Forbidden Apricots in Xinjiang

Kashgar is quiet this year.

The abrasive experiences of last year—the relentless checkpoints, the sirens grating against the consciousness of every passerby, and the heavy sense of siege—have given way to a far stranger sensation.

The silence of a high-tech ghetto.

1. A Han Chinese friend invited me to see her new bar. With an air of excitement, she led me through streets emptying into the night and stopped before a heavy iwan gate. Two elderly Uyghur men were seated on the steps, as is their custom.

She grunted at them rudely and headed up the stairs. I stumbled after her, catching a glimpse of their opaque eyes. I felt a sharp pang of embarrassment.

Upon entering the tavern, amidst the richly carved wooden pillars, high ceilings, and large windows facing the street, the realization hit me with a jolt of astonishment.

It was a mosque.

"Abandoned," she said. The government rents it out cheap.

2. At the train station, a woman sat with her young son, smiling at the sound of the dutar I was carrying. She was originally from Hotan, two towns down the edge of the Taklamakan. Her husband was imprisoned five years ago for possessing a religious book; he has served four. Despite this, she radiated a zest for life and an inspiring strength.

3. In a teahouse behind the Id Kah—a common haunt for tourists and locals that likely enjoys official sanction—we sat for a brief lecture on tourism in Kashgar. Behind us, as if on cue, Han tourists badgered a local Uyghur man to sit in a brightly lit corner for a photo. For several long minutes, they clicked away with professional cameras like visitors on safari, debating the best angle for an effective shot. Eventually, I snapped and scolded them, telling them this wasn't a zoo and they should leave the man to his morning tea.

They looked slightly embarrassed and stopped clicking, at least for a few minutes.

4. The mosque on the southern side of Turpan—the only place I ever had the privilege of seeing a muezzin climb to the roof to call the evening prayer—was destroyed this past year. Now there is only a void in the middle of the street, a single wall bearing the outline of the mihrab, exposed to the searing sun.

5. A Han guesthouse owner, a good friend who has Uyghur partners, spoke of impossible security requirements and incessant inspections. Many of the neighborhood's residents were taken to the "schools." The children receive a food allowance of several hundred kuai per month.

6. The apricot blossom festival was canceled this year. A ban was even imposed on sending photos of the blossoms.

The apricots bloomed anyway.