Donate NowBefore heading out to Xinjiang, a western journalist told me that Uyghurs would hold off on getting married until the security situation improved. Large group gatherings tended to arouse curious eyes. With fewer eyes on people's homes, the safer Chinese Muslims felt.
The first night of my arrival revealed a different story. In fact, noone concealed that they had just gotten hitched. On the contrary, wedding season on China's Silk Road was in full swing. Pick-up trucks ferried musicians around town who beat drums and played trumpets in the back of flatbeds to announce the newly-wed couples to the town of Kashgar. These trucks, all of whom carried a videographer making probably $0.50/hour, led motorcades of five or six vehicles long, and circled parts of this 2000 year old city for hours and hours until the bride was ready to be dropped off at her man's home. (During the 12 days I stayed in Kasghar, I probably saw more than 15 of these joyful caravans).
At first, I thought the drums signaled the beginning of traditional Uyghur dances at tourist venues. It wouldn't have surprised me since I saw these performances advertised in m hotel and couldn't believe how many foreign visitors made their way through Kasghar. There were a lot fewer people locals said. The Olympics, code for security operations in Xinjiang, always sufficed for an explanation.
What I learned on my first full day in Kasghar was that the drums and hagae's (string instrument) served as wedding bells for both poor and rich families. And the only way I made that discovery was through the generosity and hospitality of a Uyghur family who must remain unnamed.
I stepped foot into the Old City and became mesmerized by its ancient texture. Sandstone and mud buildings, constructed without cement, had withstood the erosion of history and Han expansion. I wandered past bazaars and butcher stalls until I found myself intrigued by a veiled woman walking down a dark alleyway whose roof was supported by old wooden beams that loft owners in New York City would covet. The darkly-lit but well-swept corridors reminded me of the Arab quarter in Jerusalem. This indeed felt way more Islamic than Chinese.
I couldn't catch up to the person I sought to photograph but noticed that half way down the tunnel, before sunshine hit the brick pavement again, several men walked through a doorway. They just kept coming. With my curiosity perked, I walked over too and peered inside a blue gate. Dozens of Uyghur elders had gathered inside a family compound for some kind of celebration. A man who looked important spotted me and without even asking my name or what I was doing, invited me in. For the next three hours, I learned how central hospitality, and food, is to the Uyghur people. Men with long white beards and doppi's (woven skullcaps) gathered in an upstairs and downstairs room and sat down on silken and polyester carpets covered with an assortment of nans, grapes and melons, and bowls and bowls of sweets. The younger guys busied themselves by cooking mainstay local dishes like pollo and laghman. This pleasantly surprised me because in other patriarchal, Islamic cultures, women usually did the cooking–and just about everything else.
Everytime someone new entered the rooms, the seated men lifted their hands in prayer and said "Allahu Akbar" along with a little more Arabic which I didn't understand.
Uyghurs appeared to be both very hospitable, and very religious.
Without any opposition, they allowed me to photograph them eating course after course of food. They also insisted that I eat course after course of delicious food and exotic fruits. I had never tasted such sweet-tasting cantelope and watermelon before. The Kasghar area was one of the breadbaskets of Xinjiang and boasted some of the best crops in China.
The one man who spoke a smattering of English, but more French, told me this was an honorary meal for the elders, and a form of bachelor party for the groom. The real wedding was to occur three days later-on a Friday. After gorging myself on lamb, chicken, and grapes, I finally met the groom by the end of the day. He was busy passing out black garbage bags to his relatives so that they could carry their leftovers home, and stacks of what looked like silk as gifts. It is customary for Uyghurs to resist any kind of gift multiple times, even to the point of intensely arguing against the gesture of kindness, before finally accepting it with a warm handshake.
The groom was brief, but politely said I could attend his wedding in three days.
By Friday, I was excited to see my first Uyghur, and first Islamic wedding ceremony. Another relative who spoke better English suggested I come early, close to 6am, to see the nikka, or Islamic wedding rites, at the bride's house. I got there close to on time, and saw a similar scene. This time however, hundreds of men from the entire city poured through the bride's compound. The dignitaries, groom's father, and other important relatives formed an extremely long receiving line to greet the wedding attendees. Just when one group of 20 men finished eating and shaking hands, another group of 20 or 30 replaced them.
Finally, by 8am, the groom arrived. He looked nervous and was surrounded by his closest friends who ushered him into a side bedroom where an old imam waited to offer an Islamic blessing. Only the groom was present, not the bride. He didn't even make eye contact with me. So I asked my guide to write him a note and pass it across the room. There were some heated words, and I was asked to leave. It was very disappointing and a total 180 from what his demeanor earlier in the week. My guide told me later that Uyghur Islamic tradition forbade non-Muslims from attending the 15minute Nikka ceremony. I had heard this about photographing or observing prayer and basically any other expression of Islam in Xinjiang. A very conservative placer I thought.
The more startling revelations was that the groom feared the Chinese authorities would discover me at his wedding and create a giant headache for everyone-a headache that could range from long periods of questioning to imprisonment. My guide had already spotted two plainclothes cops mixing with the guests. So the rumors were true no matter how loud the trumpets blared in downtown-families were being careful about marrying off their sons and daughters, or at least when foreigners were snooping around.
So the wedding seemed like a bust. Until I was told by another relative to show up back at the groom's house at 6 or 7pm. She would meet the groom there and they'd finally be together. I arrived closer to 7pm and had just missed them by 10minutes, or so I thought. The rich uncle who ran a successful leather export business told me to hop in his car and off we raced back toward the bride's home.
Within minutes, the groom arrived in a jet-black sedan decorated from hood to trunk in pink flowers. His friends hoisted him up on their shoulders, shouted "Allahu Akbar", and sprayed confetti while carrying him down a long narrow alleyway, through a low wooden door and into the main compound where dozens of women, including the bride's mother, waited to receive him. He sat down while his friends danced to Uyghur tunes and within another 10 minutes was whisked away again.
Finally, the bride emerged, covered in a white veil that hung to her toes. As soon as she left her bedroom where she had been kept hidden all day with her bridesmaids, she began crying while saying her goodbyes. In other cultures, brides are supposed to feign tears even if they are stoked to be getting out of their parents house for the first time. She hugged her father who said a final Islamic prayer for her, and left in the bridal limo.
I went back with them to the grooms house, stuffed in a taxi with the hired videographer and three other women, hoping to finally get a photo of the two of them together. It never happened. They spend the next hour or two cruising around town where the drummers announced their marriage to the city of Kashgar. The bride came back briefly and ate a large meal with the women on her side of the family. They let me photograph them for a few mintues when I finally got jumpy about a conservative man who told me not to enter the same room as the women. I thought that if they invited me in, it should be OK-but not long enough to piss off any husband.
Like earlier in the day, the groom remained nervous. I was tired, and didn't want to put them at further risk. Plus, I witnessed a major punching match between two relatives who had a disagreement outside the groom's compound. There was no need for my presence to introduce more tension.
I had witnessed the closed-face ceremony of a Uyghur couple that day. On the third day, the bride could finally take her veil off and sit in the same room with her husband in public.
I had to imagine what she looked like.