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FERGHANA VALLEY: TAJIK-KYRGYZ BORDER A POTENTIAL "KARABAKH"
David Trilling
Eurasianet
http://www.eurasianet.org
June 5, 2009
Kuldash is unsure which country he lives in. An ethnic Kyrgyz, he
has a Kyrgyz passport, but his son possesses a Tajik one. "My son
lives in the next house, in Kyrgyzstan. My house is supposed to be
in Tajikistan," he says with a wry grin.
"During Soviet times we grazed our cows wherever we wanted and there
were no borders," adds Kuldash. Now, gesturing to his right and left,
to two countries born out of the wreckage of the Soviet Union's fall,
he emphasizes how difficult determining the border has been. "A lot
of times the argument depends on which map you use, if you take the
map that was drawn in 1936, or the map that was drawn in 1960, or
the map that was drawn in the 1970s, because they all show different
border demarcations. You can make an argument for anything."
The Fergana Valley's overlapping borders are notoriously porous,
portals for narcotics smugglers and -- regional governments claim --
Islamic insurgents. In many areas, such as around the Tajik town of
Charku, the boundary is unmarked and runs through villages that are
checkerboards of nationalities, with adjacent houses in different
countries. Grazing rights and access to water stoke ethnic tensions,
yet locals complain their respective governments are unwilling to
arbitrate disputes. There are no checkpoints: setting up a barrier
would be an implied acknowledgement of delimitation.
The potential for conflict appears high. Indeed, EurasiaNet recently
witnessed one heated fight between Tajik and Kyrgyz men over the
perceived slight of a toddler. Both blame the other side, maintaining
they have lived in the area longer. The claims are eerily reminiscent
of similar intractable disputes in the Caucasus, a comparison the
villagers themselves are quick to bring up.
"They feel they are the majority and have all the rights. If
things continue the way they are, it is possible there could be open
conflict or a war ... in five months, or five years. It could be like
[Nagorno]-Karabakh," says Aberosat, a Kyrgyz schoolteacher in the
village of Koktash, which the Tajiks call Somonion.
Claims and counterclaims generally start with after-school fights
and wildly different population figures. For starters, many locals
describe their community as oppressed by a much larger population of
others, whether Tajik or Kyrgyz.
Aberosat faults the Tajiks for the frequent arguments. "In our
national mentality, we feel we must maintain good relations with our
neighbors and not have conflicts with them. But in Tajik culture,
it is completely the opposite," Aberosat said.
In identical terms, a schoolteacher at a Tajik school a few hundred
meters away blamed the Kyrgyz with stirring up tension. "If we adults
see two groups of children fighting, we separate them and tell them
they shouldn't fight," says Israel. "But on the Kyrgyz side, it is the
opposite. If they see Kyrgyz children beating up Tajik children, they
encourage them." He blames the Kyrgyz for seeking dominance. "There
is some sort of struggle for power and the Kyrgyz want their villages
to be only Kyrgyz. We've lived here together for centuries and we
should continue to do so in a friendly way."
Kusan, a self-described Kyrgyz patriot and native of Koktash, blames
the Tajiks for frequent fights between children. "They're dishonest,"
he claims. As his group of male friends sits menacingly across from
a Tajik house, a woman comes out and quickly runs back inside. They
laugh and point. Kusan says he is on the frontline defending the
Kyrgyz nation. "Other Kyrgyz don't live on the border and therefore
don't understand patriotism. We live here to protect the border. Every
week we have a conflict."
>From his muddy rice plot alongside a spring-swollen river, Nematullah
gestures up and down the valley attempting to define the border. He
is not worried for his particular plot, as the land has been in his
Tajik family for generations. But the cultural divide is sometimes
too obvious to him. "Tajiks are offended that the Kyrgyz are drunk
all the time. When they're sober, they're very good people, but if
they drink a little bit," he stops, shaking his head.
Nematullah insists he has good relations with his Kyrgyz neighbors,
but complains that Kyrgyz authorities have an unfair double
standard. "Kyrgyz cars can come into Tajikistan and go to [the regional
capital] Istaravshan and no one will touch them even though they have
Kyrgyz license plates. But we can't go to [the Kyrgyz regional capital
of] Batken in our cars with Tajik license plates," he says. "We can't
go there peacefully. The police stop, detain us and threaten us."
The border is a touchy issue, acknowledges Toktokuchuk Mamytov,
chairman of Kyrgyzstan's Border Service. "There are always problems
in everyday life: neighbors can't share water, or somebody's cattle
got into a neighbor's garden, and so on. It is the same everywhere
around the world." But there is no possibility of serious conflict,
he stresses.
In the past four years, the Tajik-Kyrgyz border delimitation commission
has "had very productive results and we have achieved a lot. There
are 971 kilometers of border between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan and we
have cleared about 50 percent of them," Mamytov said. "At the moment
we have three or four arguable areas, which are still undecided, [but]
the issues that exist are not a threat to Tajik-Kyrgyz relations."
Yet Zeinura Isabekova, project manager at The Foundation for Tolerance
International, an NGO in Kyrgyzstan's regional capital of Batken,
says conflict could break out while Bishkek and Dushanbe dally. "It
is complicated because governments still keep a very strong position
on their version of which land belongs to whom," she says. "Conflicts
might take place, not only because of the demarcation, but also due to
other social problems as well. They have big problems with water, land,
migration and other factors which add up to demarcation problems."
The potential for conflict appears to have grown lately with the new
construction of a road and bridge through contested land. In March,
Bishkek announced it would rent a contested piece of territory from
Tajikistan to build a road across Batken Region. Kyrgyz villagers
are furious, recognizing the agreement as a tacit acknowledgement
the disputed land belongs to Tajikistan.
For now, some prosper off the uncertainty, creating unofficial free
trade zones in the ungoverned "neutral" areas. On a recent visit,
Tajik and Kyrgyz businessmen were in the process of selling a teal
Lada sedan near Charku. Nurek, a Kyrgyz car trader who delivers a
vehicle every week from Osh, is clearly happy to do business with
Bohir, a Tajik. Though neither is certain to which country the spot
really belongs, they laugh at their merchandise: a car without number
plates. "We have an agreement," they say with a smile.
Editor's Note: David Trilling is the Central Asia Coordinator for
EurasiaNet.
David Trilling
Eurasianet
http://www.eurasianet.org
June 5, 2009
Kuldash is unsure which country he lives in. An ethnic Kyrgyz, he
has a Kyrgyz passport, but his son possesses a Tajik one. "My son
lives in the next house, in Kyrgyzstan. My house is supposed to be
in Tajikistan," he says with a wry grin.
"During Soviet times we grazed our cows wherever we wanted and there
were no borders," adds Kuldash. Now, gesturing to his right and left,
to two countries born out of the wreckage of the Soviet Union's fall,
he emphasizes how difficult determining the border has been. "A lot
of times the argument depends on which map you use, if you take the
map that was drawn in 1936, or the map that was drawn in 1960, or
the map that was drawn in the 1970s, because they all show different
border demarcations. You can make an argument for anything."
The Fergana Valley's overlapping borders are notoriously porous,
portals for narcotics smugglers and -- regional governments claim --
Islamic insurgents. In many areas, such as around the Tajik town of
Charku, the boundary is unmarked and runs through villages that are
checkerboards of nationalities, with adjacent houses in different
countries. Grazing rights and access to water stoke ethnic tensions,
yet locals complain their respective governments are unwilling to
arbitrate disputes. There are no checkpoints: setting up a barrier
would be an implied acknowledgement of delimitation.
The potential for conflict appears high. Indeed, EurasiaNet recently
witnessed one heated fight between Tajik and Kyrgyz men over the
perceived slight of a toddler. Both blame the other side, maintaining
they have lived in the area longer. The claims are eerily reminiscent
of similar intractable disputes in the Caucasus, a comparison the
villagers themselves are quick to bring up.
"They feel they are the majority and have all the rights. If
things continue the way they are, it is possible there could be open
conflict or a war ... in five months, or five years. It could be like
[Nagorno]-Karabakh," says Aberosat, a Kyrgyz schoolteacher in the
village of Koktash, which the Tajiks call Somonion.
Claims and counterclaims generally start with after-school fights
and wildly different population figures. For starters, many locals
describe their community as oppressed by a much larger population of
others, whether Tajik or Kyrgyz.
Aberosat faults the Tajiks for the frequent arguments. "In our
national mentality, we feel we must maintain good relations with our
neighbors and not have conflicts with them. But in Tajik culture,
it is completely the opposite," Aberosat said.
In identical terms, a schoolteacher at a Tajik school a few hundred
meters away blamed the Kyrgyz with stirring up tension. "If we adults
see two groups of children fighting, we separate them and tell them
they shouldn't fight," says Israel. "But on the Kyrgyz side, it is the
opposite. If they see Kyrgyz children beating up Tajik children, they
encourage them." He blames the Kyrgyz for seeking dominance. "There
is some sort of struggle for power and the Kyrgyz want their villages
to be only Kyrgyz. We've lived here together for centuries and we
should continue to do so in a friendly way."
Kusan, a self-described Kyrgyz patriot and native of Koktash, blames
the Tajiks for frequent fights between children. "They're dishonest,"
he claims. As his group of male friends sits menacingly across from
a Tajik house, a woman comes out and quickly runs back inside. They
laugh and point. Kusan says he is on the frontline defending the
Kyrgyz nation. "Other Kyrgyz don't live on the border and therefore
don't understand patriotism. We live here to protect the border. Every
week we have a conflict."
>From his muddy rice plot alongside a spring-swollen river, Nematullah
gestures up and down the valley attempting to define the border. He
is not worried for his particular plot, as the land has been in his
Tajik family for generations. But the cultural divide is sometimes
too obvious to him. "Tajiks are offended that the Kyrgyz are drunk
all the time. When they're sober, they're very good people, but if
they drink a little bit," he stops, shaking his head.
Nematullah insists he has good relations with his Kyrgyz neighbors,
but complains that Kyrgyz authorities have an unfair double
standard. "Kyrgyz cars can come into Tajikistan and go to [the regional
capital] Istaravshan and no one will touch them even though they have
Kyrgyz license plates. But we can't go to [the Kyrgyz regional capital
of] Batken in our cars with Tajik license plates," he says. "We can't
go there peacefully. The police stop, detain us and threaten us."
The border is a touchy issue, acknowledges Toktokuchuk Mamytov,
chairman of Kyrgyzstan's Border Service. "There are always problems
in everyday life: neighbors can't share water, or somebody's cattle
got into a neighbor's garden, and so on. It is the same everywhere
around the world." But there is no possibility of serious conflict,
he stresses.
In the past four years, the Tajik-Kyrgyz border delimitation commission
has "had very productive results and we have achieved a lot. There
are 971 kilometers of border between Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan and we
have cleared about 50 percent of them," Mamytov said. "At the moment
we have three or four arguable areas, which are still undecided, [but]
the issues that exist are not a threat to Tajik-Kyrgyz relations."
Yet Zeinura Isabekova, project manager at The Foundation for Tolerance
International, an NGO in Kyrgyzstan's regional capital of Batken,
says conflict could break out while Bishkek and Dushanbe dally. "It
is complicated because governments still keep a very strong position
on their version of which land belongs to whom," she says. "Conflicts
might take place, not only because of the demarcation, but also due to
other social problems as well. They have big problems with water, land,
migration and other factors which add up to demarcation problems."
The potential for conflict appears to have grown lately with the new
construction of a road and bridge through contested land. In March,
Bishkek announced it would rent a contested piece of territory from
Tajikistan to build a road across Batken Region. Kyrgyz villagers
are furious, recognizing the agreement as a tacit acknowledgement
the disputed land belongs to Tajikistan.
For now, some prosper off the uncertainty, creating unofficial free
trade zones in the ungoverned "neutral" areas. On a recent visit,
Tajik and Kyrgyz businessmen were in the process of selling a teal
Lada sedan near Charku. Nurek, a Kyrgyz car trader who delivers a
vehicle every week from Osh, is clearly happy to do business with
Bohir, a Tajik. Though neither is certain to which country the spot
really belongs, they laugh at their merchandise: a car without number
plates. "We have an agreement," they say with a smile.
Editor's Note: David Trilling is the Central Asia Coordinator for
EurasiaNet.