The handmade embroidery work on Uzbek cotton dyed in turquoise is an accurate replica of the two pieces from my great-grandmother's dowry. This dowry included a large, traditional Suzani embroidery piece from the Jizzakh region, which featured nine 'moons'. According to the unwritten rule of inheritance to the eldest daughter, this heirloom was meant to be passed down to me. However, when I was still a child, the dowry piece was cut into several sections and distributed amongst the many branches of my extended family. Only these two pieces were left with my family, and they have since served as the inspiration for my installation.

In my creative reconstruction of the original piece, I've used the missing 'moons' as structural points to depict various experiences of the women in my family from the 1920s until the present day. The 'moons' feature abstract illustrations of stories about these women that I've heard repeatedly since I was a child, and which have formed clear visual images in my mind. The loose pieces containing a mixture of embroidery techniques and local canons are connected with threads—creating a non-hierarchical genealogical tree, a rhizome of relations (traditionally, women were never included in shajara - family trees). A hidden layer of digital reality (AR) further explores the connections and as a form emphasises the invisibility of these women's experiences.  

The name Oybibi has two meaningful parts: 'Oy', which translates to 'moon', and 'Bibi', meaning 'lady' or 'dame'. Despite the significance of her name, Oybibi was never addressed as such; rather, her friends and family knew her as Oliyaxon. Oybibi passed away twenty days prior to my birth; I never had the opportunity to meet her. According to my mother, I would have been named after her had circumstances been different. However, no one could bring themselves to inform her of Oybibi's passing.

In 1939, Oybibi welcomed her first child, and she went on to have a total of six children. Her husband fought for the Soviet Army during WWII, but his health never fully recovered, leading to multiple complications that ultimately caused his untimely death in his forties. Despite facing numerous challenges, Oybibi managed to provide for her family as a 'zavkhoz'—a house manager—for the Council of Ministers of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. Her access to primary education set her apart from many other Uzbek women who unfortunately did not have the same opportunities.

My mother remembers that they referred to Oybibi as 'the grandma General,' which is indicative of her tough, reserved demeanour. In fact, they were slightly afraid of her. She chain-smoked like there was no tomorrow; she smoked till her very end. Her favourite pastime was watching boxing matches and men's football, and her years of navigating the patriarchal society left a tangible imprint on her. To her, engaging in activities that were traditionally masculine seemed to legitimise her role as the head of the family. I wonder if I'll ever understand what her personal fight was.

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Grandmother Kh., Oybibi's daughter, had always harboured a deep desire to become a dancer and dedicate herself to the arts. She danced with Botir Zokirov before his rise to stardom, performing to the sound of the uzbek Doira—initially a purely feminine percussion instrument shaped like a circle. However, Oybibi could not let her oldest daughter pursue an ‘unserious’ discipline—mostly because, in her reality, it wouldn’t lead to a good marriage.

The textile industry in Uzbekistan was growing rapidly due to the excessive cultivation of cotton, a colonial project of the USSR that has lasted over a century with widespread practices of forced and child labour and still heavily impacts people and the ecology in Uzbekistan. Kh. discarded the dream of dancing, entering the industry of paxta—cotton. Her love for the spotlight, however, could never be contained. Having access to the newest fabrics and designs in the times of scarcity, she dazzled everyone in her surroundings with the latest fashion looks. She talks with fondness about her late husband; he allowed her to go on long work trips, taking on all household duties and childcare. She used to say: “You can never find an Uzbek man like him. They simply don’t exist.”

On one of her work trips, she represented the Republic at the 1975 Baghdad International Fair; the only story she tells from that trip is how she cooked Uzbek pilaf for Saddam Hussein and his delegation. She habitually masks her achievements by weaving a narrative that aligns with the traditional expectations of an Uzbek woman. Her life is a beautiful, yet suppressed dance.

The textiles chosen for this installation are not accidental: it’s a combination of dyed Uzbek cotton and old stock Soviet linen.

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Grandmother U. had written a memoir—a rare gem of herstory amongst the many memoirs and shajara featuring only men of the family. She is convinced it can never be published in Uzbekistan, as it contains too much criticism of male leadership in UzSSR at the time. To me, it is a subconsciously feminist piece of work that remains unpublished.

She writes in her memoir: “Poverty was destined for us by our grandfather Qodir ibn Yahyo ibn Rahim, who was the representative of the Central Asian Islamic clergy in the city of Tokmok in modern-day Kyrgyzstan. When the Soviets took control of Turkestan, Qodir understood the potential consequences of these events better than anyone else. In 1924, he returned to Tashkent and voluntarily surrendered all of his lands and valuable property to the new government. He also strictly instructed his children to avoid becoming obsessed with material possessions and instead invest all their efforts into gaining knowledge.” The impact of Soviet rule can be examined through a curious case of names. U. shares the names of her female cousins: Sanoat (Uzbek for ‘Industry’), Ziroat (‘Agriculture’), Sur’at ('Rates of growth').

When my grandmother U. was eight years old in 1948, she survived a hit-and-run accident by a motorcyclist. However, she was too afraid to tell her family about it, so she kept the pain to herself. For sixteen years, she suffered from intense pain, and none of the doctors she saw could diagnose her condition. Despite her suffering, she managed to complete her education, ghostwriting academic papers in Russian for her male cousins and writing her own dissertation on the construction of the first colour television centre in Tashkent. She even refused to marry my grandfather multiple times because she believed that she was being punished by a higher powers. Through pain, she fought with her in-laws for the right to work.  It was only after the birth of her first child that doctors finally discovered the cause of her pain: kidney necrosis.

U. was one of the only women who led the construction of the Tashkent TV tower, subsequently becoming its first director. In her memoir, she describes many instances of her standing up to the incompetence of men leaders in her field; her former co-workers called her ‘the Iron Mother’. The TV tower has become her life’s project, piercing through every story, every life event, symbolising her resilience and ambition that couldn’t be contained. She received the USSR State Award for her achievements, but she only revealed it after her husband’s passing. She didn’t want him to feel smaller than her.

Great-grandmother L.’s name translates as ‘the long-haired one’. Descending from a line of Shahs that had everything taken away from them during the Soviet rule, she married my great-grandfather, the son of a silk road merchant that fled to China to escape repression and labour camps. Their marriage was short-lived: L. passed away at the young age of 25. She washed her hair and ran out into the wind, while taking care of her two young children, which led to a severe case of meningitis. 

My great-grandfather vowed to remarry only to a woman who couldn’t have children. He believed only an infertile woman could learn to love her stepchildren as her own. Great-grandmother I. fulfilled this role—an outspoken Xorazmian woman and an active, all-knowing socialite, she was one of the first women in Uzbekistan to board a plane and jump with a parachute in the 1930s, back when many women across the world still hadn't yet gained the right to vote. She was a person who knew the true value of clandestine connections between women in a communist society, and a society of men. Mother recalls her knowing all the people—women—that could help out with all kinds of things even in the most difficult times. Through this rhizomatic structure of friendships and favours, she became a strong backbone for the family she found herself in.

The piece is incomplete on purpose. This reflects a centuries-old tradition of leaving unfinished parts in the embroidery as a wish for a happy and prosperous future. The ‘yulduz nusxa’ ornament on the parachute is my dedication to my younger sister, the youngest woman in my family, whose name translates as ‘star’—completing the familial and cosmological frameworks of the installation.

Suzani is a type of embroidery made mainly in Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, derived from the Persian word سوزن (Suzan) meaning 'needle'. Suzanis were traditionally handmade by Central Asian brides as part of their dowry, and were presented to the groom on the wedding day. 

This installation is based on the canonical structure of a Suzani that was traditionally crafted in the Jizzakh region of Uzbekistan. The Jizzakh suzani features large red rosettes framed by a decorative wreath, which holds significant importance. Some researchers suggest that this type of composition is similar to the decor found on Sogdian fabrics, but without any additional images within the rosettes. The circles on the Jizzakh suzani are believed to represent heavenly bodies associated with the astral cult that have lost their original meaning over time. Additionally, the 9 rosettes on the suzani may allude to the 9 months of pregnancy, representing womanhood and the fertility cycle.