My mother is a Soviet woman raised in a family with traditional Uzbek values. On the one hand, women of her generation had equal rights with men, as prescribed by Soviet law. On the other hand, her father was born in 1919 – just a year before the Russian Empire conquered the Emirate of Bukhara – and her mother in 1927. By the time my grandparents came of age, the Hujum campaign (a Soviet initiative aimed at eliminating all forms of gender inequality in Central Asia, during which women discarded their veils) had already concluded. However, while the population was forced to abandon external signs of their ideology under threat of punishment, they could not simply renounce the invisible Muslim worldview.
The only area where women in Soviet Uzbekistan were truly equal to men was in the workforce. In visible social life, they engaged in hard labor, but within family relationships, they often remained subservient to their husbands, fathers, and brothers. A woman was not allowed to express feelings of hurt or pride, nor could she engage in debates with men. She could not ask for help.
Women were deprived of many joys in life.
Women were deprived of many joys in life. My mother was not permitted to swim or play sports. Although my grandfather was the head of a music school, he did not allow her to study music. My grandmother was even invited to join a maqom ensemble in the capital before having children (maqom is an Uzbek vocal-instrumental genre). But since creative pursuits were considered appropriate only for “loose” women, she was married instead. A woman was seen as a symbol of the Holy Cross, shaped by endless prohibitions.
This is how my mother was raised and how she raised us. In 2005, my mother lost her husband. I was 10 years old when my father died of a ruptured aorta caused by lung cancer. To shield myself from the horrific sight of his bleeding body, I gradually erased my memories of him over the years. By the time I turned 25, I realized that even if my parents’ relationship had been healthy, I had no recollection of family life involving a man, and I didn't know how to interact with men.
From my mother, I inherited not only an incredible work ethic but also the belief that I should not feel tired, complain, or ask for support. I also struggled to resist men, because women, fearing their responsibility, had long raised their daughters to be obedient to men. These contradictions led me to hate myself as a woman unfit for the established way of life, fostering an aversion to my character and body, which did not align with the ideals of the perfect woman.
It seemed that by having an honest conversation with my mother, I could find a way out of that emotional cage and stop envying her for overcoming a similar attitude toward herself and liberating herself from limitations.
By the time I recognized that the standards for “ideal women” were flawed, they had already taken root within me. While choosing the topic for my first documentary, I realized that the only issue that truly occupied my mind was my fractured relationship with myself. It seemed that by having an honest conversation with my mother, I could find a way out of that emotional cage and stop envying her for overcoming a similar attitude toward herself and liberating herself from limitations. Shortly after she turned 60, she learned to swim, joined a music ensemble, started performing, and began practicing yoga. I hoped that if I found the courage to talk to her, I might start to resemble the person my mother is today. It was only for the film that I mustered the courage to do so. When I completed it, I unexpectedly discovered a way forward.
Sabina Bakaeva
