My Journey to Uzbekistan During Soviet Times
Traveling during the Soviet era carried its own quiet rhythm, modest efficiency, calm order, and a sense of genuine human kindness. My journey from Moscow to Uzbekistan became one of the most memorable experiences of that time...
2/9/20266 min read
A Snowstorm in Moscow
The trip began in Moscow in the morning when winter showed its full force. A powerful snowstorm swept across the airport, covering the runways in thick white layers. The wind pushed snowflakes in swirling waves against the terminal windows, creating a scene that belonged more to nature than to travel plans. Because of the weather, our flight was delayed four hours.
Inside the terminal, passengers waited with a quiet patience characteristic of the time. Some read newspapers; others sipped tea from small glass cups. There was no rushing, no frustration, only a shared understanding that safety outweighed schedules. Regular announcements reassured us that ground crews were clearing ice with practiced discipline. Watching them move methodically through the storm reminded me of the remarkable professionalism that defined Soviet aviation.
For me, however, the wait carried another layer. I had never met a Russian before, yet I carried strong prejudices shaped by the world I had grown up in. I saw them as distant, even hostile, an imagined enemy formed through stories, assumptions, and geopolitical tension.
As I waited, trying to distract myself, I noticed a small bookstore in the corner of the terminal. I stepped inside, more out of curiosity than intention, and there I found a German-language book that would unexpectedly challenge my thinking. It addressed the differences between communism and Imperialism, but more importantly, it discussed how easily societies, East and West alike, could shape or “educate” their children into certain beliefs without ever exposing them to alternative perspectives.
The words struck me deeply. Standing there in the quiet of the store, I realized how little I realized something uncomfortable: I did not know Russian, I did not understand communism, and yet I had already formed a strong dislike for people I had never met or spoken to.
That book opened my eyes. It forced me to confront my own assumptions and accept that some of my beliefs were shaped not by experience but by the environment I had grown up in. It was a moment that changed my perspective, not only for that trip, but for the rest of my life.
The Antonov Flight to Samarkand
When the wind finally softened and the snowplows finished clearing the runway, boarding was announced. The Antonov An-24 aircraft stood firmly on the tarmac, a solid and reliable machine built for every season. Boarding went smoothly, with passengers moving in calm, orderly lines.
Inside the plane, the atmosphere was peaceful. The six-hour flight passed easily. Flight attendants served tea and simple snacks with warm professionalism. Through the window, I watched the landscape transform: snowy northern forests fading into endless plains, and finally giving way to the warm, sandy colors of Central Asia.
Arrival in Samarkand
Stepping out of the plane felt like stepping into another world. The air in Samarkand was warm, filled with sunlight and the earthy scent of the region. Waiting for me at the airport was my translator.
She was a beautiful young lady, elegant and calm, with a confident but gentle smile. From the first moment, she carried herself with quiet grace. What struck me immediately was her exceptional English. In the coming days, she translated simultaneously, converting every word I spoke into perfect Russian, with clarity, accuracy, and a smooth rhythm that made me forget she was translating at all. When I expressed my surprise, she explained, with modest pride, that she had learned English at university through discipline and passion. She had never visited an English- speaking country.
Her skill directly affected my work: I didn’t lose a single minute of teaching time. Thanks to her, I was able to train around twelve students in just five days, without slowing down or repeating a single explanation.
A Shared Love for History
As we spent time together, she soon discovered my deep love for history. When she told me that history was also her personal hobby, my eyes brightened with enthusiasm. She had studied Samarkand’s past not only in school but out of genuine passion. Because of this shared interest, she decided to do something extraordinary.
She arranged a private bus with a driver, not because it was required, but because she genuinely wanted to show me the soul of her city. With calm certainty, she said:
“Tomorrow, I will show you Samarkand’s history personally.”
In that moment, I realized I was not only working with a translator but also being guided by someone who lived and breathed her city’s heritage.
Registan Square, Like a Child in a Candy Store
Our first destination was the magnificent Registan Square. As we stepped into the plaza, surrounded by the three grand madrasas, Ulugh Beg, Sher, Dor, and Tilya, Kori, I felt a surge of excitement that I can only describe
as feeling like a kid in a candy store.
For a history lover, this was paradise. She explained each architectural detail with clarity, the tiled facades, the calligraphic inscriptions, the symbolic lions and suns in the mosaics. Under the sunlight, the turquoise domes seemed to glow. Her voice, full of both knowledge and pride, brought the entire square to life.
History was no longer something written in books. It stood around me, rising in stone and tile, stretching across centuries.
Ulugh Beg’s Observatory, Science Beyond Its Time
Next, she took me to the remains of Ulugh Beg’s observatory, built by the scholar-king who valued science above conquest. With admiration in her voice, she explained his achievements: advanced star catalogs, mathematical discoveries, and the enormous stone sextant that once measured the heavens.
Standing at the site of the observatory moved me deeply. I imagined Ulugh Beg and his students observing the night sky, charting the stars with precision centuries before the modern world had telescopes.
For someone with Turkish roots, it was a profoundly emotional moment, like touching the past with my own hands.
Timur Lenk’s Mausoleum, Gur-e, Amir
Our final destination was the majestic mausoleum of Timur Lenk, also known as Tamerlane. Its blue dome, covered with elegant geometric patterns, rose above the city like a crown from another age. Inside, the atmosphere felt sacred. The marble sarcophagi stood as silent guardians of an era filled with ambition, creation, and power.
My translator explained the symbolism, the inscriptions, and the details of Timur’s life. Her explanations did more than inform me; they allowed me to feel the spirit of the place. She translated not only facts, but emotions. I stood there humbled, aware that I was in the presence of one of history’s most influential figures.
A Journey Enriched by People and History
My days in Samarkand were shaped not only by the city’s grand monuments but by the dedication and kindness of my translator. She arranged everything with precision, guided me with enthusiasm, and opened the door to a world I had long admired from afar.
She was far more than a translator. She was a bridge between cultures, a historian at heart, and a guide who gave her city as a gift.
Thanks to her, my visit became more than a work assignment; it became a significant journey into the living history of Uzbekistan.
Return to Moscow
When my work was done, I boarded the Antonov once more. As the plane rose into the evening sky, the warm colors of Samarkand stretched out below me. I carried with me not only memories of successful teaching but also a new understanding of the city’s past, beauty, and people, and the quiet beginning of a true friendship formed through respect, shared curiosity, and the kindness of a remarkable guide.
A Lasting Impression
My visit to Uzbekistan during Soviet times remains one of the most precious experiences of my life. It taught me about history, culture, hospitality, and the power of genuine human connection. The snowstorm in Moscow, the long flight, the warmth of Samarkand, the breathtaking monuments, and the remarkable young translator all came together to create a journey I will always cherish.
