressing them one and all. Šaatemır detailed the required dowry. Jakıp-kan agreed, thereby impressing the people of Bukar even more. ‘Is he really able to pay such a munificent dowry?’ ‘Is he merely giving an impression of amazing wealth?’ Just in case he could deliver what was required, the people of Bukar prepared lavish presents. They gave Jakıp-kan gowns embroidered with gold and the finest fur coats to take back to his people. As he mounted his horse’s saddle, Jakıp produced thirty more gold ingots that it took the princes three days to divide among themselves! In those same three days, Jakıp reached Kara-tor, the black mountain where the Kyrgyz lived in peace amongst the gorgeous scenery. They lived in valleys with magnificent rivers surrounded by the mountains. A week before, Almambet and Manas had gone hunting. It was time for their return, but the night before, while camped deep in the mountains, Almambet had a dream. He saw the moon descending from the sky, falling until it rested beside him. Dreams, we should remember, have meanings. He awoke just as dawn began to cut through the darkness. The morning star shone brightly, and from where he was, he could see the moon resting next to Manas: Manas was destined to marry Sanir Abiga. Almambet saw the constellation of Libra, a sign of things in balance: Alooke, her close friend and companion, from whom she had vowed she would never be separated, was destined to be Almambet’s bride.

EPISODE THREE

THE GREAT BATTLE

Almambet and Čubak were Manas’s best friends. They say Almambet was particularly handsome and Čubak was a celebrated warrior. Manas consulted Almambet on matters of state and gave him important tasks, which made his other friends jealous. It was jealousy that led Čubak to call Almambet a Chinese spy. It was true that Almambet had once been loyal to the Chinese, but he had switched allegiance many years earlier. Čubak compounded his insult by warning the Kyrgyz to be on their guard because Almambet could not be trusted. ‘Who knows what lies hidden in his heart behind his fine appearance!’ He shouted at Almambet: ‘Who are you? Who are your people? Where do you come from? How can you, a miserable Chinese dissident, give me orders?’ Almambet, normally polite and gentle, was enraged. ‘How dare you call me Chinese! How dare you call me a Kalmak, one of those unfortunates taken across the border by their conquerors! My anger boils within me when you call me an enemy of all Kyrgyz. Do you have a single piece of evidence that proves my unfaithfulness? Do you have ways to see into my heart? I will not let you get away with these insults and will strip you of your evil jealousy! I warned you to maintain unity as a warrior of Manas. I warned you not to drive a wedge into our friendship that can be exploited by our enemies, for if you do the Kalmaks with surely occupy our land right to the Altai Mountains, to the cradle of our ancestors! The Chinese will surely overrun us, pouring a multitude of troops across our borders! Did I ever betray you? Did I ever humiliate you? Did I ever insult you? No, is the answer to all these questions. So, why do you seek to make my anger boil?’ In the blink of an eye Almambet, the son of Azız-kan, mounted his horse Sar’ala and raised his axe. He was ready to fight a duel with this man who had insulted him so deeply. He could no longer tolerate Čubak’s war of words. The ranks of the Kyrgyz were in turmoil for, just before a decisive battle against the Chinese two of their best warriors wanted to kill each other. Who could avert disaster? Wise Bakay rushed forward. Such was the 26 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas severity of the crisis that he grasped Sar’ala’s reins tightly, although custom dictated a younger warrior should hold the reins of the horse of a senior. He pleaded with Almambet to cool down. He begged him not to fight. He turned to Čubak, and pleaded with him to admit he had gone too far. He pointed out that the people’s hopes for the future were invested in their friendship. What hope would remain if these two fought each other to the death? Bakay ordered a white mare to be slaughtered. The two warriors dipped their hands in a bowl of the animal’s warm blood and vowed eternal friendship. With differences settled, Almambet was sent with Sırgak to reconnoitre the Chinese forces massed against them. Sırgak was such a fine warrior that when he sat on his horse he appeared to be one with the animal, joined at the hip. He would never fall asleep and was always as alert as a bird of prey. He was utterly reliable. Almambet rode Sar’ala but led Adžıbay’s horse, Kara- keröng. Kara-keröng was no ordinary horse. It was said to have mythical parents and to have the amazing authority to lead any number of herds. Almambet planned to rob the enemy of their horses, thereby sending a clear signal of Kyrgyz strength and leaving the impression that their incursion was just a sortie before a full attack. But to steal the horses would be no easy task, since they were in enemy territory. Almambet had Chinese costumes in his saddlebags, and he changed into them at the border. He passed a costume to Sırgak, but his comrade refused to put it on. It was an insult, he said, to disguise himself as the sworn enemy when he should fight as a Kyrgyz. Almambet argued that warriors must be fluid as running river water, canny as fog moving across the land and embracing all in its path. The Chinese costumes would allow them to penetrate deep into enemy land. Since he spoke the language he would pretend to be a Chinese traveller while Sırgak would be his servant. Sırgak, though, must remain mute lest he uttered a Kyrgyz word. Sırgak relented. In disguise, Almambet looked like a lord and Sırgak a servant. They crept across the border, reaching the Itičpeš River, seven spears deep and wider than it was deep. On its far bank a hundred thousand horses grazed, guarded by the shrewd and mischievous Kar’aygır. Kar’aygır, Koņur-bay’s chief horseman, was mounted on his trusty steed Tor’aygır, a horse so strong that he had two sacks of sand on his back to prevent him throwing the rider. Kar’aygır looked at them: ‘Is it you, Azız-kan’s Almambet, who defected to our enemy?’ ‘Greetings, Kar’aygır! Peace to you and your horses! Yes, it is I. Yes, I left China many years ago, but I never switched allegiance. I left to conquer the city of Tutanshaa, where I was proclaimed khan. I have missed my people these many long years, and now joyously return. So quickly have I found a familiar face! Let me shake your hand.’ Kar’aygır knew Almambet was cunning, so didn’t trust this apparent friendly approach. He knew that contact would lead to a fight and, fearful, put his hand behind his back. ‘Do The Great Battle 27 you think I can’t recognize Kara-keröng, the horse who leads herds wherever he goes. Do you think I don’t know why you brought him? You intend to steal Koņur-bay’s horses. And who is that beside you, disguised as a servant? He looks like a fine warrior, for no servant holds himself so proudly! No servant ever had such a lithe body and such rippling muscles!’ ‘I can’t deny that my servant is indeed a brave and fine warrior, but he serves me, despite his strength and bearing, because, unfortunately, he is deaf and dumb.’ Kar’aygır looked on in disbelief. Convinced of the plan to steal the horses, he focussed his mind on escape. He had to warn his master Koņur- bay. He slowly retreated on Tor’aygır, never turning his back. When there was enough distance from Almambet, he cast off those sacks of sand from Tor’aygır’s back and his steed, suddenly as light as the wind, leapt away. Almambet tried to catch him, but Sar’ala was no match for Tor’aygır. As each of Tor’aygır’s hooves brushed the ground stones broke asunder. When he glanced a tree it was uprooted like matchwood. Sar’ala was not so fast, but Almambet was an accomplished horseman. At one point he almost reached Kar’aygır, but Kar’aygır whipped Tor’aygır and it edged ahead like a gale force wind. There was no way to catch him. Almanbet returned to Sırgak. ‘The chief horseman will report to Koņur-bay. Soon the Chinese will arrive. Release Kara-keröng and let him join the herd. We will take all the horses back to Talas.’ The two warriors created a commotion, shooing the horses across the river behind their new leader. The horses plunged into the cold water. Most managed to reach the far side, but some foals were taken by the current. Meanwhile, Kar’aygır arrived at Koņur-bay’s camp. ‘Son of Kalča, Koņur- bay, sound the alarm! Mount your steads, for Almambet has come to steal your horses. He is taking them at this very moment!’ Koņur-bay ordered thirty thousand soldiers and twenty-five thousand more under Nez-kara to follow him and the celebrated warrior Joloy. At the river, his soldiers tried to repel the two enemies, but Almambet repeatedly ran among them, his spear parting their ranks. Actually, Koņur-bay was not concerned with these two minnows, but wanted to catch Manas, for he believed his destiny was to kill Manas. This, he hoped, would be his opportunity. Back at the camp, Manas had been worrying about Almambet and Sırgak. He could wait no longer so, although still waiting for his army to join him, he saddled the horse Aybanboč rather than his trusty steed Ak-kula and galloped to the Chinese border. The last thing he expected was to encounter Koņur-bay on his mighty Algara! Ak-kula and Algara had both originally been destined for Manas. They were the finest of fine horses. Algara was completely black when born and a boy was assigned to look after it. All was well until one day Algara fell into a hole. The boy struggled and struggled to 28 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas rescue it, and it was felt that because of this imperfection in judgement it could never be the right horse for Manas. And that is how it ended up with the enemy. Manas raced forward on Aybanboč. He saw that his two warrior friends were surrounded, and without thinking jumped into the flowing river. Poor Aybanboč! After the race to the border, his nostrils were steaming, and he had no energy left. He froze as he hit the cold water. From a distance Aybanboč looked less like a horse than a wooden table floating upside down with four rigid legs poking up in the air. Picture the scene! Massive Manas trying to sit on an old piece of wood, floating in the river, unable, whatever he tries, to get his horse to move. What a wonderful chance for Koņur-bay! Standing on the bank, he was transfixed as he watched Manas drift from one bank to the other. Seizing his chance, he rushed to Manas as the river’s current sent his enemy towards him. He thrust his spear. The spear whistled past Manas’s ear. Manas fumed with anger. Koņur-bay recoiled, then plunged his spear at Manas’s heart. The massive Manas grabbed the head of the spear, and held it fast as Koņur- bay drew back. The shaft was left in Manas’s hand. The current sent Manas towards Koņur-bay once more. Koņur-bay took his sword and swung it, trying to behead Manas. That very moment Azız-kan’s son Almambet sensed the danger. He plunged his own spear between Koņur-bay’s ribs. Koņur-bay recoiled in pain, screaming. But his horse Algara was no ordinary horse: it was a Pegasus with wings. It shot into the air, rescuing its master from certain death. Almambet failed to land a fatal blow. Aybanboč was still frozen like wood. Water poured from Manas’s warrior’s jacket as he managed to climb onto the bank. The battle raged. The battle raged with such frenzy that poets would find it hard to describe in words the mayhem of blood, dust, noise, and anguished cries. A spear was thrust into a warrior’s stomach. A warrior searched for his severed hand. Warriors were locked in mortal combat. The first line of Kyrgyz warriors, thousands of them, reached Keng-kul. They were hidden in the swirling dust of horses running around Kara- keröng. At a signal, they swarmed onto the battlefield. Wise Bakay arrived and delivered Ak-kula to Manas. The battle raged, the two enemies seeming to be glued together. The warrior Joloy was there. The warrior Nez-kara was there. Some of the troops were on foot and some were riding camels. Turbaned troops were alongside troops wearing the wide-brimmed Kyrgyz akkalpak felt hats. The corpses of arch-enemies embraced each other. Finally, as is the rule of war, the moment came when the two forces disengaged. Almambet addressed Manas as the two friends recovered their breath. ‘This is just the enemy’s forward troops. Many thousands more march towards us on the road. What reason do we have to risk fighting on their territory? Let’s retreat and prepare an ambush.’ The Great Battle 29

Manas agreed. He retreated and began to set the ambush as Almambet and Čubak went behind the enemy’s lines. They crossed the river and stealthily crept to Čailu Mountain. Almambet saw something strange in the distance. It was as though a mountain was moving, inexorably, towards them. He stopped his horse as he attempted to work out what it was. ‘Listen, Čubak! As a child, I heard of strange giants with just a single eye in the middle of their foreheads. They inhabit the lands of Maņeldüņ. They have a champion wrestler, Makeldöö, who rides a strange beast of burden with a single horn. Makeldöö is such a glutton he gobbles down six cauldrons of meat as an entrée, and considers he hasn’t eaten properly until nine pigs have been cooked whole and put in front of him. Perhaps Koņur-bay has called for Makeldöö’s support!’ ‘This is a frightening development, but you must not lose heart. Makeldöö has come from Alabash Mountain, for no reason but a message from Koņur-bay that said Manas was attacking. When Koņur-bay’s messenger reached him, Makeldöö put a few tons of tobacco into his gigantic pipe. He smoked. When he finished puffing he cleaned the pipe out, knocking its end on the ground to clear it. So much ash came out that the road was blocked! There was so much ash that people could no longer pass. It has to be Makeldöö there in the distance. Can you hear his roar? He’s so big that he’s stuck in a narrow mountain gorge. He hits out at the rocks, splintering them and casting them asunder as he clears his path. He will soon be with us, so hide in the bushes. When I shoot him you come out and use your spear and attack. Be careful, though, for giants get clumsy when they’re wounded.’ He had not finished outlining the plan before the giant reached them. Almambet took his musket and poured powder into the barrel. He set the charge. He aimed at Makeldöö’s chest, the closest part of the giant’s body. ‘What if my bullet fails to pierce his thick and fatty skin? What if the dirt that plasters his thick matted hair stops my bullet?’ He lifted the musket until it pointed at the giant’s mouth. ‘If I shoot his mouth, I might only knock out a single tooth. That will make him really angry, and he will pick us up and make beefsteak out of us!’ He moved the musket up a little, aiming at Makeldöö’s cheeks. ‘He has so much flab on his fat cheeks that my bullet won’t penetrate!’ He raised the musket slightly, and in its sight he could see Makeldöö’s huge, glittering, shiny, dark, single eye. ‘What can I achieve by shooting his eye?’ There was no time left to think what to do. The giant was upon him. He had just one chance. He aimed at the eye and shot. As the bullet pierced it, the eye popped and liquid shot out. The eyeball collapsed into a floppy mass. It plopped onto the ground, and like a sack it burst open. Čubak emerged from the bushes with his spear held ready. He was going to aim for the giant’s heart, but noticed how the fat folds of Makeldöö’s chest shrouded it. The giant was huge! He aimed at the only part of the body he 30 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas could reasonably reach, the shins. The two warriors hacked at the monster Makeldöö, one on the left and one on the right. It was difficult to pull their spears out each time they struck him! They struck and stabbed, struck and stabbed. It was sunset before Makeldöö finally collapsed and rolled over. They approached the giant, gingerly. Makeldöö raised his hand, as if to fight on. ‘How can we kill him?’ Almambet and Čubak continued lunging with their swords and spears as twilight fell. Finally, Makeldöö gave up his soul. Blood and guts poured out. There was an overwhelming stench. The scene was truly dreadful. Čubak wanted to rest, but Almambet said they should return to Manas carrying Makeldöö’s head as a trophy. Čubak took his axe and swung at the giant’s throat, but he was so exhausted that he couldn’t wrestle the axe out from the small cut he had made. ‘The giant may be dead, but he still refuses to stop fighting!’ Together, they sliced and cut at the giant’s throat until the head was severed. Manas would surely give them a huge reward! Now they tried to drag the head by its hair. It was so heavy that they stumbled from side to side. They decided to roll it back to their horses. They heaved the head onto one horse, but it was so heavy that the horse couldn’t keep its balance. They filled a large sack to the brim with stones. They loaded the sack on one side of the horse and the giant’s head on the other. Slowly they set off. Manas was sleeping when Almambet and Čubak arrived. He woke and looked at them, wondering what strange thing they were carrying. Something massive hung from their horse. Could it be jewels? Maybe they had robbed a Chinese caravan. Could it be the heads of enemies? Maybe they had killed the traders and cut off their heads. Almambet and Čubak tethered their exhausted horses. Almambet called young Sırgak and, with a hint of a smile breaking at the edge of his lips, told him to unload his horse. Sırgak thought they had brought jewels and precious objects. He was keen. He rushed to the horse and opened the bag. The giant’s lip plopped to the ground, slimy and slippery. The giant’s ear slid to the ground, slithering like jelly. Almambet laughed, as Sırgak turned pale as death. ‘If this is the head of a trader, imagine how huge Chinese people must be!’ he muttered. ‘If this is a town-dweller, I can’t imagine the size of their warriors! I’m not going to fight such people. I will refuse to march a foot further towards the enemy, for I will face thousands of them, all with heads this huge, swarming over the land like gigantic ants! If their bodies match this massive head, I would rather return to my own land with my tail between my legs!’ Almambet laughed. ‘Don’t lose heart, for this is not a warrior. You need not flee like a coward. It is not size that matters, for a true warrior must find ways to beat his enemies. That lip, that ear, and that huge head are the remains of the giant Makeldöö. He was a wrestler from across the The Great Battle 31 mountains. He was one of the many wonders of the world, and it took us forty – no sixty – bullets and cuts of our swords to knock him down. But he is dead now. Truly, Beijing is huge. It is surrounded by deep moats and heavy fortifications. It is guarded by more soldiers than anyone can count. It is protected by thousands of magicians. Beijing is where our real battle will be. Don’t lose heart at seeing our little trophy, for it was just two warriors who brought his head to you. How small we are compared to his might, yet we triumphed. Who was Makeldöö apart from a giant ordered to fight who would have preferred to stay with his giant people in his country, smoking his pipe? Together, we are mighty! Together, we will triumph over our foes! Together, we will defeat our enemy! Together we will send our enemy scurrying away so fast that he will never dare to look back.’ By the way, I should tell you what happened to the horses. As Koņur- bay’s front guard reached the Talas pastures, the soldiers bringing up the rear had still to reach the border. The forces were stretched far too thinly. The front guard were felled by local people. Behind them, many were slain in the marshes. There was nothing the rest of the Chinese could do. The Kyrgyz had captured their thousands of horses, perhaps a hundred thousand beasts. They scented victory. The forty warriors of Kırgıl-čal and the leaders of tribes friendly to Manas, led by powerful Košoy-kan, by the Kazakh Kökčö-bay, by the wise Bakay-kan, Esen-kan, Muz-burčak, Sınčı, the poet Raman’s son Irčı-uul, Ajıbay, Tamanbay, Eleman-bay’s son Töštük, together with thousands and thousands of troops, were ready for the final battle. They were ready to expel the Chinese from their land. But, in that battle, Manas was fatally wounded by Koņur-bay.

EPISODE FOUR

SEMETEY’S CHILDHOOD

After the death of Manas, his six half-brothers, Abeke, Köböš, Čıymıt, Köčkör, Albay and Kölbay, almost came to blows as they argued about who should take his wife, Kanıkey. It was the ancient custom that when a husband died his wife and children became the property of a male relative. Kanıkey, though, was bold for a woman in those days. She announced that she would refuse to marry any of them. ‘You were heartless when Manas was alive,’ she told them. ‘You were never enthusiastic about his exploits. But you counted out his wealth as soon as he died, dividing it between you, dividing it equally, measure for measure, by using the length of a horse’s whip. You squandered all he had achieved in his life.’ One of the brothers was so enraged by her words that he hit her forcefully, ripping her breast open. Blood and milk poured from the wound. He exploded with anger. ‘By morning you will chose one of us, or we will put you to death like we would a dog! No longer can your husband or any of his forty warriors defend you! There is no mountain nearby where you can hide! You are a fallen, pitiful woman, yet still you try to dominate us! We will cut you down to size! We will put you in your proper place!’ Kanıkey was as wise as she was bold. She had an invisible helper, an angel who took the form of a naked boy, seated on her right shoulder. Her angel warned her of impending trouble. She had known for many years that Manas’s half-brothers, the sons of Jakıp’s second wife Bagdılöt, would one day claim her as their own, and she had carefully planned an escape. She had already given her one-year-old son, Semetey, to her ninety-year-old mother- in-law, Čıyördı, telling her to flee far away, to hide in the distant hills at a place they both knew. Before dawn broke the next morning, Kanıkey also fled, still bleeding and still in pain. She left all her property, thinking only of survival. She wondered whether Semetey, the only son of Manas, and his grandmother Čıyördı were safe. After a while, she found them hiding in the hills. Carrying both her frail mother-in-law and her tiny hungry child, she Semetey’s childhood 33 rushed on. She fled from her dead husband’s half-brothers, fearful that she might be chased, fearful that she might be hunted down. Much later, exhausted and struggling for breath, she dropped to the grass. At that moment she glimpsed a horse following in the distance. Her heart sank. She feared the worst, but then joy welled up in her as she recognized old wise Bakay, the advisor to Manas. ‘My daughter! Take this trusty steed, the piebald Tay-toru. Sit your mother and child astride it. Hurry to Bukar and give your son Semetey to your brother Ismail who rules there. With Ismail’s protection, Semetey has a chance to survive. When he reaches twelve, Tay-toru will be sixty. Tay-toru will be old, but he is a strong battle horse. Though I will likely be dead, he will surely still live. Enter him in the big race, and if he crosses the winning post first Semetey will return to you and the Kyrgyz will have a new leader. If Tay-toru fails, not only will you have lost your son, but the Kyrgyz will have lost all hope of finding a true leader. Well, Kanıkey, Čıyördı and Semetey survived the journey. Semetey was given to Ismail, but Ismail forced Kanıkey to vow never, under any circumstances, to reclaim her son. Time passed. Kanıkey lived eleven long years in a yurt with her frail mother-in-law, avoiding human contact. Many thought she must be mad. Through the long years, Kanıkey tended Tay-toru. Every day she rose at dawn to care for him. She lavished affection on him. She brushed his mane. She fed him grain she selected by hand. She took him to drink at a vital spring. She took him on long rides to build his strength. As Semetey approached his twelfth birthday, she emerged from solitude and joined a gathering of Ismail’s people, followers of Segıš-kan, as they announced the famous horse race would be held. Those who looked at her failed to recognize the woman who had spent so long alone, for she was suddenly full of spirit and her eyes shone brightly as she thought about the race. She always kept Manas’s battle dress with her. During the long journey to Bukar, she had worn his metal helmet, felt shirt and chain-link vest. As she struggled to carry mother-in-law and son, she had leant on Manas’s musket, Almabaš, as a walking stick. She had held Manas’s flail, which Bölöt-bay had soaked in a bowl of tears for many days to ready it to smash enemies. Now she put on the battle dress once more, and took the flail and musket. She asked Čıyördı to bless her. Her frail mother-in-law stretched arms to the sky, chanting, ‘Let my child appear to her enemies as if she is a crowd. Let her safely reach her goal. Save, Teņri, the Almighty God, my family.’ Armed with this powerful blessing, dressed for battle, and riding Tay-toru, Kanıkey entered Bukar. We should remember that Kanıkey was no ordinary woman, but a warrior who had once fought Manas, a warrior with an invisible angel seated on her shoulder. The followers of Segıš-kan looked on with astonishment, wondering where this apparition of the legendary 34 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Manas had come from. Did Manas have a brother? As she passed, some recognized Kanıkey, and these went to Ismail, telling him that his sister had regained her mind and had entered the city mounted on a battle horse. What trouble might she bring? Three hundred and forty one famous horses gathered for the race. They were paraded before the expectant crowd. First came Kanıkey’s father’s legendary steed, Ak-tulpar, then Čaatay’s Tor’kaška, Ismail’s Sur-küröng, Joloy’s Ač-buudan, and more. The ears of the horses stood upright like burning candles. Their manes glistened. Their hooves, newly shod, clip- clopped on the ground. Kanıkey called the jockey Ešen. After telling him to train Tay-toru for six days, she added, ‘Bring him back as the winner or else you will regret the day you were born!’ She bid the trusty piebald steed farewell, sending her hopes off with him. She briefly mingled in the crowd, listening to gossip, before returning to her isolated yurt. Ismail was enraged, but devised a cunning plan into which he channelled his anger. He summoned Semetey and sixty wrestlers, and told them to go to the hills of Akborčuk, to find the woman who had brought shame to his people. Semetey was told that the woman was his sister who had gone mad when she failed to find a husband. She was, he was told, so obsessed by failure that she had taken to wearing men’s clothing. She had forced a boy as light as a bird to ride her old steed in the race, to further deepen the family shame. Ismail told Semetey to find her, cut her stomach open, tie her to a horse and drag her to her death. It was, he said, only by killing her that the family could escape intolerable shame. And so, Semetey set out with the sixty wrestlers, his gyrfalcon Ak-šumkar perched on his hand. Unaware that he had been instructed to kill his mother, he vowed to find and kill the sister who had lost her mind. Meanwhile, Kanıkey trembled from fear and hope in equal measure. She worried what would happen, despite being full of courage. She took the telescope that had belonged to Manas from her leather bag. What a wonderful instrument! As you turned its ring distant happenings came ever closer! ‘Will it bring my desire, my vision and my hope, closer?’ Her destiny lay in the outcome of the race. ‘If Tay-toru wins I will get my son back. As victor, I will distribute the prize to the people of Bukar. But if Tay-toru loses, I will long for death.’ Fearful, she determined to look through the telescope six times. She put it to her eye the first time, and saw a cloud of dust moving across the distant horizon. Destiny knew no mercy, for her steed was running right at the back, the last of the three hundred and forty one horses! She was in despair, and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Why was I not killed as I fled the half-brothers of Manas? I would have been better off dying like my beloved husband.’ Semetey’s childhood 35

She looked through the telescope a second time. The heads of the leading horses could be seen emerging from the cloud of dust. She turned the instrument’s ring to see more clearly. Destiny knew no mercy, for her steed was way down the field, now in sixtieth place! Her father’s Ak-tulpar led the pack, then Čaatay’s Tor’kaška. Čınojık’s Čıyala was in third place. ‘When will the Almighty Teņri come to my aid?’ She looked through the telescope a third time, hopeful that her plea had been heard. The horses had reached Akči Valley, near Lake Ala-kul. Destiny knew no mercy, for her steed was bringing up the rear of the pack of thirty leading horses! Remember, though, that Kanıkey was no ordinary woman, for she had an angel, a naked boy on her right shoulder. In that tear-rending moment the angel told her to turn away from the race and wash her feet and hands. He told her to turn away from the race and take a final bath, for the time approached when she should die at the hands of her son. Tears poured down her cheeks, cheeks shaped like the moon. It seemed nothing could stop her outpouring of sorrow. ‘My kidneys will be torn from my body by wolves. My eyes will be pecked from their sockets by vultures. My body will be hung from horses and dragged in the dust. But all this is nothing compared to the thought of my poor frail mother-in-law left alone with nobody to tend to her.’ And the thought of losing her son, without the chance to return him to his people, tore greatly at her heart. A torrent of bitter tears ran down her cheeks. She looked through the telescope a fourth time. The race was almost at It- borčuk. Her father’s Ak-tulpar led. Then came Čaatay’s Tor’kaška. Third was Ismail’s Sur-küröng, followed by Temir-kan’s Üč-tulpar. Destiny knew no mercy, for Tay-toru was twelfth, his head still unable to cut through the dust thrown up by the leaders as they galloped! Tay-toru seemed unable to reach full gallop, for no breath steamed from his nostrils marking exertion. Kanıkey’s heart tightened. She fell to the ground. Crushed, she cried out. She prayed to Teņri. She looked through the telescope a fifth time. The cloud of dust was ever closer, and had now almost reached Lake Itičpeš. Her father’s Ak-tulpar led, followed by Ismail’s Sur-küröng and Čaatay’s Tor’kaška. Destiny knew no mercy, for although Tay-toru was beginning to catch the leaders he was still only sixth! Despair descended over her. Suddenly, though, fire swept through her body as she looked. Her heart almost leapt out of her mouth! Had Teņri heard her prayer? For, she saw her beloved Manas on his horse Ak-kula, galloping alongside Tay-toru. Almambet on Sar’ala was there. Kara-kan’s son, Kaldar, with the warriors Čubak and Sırgak, was there. Kökömeren was there, and Bakay who had always been as steady and reliable as a mountain. And the brave ally Košoy. The horses of Manas’s troop of warriors drove Tay-toru forward. Seeing her beloved Manas, Kanıkey’s soul cried out. All her longing, all her despair, all her sorrow, all 36 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas her love, all was there in her single cry. She remembered her twelve long years of mourning, her twelve long years filled with dreams about her beloved. She was transfixed, unable to comprehend, unable to utter a sound, unable to move. Her love, her despair, her sorrow were all fused together. She tore at her cheeks, drawing blood. She summoned all her will and cried out, pleading for her husband not to leave her alone again. It was as if she had forgotten the race. It was as if she had forgotten the approaching danger her angel had warned her of. Her total being was concentrated on seeing her husband once more. Kanıkey, though, was no ordinary woman, for a naked boy sat on her right shoulder, warning her of danger. He whispered that she must come to her senses, for to live she must stay alert… She looked through the telescope a sixth time. The horses of her relatives still led the field, her father’s Ak-tulpar followed by Ismail’s Sur-küröng. Tay-toru was now third, gathering himself up as he reached full gallop, ready to surge ahead. He was a battle steed who knew the companionship of other horses from racing into battle. Kanıkey knew what to do. She took Manas’s musket Almabaš, rusty from twelve long years of disuse. She quickly cleaned and loaded it, banged it on the ground to clear the barrel, and fired. Tay-toru heard that familiar sound. He lowered his head, cut through the air, and surged forward. The spirit of battle entered him. He was perfectly tuned for speed. Wait, though. We must leave the race for a moment, for here comes Semetey with the sixty wrestlers. He is hunting, enjoying the chase. Wise Bakay had predicted this eventuality and had sent his trusty attendant Sarı- taz, whose constitution and size was like that of a giant. He had ordered him to go to Bukar, burning wood from the forest as he travelled to make charcoal. As he neared the city he caught a hare and tethered it tightly. He waited for Semetey. As the boy approached, his gyrfalcon Ak-šumkar spotted the hare. Ak-šumkar flew into the air and like a bullet headed straight for the hare, only to find he could not lift it in his talons because Sarı-taz had tied it tightly, anchoring it to the spot. Semetey shouted out in anger. Why was this giant playing such a nasty game? He ordered him to return the gyrfalcon with its prey. But Sarı-taz was no coward. He stood his ground. ‘How can you shout at me?’ he asked Semetey. ‘You, with no memory of your land or your father! You, who are about to kill your mother! Talas is your land, Manas your father, and you have been ordered to kill your mother Kanıkey.’ Semetey was enraged. He flew at Sarı-taz. Sarı-taz fought bravely, taunting the young Semetey. ‘Is it right that you fight with me? You, with no memory of your land or your father! Do you not know you have been sent to kill your own mother, Kanıkey?’ Semetey beat him, and seemed about to kill him, but Sarı-taz continued to taunt him. ‘I will not consider this a proper death at the hand of a boy who doesn’t know his land or his father, and who Semetey’s childhood 37 calls his mother a sister and is intent on killing her!’ Semetey realized that Sarı-taz must be telling the truth. Sarı-taz continued, adjusting his mantra. ‘Your land is Talas, your father is Manas, and you are destined to lead your people.’ What should Semetey do? Sixty wrestlers surrounded him who would surely kill him if he failed to kill his mother. He turned to them, and told them they would first watch the race and encourage his sister’s horse to win. He promised to divide the prize between all sixty. He hatched his plan just as Tay-toru clashed his iron stirrups against those of Sur-küröng, and just as he caught up with Ak-tulpar. The stirrups clashed and became entangled as his rivals struggled to keep the lead. Ak- tulpar was a descendant of the winged horses that are the forefathers of our greatest steeds, and there seemed no way to separate him from Tay-toru. Bang, bang. Chink, chink. The stirrups clashed together as both horses clip- clopped on the ground in unison. As they approached the brow of the hill, Kanıkey could see Semetey and his wrestlers calling out, ‘Manas! Manas!’ Her heart full of sorrow mixed with joy, she saw in her son the spirit of her husband, the ruler of Talas, her beloved Manas. Her heart quietened as she realized she had fulfilled her duty as a wife and a mother. She had kept the name of her legendary husband alive. She had reclaimed the rightful heir to the lands of the Kyrgyz. She called out: ‘My beloved, generous-hearted Kyrgyz, I have done what I was meant to. I have given Tay-toru to its rightful owner.’ The mountains joined the shout, ‘Manas! Manas!’ Shepherds threw their crocks in the air, shouting, ‘Manas! Manas!’ Cattle herders threw their caps in the air, shouting, ‘Manas! Manas!’ Tay-toru took the lead. He edged six heads in front of Ak-tulpar. He won the race. The prize was huge because all had assumed Ak-tulpar would be the winner. Semetey claimed the prize, then demonstrated his great generosity by giving it all to the people of Bukar. He addressed his uncle Ismail and his uncle’s father Šaatemır. ‘Accept my gratitude for raising me safely surrounded by your wealth. Accept my gratitude for treating me as if I were your son and future khan. Now, though, let me return to the land of my birth.’ Semetey was so dear to the heart of the Bukar ruler that he did not want to let him go. In protest, Semetey took to his bed. He refused food. He refused to get up. He refused to do anything. Finally, faced by such determination, his uncle Ismail and his grandfather Šaatemır relented.

EPISODE FIVE

SEMETEY RETURNS TO TALAS

Semetey demanded that Ismail and Šaatemır let him leave. He stayed in his bed, refusing to do anything. It was then that Kanıkey visited him and told him about his early childhood. ‘Many years ago, I had to flee our home, carrying you, the joy of my eyes, and my frail ninety-year-old mother-in- law. I was forced to flee my land, and I suffered like grass that yellows then burns to a crisp under the blazing summer sun. Your father, Manas, was given by Teņri.1 He was incomparable to any other man. He died as the sun drops below the horizon, and his greedy half-brothers, Abeke, Köböš, Čıymıt, Köčkör, Albay and Kölbay, quickly seized their opportunity to claim their inheritance. They wanted to take me. They measured out your father’s wealth, using the length of a horse’s whip to divide it equally, measure by measure. They beat me. They tore my breast so that blood poured out with breast milk. They had no sense of shame. You must never ever trust them. You must never ever trust Jakıp-kan, their father, the father of Manas, and your grandfather. He tasted wealth in old age. He was already elderly when his children were born. I fled as Manas’s wealth was measured out using a horse’s whip. I fled as the six shameless half-brothers quarrelled over who should take me as their wife. I fled with you and my mother-in-law to Bukar. As I rested to catch my breath at the hill above Üč-košoy, Bakay-kan, the wise and trusty advisor of Manas, caught up. He gave us Tay-toru, the horse of Manas’s ally, Košoy. And Tay-toru has blessed and reunited us.’ ‘It is time to learn about your people. They are the incomparably generous Kyrgyz. You must journey back to your land. You must pass through the forest of Ak-bel, and when the trees thin out, as the grass begins to yellow, you will approach Kırben. Ride along the banks of the Kırben

1 In many ways, it would be simpler to render Saparbek’s verse as ‘cosmos’ rather than ‘Teņri’, but this would run the risk of implying the Greek perception of the universe. In the Kyrgyz understanding, the world and the sky are living entities within the embrace of a supreme deity, Teņri. Semetey returns to Talas 39

River until you find Üč-košoy. Take long and deep breaths, fill your lungs with the mountain pasture air for it will fill your soul. It is there you will find the place where the people live who are incomparable to others. A dog will run to you, barking. This is Kumaık. He is no ordinary dog, but was spat out at birth by the mythical kök-joru birds. When birds give birth to dogs, their offspring remain puppies for just seven days, and if they aren’t caught and tamed within that week they mutate back into birds. Manas caught the puppy Kumaık and made him his own. And when Manas died, the dog howled for six days. For two months he refused to allow meat to touch his lips. He wasted away, and became unrecognizable as the dog that had bitten at camels and caught wolves, foxes and mountain goats. He vanished. But, he will see you and will run to you, howling as he recognizes you as his master. You will see a long-forgotten and neglected short-tailed white horse. Catch it. Slaughter it as a sacrifice to the spirits of Manas and his warriors. Leave the carcass for Kumaık as a reward for loyalty and devotion, or else the dog, driven to despair by its extreme hunger, might tear you apart.’ ‘Journey on to Keng-kul. There, I built Kök-kümböš, a secret mausoleum for your father. I ordered the best clay to be brought on sixty camels. I summoned sixty strong men to mix the clay with fat from seventy slaughtered goats to make bricks that would be impervious to rain or wind, bricks that would withstand earthquakes. I summoned builders from Andıyan and the best decorators from Kokon.2 I summoned the best painters and ordered them to paint a symbol in tribute to Teņri. In the centre of the mausoleum I had Manas depicted in a fine white felt shirt and full armour. He sits astride his white horse, Ak-kula, holding a spear firmly in his hand. I had his best friend and ally, Košoy, depicted next to him. I had Bakay, with his white beard, who moulded his words like gold, depicted. I had Almambet, the son of Azız-kan, wearing his arrow-proof mailshirt, seated on his horse Sar’ala, depicted. You will see Ak-balta’s son Čubak, attired in his black hat, and Sırgak together with your father’s forty warriors. You will see mothers and wives with their warriors – the daughter of Kalča the virgin Saykal, Manas’s second wife Bagdılöt. You will see me holding you close to my breast, with my mother-in-law Čıyördı, as we flee those who would harm us. When you approach the mausoleum you will hear whispering, but do not be scared away. The whispers are the voices of those whose life is depicted inside. Revere them. Pray to your father. Pray to the departed heroes. Pray for the dead.’ ‘Journey on until you reach Kermečüü, where in the wide valley you will find a herd of camels. In the midst of the herd will crouch one who is particularly ugly, its long gangly legs making it look like an overgrown stick insect. This is Jelmaıan. It will bay from the bottom of its soul when it sees

2 Kokand. 40 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas you. Big tears will pour from its eyes. Jelmaıan was your father’s battle camel. It has bayed in sorrow since the death of Manas, and has suffered much. It has been bullied and scorned by other camels. It has lost its fertility, and is very old. Pat it on the back as a sign of gratitude, then slaughter it as an offering. Offer it to the spirits of your father and his warriors, for this will be a glorious death.’ ‘Journey on to Ak-kıya. You will see a long white beard that seems to float as it is gently blown by the wind. That beard belongs to Bakay, ninety years old, your father’s trusty advisor. Bakay moulded his words like gold. He suffered greatly when Manas died. His eyes are now so tired that they have narrowed to mere slits. His body has shrunk into itself. He is thin as a stick. But his wisdom remains as it always was. Treat Bakay as your grandfather. Take his right hand and revere him, for he will teach you the lives and allegiances of your people. But, I beg you, with all the joy that has welled up in my eyes since we have been reunited, do not visit Abeke or Köböš. They see you as a competitor and would kill you. Rather, meet your people, talk with them, get to know them.’ ‘When the time is right, go to Kara-tor Mountain in Ečkılık. This is where I hid treasure for you. Deep in the mountain, I ordered a cavern to be hacked out of the rock big enough to house sixty thousand sheep but with a mouth so narrow that one person could barely crawl in. Inside, the walls gleam with gold and silver. I covered the floor with branches cut from evergreen trees. Late at night, I put your father’s body in the cavern, and this is where he rests. I sealed the entrance with a rock fall so that no enemy would find his body. My biggest secret, which I have hidden deep in my heart, is that I ordered the six strong men who created the cavern to dig a hole. I poisoned them with my own hand and buried them in the hole. I covered over their grave to hide the deed. Those six poor men with their six poor souls were loyal, and guilt for their death stains my hands. I beg you, my son, slaughter a horse and pray to their souls for me.’ Semetey was unable to wait any longer. The very next day he put on his warrior’s dress. He took his sword, spear and flail, packed ammunition for his musket, and mounted his white steed Tay-buurul. He set out for the Kyrgyz lands. He entered the thick Ak-bel forest and rode until the trees thinned and the grass yellowed. He rode through more forest and across lands thick with pasture until he reached the Kyrgyz border. What a magnificent sight! The snow-peaked mountains had luxurious forests covering their breasts. The rivers flowed from the mountains full of impatient bustling water. The mountains and forests were full of wild goats, arkhar sheep, foxes and wolves. Tigers roared, and the banks of the rivers teamed with birds of every species, and with ducks, geese and swans. This was his land. Semetey returns to Talas 41

At Kırben, the old dog Kumaık ran to him, howling in recognition. In extreme frailty it sniffed the air. To the right Semetey saw the short-tailed white horse. He slaughtered it in sacrifice, dismembered it, and left the carcass for Kumaık. Journeying on he found the glorious Kök-kümböš mausoleum. It trembled with the sound of many whispering voices, and in awe he dismounted and entered. He could not control his wonder as he found the depictions of Kyrgyz heroes. He found a finely detailed painting of the battle with the Kalmaks. He found his father’s portrait. Astonished and overwhelmed, he stared. He found his own portrait as a baby, carried on his mother’s back. He sat down to reflect, and prayed to Manas and his heroes. He journeyed on. On the edge of Kermečüü he found the baying old camel Jelmaıan, now reduced to skin and bones. As it saw Semetey it kneeled, tears gushing from its eyes. Saying a prayer to the spirit of Manas, Semetey slaughtered it, giving this loyal creature a glorious death. He found wise Bakay seated on his horse Bošbudan. Bakay was thin and his body had shrunk into itself, but was still wise. What a heartbreaking meeting! Young man and old advisor embraced although, as long as the embrace continued, it could never be long enough. Again they embraced. Tears flowed. Bakay offered thanks to Teņri for allowing him to see the son of Manas, the rightful heir to the throne of the Kyrgyz. He took him to his homestead, where everyone rejoiced at the return of the son of Manas. The news reached Manas’s six shameless, greedy, half-brothers. Can you imagine what Jakıp-kan was thinking? He was wondering when Semetey would claim his inheritance. He was wondering when Semetey would demand the return of Manas’s wealth. He thought about fighting Semetey, but he lacked bravery. Instead, he hatched a plan. ‘Bagdılöt, my wife, we must eliminate this trouble. Prepare poisoned drinks.’ Bakay-kan, though, the old advisor to Manas, knew danger would lurk at every corner. He warned Semetey that Jakıp might try to poison him. The two went to meet Jakıp together. Bakay announced the joy of Semetey’s return and Jakıp pretended to be overwhelmed with happiness. He called out, feigning joy. ‘The only son of my son, Manas! The only offspring of my son, Manas! Welcome!’ As was customary, tea was served. Noting that Semetey must be tired after such a long journey Jakıp gave cups of water to Bakay and Semetey. Taking Bakay’s cup, Semetey spoke to his grandfather with wisdom far beyond his age. ‘Dear grandfather, how can I drink before my elders? I could never insult you like that. Please drink first, then I will happily drink after you.’ Jakıp-kan and his wife Bagdılöt, and other family members begged Semetey to drink first, since he was the honoured guest. But Semetey insisted, saying that since he could never live with the shame if he drank before his elders, he should drink nothing at all. With that, he stood up and left the yurt, pouring the water into a dog bowl outside. Two dogs went to the bowl to drink, but as they took the first gulp they dropped dead. 42 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Semetey drew his sword from its sheath. ‘You are my grandfather, and I came here to greet you. Is this how you greet me?’ And with that, he sliced off Jakıp’s head. Semetey was enraged. Abeke, Köböš and the other half-brothers had anticipated that they would encounter Semetey at some point. But, wait a minute. Didn’t Manas have forty warriors? What had become of his comrades in battle, his friends, his warriors? Well, after the hero’s death, they could do nothing but serve new masters. They had long since lost their battle spirits. The once glorious warriors had descended into a life of pleasure and entertainment, forgetting their glorious past. They were meant to be the defenders of the Kyrgyz! They knew that Semetey would threaten their leisure, so they began to plot to fight him. Anyhow, back to Abeke. He saw his father’s head fall to the ground. He trembled with fear. He mounted his horse and fled with those same forty warriors. He was so terrified that he lost his grip on the reins and his horse galloped out of control. Semetey soon caught up and killed him. The forty warriors fled towards Süü-samır. Semetey shouted to them to stop and wait, saying they were not guilty before him. But they kept riding. They reached Kizart Mountain in Kochkor. Semetey’s rage grew because they refused to stop, and he chased them to Tarmal-saz, where he slaughtered each and every one. Since these were his father’s warriors, he ordered forty mounds to be built where they fell, at Čamčı on the Kizal River. He offered prayers. And you can find those forty mounds to this day. Crowds witnessed what had happened. They begged Semetey to lead them as their khan. Semetey took over Kanıkey’s former home. He took back all the wealth that had belonged to Manas. For many days, Bakay and other Kyrgyz elders told him what had happened since his father’s death. They told him of their suffering. They told him the bad things that their greedy rulers, the shameless half-brothers of Manas, had done. But, with Semetey among them, the people soon forgot their sorrows. Their hopes for a better life came true. Kanıkey had told Semetey to bring her and his grandmother, Čıyördı, back to Talas, so he returned to Bukar to fetch them. He greeted his grandfather on his mother’s side, Temir-kan,3 and addressed his uncle Ismail. He thanked them for taking him in as their own. ‘You cared for me as if you were my father. You brought me up and educated me. You proclaimed me as the future ruler of Bukar. But now I have seen my people and my land. With all my respect and thanks, please allow me to take my mother and grandmother back to Talas.’ His relatives decided he should marry Temir-kan’s daughter Čačıke, a fourteen-year-old of unrivalled beauty. So, with a face like the dawn, and with clothes glittering with beads

3 Saparbek at this point referred to him as Kara-kan. Semetey returns to Talas 43 and pearls, Čačıke entered a white yurt erected for their nuptials. The two were married. Sixty camels were loaded with gold, and a huge caravan of gifts and provisions was prepared. The caravan set off, led by Kanıkey, who so longed to return to Talas. Her joy at returning was only matched by the intense beauty of the land. Birds covered the sky and sang ceaselessly. Animals of prey carpeted the ground. There was no way to paint the sheer beauty of Talas. They entered the palace, and Čačıke grew to enjoy her new life as the wife of the new khan. The waters of Keng-kul flowed with joy, and more cattle and sheep than anybody could count grazed on the mountains. Semetey ruled a prosperous and peaceful land. Semetey began to assemble an army of loyal warriors. Kanıkey took particular care of two six-year-olds, Kül-čoro, the son of Manas’s closest friend, Almambet, and Kan-čoro, the son of Manas’s best warrior, Čubak. She hoped they would remain Semetey’s most loyal and close friends. She offered her right breast to Kül-čoro, and warm milk flowed as he suckled. She gave her left breast to Kan-čoro, but blood flowed when he bit her. She warned Semetey what this portended: Kan-čoro would one day become his enemy. She told Semetey to kill him, but Semetey refused, saying he was a mere child, and it was impossible to judge what he might become as a man. He ignored his mother’s warning. For days, for weeks, for months, for years, peace reigned. Semetey reached twenty. He was a mature, confident and strong leader. ‘Six times, Manas raided the Chinese lands. Six times he planted such fear that his enemies never retaliated. Once, Beijing fell to him and he ruled it for six months until he was fatally wounded by Koņur-bay, the son of Kalča. I will take revenge. What kind of son would I be if I failed to exact revenge?’ And so he sent messengers throughout the Kyrgyz lands, to the Kazakh and Kyrgyz and Kipchak tribes. He gathered an army of twenty-five thouand men with which to exact revenge.

EPISODE SIX

THE MARRIAGE OF SEMETEY

Jediger’s son Er-toltoy called his best friend Čın-kojo. They met at the ordo, the seat of the tribal council, just as Semetey’s lavish caravan left the city, just as he expressed gratitude to the people, just as as he set out for his homeland of Talas. Er-toltoy spoke. ‘How come I’ve been deprived of marrying that unrivalled beauty, Čačıke, the daughter of Temir-kan? She was betrothed to me! We can’t stand here twiddling our thumbs while Semetey leaves with her as his bride. She was betrothed to me, and I will exact revenge for my loss.’ Čın-kojo thought a little, then replied. ‘Er-toltoy, son of Jediger, you are greatly respected. Nobody can match your skill in archery. It is not right that you should be shamed in this way. I have an idea for our revenge. We should surround Akın-kan’s city and lay siege to it. What do you think? The siege will put such fear into the minds of Kara-kan’s people that blood will drip from their hearts. They will descend into turmoil as they suffer from hunger, and they will wish for a quick death. We will deliver a single demand, that they give Akın-kan’s daughter, Ay-čürök, to us. It is said that Ay-čürök’s face shines with such unfathomable beauty that no mortal can look straight into it. If we follow my plan, the people of Bukar will have no choice but to agree to our demand.’ Er-toltoy eagerly agreed. He knew only too well that Ay-čürök’s dowry would be immense. The two men sent messengers to their tribesmen, calling them to arms, and soon seventy thousand were gathered. They marched on Bukar, looking to all as if a river of gleaming spears and helmets was floating down from the mountains. As that gleaming river reached the city of the Kara-kan, it fanned out to surround it. I should pause at this point and tell you one thing: many years before, before she was born, Ay-čürök’s father had promised her as the bride of Manas’s son, Semetey. Now let us return. The city of Bukar was sealed as the tribesmen under Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo laid siege to it. Soon, no bread remained in the bakeries. Soon, no water remained for even the wounded to drink. Blackness spread across the city as The marriage of Semetey 45 the people sank into a dark depression. That depression was as dark as the deepest night. Akın-kan despaired, and sent messenger after messenger to plead for peace. Each returned with Er-toltoy’s single demand: Ay-čürök must become his bride. Er-toltoy added a menacing comment, that if Akın- kan failed to comply he would wish he were dead rather than merely under siege. Akın-kan decided he had no choice. He went to Ay-čürök, his fourteen-year-old daughter, the joy of his eyes. She was in her chamber, surrounded by thirty friends and thirty ladies-in-waiting, all dressed in fine silk. Ay-čürök was so white, so radiant and so fair that she seemed almost translucent. It seemed as if had she eaten anything one would see the food passing down her throat. Her voice was like tiny morning bells tied to lambs, and when this radiant princess opened her mouth her voice was a treasure for all who heard. Akın-kan told her how he had struggled to find a way to end the siege. He told her about Er-toltoy’s demand for her hand in marriage. The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was clever and insightful beyond her years. She gave her dear father a proposal of her own ‘If Er-toltoy wants my hand in marriage, let him take me in happiness rather than through bloodshed. Let him sponsor a sixty-day celebration, a festival of never- ending dance, never-ending music, and never-ending games. After that he may lead me away as his bride.’ This was the message that the clever Ay- čürök sent to the bloodthirsty Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo. Akın-kan and his sons Abılbek and Kumar relayed the message, saying that if they were true and honest warriors, Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo would hold the lavish sixty-day celebration. They should end the seige and stop putting people to the sword, stop stealing, and stop butchering the livestock during the celebration. After the celebration, they should send envoys to escort Ay-čürök to Er-toltoy. Čın-kojo found Ay-čürök’s reasoning compelling. He looked Er-toltoy squarely in the eye. ‘Instead of tiring our soldiers with a long siege, let’s celebrate. Through the feast we can show the Kara-kan just how wealthy we are, but while the celebrations go on we can secretly spy out the land. We will surely triumph! Ay-čürök is clever beyond her years, since her request comes at the beginning of autumn, when cattle and sheep return to the city from their mountain pastures, allowing relief from the people’s hunger. This is the best time of year for a lengthy celebration. This is the best time of year to get married.’ And so it was that they agreed to Ay-čürök’s request. The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was clever and insightful beyond her years. She called her best friends Kalıman and Alooke, who were distinguished because of their clarity of thinking and delicate manners. She held counsel with them, whispering, before calling her ladies-in-waiting. ‘I am not a girl to be taken by force. I will turn myself into a swan and fly high in the sky. I will glide along rivers, fly across mountains, swoop down into valleys and gorges, and search for my proper husband. Er-toltoy claims to be the best suitor for me, and if it comes to pass that he is truthfully the best, I 46 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas will marry him. But I will do so not because of his demand, but by my own choice. I was destined at birth to be married to Semetey, for this is what our fathers agreed many years ago, and so I will search for him. As I search, you must enjoy yourselves. You must never cease singing and never stop swinging day and night for the next sixty days. Pretend that you are playing with me, and if anybody asks for me tell them I am sleeping, resting from my joyful play. Nobody must discover I have left Bukar. If my destiny is to find Semetey, so be it. If my destiny is something else, then so be it. But, I will choose my husband.’ The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was no ordinary girl. People thought her the daughter of peri fairies. She had been taught secret knowledge by the peri and possessed magical powers that she carefully concealed from those around her. And for good reason, for she could wave her arms and be suddenly transformed into a swan! She put on her swan costume. Its white feathers, just for a mere moment, sparkled in the sunlight, then she flew up into the sky. She soared ever higher, passing into the clouds and disappearing from view. Those who watched her go might have seen an occasional sparkle high in the sky, but that was all. The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was no ordinary girl. She crossed Jediger’s lands, and soon reached the Chinese border. There she looked down on Koņur-bay, son of the Kalča. Now approaching ninety years of age he sat on his steed Algara. Wise and graceful, everything about him demanded admiration. What a warrior! Strong, canny and brave! If only he were not so old, this might be a man to marry. She circled around, time and again glimpsing him. Koņur-bay was so canny that he knew the white swan above him was not from this world. He decided he should bring the swan to earth, but before he could take an arrow and set it on his bow, the swan soared high into the sky and disappeared. Before he could aim the arrow, a terrible storm rose. Fog drew in and lightning struck the ground with such force that he was almost blinded. Puzzled, he was left contemplating this strange happening. Ay-čürök left the border of Kashgar. She looked down on Sanjıbek, with his honest and sharp mind. If only he were not so old, and although she had found him by luck rather than planning, this might be a man worth marrying. He was fifty-eight, too old for the young and radiant princess. She flew on, crossing the black mountain of Kata-tor. There in the place called Ošpertık she looked down on Koyon-aaly. ‘Oh, Teņri! What a brave warrior!’ He presided merrily over friends and warriors, joking. If he were not so old, this might be a man to marry. He was forty-seven, a little too old for her. She flew towards the moon and towards the sun until she reached the wide Kazakh steppes. There she came to the Ili River that flows from mighty Lake Balkaš and looked down at the warrior Kökčö. So wise, so brave, so mighty! But he was known to be a typically boastful Kazakh, and at sixty he was too The marriage of Semetey 47 old for her. She flew on towards the moon and towards the sun, covering a great distance before she looked down on the hero Ürbü. Truly, this was a man of power! Truly, this was a man of reason! Truly, this was a man of wisdom! He would be a perfect husband except that he had lost his sight and, lacking the ability to fight, was no longer a warrior. She flew on. She crossed Ečkılüü Mountain and came to the wide lands of Talas. This was the land of Manas, the land of the generous Kyrgyz. There, in a gorge that opened between mountains, she spied a man so handsome she could not take her eyes from him. He stood, young, proud and powerful. He stood, muscular and sprightly. He was hunting with two friends, friends so familiar that they gently brushed against each other. At times, he let his gyrfalcon take wing to chase prey. It was Semetey, the son of Manas, with his horse Tay-buurul. Ay-čürök knew he was the only true match for her. Curious and joyful in equal measure, she vowed to marry him. What a shame he had already married another, but that wife, Čačıke, had yet to give him a child. She flew to the palace Manas had built for Kanıkey. Nearby, she came upon the great yurt Semetey had built for Čačıke. She landed beside it, took off her swan costume and folded it, put on her jewels and, restored to human form, entered the yurt. ‘Dear Sister, Čačıke, I enter your house with wood for your fire but will leave with ashes. If you allow me to stay for a few days I will work as your servant, while I learn about Semetey.’ Čačıke had her measure. She knew this unusually beautiful girl hailed from her own city. She recognized Ay-čürök as the daughter of Akın-kan. She knew what her intention was. ‘You may not enter my yurt, nor approach it! How could I let a girl abandoned by her menfolk, who has come looking for a husband she herself will choose, into my yurt?’ Ay-čürök patiently repeated her request: ‘I will do what you tell me to do. I will do what you require. But, I beg you, let me stay a few days. Our people need Semetey’s help. Our people are suffering greatly, and Semetey is our hope for salvation.’ Čačıke was outraged by this attempt to disguise her motives. ‘Be off with you, witch’, she snapped. ‘Don’t put a foot near my yurt.’ Shouting and beating her, she threw Ay-čürök out. Ay-čürök still kept calm. ‘Šaatemır’s daughter, Čačıke’, she said. ‘I dressed you like a sister, yet this is how you treat me. I seek a gentle understanding soul, yet you shout at me and beat me.’ She switched her tone. ‘I will become the wife of this magnificent and brave warrior. I will become one with his people. I will become the support for his body and soul. If you won’t let me stay a few days, I will transform myself into a bale of white silk. When Semetey bends down to scoop up the silk I will envelop him. I will surround him and suffocate him, and you too will lose your husband. If you won’t let me stay a few days, I will transform myself into a fish that contentedly swims in the lake. Semetey will cast a line and catch me. When 48 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas he bends down to scoop me up I will turn into a dragon and swallow him, and you too will lose your husband. If you won’t let me stay a few days, then as Semetey hunts with his gyrfalcon on the shore of Lake Čatkal, I will be there as a white swan. When he lets his gyrfalcon loose to catch the swan, I will snatch his bird and fly off. He will search far and wide for his bird, and will find me. I will have him all for myself.’ And with that she left. Trembling with fear and rage in equal measure, Čačıke called Kül-čoro and Kan-čoro. ‘Listen, for what I tell you is of the utmost importance. I must rely on you to safeguard my husband and master, Semetey. When you go hunting tomorrow, be on your guard. Under no circumstances should you pick up silk from the ground. Do not let Semetey touch any silk. Do not let him put his hand into a bale of silk. I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life. Under no circumstances should you attempt to catch a white fish at the lake. I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life. When you reach Lake Čatkal, under no circumstances should you let Semetey release his gyrfalcon to chase a swan. I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life.’ Puzzled, Kül-čoro and Kan- čoro tried to get her to explain more so they could understand, but she would only repeat one single sentence: ‘I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life.’ At this time Semetey was fifteen years old, Kan-čoro fourteen and Kül-čoro twelve. The next morning, Semetey mounted Tay-buurul and lifted his gyrfalcon Ak-šumkar onto his arm. He called his dog and headed off to hunt with Kül- čoro and Kan-čoro beside him. As the three rode out, they saw a large bale of silk. ‘What great value that silk must have. It is sufficient for many warm blankets!’ Kan-čoro begged him to leave it alone, commenting that it had probably been left by a passing caravan of traders. ‘Why should we take something left by an absent-minded trader? We are just starting our hunt and have no extra horse on which to carry it, so it will merely hinder our progress. Let’s leave it.’ Soon they reached the lake, and near the shore they saw a great white fish that looked like a carp. It glittered in the sun and its tail splashed the shallow water as it gasped for air. ‘What great luck we have today,’ remarked Semetey. ‘Let us catch the fish, for its flesh will make a veritable feast!’ Kül-čoro sharply intervened. ‘It is indeed a great fish that would make a great feast for all our friends, but we have just started our hunt. To take it with us it will merely hinder our progress as we enter the mountains.’ They continued to Lake Čatkal, where a carpet of wondrous flowers framed the crystal clear waters that lapped the peaceful shore. The lake was full of ducks, swans and geese, and among them floated a most exceptional swan. It caught Semetey’s eye, and before either friend could utter a word, he shouted out. ‘This time, I will not listen to either of you. There is something strange about that swan and I am determined to catch it.’ Semetey swiftly lifted the gyrfalcon’s hood and released the bird. Ak-šumkar, though, The marriage of Semetey 49 was not destined to prey on the swan, for the swan rose into the air and swooped on the gyrfalcon, catching it in its talons and taking it away. A strange wind rose and a storm swirled around. The air was charged with awesome sounds, bangs and crashes. Clouds covered the sky. The strange swan with its gyrfalcon prey disappeared. As quickly as the storm began the clouds vanished and the sun burst out. And so it was that in the blink of an eye Semetey lost his gyrfalcon. Fretting, sweat covered his brow. He ordered his warriors to find the gyrfalcon. He turned on Kül-čoro and Kan-čoro. ‘Why did you warn me not to pick up the bale of silk? Why did you stop me catching the fish? Something deeply suspicious is going on. What secrets do you hide? His friends fled, fearful of his rage. How could they answer when they didn’t know what was going on? Almambet’s son Kül-čoro returned to Čačıke’s yurt. He greeted her playfully. ‘My dear sister-in-law! It is so nice to see you. Have you wisdom to share with me? You warned us not to pick up the bale of white silk as we went out hunting, and we stopped Semetey picking it up. You warned us not to catch the white fish in the lake, and we stopped Semetey catching it. You warned us about a white swan, but we were not quick enough. Semetey let his gyrfalcon fly to it, but Ak-šumkar was taken by the swan and disappeared. Our feet ache with tiredness from running around doing exactly what you told us to do. Semetey, though, is full of anger and demands we find his gyrfalcon. We can’t face him unless we find his beloved Ak-šumkar. Dear sister-in-law, what lies behind these strange happenings? Dear sister- in-law who we have always revered, don’t let us down.’ Čačıke, lightning glinting in her eyes, turned her back to him. ‘I have nothing to do with this,’ she said. ‘I told you nothing, and know nothing of what you talk about. I know nothing about swans or gyrfalcons. I have nothing to say to you.’ Kül-čoro was not so easily shunned. He leapt forward, coiling the long black plaits of Čačıke’s hair in his arms. He pushed her to the ground and took his horse’s whip, bringing it down on her back as she struggled to get free. ‘Tell me what you know! Do you have such a short memory that you have forgotten the warnings you gave us yesterday?’ She continued to defy him. She told him to leave or she would tell Semetey he had attacked her. Kül-čoro was determined, and kicked her, breaking a rib. As the searing pain shot through her body she gave in to his demand. ‘Mindless idiot! Semetey was not yet born when his father, Manas, swore an oath with Akın-kan. They vowed that if a daughter were born to Akın-kan she would marry Manas’s son. That daughter is Ay-čürök, and she, that bitch, is using magical powers to ensnare Semetey. She has turned herself into a white swan. She has stolen Semetey’s gyrfalcon.’ Far from being upset by this, Kül-čoro was filled with joy. He rushed to tell Semetey. ‘There is joy in your friends’ ears, but jealousy fills your enemies’ ears. You must immediately go to your trusted advisor Bakay-kan 50 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas and find out about an oath made long ago. It is Akın-kan’s daughter Ay- čürök turned into a swan who has caught your gyrfalcon. She was promised to you as your bride before she was born. She was promised in an oath sworn between Akın-kan and your father, Manas.’ This was the first Semetey had heard of the oath. That Ay-čürök could turn herself into a swan, well, that was totally unexpected. He went with his friends Kül-čoro and Kan-čoro to Kanıkey’s palace and called wise Bakay to speak to them. ‘When Manas defeated the Kalmak and Kıtay, when he defeated Šooruk- kan, he occupied Bukar. You were one year old when the Bukar leader, Akin-kan, made an oath with Manas as a token of friendship. He promised that if his wife gave birth to a girl, then that girl would marry you, Manas’s son. As tradition requires, your father left ear-rings for the unborn child to signify friendship, to signify his agreement that the two children would be united in a future marriage. Akin-kan’s daughter, Ay-čürök, was predestined to be your wife. But, if you honour the oath, then Čačıke, though she warms your bed now, will become your enemy.’ Semetey’s heart lifted. He assembled twelve of his fastest horses and left Kanıkey’s palace, heading full-gallop for Bukar. He passed through the beautiful landscapes until his warriors dismounted to rest at Akınek gorge. As the morning star could first be glimpsed the next dawn, as nightingales assembled for their morning chorus, the warriors faced the distant Ürgönš1 River. Through his telescope Semetey saw how the river roared with water rushing by. The torrent tore the roots of trees, and huge rocks tumbled along in the force of the current. On the river’s far bank a second river seemed to surround the city of Bukar, stretching right down to the Ürgönš. But that was no river, for in place of water were spears and helmets that glittered in the first rays of the rising sun. There was a camp of blue and white tents spread at the riverbank, and within that camp he could make out what seemed to be laughing maidens and ladies-in-waiting. He commanded Kül-čoro and Kan- čoro to look. What they could see? Was it an enemy, preparing an ambush by impersonating maidens and ladies-in-waiting, putting up silk tents for a feast? Had the Kıtay once more invaded the land? He asked one of them to move forward and spy on what was going on. Kan-čoro said he would go if Semetey ordered it. ‘But’, he added, ‘I always lose my tongue when I meet beautiful maidens, so I am not the right person to send. Imagine what might happen! I would be unable to speak, so how could I gather information?’ Kül-čoro attempted to find his own excuse. ‘There is nobody but me to go, but my horse Atkelkı has torn its shins on the stony paths we have ridden. It won’t dare enter the river, so only if you lend me Tay-buurul can I dare to undertake the task.’ He knew full well that nobody but Semetey could ride Tay-buurul, so what a surprise he got when

1 Ürgench. The marriage of Semetey 51

Semetey thoughtfully agreed. ‘There was a time when Ajin-kan offered me a piece of gold as large as a horse’s head for Tay-buurul, but I refused. Once, Urum-kan offered me a piece of gold as large as a cow’s head for Tay- buurul, but I wasn’t tempted. Only I ride Tay-buurul. No one else has ever sat on his back. What a magnificent steed! His eyes sparkle like lightning and his ears sit erect like burning candles. His haunches are so broad he can carry the load of a camel. Winged horses cannot compete with him for speed. But, so be it. You, Kül-čoro, must take Tay-buurul.’ Semetey and Kül-čoro carefully prepared the horse, saddling him, padding the saddle with blankets, polishing its leather, fastening the reigns, checking and setting the stirrups, brushing the mane, checking all four shoes. Tay-buurul was the largest steed in the world! Mounted on him, Kül-čoro was the largest man in the world! He galloped towards the river, all the time considering his course of action. ‘Tay-buurul is known to be as fast as the wind. He is praised for his speed. Let me henceforth borrow him from time to time to ride around the world! He is known for his enormous power, so let me borrow him from time to time to mount successful raids against my enemies!’ Kül-čoro took the famous whip he had inherited from his father Almambet, a whip that caused people and animals to bend double in unimaginable pain. The whip had tassels of ox skin that had been dried for sixty days before being sewn into plaits. It had a handle of evergreen wood cut and soaked for many days. It had small but heavy lead balls fixed to the tip of each tassel. Kül-čoro swung that whip with all his strength and struck the horse, leaving a deep gash in Tay-buurul’s hide. The horse had never been treated so roughly and broke into a wild gallop. He nosed forward at such a pace that the wind rushing by his flanks almost lifted Kül-čoro from the saddle. He nosed forward at such a pace that Kül-čoro’s knuckles turned white because of his struggle to keep a tight grip on the reins. Kül-čoro’s arms were frozen rigid as he held on for dear life. Tears streamed from his eyes, spreading across his forehead and cheeks as the wind tore past. It would normally have been a two-day journey to the river, but Tay-buurul covered the distance in the time it takes to boil water for a mug of tea. As horse and rider approached the river’s bank, nature presented a wild spectacle. The river carried off whole trees, torn from the banks by their roots, as if they were flotsam. Huge rocks rolled over in its current as if they were gravel. There was no way to cross that river and live! Kül-čoro sat on the bank for six full days, waiting in vain for the torrent to subside. But there was never any sign that calmness would descend. He sat for six full days observing the camp of blue and white tents, where thirty joyful maidens and thirty joyful ladies-in-waiting played. He would have liked to sit and watch the beautiful maidens for longer, thinking he was hidden and unnoticed. But, Ay-čürök’s personal guard, a heavily built female wrestler with stout constitution and almost jet-black skin, saw him 52 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas from her watchtower. She ran to her mistress, for by now the swan maiden Ay-čürök had returned to Bukar and turned back into a radiant princess. ‘You will not believe it’, she began, ‘and perhaps you will be saddened, but most likely my news will bring you great joy. My future brother-in-law, your future husband, waits on the other bank of the river!’ Ay-čürök quickly responded, demonstrating once more that she had wisdom beyond her years. ‘No, no, silly girl! Semetey would never sit like that. The man you see is one of his warrior friends.’ She gathered the maidens and ladies-in-waiting and told them to behave with decorum. Semetey’s messenger was near and should be greeted properly. They should make no jokes or jibes, even though the custom was for friends of the bride to tease the groom and his party. Their minds burned with curiosity as, dressed perfectly in brightly coloured delicate silk, they waited at the river bank to see how Semetey’s messenger would greet them. Poor Kül-čoro! Barely twelve years old! How could he hide from the piercing eyes of so many astonishingly beautiful maidens? How could he greet them with a dignity beyond his tender years? Well, with the bravura that comes with such youth, he finally took his life in his hands. He rode down the bank without a thought. A chunk of the grassy soil collapsed under Tay-buurul’s heels. He rode his steed into the roaring water. A massive boulder from the cliff plummeted into the river behind him. At times just his eye could be seen blinking above the torrent. At times his body could be glimpsed riding Tay-buurul. He swirled around in the maelstrom. At times the head of Tay-buurul was all that could be seen, water streaming in an arc behind its ears. At times the tip of Kül-čoro’s spear was all that could be seen. But a miracle happened as Kül-čoro, just twelve years old and with so much of life yet to live, held his own. The spirit of mighty Almambet riding his legendary horse Sar’ala was there, aiding his child. The spirit of Manas, greatness and generosity incarnate, was there, shouting for Kül-čoro to triumph. The warrior Sırgak, Karakalpak’s son, was there. So was the spirit of Azız-kan, saying, ‘My golden son, you have your full life before you in which to flourish!’ The warrior Čubak was there, leading twenty-five thousand troops with their spears lifted from the water, pointing to the safety of the sky. The spirits of many warriors gathered to guide Kül-čoro and Tay- buurul to safety. One more push! One more attempt to conquer the river! Finally, the hooves could be seen, glistening from the water. Tay-buurul pushed his head forward into the air, water streaming across his glistening body. And so it was that Kül-čoro made it to the far bank. The beautiful maidens crowded around him, the clever Kalıman, the pretty Bürül and Ümöt, the naughty Kümbat, the fat Sugalak, the funny Jamıla and Kamıla, the gracious Aına, and others. They caressed the warrior gently as they lifted him down from his stead. Truly, Kül-čoro thought he had reached paradise! The marriage of Semetey 53

We will leave him there enjoying his glorious predicament and get news of Semetey. For six days he heard nothing from Kül-čoro, and worry overwhelmed him. He was unable to wait any longer and mounted Kül- čoro’s Atkelkı. Driving twelve strong horses before him, he left the gorge of Akınek. When he reached the Ürgönš its torrent had subsided and it was easy to cross. He reached Ay-čürök’s camp, with its blue and white tents, and confronted her. What she had done with his warrior? He demanded Kül- čoro be released without delay. Ay-čürök, calmness incarnate, stepped forward as she responded. ‘Master, look at me carefully, for I am no ordinary girl. There is a long-standing oath that cannot be broken, an agreement made many years ago by our fathers. Without that agreement, I would be free to find a husband of my choice. I could take Er-toltoy or Čın- kojo, who besiege our city. But, be still, for I have not harmed Kül-čoro. Look over there, to where he enjoys himself.’ Their all-embracing and all-enveloping love, if they are not careful, threatens to cripple Ay-čürök and Semetey. So, let us look at Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo. The sixty days of celebrations have ended, and both feel their anger welling up when they realize that Ay-čürök has cheated them. ‘She has pulled the wool over our eyes. While we scrupulously fulfilled her demands she sent a messenger to bring Semetey. We received a message from Šaatemır’s daughter, Čačıke, but foolishly we failed to pay attention to it. She warned us Semetey was heading towards Bukar. She warned us Semetey had given his horse, Tay-buurul, to his friend Kül-čoro. Why did we fail to notice what was happening? Kül-čoro, riding Semetey’s horse, has reached Ay-čürök’s camp. Why did we fail to spot Semetey’s white tent pitched at Akınek? Why did we fail to notice Kül-čoro hiding for six days on the far bank of the river? We have one final chance to show our strength. Get the troops ready! We shall conquer our foes!’ Meanwhile, what is Kül-čoro up to? Semetey had sent him to spy on the camp, and for six days that is what he had done. It is now midnight on the day he crossed the river. Tired and exhausted, he has dismounted. He leans on his spear but holds his horse’s reins, taking a nap. A river of spears suddenly rains down as the enemy rushes into battle led by Jediger’s Er- toltoy. In the moonlight they spy a hill that looks like a mountain. Er-toltoy walks forward, leading his horse Sur-koyon. The hill is a warrior! He quietly shuffles closer, still leading his horse. The warrior is Kül-čoro, sleeping on his spear. Tay-buurul, at the sight of Er-toltoy, pads his hooves on the ground. Kül- čoro wakes with a start. He sees the menacing silhouette of Er-toltoy, and jumps on his horse to chase the shadow. Er-toltoy is taken by surprise. He stumbles on Sur-koyon’s reins as he turns to flee and falls. Kül-čoro tries to raise the spear he is carrying, but it is the great spear of Manas, a spear far too heavy for a twelve-year-old boy. He manages to plant the spear in Er- 54 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas toltoy’s backside, but is unable to pull it out. He lets his reins drop so he can use both hands to pull the spear. Sur-koyon inadvertently comes to its rider’s aid as it instinctively pulls away, trying to escape. It drags Er-toltoy, legs entangled in the reins. Blood from his wound streams down Er-toltoy’s legs. Kül-čoro has recovered his spear but has dropped his own horse’s reins. Tay-buurul canters off in the opposite direction. And so it is that Er-toltoy’s life is spared. Er-toltoy returned to Čın-kojo. ‘Those are truly monstrous warriors if a twelve-year-old boy can injure me in this way! But for my steed Sur-koyon, I would no longer live. Why do we need Ay-čürök? Let us find two young girls and marry them instead.’ Frightened by what had just happened, he had changed his tactics. ‘You idiot’, replied Čın-kojo. ‘Aren’t you ashamed to be humiliated by a twelve-year-old boy?’ He beat the war drums, and his twenty-five thousand troops entered Bukar. Day and night, they battled to conquer the city. Who did they fight? On their flanks, Kül-čoro and Kan- čoro stopped their advance. In their midst, Semetey dispatched man after man. Jediger’s son Čın-kojo was no ordinary man, for his horse had forty tails, and when it swished those tails it created a mighty wind that lifted it high in the air. It took Čın-kojo above the melee, from where he could rain down arrows on Semetey. Semetey wore his father Manas’s thick felt warrior waistcoat, and soon began to look like a hedgehog. So many arrows were embedded in it. The arrows began to weigh him down. They weighed a ton, and he leaned against the ground. One arrow pierced Semetey’s skin. In a moment of unbearable pain, Semetey remembered Kanıkey had sewn a special bullet into his collar for use in emergency. Kül-čoro noticed Semetey had fallen and rushed over, dragging him to the safety of a cave. Kül-čoro took off the waistcoat, draping it over Tay- buurul. He tied the horse to a stake at the cave’s entrance and took his father’s musket, Almabaš. He loaded the secret bullet that Semetey had now found, added wadding and pushed it into the barrel. Then, Kül-čoro waited. He watched the sky. Čın-kojo circled above on his horse. He saw Tay-buurul standing without its rider and realized Semetey must be wounded. This was the chance to finish him off! On his horse, he slowly descended. The coldly calculating Kül-čoro checked his musket, set its charge, and fired. The sound of a loud shot rang out. The bullet hit one of the tails of Čın-kojo’s horse, and with its rider it plummeted to the ground. Kül-čoro rushed forward with his axe and jumped on Čın-kojo. His axe ended his enemy’s life. The grateful Bukar people staged a feast that lasted many days. Songs rang out for many days. Story upon story was told, recalling their history. Semetey’s dignified mother Kanıkey came, together with the wise Bakay- kan. All paid their respects to the couple, blessing Ay-čürök and Semetey. The marriage of Semetey 55

And the happy young couple, Ay-čürök and Semetey, headed off to the Kyrgyz lands.

EPISODE SEVEN

SEMETEY TAKES REVENGE FOR THE DEATH OF HIS FATHER, MANAS

There he resides, the once strong Koņur-bay. There he resides, in the shadows of the great city of Beijing. There he resides, amongst countless Kıtay and countless Kalmaks, with fellow members of his Kalča tribe. His bravery makes enemies cower in terror. His frightening determination in all that he does is as enormous as a great mountain. He has just celebrated his ninetieth birthday. On his birthday, countless Beijing residents celebrated his greatness. There he resides, passing the time by reflecting on his life. His thoughts dart between a thousand tiny sparkling images lodged deep in his memory. But he is troubled by nightly dreams when he vividly recalls the courage of Manas, and the bloody battle between the Kyrgyz and the Kıtay. Every dream is flooded with blood, with sorrow for the deprivations his numberless warriors suffered, with sorrow for the numberless battle deaths. How his warriors suffered at the hands of those indefatigable Kyrgyz! How the countless Kıtay, each as furry as the pelt of a cow, had to endure shame and defeat because of the small and obdurate Kyrgyz! And yet, through his cunning he wounded Manas. Every night his heart contracts as he relives the sorrow and suffering. His ribs collapse, making breathing difficult. Every night when he dreams he holds his breath. He has to collect his courage before he can live another day. One day, he brings the best Kıtay thinkers together. He calls for Čıtay- kan and Dorday-kan, the orator and master of words Batır Kapka, and the king, Esen-kan. He sends a horse for Esen-kan. He summons them to a council in the ordo, putting on a feast, gathering them around a huge cauldron brimming with plov, the famed rice dish with lamb and fruit. To all who have gathered, young and old alike, Koņur-bay beseeches them with these carefully chosen, scheming words: Semetey takes revenge 57

‘Your majesty and my lord, Esen-kan. My people blessed with abundant thoughts. I have reached ninety years of age, and all my life has been spent defending the borders of the land of the great Kıtay. All my life has been spent making it possible for you to live in peace. It was I who oppressed the tenacious Kyrgyz. It was I who defeated the army led by Manas. Whatever enemy I met, none defeated me.’ ‘Recently, I met Semetey, the son of Manas. He demanded blood money for the death of his father. So it is with the law of his land. I glimpsed how his demand could turn into trouble when he launched an attack on one small parcel of land on our border. For the last two years we have placated him with gold, silver and precious stones. He has kept demanding more. In an attempt to get rid of his men, we gave them bags of fake coins. Now we must find a way to stop his demands. My Lord Esen-kan, my good and clever people, I exhort you to find a way to resolve the dangerous situation that we face. If there is no other way, let us secretly ready an army. We will set an ambush on the banks of the Amur River, and will call Semetey to meet us there. Then we can silence his demands forever. Our two peoples, who have shared a border since time immemorial, can restart peace talks.’ ‘Many Kıtay warriors died in the Great Battle against Manas, and it is time we demanded blood money for each of their severed heads. We should ask for gold and silver for our lost comrades. Many more Kıtay died from the swords of the Kyrgyz than Kyrgyz died at our hands, yet we have never been paid compensation. And if the Kyrgyz will not give us gold, silver and precious stones, we should demand land. Consider what to do, and tell me your decision.’ Koņur-bay fell silent. The king and the wise men looked furtively from one to another. They began to debate. At times they congratulated each other on their wisdom, clucking and grunting approval. After much time, they concluded that Koņur-bay was the wisest among them, so he must decide their strategy. And so it was, exactly as he had planned, that power fell into his hands. And so it was that old and young were recruited and trained, preparing day and night without pause for battle. Koņur-bay’s military genius had not diminished with age, and he gathered a force of thirty thousand troops so well trained that they moved as one, like pieces on a chessboard. He tolerated no tardiness and ignored no weakness. He trained them mercilessly. He used all the methods he knew to bring each and every one to a peak of readiness. Koņur-bay wrote a letter to Semetey. ‘I send my envoy to Talas to express our peaceful intentions. We are brothers, yet our nations have fought each other for no reason except that we harboured insignificant resentments for each other’s achievements. So, respectful of our peaceful intentions, I ask you, Semetey, to come to the Amur River, where we shall begin to talk of peace. Let us not keep evil thoughts for each other. We shall talk as 58 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas relatives. We shall talk as friends. I look forward to greeting you. I will wait in early spring during the month of Jalgan khora.’ On the letter he put his heavy seal and wrote an entreaty, ‘May the Kıtay and Kyrgyz make efforts to live in peace!’ He gave the elaborately ornamented letter to his envoy. The envoy left for Talas. Having respected the appropriate formalities, the envoy delivered it to Semetey. But the son of Manas, the batır Semetey, refused to allow this Kıtay to enter his yurt. He offered him no place to rest. Unlike the way the hospitable Kyrgyz always behave towards guests, he offered no tea. He curtly sent the envoy away. He sent him away with the bags filled with the worthless sham silver and gold coins. ‘Give them back to the liar!’ He shouted. And so the envoy became a caravan leader, with the worthless coins his baggage. Semetey pondered what to do. He asked Kül-čoro to fetch old wise Bakay. He asked him to fetch his mother Kanıkey. He asked him to call the ordo administrator, Sarı-taz. They came to the palace of their leader, respecting young Semetey’s request despite their seniority, recognizing the gravity of the situation. Alarmed, they convened a council and read Koņur- bay’s letter. Wise Bakay, who had triumphed over so many trials and tribulations in his long life, was the first to speak. ‘Koņur-bay is not a man we can trust. He is canny, and his words mislead the whole world. His words may appear cultured, but their wavy flourishes hide an absence of meaning. He takes you, Semetey, to be a young boy easy to fool, a young boy unable to discern his true intentions. He will set an ambush at the river, an ambush carefully created to devour you. No doubt he has dug deep traps to swallow your horses. No doubt he will deceive you, for just look at the worthless brass coins he sent you as blood money. No doubt he will deceive you, just as he deceived your father, Manas. Koņur-bay’s canny planning is nothing new, for it reminds us of our troubled past encounters. Countless Kıtay warriors will hide along the river waiting for you. Send a spy to reconnoitre the situation! Consider carefully! He has called you to the banks of the Amur, a place so cold that the river’s flow will be hidden under ice. As the sun warms the water, the ice will crack and melt. He plans to start a battle, shooting at you with muskets, forcing you to retreat as bullets rain down. Bullets, not his warriors, will chase you, forcing you to retreat to the river where your horses will be swallowed up as the ice breaks under their weight.’ Then, Kanıkey, the beloved wife of Manas, the best of all womankind, the daughter of the spirits, the mother of Semetey, turned to her son. ‘Let my daughter-in-law Ay-čürök put on her swan form. Send her flying over the Kıtay lands to spy on the situation. Let her see the preparations that are underway. And while she is gone, let your warrior Kan-čoro prepare warriors. Let him issue a call, asking each Kyrgyz tribe to send five hundred Semetey takes revenge 59 young and strong warriors to you. Take care, though, for internal strife amongst our tribes could damage you as badly as our Kıtay oppressors.’ Semetey accepted their advice. Ay-čürök was preparing for her journey to search out the web being spun to capture her husband when Semetey came into her room. ‘Take care’, he said. ‘You are like the moon, full of happiness because you have been entrusted with this important task by your beloved. But your beloved is concerned for your safety.’ ‘My dear husband’, she replied. ‘All will be done as you have asked. All will be accomplished in minute detail. I shall prepare through the night and leave at dawn.’ He left the room. She took out a key to a big heavy chest that she always kept securely locked. She turned the key and lifted the lid, taking out her swan costume, as thin as gossamer. At dawn, she put the swan costume on. She asked Teņri to bless her, to give support. She poured water into her wooden cup, whispered a magic spell, and threw the water from her as if in symbolic cleansing. As the water splashed to the ground, the skies suddenly went dark. The blue sky of the early morning was shrouded in thick clouds. Mist descended. A sheet of rain fell, shielding Talas from the world. If you peered hard into the mist you might have glimpsed a swan rising from the ground, flying off to the East. That was Ay-čürök. She flapped her wings, crossing mountain upon mountain until she reached the outskirts of Beijing. She saw an army so large that she could not count the warriors. It appeared to her that there were as many warriors as there are hairs on the pelt of a cow. She saw so many battle flags that there was a constant knocking as they hit against each other. She saw Koņur-bay leading his army to the right bank of the river, where many tents had been pitched. Floating in the sky, she noted his preparations for battle. The Kıtay, though, were a people with sense. They had geomancers and sorcerers to support their armies, who had predicted that the preparations would be spied on. Their best archers were at battle stations, ready to fire. Ay-čürök was quick, though, and spotted the trap. She arched upwards in the air and turned back the way she had come. She returned to Semetey, and reported how warriors in full armour were setting an ambush on the river’s bank. She reported that warriors with muskets lined the banks, hidden from view. She reported that in the hills above them heavily armed warriors were stationed, camouflaged under tree branches. She told how even she had not realized they were there until one ran off down the hill on a mission. She reported that warriors mounted on elephants were stationed in the flood plain at a meander in the river, partially hidden from view. Nothing he heard about the Kıtay preparations could put Semetey off. He was the son of a hero. He knew no fear. He knew no worry. He loaded his 60 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas armour on the old camel1 and broke camp. He mounted his horse Tay-buurul and led his warriors out in the direction of the Amur. His courage was so infectious that it spread through the ranks of warriors. Some distance before the river he left units of warriors to set an ambush in case the Kıtay chased him back this way. He marched forward at the head of a small convoy with Kan-čoro and Kül-čoro until he reached the riverbank. Koņur-bay was waiting. Semetey knew no fear. Semetey knew no worry. Without hesitating, he rode straight to Koņur-bay. He greeted his foe politely and declared he was ready to talk of peace. The big nation of the Kıtay, through the mouth of Koņur-bay, stated their demands. ‘We demand that for each Kıtay warrior who died in the Great Battle, you pay us five bags of silver as compensation. The Kıtay suffered more losses than you. We lost more warriors than you. If you fail to give us bags of silver, then we will agree to an exchange of land. If you fail to give us land, then we will trample your lands and enslave your people.’ Koņur- bay looked around him, inviting Semetey to see the many thousand assembled Kıtay warriors. All his warriors, he thought, were as good as at his side. But Kül-čoro, the fiery spirited son of Almambet, was not a person to be intimidated by so many Kıtay. ‘Koņur-bay! You lie like nobody else! Instead of gold and silver coins, you sent us worthless brass. How dare you demand we pay you silver! It is the Kyrgyz who are entitled to compensation, not you. There is no justification for your behaviour. Is your little speech just a prelude to what you are really after? Are not all the warriors who surround you proof of your intentions to destroy us? You, not us, are the one who has done wrong. Amongst the Kyrgyz here gathered, none fear you. How dare you demand we pay you silver! If you want to remember the past, then we must seek compensation from you. You cannot trample over us!’ These were the words of the fiery spirited son of Almambet. Old Koņur-bay was canny, and he had no intention to give ground. He struck a gong, signalling the attack. From all sides the Kıtay ran forward, and from above it looked as if a moving forest had suddenly carpeted the riverbank. These, though, were no ordinary Kyrgyz boys. Semetey was the son of a hero, a fearless batır. He pulled from its sheath the legendary sword he had inherited from his father. It scythed through the air and felled sixty enemies in a single blow! To his side, Kül-čoro massacred many more with his sword! On his other side, Kan-čoro was leading other young batır into the fight, creating unimaginable mayhem and spreading confusion. A full- fledged shedding of blood had begun.

1 Saparbek identified this camel as Jelmaıan, even though Manas’s camel of this name died in an earlier episode of the epic. Semetey takes revenge 61

As they had done in the Great Battle, it was the Kıtay not the Kyrgyz who turned and fled. Poor Koņur-bay! He was now in his nineties. His horse Algara, once so fast, was also old. As it had done before, it turned to run away. ‘Poor me!’ Koņur-bay muttered. ‘In my old age I have lost my mind, and instead of peacefully paying the compensation demanded, I persuaded myself that I could mislead the Kyrgyz! Now it is time to face up to my past. Why have I failed to control my ambition? Why, when I should have slowed down with age and spoken with wisdom, did I allow a stone to hit me in the teeth? I am no equal to these young warriors enraged like the waves of a stormy sea! I am no equal to the strength with which they scythe through the air with their swords!’ Koņur-bay fled, leaving six hundred Kıtay warriors massacred on the bloodied ground. Kül-čoro saw Koņur-bay’s younger brother in the distance. Then he saw Koņur-bay. Mounted on his horse, Kül-čoro was cantering around a wing of fleeing Kıtay warriors, turning them back into the battle. Terrified and fearing for their lives, the Kıtay attempted to hide behind hillocks and under bushes. Kül-čoro broke away from them to ride after Koņur-bay. But, just as he caught up with his foe, just as he prepared to plunge his spear into his foe, his horse stumbled. Koņur-bay was reprieved. Koņur-bay fled, repeatedly looking back over his shoulder. What despair comes in old age! His despair at that moment seemed to fill the air, as he realized he had no chance to escape the Kyrgyz foes and would soon die. He sensed his fate. Yes, Koņur-bay sensed death. Nonetheless, the old warrior, though aged and weak, decided he would not give in to fate without a struggle. With all his strength he forced his horse to turn, and plunged his own spear at Kül-čoro. A loud clang rang out as the spear caught the edge of Kül-čoro helmet, missing his head and getting caught in his mail shirt. What games old age plays! Koņur-bay’s strength failed him and he lost his grip on the spear. He turned his horse to flee again, racing for the river. Just as Koņur-bay might have thought he had escaped, Kül-čoro caught up. With his sword, Kül-čoro aimed at the old warrior. Algara, though, still had a turn of speed, and leapt forward. Kül-čoro’s sword missed the old man and instead slashed the back of the horse, slicing its tail off. Poor Algara! Now in immense pain, it continued to flee. Gathering his strength, Koņur- bay forced it to ride out on the river’s ice. The ice broke. The tail-less Algara was caught, panting, on a jagged piece of floating ice. Koņur-bay stayed on the saddle, urging Algara to move on. The horse, suffering from its wound, struggled to raise a hoof as the river turned red from its blood. Koņur-bay, looking to all like the mountain of his former self, sat on his horse on the floating ice. He began to doubt he could reach the far bank. Kül-čoro took out the lasso that his father Almambet had always carried, and threw it. With perfect precision, it dropped over Koņur-bay’s head. Kül-čoro pulled it, tightening the loop of rope around his foe. As Koņur-bay urged Algara 62 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas forward, so the lasso pulled him back. The mountain-like Koņur-bay fell into the water. He was dragged back to the bank where Kül-čoro waited. Semetey rode up and ordered his friend to cut off the head of the old warrior. Kül-čoro did not hesitate: his sword separated head from body. The body crumpled in a heap to the ground. And so it was that Koņur-bay received his just punishment at the hand of Semetey’s warrior, Kül-čoro. And so it was that, by revenging the death of his father, Semetey received the blessings of his people.

Manas (Episode One)

Manas and Kutunay (Episode One)

Manas rides into battle (Episode Three)

Manas with his warriors (Episode Three)

The horse race (Episode Four)

The white fish at the lake (Episode Six)

Ay-čürök as the swan maiden (Episode Six)

PART TWO

CHAPTER ONE

ORAL EPIC POETRY AND THE MANAS

From Homer to the World

Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey have, for several centuries, provided scholars and commentators with an ideal of epic narrative. From Aristotle, we have inherited the idea of epic as being mimetic or representational as well as dialogical; Daniel Prior has noted that Aristotle conceived of epic narrative as an ‘imitation of serious subjects in a grand kind of verse’ (Poetics V.1449b; cited in Prior 2006: 87). Epics represent a totality in terms of the life of heroes or heroic action – hence, ‘heroic epic poetry’ – rather than specific events or the private worlds of individuals that are typically recounted in novels. Heroic epic poetry such as that of Homer, or the South Asian Māhābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa, at least according to Hegel (1842/1955, II: 406), presents the worldview of nations. It is based on a form of historic reality. It is perceived to reflect truth, to constitute part of a national heritage. This, in the contemporary world, is not altogether comfortable, not least due to much of the recent critique of folklore, and criticism of the assumption that oral transmission occurs without substantial change.1 Nonetheless, Lauri Honko notes how many nations feel the need to draw intellectual strength from folk culture to counter the hegemony of colonialism, Western

1 Certainly, few would today countenance a definition such as the following for folk music, despite the fact that this was adopted by the International Folk Music Council in 1954: ‘Folk music is the product of a musical tradition that has been evolved through the process of oral transmission… [shaped by] i) continuity which links the present with the past; ii) variation which stems from the creative impulse of the individual or the group; and iii) selection by the community, which determines the form or forms in which the music survives’ (Anon. 1955: 23; see also Elbourne 1976). All three of these aspects are regularly encountered in the published studies of oral epics, as will become apparent later in this chapter. 66 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas commercialism and the mass media (cited in Feintuch 1988: 1–3), looking for ‘tool[s] for thinking about matters close at hand and close at heart’. Indeed, and confirming Honko’s observation, the Manas epic with which this volume is concerned has been appointed a UNESCO ‘Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity’ precisely because of its national importance and its distinctiveness. The heroes of epics will often be imbued with phenomenal strength, with power far beyond the ordinary. In many instances, they may have supernatural attributes, and episodes will often link to shamans and shamanic ritual (as discussed by Hatto 1977: 260–62; 1989: 216–69 passim; Reichl 1992: 122–3). Connections between bards and shamans take us into a past that starkly and deliberately contrasts the present. Thus, Karl Reichl, echoing Arthur T. Hatto, notes that many bards are initiated into singing epic poetry in dreams, much as a shaman experiences sickness and dreams before initiation as a neophyte (1992: 59). Relating those dreams, counters Prior, was a sensible strategy to allow bards to avoid oppression during the Soviet era. Could there be an overlap between bardic skills and shamanism? Definitions of heroic epic poetry can be problematic when applied cross- culturally. Any global uniformity of genre is hard to find, although Cecil M. Bowra’s broad definition, published subsequent to his renowned volumes of Greek poetry in Heroic Poetry (1952), is often cited:

In certain parts of the world there is still a flourishing art of telling tales in verse, often at considerable length, about the marvellous doings of men… This art embodies not a heroic outlook, which admires man for doing his utmost with his actual, human gifts, but a more primitive outlook which admires any attempt to pass beyond man’s proper state by magical, non human means… It presupposes a view of the world in which man is not the centre of creation but caught between many unseen powers and influences, and his special interest lies in his supposed ability to master these and then to do what cannot be done by the exercise of specifically human gifts (Bowra 1952: 5).

This, though, is too glossy. It appears to reflect a perspective of the past framed as the ruder times of nations, a period of supposedly great creativity as barbarism gave way to civilization,2 for the heroic ethos of many poems allows no mercy, exploits deadly exchanges, and features plenty of rage, retaliation and retribution. Arguably, Bowra’s reflection ought to be situated

2 Paraphrasing James Hogg (1834: 280–82), who was writing about British folksong. Oral epic poetry and the Manas 67 in the context and time of the immediate aftermath of the Second World War, rather than as a view that has timeless significance.3 We need a more precise definition, and one that many have found appropriate has been offered by Albert Lord. Lord’s definition, in The Singer of Tales, draws on the work of Milman Parry:4

…oral epic song is narrative poetry composed in a manner evolved over many generations by singers of tales who did not know how to write; it consists of the building of metrical lines and half lines by means of formulas and formulaic expressions and of the building of songs by the use of themes… By formula I mean ‘a group of words which is regularly employed under the same metrical conditions to express a given essential idea’… By formulaic expression I denote a line or half line constructed on the pattern of the formulas. By theme I refer to the repeated incidents and descriptive passages in the songs (Lord 1960: 4).

Both Parry and Lord were familiar with the texts of the Manas and related Kyrgyz materials collected by Wilhelm Radloff (1837-1918) in 1862 and 1869. Indeed, Parry quotes Radloff in the following way, though here we cite the English translation of Radloff by Hatto:

When performing, the bard always employs two melodies; the first, sung in a faster tempo, is for the narration of facts; whereas the second, sung in a slower tempo in the manner of a recitative, serves for dialogue… With regard to clarity of articulation, the Kara-Kyrgyz bards excel the bards of all the other tribes, even those of the Kazak- Kyrgyz… A bard possessed of any skill whatever always improvises his songs on the spur of the moment so that he is totally incapable of performing a song twice in identical fashion… From extensive performance he has whole series of narrative elements to hand (if I may so express myself) which he threads together to suit his needs in the course of his narration… The bard’s art consists solely of marshalling all these ready-made narrative elements in the order demanded by the course of events and in linking them together with new verses… The greater the number of different elements a bard has at his command, the more varied his poem will be and the longer he will be able to go on singing without wearying his listeners with the

3 As noted by Hatto (1989: 241). 4 For which see Parry’s ‘Studies in the epic technique of oral verse-making, 1: Homer and Homeric Style’ (1930; republished in Parry 1971, 1: 266–324). 68 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

monotony of his evocations… An adroit bard can recite any theme, any tale that is asked of him, extempore, once the order of events is clear to him (cited from English translation in Hatto 1977: 269-70).5

Radloff’s work was, to Parry, a vital factor in his reassessment of Homeric diction and composition. Indeed, Radloff made explicit reference to Homer in the preface to his fifth volume, but his two visits to Kyrgyz lands were brief. He was, therefore, unable to gain adequate understanding of the social and cultural background, or the linguistic complexity, of the heroic epics he recorded. As a consequence he failed, states Hatto, ‘systematically to collate parallel formulaic passages’ and might ‘give several irreconcilable versions of the same item’; there are errors in his translations, and he was ‘a hardened guesser, as all pioneers have to be’ (Hatto 1977: v; 1990: ix–x). Homer provides a foundation for European poetry, but the insights Kyrgyz epic poetry might offer to its understanding were not taken up by those who followed Radloff. As Reichl states (1992: 8), although Kyrgyz epic poetry is mentioned by Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1916), Drerup (1920) and Nilsson (1933), it fell to Parry and Lord to reiterate its importance to help answer questions about the development processes of Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. However, Parry and Lord lived and worked during the Soviet period, and were unable to travel to Central Asia. For them, work on Yugoslavian heroic epics had to substitute,6 leaving a reassessment – and correction – of Radloff’s recordings and analysis to Hatto (1990).7 There are two immediate aspects of Lord’s definition that require consideration: the very notion of heroic epic poetry, and perceptions of orality. Firstly, epic, simply put, evokes an ahistorical and pristine heroic age that is cast as real and has elements of historical truth but which is essentially mythic. Secondly, in common use, the term ‘epic’ indicates considerable length and depth, contrasting the products of popular culture, folktales and folksongs.8 Lord warns us, however, that ‘length is not a

5 Parry quotes this in the original German. 6 See the introduction to Reichl (1992) for further discussion. A rather different take on the situation has recently been taken by Kyrgyz scholars, some of whom maintain that the controls of the Soviet period stopped the epic taking its proper place within the global canon. 7 Note that in this chapter we refer to ‘recordings’ in respect to both audio recordings and, in keeping with oral literature scholarship, to the writing down by dictation or other means of oral texts. 8 Lord also argues that the concept of national poetry, although pitting national heroes against foreign foes, is not comparable to heroic epic poetry. Oral epic poetry and the Manas 69 criterion of epic poetry’ (1960: 6), for a good number of poems categorized by scholars as epic are comparatively short. Certainly, epic poetry in the Germanic tradition tends not to be of great length, as was pointed out a century ago by Ker (1908: 116) – an appreciation that has left a tradition, following the example of Andreas Heusler, to divide poetry into long epics and (shorter) lays. Lord’s comment on length, though, contrasts Soviet accounts, as will be considered below. Again, Lord reminds us (1960: 31) that the quality of a story is preferred over anything merely heroic. So, romance may feature strongly, downplaying or diminishing heroic action. Indeed, when we consider the recent and contemporary popularity of the second part of the Manas trilogy, Semetey, romance is clearly favoured by recent Kyrgyz bards. The storyline of epic poetry will or may link to actual historical events, as with one of the five repertories in the Korean p’ansori genre of sung storytelling, which takes the classic tale of a Chinese battle as its theme.9 However, processes of accretion and development have occurred over time, here as with other epic poetry, and these frame historical actuality within a larger narrative complex. To give a different example, the Karakalpak Edige features three central figures, Edige, Tokhtamysh and Timur, who are historical figures from around 1400 (Reichl 2007: 19).10 Storylines of epics can also feature real geographical places: the French epic Chanson de Roland contrasts the wicked land of Muslim Spain to the sweet land of France; the Germanic Nibelungenlied features a border with dangerous bad lands running from Iceland in the northwest to what is normally named Esztorgom in the southeast (Hatto 1989: 219). Conceptions of orality tend to shift considerations of epic poetry from a focus on specific stories to the structure and social settings of performance. A performance of an epic is created for a specific audience, whether villagers, khan [kan] chiefs, collectors or scholars. Episodes are lengthened of shortened by a singer to reflect the interest and appreciation of their audience. ‘Our singer of tales is a composer of tales,’ writes Lord (1960: 13). Not just that, though, for Hatto suggests more: primary occasions for epic poetry performance are ‘cultic’ rather than purely oriented towards entertainment; they have ritual functions. Hatto notes that in Buryat and Ob-

9 Below, we defend the inclusion of p’ansori in this discussion. 10 Reichl (2007: 19–20) cites the entry on Edige in the Shorter Soviet Encyclopedia (1959, third edition): ‘Edigéy – a military leader of the Golden Horde. In the nineties of the fourteenth century he became the independent ruler of the land between the rivers Volga and Yaik (Ural) and was the founder of the Noghay Horde… In 1408 he invaded Rus, but was unable to take Moscow. In 1411 he lost his sway…and fled to Khorezm. He died in a fight with the sons of Tokhtamysh.’ 70 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Ugrian traditions, performance of an epic can promote hunting and fishing, while the Altaian Jangar epic features a spirit who demands an audience of several dozen listeners (1989: 147–63). In one direction, this returns us to the potential link between singers of tales and shamans. In the other direction, we need to consider the structure of epics as they relate to the physicality of story-telling: formulas are needed in performance because of the speed necessary for telling the story if an audience is to be kept interested and enthralled. Formulas shift a singer’s attention and effort from the memorization of chunks of storyline (and to thinking through these chunks in the middle of a performance) to processes that evoke sequences of events and their details. Formulas begin to account both for variation and for specific detailing. At a generalized level, the formulas discussed by Lord include repetition, alliteration and rhyme; parallelism, the balancing or opposition of nouns, stereotypical phrases and substitution systems including assonance; a regular syllable count per line and the metric or accented and unaccented groupings of syllables; repetition and adjustments that involve the ordering of ideas in relation to each other, the length of lines, word boundaries and ways to open and close a song; tonal patterns; clichés and stock epithets that include titles, places, adornments and costume, physical characteristics and so on that link to specific characters whenever mentioned; catalogues of attributes (1960: 32–52). In respect to the last, one might cite the ships in the Iliad, or the beauty and character of the bride-to-be Kanıkey as seen by Jakıp in Saparbek’s telling within this volume. Themes create a framework for epic narratives, and the same basic incidents and descriptions are regularly encountered – councils, letters, journeys, feasts (for weddings, receiving guests, celebrations of birth and so on), gathering armies, battles, and more. To summarize Lord’s consideration, but as also discussed in the writings of others including Reichl and Hatto, a theme will develop ornamentation and detail through transmission over time, adding human touches of character, accumulating richness, dressing a hero or caparisoning a horse, and so on (Lord 1960: 78, 92). The bard follows the order of the action – the preparation, the dressing – so that a sequence can be framed without any pause, whereas hesitation might happen if the bard has to think through the order as he sings. The outline of the story is known in advance to bard and, usually, to the audience. Some themes tend to cling together, and thereby form recurrent patterning (1960: 112). Repetition creates a pull in two directions, one towards the specific episode being sung and the other towards previous or other uses of the same theme (1960: 94); this can lead to criticism of Oral epic poetry and the Manas 71 individual bards, for the repetition of themes at different points in the total performance can create occasional inconsistency.11 Epic moments – using a term favoured by Hatto – are used by bards to build an episode, and are mnemonic to the extent that a bard gravitates towards them, decorating them with specific narrative details:

Epic moments are highly charged narrative ganglia, and… possession of them in memory confers power in the mature bard to build up an episode or even a string of episodes (Hatto 1980: 4–5).

These moments are ‘where major tumult and tension boil down to understated, even quiescent images’ (Prior 2006: 92). Prior contends that tight structures involving assemblies of epic moments were abandoned in the Manas tradition as high scenes complete with complex ornamentation replaced them in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (2006: 93). This becomes more apparent where familiarity rules, notably in the use of written texts, and becomes a key criticism made in the scholarly literature of the use of such written memory aids. The criticism may not be completely just, however, since Korean p’ansori texts were written down by the early nineteenth century (Pihl: 1994: 66), Kazakhs published popular epic stories in the late nineteenth century, and chapbooks were widely used in Khorezm in the early twentieth century (Reichl 1992: chapter 3). Again, as Yugoslavian epic narratives were recorded and published in the early and mid-twentieth century, so illiterate bards asked others to read these published texts to them, and younger people started to memorize songs from the published texts (Lord 1960: 124–37). Certainly, concepts of orality lead to a tendency to place epic poetry in the past as a distinction is made between oral forms and written literature. Lord tells us, somewhat dismissively, that singers who have memorized texts are mere performers rather than oral poets. Now that texts proliferate, however, scholars both seek to identify characteristics that indicate oral composition – ‘in the background one senses the epic, which everyone knew by heart’ is how Hatto encapsulates the phenomenon in a letter to Daniel Prior (1997, cited in Prior 2006: 126) – and identify decline within the performance traditions from a twilight age. That age, because of the late nineteenth century and twentieth century writing down and compiling of the oral texts of bards, tends to be situated just before the earliest synchronic transcriptions or audio phonographic recordings came to be made. There is, both in these written texts and in the scholarly literature written on them,

11 A few inconsistencies, particularly with respect to names, remain in the translations of Saparbek Kasmambetov’s episodes printed in this volume. 72 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas considerable imagining of a past, much in a manner that has been critiqued by accounts of folklore in Britain (Harker 1985; Boyes 1993). Whereas studies of oral literature typically develop written texts that document and analyse the earlier recordings and compilations of oral texts, folklore offers a second focus, based on ethnographic studies, and particularly on ethnography as it overlaps with performance studies. Most of the literature of heroic epic poetry sits within the former focus, but Daniel Prior’s important analysis, The Semetey of Kenje Kara (2006) offers something of an exception. He situates his account with folklorists such as Richard Bauman, Dell Hymes, John Miles Foley and Elizabeth Fine, but also alongside studies of epic poetry by Rémy Dor (1982; in respect to Kyrgyz epic poetry), Susan Slymovics (1987; Egypt), Dwight Reynolds (1995; Arabic) and Karl Reichl (1995; Central Asia).12 Arguably, Prior’s approach chimes better with Ruth Finnegan’s anthropological accounts of orality (for example, 1992 and 2007) than with the tradition of cultural performance in accounts following from the studies of Max Gluckman (1940) and Victor Turner (1986).13 Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey have come down to us in written form as two long poems. If, as has been done, these are dated to the eighth century BCE, then they may have been created around the time a writing system developed, but as oral literature, and following from Parry and Lord’s theoretical positioning of epic poetry, they must be seen as a compilation inherited from multiple authors, the outline of which was modified through insertions, addenda, and developments made by generations of bards. This positions a considerable amount of the research published on them. D’Aubignac’s Conjectures in 1715 began exploring Homer’s poems as compilations of shorter songs from multiple authors, but D’Aubignac and others following him failed to demonstrate where songs began and where they ended. Others, such as Walter Leaf (1852-1927), worked to find an archetype, an original core onto which the accretions of others were added. Within Leaf’s hypothesis, Homer lived much later than the originator, and was a compiler of the core and its accretions. He and others suggested that, like an onion, layers could be peeled off to return to the core. Success in analysis would present a schema in which the three constituent components could be delineated: the core, accretions made over time that accommodated

12 To this list could be added Reichl’s recent monograph on Karakalpak epic, published after Prior’s text (Reichl 2007). 13 Here, I am primarily referring to British social anthropology and its accounts – a useful exploration of which has been edited by Parkin, Caplan and Fisher (1996) – rather than performance theory as represented by William Beeman (e.g., 1993) and Richard Schechner (1988, 1993). Oral epic poetry and the Manas 73 elements of other singers’ related and unrelated performances, and idiosyncratic ornamentation and detailing associated with specific singers (Lord 1960: 78). Positing any archetype has proved difficult. To do so, argues Lord, involves a ‘purely arbitrary guess at what the original might have been’, since ‘our concept of “original” makes no sense in oral tradition’ (1960: 100). Put in a different way, Shalom Staub has noted that the folkloric search for archetypes is a ‘slippery path’ in which genuine claims may become spurious because of the rhetorics of presentation. This applies with acuteness where nationalism and historical identity are at stake; this is one reason to account for why much Soviet scholarship and much of the recent discussion of UNESCO’s Masterpieces in the Oral and Intangible Heritage (within which in addition to the Kyrgyz Manas, the Sakha14 oloņxo and Korean p’ansori epic traditions are designated) continues to seek for earlier, core, versions. Note, however, that if we have no original and no archetype, then the concept of variant diminishes or at least loses much of its importance, a fact that Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars have long wrestled with. Rather, in our perspective, the available documentation offers hooks that link to specific events or to specific singers. Much of the published scholarship concludes that oral transmission is conservative. On one side, this is because the framework, comprising a skeleton or a core stitched from a sequence of themes, remains relatively constant; on the other side it reflects the use of formulas. Onto this framework, Lord outlines six ways that change can occur in the telling of oral epic poetry (1960: 117–23). These arise from the relationship between singer and audience and refine the brief statement above. The six comprise saying the same thing in less or more lines, expanding ornamentation and detail, changing sequence order, adding material that was not learnt from others, omitting material, and substituting one theme for another. The creative expertise of individual singers becomes critical:

In larger compositions the contribution of one singer’s creativity often plays a decisive role: songs sung separately by other singers may be knit together by a talented and ambitious bard… great epic formations grow in the hands of a fairly limited number of performers (Honko 1995: 29–30).

To illustrate the point, as with many East Asian musical genres, Korean p’ansori is identified with ‘schools’ (ryu or ryup’a – using a loanword from

14 Also encountered as the Yakut, a term that is most likely a Russian corruption of Sakha, the indigenous name. 74 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Japan) associated with founding singers, traced through genealogies of known singers to present day exponents. Representative and expert contemporary singers have since 1964 been appointed as ‘holders’ (poyuja) of p’ansori as a South Korean government-sponsored Intangible Cultural Property (Muhyŏng munhwajae).15 Written texts enforce or reinforce conservatism. They restrict much of a singer’s ability to change, prescribing a fixed structure that fills in and details the framework. Written texts may be put together either from a single descriptive dictation/transcription or from an amalgamation of a set of discrete tellings. In his admirable exposition of distinctions between writing and the oral tradition, Lord thus notes that while oral poetry has demonstrable formulas, the literary tradition is predominantly non-formulaic (1960: 124–38). This is seen most clearly where amalgamations and compilations are involved, and so such assemblages could be argued to downgrade and eventually lead to the abandonment of the formulas of oral poetry because compilers (or potentially, where time is allowed, singers) reflect on a text as they correct and adjust it. Hatto is not enthusiastic:

I suggest we revive the obsolete English word ‘epopee’ for large- scale, amorphous compilations of heroic and sub-heroic narrative material, like the [Persian] Shahname. Such are mostly literary works, but the vast assemblages of already full-scale epics in the laboratory recordings of the twentieth-century wholesaling…bards…offer examples of technically oral ‘epopees’ (Hatto 1994: 123, cited in Prior 2000: 17).

Hatto makes this comment in a discussion of two of the best documented and most highly acknowledged Kyrgyz master singers, Sagımbay Orozbaqov (1867-1930) and Sayaqbay Qaralaev (1894-1971), from whom, respectively, a massive 180,000 and 500,533 lines of the Manas epic were collected. It is clear that most late twentieth century bards, and amongst them Saparbek, represent at the very least an intermediate stage between the oral and the written, or have to a degree been reliant on written texts at some point in their professional lives. Saparbek, like many of his contemporaries, is able to read texts and memorize them, but he still practises what he regards as an oral tradition. While the spread of school education in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as well as the expansion of scholarly recording activities, are to Saparbek legacies that allow him access to texts, he describes his learning process in terms of listening to great

15 And the more recent UNESCO ‘Masterpiece’. See Howard (2006: 60–67). Oral epic poetry and the Manas 75 singers, then repeatedly singing on his own and repeatedly singing in his sleep. Lord puts it thus:

The effect on the younger generation which could read was that the young people began to memorize songs from books. They still learned the art from their elders and could sing songs picked up from oral tradition, but they were moving away from that tradition by memorizing some of their repertory from the song books. The memorization from a fixed text influenced their other songs as well, because they now felt they should memorize even the oral versions. The set, ‘correct’ text had arrived, and the death knell of the oral process had been sounded (Lord 1960: 137).

This, though, whether desirable or not, is the world in which most heroic epic poetry today exists, and in which much that has been documented in the recent past existed.

Variety in Epic Poetry

Bowra identified epic poetry among the Finns, the Altais and Abakan Tatars, the Khalka Mongols, the Tibetans, and the Sea Dayaks of Borneo (1952: 5). However, given that Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey provided the starting point for studies of oral epic poetry, European scholarship initially focussed largely on European strains, adding other Greek fragments (Aethiopis, Argonautica, Epigonoi, Herakleia and so on), the Old English Beowulf, and medieval Irish, German, French and Norse epics. The Finnish Kalevala, compiled by Elias Lönnrot (1802-1884) and with the shamanistic Väinämöinen as its main hero, featured strongly. Kalevala moves from the world’s origins to an allegory concerning the arrival of Christianity. In Germany, there are epic moments in the early Hildebrandslied, composed in the seventh century with a surviving partial manuscript dated to the turn of the ninth century, but Nibelungenlied from around 1200 is the most celebrated epic. Kudrun, composed some forty years later, turns the Nibelungenlied’s catastrophic ending into conciliation. The Irish Táin bó Cúailnge illustrates the heroic strand in the hero Cú Chulainn’s fatal battle with his son Conlae, and his use of a slingstone to smash his cousin and foster brother Conall Cernach’s chariot shaft in order to avoid a clash with his foster father, Fergus. The three great French cycles were composed where langue d’oïl dialects were used, north of the mouth of the Loire and the Massif Central. They found champions amongst Anglo-Saxon writers because they had been preserved by the French-speaking nobility of 76 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

England. The three are Le Chanson de Roland, composed fifty years before the Nibelungenlied, Le Chanson de Guillaume, detailing the love and marriage of the Christian lord, Guillaume, and Le Voyage de Charlemagne. From this partial list it is clear that epic poetry comprises a mixed bag. This becomes even starker when two 1980 and 1989 volumes edited by Arthur Hatto and J. B. Hainsworth are considered. These document the work of the London Seminar on Epic, held from 1963-1972.16 The Seminar included research on European strains but ranged far wider. Cast primarily within what Hatto as editor defined as a ‘trapeze Iceland–Uganda–Thailand– Mongolia, that is in the main Eurasia, the classic area of heroic and epic poetry’ (Hatto 1980: 2), the published accounts include additional materials culled from the Ainu of Japan, the Sakha of northern Siberia and from Mali in West Africa;17 Hatto also admits that American First Nation epics may exist that were yet to be studied. The geographic and structural mix discussed within the volumes, and the awareness that even this mix does not fully embrace the available global epics, threatens to tear open any bag that defines what epic poetry might be, scattering its contents or ingredients to the four corners of the globe, well beyond the trapeze. Hence, when the English Sinologist and Orientalist Arthur Waley heard about the Seminar, he remarked: ‘When I think of epics, I think how different they all are.’ Hatto suggests a possible arrangement of the Seminar’s materials into oral, sub- oral and post-oral epic poetry, thereby maintaining Lord’s argument about written texts and their affects (1980: 11). And, picking up from both Parry and Lord, Hatto emphasizes recurrent themes that in relation to the epic traditions of Europe include cattle raids and equivalents (Homer, Ireland), last stands (Germany), rebellions (France) and, almost universally, kinship and lineage, births, marriages and funerary rites (1989: 145–306). It is also clear that he reflects a certain amount of what was then contemporary scholarship in fields other than literature, notably by suggesting a distinction might be made between external style – the social setting and the performance context – and internal style – content, ethos, and existential relevancy. Supplementing the European epic poetry already noted, the 1989 volumes include: an account by L. P Harvey of Medieval Spanish romance, where Poema de Mio Cid tells of events in the eleventh century and for which a manuscript dating from 1140 survives; R. Auty’s consideration of Serbo-Croat epic poetry, collected since 1720 and comprising in total some

16 This and the next three paragraphs summarize, primarily, the 1980 volume. 17 The selection of epic poetry studied by the Seminar reflected scholarship within the constituent colleges of the University of London and, in particular, at the School of Oriental and African Studies. Oral epic poetry and the Manas 77

500,000 lines, that is strongly stylized in ethos and form while featuring simple standing epithets; a brief account of a presentation by the folk music collector A. L. Lloyd about performance techniques in Albania, Bulgaria, Romania and Yugoslavia. Beyond Europe, G. F. Cushing explores Ob Ugrian (Vogul and Ostyak) epic poetry from East of the Ural Mountains that began to be documented in the nineteenth century when the small population was thought to be on the verge of dying out. Although featuring elaborate formulas based on acute observations of the real world, Ob Ugrian epics are claimed to be distinct because they are typically performed by a singer and shaman who narrates in the first person the stories of spirits possessing him. The spirits, seven children of Numi-Torem, provide the core themes. H. W. Bailey offers an account of Ossetic (Nartä) epic tales centred on five main families within a genealogy spanning seven generations. Ossetic epics reflect the reality of surrounding cultures, incorporating historical figures such as Soslan, the early thirteenth-century consort to the Georgian Queen Tamar, and Satana, the chief female Nartä, who appears to be related to an Armenian princess. But, stories of the world ‘reduced to an intelligible whole’ are mixed with magic and religion, giants, death customs, and the Ruler of the Underworld, Barastur. Still further afield, John D. Smith notes the considerable attention that has been lavished on the two standard Sanskrit epics, Māhābhārata and Rāmāyaņa. Later great poems, such as Kālidāsa’s Rāghuvaṃśa and Kumārasaṃbhava, or the even later Rāghavapāņḍavīya, bear the same relationship to them as does Virgil to Homer, and with this in mind Smith explores a living Rajasthan tradition, the epic Pābūjī, whose hero was probably a fourteenth-century Rājpūt chieftain and brigand. C. R. Bawden tracks the fluid epics of Mongol-speaking people that were in decay by the time of their recording and documentation. Alliterative and formulaic, Mongolian epics typically featured simple plots and recognizable landscapes, but were ahistorical, mixing magic and the god Teņri with earthly sports and hawks, horses, and other animals known in the natural world. Amongst Mongol epics, Jangar was once spread among the Kalmaks, the Buryats to the north, and throughout Mongolia. Another, Han Harangui, considered by many to be the kernel for the tradition, has a hero also found in Tuvan epics, Khan Kharangui. C. J. Dunn shifts attention to the Ainu of Japan, whose epic poetry survives in fragments in written considerations by Arthur Waley and the missionary John Batchelor, and in recordings archived by the Japanese broadcaster NHK. Here, apart from the superior god, Okikurumi, the gods tell their stories in the first person, while the hero Poiyaumpe is human. Poiyaumpe has protective deities who fight others with human attributes, while an anti-wife, Poisoyaunmat, behaves as a man as she hunts, trades and fights. Finally, H. F. Morris opens an exploration of 78 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

East African Bahima praise poems that introduce stories of cattle herding and of historical and legendary heroes, using highly stylized diction and formulas. Elsewhere in Africa, we note, Swahili epics are known, and Xhosa eulogies have been considered to be epic in terms of the way that they detail heroic achievements, while the widespread Mandinkan Sunjata and Fula Ham Bodêdio maintained by hereditary families of griot musicians indicate that considerably more creative performance might be included. To this brief survey many more epic poetry traditions can be added, amongst them Middle Eastern traditions from Persia to Egypt, Turkic traditions (for which see below), and epics of the Tamil (The Brothers), Telegu (Palnādu), Tibetan (Gesar/Geser), Buryat (Aidūrai, but also Geser and Jangar), Sakha (within the oloņxo genre, notably the tale of N’urgen- bootur where the prince rides to the underworld to rescue the keeper of beauty and thereby restore peace and prosperity to the world of men),18 Altai (the Maadai-kara),19 Nenet, and even Southeast Asian dance dramas with heroic content and links to Sanskrit epics. Korean p’ansori is notably absent from the 1980 and 1989 volumes and, indeed, from much of the literature on epic. P’ansori is an oral narrative, given in speech (aniri), song (norae) and dramatic action (pallim) by a single vocalist accompanied by a drummer. From a larger palette, five stories – essentially with simple folktale cores – have survived to the present time. The stories incorporate idiomatic phrases and humorous sayings, borrowings from Chinese literature, and realistic episodes that situate stories within the physical space and cultural milieu of Korea. They juxtapose historical and ahistorical material: ‘Chŏkpyŏkka/Song of the Battle at the Red Cliff’ recounts a famous Chinese battle, ‘Shimch’ŏngga/Song of the Filial Daughter’ is situated in Chinese Sung or Ming times but shifts to the fairyland of Uri-guk (Emerald Land), ‘Ch’unhyangga/Song of “Spring Fragrance”’ takes place around the real-life city of Namwŏn, and ‘Sugungga/Song of the Underwater Palace’ tells of a rabbit and a terrapin who argue and behave in anthropomorphic ways. The fifth tale, ‘Hŭngboga/Song of the Two Brothers’ turns Confucian inheritance norms on their head, as it describes the poor but generous younger brother and his brutish but mean elder sibling. P’ansori can rarely be considered heroic, and

18 N’urgen-bootur was dramatized for the 2006 Ysyakh summer festival in Yakutsk that celebrated the 2005 appointment of the oloņxo epic genre as a UNESCO Masterpiece. See Maltsev and Howard, Siberia at the Centre of the World: Sakha- Yakutia (SOASIS DVD06, 2008). 19 The subject of a BBC Radio 4 programme narrated by the poet Benjamin Zephaniah broadcast on 4 January 2009. Oral epic poetry and the Manas 79 this indicates a primary reason why it has not been accommodated within many accounts of oral epic poetry. Scholars of Korea have thus typically shied away from referring to p’ansori as epic poetry, preferring English glosses such as ‘one-man opera’, ‘sung narrative’ and ‘musico-dramatic genre’. However, Chan E. Park, citing Bakhtin, Scholes and Kellogg, but reflecting on Keith Howard’s youthful and perhaps naïve gloss of p’ansori as ‘epic storytelling through song’, does conclude that p’ansori fits the definition of epic poetry (2003: 14–15). Indeed, analysis indicates similarities to epic genres elsewhere. First, a performance is long if a story, full of accretions, ornamentation and details added to the core by generations of singers, is given: contemporary performances of a complete story, known as the wanch’ang, can last five hours or more (eight hours is often claimed). Second, a p’ansori story is organized into episodes equivalent to the themes of Parry and Lord (and more recent commentators such as Hatto), one or more of which may be lifted out from the whole and compressed or elongated as the singer tailors their performance to a live audience. Third, each story has developed in much the same way as Lord’s view of oral epic poetry: there is a schematic core, easily transmitted and maintained, into which episodes slot; the totality of a performance represents a serial composition created by multiple authors over a long period; a student receives a story from his/her teacher or teachers but then – at least until recent times – innovates. Indicative of the uncertainty but hopeful of acceptance as epic, a number of Korean scholars have attempted to frame their studies of p’ansori in terms of the Parry and Lord account, including Sŏ Taesŏk (1969), Cho Tongil (1978, 1989) and, more recently, Chan E. Park (2003). The late Marshall Pihl discusses the use in p’ansori of formulas akin to those of epic poetry in The Korean Singer of Tales (1994). His title acknowledges a direct debt to Lord, who guided Pihl’s studies at Harvard University. The formulas include the use and manipulation of regular meters, word boundaries, syllable counts, syntax, clichés, tonal patterning and acoustics:

Much of Korean p’ansori is, ultimately, a product of the same art of formulaic oral composition that Lord describes as the genius of the modern Yugoslavian epic… the same formulaic technique has been useful to both for technical reasons that transcend local linguistic and cultural peculiarities…the formula [being] a device to facilitate rapid oral composition before an audience and, at the same time, to adapt his work to the changing demands of his literature’ (Pihl 1994: 79).

Korea, though, is a hierarchical society, and this is reflected in p’ansori, where the teacher-disciple relationships, and from this the maintenance of 80 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas professional genealogies, are sacrosanct (Pihl 1994: 82ff.). Styles of performance, and the detailing of some episodes, are associated with known ‘great singers’ (myŏngch’ang) and the effect is that, if there was a time in which successive generations of singers engaged in formulaic oral composition, that time has long passed. Again, then, we are forced to confront the fact that the world has changed, and the orality on which epic poetry was once based is a thing of the past.

The Turkic People and Epic Poetry

To briefly paint a picture of the Turkic people is not an easy task. Today, and illustrative of the complexities involved, Turkic languages are typically divided into four groups. These, although rightly considered by Reichl as a ‘gross simplification’, are the Southwestern (e.g., Ottoman Turkish, Azeri, Turkmen), Northwestern (e.g., Tatar, Kazakh, Karakalpak, Kipchak-Uzbek), Central (Uzbek, Uyghur) and Eastern (Altai and Kyrgyz). Where Kyrgyz fits is a matter of some contention: it is placed amongst the Central group by Deny et al. (1959-1964) and, within their edited text, amongst an ‘Aralo- Caspian group’ by Menges (1959; 1968). Chuvash, spoken east of Kazan in the Volga region, and Sakha, spoken in Yakutia way to the north of Siberia, do not readily fit the four-fold division, and tend to be considered as having long since become isolated from other Turkic languages; these languages, after all, cover a huge geographic area. Oral epic poetry is found among many Turkic peoples, with central traditions concentrated amongst the Karakalpaks, Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Uyghurs and Uzbeks, but, on a broader canvas, with additional notable traditions amongst the Altais, Azeris, Bashkirs, Ottoman Turks, Sakha, Turkmen and Tuvans. The key Turkic language features identified in studies of oral epic poetry are agglutination, with verbs at the ends of phrases or lines and where a word structure can create assonance, and the use of vowel harmony that can create a distinctive acoustic and tonal flow (Reichl 1992: 24–7). The Turks are first encountered in the historical record living in the Orkhon and Yenisei river valleys in Siberia, to the north of present day Mongolia rather than in today’s Central Asia. Mentioned in Chinese documents from the second century BCE onwards, they were often linked to the Huns and were feared as northern barbarians. They may be connected to Tungusic and Palaeo-Asiatic groups in Siberia (and elsewhere in Asia), Oral epic poetry and the Manas 81 which might potentially suggest a reason why shamanic ideas feature in Turkic epic poetry.20 Nomadism features strongly across much of Siberia and the Eurasian steppes, and this, too, is central to Turkic epic poetry. Nomadism is an economic necessity that allows pasture to be maximized, moving herds of animals to mountain slopes in summer and to valleys and plains in winter. It links to the development of a style of housing that suits this non-sedentary lifestyle: yurts. It is also associated with a horse culture. This latter was described by Herodotus in his fifth-century BCE Histories in respect to the Saka or Scythians. He describes horse sacrifices, battle-ready riders mounted on horseback, and drinking fermented mare’s milk (qımız),21 all of which have a place in Turkic epic poetry. Wilhelm Radloff writes:

For the Kyrgyz, the horse is the embodiment of all beauty, the pearl of the animals. He loves it more than his beloved, and a beautiful horse often tempts an honest man to theft… A Kyrgyz is often very loath to leave his riding horse to the use of another (1893, I: 441, cited in Reichl 1992: 18–19).

The Scythians, with territory extending across the steppe beyond the Syr- Darya river and into the Tien Shan mountain range, formed one of the Central Asian client kingdoms created a century before Herodotus by the Persian Achaemenid empire, along with Sogdiana between the Amu-Darya and Syr-Darya rivers,22 Khorezm (later Khiva), Bactria (Afghanistan, Turkestan), Margiana (Merv), Aria (Herat) and Arachosia (Ghazni and Kandahar). In 330 BCE, Alexander began his conquest, moving northwards from Macedonia through Herat and Kabul, crossing the Hindu Kush to Bactria and via Samarkand crossing the Syr-Darya to crush the Scythians. The Buddhist Kushan Empire, established by the first century BCE, won control of Sogdiana and parts of today’s northern India and Afghanistan, developing

20 To Mircea Eliade (1951/1964), and many scholars since, shamanism is rooted in Siberia. Eliade, however, relied on a now distrusted concept of diffusionism to measure a historically distant archetype against remnants of similarity in surviving belief and ritual practices. 21 Reichl usefully discusses horse culture with reference to the accounts of William of Rubruk, a Fransiscan friar who travelled to Karakorum in 1253, staying until 1255 (1992: 17–18). 22 Known as Transoxiana, ‘beyond the Oxus’, to the Romans. This term is adopted by Theodore Levin (as Transoxania) to denote all of Central Asia and thereby to avoid the Soviet ‘neulogism’ of a division into five republics (1996: xiii). 82 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas trade along the Silk Road. Sedentary settlements were encouraged by trade, but Kushan declined by 200 CE, leaving Sogdiana controlled by the Iranian Sassanids. Nomad groups roamed the land, and the Huns took control by the fourth century: Attila’s court, some theorize, may have used a Turkic language. In 559, the Huns were in their turn ousted by Turkic groups who had moved westwards from Siberia to form an alliance with the Sassanids. The Second East Turkic Empire, which flourished for sixty years from 680, was challenged by Arabs who took Bukhara in 709 and Samarkand in 712, and by Tang Chinese who pushed westwards to Tashkent before being forced into the Talas Valley in 751 and then back across the Tien Shan Mountains.23 The earliest Turkic documents are runic, dating from the eighth century onwards, and one from the ninth century found in the Mongolian Selenga River region in 1909 may describe – and in fact is routinely regarded by Kyrgyz scholars to describe – a battle of the Turks. By the ninth century, the peaceable Samanids controlled the former Sogdiana. The Samanids were allied to Baghdad and supported Muslim culture (Bukhara at one time had 113 medressas), but they were also influenced by Persian culture. In the eleventh century, after the Samanids, the Karakhanids, from three capitals – Balasagun (now Burana in Kyrgyzstan), Talas (Taraz in Kazakhstan) and Kashgar – completed the conversion to Islam, fighting for lands to the south and west that included Samarkand and Bukhara. In turn, they were destroyed by the Turkic Seljuq. Then, in the early thirteenth century, the Mongols under Genghis [Chinggis] Khan conquered, plundered, and burnt virtually every settlement. Central Asia passed to the sons of Genghis Khan’s eldest son Jochi on his death in 1227, who, with their descendents, came to be known as the Golden Horde. The days of the Golden Horde, through to the fifteenth century, are remembered as the time when nomadic life was at its height. But competition for land was always fierce, and internal divisions amongst the Mongols allowed a Turkic resurgence that culminated in the brutal short- lived empire of Timur in Transoxiana, an empire centred on Samarkand that is today celebrated by the Uzbek state. Later, three sedentary khanates arose, centred on Khiva, Bukhara and Kokand, bordered to the north by three nomadic Kazakh hordes. Tribal wars fought through to the eighteenth centuries against the Mongols and Chinese are remembered in Kyrgyz epic poetry where the adversaries are typically named ‘Kalmak’ or ‘Kıtay’. The Kalmak are mentioned in Siberian annals as early as 1574. They were West Mongols or Oirat descendants of the Jungarians, and had settled in the Ili Valley around

23 ‘Episode One: The Birth of Manas’ in this volume might be considered a reflection of this struggle for territory. Oral epic poetry and the Manas 83

Kulja and in the Altai. In 1685, they drove the Kyrgyz south into the Fergana and Pamir-Alay regions, and into present-day Tajikistan. They were defeated by the Chinese Qing in 1758, and were resettled in military camps. For a while their defeat left the Kyrgyz effectively as Chinese subjects; the Kıtay, encountered in the nineteenth-century recordings of the Manas, are, as a result, not the Mongolians of this name who founded an empire in the tenth century, but rather the Qing Chinese24 – although referred to at times in Saparbek’s recitations of the Manas as the earlier Tang Chinese.25 We might reflect on the Manas at this point, suggesting that the threat of the Kıtay/Chinese led the Kyrgyz into alliances with khanates further West, as witnessed in the marriages of Manas to Kanıkey and Semetey to Ay-čürök; alliances, equally, of course, were designed to resolve or reduce feuds, as is indicated in the fights and arguments that some Manas versions recount in the middle of feasts and councils. Who, though, were the Kyrgyz? The ethnonym first identifies a tribal federation living in the upper Yenisei river valley, north of the Eastern Huns, that defeated the Uyghurs in 840 CE. The earliest notable residents of today’s Kyrgyzstan were the Scythians, whose burial mounds have revealed bronze and gold relics at Lake Issyk-kul. The Kyrgyz are encountered in ninth- to eleventh-century Arab chronicles, and their clans had settled in the Tien Shan area by the thirteenth century. Russian sources record the ethnonym from the sixteenth century onwards. The seventeenth-century Kalmak raids forced the Kyrgyz to flee to Fergana and Pamir as well as eastwards into today’s Xinjiang. Today, the Kyrgyz live mostly in Tien Shan and the Pamir mountains, in Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Chinese Xinjiang; until recent wars, there was also a small population in Afghanistan.26 By the turn of the nineteenth century, Russia sought a secure southern border and, concerned both about instability in Central Asia and British expansionism northwards into the region from India, it sent Tatars and Cossacks to Kazakh lands. By the 1850s, Russia initiated strategies that were designed to remove the autonomy of the khans in Bukhara, Khiva and Kokand, at a time when some Kyrgyz clan leaders were allied to Kokand. Later, they took Merv in 1884 and reached the Afghan border in 1885; this was as far south as they pushed at the time and, indeed, until the invasion of Afghanistan in the late twentieth century. European Russians began to flood into Central Asia, bringing urban planning, railways, Western schooling, theatres and cinemas, and much more. An uprising in 1916 against demands

24 Hatto (1977: 272–3). 25 Note that the capital is given as Beijing, not Xi’an of Tang times. 26 Hatto (1980: 300–301). For the Kyrgyz in Afghanistan, see Dor and Naumann (1978). 84 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas for cattle and men to support the war effort was brutally put down, and shortly afterwards the revolution and its aftermath led to the Soviet era. The Soviets effectively invented the five nationalities: Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Tajik, Turkmen and Uzbek. Each, regardless of the historical and cultural reality, got its own language, history and territory. And, following the collapse of the Soviet Union, by the spring of 1991 each of the five republics declared independence. Some Kyrgyz claim an 1100-year history for Turkic oral epics, based on the ninth-century eleven-line inscription found in Mongolia in 1909.27 The oral epics, then, began as the story of victory in the ninth-century battle against the Uyghurs, and were transmitted by one or more of the warriors – in the case of the Manas, by one of the hero’s forty warriors. However, the earliest potentially relevant surviving document28 is a heroic poem by Maḥmūd of Kashgar dated to 1073, which is quoted in a dictionary of Middle Turkish. A fifteenth-century copy of a late thirteenth- or early fourteenth-century text in old Uyghur describes the birth, childhood and heroic and military exploits of an Oguz tribal leader, showing rhyming and assonance in seven- and eight-syllable lines – characteristics associated with Turkic epic poetry. These characteristics, with greater agglutination and word and structure patterning, and with a mix of verse and prose that is still familiar today, feature in two surviving sixteenth-century manuscripts, the ‘Kitab-i Dede Qorqut/Book of Grandfather Qorqut’. While it has been argued that these incorporate compositions from 500 years or more earlier, the manuscripts reflect the Ottoman world of their time.29 Little additional documentation exists prior to the nineteenth century, although two Tajik manuscripts of the Majmū’ al-Tavarikh of Saif ad-Dīn, supposedly in part dating to the sixteenth century, introduce Manas and his father Jakıp (as Yakub). Jakıp, though, is identified as a Qipčak, which takes us to the eighteenth century and to the politics of Kokand at that time, rather than before.30

27 Bernštam (1910-1956) is widely regarded as having first suggested the link, but it was discredited in 1962 by his fellow Soviet-era scholar, Žirmunskii (see Prior 2000: 30, and Chapter 2 below). 28 In our search for documentation, we must be wary of contrasting the Manas, as an oral epic until relatively recently, with epic poetry such as the Shahname that was written down earlier; such contrasts unfortunately occur regularly in the literature (e.g., citing Kyrgyz and Soviet scholarship, on http://www.angelfire. com/rnb/bashiri/Manas/manas.html (accessed November 2009)). 29 See Reichl (1992: 43–55) for a consideration and analysis. 30 Hatto (1977: 90–91), citing a 1962 publication. Hatto later refers to the manuscript as ‘a late eighteenth-century propaganda document’ (1990: xvi). Oral epic poetry and the Manas 85

To characterize Turkic epics, one might start with themes: stories telling about heroic deeds, feasts and councils, births, bride-winning, the return of a hero, revenge, kinship and lineage, and so on. However, if the Kalmak are archetypal but real enemies, then the historical existence of heroes remains questionable. Kyrgyz and Kazakh singers and their oral epic texts, at least until the Soviets established distinct national identities, identify with the Nogay, a legendary people populating a legendary age. The people may stem from Tatar followers of Noghay, who was a Golden Horde prince famed for thirteenth-century campaigns in Galicia and the Caucasus. Noghay’s followers took his name as their ethnonym, and legends evolved as these carried out raids and warfare far to the West, reaching Moscow, Kazan, Astrakhan and the Crimea (Hatto 1977: 272, but compare with Reichl 2007: 22–31 and the citation above from the Shorter Soviet Encyclopedia). It is only in the twentieth century that singers have replaced ‘Nogay’ with ‘Kyrgyz’. We might, next, look at performance contexts. Until recent times, people would gather to listen to performances of epic poetry at night, sometimes returning night after night,31 often during Ramadan,32 often in yurts, often for feasts and celebrations, sometimes before hunting expeditions set out,33 sometimes in the courts of chiefs and leaders. Bāla (1899-1994) in Khorezm for example, Theodore Levin tells us, sang for many family members of the khan. The khan himself usually preferred instrumental music to be performed, though he would occasionally invite interesting singers (1996: 173–5). Whatever the performance context, and whatever the place, an epic singer would stop time as he entertained his audience. The singer ‘suck[ed] the listener into the rhythm of life itself’ and life was ‘measured by the totality of the moments of empathy between listeners and storyteller’; behind the singer, the listener ‘sensed the patron spirit’ and felt ‘his spine set on fire’ (Kunanbaeva 2009 [1981]). Or, alternatively, ‘the expectations of the listeners gave birth to song’ (Kunanbaeva 1991: 2). The audience was not passive. A singer adjusted his performance as he observed his audience, shortening or lengthening episodes, omitting or adding material. The audience functioned as resonators for his art, through the taste and judgement of audience members becoming the carriers of the

31 The Sakha oloņxo could purportedly continue for seven nights. 32 Note that the Soviets banned fasting during Ramadan. 33 Roberte Hamayon has discussed hunting in the context of Siberian shamanism: enactment of the hunt in ritual soothes and distracts the prey. Could there be a parallel with hunting episodes in oral epic poetry? 86 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas tradition itself (Braun 1961: 84–5). Reichl cites a further publication on Kazakh epic performance by Kunanbaeva:34

At certain moments the singer stands in need of the support of the audience, which expresses itself in exclamation-formulas and increases his strength by its approval (Kunanbaeva 1987: 108).

An account in the travelogue of an 1863 journey to Uzbek lands by the Hungarian Turkologist, Vámbéry, is even more evocative. Reichl cites this (1992: 114), but here we give a longer sample than he does, taken from the 1864 English edition. Pass lightly over the characterization of singing, and focus, please, on the description of the bard’s audience:

How charming to me, too, those scenes, which can never pass from memory, when on festal occasions, or during the evening entertainments, some Bakhshi used to recite the verses of Mukhdumkuli! When I was in Etrek, one of those troubadours had his tent close to our own; and as he paid us a visit of an evening, bringing his instrument with him, there flocked around him the young men of the vicinity, whom he was constrained to treat with some of his heroic lays. His singing consisted of certain forced gutteral sounds, which we might rather take for a rattle than a song, and which he accompanied at first with gentle touches of the strings, but afterwards, as he became more excited, with wilder strokes upon the instrument. The hotter the battle, the firecer grew the ardour of the singer and the enthusiasm of his youthful listeners; and really the scene assumed the appearance of a romance, when the young nomads, uttering deep groans, hurled their caps to the ground, and dashed their hands in a passion through the curls of their hair, just as if they were furious to combat with themselves (Vámbéry 1864: 322).

Beyond the Turkic world, much the same applies. For example, audiences for Korean p’ansori are expected to be vocal in showing their enthusiasm, and a considerable vocabulary of exclamations, ch’uimsae, is known: olshigu! (‘right on!’), choht’a! or choch’i! (‘that’s nice!’), kurŏch’i! (‘that’s perfect!’), glottal ut!, chi!, and so on. Often, the Turkic epic singer self-accompanied himself on the dutar, dombra, qomuz or qopuz plucked lute, or the double-bellied tar, or the

34 Cited from the English translation by Reichl (1992: 114). Oral epic poetry and the Manas 87 bowed qobız, gıdždžak or kıyak fiddle.35 Kyrgyz singers usually do not employ an instrument, although Kenje Kara (1859-1929) brought a kıyak to the famous audio recording that will be discussed in Chapter 2 below36 and Saparbek brought a qomuz to the 2006 recording sessions that the accompanying CDs to this volume document. The instrument may have spiritual or magical power, through its association with a great singer. Alma Kunanbaeva writes, in respect to the dombra used by Kazakh singers, that the instrument has a soul that brings fortune or destruction, and how ‘after the death of the bard, the instrument has to find a new owner, otherwise it will play at night and scare children’ (1991: 1). The vocal style amongst Uzbek and Karakalpak singers is said to use a constricted, tense voice, but also features high-pitched recitative climaxes described, for instance, with the Uzbek verb qaynamāq (to boil). Altai singers move towards the overtone singing best known from Tuva and Mongolia as xöömii. The Kyrgyz vocal style is divided by Vinogradov into four types, the first intoned, the second and third with tonal contours and, accounting for 60% or more of the song, the fourth being džorgo söz (flowing speech). The first and fourth are all that need concern us here; they can be heard in abundance on the accompanying CDs to this volume. Within džorgo söz, poetry is sung using the same melodic pattern for each pacing line – the flowing speech – across a section; the repetition is formulaic and does not allow a verse structure to emerge. According to the musicologist Viktor Beliaev, a pacing line is contained within an interval of a third or a fourth, typically rising a little from the opening pitch then falling back, with falling cadential patterns of, typically, the third or fourth. Although many other Kyrgyz songs are in duple meter, pacing lines are in triple meter, with the basic syllable arrangement giving a trochaic tetrameter. The intoned declamations function as transitions and endings and offer contrast; they are non-metrical (Vinogradov 1958 and 1984, cited in Reichl 1992: 101–102; Beliaev 1975: 16–18; Prior 2006: 96–100). The comments by Radloff, based on his 1862 and 1869 trips to Kyrgyz lands, instructively distinguish the two:

35 Instrument names and playing styles vary amongst different Turkic groups. For example, the Turkish qopuz is plucked while the Karakalpak qobız is bowed; qomuz is the normal Kyrgyz pronunciation of the same name, while kobza is the Ukrainian, and all are by some considered to relate to the Mongolian horse-head fiddle, the xuur/moorin xuur. See Vinogradov (1958), Beliaev (1975: 18), Reichl (1992: 100– 104; 2007: 165), Levin (1996). 36 A contemporary drawing showing the instrument is reproduced in Prior (2006: facing page 1). 88 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

When performing, the bard always employs two melodies; the first, sung in a faster tempo, is for the narration of facts; whereas the second, sung in a slower tempo in the manner of a recitative, serves for dialogue... In other respects, the melodies of the various bards are almost completely identical (1885: xvi; cited from Hatto’s English translation, 1977: 269).

Vinogradov usefully characterizes Sayaqbay Qaralaev’s singing of one Manas episode. We cite him at length here, using Reichl’s translation into English, because his comments could so easily describe Saparbek’s technique, and as a consequence explain the vocal style encountered on the accompanying CDs to this volume:

Qaralaev repeats… one and the same recitative-like melody up to ten times, but endows it each time with new expressive nuances: now an exclamation, now a simple cry, now a loud sigh, here he uses strong accents, there soft, smooth transitions etc. In quick succession, major and minor thirds alternate… But the descending cadence leaves the strongest impression: fifth, fourth, tonic. Tensing his vocal chords, Qaralaev accentuated these notes normally by a gutteral timbre, singing the last note crescendo to fortissimo and cutting it off suddenly. Sometimes he changed this recitative-like melody for another, a rhythmically and metrically more pronounced melody (1984: 494, cited from Reichl 2007: 176).

Intonation also needs to accommodate the need to move from descriptive monologues to impersonating characters; Soviet scholarship, following Erzakovich, has tended to distinguish recitative, illustrative singing (singing in character), and summative declamations (Kunanbaeva 2009 [1981]). From this, intonation is ascribed musical and stylistic qualities, as human thought intoned, as the human intellect intoned, and as something specific to man (Asafiev, cited by Zemtsovsky 1997: 190–92; see also Krader 1990: 9). In Kyrgyz, the singer of epic poetry is normally called a manasči; the term derives from a noun for the title of the epic. In other cases, more broadly, the term for a singer can derive from the noun for a song, so, as manasči is to Manas, so semeteyči can be to a singer who specializes in the epic of the son of Manas, Semetey. ‘Manasči’, though, reflects the twentieth century, and prior to Russian control, džomoqču, from the Kyrgyz noun for epic, džomoq, was the common term. Džomoq may link to the Mongolian domog (legend). Kazakhs and Kyrgyz also refer to singers who improvise without texts as aqın and to žıršı, žırau (žır defining epic) or ırčı, typically reserving the latter for singers who have memorized set texts. To the Kyrgyz, songs are dastan, and to the Uyghurs dastanči sing dastan; to the Oral epic poetry and the Manas 89

Sakha, oloņxohut sing oloņxo. The Karakalpaks typically refer to jırau or to baqsı, the former specializing in heroic narratives and the latter in lyrical and romantic epics (Reichl 2007: 17). The Turkmen refer to baxšı, and the Uzbek to baxši singers of dāstān. Baxši, though, to the Kyrgyz means a shaman or medicine man, and in Old Uyghur baxši and Mongolian bagši denote a scholar or teacher.37 A singer’s training typically starts before puberty and often, particularly from the accounts of singers active during the Soviet period, involves initiatory dreams. Dreams reveal the heroes of epics to a singer, and indicate that the singer has been chosen, although it is of note that the singing profession often runs in families.38 An apprentice singer will study under teachers, from whom he absorbs frameworks and formulas. As a singer matures and begins to perform he adds, creatively, ornamentation and detailing. Radloff cites a Kyrgyz singer: ‘I can in general sing every poem, because God has laid the gift of singing into my heart... I have learned none of my poems: everything flows from my inner being, my inner self’ (1885: xvii; cited from the translation by Reichl (1992: 91)). In southern Uzbekistan, Levin met Qahhār, a singer who in 1991 claimed to know more than thirty heroic epics learnt orally; his father had known sixty-five (Levin 1996: 149–51). Note, though, that during the Soviet period few singers could make a living from epic poetry. Many joined theatre and entertainment troupes, or had day jobs.

37 Beyond Turkic languages, this meaning also applies to Tungus paksi and possibly, through Chinese, to Korean paksa. 38 Lord points out, but based on his Yugoslavian materials, that there is no class of singers (1960: 18).

CHAPTER TWO

THE KYRGYZ MANAS: RECORDED, PERFORMED AND STUDIED

Recording the Manas

The documentation of Kyrgyz heroic epic poetry that is available to us today essentially began with two nineteenth-century polymaths: Rotmistr Čokan Čingisovich Valikhanov (1835-1865) and Wilhelm Radloff (1837-1918). At the outset, we should note that both wrote their accounts and texts for Russian and European audiences rather than for the Kyrgyz. However, both collected texts at a time of rapid transition in Central Asia and as the Kyrgyz made their peace with the Russians. Both assembled oral epic poetry that has been argued to be superior to texts collected in the twentieth century, in that, in keeping with Parry and Lord’s comments on orality discussed in the previous chapter, both worked with singers who had no access to written texts. They also worked in situations where reflection was at a minimum – later recordings were made over longer periods, and may have allowed interjections and corrections by both singers and collectors, thereby introducing a miscellany of detailing to extend episodes.1 Valikhanov was grandson to the last khan of the Kazakh Central Horde, Vali, and could thereby trace his ancestry back to Genghis Khan. Although he was an imperial army officer, he was fascinated by his own heritage and, because of this, he was a student of things Turkic. In sum, he was a ‘reconnaissance and intelligence officer, secret agent, antiquary, amateur ethnologer, artist, traveller, man of letters, and admired friend of Dostoyevsky in exile’ (Hatto 1977: v). In May 1856, Valikhanov and/or his scribe took down, by dictation over two days from a bard to the east of Lake

1 This is the gist of the argument made by Hatto (1990: xiv–xv; 1994: 123 – in respect to the latter, see the quote given in the previous chapter). 92 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Issyk-kul, the tale Kökötöydün ašı – the memorial feast for Kökötöy Khan. The bard may have been, as Prior (2002) explores, Nazar Bolot (1828-1893). The text that survives, held in the Oriental Archives at St Petersburg (Razryad II, opis’ 4, delo 36), is a copy of a field record written in Arabic script – a script arguably poorly suited to Turkic languages – with annotations and overwritings by Valikhanov and others. Valikhanov published a brief overview of Kyrgyz epic in 1861, but his partial translation of the texts he had collected into Russian only appeared posthumously, in 1904. This is widely cited by Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars. A facsimile of the manuscript was issued in Alma-Ata in 1971, and it fell to Arthur Hatto to provide an exhaustive English translation and edition in 1977. Valikhanov was, as Hatto’s examination reveals, ‘no textual scholar of the first order’ (Hatto 1977: v); had he lived longer, doubtless his Kyrgyz materials would have been more fully analysed, checked, and perhaps corrected and supplemented. Hatto has disproved the theory that Valikhanov returned to his bard to check and correct his materials, and it is therefore to be expected that the short time frame in which the dictation took place precluded him mastering the formulas and formulaic expressions, and gave opportunity to introduce inconsistencies and different renderings. The text of Kökötöydün ašı is concentrated, running to just 3,251 lines, but is at times still ornate, with ‘well-worn, beautifully structured epithets and other formulae’ (Hatto 1977: 90). Many of the epithets and formulas match those in other Manas recordings of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century bards. The text concerns a memorial feast, and has supplementary themes of horse racing, games, and heroic brawling not dissimilar to – and hence one reason why Milman Parry made reference to it – the Iliad. Even if Valikhanov might be considered a romantic nationalist, his work is a valuable and much treasured example of early field research on the Kyrgyz. Beyond the Manas, an association of historians, anthropologists and ethnographers based in St Petersburg undertook considerable research from the 1860s through to the early twentieth century in the area. Evidence of their work is held at the Institute of Ethnography within the Archives of the Russian Academy of Science in Moscow (Archiv Instituta ethnografyi Academii Nauk SSR), where hand-written notebooks describe, for example, the variety of healing rituals practised by the Kyrgyz on the Syr-Darya river banks.2

2 Statiya Skryabina, K.I. ‘Sposob lecheniya kyrgyz Syr-daryinskoi oblasti’, 14/9/1907: 20. For more extensive discussions of the St Petersburg association, see Fond obshestva lyubitleie Estestboznaniya, Antropologyi i Ethbgrafyi. Opis’ 1, 1867-1920, 441 ex: 216. The Kyrgyz Manas 93

Valikhanov recognized that the history of Kyrgyz epics was largely unknown. Two quotations from his 1861 paper illustrate his perspective (cited from English translations in Prior 2000: 6–7):

[The] Manas is an encyclopaedic collection of all Kyrgyz myths, tales, and legends, expressed in one time and grouped around one character – the hero Manas. It is a kind of Iliad of the steppes. The way of life, customs, morals, geography, and religious and medical knowledge of the Kyrgyz, and their international relations, have found expression in this enormous epopee.

This poem, in our opinion, evidently underwent newer augmentations and alterations. It may be that its actual formation into one whole...is something that happened in most recent times.

With reference to the second of the above quotations, Hatto remarks that, although likely much older, it is not possible to take the Kyrgyz epic tradition back more than two generations. Indeed, it is of note that Valikhanov’s text of Kökötöydün ašı mentions the historical hero Jaņgır (1783-1828; line 544 of the text), who some of the 1860s bard’s contemporary Kyrgyz audience would have remembered, alongside the legendary Nogay heroes and associates of Manas, Košoy and Kökčö, and the ‘infidel’ Jamgırčı.3 However, Soviet-era scholars looked at things differently, and focussed on the first of the quotations we have cited from Valikhanov. To them, the Manas was, and remains, an encylopaedic compendium. It was, and is, ‘for the Kyrgyz people, who were illiterate before the Great October revolution, the only record of their centuries-long history’ (Žyrmunskii 1962: 85). Hence, today, it is not only considered a historical document, but, and as Musaev notes (1979: 5), the plots and main episodes, and the principal characters, are known by all Kyrgyz. Before exploring further, we must return to the late nineteenth century. Wilhelm Radloff, our second polymath, was a German-born Russian linguist; hence in Russian and Central Asian accounts he tends to be known under his Russian name, Vasilii Vasilievič Radlov. He was a prolific Turkic scholar who left a considerable legacy, of which his two volumes of Kara Kyrgyz texts, published with translations in 1885 and based on trips to the Kyrgyz lands in 1862 and 1869, form but a part. Anonymity reigns in terms of the bards he recorded; this is consistent with his initial aim, which was to collect samples of Turkic dialect. He did far more than this, of course, and his texts, also translated into English by Hatto (1990), fall into nine sections:

3 Hatto notes that Jamgırčı is a Nogay and therefore a Muslim in Radloff's texts. 94 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas the birth of Manas; Almambet, Er Kökčö and Ak-erkeč; how Almambet came to Manas; the duel between Manas and Er Kökčö; the marriage, death, and return to life of Manas; Bok-murun; Közkaman; the birth of Semetey; Semetey.4 The texts include 12,454 verse lines about Manas, and 3,005 lines from the second and third episodes of the epic, Semetey and Seytek. He also collected additional texts about Joloy-kan (5,322 lines) and Yer-češčuk (2,146 lines). Hatto concludes that Radloff worked with five bards, four in the Bugu region to the east of Lake Issyk-kul in 1862 and one among the Solto clan south of Tokmak in 1869 (1990: 601–603). Valikhanov, too, had recorded a Bugu bard, but he did so barely a year after the Bugu were granted Russian protection, which in turn followed Bugu approaches for better relations with the West Siberian Administration as the power of the Kokand khans waned. By 1862, though, the Russians had failed to provide much of the protection they had promised, and raids from Kokand and from its tributary, the Solto, left the Bugu fearing for their future. They wondered if they would be forced eastwards, back towards the Chinese Qing who less than a century earlier had defeated their Oirat overlords. The politics of the time, then, sit behind both Valikhanov’s and Radloff’s texts. Hence, the precariousness of the Nogay’s survival features in Radloff’s texts from the Bugu. Further, by 1869, when Radloff returned on his second trip, Chinese rule in Kashgaria had collapsed, and Kokand was in full decline. Tashkent had been captured in 1865 by General Černaev, and soon afterwards Kokand was the first of the three khanates with their sedentary sart populations to pass to Russian control.5 This, too, is reflected in the later text, which Hatto concludes is the first in the collection, telling about the birth of Manas. In this, Jakıp, the father of Manas, is portrayed as a ‘manly, resolute khan – perched like an eagle above the newly founded Russian outpost of Vernoe’ (Hatto 1990: xiv), while Manas himself enjoys friendly relations with the Russian Tsar. Radloff analysed the texts he recorded. The legacy of his analysis was incorporated into the formula theory of Milman Parry and Albert Lord, for Radloff saw that the recurrent phrases used by bards were oral formulas. He referred to these as častički (particles). Hatto has provided a translation from the German:

Just as [a pianist] pieces together runs, transitions, motifs into a pattern expressive of a given mood as the moment prompts him and so

4 See also Hatto (1973 and 1974) for a detailed discussion and comparison of the two episodes concerning Semetey. 5 The people of the plains and the towns, the sart, were often despised by mountain nomads. The Kyrgyz Manas 95

assembles something novel from what has been familiar to him, so with the singer of epic songs. From extensive practice in performance he has whole series of narrative elements to hand...which he threads together to suit his needs in the course of his narration... The bard’s art consists solely in marshalling all these ready-made narrative elements in the order demanded by the course of events and in linking them together with new verses (Radloff 1885: xvi ff., cited from Hatto 1977: 269).

The Manas cycle consists of three large overarching storylines. Whereas in the twentieth century greater focus tended to be placed on the second and third storylines concerning Semetey, the son of Manas, and Semetey’s son, Seytek, over 80% of the total verse lines in Radloff’s texts concern Manas, reaching Semetey only in the sixth of the seven parts. The texts are, then, heroic more than romantic, and full of political potential rather than keeping the politics away from the foreground. Later accounts reflect on this by suggesting that a transition from Manas to Semetey began shortly after Radloff’s collection was recorded, and this is indicated by a 320 verse line text from the Pishpek district archives, dated to the 1880s or 1890s but with no proven provenance. This deals with the courting of Semetey by his future bride Ay-čürök (‘Moon Beauty’), and is said by Russian and Kyrgyz scholars to relate, using a later Soviet phrase, to the ‘national liberation movement’ ongoing in the turbulent mid-nineteenth century.6 The first Manas audio recordings, 240 verse lines on six wax cylinders of less than eighteen minutes total duration, were made at the end of 1903 or, possibly, at the beginning of 1904. These are the subject of an exemplary study by Daniel Prior (2006). The cylinder recordings were made by Russian travellers in an expedition led by Aleksandr G. Belinskii. In keeping with the convention of the time, the written records with the cylinders at the Phonogram Archive of the Institute of Russian Literature in St Petersburg give Belinskii as the maker, but some researchers credit the younger Boris Smirnov with the recording. Smirnov was an art student who later, in 1914, wrote a travelogue about the expedition.7 The singer was Kenje Kara (1859- 1929),8 and the episode recorded was the marriage of Semetey and Ay- čürök. Kenje Kara is probably a nickname, meaning ‘black youngest

6 Prior (2000: 10), citing Aidarkulov (1989: 37). 7 Smirnov painted a portrait of the singer and his fiddle that is reproduced in Prior (2006) and in a number of other publications. 8 Prior (2006: 1–3) provides a comprehensive consideration of the singer based both on personal fieldwork and Russian-language accounts by Aidarkulov (1989: 21ff.) and in the 1995 Manas entsiklopediya. 96 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas offspring’ – black referring to dark skin or freckles. Like Radloff’s 1869 informant, he was a Solto, born near the present-day city of Kant, but at some point he had moved to the village of Beš-küngöy south of Bishkek (today’s name for Pishpek/Frunze9). Smirnov recalls that he was a famous singer, but little is known about his training or influence, although Kydyrbaeva (1984) places him, somewhat questionably, amongst a Chu Valley group of bards. Certainly, he sang for the wax cylinder recordings under the patronage of the Russian authorities in what was then Pishpek, and it is known that his regular patron was the Solto chieftain Sarıbagıš. For the recordings, he arrived on a horse, his fiddle in a sack, wearing a sheepskin coat and peaked hat, with skullcap underneath. Smirnov recalls the event:

It is difficult to convey the impression given by his music and singing! It was not sounds of a voice in the sense we normally understand. They were a kind of wild moaning and howling; there was something in them akin to the bellow of a camel, the neighing of a horse, the bleating of a sheep... Even the very form of the guttural, sputtering vocal sounds could not have matched the music more. This singer is good only on the steppe; in a room his singing seemed wild and strange (1914: 32ff.; cited from Prior’s English translation, Prior 2006: 129).

Some fifteen excerpts of the Manas epic had been collected by the time of the revolution in the second decade of the twentieth century. All but one of the early twentieth-century recordings focussed on the second part of the epic trilogy, Semetey. Prior (2000: 10) interprets the shift in poetic taste away from the warlike hero of Manas towards his more human son, Semetey, as being linked to the new order of urban living, education and commerce brought by Russian influence. This point is also made by Žyrmunskii (1961: 168), who is cited both by Prior (2000: 11) and Hatto (1974: 35). An additional slightly curious example of the shift to Semetey is the Hungarian scholar Almásy’s ‘Farewell of Manas to his son, Semetey’, originally published in German in 1911 and 1912 in the journal Kelety Szemle: Revue orientale pour les études ouralo-altaiques (and translated into Russian in 1968). No other version of the epic existing in collections and archives contains the episode recounted by Almásy, and indeed it falls

9 Pishpek, a Russian town with a Kazakh name, was founded in 1878. It was renamed Frunze in 1926 after a Russian Civil War commander born there, as the capital of the new Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic. In 1991 it became Bishkek, the Kyrgyz form of its original name. The Kyrgyz Manas 97 outside the normal sequence, where Semetey is born after Manas returns from war and dies. The bard Sagımbay Orozbaqov, who contributed a major and huge recording in the 1920s, was known for his Semetey. In fact, he claimed that his inspiration came from a dream in which Semetey called him to become a bard (the dream tag is common among bards, as will be discussed below). However, the recording that survives is of Manas rather than Semetey. The assumption is that he and the collectors he worked with intended to move from Manas to Semetey, but Sagımbay’s health failed before they could do so (Musaev 1979, 1984: 125–6). Sagımbay was born to a shawm (surnay) musician father in Qabirga on the northern shore of Lake Issyk-kul. Trained by a number of well-known bards including Čonbaš Narmantay and Tınıbek (1846-1902), he is said to have begun to sing publicly when fifteen or sixteen. He was favoured by wealthy patrons, and had travelled to an extent, for instance fleeing political turmoil during the suppression of a rebellion to China in 1916. He was in his mid-fifties when the collectors arrived, led by the Bashkir folklorist Kayum Miftakov (1882-1948 or 1949), who worked with him from 1922 until 1926. Miftakov had been a teacher on the Kazakh steppes until 1920 when he became a school inspector in the Talas region, and he worked with both Sagımbay and other bards. He recruited others to transcribe the oral texts into Arabic script, chief amongst these being Ibırayım Abdırakhmanov (1888-1967).10 Miftakov was a new Turk, and Sagımbay seems to have obliged his interests, referring to the ‘Kyrgyz’ rather than the ‘Nogay’ for the first time in a recording, and to the ‘Türk’ as an umbrella ethnonym for all Turkic people. Sagımbay’s Manas is acknowledged by scholars to comprise the first long text that has an overarching unified plot, although Hatto (1994: 123) critiques it as an assembly of the episodes told by many earlier bards recorded and arranged in almost literary fashion. Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars, although at times characterizing Sagımbay as a captive of old, pre- revolutionary thinking, have a different interpretation, regarding his Manas as classic, fully formed, and of high artistic merit (see, for example, Žyrmunskii 1962: 284). Musaev puts it thus:

Such a unique position of this variant is related to some objective causes. First of all, it is a result of a vigorous native talent of the narrator. Secondly, when recording the texts…[he] was [between] fifty-five and fifty-seven years old. It was a period of maturity and blossoming of [his] manaschi genius, as he was a professional reciter

10 See Prior (2000: 12–16) for more details. 98 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

already for about forty years. During this period his variant was approved by people’s masses, and [the] manaschi made his text more precise, polished it, improved the system of events in view of advice and decisive notes of listeners. In the third place, many of [the] now well-known narrators of the epos were Sagımbay’s contemporaries. He has taken much from them (1984: 126).

Certainly, during the extended period that Miftakov worked with Sagımbay, both bard and collectors had plenty of time to reflect, adjust and, possibly, correct their texts. We might, then, suggest that ‘collection’ became something more akin to ‘collation’. Consider, in this respect, the vast geographic spread contained within Sagımbay’s text, from Europe through the Caucasus, south through Mecca and into Africa, east through India, Tibet and China to Japan. The Manas entsiklopediya published in 1995 lists 532 places and 113 ethnic groups in his recording,11 a total that can be considered indicative of the virtually global reach of the epic, but might also be argued to be suggestive of contemporary knowledge at the time of recording. Collation becomes still more evident with Sayaqbay Qaralaev, who recorded his texts for the Manas trilogy between 1932 and 1947. Whereas Sagımbay left an all-encompassing storyline about Manas, Sayaqbay left all- encompassing texts for all three parts of the trilogy, Manas (84,313 lines), Semetey (316,157 lines) and Seytek (84,697 lines). Although Hatto considers him a ‘wholesaling Kyrgyz bard’, he occupied a central position in the Soviet canon and continues today to be respected in much the same way in independent Kyrgyzstan. In his life, he was honoured as a Folk Artist of the Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic in 1939 and was subsequently awarded numerous medals. Born in Džeti-Oguz in the province of Issyk-kul, he first heard the stories of Manas from his grandmother, and learnt his craft as a story-teller primarily from Čoyuke (1886-1928). While Sagımbay had dreamt about Semetey, Sayaqbay fell off his horse and, rendered unconscious, claimed to have then met Manas’s companion Almambet.12 The celebrated writer Čingiz Aytmatov (1928-2006) signals his importance:

Our contemporary, our holy old man, our pride is Sayaqbay Qaralaev, a native talent. He is a man of the people by origin. Poet improviser, he is as unique an artist as the great epos. His versatile harmonical art surprises man. Qaralaev is like a symphony orchestra…[transferring]

11 Elmira Köçümkulkïzï, http://www.silk-road.com/folklore/mana/manasintro.html (accessed November 2009). 12 This anecdote is reported by Kydyrbaeva (1984: 30). The Kyrgyz Manas 99

from tragedy to lyric poetry, from lyric art to drama. During his speech sometimes he cried, sometimes he laughed, sometimes he sighed, sometimes he was like water, sometimes he was like the desert, and [all] Kyrgyz could not help admiring his talent (cited, with adjustment, from Turkish International Cooperation Agency 1995: 156).

Sayaqbay Qaralaev’s trilogy consists of the following episodes, as listed in the 1995 four-volume publication of his recording:

A. Manas 1. Manas is born; his childhood 2. Manas’s heroic deeds 3. The marriage of Manas to Kanıkey 4. The Great Battle 5. The death of Manas, and the destruction of his achievements B. Semetey 1. Kanıkey flees with Semetey to Bukhara 2. Semetey’s childhood 3. Semetey returns to Talas 4. The marriage of Semetey to Ay-čürök 5. Semetey’s battle against Koņur-bay 6. Semetey’s disappearance C. Seytek 1. Semetey’s family is destroyed, Ay-čürök and Kül-čoro are captured 2. Seytek’s childhood 3. Seytek fights his enemies 4. The marriage of Seytek 5. Seytek defeats his enemies, and dies

In the episodes retold within this volume, Saparbek essentially fuses the first two of Sayaqbay’s episodes together, merely mentions that Manas has been fatally wounded in the Great Battle but omits any detail, and continues only to the point where Semetey defeats Koņur-bay. Kökötöydün ašı, as recorded by Valikhanov, can be slotted towards the end of the first part, before the death of Manas.

The Manas: Soviet and Kyrgyz Accounts

With Sagımbay and Sayaqbay, length became a defining feature to be trumpeted in publications. While Lord’s observation that ‘length is not a criterion of epic poetry’ stood some small chance of tempering accounts in 100 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas the West, it became commonplace amongst Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars to state that Sagımbay’s Manas was four times larger than the Persian Shahname (hence, Hatto’s 1994 comment cited in the previous chapter), and some forty times the length of the Iliad. Sayaqbay’s trilogy was measured as twenty times the length of the Iliad and Odyssey put together, and two-and- a-half times the length of the Māhābhārata. However, and as we will briefly explore below, the reality of performance, which precludes extending a telling beyond what an audience will bear, has often been ignored as measurements of length – based on texts rather than performance – take precedence.13 Again, in the pursuit of length, inadequate attention is arguably given to the processes involved in editing and codifying collated texts, or conflating different texts together. Even though an unsuccessful representation was made requesting support, the collation of Sagımbay’s oral texts was pointedly not funded by the Soviet state. However, the 1925 publication in Moscow of a fragment of Semetey rendered in Arabic script that had been recorded several decades earlier from another celebrated bard and one of Sagımbay’s teachers, Tınıbek, led to reflection. Because of this and other factors, official discussions began by 1930 to consider how best to translate the Manas into Russian. As Maxim Gorkii and Andrei Zhdanov formulated and then promoted socialist realism, as a policy that was to be both historic and dynamic, and as a policy in which ‘art must depict reality in its revolutionary development’,14 so the Manas became synonymous with the Kyrgyz people. On 10 January 1935, Protocol 66 of the meeting of Buro Kyrgyz (BKPB) Vsesoyuznaya Kommunistichaskaya Partya Bol’shevikov (VKPB), signed by Torekul Aytmatov, stated that a dual language publication of the Manas should be made during the year, supported financially by the Soviet Narodnyh Kommisarov (SNK) and overseen by a committee to be approved by the next meeting of the Oblastnoi Komitet Vsesoyuznoi

13 For a discussion of the processes in moving from performance to text, see Reichl’s consideration of the Karakalpak Edige epic (2007: 142–62). Note that there is a similar tendency to emphasize length in Korean writings about the p’ansori genre, although little evidence exists to support the notion that before the 1960s a complete story would be performed over many hours (Park 2003: 106–107; Howard 2006: 62–3) – in the case of the Manas, the equivalent would be a performance lasting many days. 14 For a published version of the Soviet policy, see Zhdanov (1950: 7–15). ‘Socialist realism’ first appeared as the title of an essay by Gorkii in 1933. For general discussions of the policy, see Arvon (1973) and Laing (1978). Given the tendency to view the Manas as text, for the Soviet approach to literature see Borland (1950) and, for an account of how the policy was applied to music, see Schwarz (1983). The Kyrgyz Manas 101

Kommunistichaskoi Partyi Bol’shevikov (OKVKPB).15 The protocol notes that the epic was of great size, and indicates that some of those involved in drafting the protocol recalled performances taking between sixteen and eighteen days, and that even these performances could not be considered complete. It noted that the epic had changed across the centuries of its existence, developing different schools of performance, and that bards were competitive; some bards, it suggested, had given up reciting after failing to win competitions. From the protocol, it is clear that content was considered more important than any regional or individual distinctions – the regional amounting to dialect considerations, and the individual to considerations of specific bards. Excerpts of the Manas were printed in 1935 and 1936. Pravda published an article reiterating the great importance of the epic on 28 September 1936, and, between 1937 and 1940, texts originally recorded from Sagımbay and Sayaqbay were published in a number of Soviet newspapers and journals (Musaev 1979: 29). From 1940, a collection of chapbooks appeared in a series titled, simply, Manas. These are associated with Ibırayım Abdırakhmanov, who had worked under Miftakov with Sagımbay two decades earlier. Starting in 1940 with the childhood of Manas, and based on Sagımbay’s telling, seven further chapbooks appeared in 1941, two in 1942 and a final volume in 1944. From the 1930s onwards, bards, given honorary titles as national folk artists, were put on stage at state and civil functions, with the effect that short episodic performances became commonplace. This practice was encouraged as bards joined theatre and drama groups, at times improvising on current issues as well as traditional episodes in their recitations. This is not surprising, since a Manas singer adds – some would say, has always added – theatrical elements to his performance, mimicking gestures and adding body movements. There is evidence that by 1932 the epic was being used as a source from which to create staged dramas. Yunusaliev usefully reminds us how, ‘over the centuries, the Manas epic has played a role of education, influencing the audience as a play, a staged performance, a screen, that reflects the historical events of the nation’ (1958: iv). Sagımbay, in his recording, stated that Manas lived a thousand years ago. The culmination of the efforts during the 1930s and 1940s to collect and promote the epic was to have been a celebration in 1947 of what by then was championed as a supposed 1100-year history of the epic – dating it back to the ninth-century inscription found in Mongolia in 1909. This historicizing, and the promotion and celebration of the anniversary, was pushed by the Kazakh Auezov and by a second respected scholar, Bernštam; Bernštam

15 Reprinted in Abdykarov and Džumaliev (1995: 11ff.). 102 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas wrote and published fifteen articles between 1942 and 1946. 1946 saw a major Russian edition of part of the Manas published in Moscow by GIHL and running to 372 pages, compiled by Džakišev. Some excerpts from this were subsequently quoted abroad. However, the end of Soviet liberal tolerance to Turkic and Muslim ideas in Central Asia put paid to the proposed celebration before it could take place. Indeed, a general campaign against cultural nationalism spread throughout the Soviet Union in the last years of Stalin’s life, and this made research and publication on the Manas potentially dangerous unless done with considerable care. A conference was convened in Frunze (formerly Pishpek) in 1952 to decide whether the Manas met the popular criteria of socialist realism or whether it was reactionary and bourgeois, and therefore difficult. At the conference, and covered in the newspaper Sovietskaya Kyrgyziya, debates were held which resolved that, although the oral epic itself was indeed popular, every version collected to date had incorporated unwarranted bourgeois material.16 This gave the scholars a way forward, and they began a reconsideration and correction of the collected/collated texts. As they did so, their work coincided with activities of the Russian Academy, members of which conducted extensive activities in the Kyrgyz region between 1953 and 1955, collecting ethnographic and archaeological materials on local customs and rituals;17 their work extended far beyond ethnography, for eight notebooks from the period by Mahovoi and Vasilevoi are archived that contain biological and ethnological data.18 Work on the Manas resulted in the Kyrgyz publication of a composite but abridged edition, published in four volumes between 1958 and 1960. The four volumes covered all three parts of the epic trilogy,19 the first two Manas, the third Semetey and the fourth Seytek. They were based primarily on Sayaqbay, but added variants from Sagımbay and other bards. This edition remains a core and highly valued text within Russia and throughout Central Asia. In contrast, it has been argued, but from a decidedly non- Soviet perspective, to amount to:

16 Prior (2000: 33–4), citing Manas entsiklopediya. 17 Kyrgyzskaya kompleksnaya archeologicheskaya-ethnografyich expedizyia sovmestno s Nauchnyi Institute ethnologyi i anthropologyi imeni N. N. Miklucho Maklaya AN SSSR (1955). 18 F.40, Op 1, Polevye dnevniki Mahovoi E. I., and Vasilevoi G. P. 19 Some might contend that the epic can continue beyond the three generations of Manas, his son and his grandson: Jusup Mamai, in China’s Xinjiang region, is said to recite the epic to the seventeenth generation (http:www.silk- road.com/folklore/manas/manasintro.html). The Kyrgyz Manas 103

…an un-annotated patchwork of various bards’ versions, chosen to be representative of the ‘original, national’ epic and arranged together into one narrative with connecting passages composed by the editors themselves (Prior 2000: 34).

By this time, three primary versions of the Manas were in place that today remain central on the shelves of the Folklore Archive of the Kyrgyz Academy of Science. These three were by Sagımbay, Sayaqbay, and Šapak Rismendiyev (1863-1956). These, over time, have been supplemented by recordings of other great manasči, such as Togolok Moldo (1860-1942) and Moldobasan Musulmankulov (1893-1973). Togolok’s image appears on the 20 som Kyrgyz currency note, while Moldobasan is considered a leading bard by the musicologist Beliaev (1975: 39). A consideration by Kydyrbaeva, Kyrbyšev and Jainakova published in 1988 adds a further manasči to this core grouping, Mambet Čokmorov (1896-1973). The three co-authors offer the following justification:

If until now the complete Manas trilogy was discussed through the performance of Sayaqbay Qaralaev, today we must incorporate the version performed by Mambet Čokmorov, recorded between 1959 and 1972. This consists of 397,557 verse lines, among them 302,608 lines concerning Manas, 71,609 Semetey and 23,340 Seytek (1988: 3).

Čokmorov’s recorded texts are catalogued as items 212–30 in the manuscript archives of the Kyrgyz Academy. A considerable amount of scholarship on the Manas had been put in place by the early 1960s, and a bibliography of Russian language publications was able to list 695 items that had been produced by 1961 (Berkova and Sagidova 1961: 298–369). The promotion of Manas identified the epic, within a Soviet ideology based on Marx and Engels but in the tradition of late nineteenth-century anthropologists such as L. H. Morgan, as the repository of Kyrgyz folklore. So, generations of bards, without a written script available to them, were said to have, in the words of Samar Musaev, preserved ‘every important change in political, ideological, and economical life of the people during its long historical development’. The oral epic was held up as ‘the main spiritual treasury, where everything that the people had gained was stored’. It had ripened ‘in the deepest layers of the people’s world-view during many centuries’, and had been transmitted ‘with such a high artistic outlook and wide scope’ that it still enthused and amazed the people of the twentieth century. Hence, it was uniquely popular and populist, and ‘the people of different specialists, various ages [and] different education[s], read the published texts of the epos with a delight… 104 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas considering it to be the national pride of the people (Musaev 1984: 93, 96, 98). Keeping with Soviet thinking, the oral epic was held to have arisen ‘in a pre-class society as a common heroic tale of all the people, projecting the struggle against external and internal usurpers, calling on scattered tribes to unite’. Its songs had ‘served as keen weapons in the class struggle’, and its singers had in the nineteenth century, just as their texts began to be collected, ‘moved from khans and landowners to liberation from social inequality’ (Beliaev 1975: 16–20). In keeping with the demand that art reflect revolutionary development, bards were held to have been influenced by ‘progressive Russian democratic culture’, so that in the text collections and in contemporary performances of bards, ‘the flowering of the revolutionary music contributed to the eradication of the dark aspects of the old way of life and the rise of class consciousness’ (Beliaev 1975: 29). Soviet scholarship balanced the primary national and popular nature of the Manas against other epic traditions in the Soviet Union and Central Asia, and, but to a lesser extent, sought to promote epic traditions from the Soviet Union to the world. Hence, to quote Beliaev, the Manas ‘belongs to one of the oldest types of folk musical-poetic art… considerably older than the epic traditions of many other peoples of the USSR’ and occupying an intermediate position between the earlier tradition of the Sakha and later types elsewhere in Central Asia (1975: 16). Others such as Kononov, following Radloff (specifically, pages 49–52 in his 1893 critical edition), considered the Manas to be strongly connected to other Central Asian epics, reflecting similar histories in, for example, conquests, to those related in Oguz-kan, an epic about the legendary ancestor of the Oguz Turks, elements of which were discussed many centuries ago in the writings of the Persian Rashid-ad-Din (1247-1318).20 Meanwhile, to quote Musaev, ‘Manas is well known in the Soviet Union and abroad. Through the Russian language, its texts became a property of [the] world’s culture’ (1984: 95). The Soviet perspective did not readily align itself with the work of foreign scholars, some of whom attempted, Musaev claims, ‘to distort the Soviet reality…to use the epos for disseminating hostile bourgeois fabrications’ (1984: 115). The distortion was also said to reflect language and access limitations, and this continues to be a criticism. Hence, Elmira Köçümkulkïzï writes that Hatto ‘misunderstood many words, customs, and socio-cultural issues’ because he did not speak Kyrgyz and had not lived amongst the Kyrygz, while a second translation, by Walter Mayor, was based only the ‘beautified Russian translation’, thereby undermining its

20 As republished in Russia in 1958, see particularly pages 81–7. See also Kononov (1958: 45–8). The Kyrgyz Manas 105 authenticity (http://www.silk-road.com/folklore/manas/ manasintro.html; accessed November 2009). As a counterbalance to Musaev’s contention of distortion, Prior (2000) asserts that a close examination of Soviet-era documents from the communist party and other archives21 would demonstrate that the local and Soviet research and promotion of the Manas involved plenty of adjustment and political manoeuvring. We should not expect it to have been otherwise. Socialist realism has largely not been a concern for foreign scholars, who have tended to be interested in the Manas as part of global knowledge about heroic oral epic traditions, or who, to put it in a different way, have sought to expand global knowledge through detailed ethnographic and textual accounts of the Manas and other epic traditions. In contrast, to Soviet scholars, and still today amongst Russian and Kyrgyz scholars, the most important matter has been the determination of variants, to distinguish the main plot from other elements in order that the epic can be fully and correctly understood (see, for example, Musaev 1979: 60 and 92). This is one reason why so many writers note the length, in verse lines, of recordings. Hence, Musaev notes that sixty-five ‘variants’ comprising in excess of 2,000,000 lines were by the late 1970s kept by the Kyrgyz Academy of Science (see also Musaev 1984: 98–9). Amongst them, in addition to those already mentioned and although not regularly named by commentators but as he tells us below, were the texts written out in pencil in a small green book by the teenage Saparbek Kasmambetov. Complex questions of formation and development underpin the analysis of variants, as Žyrmunskii notes (1962: 85). This reflects, as Polivanov had already stated (1936/2: 42), and paralleling long-established understandings of the Iliad and Odyssey, that the huge size and complex poetic form within the Manas, and the regulation of text by prosody and alliteration, mean that it cannot be considered to be the work of a single author. A set of assumptions are applied by Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars to resolve the questions, cast within three hypotheses that extract episodes or elements from the epic and relate them to historical events. The first, promoted by Auezov and Bernštam and as briefly noted above, claims that the Manas epic arose out of the interaction between the Uyghurs and the ancestors of the Kyrgyz when the two inhabited the Orkhon and Yenisei river valleys between the seventh and ninth centuries. This hypothesis relies on an interpretation of the ninth-century runic inscription found in the Selenga River region in 1909: Auezov and Bernštam consider the inscription’s

21 The appropriate documents have been collected and published by Abdykarov and Džumaliev (1995) as part of the millennial celebrations of the Manas held in Kyrgyzstan in 1995. 106 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

‘Yaglakar-kan’ denotes a leader of the Kyrgyz ancestors who is the prototype for Manas. They claim, again based on the limited inscription, that a Kyrgyz or proto-Kyrgyz nomadic state was established after the defeat of the Uyghurs around 840, and that it is the defeat of the Uyghurs which is related in the epic as Manas’s great campaign (see, e.g., Bernštam 1942: 10- 11). In the second hypothesis, based on ethnographic, linguistic and archaeological data, the Turkologist Yunusaliev (1958) proposes that key events in the epic describe wars between the Kyrgyz and tribes who spoke a Mongol language. In the third, Žyrmunskii himself theorizes that a later origin is more appropriate, and places the origin between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries. His evidence is the incorporation of known historical events and names, and the inclusion of both a concept of nationhood and a distinct worldview (1962: 95). While these hypotheses offer some data about potential origins, scholars contend that, because the epic has many more events woven into its fabric, different chronological layers, marking events known in the historical record and of great significance for the Kyrgyz people, can be revealed and analysed. This takes us back, of course, to the theoretical positioning of scholars studying Homer a century before. Equally, though, the Manas is considered to incorporate elements that indicate the origins of local and regional customs and traditions, a step further than Homeric scholarship needed to take, but a step required by the Soviet frame. Hence, in Kökötöydün ašı, all the people near the hero’s deathbed cry and weep, and we are told that from that time onwards this became the custom. Again, performance involves interaction with an audience, and so bards once gave different variants for villagers in a yurt and for feudal lords in their palaces, the remnants of which, with the names and attributes of historical sponsors, can be detected. Žyrmunskii argues that comparative studies of different variants can reveal these ancient layers, feudal ideology, and more recent Turkic and civil culture (1962: 90). Thereby, studies will be able to demonstrate that the formation of the epic in its entirety took place over many generations. If this is accepted, then he and others argue that the Manas should be considered a mainstream document based on the real history of Central Asia, not merely a myth or legend. Certainly, the epic offers rich evidence of Central Asian rituals, feasts and other customs. These are explored in a three-volume work prepared before and latterly designed to accompany the national millennial celebrations of 1995 by Musaev, Orusbaev and Rudov (1984-1995). Some, as had also been discussed three decades earlier by Žyrmunskii (1962: 92ff.), match customs, morals, and ways of thinking that can be found among the Uyghur, Kazakh, Uzbek, and some Chinese groups. Examples include the feast thrown by Jakıp after his own and his wives’ dreams prior to the birth of his son, which matches the common tradition of tule; the episode where The Kyrgyz Manas 107 the hero is raised by a shepherd (but where Manas goes to Ošpür, in the Uzbek epic of Gorogly the shepherd is Edige); and, as is common in other Central Asian epics, Manas marries several times (Žyrmunskii 1962: 100– 102). Again, the way that the newborn Manas is named by elders or ritualists is characteristic in all versions, though those who name him vary from ‘Dubana’ according to Sagımbay to the mysterious ‘Hižr’ of Sayaqbay, and to four prophets in Radloff’s earlier recording of an anonymous bard. In the early manuscript ‘Kitab-i Dede Qorqut/Book of Grandfather Qorqut’, the newborn son of the khan is named by the wise leader and shaman, while in the Uzbek Alpamysh epic, the holy Ali takes on the identity of a shaman to name the child (Samoilovich 1911: 299; Divaev 1916: 206). The musical instruments recounted in the epic (as opposed to the string instruments that bards may use to self accompany) are also common throughout the region. These include surnay shawms that are integral for celebrations, and drums, gongs, surnay, and brass trumpets such as the karnay sounding the battle cry: ‘A hundred sticks, a thousand surnay, ten thousand karnay’ announces the warriors’ march into the great battle (Žyrmunskii 1962: 31). Religious elements within the Manas are shamanistic or animistic as well as Islamic, indicative, Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars contend, of the different layers set down over time. In some tellings such as that of Sagımbay, Jakıp prays for a son before a Sufi sacred tomb (or, more accurately, before a sacred place); not so with Saparbek as retold in the episodes within this volume, where the vision that portends the death of his son suggests totemic elements. References to helping spirits who sit, for example, on the shoulder of Kanıkey, or as the forty čilten who protect Majık, Büdıbek’s son, from a tiger, seem reminiscent of the stories of Sufi saints. In some versions of the story, Manas plans a pilgrimage to Mecca so that he can pray for a son, but he abandons the long journey when Kanıkey announces she is pregnant. Elsewhere in the story, Manas prays as a Muslim. He prays in the morning as Koņur-bay creeps up, and as he bends his head in supplication Koņur-bay cuts his neck with his sword (Žyrmunskii 1962: 40–49). In some versions, Almambet is a Muslim living amongst the heathen Chinese, who flees after Esen-kan, who has refused him the hand of his daughter in marriage, plans to kill him. All of this must post-date the spread of Islam. In contrast, Manas is regularly described through animistic totemic terms, as a lion or tiger, as having a blue mane, as being bloodthirsty. Again, Kanıkey, the widow of Manas, is seen praying to a sacred tree prior to fleeing his brothers with her son Semetey. When Kanıkey abandons her son to save his life, stepping over the branch of a freshly felled young tree, she forces the baby to step over a sharp blade and the bowl of a dog, and in stating this the storyteller goes back to cultural practices that predate the spread of Islam. The helping spirits, too, are as shamanistic as they are Sufi: 108 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas throughout Central Asia ancestral spirits function as a core component of memory and life. The spirits, it must be stated, have been incorporated into Central Asian Sufi practices (DeWeese 1996). One legacy of this is that, to bards, the spirits of heroes are key in transmitting knowledge of the epic. Evidence of this is widespread amongst Turkic people (Bertels 1948: 137). Rahmatullin states that ‘the legend of spiritual contact is something special about Manas himself, as it gives him an image of the highest accomplishment and prestige’ (1968: 94). Musaev goes further, stating that it is widely considered that to become a manasči is only possible after dreaming, and that the dream or dreams allows the bard to become more confident of his talent and destiny (1979: 47). Manas, or other heroes, appears with warriors or kin in dreams, and may threaten illness and misfortune if the fledgling bard refuses to take up singing. It is interesting to consider how this played out in Soviet times; it is also intriguing to note that dreams and visions characterize the calling of shamans in many regions. Saparbek Kasmambetov relates in Chapter 3 how he dreamt of Manas when aged twelve; thereafter, he recalls several strange spiritual interventions. His account parallels stories remembered about other bards. For example, and famously, in 1916, Sayaqbay dreamt as he journeyed away from the turbulence of rebellion towards China of a white yurt in the place of a big black rock.22 He fainted at a cacophony of sound that seemed to fall from the sky. He entered the yurt when he woke and was greeted by Kanıkey, who fed him. As he left, he was met by Wise Bakay and some of Manas’s forty trusted warriors. Again, as a child, Mambet Čokmorov began to recite the Manas when herding sheep on the mountains on his own. His right side slowly became paralysed, perhaps, it has been suggested, because he was reciting sacred texts without any audience. His uncle sacrificed a horse and trained Mambet to perform before an audience, but the boy would only perform in the family house. His mother, who often claimed to see Manas and other heroes in her dreams, encouraged him. Although he had no memory of it, Mambet would often recite the whole night. His mother eventually slaughtered a lamb to the heroes, and thereafter Mambet recited for forty days without stopping, travelling between different people’s houses, and thereby he revealed himself as a true manasči (Čokmorov Mambet, Rukopisnye fondy AN kyrgyzskoy SSR, inv n 214, tetrad’ 1). And, the great singer Tınıbek was in his youth returning back to his village home from Kara-kul. Feeling tired, he stopped and fell asleep. He dreamt that a

22 Manas entsiklopediya (1995, 1: 185). He journeyed to Kashgar to escape political unrest, as Central Asia rose in rebellion against Russian control, and it is tempting to contemplate whether significance was being ascribed to the colour white, by conflating the white guards who later fought in the East. The Kyrgyz Manas 109 large group of people approached him: forty warriors on horseback were escorting their leader, and the leader was riding a white horse. They dismounted to have a break, spreading food on the grass, and instructing their servants to share food and honey with the young Tınıbek. The servants told Tınıbek it was Manas on his white horse Ak-kula. Before he could go up to them, they saddled their horses and rode off. Still sleeping, Tınıbek began to sing about Manas, and when he awoke his body was full of songs about the great hero. His horse, which had been tired, now galloped at speed to his village. Tınıbek kept singing all night, having received his bardic gift (Auezov 1962: 22–3). Placing shamanism and its related ritual practices in the past supports the idea that bards were once synonymous with shamans. A legend about the nineteenth-century bard Keldıbek retains the idea of shamanistic power: when he sang, it is said that the yurt he was in shook, the wind rose to hurricane force and a storm blew in; in the centre of that storm, Manas and his warriors could be seen, their horses’ hooves making the ground tremble (Auezov 1962: 18; Rahmatullin 1968: 94). The overlap can be seen in the various meanings of baxši/baxšı/bagši/baqsı across the region. For example, Levin usefully defines two distinct categories of Uzbek baxši, reciters of oral poetry, the first concerned with artistic entertainment and the second using music as an aid to healing (1996: 146). He indicates that the two were at some point in the past fused together in single individuals. Again, at the Buryat National Theatre in Siberia in 2001, I watched a drama in which a shaman was unable to control the spirits, so a blind bard was entrusted with rescuing the groom who at his wedding ceremony had been stolen and taken to the Underworld.23 Kyrgyz legend has it that the first bard was Jırchı uul, the son of Jırman and one of the forty warriors of Manas, who sang a lament to Manas at his funeral. The famed bard Toktogul is the next to be remembered. He is said to have collected popular songs, adding them to the epic. Toktogul is remembered in a proverb: ‘Toktogul-bay yurčybol, Tolubay-bay synčybol, Jeerenče-bay čečenbol! (May you be as amazing a singer as Toktogul, as knowledgeable as Tolubay, as eloquent a speaker as Jeerenče!)’ (Žyrmunskii 1962: 34). One famed bard’s name from the eighteenth century is remembered, Noorus, and a number of nineteenth-century bards are known – although we do not know their birth and death dates – amongst them Keldıbek Barıboz, Balıbek Bekmurat Kumar and his son Naimanbay, Tınıbek Džapy, Akılbek, Dıkambay, Čonbaš Narmantay and Čoyuke Omur (Auezov 1962: 19 and 29; Musaev 1979: 34).

23 Excerpts are recorded on Misha Maltsev and Keith Howard, Siberia at the Centre of the World: Buryatia (SOASIS DVD07, 2008). 110 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Today, Manas bards are distinguished by rank. The greatest and most highly esteemed, both living and dead, are known as čon džomoqču/čon manasči, and those in the second rank as čınıgi džomoqču/čınıgi manasči. In the top rank sit Sagımbay and Sayaqbay, bards considered to have created their own complete versions of the epic. While Sayaqbay in his life had the nickname ‘Homer of the Orient’, because of the huge corpus of verse lines he recorded, Žyrmunskii considers that Sagımbay recorded the only classical version that has survived into recent times, although he notes the presence of some pan-Turkic sentiments and ideas that reflect more contemporary issues (1962: 51–9, 284). In the second rank sit Moldobasan Musulmankulov, Bagıš Sazanov, Togoloko Moldo, Šapak Rısmendiyev, and Mambet Čokmorov, bards with great knowledge and with personal versions of substantial episodes. These trained disciples. Beneath these come čala džomoqču/čala manasči, craftsmen who learn from skilful bards and perform parts rather than the complete epic. Finally, beginners and students sit in a fourth category, as yurenčuk džomoqču or yurenčuk manasči. The Kazakh writer Muhtar Auezov offers an alternative classification with only two ranks, čon manasči that denotes the few bards who know and can perform all three parts of the epic (Manas, Semetey, Seytek) and čala manasči, denoting the majority of bards these days, bards who know only shorter segments learnt by heart (Auezov 1962: 18). Little is known about teaching styles in earlier times, although many differentiate two core geographically-situated schools of performance, the Tien Shan (of whom a celebrated exponent was Sagımbay) and Issyk-kul (in which school sit Sayaqbay and many others, including Saparbek). Although, as discussed in the previous chapter, the musical components of recounting the Manas mainly consist of non-metrical intoned declamations and džorgo söz flowing speech, bards can incorporate many song styles: košok laments, arman complaints, kereez statements of will, instructional songs (sanaat našıat), travel songs, džomoq narrative songs, and more (Musaev 1979: 9). In his novel ‘Jamilia/Telegram’, Čingiz Aytmatov speaks of the tender, penetrating and yearning loneliness of Kyrgyz songs, where the voice wavers then rings out with great power, reflecting the landscape of mountains, steppes, rivers, skies and people’s feelings (2007: 66–7). Some general introductions to music contain valuable comments on the Manas, such as Musika Lugati (1987: 192), the third volume of Muzykal’naya entsiklopedia (1976, 3: 430), and Muzykal’nyi entsiklopedicheskyi slovar (1990: 323). A large proportion of the published musicological work on the Manas takes the form of transcription and analysis, even though there is a limit to the analysis that can be offered due to the prevalence of recitation. Some, then, would regard the recitation of the Manas as less than a musical art. Others, though, have written following Asafiev’s lead to elaborate on the The Kyrgyz Manas 111 musical and stylistic qualities of intonation, giving it almost anthropomorphic qualities (as noted in the previous chapter). Examples of musicological scholarship following the latter include publications by Diušaliev (1993, 1994, 1999 and 2007) and Moldogaziev (1995), who transcribe and analyse recordings of Sayaqbay with an emphasis on virtuosity and the general characteristics. Valuable transcriptions have been produced by Vinogradov (1958; as discussed in Aliev, Sarypbekov and Matiev 1995) and Alagušov et al. (1989). A further transcription was published as a four-page supplement to the account of Alagušov (1995). One scholar, somewhat tangentially, observes the influence of the performance of manasči on piano music (Nadyrshina 1994). These and other discussions (e.g., Kyrgyzskyi muzykal’nyi folklor (1939), Beliaev (1962/1975) and Zataevich (1971)) segregate music from textual analysis. In fact, as a rule, musicologists have paid little attention to performance aspects such as how the epic was performed, the context, individual traits, audience impact and interaction, and so on. Archive recordings similarly fail to convey artistic presentation in performance. It is reasonable to assert that the reason for the lack of consideration of performance is because the text – that is, the poetry itself – has been the main focus of scholarly attention. Indeed, the dominant research methodology, broadly developed through studies of literature by Roman Yakobson, Yuri Lotman and others, evolved from Ferdinand de Saussure’s (1815-1913) structuralist approach, moderating textual analysis through linguistic and literary theory. This attracted ethnographers and literature specialists to the Manas, but in a way that devalued the artistry developed, perhaps over many centuries, in its performance. This is, as we have indicated in the previous chapter, not so different to scholarship on epic poetry in Western Europe or North America. However, the Soviet system added further requirements that its scholars were expected to comply with. Hence, and although musicologists and folklorists had less of a role to play than ethnographers, historians, ethnologists, literature specialists and philologists, the principal requirement of all scholarship was to demonstrate that the Manas was an example of folk art. Scholars were required to prove its value as precisely this, concentrating on its origins, on the role of the people in the events portrayed, and on providing a historical frame that explained its development in ways that suitably matched ideology. Once this is recognized, then we can begin to account for why musical talent and distinction or skill has so far not been thoroughly considered, and we can also appreciate the reason for the generalizations about social contexts that appear frequently in different publications. To Soviet, Russian and Kyrgyz scholars and other writers, then, the Manas is narodnost: the heroic epic belongs to the Kyrgyz nation and to the Kyrgyz people. Čingiz Aytmatov, in cognisance of this, revived the idea of 112 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas the 1947 celebration of the Manas in three communist party congresses during the late 1970s and 1980s. His appeals resulted in a call for a 1,000- year celebration that would celebrate the heritage of the Kyrgyz people as well as draw international attention. Following independence, the Kyrgyz President, Askar Akayev, paid attention to Aytmatov, issuing a decree in 1992 that stated the Manas was a ‘symbol of the unity and spiritual revival of the Kyrgyz nation and of its culture, dignity and consciousness’.24 A state celebration was duly arranged to mark the 1,000-year anniversary in 1995, with performances and publications (including the two-volume Manas entsiklopediya already cited several times in this volume) at home and abroad. This, according to contemporary commentaries, constituted the largest gathering within the state in modern times. It functioned as a symbolic memorial feast to Manas, and his supposed tomb, in the northwestern region of Talas, was reconstructed.25 The Manas is today sufficiently iconic to stand as the name of airports and streets, and for much more. However, some such as Toktaiym Umetaliyeva, president of a local non-governmental organization, argue that the impetus to preserve and protect it has stalled in recent years, when the Kyrgyz government missed the opportunity to have the Manas promoted through UNESCO.26 At the time of the 1995 celebrations, President Akayev announced that all Kyrgyz should follow the ‘seven principles of Manas’ – namely, national unity, generous and tolerant humanism, international friendship and cooperation, harmony with nature, patriotism, hard work and education, and strengthening the Kyrgyz state. Although it can be argued that all seven are thoroughly embedded within the totality of the Manas, it is not easy to pinpoint exact statements about them as individual and distinct principles. Arguably, too, while the seven principles make the epic ‘the main source of spiritual guidance for [the] reborn nation’ (Kinzer 2000), isolating them and separating them as single principles threatens the organic, all-encompassing nature of the epic. This same concern, surely, is pertinent in attempts to discover and isolate layers, or to substantiate any elements as archetypal, or to propose any framework as the original form. In other words, it could well be that analysing the constituent parts of the Manas from the perspective of

24 Item 70 in Abdykarov and Džumaliev (1995). 25 http://www.silk-road.com/folklore/manas/manasintro.html. 26 http://www.cacianalyst.org/?q=node/5208 (Central Asia-Caucasus Inst. ‘Analyst’, accessed November 2009). Behind this sits a fear of China: as China has rapidly moved to list and protect its intangible heritage, so the Manas has been declared a part of that heritage. While the epic exists amongst singers in Xinjiang, some Kyrgyz fear China aims to reclaim the territory – Kyrgyzstan – that it once occupied. The Kyrgyz Manas 113 contemporary rationalism robs it of its power and identity. And that power and identity is present both in the large-scale texts that have been recorded and analysed and in the individual performances of bards. Hence, it is to a bard that we now turn: Chapter Three explores the life of Saparbek Kasmambetov.

CHAPTER THREE

THE MANASČI, SAPARBEK KASMAMBETOV

In her childhood, Gulnara Kasmambetova remembers her father, Saparbek Kasmambetov, visiting the celebrated Sayaqbay Qaralaev. Both manasči lived in Ribachie, a town known today as Balykchy. The great singer Sayaqbay, elderly, short and stout, with moustache but no beard, was dressed in a dark suit. He was seated just as he often was on a bench below a Soviet- style apartment block by the side of a road. He seemed out of place. He lived with his son in the larger of the two statutory-sized apartments, a two- bedroom three-roomed unit, but there was little for him to do. He should, at least according to the common image we have of the Central Asian bard, have been in a village in the countryside practising his trade. Horses and carts should have been rumbling by, people should have been greeting and chatting to each other, children should have been playing. The life of the manasči has changed. These days, bards live surrounded by modernity. They sing on urban stages. Some are feted by the state, and frequently sing in front of TV cameras or radio microphones. Many are engaged to make celebrations special. Qaralaev, a friend of Saparbek since the latter’s childhood, was one of these, as were Šaabay Azızov (b.1927) and Urkaš Mambetalyev (b.1935) – who used to call Saparbek ‘Sapke’, a term of endearment. Saparbek, too, is one of these. He has been filmed many times, and Bokunbay Burkeev, formerly a linguistics scholar who for many years has produced programmes on folk culture for Kyrgyz TV (KTR), today has some thirty hours’ video of him singing (Burkeev is one of the few who studies Manas from a phenomenological approach, identifying what happens in performance). In several ways, however, Saparbek represents an older generation of bard, or, more accurately, a continuation of the bardic tradition. His sense of history is that of a nomad from the steppes, taking the Manas stories as fact, with little concern for a specific historic time – ‘a long time ago’ does nicely. He tells his story with a frame that stretches seamlessly from that past to the present, and so the epic is part of his daily life. In 2006, 116 Singing the Kyrgys Manas when Gulnara took Saparbek to Uffington near Swindon in England, where a white horse of considerable antiquity is carved into the chalk of the hillside, he immediately identified it as Ak-kula, Manas’s steed. Manas, he recalled, had befriended so many warriors, so he must have given the steed to one, to one who had ridden to this distant country, to one who had created this monument to the horse when it died. Saparbek began to improvise lines: ‘Your animal soul, left so far away from home, I have come from that distant place and found you.’ Again, his telling is based on an internalized sense of place that at times would struggle to readily fit onto a map. Consider the Great Battle (Episode Three above): the Kyrgyz troops reach Keng-kul (today’s Ala-kul south of Karakol) while stones that legend has it mark each of Manas’s warriors are situated at Santaš, a little north and to the east of today’s Taldy-Suu; the retreat traversed virtually the entire country, from the Chinese border along Issyk-kul, down a gorge that leads to Bishkek, and almost to Talas; many of the Chinese were slaughtered in marshes near today’s Tokmok. The region around Talas in the northwest of today’s state is paticularly associated with Manas, and is where legend has it that Manas’s grave is situated, but consider Semetey’s return (Episode Five). As Kanıkey flees she first rests at Üč-košoy, in the Talas region. But, when Semetey returns, he does so in a sequence that begins further south: he first goes to Ak-bel south of Narin near the border, then to Kırben near Jalalabad, close to today’s border with Uzbekistan. From here he goes north to Üč-košoy, then back south to Lake Keng-kul in the Osh region (a different lake to the lake of the same name near the eastern border with China) and to Kermečüü south of Osh, before returning to Ak-kıya in Talas. Nonetheless, Saparbek lives in the modern world. He is well able to read, but if he ever used the written Manas texts that had been printed by the time he was growing up – to briefly reflect on the common view that we have moved from a time when bards learnt within an oral tradition – he did so way back in his youth. He is known to never sing episodes the same twice, and he improvises when he sings. This has not always been easy for his wife who, when she was a model communist teacher, knew that one line sung in haste might attract criticism from the authorities and had the potential to wreck her own career. Saparbek was, and still is, expected to sing at parties and gatherings. Picture the scene: food and drink has been consumed in considerable quantity, and jokes and chat exchanged. A manasči describes the ‘must sing’ moment, and so Saparbek will prepare to sing, adjusting his poise, breathing deeply, withdrawing from the general chat around him. He will begin much as an aqın or ırčı, for his first lines will reflect on the event and the food. He will likely praise the hosts, offering snippets of humorous stories about those present, teasing, congratulating the birthday boy (‘Is he really that young?’), The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 117 or maybe offering a little social commentary (‘Have we all voted today?’). The audience, warmed, will wait for him to launch into an episode from the Manas. Sometimes he will be asked for a specific episode. As Gulnara was growing up, he would take his young daughter to many of the parties, but once he began to sing he would be so taken up by the task at hand that he would not notice her go off to play with other children. She, for her part, was not yet attracted by what she thought of as the deep and gruff voice that characterized the bardic style of recitation, nor, since she was in a Russian school, by the complex and at times archaic Kyrgyz texts. Saparbek was born on 31 May 1934. In that year, his family moved from the regional centre of Narin at the western end of the Tien Shan Mountains to Kochkor, where his father was appointed by the government to manage the collection of animal hides from farmers. The family had a small livestock holding that his wife, Sairake, managed in the Chalai Jailoo alpine pastures. They would erect their yurt near relatives and friends in early May, when spring reached the snow-capped mountains. May is a blessed time of year, when sudden and sharp showers pass quickly, providing sustenance to the pasture’s rich green carpet and to its generous sprinkling of myriad multicoloured flowers. As the showers pass, so the sun comes out, shining as if smiling like a child. A fresh breeze plays on the grass, blowing one way to turn the landscape green and the other to summon forth a burst of blues, yellows and reds as the flowers open their petals. People and animals alike are warmed, awakening from the frosts of winter and bursting, with vitality, into life. That year, Sairake was heavily pregnant, expecting her fifth child. On the very day she was due to give birth she continued the household chores, milking cows, boiling milk, feeding her daughter Ayımkul and her son Imanakun. All night she had been in labour. She came out of the yurt. Maintaining her graceful poise as best she could she walked past the storage tent. She was heading for a huge black stone known as ‘Kalkaman’. At that stone, passers-by would stop to take a break. Riders would sometimes dismount from their horses and take a nap in its cool shadow. Children climbed it and jumped from the top, or hid behind it to escape the tasks their parents had given them. The elders would occasionally gather beside it to hold an important council. Kukush, Sairake’s sister-in-law, had arrived a week before to look after her. She followed Sairake to the stone. Some lambs that were sheltering in its shade ran off. Sairake leaned on it. Kukush hurriedly gave her a bakan stick, the stick with a forked end that is used in the kitchen to hang utensils and bags of yoghurt. Standing behind Sairake, she put her arms around her belly, squeezing as the mother pushed her child. The mother’s loud cry was followed by the baby’s first yell. It was a boy. Kukush delivered the baby into her apron, cut the umbilical cord. She wrapped the baby in her scarf and 118 Singing the Kyrgys Manas gave it to Sairake. And so, the tiny newcomer found comfort in the warmth of the spring sun and from the gaze of his mother’s loving eyes. ‘Joy! I’ve got a little brother!’ shouted Sairake’s eldest son, Imanakun. Neighbours gave him sweets and coins, and blessed him with the words, ‘Long live your brother!’ Sairake’s husband, Kasmambet, was overjoyed, and thanked God over and over again. The new arrival dispelled the grief in his heart left after the loss of his two elder sons, Imangazi and Asıranbek. He slaughtered a lamb and invited relatives and wellwishers to a feast. Grateful, he looked at his wife. ‘We live together, moving from one place to another. Our life is a continuous journey, so I name my new son ‘Saparbek’ – ‘Safe Journey’. He took the child in his hands, raising him up three times, each time repeating the name, ‘Saparbek, Saparbek, Saparbek! My son has been safely delivered near the powerful Kalkaman Stone. If God wills, Saparbek will be special.’ Life continued. After his work in Kochkor was done, Kasmambet returned with his family to Narin, where he was to lead a work team supplying timber. When Saparbek was four, the Soviet authorities launched a campaign to eliminate illiteracy. Hundreds of housewives, including Sairake, were enrolled. As was common in those days, she took the child Saparbek along. He would run to her between his games, sit on her lap and suckle her breast. One day when the teacher asked Sairake to read out loud, she struggled to remember the alphabet. Saparbek looked up from her breast and in a clear voice said, ‘Mum, say “a”, that’s the letter “a”’. The whole class burst into laughter. Once war was declared in 1940, Kasmambet’s work became more demanding. More and more timber was needed. His team cut evergreen trees in the mountains, took them down the slopes to the Narin River, lashed them together with steel chains, and pushed them out into the current so the timber floated downstream. Many had been recruited to the Red Army, so there was a severe manpower shortage. Kasmambet had to work alongside his workers. One day, he jumped from his horse as the men struggled with a chain they were using to tie the timber together. He was tall and his long hair reached down his back – a very unusual sight, since Kyrgyz men normally shave their scalps – and he gathered his hair in a makeshift pigtail as he approached the men. The chain suddenly freed itself, and its end struck him on the head, killing him instantly. Before Saparbek had completed his first year at school, his father’s family in Issyk-kul decided his widow should move the family and livestock back to Kasmambet’s natal village, Korumdu (Korundy). The long journey by cart, leading their cows, horses, goats and sheep, took nearly a month. They travelled through gorges and along the banks of rapidly flowing rivers. Sairake filled the long hours by thinking about her lost husband, about widowhood and loneliness, and about how to raise the children. But she was The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 119 never totally lonely, since she carried stories in her memory, and her whole body would become animated as she told those stories to her children. Sometimes, as they journeyed, they glimpsed a fox, and Sairake would tell a tale about the mischievous adventures of such an animal. Sometimes they would see birds flying high in the sky, and Sairake would relate a story about love. She would tell stories about the trees, about picking up the flowers that were everywhere beneath their feet. Evenings were reserved for the most exciting tale, which she gradually unfolded from one evening to the next. This tale told about Kyrgyz batır – brave young heroes who fought bloodthirsty beasts. The heroes fought many-headed dragons, but the dragons grew a new head if one was chopped off, so every evening there were new dragon’s heads to describe, and every evening a batır had to be summoned to chop a new head off. Sometimes the tale was so funny that Sairake had to squeeze her words out through fits of laughter. The children would hold their stomachs as they giggled, but they screamed when danger reared up or when horrors were described. Saparbek would get more scared than his siblings and would grasp Imanakun’s hand. But Imanakun would produce horrible gurgles from deep in his throat that made his younger brother even more frightened. They finally arrived in Korumdu, and the family of Abdıkerım, Kasmambet’s younger brother. Old Kyrgyz tradition allowed a widow to return to her parents, leaving children with her husband’s relatives, or to marry one of her husband’s brothers. This was how the nomads ensured that a widow and her children were taken care of. Abdıkerım, though, was already married, and his wife was reluctant to welcome the open-minded and independent-thinking Sairake into her household. Sairake’s well-tended stock, though, proved a good enough temptation to ensure she was allowed to stay under the same roof. As war continued, more relatives left for the army. Sairake decided it would be best to move to live near her own relatives in Kochkor. She took what remained of her livestock, loaded her belongings on a cart, and left with Imanakun, Ayımkul and Saparbek. Again, the journey was filled with tales, as she told the children of dark enemies and brave heroes. The heroes would emerge from the waves of the ever-cool Lake Issyk-kul riding white horses that seemed to be born from the foamy water. They would ride off to crush the enemy. When they were a day from Ribachie, the town at the western edge of the lake, and before they reached the crossroads where roads led off to the capital, Frunze, and Narin, they came across a young woman. She greeted Sairake, asking if she could have a lift on their cart. She said that like them she was going to Kochkor. To start with, Sairake hesitated, because the two eldest children and she were walking so as not to tire their only horse as it dragged the loaded cart. But the prospect of having a companion for the last 120 Singing the Kyrgys Manas part of the journey outweighed her concerns. The women and children moved on, talking about war, hardship, and the lack of food. The young woman told Sairake that her parents-in-law had died after her husband left for the war, and that she was now travelling to join her relatives. They hadn’t reached Ribachie by nightfall, so they set a camp. Sairake made a small fire and boiled a drink of oats, sharing her scarce food with the unknown woman. She gave the woman one of her precious blankets. Dawn broke and Sairake woke up. She noticed that her guest’s blanket was cold. The woman had gone. Sairake’s small amulet, which she kept together with her most valuable possession, her mother’s silver bracelet, was lying near one cartwheel. Realizing that the woman had probably been lying about going to Kochkor, she roused the children. As she packed up camp and prepared to move on, she noticed her little bag of precious oat flour was missing. In Ribachie, she exchanged her silver ring for half a loaf of bread. Now she had a new story, about a half-beast half-woman who cheated people and stripped them of their belongings. A brave woman noticed in the burning oil of a lamp the reflection of the beast-woman looking down from the round open frame that tops a yurt. She quickly took the lamp, went outside and poured the hot oil over the mischievous creature. Never again would that beast-woman approach anyone! Never again would it try to steal! The village elders blessed the brave woman, saying that any small loaf of bread she baked would always prove enough to feed a whole tribe. ‘I got this bread from her, and here it is for us to eat,’ Sairake then said, moving from story back to life. She gave a slice of bread to each child, and that half loaf sustained the family until they reached Abdırasul, Sairake’s brother, and his family in Kochkor. Life was not easy in those days. The old, and the women and children, replaced the young in the fields; the wartime burden of agriculture rested on their weak shoulders. Women gave their jewellery to be melted down to make tanks. Food was scarce. The only things they had to share were rare letters from serving relatives and their grief when word came of a battle death. To lift their spirits, in the evenings old men would sometimes gather around a fire to hear about the great hero, Manas. ‘Mum, who was Manas?’ asked Saparbek. Sairake responded: ‘Manas was the bravest batır. He fought our enemies long, long ago. His story is so huge that it has to be told by manasči bards. One day you might meet a bard.’ He was now nine and was meant to attend school, but the teacher had been drafted and there was nobody left to teach him, so he stayed at home helping his mother. That night Saparbek slept uneasily. Occasionally he would wake, crying and screaming. ‘There, there, what’s the matter, my son?’ ‘Mum, I can see a massive battle. There are many warriors on horseback armed with sticks, swords, and bows and arrows. They almost trampled me underfoot as I tried to escape from them!’ ‘It is just a dream. Calm down’, his mother said. As The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 121 usual, she got up very early the next morning. She took a bucket and went out to milk a cow. The yard, muddy after rain, was full of the imprints of horseshoes. She yelped in shock. It was as if a great herd of horses had galloped around it! You see, for nomads, dreams are real. They are part of a different reality that co-exists with the daily life that we experience. The nomads live in both realities, accepting dreams as omens, signposts, reminders. Saparbek’s dream needed to be heeded. Sairake called relatives and neighbours and prepared a sacrifice. She slaughtered a little goat – the hardships of war meant she could not spare a larger animal, and in later life Saparbek would comment that if only a bigger goat had been sacrificed he would surely have been blessed with a stronger voice. As life went on, Saparbek would ride a stick, imagining it as his horse. From time to time he would rhyme words, amusing the boys he played with. But there was little food. Sairake, hearing her relative Junušbey had become a governor in Issyk-kul, decided to ask for help. She left the two older children in charge of the house and put Saparbek on her cow – she couldn’t risk leaving it in the children’s care because there were hungry and desperate deserters hiding in the area. Off went mother and son to Junušbey. Again, the journey was filled with tales, but now it was Saparbek who created most of them. Sairake wondered where he had learnt them. They reached Korumdu as a group of actors touring collective farms were performing. Sairake and Saparbek listened to their jokes and songs. The legendary Sayaqbay Qaralaev was among them. People begged him to sing. This was the first time Saparbek had come across a living bard and, eyes wide open, he listened as Sayaqbay sang about Kanıkey, the widow of Manas. Without realizing, he inched himself closer and closer until he was sitting right beside Sayaqbay. He was mesmerized by the rhythmic chanting, the lines of poetry suddenly switching from agitation to galloping, from tragedy to tenderness, from crying to lyrical romance. Words poured like a stream, igniting his imagination but also lulling him. He fell asleep. As Sairake tried to lift him away, Sayaqbay gestured to leave the boy alone. The next day, a grateful Sairake was given a sack of flour by Junušbey. Mother and son set off back to Kochkor. All the way, Saparbek tried to imitate the great bard. He could remember some lines, but mostly he made up the story and an imagined form of recitation. Back in Kochkor, Sairake milked the cows with her fellow women on the collective farm. Saparbek, like his fellow school children, was also assigned tasks. In the early mornings the farm brigadier, Asek – who had been sent back from the front after losing a leg –, loaded a donkey with four čanače goatskin bags of yoghurt, and Saparbek would deliver them to the farm workers cutting hay in the mountains. It wasn’t long before the workers complained that the bags were only half full when Saparbek brought them. Saparbek told the brigadier what was happening: men with guns stopped him 122 Singing the Kyrgys Manas every day, drank some of the yoghurt, and threatened him with violence if he told anybody. Asek guessed these must be deserters, hiding out in the hills. Knowing it would take days before help arrived, he added a smaller fifth čanače to the donkey’s load so both workers and deserters could be fed. It would take Saparbek half the day to reach the farm workers and half to return. On the way back, darkness descended quickly in the mountain gorges he passed through, and he would sing loudly to stop himself getting scared. When he had exhausted the lines he knew, he improvised his own songs. Sometimes he sang about batır heroes and sometimes he created a song that mocked his friends. As the days passed, so it became his habit to improvise lines about his surroundings. One evening, Brigadier Asek called him to a village meeting and asked him to sing about lazy farm workers. Saparbek began:

Karagul and Daadey have forgotten their task: They left hay behind, and now it sits rotting. But there are those who have worked hard, Who put in great effort and who gained stars, Who drank the yoghurt I brought them, And who are now to be praised and thanked.

Once the harvest was in, Saparbek had more time to play with his calf. It was like his pet. One day after school he went to the field where it grazed but could not find it. As he continued to search for it, he walked far from home. It was getting dark when he came to a river running across rocks, and on the river’s bank he bumped into an old man. The man was struggling to load firewood onto an emaciated donkey. Saparbek greeted him and helped load the wood. The man, telling Saparbek it was now too dark to find his calf, invited him back to his home. The man was more than seventy, and lived with his wife in a single room carved into the rock of the hillside. Amongst the Kyrgyz, even a child is a guest, and guests must be revered as God’s messengers. So, the old man slaughtered a small goat and, as its meat cooked, invited Saparbek to sing. Clumsily, Saparbek began to recite, imitating the great Sayaqbay, leaning forwards and backwards, gesticulating with his hands, tapping the time out rhythmically on his knees. The old man looked on until Saparbek finished, and then told told him to listen. The old man was Šapak Rismendiyev (1863-1956), a famous manasči. Rismendiyev, with his well trained but thin voice, began to tell how Manas had fought the Chinese in a great battle. It was a bloodthirsty tale, and this time Saparbek did not fall asleep. He held his breath as he listened. The old man, small and frail when seen in the shadowy and murky light of a single oil lamp, became a warrior, scything the air with his hands as if plunging an imagined sword into countless enemies. His voice strengthened to a deep cry The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 123 as batır heroes were wounded and died. Every cell in Saparbek’s body seemed to absorb the epic, until the batır drove the Chinese back and, still grieving for their fallen comrades, brought news of victory back to their people. The story ended as supper was served. Sated, Saparbek slept. The next morning he left, taking meat and an old scarf as gifts from the old man for his mother. Saparbek continued to search for the calf but couldn’t find it. He decided to return home, and as he approached the village he met his mother. She was looking for him. He gave her the meat and scarf, and told her how he had met the manasči Rismendiyev. Sairake sent him home. Late the previous night she had seen smoke rising from a chimney above a small house that distant relatives lived in on the outskirts of the village, and she now headed there. She suspected they had cooked a feast. As she approached, the wife came out to greet her, standing between her and the door. Sairake pushed past, and saw in the corner of the room a calf’s skin, still wet with blood, that had hastily been covered with hay. She was enraged. She could barely feed her family, but had resisted killing the calf because Saparbek was tending it so carefully. The woman pleaded: ‘You must forgive us, for our children’s bellies are swollen with hunger and we can hardly walk anymore. After all, we are you kin!’ Sairake asked why they stole from her rather than seeking help. She knew the husband, her relative, was a deserter, and threatened to report him. And that is precisely what she did. With no calf, Saparbek took to fishing. He was now twelve. Once, he was fishing when the sun was high in the sky and when the calm sound of the flowing river seemed to be harmoniously at one with the insects that buzzed around. A voice jolted him out of his thoughts: ‘Do you know that a fish speaks through its tail?’ From nowhere, a small stunted man in a red robe had come and sat beside him. ‘Look, a fish is pulling your line!’ Saparbek swiftly lifted the line from the water, and the small fish on its end inscribed a half circle in the air, its silvery flanks glistening, then splashed back into the river. ‘What a pity’, remarked Saparbek. He glanced to his side but the man had disappeared, and he could see nobody for miles in any direction. He was terrified. He threw his rod in the water and ran home. Since then, he has never fished and has never eaten fish. That same night he dreamt he was at a big festival. Over there, people cheered wrestlers. Over there, a crowd listened to a competition of aqın poets. Over there, young people gathered around swings, laughing and joking. Over there, people were served fermented mare’s milk, qımız. Over there, horses paraded before a race. On top of the hill he could see a group of elders, and amongst them was a man dressed for battle. He stood out from the crowd, dignified and mighty. It was Manas! The next morning, Sairake gave Saparbek a drink made from oats, the only food they had left. ‘All night you were telling how Manas gathered the 124 Singing the Kyrgys Manas

Kyrgyz tribes to fight their enemies. Were you dreaming?’ He remembered the gathering, but didn’t know he had been reciting the story. Sairake opened her palms and slowly made a gesture of blessing, stroking them across her face and bringing them together at her heart. ‘My darling son, let God, the Mighty Teņri, protect you!’ She whispered a prayer to the spirits of the great heroes. ‘Great spirits of our ancestors protect and support my son!’ The war ended when Saparbek was fourteen. Life remained harsh, but that didn’t stop children playing. At school, when the bell rang to signal a break, boys wrestled each other, showing off to the girls, though the girls, of course, pretended not to notice. Paper planes flew around. Squeaking and screaming and other sundry noises filled the old brick building. Saparbek didn’t join his peers. Rather, he took the teacher’s place, reciting and improvising, gesticulating, chanting slowly then rapidly, his voice modulating upwards then downwards in pitch. Soon, when he recited the stories of Manas and Semetey, he was the star of every school event. In the late 1940s, the Academy of Sciences in Frunze launched a campaign to collect folktales and folksongs. Researchers came across Saparbek, and paid his mother 15,000 roubles, giving her a green notebook and pencils with which to write down his stories. Sairake had never imagined her boy’s childish reciting could be worth so much. She had not realized that he was reciting his own version of Semetey, the second part of the epic triptych. A lot of mutton fat was burnt in the oil lamps during long evenings as Saparbek filled up that notebook. A year later, the researchers returned with a request to publish his manuscript, but the family had moved to Issyk-kul and could not be found. The green notebook remained, untouched and unpublished, in the Academy archive. Saparbek graduated from school in 1948 and was sent by the local authorities to study electrical engineering at a vocational college in Tokmok, a town in the Chu Valley near Frunze. He dared not refuse, because his elder brother Imanakun had been sent to a teachers’ college in Narin the previous year but had left after six months, unable to endure the deprivations of student living. When the authorities had demanded he return, Sairake stood up for him, only to see him conscripted into the Red Army. Saparbek chose study over possible conscription. He soon found that he liked sharing a room with eight or more students. Sometimes, though, Saparbek would loudly recite during his sleep, often falling out of bed. At first, his roommates found this funny, but they soon wearied of him and asked the tutors to solve the problem. The teachers liked the healthy, witty and able Saparbek, so they arranged for a tiny room to be built for him at the far end of the corridor. He moved there, but this only made the situation worse: now the whole hostel could hear him reciting in his sleep! The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 125

After completing his training, he returned to Kochkor to work as an electrician. There was much to do, because Lenin had proclaimed during the October Revolution in 1917 that ‘Communism is the power of the Soviets, plus the electrification of the country.’ Wealth from the rich had been expropriated, and now the Kremlin used it to fit all houses with ‘Lenin bulbs’. Saparbek was part of a great strategy, even though he lived in a remote and distant corner of Central Asia. Occasionally, when theatrical troupes visited the villages, Saparbek would be called on to provide lighting for temporary stages erected under the open sky. One day, a troupe from the Narin Drama Theatre came. After the theatrical part of the performance, the actors changed into national dress to give a folk music concert. There was a break of about half an hour before the concert, and as the impatient audience waited somebody shouted out, ‘Let young Saparbek entertain us while we wait!’ Saparbek duly obliged, borrowing a qomuz fiddle. He mounted the stage:

Snowcaps on the eternal mountains Resemble the white hats of the Kyrgyz. My people graze their livestock on high pastures Their lives are inseparable from the mountains. As the mountains witness the passing of centuries, So the Kyrgyz survive calamities. We are born in the mountains and we say we are Kyrgyz, And nobody can deny our pride.

The crowd cheered with enthusiasm, ‘Bali! More!’ Saparbek continued, to the accompaniment of laughter, clapping and whistling:

Now is the turn of actors to sing, They fear being outshone by me. Instead of making them jealous and tight, I must provide them with electric light!

After the concert a well-known bard who was touring with the troupe came up to him: ‘Little brother, join us. Let’s perform together.’ He agreed. He remained an electrician of sorts, but now he electrified the performances as he and one other bard, Aytaliev, competed on stage, alternating verses. Aytaliev was older, but singing in duet their voices complemented each other: Aytaliev’s long melodies accompanied by virtuosic qomuz fiddling contrasted but worked well against Saparbek’s sparse qomuz and rapid-fire chanting. Saparbek called Aytaliev ‘Aitake’ and Aytaliev called Saparbek ‘Sapash’. The troupe was kept busy touring towns, villages and remote camps throughout the summer. They would travel on open lorries, sheltering 126 Singing the Kyrgys Manas from the rain under a felt mat, a mat that became their bed when there were no guesthouses. In winter they played at the Narin Theatre. In 1959, during a party after one performance, Aytaliev announced in his slow humorous manner to the distinguished actors: ‘Sapash, it is time for you to marry’. ‘I can’t get married when I haven’t met the right girl yet,’ Saparbek responded. ‘We have found someone for you. She is Asangul, a star of the Narin Teachers College.’ Well, Saparbek wasn’t tall, but he was handsome enough and had a good physique. He would comb his hair back and let one metal tooth sparkle in the light so that girls would think him attractive. He went to the college. Rather than ask to meet Asangul, he found girls from Issyk-kul. Charmed, they invited him for tea at their hostel. Before he could ask about Asangul, a girl rushed into the room. The prefect was coming! The girls quickly removed the cups, replacing them with open books, but they couldn’t think what to do with Saparbek. The door opened, and a petite girl appeared, her hair tied in two careful and equal plaits. ‘Guests aren’t allowed in the hostel!’ She snapped. ‘Who is this?’ Nobody answered, so Saparbek stood up, introduced himself, and asked the prefect her name. It was Asangul. Saparbek felt his mouth drop. His heart missed a beat. She asked something, but his heart was drumming so loudly he couldn’t hear what she was saying. She asked again: why was he in the room. He responded that he had come to invite the future teachers to the theatre, where his troupe was staging a historical drama. What a shame it was he was an actor, thought Asangul, looking at this handsome lad. Acting though, well, it was not considered a serious profession. She thanked him for the invitation and told him to leave. As he walked back, he tried to work out how he could arrange tickets for all the girls. But he couldn’t think straight, since he kept seeing her face in his mind’s eye. His heart was melting. ‘Aitake’, he called out. ‘She is coming!’ ‘Who?’ ‘Why, Asangul!’ The whole troupe knew who would be the special guest that evening. Saparbek waited near the ticket office until Asangul entered the foyer, accompanied by a group of girls, with more following, and more behind them… Saparbek had never expected so many to come. Asangul looked at him, pushing her chin out and raising her head: ‘I brought just one class, since the other is out on attachment in schools. Shall we go in?’ He asked her to wait as he rushed into the theatre to find Aytaliev. Sweat was dripping from his forehead as he announced the girls’ arrival. ‘Let them in.’ ‘But there are thirty girls!’ Aytaliev pushed Saparbek back the way he had come, telling him to keep the girls in the foyer for as long as he could. How could they be accommodated when the show had sold out? Saparbek tried to keep his cool, asking the girls to introduce themselves. He quickly got confused as to who was who, and became increasingly flustered. He was relieved when the bell rang. Ushers led the girls into the The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 127 theatre, and he rushed backstage to put on his costume. Standing at the drapes, he could see the girls seated right at the front on a makeshift collection of chairs. Asangul was in the centre, seeming to him like the jewel at the centre of an engagement ring. That night Saparbek performed his favourite episode of the epic, when Ay-čürök puts on her swan costume and flies high in the sky to look for Semetey, the man she is destined to marry. Saparbek put his whole heart into the story. He rode a wave of inspiration, passionately. He could not stop. A thunderstorm of applause came as two colleagues led him from the stage. The whole college buzzed with excitement. The prefect, the model student, courted by an actor! Her teachers worried that such a star student might marry beneath herself. A verse that Saparbek wrote for Asangul soon spread:

I am a nightingale of Issyk-kul who found inspiration, You are a flower of Tien Shan Mountain radiating joy, Let’s hold hands forever in mutual admiration, Let many flowers be born from our joy.

Young men, it is said, wrote out that verse for their girlfriends. Later it was set to a melody, and that melody is now so popular that people think it must be an age-old folksong. Asangul was eighteen and was in her final year at college. She lived with a distant aunt in Narin, to whom she was a real gift. One day during the winter holiday she was standing on a ladder, painting the walls of her aunt’s house. She stretched and fell, breaking her arm. She had her arm in a makeshift cast when, late that night, she heard a truck pull up outside. She put a coat over her nightshirt and went out to see who was there. A girl called from the cab, telling her to get in before she froze. She was surprised to find Saparbek already inside the cab. She didn’t object as they drove along the main street, but she grew more concerned as they drove into the countryside. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s go back.’ The girl smiled at her: ‘Saparbek is kidnapping you!’ Asangul burst into tears. Saparbek put his arm around her, covering her with a warm blanket, but she was too proud to give in and let him know she secretly had fallen for him. ‘Where are you taking me?’ ‘To my mother’s house near Ribachie, in the Issyk-kul region.’ ‘But I must finish college!’ ‘You will’, he said, ‘but first we must get my mother’s blessing.’ It was dawn when they arrived. Sairake lived some distance from the centre, across the railway tracks. When she heard the truck approaching, she took a handful of wheat flour. She sprinkled it over Asangul’s head as she came through the door to wish the couple a prosperous life. She covered Asangul’s head with a white scarf in the traditional way that symbolizes the 128 Singing the Kyrgys Manas transition when a young woman becomes a wife. She led her behind the curtain that separated one corner of the room, where as a young bride she must sit as relatives and well-wishers are invited to bless her and give the couple presents. Sairake saw her swollen arm; the cast had shifted on the break and needed changing. She scolded Saparbek for his cruelty. She picked up fresh cow dung from outside and used this to fashion a cast, wrapping the arm tightly in a clean bandage. She chuckled as she told Asangul she would have to put up with the smell, but that the dung would soon set as a solid cast. A mullah should have conducted the nuptials, but this was a time when the Soviets discouraged religious practice, so they made do with an elderly man from the neighbourhood. Stories filled the next few days. Sairake told Asangul about her husband, Kasmambet. He had been exiled to Almaty in 1917, but had joined a Red Army unit led by a Kyrgyz revolutionary and travelled to Narin to eliminate counter-revolutionaries. ‘He was tall. When he mounted his horse – you know our horses here are shorter than those in the valleys – he didn’t use stirrups, because his legs hung down almost to the ground. He wore an army uniform, but they couldn’t find a cap or boots to fit him, so he had handmade boots and a big handmade hat crafted from black and white wool that made him appear even bigger. He was nicknamed “Alabapak”, “black and white hat”. He was made an inspector of internal affairs, and he was so big and imposing that it was enough for him to shout to someone from the other side of the river, telling them to report to the police station. Nobody ever challenged him.’ Within earshot of neighbours, Asangul asked how Sairake came to marry him. The neighbours quickly whispered that he had been her second husband before Sairake could prepare her answer. ‘My father Sidik married me to the son of Kobogon Aji in Kochkor. But he died before I could become pregnant, so I was married to a wealthy Uzbek widower in Narin called Raimjan. He had a big house in the centre of town, but when he heard the Bolsheviks were eliminating the rich he fled to China. I refused to go with him. Our house was confiscated, and I began to work in a little shop selling tandır, bread baked in the clay oven. One day, I pitied a starving soldier and gave him a piece of bread, and others then came, crowding the shop, hoping for handouts. Their commander chased them away, telling me I wasn’t to give them anything. The hungry soldiers stopped coming, but the commander came back and gave me a present of fragrant soap. I remember his big hand being stretched out in what was such a generous gesture in those difficult days. He asked me to marry him. That commander was Kasmambet.’ Sairake asked Asangul about her parents. Weren’t they from Ak-moyun Village in the district of At-Bashy? Asangul, curious, confirmed that they were. When she said that her father had died in the war, Sairake told her she The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 129 was sorry to hear this, since she had known him, and had also met her mother. Sairake continued: ‘One day a tired man with the air of a nobleman came to our house, accompanied by a pleasant-looking woman. He asked if a man called Alabapak lived in our house. He told Kasmambet that his family had once owned huge herds that roamed the vast pastures near Ak-Moyun. But then the Bolsheviks arrested his father and put him in Frunze prison. They confiscated the family property, giving it to the collective farm. They sent the family to the Ukraine, but as they travelled there, the cart carrying their possessions overturned in a stream. They lost everything. So, now they were struggling. That was your father, Kerimkul, with your mother, Sabira. It was dangerous in those days to help anybody who had been stripped of wealth. People avoided them. Kasmambet, though, was touched by your parents’ dignity, and gave them a cart loaded with goods. He told them they could use it as a mobile shop, to both disguise themselves and make a living.’ The newly-weds returned to Narin. They rented a tiny one-roomed shack furnished with just a carpet and two blankets. Asangul became a school teacher. Each time the troupe went touring and he had to leave his young wife, particularly when she fell pregnant, Saparbek was troubled. In April 1960, Asangul gave birth to her first son, who Saparbek named ‘Suiunbek’, ‘Be joyful’. Saparbek and Asangul’s relationship, though, grew tense whenever he toured far and wide. Suiunbek was sent to Sairake so that she could look after him. Asangul became more and more lonely. She would wait patiently, greeting Saparbek with love and affection when he returned. After a while, though, she would be angry rather than affectionate when he returned, pleading for them to be allowed to live as a normal family. Eventually, she gave Saparbek an ultimatum: he must chose between her and the theatre. He left the troupe and, moving with Asangul to Ribachie, took a job as an electrician. She changed schools, and the family were given a new bungalow near the city power station. Ribachie, with factories and a large ethnic Russian population, was at a busy junction in the Issyk-kul region, a crossroads where roads from Narin, Frunze and the road eastwards to China met, at the end of a gorge. Asangul grew accustomed to the ferocious winds that blew along the gorge, blown from where breezes in the Frunze region met the colder air in the mountainous pass. The winds were known as the ‘ulans’. In February 1962, their first daughter, Gulnara, was born. Saparbek was happy, seeing his poem come true: ‘Let many flowers be born from our joy.’ When mother and daughter were discharged from hospital, he would bathe his daughter and wrap her in a towel. Her wet hair stood to attention, just like the coat of a wet kitten, so Saparbek, laughing, gave her the nickname ‘Kuku’. Father and daughter were inseparable. Kuku sat on Saparbek’s arm, like a bird on a branch, and he took her everywhere. 130 Singing the Kyrgys Manas

One night, Asangul woke up and heard Saparbek singing. ‘Don’t do that, you’ll wake the child!’ she pleaded. He continued. She turned on the light, and discovered he was singing in his sleep. She shook him, but couldn’t wake him. It was as if he was in a different world. Kuku began to cry and Asangul, who had never seen Saparbek like this, panicked. She wrapped her daughter in a blanket and rushed out from the house into a fierce wind. She hurried over to the house of Saparbek’s brother, Imanakun. ‘Aba! Aba!’ she called, using the respectful term of address for an older male relative. Imanakun’s dog began to bark. A light came on and her brother-in-law, with his wife Buruluš, came out. ‘Saparbek is singing in his sleep and, no matter what I do, he won’t wake up.’ They calmed her, telling her that he had sometimes done this as a child. And so it was that she got used to him chanting in the middle of the night. Sometimes he would recite calmly, and sometimes he kept singing for so long that Asangul fell asleep, lulled. She got used to him ending these subliminal performances by chanting the names of his wife, his son, and his daughter. The couple slept on the floor and sometimes he would roll around, bumping into walls or violently waving his hands, and on those nights Asangul had to remove sharp and heavy objects, take her child in her arms, and go to sleep at Imanakun’s house. Saparbek still wanted to perform. Despite Asangul’s objections, he quit his job as an electrician and joined the Ribachie Cultural Centre troupe. Again, he would be absent from home for months on end as he toured the countryside. Sometimes, Asangul thought he would never return, but he always came back. He would bring presents, and he would sit silently as she scolded him. Then, one time when he returned, his wife had left. In panic, he ran to her parents, but they refused to talk to him. ‘My daughter doesn’t need a light-hearted actor!’ her stepfather shouted. What could Asangul do? If she returned home, nothing would change, yet her daughter missed him as much as she. A letter arrived summoning her to meet the Minister of Education in Frunze. When she turned up, he reminded her she was a talented teacher, but that if she divorced she would damage her chances of joining the Communist Party. He told her that Saparbek was no longer an actor, but had been made manager of the Cultural Centre. It was Sairake who had intervened. She had visited the minister. Reunited, Saparbek’s job was now to organize mass spectacles, promote groups of performers as they toured schools and factories, and help the main troupe develop repertory. Domestic bliss was marred when Saparbek came home drunk, and this soon became a regular occurrence: people were poor and there weren’t any bars in Ribachie, so his many friends would bring alcohol to the Cultural Centre. Saparbek was fired when the authorities received a complaint about the drinking. Jobless, he began to write for newspapers. As a touring actor, he had seen the many social and industrial The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 131 injustices that existed around the country. He knew about the polluted rivers, the poorly built schools and the cheating shopkeepers. Now, building on what he had observed, he became a correspondent for TASS, the Soviet agency. With his new position, he could both write and sing his commentaries on injustice and criticize the authorities to enthusiastic audiences. He knew how to gather information from an audience and to weave it into his singing, quite unlike the official aqın who were expected to praise the communist authorities. He sang to his fifth daughter, Chinara, when she cried:

Stop crying little Chinibai, I will sing you a lullaby. On my hands my baby flies Like a jolly bird in the sky.

Even though sons were favoured in those days, Saparbek loved his daughters. His second daughter, Dinara, was born in 1964, and Sairake took care of her. His third, Ainara, was born with a heart defect, and Asangul’s mother, Sabira, took care of her. Sabira managed the unimaginable, bringing back a spoiled but smart girl a year later. Saparbek celebrated this by writing a poem for International Women’s Day that was published in the literary journal, Alatoo. Next came their fourth daughter, Venera, and in 1975, a son, Jildižbek, ‘Star Boy’. In 1975, they moved to Tamchy, a small town on the shore of Lake Issyk- kul where Asangul, now a member of the Communist Party, was appointed school principal. A year later she was put in charge of a school in her natal At-Bashy, where they lived for four years. There, Čeč-döbö Hill stood in the middle of the river valley, and this sparked a memory to Saparbek as being the hill where Manas’s ally, Košoy, had built a fortified castle. The hero Almambet, he remembered, had been buried there. He found ruins, and recalling how little the epic told about Almambet and Košoy he decided to create a new heroic episode. He would sing this at parties, and Asangul encouraged him to write it down. It took many years before he published a book of the heroic text, Er Košoy, in 1994. His book was edited by the celebrated writer Čingiz Aytmatov. The introduction, written by Bolotbek Sadikov, included the following statement: ‘It is the task of future linguists to research the Manas from an academic perspective. Now, however, it is our duty to acquaint the Kyrgyz people with Er Košoy, through the version known to Kasmambet’s son, Saparbek.’ Encouraged by the reception of his book, Saparbek published a further heroic episode in 2003, this time about Bılerek, a young ally of Manas. In this, he weaved some of the tales he had been told by his mother when journeying from place to place. While Košoy is one of the ancient heroes of 132 Singing the Kyrgys Manas the Manas epic, Bılerek might well be Busuruk, a son of Jaņgır who in the 1860s briefly ruled Kashgar; it is thought that his name has been mangled over time by the Bugu bards (Hatto 1977: 140). In 2009, the year in which we are writing, Saparbek has celebrated his seventy-fifth birthday. He is a father, grandfather and great-grandfather. He has carried through his life a great gift of story-telling, winning many competitions as a manasči and an aqın. He has performed in stadiums, in theatres, at state celebrations and at private parties. If one collected all of his performances, and transcribed the many TV and radio recordings that have been made of him, they would fill many volumes. Saparbek was officially recognized for his skills by the Kyrgyz Republic in 2005. In 2009, his birthday was celebrated by an exhibition and symposium held at the National Library in Bishkek. But he remains primarily a singer of the people, a true manasči. When he sings his people still listen, cheer and clap, becoming one with him and entering into his world of the timeless heroic epic, the Manas.

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INDEX

Abdıkerım, 119 Ak-kıya, 40, 116 Abdırakhmanov, Ibırayım, 97, Ak-kula, 27-8, 35, 39, 109, 116 101 Ak-moyun village, 128 Abdırasul, 120 Ak-šumkar, gyrfalcon, 34-6, 47-9, Abdukalık, 20, 22 50 Abdykarov, T. A., 101, 105, 112 Ak-tulpar, 34-7 Abeke, 32, 38, 40, 42 Akulbay, 22 Abılbek, 45 Ala-kul lake, 35 Ač-buudan, 34 Alabash mountain, 29 Achaemenid empire, 81 Alagušov, Balbai, 111 Adžıbay, 26 Alatoo, literary journal, 131 Aethiopis, epic poem, 75 Albania, 77 Afghanistan, 81, 83 Albay, 32, 38, 42 Africa, xii, 76, 78, 98 Alexander, 81 AHRC Research Centre for Algara, 27-8, 46, 60-61 Cross-Cultural Music and Alıbek, 14, 22 Dance Performance, xi-xii, Allah, 3 xvi Almambet, 11, 12, 24-31, 35, 39, Aına, 52 49, 51-2, 60-61, 94, 98, Ainu, 76-7 107, 131 Airbus, xiii Almásy, G., 96-7 Ajıbay, 31 Almaty (Alma-Ata), 92, 128 Akayev, Askar, ix, 112 Almırza, 15-16 Ak-Balta, 5-7, 10, 39 Alooke, 16, 45 Ak-bel forest, 38-9, 116 Altai, 3, 9, 13, 18, 22, 25, 75, 78, Akborčuk hills, 34 80, 83, 87 Akči valley, 35 Amu-Darya river, 81 Ak-erkeč, 94 Amur river, 57, 59, 61-2 Akılay, 12-13 Andijan, xv, 18, 39 Akılbek, 109 angel, 32, 35-7 Akınek, 50, 53 Appadurai, Arjun, xiii Akın-kan, 44-5, 47, 49-50 aqın, singer, 88 116, 123, 132 akkalpak, felt hat, 28 Arabic, 72 142 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Argonautica, epic poem, 75 BBC, xvi-xvii, 78 Aristotle, 65 Beeman, William, 72 Arslan, Gouljan, x, xvi beheading, 30, 42, 61 Arvon, Henri, 100 Beijing, 8, 31, 43, 56, 59, 83 Asangul, 126-31 bek, prince, 17, 19, 21, 24 Asek, 121-2 Beliaev, Viktor M., 87, 103-4, Asia, xii 111 Asıranbek, 118 Belinskii, Aleksandr G., 95 Astrakhan, 85 Beowulf, epic poem, 75 At-Bashy district, 128, 131 Berkova P. N., 103 Atkelkı, 50, 53 Bernštam, Aleksandr, 84, 101-2, Auezov, Muhtar O., 101, 105, 105-6 109-10 Bertels, Evgenii, 108 Auty, R., 76-7 Bılerek, 131-2 Aybanboč, 27-8 Bishkek (Pishpek, Frunze), 95-6, Ay-čürök, 44-55, 58-9, 84, 95, 99, 102, 116, 119, 124, 129, 127 132 as swan maiden, 45-50, 58-9, blood money, 57, 60 127 Boeing, xiii Ayımkul, 117, 119 Bok-murun, 94 Ayteliev, 125-6 Bölöt-bay, 33 Aytmatov, Čingiz, 98-9, 110-12, Bolot, Nazar, 92 131 Booke, 14 Aytmatov, Torekul, 100 Borland, Harriet, 100 Azeris, 80 Bošbudan, 41 Azız-kan, 11, 25, 26, 28, 39, 52 Bowra, Cecil M., 66-7, 75 Azızov, Šaabay, 115 Boyes, Georgina, 72 Bagdılöt, 3, 6, 32, 39, 41-2 Böyön, 3 Bailey, H. W., 77 Braun, Maximilian, 85-6 bakan, stick, 117 Britain, 75 Bakay (Wise Bakay), 25-6, 31, Büdıbek, 4-6, 107 33, 35, 36, 38-42, 49-50, Bukhara, xv, 15, 18-20, 23-4, 33- 54, 58, 108 4, 36-7, 44-6, 50, 52-5, 82- Baktria, 81 3, 99 Balkaš lake, 46 Bulgaria, 77 Balykchy, see Ribachie bullets, 29-31, 54, 58 Barıboz, Keldıbek, 109 Burkeev, Bokunbay, 115 Bashkirs, 80 Bürül, 52 Batchelor, John, 77 Buruluš, 130 batır, hero, 58, 60, 119-20, 122-3 Buryat, 69, 78, 109 battle, 25-31, 57, 60-2, 99, 116 Čaatay, 34-5 Bauman, Richard, 72 Čačıke, 42-3, 44, 47, 49, 50, 53 Bawden, C. R., 77 Čailu mountain, 29 Index 143

Cambridge, university of, xvi Drerup, Engelbert, 68 camels, 10, 23, 28, 39, 41, 43, 60 dreams, 24, 97, 106, 108-9, 121, čanače, goatskin bag, 121-2 124 Caplan, Lionel, 72 Dunn, C. J., 77 Caucasus, 85, 98 dutar, stringed instrument, 86 Čeč-döbö hill, 131 Džakišev, U., 102 Chalai Jailoo, 117 džomoqču, see manasči Chanson de Guillaume, epic Džumaliev, S. R., 101, 105, 112 poem, 76 Ečkılık, 40 Chanson de Roland, epic poem, Ečkılüü mountain, 47 69, 76 Edige, epic poem, 69, 100, 107 China, 3, 8, 11, 25-31, 43, 80, 82- Egypt, 72, 78 4, 89, 97-8, 102, 106-8, Elbourne, R. P., 65 112, 116, 123, 128-9 Eleman, 31 caravan, 30 Eliade, Mircea, 81 Dangsa, History of Tang, 8 Engels, Fredrick, 103 Qing Dynasty, 8, 83, 94 envoy, 57-8 Tang Dynasty, 8, 82-3 epic poetry Cho Tongil, 79 change, 73-4 čilten, spirits, 5, 107 epic moments, 71 Čın-kojo, 44-5, 53-5 epopees, 74 Čınojık, 35 formula, 67, 70, 74, 79, 94-5, Čıtay-kan, 56 116 Čıyala, 35 instruments used in, 86-7 Čıymıt, 32, 38, 42 orality, 71-2, 92, 104 Čıyördı, 3-9, 32-3, 39, 42-3 performance, 85-9, 94-5 Čokmorov, Mambet, 103, 108 texts, written, 74-5, 101, 116 constellation, 24 themes, 70, 76 Cossack, 83 vocal style, 87-9, 96, 110-11 council, 21, 56-7, see also feast Epigonoi, epic poem, 75 Čoyuke, 98 Er Kökčö, 94 Crimea, 85 Er Košoy, epic poem, 131 Čubak, 25, 29-31, 35, 39, 43, 52 Er-toltoy, 44-5, 53-5 Cushing, G. F., 77 Erzakovich, B. G., 88 Cyrillic, xiv Esen-kan, 10, 31, 56-7, 107 Deny, Jean, 80 ethnomusicology, xiii dervish, 7 feast, 7, 45-6, 56-7, 106, 123, see De Weese, Devin, 108 also council Dıkambay, 109 Feintuch, Bert, 66 Diušaliev, Kamchybek, 111 Feld, Steven, xiii dombra, stringed instrument, 86 Fine, Elizabeth, 72 Dor, Rémy, 72, 83 Finnegin, Ruth, 72 Dorday-kan, 56 Finns, 75 144 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas fish, 47-9, 123 Hogg, James, 66 Fisher, Humphrey, 72 Homer, ix, 65, 67-8, 76-7, 106, flail, 33 110 Foley, John Miles, 72 Honko, Lauri, 65 folklore, xii, 65, 72, 124 horse race, 33-7 folk music, 65, 66, 124 Howard, Keith, 74, 78-9, 100, 109 fox, 40 Huns, 80, 82-3 France, 69, 75-6 Hymes, Dell, 72 Frunze, see Bishkek Ili river, valley, 46, 82 Fula, 78 Iliad, ix, 65, 68, 70, 72, 75, 92-3, geomancers, 59 100, 105 German epics, 69, 75, 76 Imanbay, 9 Genghis Khan, 82, 91 India, 81, 83, 98 Georgia, 77 International Alphabet of Sanskrit Gesar/Geser, epic poems, 78 Transliteration, xv Ghazni, 81 International Council for giants, 29-31 Traditional Music, xi gıdždžak, stringed instrument, 87 International Folk Music Gluckman, Max, 72 Council, 65 Golden Horde, 69, 82, 85, 91 Music of the Turkic Speaking Gómez-Pena, Guillermo, xiii World, Study Group, xi Gorkii, Maxim, 100 International Standards Gorogly, epic poem, 107 Organization, xiv Greek epics, 75 Irčı-uul, 31 griots, musicians, 78 Ireland, 75, 76 Hainsworth, J. B., 76 Isa, 22 Ham Bodêdio, 78 Ismail, 33-7, 38, 42 Hamayon, Roberte, 85 Issyk-kul lake, region, 83, 91-2, Han Harangui, 77 94, 97, 110, 116, 119, 126- Harker, Dave, 72 7, 129, 131 Harris, Rachel, xi It-borčuk, 35 Harvey, L. P., 76 Itičpeš river, 26 Hatto, Arthur, x, 8, 66-71, 74, 76, Jakıp, 3-24, 41-2, 70, 84, 94, 106- 79, 83-5, 88, 91-8, 100, 7 104, 132 Jalgan khora, month, 58 Hegel, Georg W. F., 65 jambı, gold ingots, 14, 16, 23-4, Herakleia, epic poem, 75 43, 51, 57 Herat, 81 Jamgırčı, 93 herd, 3-5, 22-3, 26-7 Jamıla, 52 Herodotus, 81 Jangar, 70, 77, 78 Heusler, Andreas, 69 Jaņgır, 132 Hildebrandslied, epic poem, 75 Japan, 73-4, 76, 98 Hindu Kush, 81 Jediger, 44, 46, 53-4 Index 145

Jelmaıan, 39-40, 41, 60 Kashgar, 46, 82, 84, 108, 132 jıgıt, warrior, 8-10, 22, 30-32, 39, Kasmambet, 118, 128, 131 42-3, 52-4, 57-62, 108-9, Kasmambetov, Iamanakun, 117-9, 120 124, 130 Jırchı uul, 109 Kasmambetov, Saparbek, life Jırman, 109 story, 115-32 Jökör, 14, 22 Kasmambetova, Ainara, 131 Joloy, 10, 27, 34 Kasmambetova, Chinara, 131 Joloy-kan, epic poem, 94 Kasmambetova, Dinara, 131 Jungarian, 82 Kasmambetova, Gulnara, x, xvi, Junušbey, 121 115-7, 129-30 Jusup Mamai, 102 Kasmambetova, Jildižbek, 131 Kabul, 81 Kasmambetova, Venera, 131 Kalča, 27, 39, 43, 46, 56 kaukhar, black stone, 13, 108, Kaldar, 35 117-8 Kalevala, epic poem, 75 Kazakh, xvi, 10, 31, 43, 46, 67, Kalkaman, stone, 117-8 80, 82-4, 85-8, 91, 96-7, Kalıman, 45, 52 101, 106 Kalmaks, 3, 12, 25, 41, 50, 56, 77, Kazan, 85 82-3, 85 Keng-kul lake, 28, 39, 43, 116 Kamıla, 52 Kenje Kara, 87, 95-6 kan/khan, 8, 23, 69, 85, 94 Ker, William P., 69 Kan-čoro, 43, 48, 50, 58, 60 Kerimkul, 129 Kandahar, 81 Kermay river, 5 Kanguru, 13 Kermečüü, 39-41, 116 Kanıkey, 11-24, 32-7, 42-3, 47, Khiva, 82-3 50, 54, 58, 70, 83, 99, 107, Khorezm, 69, 71, 81, 85 116, 121 Kinzer, Stephen, 112 as Sanir Abiga, 15-24 Kipchaks 12, 43 wounded, 32, 38 Kırben river, 38-9, 41 Kapka, batır, 56 Kırgıl-čal, 31 Kara-bök, 12, 13 Kitab-i Dede Qorqut, epic poem, Karakalpak, 52, 69, 80, 87, 89, 84, 107 100 Kıtay, 8-10, 11, 19, 50, 56-9, 60- Kara-kan, 35, 44, 45 62, 82 Kara-keröng, 26-8 kıyak, stringed instrument, 87 Karakorum, 81 Kizal river, 42 Kara-kul lake, 3, 108 Kizart mountain, 42 Kara-Kyrgyz, 67, 93 Klebe, Dorit, xi Kara-tegın, 13 Knapp, Alexander, xi Kara-tor, 18, 24, 40, 46 Kobogon Aji, 128 Kar’aygır, 26-7 Köböš, 32, 38, 40, 42 karnay, trumpet, 107 146 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Kochkor, 42, 117-8, 120-1, 125, 109, 111-9, 124-5, 128, 128 131-2 Köčkör, 32, 38 Academy of Science, x, 103, Köçümkulkïzï, Elmira, 98, 104-5 105, 124 Kokand, 39, 82-4, 94 folk artists, 98, 101 Kökčö, 31, 46, 93 language, xiv-xv kök-joru, birds, 39 National Library, 132 Kök-kümböš mausoleum, 39, 41 scholarship, x, xi, 68, 73, 82, kokok, berries, 16 84, 93, 97, 104-6 Kökömeren, 35 Kyrgyz TV, 115, 132 Kökötöydün ašı, epic poem, 92-3, Laing, Dave, 100 99, 106 Leaf, Walter, 72 Kölbay, 31, 38 Lenin, 125 Kononov, A. N., 104 Levin, Theodore, 81, 85, 87, 89, Koņur-bay, 26-8, 31, 43, 46, 56-9, 109 60-62, 99, 107 Lloyd, A. L., 77 Korea, xvi, 69, 73, 89 Lomax, Alan, xiii McCune-Reischauer London Seminar on Epic, 76-8 Romanization, xv Lönnrot, Elias, 75 Korumdu (Korundy), 118-9, 121 Lord, Albert, ix, xii, 66, 68-76, Koš-bulak spring, 3-4 79, 89, 91, 94, 99 Košoy, 15, 23, 31, 35, 38, 93, 131 Maadai-kara, epic poem, 78 Koyon-aaly, 46 Macedonia, 81 Közkaman, 94 Māhābhārata, ix, 65, 77, 100 Krader, Barbara, 88 Majık, 4-5, 107 Kudrun, epic poem, 75 Majmū’ al-Tavarikh, 84 Kukush, 117-8 Makeldöö, 29-31 Kül-čoro, 43, 48-55, 58, 60-62, 99 Mali, 76 Küldür, 3 Maltsev, Misha, 78, 109 Kumaık, dog, 39, 41 Mambetalyev, Urkaš, 115 Kumar, 45 Manas, 3-33, 35-7, 41-4, 47, 49- Kumar, Balıbek Bekmurat, 109 50, 54, 56-7, 60, 62, 83-4, Kumārasaṃbhava, 77 93-9, 103, 106-8, 112, 116, Kümbat, 52 120-1, 123-4, 131 Kunanbaeva, A. B., 85-9 Almabaš, musket, 33, 36 Kundus lake, 3 battle dress, 33, 54 Kushan empire, 81 birth, 6, 94 Kutunay, 8 half-brothers of, 32-3, 41-2 Kuuray bushes, 16, 21 mausoleum, 39, 40, 112, 116 Kydyrbaeva, R. Z., 96, 98, 103 name, 7, 8 Kyrgyz, 9, 11-12, 22, 25, 31, 41, seven principles of, 112-3 43, 56-8, 60, 67-9, 72, 80, 83-5, 87-9, 92, 96, 102-3, Index 147 manasči, singer of epic poems, 3, Nepal, xvi 88-9, 103, 108-11, 115-6, Nez-kara, 10, 27-8 120, 132 Nibelungenlied, epic poem, 69, Mandinka, 78 75, 76 Maņeldüņ, 29 Nilsson, Martin P., 68 marriage, 11-24, 44-55, 83, 94, Nogay, 3, 18-19, 85, 93, 97 99, 107 Noghay, 69, 85 bride kidnapping, 127-8 nomads, 80-82, 86 dowry, 22-4, 44 N’urgen-bootur, epic poem, 78 Marx, Karl, 103 oath, 49, 50, 53 Mayor, Walter, 104-5 Ob-Ugrian, 69-70, 77 Mecca, 98 Odyssey, epic poem, ix, 65, 68, medressa, 82 72, 75, 100, 105 Meņdi-bay, 14, 22, 24 Oguz, 84, 104 Menges, Karl Heinrich, 80 Oirat, 82, 94 Merv, 82-3 oloņxo, epic genre, 73, 78, 85, 89 Miftakov, Kayum, 97-8, 101 Omur, Čoyuke, 109 Moldo, Togolok, 103 ordo, tribal council seat, 44, 56-7, Moldogaziev, Turganbai, 111 58 Mongols, 8, 75, 77, 82-4, 87, 89 Orkhon river, 105 Morgan, L. H., 103 Orozbaqov, Sagımbay, ix-x, 74, Morris, H. F., 77 97-104, 107, 110 Moscow, 85 Osh, 116 Russian Academy of Sciences, Ošpertık, 46 92 Ošpür, 7-9, 107 mufti, 21 Ossetia, 77 mullah, 21, 128 otters, 4 Musaev, Samar, 93, 97, 101, 103- Ottomans, 80 6, 108-10 Oxford, university of, xvi musical instruments, 86-7, 107 Pābūjī, epic poem, 77 musicology, 110-11 palace, 18, 21, 47, 50 musket, 29-30, 33, 58-9 p’ansori, epic storytelling genre, Musulmankulov, Moldobasan, 69, 71, 73, 78-80, 86, 100 103 Park, Chan E., 79-80, 100 Muz-burčak, 31 Parkin, David, 72 Naimanbay, 109 Parry, Milman, ix, xii, 67, 68, 72, Narin, 116-7, 119, 124, 125-9 76, 79, 91-2, 94 Narin Drama Theatre, 125-6 Pedersen, Thomas, xiv Narin Teachers College, 126 peri, fairies, 13, 46 Narmantay, Čonbaš, 97, 109 Persia, ix, 74, 78, 82, 100, 104 narodnost, national, 111 Pihl, Marshall R., 71, 79-80 Naumann, Clas M., 83 Pishpek, see Bishkek Nenet, 78 plov, rice dish, 56 148 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Poema de Mio Cid, epic poem, 76 Rubrik, William of, 81 poison, 41-2 St Petersburg Polivanov, E. D., 105 Oriental Archives, 92 Pravda, newspaper, 101 Phonogram Archive, 95-6 Prior, Daniel, xii, 65, 74, 87, 92-3, Šaatemır, see Temir-kan 95-7, 102-3, 105-6 Sabira, 129 Qabirga, 97 sacrifice, 39-41, 108-9, 118, 121- Qaralaev, Sayaqbay, ix-x, 74, 88, 2 98-103, 107-8, 110-11, 115, Sadikov, Bolotbek, 131 121 Sagidova, E. K., 103 qımız, fermented mare’s milk, 81, Saif ad-Dīn, 84 123 Sairake, 117-21, 123-4, 127-31 Qipčak, 84 Sakha (Yakutia), 73, 80, 85, 89 Qıtay, 8 Samanids, 82 qobız, stringed instrument, 87 Samarkand, 12, 14, 81-2 qomuz, stringed instrument, 86-7, Samoilovich, A. N., 107 125 Sanir Abiga, see Kanıkey qopuz, stringed instrument, 86-7 Sanjıbek, 46 Radloff, Wilhelm (Vasilii Sanskrit, xv, 78 Vasilievič Radlov), ix, 14, Santaš, 116 67-8, 81, 87-9, 91, 93-6, Sar’ala, 25-7, 35, 39 104 Sarı-taz, 36-7, 58 Rāghavapāņḍavīya, epic poem, sart, people of towns and plains, 77 94 Rāghuvaṃśa, epic poem, 77 Sassanids, 82 Rahmatullin, K., 108-9 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 111 Raimjan, 128 Saykal, 39 Rajasthan, 77 Schechner, Richard, 72 Raman, 31 School of Oriental and African Rāmāyaņa, epic poem, ix, 65, 77 Studies, xii, 76 Rashid-ad-Din, 104 SOASIS, xvi Red Army, 118, 124, 128 OpenAir Radio, xvi Reichl, Karl, 66, 68-9, 71-2, 80-1, Schwarz, Boris, 100 84-9 Scythian, 81 Reynolds, Dwight, 72 Second World War, 67 Ribachie, 115, 119-21, 127, 129- seal, 58 30 Segıš-kan, 33 Ribachie Cultural Centre, 130 seige, 44-55 Rismendiyev, Šapak, 103, 122-3 Selenga river, 105 Roehampton University, xii Seljuq, 82 Romania, 77 Semetey, 32-62, 83, 94-100, 102- romanization, xiv-xv 3, 107, 110, 116, 124 Roseman, Marina, xiii Serbo-Croat epic, 76 Index 149

Seytek, 94, 95, 98-100, 102-3, Talas, 10, 31, 36-43, 47, 82, 110 97-9, 112, 116 Shahname, epic poem, ix, 74, 84, Tamanbay, 31 100 Tamil, 78 shamanism, 66, 81, 85, 107-9 tandır, clay oven, 128 Siberia, xvi, 76, 80, 82, 85, 94, tar, stringed instrument, 86 see also Sakha, Tuva Taras, 10, 82 Sidik, 128 Tarmal-saz, 42 silk bale, 47-9 Tashkent, 14, 82, 94 Silk Road, 82 TASS, news agency, 131 Sınčı, 31 Tatar, 83 Sipos, Janos, xi Tay-buurul, 40, 47-8, 51-4, 59-60 Sırgak, 26-8, 30-31, 35, 39, 52 Tay-toru, 34-8 Slymovics, Susan, 72 Telegu, 78 Smirnov, Boris, 95-6 telescope, 34-6, 50 Smith, John D., 77 Temir-kan, 14-16, 35, 42, 44 Sŏ Taesŏk, 79 as Šaatemır, 15-24, 37-8, 47, socialist realism, 100-101, 105 53 Sogdiana, 81 Teņri, 33, 35, 38, 41, 46, 77 Šooruk, 13, 50 text, x sorcerers, 59 Tibet, 75, 78, 98 South Asia, ix, 65 tiddly-winks, 10 Soviet scholarship, ix-xi, 68, 73, Tien Shan mountain range, 81-3, 84, 93, 97, 104-6, 111-12 110, 117, 127 Spain, 76 tiger, 5, 40, 107 spear, 28, 52-4, 61-2 Timur, 82 Staub, Shalom, 73 Tınıbek, 97, 100, 108-9 steppes, xiii tobacco, 29 Sufism, 107-8 Tokmok, 94, 116, 124 Suiunbek, 129 tokol, concubine, 15 Suleyman, 6 Toktogul, 109 Sultanova, Razia, xi, xvi-xvii Tölöbek, 22 Sunjata, epic poem, 78 Tor’aygır, 26-7 Sur-küröng, 34-7 Tor’kaška, 34-5 Sur-koyon, 53, 54 Töštük, 31 surnay, shawm, 97, 107 Tungus, 89 Surrey, university of, xii Turk (Turkic/Turkish), 78, 80-9, Süü-samır, 42 97, 108 Swahili, 78 Turkmen, 80, 84 sword, 31, 60-61 Turner, Victor, 72 Syr-Darya river, 81, 92 Tuu-čunak, 4-6 Táin bó Cúailnge, epic poem, 75 Tuva, 77, 80, 87 Tajiks, 13, 83-4 Üč-košoy, 38-9, 116 150 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas

Üč-tulpar, 35 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Ulrich Uffington, 116 von, 68 Umetaliyeva, Toktaiym, 112 wolf, 5, 39-40 UNESCO, ix, xvii wrestlers, 34-7, 123 Masterpieces in the Oral and Xinjiang, 83, 102, 112 Intangible Heritage of xöömii, overtone singing, 87 Humanity, ix, 66, 73-4, 78 xuur, moorin xuur, stringed Ürbü, 47 instrument, 87 Ürgench river, 50, 53 Yaik, 69 Urum-kan, 51 Yenisei river, 83, 105 Uyghurs, 80, 83-4, 88-9, 105-6 Yer-češčuk, epic poem, 94 Uzbeks, xvi, 80, 82, 84, 86-7, 89, Ysyakh, Sakha festival, 78 106-7, 109, 116, 128 Yugoslavia, 68, 71, 77, 89 Valikhanov, Čokan Čingisovich, Yunusaliev, B., 101, 106 ix, 91-4, 99 yurt, xiii, 5, 9, 11-12, 41, 43, 47, Vámbéry, Ármin, 86 49, 106, 117 Vinogradov, Viktor Sergeevich, Zataevich, Aleksandr 87-8, 111 Viktorovich, 111 Virgil, 77 Zemp, Hugo, xiii Volga, 69 Zemsovsky, Izaly, 88 Voyage de Charlemagne, epic Zephaniah, Benjamin, 78 poem, 76 Zhdanov, Andrei, 100 Waley, Arthur, 76-7 Zimbabwe, xvi warriors, see jıgıt Žyrmunskii, V. M., 84, 93, 95, wax cylinder recordings, xii, 95-6 105, 107, 109-10 whip, 51