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Muslim Women at a Crossroads: Gender and Development in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China by Cindy Yung-Leh Huang A dissertation submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Anthropology in the Graduate Division of the University of California, Berkeley Committee in charge: Professor Aihwa Ong, Chair Professor Liu Xin Professor Kevin O’Brien Fall 2009 Muslim Women at a Crossroads: Gender and Development in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China © 2009 by Cindy Yung-Leh Huang Abstract Muslim Women at a Crossroads: Gender and Development in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China by Cindy Yung-Leh Huang Doctor of Philosophy in Anthropology University of California, Berkeley Professor Aihwa Ong, Chair This dissertation is an ethnographic study of the Muslim Uyghur ethnic minority in the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region in northwestern China. I explore how the narratives of the women I study reflect historical conditions, as well as shape their political, ethical and cultural engagement in the present. In dozens of interviews and over a year of participant observation, a persistent theme emerged: being one who is japakesh, one who perseveres through difficulty and suffers with a moral purpose. Given the shifting demands of an environment marked by rapid change and development, being japakesh entails different sacrifices and challenges for each generation. Even as the women share a concern with how to live a good life as a Muslim Uyghur woman in Xinjiang today, this project takes on a form and character particular to their historical experiences. In weaving together the gendered stories of those who came of age during different periods of China’s development (socialist, reform and post-reform), I illuminate the contours and ambivalences of generational narratives, in particular vis-à-vis the rising dominance of “middle class” dreams. The stories that women shared with me, and that I contextualize and retell in this dissertation, convey a sense of how life is conceived of, and therefore how life is lived, in contemporary Xinjiang. 1 TABLE OF CONTENTS Preface………………………………………………………………………….. ii Part One – Backgrounds…………………………………………………. 1 Chapter 1: Narrative Ethics…………………………………………. 4 Chapter 2: Intimate Histories……………………………………… 10 Part Two – Self-making and the Middle Class…………………… 22 Chapter 3: Peride……………………………………………………….. 27 Chapter 4: Rahile……………………………………………………….. 41 Part Three – Mapping the Future…………………………………….. 49 Chapter 5: Ayshe………………………………………………………… 52 Chapter 6: Gulnar………………………………………………………. 67 Part Four – Conclusion…………………………………………………… 80 Works Cited…………………………………………………………………… 83 i PREFACE After picking up my luggage, I scan the small crowd at the gate and see Ayshe.1 She is wearing a puffy brown coat to protect against the flurries of snow and wind. A black scarf frames her wide, pale face. There are more wrinkles around her eyes than when I saw her just a year and a half ago. We grab each other’s hands and exchange kisses on the cheek. We last said goodbye at a bus station near her home village in southern Xinjiang. It is an emotional moment. Ayshe is at once my mirror and my foil. She is a curious and open-hearted graduate student. We can talk for endless hours about the meaning of life and the meaning of the study of life. We are devoted to books and thinking about culture. Unlike me, however, Ayshe has few opportunities to earn fellowships or to travel. She is a devout Muslim; I am an uncommitted agnostic. Ayshe is a Uyghur in an increasingly Chinese-dominated region; I am an American-born Chinese.2 The taxi ride is an effusive jumble of Uyghur, Chinese and English.3 Ayshe hasn’t practiced English much since my last visit and my Uyghur, never fluent, has deteriorated. Our Chinese levels are about the same, though my accent is better while her vocabulary is bigger. I try to decipher her awkward rendition of Chinese tones, while she giggles at my wide circumlocutions. Between bursts of conversation, I glance out the window. The streets are dark. Despite the winter chill, my cheeks flush with excitement. Our fifth-floor apartment near the university is a typical communist-era concrete block, half-heartedly disguised in a drab pink. Inside, the wood floors are shiny, the furnishings sparse. Ayshe excuses herself because it is already late for her evening prayers. Nurgul, our third roommate, is preparing suyuqash, a noodle soup traditionally served to weary travelers. She is a graduate student in history, serious and reserved. Both Ayshe and Nurgul are in their mid- twenties. At nearly thirty, I am the eldest, but in our makeshift family, I am the child – eager but unsure, energetic but unfamiliar. Fariha sails in during dinner. She is a tall, thin nineteen-year-old economics student, with a billowing skirt and headscarf pinned under her chin. In the taxi, Ayshe described Fariha as a smaller version of herself, with respect the age and girth. They both speak with animated gestures and accents unique to their hometown of Hotan. Fariha tells me excitedly about her plans to visit her sister who recently moved to Montreal. After dinner, Fariha asks me if I like movies. Her English teacher, who she describes as a black Muslim from England, gave her an animated video called Muhammad: The Last Prophet. The movie is in English with Chinese subtitles. It’s an entertaining Disney-style depiction of the early days of Islam.4 Fariha likes it because the English is clear and simple. Her eyes brighten as she asks about my interest in Islam. I respond with a halting, long-winded story about being in Turkey during the earthquake in 1999 and then living Pakistan, where I conducted research on gender and development. 1 All names have been changed; in some cases, I have also altered biographical details to preserve the anonymity of my research participants. 2 Unless otherwise specified, I use “Chinese” to refer to people of Han ethnicity as well as Mandarin, rather than to indicate citizenship. In English, Chinese is used to denote ethnic background as well as citizenship status, though more commonly the former. In Uyghur and Chinese, there is no similar elision in terminology. 3 As Jay Dautcher observes, “Uyghur is usually pronounced in English as WEE-gur, although the Uyghur pronunciation is closer to OY-gore, as in ‘toy store’” (2009:xv). In transliterating Uyghur terms, I have followed the Latin Script Uyghur (LSU); Chinese words are in pinyin. The letter that is likely to cause confusion is x. In pinyin it is read as “sh,” whereas in LSU it is closer to “kh” (like the j in the Spanish joven, meaning young). 4 The director, Richard Rich, worked at Disney and then started his own studio and has produced many animated films about religious figures. ii Everyone asks, but the truth is that it’s difficult to articulate why I am drawn to study Uyghur culture. I have a connection with China, but a version far removed from life in Xinjiang. My parents were born in Zhejiang, on the eastern seaboard, and grew up in Taiwan before moving to the United States over thirty years ago. Most likely, my interest was born out of a romanticized vision of Xinjiang as both Silk Road entrepôt and “Wild West,” images common to both Chinese and Western portrayals of the region. While in Pakistan, I traveled by jeep to the border with China. I marveled at the majestic mountains, the legendary Central Asian hospitality and the people with a stunning combination of Asian features, light eyes and fair hair. Drunk on alpine air and Orientalist imaginings, I felt I could be at home in the region. This turned out to be the case, but not for the reasons I anticipated. A few days after my arrival, Ayshe and Nurgul cook a special dinner for my naming ceremony. For more than a year, Ayshe has been searching for a suitable Uyghur name for me. She finally settles on Zuhre, explaining that it is a name with Arabic origins, meaning bright, beautiful star. She shaves down a chopstick, dips it in a jar of ink and writes my new name in elegant script. We feast on rice and stir-fried vegetables with mutton. We finish the meal by savoring juicy pomegranate seeds. Ayshe gives a short speech about how she hopes that I become a shining star in the future, leading others in times of darkness. Nurgul adds that I should become the guiding light for those who know nothing about Uyghurs. We laugh at the solemnity of the occasion, I more nervously than them. Though I doubt myself, I am touched that Ayshe’s faith extends to me. From that night onward, Ayshe and Nurgul call me Zuhre. Our improvised ceremony coincides with my transition from visitor to housemate. According to Uyghur custom, you are no longer a guest after three days have passed. Though no one could forget that I was an outsider, Ayshe’s blessing was not for naught. I celebrated the small victories as much as the large. One afternoon early in my stay, I ate at a small restaurant near Urumqi’s Grand Bazaar. I was hungry and quickly slurped down a plateful of pumpkin and mutton dumplings. When I returned a few weeks later, I chatted with the wife of the owner and a few of the staff. As I finished my meal and tried to pay, no one would take my money. Finally, one of the waiters told me that it wasn’t generosity: on my previous visit, they had charged me double. Here, at least, I would no longer have to pay the foreigner tax. Receiving Ayshe’s blessing, however, did not mean that I was exempt from her criticism.

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