Language Planning and National Development: The Uzbek Experience 3110124548, 9783110124545

Table of contents :
Acknowledgements
Note on transliteration
Chapter one: Language planning and development
Chapter two: The setting for Uzbek language planning
Chapter three: Internally generated change:
Chapter four: Language independence and latinization
Chapter five: The introduction of Latin letters
Chapter six: The “internationalization” of writing
Chapter seven: The lexical revolution
Chapter eight: Nativization
Chapter nine: Benign neglect
Chapter ten: Planners and planning organizations: External forces
Chapter eleven: Local planners and planning organizations
Chapter twelve: Conclusion
Appendix
Notes
Glossary
References
Index

Citation preview

Language Planning and National Development

Contributions to the Sociology of Language 60

Editor

Joshua A. Fishman

Mouton de Gruyter Berlin · New York

Language Planning and National Development The Uzbek Experience

by

.

William Fierman

Mouton de Gruyter Berlin - New York

1991

Mouton de Gruyter (formerly Mouton, The Hague) is a Division of Walter de Gruyter & Co., Berlin.

© Printed on acid-free paper which falls within the guidelines of the ANSI to ensure permanence and durability.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Fierman, William. Language planning and national development : the Uzbek experience / by William Fierman. p. cm. — (Contributions to the sociology of language ; 60) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 3 11 0124548 (alk. paper) 1. Language planning — Uzbek S.S.R. 2. Language policy — Uzbek S.S.R. 3. Uzbek language — Reform. I. Title. II. Series. P40.5.L352S653 1991 306.4'49587-dc20 91-19848 CIP

Die Dcutache Bibliothek — Cataloging in Publication Data Fierman, William:

Language planning and national development : the Uzbek experience / by William Fierman. — Berlin ; New York : Mouton de Gruyter, 1992 (Contributions to the sociology of language ; 60) ISBN 3-11-012454-8 NE: GT

CO Copyright 1991 by Walter de Gruyter & Co., D-1000 Berlin 30. All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign languages. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Printing: Gerike GmbH, Berlin. — Binding: Dieter Mikolai, Berlin. Printed in Germany.

Acknowledgements

The research for this study began over a decade ago, when I was a graduate student at Harvard University. I am especially grateful for the valuable advice, guidance, and inspiration I received then from the late Joseph Fletcher, as well as from Edward Keenan and Donald Carlisle. In the early stages of my work on language planning in Uzbekistan I also received suggestions and other help from Edward Allworth, the late Alexandre Bennigsen, Karl Deutsch, Robert McChesney, Jonathan Pool, Rosemarie Rogers, Joan Rubin, and Adam Ulam, as well as Lubomyr Hajda and the late John Soper. The book which I am completing at the end of the 1980s is informed by a much better understanding of Soviet Central Asia than what I had at the time of my work at Harvard. For this I owe a great debt to many colleagues. For fear of omitting some of them I will thank most of them collectively. However, I feel obliged once again to single out for thanks my friends and mentors Donald Carlisle and James Critchlow. I am also very grateful for advice and support from fellow "politicolinguist" Brian Weinstein, and for Joshua Fishman's encouragement to integrate my work into the broader study of language planning. Two grants from the International Research and Exchanges Board and Fulbright-Hays awards (1976-77 and 1983) permitted me to gather much of the material for this book in Uzbekistan. Above all, these periods of field work permitted me to live in the region and acquire valuable insights into language and national relations there. These insights were greatly enhanced by conversations with many Soviet citizens, some of whom made very significant contributions to my work. Even in the era of glasnost', it seems best that they remain unnamed. I hope that neither they, nor any of the others whose help I have acknowledged, will be blamed for my own errors of judgement. I would like to take this opportunity to thank four individuals who provided valuable secretarial and technical help. Debra Pierce of the University of Tennessee's Department of Political Science typed a long rough manuscript onto a word processor. This greatly facilitated my subsequent work in preparing this book. Rob Steele of the University of Tennessee's Office of Administrative Computing and David Tyson of Indiana University's Department of Uralic and Altaic

VI

Studies helped me produce the clean camera-ready copy of the manuscript required for publication. I am also grateful to Erkin Nasar for preparing the index to this volume. Last, and most of all, I owe my greatest debt to my wife Harriet and daughter Deanna. They have endured my fascination with Soviet Central Asia and made great sacrifices so that I might pursue my research. William Fierman Knoxville, Tennessee 1990

To Harriet

Note on transliteration Transliteration for this study has been a complex technical problem. After weighing the advantages and disadvantages of various alternatives, I decided upon the following: Russian words have been transliterated according to the Library of Congress system, but without ligatures or diacritical marks. Common place names from all languages have been written in accordance with Webster's New Geographical Dictionary (Springfield, Massachusetts: G. & C. Merriam Co., 1972) with one significant exception; such place names as "Tajikistan" have been spelled with the letter "j" instead of "dzh". Less common Central Asian place names have been spelled as other Uzbek words. Transliteration of Uzbek personal names and other words presented special problems. Instead of attempting to reflect in transliteration all of the scripts and orthographies used between 1917 and 1941, all Uzbek words have been given modernized spellings and then transliterated into Latin characters. No phonetic or phonemic transcription has been attempted except when indicated in the text. Especially in the case of personal names, the modern spelling has not always been possible to determine. Guesswork and some inaccuracies have been the inevitable result. The orthographic dictionary Ozbek alining imla lughäti (Tashkent: Fan, 1976) and E. Begmätov's orthographic dictionary of names (Kishi namlän imlasi [Tashkent: Fan, 1970]) have been used to determine current spelling. The names of Uzbek authors whose Russian-language works are cited are transliterated as Russian names. Hence, a few Uzbek names, such as Hashim(ov), also appear in the Russian form, in this case Khashimov. In transcribing Uzbek words into Latin characters, the Library of Congress system for Russian has been used with the following modifications: Cyrillic Letter

Transliteration

A/a

Ä/ä

E/e (in initial position)

Ye/ye

Ε/Θ

Ya/ya

3Κ/»

J/j

fl/ft

Y/y

O/o

A/a

o/o K/K

Q/q

Γ/Γ

Gh/gh H/h

"Uzbek" words of Russian origin, however, have been transliterated as Russian words; this same rule has been applied to Russian suffixes used in Uzbek. Hence, although the Uzbek words " >KaBo6" (answer) and " ΛΗΓΗ " (new) have been transliterated j vab and y ngi, the "Uzbek international" word H wypnaji " (journal) and the name " HupaMOB " have been transliterated zhumal and Ikramov. The terms "Russian alphabet" and "Cyrillic alphabet" have been used interchangeably. In fact, of course, the Uzbek language is written in one form of the Cyrillic alphabet, just as Russian is. Because of current Soviet usage of the term "Russian alphabet" and for stylistic convenience, however, no distinction is intended between "Cyrillic alphabet" and "Russian alphabet" unless specifically indicated. A number of terms and abbreviations relating to Central Asia and to the USSR are likely to be unfamiliar to many readers. The glossary provides a list of these with definitions, and in some cases explanations.

Contents Acknowledgements Note on transliteration Chapter one:

Chapter two:

Language planning and development Introduction Political development Language planning and political development The setting for Uzbek language planning Historical overview Language and political development problems in Uzbekistan

vii ix 1 1 5 11 37 37 49

Chapter three: Internally generated change: Reforming the Arabic alphabet Introduction The debates

57 57 61

Chapter four: Language independence and latinization Creation of an independent Uzbek language Latinization in Uzbekistan What form for latinized Uzbek?

69 69 81 84

Chapter five: The introduction of Latin letters Introduction Four stages of latinization Shortages and bottlenecks Supporting institutions Success?

97 97 98 110 116 118

Chapter six:

125 125 126

The "internationalization" of writing Introduction "International" words

Xll

Shift to progressive dialects Latin alphabet: Revolutionary alphabet? A new alphabet Implementation

129 133 135 141

Chapter seven: The lexical revolution Introduction Pluralism in vocabulary development Debates on sources of vocabulary "Internationalization" of Uzbek vocabulary

149 149 151 153 157

Chapter eight: Nativization Introduction Early language status policy in Turkestan Korenizatsiia in the Turkestan Republic Language and educational policy in the Turkestan Republic Early efforts in the Uzbek Republic Changing gears Implementation? Financial and organizational problems and "solutions" The key problem: Attitudes Continued resistance Conflicting priorities

165 165 166 169

Chapter nine:

Chapter ten:

Benign neglect Introduction The ebb of nativization The international language Teaching the international language One step back: Uzbek for administrative workers Planners and planning organizations: External forces Introduction Tatars The Baku planners Struggle between Baku and Moscow

172 173 174 176 179 180 183 185 193 193 193 200 203 208 211 211 212 213 218

Xlll

The rise of Marrism and consolidation of language planning in Moscow

221

Chapter eleven: Local planners and planning organizations Introduction The first generation of reformers The Chaghatay gurungi members Polivanov Official organizations The disappearance of the independent intelligentsia and the rapid rise of proletarian successors The great russophile Moscow's representative

229 229 229 232 239 241

Chapter twelve: Conclusion Problems of political development in Uzbekistan since 1941 Uzbek language change since 1941 Language planning in Uzbekistan in comparative perspective The challenges ahead

255

266 277

Appendix

281

Notes

283

Glossary

309

References

313

Index

347

242 249 251

255 260

Chapter 1

Language planning and development

Introduction The USSR provides one of the twentieth century's most striking illustrations of government intervention in language.1 In the first twenty-five years after the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia, dozens of languages acquired alphabets for the first time, their vocabularies underwent major development and transformations, and their official status radically changed.2 All of these processes were closely linked with the political, economic, social, and cultural state of Russia and the new communist regime's revolutionary aims. Nowhere are these links between linguistic and non-linguistic changes and goals clearer than in Central Asia, where the Bolshevik Party's intervention was responsible for the creation of distinct new literary languages and their development.3 Today these languages are claimed as the native tongue by a total of about thirty-five million Soviet citizens. About half of these claim Uzbek as their mother tongue (Natsional'nyi 1989: 3). At the time of the Bolshevik Revolution, little was published in the Turkic dialects of Central Asia. Their use in such fields as administration and education was extremely limited, they lacked words for many contemporary philosophical, political, scientific, technical, and other concepts, and most of their speakers were illiterate. In fact, many "Uzbek" speakers were not aware of the fact that they spoke "Uzbek". By the time of the German attack on the Soviet Union in 1941, the picture had radically changed. As the Bolshevik government raised the status of Uzbek and the other Turkic languages of Central Asia, it transformed them and separated them from one another. This book is a case study of these changes. Besides examining language change in this revolutionary period, it also explores the nexus between language planning and the environment in which it took place.

2 Chapter 1

The case of Uzbek language planning illustrates the Bolsheviks' great confidence in their ability to affect language processes, especially in the late 1920s and 1930s. TTie almost mechanistic approach is reflected in the term they used to describe the process of deliberate language change, namely iazykovoe stroitel'stvo, which literally means "language construction" or "language building". Originally, some Soviet linguists, arguing that social and political measures undertaken by a government did not "in essence, affect language itself used this term to refer to purely linguistic phenomena. But the dominant view adopted by Soviet linguists was that language and society were closely linked and that policies in one area also affected the other. They recognized that language could not be "built" without consideration of the society in which the process took place and that language change also brought change in society. By the late 1920s, iazykovoe stroitel'stvo came to mean "purposeful intervention by society (in the persons of specialist scholars) in the spontaneous process of language development and in the organized direction of that process" (Isaev 1979: 8).4 During the USSR's First Five Year Plan the Bolsheviks seemed to have no doubt that their "construction" or "building" activities would completely transform language and the broader environment in which it existed. The optimism and confidence of the new rulers of Russia is in marked contrast to the doubt and distrust with which many Western scholars have approached language planning. This attitude was reflected in the interrogatory title of a work published in 1971, "Can Language Be Planned?" Significantly, even the cautious optimism of the scholars who contributed to this volume was viewed with much skepticism by many linguists and other researchers (Fishman 1983: 107108). Though the volume Can Language Be Planned? was, of course, not available to Soviet language planners of the 1920s and 1930s, the practitioners of "language building" would have profited from such a text which balanced optimism with warnings about the practical problems of government intervention in language. Not surprisingly, perhaps, Stalin's confidence that there was "no fortress which Bolsheviks could not storm" also applied to language. Unfortunately, the history of Soviet language planning reflects the disastrous consequences of planning which was at times totally out of touch with reality. Along with the "planability" of language, the Soviet history of "language building" also demonstrates that even powerful governments

Language planning and development 3

cannot ignore major objective factors which impinge on language processes. In their introduction to Can Language Be Planned?, editors Joan Rubin and Björn Jernudd define language planning as "deliberate language change; that is, changes in the system of language code or speaking or both that are planned by organizations that are established for such purposes or given a mandate to fulfill such purposes". (Rubin & Jernudd 1971b: xvi). Based on this definition, one might conceivably include under "language planning" even such activities as "planning" the language spoken in a single family. However, it is useful to restrict the usage of the term to refer to those choices about language which are "made by important institutions capable of longterm implementation over a significant area and among a significant population" (Weinstein 1987a: 5-7). Naturally, then, government institutions are among the most important organizations involved in this activity. But as Weinstein points out, in many societies such organizations as religious hierarchies and large businesses also engage in language planning. More importantly from a political perspective, counter political elites who challenge the power holders in a given society may also do this (Weinstein: 1987a). In the Uzbek case much of the earliest post-revolutionary language planning was done by nongovernment actors. Before long, however, this was taken over by the new political leaders. Einar Haugen describes four aspects of language planning, namely norm selection, codification, implementation, and elaboration. (Haugen 1972; Haugen 1987). Haugen's description is helpful in identifying four elements of the language planning process. However, these terms appear to imply a sequence which is not necessarily followed. Moreover, the model as a whole does not adequately take into account the phenomenon of feedback (Woolard 1986: 93). This is an important point, because language planning is not so much a sequence of events as it is a continuing process. As Fishman points out, language planners, as those who engage in any other sort of planning, must also confront and deal with unexpected consequences (Fishman 1983: 107-108). Consequently, if language planners hope eventually to succeed, they must be sensitive to constant changes and continuously fine tune or even make major modifications in their policies. Language planning may be divided into two broad subject areas, "status" and "corpus" planning. As the German linguist Heinz Klauss explained, status planning refers to "policy decisions concerning which

4 Chapter 1

language should be assigned or recognized for which purposes within a country or region", as well as the steps to implement such policies (Fishman 1977b: 36). Corpus planning is used to describe the policies intended to change the body of the language itself, usually with the objective of improving it in some way. Of course these two areas are closely related. Most importantly, perhaps, when a language is raised to a new status and assigned new functions, it is frequently necessary to make changes in the corpus. Charles Ferguson has proposed three broad features of corpus planning which he calls language "development". These features are graphization, standardization, and modernization. Ferguson defines graphization as "reduction to writing". It permits the "regular use of writing in a speech community", whose importance Ferguson compares to the innovation of a steel knife in a stone-age society. Standardization is "the process of one variety of language becoming widely accepted throughout the speech community as a supradialectal norm". Modernization includes "the expansion of the lexicon of the language by new words and expressions"; this becomes especially important when a language is called upon to treat new topics; modernization also includes "the development of new styles and forms of discourse" (Ferguson 1968a: 28-33). The majority of corpus planning and writing about it concerns modernization. This is perhaps understandable, since every language which is used to describe a continuously changing world with novel concepts must constantly develop new terms. Many new concepts come into a language via translations of works from other languages. Even modernization, not to mention the other aspects of corpus planning, is far from being a set of simple, technical and mechanical exercises (Fishman 1983: 107-108). These processes occur in a complex social environment which shape the decisions of language planning. Moreover, each aspect of corpus planning takes place in each of the dimensions of language planning outlined by Haugen (Fishman 1983: 107-108), and is constantly modified according to feedback. Language planning must take into account that language is not only an instrument of communication, but a symbol as well. At first glance it may seem that correct decisions about "instrumentality" can be made simply by adhering to the principle of making all "planning" decisions with the goal of producing an efficient instrument. But this relatively easy aspect is much more difficult than it initially appears. Even if

Language planning and development 5

efficiency could be quickly determined, questions would remain about "efficient for whom?" What may make an efficient instrument for one segment of a language community may not be efficient for another; likewise, decisions which will achieve efficiency in the long term may involve change, disruption, and inefficiency in the short term. The symbolic function of language enormously complicates any attempt to hone language into an efficient instrument. Symbolic and instrumental criteria may even point in totally opposite directions. Moreover, competing planners may have very different ideas about the kind of symbol into which they want to make their language; and the language communities whom they represent o" claim to represent may have still other feelings. For example, one group of language planners in a former colony may seek to "purify" their national language and introduce it for the first time as the medium of instruction in higher education. Another group of planners may seek to emphasize ties with the outside world and hence attempt to leave higher education in English or French, or another "international" language"; they may also prefer to "borrow" more vocabulary from these languages. These may both be out of touch with sentiments among broad segments of the population. All of the above problems which complicate language planning also confound the study of the process. It is at times impossible to determine the relative importance of the various criteria used by language planners. As wise politicians, they do not always reveal the motivations or goals which underlie their actions. The results are often very different from what they anticipated; their actions frequently produce unexpected results and the environment in which their policies are implemented may include factors which they did not adequately anticipate.

Political development Language change takes place in an environment of political change which is frequently part of a process of political development. Although political scientists have used the term "political development" to signify a variety of concepts, most commonly it has been associated with "increasing complexity, specialization, and differentiation of political institutions" (Piano, Riggs & Robin 1982: 101). These

6 Chapter 1

concepts are central to the approach taken in the now classic volume Crises and Sequences in Political Development with contributions by political scientists Leonard Binder, James S. Coleman, Joseph LaPalombara, Lucian W. Pye, Sidney Verba, and Myron Weiner. For these authors the political development process is "a continuous interaction among the processes of structural differentiation, the imperatives of equality, and the integrative, responsive, and adaptive capacity of a political system" (Coleman 1971: 74). These authors see the above named processes as related to five problems of political development, which at various points of time become "crises". These areas are penetration, participation, distribution, identity, and legitimacy. In the view of these authors, political development is "the acquisition by a political system of a consciously sought, and a qualitatively new and enhanced political capacity as manifested in the successful institutionalization of (1) new patterns of integration and penetration regulating and containing the tensions and conflicts produced by increased differentiations, and (2) new patterns of participation and resource distribution adequately responsive to the demands generated by the imperatives of equality. The acquisition of such a performance capacity is, in turn, a decisive factor in the resolution of the problems of identity and legitimacy" (Coleman 1971: 74-75). Although in general for the purposes of their book, Binder and his co-authors considered penetration, participation, distribution, identity, and legitimacy at the point at which they become "crises", they also note the utility of these concepts more broadly in analyzing questions which "either plague a society or regime or demand the attention of its leaders and aware citizens" (Binder et al. 1971: via). Since the present study is concerned with relative importance of problem areas and their relevance to language and language planning, it is in the broader sense that these concepts will be utilized here. As will become clear, these problem areas are inextricably related one to another in both direct and indirect fashion. Moreover, most political (and hence language) issues have implications for more than one area. One reason for this is that "different actors in a situation will define a problem differently - largely in terms of the solution they consider appropriate for it" (Verba 1971: 306). Nevertheless, these broad areas can serve as a useful analytical framework in discussing political and language problems in a context of development.

Language planning and development 1

The first of the problem areas, penetration, is of vital interest for every government. The degree of penetration of a government measures how much effective control it exercises (Verba 1971: 299). Thus, in a polity with a high degree of penetration, there is a high probability that the government's policies will be carried out. Stated differently, "penetration" may be considered "conformance to public policy enunciated by central government authority" (LaPalombara 1971a: 208-209). Penetration refers to a very wide range of activities which government may attempt to control or influence, including the economy, social welfare, and demographic management. In short, one can consider the penetration of a government to be whether the government "can get what [it] wants from people over whom they seek to exercise power" (LaPalombara 197la: 208-209). Defined in this way, penetration is very closely linked to a government's power and authority. Since there are always some limits to a regime's power, no government has ever been successful over a protracted period in achieving "total geographical or sociopsychological penetration". Naturally this applies to governments in countries like India, where at times the national government has had little control over developments in some of the states; in similar fashion, there have been times in U.S. history when the U.S. federal government has had significant penetration problems, especially in the South. But as defined by Binder and his co-authors, even such "totalitarian" regimes as Stalinism in the USSR and the consolidated Maoist rule in China did not achieve total penetration (LaPalombara 1971a: 210). Penetration is closely linked with another of the problem areas, participation. In many instances a "solution" to a problem of participation will aggravate a government's problem with penetration. Participation refers to "any voluntary action, successful or unsuccessful, organized or unorganized, episodic or continuous, employing legitimate or illegitimate methods intended to influence the choice of public policies, the administration of public affairs, or the choice of political leaders at any level of government, local or national". Interpreted this way, participation does not include obligatory acts such as paying taxes, voting in elections with only one slate, or belonging to organizations under government orders (Weiner 1971: 164). In essence, the participation problem is one of determining who will take part in governmental decisions or have influence on them (Verba 1971: 299). When participation is very great, especially outside of established institutions and through illegitimate means, governments may be unable

8 Chapter 1

to enforce their rules. Thus, there is a danger to penetration when participation outruns institutionalization (Weiner 1971: 160). Consequently, leaders of polities whose governments cannot enforce their rules (or leaders of polities who perceive a threat to penetration) are likely to view institutions and procedures which facilitate greater participation (e.g., a second political party, a free press) as luxuries which they cannot afford (LaPalombara 1971a: 216). Of course not all segments of a population participate equally in a society's political life, and the intensity of participation can change greatly over time. In this regard, it is important to note the pivotal role which the intelligentsia may play in mobilizing the masses. Besides their own personal participation in the political process, the intelligentsia are frequently active in such activities as reviving or generating historical memories, restoring indigenous languages, and generating new identities; all of these have the potential to arouse broad segments of the population to participate in political life (Weiner 1971: 170-171). The third problem area, legitimacy, "refers to the basis on which and the degree to which the decisions of government are accepted by the populace of a society because of normative beliefs on the part of the populace as to the 'rightness' of the ways in which decisions are made" (Verba 1971: 299). Thus, the legitimacy of a government reflects the way in which it is viewed by the people over whom it exercises or seeks to exercise authority. In fact, LaPalombara distinguishes two types of penetration which seem to depend on a regime's legitimacy. One type refers to the capability of a government to exercise effective control regardless of the "views, desires, attitudes,or predispositions" of the population; the other is a "predisposition of the objects of policy to receive information regarding policy accurately and to wish to conform to such policies voluntarily" (LaPalombara 1971a: 209). A corollary of this is that legitimacy in some cases plays a crucial role in determining penetration. If a government is broadly viewed as legitimate by the population over which it seeks to exercise control, the rules which it makes are also likely to be viewed as legitimate and hence voluntarily obeyed. On the other hand, a government which does not enjoy legitimacy in the eyes of the population is likely to be more dependent on something else, i.e., force, in order to achieve compliance. Legitimacy is also closely related to participation, as well as the last two "problem areas", identity and distribution. Citizens who feel that

Language planning and development 9

they have participated in a meaningful way in the political process are more likely to view the decisions which emerge from that process as legitimate (Binder 1971: 160). Similarly, identity, can also affect a government's legitimacy. Verba describes the identity problem, saying that it "refers to the definition of the set of individuals whom it is believed appropriately fall within the decision-making scope of government, i.e., to the question of the appropriate members of the system" (Verba 1971: 299). This problem of identity becomes especially important during the course of nation building. As LaPalombara notes, this process "occurs at someone's expense. Resistance to paying that cost will be forthcoming from all groups that are adversely affected in the short-run by the policies of nationalism" (LaPalombara 1971b: 243). The groups thus mobilized are often defined by ethnic, linguistic, and religious factors. Those paying the cost may hold stronger allegiances to subnational groupings or to groups who live mostly beyond their polity's borders. Their feelings of estrangement are often heightened by the fact that they perceive the boundaries of their polity as artificial (Pye 1971a: 112-113). The tension between the "culturally and psychologically determined sense of personal group identity and the political definition of the community" is especially likely to intensify under conditions of "rapidly increasing and disruptive social mobility which is a concomitant of development" (Binder 1971: 53-54). In such conditions some people react by "strongly orienting their historical outlook toward the past". The history of many former colonies demonstrates the tendency of individuals in these situations to glorify the history of their country, especially as they idealize it before it was exposed to the impact of the West (Pye 1971b: 139-143). Although in some societies ethnic, cultural, and psychological group identities become serious obstacles to harmonious relations and integration, Das Gupta points out that "sentimental solidarity" is not a precondition for a national political community (Das Gupta 1968: 21). Indeed, differing cultural and psychological identities can often be accommodated through a pluralistic decision-making system which does not seek to eliminate diversity by imposing social homogenization and amalgamation (Das Gupta 1968: 23). Identity is of direct relevance to legitimacy because the perception that a political system fairly represents the ethnic and cultural diversity in the polity contributes to its legitimacy. Indeed, according to Kelman, over the short run a government plagued by economic

10 Chapter 1

difficulties and internal conflicts may still be able to retain legitimacy as long as broad segments of the population still see it as representing their ethnic and cultural identity (Kelman 1971: 23). On the other hand, if members of a society feel that the government is not giving fair treatment to "their" community (as they define it ethnically, culturally, or psychologically), this may undermine the government's legitimacy in their minds. Ultimately, elements of a shared identity may make a major contribution to integration. Karl Deutsch describes the process of nation building in terms of developing compatible communication habits. The development of these habits is likely to be easier for groups which share much of the same culture (Deutsch 1966: 95-100). The last problem area of political development is what Binder and his co-authors term "distribution". Like identity, distribution is also closely linked to legitimacy. LaPalombara distinguishes two "dimensions" of distribution. The first, he writes, "may be understood as implying the imperative: Find the ways and means of producing more of the material things that are valued!" while the second relates to a very different imperative: "Regardless of what may be the society's capability of producing more, change the bases upon which things valued are distributed among society's members!" (LaPalombara 1971b: 236) For the purposes of the present study the distinction between these two dimensions is so important that this last single problem area will be divided into two sub-areas. The one which relates to LaPalombara's "first imperative" will be referred to as "production", while the second will be called "allocation". (The term "distribution" will be used to refer to both of these aspects together.) Binder and his co-authors use "distribution" to refer exclusively to material goods. Therefore, they discuss what might be considered "distribution of power" under the categories of penetration and participation;5 moreover, they do not explicitly deal with "distribution" of such things as educational opportunity or health care. Because the distribution of less tangible services and opportunities raises many of the same problems as material goods, they will be included in the present study whenever "distribution", "production", and "allocation" are discussed. LaPalombara notes that governments face a major decision in choosing a development strategy which can "assure the kind and amount of skilled manpower that can maximize the material and related things the nation can produce". One strategy is to invest in

Language planning and development 11

high-level (elite) manpower, including full secondary education for (among others) teachers, agricultural assistants, and certain skilled workers. The other strategy is to concentrate on smaller educational increments, most importantly basic literacy among the larger population (LaPalombara 1971b: 260). As a shorthand, these two strategies will be referred to below as "elite manpower development" and "mass manpower development" strategies. These two strategies are related to a tension which often exists between the production and allocation aspects of distribution. Increased production frequently requires investment; this, in turn, may mean accumulation through savings, and hence reduction of what is allocated to one segment of the population. Dissatisfaction by the disadvantaged segment may also reduce the legitimacy of a government, and hence promote what leaders view as unwelcome or unacceptable participation. (LaPalombara 1971b: 241). Naturally, this can have a negative impact on the degree of penetration of government.

Language planning and political development All of the above problem areas of political development are closely linked to language and language planning. They will be used to analyze the problems of language planning in Uzbekistan, the primary focus of this study. Before turning to this, however, it will be useful to delineate some of the more specific ways in which language and language planning relate to the problems of political development. This will be done through examples from other societies throughout the world, especially those in Africa and Asia. In looking at these other societies, two broad categories of the links between 1) political development and 2) language and language planning will be examined. The first area of linkage concerns how each of the problem areas of political development can affect language and language planning. This category includes the possible impact on language and language planning by factors related to penetration, participation, legitimacy, identity, production, and allocation. The second category refers to the impact in the opposite direction, i.e., the ways in which language and language planning can affect these same problem areas. From what has been noted above about the somewhat arbitrary nature of these categories, one of the "dangers" of this

12 Chapter 1

analytical scheme is readily apparent: most problems span more than one problem area. Moreover, it is often very difficult to determine cause and effect. And, of course, it is impossible to provide a comprehensive list of these relations here. Nevertheless, the following selective examination of language and language planning problems will raise some of the most important issues which will help place Uzbek language planning in a comparative framework. Penetration. Success in language planning, as any other government directed change, reflects a regime's penetration. Any government with only a very modest degree of effective control over its subjects is not very likely to be successful in executing language planning. Citizens who under most circumstances are not used to paying heed to other plans or rules from their government are likely to ignore language plans, too. The economic system of a country may facilitate a government's ability to effect language change. Socialist governments are likely to control such valuable instruments as the educational system, printing establishments, and electronic media. Even governments which control the economy and enjoy a high degree of penetration will be more successful in planning some aspects of their subjects' language behavior than others. Language used at meetings of government committees may be easy to control, but even very powerful "totalitarian" regimes may not be successful in changing the language in which mothers sing lullabies to their children. Not surprising, some of the most effective language reform efforts in history have been in the military, where there may be something approaching a "captive speech community". Two examples of this are Turkey and Iran in the 1920s, where Arabic loanwords in Turkish and Persian were quickly replaced in the language used in the military. This was facilitated by simplified (which included "de-arabized") military manuals published even before the respective governments of Turkey and Iran established language reform institutions. Another important factor was military discipline. As Perry notes, "any subordinate who failed to learn the Commander-in-Chief s new words fast enough might find himself scrubbing Arabic graffiti off the latrine walls with a toothbrush" (Perry 1985: 297-304). A related point is that a government's success in language planning will also likely depend on the structure of the government, the structure of the language planning organization, and the level of attention devoted to language problems. The central government of

Language planning and development 13

a unitary state will generally be better able to enforce its will on language issues (as on other issues) than the central government of a federal system. Similarly, a centralized language planning organization will facilitate implementation. According to Tollefson, a central language planning institution which controls the "aims, interests, and perspectives" of implementation bodies will have much more power to execute language planning decisions than a decentralized one which allows lower levels of the bureaucracy considerable latitude in adapting plans and ordering its own priorities. Indeed, a centralized system may give central authorities the power to determine the composition of bodies at lower levels which are in charge of implementation (Tollefson 1981: 178-181). This may be a crucial factor. At the other extreme, the most decentralized mode of planning (which seems doomed never to achieve standardization) is that in which sovereign countries attempt to carry out their own independent reform of the same language either at cross purposes or without serious attempts to coordinate. Something approaching this has occurred in the case of Arabic, for which separate academies exist in Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and elsewhere. Each academy has a different degree of authority and autonomy. Moreover, in addition to these "authoritative" academies, many independent scholars have also attempted to work on language planning problems. As of the late 1960s, this had produced a situation in which "even in fairly static sciences like zoology and botany" the Arabic language had "no standard binomial scientific classification, and the terminology of social sciences like anthropology [was] so imprecise as to make translation of little value" (Gallagher 1968: 140). A government's ability to act with speed and to follow through can also be crucial factors determining the likelihood of success. Ataturk's successful shift of Turkish writing from the Arabic to the Latin alphabet owed much to the speed with which this reform was executed (Gilson 1986: 38). On the vocabulary front, the relative success in Turkey was aided by the establishment and consistent work of language planning committees. In contrast, a number of factors which characterize the work of Iran's Farhangestan in the 1930s suggest sporadic work: its vocabulary lists were not widely distributed, it never issued a dictionary, its collection of lexical items was irregular, it did not seek feedback from the population, and its work was not coordinated with any educational or literacy campaigns (Perry 1985: 309).

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In addition to the above political and organizational factors, it goes without saying that a government's success in implementing change in language is also affected by how deeply entrenched the language behavior is which it attempts to modify, i.e., how much "unlearning" must first take place. Cobarrubias proposes that a language's "communicative strength" (which includes its "entrenchment") in a particular society be referred to as its "ethoglossia" (Cobarrubias 1983: 52-56). By definition, habits which are not entrenched require less "unlearning" than those which are deeply entrenched. Thus, because of the lesser amount of "unlearning" necessary, in many ways it would be easier to introduce a new alphabet undergoing graphization for the first time than it would be to introduce an entirely new alphabet for a language community with a high degree of literacy in another script. One of the reasons why governments are concerned about language is that it is an indispensable medium through which they communicate with their subjects. Regimes which attempt to regulate or control more of the activities of their subjects may need more communication than less ambitious regimes, but even leaders of a "totalitarian" regime who do not speak the language of the people in a particular area can funnel a large amount of the communication through a relatively small number of bilingual intermediaries. Frequently these intermediaries enjoy special status and/or social mobility. Although in British colonial Africa the native elite through whom the crown governed did not owe their status entirely to the fact that they served in this intermediary function, their superior positions were strengthened by the British. In similar fashion, French imperialism in Vietnam used language as "an exceptionally important" weapon (DeFrancis 1977: 230). At the end of the 1930s, only a very small elite continued education beyond the third grade, where the medium of instruction switched from Vietnamese to French. This served the colonial regime, which was "primarily concerned with developing an elite corps of Vietnamese who would hopefully be willing collaborators in the task of ruling the illiterate masses" (DeFrancis 1977: 217-218). Despite the possibility of using intermediaries as interpreters, in modern states many leaders attempt to communicate directly with their subjects over radios and television. In these cases, it becomes critical for leaders and their followers to have a common code. Yet language problems occur, sometimes even due to differences in style. DeFrancis retells the story of a South Vietnamese leader who was angered by the text of a speech which had been prepared for him to deliver in

Language planning and development 15

colloquial Vietnamese. This, he felt, insulted his intelligence. However, his address, which he insisted on delivering in a much elevated style, was "incomprehensible to the people and fell completely flat". In contrast, the communist leader Ho Chi Minh was very effective in using a popular form of the Vietnamese language in which to communicate with his people. (DeFrancis 1977: 250). Even governments which are reluctant to grant official status to some of their subjects' language may in practice demonstrate that they recognize the importance of language for achieving penetration. For example, as part of its arabization policy, the Algerian government has adamantly refused to give official status to any Berber language; nevertheless, as of 1980, the state-run radio broadcast twelve hours per day in Berber (Tabory 1987: 68). There does not appear to be any direct correlation between a government's willingness to accommodate a linguistically heterogeneous population with services in a variety of native languages and separatist tendencies (Fishman 1986: 179-180);6 nevertheless, rulers who feel threatened by the existence of groups speaking other languages in their polities may perceive multilingualism as a danger. Leaders who are jealous of power may also believe that the elimination of other languages which the ruling group does not understand may make it more difficult for subjects to communicate surreptitiously. Thus, politicians who are in pursuit of what Fishman labels "nationism" (i.e., the operational integrity of the nation) may decide that "the fewer the languages the better, and the less opposition to them the better" (Fishman 1968c: 9). Language planning is also of immediate relevance to achievement of penetration because of its close link to literacy. Not surprisingly, many revolutionary regimes have made literacy a major priority. (Literacy, of course, is also related to development problems other than penetration. These will be discussed below.) One such regime has ruled Ethiopia, where in the course of six years 40% of the entire population reportedly enrolled in literacy courses (Clapham 1988: 152). Even making allowances for a low quality of literacy, lapses back into illiteracy, and government exaggeration, this figure nevertheless demonstrates the emphasis which the new revolutionary leaders placed on the population's ability to read and write. Literacy can also help a government achieve compliance with policies in non-revolutionary situations. It has been demonstrated that literacy in India affects women's ability to use and understand government

16 Chapter 1

materials on birth control; moreover, literacy also has an indirect impact which lowers the birth rate through shaping women's career and other life ambitions (Mitra cited in Weinstein 1983: 39). Participation. The links between participation and language in many ways mirror those between penetration and language. This is because of the close and often inverse relation between penetration and participation. Language issues often become arenas for mass participation when members of a particular group feel threatened by policies which are about to be introduced. Riots broke out in Nigeria in 1962 among the Tiv, who rejected the "Hausa-isation" of the Northern Region of the country (Attah 1987: 398); language issues were also a major factor causing riots in Tamil areas of India in 1965 when Hindi was about to become the primary official language of the Indian Union (Weinstein 1983: 96). Disturbances in Soweto in 1976 were set off initially by students protesting the extension of use of Afrikaans as a medium of instruction in secondary level education there (Reagan 1987b: 4), and the arabization campaign in the Sudan was a major reason for the civil war in that country. The political salience of language issues makes them the object of activity by groups who hope to influence decisions. Das Gupta demonstrates how this operated in India (Das Gupta 1970). Even language planner-technocrats may sometimes assume political roles on behalf of the language plans which they seek to promote (Fishman 1974b: 96). Brass believes that for language to become a political symbol it requires an elite which selects it, transmits it, and standardizes it for the appropriate population (Brass 44). On occasion, as Weinstein observes, aspiring political elites may use language issues to promote their own careers (Weinstein 1983: 114). Ultimately, however, language policies reflect the preferences and calculations of the elites who control the state machinery (Esman 1987: 4). Therefore struggles over language quickly turn into struggles for control of political institutions. Political elites may devolve some of the decision making on language issues to writers, linguists, and other members of the intelligentsia. But if language issues are politically important ones, the politicians who appoint them are likely to insist that the "independent" specialists reflect the views of the power elite. Naturally, with a change of regime, the way in which language issues are decided in a society may also change. The opening of a

Language planning and development 17

democratic process and decentralization of decision making may allow input from populations whose preferences were ignored by dictatorial governments. In Franco's Spain, language status policy was tightly controlled by the government in Madrid. But political developments after Franco's death in 1975 provided new opportunities for the various regions of Spain to raise the status of the regional languages. Language is important to participation because access to the political process can be facilitated or impeded by knowledge of the appropriate language or style. At times, Kenyan election laws have limited opportunities to run for office to those candidates who could pass an English test taken under the aegis of the provincial administration (Bienen cited by Crampton 1986: 118). During the French colonial era in Vietnam, the small indigenous elite who had mastered French enjoyed much better opportunities for political participation than their monolingual countrymen. This, however, changed. "[O]nce French obstructionism was replaced by a determined effort to combine the struggle for literacy with the struggle for national independence and national identity", new opportunities for political participation were opened for the rest of the population (DeFrancis 1977: 241). The revolutionary regime in Somalia in the 1970s was also vitally concerned with language planning in order to open up broader opportunities for participation. Unlike most newly independent African countries, the vast majority of Somalia's population had the same native language, Somali. Yet under the country's parliamentary government which was in power until October, 1969, no agreement was reached on a script for Somali. This severely limited the participation of much of the population, because English and Italian continued to serve as the languages of administration. It is claimed that the adoption of the Latin script for Somali (and the subsequent introduction of Somali as the language of administration) reduced the gap which had existed "between the state and the public" and made it possible for "ordinary Somalis" to read and understand government regulations and legal documents, and to participate in legal proceedings "without bothersome mediation of interpreters" (Adam 1980: 4-6). Speakers of a language may take political action to bring change if they perceive that the language status rules in their society impede their opportunities to participate or that new rules will cause this to happen. Tamils in India felt threatened with exclusion from the federal civil service when it appeared that a highly Sanskritized form of Hindi would be used as the only language of communication among

18 Chapter 1

states. Under pressure from those who would be negatively affected, the central government allowed the states to communicate with each other and with the central government either in Hindi or English (Weinstein 1983: 96). Language competence is also related to such forms of mass political participation as voting. Landau suggests that the knowledge of Hebrew by Israeli Arabs (which is facilitated by the relatively small linguistic distance between Hebrew and Arabic) made a significant contribution toward the high rate of participation by Arabs in Israeli elections. In contrast, Landau notes, there is a very low level of participation by most Kurds of Turkey, where few Kurds are fluent in Turkish and the languages are more distant (Landau 1987: 16). Literacy which may be fostered by language planning may also affect participation through important psychological changes. LaPalombara points out that literacy can play a crucial role in allowing peasants to understand that "social relationships are not necessarily immutable" and "to question the hierarchical patterns of power and authority" which traditionally existed in family life and society as a whole (LaPalombara 1971b: 268-269). Although the focus of attention here is on politics in the state arena, it is worth noting that language also plays some analogous roles vis-avis participation in the "politics" of communities within the state. Thus, the introduction of new terminology in the vernacular to facilitate the study of such a field as chemistry is not a mere technical question. Rather, it signifies "an alteration in the control of chemistry knowledge so as to decrease power in one segment of the population and increase it in another" (Fishman 1974b: 93). Legitimacy. Language and legitimacy are also very closely bound to one another, above all because a government's legitimacy is likely to affect a the language community's receptivity to government-sponsored language change. Everything else being equal, a population is more likely to accept linguistic change which it perceives is promoted by a legitimate government than it is to accept such change from an "illegitimate" one. Because legitimacy is frequently derived from matters relating to participation, identity, and distribution, much of the evidence about the impact of language planning on legitimacy falls into one of the other problem areas under consideration here. (For example, participation fostered by language planning may contribute to the legitimacy of a

Language planning and development 19

regime in the eyes of those citizens whose opportunities to participate are thereby enhanced.) Because of this, much of the discussion of the impact of language planning on legitimacy is included under the other problem areas presented in this chapter. Nevertheless, it is appropriate briefly to mention some of the more direct relations here. One of the more direct ways in which governments have sought to use language policies to enhance their legitimacy has been through "language declarations of independence". This is evident in the exhortations frequently heard in Tanzania proclaiming it "shameful" to use English, "the language of the Colonialists and neo-colonialists", but praising the use of Swahili because it is an African language and "the language of the people (Wananchi)" (Whitely 1971: 151). Of course due to the instrumental value of language and the specific linguistic situation in a given territory, even such an "obvious" source of legitimacy as "linguistic independence" is not always a practical objective. This is true in much of Africa, including Tanzania's neighbor Kenya; there language policy has not been associated "with the choice of a particular language as integral to [its] political ideology" (Whitely 1971: 156). According to Reagan, even in South Africa (where English also has an association with the colonial experience), if a common shared language were to be chosen, it would likely be English (Reagan 1987a: 310); in Reagan's view, Zulu, the indigenous language with the largest number of speakers, would be unacceptable to many blacks as the official nation-wide language (Reagan 1987b: 6). Language planning can also affect legitimacy in rather direct fashion because of the role of language in political socialization. Governments, especially new revolutionary ones, may encounter linguistic obstacles in their attempts to inculcate their citizens with a belief in the regime's legitimacy. This largely parallels the need for a channel of communication between government and subject noted above with regard to penetration. However, political indoctrination by a new revolutionary regime requires much more extensive communication than most forms of compliance which it seeks. Literacy, which is often a major if indirect goal of language planning, allows governments to use printed materials for this goal. Because revolutionary governments also often desire to communicate new ideas to populations whose native languages have never expressed certain ideas, it is necessary to develop and disseminate new sets of terminology. This must certainly have taken place in Somalia. Shortly after the Somali revolution and the graphization of the Somali

20 Chapter 1

language, among the first works translated into Somali were The Communist Manifesto, Lenin's Imperialism, and Nkrumah's Class Struggle in Africa (Adam: 1980: 15). Identity. Identity, like legitimacy, is almost certain to have an impact on a government's success in language planning. The many identities which are felt by a speech community place constraints on language planners, but they alone do not predetermine success or failure. As Fishman points out, tradition often provides only "a vague outer limit, a rhetoric, an indigenous guiding principle, and, above all, a stabilizing identity" to the process of modernization and its corpus-planning counterpart (Fishman 1983: 111). Moreover, compared to the analysis of penetration and participation, in the case of identity, it is much more difficult to isolate influence in one direction from influence in the other (i.e., to separate the influence of language planning on identity from the impact of identity on language planning). This is because of the symbolic importance of language which makes language itself a symbol of identity. Fishman has described the link between language and identity as "sanctity by association" (Fishman 1977b: 25). Script is frequently a very powerful symbol. This is obvious in such cases as Arabic writing, which many Muslims consider holy. Even without the issue of "sacredness", writing systems can become integral parts of political struggles. This happened in India, where the discord about the script for the Bodo language was central to a conflict which eventually led to violence (Dua 1985: 362). The decision to use the Amharic script to write the Somali language of Somalis in Ethiopia (after Somalia itself had adopted the Latin alphabet) demonstrates the Ethiopian government's appreciation of script as a politically potent symbol (Clapham 1988: 153). (This is not to discount, however, the importance of certain instrumental reasons for the same choice. For example, the Ethiopian government probably prefers that Somalis in Ethiopia not be able to read materials printed in Somalia.) Very small linguistic differences may serve as identity markers to their speakers. In West Africa, even minor dialect differences often perform this function (Mansour 1987: 141). Frequently lexical items become linguistic symbols of identity, and their use can involve political repercussions. A Yugoslav "internationalist" Croat party official recently sharply criticized the vocabulary purism of his fellow Croats whom he claimed were thus promoting Croat nationalism ("Balkan

Language planning and development 21

Scrabble": 1985). Even such a seemingly minor factor as a plural form can become significant: Persian purist language reformers enthusiastically sought to remove the "impure" Arabic broken plural which had become widespread in their language. (Perry 1985: 301). A major reason that language is more likely than any other phenomenon to become a symbol of identity is its role in transmitting history. Fishman has described it as "the recorder of the paternity, the expresser of the patrimony and the carrier of phenomenology" (Fishman 1977b: 25). This relationship is part of the explanation why many Chinese have opposed elimination of Chinese characters despite the amount of time which it requires to become literate in character-written Chinese. In 1957, one of the participants in the Chinese debate on reform stated "If Chinese characters had not been used for recording a rich cultural heritage, overthrowing them would be no serious problem." He opposed elimination of characters because, among other things, it would make it impossible to read the great poetry of Li Bo and Tao Yuanming (Seybolt and Chang 1979: 112). In Iran, analogous factors seem to have worked against the possibility of discarding the Arabic-Persian script in favor of the Latin one. The script offered literate citizens access to Iran's "own" classical Persian literary heritage, i.e., in Persian. The fact that nationalism in Iran in the 1930s was directed both against the West and Islamic influences also weighed against a shift in writing (Perry 1985: 306). In Turkey, however, a different balance of symbols and a more ambiguous heritage may have facilitated change. Following the fall of the Ottoman Empire, Ataturk sought to establish a new national identity for Turkey independent of the former empire and of Islam. Unlike in Iran, the classical literature "was heavily derivative and readily seen as itself a corrupter, not the saviour of the national language" (Perry 1985: 300). Most of the "Turkish heritage" was not in Turkish, but Persian, and to a lesser extent in Arabic (Perry 1985: 306). Language in its instrumental role can also cultivate an identity. A common language may foster development of institutions that meet the need of the entire population and facilitate participation of all segments of society in meaningful roles. In this manner, it can help create what Kelman has termed "widespread instrumental attachment to the system" (Kelman 1971: 32).

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As indicated above under the discussion of legitimacy, in newly independent countries the national language(s) can embody newly-won independence. Although no solution has yet been found, many Nigerians have favored selection of a lingua franca for their country other than English to "convince the world" that they were "truly independent" (Attah 1987: 395). A few have even proposed creation of a new national language possibly called "Wazobia" by combining elements of Hausa, Igbo, and Yoruba, the three most widely-spoken languages. Others have suggested creation of an indigenized version of English, which would be "a unique way" to "express purely Nigerian experiences" (Attah 1987: 397-399). Some proponents of Namibian independence have also rejected English as a future national language because they feel it would symbolize a kind of neo-colonialism through degradation of the indigenous population and suppression and stagnation of its culture; they also believe that use of English would provide a rationalization of this relationship (Phillipson et al. 1986: 92).7 In successful linguistic "nativization" movements (such as movements to replace colonial powers' languages with national languages), those members of the indigenous elite who had adopted the metropolitan's culture and language may themselves become vestigial symbols of colonialism. In Vietnam, the Vietnamese scholars who had been trained in French came to be viewed by some of their fellow countrymen as people "who knew Western learning but were divorced from their own culture and their own people" (DeFrancis 1977: 236237). Ironically, the nationalist elites in newly independent countries often come from those very groups who themselves do not have a mastery of "their own" native language. Nationalists in Algeria at the time of independence were also products of French education. It is estimated that in 1964 more than three times as many Algerian Muslims could read French as could read Arabic (Gordon 1985: 137). Most members of Algeria's Constituent Assembly in 1962 were unable to express themselves in Arabic (Altoma 1974: 289); and even as the newlyindependent country pursued a course of arabization, its foreign minister was unable to find a common language in which to communicate with Egypt's President Nasser (Gallagher 1968: 130). The lack of competence in their "own" language by these individuals is a result of their educational experience. However, it also reflects the tension between two sometimes incompatible impulses which

Language planning and development 23

motivated their behavior. One drove them to attempt to recover the past, while the other spurred them to attempt to create a new and progressive society (Gordon 1985: 136). Contradictions related to identity can also hamper language corpus reform. In Iran during the 1930s language planners simultaneously attempted to make the language more comprehensible to the masses and to eliminate Arabic vocabulary. In fact, however, the Persian which the masses knew contained many assimilated Arabic words, whereas some of the "purified" language was not comprehensible to them (Perry 1985: 301). A number of factors affect a polity's ability or inclination to "declare linguistic independence". Some states refrain from this in order to arrive at a national linguistic compromise, which is often a language of wider communication such as French or English. Fishman observes that this tends to occur in linguistically heterogeneous countries where elites in decision-making capacities cannot find a single "Great Tradition"8 which "all or most of the inhabitants can immediately draw upon to make them one people and their country one nation" (Fishman 1971: 31-38). He designates such countries "Type A". The choice of national language in "Type A" countries tends to be relatively quick and does not threaten national unity, but it precludes a symbolic "declaration of linguistic independence". Despite the arguments against adopting English as the national language in Namibia cited above, English may by default become the language of national unity in South Africa. In that country mother tongue education is widely viewed as "an attempt by the government to 'divide and conquer' the black majority by inculcating tribal consciousness and perpetuating tribal divisions" (Reagan 1987b: 5) and as reinforcement of stratification (Reagan 1987a: 310). One linguistically heterogeneous "Type A" country which has developed a national linguistic symbol without recourse to a foreign language of wider communication is Indonesia. There the solution was adoption of a widely spoken indigenous language which, however, was spoken as a native language by only 8% of the country's population; in this way, fears of domination by Javanese (who comprised almost half of Indonesia's population) were eased (Esman 1987: 13). As in most "Type A" countries, the choice of national language in what Fishman terms "Type B" countries is also relative easy. In these polities there is a broad consensus - not just among the elites - "that a single Great Tradition is available to provide the indigenized and

24 Chapter 1

symbolically elaborated laws, beliefs, customs, literature, heroes, mission, and identity appropriate for nationwide identification" (Fishman 1971: 39). In these countries it may be necessary to engage in considerable corpus planning to equip a language with the technical, scientific, and government vocabulary which the "underdeveloped" language lacks, but this process is not encumbered by competing "Great Traditions". In "Type C" countries, however, the problem of selecting a national language is much greater. These states are "characterized by a conflicting or competing multiplicity of Great Traditions" (Fishman 1971: 39). Because language selection "represents a triumph over other, purportedly lesser traditions and goals" (Fishman 1968c: 9) the choice of language is likely to take place in an environment of "rather constant internal tension" and "nationalistic disunity, particularly in the absence of superordinate threat" (Fishman 1971: 39). In these countries the regional languages representing the "Great Traditions" may serve in a smaller geographical area (e.g., in a particular province), but a foreign language of wider communication is frequently "selected de jure or utilized de facto as (co-) official or working language (W) at the national level . . ." (Fishman 1971: 46). Obviously, this means that to a considerable degree "linguistic independence" must be foregone. Any attempt to grant special status to a language representing one of the "Great Traditions" is bound to create opposition from representatives of the other traditions. When governments in linguistically heterogeneous societies seek to turn the language of the largest group into a national symbol, it is likely to provoke dissatisfaction by linguistic minorities. This is part of a broader phenomenon which Weiner observes in some regimes' "solution" to the presence of many languages and ethnic groups in their society. In Weiner's view, the dominant group in such a society may attempt "assimilation aimed at destroying the cultural individuality of ethnic minorities". This "obliterates the distinction between a general culture and a civic culture"; one way is by "using the 'national' language in the schools and discouraging those institutions that maintain the cultural distinctiveness of minority groups" (Weiner 1971: 181). There are many gradations of possible policy between promotion of differences and the assimilation and obliteration described by Weiner. India, for example, could not and certainly has not attempted to eliminate linguistic differences among its population. Nevertheless,

Language planning and development 25

some northern Hindu proponents of greater linguistic national unity have urged heavier reliance on Sanskritic words in modern state languages (Southworth 1985: 230-231). A much more aggressive policy to achieve national linguistic unity is evident in Malaysia. This is a difficult problem, since there are two major ethnic groups in the population - Malays with approximately 47%, and Chinese with about 34%. Yet Malaysian leaders have made Malay the country's sole and official language, claiming it is necessary so that Malaysia not "be devoid of a unified character" (Watson 1983: 149). Not surprisingly, this has caused fear and resentment among the country's Chinese minority. Similarly, the arabization campaign in Algeria has encountered opposition from the Berber-speaking Kabyle people; significantly, demands for use of their own language had never been raised by the Kabyles when French was the country's dominant language and cultural vehicle (Tabory and Tabory 1987: 76-77). (Berbers account for approximately one-fifth of Algeria's population.) Elites' manipulation of language as a symbol may involve distortion of the history of their people and language. When Ataturk realized the harmful effects of excessive language purification, he began to moderate this movement. The leader himself rehabilitated such Arabic loan words as millet (nation). The reversal was justified through the "Sun-Language Theory", which stated that words once thought to be foreign loans had in fact originally been Turkish. Therefore it was no longer necessary to eliminate "foreign" words (Perry 1985: 302-303). A parallel theory emerged in Iran. There it was claimed that most "cultural" words once thought to have been borrowed by Persian from Arabic were in fact originally Persian (Jazayery 1983: 255). The Persian case also illustrates that language choice as a demonstration of independence can be tempered by the desire to maintain linguistic links with other language communities both inside and beyond the country's borders. One of the rationales used to restrain purification of Persian was that elimination of Arabic loan words would hamper communication with the many non-Persian speakers of the country as well as with other nations with whom Iranians shared racial, linguistic, and religious bonds (Jazayery 1983: 259). Despite its potential as a marker of identity and thus basis for political action, language is not always a salient symbol. Indeed, people may not even be aware of what language they are speaking until certain circumstances arise, especially until an elite turns language

26 Chapter 1

into a symbol. (Weinstein 1983: 139). Brass notes that members of any ethnic or linguistic group may objectively be distinct, but their members do not necessarily attach subjective importance or political significance to this fact (Brass 1974: 8-10). Indeed, as Fishman points out, language "problems" are often "really problems of social and economic development, control, and incorporation superposed upon ethnolinguistic, racial, and religious differences" (Fishman 1986: 179180). Under suitable conditions, though, language can come to symbolize the other social and economic problems. Distribution (Production and Allocation). Language and the twin problem areas of production and allocation are also linked in complex fashion. Although language planning may be intended over the long run to alleviate distribution problems in a polity, in the short run the execution of the plans may entail substantial financial costs. Language planning projects in Africa are often abandoned before completion because of insufficient funds (Chumbow 1987: 15). Schools are frequently among the key, yet most expensive, components of successful language planning. They entail such costs as school buildings, furniture, heating, teacher salaries, and textbooks. Some developing countries with hopes to "indigenize" the educational system must nevertheless adopt a language of wider communication as the medium of instruction because "resources are so slender that they cannot afford a programme of text-book translation or teacher training in the vernacular" (Whitely cited in Walker 1984: 194). Other costs more directly related to language planning include the work of committees which must develop terminology, perfect orthographies, or conduct expeditions to collect information on dialects. Execution of a bilingual or multilingual policy may also involve substantial costs in terms of translation of all official announcements and documents. The economic costs and benefits for every society undertaking language planning must be calculated individually. Thorburn proposes a very basic theoretic model to do this (Thorburn 1971). But a simple calculation of monetary costs and benefits may require assigning rather arbitrary figures to important considerations. How, for example, does one calculate the value of classroom time which children must spend to learn a complex writing system or a second language? The expenditure for classroom buildings, textbooks, and even teachers may be quite simple, but determining the value of other activities which the children might otherwise be engaged in appears impossible.

Language planning and development 27

Certain economic factors may be a great help to a government's language policy, such as jobs available to speakers of the language which a government seeks to promote. This seems applicable whether the favored variety is an independent language, only a dialect characterized by the use of certain vocabulary or pronunciation, or whether it is characterized by a certain orthography or script. On the other hand, governments may be fighting a losing battle when other distribution-related factors to which individuals respond are working against them. Paulston maintains that "[wjithout rewards, language learning is not salient" (Paulston 1986: 124). Can governments tailor situations to favor certain languages? In some cases it is certainly possible, yet Edwards is confident that the "artificiality of economic intervention on behalf of purely linguistic and cultural goals usually manifests itself in temporary and isolated measures" (Edwards 1985: 9395). Language planning, in particular script or orthography reform, can affect literacy by making it easier (or more difficult) for the masses to learn to read. In turn, a change in level of literacy is often directly related to problems of production. LaPalombara claims that the "evidence is overwhelming that little can be done to increase the size of the [economic] pie unless levels of literacy are dramatically raised over a short time span". In fact, in his view, in no other sector "is the 'big push' argument regarding nation-building problems more persuasively made" (LaPalombara 1971b: 268-269). One of many countries where government action demonstrated an understanding of the link to production is the Central African Republic, where the literacy campaign in the mid 1970s focused on the three regions in which the government hoped to boost cotton production (Samarin 1986: 383). On the whole, production is likely to be favored by greater standardization in language. This is much in harmony with the view of those linguists, such as Tauli, who define a good language as one which uses short words, is regular, simple, and euphonious (Fishman 1983: 112). It appears that the work of Indonesian language planners paid off in the area of creating standardized vocabulary. Following the decision to replace Dutch with Bahasa Indonesia, language planners approved 328,000 words to create a unified linguistic instrument (Tauli cited in Weinstein 1983: 41). Few language planning agencies, however, have the luxury of being able to overhaul the entire vocabulary of a language. More modest goals, nevertheless, may bring

28 Chapter 1

substantial rewards. A language planning agency which increases uniformity in a certain field of technical language may make a substantial contribution to efficiency. Spelling uniformity is also very important for efficiency in the work of bureaucracies which keep alphabetized records and even for the individual who has occasion to use alphabetized indexes. Computerization greatly increases the importance of uniformity. There are special (potentially very costly) problems which must be overcome in adapting a character-written language such as Chinese to computer. In the Chinese case, IBM alone was said to be investing 50 million dollars in search of a solution ("Another Great Wall": 1984). For countries heavily dependent on the importation of technology, links to foreign languages may contribute to production. Decisions by language planners may play a role in making it easier for one language community to learn a foreign language. This is one of the bases for the arguments to adopt "international" words rather than coin new ones based on the internal resources of each language. Parallel considerations have promoted suggestions to shift Arabic language writing to the Latin alphabet. (Altoma 1974: 284). Though to date this proposal has not gained much acceptance, the choice of the Latin alphabet to write Somali may have in part been based on this kind of reasoning. Ties to other languages often involve costs of their own. For example, fostering such ties may make a language more difficult for its native speakers to master. This is illustrated in the two contradictory approaches which have been suggested for Haitian Creole orthography. One principle, the phonetic one, suggests that Creole speakers "write as they speak". By definition, this would bring the orthography of the language close to their pronunciation and thus facilitate acquisition of literacy. But the etymological principle would dictate that Creole writing reflect the French spelling of words. If followed, this would make it much more difficult for Haitian Creole speakers to become literate in their own language, but once literate in it, French literacy would be much easier to acquire (Bentolila 1987: 84). Language planners must also weigh the impact of "efficiency decisions" on symbolic concerns. Landau hypothesizes that part of the explanation why Hebrew retained its own script while Turkish adopted Latin letters lies in the fact that modernization "as a national goal" may have been relatively less important in Israel than in Turkey. Whereas Jews who emigrated to Palestine/Israel were from countries

Language planning and development

29

which were already highly modernized, Ataturk was attempting to modernize rapidly (Landau 1987: 16). Linguistic choices which affect production also have major implications for allocation in a society. The choices are inextricably linked to selection of either an "elite manpower development" or a "mass manpower development" strategy as described above. These links can be illustrated through the policies chosen in Kenya and Tanzania.9 In Kenya, training the elite took precedence over mass education. In line with this, English retained a very prominent role. Thus, while Swahili remained the national language (e.g., used for presidential addresses) and the first years of education was in Swahili or other local languages, as of the mid-1980s, from the fourth grade on, English was the medium of instruction for all Kenyan students. In fact, some public schools in the capital and even some rural schools used English as the medium of instruction from the first primary grade (Zuengler 1985: 248). In contrast to Kenya, over most of its history Tanzania has chosen a policy emphasizing mass manpower development, even at the expense of production. A major objective of the Tanzanian government, in harmony with its goals of socialism and rural development, has been achievement of universal education. Although in the very first years after its independence Tanzania also gave English a prominent role, the leaders became sensitive to a widening language gap in the 1960s. Consequently, in 1968 the government adopted a strategy of raising the status of Swahili. Eventually, plans were made to change all remaining secondary instruction in English to Swahili by the mid-1980s. One of the results of the relegation of English to minor roles was a drop in Tanzanians' comprehension levels in English (Zuengler 244-247). As noted above, it has been argued that the adoption of English as official language for Namibia would symbolically represent a continuation of the colonial heritage. Phillipson and his co-authors maintain in parallel fashion that the acceptance of English would also disproportionately benefit the already favored classes. They allege that the adoption of English would serve the interests "only of the local elite and the CWC [culture of wider communication]" (Phillipson 1986: 92). One of the most extreme examples of a "mass manpower development" strategy has been socialist Ethiopia. In that country a fairly high quality English-medium education for a small number was replaced by a much more widely available Amharic-medium education

30 Chapter 1

of an inferior quality. This has been described by one observer as "in a sense 'epitomising]' what the revolution is about". The change also reflects a shift in educational goals from the elite to the mass manpower strategy. The educational system today, "[rjather than producing an elite, whose role was to mediate, in one way or another, between Ethiopia and the external world", provides "ordinary Ethiopians with the skills needed for life" in a society where literacy in Amharic is of more utility than it would be in English (Clapham 1988: 151).10 Although the above examples all illustrate the links between allocation and language status planning, similar relations exist in the case of corpus planning. For example, the North Vietnamese decided to use terms of Vietnamese origin in the field of medicine. This was in accordance with the communist regime's emphasis on preventative care and popularization of medical knowledge. In contrast, the medical terminology used in South Vietnam relied much more on words of Chinese, English, and French origin (DeFrancis 1977: 244247). Language planning goals may shift as language changes, as language competence changes, and as the development needs and strategies in a polity change. In Fishman's "Type B" countries, where there is likely an eventual shift to the language of the "Great Tradition", language planning initially takes place in an environment with a major role for the language of wider communication. But as time progresses, the language develops, and the population learns to use the indigenous language in such spheres as administration and secondary and higher education. Consequently, the nature of language planning also changes. The tasks of language planning in "Type C" nations are also likely to vary over time, as there is flux in the balance of functions performed by languages representing different "Great Traditions". Even in "Type A" polities, where there is likely to be continued reliance upon an language of wider communication for national communication, the problems of language planning for the regional languages may change over time as the regional languages are developed for new purposes, although in a geographically more limited context. Governments which seek to implement language change often must modify their policies in accordance with feedback which they receive from their societies. One illustration is the change in Morocco in the 1950s, where initially the government pursued a policy of rapid

Language planning and development 31

arabization. However, this created a number of problems, among the most serious a deterioration of the quality of education. Not only were there not enough teachers and textbooks to arabize the educational system rapidly, but many Moroccan officials also felt that Arabic was technically useless in their work. Even the head of the government's Bureau of Arabization described the language as "underdeveloped" and "not ready to play a role, in technical matters". As a result of such difficulties, the government moderated the campaign (Altoma 1974: 286; Gallagher 1968: 136-139). There is considerable debate over the implications of language policies for allocation of educational and employment opportunities. Some observers see the "haves" making a calculated effort to use language to block access of the "have-nots". Tollefson, for example, severely criticizes Philippine language policy makers for their attempt to preserve the advantages which the privileged already enjoy. He notes that the Philippine government continues widespread use of English for many purposes (including public speeches) and that in 1985 a government minister suggested that English become the sole medium of instruction "in all math, science, technology, and allied subjects" throughout the educational system. Although Tollefson says this policy is justified in terms of promoting economic growth linked to a world market, he sees it as penalizing rural and poor youths while providing "a sufficient number of competent English speakers to staff office and service positions cheaply" and creating a "huge pool of cheap unskilled labor" by "ensuring] that a great number of students fail" (Tollefson 1986: 184-185). Other scholars do not see the behavior by the privileged in such selfish terms, though they recognize the result which prevents a more equal allocation of opportunity. Rubin, for example, sees the high failure rate of Guarani-speaking children in Paraguay as linked to their insufficient grasp of Spanish, the medium in which they must study (Rubin 1968: 484). Southworth observes that in India, where many languages are used in education, the language of children from lower castes may be so different from the standard colloquial that they cannot even understand simple instructions. As a result, these children may be considered "uneducable" until they demonstrate that they can perform in the standard colloquial language (Southworth 1985: 234). An often cited UNESCO recommendation supports the claims that education should be in a child's first language. It states that "the best medium for teaching a child is his mother tongue" (UNESCO [1953],

32 Chapter 1

The Use of Vernacular Languages in Education cited in Weinstein 1987b: 40).n If it is indeed true that native language education is a major advantage for children, then a small minority has much better opportunities in the African countries where education in languages of wider communication is still strongly promoted. It was estimated in the early 1980s that on the African continent as a whole, only 10% of the population knew English, French, or Spanish (Scotton 1982: 67-68). Many African countries attempt to bridge part of the "opportunity gap" by offering the first years of primary education in the mother tongue. Often the goal is to prepare children to continue their education in a language of wider communication. In Ghana, for example, the main indigenous language of the locality is used as the medium of instruction for the first three years of education. However, English is taught as a subject beginning in the first grade (Boahene-Agbo 1985: 73). The Ghanaian situation is complicated by the fact that the country has so many languages. In other countries where the picture is less complex adoption of a policy to provide more equal opportunity to all in the native tongue may be somewhat easier. One example is Haiti, where in 1979 Creole was officially made a language of instruction through the fifth year. Until then, instruction in the country's schools was exclusively in French. Because only 20% of the children entering school knew that language, some observers felt that this had condemned the majority of them to "almost certain scholastic failure" (Bentolila 1987: 81). Polities in which allocation-related language problems arise are likely to be the same ones in which identity is an acute problem. As indicated above, despite the fact that non-Malays comprise a slight majority of its population, Malaysia has pursued an identity based on Malay culture and language. This has resulted in declining opportunities based on language for the non-Malays. In Malaya, under the Japanese occupation of World War II, primary school education was available in Malay, English, Tamil, and Chinese. English-medium education led to the most prestigious social positions (Watson 1983: 135). But since independence in 1957, the Malayan (later Malaysian) government has sought to promote the Malay language at the expense of the minority tongues. One important step was the end of government assistance to Chinese and Tamil-medium secondary schools in 1962; seven years later it was decided to phase out government aid to English-medium schools (Mauzy 1985: 161-163). By 1978, "all

Language planning and development 33

national secondary education [in Malaysia] was being conducted through Bahasa Malaysia", and it was expected that university education would follow suit in the 1980s. Because in Malaysia "economic and social mobility are very dependent on the education system", these changes worked to handicap non-Malay groups, especially the Chinese (Watson 1983: 140-143). Indeed, one important aspect of Malaysia's language policy is the government's attempt to erode the dominant economic position which Chinese have traditionally occupied. The French-educated Kabyle-speaking minority was similarly disadvantaged by Algeria's campaign for a single national language. Prior to this, many Kabyle speakers had achieved social mobility through teaching careers in French-medium schools. However, the arabization campaign deprived them of such opportunities (Tabory & Tabory 1987: 74). Analogous tensions are likely to be produced by efforts to promote languages of "international communities" which favor some sub-groups in those communities over others. Thus, much like national language defenders, Francophonie proponents see their movement as protection from outside linguistic forces, in this case, world Anglo-American domination. However, from the perspective of many non-French citizens in former colonies, this promotion of French "may be seen as neo-colonialism and the promotion of cultural dependency which reinforces economic dependency and prolongs underdevelopment" (Weinstein 1987a: 24). Attempts to plan language so as to produce more even distribution seem bound to meet opposition from entrenched "privileged" language groups. In newly independent countries, the elite who know the former colonial language of wider communication realize that the reduction of the status of that language may undermine their own status and put them much more on a par with other speakers (Walker 1984: 172). Commenting on the African elite's support for European languages rather than indigenous official languages, Scotton has noted that the elite "may well decide it serves its best socioeconomic interests not to foster the spread of the official language unduly, even at the cost of limiting national integration. . ." The elite's main aim may be to restrict socioeconomic integration by "restricting political and economic opportunity to its own ranks. . ." (Scotton 1982: 69). Groups may also be motivated by self-interest in language corpus planning. Khubchandani believes that the standardization promoted by

34 Chapter 1

Indian language planners reflects elite interests and "put[s] a high premium on highbrow values of speech . . ." (Khubchandani 1984: 186). These planners favor "highbrow diction for regional languages" and the inclusion of Sanskrit, Perso-Arabic, or Old-Tamil elements (Khubchandani 1984: 181). They oppose any "democratization" of language because they see it as redistribution (Southworth 1985: 230231). Frequently generational factors help to explain attitudes toward language change which may affect access to opportunities. For example, in the 1960s and 1970s, Vietnamese university professors, especially those in the sciences, favored higher education in French and English. Students, however, preferred Vietnamese (DeFrancis 1977: 235). Ironically, members of "linguistically disadvantaged groups" themselves often oppose language planning efforts which may be designed in order to favor them. They may perceive that social and economic mobility depend on mastery of another foreign but prestigious language. This is evident in the Indian state of Andhra Pradesh, where Telugu was introduced as the official language in 1966. However, many parents preferred to send children to English-medium schools because of the better job prospects they believed such an education offered. Banks and businesses preferred to hire new personnel who were educated in English; moreover, even the state government had no policy which granted preferential treatment to Telugu-medium school graduates (Walker 1984: 172). Similarly, some Haitian Creole speakers did not favorably view the opportunities to receive education in Creole: they feared that this would lead to being "shut up in a Creole 'ghetto'" and destroy all hope for social promotion which a French education might bring (Bentolila 1987: 82). Today many South African blacks view English as the "language of liberation" and oppose education in the medium of the mother tongue (Reagan 1987a: 304-305). Their opposition to the use of native languages is based on the view that it entails forcing children to study in an "underdeveloped" language and that thus it is "yet another device to ensure that black South Africans remain 'hewers of wood and drawers of water'" (Reagan 1987b: 2-5). The cases sketched out above, of course, do not constitute a comprehensive picture of the relations between language and the problems of political development. However, they suffice to demonstrate some of the most important links and the complexity of

Language planning and development 35

these relations. It follows that the relations in a specific society depend on a set of concrete linguistic, political, economic, social, cultural, and other factors. Therefore, in order to understand the case study of Uzbek language planning under Bolshevik rule, it is first necessary to explore the most salient factors of this society in the period leading up to the revolution and the decades which immediately followed.

Chapter 2

The setting for Uzbek language planning

Historical overview The Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic (the Uzbek SSR or Uzbekistan) is the most populous of the five republics which constitute Soviet Central Asia. Besides bordering on Afghanistan, Uzbekistan also borders on all of the other Soviet Central Asian republics (Tajikistan, Kirgizia, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan). All but about one percent of Soviet Uzbeks live in the Central Asian republics, with the vast majority (about 85%) living in Uzbekistan. Uzbekistan and Soviet Central Asia are part of a vaguely defined region known as Turkestan (land of the Turks). Historically, as more Turkic tribes settled in the area to the east of the Caspian Sea, the geographic meaning of "Turkestan" broadened. Today "Turkestan" is often used to refer to Soviet Central Asia, as well as China's Xinjiang Uygur Autonomous Region and northern Afghanistan. Despite a bewildering series of political borders which have divided and continue to divide Turkestan, its peoples have long shared a network of linguistic, cultural, and religious bonds with each other. Both the standardized Uzbek language and Uzbekistan are products of Soviet history. With regard to language, "Uzbek" in the early twentieth century referred to a loosely-defined group of Turkic dialects spoken in Turkestan. At the time of the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, the territory of Uzbekistan was divided among three different political units. One of these was directly administered by the Russian Governor General, while the others were parts of the Bukharan and Khivan khanates. The Russian General-Governorship, Bukhara, and Khiva were all economically far less developed than European Russia. The vast majority of the local population was employed in agriculture. Although these areas supplied large amounts of grain and cotton to Russia, the agricultural technology and tools used to grow these crops was very primitive (Matley 1967a: 274-277). The small amount of industry which existed was largely related to textiles; it employed only a small minority of the total population (Matley 1967b: 309-321). The

38 Chapter 2

social and cultural conditions in the region were more like those in nearby Afghanistan than in European Russia. There were a large number of religious schools, especially in Bukhara, but the literacy rate was very low. The level of sanitation and medical care was also very poor. This explains the fact that although there was a high birth rate, the population living within the borders of today's Uzbekistan increased only 10% between 1897 and 1913 (Uzbekskaia 1977: 36). In 1917, the total population of the territory of future Uzbekistan was approximately 4.5 million, only one-fourth of which lived in towns and cities (Mulliadzhanov 1983: 123). The overwhelming majority of both rural and urban inhabitants were indigenous to the region. Although data are not available for 1917, according to the 1926 census approximately three-fourths were Uzbeks and another 12% were Tajiks, Kazakhs, and Kirgiz. Less than 6% of the population was Russian (Tursunov 1957: 162). Various forms of Islam mixed with other practices were observed almost universally by the indigenous population. For all its "backwardness" in the early twentieth century, this area had reached a very high level of cultural development almost a full millennium before. The ancient centers of Bukhara and Khorezm had produced such important scholars and philosophers as Ibn Sina (Avicenna) (980-1037) and Abu al-Rayhan Beruni (973-1048). The architectural achievements still evident today in the Mausoleum of the Samanids in Bukhara and the ruins of Afrasiyab attest to the achievements of those civilizations. Although the Mongol invasion laid ruin to these centers, the rulers Tamerlane and Ulughbek oversaw the development of a prosperous economy and a high level of culture in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in these same places. Following the fifteenth century, however, the importance of the silk routes crossing Central Asia declined, and so the area, with its traditional centers of high civilization, entered a period of cultural and economic stagnation. Because of Russia's other territorial ambitions, and because of the great distances and dangers, as late as the eighteenth century Russia's contacts with Central Asia were still very limited. True, even in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there was substantial trade between Russia and Central Asia. But only in the early 1800s did tsarist Russia begin to extend its administration over the populations

The setting for Uzbek language planning 39

of the Kazakh Steppe, which separated Russia from the Central Asian khanates of Kokand, Bukhara, and Khiva (Khorezm). Russia's eventual conquest of Central Asia was facilitated by internecine disputes among local leaders and frequently shifting alliances. Kokand was the first of the three states to lose territory to Russia. Following other conquests at the beginning of the 1860s, tsarist forces took Chimkent in 1864 and Tashkent in 1865. In 1867 the General-Governorship of Turkestan was established with Tashkent as its center. It was through this General-Governorship that Russia ruled much of today's Soviet Central Asia until after the Bolshevik Revolution. (A number of changes in administrative divisions were made, some to incorporate subsequent conquests.) Russia's Governor General had jurisdiction over all of the territory of the former Kokand khanate, and some parts of Bukhara and Khiva. Nevertheless, the latter two survived in truncated form as distinct states dependent on Russia until after the Bolshevik Revolution. Contact with Russia brought major changes to the economy of Central Asia. The greatest change was the expansion in cotton cultivation and its export to Russia. Russia became interested in the cotton producing potential of the region as the United States civil war cut off supplies of the valuable raw material from America. The very limited beginnings of industrial growth in Central Asia also revolved around cotton. At the same time, colonial Turkestan became a market for raw and manufactured produce (including cotton textiles) from metropolitan Russia. The tsarist regime invested in transportation in the region, constructing the Trans-Caspian and Orenburg-Tashkent railroads. Developments related to trade, industry, railroads, and farming meant that the Russian population in Central Asia expanded in the last half century of Russian imperial rule. Although the number of immigrants to southern Central Asia was not as large as to Kazakhstan, the arrival of Russian settlers in the early twentieth century set off clashes between the Europeans and the local population (Carrere d'Encausse 1967b: 161). Despite these important economic and political changes of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the tsarist colonial administration of Turkestan did not attempt to alter the traditional social structure or to assimilate the local nationalities. It sought to weaken Islam in the region, but in most of the period, (and especially

40 Chapter 2

under the direction of Turkestan Governor General von Kaufman [1867-1882]), it attempted to do this through ignoring rather than attacking it. The tsarist administration's cautious approach is also apparent in its educational policy in Turkestan. Russia did not disturb the traditional Islamic schools (maktab), which were attended by the overwhelming majority of children of the indigenous nationalities who attended school at all. The tsarist administration supported the opening of only a small number of schools for the native population in which most of the tuition was in Russian; these were intended to introduce a small elite to the Russian language and Russian culture. The only other significant educational innovation during tsarist colonial rule was the "new method" (usul-i jadid) school; the reform-minded Muslims who organized these schools sought to prepare the next generation of Muslims to operate in a much more modern world. Although the colonial administration tolerated some of these schools, it did not support them. The colonial regime's suspicion toward these schools was shared by the ulema (the Islamic scholars and religious leaders), who saw these institutions as a threat to the religious and social status quo. The jadid movement was an extraordinarily important source of literati and reform-minded political leadership in Central Asia both in the last years of tsarist rule and the first years following the Bolshevik revolution. Indeed, men with jadid roots served in top republic leadership positions in Uzbekistan until as late as 1938. The emergence and development of Central Asian jadidism was greatly stimulated by the Tatars of Crimea and the Middle Volga who emerged as the leaders of the movement. This is one of the major reasons that many members of the jadid intelligentsia attempted to foster feelings of belonging to a "Turkic" (i.e., pan-Turkic) people. Most of the Central Asian masses, however, were probably not conscious of their Turkic roots. They identified themselves as members of particular tribes, inhabitants of certain villages, valleys, oases, towns, or other small regions. They also had a sense of belonging to the Muslim umma (community of Muslims). Islam had become a part of life not just as a religion, but through its influence on the economic and social structures, and through its impact on the musical, literary, and other cultural traditions.

The setting for Uzbek language planning 41 Although the "Turkic" and "Islamic" communities of Central Asia, like those of colonial Russia as whole, did not coincide, there was great overlap among them. All major Turkic-speaking groups in Central Asia were Muslims, but among Central Asian Muslims there were also many speakers of Iranian dialects. Among Russia's other Turkic speakers there were small groups of non-Muslims such as the Chuvash, but many of Russia's Muslims outside of Central Asia spoke nonTurkic languages (especially in the Caucasus). The jadids were mostly observant Muslims and indeed all of them were loyal to their Islamic culture and heritage. However, they believed that the social and cultural stagnation which they saw in their society was rooted in a corrupted form of Islam promoted by the powerful ulema. This ambiguous attitude toward Islam and their overriding sense of "turkicness" (turklik) inclined the jadids to favor pan-Turkism whenever their Turkic and Islamic identities came into conflict. As noted above, one of the changes in the Turkestani society in which jadids lived was the arrival of new Russian settlers. However, while the newcomers lived "among" the indigenous Central Asians, they did not mix with them. Typically Russians built new towns which were separate from the urban centers inhabited by the local population. They looked upon themselves as bearers of a superior civilization, unattainable by Central Asians save possibly through assimilation. For their part, the indigenous population looked upon the Russians as infidels and intruders. Muslims and most other non-Slavic peoples in tsarist Russia were classified as inorodtsy (aliens) and thus were not considered full citizens of the Russian Empire. They did not enjoy the same privileges as Russians; nor did they have the same obligations. Muslim dissatisfaction with the Russian administration in Turkestan erupted into disturbances on several occasions in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. One such incident took place in Tashkent in 1892, when Russians ignored local custom in the measures they used to control a cholera epidemic. A series of uprisings, all led by religious leaders, occurred in the Fergana Valley in 1885, 1891, 1892, and 1898. The last one, known as the Andijan rebellion, was led by a Naqshbandi sufi (mystic) under the banner of "holy war". The Russians were very alarmed by this uprising, seeing it as an attempt to seize control of the entire Fergana region. The most serious

42 Chapter 2

challenge to tsarist rule took place in the summer of 1916. Although the immediate cause for the uprising was a government order drafting Muslims for non-combatant labor military service, the roots were much deeper: the economic situation for the Central Asians had been deteriorating, most markedly since the second half of 1915. The 1916 uprising was very violent, with a thousand Central Asians reportedly killed in fighting around the town of Dzhizak alone. Venting their discontent, Muslims murdered large numbers of Russian peasants; a series of bloody reprisals followed. The Bolsheviks promised a fundamental change in relations between Moscow and the nationalities of the former Empire. The new leadership vowed to end Russia's exploitation of non-Russians and even held out the promise of national independence. However, it was not the indigenous population who "made revolution" in Central Asia. The revolutionary events of 1917 in colonial Turkestan were heavily concentrated in Tashkent, the seat of colonial power, and the most active participants in the events were mainly local Slavs. When in April, 1917, the Turkestan Committee of the Provisional Government was set up, five of its nine members were Russians; even the four Muslim members included non-Central Asians. The Provisional Government showed little inclination to share power with the indigenous population. Nor did the Tashkent Soviet, which in fact even before the October Revolution enjoyed more authority in Tashkent than the Turkestan Committee. According to Richard Pipes, oppressive actions by members of the soviet with a "chauvinistic, colonial" mentality were in large part responsible for the growth of autonomist tendencies among the native population in the fall of 1917. The situation for the indigenous nationalities did not improve immediately after the Bolshevik revolution. In November, 1917, the chairman of the new Turkestan Council of People's Commissars rejected a proposal by the Turkestan Muslim Central Council to give Turkestan territorial autonomy. A resolution by the Bolshevik faction at the Turkestan Congress of Soviets refused even to consider the participation of Muslims in the new government in Central Asia, justifying this in part because "the attitude of the local population toward the Soviet of Soldiers', Workers', and Peasants' Deputies [was] quite uncertain" (Pipes 1968: 89-92). Such statements and actions destroyed the hopes of many Muslims that Bolshevik power would benefit Turkestan's indigenouspopulation;

The setting for Uzbek language planning 43

in response, the Turkestan Muslim Central Council soon held an extraordinary congress in the Fergana Valley city of Kokand and proclaimed the autonomy of southern Central Asia. The autonomous government, however, was quickly crushed in February, 1918 by a superior force of Bolshevik troops sent from Tashkent. Thousands of Muslims died in the massacre. The indigenous population was further alienated by the armed Soviet forces who came to the villages in search of food and booty. Despite its ephemeral existence, the Kokand government was important as the first organized indigenous opposition to the Soviet regime and as the embodiment of the local intelligentsia's wish for selfgovernment. Its harsh suppression and other expressions of the Russian "colonial attitude" fueled the armed guerilla struggle of the socalled basmachi which began in 1918. Although basmachi forces were a serious challenge to the Bolsheviks in much of Central Asia until 1924, subsequently (with the exception of the period of collectivization), these guerilla bands were more an annoyance than a threat to Bolshevik power in the region. The brutality in suppressing the government in Kokand was symbolic of the lack of sensitivity which Russians displayed toward the indigenous population over the next couple of years. The excesses were committed on the initiative of local authorities rather than on instructions from Moscow. It was local Russian authorities who were responsible for the Soviets' exclusion of Muslims from power and the severity of reprisals against Muslims following the defeat of Kokand. Because of the civil war, Moscow did not regain a significant degree of control over Central Asia until the end of 1919. In the fall of that year the Bolsheviks dispatched a special Commission for Turkestan Affairs (Turkkomissiia) to put an end to the excesses of the local Russian "revolutionaries"; some of those with the worst "colonial mentality" were sent back to Russia. The more conciliatory policies toward the indigenous nationalities promoted by the Turkestan Commission were designed to win support from the local population. Indeed, these policies can be credited with helping the Bolsheviks attract some of the Muslim national reformers in the Turkestan, Bukharan, and Khorezm republics to the communist movement. But many of these new "communists", while sympathetic to the goals of the Bolshevik Party, were reluctant to place power over their peoples in the hands of a Russian-dominated party. They sought

44 Chapter 2

autonomy or independence, and many were sympathetic to ideas such as those expressed by the Tatar Sultan Galiev, who by 1920 had become the most important Muslim in the new regime's Commissariat of Nationalities. Several years later he became disillusioned with what the Bolshevik Revolution had brought to Russia's Muslims and began to advocate the creation of a Soviet Muslim or Turkic republic and the revival of the Muslim Communist Party. Following Galiev's denunciation and arrest in 1923, however, it became ever clearer to Muslim "communists" and Muslim intellectuals sympathetic to the regime that Moscow was unwilling to permit realization of these goals. Administratively, following April, 1918, the territory which had constituted the General-Governorship became the Turkestan Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic (TASSR), under the jurisdiction of the RSFSR (Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic). The revolutionary changes in the TASSR quickly spilled over into Bukhara and Khiva. With the intervention of Red Army troops, the regimes in both of these states fell in 1920; they were soon transformed into the Bukharan Soviet People's Republic and the Khorezm Soviet People's Republic respectively. Over the next few years these units were politically and economically integrated with the Turkestan ASSR, and thus with the rest of Russia. In 1924, the Bukharan Soviet People's Republic, the Khorezm Soviet People's Republic, and the Turkestan ASSR were all dissolved; entirely new political units were established as part of the "national delimitation". The new units eventually were to become the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic, the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic, the Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republic, the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic, and the Kirgiz Soviet Socialist Republic. Until 1929, the Tajik Republic existed as an autonomous republic under the Uzbek SSR.1 Of the 419,000 square miles of territory carved up in 1924, 154,000 went to the Uzbek Republic. Uzbekistan, though slightly smaller than Turkmenistan, received more than half of the region's total cultivated area, while the Tajik ASSR received about a quarter of it. At this time, almost three-fourths of the population of Uzbekistan belong to groups which were classified as "Uzbek".2 The national delimitation was a cornerstone in Moscow's effort to undermine pan-Turkic and pan-Islamic identities. The significance of this step must be seen against the background of the Bolsheviks' ideological commitment to class rather than ethnic identities. The

The setting for Uzbek language planning 45

specific circumstances in which the Bolsheviks came to power did not allow them to ignore ethnic, linguistic, and regional identities, and certainly not to ignore Central Asians' distrust of Russian power. Consequently, they opted for a federal system based on individual "national" republics. This "solution" was applied under very different circumstances in Central Asia than in such areas as the Ukraine and the Caucasus. In the latter two areas the federal structure was largely a concession to the identities of the major indigenous nationalities which inhabited them. The situation was much more complex in Central Asia, where pan-Islamic and pan-Turkic feelings might serve as a banner under which forces could unite to challenge Soviet power. Here, too, the new leadership created political units based on "nationality" identities, but with the hope that these might serve to counter the more threatening movements. These new nationalities were each given political expression in a republic or other territorial unit. As part of the creation of new national identities, Moscow established separate languages, cultures, and histories for each republic. Each history was replete with its own set of heroes and myths. Because the new nationality identities relied on Moscow for their creation, they could reinforce rather than dilute Soviet power. Significantly, the national delimitation placed two of the traditional Tajik-Persian centers of culture (Bukhara and Samarkand) within the borders of Uzbekistan proper, and not in the Tajik ASSR (which was initially an autonomous republic with links to Uzbekistan). This made the leaders of the new Uzbekistan more dependent on Moscow to defend this arrangement. Likewise, the division of the former Khorezm Republic precluded the possibility of Khiva becoming an important cultural center for the Turkmens and doomed it to remain a second-class Uzbek city. The Bolsheviks' decision not to form a unit based on the former Bukharan or the Khivan khanate may have also been calculated to destroy a potential state which might eventually command genuine political loyalty. The fluctuation in Soviet policies vis-ä-vis identity examined in the chapters below must be seen in the context of the Bolsheviks' belief (based in Marxism) that national differences were bound to disappear. However, Lenin's view of nationalism was tempered by his belief that nationalism was a response to real or imagined oppression. "He was therefore convinced that the only way to combat nationalism was by

46 Chapter 2

use of the carrot, not the stick". Lenin hoped that his concessions to nationalities would ultimately promote feelings of cross-national unity rather than greater national differences (Connor 1984: 34). Although the national delimitation in Central Asia certainly served Bolshevik interests, it would be incorrect to imply that this was done in the face of a unified Central Asian, Turkic, or Muslim opposition. Indeed, even the small body of Muslim intellectuals in Central Asia held contradictory visions of the Muslim or Turkic community which they hoped to build. Some Central Asian intellectuals favored creation of a pan-Turkic political unit, while others were suspicious of schemes which they thought would place too much power over Central Asians in the hand of Tatar leaders. Although Moscow exploited the many differences which divided the indigenous Central Asian intelligentsia, it did not invent them. During the first fifteen years after the revolution, the officially promoted Soviet identity rested on the dogma that any attempts to break away from Russia were counterrevolutionary. However, as a rule during this time, Moscow still allowed the local intelligentsia to preserve, study, propagate, and develop their own cultures, and the center exerted relatively little pressure for russification. Moscow was fairly tolerant of efforts by the local intelligentsia to create a new Uzbek identity with obvious roots in Turkic, Islamic, and Central Asian traditions. Beginning, about 1933, however, Moscow began to insist that nonRussians cleanse their identity of their "feudal" pasts, and that the intelligentsia lead in this effort. Although of course never referred to by such a name, Russian nationalism became official government policy. This had a major impact on the content of the officially generated Uzbek culture. In terms of economic potential, Uzbekistan was most important to the Bolsheviks as a supplier of cotton. Due to the destruction of the irrigation system and the shift of some lands from cotton to food crops in the first years after the revolution, production of cotton in Central Asia had fallen dramatically by 1921. Almost immediately after this, the new regime began to rebuild the irrigation system. By 1927, the area devoted to cotton culture was larger than that in 1914, but the acreage of land sown with grain was still less than two-thirds of that sown in 1914 (Matley 1967a: 287).

The setting for Uzbek language planning 47

Ten years after the Bolshevik revolution, the First Five Year Plan marked the beginning of an economic transformation of Central Asia. The greatest changes were the land and water reforms and the collectivization of agriculture. Opposition to these policies from the indigenous Central Asian population was fierce, and the economic consequences were disastrous. The dislocation and suffering during this period gave new life to the basmachi. Despite the opposition, collectivization proceeded apace; the percentage of collectivized land grew in Uzbekistan from 1.2% in 1928-1929 to 68.1% in 1932, and 95% in 1937. Although the organization of agriculture changed, the major crop did not. Cotton remained the mainstay of the local economy. In order to increase the production of cotton, Uzbekistan's major crop, the Soviet leaders expanded the irrigation network and introduced more advanced agricultural techniques (Matley 1967a: 289). Thanks in great measure to Uzbekistan's contribution, the USSR became largely self-sufficient in cotton in the early 1930s. In 19271928 the USSR had imported approximately 40% of its cotton from abroad, but by 1933 this had been cut to under 3% (Matley 1967a: 290). The regime devoted far less attention to industrial development in the region than to agriculture. Between 1922 and 1928, industry in Central Asia barely recovered to the very low pre-1917 level. In the following fifteen years there was a great increase in the power output and the development of industry related to cotton (e.g., textile mills and fertilizer plants). The number of tons of cotton fiber processed in Uzbekistan's ginning factories grew between 1924 and 1940 from 64,500 to 538,000 tons (Uzbekskaia 1982: 191). Although it remained very small, the share of heavy industry grew rapidly. In 1913 it had accounted for only 2% of Uzbekistan's industry, but by 1940 its share had grown to over 13%. Meanwhile, the share of cotton ginning and cotton seed oil industry dropped from 87% to 38% (Ziiadullaev 1984: 39). One of the most important Bolshevik social policies which affected Uzbekistan in the 1920s and early 1930s was korenizatsiia (nativization, or more literally, rooting). Through this policy the regime sought to prepare members of the indigenous nationalities and promote them into positions of responsibility in the party, state, and economic bureaucracies. In the middle of the 1920s, korenizatsiia relied more on the small group of the indigenous intelligentsia which had been

48 Chapter 2

educated before the revolution. Many of these individuals had ties with the jadid movement. As the 1920s progressed, these groups were placed under increasingly tight constraints. At the same time, Moscow (often against opposition of local Russians) continued to encourage participation by poorer elements in Central Asian society and to create a new proletarian and more pliable counter political "elite-in-waiting". Following 1933, korenizatsiia was quietly forgotten. A whole constellation of measures which had supported korenizatsiia was no longer enforced. Efficiency became a much more important criterion in selecting personnel; in addition to political criteria, individuals were chosen according to qualifications and ability, not nationality. In the environment of the purges of the 1930s, with tremendous turnover of personnel, the Central Asians lost out. Rapid upward mobility (with all its advantages and dangers) were the preserve of the generally better educated Europeans and those Central Asians who could operate in a Russian environment. The more general trends characteristic of korenizatsiia apply to the very upper reaches of the republic party and government apparatuses. Near the beginning of korenizatsiia (at the time of the creation of Uzbekistan in 1925), the chairman of the Uzbekistan Council of People's Commissars was the Bukharan jadid Fayzulla Khojäev; the well-educated and polished Khojäev came from the family of a wealthy Bukharan merchant. Khojäev served until 1937. Several years after Khojäev's appointment, the Uzbek Äkmäl Ikramov replaced the Russian who had initially served as Uzbekistan's Communist Party first secretary. In contrast to Khojäev, Ikramov was from the family of a poor teacher. By the end of the 1920s, Moscow was training new political leaders for the republic from still less politically suspect political backgrounds, in many cases orphans raised by the state. Eventually, during the purges of 1937-1938, most of the older generation in the top layer of political leaders were removed, charged with nationalist activities (including in some cases plots to separate their republics from the USSR) and executed. The fate of the indigenous cultural intelligentsia who had ties with the jadid movement followed a similar pattern. Many of them served the Bolshevik regime during the late 1920s and most of the 1930s. But they, too, were vulnerable, and their members shared the tragic fate of the party and state officials.

The setting for Uzbek language planning 49

One of the major achievements of the Bolshevik regime in the 1920s and 1930s concerned education and literacy. Although it appears that the actual level of literacy rate among Uzbeks was higher than the figure of two or three percent claimed in most Soviet sources, it was still very low. From its earliest days the Turkestan ASSR government promised to provide the local population with native language education; however, significant progress in this field was not achieved until the late 1920s and early 1930s. It is likely that the Central Asian literacy levels in the 80%-90% range which are touted as achievements of the 1930s are greatly inflated; however, there is no doubt that the regime was successful in teaching basic literacy skills to a large segment of the population in a short period. In a bid to win greater support, or at least dampen resistance, for several years following the arrival of the Turkkomissiia, the Bolsheviks conducted a conciliatory policy towards Islam. In 1921, Friday was declared the official day of rest in Muslim areas, and the following year the waqf (religious endowment) lands which had previously been confiscated were returned to the mosques. Muslim schools reopened and some of the income from waqf lands was used to support them. Shanat (Islamic law) and adat (local customary law) courts were allowed to resume jurisdiction, first in civil and then in criminal cases. But this policy began to be reversed already in 1924; by 1928, polygamy, kalym (bride price), and other traditional customs were prohibited, and religious courts and schools were closed. The campaign against Islam reached new heights during the First Five Year Plan, when crude propaganda and violence were widely used to fight religious belief and practice, and to "emancipate" women from veils and their traditional family roles. The strong anti-Islamic campaign was to be tempered only during World War II, when the Bolsheviks sought to enlist the help of religion and religious officials in the war effort.

Language and political development problems in Uzbekistan Throughout the period described above, language was a fundamental element of the social and political environment in which the Bolsheviks carried out their revolutionary policy. At the same time, language itself was also an instrument and object of Bolshevik policy. In all of

50 Chapter 2

these capacities, language was closely linked to the problems of political development described in Chapter 1. Thus, language was part of the environment which shaped the Bolshevik policy choices related to penetration, participation, legitimacy, identity, production, and allocation. Likewise, the Bolsheviks used language policy to bring about change in all of these areas. In turn, the Bolsheviks also sought to affect the corpus of the Uzbek language and its status relative to other languages, in particular relative to Russian. These are the problems which will be explored in the following chapters. Before proceeding to look at individual aspects of language and language planning, however, it will be useful to draw together from the immediately preceding pages a few of the most significant trends concerning the Bolsheviks' changing development goals. This will also provide the opportunity for a brief discussion of the most salient relations between these goals and language and language planning. The remaining chapters of the book explore these relations in greater detail. As all other governments, the most fundamental objective of Bolshevik power was achievement of political penetration. However, the rapid political, economic and social revolutions which the Bolsheviks sought to accomplish over the decades following the revolution required a degree of penetration never achieved and rarely sought by most other governments. The most important impact upon language which derived from the Bolsheviks' pursuit of penetration was the delimitation of (republics and) languages in Central Asia. If the Bolsheviks had not been so worried about the political dangers of pan-Turkism, it is possible that they would have supported Tatar desires for a "Turkic" language; this could have meant a much more limited role for the dialects which were classified as "Uzbek". For the Bolsheviks to be able to carry out their policies, their leaders needed a linguistic channel through which to carry on massive communications with their subjects. Consequently, several aspects of language planning took on critical importance: the Bolsheviks sought to make Uzbek a more efficient instrument, complete with a more modernized vocabulary, as well as an easy-tolearn system of writing. At the same time, the degree of the regime's penetration had a major impact on the process of language planning. In the first years after the October, 1917 revolution, the relatively low degree of

The setting for Uzbek language planning 51

penetration made it impossible for the Bolsheviks to control language planning. In the early 1920s, much of the language corpus planning was done by local writers and linguists who shared some of the new leaders' goals. Although language corpus policy was made in Moscow, its implementation was blocked by a variety of local circumstances. As time went on and the communist regime consolidated its control, language planning (especially corpus planning) was influenced much more by Moscow's choices. Over the 1920s and 1930s, the Bolsheviks undermined the competing nationalist elites who sought to control language planning and replaced them with unquestioningly loyal servants. In the mid 1930s, brutal terror became a crucial instrument. At the height of the Stalin era, the language of official publications was very closely controlled. One of the other most remarkable facts related to penetration was the regime's ability to mobilize resources necessary to achieve language planning goals - including funds, school buildings, teachers, and publishing houses. This was facilitated by the very centralized political regime and the state ownership of the means of production. In the first fifteen years after the revolution, the Bolsheviks sought to encourage a high level of participation by those segments of the indigenous population whom they felt could ultimately enhance Soviet power. The definition of the groups whose participation was sought and the kind of participation which they were encouraged or permitted to undertake changed constantly. In the early years, jadids and national communists were allowed to participate. Perhaps at this time some Bolsheviks sought to encourage participation to help achieve the liberation of the peoples who had suffered under Russian colonialism. But, undoubtedly, most of the new leadership appreciated the importance of popular participation in undermining the existing political, social, economic, and religious structures which impeded the new regime's consolidation of power. Participation by a broad segment of the population also contributed to the regime's legitimacy. As time progressed, the Bolsheviks restricted participation by the less ideologically reliable of their former allies; simultaneously, they encouraged a different sort of "participation" by new ones. This participation did not result in less power for Moscow, since it was within the confines of a tightly controlled political apparatus. The maximum push for mass Uzbek participation took place during korenizatsiia, i.e., in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Following this,

52 Chapter 2

Moscow became much less concerned about promoting mass participation. Although the activity during the purges by upwardly mobile men and women might qualify as "participation" according to one criterion - i.e., it was voluntary - it seems inappropriate to use the term "participation" to describe it. This new generation served entirely at the pleasure of Moscow and Moscow-appointed officials; they had little if any power to influence decisions taken in Moscow which affected their own republic. Bolshevik policies concerning participation in the first ten to fifteen years after the revolution led the leadership to support language simplification so that there were no linguistic barriers to participation. The early years witnessed the reform of the Arabic alphabet and the adoption of the Latin one. The same considerations were one of the reasons for the regime's support for removal of many Arabic and Persian terms from Uzbek vocabulary. One of korenizatsiia's goals was to remove the language barrier which hindered Uzbeks' participation in administration. Moscow reinforced its earlier instructions that local languages replace Russian in economic and political administration. The increased participation by those who were previously "linguistically disadvantaged" was also intended to undercut the positions of such groups as the bourgeoisie, religious leaders, and pan-Turkic-minded Tatars. The declining importance of popular participation in the early 1930s was also reflected in language. The previous stress on removing linguistic barriers was quietly forgotten. This was observable in terms of status planning, as Russian officially re-assumed many roles; it was also manifest in corpus planning as orthography and vocabulary became less "democratic". In parallel fashion, in the early years of power the Bolsheviks sought legitimacy among a broad spectrum of allies because it could contribute to penetration. One of the ways in which the new regime sought to raise its legitimacy was through publication of political tracts in languages of the population. Receipt of the "message", however, also depended on literacy. Thus, the "democratization" of language described above and the creation of terminology to allow translation of new concepts into Uzbek promised to contribute to legitimacy. By the end of the 1920s, however, the Bolsheviks had lost much of their legitimacy in the eyes of most of their early fellow travellers. (This loss may have been partially compensated for by increased legitimacy

The setting for Uzbek language planning 53

among the upwardly mobile.) Nevertheless, as the regime came to rely more on terror in order to enforce its rule, legitimacy became a luxury which it could afford to ignore. Because the regime's legitimacy derived in part from participation, language planning which affected participation also had an indirect impact on legitimacy. In similar fashion, identity and distribution were also important potential sources for legitimacy. In their first years in power the Bolsheviks demonstrated their understanding of the need to accommodate the ethnic and even religious identities of the people of Central Asia. Indeed, they depended on an alliance with many of the local intelligentsia whose sense of identity was anything but "proletarian". They created an Uzbek nation to counter pan-Turkic and pan-Islamic identities, but the content of the Uzbek identity at first demonstrated firm roots in the Turkic and Islamic traditions. In the 1930s, however, Moscow insisted that all Soviet national cultures emphasize their bonds with the "international" culture, which increasingly came to mean Russian. This new identity was artificially implanted in Central Asia and became ever more remote from reality. Undoubtedly, this undermined the legitimacy of the regime in the eyes of many Uzbeks. Language change reflected all of the policies toward identity. Of greatest importance was creation of an Uzbek language. Beyond that, however, the reform of the Arabic script and the adoption of the Latin, as well as trends in vocabulary, all demonstrated the attenuation of ties with Islam. The great number of changes in script, orthography, and vocabulary served to isolate Uzbeks from all of their written cultural heritage. The russification of culture was reflected in language in a number of ways - Uzbek's adoption of Russian lexical items and the Cyrillic script, a greater status for the Russian language in Uzbekistan, and supposedly even the "enrichment" of Uzbek's phonetic structure with new Russian sounds. In a sense, the russification of the language was a return to a policy of heavy "borrowing" from other languages which had characterized Central Asian literary Turkic before the revolution. Unlike the earlier years, however, the new borrowing was to reinforce an identity with other Soviet peoples, rather than with those of the Arabic-Persian world. The Bolsheviks consistently remained committed to raising the productive capacities of Central Asia, but the importance they placed

54 Chapter 2

on allocation shifted greatly. Central Asia's major role in the Soviet national division was cotton producer. In addition, the party sought to increase the industrial capacity of the region. During the New Economic Policy, the Bolsheviks did relatively little to affect the distribution of wealth in Uzbekistan. Some special opportunities opened up for members of the indigenous nationalities who had suffered exploitation by the tsarist regime. However, towards the end of the 1920s, things changed radically both in terms of nationality and class reallocation. Redistribution among classes was accomplished by the water and land reforms, followed by wholesale collectivization. Korenizatsiia redistributed educational and job opportunities at the end of the decade and into the early 1930s to the benefit of Uzbeks. As class criteria became more important, korenizatsiia also served to reallocate to the poorer classes. Ultimately, however, Moscow was more committed to production than reallocation. Thus, unwilling to tolerate the high costs of what it perceived as economically inefficient korenizatsiia, Moscow discarded this policy. The new course demonstrated Moscow's greater reliance in the short run on the "elite manpower development" strategy than on the "mass manpower development" one. Language policy reflected these changing goals concerning production and allocation. The reallocation of opportunities required simplification of language to facilitate more communication with the masses of the Uzbek population. It also required new terminology in order to translate textbooks, manuals, and other materials which newly literate workers and farmers could use. Beginning in the early 1930s, however, with a return to the "elite manpower" strategy, simplification of language and translation of literature became less important. The limited production capacity of the Soviet Union in turn constrained the ability of the regime to implement language planning. When language-related problems were a high priority, Stalin was able to mobilize tremendous resources in order to meet language planning goals (e.g., to train teachers, print textbooks, raise literacy). However, during the first decades of Soviet rule, there were many pressing problems and successive campaigns were launched to meet them. Consequently, materials and manpower necessary for language planning goals were often siphoned away to other "top priority" campaigns. In the first decade or so after the revolution, Moscow needed and sought to reap the rewards of legitimacy in Uzbekistan which

The setting for Uzbek language planning 55

redounded from its policies rplated to participation, identity, and allocation. In this period, jadids and national communists participated in significant ways, contributed to the definition of their people's identity, and to a significant extent determined who would benefit by the reallocation of opportunities. At the end of the 1920s and in the early 1930s, Moscow fostered participation by representatives of politically more reliable classes, who were also favored by redistribution of opportunities and wealth. In this way the regime may have acquired greater legitimacy in the eyes of a new constituency. The situation changed during the terror of the middle and late 1930s, when Moscow's policies affecting participation, identity, and distribution detracted more than they contributed to legitimacy. However, by this time, Stalin's regime did not rely on legitimacy in order to achieve penetration. The critical foundation upon which Stalin relied in the late 1930s was terror. The fact that the regime relied on terror did not, of course, mean that it did not attempt to portray its actions in the language planning arena as legitimate. Indeed, as will become clear in the chapters which follow, during the language planning activities of the late 1930s, Moscow described all of its policies in a most positive light. This is not surprising nor even unusual. As Fishman observes, "The selfinterest of the dominant is always dressed up as an untrammeled, universal, unifying, inevitable, free-flowing principle." And, in the same general pattern, the opponents to this were depicted as "interfering with the laws of nature, of being manipulative, of acting out of self interest, [and] of manifesting the incivility of resisting the inevitable" (Fishman 1987, 412 citing Fishman: 1985). Only in the 1980s would this language planning experience be reexamined in another light.

Chapter 3

Internally generated change: Reforming the Arabic alphabet

Introduction One of the most striking characteristics of language planning in Uzbekistan between 1917 and 1949 is the constant change in orthographies and alphabet. In 1917, Uzbek was written in an "unreformed" orthography in the Arabic script. A major reform of this orthography was implemented in 1923. By the end of the decade, the Arabic alphabet was replaced by a "New Turkic Alphabet" which was also used by other Turkic languages in the USSR. Another major orthographic change took place in the mid 1930s. Finally, in 1940, the Cyrillic script was adopted for Uzbek. Especially in the case of the reform of the Arabic alphabet and the adoption of the Latin letters, the language corpus changes were a result of status changes which the languages of Central Asia were undergoing. In this regard, the process fits the pattern which Fishman observes of language status being the "real engine of the language planning train" (Fishman 1987: 423). As will be demonstrated below, however, this analogy is not entirely appropriate in the case of the shift to the Cyrillic alphabet. The very first of these changes (i.e., the reform of the Arabic) is unique in the degree to which it was planned by members of the indigenous Central Asian intelligentsia with little help or interference from Russian linguists and government officials in Moscow. For this reason it cannot be analyzed as "Soviet" (i.e., Communist Party directed) language change. Rather, it must be viewed as language planning conducted by a small group of members of the Central Asian intelligentsia who were at the time collaborating with Moscow in their shared interests to implement change in Central Asia. One of the reasons that members of the local reformist intelligentsia (jadids) became interested in orthographic reform even before the Bolshevik Revolution was the introduction of the reformed schools into the region. Unlike the traditional maktabs (schools), ihejadid schools

58 Chapters taught much of their curriculum in Turkic. The content of the jadid school lessons was substantially different from that of the traditional Muslim school. Instead of memorizing passages from the Koran and other holy works, jadid school pupils also received training in such subjects as geography, mathematics, and native language. Religion was also taught in jadid schools, but it was not the dominant subject of instruction as it was in the traditional maktab. Their work in the schools (as well as in the press) sensitized many jadids to the shortcomings of the unreformed Arabic script. Because it was so unphonetic, the jadids viewed it as a poor instrument for mass education.1 The jadids also appreciated the importance of the unreformed Arabic alphabet in relation to identity. They realized that reforming the "sacred" alphabet weakened the Arabic script as a link to non-Turkic and even Turkic-speaking Muslims, and unnecessary "tampering" with the alphabet itself could provide ammunition to those who were opposed to secular education. For these reasons, some of them approached alphabet reform with extreme caution. For others, however, the instrumental concerns related to literacy outweighed these potential disadvantages. Indeed, some reformers probably welcomed the modification of the Arabic script as a step which could give it a specific Turkic quality. Some of the jadids who participated in orthographic reform occupied important political posts in the early years after the revolution. Their discussions about orthography reflected a debate about the relative importance of various political development issues. For some of the jadids, literacy was paramount. In their minds this was related above all to questions described in chapter 1 concerning allocation and production. For others, the pursuit of literacy had to be tempered by considerations of identity. In any case, the jadid "leadership in embryo" did not have an opportunity to mature as an independent force. Evidence of the attitudes of the Bolshevik leaders in Moscow towards this first reform are very scanty. This fact in itself suggests that in this period Moscow was preoccupied with problems much closer to home, especially the need to rebuild the economy in the Russian heartland. Moreover, the new regime was still consolidating its power in Central Asia, and national republics had yet to be created. At this time, only part of the region which today constitutes Uzbekistan fell within the Turkestan Republic; the rest was in the "independent" Bukharan and Khorezm republics.

Internally generated change 59 Despite the lack of positive evidence, it is very likely that the Bolsheviks welcomed the Arabic alphabet reform. They shared with some of the jadids the hope of weakening the bonds with the Arab world and Islam. However, unlike the jadids, the Bolsheviks probably saw Islamic identity as the foundation of a potentially dangerous political force. Perhaps they also even hoped that its weakening would facilitate formation of a class identity with the revolutionary classes of Russia. The Bolsheviks also shared more the jadids' hope that the orthographic reform would promote literacy. Both the Bolsheviks and the jadids were favorably disposed to more even distribution of opportunities and ultimately greater production which could come from better education. However, Moscow was also interested in greater literacy because it could enhance its ability to conduct political education. In turn, this could contribute to the young regime's legitimacy. In addition, Moscow may have hoped that facilitating education for the poorest classes would promote participation by those groups in the population upon whom the new leaders counted most for support. Although it is not possible to view alphabet reform in this early period as a reflection of Moscow's efforts to manage problems of political development, the history of these early reforms is crucial to an understanding of later Soviet policy. Above all, it provides a picture of the kinds of reforms initially desired by the indigenous intelligentsia before serious political restraints were imposed by Moscow. It is also important to study this process because many of the same men who formulated this first reform were also active participants in the discussion of the next one. Likewise, the issues in the debate itself also parallel later discussions. The reform of the Arabic alphabet (as well as subsequent script and orthography reforms) must be considered against the background of some basic facts about the Turkic dialects spoken in Central Asia and the writing system used for them at the time of the revolution. Naturally, those dialects which were eventually classified as "Uzbek" are of greatest importance. Of central importance to reform of the Arabic alphabet is the fact that the "unreformed" alphabet did not fully represent Turkic vowels. Because vowel sounds varied considerably from dialect to dialect, the ambiguity served to unify Turkic dialects. However, this made it more difficult to learn to read. Learning to write was impeded by the orthography of words of Arabic and Persian

60 Chapter 3

origin in the same form as in the "lending" language. This was important because Turkic dialects did not distinguish all of the Arabic and Persian sounds. Thus some letters were redundant. Although this made it harder to learn to write, it reinforced the cultural and linguistic unity both among the Turks and between the Turks and the Arab and Persian worlds. A phenomenon called "harmony" or "vowel harmony" had a major impact on the development of orthography. The "laws" of harmony concern the kinds of sounds which may occur in the same word or consecutive syllables of a word. There are several types of harmony which are relevant here: palatal harmony, labial harmony, and assimilation of consonants. The first two types of harmony are often referred to as "vowel harmony". According to the rules of palatal harmony, certain vowels exist in pairs as "front" and "non-front" or "rear" vowels.2 In languages with unbroken rules of palatal harmony, words with "front" vowels contain no rear vowels; the obverse applies to words with "rear" vowels. In the discussion which follows, words with front vowels will be referred to as "soft", while words with rear vowels will be called "hard". The second type of harmony is very similar to the first, but operates with regard to "rounded" and "unrounded" vowels. Most important to the discussion of Uzbek are the high rounded vowels [u] and [ü] and the high unrounded vowels [i] and [i]. Labial (vowel) harmony rules in certain dialects of Uzbek dictate that words with [u] or [u] must not contain [i] or [i].3 The third kind of harmony is related to the first. According to the rule of "consonant harmony" (assimilation of consonants), certain consonants are assimilated differently to front or rear vowels. In Uzbek this generally refers to the consonant pairs [lv] [1], [k] [q] and [g] [ ]. In the case of each of these three pairs, the first consonant appears in syllables only with front vowels (i.e., only in "soft" words), while the second appears only with rear vowels (i.e., in "hard" words). Because all forms of Uzbek orthography have represented the pair [ly] [1] with only one grapheme, the discussion below will be limited to the problems raised by the other two pairs. Because Turkic languages are agglutinative (i.e., compound words are formed from simple words), the rules of harmony can apply to very long words. If the types of harmony described above were observed 100% in any Turkic language, even very long words formed by adding many suffixes would contain only certain sounds as defined by these rules. In fact, however, different Turkic dialects have maintained

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harmony in varying degrees. Some have lost palatal harmony (and consonant harmony as it applies to a whole word); others do not demonstrate labial harmony; some dialects demonstrate considerable loss of all harmony. It is important to emphasize that there is great variety in the kind of harmony displayed by those dialects which today fall under the heading "Uzbek". Many dialects, particularly the urban dialects, have lost much of their palatal harmony. According to some turcologists, this is because the dialects of some cities of Uzbekistan, such as Tashkent, Samarkand and Bukhara, have become "iranized" (influenced by Persian and Tajik) (Menges 1967: 60-91). In addition to harmony, Uzbek dialects are also distinguished as "yoqchi" or "joqchi". This concerns the pronunciation of such words as yigit. In some dialects in certain position [y] becomes [j]; thus yigit may be pronounced [jigit]. The [j] is pronounced in Kazakh, as well as in Kipchak dialects of Uzbek (Menges 1967: 77). There are, of course, other features which distinguish Uzbek dialects one from another. Those presented above, however, provide the necessary background to understand the debates about the Uzbek alphabet and orthography in the 1920s and 1930s.

The debates Questions of Uzbek alphabet reform were discussed at three major forums between 1921 and 1923. These were (1) The Uzbek Language and Orthography Congress held in Tashkent, January, 1921; (2) The Second Congress of Culture and Education Workers held in Tashkent, March-April, 1922; and (3) The Central Asian Uzbek Language and Orthography Congress held in Bukhara, October, 1923. Among the most active participants in these gatherings were a group of the literati who belonged to an organization called the Chaghatay gurungi (Chaghatay discussion [group]). An article written by Shakirjan Rahimiy (but claiming to represent the opinion of the group as a whole) alleged in May, 1919 that· the difficult orthography posed a major obstacle for students learning to read and write. In the Gurung's view, if orthography was not standardized soon, the result would be chaos. The Gurung pointed out that already teachers had

62 Chapters

taken matters into their own hands and were teaching a reformed version of Turkic orthography similar to what had been decided upon by Tatar orthographers (Ish. 24 May 1919).4 It appears that instrumental goals were the most pressing reason for calling the Uzbek Language and Orthography Congress in January, 1921. An article which appeared as the congress opened maintained that the lack of a "well-ordered writing system" was preventing a rapid spread of education among Uzbeks (QB 1 January 1921). The same theme appeared in the resolution passed by this congress. It said that improvement of the writing system was needed "in order to enlighten our people (ulus) who have been left behind in the darkness with the light of knowledge, to spare our beloved youth the problems of our writing system, and [to save them] the time needed to learn it" (Bir ming 1922: 24). Gurung members frequently expressed the desire to make their alphabet more "Turkic" by bringing the orthography of all words into accordance with what they conceived as Turkic orthographic rules. This was central to the debates of three of the four issues regarding orthography in this period. The four issues were (1) use of diacritical marks of some sort in order to represent more fully the vowel sounds of Turkic words; (2) elimination of some forms of each Arabic letter to minimize the number which had to be memorized; (3) elimination of the "special" letters with no distinct phonemic value in Turkic which were used in the orthography of words of Arabic and Persian origin; and (4) introduction of vowels into the orthography of words of Arabic origin. The seemingly contradictory Turkic and Islamic identities did not always work in opposition to each other. In particular, there were ways in which the unreformed orthography reinforced both Turkic and Islamic links. The less phonetic orthographies (which better represented the common Islamic heritage of almost all Turkic peoples) were closer together than more phonetic ones. Moreover, differences over restoration of Turkic qualities to orthography bore the seeds of destruction of Turkic orthographic unity. (1) The proposal to add diacritical marks to represent more fully the vowel sounds of Turkic (without, however, changing the orthography of words borrowed from Arabic) met the least opposition. The only serious attempts to prevent this type of reform occurred in the very first years after the revolution, when the Azeri Afandi-zade (Effendiev) was Commissar of Education in Turkestan and Turkish prisoners of

Internally generated change 63

war served as school teachers. At that time an order was issued prohibiting the use of any revised orthography (which, presumably, included even the most modest reforms) (QB 18 January 1921). Along with Afandi-zade, only the most conservative elements stood in opposition to these modest reforms. Such men were referred to as the esfd imlachilär (proponents of the old orthography). In contrast, those who favored only this first type of reform (and opposed other types of reform - particularly the third and fourth reforms discussed below) were known as the ortä imlachilär (proponents of moderate orthography). Members of the Chaghatay gurungi desired even bolder reforms. They maintained that an alphabet which made education easier was entirely independent of the question of religion (Ish. 13 June 1919). For those who perceived alphabet reform as the destruction of a divine instrument, however, these kinds of arguments were not convincing. (2) The proposal that some of the multiple forms of each Arabic letter be eliminated5 was motivated by many of the same practical considerations which had encouraged the suggestion of diacritical marks to represent Uzbek vowels more fully. Proponents argued that if each letter in Arabic had only one form (instead of multiple forms depending on its position in a word), learning to read and write would be easier. This type of reform had been considered by other Turkic orthographers even before the Bolshevik Revolution, but had never been implemented anywhere (Vsesoiuznyi 1926: 244). Gurung leader Fiträt argued at the 1921 Tashkent congress that the elimination of most forms of Arabic letters would not only make learning to read and write easier, but would also simplify printing (QB 5 January 1921). Fiträt's proposal was supported by Said Ahmad (Bir ming 1922: 17). The- resolution passed by the congress called for keeping only one form, the initial (bash shäkli), of each letter (QB 5 January 1921). Not everyone at the 1921 congress, however, agreed with the idea. One of the opponents of this reform pointed out that even if the elimination of certain forms of every letter did make printing easier and cut down on the time which had to be spent on learning to read and write, it slowed writing (Bir ming 1922: 22). This was because without the various forms of Arabic letters the process of writing was essentially reduced to printing. Another opponent of this reform expressed his dissatisfaction with it, saying that such a modification of Arabic writing would make it "wild" (QB 11 January 1921).

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In 1922, a booklet on the rules of orthography printed in Bukhara supported a reform along these same lines. The booklet itself was written with all the traditional forms of each letter, but it recommended that in future printing only two forms of every letter be used. Realizing that this reform was most beneficial in printed materials, the author of the booklet suggested that all forms might continue to be used in handwriting (Imla 1922: 12). In March-April, 1922, the congress of Uzbek education and culture workers adopted a resolution which recommended that every letter in the Arabic alphabet be written in only one form (QB 26 April 1922).6 The Bukhara congress in October, 1923 also called for the eventual use of only one form of each letter (again the bash form); this congress's resolution, however, suggested that "until people's eyes become accustomed" to seeing only one form, it was to be used only in primers and on certain pages of newspapers (Turkistan jumhuriyati 1923: 5). The impracticality of this kind of suggestion, particularly if the elimination of forms was to be carried to handwriting as well, probably doomed it from the start. Little, if any literature was ever printed in this type of alphabet. Conservative opponents of all Arabic alphabet changes aimed most of their criticism at other reforms, presumably because the other reforms were being implemented more widely. It is likely, however, that all who objected to other reforms of the Arabic alphabet, on the grounds that the script used in the Koran should not be altered, also opposed these "distortions" of that writing. (3) The question of orthography of words of Arabic and Persian origin occupied more attention than the issues of Turkic vowel representation or elimination of certain forms of Arabic letters. These reforms, too, were stimulated by the desire to make the orthography observe the "phonetic" principle more closely; those who proposed such reforms were less interested in retaining the links which a common orthography of these words provided with other Islamic peoples. Much attention focused on the letters "ώ", " i ", WV> " V, and " & ". These letters were used exclusively to write words of Arabic and Persian origin. When read, these letters were pronounced in Uzbek and other Turkic languages identically with sounds represented by other letters. Therefore, in learning to write, it was necessary to memorize which words were written with which letters.

Internally generated change 65

Fiträt objected to keeping these letters in the Uzbek alphabet because he considered it wrong for a special class of words to be governed by its own set of orthographic rules (Ish. 27 August 1919). The poet Elbek similarly objected to "honored guests" demanding special letters in Turkic languages (Ish. 18 September 1920). The resolution of the Tashkent 1921 congress reflected the move away from the old orthographic rules on two of the three questions discussed above. The "foreign" letters were removed and diacritical marks were introduced to distinguish six vowel sounds. The resolution on orthography carried despite opposition by such men as Äshuräli Zahiriy, who warned that writing Arabic words differently from the way they were written in Arabic meant cutting the Uzbeks off from Muslims elsewhere in the world (Bir ming 1922: 20). Äshuräli Zahiriy had offered a compromise which would have preserved the Arabic orthography with the full Turkic spelling in parentheses where necessary (QB 18 January 1921), but his suggestion was ignored. Probably most participants in the debate felt that it made little sense to follow Zahiriy's compromise proposal. The difficulty with the Arabic spelling was not merely that vowels were not fully represented, but also that certain letters were extraneous. That vowels were not fully represented was a problem of reading and would have been solved with Zahiriy's idea; that there were extraneous letters was a problem of spelling in writing. For the latter Zahiriy's suggestion offered no solution. Despite the 1921 congress's resolution, the debate continued. One newspaper article in early 1922 pointed out that there was nothing holy about Arabic spelling. After all, the article noted, the Arabs themselves had changed the spelling of words when they borrowed from other languages (QB 13 February 1922). Another article accused the conservatives of opposing children's educational interests in forcing them to learn Persian and Arabic when they did not even know their own language well (QB 2 March 1922). Strong disagreement arose over the "foreign letters" in the Uzbek alphabet at the 1922 congress of Uzbek education and culture workers. In fact, the congress broke down into two factions, each of which issued a resolution pointing the finger of blame at the other. The more conservative faction, led by Äshuräli Zahiriy, demanded that many Arabic words be left unchanged in Uzbek orthography; the opponents declared that if the conservatives were intent upon keeping two or three separate sets of orthographic rules for one language,

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there was no need even to continue talking with them (QB 5 April 1922). As a concession to the conservative forces, the final resolution did advise that words such as those relating to the Koran and Allah should be left unchanged temporarily, but that in general all foreign words were to be subjected to the rules of Uzbek orthography (QB 26 April 1922). Even though the March-April, 1922 congress accepted the elimination of the extraneous Arabic letters in most cases, these reforms were not immediately implemented. A book on Uzbek orthography published in Bukhara in 1922 which adopted the use of diacritical marks to indicate vowels for Turkic words maintained all of the Arabic letters. The author claimed that elimination of any would cause distortion of borrowed words (Imla 1922: 6). Even the Bukhara congress's resolution, which also called for elimination of the "extraneous" letters7 included a provision that sacred texts were to be written in their original form (Tu. 31 October 1923). This provision was also carried in the Turkestan government resolution which was passed after the Bukhara congress.8 The problem of extraneous letters for Uzbek was, in retrospect, resolved quickly. Following 1923, the letters used exclusively in words of Arabic and Persian origin ceased to appear in Uzbek books, journals and newspapers. The discarding of these letters suggests that for the forward-looking Uzbek intelligentsia the primary sense of identity was not as Muslims. Some of their own arguments notwithstanding, writing many words identically did serve as a tie with the Arabic language and other languages written with Arabic letters; breaking this tie did destroy a link with fellow believers abroad. As will be demonstrated below, language planners followed a parallel course in the area of vocabulary. (4) The most debated issue was the representation of vowels of Arabic and Persian words in their Turkic orthography. The idea of "turkicizing" these words represented the most sensitive break with the rest of the Islamic world. As on the issue of extraneous letters, the conservative ulema (Islamic religious scholars) and the eski imlachilar argued that changing the spelling of the words by adding vowels was also wrong; but, like the problem of extraneous letters, this issue, too, was soon solved in favor of the reformers. The reformers were little concerned with the sacredness of the Arabic spellings or even the ties with which such spellings provided with other Muslims; here, too, the

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decisive factor for them was that Arabic spelling was not suitable for Turkic because it made learning to read and write more difficult.9 Thus the problem of whether to indicate vowels in words of Arabic (and Persian) origin was solved almost as simply as the problem of extraneous letters; the problem of which vowels was more difficult to resolve. The complexity arose from vowel and consonant harmony. Because there is no rule of vowel or consonant harmony in Arabic and Persian, vowels and consonants occur in Arabic and Persian loan words in combinations which are impossible according to Turkic phonetic rules. Once a decision was made to mark vowels more fully, the issue became - according to which language's rules? Generally, members of the Chaghatay gurungi supported the writing of all "foreign" words in Uzbek according to Turkic phonetic rules, i.e., with vowel harmony. The Gurung's position regarding harmony was put forth most forcefully at the Tashkent congress on language and orthography by the Gurung organizer Fiträt. He urged that orthographic rules for Uzbek should be determined by the "hardness" or "softness" of words (Bir ming 1922: 16). For Fiträt and certain other members of the Chaghatay gurungi, the division into "hard" and "soft" was the "soul" of Turkic dialects. They felt that urban dialects which had lost this quality were "spoiled" (Ish. 27 August 1919). In accordance with this view, the decision was made at the Bukhara congress that the vowel " I " and the consonants " c", " £", and " J " were "hard", and the vowels " $ " and "", and "H". This was resolved as follows: The letter "u" in some cases was to be rendered in Latin with the letter "s". In the Russian word sotsial, the ts was written "s" in Uzbek Latin orthography. But in other words, borrowed from Russian, it would be rendered "ts". The letter "m" in Cyrillic was sometimes to be written with an "§", in Latin and sometimes with a "c". The Russian word iashchik was to become "J3$ik"in Uzbek, but the word shchetka was to become "cetka". The letters (in the Russian alphabet) "e", "κ>", and "H" were be written at the beginning of words with front vowels as "je", "jy", and "jg", and at the beginning of words with rear vowels as "je", "ju", and "ja".2 In noninitial positions of words these Russian vowels were to be written as "e", "y", and "3" in words with front vowels and "e", "u", and "a" in words with rear vowels (Til imla konf. 1932: 126). The orthography of words borrowed from European languages continued to be a serious problem even following the 1929 conference. It was especially difficult for speakers of Uzbek dialects which did not preserve vowel harmony to learn the proper spelling for "uzbekified" European words. Moreover, some speakers of the dialects with less harmony lived in the cities of Uzbekistan where they heard the Russian form of the word. These individuals who knew the "correct" (Russian) pronunciation may have felt it was silly to be forced to learn how to pronounce and write words as they were spoken by the uneducated peasants of the village. Indeed, it was not long before suggestions were made to amend the 1929 conference decisions on the orthography of international words.

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A July, 1930 meeting at the Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute recommended that words of European origin in Uzbek be written with only six vowel letters: "a", "o", V, V, "e", and "i". Although this proposal never gained widespread acceptance, it is significant in that it suggested a departure from agreed-upon principles in two major ways. One was its suggestion that the decision of the 1929 conference regarding vowel harmony for foreign words had been incorrect. According to information available about the July, 1930 meeting, it proposed that in all cases where "international" foreign words were written with "a" and "3", "o" and " ", or V and "y", they would henceforth be written with the respective symbol for the rear vowel only, i.e., "a", "o", or "u", while all cases where "international" words were written with "b" and "i" would henceforth be written with the symbol for the front vowel, i.e., "i". This would have had the effect of exempting European words from the orthographic rules of front/rear harmony. An even greater shift from earlier principles, however, would have been the projected use of the symbol "b". The proposed new use of this symbol in the orthography of "international" (which in this case could mean only Russian) words borrowed by Uzbek was to represent the sound of the Russian letter "M" (QB 30 March 1933). Considering the support which the "write as you hear" principle still enjoyed, the adoption of this value for the symbol "b" would have been extraordinary, indeed!3 This same meeting concluded that serious problems were caused by adhering to the Uzbek phonetic rule that no two consonants could occur at the beginning of a word. It noted that the name "Stalin" was being written in six different ways: "Istslin", "Istalin", "bstalbn", "bstalin", "Stalin", and "Sitslin". Because of such confusion the meeting recommended that European words with two initial consonants not be written in accordance with Uzbek phonetic rules (Til imla konf. 1932: 126). This decision was reaffirmed a year later when the Uzbek State Terminological Committee held an enlarged plenum to discuss orthography. This plenum also recommended exempting European words from the vowel harmony rule (Til imla konf. 1932: 126; Rämäzan 1934, Ser. 1: 53).4 There were other hints that the entire issue of vowels in the Uzbek language was moving in the direction of a major shift. A booklet by A. Ämiriy suggested that the Uzbek spelling of European words borrowed from or through Russian should be kept closer to the

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Russian spelling. Amiriy cited multiple spellings for a number of borrowed words including "kolxoz" "kslxoc", and "kalxoz" for the Russian kolkhoz-, "giram" and gbram" for gramm; "tiraktir", "tbraktbr" and"tir9ktor"for traktor, and "mityd" and "metud" for metod (Amiriy 1932: 15). In 1933 it was still possible to disagree openly with the proposed "internationalization" of Uzbek orthography. A reviewer of Amiriy's booklet objected to the idea of a special set of orthographic rules which only applied to borrowed words. Given the changing political climate, it may be significant that the critic wrote under a pseudonym, "Tilchi" (which means linguist). Tilchi agreed with Amiriy that many new words were being borrowed from Russian, but in his opinion, once words entered the Uzbek language, they had to conform with Uzbek rules. He argued: In determining the orthographic rules, we bring things closer together, and we are bound to bring things closer together. We cannot say, "You - Uzbek word - we will write you with nine vowels". "You - Russian or international word - we will write you with five to seven vowels". Russian and international words which have entered the Uzbek language have become part of Uzbek (Imlachi 1933). In 1934, the issue of orthography of international words was solved in favor of the "internationalizers". A conference on Uzbek language and orthography decided that international words did indeed have a special place in the Uzbek language and that their orthography should represent this. The new 1934 orthography abolished the rule that no two consonants could. occur together at the beginning of a word. Thus, Stalin, traktor, and stol acquired new Uzbek international spellings of "Stalin", "traktor", and "stol".5

Shift to progressive dialects The new Uzbek spelling of "international" words was closely linked to a broader "internationalization" of Uzbek orthography, i.e., a change of the dialect base to the "international" urban dialects. The decisions

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of the May, 1929 Uzbek Language and Orthography Conference had been a victory for the promoters of "turkicness" in that the decisions provided for Uzbek orthography to represent vowel harmony (which was preserved primarily in rural dialects). Because most speakers of urban dialects did not distinguish all of the paired vowels in this orthography, it was especially difficult for them to learn to spell in it. In this context it should be noted that the First Five Year Plan stressed literacy programs for urban residents. It was more important for those working in offices and factories to be able to read and write than it was for those who labored in the cotton fields. The history of latinization and literacy programs in Uzbekistan demonstrates that the Soviet government fully appreciated this fact. It is difficult to judge just how great an obstacle vowel harmony was to mastery of spelling by urban dialect speakers. Perhaps in the rush to teach everyone to read and write as rapidly as possible the added time it required was a luxury which Moscow was unwilling to tolerate. Perhaps even some of the Uzbek literati who had previously favored a "Turkic" spelling had had second thoughts after seeing the problems which arose. On the other hand, Uzbek spelling, even for urban dialect speakers, was still quite phonetic. (This is clear, for example, if one compares it to English or French spelling.) By 1934, the opinions of Uzbek writers and linguists about this were probably irrelevant. All available evidence suggests that the major push for the change to the new orthography came from Moscow rather than Uzbekistan. True, no Uzbeks openly expressed disagreement with the decision once it was taken, but by 1934 no one would have dared to do so; any opposing views would certainly not have been published. The central regime's role is plausible in light of the growing politicization of language planning and Moscow's growing distaste for any hint of linguistic or other pan-Turkism. The strongest piece of evidence of Moscow's hand is the fact that the recommendation that several vowel letters be eliminated from the Uzbek alphabet (thus making it impossible to represent vowel harmony) was issued by the All-Union Committee of the New Alphabet on January 7, 1933 after a meeting in Moscow specifically devoted to questions of Uzbek orthography (Rämäzan 1934, Ser. 1: 15-20). A year of discussion of the proposed changes followed the January, 1933 meeting. A preliminary project of reforms appeared in the republic paper Qizil Uzbekistan on May 18, 1933. During the rest of

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the year, meetings were held throughout the UzSSR on the details of the new orthography. Finally, in January, 1934, a republic conference was held. Its decisions were ratified by the TsIK of the UzSSR on March 13, 1934 (Ozbek tilining 1935: 3). According to these decisions, the vowel letters "t>", "e", and "y" were totally eliminated, and "a" retained only for those cases where it distinguished two words which would otherwise be spelled the same. The rules applied both to "borrowed" words as well as to those of Turkic origin.6 The decision of the VTsKNA and the discussion which followed it are permeated by Marrist rhetoric.7 The beginning of the resolution of the VTsKNA referred to the great successes in collectivization and industrialization in the UzSSR and their relation to language (Rämäzan 1934, Ser. 1: 16). The growing role of urban dialects in the formation of a national language was also stressed. One author described the relation between the urban and rural dialects in the following way: "As a result of the industrialization of agriculture and the dominant role of the city in cultural reconstruction of the qishlaq, the language of the qishlaq must yield to the language of the city, and, although it [the language of the qishlaq] will affect the language of the city, the future living Uzbek language will mainly be the language which is now being formed in the city, school, tekhnikum, vuz and factory" (Usharov 1932: 21). Or, in Atäjan Hashimov's words:

The feudal isolation of separate regions of Uzbekistan which allowed the various dialects of Uzbek to exist and be maintained has been completely destroyed. In the kolkhozes, sovkhozes, industrial enterprises, schools, higher educational institutions, the Red Army, etc., the various Uzbek dialects are being mixed and crossed, while the leading role is being played by the urban dialects of the economically and culturally proletarian centers (Khashimov 1933: 29). Discussions of Uzbek language at this time also emphasized the victory of the "international". According to Marrist linguistics, all languages of the world were moving toward eventual unification. Therefore the appearance of Russian elements in Uzbek was considered "progressive". This meant that not only individual words might be borrowed from Russian, but phonetic rules as well. According to the Marrists, the

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new orthographic rules for international words in Uzbek actually reflected the "international Uzbek pronunciation". These words in turn had a broader impact upon Uzbek phonetic rules. As one author wrote, "International words which have been assimilated and are being assimilated do not fit into the old bounds of the Uzbek language. . . . Moreover, the old bounds are too narrow, and under the influence of the new content they definitely break" (Ozbek ädäbiy 1933: 80). Thus, the Marrists maintained that international words which did not conform to the old rules accelerated the "progressive" process of loss of vowel harmony. (Rämäzan 1934, Ser. 1: 18; Ozbek tilining 1935: 459). Perhaps the clearest evidence of Marrist thought in the area of orthography, however, concerned the phonetic rule which had made it impossible for borrowed words to begin with a consonant cluster. As indicated above, this rule was abandoned for European words in the 1934 orthography. The project of reforms which had been suggested in 1933, however, had carried this "progressive" influence into the orthography of non-international words as well. It noted that the very short "i" in such words as biraq, qisqä, sirä, and til had lost its "semantic meaning" (semanticheskoe znachenie) and therefore these words were to be written without the "i" (eg., "tl") (Borovkov 1937: 75).8 What can be said about the "orthographic principles" embodied in the 1934 orthography? By this time there had been a substantial retreat from the "write as you hear" principle upon which the 1929 orthography had been based.9 During the discussion following the 1933 Moscow VTsKNA meeting there were some suggestions to introduce an extreme element of phonetic writing for certain verb forms (Rämäzan 1934, Ser. 2: 32). This, however, was rejected. The decision to shift to the urban dialects as the basis for orthography, in addition to its significance as described in Marrist rhetoric, was important for another reason. Because differences in pairs of vowels (front/rear) played less of a role in the urban dialects, the reliance upon the urban dialects for the orthography (viewed from the perspective of all the dialects comprising the Uzbek language) meant the orthography was more abstract and less phonetic. Likewise, the change in the spelling of international words in the 1934 orthography was also a retreat from the phonetic principle.10

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The change of principles was explained by the linguist A. K. Borovkov in 1933 in the following way: The tradition of the historical development of the literature and literary language does not bind the modern Uzbek literary language with the feudal and colonial past; their development [now] proceeds along the path of non-capitalist development. This explains why in the early period, the Uzbek latinized orthography was built upon the extreme phonetic principle, in the bounds of bringing it closer to the language of the masses and groping for bonds with the language of the masses. Then, naturally, came the turn toward taking into account the varied characteristics of dialects in pronunciation and morphology (Borovkov 1934: 96).11

Latin alphabet: Revolutionary alphabet? The adoption of the Latin alphabet for the Turkic languages of the USSR had been greeted as a revolutionary event. Its introduction signalled not only the turning away from the backward East, but a step towards the science and modern culture of Europe. As one Russian linguist perceived it at the time, "Latinization is the industrialization of writing in the East. From this it follows that latinization must be placed along with such phenomena as the development of machine production, proletarianization of the East, etc." (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 10). The great enthusiasm which the Latin alphabet generated and which its promoters tried to generate was evident in such trappings for the All-Union Central Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet as an official song and even an airplane "Yangalif (New Alphabet) which was to be built with funds raised by the committee (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 214). In retrospect, the most extraordinary evidence of the importance attached to the "international" character of the Latin alphabet was the suggestion to shift Russian writing to this script, too. In 1930 A. V. Lunacharskii asserted in an article published in the journal of the AilUnion Central Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet (VTsKNTA) that Lenin himself had expressed certainty that Russian writing would eventually be latinized (1930: 22). A resolution of the fourth plenum

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of the VTsKNTA in 1930 declared the Latin alphabet "the alphabet of October". It was even alleged that the Russian alphabet did "not correspond to the tempo of development of Russian culture" (lakovlev 1930: 42). The conviction that Russian indeed would soon shift to the new revolutionary alphabet may have been the reason that the name of the VTsKNTA dropped the word "Turkic" from its title; the "new Turkic alphabet" became simply "the new alphabet".12 The reign of the Latin alphabet as the "international alphabet" or "alphabet of October" was, however, short-lived. Although a speaker at the fifth plenum of the VTsKNTA held in mid-1931 once again raised the issue of Russian adopting the Latin alphabet, following this, the subject was quickly forgotten. By 1933, the tide of latinization was clearly receding. An article in the centrally published Prosveshchenie natsional'nostei criticized those who advocated using the Latin alphabet for every tiny ethnic group. The author of the article admitted that for some non-Turkic languages which had recently adopted the Latin alphabet there could be "no talk of going back to the Russian alphabet". For others, however (such as the Mari, Chuvash and Udmurts) there was "no use in switching from the Russian to the new Latin alphabet" (Togzhanov 1933: 47-48). The rest of the article demonstrated that the Russian alphabet was not technically inferior to the Latin and, more importantly, had nothing to do with a colonial attitude: The Russian alphabet was missionary and colonial before the October Revolution, when the alphabet was forced on small peoples with the aim of russification and christianization of them in the interests of the colonial policy of Russian imperialism. . . . Under the dictatorship of the proletariat the Russian alphabet has become the opposite for these peoples: from a Russian missionary colonial alphabet it has been transformed into the alphabet of the Great October and has become an instrument for creating an international proletarian culture (Togzhanov, 1933; 48).13 If the article in Prosveshchenie natsional'nostei had marked a dramatic break by calling the Russian alphabet "the alphabet of the Great October", it still had not directly attacked those who claimed the Latin alphabet deserved this title. This involved such a major break that it was left for an article in the central party journal Bol'shevik in

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March, 1934. The Bol'shevik article in large measure was styled as an attack on a brochure which had been written by the former rector of SAKU (Central Asian Communist University), I. Khansuvarov (1932). In his brochure, Khansuvarov had merely echoed the current sentiment that latinization was a development of extraordinary significance. The charges against Khansuvarov and his "exaggeration" of the importance of the Latin alphabet exhibited the degree to which the content of the word "international" had changed. According to Bol'shevik, Khansuvarov was wrong in predicting that Latin writing would become universal. Moreover, Bol'shevik charged, Khansuvarov's inordinate praise of the Latin alphabet suggested that the Russian alphabet was reactionary (Orlitskii 1934: 87-89).

A new alphabet No major orthographic changes took place in latinized Uzbek following the 1934 reforms. The next shift to occur involved the adoption of the Russian alphabet at the end of the decade. The adoption of the Russian script for Uzbek was unthinkable at the beginning of the 1930s. Why was it possible to adopt it just a decade later? A number of events had changed the whole climate in which language and orthography planning were taking place in the USSR. First of all, the Great Purges had eliminated many of the nationalist language planners who had influenced the development of Uzbek during the first fifteen years following the revolution. Secondly, "Great Power Chauvinism" had ceased officially to be the greatest danger; following the seventeenth congress of the Communist Party, "local nationalism" was labelled equally dangerous. Thirdly, a re-evaluation of the role of Russia and Russians in the history of other peoples of the Russian Empire had taken place. No longer were Russian colonialists to be viewed merely as exploiters of other peoples of the empire; rather, the positive side of Russia's conquest of such areas as Turkestan, Georgia and the Ukraine was also to be considered (Tillett 1969: 45-46). Thus the changes in orthographic rules and alphabet in the 19381940 period for the Uzbek language were made possible by nonlinguistic factors. The changing meaning of the word "international"

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with regard to language and the introduction of obligatory study of the international language (Russian) in non-Russian schools also helped prepare the way. Soviet sources made the remarkable claim that the Uzbek people in the late 1930s came to realize that the Russian language was the "most revolutionary and most progressive of all the world's languages" (PV 12 October 1939). In the late 1930s the press proclaimed that non-Russians sought to master Russian because without it they could not read the works of Lenin, Stalin, Pushkin, and Gorkii in the original (PV 10 August 1939). In order to make it easier for non-Russian peoples to learn the Russian language and to bring closer together all of the peoples of the Soviet Union, it was necessary for all languages to be written in the same alphabet - the Russian one.14 Some reports admitted that there were isolated individuals opposed to the change from the Latin script to Russian, but by definition these people were "remnants of the representatives of bourgeois ideology". They did not realize that the adoption of the Russian alphabet was "an urgent cultural necessity of the immediate future" (PV 17 October 1939). It was alleged that most Uzbek workers and kolkhozniks felt "a growing desire to change the Uzbek language to the new alphabet" (PV 12 October 1939). According to the new interpretation which was promoted at the time of the second shift, in its time the Latin alphabet had played a progressive role, but unification on the basis of the Latin alphabet was impossible. The most serious efforts at unification of the Latin alphabet had been in the period of developing a new Turkic Latin alphabet; the unification of Turkic alphabets had long ceased to be the goal of the VTsKNTA because such a unification had come to be considered a symbol of bourgeois nationalism. The shaping of a new "Soviet people" required efforts to unify the alphabets of all of the peoples of the USSR; once it became clear that Russian writing would not shift to the Latin alphabet, there remained one alternative. Only the Russian alphabet could demonstrate "the unity of the great Soviet people, brotherhood and Stalinist friendship" (Rus 1940: 14). Even after the Great Purges, however, many linguists were apparently unaware of just how soon the alphabet shift would occur for Uzbek. Just months prior to the announcement in Pravda Vostoka that the Russian alphabet would be adopted for Uzbek, a booklet appeared with a proposal for a reformed version of the Latin script; this proposal had been suggested by the linguistic sector of the

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Scientific Research Institute of Language and Literature. In 1938 the institute had studied the "principles of building orthographies in fraternal republics of the USSR in connection with the question of their unification" ("Nauchno-issledovatel'skii" 1938: 89); however, the project which was finally generated by the 1938 work was not with Russian letters.15 When an article at the end of 1938 in Pravda Vostoka described in outline the orthographic changes which were proposed under the new Latin project, the eventual shift to the Russian script was clear. Study of the Russian language had taken on a new urgency in 1938 throughout the Soviet Union, and over twenty peoples of the USSR adopted the Russian alphabet by the end of that year. The Pravda Vostoka article describing the new project mentioned the need to "begin immediately the great preparatory work on the shift of Uzbek writing to the Russian alphabet" (26 December 1938), but strangely enough the perfection of yet another Latin orthography and its implementation were still viewed as part of that preparation. (If another Latin script orthography was to be perfected and implemented first, the adoption of the Russian alphabet was still some time off.) In fact, the final proposed Latin reform was not printed until January, 1939. Besides changes in spelling rules (especially vowels), the most notable feature of this proposal was a rearrangement of the order of the letters of the alphabet. The new order was almost an exact latinization of the Russian alphabet. The capital letters of the new alphabet were "A, B, V, G, D, E, Z, Z, I, J, K, L, M, N, X, O, P, R, S, T, U, F, X, C, $, ς, Q, 01, H, N,"· (Ozbek 1939: 31).16 It does not appear that any further discussion of reform of the Latin alphabet took place after the publication of the proposed reforms at the beginning of 1939. The pace of shift to the Russian alphabet precluded the implementation of the final Latin reform. The next order of business was to determine the form of the Russian alphabet to be used in writing Uzbek. Would all Russian letters be accepted? Would any additional ones be required to represent sounds in Uzbek which the Russian alphabet did not adequately differentiate?17 There were some proposals that the Uzbek alphabet include exactly the same letters as the Russian alphabet - no more and no less. "Why should the Uzbek people keep the phonetic influence of the Arabic and Persian languages? There is no basis for this. The language and phonetics of the peoples of the USSR must

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not artificially be held back in old forms. The forms for 'particular' sounds are not eternal." (PV 28 January 1940). It is noteworthy that these comments were those of a Russian named Petrov, not an Uzbek.18 If this "most revolutionary" form of the Russian alphabet was unsatisfactory, the most impure version of it was not acceptable, either. It retained several of the letters from the Latin alphabet to represent sounds in Uzbek which were not in the unmodified Russian alphabet. Specifically, these were the letters "ς", "Q", "Of; "h", and χ [sic] (Qari-Niyaziy 1940).19 These would have provided a link with the old alphabet and had the advantage of not resembling any Russian letters (with the exception of "C^").20 Perhaps precisely for these reasons, this alternative, too, was rejected. Borovkov maintained that leaving such letters in the new Uzbek alphabet was "unsuitable" because they looked alien in the Russian alphabet, which without them was a "graphic and artistic whole" (PV 26 March 1940). Qari-Niyaziy, head of the committee supervising the change of alphabet, likewise rejected this possibility, claiming that the Latin-based letters violated the structure of the Russian alphabet and created an "artificial break" between the Uzbek alphabet and the alphabets of the other fraternal peoples of the USSR (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 23). If Uzbek demanded extra letters of some sort which were not in the Russian alphabet, and the old letters from the Latin alphabet were unsuitable, this meant that some way had to be found to represent specific Uzbek sounds with Russian letters either in some modified form or combination. Proposals suggested using an apostrophe after Russian letters to form new letters "V"; "Μ"; "Κ"1, "Γ", "X"1, and "H"'. This project was found unsatisfactory because the apostrophes created unnatural breaks in the middle of words. Another project which used two letters to represent most of these sounds was also turned down. The reasons given for its rejection included that it was "inconvenient" and that it violated the "one letter one sound principle". Still other projects which were not accepted used symbols such as a capital Latin "R", "V", or a hooked Russian "Γ, in the form "Γ" (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 22-24). Some of the letters which had existed as independent graphemes in the Latin alphabet were sacrificed in the project which was finally adopted. Thus, the Latin letter "(^" (i.e., [j]) was represented by the Russian letter ">K"; in addition to taking the function of the Latin "

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this Russian letter also represented one sound in "international words", such as the initial sound in the Russian word zhumal.21 No single letter was used to represent the Latin letter "ty"; in the Uzbek Russian alphabet words with the sound represented by this letter were written with the combination of letters "ΗΓ". The additional letters which were finally accepted for the Uzbek alphabet were added onto the end of the Russian alphabet: "Τ, "Κ", "Γ", and "X". Even after it was determined which extra letters would be needed to add to the Russian alphabet it still remained to be decided whether all of the letters of the Russian alphabet would be included in the Uzbek one. Despite the desire for maximum uniformity with Russian, typing and printing considerations weighed in favor of a shorter alphabet. Consequently, one draft left all characters used for Russian in the Uzbek alphabet. Supporters of this proposal argued that this aided the "enrichment" of the Uzbek language by Russian (PV 26 March 1940). It allowed all international borrowings to be written with the same letters as in Russian. Opponents said that the Russian letters Έ", "Ε", "ΙΟ", "Λ", "Η", "ΙΓ,"ΗΓ, and "ΗΓ should be omitted from the Uzbek alphabet as "they were not completely characteristic of the Uzbek language" and the "Uzbek literary language [had] not grown to the point of development in order to adopt the Russian alphabet" (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 20). It was decided that most of the debated letters would be included in the Uzbek alphabet. The letters "III," and "H" were not included in the final draft, but only because their inclusion would have made the total number of letters too large (Borovkov 19403).22 Despite this, Qari-Niyaziy predicted that these letters would be included in the Uzbek alphabet "with time" and that their exclusion only meant that the chosen orthography represented the Uzbek language "at the given stage" (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 22). On the whole, the orthographic rules themselves (and not just the alphabet) represented a strong effort to bring Uzbek orthography closer to Russian. This was most clearly brought out in a statement by Qari-Niyaziy. Commenting on the approach of those who wanted to leave out many of the Russian letters from the Uzbek alphabet, Qari-Niyaziy said: They reason like this: "After the victory of communism in the whole world the need for creating a single language will arise and this problem will resolve itself. These comrades do not understand that

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a single language will not just fall from heaven (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 20). Such a language would arise only "as the result of the active participation of its creators". The impending adoption of the Russian alphabet, in Qari-Niyaziy's view, was one step towards eventual total unification (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 20). The inclusion of most of the Russian letters not needed for Uzbek words marked a return in one sense to the earliest months after the revolution. One of the very first targets of reform by the Chaghatay gurungi had been special letters which were used only in writing words borrowed from Arabic and Persian. Besides being a nuisance in spelling, such letters offended the sense of Turkic identity. Those who had opposed elimination of the "extraneous" letters from the Uzbek Arabic alphabet identified themselves strongly as Muslims. In 1940, the inclusion of new foreign letters was again supported with arguments that the most important source of identity was beyond the borders of Central Asia or the Turkic world. To justify this, F khri K malov cited a "graphic principle" (grafik printsipi} to explain the rules of Uzbek orthography which deviated from the morphological and phonetic principles (Ozbek 1940: 8-11). Likewise, the final version of the new alphabet which was accepted proclaimed that the "artificial barrier" between Uzbek and "foreign" words had been removed (Ozbek 1940: 5). The Chaghatay gurungi had also tried to remove that barrier, but its solution had been the exact opposite - "turkicizing" the foreign words or removing them completely. The alphabet which Russian and Uzbek largely shared after 1940 allowed most words borrowed by Uzbek to be written in their Russian form. Certain deviation from the "graphic principle" which remained, however, included Russian endings (which were not always written in the Uzbek borrowed word) and the Russian letters "III,"and "BI". In the Uzbek equivalents of words written with "III,", the letters "1114" were used, while words with "ΒΓ were spelled in Uzbek with an " Η". Of course the removal of the barrier between Uzbek and "foreign" words concerned the barrier between Uzbek and Russian words and Russian forms of words borrowed from other European languages. This was most clearly demonstrated in the new spelling rules for Uzbek equivalents of such Russian words as Camlet, gegemoniia, and gektar'. According to the 1934 orthographic rules, these words had

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been spelled with the letter "H" at the beginning. In the new rules adopted with the shift of alphabet, these letters were not written with the Cyrillic letter "X" (with which the Latin letter Ή" had been replaced in the Uzbek Russian-based alphabet) but with the letter T". In this way, the orthography of many foreign words became still another step closer to the Russian spelling (Usman 1940).23 There is no evidence of any attempt to coordinate the alphabets and orthographies of the Turkic languages at the time of the shift to the Cyrillic alphabet. Indeed, the many varied forms of letters adopted by the Soviet Turkic languages upon changing from the Latin to the Russian alphabet suggests the contrary.24 More recent Soviet sources attribute the lack of uniformity simply to insufficient efforts to coordinate the various alphabets (Baskakov 1972: 6-7). Given the Russian attitude toward pan-Turkism at this juncture, one does not have to be overly suspicious to wonder whether the lack of uniformity among the alphabets was partly intentional.

Implementation The information available on implementation of "cyrillicization" is much more fragmentary than in the case of latinization. This is primarily because of the "fairytale-like" reporting on the introduction of the Cyrillic alphabet. Reports on it give the sense that the new alphabet was adopted by popular demand and without any major problems. The inevitable problems of "automatic illiteracy" which must have been caused by the change in script are not mentioned in accounts of the alphabet shift, nor is there any reference to a drop of literacy caused by the change. Rather, the problems described refer to temporary material needs (e.g., textbooks in the new alphabet) and the retraining of teachers. In contrast to the alphabet shift of a decade before, for the most part cyrillicization was not coincidental with a literacy campaign for adults who were illiterate in all alphabets. On the one hand, this probably made it much easier for literate adults to learn to read the new script (especially because of the similarities between the Latin and Cyrillic scripts); however, it also meant that many more individuals had to "unlearn" old reading and writing habits.

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It appears that the regime placed a lower priority on assuring that literate Uzbek adults quickly learned the new Cyrillic letters than on teaching it to children. One important factor may be that by 1940 korenizatsiia and the promotion of the Uzbek language had long been forgotten. Communications in administrative offices were taking place largely in Russian in 1940, and so the upwardly mobile Uzbeks would have no choice but quickly to learn not only the Cyrillic alphabet, but the Russian language as well. The children of the peasant masses would grow up with the new alphabet, anyway. To the party it was relatively unimportant what alphabet their parents used. Planning for the introduction of the Cyrillic alphabet to replace the Uzbek Latin alphabet began even before the letters of the alphabet were determined. Although several articles on possible versions of the new alphabet appeared in the Uzbek press during the first months of 1940, it was not until March 26-28, 1940 that a conference determined the letters of the new Uzbek alphabet (Qari-Niyaziy 1940: 19). However, already in December, 1939, the SNK of the Uzbek SSR outlined measures for introducing the new script (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 1). The next month a meeting of the board of the UzSSR Narkompros considered measures for introducing the new alphabet in the educational institutions of the republic. A plan drawn up for the meeting by a Comrade Kichanov suggested that deadlines be set for introducing the Cyrillic alphabet in various types of educational institutions. The plan specifically emphasized, however, that the final version of the alphabet had to be agreed upon before anything was introduced. Kichanov recognized that subsequent changes would cause unnecessary expenditures of government money and considerable waste of paper to re-issue textbooks (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 8). The meeting of the board of the Narkompros adopted a resolution which called for completing the shift to the Cyrillic alphabet within two years. Beginning September 1, 1940, the first two grades of elementary schools and all schools for illiterates and semi-literates were to conduct work strictly in the Russian alphabet. Teaching in other classes of elementary schools and in all classes of other educational institutions was to shift to the new alphabet on September 1, 1941. (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 1). There appears to have been great pressure to accomplish the change of alphabet in the field of education as rapidly as possible. Kichanov's report to the Narkompros board had suggested a slower change of script than that decided upon at the

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meeting. Kichanov's project had urged that the eighth, ninth, and tenth classes of secondary schools and all higher educational institutions be allowed until September 1, 1942, to begin use of the Cyrillic alphabet (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 8). By May 11, 1940, when the law on introduction of the new alphabet was published in Pravda Vostoka, still another acceleration in the introduction of the Cyrillic script had been agreed upon. Not only were the first two classes of the republic's elementary schools to begin use of the new alphabet in September, 1940, but the third class was to do so as well (PV 11 May 1940). Because new textbooks were a crucial component in the plan's success, the Narkompros board's resolution called for printing 4,500,000 copies of books by August 15, 1940. The Narkompros requested that the UzSSR SNK allocate 600 additional tons of paper for this purpose. To cover losses resulting from the shift of alphabet, it asked for a special allocation to pay textbook authors and editors (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 1). The other major work necessary to introduce the new writing in the primary schools of Uzbekistan in the coming academic year was to teach the new script and orthographic rules to teachers. The strategy suggested by the Narkompros board to instruct the teachers included the following major provisions: At some point after the final version of the alphabet had been agreed upon, courses for 300 Uzbek language and primary school teachers were to be held (presumably in Tashkent); these classes were to meet twice a week for two-hour sessions in the course of two months. After June 1, one hundred and fifty teachers who had attended the course were to be sent to raion centers to teach what they had learned in twelve-day courses (with five hours of instruction per day); the remaining 150 who had attended the two-month course were to remain in Tashkent to teach similar courses. New graduates of teachers' schools were to attend forty hours of instruction in the new alphabet and orthographic rules (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 2). The Commissariat of Finances requested that the Narkompros "urgently" compile a total budget for measures to introduce the Cyrillic alphabet in September. It is clear that the institutions responsible for implementing the alphabet change were hard-pressed to find the required resources. Although the republic Narkompros requested 4,471,754 rubles to enable it to introduce the Cyrillic alphabet in

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September, 1940, the Commissariat of Finances, in a reply dated February 25, 1940 granted only 2,606,300 (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 77). A request from the Press Administration (Upravlenie pechatiu) was also cut - from 1,593,600 to 1,107,200 rubles (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 18). In order to comply with this, the Press Administration's programs had to be slashed. For example, printing industry workers could attend only thirty hours of special instruction in the new alphabet instead of the originally proposed sixty. This alone was supposed to save almost half of the 322,400 rubles allocated for this purpose (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 19). The Commissariat of Finances also pressed for changes in the Narkompros budget. One cut was made in the salaries of teachers at the special courses; instead of fifteen rubles per day, they would receive only six. Expense allowances for teachers coming to raion centers were also lowered. Moreover, the Commissariat of Finances saw no reason to send teachers out from Tashkent to teach the new alphabet. After all, it reasoned, there were teachers throughout the republic who already knew Russian. Consequently, the entire 160,000 rubles requested by the Narkompros for this was denied (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 20). Because no funds for any such expenses had been included in the republic budget for the year, the Commissariat of Finances recommended that the USSR government be asked for additional money from the Ail-Union budget (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 20). The Uzbek Narkompros protested most of the cuts in funds which the Commissariat of Finances proposed. In particular, the Narkompros objected to the suggested cut of 160,000 rubles which was to be used to send instructors to raion centers to teach the new alphabet and orthography. It responded to the Commissariat of Finances, "Taking into account the complexity of changing all the work of the classroom teacher from the latinized to the Russian alphabet, the Narkompros . . . considers the dispatching of instructors of teachers to the local areas absolutely necessary and insists that the 160,000 rubles for this be accepted" (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 20). The fight over funds was taken to a plenum of the Budget Commission of the Supreme Soviet of the UzSSR on May 5, 1940. This plenum listened to objections by the Narkompros regarding cuts made in the budget for introducing the new alphabet. It recommended that 348,000 rubles beyond that allocated in the

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government budget (as recommended by the Commissariat of Finances?) be allowed for expenses the Narkompros would encounter in introducing the new script. However, the funds were to come from other sections of the Narkompros's own budget! Moreover, this was to be accomplished without eliminating any work in other areas which the Narkompros was to do according to its original plans (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 27). Not only financial considerations, but time considerations as well, made it impossible to carry out the preparation of teachers as the Narkompros had originally outlined in its January proposal. The proposal had been contingent upon early agreement on the final form of the new alphabet and orthographic rules. Courses of two months in length were to be completed by a corps of instructors before June 1, 1940 (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 2), yet the final version of the alphabet was not made official until the second week in May (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 26). In order to work within the necessary financial and time constraints, only one instructor was sent from Tashkent to each oblast. These instructors, along with local linguists and heads of the oblast departments of education, were to help organize five-day courses (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, listy 25-26; PV 2 June 1940). These courses were attended by a total of 260 teachers, mostly language and literature teachers from the higher classes of secondary schools.25 Those who attended these courses were to be sent in pairs to raion centers to teach the new alphabet and orthography to 18,450 teachers of the first three classes of primary schools and literacy schools. The oblast and raion department of education heads were charged with assuring that the proper number of teachers attended the courses.26 Each course in the raion centers included thirty hours of instruction over five days (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 25). Apparently the courses were held as planned, even with the limited funds. Those attending, however, hardly enjoyed luxury in the oblast or raion cities where they came to learn the new alphabet and orthography. A circular letter to all heads of education departments of raions and oblasts of the UzSSR advised that participants in courses were to bring their own bedding because there were "no means or other possibilities" for it to be provided at the courses (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 34).

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A very large number of textbooks were printed before the beginning of the 1940-1941 academic year, though not nearly as many as the Narkompros had requested. For literacy schools plus the first and second grades of elementary schools alone the original Narkompros request was for 4,500,000 textbooks (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 1). For all of these classes in addition to the third class of elementary schools (which the original Narkompros plan had not indicated would change alphabets until the following school year) a total of 1,740,000 textbooks were printed (PV 1 September 1941).27 By the end of 1940, a total of 3,174,000 textbooks in the new Uzbek alphabet had been published, and by May 1, 1941, another 1,000,000 were ready. The planned total number of textbooks and other educational materials for 1941 was over 4,000,000 (PV 8 May 1941).28 Uzbek periodical publications adopted the new script in steps. For example, an issue of Äxbarat (News) of the Uzbek branch of the USSR Academy of Sciences signed to press on November 5, 1940, was printed entirely in the Latin script; the issue signed to press on November 17, 1940, carried articles in both alphabets; the following issue, signed to press on January 20, 1941, was printed entirely in the new script. Uzbekistan ädäbiyati vä sän"äti began to carry its title in Russian letters in early 1940. In the issue signed to press October 11, 1940, the table of contents was in the new Uzbek alphabet. The next issue was slightly more "cyrillicized", and the one after that (printed in 1941) carried some, but not all, articles in the new script. Qizil Ozbekistan also shifted gradually to the new alphabet. Throughout the beginning of December, 1940, the majority of articles in this newspaper were still printed in Latin characters; the middle of the month witnessed the phasing out of the old letters. The last article written in Latin characters was in the December 20, 1940 issue.29 By May, 1941, all republic, oblast and city newspapers had completed the shift to the new alphabet, although some raion publications had still not totally made the change (PV 8 May 1941). Until a new orthographic dictionary was approved and published, there was considerable variation in spelling in the new alphabet. At the time of the alphabet shift in Uzbekistan a common joke was "Anyone can edit, but try to find a good proofreader!" (Redaktirovat' mozhet vsiakii, no poprobuite naiti khoroshego korrektora\) (Personal communication).

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Public signs and announcements were supposed to be rewritten by early 1941 (PV9 January 1941), but this was not observed everywhere; in May, 1941, some announcements were still being printed in Latin letters, and street signs in many places were in Latin or even Arabic writing! (PV 8 May 1941). Some offices apparently were also slow to shift to the new alphabet. However, the mythology which was carefully adhered to until the Gorbachev era maintained that the shift to the Cyrillic script was quite painless, and so this possible confusion was only a very minor inconvenience.30 In the twenty-three years between the Bolshevik Revolution and the adoption of the Cyrillic script in 1940 there had been a 180 degree turn in the party's official interpretation of Russian colonialism and its linguistic implications. In 1919, the Nationalities Commissariat's Zhizn' natsional'nostei had carried a proposal by a Dr. Kulaev suggesting that a new alphabet for the Turkic-speaking Bashkirs might be devised on the basis of Cyrillic letters. This proposal provoked an angry response from Aftakh-Eddin Gaidullin, who warned that any such attempt would be viewed by the Bashkir people, "who had suffered so much from russificatory activity", as a new attempt at russification. In 1919, Gaidullin's view coincided with the Bolshevik understanding of the need to seek legitimacy by eschewing any act which might be viewed as a continuation of a colonial policy (ZN 5 October 1919). Just two decades later, however, such legitimacy concerns were forgotten, as Moscow attempted to create a new Soviet nation-state identity which rested on a core Great Russian nationalism.

Chapter 7

The lexical revolution

Introduction Like orthography and alphabet, Uzbek vocabulary change in the period 1917-1941 shows the tension between problems of participation and penetration. It likewise demonstrates the ways in which the Uzbek language planners and central party authorities attempted to manipulate vocabulary as a symbol of identity. In the early years, the Uzbek literati attempted to "purity" their language's vocabulary by replacing Arabic and Persian words with Turkic ones. As time went on and Moscow's penetration increased, the major policy decisions about Uzbek vocabulary were taken out of the local planners' hands. This became particularly important in the atmosphere of strong Russian nationalism in the mid-1930s. Because the creation of new terms contributed to secularization of education and popularization of the press, the activity of the early language planners in Uzbekistan had important implications for allocation and production. However, as with questions of orthography, the Chaghatay gurungi's goals related to production and allocation were not entirely in harmony with their goals vis-ä-vis identity. Nationalist writers attempted to portray vocabulary purification as something which would bring language closer to the common rural inhabitant, but this was clearly not always the case. Many of the words which they sought to remove from their language were widely used, whereas few people knew some of the "pure" terms they sought to promote. The Bolshevik Party, of course, was not a proponent of linguistic purism, but it must have shared the view of Uzbek language planners that many new words had to be created to express new concepts. Among other reasons, the party needed the new words to deliver its political message to the people and to bolster its legitimacy. Permitting the small coterie of literati a high degree of discretion in devising terminology also contributed to the regime's legitimacy among this important group.

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Vocabulary development became more closely bound to Moscow's goals of production and allocation during the First Five Year Plan when the regime's communication with the Uzbek population intensified and expanded to many new subject areas. This is reflected in the publication of a large number of dictionaries and vocabulary lists during the First Five Year Plan and the remaining pre-war years. These included an agricultural dictionary (with names for plant pests and diseases) (Qishlaq 1931), a dictionary of terms related to cottonraising (Ibrahim 1935), a dictionary of chemical terminology (Kolosovskii 1934), another of botanical terms (Murat 1934), one of electrical engineering terms (Rähimov, Fazilov & Uteev 1937), and others with special vocabulary for bookkeeping (Qariev 1940), soil terminology (Kimbert & Bähadirov 1940), physics (Äbduräshidov 1940), mathematics (Qari-Niyaziy 1933), and philosophy (Musin 1932: 51-62). By the time most of these appeared, Moscow was less tolerant of Turkic purism and even of Arabic and Persian terminology. Moreover, the Communist Party had established tighter control over the entire language planning process. Therefore, most of these dictionaries reflect a quite "internationalized" Uzbek vocabulary. This trend favored the new Uzbek "elite" who themselves had to learn much more of the Russian language than was required during the korenizatsiia era. In the middle and late 1930s, Moscow entirely ignored the wishes of the senior Uzbek literati on questions of vocabulary. Terminology and other vocabulary are by their nature less subject to government control than orthography and especially alphabet. Even in countries such as the USSR with close government supervision over the mass media, it is more difficult to isolate "unacceptable" words than incorrect spellings or letters. Lexical items may be acceptable in certain contexts, but unacceptable in others. Moreover, the lines between contexts can be exceedingly difficult to draw.1 Partly because of this, vocabulary trends which may move in one direction under government pressure can later imperceptibly move back. The appearance of an "archaic" word in a writer's prose may mark that word's re-entry into use. It is much less likely for a discarded alphabet to begin to be used in this way. Still another reason that it is easier for governments to enforce script and orthography changes is that these reforms or shifts relate only to written communications, which are by their nature more formal.

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Uniformity is probably less important in the case of vocabulary than in orthography. This is not to minimize the utility of a uniform terminology, but in a world which depends on alphabetical order to keep track of information, an unstandardized spelling (which affects virtually every member of society) is likely to be more disruptive than variation in vocabulary. For all of the above reasons, a government whose primary linguistic objective is to make language into a more efficient instrument will likely be less concerned with "deviation" in vocabulary than spelling. It does not appear that this applies to Uzbek in the years under review here. Indeed, the Soviets' preoccupation with creating a standard "internationalized" vocabulary in the 1930s suggests that efficiency was only a secondary objective.

Pluralism in vocabulary development Because of the varied sources from which it could be drawn, Uzbek vocabulary of the 1920s was a sensitive barometer of identity. A single concept could often be expressed with "Uzbek" words of European (Russian), Turkic, Persian, and Arabic origin. In the decade preceding the revolution and in the very first postrevolutionary years, translators and authors used many Arabic terms to express new concepts. This trend is evident in texts from the early post-revolutionary period in such areas as mathematics, geography and other primary school disciplines, as well as in political, philosophical, and economic literature (Ramazanov 1973; Borovkov 1940c: 51-57; Rämäzanov 1969: 54-56). A good example of this is one of the first dictionaries published for Uzbek after the revolution, a Russian-Uzbek glossary of "political-economic" vocabulary (Toräqul 1922).2 Like many of the first "dictionaries", this was actually a word list in Russian with some "Uzbek" equivalents and a good deal of explanation. Even in the earliest years, however, some new words came from other sources. For example, "radical" and "manifesto" were "translated" into Uzbek as radikal and manifest. Other words came from Turkic roots, especially from Tatar and Azeri vocabulary; this was because the vocabulary of these languages was more developed than Uzbek's. The lack of a standard terminology meant that translators and writers often chose and developed their own sets of terms. Many of them thus

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became "inventors" of new words in their specialties (Ramazanov 1973: 18). Special terminological dictionaries often lagged behind, rather than preceded, the first textbooks and other translated technical literature. Moreover, many of the "dictionaries" were printed as proposals and hence served only as a first step in developing a standard (Rähimov, Fazilov & Uteev 1937; Näjib 1934). (Often literature which used other terminology continued to be published.) An additional problem was that sometimes there were no Uzbeks who were familiar with the fields for which terminology had to be created. Some of the first dictionaries were compiled by Russian specialists.3 The lack of standard terminology was a problem that Uzbek shared with many other languages spoken in the USSR. In these languages, the lack of words for certain concepts frequently transformed itself into a problem of too many words - none of which was universally accepted. As the end of the First Five Year Plan approached, the centrally published journal Sovetskoe stroitel'stvo lamented that too many "parallel terms" in legal terminology had been produced by "the creativity of newspaper workers, translators of political literature and local lawyers". Efforts by official language planning organizations were often frustrated. Many of the terms created by official commissions "died a natural death", while some of those which arose spontaneously became entrenched in popular use. Sovetskoe stroitel'stvo called for an end to this confusion through more active government intervention to standardize terminology (Kusik'ian 193 Ib). At least until 1933, however, this endeavor was largely unsuccessful. This evoked the following assessment by a plenum of the Scientific Council of the All-Union Committee of the New Alphabet: At present the main difficulties in terminological work are connected with the fact that there are no terminological codes (concrete elaboration of terminology in a given language, terminological dictionaries, etc.) regulating the development of new terminology. The existing terminological organs conduct their work not in accordance with the demands of terminology, but according to the urgent daily requirements to develop whatever terms are being introduced into newspapers, current translations of literature, etc. In great measure, terminology is created amateurishly by

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individual departments, authors, and translators without any participation of the terminological organs (lazyk 1933: 273). The situation was soon to change. The centralization, russification, and stricter political control of language planning in the second half of the decade went a long way toward eliminating this "amateurish" character.

Debates on sources of vocabulary There was less debate among the Uzbek literati about the need to "de-arabize" Uzbek vocabulary than about the "de-arabization" of Uzbek spelling. A likely reason for this was that the Arabic script as a whole was a sacred symbol, whereas individual words were not. Moreover, many of the conservatives on language issues, above all the ulema, were not concerned with the origin of words used to described new political, social, and technological concepts with which they had little contact. (They would, however, have been directly affected by any change in the writing system.) Chaghatay gurungi members dreamed of replacing Arabic and Persian words with Turkic ones. The poet Fiträt, who claimed to be a slave of the richness of the "Turkic language", urged every Turkic writer to use as many Turkic words as possible. He said that the predominance of scientific terminology of Arabic and Persian origin in existing textbooks was no reason to continue to depend on borrowed words. In fact, Fiträt saw the use of these alien elements as a sign of Turks' lack of self-confidence. Fiträt obviously did not consider the Arabic alphabet "sacred", or even an important link to fellow Muslims. He called the Arabic language "impoverished" and "backward", and claimed that instead of inventing their terminology, the Arabs had actually taken it from the Greeks! (Ish. 23 August 1919). Like Fiträt, fellow Gurung member Elbek also scoffed at the use of Arabic and Persian words. Elbek charged that writers who claimed to be Turks but used foreign vocabulary were in fact insulting their own language. He warned, "People who lose their language lose themselves as well" and become assimilated; already, Elbek felt, children of Turks were forgetting that they were Turks, and Turkic writers were

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essentially writing in foreign languages (Ish. 21 March 1920). Although Elbek advocated writing all Arabic and Persian words in accordance with the rules of vowel and consonant harmony, this was only a temporary measure. In Elbek's words, "We believe in the richness of the Uzbek language. If for the meantime we cannot find a proper word of our own, we will use a foreign word, but subject it to our own rules; this will be a (temporary) inconvenience, but then we will throw it out" (Ish. 7 October 1920). Acting on his own proposals to cleanse the Uzbek language of alien elements, Elbek began to collect lists of words which he felt should be removed. One list of five hundred "foreign" words which he compiled (including borrowings from Arabic, Persian and Russian) was published in the newspaper along with the Turkic equivalents which he suggested as replacements. Many of the replacements were newly-invented words or words from Chaghatay literature which had fallen out of use and had been forgotten; others were in use, but coexisted with the non-Turkic equivalents; still other words were borrowed from other Turkic languages in which they had not been replaced by borrowing from Arabic and Persian (Tu. 5 September 1923 through 21 November 1923).4 Purification sentiments were reflected in the November, 1925 resolution of the Committee to Study Uzbeks of the Academic Center of Uzbekistan's Narkompros. The resolution included recommendations of steps to bring the Turkic languages and dialects closer together. It specifically recommended removal of foreign words from Turkic languages and their replacement whenever possible with Turkic ones: "Forgotten Turkic words should be found and introduced into literature." Among the ways to realize this, it suggested giving old words new meanings and making wide use of Turkic suffixes in creating new words. It was considered "possible to take some [nonTurkic] words as exceptions", but only with the condition that they not "spoil the purity of the Turkic language". (In addition, the resolution urged that "a unified alphabet be adopted for all Turks") (Ozbekshunaslär 1926: 163). Although, as illustrated in previous chapters, goals of purity and unification were not always compatible, the same resolution of the Academic Center which approved purification also spoke of unification. It stated:

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Considering that Turkic languages and dialects [lähjä vä shevälär] are basically the same in terms of vocabulary, morphology and syntax, they can be unified under certain circumstances. However, the separation and differences among Turkic tribes in terms of geography, culture, political situation and economy pose barriers to this. Therefore, we know that unifying all Turkic languages and dialects is difficult. At the same time we are very certain that bringing the Turkic languages and dialects closer together is possible (Ozbekshunaslär 1926: 162). As steps to achieve this, the resolution recommended establishment of a unified center to carry out research and coordinate action among various republics' language committees. It is likely that the 1926 All-Union Turcological Congress's resolution on "scientific terminology" had a moderating effect on the discussion in Uzbekistan. This resolution did recommend that all Turkic languages base terminology on Turkic words and roots, but the resolution was not as strongly anti-foreign as some of the Uzbek writers had been in the past or even as extreme as the resolution passed in 1925 by the Committee to Study Uzbeks. The congress's resolution recommended coordination of scientific terminology for the various Turkic languages; whenever possible, Turkic words were to be used. If there were none in one Turkic language, borrowing terms from another Turkic language was recommended. Unlike most previous Uzbek resolutions on the subject, the 1926 Turcological Congress resolution reflected the opinion that it was not necessary to purge Arabic and Persian terms already assimilated for which no Turkic equivalent existed; in the future, however, no more Arabic or Persian words were to be accepted. Another sign of less Turkic purism was approval in certain cases of future borrowing of European terms (Vsesoiuznyi 1926: 406). In any case, by the last few years of the 1920s, no one was publicly expressing the extreme ideas concerning vocabulary that many Gurung members had been proclaiming just a few years before. Although such men as Äshuräli Zahiriy still warned that continuous borrowing could make Uzbek "coarse" and "unrecognizable" (and he proposed expressing such terms as "geography", "astronomy", "capital", and "electricity" with the invented Uzbek words yer biligi, yulduz biligi, baylik, and sim chiraghi), he was willing to retain such borrowed words as radio, leninizm, and sindikat

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(Zahiriy 1929: 172-173).5 Other members of the Uzbek intelligentsia who viewed Europe as the source of new ideas and technology were willing to go further than Äshuräli Zahiriy in adopting European words.6 At this point in time, the proponents of adoption of such vocabulary still urged that they be assimilated in a slightly "uzbekified" form (Ramiz 1929: 147).7 Some of them still even proposed that before borrowing, the internal resources of the Uzbek language of the villages be tapped and the terminology of other Turkic languages be considered (Yoldash 1929: 277). The moderated stand on purification also meant a greater willingness to accept Arabic and Persian words in cases where no Turkic (Uzbek) equivalent existed (Buzruk 1929: 172173). The ambiguity behind such words as "where possible" and "where no equivalents exist" was not resolved at the 1929 Uzbek Language and Orthography Conference. The conference resolution stated that first of all the internal resources of the Uzbek language were to be used in creating new words; the Persian and Arabic words "not known by the masses" were to be removed and replaced by Uzbek or international words (Batu 1929b: 8). At the same time, there was a recommendation that terms be easy for peasants and workers to understand and that they be kept as close as possible to terms selected in other Turkic languages of the USSR. First priority in choosing terms was to be given those already present "in all dialects", but if none existed, those "understood by the majority" could be used. While new words could be coined, no one should resort to "excessive artificiality" (Batu 1929b: 8).8 Arabic and Persian words were to be removed "as much as possible" from the language of science and literature, but in the field of ethnography, geographical names, and in certain other cases they could remain. The conference provided for the establishment of a language and terminology commission, but given the vagueness of the resolution, much of its assignment remained unclear. However, the resolution unambiguously stated that purification was not the solution to vocabulary problems. It specifically condemned the position once taken by Fitrat's Chaghatay gurungi and maintained that early attempts to achieve "pure Chaghatay" had only removed the language from the masses (Til imla konf. 1932: 67).

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"Internationalization" of Uzbek vocabulary Within five years after the conference it became clear that russification had become the fundamental principle for vocabulary development. Even before the adoption of the Cyrillic script in 1940, i.e., from the middle of the 1930s, assimilation of Russian lexical items was touted as "internationalization". Significantly, the acceleration of this trend occurred simultaneously with the "internationalization" of Uzbek orthography (i.e., the change of dialect base). In 1932, just prior to the intensified russification of non-Russian Soviet languages, the opponents of this trend could still proclaim that in language, as in other areas, party doctrine considered "great power chauvinism" the major danger in nationality problems (Aliev 1932a: 7). But about this same time the direction of future policy was also becoming evident. For example, one author writing in 1932 claimed that Uzbeks and Russians were carrying on such a great volume of communication that their languages were acquiring many new elements from each other (Aliev 1932a: 7). Another specialist asserted that Uzbek had undergone a great transformation in the past decade. Moreover, he predicted that in ten more years it would be a totally new language (Usharov 1932: 21). In one sense, "internationalization" of language was nothing new. After all, the Bolsheviks had come to power under the banner of "internationalism". But the meaning of "international" had undergone major change. In the first years following the revolution, "internationalists" were those who opposed Russian chauvinists; those who displayed vestiges of colonial attitudes toward non-Russians were by definition not internationalists. As time progressed, "international" came to be much more closely identified with "Soviet" and eventually with "Russian". An important step in this direction was Stalin's 1924 declaration of "socialism in one country". But even following this, "international" did not necessarily mean Russian or even something with its roots in Russia. Thus, the Latin (and not Cyrillic) alphabet continued to be considered "international" until after 1930. Similarly, in terms of vocabulary, many words of English, French, or German origin continued to be "international" instead of Russian equivalents. However, with the rise of Russian nationalism in the early 1930s, this changed. "International" and "Soviet" both became closely coupled

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with Russian. Thus, the "internationalization" of Uzbek vocabulary which took place in most of the 1930s was "russification". Appropriately, the translation of political literature from Russian into Uzbek was one of the first places that this new "internationalization" became evident. In 1932, the fifth plenum of the KPUz adopted a resolution on Uzbek translations of the classics of Marxism-Leninism; at that same plenum, First Secretary of the KPUz Akmäl Ikramov criticized translators who continued to use Arabic terms to render such concepts as report (doklad) and aktiv (Beregin 1933: 20). The internationalization of terms used to translate political concepts was stepped up during 1933. Evidence of this appeared on the pages of the Uzbek journal Kitab va inqilab; in the June, 1933 issue of this journal, Qurban Beregin argued that there was "no need" to find Uzbek equivalents of such international words as intematsional, revoliutsiia, proletariat, diktatura, and eksport (Beregin 1933: 22). Criticism of translations of political works which used translated equivalents began to take on an even harsher tone in 1934 and 1935. A reviewer of a 1933 translation of "The Communist Manifesto" was so angered by the excessive use of Arabic terms in the translation that he called for a halt in its distribution (Elim 1935: 27). In similar fashion, the use of too many Arabic words and too few "international" ones was said to distort the meaning of a translation of Lenin's "Imperialism - The Highest Stage of Capitalism". For this mistake the translator was charged with "dulling of class vigilance" (lakubov 1935: 86). For a short time some linguists and translators still showed a reluctance to "internationalize". Indeed, words such as inqilab (revoliutsiia}, fälsäfä (filosofiia), qurultay (s"ezd [Russian for "congress"]), mäfkurä (ideologiia), and riyaziyat (matematikd) were still widely used in the early months of 1933.9 Likewise, some members who attended the plenum of the Scientific Council of the All-Union Committee of the New Alphabet in 1933 still argued that the old "translated" words had lost their previous undesirable meanings or connotations and so did not distort anything when used as equivalents for international words. Thus, it was argued, shora did mean the same thing to Uzbeks as sovet did to Russians (lazyk 1933: 149). Such arguments, however, were not to be heard for long. A wave of new "internationalization" of terminology was already taking place throughout the Soviet Union. In the Ukraine, a November, 1933

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resolution of both the government and Party condemned the so-called "Skrypnik line" which, it was alleged, aimed toward "maximal separation of the Ukrainian language from Russian by replacing words resembling Russian ones in Ukrainian with Polish, Czech or German" words (PV 3 December 1933). "International" vocabulary in Uzbek meant "Russian" in much the same way it did for Ukrainian. Äkmäl Ikramov made this clear in a March 1934 speech at the Conference of Soviet Writers of Uzbekistan when he pointed out the need to introduce international terms into Uzbek more boldly. He then continued: Some people say that "international words are those words which are taken from Latin, German or French. Those are international, while everything from Russian is not international". There are people among us who think that everything Russian is of a great power chauvinist [nature]; they do not understand that the Russian proletariat is the shock brigade . . . in the creation of an international human culture (PV 26 March 1934). In harmony with this, Arabic words were purged from the language because they expressed a "feudal religious ideology" (Tursun 1934: 24). As time progressed, authors and translators who used Arabic, Persian, or Turkic words instead of international (Russian) ones were accused of "counterrevolutionary distortion" (PV \\ August 1934), and "criminal carelessness, wrecker distortions and misinterpretations" (PV 21 November 1934). The terminology necessary for translation of political literature was only one of many targets of "internationalization". The application of the same principle to other fields was reflected in a 1933 article by A. Hashimov who argued that it made no sense to attempt to translate international words such as traktor, tekhnika, tekhnik, and mekhanik (Khashimov 1933).10 But "internationalization" went much further than this. Indeed, it came to include the replacement of words which were already in use with new "international" ones, even if the latter ones were relatively unknown. Because linguistic "turkicization" was already a thing of the past, words of Arabic and Persian origin were the special target of the new campaign. The replacement of words with "international" ones was especially ironic in view of the fact that in the early years the

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justification for accepting Russian or other non-Uzbek words into Uzbek had been that they were already in wide use, and so there was no need to replace them with new ones. The logic behind the new version of "internationalization" was explained in this way: [T]he struggle for language, for internationalization of vocabulary, is one sector of class struggle - a struggle against nationalist counterrevolutionary cliques attempting to hold back the course of historic development. But what about those who do not understand a whole series of international terms? First of all [there should be] no forcible replacement of international words with Uzbek [words], and certainly not with Arabic [words], but on the contrary, a moving of these [international] words out into the masses, and an explanation of the words to the masses; i.e., the need to explain international words to the masses is also linked with the internationalization of vocabulary (Reshetov 1934: 44). Some of the new "international" vocabulary introduced into Uzbek at this time did not replace old vocabulary, but rather represented the new type of life style which Soviet power was supposed to be bringing to Uzbeks. This was reflected in a reading primer for literacy schools which introduced students at the end of reading selections to "international" words which were unfamiliar to them. Among the "international" words which needed explanations were "fortocka" (a small opening window pane) "vanna" (bath) and "mostovj" (sic) (street) (Yoldashev & Säidov 1934: 28, 81, 83). Although the general direction of vocabulary development, i.e., "internationalization", was obvious, its extent was not. There still remained the question, "Which words were international and which were to be discarded?" It was easy, as the Uzbek linguist Ulugh Tursun did, to state that "dead" and "artificially contrived" words should not be used (Tursun 1934: 18); however, this did not answer the question of what criteria should be applied. The following piece of obfuscation written by an Russian linguist in 1935 suggests that in fact there were no fixed criteria: How should it be determined whether there is a need to include this or that international word into the language? First of all, by

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[the word's] meaning and its international weight in the struggle of the proletariat of all countries against the bourgeoisie. The meaning of a word has as much class [character] as all of the content of our consciousness. Therefore, naturally, ideology and meaning must determine as well the attitude toward a word and the choice of vocabulary (Reshetov 1935: 176). Some Uzbek linguists and writers went so far as to advocate removal of all Arabic and Persian terms from the Uzbek language. Perhaps this was just a natural result of the proclaimed all-out attack on "arabisms", but on some occasions it may have afforded opportunities for translators to invent their own Turkic replacements. The compilers of one dictionary, for example, were chided for inventing Turkic equivalents for the widely used Arabic/Persian words nämunä, mäjlis, shärait, shärq, ghärb, shimol and ashkhanä (Khashimov 1936: 172); the reviewer of this dictionary expressed the opinion that these words had sufficiently been assimilated into Uzbek and therefore that there was no need to replace them (Khashimov 1936: 172). What was to be done when new terms were needed? Where would they come from? Were internationalisms always to be given preference? In theory, even during the internationalization-of-Uzbekvocabulary phase, the first source for new words always remained "the internal resources of the Uzbek language" (Tursun 1934: 21; Khashimov 1936: 165). However, once an international equivalent began to appear, the picture could change drastically; "If an equivalent exists in Uzbek, a foreign word should not be accepted; however, if an international term has already begun to enter the language and an Uzbek equivalent exists, then the international term should be accepted" (Emphasis added, WF) (Tursun 1934: 21). How broadly this could be interpreted became clear when sovet (soviet) replaced shora. Certainly the word shorn was understood by the masses after a decade and a half of Soviet rule! One rather curious justification said that since the masses had begun to use the word sovet without translating it, the word shora had lost its right to exist; in fact, this shift was taken as evidence that Uzbeks had skipped the capitalist stage on the way to socialism (Shul'man 1936: 58). Of course the use or comprehension by the masses probably had very little to do with the changes which were proclaimed in Uzbek vocabulary. But the shift may have had something to do with the

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terms which were used by the indigenous elite in political and economic institutions. Significantly, elimination of words like shora coincided with the waning of korenizatsiia. Perhaps, indeed, the administrative native cadre, who worked in an increasingly Russian environment, did begin to use words like sovet instead of shora. The "international" changes in Uzbek vocabulary were seen as part of a broader trend which extended to phonetics as well as morphemic and syntactic structure. Many of these "new" Uzbek forms and structures were said to be developing because of the great number of translations from Russian into Uzbek. Borovkov maintained that the modern Uzbek language was "characterized by the rapid accumulation of complex syntactic forms [and] the appearance of new kinds of compound sentences . . . ." In this process, the translation into Uzbek of the classics of Marxism was said to play an especially important role. This was because it was "impossible" to convey the wealth of these works in Uzbek "with only 'simple' syntactic forms (Borovkov 1934: 87, 90). Elsewhere, Borovkov referred to the new syntax of Uzbek as "breaking the traditional syntactic bonds" (Borovkov 1934: 87). In accordance with Marrist thought, such events were said to be preparing the ground for the future world language. This was clear in one account which referred to Stalin's words about the dictatorship of the proletariat in one country and the development of national languages and cultures preparing the conditions for their "dying out and fusing into one common socialist culture (and into one common language)" (Ozbek ädäbiy 1933: 3). Although there is no single event at the end of the 1930s which can be pointed to in the area of vocabulary and terminology marking a shift of the magnitude of the alphabet change, the direction of the trend was very much the same. By the end of the decade, Uzbek vocabulary had been substantially "internationalized". According to one of the few studies of Uzbek word frequency from that period, the Uzbek language contained only 4% Russian international words in the mid-1920s, but by 1934 the figure had grown to 12%. In 1940, 15% of the words in Uzbek were Russian international ones (Borovkov 1940b: 35).11 The scholar who conducted this research in 1940 predicted that the existing trend would intensify (Borovkov 1940b: 39).12 Thus, by 1941, there had been enormous changes in the Uzbek language; Uzbek of 1941 was unlike that of Uzbek of 1917 in many

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important respects. In just two and one half decades a standard orthography had been formed and thousands of new terms had entered the language. The nature of the change and development was as significant as its scope: Uzbek orthography was based on the "international alphabet". The vocabulary was also heavily "internationalized". Even the phonemic, morphological, and syntactic structures of Uzbek were said to be "enriched" by borrowing from the "most international" language. The "internationalization" of Uzbek described here, of course, reflects in direct fashion only the language of published materials. It is likely that throughout the 1920s and 1930s, vocabulary of the spoken language (even in specialized fields) was more conservative than what has been described and was less subject to decisions by language planners. However, it is plausible that oral language and unpublished written communications were also to some extent affected by these developments.

Chapter 8

Nativization

Introduction One of the major themes of Soviet language planning in the first fifteen years after the Bolshevik Revolution was the new regime's effort to raise the status of the non-Russian tongues. Although the October Revolution did not yield independence for Turkestan or Uzbekistan, the Bolsheviks' policies to grant language rights by utilization of local languages in administration and education exhibit certain similarities with subsequent policies of nationalist elites in former colonies. For example, the Algerian nationalists who sought "language independence" attempted to replace French with Arabic. Like their Bolshevik predecessors, language planners in Algeria also encountered problems of too few books, too few teachers, inadequate standardization, and opposition to "nativization" by minority groups. Despite these superficial similarities, there are fundamental differences between the Bolshevik policies and those subsequently followed by nationalist elites. Of utmost importance is the fact that while language status decisions in newly independent states like Algeria were made by the indigenous elite, in Central Asia these decisions were still made by the "colonialists". True, the Bolsheviks in Moscow proclaimed their intention to redress the evils of colonial exploitation, but they encountered considerable resistance from the local Russian population in Turkestan who still retained a "colonial" mentality and who impeded implementation of Moscow's instructions. Ultimately, in the 1930s, Moscow would give its blessing to a more colonial-like policy in Turkestan. This was very different from Algeria, where after independence the colonial power no longer directly influenced policy. Another important difference between Algeria and Uzbekistan is that the Central Asian elite, unlike the Algerians, was better versed in the indigenous language than in the colonial one. The Bolsheviks' attention to language status policy derived in large part from the problems they faced in the political development areas of legitimacy, allocation, and participation, and from the solutions

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which they proposed in these areas. Given such events as the declaration of autonomy in Kokand, the new leaders were painfully aware of the Bolshevik regime's weak legitimacy and the need to demonstrate that the new rulers did not represent colonialism under a new flag. Language status policies also offered a way to open up political participation to new segments of society (which the regime hoped would support them), and to reallocate advancement opportunities to the formerly oppressed colonial subjects.

Early language status policy in Turkestan The Bolsheviks promised a change in language status from the early months of Soviet power. In April, 1918, Stalin's appeal to the Soviets and Muslim commissariats of Kazan, Ufa, Orenburg, and Ekaterinburg equated the promised autonomy with "the organization of the local school, local court, local administration, local organs of power, local socio-political and educational institutions with a guarantee of plenitude of the right of the local language, native to the toiling masses of the region, in all spheres of socio-political work" (Park 1957: 179). Following the civil war, at the beginning of the New Economic Policy, the party reiterated its pledge to provide nationalities throughout Russia with cultural institutions in their native languages. A resolution of the tenth congress of the Communist Party specifically called for helping the masses a) develop and consolidate for themselves the soviet state system in forms corresponding to the national life styles of these peoples; b) develop and consolidate an administration, economic organs, and governmental organs in their native languages, composed of local people knowing the life and psychology of the local population; c) develop their own press, schools, theatres, club organizations and other cultural-educational institutions in their native languages; d) establish and develop a wide network of courses and schools . . . in their native languages (first of all for the Kirgiz, Bashkirs, Turkmens, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Azeris, and Daghestanis) . . . (Rezoliutsiia 1921: 79).1

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Because of the Russian civil war, in the first years after the revolution Moscow had few opportunities to enact measures which in fact raised the status of the non-Russian languages. Thus, the special department of the Narkompros which had been established in November, 1918 and charged with "education of the national minorities" was unable to carry out its duties effectively because of the continuing widespread turmoil in the country (ZN 24 August 1919). Obstacles to providing social and language equality to the native peoples of Central Asia were greater than in most areas of the former Russian Empire. The "overwhelming majority" of government officials in Turkestan were recent arrivals from the RSFSR and the Ukraine, and, at least according to some accounts the educational level of the natives was extremely low (Park 1957: 181). The Russians who came to Central Asia lived in "colonial" cities separately from the natives, while only a minute part of the native youth had attended the socalled "Russian-native" schools or needed to learn Russian. One of the ways in which Moscow attempted to overcome the problems of implementing a revolutionary policy in Turkestan was by training soviet and party workers of the indigenous nationalities at central educational institutions in Moscow and Leningrad. The Communist University of Toilers of the East (KUTV), created by a resolution of the VTsIK of April 21, 1921, was supposed to provide an education for "national" students who did not know Russian (Lazovskii & Bibin 1928: 277-278). Even this university (besides facing problems of feeding students, clothing them, and finding places for them to live in Moscow) could not find enough teachers who could speak the native languages; moreover, it did not have enough books in languages the students could understand (ZN, no. 1, 1923: 266). As a result, KUTV could not immediately begin to serve non-Russian students entirely in the native languages. The students admitted in 1922 who were to begin the regular two-year course, for example, were required to "know Russian fluently", because the lectures had to be given in Russian.2 A much more important instrument in preparing a foundation for the Bolsheviks to address linguistic inequality in Central Asia was the pressure which Moscow placed on local Turkestan officials. A key institution in this regard was the Turkestan Commission, which was

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dispatched to the region from Moscow in late 1919. Headed by M. V. Frunze, the Turkestan Commission was charged with completing the conquest of territory in Turkestan and supervising the firm establishment of Soviet rule. Among its other tasks, the commission supervised measures to begin to abolish national inequality and enlist the native population in soviet work. In doing this, it frequently had to fight to overcome the opposition of local Russians with a "colonialist mentality" (Park 1957: 121). Even before the Turkestan Commission's arrival, Moscow's "encouragement" obliged local officials to promise language rights. Thus, the first congress of the Communist Party of Turkestan in June, 1918 passed a resolution which called for the publication of all official organs and party literature in "Turkic". One month later, the Turkestan TsIK followed the lead of the party and adopted a statute which declared the "local customary tongues" of Uzbek and Kirgiz the state languages equal with Russian (Park 1957: 180). Upon the proclamation of the Turkestan Soviet Socialist Republic in the spring of 1921, the Turkestan newspaper Qizil bäyraq exultantly announced that the official language of the republic was "Turkic"; it underlined that this measure guaranteed that the government would now come closer to those who in the past had been victims of oppression (QB 26 May 1921). The proclamation, of course, changed little. Later in the same year this was recognized in a report at the tenth congress of Soviets of Turkestan which pointed out that "there still remained much to be done in the area of bringing the soviet apparatus closer to the linguistic characteristics and life style of the native population". In order to coordinate efforts to improve the situation, three national departments (otdels) - Kirgiz, Uzbek, and Turkmen - were created under the Turkestan TsIK (ZN 25 October 1921). Most of the measures adopted locally in this early period, however, were of little more than symbolic importance. Among them was a statute which gave official status to the Uzbek, Kirgiz, and Tajik languages in the postal service in Turkestan. All major post offices, beginning in November, 1921, were to be divided into Muslim and Russian sections (ZN 19 November 1921). In view of the over 95% illiteracy rate among the local population, and the very low geographic mobility, it seems highly unlikely that many Central Asian natives benefited from this.

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Of potentially greater consequence was a recommendation from the Turkestan Communist Party Executive Bureau to the communist fraktsiia on December 13, 1922. This recommendation called on the fraktsiia to support a law mandating that organs of government have at least one worker who knew the native language of the majority population at the republic level, as well as at uezd and volost levels. The recommendation further urged that the Narkompros establish courses for preparing the necessary secretaries and clerks who would make the implementation of these measures possible (Tursunov 1966: 303). There is no evidence, however, that this recommendation was ever acted upon. Probably because of weak responses like this in Turkestan and throughout Russia, on April 14, 1923 the All-Russia TsIK issued a decree calling on local soviet governments in all areas to organize training facilities to prepare workers who knew the native languages; these workers, according to the decree, were to translate correspondence in all government offices which dealt directly with the broad masses of the population into their native language (Park 1957: 182). The Bolshevik party's twelfth congress which was held the same month also instructed that the organs of the national republics and oblasts be comprised primarily "of local people knowing the language, life, mores, and customs of the corresponding peoples", and that "special laws should be published guaranteeing the use of the native language in all government organs and establishments serving the local national population and national minorities" (ZN, nos. 3-4, 1923: 34). Because there were far too few people in Turkestan able to translate the business of government into the local languages, many Tatars who knew both Russian and Turkic (Tatar) were given the work of translating. However, they often had an imperfect grasp of the local dialects. As a result, the "translations" they made were frequently of such poor quality that even literate Uzbeks could not understand them! (Tu. 29 March 1923).

Korenizatsiia in the Turkestan Republic The first years of Soviet power in Turkestan demonstrated to the Bolsheviks that language rights for the indigenous population of Central Asia depended not so much on translation, but conducting

170 Chapter 8

business in the local language. Moreover, because very few Russians knew Turkic or cared to learn it, this meant that administrative offices would have to be staffed by members of the local population. Despite opposition by Russians with a "colonialist mentality", the Bolsheviks adopted a policy of recruiting, training, and promoting members of the local nationalities in Turkestan. This policy was known as korenizatsiia ("nativization", "indigenization", or more literally "rooting"). Of course korenizatsiia was not pursued just to provide language rights. But the language component was a central part of it. As will be seen below, korenizatsiia continued until about 1933. Although fulfillment of the promise of indigenization would not become a high priority for Moscow until the late 1920s, even prior to the national delimitation the Turkestan Republic government took measures to promote it. (Of course these were adopted with Moscow's "encouragement".) On August 15, 1923, the Turkestan SNK established a "Commission for Translating of Clerical Business (deloproizvodstvo) into the Local Languages" (Tursunov 1966: 331). Details regarding the planned execution of the August 15 measure were outlined in a joint decree of the Turkestan TsIK and the Council of People's Commissars on August 29 which stated that all correspondence and office work in state institutions were to be conducted exclusively in local languages; this decree mandated that all soviet agencies in the republic adopt the local languages in their public business within three months. A crucial component for its success was the planned immediate recruitment of native "practitioners" for a sixmonth preparatory course (Park 1957: 181). Several months later, in December, 1923, the executive bureau of the Communist Party of Turkestan adopted a set of theses on korenizatsiia of the state apparatus of the Turkestan Republic. Although they also mentioned the need for employees (sluzhashchie) of the state apparatus to know Russian (Russian being necessary for communications with the rest of the Soviet Union), more importantly they called for office business, economic, and court documents in the Turkestan Republic to be not only in Russian, but in Uzbek, Kirgiz, and Turkmen as well (Tursunov 1966: 344). The regime's understanding of the tie between language rights and korenizatsiia was reflected in the renaming of the "Commission for Translating Clerical Business into the Local Languages" as the "Commission for Translating Clerical Business into

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the Local Languages and Staffing Institutions with Local Workers" (Emphasis added, W.F.) in February, 1924 (Tursunov 1966: 331). Some of the measures which the party promoted in this period reflected great naivete about the nature of the problem of communication between Russians and the indigenous population. For example, a resolution adopted by the TsK KPT (Central Committee of the Communist Party of Turkestan) on January 30, 1924 noted that the railroads and water transport of the Turkestan Republic could be made to serve the native population better by hiring more Central Asian workers. In order to train members of the indigenous nationalities and introduce them into the work of this branch of the economy, the resolution suggested that European workers in these professions learn the local languages and organize special training classes for the indigenous population! (Tursunov 1966: 352). On April 14, 1924, the All-Russia TsIK reiterated its support for korenizatsiia in a resolution on the "translation of the work of government organs in the national oblasts and republics into the local languages". A "primary task" of the national areas in accomplishing this goal, it was emphasized, had to be the "training and re-training of local workers for service in the local government apparatus" (Lazovskii & Bibin 1928: 423). In order to encourage reluctant Russians to carry out such policies, the central government scheduled an August, 1924 conference which was to coordinate measures to increase the use of native languages throughout the autonomous republics and oblasts. In the announcement of the conference, the central government promised financial support for such purposes as training Europeans in the local languages and giving the natives necessary skills to work in local government; funds were also to be available for such expenses as buying typewriters and printing instructions (Lazovskii & Bibin 1928: 424-425). The tone of the announcement suggests that not only officials in Turkestan, but those in Moscow as well, did not fully understand the complexities of this undertaking. Reflecting the expectation that regional governments would somehow be able to anticipate all funding needs, the announcement said that offices should include all funding requests in a "general plan"; it also implied that later piecemeal requests would not be honored (Lazovskii & Bibin 1928: 424-425).

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Language and educational policy in the Turkestan Republic Along with korenizatsiia, the Bolshevik party also attempted to improve educational opportunities for the indigenous population. Equal opportunity in education was both an objective of Soviet nationality policy and at the same time a necessary condition to carry out korenizatsiia. During the Turkestan Republic period, the scarcity of teachers, textbooks, school buildings, desks, paper, pencils and other items presented insuperable difficulties to provide native children universal education in the native tongue. Education was a great burden on the budget of the Turkestan Republic. In 1923, over 40% of the entire budget was allocated for education. However, the schools served less than 100,000 of the total 900,000 school-age children; worse yet, only 4% of the indigenous nationality children attended school. The total number of native children in Europeantype schools (31,000) did represent a ten-fold increase over the corresponding figure before the revolution, but the 4% of native children in schools stood in sharp contrast to the 56% of European children attending class (Park 1957: 361-362). Many non-linguistic factors were also obstacles to primary education for a greater portion of the native children, but the lack of teachers who could speak the same language as the children and the meager selection of textbooks in the Turkic languages would have made universal education for the local school-age children impossible even without the other difficulties. In turn, overcoming these obstacles required funds that were not available. As a report on education in Turkestan in the 1923-1924 school year noted, the republic's Commissariat of Education had planned to prepare textbooks for primary schools in the indigenous languages. However, there was no money to pay textbook authors and translators. Not surprisingly, "without any financial incentive" it was impossible to get them to work (StenografichesJdi n.d.: 24). During the years before the establishment of the UzSSR, few Uzbeks received training beyond the primary level. Turkestan State University (which became Central Asian State University [SAGU]) established a rabochii fakul'tet (rabfak) to prepare students (especially natives from peasant and worker families) who lacked sufficient background for higher education. Before the national delimitation, however, the number trained annually in the SAGU rabfak was only

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in the hundreds (Novikov 1961: 31-32). Lectures at SAGU in regular courses (i.e., outside the rabfak) were not offered in the Turkic languages.3 Other educational institutions provided training for some primary school teachers in their native languages during the years of the Turkestan Republic (Novikov 1961: 31), but usually this was in courses of short duration. There were, in addition, natives studying in the Central Asian Communist University (SAKU), but the term "university" did not mean "higher education". SAKU's task was to prepare people to work in party, soviet and labor union organizations (Kommunistik 1974). The original plan was to provide separate "communist universities" operating in parallel fashion in Russian and the Turkic languages, but instead independent sections of the same university were established. Because too few prospective lecturers could speak the local tongues, European lecturers were provided with translators (Stenograficheskii n.d.: 24; ZN 19 November 1921). Although the student body was heavily native, the quality of the education they received was not high. The European section was so much better that, despite their own poor knowledge of Russian, many native students attempted to transfer into it (Stenograficheskii n.d.: 24). Thus, although during the period of the Turkestan Republic there were repeated resolutions which were supposed to give Central Asians "language rights", in fact there was little progress in removing the language barrier between the native population of Central Asia and government, education, and other services. Moreover, representatives of the local nationalities were not attracted sufficiently into the institutions which were supposed to serve them. As of March 1, 1924, only 9% of the workers in the republic's central state institutions were natives, and only 5% in the republic's central economic institutions. The picture at the oblast level was even worse (Tursunov 1966: 366).

Early efforts in the Uzbek Republic At the time of its establishment at the end of 1924, the new "Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic" faced the same problems of korenizatsiia and language equality which had challenged the Turkestan Republic. Initial resolutions passed by the Uzbek Republic echoed those of the

174 Chapters late Turkestan period. One of the first, passed on December 31, 1924, stated that all government, social, cooperative, economic, and other institutions, organizations, and enterprises were to carry out their work at the volost and uezd levels exclusively in Uzbek; in non-urban areas where the majority of the population did not speak Uzbek, Uzbek and the language of the majority were both to be used; in the cities, Russian was to be used along with Uzbek. In parts of the Uzbek Republic which had formerly been part of the Bukharan and Khorezm Republics, oblast organizations were to operate strictly in Uzbek, while in oblast organizations in areas carved from the former Turkestan Republic, both Russian and Uzbek were to be used. Special departments were to be established to enable the central republic government to conduct any work or correspondence with lower levels of government in Uzbek (Ob obiazatel'nom" 1925: 59-61). Like the Turkestan Republic, the new Uzbek Republic also received instructions from Moscow to nativize. On September 17, 1925, the Central Asian Bureau's executive commission adopted ä resolution on nativization of the apparatus of soviet institutions and trade union organizations. It outlined major areas of work for "central soviet commissions for korenizatsiia of the apparatus", including establishing schedules and methods for nativization, and setting of ratios of native to non-native workers. The resolution also called for simplification of office business (deloproizvodstvo), which was to be brought closer to the needs of the native population, and for preparation of a native cadre (Gentshke 1976: 25). The resolutions brought mixed results. Central Asian natives indeed began to take more positions in the soviet apparatus, but the pace of korenizatsiia was irregular. On March 1, 1925, 16.5% of those working in the central (republic) apparatus of the UzSSR were Uzbeks, while one year later the figure has risen to 25.5% (Rosliakov 1975: 183). The corresponding figure for 1927, however, did not show an increase over 1926, and, in fact, fell (Khodzhaev 1973: 187).4

Changing gears In early 1927, a resolution of the Central Asian Bureau laid the foundation for more intensive nativization efforts which were to follow

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(Rezoliutsii 1957: 203). The higher priority on korenizatsiia was reflected in a speech which Fäizullä Khojäev (Chairman of the UzSSR Council of People's Commissars) delivered at the second congress of Soviets of Uzbekistan (March, 1927). Khojäev pointed out the need to use the native languages more at all levels of government (including the republic central government); he also urged exclusive use of the native languages in commissariats and institutions which came into contact with the masses of the population or local government organizations (Khodzhaev 1973: 196). Reflecting Moscow's dissatisfaction with the implementation to date, a new resolution of the Central Asian Bureau on October 8, 1927 urged disciplinary action against those not complying with provisions in earlier resolutions which called for changing office papers into Uzbek. The third congress of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan (KPUz), which met in November, 1927, devoted much of its attention to korenizatsiia and issues of language status. The congress's resolution on nativization pointed an accusing finger toward Europeans whose refusal to learn Uzbek did not allow "total and consistent adaptation of the apparatus to the needs of the local nationalities" and "made it difficult to use workers knowing only the Uzbek language". The party resolution called for greater use of the native language in party work and continuing "the struggle against underestimating the significance of use of the Uzbek language in party work, placing the task of studying the Uzbek language before the European section of the party, above all the aktiv" (Rezoliutsii 1957: 207). The resolution also addressed the issue of training more Uzbeks to work in industry; significantly, it did not suggest that Uzbeks learn Russian so that they might more easily be trained for work in the factories where Europeans predominated. Rather, it recommended "explanatory work" among European workers about the need to study Uzbek. According to the resolution, a knowledge of Uzbek would allow Europeans "to participate actively in providing the Uzbek community access to socialist construction" (Rezoliutsii 1957: 208). The section of the resolution dealing with nativization of the state apparatus focused primarily on the language question. It called on the republic TsIK and SNK to set deadlines for parallel use of languages in the republic's business, as well as on the railroads and for the telegraph. The resolution made clear that parallel use of languages

176 Chapters did not merely mean translation through the services of an interpreter. Correspondence between raions and okrugs in the native languages was to be achieved in the shortest time possible. In attracting new workers for the state apparatus, preference was to be given to those who knew Uzbek; reflecting the disciplinary action recommended by the Central Asian Bureau, the republic party resolution suggested that those already working who refused to learn the Uzbek language might be fired and replaced with others. Expenses incurred in teaching the native language or translating into it over the current fiscal year were to be borne by the institutions themselves; the following year funds for this might be allocated in the local and republic budgets (Rezoliutsii 1957: 209-210). The party congress resolution also addressed the question of language study for students of the republic's educational institutions. Both Russians and Uzbeks were to study each other's language in secondary school, but the reasons given to the two groups were different. The teaching of Russian to Uzbeks was to be improved "to make possible the transition from Uzbek secondary schools into higher educational institutions," while Uzbek language was to be introduced as an obligatory subject for Europeans "for the success of the implementation of uzbekization of the soviet apparatus" (Emphasis added, W.F.). A special incentive in the form of preferential job assignments was to be given to Europeans who knew Uzbek (Rezoliutsii 1957: 211).

Implementation? In response to the resolution of the party congress, the republic SNK and TsIK adopted a joint resolution on February 18, 1928, titled On the Uzbekization of the State Apparatus". It began by noting that despite numerous earlier resolutions, the work to promote parallel use of languages in government and to encourage Uzbek language instruction to Europeans was being carried out "extraordinarily slowly and unsatisfactorily". This new resolution called for specific deadlines by which various institutions would be obliged to switch to parallel use of languages. One category included institutions which could accomplish this within three months (by reassignment of workers who

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did and did not know Uzbek); all other institutions would be in the other category. The resolution called for a law with provisions for mandatory study by Europeans of the Uzbek language and special advantages to those who did know the local language. Incorporating the punitive side of the party recommendation, the government decree stated that the criminal code of the UzSSR was to be supplemented with a special provision for dealing with officials responsible for implementation who ignored or did not comply with measures ("Ob uzbekizatsii" 1928). Three months later, a new commission was established under the SNK of the UzSSR and charged with the uzbekization of the state apparatus and industry. This commission, among other things, was to set timetables for uzbekization, publish instructions and circulars, and review how uzbekization was being carried out in various institutions. It was also to help establish Uzbek language courses for Europeans.5 Commissions parallel to the central commission were to be set up in the okrugs (under the okrispolkoms - okrug executive committee), but the central commission was to retain the right to invalidate any decision made by the okrug commissions ("Polozhenie" 1928). The extreme difficulty in forcing local or even republic organizations to allocate resources for uzbekization is illustrated by the fate of an Uzbek language course which was planned for the major republic Russian-language paper Pravda Vostoka. One thousand rubles were requested for the project, but when Hämid Alimjan wrote five months later about this in the journal Älängä (mid-1928), he complained that no reply had been received! (Alimjanov 1928: 24). It is unclear whether the funds ever arrived. Other problems may explain the fate of a course promised in an announcement in the October 17, 1928 issue of Pravda Vostoka: Do You Want to Work in Uzbekistan? Study the Uzbek Language! The government of the UzSSR has published a decree concerning the obligatory study of the Uzbek language by all soviet employees. . . . Beginning October 20, Pravda Vostoka will print a short Uzbek lesson twice a week. In the course of six months, in fifty lessons, everyone can master the Uzbek language (October 17, 1928).

178 Chapters October 20 came and went, but no Uzbek lessons were published. Indeed, it does not seem that they ever appeared. October 20, 1928 did bring still another resolution of the Uzbek TsIK and SNK "On the Mandatory Study of the Uzbek Language by Workers and Employees of Establishments, Institutions, and Organizations of the UzSSR". The new resolution established a category of employees who were to learn Uzbek within one year; among others, these included everyone working in the republic TsIK and SNK; in okrispolkoms and raiispolkoms; and in the Commissariats of Land, Education, Justice, Internal Affairs, Labor, Workers' and Peasants' Inspection, and Social Security. (All employees not in the first category were to learn Uzbek either in two or three years, depending on their jobs.) In fact, with certain exceptions, after October 1, 1929, no one was to be hired who did not know Uzbek. The heads of the organizations involved were charged with responsibility for implementation of the measure and they were given the right to fire Europeans who refused to learn Uzbek ("Ob obiazaternom" 1928). It appears that the results of the October resolution were minimal; a new resolution adopted on December 12, 1928 noted the lack of progress since April and condemned the "inexcusable indifferent attitude" toward the Uzbek language by those who were supposed to study it; the new resolution extended the previous deadlines for learning Uzbek. Those working in the TsIK of the UzSSR, raiispolkoms, supreme court, Uzbektorg (trade organization), all cooperative organizations, and the Commissariats of Labor, Education, Justice, and Social Security were now given until March 1, 1930. The deadline of October, 1930 was set for those working in the SNK, the postal service, railroads, VSNKh and the Commissariats of Workers' and Peasants' Inspection, Finance, Agriculture, Trade and Health. "All others" were to learn Uzbek by January 1, 1931 (Akopov 1931: 2223). The "implementation" of this resolution was not much more effective than in the previous cases. The only body able to meet the deadline was the Narkompros - and that only at the local level (Akopov 1931: 23).

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Financial and organizational problems and "solutions" The difficulties in implementing the resolutions of late 1928 stemmed in part from their hasty adoption which had been done without consideration of certain "objective" conditions. The series of deadlines which existed for individual categories of workers resulted in particular strain because a very large number of classes had to be established; in some raions there were only enough workers needing language training to fill one course, yet the series of deadlines meant that three had to be established (PV 8 April 1929). The courses were poorly organized; the instructors not only often had no teaching qualifications, but also frequently had a poor grasp of Uzbek (PV8 April 1929). The kontrol' for carrying out the resolution had been placed with the administration of the establishment concerned. This was absurd, because those who were supposed to be verifying the implementation were among the least interested in the measures' success. The courses, moreover, were to have been paid for by local budgets, but by the time the resolutions mandating such were passed, local budgets had already been finalized with no allocations for the courses (PV 8 April 1929). Moreover, it was revealed in March, 1929 at the fourth congress of the KPUz that no disciplinary action had been taken against those who refused to comply with earlier resolutions (PV 3 March 1929). During the summer of 1929, an inspection of the progress of Europeans' study of Uzbek was conducted by the UzSSR Commissariat of Workers' and Peasants' Inspection (RKI). The first reason it cited for the unsatisfactory implementation of measures was the negative attitude of the employees who were supposed to learn Uzbek. The RKI also noted the lack of a single organ which took sufficient responsibility for uzbekization (despite the existence of the central commission), and the fact that funds which were to be spent on courses had been used for other purposes (PV 19 September 1929). As a result of the RKI's review, the courses were reorganized so that they were no longer divided according to level of knowledge of Uzbek; funds for all courses were handled by the Narkompros for all organizations; the Narkompros was also charged with responsibility for organizing the courses, supplying teachers, textbooks and exercising kontrol'. Still another set of deadlines was established for three

180 Chapter 8

categories of employees to learn Uzbek: March 1, 1930, October 1, 1930, and October 1, 1931 (PV 19 September 1929). Reflecting the RKTs findings, an Uzbek government resolution of November 28, 1929 noted that many institutions and commissariats had still failed to switch their correspondence into Uzbek and too few Uzbek language courses had been established; some commissariats had almost entirely ignored the responsibility to set these up (Akopov 1931: 23-26). Several months later, in March, 1930, still another organizational maneuver followed as the central and okrug commissions on uzbekization were disbanded and their duties given to the RKI of the UzSSR (Ό peredache" 1930: 377).

The key problem: Attitudes The attitude of Uzbekistan's Russians was undoubtedly the greatest obstacle to korenizatsiia in the republic. This reflected a pattern common throughout the USSR. Moreover, it appears that even many of those Europeans who did not overtly oppose korenizatsiia nevertheless viewed it skeptically. A 1930 article in the centrallypublished Prosveshchenie natsional'nostei revealed the feelings of a Comrade Vanne who denigrated the role of the minority tongues and hinted that Russian was destined to become a sort of "super language". According to Vanne, only Russian allowed one to read the works of Lenin in the original and to read the best Marxist-Leninist criticism of capitalist culture. Moreover, Vanne stressed, of all the USSR's languages Russian had the greatest body of literature on scientific and technical subjects and was the major language for training highly qualified specialists. Consequently, Vanne felt that Russian was the appropriate medium for backward nationalities to use in their secondary and higher educational institutions and the language in which they should prepare their teachers for native language primary schools (Vanne 1930). Although within four years such attitudes as Vanne's would be adopted by the party leadership, his statement was premature. Soon after Vanne's article appeared, another article in Prosveshchenie natsional'nostei condemned party members who considered it "unnecessary" to tackle the problems of developing culture in the

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native languages. According to the second article, some comrades mistakenly considered that since the Soviet Union was moving toward socialism, everyone had to be "inculcated with one language" (Panfilovskii 1930: 5). Soon Vanne himself was obliged to write a letter to the editor of Prosveshchenie natsional'nostei retracting his earlier statement. Vanne recognized that the views he had expressed had "nothing in common" with the line of the party and had given "fuel to Great Russian chauvinism". He noted that "the significance of the Russian language had changed in a fundamental way" following the Bolshevik Revolution. It was no longer "a privileged language [as it had been] in the age of the dominance of the Russian bourgeoisie"; rather, it had been transformed into one of the many languages of socialist construction and thus into one of the languages eliminating national privilege. Therefore, Vanne said, "There is no difference and there can be no difference between Russian and other languages of nationalities of the USSR in terms of special preference" (Emphasis in original) (PN, nos. 11-12, 1931: 106). Most Russians in Uzbekistan probably shared the sentiments expressed in Vanne's original article rather than his retraction. Such feelings were evident, for example, in the response of European students entering higher educational institutions in Uzbekistan who had to take an Uzbek proficiency exam (or else attend classes to learn Uzbek). Because most students did not care if they knew the language or not, they devoted their efforts to having it recorded that they did know Uzbek (rather than to studying the language) (PV 29 November 1928). Even those who could not evade assignment to Uzbek classes found that the university administration did not take the lessons very seriously. In 1928, the lessons were held only twice a week and always at the end of the day; each student attended the classes for only two years (PV 29 November 1928). The latinization of Uzbek writing was seen by some as a step towards making it easier for Europeans to learn Uzbek, but for the uninterested students it mattered little which alphabet was used (Ramiz 1928). The following academic year in all fakul'tets except the Oriental Fakul'tet the native languages were still treated as "third-rate disciplines" (PV 6 May 1930). When students in Samarkand were asked to explain why they would not learn Uzbek they responded: "We don't need that savage language" (PV 5 September 1930). Others explained that they preferred to spend time on a foreign language with

182 Chapters higher prestige, such as English (PV 12 October 1931). The first secretary of the KPUz, Äkmäl Ikramov, referred to the problems of European students' lack of knowledge of Uzbek in a speech of June, 1930: Our vuzes and tekhnikums continue to be filled with Europeans born in Uzbekistan and having a secondary education [yet] not knowing Uzbek. The knowledge of Uzbek must be a decisive condition for entrance into the tekhnikums and vuzes of Uzbekistan (Emphasis in original) (PV 27 June 1930). The indifference to the Uzbek language reflected many Russians' feelings that all Uzbek workers were "loafers", that they worked "worse than Russians" and that since they did not understand Russian they should simply "be avoided" (Dimanshtein 1930b: 7). European administrators, though they might on occasion need to speak Uzbek, used it almost exclusively with inferiors. Such circumstances were unlikely to raise the prestige of the language in their eyes, either. Still other Russians felt that there was no need to study the local language because they did not intend to stay permanently in Uzbekistan (Akopov 1931: 27). In one raion Russians felt so strongly about not being forced to learn Uzbek that they threatened to quit their jobs if they were forced to attend classes (PV 22 September 1932). A report on various republic organizations with only small percentages of natives working in them in 1931 found that most Europeans who did not know Uzbek were still not studying it and that with few exceptions directives were published only in Russian (PV 29 February 1932). There was a greater proportion of Uzbeks in the organizations and institutions below the republic level, but even in the raions resistance to learning the native language was strong. Attendance figures for some of the Uzbek language courses organized for various institutions in the 1930-1931 school year by the republic Narkompros also reflect the problem. Even in establishments with as many as 400 workers in them only fifteen to twenty individuals came to Uzbek language class meetings (PV28 February 1931). The results of such avoidance procedures were predictable. In 1931, only 6% of

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the 9,626 Russians working in the state apparatus of Central Asia knew any of the native languages (PV 5 August 1931).

Continued resistance Given this "attitude environment", it is not surprising that those institutions which made the most progress toward linguistic uzbekization faced special difficulties. The Narkompros, for example, began using Uzbek for all its correspondence in the second half of 1931. Due to this, however, most other institutions (which refused to accept papers written in Uzbek) demanded that the Narkompros provide Russian translations (PV 12 October 1931). The de facto continued use of Russian was repeated innumerable times in lower level organizations throughout the republic. In Ikramov Raion, for example, the savings bank, post office, and MTS carried on business almost totally in Russian (PV 29 February 1932). In Mirzachol Raion the local office of the cotton cooperative insisted on sending directives to the villages in Russian and was unable to understand important messages from the villages written in Uzbek (PV 17 April 1930). In Kuvinskii Raion officials did not distribute resolutions of the raion executive bureau in Uzbek; likewise, the bookkeepers dispatched to the kolkhozes to keep track of work-days (trudodni) could not speak Uzbek and so kolkhozniks did not know how much work they had credit for (PV 11 November 1931). In some areas those who did not read Uzbek reacted rudely when presented with papers written in a language they did not understand. On one occasion, the head of'a subsection of the Margelan Raion executive committee, a Comrade Zhukov, received two papers with the same text - one in Uzbek and the other in Russian. Zhukov tore the Uzbek translation into little pieces. When asked to explain his behavior, Zhukov answered, "I do not know and will not know the Uzbek language; therefore they should not send me papers in Uzbek" (Akopov 1931: 26). Some of the stories of misunderstandings which arose in these kinds of cases sound humorous from a distance of sixty years, but they illustrate the inefficiency which resulted when Russians and Uzbeks "communicated" without a common language. In 1930, a village soviet

184 Chapters sent a request for harrow teeth to the raion department in charge of cotton. No one at the cotton office understood the request, but it was nevertheless forwarded to the supply office. There, too, no one understood Uzbek. Although the shelves were well stocked with harrow teeth, the supply office replied that none were available (PV 26 December 1930). Officials in Moscow may not have been aware of the scale of poor communication at the local level, but they were acutely aware of language problems which interfered with the ability of the center's emissaries to perform their duties in the republic. The first secretary of the Communist Party's Central Asian Bureau declared at the sixteenth party congress that specialists from the center who were sent out to the national areas without knowing the local languages were like "deaf-mutes" who could be utilized only 10%-15% (Panfilovskii 1930: 5). The refusal of Russians to learn Uzbek affected the availability of such services as health care for Uzbeks. The total number of doctors in Central Asia during the First Five Year Plan was small, but among the native population doctors were extremely rare. In his speech at the third congress of Soviets of Uzbekistan in 1929, Fäizullä Khojäev called the lack of knowledge of the local languages by doctors the greatest defect in the work in the Commissariat of Health (PV 3 May 1929). In comparison to employment opportunity, educational advancement for the native population did not depend as much upon the Europeans' knowledge of Uzbek.6 But language remained a barrier in this area, too. This is illustrated in a generally very favorable report about the Fergana Pedagogical Institute which, however, also noted the serious problems caused by the frequent need to use interpreters in the classrooms. According to the report, the unsatisfactory quality of translation brought numerous complaints from students. The Fergana Institute's problems were said to be typical of other educational institutions in Uzbekistan where Central Asians studied (Georgiadi 1932: 83). The solution to this educational problem required either that Uzbeks learn Russian or that instruction be made available to Uzbeks in their native language. During korenizatsiia the second solution continued to be stressed. But as reports on attempts to train indigenous medical personnel noted, there were "still too few translators, textbooks, and

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other books needed for teaching" and "insufficient cadre for the work of editing and publishing" educational materials in the national languages (I. S. [author's initials] 1933: 54). The language problem even affected preparatory courses for tekhnikums, which were supposed to give students with poor language skills and other background some basic preparation which would allow them to continue their studies in the regular first year course. However, even in preparatory courses the lessons could not always be given in Uzbek. Because of language and other problems, as many as 70% of the students in the preparatory classes dropped out without beginning the regular tekhnikum curriculum (Qadiriy 1928: 20-21). Despite the obvious lack of teachers, the Central Asian Bureau decided that beginning in 1933, all Central Asian vuzes and vtuzes would offer all subjects for first year students in the native languages. The Bureau's decision on this matter advised that in the advanced courses where lectures continued in Russian, translations were to be made into the native languages (PV 22 December 1932).

Conflicting priorities If korenizatsiia had been the single economic and social goal in Uzbekistan in the late 1920s and early 1930s, more progress might have been made toward it. However, at the same time as the regime pursued korenizatsiia, it also sought to assure that the promoted individuals were from the "correct" social background (and therefore had the "correct" political perspective) and that they functioned efficiently in the economy. Still another important objective was the leadership's attempt to promote females into new areas of economic and political life. The focus in this chapter, however, will be on the social class and efficiency-related criteria.7 In many ways, encouraging women into new areas of activity paralleled encouraging members of poorer classes - i.e., those from the most revolutionary social background - into more active participation in the political and economic administration. The contradictions between korenizatsiia and the other objectives illustrate tensions among the goals for different areas of political development. Korenizatsiia (which entailed promotion based on nationality), above all, was a policy related to allocation. It was

186 Chapters supposed to reallocate opportunities in favor of non-Russian minorities. Promotion of individuals from poorer class backgrounds was also supposed to serve goals related to allocation, but it was also intended to serve the regime's goals of penetration: the Moscow leadership believed that Central Asians from worker or poor peasant families were more likely to share the goals of the regime and so could be relied upon to carry out its policies. Promotion of competent, trained individuals was important for several areas, but most importantly for efficiency of production. In the early years of korenizatsiia, the party concentrated on "nationality" more than the other two criteria of competence and social origins. As a result, many of the promoted Central Asians came from less than reliable class backgrounds. The seriousness of this problem increased as Moscow's goals for a social and economic revolution demanded ever greater penetration. Consequently, the criterion of social origin began to be accorded more weight. The change was explained in a speech at a January, 1929 Tashkent party conference in the following way: The cadre during the first decade of Soviet power had been "mostly reconstructed from another social midst. During the first period this was entirely unavoidable . . ." However, the circumstances had changed as it had become crucial "to secure the replacement of that part of the workers who [had] been unable to confidently turn onto the path of [the Soviet regime's] class positions" (PV 31 January 1929). Such an analysis represented an optimistic view that, indeed, competent and politically reliable cadre from the indigenous nationalities were available to fill the need. The optimism was tempered by some realism in an article by Dimanshtein which appeared around the same time. In the more optimistic part of his balanced article Dimanshtein wrote: Formerly, when we were more limited in the choice of social base, we were forced to pay less attention to the social and class moments which must be considered in promoting one group or another to power. At present, when these nationalities already are promoting from their midst more suitable elements in a social and class sense, we accordingly regroup forces and advance new strata and new elements in all areas of work and management (Dimanshtein 1929).

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However, Dimanshtein, who knew that in such fields as education there were too few politically reliable and technically competent natives, recognized that many teachers were semi-literate themselves, and that only "an insignificant percent" were party or Komsomol members. He further noted that most native teachers were still "children of mullahs, bais, merchants, etc." (Dimanshtein 1929). Consequently, Dimanshtein was forced to admit that usually the more nativized a working staff was, the less qualified it was. In 1930, Moscow began to stress social class even more. This was evident in a Sovetskoe stroitel'stvo article which stated that although in the past the "national principle" had prevailed over the "social principle because the best educated had come from the national intelligentsia" (Arkhincheev 1930: 101), in the long run this group was the carrier of "certain negative tendencies, in particular, nationalist" ones (Arkhincheev 1930: 107). Consequently, Sovetskoe stroitel'stvo stressed, nativization had to be carried out as a "broad movement from below, having its starting point among the masses" (Arkhincheev 1930: 107). It is not surprising that the greatest champions of replacing socially suspect individuals with politically more reliable ones were themselves representatives of the latter group. One of these was Usman Yusupov, future first secretary of the KPUz. In 1929, he declared: It takes but one close look at those people [who sit in the soviet apparatus] to convince us how many bai elements there are who consciously slow and counteract the implementation of the correct party line. We must proletarianize the apparatus, placing workers, batraks and poor peasants [into it] (PV 4 February 1929). In a later speech Yusupov blamed the "nationalists" for slowing nativization and emphasized that their version of korenizatsiia had nothing in common with genuine nativization. In order to accomplish the latter, Yusupov called for advancing more natives from worker and peasant backgrounds into responsible jobs and removing counterrevolutionary nationalists (Yusupov 1930: 24). Although such men as Chairman of the Uzbekistan Council of People's Commissars Fäizullä Khojäev (son of a wealthy merchant) must not have been enthusiastic about the kind of korenizatsiia which Yusupov favored, he, too, eventually spoke out in favor of it. In

188 Chapters February, 1931, Khojäev announced: "In the area of soviet construction, our task involves strengthening of the local soviet apparatus, [and] introducing into it a new cadre of workers, batraks and kolkhozniks" (Emphasis in original) (PV 23 February 1931). Soon after this, in late 1931, the Presidium of the Central Executive Committee of the USSR heard a report by the government of the Uzbek Republic which dealt in part with korenizatsiia. Besides approving the completion of the shift of language used in the state apparatus of Uzbekistan in 1933, the resolution also called on Uzbekistan's government "to pay special attention to training administrative cadre for the local government apparatus from among promoted workers (vydvizhentsy-rabochie) and kolkhozniks" (PV 24 November 1931). In fact, however, there was widespread belief among the Europeans in Uzbekistan that any korenizatsiia was inefficient, and that korenizatsiia which mandated privileges for "promoted workers" and kolkhoz members was disastrous. Even in December, 1929, a Pravda Vostoka editorial had recognized that many Europeans believed that korenizatsiia was impossible because there were no suitable natives to hire (PV 5 December 1929). As class criteria were stressed even more, the situation became more critical. Europeans who were ordered to hire more Uzbeks protested, "Why should I ruin my staff because of uzbekization? I have work to accomplish!" (PV 27 June 1930). When pressure to hire Uzbeks could not be resisted, the new indigenous nationality employees were put into the least important positions and those which required the least training. In one factory in Uzbekistan, there was only one native among the workers of higher qualification; among the workers of medium qualification, 19.5% were natives, while among those of low qualification the figure was 60%. Among the workers in positions which required no qualifications at all, 81% were Uzbeks (PV 24 June 1930). Similar situations existed at other factories. Besides hiring- Uzbeks, institutions were also pressured to promote them. In these cases some of the avoidance schemes were very convoluted, such as putting Uzbeks into positions of authority, but taking the authority out of the positions. The "promoted" Uzbek worker who became president of a special control board on land matters, for example, did not know the duties or rights of his job, and the officials who worked under him stayed away from him in their

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work; meetings of the board, moreover, were held exclusively in Russian and usually were not translated into Uzbek. Nevertheless, the "president" (who, of course, did not understand what was going on) signed the necessary papers (PV 20 November 1930). The frequency of such practices is suggested in statistics for the "technical engineering personnel of republic industry" of the UzSSR. In April, 1931, only 3% of the 429 people in this group were Uzbeks. Yet at the same time in the administrative personnel of the republic's ob"edineniia and predpriiatiia ("combines" and "enterprises") one-half was Uzbek - almost certainly without much management power! (Tobolov 1933: 90). A mid-1931 Pravda Vostoka article reviewing progress in nativizing republic organizations summed up the situation by saying that korenizatsiia involved "only the very top of the apparatus, the leadership, and the lowest part of the staff. The middle technical staff on which work in the native language depend[ed] [was] poorly nativized" (PV 27 July 1931). The promotion prospects for Uzbeks who entered an organization at a low level were generally unfavorable. Those hired as unskilled labor were usually not trained for better positions. As a result, they frequently quit their jobs after a year or two. Sometimes Uzbeks were unable to satisfy factory directors even in unskilled labor positions, and were therefore threatened by their employers with dismissal (liul'skii 1931: 39). The story concerning secondary and higher education during korenizatsiia in general parallels the attempts to promote Uzbeks into jobs. In 1929-1930, pressure began to mount to apply more stringent standards of social class background in admitting students into advanced courses. A Pravda Vostoka editorial from the summer of 1929 lamented that Central Asia State University was training far too few specialists for the future needs of Central Asia. In particular, the editorial lamented the poor class physiognomy of the students. In order to change this, the editorial urged special efforts to prepare workers and peasants to take entrance exams (PV 10 July 1929). Some "proletarians" expressed the extreme view that under no circumstances should higher educational institutions admit members of politically unreliable classes. In their opinion, it was better to take time to train those with the proper social background than to allow alien elements into the universities and tekhnikums (PV 10 June 1930). However, this conflicted with the need to train as many natives as fast

190 Chapters as possible in order to meet new pressing economic needs. These needs were stressed by a Comrade Sharapov who agreed that it was necessary to improve the social composition of educational institutions through "reinforcing the worker and poor strata in them". However, Sharapov, emphasized, middle and higher educational institutions could not "be built on the base of the likbez [literacy school]. They need a more solid preparation". Therefore, in Sharapov's opinion, "If there are no workers or batraks, then others may be taken" (PV 10 June 1930). Higher educational institutions in Central Asia, including the most prestigious - Central Asian State University - made great strides in attracting more students of Central Asian nationalities. In the 19271928 academic year, only 3.5% of the students accepted were from the indigenous population, whereas in 1928-1929 and 1929-1930 the figures were 19% and 26% respectively (Iz istorii 1968: 32). For the 1930-1931 academic year, half of the places were reserved for natives (PV 9 June 1930). Figures for less prestigious higher and specialized secondary institutions showed similar trends. In the 1930-1931 academic year, natives comprised 39.5% of the total vuz and vtuz enrollment in Central Asia; in the following academic year, this figure jumped to 51.4% (PV 24 January 1932). But as the percentages grew and class criteria became more rigorous, the quality of academic preparation and performance declined. Underlying the problem was the fact that few Central Asians were prepared for secondary or higher studies. The network of seven-year schools of the whole republic was not large, yet as of 1932 native students accounted for only 29.2% of the total number of students in these schools - and a still smaller percent in the higher classes of them (PV 21 August 1932 and 26 August 1932). Many Central Asians with only a few years of studies were admitted (without taking exams) into vuzes and vtuzes after special year-long preparatory courses. A large number, however, dropped out during the first year of regular studies. Those who did not drop out were at times given inflated grades so that they would not lose their stipends. In other cases the courses were "watered down" to the level of the poorly prepared students (PV 6 June 1933; PV 5 August 1933). Although beginning in 1927-1928 the proportion of native students in the vuzes of Uzbekistan increased dramatically, this must be considered along with the fact that out of 60,000 students accepted into secondary

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and higher educational institutions during the First Five Year Plan, 18,000 dropped out. The situation in the vuzes which fell under the jurisdiction of Uzbekistan's Narkompros was even worse than the overall picture: In these institutions 1,800 of the 4,500 students admitted in this same period dropped out without completing their courses. In describing this situation, in February, 1933, Fäizullä Khojäev frankly admitted that many students had been admitted to vuzes even though they "were almost illiterate" (PV 28 February 1933). Language of instruction was clearly one of the most serious barriers to talented Uzbeks receiving advanced education. In the early 1930s, still very few Uzbeks had the necessary Russian skills to study in Russian. Very few Europeans could teach in Uzbek, yet there were not many Uzbeks with qualifications to teach in higher education. At the beginning of the 1930s, members of the indigenous Central Asian nationalities comprised only one-fifth of the teaching staff in Uzbekistan's vuzes (Kamalov 1980: 78). Not surprisingly, given the quality of education, Central Asian graduates generally found themselves at a disadvantage to their European classmates in competition for jobs requiring high quality training (McKenna 1969: 140). Because of the poor results, in 1933 the regime began to place greater emphasis on quality of students and vuzes were urged to admit only the better prepared ones. However, this was impossible: the republic's vuzes were unable to find sufficient numbers of natives to fill their courses (PV 22 December 1933). The social and economic goals of the Soviet government for the years following 1928 were extremely ambitious, and it is not surprising that they all were less than fully accomplished. As illustrated above, the effort to raise the status of the Uzbek language in Uzbekistan was inextricably linked to korenizatsiia. Korenizatsiia was impossible without Uzbek displacing Russian in many spheres of public life and an increase of Uzbek's status was impossible without korenizatsiia. It would have been difficult for Moscow to find a sufficient number of qualified Uzbeks to staff economic and government offices even if it had continued to allow members of the small indigenous intelligentsia to fill these slots. However, when the regime began to insist that Uzbeks who benefitted from "affirmative action" also possess the proper social class credentials, it created a more acute problem. This was because Uzbeks of "good" class backgrounds had little education

192 Chapters and were often illiterate. For a time, i.e., until about 1933, the party refused to recognize all of the contradictions in its policies and insisted that it would accomplish all of its goals - those of penetration, production, and allocation - simultaneously. True, some changes in the Soviet economic policy as early as 1931, in particular the abolition of uranilovka (wage leveling) demonstrated Stalin's understanding that a more even allocation would have to be sacrificed in order to achieve greater production. However, the regime continued to pursue policies to reallocate opportunities to the underprivileged nationalities for a couple of years more. Because of the tie between these other policies and language, this meant that efforts to raise the status of Uzbek also continued through this period. As will become clear in the next chapter, however, after 1933 the higher priority which Moscow placed on production and penetration (rather than distribution) goals meant an end to efforts to raise the status of the Uzbek language.

Chapter 9

Benign neglect

Introduction The years 1933 and 1934 marked a retreat from the Soviet version of mass manpower strategy which had emphasized nativization and maximal use of the native languages in education, the government, and the economy. This retreat continued throughout the remaining prewar years. The whole strategy of rapidly training a politically reliable and competent native cadre had failed. The problems which led to the reversal of korenizatsiia illustrate the complexity of calculating the financial costs and benefits of a major language status policy. The Uzbek experience confirms Thorburn's observation that even when language planners attempt a "cost-benefit analysis", it is not likely to be "a complete and absolutely reliable foundation" for language planning. Some of the important factors in the Uzbek case would have been impossible to quantify (e.g., the hiring of token Uzbeks in high administrative posts). Moreover, in a socialist economy such as the USSR's without a market, language planners would have had a difficult time assigning realistic prices to material costs and benefits. Even if they could have assessed prices for specific goods at one point, it would have been even more problematic to predict realistic value over time. In any case, both quantifiable and non-quantifiable "costs" contributed to the termination of korenizatsiia.

The ebb of nativization Once the Bolsheviks rejected deliberate and immediate nativization, they began to rely more on the readily available cadre, regardless of nationality. This meant promotion of fewer Uzbeks. The vast majority of Central Asians continued to be trained in their own language, especially at the primary level. Moreover, for certain specialties which

194 Chapter 9

required more than a primary education, efforts to train indigenous Central Asians continued. Teresa Rakowska-Harmstone reports that in Tajikistan the most important specialties for continued local nationality training were teachers, artists, medical workers, agronomists, mechanics, irrigation technicians, agricultural technicians, and chairmen of local Soviets (1970: 42). It appears that the same categories were stressed in Uzbekistan. For these specialties, native language education continued to be important beyond the primary level. However, as a whole, native language education, as other language rights for Uzbeks, ceased to be a high priority for the regime. According to this new strategy, a small number of Uzbeks were encouraged to climb to very high positions in the educational, political, economic, and social hierarchies, but their ascent was to be determined by competence and political credentials rather than nationality. Moreover, they would be trained in Russian. In their work environment, communications would be in the language of the dominant nationality, i.e., also in Russian. This change was part of a broader reversal of nationality policy which was reflected in the relative "danger" which the party attached to "great power chauvinism" (i.e., Russian chauvinism) and "local nationalism". In 1930, the resolution of the sixteenth congress of the Communist Party had stated that "The main danger at the current stage is presented by the great power deviation which attempts to revise the bases of the Leninist national policy. It also attempts to win back the privileges lost by those classes of the formerly dominant Great Russian nation while hiding this aim under the flag of internationalism" (PV 27 November 1930). In contrast, this same congress's resolution contained a mild statement on the danger of "local nationalism", which mentioned that it "weaken[ed] the unity of the peoples of the USSR and playjed] into the hands of the intervention" (PV 27 November 1930). These assessments applied equally to all parts of the USSR. A few years later the balance of "dangers" as assessed by the party was changing. The direction of change was apparent in a resolution adopted by the Ukrainian Communist Party in December, 1933 which stated that the main danger for the Soviet Union and the Party as a whole remained great power Russian chauvinism; however, this resolution added, this did not in any way contradict the fact that "in some republics of the USSR at the moment, and in the Ukraine in

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particular, the Ukrainian nationalists, joining with the imperialist interventionists, presentjed] the main danger". The importance of this resolution as a sign of the highest party authorities' thinking was apparent from its publication in Uzbekistan's republic press on December 3, 1933 (PV 3 December 1933). Moreover, nine days later a resolution of the Belorussian Party analogous to the Ukrainian resolution appeared (PV 12 December 1933). The authoritative statement for the whole Soviet Union on the relative dangers of "nationalisms" was left for Stalin in a speech at the seventeenth congress of the Communist Party in early 1934. He said: There is an argument about which deviation presents the main danger - the deviation to Great Russian nationalism or the deviation to local nationalism. In the present conditions this is a formal and therefore empty argument. It would be senseless to give a ready prescription about the main and not main danger suitable for all times. There are no such prescriptions at all in nature. The main danger is presented by that deviation against which we have ceased struggling and which thus has been allowed to expand into a danger to the state (PV 29 January 1934). The change in relative assessments of the dangers of "great power" and "local" nationalisms made it ideologically possible to place less stress on the educational and job advancement of non-Russian peoples, and quietly to forget the need to learn their languages.1 This was not quite the same as discrimination against Uzbeks and other nonRussians, but without "affirmative action", korenizatsiia simply withered. Although such authoritative "hints" as the resolutions of the Ukrainian and Belorussian parties did not appear until the very end of 1933, there were some indications earlier in the year that language status policy was changing. One was a June 3, 1933 Pravda Vostoka article devoted to affairs of Uzbek State University. This article directed unusually harsh criticism at a Comrade Äbdulläev who had given a report which allegedly "completely emasculated the whole revolutionary essence" of studying Russian and concealed its role in the "thorough study of the works of Lenin" (PV 3 June 1933). A much less ambiguous sign of the coming change was a September, 1933 speech by Central Asian Bureau member Orinbay Äshorov in which he spoke of the need for non-natives working in government in

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Central Asia to study the local languages. This was nothing new and, as described above, had been a policy objective ever since the beginning of korenizatsiia. What Äshorov said next, however, and the reaction it received by those at the Central Asian Bureau plenum where he spoke, was novel: At the same time, I consider that the task of studying Russian must be placed before the national cadre, for the study of the Russian language is a powerful tool in the hands of the local national cadre for a faster and deeper understanding of the fundamentals of Marxism-Leninism and all sciences. (Voices: Right.) [Emphasis in original] (PV 26 September 1933). This kind of statement was unusual prior to 1933. But it became increasingly common as the primary thrust of policy ceased to be teaching Europeans to speak and write Uzbek, and increasingly became teaching the Russian language to Uzbeks (especially to those Uzbeks who needed to communicate with members of non-Central Asian nationalities). Following the seventeenth congress of the VKP(b), articles in the press which dealt with problems of language equality and nativization became less and less common. Occasionally there were reminders of the necessity to make concessions for those who could not yet speak Russian. An article in the central journal Revoliutsiia i natsional'nosti, for example, was very critical of the party organization of a beer factory in Fergana. Translations of the proceedings of the factory party committee were usually not allowed. Whenever Uzbek factory workers rose to speak at meetings, they were interrupted with calls of "That's enough, get down; you won't say anything worthwhile anyway" (Dubrovskii 1934: 9). Party officials who held meetings in Russian even when many in attendance could not understand what was going on were occasionally criticized for this practice ("Pod znakom" 1937: 28). But to judge by the declining frequency with which such items appeared in the press after 1933, this was no longer a high priority. This same sparse coverage makes it very difficult to give an accurate assessment of the programs which had been initiated during the korenizatsiia period. There was no boasting of the policy change which could be understood by non-Russians as a broken promise. Consequently, there were few data published which reflected the

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degree to which "de-nativization" took place. Although no information is available on such matters as the fate of the programs which had been set up to teach Europeans the native languages, it seems likely that without governmental support of language classes and korenizatsiia, they disappeared. Nevertheless, in looking at the Uzbekistan republic press from the second half of the 1930s, it is clear that relative to the lack of attention to promoting the use of Uzbek in government and economic institutions, the Uzbek language fared well in elementary education. The most likely reason for this is that (unlike, for example, in government) it was impossible for the regime to "fall back" on Russian in this area. Long range goals of raising loyal productive citizens demanded that education be provided in a language which children could understand. This explains the fact that even as plans to introduce Russian language lessons for all Uzbek school children were being formulated in September, 1938, the TsK KPUz adopted a special resolution "On the Preparation of Uzbek Language and Literature Teachers in Vuzes of the Narkompros System". This was apparently adopted so that the needs of the growing number of Uzbek secondary schools for Uzbek language teachers would be met (Kamalov 1980: 73). Indeed, substantial progress was made in providing primary schools and incomplete secondary schools (i.e., through the seventh class) with native-language textbooks during the 1930s. Although there were frequent book shortages, they were often due to small editions, poor distribution, and revisions in the school program. There also were too few native teachers, but here, too, significant strides were made during the middle and late 1930s. Between 1933-1934 and 1937-1938, the number of teachers working in Uzbekistan's primary and seven-year rural schools grew from 13,795 to 20,910, while the number of pupils studying in just the fifth through seventh classes of the republic's rural schools of Uzbekistan grew from 26,500 in 1933-1934 to 233,500 in 1937-1938 (Kadyrov 1974: 67-68). Since few Europeans lived in rural areas and very few rural Uzbeks could have attended Russian language schools, this is a significant indicator about the status of the Uzbek language in education. The problems in higher (and often upper secondary) education were of a different sort. Frequently vuz students had to take some of their classes in Russian. This was because there were still virtually no Uzbek speakers qualified to teach many subjects. As a general rule,

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the higher the level of teaching, the greater the proportion of instruction in Russian. In Bukhara, for example, the first-year classes of the pedagogical institute were 100% in the native language, but over the second, third and fourth year groups the percentage fell from 60% to 28.8% to 15.3% (Väliev 1934: 87). A rather unsatisfactory "solution" to this was the practice of translating lectures delivered in Russian into Uzbek. At the Samarkand Agricultural Institute this was often done by assistants or graduate students. However, in some departments there were not even any graduate students, and so any bilingual student in the class was called upon to translate. This not only seriously affected the quality of the material the students heard and recorded, but also greatly cut down on the amount of material covered. The situation at Tashkent Agricultural Institute was not any better (Bogdanov 1936: 49). This teacher shortage was aggravated by the lack of textbooks. As noted by one author writing in 1936, "While there are too few textbooks in Uzbek in the secondary schools and tekhnikums, there are no such textbooks at all for higher education." Educational institutions sometimes attempted to solve this problem by reproducing educational materials for their own students, but this was an expensive undertaking (Bogdanov & Agishev 1936: 57). Combined, the lack of Uzbeklanguage textbooks and the lack of Uzbek-speaking instructors created a disastrous situation. Perhaps nowhere was this worse than in foreign language classes, where instructors were expected to explain a new language to students even though they started the class without a common language in which to communicate! (PV 4 January 1939). The problem of textbooks was addressed by a resolution of the Council of Nationalities of the USSR TsIK in April, 1936, which called upon the Central Asian republics to supply Central Asian State University with textbooks in the native languages (R & N, June, 1936: 88). However, it does not appear that much progress was made on this front for most disciplines in the years before World War II. Both the textbook and instructor problems were further complicated by the political upheaval in the middle and late 1930s. Many members of the Uzbek intelligentsia who taught in vuzes were accused of various crimes and arrested. Moreover, textbooks quickly became ideologically unacceptable. This was particularly serious in such fields as history and literature, but it probably affected all disciplines. To make matters still worse, Uzbek terminology was also undergoing rapid

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change in this period. This was another reason that new textbooks became unusable soon after publication. And, of course, because of the alphabet shift in 1940, Uzbek textbooks once again became outdated. Because of the decline in special efforts to promote Uzbeks into higher education and because of their poor preparation, higher and specialized secondary education in the republic attracted a disproportionately small number of natives. There were only 75 Uzbeks among the 1,000 new students accepted by the Tashkent Industrial Institute in 1935. Tekhnikums which were under the jurisdiction of the Commissariat of Heavy Industry in Uzbekistan did not do much better; of the 413 students in them in 1935, there were but 79 Uzbeks. Similar situations existed in other institutions. There had been 51% native students in the Samarkand Agricultural Institute on January 1, 1935, but only 38.9% one year later; corresponding figures for the Tashkent Agricultural Institute were 22.5% and 18.7%. The Tashkent Irrigation and Mechanization Institute's enrollment was only 10.8% native on January 1, 1935 (Bogdanov 1936: 49). Although accounts from the middle of the 1930s deplore the poor integration of native students into the higher and specialized secondary schools, the limited data available give the impression that the situation did not improve at the end of the decade. This seems especially plausible in light of the very high drop out rate by native students before reaching secondary or higher education (McKenna 1969: 101). Some institutions which were supposed to train native students were forced to serve Europeans because there were too few qualified Central Asians. In 1939, the Tashkent Institute of Irrigation and Mechanization of Agriculture had only 11.3% Uzbek youths among its student body; the Agricultural Institute was 93.1% non-Uzbek (PV 9 March 1939). Of all the vuz students in the UzSSR, approximately 25% were Uzbeks in 1940; another 8% were of other Central Asian nationalities. At SAGU, about 25% of the students were natives in the 1939-1940 academic year (Tashkentskii 1970: 68). At the secondary level of education, only 11% of the enrollment in the eighth through tenth classes were natives in January, 1938 (PV 6 January 1938). The language barrier which contributed to unequal access to education in schools was also a problem in on-the-job courses at various industrial enterprises. Only rarely were the courses in Uzbek.

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More often there was an attempt to teach Uzbeks together with Russians, but because such courses were incomprehensible to Uzbeks, they usually dropped out (PV 5 February 1939). From the standpoint of the enterprise managers, it hardly made sense to strive to establish courses for natives. The managers' chief concerns were production targets. Even when it had been a policy of the government and party to promote natives, management had been reluctant to comply; without the prodding and encouragement to nativize which had been characteristic of the years of the First Five Year Plan, the goal of promoting natives was probably quickly (with a sigh of relief) forgotten. If measured by the optimistic calls for korenizatsiia of the late 1920s, the progress made by the end of the 1930s was at best modest. As late as 1941, only 15% of the specialists with a higher education employed in Uzbekistan were Uzbeks (McKenna 1969: 187). Although there were not many Uzbeks with a higher education, it appears that great educational opportunities opened up at the very top of the educational ladder for the few who could operate well in a Russian environment. One indication of this is the fact that at Central Asian State University, the largest and most prestigious educational institution of Uzbekistan, 49 of the 83 (i.e., 68%) graduate students (aspiranty) were members of the indigenous nationalities (Kamalov 1980: 81).

The international language Although the commitment to native-language education in Uzbekistan remained official policy throughout the period under study, the role of the Russian language in the lives of the peoples of the Soviet Union changed considerably over these years. Following 1933, with decreasing stress on changing government correspondence, factory meetings, education and other communications into Uzbek, and on the need for Europeans to study the native language, Russian gained implicit recognition as the "international" language. At the end of the 1930s, the role ascribed Russian grew even greater. In light of Soviet linguistic theory which at the same time predicted a rapid blurring of language lines and the creation of a single language, it appears that Stalin hoped to create a kind of

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linguistic glue - overwhelmingly Russian - which would bind nonRussians to the Russian people. Perhaps, too, because the blurring was not occurring as quickly as he desired, Stalin considered ways to help the "natural" course move a bit faster. Language planning in these years was taking place in a context of intense russification of non-Russian cultures. The replacement of native art forms and genres by Russian substitutes was officially applauded as "enrichment" of the non-Russian cultures. Thus, for example, when the central journal Revoliutsiia i natsional'nosti announced the premier of an opera in Tashkent, it emphasized that "in contrast to the old primitive staging of musical drama, for the first time in the history of Uzbek musical theater, drama [was being] accompanied] by a symphony orchestra" (R & N, April, 1935: 92). The cultural "enrichment" was supposedly also revolutionizing traditional dress. In the version of a book for Uzbek primary schools signed to press in September, 1935, the cover showed an Uzbek boy sitting and reading while wearing a traditional doppi (skull cap); likewise, an illustration on page two of the book showed a teacher and a classroom of Uzbek children all wearing these hats (Erghaziev & Yoldashev 1935). However, all of the doppis were gone in the edition of the book signed to press one year later (Erghaziev & Yoldashev 1936). The critical political event of the 1930s in Uzbekistan and the rest of the USSR was the Great Purges, which not only removed many of the political elite, but also produced a widespread climate of fear. Chairman of the UzSSR Council of People's Commissars Fäizullä Khojäev and First Secretary of the KPUz Äkmäl Ikramov were both executed following show trials. Both they and many of their closest associates were charged with sins of a nationalist character. Many of the Uzbek creative intelligentsia also perished. This opened the way for a new generation of both European and native cadre whose greatest assets included their ability to agree with any directive from Moscow and to fulfill it unquestioningly. The stage was also thus set for new kinds of developments affecting the language balance in Central Asia as well as other parts of the Soviet Union. It was in this atmosphere that in 1938 the study of Russian became compulsory for students of all nationalities of the USSR. At the same time, many languages of peoples of the USSR adopted the Russian script. There were apparently no public suggestions that education of

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non-Russian children should be shifted to Russian, but there are hints that some people were thinking and discussing this in private. At a special meeting of Uzbekistan's Russian language teachers in early April, 1938, Commissar of Education Äbdulläev was obliged to underline that Russian was a subject of study - not the medium of tuition - in native schools. He added, "If the teaching is conducted in the Russian schools in Russian, then . . . in Uzbek schools the teaching must be conducted in the native Uzbek language" (PV 2 April 1938). That Äbdulläev felt it necessary to stress that Russian should not be used to teach Uzbek children suggests that this view may not have been the only one. There is also a hint of the existence of other views in the wording of a resolution soon passed by the SNK UzSSR and TsK KPUz; it specifically warned that making Russian the language of instruction in Uzbek schools was "harmful and incorrect" (PV 5 April 1938). Some individuals may have adopted such "harmful and incorrect" ideas after reading (or misreading) an article by First Secretary of the Central Committee of the KPUz Yusupov, who just days before had emphasized the Russian language's unique role in the advanced training of Uzbek specialists and its importance in the promotion of economic and cultural growth (PV 30 March 1938). Both Yusupov's article and subsequent ones devoted considerable attention to the serious shortcomings which impeded the teaching of Russian in the republic. Yusupov reported that on the basis of data from 3,481 non-Russian schools in the republic, 2,159 of them were unable to teach Russian because they had no teachers (PV 30 March 1938). At the meeting of teachers which soon followed, Äbdulläev blamed such problems on the "wreckers" who had run the Uzbek Narkompros. The teaching of Russian was so bad, Äbdulläev alleged, that many "Russian language teachers" knew only the alphabet; due to the low level of Russian language instruction for natives in the republic, the students sent to vuzes in Moscow and Leningrad were often forced to repeat years there or even dropped out completely and returned home (PV 2 April 1938). Äbdulläev outlined a number of measures to remedy the situation. Special departments were being established at Uzbek State University, SAGU and several pedagogical institutes around the republic to prepare Russian language teachers. Moreover, before the start of the next academic year, 2,000 teachers were to attend four months of

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additional training to prepare them to teach Russian better. The graduating class of 1938 was to provide another 800 Russian language teachers, and, on top of this, between 500 and 700 teachers of other subjects in the native schools were to be used to teach Russian language part time (PV 2 April 1938). The two days immediately following the publication of Äbdulläev's speech brought two important resolutions, both passed jointly by the Central Committee of the KPUz and the SNK of the UzSSR. The first resolution, passed on April 3, 1938, was entitled "On the Obligatory Study of the Russian Language in Uzbek and Other NonRussian Schools", while the second resolution, passed on April 4, 1938, was "On Practical Measures Regarding the Obligatory Study of the Russian Language in Uzbek and Other Non-Russian Schools". According to these resolutions, Russian language study was to begin in all non-Russian schools of the republic on September 1, 1938. In four-year primary schools, Russian was to be studied beginning in the second class for two hours per week, and four hours per week in the next two classes. Students in incomplete and full secondary schools were to begin the study of Russian in the third class, studying it for four hours per week in the fourth, fifth and eighth through tenth classes, and five hours per week in the sixth and seventh classes. In order to encourage authors to write textbooks, a competition was organized by the Narkompros and awards offered for the best entries (PV 3 April 1938; PV 5 April 1938). The increased stress on Russian instruction in Uzbekistan, of course, was part of a broader trend occurring throughout the USSR (Barghoorn 1956: 98). In this light, it is not surprising that Moscow called a special conference with representatives of oblast, autonomous krai and republic educational departments to coordinate work and to discuss measures to reinforce Russian language programs in the nonRussian schools (PV 11 April 1938).

Teaching the international language It was extraordinarily difficult to attempt to introduce Russian language instruction so quickly in Uzbekistan. Despite resolutions that teachers would attend short courses to learn to teach Russian, the fact was that

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in many places there were no available facilities to house the teachers who attended. At one course teachers were obliged to live twentyfives to a room and without any tables or chairs (PV 11 May 1938). Moreover, some of the prospective Russian teachers knew no Russian at all when they began; others knew so little that in a dictation exercise of one hundred words they made eighty mistakes (PV 11 May 1938; PV 16 July 1938). Because there were too few teachers for the short courses, some instructors were forced to work up to sixteen or eighteen hours per day. Textbooks were also in short supply (PV 16 July 1938). In connection with this drive to improve Russian instruction, it is significant that T. N. Qari-Niyaziy began a short tenure as Commissar of Education of the UzSSR on May 23, 1938 (PV 23 May 1938). Qari-Niyaziy, later to head the committee in charge of changing Uzbek writing over to the Russian alphabet, was one of the greatest admirers of Russian culture and language. Even Qari-Niyaziy, however, was unable to perform magic and produce immediate results in preparing more Russian teachers for Uzbekistan. Just two months later, during the very height of the feverish activity to train more Russian teachers for the republic, Qari-Niyaziy was criticized and removed (PV 24 July 1938); among his sins - inadequate direction of the preparation of Russian teachers (PV 24 July 1938). It is unlikely that the fault was Qari-Niyaziy's; "objective circumstances" were more likely to blame and, as chapter 11 will show, Qari-Niyaziy was still to play an important role in the future of language policy in Uzbekistan. When the school year opened on September 1, 1938, many of the 2,400 new "teachers" of Russian language were predictably inadequately trained (PV 1 September 1938; PV 10 December 1938). The haste with which Russian programs had become a high priority and had consequently been set up was also reflected in the confusion which reigned in teacher assignments. Some teachers were sent to the wrong cities or discovered that they were expected to teach not only Russian language as a subject, but all other subjects in Russian as well. Because there was still a severe shortage of Russian teachers (even underqualified ones), some teachers' loads were two to three times the norm (PV 22 October 1938; PV 28 November 1938). Developing an appropriate set of textbooks and distributing them properly was not accomplished smoothly, either. Although eight textbooks were published in Uzbek, Uighur and the language of the

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Bukharan Jews (tuzemsko-evreisidi) (Chinova 1939: 86), there were still shortages (PV 11 March 1939). There was not any special program for the transition period of teaching students in the higher classes who were just beginning to study Russian for the first time (Chinova 1939: 87). As the first school year with obligatory study of Russian in native schools drew to a close, many problems remained. Even though many students learned so little Russian during the year that they hardly deserved passing marks, teachers often gave them high grades just so that the students would not remain in the same class (PV 29 May 1939). Why was the decision made to begin to teach all students Russian in such a short period of time? One explanation touted in the late 1930s was that the great increase in Russian instruction was eagerly awaited by the students and that it was they who met the initiatives with great enthusiasm; in Usman Yusupov's words, The TsIK VKP(b) suggested that we look into how Russian was being studied in the schools of the republic. As soon as we began to organize the study of Russian on the basis of this Party instruction, our youth . . . began zealously and diligently to study Russian (PV 16 March 1939). Although exaggerated, perhaps Yusupov's comments contained an element of truth. Maybe, as articles in Pravda Vostoka described, Uzbeks felt that a better of knowledge of Russian in the vuzes would put an end to their being "deprived of the . . . opportunity to make wide use of literature in Russian" (PV 9 March 1939) and would eliminate their inability "to use scientific literature and textbooks" and properly prepare for exams (PV 17 October 1939). In some ways, the situation for upwardly mobile Uzbeks was not unlike that of Indians who prefer education in English to the native language or Haitians who prefer French schools. Nevertheless, given the times, it is very unlikely that greater "opportunity" for Uzbeks was a primary factor in the decision to improve the knowledge of Russian by native students in the educational institutions of the Uzbek Republic. More likely, the emphasis on studying Russian was at least partly a reflection of the

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party's effort to build a Soviet "international" identity which was defined largely by Russian language and culture. An editorial which Pravda Vostoka carried after (Moscow's) Pravda published it in July, 1938 claimed that Russian was "becoming the international language of socialist culture, as Latin was the international language of the upper strata of early medieval society and as French was the international language of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries" (PV 8 July 1938). The learning of Russian was also stressed as a way to achieve access to original (i.e., not translated) works by such authors as Pushkin and Gorkii (PV 10 August 1939).2 And as an often-cited poem by Maiakovskii demonstrated, Russian was supposed to be very attractive for culturally backward peoples: Even if I were a Negro in old age, And then, too, with great enthusiasm, I would learn the Russian language Just because Lenin spoke in it (PV 17 October 1939). Moreover, it was never too late to learn Russian. Many articles pointed out that Marx began to study the language at the age of fifty (PV 17 October 1939). It was as if some mysterious force were pulling all people to study Russian. Russian became the "international language of the peoples of the USSR and the socialist revolution" (PV 10 August 1939). One report went so far as to state that everywhere in Europe people were beginning to study Russian! (PV 17 October 1939). It is not coincidental that at this time preparations were proceeding to change Uzbek writing from the Latin alphabet to the Russian one. The decision to adopt a new alphabet was announced in 1939; one of the chief frequently mentioned advantages of the move was that it would make it easier for Uzbeks to learn to read Russian (Shtern 1939: 122). Given this campaign, one wonders whether Stalin had a mental timetable according to which the status of non-Russian languages was to be further lowered. Certainly Russian had already become dominant in many areas of communication in which attempts had been made in the beginning of the 1930s to "nativize".

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The emphasis on the schools in the campaign to study Russian is significant. Most attention to learning the "international" language was focused on the young people for whom the benefits of learning Russian were of a long-range nature. (This paralleled the emphasis in 1940 upon teaching the Cyrillic script to school children.) Relatively little was carried in the press about Russian for adult Uzbeks. This reflected the realization that most Uzbeks could "get by" in their work without Russian. As there was no pressure to promote natives into administrative positions, there were fewer occasions when they needed Russian. Although there were many opportunities for rapid upward mobility in the wake of the Great Purge, it appears that many of the vacant positions were occupied by Europeans who were sent to Uzbekistan from the center. For the Uzbeks who were eager to move upward, though, it was clear that they would not be able to depend on the Europeans' learning Uzbek; these natives would have to take the initiative to be able to communicate in Russian. These facts point to fundamental differences between the campaign for Uzbeks to learn Russian in the late 1930s and the earlier drive for Russians to learn Uzbek. In 1928-1933, European administrators and other officials were encouraged to learn a language which they considered inferior and which offered them little prospect for advancement. Their jobs were secure simply because there were so few qualified people available to take them. In the late 1930s, however, natives interested in advancement into higher positions probably required little prodding to learn Russian. Those who refused to learn Russian rarely possessed skills which made them indispensable in the way European talent had been ten years before. The party's efforts (which focused heavily on the schools) were intended to assure that the next generation would be universally fluent in Russian. Perhaps Stalin hoped that the de facto recognition of Russian as the language of advancement and success could facilitate its eventual introduction into non-Russian schools as the language of instruction. Although there is inadequate evidence to conclude that the measures of 1938-1940 were intended as a first step toward a monolingual Russian-speaking USSR, it is clear that Stalin intended for Russian to occupy an even greater role than it did in the middle 1930s. In the short run, this situation offered very great upward mobility for Russianspeaking Uzbeks. Eventually, assuming that all Uzbeks learned

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Russian, language would no longer be a barrier to the masses, either. But in contrast to the korenizatsiia period, that would happen not when all services in Uzbekistan were available in Uzbek and when all Europeans in the republic learned the local language; rather, it would happen when all Uzbeks learned Russian.

One step back: Uzbek for administrative workers It is possible that initially the intensified emphasis on the Russian language produced a situation in which most Uzbeks still knew too little Russian to communicate with most European state and party officials and the Russian-speaking officials refused even more adamantly than before to attempt to bridge the linguistic gap by learning Uzbek. Having seen the campaign for non-Russians to study Russian, these officials may have concluded that there was even less reason than previously to bother studying the local language. The "communications gap" was probably aggravated by the influx of Europeans from the center. The Europeans who had lived and worked in Uzbekistan for a number of years prior to the purges probably picked up a few key phrases in Uzbek which smoothed their dealings with the native population. This was not the kind of competence in the language which permitted them to hold meetings or conduct correspondence in Uzbek; however, it probably did allow them to explain certain essential things to Uzbeks subordinate to them on the job. In contrast, the many new European workers who were arriving from the center to fill positions which had been left empty in the purges did not know any Uzbek. Indeed, it appears that this kind of situation occurred in many nonRussian areas of the USSR. Ironically, one result of this was probably the creation of problems in Moscow's political penetration of these areas. This is suggested by a Pravda article of October 13, 1940 which stated that it was the "obligation" of every administrative worker to know the language of the people among whom he worked. Pravda made it sound as if anyone could learn the local language if he set his mind to it. All it took was "the desire and persistence" (Pravda 13 October 1940).

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In Uzbekistan, this Pravda article marked the beginning of a new campaign for Russians to study Uzbek. In January, 1941, Uzbekistan's Russian-language newspaper Pravda Vostoka began a series of articles to be used as lessons in the Uzbek language for Europeans. The original plan was to print the lessons, taken from a textbook, two times a week. Russians were advised to spend a half hour to an hour per day studying Uzbek. The articles did not appear as often as promised, but they did continue for over three months; a total of sixteen lessons were published (PV 29 January through 8 May 1941). Russians in Uzbekistan were told, "Knowledge of the local language enriches and raises the cultural level of a person, broadens his mental horizon and brings him closer to the people among whom we work." (PV 15 May 1941). The renewed encouragement to study Uzbek extended to the republic's secondary and higher educational institutions. Reflecting the kind of concern which had generally been forgotten since about 1934, a January 7, 1941 article in Pravda Vostoka stressed the need for universal study of Uzbek in the republic's secondary and higher educational institutions. This article specifically criticized the programs in the vuzes under the All-Union commissariats located in the republic (such as the Transportation Institute, Industrial Institute, FinancialEconomic Institute) for devoting too little time in their curricula to the Uzbek language (PV 7 January 1941). Presumably the party leadership believed that graduates of such institutions should also know some basic Uzbek. However, neither this nor the Uzbek instruction for administrative workers represented an important change of relative status for the Russian and Uzbek languages. The reaction to the campaign directing Russians to study the native language in 1941 was no more enthusiastic than it had been a decade before. Some government organizations which were responsible for establishing courses failed to do so entirely, and the Narkompros, which was to provide the necessary teachers, did not cope well with its responsibility (PV 26 February 1941). The kontrol' over the courses was almost non-existent; whenever possible, organizations claimed not to be responsible for the courses; there was also the perennial problem of low attendance and a high dropout rate (PV 15 May 1941). Within months of the beginning of this campaign, the Germans attacked the USSR. Soon after, the demographic and linguistic composition of Uzbekistan changed significantly. Large numbers of

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Uzbek men were drafted into the army and soon left their republic. At the same time, many Russian-speakers were evacuated from their homes in European parts of the USSR to Uzbekistan. This would produce new kinds of language problems and new solutions. However, when things stabilized again in Uzbekistan after the war, it was Russian which remained in a relatively privileged position. It would be more than forty years after the war before Moscow's policy which produced this situation was challenged.

Chapter 10

Planners and planning organizations: forces

External

Introduction The preceding seven chapters have examined the changes in the Uzbek language and their significance for the six areas of political development described in chapter 1. Much of the discussion of this significance relates to how language status and corpus changes have been linked to the pursuit of interests by competing groups of language planners. In his analysis of language planning and interests, Weinstein stresses that language choices are "instruments of what one might call intervening variables in the process of reaching a non-linguistic end". Such an end can be "the satisfaction of the non-linguistic interest of a class, an elite, a region, an ethnic, or racial community" (Weinstein 1987b: 36). Brass (1974) and Das Gupta (1985) also emphasize the interests of competing language planners which are linked with nonlinguistic goals. Such perspectives suggest that an attempt to understand motivation behind language planning activities also requires exploration of the lives of language planners. This is one of the major objectives of the present chapter and the next one. Because the period 1917-1941 witnessed a succession of different language planners and language planning organizations, an investigation of biographies also affords a chance to follow the Communist Party's consolidation of control over language planning in the USSR and the creation of what Tollefson terms a "centralized" language planning apparatus. In terms of the political development areas outlined in chapter 1, this process is most closely linked with questions of participation and penetration. Over the course of the period under review, the Bolsheviks achieved greater penetration in all policy areas, including language planning. One of the conditions which facilitated

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this was the increasing restriction on participation by all segments of society. Because of the great impact of "external forces" on Uzbek language planning, it is necessary to look at certain organizations and individuals who worked primarily outside of Uzbekistan before analyzing the local scene. These are treated in the present chapter. The following chapter examines analogous issues in Uzbekistan.

Tatars Although their participation in language planning for other Turkic speakers through central organizations was circumscribed within a decade after the Bolshevik Revolution, Tatars (i.e., "Volga Tatars") made an important contribution to Uzbek language planning in its early phases. Their impact in part was due to the fact that Tatars were not just an "external" force. Many Tatars lived and worked in Turkestan and Bukhara where even prior to 1917 they organized reformed (jadid) schools and occupied prominent positions in the printing industry. Because Tatars figured prominently on the local scene in these same fields during the first years of Soviet power they played an important role in this period, too. From Moscow's perspective, however, Tatars as a group were uniquely undesirable as leaders of language reform. First of all, most members of the Tatar intelligentsia viewed radical alphabet reform unfavorably. With their high literacy rate and relatively large number of publications, the Tatars stood to lose much more from a change of writing systems than other Turks of the former Russian Empire.1 More importantly, perhaps, pan-Turkic ideas enjoyed much greater support among Tatars than among most other Muslims. Tatar leaders had demonstrated pan-Turkic inclinations at the First All-Russia Congress of Muslims which convened in Moscow in May 1917. At that gathering they supported extraterritorial cultural autonomy within a centralized administration for Russia's Turkic peoples. Indeed, because the majority of delegates of most other nationalities were unwilling to go along with Tatar wishes for such a structure, few Central Asians or Azeris even attended the Second All-Russian Congress of Muslims which convened in Kazan several months later

Planners and planning organizations: External forces 213 (Rorlich 1986: 127-129). Although after the Bolshevik Revolution some Volga Tatars expressed a preference for national over extraterritorial autonomy, Moscow continued to be suspicious of the intentions of Tatar national communists like Sultan Galiev who called for unity of the Muslim masses.

The Baku planners As a group, the Azeris were much less favorably inclined to panTurkism than the Tatars. In contrast to the latter, the Azeris were the strongest proponents of territorial autonomy at the First AilRussian Congress of Muslims (Zenkovsky 1967: 141-142). Unlike the Tatars, who were geographically scattered, the Azeris lived much more compactly. While pan-Turkic leaning Tatar leaders sought to influence the political and cultural life of Russia's Muslims in a centralized administration, the Azeris were much more concerned with the affairs of Azerbaijan. During World War I, when Azerbaijan was independent, the heavy hand of Ottoman Turks in Azerbaijan had demonstrated to the Azeris that other Turks were also capable of dominating their (Azeri) affairs (Zenkovsky 1967: 261). Moreover, Azeris were much more favorably disposed to latinization, one of the first major language reforms supported by the Bolsheviks. In contrast to the Tatars, there was very little interest or work among the Azeris on reforming the Arabic alphabet (Vsesoiuznyi 1926: 254). The Azeris' greater willingness to abandon the Arabic letters was in large measure a function of the lower literacy in the Arab script among the Azeris than the Tatars.2 Not surprisingly, the greatest influence of Azerbaijan on language planning in other Turkic-speaking areas of the USSR was the Azeri lead in proposing and adopting the Latin alphabet to replace the Arabic one.3 The Muslim Democratic Party (Mussavat) which controlled Azerbaijan for a short time after the revolution is said to have had plans to introduce the Latin alphabet, but no action was taken toward this goal (Sharaf 1926: 60). However, soon after the establishment of Soviet power in Azerbaijan, the question was decided in favor of the Latin alphabet. In the words of Nariman Narimanov, "the time [had] arrived boldly to change to the Latin alphabet"

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(Agazade & Karakashly 1928: 64). A committee composed of Agamaly-ogly, Efendi-zade (Effendiev), Shakhtakhtinskii and Aga-zade was appointed to work out a unified plan for the new alphabet to be adopted in Azerbaijan (Agazade & Karakashly 1928: 64).4 The proposed Azeri Latin alphabet, apparently based on Shakhtakhtinskii's pre-revolutionary project, was discussed by specialists of the Moscow Oriental Institute before its adoption. The resolution of the Azerbaijan TsIK which placed the Latin alphabet on a par with the Arabic script in Azerbaijan was passed in October, 1923. In June, 1924, the Latin alphabet was recognized as the only official alphabet for the Azeri language (Aliev 193Ib: 24).5 During the same period, Azeris such as Shakhtakhtinskii urged that other Turkic languages follow the lead of the Azeris (ZN 26 June 1922). One of the most famous individuals associated with the introduction of the Latin alphabet in Azerbaijan and in the Soviet Union as a whole was Samed-aga Agamaly-ogly. The future president of the AilUnion Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet was born at the end of the 1860s in the Azeri village of Karakcha-semen. His parents were poor peasants, and only thanks to the help of an uncle in Tiflis did the young boy receive an education in the specialty of land surveying. In 1905, Agamaly-ogly began to participate in illegal revolutionary activity. He became an active member of the revolutionary leftist political party Gummet and later opposed the Mussavat Party (Aliev 193 Ib: 18-19). The social, economic, and political situation in Azerbaijan was in itself more conducive to the appearance of Bolshevik sympathizers like Agamaly-ogly than was that in the Volga Tatar homeland. The petroleum industry in Baku had given birth to an active working class and even revolutionary organizations inspired by Marxist ideas prior to 1905. In the period following 1905, the Azeri press was generally more "politicized" and "left" than the Tatar press of the corresponding period. Moreover, in that period Baku lacked the kind of conservative and religious publications that were printed in Kazan and Orenburg (Bennigsen & Lemercier-Quelquejay 1964: 104). His early activism and political reliability helped Agamaly-ogly earn the post of Commissar of Agriculture of Azerbaijan in 1920; in 1921, he became vice-president of the Azerbaijan TsIK, and one year later the president. Agamaly-ogly also became president of the TsIK of the

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Trans-Caucasus Federation, and in 1925 even a member of the Presidium of the TsIK of the USSR (Aliev 193Ib: 19). Agamaly-ogly wrote many articles on latinization and its significance for the peoples of the East; he devoted others to the emancipation of women. (Agamaly-ogly was one of the first men in Azerbaijan to advocate the removal of women's veils.) In Two Cultures, one of his many pieces about latinization, Agamaly-ogly claimed that the Arabic alphabet was an instrument of the old Muslim culture, while the Latin alphabet was a tool of the new socialist one (Aliev 1931b). In August, 1922, Agamaly-ogly met with Lenin and reported to him that Azerbaijan's workers would welcome the forthcoming introduction of the Latin alphabet (Kul'turnaia 1975: 361).6 In the years prior to its adoption at the 1926 Turcological Congress Agamaly-ogly travelled widely to promote the new script (Kul'turnaia 1975: 389; Aliev 193 Ib: 19). It is clear from available accounts of Agamaly-ogly's activities that his strongest qualifications to serve as president of the All-Union Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet were political rather than linguistic. But this was not true of all of the leaders of the latinization movement in Baku. Some, such as the Crimean Tatar Professor Choban-zade, were accomplished scholars.7 Begir Vagapovich Choban-zade was born in Simferopol Uezd in 1893. At the age of sixteen he went to Turkey to attend secondary school; he graduated six years later. Soon after, Choban-zade left for the University of Budapest, where he studied Turkic, Arabic, and Hungarian philology. Upon completion of his studies in Hungary, the scholar returned home and taught Crimean Tatar language and literature while working in the Crimean Commissariat of Education. In 1922, Choban-zade· became a professor of the Crimean University where he taught comparative Turkic grammar and served as head of the Crimean Tatar section (Ashnin 1967: 208-209). Professor Choban-zade came to work in Baku in 1924 as a specialist in charge of the Scientific Council of the Azerbaijan Committee of the New Alphabet. Beginning with this work in Azerbaijan, Choban-zade became involved not only with the development of the Azeri language, but with other Turkic languages, including Uzbek. He took active part in the All-Union Turcological Congress in 1926, and in the first four plenums of the All-Union Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet (VTsKNTA). In May, 1929, Choban-zade came to Samarkand to

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participate in the conference called to discuss Uzbek language and orthography (Ashnin 1967: 209). Choban-zade was especially active in the Scientific Council of the VTsKNTA. Along with several Azeri colleagues, he was criticized for not allowing due participation by Moscow and Leningrad linguists, especially in the period 1928-1930 (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 126). Eventually he was removed from the Scientific Council and the VTsKNTA allegedly for not recognizing the Marrist theory of linguistics and for pan-Turkic sympathies.8 Subsequent to these accusations, in the early 1930s, Choban-zade's research activity and work on alphabet and terminology development were brought to a halt. Nevertheless, his "pan-Turkic" sins committed during his more productive years were the basis for arrest "on false pretenses" in January, 1937. He died nine months later (Ashnin 1967: 211). Much of the acrimony at the plenums of the All-Union Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet was a reflection of a constant feud and tug-of-war between the Volga Tatar capital Kazan and the Azerbaijani capital Baku. With Baku receiving Moscow's support, however, it was a very uneven contest. It was Baku, not Kazan, which became the headquarters of the VTsKNTA. Likewise, the 1926 Turcological Congress (which decided that the Latin alphabet would be adopted by Turkic-speaking peoples of the USSR) met in Baku. The first plenum of the VTsKNTA also took place there, and Baku was the center of activity for some of the first years of work of the Scientific Council of the VTsKNTA. The work of the All-Union Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet displayed considerable continuity with that of the old Azeri apparatus,9 and an unrepresentatively large number of Baku scholars and political figures were involved with the VTsKNTA. One of the most significant points of tension between (Volga) Tatar linguists and those in Baku concerned the degree of centralization and Azeri control of the VTsKNTA. Ironically, given their historical attitudes toward pan-Turkism, it was the Azeris who favored a centralized organization and the Tatars who sought more autonomy. The Tatars argued that the VTsKNTA had no reason directly to handle local affairs and rejected the idea of giving the VTsKNTA the power to interfere in the work of the individual language committees (Vsesoiuznyi 1929: 23). Likewise, although the Baku apparatus supported proposals to build a central letter foundry and establish

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central courses to train Latin alphabet teachers, the Tatars opposed them. Instead, they called on the central committee to give the various republics more money to allow them to do their own work (Vsesoiuznyi 1927: 45).10 At meetings of the VTsKNTA plenums the Tatars seemed to take pleasure in opportunities to irritate the Azeri delegates by criticizing the latter's failure to discard their own version of the Latin alphabet in favor of the unified one (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 63; Vsesoiuznyi 1931, 216). Charges of Azeri dominance of the VTsKNTA emerged already at the organization's first plenum. Although Agamaly-ogly labelled these accusations "total nonsense" (Vsesoiuznyi 1927), the Tatars had reasons to fear the VTsKNTA's interference. Indeed, Agamaly-ogly had expressed unhappiness that the alphabet committee did not have the power to oblige action by the individual republics. Moreover, at the first plenum of the VTsKNTA, Agamaly-ogly had proposed a scheme which would have established branches of the VTsKNTA (i.e., direct arms of the central committee of the new alphabet) in those republics where serious obstacles had to be overcome in introducing the new alphabet. Among the areas Agamaly-ogly mentioned for this kind of arrangement was the Tatar Republic.11 Thus, the central Bolshevik leadership initially supported the concentration of language planning in Baku not only because the Azeris were at what Moscow considered the forefront of planning, but also because it saw the Azeris as the Turkic-speaking group which could be used to counterbalance the Tatars. Nevertheless, there is no evidence that political leaders in Moscow ever desired Baku to become a strong autonomous source of language policy formulation; more likely, the central party sought to influence language planning through the Azeri apparatus. In general, Moscow's hopes were realized. However, as time went on, Moscow apparently found this set-up too cumbersome and the Azeris difficult to control. Part of the reason was Moscow's increasing appetite for a greater degree of control, which was more effectively exercised in direct fashion. Before very long, the Baku leaders of the latinization movement were to discover that Moscow's support, upon which they depended for their authority, could be easily withdrawn.

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Struggle between Baku and Moscow Although Moscow appears to have trailed rather than led the Azeris toward latinization, the central party leadership was quick to demonstrate an interest in the alphabet revolution. Already in May, 1922, the Nationalities Commissariat organized a commission to study alphabet reform. This commission contained both proponents and opponents of the move (ZN, 17 May 1922). The statute which established this commission took special note of "the necessity of regulation" by the center (i.e., Moscow) of all work done on matters of alphabet reform (Aliev 1932b: 23). In July, 1924, meetings held by the Radlov Circle of the Anthropology and Ethnography Museum of the Russian Academy of Sciences examined projects for latinization which had been developed for various Turkic languages (Svodnyi 1924: 653-661). Proposals for the Latin alphabet's introduction in Azerbaijan, moreover, were discussed by specialists of the Oriental Institute in Moscow in late 1922 and early 1923 (Baziiants 1976: 76). Moscow and Leningrad linguists were also instrumental in preparing for the 1926 Turcological congress. The question of calling such a congress was first raised at a meeting of the All-Union Scientific Association of Oriental Studies (VNAV) in April, 1924 (Pavlovich 1926: 3). Slightly more than one year later, the VNAV petitioned the Presidium of the USSR TsIK for permission to call an Ail-Union congress in Baku to consider the problem of alphabet reform and development of terminology (Pavlovich 1926: 4). Permission was granted, and in September, 1925, the preliminary conference to the Baku congress was held in Moscow (Pavlovich 1926: 5). At the Baku congress, Russians and other Europeans from Moscow and Leningrad once again played major roles. Such well-known linguists and orientalists as N. N. Poppe, A N. Samoilovich, N. F. lakovlev, S. E. Malov, S. F. OPdenburg, and V. V. Bartol'd were in attendance (Vsesoiuznyi 1926: 423-426). Of the 131 delegates to the congress, there were 17 Russians; only the Azeris and Tatars had more delegates (NV, no. 12, 1926: 334).12 Because of the European scholars' expertise in the Turkic languages, it was natural for them to help resolve scholarly and technical problems of alphabets and terminology. Much of this activity was funnelled through a special committee of the VTsKNTA, the Scientific Council. Initially there had been a scientific council as part

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of the Azeri committee of the new alphabet. Following the Turcological congress, the Scientific Council of the VTsKNTA was established in Moscow. After the second VTsKNTA plenum, however, the Scientific Council moved to Baku where it again attracted scholars who had served on the Azeri committee (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 143). The considerable distance between Baku and Moscow meant that the location of the Scientific Council (not to mention the VTsKNTA itself) was crucial in determining who participated in it. Transportation between the two cities was inconvenient and time-consuming. Those members living in the city where the Scientific Council actually met took a much more active part in its work. Linguists and political figures working both in Baku and in Moscow/Leningrad claimed to support a strong and authoritative Scientific Council. Already at the first plenum of the VTsKNTA both Agamaly-ogly on the one side, and Professors Zhirkov and lakovlev on the other, spoke in favor of a dominant role for the Council.13 However, after the Scientific Council moved back to Baku from Moscow there were frequent objections by linguists at the center that those working in Baku did not allow anyone else to participate in the Council's work or decisions. Already at the third plenum of the VTsKNTA (December, 1928), just months after the Scientific Council had moved its headquarters to Baku, linguists from the center complained about Azeri (and Crimean Tatar) dominance of it. In his speech on the activities of the Council since the move to Baku, Choban-zade painted a very positive picture. The professor thanked his Moscow comrades, including Zhirkov, for their help. The Muscovites, however, felt Choban-zade had given an overly optimistic evaluation of the Council's accomplishments. Professor Zhirkov complained that since-the move to Baku, it had been necessary to conduct work by letter, which he argued led to too many bureaucratic problems. Moreover, Zhirkov alleged, those working in Baku had consciously ignored the experts in Moscow. He asked, for example, why the Daghestani alphabet had been created without consultations with the center. As for Choban-zade's expression of thanks for Zhirkov's help, the Moscow linguist said, "I know that I have not received or fulfilled any assignments this year for the Scientific Council for which I could be thanked here." Another linguist from the center, lakovlev, was even more sarcastic:

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If the Scientific Council exists only on paper, then it must be disbanded. I do not bear any responsibility for the work of the Scientific Council because I was not consulted as a specialist of those languages on which I work. This work has passed me by. I propose that the TsK [VTsKNTA] should have one consultant, Professor Choban-zade, and let him seek information when he wants and from whom he wants - those he has a liking for. He does not have a liking for me and so I will go off to the side. Or perhaps there is another solution. That is, to create a Scientific Council, gather it for meetings and collectively discuss various projects (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 123-126). Agamaly-ogly was caught in the crossfire between the linguists working in Moscow and Baku. As an Azeri, he was interested in maintaining Baku as the headquarters for the VTsKNTA and its Scientific Council. On the other hand, Agamaly-ogly was a political figure who owed his position to Moscow. That he did not wish to see all of the power of the VTsKNTA concentrated in Moscow was revealed at the second plenum of the committee. Agamaly-ogly complained that because the full presidium had not been called, the executive bureau had in fact usurped many of the larger body's functions (Vsesoiuznyi 1929: 19). This executive bureau had met not in Baku, but in Moscow, and of its five members, four represented institutions of the center or of the Russian Republic (Vsesoiuznyi 1927: 175). That Agamaly-ogly shared with the Baku linguists an interest in maintaining that city as the center for work of the VTsKNTA and its Scientific Council, however, did not mean he agreed with all of the work being conducted there. At the third plenum of the VTsKNTA he declined to defend the activities of his Baku colleagues Chobanzade, Khulufu, and Aga-zade who had allegedly blocked Moscow linguists' participation in scholarly work. Agamaly-ogly dwelled on the need to involve all members of the Scientific Council and expressed surprise that Choban-zade had not informed him that this was not being done (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 158).14 When the fourth plenum of the VTsKNTA convened a year and a half after the third, the struggle between Moscow and Baku once again surfaced. There was, among other things, criticism of the Scientific Council for unsatisfactory work on the journal which was issued very

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irregularly as the official organ of the Council. The Baku linguists placed part of the blame for the journal's erratic appearance on their critics in Moscow. In fact, one of the Azeris pointed out, an issue was ready for publication just before the plenum; at the last minute, however, there was an order received from Moscow not to publish the next issue of Kul'tura i pis'mennost' Vostoka until it was reviewed in Moscow. Because of this the issue appeared late (Vsesoiuznyi 1931: 116). Moscow linguists again criticized the Baku apparatus for allowing a few men in the Azerbaijani capital to make important decisions without consulting anyone in Moscow. Despite a positive picture of the group's work painted by one of the Baku staff, the resolution of the full plenum was critical of the work of the Council (Vsesoiuznyi 1931: 249). There were ominous signs for the Azeris and others who had been active in the work of the Council that Moscow was about to reassert control. Donskoi, one of the delegates to the plenum, demanded action: The VTsKNTA must certainly have ideological direction over all the republics, and its decisions must be obligatory. But in order for that to happen, the Scientific Council must have a permanent cadre of workers, and that will happen when it meets not in Baku, but in the center of the Union - Moscow (Vsesoiuznyi 1931: 85).15 Despite protests from the Azeris that there was no need to move the VTsKNTA and its Council back to Moscow, a resolution of the full plenum overrode the Baku spokesmen (Vsesoiuznyi 1931: 251).16

The rise of Marrism and consolidation of language planning in Moscow The reasons for both the urgency and the timing of the move of the VTsKNTA involved more than purely scholarly rivalry between the linguists in Baku and Moscow. As was to become increasingly clear over the next months, Moscow was about to place stringent controls over language planning and the study of linguistics in the USSR. This

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would be done through official recognition of the theories of Nikolai Marr and persecution of any linguist or language planner who failed to acknowledge the validity of the new linguistic doctrine. In order to understand this phenomenon, it is first necessary to look first at the biography of Marr himself. Nikolai Marr was born in the Georgian town of Kutaisi in 1865. His parents were a linguistically very bizarre couple: his Georgian mother spoke only Guri dialect of Georgian (and no other languages) and his Scottish father spoke a number of European languages, but no Georgian! (Kusik'ian 1933: 5). Nikolai was still a boy when his father died (Kusik'ian 1933: 5). The younger Marr learned to read and write first in Georgian, but soon also learned Greek, French, German, and Italian. While in secondary school, he became interested in the problem of the origin of the Georgian people and their language. He was admitted to Petersburg University, where he began studies in the Oriental Faculty. Upon graduation, Marr became involved in linguistic and archaeological research. His work was devoted to proving the existence of links between languages which most linguists of Marr's time believed were totally unrelated. In 1908, Marr published the first explanation of his so-called "Japhetic theory" about the kinship of all languages. However, it was not until much later, under Soviet power, that his theories attracted wide support or recognition (Bykovskii 1933). After the Bolshevik Revolution Marr was one of the first linguists to declare his support for the new regime and to begin to work for it (Ulam 1973: 716; Kusik'ian 1933: 8). He did not become a member of the Communist Party, however, until 1930 (Bykovskii 1933: 96). That year was a political turning point in Marr's life for other reasons as well. Marr's ancestry may have been a very significant factor in his life and in the way he was perceived by others. The traditional distrust of Azeris by Georgians may have provided an additional basis for poor relations between Marr and the Turkic-speaking linguists. Marr's ideas about the origin and development of languages was a crucial element in the Soviet politics of language in the late 1920s and 1930s. Marr rejected the theory of Indo-Europeanists who believed that there were "families" of languages which were descendants of common ancestor languages. In Marr's view, all words in all languages derived from four elements, sol, her, yan, and rosh. Moreover, as part

Planners and planning organizations: External forces 223 of a single "glottolinguistic process", all languages were moving in the direction of merging into a single world language. This part of Marr's theory was in harmony with Stalin's statement at the (1930) sixteenth congress of the VKP(b) which referred to "the blossoming of national cultures (and languages) in the period of the dictatorship of the proletariat in one country with the object of preparing the conditions for the withering away of them into one common socialist culture (and one common language) in the period of the victory of socialism all over the world" (Stalin 1955: 381). One other component of Marr's theory was also very important in Soviet linguistics - his concept of language as a class phenomenon. Much like Marx, Marr believed that at each stage of history, language was a tool of the dominant class and that "revolutionary upheavals in society introduce[d] the language of the class which assume[d] power onto the stage of history " (Grande 1935: 39). Many of the linguists who had been working in Baku (and other cities of the Soviet Union) refused to subscribe to Marrist theories, even after they were given official recognition in the Soviet Union in 1930. For those who had spent their lives doing comparative studies of the Turkic languages, rejection of the concept of "families" of languages was tantamount to an admission that all of their own past work was worthless. This part of Marr's theories provided ammunition for criticism of linguists working on "Turkic" languages. Against this background, the significance of the move of the VTsKNTA to Moscow in 1930 is clear. No longer would the Turkic scholars who had played such an important part in the adoption of the Latin alphabet be allowed to participate in language planning, especially for Turkic languages as a whole. The name of the of AilUnion Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet (VTsKNTA) was also changed at the time of its transfer to Moscow. As there was no need for a "Turkic" alphabet, the committee became the All-Union Committee of the New Alphabet (VTsKNA).17 With the transfer of the VTsKN(T)A to Moscow, other steps were taken to assure tighter control over it. In December, 1930, the VTsKNA was placed directly under the jurisdiction of the Presidium of the Council of Nationalities of the USSR TsIK (K & P, nos. 7-8, 1931: 218). Professors Choban-zade and Polivanov (the latter whose activities will be examined in the following chapter) were removed entirely from the Scientific Council of the VTsKNA (K & P, nos. 7-

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8, 1931: 218). Conveniently, Agamaly-ogly died at about the same time as the move. A new working presidium was formed to run the everyday business of the VTsKNA; it contained only three members none of them from Baku (Aliev 1931a: 5). Measures undertaken by the Central Committee of the Communist Party helped consolidate control. On March 15, 1931, the Central Committee passed a resolution noting the necessity of restructuring the Communist Academy's scientific research work in order to provide "a closer link between scientific work and urgent tasks of socialist construction and the struggle with various bourgeois and petitbourgeois theories" (Kul'tumaia 1975: 228). The Communist Academy was an institution with strong support for Marr and his pupils; therefore, this resolution had the effect of fortifying the position of the Marrists in the VTsKNA. When the fifth plenum of the VTsKNA met in Tashkent in June, 1931, it became apparent that there were serious disagreements even among the Marrist linguists who supported the centralization of language planning in Moscow. This was clear in the exchanges between the new president of the Scientific Council of the VTsKNA, Umar Aliev, and other delegates to the plenum. In response to the Azeris, who claimed that since the Scientific Council's move to Moscow they had not been allowed to participate in its work, Aliev said: Comrades from Baku! You blame us for not inviting you to Moscow during this year, while at all of the earlier plenums you were criticized for not inviting anyone to Baku. I understand that you should want to come to Moscow more than Professors lakovlev or Zhirkov would want to go to Baku. You want to sort of "get even" with us. But it is difficult to get even in such a way. One should not compare our collective work in the [past] year with your individualistic work in the year before (Vsesoiuznyi 1932: 93). Moreover, Aliev gave a positive assessment of the work of the Scientific Council. He claimed that the instructions given at the fourth plenum of the VTsKNTA to assure Marxist guidance for the Scientific Council had been fulfilled. He also maintained that "prominent

Planners and planning organizations: External forces 225 Marxist linguists" had worked with the Council since the last VTsKNTA plenum (Vsesoiuznyi 1932: 28, 79). But Aliev's optimism was not shared by Khadzhiev, who delivered the report of the inspection committee at the plenum. In Khadzhiev's opinion, insufficient action had been taken following the resolution on the Communist Academy's work in the area of struggle with bourgeois influences (Vsesoiuznyi 1932: 33). Other delegates to the plenum asserted that the "prominent Marxist linguists" whom Aliev claimed had worked with the Scientific Council were insufficiently loyal Marrists; these "Marrists" were really members of a "buffer group" known as lazykfront. In the view of the more orthodox Marrists, the members of this group often sided with the "Indo-Europeanists" (Vsesoiuznyi 1932: 79).18 The "Marrization" of the VTsKNA and its Scientific Council continued after the fifth plenum. The coming changes were foreshadowed in a resolution of the communist fraktsiia read at the plenum. It called upon the presidium of the VTsKNA to "review the composition of the Scientific Council, including its leadership, with the goal of bringing more authoritative Marxist forces to work, especially young national [i.e., non-Russian] scientific workers" (Vsesoiuznyi 1932: 154). This was soon complied with; a large percentage of nonRussian young scientific workers were introduced into the Scientific Council, of whom 80% were Communist Party members (lazyk 1933: 28). The Azeris, who had been using their own form of the Latin alphabet despite numerous calls to abandon it, were finally brought to adopt the "unified" form of the Latin alphabet in 1932 (Budagova 1973: 49). The first plenum of the Scientific Council of the VTsKNA in February, 1933 marked completion of the "Marrization". The Council had never found it necessary to call a plenum before, even though the Council had existed almost as long as the VTsKN(T)A. The first and most important report at the plenum was given by Marr himself. He stressed that it was impossible to conduct language building (iazykovoe stroitel'svo} without consideration of scientific theories (lazyk 1933: 26). Many of the other reports and comments to the plenum revolved around Marr's report and his theories. Some complaints were heard that certain comrades "underestimated" the significance of Marrist theories (lazyk 1933: 66), but most speeches sounded sufficiently "Marresque". There were calls for "class vigilance" in all linguistic

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work; one speaker claimed that if Engels were alive, he, too, would approve of Marr's teachings (lazyk 1933: 84). Despite the consolidation of power by the Marrists in the early 1930s, there was one major area in which Marr's ideas and suggestions were rejected - the "analytic alphabet". Marr had developed an alphabet of at least sixty-nine letters which, theoretically, could be used for any language (lakovlev 1931: 50).19 Marr claimed that this alphabet was superior to the Latin alphabet because its application would allow the same letter to represent the same sound in every language. (Latinization, in their view, had been a form of European linguistic imperialism [Vrubel' 1931: passim]). Marr proposed that his "analytic alphabet" be adopted for the Abkhazian language (spoken by the Abkhaz people who live primarily in Georgia). Marr's alphabet was not adopted probably for two major reasons. First of all, many of the letters were difficult to write and learn. This became clear in the limited use the alphabet did have during the short period it was tried among the Abkhazian people (lakovlev 1931: 4849). Secondly, Marr's theories did not gain recognition until the latinization process was already well under way. Any reversal or change in policy would have created inconvenience, confusion, and economic loss. Progress was being made in raising literacy among millions of people whose language had already adopted the Latin alphabet. A further change of alphabet would have made them all illiterate again overnight.20 There is little information on the internal dynamics of language planning on the Union-wide scale following the plenum of the Scientific Council in 1933. In fact, after the fifth plenum of the VTsKNA (1931), the proceedings of committee plenums were no longer published.21 The official organ of the Scientific Council appeared extremely irregularly; in 1934 and 1935 no issues were published at all. This is symptomatic of the fact that language planning was no longer done by linguists, but rather linguists complied with orders to find justifications made by politicians. "Participation" in language planning was directed from above as Stalin's regime used terror to achieve a very high degree of penetration. It should be noted that although Marr died in 1934, his demise did not lead to a relaxation in the control of language planning and linguistics by his pupils.22 In fact, by this time Marr himself probably had little direction over "Marrist linguistics". As described above, many

Planners and planning organizations: External forces 227 of the prominent linguists who worked in Baku were denounced as pan-Turkists. Many other talented linguists were removed from scholarly work as "Indo-Europeanists" who failed to subscribe to Marrist theories. Even some of the linguists who had supported the move of the VTsKNA to Moscow from Baku and subscribed to Marrist theories apparently fell from favor. One such man may have been Umar Aliev. Besides heading the Scientific Council, Aliev also served as responsible editor of its publication Revoliutsiia i pis'mennost'. The immediate cause for his disappearance is not clear. As indicated above, some felt that he was not a sufficiently vigilant Marrist. Another possible contributing cause was his defense in 1932 of the viability of languages with even very small numbers of speakers.23 As the new amalgam of Russian nationalism and Marrism gained strength, such views became intolerable. In any case, by the end of 1933, Aliev was no longer on the editorial board of the journal of which he had just recently worked as responsible editor. A list of members of the VTsKNA members published in 1936 did not include Aliev's name (R & N, June, 1936: 88-S9).24 The general technique for maintaining control of the VTsKNA had been foreshadowed in a statement by a Marrist linguist at the plenum of the Scientific Council. In his comments, B. M. Grande had stated, "When we speak about the work of the Scientific Council, we must keep in mind that specific individuals conduct work. That means that the struggle to remove shortcomings involves removing those individuals who hinder work" (lazyk 1933: 69). As late as 1933, some linguists expressed serious doubts about the rapid promotion of loyal Marrists like Vrubel' to the Scientific Council.25 But soon their voices fell silent. There is evidence that many of the young Marrist linguists were poorly trained and unqualified to undertake serious scholarly work. The manifestation of this in Uzbekistan will be discussed in the following chapter. But even in reviewing the work of the VTsKNA in 1936, the USSR Council of Nationalities took note of the "insufficiently qualified" scientific forces (R & N, November, 1936: 14344). It is possible that this applied both to "insufficiently Marrist" and to poorly educated linguists, especially from the non-Russian republics. Compliance with the resolution of the fifth plenum of the VTsKNA which had recommended attracting new, young cadre from the nonRussian peoples may have assured that the next generation of linguists

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would be ideologically sound, but it did not assure that they would be competent scholars. The last years of the existence of the VTsKNA were marked by continued reorganizations and great turnover of personnel. By 1935, a Central Institute of Language and Writing (pis'mennost') had been formed on the base of the Scientific Council of the VTsKNA (Kononov 1968: 6).20 In 1938, this institute was merged with the Moscow branch of the N. la. Marr Institute of Language and Thought (Kononov 1968: 6). The VTsKNA itself existed probably until 1937, at which point the "NA" or "new alphabet" became obsolete for increasing numbers of languages of the USSR. The Council of Nationalities announced a new membership of the VTsKNA in 1936 which included many new members who had not been on the committee in 1932; indeed, only seventeen persons who had belonged to the sixty-six member VTsKNA in 1932 were still members of the sixty-five member VTsKNA in early 1936 (R & P, no. 13, 1932: 111; R & N, June, 1936: 88-S9).27 Moreover, many of both the new and old members of the organization soon became victims of the final stages of the Great Purges.28

Chapter 11

Local planners and planning organizations

Introduction Like the Ail-Union situation, the story of language planning in Uzbekistan in the period under review is also one of increasing control by Moscow. In the early years the Bolsheviks collaborated with some local language planners over whom they had relatively little control and with whom they shared only a few common interests. As time went on, the leaders found increasingly more "progressive" allies whom they supported and over whom they exercised greater influence. The earliest "allies" shared the Bolsheviks' desire to raise the educational level of Central Asia; however, they sought to make their language into a symbol which embodied Uzbeks' ties with other Muslims, other Turks, and their own history. Naturally, they felt that Central Asians themselves should make their own language planning decisions. By the late 1930s, they had been replaced by a group of compliant young men who had witnessed the tragic fate of most of their predecessors and so obediently followed instructions on how to "plan" from Moscow.

The first generation of reformers A number of the men active in Uzbek language planning in the earliest years after the Bolshevik Revolution came to this activity through their previous work in the fields of education and publishing. In particular, some of the most prominent early reformers worked in jadid schools which rejected the rote memorization of the traditional maktabs. Instead of a heavy emphasis on memorization of passages from the Koran along with Persian and Arabic religious poetry, jadid schools offered a new kind of instruction which included such disciplines as mathematics and geography. The early language reformers created textbooks for these schools. In order to do so, they

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frequently had to invent terms to describe the concepts which they taught. Because some of them also sought to make it easier for students to learn to read, they also became involved in orthographic reform. Newspaper editors were faced with similar tasks. They, too, had to invent new concepts to write about contemporary topics, and since they sought to expand readership, had a direct interest in the spread of literacy. One of the most prominent men of this first generation of language planners was Äbduräshidkhan-oghli Munäwär Qari, who was active both in education and the press. Although Munäwär Qari's interest in these areas led him to want to make the Turkic dialects a more efficient instrument, he and a small group of other very cautious language planners balanced these concerns with a desire to maintain strong ties with other Muslim peoples. Munäwär Qari, who was born in 1878 into a family of Tashkent intelligentsia, received a traditional Islamic education and graduated from the Yunushkhan Medresseh (higher religious school) ("Äbduräshidkhanov" 1976). He opened the first reformed maktab for Uzbeks in Tashkent in 1903.100 He also wrote many of the textbooks, both religious and secular, which were used in the early reformed maktabs. One of Munäwär Qari's books contained geography lessons; another taught students how to read the Koran. Munäwär Qari also wrote for a wide variety of periodical publications which appeared in the first two decades of the twentieth century, including Täräqqiy, Khurshid, Häqiqät, Äziä, Sädä-i Turkistan, Aynä, Näjat, Shora-i Islam and Mäarif (Bennigsen & Lemercier-Quelquejay 1964: 161-167; 263271). For at least two, Khurshid and Näjat, Munäwär Qari served as editor. In general, these publications favored both unity for the Muslim peoples of Turkestan and a reduction in the power of the ulema. Because of such editorial positions, Khurshid was disliked both by the tsarist government and conservative religious figures.161 In 1906, tsarist authorities closed down Khurshid because of its "pan-Islamic" approach (Bennigsen & Lemercier-Quelquejay 1964: 162-163). Despite Munäwär Qari's pan-Islamic inclinations, in the very early post-revolutionary years the new regime tapped his talents. Following the establishment of Soviet power in Central Asia, Munäwär Qari worked in the Commissariat of Education in Turkestan.162 He was also active in organizing drama theatres (Allworth 1964: 217).

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Äshuräli Zahiriy was a contemporary of Munäwär Qari who shared many of his views. However, Äshuräli Zahiriy had much more extensive contacts with Russian culture than his colleague. Äshuräli Zahiriy was born in 1885 in a Fergana Valley village near the city of Kokand. He, too, was educated in a medresseh, and was active in the field of publishing. Prior to 1917, he served as editor-in-chief of the newspaper Sädä-i Färghanä. Äshuräli Zahiriy worked as one of the editors of El bayraghi, a newspaper which appeared for a short period beginning in December, 1917 (Bennigsen & Lemercier-Quelquejay 1964: 267). He later worked for a variety of other newspapers, including Khälq gazeti, Yängi shärq, and Färghanä. Äshuräli Zahiriy maintained contact both with the native and the European sectors of society. He learned Russian while he was young, and is said to have been an avid reader of Russian literature. His work as an Uzbek language and literature teacher in a Russian-native school reflected his contact with two very different cultural worlds.163 Later Äshuräli Zahiriy taught Uzbek language and literature at the Fergana Pedagogical Tekhnikum ("Äshuräli" 1971). Both Äshuräli Zahiriy and Munäwär Qari participated in the discussions of orthography reform which took place soon after the October Revolution. Fiträt claimed that Äshuräli Zahiriy was the first individual to consider such matters seriously (Fiträt 1927: 4). While the views of these two early language reformers were innovative in comparison with those of the conservative religious leaders of the time, they were only modest in comparison with proposals of other reformers who followed. Munäwär Qari demonstrated his conservative approach at a 1922 meeting in Tashkent where teachers and other members of the intelligentsia discussed proposals for orthographic changes. At this meeting Munäwär Qari criticized radical proposals for Uzbek script reform.164 Although he was willing to allow newspapers to adopt modest orthographic changes, he did not want the schools to do so yet. Munäwär Qari argued that parents might be so alienated by the reforms that they would keep their children home (QB 23 February 1922).165 However, his objections were overridden. Both Munäwär Qari and Äshuräli Zahiriy also attempted to temper orthographic reforms which were under consideration at a second Tashkent conference in 1922. When it became apparent that a majority of the delegates favored the bolder reforms which Äshuräli

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Zahiriy opposed, Zahiriy and his supporters accused the Turkestan Republic Commissariat of Education and its Scientific Council of packing the meeting with delegates from Tashkent.166 Moreover, the "conservatives" issued a statement alleging that the commissariat and council had interfered with the commission which was supposed to have selected delegates to the congress; they demanded a resolution to prevent such interference in the future. Because, in their opinion, the congress had failed adequately to represent Uzbeks from outside Tashkent, Äshuräli Zahiriy and his supporters threatened not to recognize any resolution of the Tashkent orthographers (QB 26 April 1922).167 Faced with defeat, they walked out of the meeting in protest (QB issue no. 139).168 It appears that over the next year Äshuräli Zahiriy and his allies realized that events had overtaken them. Probably with great reluctance, in September, 1923, Äshuräli Zahiriy agreed to some of the changes which he had previously opposed. At the same time, he reiterated his long-held position that all Turkic dialects should have the same rules of orthography in order to facilitate mutual intelligiblity of literature. He also claimed that in fact he had never been against reform per se, but opposed destroying uniformity of writing for the various Turkic tribes. The same issue of the newspaper Färghanä which carried Äshuräli Zahiriy's statement on his change of views announced that henceforth the newspaper itself (of which he was editor or perhaps former editor) would also adopt reforms which had previously been resisted (Färghanä 22 October 1923).169 By this time, however, Äshuräli Zahiriy and Munäwär Qari had ceased to be leaders in the language reform movement. Moreover, the new regime had already found bolder reformers who, though also far from sharing all of the Bolsheviks' goals, were nevertheless less tainted by pan-Turkism and pan-Islam than Äshuräli Zahiriy and Munäwär Qari.

The Chaghatay gurungi members The most important Uzbek language planners in the first decade after the Bolshevik Revolution belonged to the Chaghatay gurungi literary circle. The Gurung was organized in 1918 by the Bukharan jadid

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Äbduräuf Fiträt. Many of the poets and writers in this society were also active in education and politics of the region both before and after the creation of the UzSSR in 1924. Among its members were Akmäl Ikramov, Äbdulhämid Suläyman (Cholpan), Batu (Mahmud Hadiev), Elbek, Äbdullä Qadiriy, Ghazi Alim Yunusov, Said Ali Khojä, Uighur, Männan Ramiz (M. Äbdulläev), Sharäsul Zunnun, Sänjär Siddiq, Shakirjan Rähimiy, Qäyyum Rämäzan and Tashqin (Allworth 1964: 110). The Gurung itself existed only a few years - until 1922 (Allworth 1964: 114). However, its members were active in politics and language reform throughout the 1920s, and some into the 1930s. One of the members, Äkmäl Ikramov, became first secretary of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan in 1929 and served until 1937. Many Uzbek writers who were not themselves Gurung members were nevertheless strongly influenced by it. One of the main reasons for this literary circle's central role in language planning was the lack of any other body in the Turkestan Republic with the talent and organization to undertake this activity. At least until 1921, such institutions as the Turkestan Republic Commissariat of Education followed rather than led the Chaghatay gurungi. Already prior to the First Uzbek Language and Orthography Congress of January, 1921, the Gurung had independently decided to introduce a reformed orthography in schools where its members taught. Following the 1921 congress, there was no official change in orthographic rules, although increasingly the reformed orthography made its way into the press and textbooks. There was no "second" congress as a follow-up; rather, in 1922 there was simply a Congress of Uzbek Educational Workers which continued the unfinished discussions (QB 29 March 1922). Only after the October, 1923 Central Asian Uzbeks' Language and Orthography Congress (which itself had no legal power to make decisions) was a law passed by the Turkestan Republic's government ratifying the changes (Färghanä 22 October 1923). Another reason that the Gurung could exercise decisive influence on the direction of language development was that the members of this organization were among the most distinguished writers and language teachers of their time. They themselves wrote in the newspapers, created poetry, and taught in the schools. Finally, the Gurung members (even after the Gurung itself became officially defunct in 1922) were able to play such large roles in

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language planning because they themselves organized and attended the meetings devoted to language. Äbduräuf Fiträt, for example, made one of the most important speeches at the 1921 meeting and was a member of the eight-person presidium at the second meeting. Gurung member and poet Äbdulhämid Suläyman (Cholpan) likewise was at these two meetings. Another prominent member of the Gurung, Shakirjan Rahimiy, attended both of these meetings, as well as the 1923 congress in Bukhara (Bir ming 1922; QB 29 March 1922; Tu. 31 October 1923). A number of other members of the organization, including Ramiz, Elbek, and Qäyyum Rämäzan participated in one or another of the conferences. Members of the Chaghatay gurungi were willing to consider more radical reform than Äshuräli Zahiriy and Munäwär Qari. Gurung members' respect for the cultural patrimony was evident in the circle's slogan "Utilize the historical and literary heritage"; however, they hoped to use their heritage to create a society very different from the one envisioned by Munäwär Qari and Äshuräli Zahiriy. Whereas the latter two men opposed certain orthographic reforms because they believed that the changes disrupted a form of unity among Muslim peoples, Gurung members argued that reforms were necessary in order to make education easier. Munäwär Qari was a leader of the body Shora-i Islam, for which religion was a focal point. Certain members of the Gurung, in contrast, were active propagandists of atheism. The organizer of the Chaghatay gurungi, Äbduräuf Fiträt, was bom in 1986 into the family of a Bukharan petty merchant. He was educated both in his native Bukhara and in Istanbul (Allworth 1967b: 371). Much of Fiträt's early literary work was devoted to the need for social and religious reform. He believed that the state of decline in the Islamic world was in large part the fault of the religious leaders. In Fiträt's opinion, instead of pursuing the spirit of the Prophet, the most powerful religious leaders had pursued a path which bred a diseased religion, and which was hostile to progress and true Islamic education (Carrere d'Encausse 1967c: 204-206). Fiträt advocated the reshaping of political and social relations and the reestablishment of the glory of the distant past. But this reestablishment meant breaking links with the more immediate past. Fiträt preached "not a compromise between the traditional structures of Islamic society and those of Western society, but a real break with

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the past, a revolution of human concepts, structures and revelations" (Carrere d'Encausse 1967c: 206). As other jadids eager to reform education, Fiträt, too, was interested in changing the form and content of the schools. One of his most biting criticisms was against the Muslim religious leaders' refusal to take advantage of technical knowledge which could have been borrowed from Europe. He accused them of having spread a "cloak of ignorance" over Muslims. Enlightenment, Fiträt pointed out, would help prepare bullets for the defense of Islam (Zenkovsky 1967: 89). Because of his ideas about the need for radical change, Fiträt became active in a group of political reformers in Bukhara who were known as the Young Bukharans. This organization was founded in 1909 (Zenkovsky 1967: 297). Its attempts to urge the Bukharan amir to introduce reforms met with failure.11 The reformers were forced to conduct most of their activities underground, and many either temporarily left their homeland or were deported. A large number of them, including Äbduräuf Fiträt, returned to Bukhara following the outbreak of World War I. In March, 1917, the amir of Bukhara promised to grant some of the reforms which the Young Bukharans had sought. Soon after, however, he retracted his promise and a conservative reaction set in. Most of the Young Bukharans were arrested, but some fled. Several months after the Bolshevik coup, in March, 1918, the Young Bukharans in Tashkent convinced the head of the Tashkent Soviet of People's Commissars to send a military expedition against the amir. However, this failed, and the Young Bukharans who survived the fiasco were compelled to flee to Samarkand and Tashkent. Fiträt was among them (Khojäev 1976: 489). While in exile from · Bukhara, Fiträt and his wing of the Young Bukharans were persuaded to merge with the Bukharan Communist Party. In June, 1919, Fiträt was elected to the Central Committee of that party (Khojäev 1976: 489). With the help of units of the Red Army, the Young Bukharans and communists overthrew the amir in the late summer of 1920. Fiträt returned to Bukhara to work in various capacities, including head of the waqf (endowment property) administration, minister of foreign affairs and minister of education of the Bukharan Republic. While minister of education, Fiträt undertook reform of medresseh instruction and arranged for students from

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Bukhara to study in German universities (Carrere d'Encausse 1967a: 248). Although Fiträt was a Bukharan patriot, he also expressed strong feelings of identity as a Turk and (though less vehemently) as a Muslim. But his bond to Islam was very different from that of Munäwär Qari or Äshuräli Zahiriy.171 Consequently, Fiträt was quite willing to sacrifice the tie which certain Arabic letters in Uzbek writing provided with other Muslims; he saw the letters that were superfluous for representing Turkic sounds primarily as obstacles on the path to educating his people. Yet he was willing to inflict some inconvenience on his people for the sake of Turkic purity. He was a strong advocate of purifying Uzbek of the Persian and Arabic words which he felt had polluted it. Two of the other most prominent members of the Chaghatay gurungi were the poets Elbek and Cholpan, both born in 1893. Elbek criticized timid orthographic reforms proposed by such men as Äshuräli Zahiriy because the changes did not do enough to facilitate reading and writing (QB 23 February 1922). Elbek himself was author of a handbook for instructors of the native language and a reader for primary school (Sovet 1976: 159-167). Both Elbek and Cholpan favored purification of the Uzbek language of Arabic and Persian elements and they travelled extensively to collect linguistic material from the villages. Elbek compiled and published lists of words used in the Uzbek literary language which had been borrowed from other languages; he suggested equivalent words of Turkic origin to replace them. Elbek was also a strong proponent of basing the standard Uzbek language on dialects which had preserved vowel harmony. Beginning about 1926 or 1927, such poets as Cholpan, Fiträt, and Elbek were subjected to increasing criticism for their "nationalist" views, often by other writers who were more accommodating to Bolshevik demands. Äkmäl Ikramov, future first secretary of the KPUz, wrote a two-part article which addressed the ideological unsuitability of works by Cholpan (Ikramov 1972: I, 331-333, repr. of QB 9 and 10 October 1927). Although these prominent poets continued to write and even participate in conferences and organizations concerned with language planning in the period 19271929, they no longer expressed their nationalist ideas which they had proclaimed in the earlier period.172

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Still very active in language planning at the end of the 1920s was a Chaghatay gurungi member whose world view was much more similar to the Bolsheviks' than Fiträt's, Elbek's, or Cholpan's. This was the poet Mahmud Hadiev, better known by his pseudonym "Batu". Batu, son of a weaver, was born in the new city14 of Tashkent in 1904. He attended a Russian-native school as a boy and learned to read and speak Russian while there. Following the Bolshevik Revolution, Batu attended a teacher training course. Although serious recruitment for the Komsomol in the Turkestan Republic did not begin until 19201921 (Park 1957: 140), Batu entered the organization in 1919. At about the same time, he spent a short time working as a teacher. His literary activities began at a young age. Already in 1918 (when Batu was fourteen years old!), his poetry began to appear in newspapers and journals of Tashkent and Kokand. At the age of seventeen, Batu left Central Asia for studies in Moscow. There he entered the Pokrovskii Institute's rabfak and subsequently studied in the economics faculty of Moscow State University ("Batu" 1972; Tashkent aqshami 24 October 1966). Although in the first years following the Bolshevik Revolution Batu apparently expressed misgivings regarding the Soviet regime,15 he later became a Communist Party member and supporter of the Bolshevik government. Batu took active part in the campaigns against religion and for the emancipation of Muslim women. The reform-minded Batu differed significantly from Fiträt in his evaluation of how to borrow selectively from the past in restoring Uzbeks to greatness. Fiträt, like Batu, sought to discard the parts of the Islamic heritage which he thought retarded the cultural development of Central Asian peoples, but Batu's early exposure to Russian schools and European ideas inclined him to accept Western concepts more readily. According to Batu, in 1922, a split took place which divided Uzbek writers (Batu 1928: 3-4). Soon after this, Fiträt wrote a pessimistic poem titled "My Night". In response to Fiträt's verses, Batu wrote a poem which expressed satisfaction with his life, and the intention to take active part in building a new society. Batu entitled his poem "My Day" (Ozbek Sovet 1968: I, 42-43).16 Batu's willingness (if not eagerness) to sacrifice elements of the traditional culture in order to build a new kind of society was evident in his activities in the area of alphabet reform. In 1921, when most members of the Chaghatay gurungi were still arguing over the kinds of

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reforms which should be made in the Arabic alphabet, Batu proposed that the Latin alphabet be adopted immediately. Unlike many of the members of the Gurung who were preoccupied with restoring vowel harmony to the fullest extent possible, Batu was more concerned with ease in learning to write than in bringing back into the standard orthography this quality which had been long lost in the urban dialects. Batu was active in education and the press when he returned to Central Asia following his studies in Moscow. Between 1928 and 1930, he served as deputy commissar of education of the UzSSR and head of the press section of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan. At the same time, he was organizer and editor ofÄlängä, the first journal in Uzbek to appear in the Latin alphabet. He represented Uzbekistan at several of the first plenums of the All-Union Committee of the New Turkic Alphabet ("Batu" 1972). As his biography illustrates, Batu was generally much more positively disposed to the Bolshevik regime and its goals than Fiträt, Cholpan, and Elbek, not to mention Äshuräli Zahiriy and Munäwär Qari. However, he was unwilling blindly to follow those directives from Moscow which he considered should apply to Uzbekistan in a different way than they applied to European Russia. The belief that the Central Asians were the best judges of which policies were or were not suitable to their conditions was apparent in Batu's position even on such a question as capital letters (discussed above in chapter 4). His independent thinking was probably the major reason for his disappearance in 1930 (at the young age of 26).176 Once in disfavor, it was alleged that Batu compared Russian communists to tsarist agents. He was also said to have participated in the establishment of a nationalist organization called Turk ochaghi (The Turkic Hearth) which later turned into Tuldstanni qutqaruv (Turkestan Separatism [Society]). The goal of these organizations was alleged to be the overthrow of Soviet power and the expulsion of Russians from Central Asia in order to set up a government uniting the peoples of Turkestan (Muhiddinov 1930a: 13). It is still impossible to judge how much of this is true. However, it does accurately reflect Batu's independent thinking. For all his "modernity" and sympathy to communist goals which made him an attractive ally to the early Bolshevik regime, even Batu expressed a profound interest in history. In fact, one of the other charges against him was "counterrevolutionary activity under the mask

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of enlivening the national culture" (Tursun 1934: 6). Ilmiy fikr, the Uzbek Scientific Research Institute's journal edited by Batu and fellow former Gurung member Männan Ramiz, was criticized for dwelling excessively on the past. Batu and Ramiz both were censured for suggesting in this journal that the literature and history section of the Scientific Research Institute should devote a great deal of time to the study of ancient literature and ancient history (Majidiy 1934: 18). This was out of step with the forward-looking spirit of the First Five Year Plan.

Polivanov Although a number of non-Uzbeks participated in Uzbek language planning in the 1920s, none of them compares in importance with Evgenii Dmitrievich Polivanov. Polivanov was born in 1891 in Smolensk. His father worked in the railroad administration; his mother was a well-known writer, journalist, and publisher. The young Polivanov received his early education in his native city before entering a secondary school in Riga in 1908. Four years later, he enrolled in Petersburg University where he studied Slavic languages and Japanese. Soon Polivanov left for Japan where he gathered material for numerous works on the Japanese language. Japanese, however, was only one of the sixteen languages which Polivanov mastered. Besides Russian, Polivanov knew a variety of Turkic dialects, as well as Tajik, Chinese, French, German, English, Spanish, Greek, Latin, Polish, and Serbian (Polivanov 1968: 7-8, 19). Polivanov greeted the Bolshevik Revolution with great enthusiasm and served it in many ways. He joined the Communist Party in 1919 and conducted political work with the Chinese cell of the Russian Communist Party in Petrograd. Before long, Polivanov went to Moscow. In 1921, shortly after his arrival there, he worked as a deputy in the Far East section of the Comintern while teaching in the Communist University of Laborers of the East (Polivanov 1968: 1213). The beginning of Polivanov's career in the field of Uzbek language planning dates from 1921. He had been sent to Tashkent on a short assignment by the Comintern, but because of his wife's illness he

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remained for several years. Very soon after his arrival in Tashkent, Polivanov began to work with the Scientific Council of the Turkestan Commissariat of Education. In this period Polivanov also studied various Uzbek dialects and taught at Central Asian State University and the Oriental Institute (Polivanov 1968: 14-17). Polivanov was an early proponent of latinization of writing for Turkic languages. From the early 1920s he favored development of a single Uzbek literary standard based upon the urban dialects.18 Already at the time of his first prolonged stay in Central Asia, Polivanov created a Latin Uzbek alphabet project based upon the Tashkent dialect. Polivanov returned to Moscow for approximately three years beginning in 1926. Even this period of his life in Moscow was closely tied with the development of a Latin alphabet for Uzbek (and other Turkic languages). Polivanov attended and participated actively in the first three plenums of the VTsKNTA (which took place in 1927-1929) and was elected to the VTsKNTA's Scientific Council in 1928 (Polivanov 1968: 16). During this time in Moscow, problems began to appear which eventually led to the end of Polivanov's linguistic work. As demonstrated above, the linguistic theories of Nikolai Marr began to attract attention in the second half of the 1920s and Marr's supporters amassed great influence at the end of the decade. Unable to agree with the "New Teaching" of Marr, Polivanov was increasingly criticized and eventually denounced as a "Black-Hundreder" and "reactionary" (Polivanov 1968: 23). He was forced to resign from work in the many institutions he had become involved with during the Moscow years, and he returned to Central Asia. Because Polivanov had maintained contact with the region during his stay in Moscow,19 it was relatively easy for him to begin work in Samarkand once more. Even in Uzbekistan, however, Polivanov was to be plagued by the "New Teaching". Polivanov worked in the Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute (later renamed Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute of Cultural Construction); he took part in a number of expeditions around Uzbekistan to study and classify various dialects. Although active in both research and teaching, in the 1930s Polivanov's work was published less than in the 1920s; more importantly, he was forced to take care that he not offend Marr or his supporters.20 Finally, at the end of 1934, Polivanov left for Frunze, Kirgizia (Polivanov 1968: 28).

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Official organizations Before looking at Moscow's consolidation of control over Uzbek language planning in the 1930s, it will be useful to bring together some of the scattered data available about the organizations which concerned themselves with language corpus planning in the second half of the 1920s. Compared with the first half of the decade, the language planning activities in the second half took place in a relatively formal framework. One reason for this was that Uzbek language planning after 1924 had a "natural" home, the Uzbek SSR. The government organization most directly involved in language corpus planning in the Turkestan Republic was the Scientific Council (Nauchnyi sovet) of the Narkompros. In 1924, perhaps upon creation of the Uzbek republic, its functions were given to the Scientific Council's successor, the Academic Center (Aktsentr).21 The main function of this organ was to advise the Narkompros, but the activities in which it became involved included much more than strictly educational matters. In 1927, on the base of this organization, an organ with similar functions was formed under the name State Scientific Council (Gosudarstvennyi uchenyi sovet, often referred to in its abbreviated form GUS) (Kadyrov 1974: 72). Various meetings of the Aksentr and GUS made recommendations concerning the orthography and vocabulary of the Uzbek language and selected delegates from Uzbekistan for ail-Union conferences or congresses. This body, for example, selected the Uzbek delegates to the All-Union Turcological Congress held in Baku in 1926 (Ozbekshunaslar 1926: 166). It also took the lead in developing projects of the Uzbek Latin alphabet.22 A more important language planning organization was the Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet (UzTsKNA). This committee, originally with forty-four members, was established by a resolution of the TsIK of the UzSSR on June 10, 1926. Many of the members were young teachers, newspaper editors, or members of other organizations who were most interested in the best way to introduce the new alphabet and raise literacy. However, some of the most active participants were former members of the Chaghatay gurungi. The most important language planning gathering sponsored by the UzTsKNA was the Uzbek Language and Orthography Conference in

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Samarkand in May, 1929. This was the last major forum devoted to the Uzbek language in which some of the former Gurung members were major participants. Several of the writers from this circle expressed views which only a few years later would be declared "bourgeois" and "nationalist". Qäyyum Rämäzan defended the defunct group's activities against the attacks of another delegate to the Samarkand conference. Yes, Rämäzan agreed, the Gurung had made mistakes, but he rejected Nairn Said's totally negative description of the organization that omitted the Gurung's worthwhile activities which brought the written language closer to village speech. Shakirjan Rahimiy admitted that some of the foreign words the Gurung had wished to purge from the language had correctly remained in the language and other invented words had not been accepted; yet, he also mentioned, there were some words coined by the Gurung which did enter Uzbek. Elbek also dared to say positive things about the organization at the 1929 conference (Til imla konf: 1932). Another organization which was active in language planning in the late 1920s and 1930s was the Uzbek Terminology Committee (Uzterminkom, Uzgosterminkom, or Ozdavterminkom). This body was organized in 1928 under the Narkompros. Many of its tasks concerned the application of linguistic research; during its years as an independent organization it worked closely with the Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet (with which it later merged) and the institutions originally known as the Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute. The goals set for the Uzterminkom were: 1) to establish sets of terms to be used in secondary and higher education, 2) to encourage uniformity in the language of the Uzbek press, 3) to write native language grammar textbooks for Uzbek schools, 4) to compile an unabridged dictionary of the Uzbek language, and 5) to compile orthographic and special terminological dictionaries (Älängä, no. 2, 1930: 48).

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The disappearance of the independent intelligentsia and the rapid rise of proletarian successors The effect of the dramatic changes in the VTsKNTA (which resulted from the official recognition of Marrist theories at the end of the 1920s and early 1930s) reached Uzbekistan with a slight delay, but the local impact was much the same as in Moscow. As in the VTsKNTA, "Marrization" of the language-planning apparatus in Uzbekistan was accomplished by taking important decisions out of the hands of those who did not declare an unwavering commitment to the new theory; once begun, institutional reorganization permitted this to be done with great speed. Some of the early reformers were totally removed from future participation in Uzbek language planning in 1929-1930, but apparently for more directly political reasons than language planning and literary activity. Those who disappeared at this time were Batu, Ramiz, and Qämchinbek.23 Many of the other men with independent ideas who had been involved in language planning during the 1920s did continue to play modest roles even after 1930. This included other Gurung members and Polivanov. Their work in the area of language development, however, was limited by the new political climate. Increasingly it became necessary to avoid any hint of nationalism and to withhold criticism of the Marrist theories and linguists. In 1929, part of the research on language which had been carried out in the organs of the Commissariat of Education was transferred to a language and literature sector of a new institution - the Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute (UzGNII). Batu and Ramiz worked as heads of the language-literature and history sectors respectively of UzGNII (Allworth 1964: 120). Following the summer of 1930, Batu and Ramiz were removed and denounced, and the entire work of the institute was reexamined. The first issue of Ilmiy fikr, organ of the UzGNII, had appeared in the summer of 1930, but the articles of this issue were denounced for demonstrating an unhealthy fascination with the past and too little interest in the future (Muhiddinov 1930a: 8). A second issue never appeared. In 1931, the Central Committee of the KPUz ordered a full-scale reorganization of the UzGNII (Babaev 1933: 1). The UzGNII became the UzGNIIKS, i.e., Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute of

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Cultural Construction (kul'tumogo stroitel'stva); its headquarters moved from Samarkand to the outpost of Russian power in Uzbekistan and new capital, Tashkent. Less than three years later, another institutional reorganization took place. The language and literature sector of the UzGNIIKS was detached and it became an independent institution, the Uzbek Language and Literature Scientific Research Institute; this new institute had two sectors - one for literature and one for language (Til problemalari 1935: 128).24 Like the UzGNII, the Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet (UzTsKNA) and the Uzbek Terminological Commission (Uzterminkom) were also reorganized in the early 1930s. In 1933, the Uzbek government combined these two bodies into the Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet and Terminology (UzTsKNAT). The new body was placed directly under the Presidium of the Uzbek TsIK (Borovkov 1937: 09).25 At the time of the reorganization, the need for strengthening the apparatus of this institution with trained, experienced and dependable cadre was emphasized (Beregin 1933: 24). It existed until about November, 1937.26 These reorganizations were less important for the decisions made by the local bodies than they were for the fact that they allowed the party to place many young, inexperienced, but loyal "language planners" into these institutions. At the time of the UzGNII reorganization in 1931, there were only eight scientific workers (nauchnye rabotnild) and six advanced students (aspiranty) in the whole institute (Sultanov 1933: 96). By January 1, 1933, however, the staff of the UzGNIIKS had grown to twenty-seven scientific workers. More significant than the number was the profile of the new cadre. Fifteen were under age thirty-five, and thirteen had been involved in scientific work (nauchnaia rabota) for under two years (Sultanov 1933: 96). The exact number of advanced students on January 1, 1933, is not available, but later in the year there were twenty-five aspiranty and twenty students in a special group preparing for aspirantura. Of the fortyfive in these latter two groups were thirty-four Uzbeks, four Tatars, three Tajiks, and one each of four other nationalities. Forty-two of the forty-five were either Party or Komsomol members, and only five were from families of white collar workers or intelligentsia (sluzhashchie) (Babaev 1933: 3). As of October, 1934, the linguistic sector's ten workers still included E. D. Polivanov, Qäyyum Rämäzan, and Elbek; even Fiträt was listed as a teacher of Persian affiliated with

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the sector. Also members were turcologist I. A. Batmanov (who arrived in Central Asia in 1930 and joined the UzGNIIKS in 1931), Säfa Zufärov (a twenty-five year old linguist who had just returned to Central Asia after studying under Nikolai Marr) (Uzaqov 1972: 152), Ulugh Tursunov (chairman of the sector, about whom more below), V. V. Reshetov (who had just recently graduated from Central Asian State University), Tursun Ibrahimov, Sabirjan Ibrahimov, and A. Babaev (Til problemaläri 1935: 128).27 Although such senior language planners as Qäyyum Rämäzan, Elbek, Fiträt, Ghazi Alim Yunusov, and Polivanov continued their teaching and research activities, they were frequently attacked by their "students". One of the newly promoted "linguists" who distinguished himself in criticizing his mentors was Ulugh Tursunov. Born in Kokand in 1905, Ulugh Tursunov was left an orphan by the death of his father in 1919. The next two years the youth spent in the Kokand Children's Home where he received the rudiments of an elementary education and joined the Komsomol. With this preparation, Ulugh Tursunov entered the Fergana Oblast Pedagogical Tekhnikum where he became a student of the ardent russophile QariNiyaziy. With only twelve other students in his class, it is certain that Qari Niyaziy's attitudes had a major impact on the young Tursunov. Upon completion of his course, Tursunov worked a short time as a teacher in Margelan, and then for several years as a teacher and worker in orphanages in his native Kokand. During this same period, Tursunov took an active part in the water and land reforms then being implemented. In July, 1927, Tursunov was sent by the Fergana Okrug party committee to study at the Leningrad Oriental Institute. While in Leningrad, he studied under N. la. Marr and I. I. Meshchaninov. Upon completion of three years' study in Leningrad, Tursunov came back to Uzbekistan. This was precisely the time of the extensive purge of the Uzbek Narkompros as well as the time when Marrist theories were gaining official recognition. It was to the Uzbek Narkompros that the Party sent Tursunov to work. An article about Tursunov which appeared at this time referred to his experience in Leningrad where he had "learned about linguistic research from a Marxist point of view and about simplifying it for application to real life" (M & O, nos. 4-5: 57). Indeed, for a man with virtually no linguistic training

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three years before, considerable simplification must have been necessary to make him a "leading linguist" so quickly. One of the first articles which Tursunov wrote upon his return to Central Asia was in the journal Älängä (the organ of the Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet which had been edited by Batu until his fall). This issue, published just after Batu had come under attack, displayed signs which must have been ominous to the non-Marrists. Tursunov's article was entitled "A New Current". It parroted some of Marr's theories and unequivocally demonstrated where Tursunov stood in the on-going linguistics battle: Linguistics is moving in new ways and in new directions. From now on it must be linked with the social sciences. The time has arrived to apply Marxist theory to the social sciences and linguistics. Great changes are taking place in the world of linguistics. Indo-Europeanism is moving toward a crisis (1930: 39). For about one year Tursunov served on the Uzterminkom and taught at the Pedagogical Faculty of Central Asian State University, but in April 1931, he was forced to interrupt his work there; Tursunov spent five months in Tajikistan fighting the basmachi. Upon his return from the army, Tursunov resumed work in the Uzterminkom while serving as head of the kafedra of Uzbek language and literature of the Tashkent Tajik Agro-Pedagogical Institute.28 It is clear from his biography that Ulugh Tursunov's sudden rise in 1933 to the post of director of the linguistic sector of the UzGNIIKS placed the Uzbek writers, poets, and linguists of the older intelligentsia in a precarious position. Tursunov's articles at this time carried such titles as "In Opposition to Pan-Islam and Pan-Turkism in Terminology" and "In Opposition to the Bourgeois Aspirations in Linguistic Terminology".29 After the detachment of the language and literature sections from the UzGNIIKS and the establishment of the language and literature institute, Tursunov served as its deputy director. Initially the senior linguists were somewhat successful in defending themselves from such watchful but inexperienced Marrists as Tursunov (PV 2 October 1934). It is reported that until 1934 they ignored him and worked around him whenever he tried to "unmask deviations". This success, however, was short-lived.

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Although certain literary works by such language planners as Fiträt, Elbek, and Cholpan continued to be published until 1936, it was already clear in 1934 that the Bolshevik regime was isolating these men and distancing itself from what they stood for. First of all, such subjects as history and culture were de-emphasized: This was evident in criticism of the Science Committee for devoting too much time and money to the humanities and too little to such areas as cotton-raising and industrialization (PV 2 October 1934). In particular, the jadid movement which had produced the nationalist language planners was totally discredited. In 1934, Pravda Vostoka told workers of Uzbekistan that their liberation had been "not in the slightest" been connected with that movement" (PV 18 December 1934). Language purism was a target for special attack. The Institute of Language and Literature of the Uzbek Science Committee was accused of attempting to drag the Uzbek language backward five hundred years to the era of Chaghatay and "block the penetration of worldwide international (mezhdunarodnye internatsional'nye) words into the Uzbek language" (PV 22 October 1934). A particularly ominous sign was the way in which Elbek's name was blackened out (though imperfectly) in the list of compilers of a new Russian-Uzbek dictionary (Polnyi 1934). Evidently a number of poets and linguists who had played major roles in Uzbek language planning in the early years continued to write, teach, and conduct research in the early 1930s. However, given the prevailing atmosphere, it does not appear that any of them had any input into language policy following 1934. The purges of 1937 and 1938 assured that most of the "independent" intelligentsia would never express their views again. Polivanov was arrested in March, 1937 and died in January, 1938 (Polivanov 1968: 29). Batu, Fiträt, and Cholpan all died under unknown circumstances between 1937 and 1940 ("Äbduräuf 1971 and "Batu" 1972). Numerous other writers, poets, and linguists, about whom no exact information is available, disappeared during the same years. Many of them, too, presumably also perished.30 In many ways no one replaced these men. As a group, the new language planners who moved up into vacant positions were inexperienced, poorly trained, and entirely dependent on Moscow. The case of Ulugh Tursunov was described above. Most of the new "promotions", however, were of slightly younger men (born between 1908 and 1914), trained in the Institute of Language and Literature

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during the mid-1930s as the older generation was slipping out of favor. They included Säfa Zufärov, Fäkhri Kämalov, Zakir Mä"rufov, Tursun Ibrahimov, Alim Usman, and the Russian turcologist Viktor Vasil'evich Reshetov. Äyyub Ghulamov, whose life followed a somewhat different pattern from the others, can also be considered a member of this group.31 One of the most notable characteristics which most of this generation of linguists shared was their worker and peasant family backgrounds; several were orphans. One of the most loyal, Fäkhri Kämalov, was born into a family of poor peasants; following the death of his father, he was raised and trained in an orphanage and boarding school. Another of the future Uzbek language planners, Zakir Ma"rufov, was also left an orphan at an early age and raised in a boarding school. The childhood of Tursun Ibrahimov, who was left an orphan at age five, followed the same pattern. Prior to their work as linguists most of these men were teachers. Ghulamov, for example, taught in a pedagogical institute. He himself had studied in a rabfak before beginning a teacher preparation course. Fäkhri Kämalov taught Uzbek language in various teacher training courses and tekhnikums prior to his entrance into the Institute of Language and Literature. Ma"rufov was educated in a pedagogical tekhnikum before he began work as a primary school teacher; before entering the Institute of Language and Literature he received additional training in the UzGNIIK's special preparatory course. Säfa Zufärov worked a short time as an Uzbek language teacher and attended the same preparatory course as Ma"rufov. Even V. V. Reshetov, although with a more solid scholarly background than most of his Uzbek comrades, worked as a teacher before entering UzGNIIKS and the Institute of Language and Literature. Beginning in 1929, he worked at the rabfak of Central Asian State University. One major exception to the career pattern noted above is Alim Usman. Usman had been studying astronomy in Moscow when he suddenly changed career plans and, with some help from the writer Hämid Alimjan, was permitted to enter advanced studies in the Institute of Language and Literature (Äbdulläev & Daniyarov 1973). An even greater anomaly is Sabirjan Ibrahimov, whose father was a well-educated calligrapher. Moreover, Ibrahimov worked together with Ghazi Alim Yunusov and E. D. Polivanov. Perhaps Ibrahimov's proBolshevik political activism throughout the 1920s recommended him for

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further work. Beginning with the reorganization of the language and literature sector of the UzGNIIKS into an institute, Sabirjan Ibrahimov became a scientific worker there. At about the same time, in January, 1934, he also became head of the language and orthography sector of the Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet and Terminology where he served until September, 1937. He continued to work and publish as a prominent Uzbek linguist throughout the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s ("Sabirjan" 1973; Uzaqov 1972: 33-40).

The great russophile The new generation of linguists, for all their political qualifications, were nevertheless apparently too junior and obscure to be effective public proponents of the new Cyrillic alphabet when it was introduced in 1940. For this task a more senior figure was chosen, Tashmuhämmäd Niyazovich Qari-Niyaziy. Prior to his special assignment at the time of the second alphabet shift, Qari-Niyaziy's language planning activity had all been a by-product of his translation work. Moreover, unlike such men as Fiträt or Batu, he was never a member of the literati. Son of a cobbler, T. N. Qari-Niyaziy was born in Khojent (now Leninabad, on the territory of Tajikistan) in 1897 ("Tashmukhammed" 1970); Qari-Niyaziy lived there until his family moved to Fergana in 1909 (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 15). Two years later, Qari-Niyaziy's father, who himself had some knowledge of the Russian language, took his son to a Russian-native school to study (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 78). According to his autobiography, when he entered the second class of this school, Qari-Niyaziy already was reading short Russian brochures (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 85). By the time the class of approximately twenty students with whom Qari-Niyaziy had begun school graduated in 1915, only five were left (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 111). Soon after he completed his primary education, Qari-Niyaziy worked a short time as a translator in a legal court (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 114). Very soon after the October Revolution, in the city of Fergana, Qari-Niyaziy and his bride opened the first Uzbek Soviet school.32 He helped solve the problem of a lack of textbooks by writing one himself. A book he wrote on natural science appeared in 1919 (Qari-Niyaziy

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1970: 156). In 1920, Qari-Niyaziy moved to Kokand, where he organized a pedagogical tekhnikum ("Tashmukhammed" 1970). As noted above, Ulugh Tursunov was one of the students who worked closely with him while he was there (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 171-173). In 1926, Qari-Niyaziy and his family once again moved, this time to Tashkent, where Tashmuhämmäd Niyazovich entered SAGU and began studies in the Mathematics and Physics Faculty. Because of his earlier training and self-study, Qari-Niyaziy immediately entered the second year class (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 197). In 1928, still a student at SAGU, he delivered the first lecture in a higher educational institution in the Uzbek language (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 206). In 1930, Qari-Niyaziy graduated from SAGU, and the next year, at the height of the korenizatsiia period, he became the first Uzbek to receive the title professor, very soon after he was appointed rector of the university ("Tashmukhammed" 1970: 65). That same year he joined the Communist Party (Rämäzanov 1967: 4). It was Qari-Niyaziy's work in the field of mathematics which provided most of his early language planning experience. He translated and wrote textbooks during his years at SAGU and later on when serving on the Science Committee. For these he created or applied new words for mathematical and scientific concepts. As late as 1932, a textbook which he wrote bore the Arabic-sounding title Analitik händäsä (Analytic Geometry).33 However, Qari-Niyaziy states in his autobiography that the most important principle he observed in developing Uzbek mathematics terminology was accepting terms with an "international character" in their original form; he claims that only in those cases where no international equivalent existed did he attempt to coin Uzbek words (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 215). Qari-Niyaziy was criticized for the "leadership" he assumed in deciding what terms should be used. The author of a 1932 review of his Russian-Uzbek Mathematical Terminology Vocabulary (which had appeared the year before) felt that no single individual should take it upon himself to compile such a dictionary. The reviewer was therefore especially critical of Qari-Niyaziy's recommendation that his own terms be accepted for standard use by translators and writers (Ali 1933).34 Qari-Niyaziy, admirer of science, and loyal communist, was a logical choice to head the special commission which oversaw the shift of the Uzbek writing to the Russian alphabet in 1940. By the time this commission was formed, he had survived the purges and had damned

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as bourgeois nationalists and/or counterrevolutionaries not only Fiträt, Ghäzi Alim Yunusov, Qäyyum Rämäzan, and Elbek, but also the much less nationalist-minded Atäjan Hashimov, the prominent author Aybek, and even E. D. Polivanov (Kary-Niyazov 1937: 21). For a short time in 1938, he served as Commissar of Education, but in the summer he was removed from that post and disappeared from public life until his sudden reappearance as president of the committee in charge of the alphabet change (PV July, 1938: passim). With his reemergence on the scene, Qari-Niyaziy embodied in certain key ways the native cadre who rose in the wake of the purges. He was strongly pro-Russian, not necessarily a specialist in the field in which he was assigned to work, and held little real power. The important decision to adopt the Russian alphabet, as all major policies, had been made in Moscow; loyal natives who saw the possibility of upward mobility were needed to proclaim their agreement with the policy and give the appearance that the new alphabet was being adopted as a result of Uzbek popular initiative. Qari-Niyaziy, for his cooperation (not just on the alphabet issue), was awarded the degree of doktor of sciences in 1939, given the post of deputy chairman of the Council of People's Commissars of the Uzbek Republic in 1940, made a member of the central committee of the Communist Party of Uzbekistan in that same year, and guaranteed an almost mythical place in the history of Soviet Uzbekistan for almost half a century.

Moscow's representative Although the major direction of Uzbek language development was determined by politicians in Moscow rather than linguists in Tashkent, there is one individual who had a major impact in shaping the way in which Moscow's orders were implemented and in training the new generation of local linguists. This was the Russian linguist Aleksandr Konstantinovich Borovkov. Although Borovkov was not in Tashkent during the early 1930s, he was not a stranger to the city.35 He had been born in Tashkent in 1904 and had lived there until 1928. He was a graduate of the Oriental Faculty of Central Asian State University (SAGU) where he specialized in turcology. During his studies, Borovkov also taught the Uzbek language at the Medical and

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Agricultural Faculties of SAGU and worked at the Central Asian State Museum. Upon completion of his studies in Tashkent, Borovkov left for Leningrad. He taught the Uzbek and Uighur languages at the Leningrad Oriental Institute and continued his own studies at the Language and Thought Institute of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. Following his studies he remained to work in Leningrad until 1937 or 1938. At this very important time for the development of Uzbek linguistics and the Uzbek language, Borovkov was sent by the party to Tashkent to aid in the training of a new cadre of linguists and to help create a new Uzbek alphabet.36 Borovkov was a loyal Marrist linguist and Communist Party member. One of his teachers in Leningrad had been Marr himself. While still working in Leningrad, Borovkov wrote important articles about the Uzbek language which revealed his commitment to (or at least willingness to repeat) Marrist theories. In 1931, Borovkov spoke of the works of Marr and their "colossal theoretical significance" (Vsesoiuznyi 1932: 43). In an article written in 1933 (but not published until 1934), Borovkov described the qualitatively new Uzbek language which had emerged after the October Revolution (Borovkov 1934: 82) and the changes in Uzbek which were "breaking the bonds of syntax" (Borovkov 1934: 87). Another piece by Borovkov (written in March, 1935, but for some reason not published until 1937) demonstrated his willingness to denounce Batu, Fiträt, Ramiz, and other former members of the Chaghatay gurungi (Borovkov 1937: 6167). Although Borovkov returned to Leningrad at the end of World War II, his work had a major impact on the development of the Uzbek language beyond the war.37 As the senior turcologist and representative of the center, Borovkov was the most important teacher of the new generation of Uzbek linguists. Along with Qari-Niyaziy and Borovkov, the new generation of linguists described above was to play a supporting role in the alphabet and orthographic changes at the end of the 1930s and in the early 1940s. The final proposed reform of the Latin orthography (which was never implemented) published in the beginning of 1939 was created by Borovkov, Usman, Kämalov, and B. Avizov.38 These men, as well as Qari-Niyaziy, wrote numerous articles supporting the change of alphabet and explaining the new orthographic rules. Alim Usman and

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S. Ibrahimov were authors of two of the first orthographic dictionaries (both published in 1940) based upon the new orthography with the Russian script. Borovkov, besides his articles on the reform which were published, probably played a key role in advising about the reforms. As the major Russian representative, Borovkov was most likely the coordinator of local planning with instructions from the center. The "security" of linguists who built their careers as supporters of Marr's "New Teaching" was to last only another decade. In 1950, Stalin made a pronouncement in which he stated that language was not part of the superstructure of society and that "Marr and his closest colleagues [had] introduced theoretical confusion into linguistics" (Stalin 1950). Several of the most prominent young linguists who rose so rapidly in the 1930s were charged with dogmatically applying Marrist linguistic theories. These included Äyyub Ghulamov and Fakhri Kämalov (Serebrennikov 1954: 18).39 Nevertheless, the generation of linguists who were put in charge of Uzbek language planning in the 1930s were fairly successful in maintaining their prominent positions and ignoring demands for language corpus change for years beyond that.

Chapter 12

Conclusion

Before concluding this study, it will be helpful to put political development and Uzbek language planning of the 1917-1941 period in a longer chronological perspective. In order to do this, a brief summary of problems of political development and language change in Uzbekistan since 1940 will be provided. Finally, language planning in Uzbekistan will be considered against the background of the other (non-Soviet) cases of language planning discussed in chapter 1.

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan since 1941 As in previous decades, since 1941 the Communist Party has continued to be vitally concerned with penetration. During the war, with the very existence of the Soviet Union imperiled, terror ceased to be the regime's primary instrument to motivate compliance. In this atmosphere, questions of legitimacy (and through it identity and distribution) came to occupy a much more important role. In the late Stalin years, i.e., following the war, penetration reverted to greater reliance on terror and force. Stalin's death in 1953, however, marked the beginning of a long process (continuing all the way into the Gorbachev era) during which penetration once again began to require greater legitimacy. Given its close link with penetration, it is not surprising that Stalin's demise also had a major impact on participation. Stalin's successors began to encourage certain new forms of mass political activity. Khrushchev apparently believed that greater citizen participation in government would eventually lead to the withering of the state. Under Brezhnev the opportunities for citizens to take part in local government also increased. Nevertheless, this participation was allowed only within narrow constraints permitted by the party. In the Gorbachev era, however, the new leadership began to permit and even encourage spontaneous political activity. This change in

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official attitude towards participation was in part an attempt to bolster legitimacy. However, Gorbachev may also have realized that the largely artificial "participation" in Brezhnev's "era of stagnation" also deprived the system of information which was necessary to run an efficient economy. As such, this was probably also a factor which aggravated problems of distribution. The changing relation between penetration and legitimacy over the last fifty years has had dramatic effects on Soviet policy toward questions of identity. In order to inspire patriotism during the war, Moscow abandoned its heavy-handed attempt to infuse Soviet identity with such a dominant Russian element. In this atmosphere, it encouraged works about Uzbek heroes of yore who fought foreign invaders; likewise, it abandoned attempts to spread atheism. But such concessions were not granted for long, and in the late 1940s the party again demanded that the new Soviet Uzbek identity reject ties with its "feudal" past and maximally adopt "progressive" Russian culture. For a number of reasons, however, the nature of the task of creating a Soviet identity changed over the decades following World War II. One major reason was the changing demographic composition of the USSR as a whole and Uzbekistan in particular. Although reliable figures on Soviet population by nationality are not available for the decade following World War II, it is clear that since the early 1950s the share of Russians and other Slavs in the total Soviet population has steadily declined. Today only about half of all Soviet citizens are Russians. (In 1959, Russians comprised almost 55% of the population, and, presumably, six years earlier, even more.) Meanwhile, the share of Muslim nationalities in the Soviet population, especially Central Asians, has steadily increased. Whereas in 1959 Muslims accounted for under 12% of the Soviet population, by 1979 their share had reached close to 17%. Uzbeks alone, who in 1959 accounted for under 3% of the total Soviet population, by 1979 accounted for almost 5% of it. The changing shares of Russians and Uzbeks in the Soviet population are also reflected in the demographic trends in Uzbekistan. Whereas in 1959, Russians comprised 13.5% of Uzbekistan's inhabitants, by 1970 they represented only 12.5% of them, and by 1979 under 11%. On the other hand, the Uzbek share grew from 62.1% in 1959 to 65.5% in 1970 and to 68.7% in 1979 (Zinchenko 1976: 203; Chislennost' 1984: 110; Rywkin 1982: 68).

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The task of creating a sense of Soviet identity in the post-Stalin era also changed because of the rising educational level of non-Russians and because more educated non-Russians began to staff a wide variety of posts in their republics. Between the late Stalin era and the 1970s, the proportion of Muslims among functionaries of the party and state hierarchies in Central Asia as a whole increased from approximately one-fourth to three-fourths of the total (Rakowska-Harmstone 1983: 36). These individuals, while able to operate in a Russian linguistic and cultural environment, nevertheless had a keen sense of belonging to a non-Slavic culture. The lack of an external crisis of the magnitude of the Nazi threat also affected the regime's efforts to create a "Soviet" identity. Although during the war there was a more lenient policy towards expression of national and religious identity, a sense of common fate made many Soviet citizens of all nationalities willingly contribute to the war against the Germans. In the post-war years, and especially the cold war years, the Communist Party used the Western "threat" to encourage Soviet patriotism. Although at one time propaganda about Western imperialism might have been quite effective, it became less credible in the late 1970s and 1980s. The rejection of terror as a regular instrument of government also fundamentally changed the environment in which the Communist Party attempted to create a sense of Soviet identity. Beginning with the late 1950s, the limits of permissible expression of national identification began to expand. In Uzbekistan, for example, there was renewed attention to pre-Soviet history as well as to traditional art and music. Moreover, the punishments for overstepping the bounds of acceptable expression became much milder. Following Stalin's death, "nationalist" scholars, writers, and other artists did not have to pay for their mistakes with their lives. Under Gorbachev's policy of glasnost', bold expressions of national pride became commonplace. Although in the post-Stalin years "Soviet" and "Russian" were never as closely linked as they had been in the late 1930s or during the anticosmopolitan campaign of the late Stalin era, Khrushchev attempted to hurry the creation of a single Soviet identity by claiming that national differences were becoming less and less relevant. He spoke of a process of "flourishing", "rapprochement", and "merger", but his stress was on the latter two of these processes. This was evident, for example, in the 1961 Communist Party Program statement that republic

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borders were becoming obsolete. Under Brezhnev, authoritative statements on the national question continued to emphasize a process of forming a new amalgam of nationalities inhabiting the USSR. In the early 1970s Brezhnev introduced the concept of the "Soviet people" (sovetskii narod), which he claimed was a "new historical community"; later in the decade, Soviet leaders spoke of the "full unity" of this community (Rywkin 1982: 138-143). Even during the Brezhnev era, however, a more sophisticated understanding of nationality development in the USSR began to emerge. Indeed, although many of the terms used to describe national relations during the Brezhnev era were the same as those under Khrushchev, their meaning had changed. Sblizhenie, as used under Khrushchev, generally implied the loss of ethnic uniqueness of different nations and national groups. In the Brezhnev years, however, it implied that although these groups became increasingly integrated, they nevertheless preserved their national uniqueness. Much of the credit for the beginning of change in outlook regarding nationality and ethnicity belongs to a group of prominent Soviet ethnographers who pointed out in the Brezhnev era that despite the increasing network of economic, political, social, and cultural links, the nationalities of the USSR were not merging. The ethnographers explained this through a new theory of ethnos which stated that ethnic communities survived all changes in socioeconomic historical formations (Rakowska-Harmstone 1986: 243). Even prior to Gorbachev's appointment as General Secretary, in particular during the leadership of Andropov, this new interpretation began to be accepted by the central party leadership. Especially after 1985, Gorbachev adopted a much more flexible and looser definition of Soviet identity which presupposed that national differences are very durable. Moreover, he began to recognize that his proposed political and economic decentralization might intensify these differences. All of this was accompanied by a muting of official glorification of Russian language, culture, and people and their character as "international". At the same time, Russian and other Soviet political and cultural figures began to acknowledge that national cultures had been unjustly denigrated in the past and that true internationalism required respect for one's own culture. Even such a Russiandominated institution as the Soviet Army began to pay attention to cultural and linguistic needs of non-Russian soldiers.

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The production problems which the USSR faced in the first decade after World War II were primarily ones of rebuilding the economy of a country destroyed by war. In the succeeding years the Soviet leaders attempted to raise the country's productive capacity and the citizens' standard of living. The Brezhnev leadership continued to administer according to the old methods of a centrally planned economy; the inefficiency of these methods became increasingly evident as economic growth slowed in the 1970s. Although the regime claimed to be moving toward a society with more even allocation of opportunities and wealth, in fact certain segments of society consolidated their privileged positions. Despite some industrial development in Uzbekistan, the republic remained primarily a supplier of raw materials to the rest of the USSR, in particular cotton. Moreover, the regime's pressure for cotton production emphasized short term benefits. This led to such undesirable practices as inefficient use of water, careless application of dangerous chemical substances, falsified harvest figures, and child agricultural labor. Relatively little was invested in the social service infrastructure of the republic; this resulted in a deterioration in such vital fields as education and health services. The salience of these factors was particularly great because as belief in communist ideology declined, the regime's legitimacy increasingly depended on its ability to create a higher standard of living. The enormous material and human losses during World War II became an ever less credible justification for the relatively low Soviet standard of living. Although even in the Khrushchev era the Soviet leadership began to channel more investment into housing, agriculture, and other consumer items, inefficient methods, growing expectations, and more knowledge about the higher standard of living in the industrial West worked against the regime. Under Gorbachev the regime recognized the need to raise the standard of living in order to bolster its legitimacy, but the party has had to balance these pressing needs with other urgent ones. The situation is critical among those who live below the poverty line (a group whose existence the Soviet leadership finally acknowledged) and in the poorer areas of the USSR where expectations and demands far outstrip the party's ability to deliver. Uzbekistan is one such area. In the late 1980s, the colony-like economic status of the republic became a major cause for dissatisfaction among the republic's intelligentsia.

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At the same time that production and distribution became more important to the Communist Party's legitimacy throughout the Soviet Union, the regime began to place greater demands on Uzbekistan and the Uzbeks to produce a greater share of the nation's wealth and to do so more efficiently. Moreover, the party began to look at Uzbekistan's "excess" population as part of a solution to the USSR's labor shortage. Soviet scholars estimated that for the 1980s Central Asia would contribute over half of the growth of the able-bodied Soviet population of working age; this is a dramatic change from the 1960s, when the region provided only about 15% of the growth (Makarova, Morozova & Tarasova 1986: 5-6). Although it had little success, in the 1980s the party attempted to encourage indigenous Central Asians to move to other parts of the USSR where they could be put to work.

Uzbek language change since 1941 As in the first decades of Soviet power, in the half century since the outbreak of World War II language in Uzbekistan has continued to reflect the problems of political development faced by the Communist Party. In most of the last fifty years, however, there has been much more stability in language corpus and status than in the previous decade. Under Gorbachev, however, there have been signs of major change in both areas. Corpus. Uzbek has continued to be written in the Cyrillic alphabet since 1940 and the orthographic changes which have been made are quite minor in comparison to those of the 1920s and 1930s. Vocabulary, by its very nature, has been more subject than orthography to gradual change over this period. Nevertheless, even vocabulary changes have been far less rapid and dramatic than in the earlier period. Moreover, with the exception of the very last years of the Stalin era, the debates concerning vocabulary have not been as politically charged or dangerous as previously. The only significant reform of Uzbek orthography since 1940 was adopted in 1956. This included such minor changes as replacing the apostrophe (which had been used in many words of Arabic origin)

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 261

with a Russian "hard sign". Despite this conservatism in practice, discussion broached broader issues. Some linguists suggested changes to bring the Uzbek alphabet and Uzbek orthography closer to Russian, such as by introducing into the Uzbek alphabet the two Russian letters which it lacks; most of the proposals, however, would make Uzbek spelling less like Russian.1 In 1989 and 1990, proposals finally surfaced to shift Uzbek writing once more to the Arabic or Latin script. Many of the words of Arabic and Persian origin which were "expelled" from the language in the 1930s have reappeared. However, to judge from the Uzbek "translations" given in a five-volume RussianUzbek dictionary published between 1950 and 1955, it does not appear that this process began until at least the late 1950s. The Uzbek equivalents of many Russian terms (which had been rendered in a 1934 dictionary with Turkic, Arabic, and Persian words) were indicated in the 1950s dictionary as identical with the Russian words (Guliamova 1985: 18-19). In the second half of the 1950s, under the theory of "parallelism", many of the Turkic, Arabic, and Persian words began to re-emerge and be used in parallel fashion with Russian terms (Guliamova 1985: 74; Muhammadjanova 1982: 57-58). In the 1960s, an increasing number of Uzbek linguists and writers began to state publicly that more Arabic and Persian words deserved a place in the language and that, in fact, they comprise part of Uzbek's richness.2 In line with this, in the late 1960s, there was an "activization of Arabisms" as some of the Russian terms fell out of favor (lazyk 1982: 211). In particular, technical vocabulary for which Russian words had once been used began to be replaced with new ones based on Uzbek caiques (Daniyarov 1977: 154). Although from the 1960s through the middle 1980s the average educated Uzbek was probably aware of these changes through the language in historical fiction and television dramas, and the style in which certain writers chose to express themselves, this phenomenon itself was not a focus of public attention. At the end of the 1980s, the trend itself became a major issue of discussion in the Uzbek press, as mass periodicals carried demands by members of the Uzbek literati for major language corpus change. The old script began to be taught in the schools as a subject. Unlike vocabulary and terminology, script and orthography change is more apt to move in leaps. It is still too early to predict whether there will be another "leap", and if so just how far that leap will go. But the more sensitive barometer of

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vocabulary showed substantial change as explicit calls for purification of Uzbek vocabulary appeared. Status. Although the Uzbek language has shown great vitality and been developed to meet certain new needs and an expanding readership, until 1989 Russian clearly preserved the privileged status which it had enjoyed since the end of korenizatsiia. The vitality of Uzbek is demonstrated by the fact that almost 99% of the those people claiming Uzbek nationality in Uzbekistan in the 1979 census also claimed Uzbek as their native language. (However, under 13% of the rest of the republic's population claimed fluency in Uzbek, with less than a quarter of that small group claiming Uzbek as their native language [Chislennost' 1984: 110-111]). In the area of education, especially primary education, Uzbek remained the primary language of tuition. Out of a total 2,621,503 pupils in preparatory grades and grades 1-10 of UzSSR schools in 1967-1968, 1,805,284 attended class in Uzbek. (Of the remaining pupils, 568,583 attended Russian schools [Desheriev 1976: 117]). As of 1970, approximately 2.6 million children attended Uzbek language schools in republic, a number which slightly exceeded the number of school-age Uzbeks. While some Uzbeks attended Russian-language schools, a slightly greater number of nonUzbek children attended Uzbek schools (Khanazarov 1982: 178).3 In 1985, approximately 70% of the schools in Uzbekistan offered instruction only in Uzbek, and approximately 10% more offered instruction in Uzbek and Russian (Moscow News, no. 13 [7-14 April] 1985: 9).4 One aspect of Russian's privileged position is evident in higher education, where many subjects, especially advanced levels of scientific and technical disciplines are still taught only in that language. Uzbek has also maintained a strong position in the press, but here, too, Russian is often used for specialized publications. The number of copies of Uzbek-language books and brochures published in the UzSSR grew from 15.2 million in 1960 to 18.6 million in 1965, 22.9 million in 1980, and 27.1 million in 1981 (Narodnoe 1976: 402; Narodnoe 1985: 323; Pechat' 1982: 18). For the years 1982-1984, however, Uzbek-language book production never exceeded 25 million. And although the number of copies of Uzbek-language books and brochures grew, their share in the republic's publications dropped: In 1960, Uzbek-language materials accounted for about 75% of the copies

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 263

of books and brochures printed in the UzSSR, but in 1984 they accounted for only 51% (Narodnoe 1985: 322-323). Moreover, despite the approximately 50% increase in Uzbek book production between 1960 and 1980, this lagged substantially behind the rate of population increase. Between 1959 and 1979 the Uzbek population of the UzSSR more than doubled (from 5.0 million to 10.6 million) (Itogi 1962: 206; Chislennost' 1984: 110). As a result, although the publication of Uzbek-language books per Uzbek in the UzSSR grew from 2.79 to 3.00 between 1959 and 1970, by 1980 the figure had dropped to 2.16 (Guboglo 1984: 162).5 This has resulted in a relatively poor availability of Uzbek books. Whereas for the USSR as a whole an average of three books are published annually for every child, less than one children's book is published for every two children in Uzbekistan.6 The number of titles of books published in Uzbek in 1984 was actually smaller than in 1960. Scattered data for the 1970s and early 1980s indicate that the number of titles has never climbed much above the 1960 figure of 1028; in 1984 it was only 995. Although the number of copies of books printed in Uzbek trails only Russian and Ukrainian in the USSR, a greater variety of literature is available in a number of other languages. In terms of number of titles, in 1984 Uzbek lagged not only behind Russian and Ukrainian, but also behind the three languages of the Baltic republics and Georgian as well (Pechat' 1985: 24). Moreover, it appears that a disproportionately large share of the Uzbek-language "books" are in fact brochures or rather short books. In 1984, 566,917,200 printer sheets (pechatnykh listov-ottiskov) of book pages were printed in Uzbekistan, but only 289,718,100 were printed in Uzbek in the entire USSR that year. Even if all Uzbek books were in fact published in the UzSSR, they represented only about half of the number of printer sheets (Pechat' 1985: 24, 123). In the case of newspaper publishing, the growth was more dramatic and Uzbek continued to hold a stronger position. In 1950, 59 million copies of Uzbek newspapers were published in the UzSSR; by 1960 there were 181 million; by 1965 there were 270.5 million; by 1970 there were 493 million; and by 1984 there were 752 million (Narodnoe 1976: 402; Pechat' 1982: 30). The share of Uzbek newspapers in the total newspaper output of Uzbekistan remained steady or slightly increased in the 1970s and 1980s. In 1965, Uzbek-language papers accounted for about 70% of the total; in 1970 they accounted for

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71%, and as of early 1985 almost three-fourths of the papers printed in the UzSSR were in Uzbek. (Mikhaylov 1985).7 The publication of a two-volume defining dictionary of the Uzbek language and a fourteen-volume Uzbek encyclopedia were also important developments related to the status of Uzbek. While neither publication was issued in a large enough edition for most Uzbeks to be able to purchase them,8 these two items are representative of the many other books on a wide variety of subjects which have been written in Uzbek (or translated into it) and for which entire sets of vocabulary have been developed. In particular, the compilation of the encyclopedia required that many new terms be created. Notwithstanding the above statistics and events attesting to the maintenance and even enhancement of the status of Uzbek, there were other signs - even in the field of education - which indicated an erosion of Uzbek's position. In particular, changes in school curricula cut the number of hours devoted to native language and literature in Uzbek language schools. The weekly hour which had been devoted to Uzbek language instruction in the ninth grade curriculum was eliminated beginning in 1986-1987 (Oz. A & S, 3 October 1986), and the three weekly hours devoted to literature both in the eighth and tenth grades were reduced to two (Oz. A & S, 5 September 1986). The same kinds of trends are apparent in higher education, especially for those studying technical disciplines. The curriculum for Uzbek students in preparatory divisions of most UzSSR higher educational institutions included only 60-90 hours of class devoted to Uzbek language and literature; and despite the fact that compositions are required as part of entrance exams to higher educational institutions, some medical and technical higher educational institutions entirely eliminated native language and literature classes from the preparatory division curricula (Oq. G 13 September 1986). Many Uzbek writers and educators expressed unhappiness with the reduction in number of hours devoted to native language instruction; they also noted that the level of knowledge of Uzbek language and literature by secondary school graduates and even teachers of these subjects was deplorably low (Oq. G 20 December 1986; YL 25 November 1986). But perhaps the most important factor affecting the status of Uzbek between 1940 and 1989 was the role of Russian, and in particular its greatly enhanced position beginning at the end of the 1970s. The war brought many European evacuees to Uzbekistan, and so the status of

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Russian grew. Many Uzbek soldiers fighting in World War II learned Russian, although the Soviet military also accommodated some of the Uzbeks' linguistic needs through such measures as front-line newspapers in the Uzbek language. Such concessions, however, did not extend beyond the war. During the first 15-20 years after the death of Stalin, the party demonstrated little concern about the level of Russian language fluency among the non-Russian population of Uzbekistan, and little attention was devoted to Russian language instruction in republic schools (Guboglo 1984: 91).9 Because of this, in 1970 the number of UzSSR Uzbeks between 20 and 29 years of age who spoke Russian was 20% lower than the number in that age group who had graduated secondary and higher educational institutions (Guboglo 1984: 97). Moreover, Uzbekistan was one of only two republics in the USSR where the absolute number of children attending Russian-language schools declined (Guboglo 1984: 140). In the early 1970s, the party began to be more concerned about nonRussians' weak skills in Russian and by the middle of the decade measures were being designed to address the problem. In 1975 an AilUnion conference was held in Tashkent devoted to teaching Russian in educational institutions of all levels. The political importance attached to Russian fluency by the end of the decade is evident in the 1979 census figures which purported that the number of UzSSR Uzbeks fluent in Russian had quadrupled in the nine years since the previous census (Guboglo 1984: 109).10 The campaign to teach Russian language to non-Russians went into high gear in 1979. The effort was launched by another All-Union conference, which not coincidentally again took place in Tashkent. Following the conference, great resources were allocated for such purposes as developing new curricula for teaching Russian, preparing teachers, introducing Russian-language instruction in pre-school educational institutions, equipping language laboratories, expanding a network of native-language schools with "enriched" Russian curricula, and reducing the size of all Russian language classes. The number of hours devoted to Russian language in the school curriculum was increased. The same trend affected teacher training; beginning in 1984-1985 the number of hours devoted to the "Practical Course for Russian" for students studying to become non-language teachers grew to 500 hours of instruction.11 In 1984, the Uzbek republic had plans

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to increase the number of Russian language teachers in its schools by 1990 from 26,395 to 46,930 (Rakhmanov 1984: 52). In fact, there were occasional references to plans to send Russian language teachers to Uzbekistan from Slavic republics of the USSR. The regime's commitment to improving Russian language instruction was also embodied in the educational reform which set the objective of universal fluency in Russian. As of 1989, however, some new factors appeared to be causing the leadership of the USSR and Uzbekistan in particular to reconsider plans to enhance Russian's status vis-ä-vis Uzbek. In this regard the most important development was the October 1989 law making Uzbek the official state language of Uzbekistan. In adopting such a law, Uzbekistan was following the path of a number of other republics. Although the law still preserved special functions for Russian, if fully implemented it will greatly enhance Uzbek's status.

Language planning in Uzbekistan in comparative perspective Language change in Uzbekistan has been shaped by a unique set of political, economic, social, and cultural factors. Nevertheless, the Uzbek experience illustrates many of the issues concerning language planning and national development raised in chapter 1. This is because many aspects of Uzbek language planning parallel processes in other societies. Penetration. The high degree of "penetration", (i.e., extent of effective control) exercised by Stalin's regime was a tremendous asset which enhanced its ability to plan and implement language change. The evidence presented in this study relates almost exclusively to language of published materials. However, it appears that over time most of the changes were introduced into other forms of Uzbek communication. Younger generations knew little of the Arabic and Latin alphabets used by their fathers or grandfathers; moreover, the younger generation, especially in the capital Tashkent and certain other urban areas, assimilated much of the "international" vocabulary. The effective control over the language planning process exercised by the mature Stalin regime in many ways resembles language reform in the Persian

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and Turkish armies cited at the beginning of this study. The military in these countries had something of a "captive" language population over whom they could enforce rules. It is certainly not coincidental that a "totalitarian" regime such as Stalin's in the 1930s shared the effectiveness of military language planners. At the same time, however, the Uzbek experience also demonstrates that governments cannot ignore linguistic realities. One non-Soviet example of this cited above was the Algerian grudging acceptance of the fact that Berber was needed in order to communicate with the Berber population. Stalin, of course, had much greater power over his population than any Algerian leaders. However, even he could not ignore what Cobarrubias terms the "ethoglossia" in Uzbekistan; consequently, he was obliged to accept linguistic diversity. In the 1920s and 1930s, few Uzbeks knew Russian, and few had much contact with it or need to use it. Stalin could not change the fact that the vast majority of Uzbeks spoke various Turkic dialects. The merging of languages predicted by Marrist linguists and their insistence on the "international" nature of borrowings from Russian suggest that Stalin may have entertained fantasies of quickly creating a monolingual USSR. As Fishman points out in reference to other "nationists", Stalin, too, may have decided that "the fewer languages the better, and the less opposition to them the better" (Fishman 1968b: 9). If Stalin had any such ideas about a quick "solution" to the Soviet language problem before the German attack on the USSR in 1941, his illusions were quickly dispelled after the war began. It does not appear that when Stalin again promoted Russian nationalism after World War II that he seriously attempted to promote linguistic merging as predicted by Marr. Indeed, in 1950, Stalin disavowed Marrist linguistic theory. Uzbek language planning further demonstrates that when the extreme penetration of a "totalitarian" regime breaks down, the regime's ability to control language planning is further impaired. Many Uzbek language corpus changes in the thirty years after Stalin's death were not in accordance with the Soviet leaders' proclaimed belief that the cultures and languages of Soviet peoples were coming closer together. But without the use of terror to achieve a very high degree of penetration, the Khrushchev and Brezhnev leaderships were unable to block "undesirable" language changes which enjoyed the support of much of the cultural elite. If it is a general pattern that modern totalitarian regimes cannot maintain an extremely high degree of

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penetration over an extended period, this may mean that even governments with a high measure of effective control have only a relatively short period to effect language change. The same trend may also apply to democratization of authoritarian states. The policies of the Franco regime vis-ä-vis regional languages also broke down after the dictator's death. Although Uzbek language planning in the early years of Soviet power resembled the decentralized model described by Tollefson, as Stalin consolidated his political grip on the country, language planning in the USSR as a whole and in Uzbekistan in particular was also quickly centralized. Viewed in the context of language planning for other Turkic languages of the USSR, centralization brought a strange mixture of coordination and diversity. The adoption of forms of the Cyrillic alphabet for Turkic languages was coordinated in Moscow, but seemingly in such a way as to produce differences among the languages. The reasons for this kind of diversity are very different from the diversity in Arabic terminology which is the product of many autonomous and perhaps even competing centers of language planning. In the Soviet case it appears that Moscow may have played a role in assuring that uniformity was not achieved. At the same time, however, the failure of the Arabic countries to coordinate their action means that one should not necessarily assume that language planners for Turkic dialects in a very different kind of Soviet Union - i.e., a decentralized one - would have been successful in unifying terminology for their languages. Like Ataturk's adoption of the Latin alphabet, the major changes in Uzbek writing systems were also very rapid. In the case of the shift from Arabic to Latin, the relatively low literacy rate may have been a blessing in that there was less opposition because of the "unlearning" which the alphabet shift entailed. In the case of both alphabet changes, however, the regime's success was probably in part linked to the speed with which they were introduced. Soviet language planners who worked in the first decades after 1917, as language planners in other societies with a low educational level, also understood the close link between literacy and penetration. It is not coincidental that the greatest push for literacy took place simultaneously with the social and economic revolution of the First Five Year Plan. Unlike India, however, where the government is still promoting literacy in part to achieve the population's compliance with

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its goals, the Soviet government was able to achieve widespread literacy in the course of a couple of decades. In part this is a function of the greater productive capacity of the USSR which allowed it to devote great resources to this project. It is also closely linked to the degree of penetration by the Soviet regime and its greater ability than governments of most other developing countries to redirect resources to raise literacy. Certainly it was more difficult for anyone in Stalin's Soviet Union to refuse to attend or "voluntarily" teach a literacy class than was ever the case in democratic India. As Soviet leaders in the 1970s and 1980s attempted to promote more rational utilization of manpower (both in the civilian and military sectors), they sought to augment native language literacy with literacy in Russian. But the nature of the task and the economic situation in the Soviet Union have clearly shown the limits of the regime's penetration. Russian has served as an instrument of penetration in Uzbekistan in much the same way that languages of other metropolitan powers have served this function in their colonies. In Uzbekistan (especially following 1934), as in French Indochina, the "favored" language limited participation to the elite who knew that language. Unlike the French in Indochina, the Bolshevik Russians first attempted to rule through the indigenous language and open up participation to a much broader group. However, the end of korenizatsiia coincided with the beginning of the purges, which were Stalin's attempt to achieve maximum penetration. At this juncture Stalin probably welcomed the added linguistic "filter" which further limited participation. Participation. As leaders in many revolutionary societies, in the early years the Bolsheviks, too, hoped that language reform would open greater opportunities for participation by segments of society sympathetic to the new regime. Since the Bolshevik Revolution, similar patterns have been followed by such socialist regimes as those in Vietnam and Ethiopia. Although this Soviet policy (which generally limited upward mobility to those who knew Russian) was not officially promulgated, there are similarities between it and those policies in Kenya which have limited political participation to those fluent in the colonial language, English. The experience of such countries as Algeria and Morocco demonstrates that even the fervent desire to facilitate participation by

270 Conclusion

replacing the colonial language with the indigenous one does not guarantee an easy victory. As their counterparts in the Maghreb who were educated in French schools, many of today's Uzbeks are more comfortable in Russian than in their "own" language. (This is a major difference between the situation today and the situation during the 1920s.) This means that many of them are likely to prefer that Russian continue to be used in some areas where "nationalists" are calling for its replacement by Uzbek. The attitudes of the Russianeducated elite are understandable if one keeps in mind Fishman's observation that even in such a fields as chemistry, the choice of one language or another has profound implications for the power of individuals who know them. Brass notes that language differences in and of themselves do not necessarily become politically salient; whether this happens depends on the participation of elites. In the first decade after the revolution, this "service" was performed both by officials in Moscow and local nationalists in Central Asia. In most societies, however, and certainly in democratic ones, the government is much less likely than in Uzbekistan of the 1930s to be able to prevent alternative elites from exploiting language issues for their own benefit. Although in the case of language status, the goals of local nationalists and Bolshevik leaders had much in common all the way up until the early 1930s, already by the middle of the 1920s their views on many important corpus issues diverged radically. Because the Bolshevik regime was able to limit the nationalists' participation so effectively, the nationalists were unable to mobilize those segments of the population who might support them. Once again, this demonstrates the close tie between penetration and participation. Esman's observation that language planning decisions are ultimately made by those who control the state machinery is certainly supported by the Uzbek case. Legitimacy. One of the goals of Bolshevik language planning in the early years was cultivation of legitimacy in the eyes of the population. An indirect way was through translation of political propaganda and major works of Marx and Lenin into Uzbek. It is relatively unimportant that many details of the Marxist-Leninist message did not make sense to the Uzbeks, whether in their language or in a foreign one. But portions of that message, in particular the promise of an end to national exploitation, attracted support for the new regime. In

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 271

placing such emphasis on translation of works which conveyed their own world view, the Bolsheviks acted in much the same way as their revolutionary descendants in Ethiopia and Somalia, not to mention earlier Christian missionaries throughout Asia and Africa. The heightened status of Uzbek which resulted from korenizatsiia, like declarations of linguistic "independence" in other former colonies, was designed in part to achieve greater legitimacy for the Bolshevik regime. This is true both from the perspective of the broad masses of population and the elites. However, Uzbek "linguistic independence" in the sense of a creation of an independent Uzbek literary language (separate from or instead of a pan-Turkic one) was much less directed to concerns of legitimacy than in most newly-independent countries. Rather, Moscow created or at least supported creation of an independent Uzbek language primarily because it promised to help combat pan-Turkism and thus serve to foster penetration. Indeed, many Uzbek literati had mixed feelings about the declaration of Uzbek "linguistic independence" in the 1920s. Some might have preferred to foster development of a pan-Turkic language. However, it is significant that they apparently did not actively resist this "independence" created by Moscow. Identity. The chapters on alphabet, orthography, and vocabulary in the first part of this book demonstrate that during the first decade of Soviet history, the Bolshevik leadership was willing to grant considerable discretion to local elites to determine the content of "their own" identity. However, this was done in the expectation that eventually national and language differences would disappear. By the late 1920s and 1930s, Moscow was attempting to "help" these differences disappear more rapidly. In these policies the Bolshevik leaders demonstrated their understanding of the importance of language as a symbol of identity.12 The most tangible signs of this are the three different alphabets which were in use within slightly over a decade. Like the Ethiopians, who consciously made the decision to use the Amharic script for Ethiopia's Somali population, the Soviet government sought to reinforce ties between the Uzbeks and other Soviet peoples while simultaneously attenuating the bonds linking them to the Turks of Turkey and other Muslim peoples.

272 Conclusion

As indicated above, such seemingly minor details as the Croatians' use of their "own" words (instead of "international" ones) or the use of the Arabic broken plural in Persian can acquire great significance in the proper set of conditions. However, the salience of these lexical symbols in Uzbekistan took on an extraordinary importance in the politically charged atmosphere accompanied by russification of the 1930s and late Stalin years. In that context, these issues literally became matters of life and death for some of the creative intelligentsia. In today's more relaxed atmosphere, many of the same symbols are still salient; indeed, the history of "internationalization" of Uzbek in the 1930s enhances the significance of today's events as symbols of identity. Bolshevik leaders were sensitive to the central role of language in transmitting history which Fishman describes. In fact, Stalin's regime welcomed the disruptive role of alphabet shifts precisely because these changes cut Uzbeks off from their past. Any young Uzbek who was fortunate enough to find a copy of an Arabic-script text much beyond 1930 was increasingly unlikely to be able to read it. A similar process occurred after 1940 and the shift to the Cyrillic script. The Uzbek alphabet shifts stand in great contrast to the conservatism of the Iranians or even Chinese. Probably because of the disruption they felt it would cause, most Uzbek language reformers of the early 1920s (unlike Ataturk) did not eagerly seek to abandon the Arabic script. However, by 1926 some of them may have come to feel that the spread of literacy would be facilitated by the change. They may have considered greater graphic unity of Turkic languages to be partial compensation for the loss of alphabet link with the past. Given their pan-Turkic inclinations, perhaps even such writers as Fiträt would have been more positively disposed to the alphabet change if Ataturk had adopted the Latin letters a few years earlier. Despite the fact that parochial town, oasis, valley, and other identities persisted even after the creation of the Uzbek nationality and language (and, indeed, persist today), the creation of a single Uzbek language has played the kind of instrumental role which Kelman describes as fostering a common identity. The great majority of Uzbek children study in Uzbek-language schools where they learn the same standardized form of Uzbek regardless of where in the republic they live, and their families also hear the same Uzbek

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 273

language over the electronic mass media. Higher literacy since the 1920s has permitted millions of Uzbeks to read works about their history and thus it has reinforced a sense of identity. If the status of Uzbek vis-ä-vis Russian should grow as the end of the twentieth century approaches, its significance as an instrument in creating a common identity is likely to increase. This is also suggested by Deutsch's theory of social communication. Although the Marrist theories about the merging of languages which supported the creation of a single identity were eventually abandoned, the Soviet discussions of such improbable events are not unique. The Nigerian proposal to create a national language out of discreet major languages of the country are not much more likely to be realized that the merger ä la Nikolai Marr. The Uzbek language planning experience also illustrates the contradictions which sometimes exist between the identities declared by language planning elites and those felt by the masses. As in Iran, where purists sought to eliminate Arabic words from language and simultaneously bring it closer to the people, Uzbek nationalist poets of the 1920s also attempted to pursue contradictory goals of "authenticity" and "democratization" of their language. Some of the Uzbek poets who sought to base Uzbek writing on rural dialects which preserved vowel harmony felt that even words assimilated in a "foreign" pronunciation should be subjected to the rules of "authentic" Uzbek. In a different context, Moscow's language planners were faced with a parallel situation which they resolved in favor of the "international" identity which they sought to foster. They claimed that the Russian pronunciation of international words (i.e., the "authentic" proletarian pronunciation) was being assimilated by Uzbek. They also sought to promote the same "international" (i.e., Soviet, with a heavy Russian component) identity through the alphabet shifts. Some of the Uzbek writers who today seek to "returkicize" their language and simultaneously bring it closer to their people may encounter a similar contradiction. Because of its unusually complex linguistic picture, the USSR does not neatly fit into any of Fishman's three categories of "Type A", "Type B", or "Type C" countries. However, given the fact that even within Central Asia there existed at least two "Great Traditions" plus the Russian "Great Tradition", it fits most appropriately in the "Type C" category. As Fishman observes, it is in these societies that language

274 Conclusion

planning choices take place in an environment of "rather constant internal tension" (Fishman 1971: 39). In one sense, the enhanced status of Russian as the "foreign LWC" (language of wider communication) in Central Asia represented a logical and neutral choice for an "international" language linking Uzbekistan to the rest of the USSR. However, because Uzbekistan continued to be bound to Russia by a very centralized political system and through the presence of many Russians in the republic, the choice of Russian was not really an external LWC. Rather, it represented the choice of one of the Great Traditions at the expense of the others. Over time, the tensions created by such a choice seem likely to worsen. In this context it is not surprising that in the 1980s, when it was (for the first time in over 50 years) no longer so dangerous for individuals to express anger about this phenomenon, language status became a major arena for political battles. This linguistic battle bears some similarities to the language problems created by the enhancement of the Malay language at the expense of Chinese in Malaysia. The Malay majority (who were historically poorer and less educated than the Chinese majority) took steps to guarantee their own language rights. A parallel process seems to be underway today in Uzbekistan.13 Distribution. Despite the historically great penetration of Soviet power which allowed the leadership to mobilize the population, the country's finite economic capacity has always constrained language policy. Until recently Soviet scholars rarely analyzed the USSR's situation with the candor of foreign scholars. The substance of Chumbow's observation about Africa that insufficient funds forced abandonment of entire language planning projects undoubtedly had parallels in the USSR. With Gorbachev's stress on economic accountability, such questions are now being discussed openly. Given the complexity of such costbenefit calculations as suggested by Thorburn, it is probable that in the future language planners with competing goals will each attempt to "prove" the economic advantages of their own preferences. The importance of economic incentives in shaping linguistic behavior discussed by Paulston is also observable in Uzbekistan. Russians in Uzbekistan have never associated sufficient economic rewards with Uzbek language learning. Indeed, many of them consider study of the Uzbek language a waste of time. A corollary of this is that unless

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 275

financial rewards are structured in such as way as to encourage Russians to learn the local language, there is little reason to expect change in the future. The obligatory study of the Russian language throughout Eastern Europe in the 1970s demonstrates that even years of school lessons will not teach children a language to which they attach a low prestige and which they have little incentive to learn. In contrast, throughout Soviet history there has been an incentive for an elite group of the Uzbek population to learn Russian. Especially since the 1930s, Uzbeks who learned Russian had much greater opportunities for upward mobility than those who did not. Consequently, many Uzbek parents chose to send their children to Russian schools. Even though Uzbek is now the official state language of Uzbekistan, some parents who hope that their children will someday join the elite may continue to send their children to Russian schools because they still consider the quality of instruction in Uzbek schools inferior and the diplomas from the latter schools less prestigious. But today some others may see political and economic advantages in choosing Uzbek schools. Another important link between language planning and distribution is the cost of change itself. The unstable alphabets, orthography, and vocabulary of the 1920s and 1930s obliged the Soviet government to devote greater resources than would have been otherwise necessary for such purposes as training teachers, office workers, and typesetters, as well as for developing terminology and publishing textbooks. Conversely, in the long period of stability following 1940, such expenditures were much smaller. As major reforms in orthography and vocabulary are once again contemplated at the end of the twentieth century, the cost of doing this in a much more literate society may be a disincentive to change. The dilemmas based in distribution which relate to linguistic links with other languages are also illustrated in the Uzbek case. As with Haitian Creole, for Uzbek, too, there have long been arguments that it is best to base orthography on etymology, even though it is the etymology of a foreign language (i.e., Russian). Curiously, parallel arguments were made to support the contention that Uzbek should "borrow" Arabic words in the same form as the source language (early 1920s) and again to support "international" spelling following 1934. The issue has still not been resolved in Uzbek, but the implications of "phonetic" as opposed to "etymological" spelling are much the same in

276 Conclusion

Uzbek as in Creole. Phonetic spelling is likely to be of greatest benefit to those people who will not need to learn the foreign language from which the words were borrowed and who speak the dialect upon which the phonetic spelling is based. Etymological spelling which preserves the form of the "lending" language, on the other hand, will make learning to read and write more difficult, but will make second language learning easier for that segment of the population who need to learn it. Soviet policy in Uzbekistan has demonstrated varying mixtures of elite and mass manpower development strategies. The korenizatsiia era represented the height of the mass manpower strategy and, consequently, it shares many of the characteristics found much later in Ethiopia, and to a lesser extent Tanzania. As in revolutionary Ethiopia, during korenizatsiia the rapid expansion of education was achieved at considerable cost to its quality. The policy of the late 1930s bore greater resemblance to an elite manpower development strategy. However, as described above, the party remained strongly committed to providing basic education for the rest of society. Although there was substantial progress in some areas of Uzbeklanguage education since World War II, the same general trend - elite manpower development through reliance on Russian - persisted all the way into the 1980s. The more general Soviet manpower shortage which developed in the 1970s combined with the manpower surplus in Soviet Central Asia made it more attractive to take advantage of the abundant labor in Uzbekistan in the 1980s. This is likely to be a major factor which will tilt the balance in the direction of a mass manpower development strategy and greater use of the Uzbek language in education. From the perspective of the individual, the type of strategy which the party adopts will have a major impact on educational opportunity and thus mobility. Some Uzbeks, like the Indians whom Khubchandani and Southworth describe, are also likely to oppose "democratization" of language; they probably prefer to maintain the privileged status for Russian which has worked to the advantage of the Russian-speaking Uzbek elite since the 1930s. Most other Uzbeks who do not know Russian and have not enjoyed such opportunities probably applaud efforts to raise the status of Uzbek. Some of them, however, like some Creole-speakers in Haiti, may still prefer to pursue their own

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 277

education in the "formerly privileged" language because they continue to see it as the true avenue for upward mobility.

The challenges ahead One of the major factors which may shape Uzbek language change in the future is the political decentralization which Gorbachev's leadership has introduced. Today, unlike any time since the first decade after the Bolshevik Revolution, the leading role in Uzbek language planning may be returning to the indigenous elites of Uzbekistan. The significance of this is clear from the literati's ability to mobilize tens of thousands of students and other citizens to express their views on language issues at unauthorized mass meetings. Moreover, in at least one major aspect, the participation by greater numbers of Uzbeks in this process is self-reinforcing. In the past, Uzbeks who did not know Russian encountered a linguistic barrier to political participation. That barrier has still not been entirely removed. However, the non-Russian speaking Uzbeks who seek to participate more meaningfully in the political process are likely to demand that lack of Russian skills not disqualify them from politics. The masses' elite spokesmen who desire to maintain the support of their followers are likely to continue to support these demands. Such phenomena suggest that a new balance between penetration and participation is now being created. The Gorbachev leadership, aware that the regime's ability to enforce compliance increasingly depends on legitimacy and that legitimacy requires broader participation, is pushed in the direction of granting greater concessions. Gorbachev's handling of participation in the late 1980s stands in stark contrast to Stalin's approach in the 1930s. The concessions to Uzbeks in terms of language as a reflection of identity are just as dramatic. Here, too, one of the primary reasons for the change in policy is the increasing link between penetration and legitimacy. It is above all out of consideration of legitimacy that the Soviet leadership is granting the indigenous elites considerable power to determine the kind of identity which they want to embody in their language.

278 Conclusion

As in the 1920s, Uzbek elites today share a variety of overlapping and even contradictory identities. Among these are Islamic, Turkic, regional, and local ones, as well as the newer "Uzbek" and "Soviet" identities. One recent linguistic manifestation of the Islamic identity is the publication of Arabic alphabet lessons in the weekly cultural newspaper Uzbekistan ädäbiyati vä sän"äti and even in the youth journal Yash kuch. As in the 1920s, the Arabic alphabet is not just a link to much of the rest of the Muslim world, but to Uzbeks' own past as well. The other formerly "tabu" identity is also emerging as members of the Uzbek literati are beginning to write of language purification and creation of new words from Turkic roots. The Soviet Union's formidable problems relative to production and allocation may ultimately have the most serious implications for language development in the future. Many of the demands concerning language status in Uzbekistan over the last few years have been motivated by Uzbeks' desire to achieve linguistic equality in their own republic as a means for economic and social equality. There are calls for higher education in Uzbekistan to accommodate the republic's indigenous population by offering all higher education specialties in Uzbek. These and other Uzbek language services are very costly, and in an era of severe economic stringency they cannot be satisfied without taking resources away from some other pressing need. Whether it can meet them or not, however, today's Communist Party will be forced to begin to address language problems in a new way. Laws and regulations which spell out greater linguistic rights for Uzbeks are important first steps as symbols. Ultimately, however, successful management will require a revolutionary approach in all areas of political development. Perhaps the processes initiated by Gorbachev will bring about such a revolution; however, given the new balance between participation and penetration, the party itself cannot direct this revolution with the same control which it exercised in the 1930s. As Fishman notes, it is social, economic, and political phenomena superimposed on ethnolinguistic, racial, and religious differences which explain most "language problems" (Fishman 1986: 179-180). Regrettably, viewed from 1989, the prospects for successful management of the social, economic, and political problems - which today appear to be reaching crisis proportions - are not bright. In this

Problems of political development in Uzbekistan 279

environment, it is likely that Uzbek language issues will become increasingly important symbols of the other problems. If the coming decades do not give rise to a new Soviet dictator with the power to enforce Moscow's decisions almost two thousand miles away, language choices (as other aspects of the political process) will reflect a major step in the evolution of the Soviet political system. For the first time since the 1920s, it may be Uzbeks who choose among alternative vocabulary, orthography, and scripts for their language. If Uzbeks are allowed to make language status decisions for their own republic, this will be the very first time in Soviet history. Neither the corpus nor the status aspect of this "devolution scenario" would mean a depoliticization of language planning. But they would represent attainment of a significant element of the political autonomy about which the nationalist language planners of the 1920s once dreamed, but never achieved.

Appendix The Uzbek Alphabets Arabic Alphabet Late 19th Century Until 1923

C

^

^

ν C

C

Arabic Alphabet 1923-1930 ^

C

»·

-

~

(S

(S

J

Latin Alphabet 1927-1934

Ra Bb Cc ςς: Dd Ee 3a Ff GgOjotHh M Jj Kk LI Mm Nn tyi) Oo Be Pp Qq Rr S$ ?? Tt Uu Uu KH Vy Zz Zz 1 [apostrophe]

282 Appendix

Latin Alphabet 1934-1940

fla Bb Cc C

", and "H" or eliminate them from the Uzbek version of the Russian alphabet, it should be mentioned that there were proposals to represent these letters "A3", "no", "ny", and "na", respectively; in the spelling of "noninternational" words this would have eliminated problems which later

Notes 295 arose. (See Ibragimov [1972: 168] for an explanation of the problems.) As for using these letter combinations in writing international words, this would have resulted in words such as " peBOJiiomiH " being written "peBOJinyTCHoa". Commenting on this in 1940, Borovkov said this would merely be mechanically replacing the existing letters in the Latin alphabet with Russian letters. "One must look forward, not backward. . . . Uzbek orthography would hardly be the better" with such spellings (Borovkov 1940a: 98). Seen against the current of phonetic spelling which had been so popular in the 1920s and early 1930s, Uzbek orthography had become much more complex than had been proclaimed the ideal in earlier years. In response to this, Borovkov said, "Yes, it is true that Uzbek orthography is becoming more complex. The Uzbek language is developing and, naturally, the orthography becomes more complex." 23. The rules of the 1939 Latin orthography (which was never implemented because time did not permit) also contained this change. Curiously enough, a special dictionary of international words in the Uzbek language complied by A Amiriy in 1935 totally left out words beginning with the letter "H". In the introduction to the dictionary, Amiriy conceded that the list of words was incomplete, but justified this stating that it had been necessary to publish the dictionary as soon as possible (Ozbek tilidägi 1935: 17). Perhaps even at the time the dictionary was published there were proponents of russifying the spelling of these international words. The discussion of the changing orthographic rules has focused on front/rear vowel harmony. A few words here should be devoted to the problem of "consonant harmony". Because (according to the 1929 orthography) the letters "q" and "01" could appear only in words with rear vowels, and the letters "k" and "g" could appear only in words with front vowels, certain endings in Uzbek required separate forms to agree with the word they were added to. One example is the infinitive ending "maq/mak": According to the 1929 rules, words with rear vowels took the ending "maq", while those with front vowels took the ending "msk". The 1934 rules abolished the distinction between hard and soft words except for words which contained one of the four letters "Q", "K", "Of, and "G" in the stem. Because the letter " 9" had been totally eliminated from infinitive endings in the 1934 orthographic rules, the infinitive endings were "maq" and "mak". Words which contained a "Q" or "°T in the stem took the hard ending "maq", while those without these letters (whether they contained either of the "soft" letters or not) took the soft ending "mak". In the 1939 aborted Latin reform and in the new Cyrillic alphabet orthography rules, the instances in which "hard" and "soft" were

296 Notes

24.

25. 26.

27.

distinguished became fewer still. Only roots which ended in a "q" or "01" were hard, while those with these letters in other positions (or without these letters) were soft. In the case of infinitive endings, however, this made no difference, because only one form remained once the Cyrillic alphabet was adopted. For other kinds of endings, such as that for the dative case, even with the adoption of the Cyrillic letters, a vestige of the hard/soft word distinction remained. For words which ended in "n" or "r" the hard dative ending "Ha" was added, while in all other cases a soft dative ending was used. (With the shift to the Cyrillic alphabet " " and "r" were the respective equivalents of the Latin "Q" and "of.) (Usman 1937; Ozbek tilining 1939). A total of thirty-nine letters was sufficient to write all of the letters in all of the Turkic languages with the Latin-based alphabets. In the 1970s, in the Russian-based alphabets, a total of seventy-four letters were needed! (Baskakov 1972; 6-7). One rather interesting explanation of why the new Turkic alphabets were not coordinated is given by Fäkhri Kämalov who says that there was a meeting in Moscow at the very end of 1939 at which reports were given on the shift to the new alphabet. "But the internal and international situation of our country at that time did not allow a total solution of the question of unification." If Kämalov is referring to the "rush" to adopt the Cyrillic alphabet, he is at least partly correct! (Kamal[ov] 1962: 148). Because Marrist dogma declared that all languages (not just Turkic ones) were moving in the direction of unification, it is clear why there were no public suggestions that Turkic alphabets seek to unify the forms of "extra" letters not in the Russian alphabet. At one meeting in Tashkent a recommendation was made to coordinate the Uzbek and Tajik alphabets (QO, 28 March 1940); however, since Tajik is not a Turkic language, this bore no tinge of pan-Turkism. The following number of participants attended classes in the various oblasts: Bukhara - 68; Samarkand - 44; Tashkent - 46; Fergana - 80; and Khorezm - 22 (Arkhiv, op. 5, d. 3649, list 27). By oblast the following numbers of teachers were to attend the courses in the raion centers: Bukhara - 4670; Samarkand - 3940; Tashkent 3,080; Fergana - 5,580; and Khorezm - 1,180 (Arkhiv op. 5, d. 3649, list 27). According to Pravda Vostoka, the printing of textbooks was proceeding very slowly during the early part of the summer of 1940; at the beginning of July, only 7,000 to 12,000 textbooks per day were being printed. A review of the printing was made, however, after which printing was accelerated. On some days after this, up to 110,000 books were produced.

Notes 297 28. Due to the German attack on the USSR, however, it is doubtful this target was reached. 29. In the early months of use of the new script and orthography, words occasionally were printed in spellings which did not correspond to the later standardized orthography. Examples of this are Khtay (instead of Khitay) in the December 1, 1940 issue of Pravda Vostoka and yazuchilär (instead of yazuvchilär) in the November 29, 1940 issue of Pravda Vostoka. 30. An example of an exception to the general "all is well" picture was a Qizil Uzbekistan article of November 18, 1940 which criticized office workers in Fergana Oblast for failing to learn and use the Cyrillic script.

Chapter 7: The lexical revolution 1. Even in the politically repressive atmosphere of the late 1940s in Uzbekistan there was disagreement over which words could be properly used in Uzbek prose and which demonstrated an extreme preoccupation with national specificity. For a thinly-veiled debate on this issue see Guliamov (1948) and Usmanov (1948). 2. This "dictionary" contained about two hundred terms arranged alphabetically. A number of the other early dictionaries were arranged instead by topic. 3. Qishlaq khojälik terminologiiasi (1931), for example, was compiled by a Professor Plotnikov. 4. Although there were some words of Russian/European origin which Elbek included in his list of elements which he wanted purged from the language, the great majority were of Arabic and Persian origin; as noted above, in the early years the reaction to the need for new terms was to take Arabic and Persian loans, not Russian ones (Borovkov 1940c: 51). Among the words which Elbek wanted to discard were the Persian word rast and the Arabic tamam; he proposed the Turkic words toghri and tugäl as replacements. 5. Zahiriy was also willing to accept kämbäghäl and nan (from Persian); and mäktäb and kitab (from Arabic). This is not surprising, given his emphasis on Uzbeks maintaining linguistic links with other Muslims. 6. Some authors cautioned against excessive artificiality; if no Turkic word was available for certain concepts, they felt the international form should be adopted (Nazirev 1928: 47-48). 7. Ramiz made this recommendation with regard to such words as komitet, kommuna and proletarii.

298 Notes 8. Examples of "excessive artificiality" included Turkic words for "electricity", "airplane", and "samovar". 9. The February-March (nos. 2-3) issue of Kitab va inqilab contains these words in various articles. 10. It is true that even in the late 1920s there were advocates of leaving these words in their "international form". 11. Borovkov had used ludakhin's Uzbek-Russian dictionary for his first figure, and surveys of the newspaper Qu.il Uzbekistan for 1934 and 1940. 12. Some of the words which Borovkov said were still used because they remained in people's memories even though they were Arabisms or Turkic purisms included jäbhä, mävzu, and darilfunun; in Borovkov's opinion, they would soon be considered superfluous and forgotten.

Chapter 8: Nativization 1. Not even all of those who wanted to put an end to national inequality agreed that raising the status of the non-Russian languages was an appropriate way to accomplish this. An article appeared in the Commissariat of Nationalities' publication Zhizn' natsionainostei in 1919 which suggested that for certain nationalities the best solution would be to teach everyone Russian and thus eliminate the need for developing parallel services in the minority languages. For the nationalities where the shift could be made to Russian without great hardship, this would be an act of salvation, "especially for young, backward nationalities interspersed in a sea of some great developed culture" (31 August 1919). For a discussion of the tension between the two tendencies with regard to development of language and national culture, see Lewis (1972: 69). 2. Students accepted for the one-year "short" course, however, were admitted without a knowledge of the Russian language (ZN, 31 July 1922). 3. Not until 1928 was the first lecture at SAGU delivered in Uzbek (QariNiyaziy 1970: 206). 4. A different set of statistics confirms the irregularity. The percent of Uzbek employees (sluzhashchie) working in the republic commissariats and central state institutions according to Pravda Vostoka was 19% on August 1, 1925; 18% on February 1, 1926; 16.8% on September 1, 1927; and 12.4% on October 1, 1928. The figures for economic (khoziaistvennye), cooperative, and bank institutions were 33.7% on August 1, 1925; 22.8% on February 1, 1926; 12% on September 1, 1927; and 14.5% on October 1, 1928 (PV 18 February 1929). 5. Once set up, however, these courses were to be run by the Narkompros.

Notes 299 6. This was because no attempts were made to encourage large numbers of Europeans to lecture in Uzbek. 7. For a discussion of this issue see Massell (1974).

Chapter 9: Benign neglect 1. Donald Carlisle has referred to this new policy which followed the seventeenth Party congress as one of "benign neglect" (Carlisle 1976: 255). 2. This is not to say that translation work of such Russian authors into Uzbek halted or even slowed, but it was emphasized that only through the original could the authors fully be appreciated.

Chapter 10: Planners and planning organiztions: External forces 1. For a sense of the scale of publishing activity among the Tatars, see Rorlich (1986: 74). 2. One account claims that the literacy rate for all nationalities living in Azerbaijan in 1914 was only about 10% (Istoriia 1960: 2, 797). 3. Although the Volga Tatar Sagid Rameev had proposed a similar shift in 1911 (Sharaf 1926: 60), and a meeting of Volga Tatar and Bashkir journalists discussed the possibility of such a change in 1920 (Kurbatov 1960: 68), generally the Tatars were much less enthusiastic about latinization. 4. All members of this committee with the possible exception of Effendiev were Azeris. 5. Significantly, the Tatars' reaction to developments in Azerbaijan was generally negative; they pointed to all the effort which had been invested in attempts to reform the Arabic alphabet and argued that such reforms should be given a chance to prove their worth. The head of the Tatar Scientific Center at the time said that he expected the other Turkic peoples to ignore the Azeris' experiment and follow the Tatar example (Kurbatov 1960: 70). 6. With regard to his meeting with Lenin, Agamaly-ogly claimed that Lenin told him that latinization of writing was a "revolution in the East". Curiously, at the Turcological Congress the Tatar Sharaf accused Agamaly-ogly of misleading Lenin. According to Sharaf, Lenin asked Agamaly-ogly how the peasants felt about the adoption of the new Latin alphabet. Agamaly-ogly incorrectly (in Sharaf s opinion) responded with a reference to the positive attitude of the peasantry. Sharaf alleged that

300 Notes

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

if Lenin had been told the truth, he would not have reacted so positively to the Latin alphabet (Vsesoiuznyi 1926: 259-260). It is appropriate to discuss Choban-zade along with Azeri reformers, even though he was a Crimean Tatar. Much of Choban-zade's work was in Baku, where he cooperated closely with Azeri linguists. Moreover, at the time of the revolution, the Crimean Tatars, unlike the Volga Tatars, were inclined to support regional autonomy for Russia's Turkic speakers/Muslims; this was the position which the Azeris also favored (Pipes 1968: 77). The allegations of Choban-zade's pan-Turkic sympathies were based to a great extent on his thesis on the kinship of the Turkic languages (Ashnin 1967: 211). Moreover, as many other linguists, Choban-zade was interested in devising a uniform alphabet for all Turkic languages. (Among others, one was the Ukrainian Jewish turcologist Samoilovich who stated at the Turcological Congress that there was no basis to view pessimistically the question of developing a common literary language for the Turkic peoples [Vsesoiuznyi 1926: 329]). The charges that Chobanzade was a "pan-Turkist" were true to the extent that he wished to bring a degree of uniformity into the alphabets and terminology of the Turkic languages of the USSR. This was a goal not only of linguists who were native Turkic speakers, but also some Europeans who worked in Moscow and Leningrad. It should be recognized that the name "Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet" did not indicate the full scope of the body's work. The committee studied problems not only of alphabet and orthography, but technical terminology and other vocabulary as well. Even after the courses were established, Seifi complained that they were of little help to the Tatars and requested they be terminated. Aga-zade and Choban-zade answered Seifi by defending the courses and complaining that the Tatars had sent them the worst students of any republic! (Vsesoiuznyi 1929: 67-68, 85). Several people, including one of the students of the central courses who was present at the second VTsKNTA plenum, charged that the Azeri Aga-zade, who taught the courses, had been teaching not the agreed-upon unified alphabet but the Azeri version (Vsesoiuznyi 1929: 20). Aga-zade defended himself, saying that he was teaching the history of the Latin alphabet for Turkic languages and so he had to teach the Azeri letters (Vsesoiuznyi 1929: 127). On the other hand, Agamaly-ogly proposed that republics such as Azerbaijan where latinization was already well under way needed only material support and observation by the VTsKNTA (Vsesoiuznyi 1927: 16).

Notes 301 12. The Russians were not the only Europeans. Also in attendance were two Germans, two Jews and one each of several other European nationalities. 13. Other delegates, such as the Central Asian Toräqulov, wished to limit the activities of the Council and felt that the local talents of the various peoples should be "completely and totally" utilized (Vsesoiuznyi 1927: 8890). Another Center Asian, Dzholdashev from Kirgizia, likewise spoke against a strong role for the Scientific Council. In his words, "It makes no difference whether the Scientific Council is located in Moscow or Baku; just the same the representatives from the republics cannot participate" (Vsesoiuznyi 1927: 74). 14. Perhaps in a futile attempt to avoid the arguments, the original agenda of the third plenum of the VTsKNTA had excluded the discussion of the work of the Scientific Council. In a debate over the agenda of the plenum which took place as one of the first orders of business, Chobanzade spoke in favor of including a report of the Scientific Council's work, while Agamaly-ogly said there was no need to do so (Vsesoiuznyi 1928: 21-23). Agamaly-ogly was not very concerned with the scholarly side of the question and was probably bored by the accusations exchanged by the Moscow and Baku linguists. At the second plenum he had displayed his distaste for their bickering over projects of alphabets by saying, "In my opinion, the professors are in practice acting the most un-Marxist. Instead of reproaching the innumerable quantity of projects, they create more and more new ones. . . . This is projectomania" (Vsesoiuznyi 1929: 56). 15. The Azeris, still not having complied with the repeated resolutions of the earlier plenums to unify their alphabet with that of the other Turkic languages, left themselves open to reproach on that matter as well. Several delegates, especially the Tatars, took advantage of the opportunity to join in the criticism (Vsesoiuznyi 1931: 91, 101, 197-198, 207). 16. In the words of Khulufu, "Baku is not out in the provinces. Baku is the third center of the USSR in terms of the pulse of cultural life and economic power" (Vsesoiuznyi 1931: 103). 17. As described in chapter 4, another reason for the change was that some prominent Soviet officials and scholars considered Latin letters the "international" alphabet. 18. For a denunciation of the lazykfront, see Aptekar' and Bykovskii (1931: 42). 19. Different versions of the alphabet contained varying numbers of letters. 20. The Marrists apparently held some hope that the analytic alphabet might still be adopted as late as 1930 or 1931. An article by Vrubel' in the organ of the Scientific Council of the VTsKNTA after the fourth plenum

302 Notes

21. 22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

(1930) attempted to demonstrate the superiority of the analytic alphabet. At the fifth plenum, however, several linguists who recognized many of the postulates of Marrist linguistics criticized the attempts by Marrists to introduce the analytic alphabet for more languages. lakovlev spoke disapprovingly of those followers of Marr who called the Latin alphabet "a bourgeois democratic alphabet" (Vsesoiuznyi 1932). The plenum also heard criticism of the Scientific Council's organ for allowing Vrubel's article to be published. Even following this plenum, however, articles appeared which compared the analytic alphabet favorably with the Latin alphabet (Kusik'ian 1931a: 74). It appears that only two more plenums were ever held by the VTsKNA in 1936 and 1937. For information on them, see Musabekov (1936) and "[Sed'moi] VII plenum" (1937). In fact, the Marrists held an unbreakable monopoly on linguistic theory in the USSR until 1950. According to information provided confidentially by one Soviet linguist, the greatest criticism of Marr's theories took place in the republic which demonstrated the greatest resistance to Marrist thought - Azerbaijan. In 1932, Aliev had expressed disagreement with the theory of "Great Power chauvinism" which, according to Aliev, "assert[ed] that the small nationalities [could] not develop their languages, their writing, and their cultures" (Aliev 1932a: 6). Aliev's ultimate fate is unclear. One of those who expressed such thoughts was the Tatar Seifi (lazyk 1933: 49). Kononov claimed it was formed on the base of the VTsKNA itself, but in light of the fact that this new body was a research institute, it appears he must have meant the Scientific Council. Equally significant, however, is that of the 1932 seven-member presidium of the VTsKNA, five members were still serving on the VTsKNA in 1936, and four of these were still on the new presidium; six other members, however, were also added to the new presidium. Among the most prominent of the senior members of the VTsKNA to be executed was the Leningrad turcologist Samoilovich.

Chapter 11: Local planners and planning organizations 1. Based on an emigre source, Zenkovsky (1967: 82) and Carrere d'Encausse (1967d: 177) state that this was opened in 1901. However, the Uzbek Encyclopedia gives 1903 as the opening date.

Notes 303 2. Khurshid's articles accused the ulema of not living in accordance with Koranic law. 3. According to Allworth (1964: 113), Munäwär Qari was Commissar of Education in the Turkestan Republic in 1922. One Soviet source notes that he was forced to flee the Turkestan Republic because of "nationalist activities". According to the same source, Munäwär Qari went to Bukhara, where he took a government post in the Bukharan People's Soviet Republic (Uzbekistan SSR 1971: 319). 4. The Russian-native schools (russko-tuzemnye) were established by an Imperial decree in 1884. These schools taught secular subjects, partly in the Russian language, to indigenous youth in Turkestan. The native languages were used for instruction in certain subjects (McKenna 1969: 31; Istonia 1974: 191). 5. He spoke in favor of greater use of diacritical marks to indicate Turkic vowels, but not in favor of discarding the Arabic letters which were used in writing Turkic languages even though they had no distinct phonemic value in those languages. For a fuller discussion of this issue, see chapter 3. 6. Others present at the meeting, such as Shakirijan Rähimiy and Elbek, criticized Munäwär Qari for being vague and too conservative in his suggestions (QB 23 February 1922). At the Tashkent Language and Orthography Congress which had been held in January, 1921, Ashuräli Zahiriy attempted to bolster his conservative position with the argument that certain reforms had the effect of separating Uzbeks from Tatars and other Muslims (Bir ming 1922: 20). When the majority of the delegates to the congress disagreed, Ashuräli Zahiriy and one of his supporters, Sälahiddin Mäjidiy, walked out of the meeting (Bir ming 1922: 25). One of the arguments used by Ashuräli Zahiriy against such reforms as eliminating certain Arabic letters from the Uzbek alphabet was that this would distort the meaning of words and force all those who had completed the medresseh to relearn everything (QB 18 January 1921). 7. The boldest reformers were generally in Tashkent. 8. A statement counter to the one issued by Ashuräli Zahiriy and his supporters rejected the charge that the delegates had been unfairly chosen. 9. This issue is misdated March 22, 1922; it should be either April 1, 2, 3, or 4. 10. Perhaps this concession was offered in September, 1923 (just prior to the October, 1923 Bukhara congress) in the hopes that no reforms more radical would be sought by the delegates there. 11. Bukhara's ruler, Amir Said Alim Khan, refused to introduce foreign institutions into his domain and suppressed those who advocated political and social change.

304 Notes 12. Zenkovsky observes that "Fiträt's native Bukhara was holy to him, and outside of it he revered all Islam, not just Turks alone" (1967: 89). While it is possible that this was true in the early years of Fiträt's life, by the time of his exile in 1918 from Bukhara, this was not the case. 13. Because of the less tolerant political atmosphere, it is difficult to know to what extent the moderate statements at the end of the 1920s represented a genuine change of views and to what extent they resulted from external or self censorship. 14. The "new city" refers to the part inhabited more by Europeans than native population. It developed next to the "old city" with the colonization of Central Asia by Europeans. 15. The article on Batu in the Uzbek Soviet Encyclopedia mentions feelings of dissatisfaction with life and hopelessness which Batu expressed in his early poetry due to alleged influence of "alien ideology". 16. Possibly an important factor in the split among poets in 1922 was the death of Enver Pasha (who had been leading the basmachi) and the victories of the pro-Bolshevik forces in battles against the guerilla-like bands. 17. Perhaps Batu expressed opposition to what he perceived as a greater stress on economic than cultural needs during the First Five Year Plan. In the fall of 1929, when the First Five Year Plan was gathering momentum, Batu wrote in the official organ of the Party's Central Asian Bureau that development on the cultural front should not be allowed to lag behind other fields. He insisted that cultural and economic tasks were "inseparable" from those on the economic front. Moreover, Batu wrote, "It is not sufficient merely to understand this; it must be carried out in practice" (Batu 1929a: 1). 18. This put Polivanov at odds with many former members of the Chaghatay gurungi who, in their quest to restore the Turkic nature of Uzbek and to bring Uzbek closer to other Central Asian Turkic languages, sought to base the literary language on the rural dialects. 19. He had returned to Uzbekistan during the summers of the years he spent in Moscow in order to study various Uzbek dialects (Polivanov 1968: 25). 20. Two major exceptions to this are Polivanov's collection of articles Za marksistskoe iazykoznanie (1931) and Uzbekskaia dialektologiia i uzbekskii literatumyi iazyk (1933). 21. This is an abbreviation of the Russian name Akademicheskii tsentr. In Uzbek it was known as the ilmiy märkäz. 22. For a description of some of these activities, see Rähmän-oglu (1928) and Bogdanova (1930). 23. The charges, ranging from embezzlement to murder, however, were probably not the real reasons for their arrest, either. Almost no

Notes 305

24.

25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

Information is available about the third of these figures, Qamchinbek. Unlike many of the Uzbek language reformers of the period, Qamchinbek was not a well-known writer or poet. He was for a short time a prominent figure in the VTsKNTA and delivered the report on the budget at the third plenum. The timing of his removal and the charges against him suggest that he was removed as part of the purge of the Commissariat of Education. In 1940, still another reorganization occurred. On the base of the Language and Literature Institute, an Institute of Language, Literature, and History was formed under the recently established Uzbek branch of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. Finally, in 1943, with the establishment of the Uzbek Academy of Sciences, an Institute of Language and Literature was formed from part of the former Institute of Language, Literature, and History (Zärifov, Kämalov & Uzaqov 1964: 72). Uzterminkom had been under the jurisdiction of the Uzbek Commissariat of Education, and the UzTsKNA had been under the Uzbek TsIK. A very brief announcement in Pravda Vostoka simply stated, "The Committee of the New Alphabet is dissolved" (16 November, 1937). The clearest sign that the writers, poets, and linguists who had led the way in Uzbek language development in the 1920s were no longer making the fundamental decisions affecting the language was the January, 1933 Moscow meeting of the VTsKNA The very location of the meeting was symbolic. Moreover, its decisions on Uzbek orthography and vocabulary fundamentally changed the course indicated at the Samarkand 1929 conference. The subsequent meeting (January, 1934), although ostensibly one which made important decisions, in fact merely refined the rules made in Moscow. Symbolic, too, was the naming of the January, 1934 conference the "First Scientific Congress on the Question of Orthography of the Uzbek Language". The 1929 conference had been simply called the "Language and Orthography Conference". Indeed, prior to the actual convening of the 1934 conference, references were made to the upcoming meeting as the "Second Republic Orthography Conference" (Rämäzan 1934: Ser. 3, 35). At the conference itself, however, it was felt necessary to emphasize that qualitatively the work in the area of language by the older intelligentsia had little in common with the new tasks. Data about Ulugh Tursunov have been collected from Uzaqov (1972: 8285) and Räjäbov (1967: 74-75). It is ironic that a Brezhnev-era biography of Ulugh Tursunov lists E. D. Polivanov among the turcologists with whom Tursunov worked; it is true that Tursunov and Polivanov worked in the same institute, but this was precisely at the time when Tursunov and others were denouncing the

306 Notes

30.

31. 32. 33.

34.

35. 36.

37.

"Indo-Europeanists", including Polivanov. The reference in this biography of Tursunov obviously does not indicate the true relationship between these two men (Räjäbov 1967: 75). Though it is paradoxical, it appears that some of the reputations of the jadid reformers were about to be reconsidered on the eve of the climax of the Great Terror. In 1936, an article written by Hämid Alimjan appeared about Fiträt. Although the article did criticize Fiträt for some of his opinions and activities, it did not evaluate Fiträt harshly, nor did it deny that Fiträt was a talented writer (Alimdzhan 1936). All data for this group of linguists are from the following sources: Uzaqov (1972: passim); Fakhri (1966); and Zufarov (1969). The bride, Aishakhan Qari-Niyazova, not only wore no veil, but dressed in European clothes and spoke fluent Russian! (Qari-Niyaziy 1970: 129130). This was extraordinary for a native woman at that time. Soon after this textbook appeared, the word händäsä was replaced by the word geometriia; a later book authored by Qari-Niyaziy which appeared in 1937 was titled Analitik geometriia kursi (Basic Course in Analytic Geometry). Ironically, one of the major objections to the "Uzbek" equivalents selected by Qari-Niyaziy for the dictionary was that there were too many Arabic terms! Qari-Niyaziy's use of Arabic terms, of course, was not an expression of the compiler's sense of Islamic identity. It appears that because of the rich Arabic terminology for mathematics, Uzbek continued to use many Arabic terms for this field until the middle of the 1930s. Unless otherwise indicated, data about Borovkov are from Uzaqov (1972: 26-33); Atämirzäeva (1965); and "Aleksandr" (1963). Sources conflict on the date of Borovkov's departure for Tashkent. Aleksandr (1963) states that Borovkov was sent in the end of 1938 to Uzbekistan to help develop a new Uzbek alphabet and orthography, and to prepare cadres. Atämirzäeva (1965), however, states that Borovkov was mobilized in 1937 and sent to Tashkent to help train cadres. It is possible that this discrepancy merely represents two separate trips, but it seems unlikely that he went to help "train cadres" in 1937 for only a short time before returning to Leningrad. As for his being sent to help develop a new orthography and alphabet in 1938, it should be noted that the first orthography which he co-authored was a reform of the Latin alphabet which was never introduced. In this regard, it suffices to mention the many works concerned with the Uzbek language which Borovkov wrote following his departure from Central Asia, and particularly his position as chief editor in the most comprehensive Uzbek-Russian dictionary, which appeared in 1959. For a partial list of works by Borovkov, see Uzaqov (1972: 27-33).

Notes 307 38. In addition to his work on this reform, Avizov also wrote several short pieces concerning the new alphabet. For a partial list of them, see Ozbek tilining (1976: 618). 39. Ghulamov, according to information from individuals in Tashkent, was temporarily forced to reliquish his post as head of the kafedra at about this time.

Chapter 12: Conclusion 1. With regard to the former, see Kary Niiazov 1967: 289. For the latter, see Ibragimov (1973), Fazylov (1982: 75-81) and Mamatov (1982: 8186). 2. See, for example, Muhammadjanova (1982: 14-15). Other linguists, such as Guliamova, however, saw anything which lowered the proportion of "international" terms in Uzbek as a negative trend. They asked "Why is it necessary to translate?" (Guliamova 1985: 57). 3. Based on these figures, it is estimated that there were approximately 3.4 million children in grades 1-10 of UzSSR schools. 4. These figures may not in fact represent the proportion of pupils in Uzbek schools. Russian-language schools tend to be in cities and towns, and it seems likely that on average they are larger than rural schools. 5. The figures for all languages for the total Soviet population over this period were 5.59 in 1959, 5.63 in 1970, and 6.71 in 1980. 6. Of course not all children's books printed in Uzbekistan are in Uzbek, but few (if any) Uzbek books are produced elsewhere in the USSR. The UzSSR situation is especially poor when viewed against that in the Baltic republics. In the case of children's books, approximately seven are published annually per child there (Oq. G, 4 May 85). 7. Presumably, however, this figure does not take into account the central newspapers which are distributed in the republic. 8. The volumes of the encyclopedia, which appeared in the 1970s, were issued in editions of 50,000 copies. Only 43,000 copies of the dictionary were printed when it finally became available in 1981. 9. Guboglo here is not referring specifically to Uzbekistan, but the situation which he describes certainly applied to the republic. 10. Guboglo also says that part of the reason for the incredible increase in claimed Russian fluency was an undercounting in the 1970 census. 11. It is unclear whether the number of hours previously required was 240 hours (claimed in Abdurakhmanov [1986: 8]) or 340 hours (Oq, G 28 August 1985).

308 Notes 12. Walker Connor maintains that Lenin's linguistic and other concessions to non-Russians in order ultimately to promote internationalism were "not viewed by him as particularly risky because of the presence of the Communist party. To Lenin the key element was not the language but the message . . ." (1984: 37). Whether this is true of Lenin or not, Stalin attached a high priority to controlling both the language and the message. 13. Of course there are some important differences. The linguistic picture of Central Asia, not to mention the whole USSR, is much more complex than that of Malaysia. In Malaysia the "battle lines" are fairly easy to define, while in the USSR there are many more minorities settled among other minorities, and of course many more languages.

Glossary

Bai: Uzbek word for "rich"; used to refer to wealthy Central Asians, especially land owners. Batrak: Hired farm hand. Chaghatay gurungi: Group of Uzbek poets and writers active in language reform, especially in the first years after the October, 1917 Revolution. Dotsent: Faculty position in higher educational institutions roughly equivalent to "lecturer." Fakul'tet: (Faculty) Division of an educational institution, e.g., Philological Fakul'tet, Fakul'tet of Chemical Sciences. Fraktsiia: The members of the Communist Party in an organization or at a meeting. Gurung: See Chaghatay gurungi. Ispolbiuro (Ispolnitel'noe biuro): Fjcecutive bureau. Ispolkom (Ispolnitel'nyi komitet): Executive committee. Jadid(s): Arabic word meaning "new"; a type of reformed Muslim school offering instruction in both religious subjects and such disciplines as native language, geography, and mathematics; the men who organized these schools and taught in them. Kafedra: Division of an educational institution consisting of instructors in one field or several closely-related fields. Kontrol': The checking on fulfillment of laws, Party directives, government decrees, and instruction of higher-echelon agencies.

310 Glossary

Korenizatsiia: "Rooting" or "nativization"; introduction of members of local nationalities into education and all areas of work. KPT (Kommunisticheskaia partiia Turkestana): Communist Party of Turkestan. KPUz (Kommunisticheskaia partiia Uzbekistana): Communist Party of Uzbekistan. KUTV (Kommunisticheskii universitet trudiashchikhsia Communist University of Laborers of the East.

Vostoka}:

Likbez (Shkola likvidatsii bezgramotnosti): A special school for teaching adults the basics of reading and writing. Maktab: (Used in modern Uzbek to mean any school) Prerevolutionary traditional Central Asian (Islamic) primary school. Medresseh: Islamic secondary or higher school. Narkompros (Narodnyi komissariat Commissariat of Education.

prosveshcheniia):

People's

NEP (Novaia ekonomicheskaia politika): New economic policy. The temporary policy of economic reconstruction announced at the Communist Party's tenth congress (1921) which continued until the launching of the first Five Year Plan. Oblast (oblast'): A large administrative unit in the USSR, a subdivision of a republic. Okrug: An administrative unit in the USSR eliminated in 1930. Otdel: Administrative department. Qishlaq: Village.

Glossary 311

RKI (Raboche-krestianskaia inspektsiia): Commissariat of Workers' and Peasants' Inspection - exercised kontrol' over personnel of state bureaucracy. Rabfak (Rabochii fakul'tet): Workers' fakul'tet - division of higher educational institution (in 1920s and 1930s) which served as a preparatory course, especially for students from worker and peasant families. Raiispolkom. Raion ispolkom. Raion. An administrative unit in the USSR; a subdivision of an okrug, oblast, krai, republic, or large city. RSFSR (Rossiiskaia Sovetskaia Federativnaia Sotsialisticheskaia Respublika]: Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic. SAGU (Sredne-Aziatskii Gosudarstvennyi universitet): Central Asian State University, former name of Tashkent State University. SNK (Sovnarkom/Sovet narodnykh komissarov): Council of People's Commissars. Sovkhoz (Sovetskoe khoziaistvo): State-owned farm. Tekhnikum: Secondary educational institution training specialists in any of a large number of fields. TsIK (Tsentral'nyi ispolnitel'nyi komitet): Central executive committee. TsK (Tsentral'nyi komitet): Central committee. Turklik: Quality of being Turkic; "turkicness." Uz(bek) SSR (Uzbekskaia Sovetskaia Sotsialisticheskaia Respublika: Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. UzGNII(KS) (Uzbekskii Gosudarstvennyinauchno-issledovatel'skiimstitut [kul'tumogo stroitel'stva]): Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute (of

312 Glossary

Cultural Construction); established as UzGNII in 1929; reorganized and became UzGNIIKS in 1931. Uz(gos)terminkom (Uzbeksfdi [gosudarstvennyi] terminologicheskii komitei): Uzbek (State) Terminology Committee organized in 1928 under Narkompros. UzTsKNA (Uzbekskü Tsentral'nyi konntet novogo alfavita): Central Committee of the New Alphabet.

Uzbek

UzTsKNAT (Uzbekskü Tsentral'nyi konntet novogo alfavita i terminologii): Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet and Terminology; formed as a result of merger of UzTsKNA amd Uzterminkom; dissolved in 1937. Uezd: An administrative unit in the USSR which was eliminated in 1929. Ulema: Muslim religious scholars. VKP(b) (Vsesoiuznaia Kommunisticheskaia partiia [bol'shevikov]); All Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) - former name of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Volost': Administrative unit in the USSR which was eliminated in 1929; a subdivision of an ueid. VSNKh (Vysshyi sovet narodnogo khoziaistvo}: Supreme Council of the National Economy. VTsIK. (Vserossiiskii Tsentral'nyi ispolnitel'nyi komitef): Central Executive Committee.

All-Russian

VTsKN(T)A (Vsesoiuznuyi Tsentral'nyi konntet novogo [tiurkskogo] alfavita): All-Union Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet; "Turkic" dropped from the title following the committee's fourth plenum (1930). V(t)uz (Vysshee [tekhnicheskpe]. uchebnoe zavedenie): Higher (technical) educational institution.

References

Abbreviations Arkhiv Ish. K& I K & PV LU M&O NAA NV ONUz. Oq. G Oz. A & S Oz. T & A P &R PN PV QB QO R &N R &P RV SN & T Sobranie

55 Tu. YL ZN

Tsentral'nyi Gosudarstvennyi arkhiv UzSSR [Central State Archive of the UzSSR], fond [fund] 94 Ishtiratayun [Communist] Kitab va inqilab [Book and Revolution] Kuitura i pis'mennost' Vostoka [Culture and Writing of the East] Literatwmyi Uzbekistan [Literary Uzbekistan] Mäarif vä oqituvchi [Education and the Teacher] Narody Azii i Afriki [Peoples of Asia and Africa] Novyi Vostok [The New East] Obshchestvennye nauki v Uzbekistane [Social Sciences in Uzbekistan] Oqituvchilär gazetasi [The Teachers' Newspaper] Uzbekistan ädäbiyati vä sän"äti [Literature and Art of Uzbekistan] Ozbek tili vä ädäbiyati [Uzbek Language and Literature] Pismennost' i revoliutsiia [Writing and Revolution] Prosveshchenie natsional'nostei [Enlightenment of the Nationalities] Pravda Vostoka [Truth of the East] Qizil bayraq [Red Banner] Qizil Uzbekistan [Red Uzbekistan] Revoliutsiia i natsional'nosti [Revolution and the Nationalities] Revoliutsiia i pis'mennost' [Revolution and Writing] Revoliutsionnyi Vostok [The Revolutionary East] Sotsialisticheskaia nauka i tekhnika [Socialist Science and Technology] Sobranie uzkakonenii i rasporiazhenii Rabochedekhkanskogo pravitel'stva UzSSR [Collection of Statutes and Decrees of the UzSSR Worker-Peasant Government] Sovetskoe stroitel'stvo [Soviet Construction] Turkistan [Turkestan] Yash leninchi [Young Leninist] Zhizn' natsional'nostei [Life of the Nationalities]

314 References

"Äbdulhämid Suläyman" 1971 Ozbek Sovet entsiklopediiasi [Uzbek Soviet encyclopedia]. Äbdulläev, F. & R. Daniyarov 1973 "Zäbärdäst alim vä kämtärin insan" [Strong scholar and modest human being], Oz. T & A 1: 82-85. Abdurakhmanov, G. A. 1986 "Prepodavanie russkogo iazyka - na uroven' sovremennykh trebovanii" [Raise Russian language instruction to the level of contemporary demands], Russkii iazyk i literatura v uzbekskoi shkole [Russian language and literature in the Uzbek school] 4: 7-11. "Äbduräshidkhanov Munäwärqari" 1976 Ozbek Sovet entsiklopediiasi [Uzbek Soviet encyclopedia]. Äbduräshidov, K. 1940 Ruschä-ozbekchä fizika terminläri (proekt) [Russian-Uzbek glossary of physics terms (Draft project)]. Tashkent: OzDävOquvPedNäshr. "Äbduräuf Fiträt" 1971 Ozbek Sovet entsiklopediiasi [Uzbek Soviet encyclopedia]. Abdushukurov, R. Kh. 1962 Oktiabrskaia revoliutsiia, rastsvet uzbekskoi sotsialisticheskoi natsii i sblizhenie ee s natsiiami SSSR [The October Revolution, the blossoming of the Uzbek socialist nation, and its rapprochement with the nations of the USSR]. Tashkent: Goslzdat. Adam, Hussein M. 1980 The revolutionary development of the Somali language. (African Studies Center, University of California at Los Angeles. Occasional Paper 20). Agazade F. & K. Karakashly 1928 Ocherk po istoni razvitiia dvizheniia novogo alfavita i ego dostizheniia [Sketch of the history of the movement for the new alphabet and its achievements]. Kazan: Izdatel'svo VTsKNTA Akhunbabaev, Yoldash 1931 Oktiabr' älifbesining qäfiy ghäläbäsi uchun" [For the decisive victory of the alphabet of October], Qizil Uzbekistan, February 22, 1931, reprinted in Yoldash Akhunbabaev. 1976. Tänlängän äsärlär [Selected works]. Tashkent: Uzbekistan. Akopov, S. 1931 "K voprosu ob uzbekizatsii apparata i sozdanii kadrov" [On the question of uzbekization of the apparat and the creation of cadres], R & N 12: 22-28. Äläviy, Äbdullä 1926 "Yängi layihä" [New draft project], M & O 6: 39-40. 1927 Ozbek yängi älifbesini tuzishdä äsaslär [Fundamentals in creating the new Uzbek alphabet]. Tashkent-Samarkand: OzDävNäshr.

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Index

Adam, Hussein M, 17 Afandi-zade (Effendiev), 62-63, 214,299 Africa language planning in, 20, 26, 32-33, 274 See also individual country names Agamaly-ogly, Samed-aga, 214-215, 217, 219-220, 224, 299-301n Aga-zade, F., 214, 220, 300n Manga, 86, 100-101, 103-104, 122, 177-178, 238, 242-243, 246 Äläviy, Äbdullä, 92 Algeria language planning in, 15, 22, 25, 33, 165-166, 267, 269-270 Aliev, Umar, 224-225, 227-228 Alimjan, Hamid, 115, 177, 306n Ail-Union Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet (VTsKNlTlA), 86-87, 99, 103-104, 106, 16, 123, 130-134, 214-216, 220, 223-228, 238, 240, 243, 291294n, 300-302n, 305n abolished, 228, 305n dominated by Marrist linguists, 224-226, 293n moves to Moscow, 219, 221, 223-224, 227, 305n role of Azeris in, 216, 219 Scientific Council of, 87-90, 152-153, 158, 216, 218-221, 224-226, 228, 240-241, 291 , 301-302n

All-Union Turcological Congress, February 1926 (Baku), 79-81, 98, 155, 215-216, 299-300n preparations for, 79, 83-84, 218, 241 Allocation. See Funding; Language Planning and distribution Alphabet reform. See Arabic, Cyrillic, Latin alphabets Altoma, Salih J., 22, 28, 31 Arniriy, A., 128-129, 295n Arabic alphabet, 20-21, 28, 126, 153, 303n alleged backwardness of, 75-76 Broido's arguments for, 76-77 instability of orthography, 68 orthography of Arabic and Persian words, 64-67, 140, 292n. See also Arabic-Persian vocabulary reforms of, 52-53, 57-68, 82-83, 231-233, 236, 238, 303n recent revival of, 261 representation of vowel sounds in, 59H50, 62, 66-67, 76 as sacred symbol, 60, 65-66, 153 shift from, 74-77, 80, 272. See also Latinization Arabic language Fiträt's view of, 153 and language planning, 13, 18, 28, 31,268 Latin alphabet proposed for, 28 Arabic-Persian vocabulary

348 Index alleged to be feudal/religious symbol, 159 elimination from Uzbek ("purification"), 52, 153-156, 236 reappearance of, 261-262, 278 in Uzbek language, 59-60, 64-65, 151, 153-156, 158-162, 298 See also Arabic alphabet; Turkic purification Ataturk, Mustafa Ketnal, 13, 21, 25, 29, 268, 272 Attah, Mark O., 22 Avizov, B., 252 Aybek (Musa Tashmuhämmädoghli), 251 Azerbaijan concern for territorial autonomy, 87, 213 criticism of Azeris' language planning approach, 219, 301n language planning in, 80, 85, 87, 89, 115, 221, 288n, 291n, 299n Latinization in, 75-76, 81, 83, 213-216, 218, 299-300n resistance to Marrism, 302n See also Ail-Union Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet; Baku language planners Azeri language as source of vocabulary for Uzbek, 151 Baku language planners, 213-221 passim favored by Moscow, 216 lose control of language planning to Moscow, 221 proponents of centralized

language planning, 216 struggle between Baku and Moscow planners, 218-221, 291n, 301n Batmanov, L ., 245 Batu (Mahmud Hadiev), 82, 87-89, 92, 94, 157, 233, 237-239, 243-244, 246, 248-249, 253, 304n Bentolila, Alain, 28, 32, 34 Binder, Leonard, 6, 7, 9, 10 Boahene-Agbo, Kwaku, 32 Borovkov, Aleksandr Konstantinovich, 70, 72, 93, 133, 138, 140, 151, 162-163, 244, 251-253, 295n, 297-298n, 306307n Brass, Paul R., 16, 26, 211, 270 Broido, G. L, 76-78 Bukharan Republic, 43-44, 58, 236, 303n demise of, 59, 145 establishment of, 44, 235 Central African Republic language planning in, 27 Central Asian Communist University (SAKU), 135, 173 Central Asian State University (SAGU), 172-173, 189-190, 198, 200, 202, 240, 245-246, 248, 250-252 Central Asian Uzbek Language and Orthography Congress, October 1923 (Bukhara), 61, 64, 66-68, 71, 81, 233-234, 284n, 303n Central Institute of Language and Writing, 228 Chaghatay gurungi, 61, 63, 67, 82,

Index 349 140, 149, 153, 156, 232-239, 241-243, 252, 304η Chaghatay language, 73-74, 91-92, 154, 156, 247 Chinese language and language planning, 7, 21, 25, 28, 30, 32, 33, 78, 272, 274 See also Malaysia, Chinese language in; Vietnam, Chinese language in Choban-zade, Begir Vagapovich, 87, 215-216, 219-220, 223, 300-301n Cholpan ( bdulh mid Sul yman), 233-234, 236-238, 247 Chumbow, Beban Sammy, 274 Clapham, Christopher, 15, 20, 30, 283 Cobarrubias, Juan, 14, 267 Coleman, James, 6 Commissariat of Education. See Narkompros Communist (Bolshevik) Party and control of language planning, 1-2, 49-51, 74, 125, 130, 147, 150, 165-166, 211-212, 216-217, 221, 231, 241, 255, 308n Communist University of the Toilers of the East (KUTV), 167 Congress of Culture and Education Workers, March 1922 (Tashkent), 6, 61-36, 71, 82, 223-224, 233 Corpus planning defined, 3-4 in Uzbek SSR (since 1941) 260-262 Crampton, Diana, 17 Cyrillic (Russian) alphabet, 80, 125, 253, 292n, 294-295n adoption of, 57, 125-126, 136-143,

146-147, 206, 250-251, 294n as bond among peoples of USSR, 135-138 choice of letters debate, 294n-295n to facilitate learning of Russian, 136,206 justification for adoption, 136-137, 286-287n lack of uniformity among Turkic Cyrillic alphabets, 141, 296n reforms of, 261-262 resistance to, 297 as revolutionary socialist alphabet, 134-135, 140 teacher training in, 143-145 Das Gupta, Jyotirindra, 9, 16, 211 DeFrancis, John, 14-15, 17, 22, 30, 34 Deutsch, Karl, 10, 273 "Dialect autonomy". See Dialects Dialects, 4, 20, 26-27, 60-61, 71-72 as basis for orthography, 59-60, 67-68, 70-74, 82, 89-95, 126-127, 232, 236, 238, 240, 273, 286η, 289η, 293η, 304η "dialect autonomy", 74 shift to Tashkent dialect (1929), 126-133 and vowel harmony, 59, 61, 92, 236, 284n, 285n, 289n "Uzbek dialects", 60-61 Dictionaries, 68, 90, 146, 247, 253, 295η, 298η, 306n Distribution aspect of political development, 6, 10-11 in Uzbek SSR, 274-279

350 Index

See also Language planning and distribution Economic development in Uzbekistan, 46-47 Education korenizalsiia and, 190-198 passim language barriers to, 199-200 in pre-revolutionary Turkestan, 40-41,58 school population figures, 307n in Turkestan Republic, 49, 62, 71-72, 172-173, 230, 232-233 in Uzbek SSR, 291n See also Literacy; Russian language instruction; Uzbek language instruction Educational shortages of books, 101, 112, 198 of schools, 110-111 of teachers, 198, 202, 204 in Turkestan Republic, 172 Edwards, John, 27 Elbek (Mäshriq Yunusov), 65, 72, 92, 153-154, 233-234, 236-238, 242, 244-245, 247, 251, 285n, 297n, 303n resentment of outside interference in language planning, 72 "Elite manpower development" strategy, 11, 29, 54, 276 See also Korenizatsiia; Literacy Eski imlachilär, 63-64, 66, 82 Esman, Milton J., 16, 270 Ethiopia language planning in, 15, 20, 29-30, 126, 269, 271, 276, 283n Etymological principle

in orthographic reform, 28, 89-90, 275-276, 288-289n Ferguson, Charles A., 4 Fishman, Joshua A., 2-4, 15-16, 18, 20-21, 23-24, 26-27, 30, 55, 57, 125, 267, 270, 272-274, 278, 283 Fiträt, Äbdurräuf, 63, 65, 67, 73, 88, 91, 153, 156, 231, 233-238, 244-245, 247, 249, 251-252, 272, 284 , 289 , 304 , 306 calls for purification of Turkic languages, 73 Funding for language planning, 99, 102-109, 112, 143-145, 179, 290n See also Language planning and distribution Galiev, Sultan, 44, 213 Gallagher, Charles F., 13, 22, 31 Gilson, Erika, 13 Ghana language planning in, 32 Ghulamov, Äyyub, 248, 253, 307n "Great Traditions" (Fishman), 23-24, 30, 125, 273-274, 285n "Great power chauvinism", 135, 157, 159, 194, 302n See also Russification Hadiev, Mahmud. See Batu Haiti language planning in, 28, 32, 34, 205, 275-277 Harmony. See Vowel harmony in Turkic languages Häshimov, Atäjan, 74, 86, 91, 93, 131, 159, 161, 251, 289n Haugen, Einar, 3-4, 97, 283n

Index 351 lakovlev, N., 79, 87, 89-90, 94, 219220, 224, 286n, 288-289n, 302n criticism of Azeri language planners, 220 lazykovoe stroitefstvo. See Language construction Ibrahimov, Sabirjan, 245, 248-249, 253 Ibrahimov, Tursun, 245, 248-249 Identity and language changes. See Language planning and identity; 'Internationalization," Islam; Turkism; Soviet nation-state identity Ikramov, Äkmäl, 48, 69, 75, 118119, 158-159, 182, 201, 233, 236 execution of, 201 India language planning in, 7, 15-18, 20, 24-25, 31, 33-34, 205, 269, 276, 294 Indigenization. See Korenizatsiia Indochina language planning in, 269 See also Vietnam Indonesia language planning in, 23, 27 'Internationalization" of Uzbek language to counter Russian chauvinism, 157 of pronounciation, 293n as Russification, 157 as "Soviet", 157 of vocabulary, 125-132, 150, 155164, 272-273, 293n, of writing, 125-133, 150-157, 275, 292n

See also Cyrillic alphabet; Latin alphabet; Russification Iran language planning in, 12-13, 21, 23, 25, 77, 272-273, 266-267, 294n Islam as basis for identity, 44, 46, 53, 58, 62, 64, 66, 74-77, 80-81, 230, 234, 236-237, 246, 278, 285, 304 Soviet policy towards, 44-46, 49, 53, 59, 70, 74-77, 232, 246 Israel language planning in, 18, 28-29 ludakhin, K. K., 68 Jadid movement, 40-41, 48, 51, 55, 57-59, 212, 229-230, 232, 235, 247, 306 Jazayery, . ., 25 Jernudd, Björn, 3 Kämalov, Fäkhri, 140, 191, 248, 252-253, 291 , 296 Kelman, Herbert C., 9, 10, 21 Kenya language planning in, 17, 19, 29, 285n Khadzhiev, 225 Khansuvarov, I., 135 charges against for promoting Latin alphabet, 135 Khojäev, Fäizullä, 48, 175, 184, 187-188, 191, 201 execution of, 201 Khorezm Republic, 58 demise of, 44-45 establishment of, 44 Khubchandani, L. M., 33-34, 276

352 Index Klauss, Heinz, 3 Kokand autonomous government, 43 demise of, 43 establishment of, 43, 166 Korenizaisiia (nativization), 1, 108, 116, 165-192 passim, 276 defined, 47-48, in early Uzbek SSR, 173-176 in economic and government institutions, 188-190, 298n in education, 190-191 for linguistic equality, 167-176 passim, 298n to promote "proletarian" classes, 54, 185-189 reversal of, 126, 142, 162, 193197, 200 Russian resistance to, 176-185, 188 in Turkestan Republic, 169-171 Kuftura i pis'mennost' vostoka, 221, 289n Landau, Jacob, 28 Language construction (iazykovoe stroitetstvo), 2, 225, 285n Language planning definition of, 3 and distribution (allocation and production), 6, 8, 10-11, 26-35, 50-55 and identity, 4, 6, 8-9, 11, 20-26, 50-55 and legitimacy, 6, 8-11, 18-20, 50-55 and participation, 6, 7-8, 11, 16-18, 50-55 and penetration, 6-7, 11-16, 50-55 See also Corpus planning; Status

planning Language planning conferences. See names of individual conferences Language planning organizations. See names of individual organizations Language status. See Russian,

status of; Uzbek, status of LaPalombara, Joseph, 6-11, 18, 27, 241 Latin alphabet arguments for, 52-53, 81-95, 97-124, 240, 287-288n facilitates break from Islamic heritage, 74-75 as "international" alphabet, 76 and literacy, 97, 130 obstacles to latinization, 110-116 as precursor of Cyrillic alphabet, 137, 295-296n proposed (1921), 82, 238 publishing in, 120-124 reduction in symbols for vowels (1934), 131 reforms in, 120, 129-131, 135, 137, 252, 294-296n, 306n resistance to, 102, 119-120, 292n resistance to upper case letters, 86-89, 288n shift from, 84-89, 125-129, 136. See also Cyrillic alphabet supported by Moscow, 74-75, 79 for Turkic languages, 74-75, 84, 106-107, 126, 136, 216-218, 226, 302n See also Arabic language; Azerbaijan; Literacy; Russian

Index 353 language; Somalia; Tatars; Turkey; Turkic languages Legitimacy aspect of political development, 6,8 in Uzbek SSR, 270-271 See also Language planning and legitimacy Libraries role in Latinization, 116-117 Likbez. See Literacy schools "Linguistic equality." See Korenizatsiia "Linguistic independence" for Uzbek. See Uzbek language "Linguistic merging." See Marrist linguistic theories; Sbliznenie Linguistic purification. See Turkic purification Literacy, 11, 15-16, 18-19, 58-59, 62, 70-71, 75, 86, 97-98, 107, 112-113, 119, 126, 141, 212-213, 268-269, 273, 290-291n campaigns, 98, 101, 103-105, 107-111, 113, 118-119, 130, 134-135, 294n, 301n difficulty in measuring, 118 rates, 49, 120, 168, 290n . schools (likbez), 105, 108-109, 111-112 teacher training courses, 99-103, 111-112, 290n for women, 113, 29In See also Education; Latin alphabet Lunacharskii, A., 133, 286n Maorif va oqituvchi, 83, 122 Malaysia

Chinese language in, 25, 32-33, 274 language planning in, 308n Mansour, Gerda, 20 Mä"rufov, Zakir, 248 Marr, Nikolai biography of, 222 dies (1934), 226 Marrist analytic alphabet, 226 rejection of, 226, 301-302n Marrist linguistic theories, 131-132, 162, 216, 221-228, 240, 243, 245, 252-253, 267, 273, 293n, 296n gain official recognition, 221-228, 245-246 renounced by Stalin, 253 See also Russification; Soviet nation-state identity Marxist-Leninist works in Uzbek translation, 158, 162 "Mass manpower development" strategy, 29, 54, 126, 193, 276 See also Korenizatsiia; Literacy Mauzy, Diane K., 32 Meshchaninov, I. I., 245 Morocco language planning in, 30-31, 269-270 Munävvär Qari, Äbduräshidkhanoghli, 230-232, 234, 238, 303n Namibia language planning in, 22, 29 Narimanov, Nariman, 213 Narkompros (All-Union), 79 Narkompros (Uzbek SSR), 83, 99, 108, 111, 113, 121, 142-146, 154155, 167, 169, 178-179, 182-183, 191, 197, 202, 238, 242-243, 245,

354 Index 251, 290 , 298 National communists, 44, 51, 55 See also Galiev, Ikramov, Khojäev, Narimanov National delimitation of Central Asia, 44-45, 50, 53, 94, 170 to counter pan-Islamism and pan-Turkism, 70, 73 Nativization. See Korenizatsiia New Alphabet. See New (Turkic) Alphabet New (Turkic) Alphabet, 57, 80, 86-88, 136, 225, 228 Nigeria language planning in, 16, 22, 273 Ortä imlachilär 63, 82 Orthography changes See Arabic, Cyrillic, Latin alphabets; Internationalization," Turkic languages; Uzbek language Pan-Islamism, accusations of, 80, 232, 246 See also Islam Pan-Turkism accusations of, 85, 130, 232, 246, 300n See also Turkism Paraguay language planning in, 31 Participation aspect of political development, 6-8 in Uzbek SSR, 269-270 See also Language planning and participation Paulston, Christina Bratt, 27, 274

Penetration aspect of political development, 6-7 in Uzbek SSR, 266-269 See also Language planning and penetration Perry, John R., 12-13, 21, 23, 25 Philippines language planning in, 31 Phillipson, Robert, 22, 29 "Phonetic principle," 64, 89-90, 94, 286n, 289n Polivanov, Evengenii Dmitrievich, 79, 82-83, 90-91, 223, 239-241, 243-245, 247-248, 251, 287-289n, 304n, 306n, Production. See Language planning and distribution Publishing industry, 102, 107, 120121, 144, 212, 262-264, 292n books, 102, 104, 122-123, 143, 146, 296n, 307n newspapers, 112, 122, 124, 146, 263-264, periodicals, 146 shortage of paper, 114-115 shortage of type, 100, 113-114 Pye, Lucian W., 6, 9 Qadiriy, Äbdullä, 233 Qämchinbek, 305 Qari-Niyaziy, Tashmuhämmäd Niyazovich, 138-140, 142, 204, 245, 249-251, 252, 306 , 307 QizU bäyraq, 168, 287 Rähimiy, Shakirjan, 61, 84, 91, 233-234, 242, 291n, 303n Rähmanov, Bekjan, 93

Index Rakowska-Harmstone, Teresa, 194, 257-258 Rämäzan, Qäyyum, 74, 88, 114, 128, 130, 233-234, 242, 244-245, 251, 288n Rämiz, Männan (M. Äbdulläev), 86, 89, 92, 156, 233-234, 239, 243, 252, 290n, 297n Reagan, Timothy, 19, 23, 34 "Red tea houses" role in Latinization, 111, 116-118 Reshetov, Viktor V., 160, 245, 248 Revoluisiia i pifmennosf, 227 Rubin, Joan, 3, 31 Russian alphabet. See Cyrillic alphabet Russian language as "international language", 128, 135-136, 180-181, 195-196, 100, 206-207 Latin alphabet proposed for, 133134, 136 as means of upward mobility, 126, 184, 191, 200, 207-208, 275, obligatory study introduced for all Soviet nationalities, 201 obligatory study by Uzbeks, 142, 201-205, 275 as source of vocabulary for Uzbek, 127-129, 151-153, 157-163, 261 status of, 53, 120, 137, 142, 180, 196, 205-206, 209-210, 262, 264-266 Russian language instruction teacher training, 202-204 for Uzbeks, 196-197, 202 Russification, 46, 53, 125-126, 136,

355

139-141, 149, 157-159, 180-181, 201, 205-206, 227, 256 See also "Internationalization;" Marrist linguistic theories; Soviet nation-state identity Said Ali Khojä, 82, 233 Said Ahmad, 63 Samarin, William J., 27 SMizhenie ("coining together"), 258 Schools. See Education; Educational shortages; Literacy Scientific Congress on the Question of the Uzbek Language, Tashkent (1934), 305n Scotton, Carol Myers, 32-33 Shakhtakhtinskii, Mamed, 90, 214 "Skrypnik line" condemnation of, 159 Somalia language planning in, 17-19, 23, 34 Latin alphabet proposed for Somali language, 17, 28 South Africa language planning in, 16, 19, 23, 34 Southworth, Franklin C, 25, 31, 34, 276 Soviet nation-state identity, 46, 125, 136, 147, 149, 157, 227, 256-258 See also Marrist linguistic theories Spain language planning in, 17, 268 Stalin, Joseph definition of nation, 70, 94 on danger of nationalism, 195, 308n Status planning defined, 3-4

356 index in Uzbek SSR (since 1941) 262-266 Sudan language planning in, 16 Suläyman, Äbdulhämid. See Cholpan Sultangaliev. See Galiev, Sultan Tabory, Ephraim & Mala, 15, 25, 33 Tanzania language planning in, 19, 29, 276, 285n Tatar language as source of vocabulary for Uzbek, 151 Tatars role in jadid movement, 40 resistance to Latinization, 75, 78, 80, 212, 288n, 299n role in language reforms, 62, 73, 75, 86, 89, 93, 113, 169, 212-213, 216-217, 299-303n and Turkism, 46, 50, 52, 73, 75, 212-213 Taulim Valter, 27 Terminology, 149-163 passim specialized dictionaries, 150-152, 297n Turcological Congress resolution on, 155 Uzbek Orthography Conference resolution on, 156 See also Arabic-Persian vocabulary; 'Internationalization" Tilchi, 129 Thorburn, Thomas, 26, 193, 274 Tollefson, James W., 13, 31, 211, 268 Turkestan Bolshevik Revolution in, 42-43 conquest by Russia, 39

defined, 37 Russian colonial policy in, 39-42 Turkestan Commission (Turkkommissia), 167-168, 240 Turkestan Soviet Republic, 44, 303n dissolution of, 44 establishment of, 44 Turkestan State University See Central Asian State University Turkey Kurdish language in, 18 language planning in, 12-13, 18, 21, 28-29, 77, 81, 84, 215, 266267, 272, 287n, 294n Latinization in 13, 28, 81, 268, 272, 287n Turkic languages attempts to unify alphabets, 154-155, 300n attempts to create single Turkic language, 71-72, 81, 154-155 dialects of, 1, 37, 41, 50, 59, 70, 154-157, 169, 230, 267-268 differentiation under Soviet language planning policy, 125126, 141 mutual intelligibility of, 69-70 as source of vocabulary for Uzbek, 151, 154-156 "Turkic" as official language of Turkestan Republic, 168 See also Latin alphabet; New (Turkic) alphabet; Vowel harmony Turkic purification, 57-68, 130, 140, 149, 153-156, 161, 236, 278 abandonment of, 159

Index and Chaghatay gurungi, 232-239 passim and Elbek, 153-154, 236, 297 and Fiträt, 73, 153, 236 Turkism ('Turklik"), 41, 62, 72-73, 95, 216, 238, 271 Soviet efforts to undermine, 44-45, 85, 89-90, 300n See also Jadid movement; Pan-Turkism Turkkomissia. See Turkestan Commission Tursunov, Ulugh, 141, 160, 169, 173, 245-247, 250, 305n, 306n Typewriters shortages of, 115-116 Upper case letters. See Latin alphabet, resistance to upper case letters Usman, Alim, 248, 252 Uzbek Central Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet (UzTsKNlTlA), 86, 89, 103, 106, 113, 116, 119, 241-242, 244, 291n See also All-Union Committee of the New (Turkic) Alphabet Uzbek Central Committee of the New Alphabet and Terminology (UzTsKNAT), 244, 249 Uzbek language encyclopedia, dictionary published, 264 Europeans' knowledge of and resistance to, 177-184, 1%, 208-209 linguistic independence" for, 53, 70-74, 82, 92-94, 271, 289n

357

proclaimed official state language (1989), 266 status of, 191-192, 197, 262, 264 See also Dialects; "Internationalization," Korenizatsiia; Russian language; Turkic languages; Turkic purification Uzbek language conferences. See names of individual conferences Uzbek Language and Orthography Conference, May 1929 (Samarkand), 61, 71, 74, 88, 92, 94, 126-128, 130, 156, 241-242, 293n Uzbek Language and Orthography Congress, January 1921 (Tashkent), 61-^3, 65, 67, 71-73, 233, 303n Uzbek nationality creation of, 46, 53, 69-70, 94 Uzbek State Scientific Research Institute (of Cultural Construction) (UzGNIlKSD, 128, 240, 242-246, 248-249 Uzbek SSR creation of, 44 Uzbek State Publishing House, 101, 122,293 Uzbek State University, 195 Uzbek Terminology Committee (Uzterminkom), 74, 128, 242, 244, 246 Uzbekization. See Korenizatsiia Verba, Sidney, 6-7, 9, 285n Vietnam Chinese language in, 30 language planning in, 14-15, 17,

358 index 22, 30, 34, 269 Vocabulary as symbol of identity, 149 Vocabulary changes. See Arabic-Persian vocabulary; "Internationalization;" Terminology; Turkic purification Volga Tatars. See Tatars Vowel harmony elimination of Uzbek symbols to represent, 130-132 representation in orthography, 67-68, 89-95, 125-128, 130 in Turkic languages, 60-61 See also Arabic, Cyrillic, Latin alphabets; 'Internationalization," New (Turkic) Alphabet VTsKNtTlA. See All-Union Committee of the (New) Turkic Alphabet Walker, Alastair, 26, 33-34 Watson, J. K. P., 32-33 Weiner, Myron, 6-8, 24

Weinstein, Brian, 3, 16, 26-27, 32-33, 211, 285n Whitely, Wilfred H., 19, 26 Woolard, Kathryn, 3 Young Bukharans, 235 Yugoslavia language planning in, 20-21, 272 Yunusov, Ghazi Alim, 74, 91, 233, 245, 248, 251, support for dialect "autonomy", 74,

286n Yusupov, Usman, 187, 202, 205 blames "nationalists" for slowing korenizatsiia, 187 Zahiriy, Äshuräli, 65, 155-156, 231-232, 234, 236, 238, 288n, 297, 303n Zhirkov, L. I., 79, 80, 87, 224 criticism of Azeri language planners, 219 Zuengler, Jane, 29 Zufärov, Säfä, 245, 248, 306n

Robert L. Cooper and Bernard J. Spolsky (Editors)

The Influence of Language on Culture and Thought Essay in Honor of Joshua A. Fishman's 65th Birthday 1991.15,5 x 23 cm. VI, 290 pages. Cloth ISBN 311 012806 3

[ml

This Festschrift is devoted to the issue of the influence of language on culture and thought, interesting because of the tension it generates between universalism and particularism. On the one hand, our common humanity implies universale in the relationships among language, society, and thought. On the other hand, if language structure and language use have universal properties, there are nonetheless particular languages, each spoken in particular communities, each marked by its peculiar structural properties, and each the carrier of its own cultural and emotional freight. Thus, the central issue is addressed from several perspectives, and the contributions are arranged in sections on the Whorfian hypothesis, the sociolinguistic and psycholinguistic implications of languages in contact, the pragmatic context of language use, and the sociolinguistics of writing systems. Contributors include I. M. Schlesinger, J. Macnamara, V. JohnSteiner, E. Haugen, L. H. Glinert, C. A. Ferguson, S. B. Heath, R. L. Cooper, and F. Coulmas.

mouton de gruyter Berlin · New York

Mary E. McGroarty Christian J. Faltis (Editors)

Languages in School and Society Policy and Pedagogy 1991. X, 570 pages. Cloth. ISBN 3 11 012576 5 (Contributions to the Sociology of Language 58)

The six sections in this collection of 30 articles demonstrate the scope of current work in applied linguistics and suggest some of its applications to broader social and educational issues. Part I deals with theoretical and methodological advances in sociolinguistics, while Part II focusses on second language pedagogy. Recent trends in classroom language research are discussed in Part III, with Part IV concentrating on bilingual education for minority students. Part V addresses the assessment of second language proficiency. In Part VI, the connections between home and school contexts for language learning are examined. The volume illustrates the comprehensive nature of applied linguistics in its approach to understanding basic questions about how and why social context affects language learning and use.

mouton de gruyter Berlin · New York