In AD 998, two young men living nearly 200 miles
apart, in present-day Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, entered into a
correspondence. With verbal jousting that would not sound out of place in a
21st-century laboratory, they debated 18 questions, several of
which resonate strongly even today.
Are there other solar systems out among the stars,
they asked, or are we alone in the universe? In Europe, this question was
to remain open for another 500 years, but to these two men it seemed clear
that we are not alone. They also asked if the earth had been created whole
and complete, or if it had evolved over time. Time, they agreed, is a
continuum with no beginning or end. In other words, they rejected
creationism and anticipated evolutionary geology and even Darwinism by
nearly a millennium. This was all as heretical to the Muslim faith they
professed as it was to medieval Christianity.
Few exchanges in the history of science have so boldly
leapt into the future as this one, which occurred a thousand years ago in a
region now regarded as a backwater. We know of it because a few copies of
it survived in manuscript and were published almost a millennium later.
Twenty-six-year-old Abu al-Rayhan al-Biruni,
or al-Biruni (973–1048), hailed from near the Aral Sea and
went on to distinguish himself in geography, mathematics, trigonometry,
comparative religion, astronomy, physics, geology, psychology, mineralogy,
and pharmacology. His counterpart, Abu Ali Sina, or Ibn Sina (ca.
980–1037), was from the stately city of Bukhara, the great seat of
learning in what is now Uzbekistan. He made his mark in medicine,
philosophy, physics, chemistry, astronomy, theology, clinical pharmacology,
physiology, ethics, and even music. When eventually Ibn Sina’s great Canon of Medicine was
translated into Latin, it triggered the start of modern medicine in the
West. Together, the two are regarded as among the greatest scientific minds
between antiquity and the Renaissance.
Most today know these argumentative geniuses, if at
all, as Arabs. This is understandable, since both wrote in Arabic (as well
as Persian). But just as a Japanese writing in English is not an
Englishman, a Central Asian writing in Arabic is not an Arab. In fact, both
men were part of a huge constellation of ethnically Persian or Turkic
geniuses in mathematics, astronomy, medicine, geology, linguistics,
political science, poetry, architecture, and practical
technology—all of whom were from what today we call
Central Asia. Between 800 and 1100 this pleiad of Central Asian scientists,
artists, and thinkers made their region the intellectual epicenter of the
world. Their influence was felt from East Asia and India to Europe and the
Middle East.
Today, this is hard to
imagine. This vast region of irrigated deserts, mountains, and steppes
between China, Pakistan, Iran, Russia, and the Caspian Sea is easily
dismissed as a peripheral zone, the “backyard” of one or
another great power. In impoverished Afghanistan, traditionally considered
the heart of Central Asia, U.S. forces are fighting a
backward-looking and ignorant Taliban. The main news in America
from the rest of Central Asia is that the Pentagon is looking for bases
there from which to provision the Afghan campaign. In China, the region is
seen chiefly as a semi-colonial source of oil, natural gas, gold,
aluminum, copper, and uranium. The Russian narrative, meanwhile, dwells on
Moscow’s geopolitical competition there with the West and,
increasingly, China. By and large, most people abroad ignore the land of
Ibn Sina and al-Biruni, dismissing it as an inconvenient territory to be
crossed while getting somewhere else.
Given the dismal plight of these lands in the modern
era, who can be surprised at this? Beginning a century and a half ago,
Russia colonized much of the region, while Britain turned Afghanistan into
a buffer to protect its Indian colonies from Russia. China eventually
absorbed a big chunk to the east, now known as Xinjiang, the “New
Territory.” Ancient traditions of learning had long since died out,
and while the Soviets revived literacy, they suppressed free thought in
both the secular and religious spheres. A new day for the region began with
the creation of five independent states after the collapse of the Soviet
Union in 1991, and with the establishment of a new and more modern
government in Afghanistan after 9/11.
Eighteen years on, all of the new states have
preserved their sovereignty and Afghanistan is clinging to life. But
several of the region’s countries remain destitute, and even the most
successful ones are riddled with corruption and still dependent on
authoritarian forms of rule. As William Faulkner reminded us in his speech
accepting the Nobel Prize in 1950, there is a big difference between surviving and prevailing. Is the best hope of
these lands merely to work their way back up to zero? Or can they possibly
reclaim some of the luster of their glorious past, and prevail?
And glorious it was. It is hard to know where to begin
in enumerating the intellectual achievements of Central Asians a millennium
ago. In mathematics, it was Central Asians who first accepted irrational
numbers, identified the different forms of cubic equations, invented
trigonometry, and adapted and disseminated the decimal system and Hindu
numerals (called “Arabic” numbers in the West). In astronomy,
they estimated the earth’s diameter to a degree of precision
unmatched until recent centuries and built several of the largest
observatories before modern times, using them to prepare remarkably precise
astronomical tables.
In chemistry, Central Asians were the first to reverse
reactions, to use crystallization as a means of purification, and to
measure specific gravity and use it to group elements in a manner
anticipating Dmitri Mendeleev’s periodic table of 1871. They compiled
and added to ancient medical knowledge, hugely broadened pharmacology, and
passed it all to the West and to India. And in technology, they invented
windmills and hydraulic machinery for lifting water that subsequently
spread westward to the Middle East and Europe and eastward to China.
But wasn’t this the great age of Arab science
and learning centered at the Caliphate in Baghdad? True enough. There were
brilliant Arab scientists such as the polymath and founder of ophthalmology
Ibn al-Haytham (ca. 965–1040). But as the Leipzig scholar
Heinrich Suter first showed a century ago, many, if not most, of those
“Arab” scientists were in fact either Persian or Turkic and
hailed originally from Central Asia. This is true of the mathematician and
astronomer Mukhammad ibn Musa al-Khorezmi (ca. AD 780–850),
who was from the same Khorezm region of the Uzbekistan-Turkmenistan border
area as al-Biruni, hence “al-Khorezmi.” Algorithms,
one of his many discoveries, still bear his name in distorted form, while
our term “algebra” comes directly from the title of his
celebrated book on mathematics. Similarly, Abu Nasr al-Farabi
(ca. AD 872–961), known in the West as Alfarabius, whose innovative
analyses of the ethics of Aristotle surpassed all those of Western thinkers
except Thomas Aquinas, was a Turk from what is now Kazakhstan, not an
Arab.
The extraordinarily important role of Central Asian
intellectuals in Baghdad is less surprising when one bears in mind that the
Abbassid Caliphate was actually founded by Central Asians. True, the
caliphs themselves were Arabs who had settled in the East, but in the
process they had “gone native” and embraced the Persian and
Turkic world in which they found themselves. One caliph,
al-Ma’mun, refused for years after his appointment in AD
818 to leave Central Asia, ruling the Muslim world instead from the
splendid oasis city of Merv in what is now Turkmenistan. When he eventually
moved to Baghdad he brought with him, along with his Turkic soldiers, the
more open and ecumenical values of Central Asia, with their blend of
influences from the Persian and Turkic cultures.
The movement from Central Asia to the Middle East
recalls the ancient brain drain from the centers of Greek learning to Rome.
The difference is that even as some Central Asian scientists and scholars
were moving to Baghdad, Arab intellectuals were also being attracted to the
great centers in Central Asia. In a kind of reverse brain drain, the
extraordinarily enlightened city of Gurganj (where al-Biruni lived), in
what is now Turkmenistan, became a magnet for Arab scientists, as did the
well-financed and opulent court at Ghazni in eastern Afghanistan.
Nor did all Central Asians who had been lured to Baghdad choose to stay
there.
What territories should we include in this
“Central Asia” that produced such a flowering of genius?
Certainly all of the five “stans” that gained independence in
1991: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan. No
less central to this flowering of the intellect were the great cities of
what is now Afghanistan: Balkh, Herat, and others. Add also modern
Iran’s northeastern province of Khorasan, whose capital city,
Nishapur, produced long ranks of innovators during those bounteous years.
The boundaries of this “zone of genius” also extend across what
is now the western border of China to embrace the ancient city of Kashgar
and several other great centers that have always fallen within the cultural
orbit of Central Asia.
It is one thing to draw a circle on the map, but quite
another to explain why this region, call it Greater Central Asia, should
have produced such a cultural flowering. Booming cities provided the
setting for cultural life. A traveling Arab marveled at what he called the
“land of a thousand cities” in what is now Afghanistan,
Tajikistan, and Uzbekistan. The ruins of mighty Balkh, once the capital of
this region, still spread for miles and miles across the plain west of
modern Mazar–i-Sharif in Afghanistan. In its heyday Balkh
was larger than Paris, Rome, Beijing, or Delhi. Like all the great regional
centers, it had running water, baths, and majestic palaces—and
solidly built homes of sun-dried brick for non-palace dwellers.
It was also richer, thanks to continental trade.
Merchants from Balkh and other Central Asian commercial centers journeyed
to the Middle East, Europe, China, and deep into India. Traders from those
lands brought goods to the sprawling commercial entrepôts in Greater
Central Asia. Since slavery thrived throughout the Muslim world and beyond,
the bazaars also included large slave markets. Gold, silver, and bronze
currency from these thriving hubs of commerce traveled all the way to
Gotland in Sweden and to Korea and Sri Lanka.
Central Asia lay at the junction of all the routes
connecting the great cultures of the Eurasian landmass. This network of
routes, today often called the “Silk Road,” in its heyday
transported a huge variety of goods in every direction. Glass blowing
spread from the Middle East to China via Central Asia, while papermaking
and sericulture (the production of silk) went from China westward. But the
Central Asians were not passive transmitters. For half a millennium, Middle
Easterners and Europeans esteemed Samarqand paper as the best anywhere,
while the treasures of more than one medieval cathedral in Europe consist
of silk manufactured in the Fergana Valley of what is now mainly
Uzbekistan.
Traders also carried religions. Greek settlers in the
wake of Alexander the Great (356–23 BC) brought the cults of Athena,
Hercules, and Aphrodite to their new cities in Afghanistan. Then Buddhism
found fertile soil across the region, and spread from there to China,
Japan, and Korea. Along the way, Buddhist artists picked up from immigrant
Greeks the idea of depicting the Buddha in sculpture. About the same time,
Jewish communities were formed, Syrian Christian bishoprics established,
and Manichean communities founded across the region. In a stratum beneath
all these religions lay the region’s core faith, Zoroastrianism, with
its emphasis on the struggle of good and evil, redemption, and heaven and
hell. Zoroaster, who probably lived in the sixth or seventh century BC,
came from the region of Balkh, but his religion spread westward, eventually
to Babylon, where Jews encountered it and fell under its influence. From
Judaism its concepts spread first to Christianity and then to Islam.
So when Islam arrived with the Arab armies in the late
seventh century, it encountered a population that was expert in what we
might today call comparative religion and philosophical analysis. Many
Central Asians converted, but others did not, at least not until after the
period of cultural effervescence had passed. Muslim or not, they were
expert codifiers, and one of them, Muhammad ibn Ismail al-Bukhari
(AD 810–70), brought together and analyzed the hadiths (sayings) of
Muhammad, the compilation becoming regarded as Islam’s second
most holy book after the Qur’an. Secular ideas also wafted back and
forth across the region. The astronomer al-Khorezmi wrote a book
comparing the utility of Indian numerals (and the concept of zero) with all
other contenders, while others mined Indian geometry, astronomy, and even
calendar systems for good ideas. Earlier Central Asians had tested various
alphabets, including ones from Syria and India. Several local languages
opted for an alphabet deriving from Aramaic, the language Jesus spoke. It
is hard to imagine a more intellectually open region anywhere.
What distinguished Central Asians from both the Arabs
and the Chinese is that they were polyglots. They considered it normal to
live amid a bewildering profusion of languages and alphabets, and managed
somehow to master whichever ones they needed at the time. Thus, when the
Arab armies arrived bearing a new religion, it was natural that at least
some officials and intellectuals would learn the Arabs’ strange
language to see what it offered. Traders soon thereafter began arriving
with writings newly translated from classical Greek. Often the work of
Christian Arabs, these translations suddenly opened challenging new ideas
in philosophy and science to Central Asians. In due course, they were to
master and even go beyond their ancient Greek mentors.
The flowering of Greater Central Asia was thus a
product of “location, location, location,” both with respect to
the trade-based prosperity that it generated and to the welter of
religions and ideas that came on the back of that trade. But trade alone
would not have given rise to the intellectual awakening that occurred, for
not all trade unleashes genius. Perhaps it is best to think of trade as a
necessary condition for intellectual takeoff, but not a
sufficient one.
How important was religion
to this explosion of creativity? For many, Islam was the crucial factor.
When al-Bukhari embarked on his lifework of scholarship he was
doubtless moved by deep piety, as were scores of other great thinkers.
Al-Farabi never doubted that his research into the basis of ethics would
strengthen formal religion. Others agreed with al-Farabi but insisted that
free inquiry and research should guide religion, not vice versa, and
certainly not be constrained by it. Still others were outright skeptics who
dismissed religion as fine for the mass of society but a farce for
intellectuals. This was the view of Omar Khayyám (1048–1123),
the brilliant mathematician who is known today mainly for his poetry, a
collection of which was introduced to the West in the 19th century as the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.
All this adds up to the possibility that intellectual
boldness owed less to what religion did than to what it did not do. This is
important, given the struggle that existed at times between religion and
science in the West. But one senses that someone like al-Farabi,
who tossed off a major study on musical theory in addition to all his other
works, needed neither permission nor encouragement to treat the whole world
as his oyster.
Pinpointing the causes of Central Asia’s golden
age is all the more difficult because the great minds who gave the age its
brilliance were such a diverse lot. A few came from wealthy landed families
and could live off their estates, while others, such as Ibn Sina and
al-Biruni, won appointments to lucrative high offices. But they
were exceptions. Most of the thinkers were full-time scientists,
scholars, and intellectuals, or at least aspired to be. With no
universities or academies of science to support them, this was no easy
undertaking. Even if they assembled a few paying students, the resulting
income never provided enough to sustain them. And so, by default, they
relied on the patronage of rulers.
Here was one of Central Asia’s great strengths.
To be sure, a would-be scientist could strike out for Baghdad in
hopes of joining the House of Wisdom, an academy of sciences established by
the Central Asia–born caliph al-Ma’mun. But
there were many local rulers and courts throughout the region, just as
there were also in Persia to the west. All gave a respectful nod to Baghdad
but considered themselves functionally independent. Each of these rulers
was a kind of caliph in his own right, ruling in a thoroughly authoritarian
manner and defending his territory with a large army of Turks. But they
also promoted trade, collected taxes, built splendid capitals, and,
significantly, spent fortunes on the arts and sciences. One such court was
at Gurganj, where al-Biruni worked. Another was at the
already-ancient walled city of Samarqand, where between 850 and 1000 the
Samanid dynasty maintained a magnificent library, intense salons where
savants discussed the Great Questions, and a lively social world centered
on music and poetry.
There was nothing kind and gentle about some of these
rulers; nor were all of them sophisticated as patrons of the arts and
sciences. From his capital in eastern Afghanistan, Mahmud of Ghazna
(971–1030) ruled an empire stretching from India to the heart of
modern Iran. Mahmud was ruthless and viewed culture more as an adornment
than a necessity. Yet he successfully engaged al-Biruni, who
proceeded to author the first comprehensive study of India and Hinduism in
any language. Mahmud also patronized the great poet Abolqasem
Ferdowsi, whose grand panorama of pre-Muslim Persia, the Shahnameh (ca. 1000),
influenced troubadours as far away as France and remains a classic of
world literature.
The last great explosion of cultural energy in Central
Asia occurred under the Seljuk Turks beginning about 1037 and continuing
for more than a century. From their eastern capitals at Merv in modern
Turkmenistan and Nishapur near the present-day Iranian-Afghan border, they
encouraged innovators in many fields. Among their achievements was the
invention of a way to cover large spaces with double domes. One of their
earliest efforts can still be seen rising from the desolation of their
ruined capital at Merv. Following a circuitous route that led through
Filippo Brunelleschi’s dome at the Cathedral of Florence to St.
Nicholas’s Cathedral in St. Petersburg, this innovation eventually
defined the cupola of the U.S. Capitol in Washington.
Why did the great age of
Central Asia fade? The most common explanation blames the waning of the
intellectual whirlwind on the Mongol invasion, which Ghenghis Khan launched
from the Mongolian heartland in 1218. It is true that the Mongol invaders
sacked most of the magnificent cities of Central Asia, but three objections
undermine this thesis. First, all but a few of the cities quickly revived,
thanks to trade and commerce. Second, far from isolating the region, the
Mongol conquest increased contacts between Greater Central Asia and both
Europe and the rest of Asia. This happened because the conquering Mongols
abolished borders and tariffs within their vast empire. When Marco Polo
passed through Afghanistan en route to China in the 13th century, he did so
with a single “patent,” or visa. To the extent that
cross-cultural contact was an essential ingredient of intellectual
vitality, it flourished under the Mongols.
Third, even if the Mongols had set out to suppress
free thought in 1221 (they did not), there would have been no need for them
to do so. A full century earlier, much of the cultural energy that had
crackled across the length and breadth of Central Asia for hundreds of
years had dissipated. True, at Merv in the 12th century there were still a
dozen libraries, one of them with 12,000 volumes, and there were more than
50 doctors in Bukhara. But as early as 1100, the focus of intellectual life
had shifted from bold sallies into vast and unknown territories to the
preparation of compendiums of earlier studies and careful treatises on
safer, more limited subjects. A sure sign that the formerly bright flame
had diminished is the fact that most of the surviving manuscripts from this
period are either copies of earlier writings or commentaries on them, not
original works.
If the “Whodunit?” question does not point
to the Mongols, what caused the decline? Most of Central Asia’s great
ancient cities today present a picture of gaunt ruins baking silently in
the desert sun, the bleakness relieved only by occasional tufts of sage.
Viewing them, one is tempted to blame the cultural downturn on climate
change or some other ecological shift. But most studies of the
region’s ecological history conclude that the climate during the boom
years was nearly identical to what it is today, and that the main change
was the decay of the irrigation systems that were once the region’s
glory.
Looking beyond the Mongols and ecology, at least four
factors contributed to the region’s decline. First, and perhaps
foremost, nothing endures forever. The golden age of classical Athens
lasted barely a century before the city slipped into a lesser silver age.
Few of the Renaissance cities remained at a peak of cultural creativity for
more than a century and a half. It is natural and inevitable that decline
should set in after a high point.
In the case of Central Asia, even more than with the
Arabs to the West, the mighty stimulus for original thinking had been the
challenge of mastering and assimilating vast and unfamiliar bodies of
thought, from ancient Greece, the Middle East, and India. By 1100 this had
been accomplished, and no comparably huge body of new learning presented
itself thereafter. The European Renaissance should have provided such a
stimulus, of course, but by that time the great trade routes that had
connected civilizations had seen better days and Central Asia’s
isolation and decline was becoming entrenched.
Second, religions, like the cultures of which they are
a part, go through cycles, beginning in dynamism,
self-confidence, and experimentation and then hardening into
orthodoxy. In Central Asia, this had already occurred with both
Zoroastrianism and Buddhism. In the case of Islam, the greatest flowering
of creative thought started early, between 800 and 1100. The hardening into
orthodoxy also began early, but did not reach its apex until around 1100.
Even then, there remained a few isolated outposts that stayed
intellectually vital for another century or so. But in Persian and Turkic
Central Asia, as in the Arab heartland and in Persia proper, the demands of
a steadily rigidifying Muslim orthodoxy gradually narrowed the sphere in
which free thought and humanism could be exercised.
Beyond these “morphological” realities
that contributed to the withering of free intellectual life in Greater
Central Asia, a third and much more specific factor was at work: the
Sunni-Shia split within the Muslim faith. This fundamental
division dates to the first generation after Muhammad’s death in AD
632. By the time of the rise of the first Caliphate in Damascus, the Sunnis
were firmly in charge throughout the Muslim world except in Egypt, where
the Fatimids, a Shiite dynasty, flourished from 968 to 1171. But even
before the fall of the Fatimids the Shiite faithful were being hounded
eastward, shifting the core zone of confessional conflict to Persia and
Central Asia. As this occurred, the reigning Sunni rulers across the region
tightened their grip on all who might be suspected of schismatic leanings.
Many of the great innovators, such as Ibn Sina, had come from Shiite
families. Now anyone like him was suspect.
Needless to say, the change hit the freethinkers
particularly hard, but it affected no less the mainline Sunnis. Two figures
from the town of Tus on the western fringe of Central Asia in what is now
eastern Iran epitomized this new direction. The first, Nizam
al-Mulk (1018–92), was a highly gifted administrator and
also one of the best political scientists of the era.
Al-Mulk’s teachers had introduced him to works by the best
minds of the Central Asian renaissance. But by the time he was appointed
vizier of the Seljuk Empire, the battle against Shiite dissidence was at
full tilt. Fearing deviance on every side, al-Mulk proposed to
establish a network of schools, or madrassas, that would instill orthodox
Sunni Islam and turn young men into well-informed loyalists of
the faith. Graduates would reject not only the Shiite schism but any other
forms of thought that might be suspected of deviance from orthodoxy.
The second transformative figure, Abu Hamid Muhammad
ibn Muhammad al-Ghazali (1058–1111), a philosopher and
theologian, launched a frontal attack on the dangers posed by the
unrestrained exercise of reason. The title of his most famous work tells it
all: The Incoherence of the Philosophers (i.e., scientists). Like the Grand Inquisitor in Feodor
Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, al-Ghazali intimately knew his enemy, in this case
Aristotelian empiricism, which had attracted the best minds of the region.
Attacking Aristotle, he attacked all contemporary rationalists, and to
devastating effect.
Together, al-Mulk and al-Ghazali
lowered the curtain on independent thought that had been raised in Central
Asia for three centuries. Yet Central Asians responded with their typical
creativity. With outer forms of the faith hardened and rigidified, they
evinced a fresh interest in individual spirituality. Their highly personal
system for achieving a mystical experience of God required neither books,
hierarchies, nor mosques, and was called Sufism. Central Asians had ready
at hand many forms of such mystical and private worship, thanks to their
contacts with Hindu India and their rich local traditions of Buddhism,
Syrian Christianity, and even Judaism, which had thrived in the
region’s trade centers. How mystical currents within these faiths
contributed to Sufism is much debated, but one thing is clear: Even though
the first Sufis had been Arabs, Central Asia became Sufism’s
heartland. Several of the first and greatest Sufi movements arose there and
spread thence throughout the Muslim world. Today Sufi poems by Rumi, Attar,
and others have gained a New Age following, but in their own era they
represented a turning inward and away from the civic realm.
Central Asia by no means
disappeared from the world’s view after 1100. In the 14th century,
Timur, known in the West as Tamerlane, conquered the world from Delhi to
the eastern shore of the Mediterranean and then assembled learned
scientists and writers in his rebuilt capital of Samarqand. A century
later, Babur sprang from the Fergana Valley and went on to found the Mughal
dynasty in India. A gifted writer, Babur followed the old Central Asian
practice of gathering creative talent to his court.
Yet Central Asia never regained the intellectual
luster it had possessed in the centuries between 800 and 1100. High local
tariffs killed the golden goose that had given birth to prosperity and inter-cultural contact. Religious orthodoxy stifled the
region’s most original thinkers. As the decline set in, Central Asia
gradually ceased to be central to the high culture of all Eurasia and sank
into the status of a remote and dusty boondocks.
From this descent into obscurity it was an easy step
to Dan Rather’s coverage of Afghanistan and the region in the
immediate wake of 9/11. Donning a bush jacket and filming at dawn and dusk,
he presented the region as inaccessible, backward, exotic, marginal, and
threatening—in short, the end of the world. Ibn Sina,
al-Biruni, and scores of other world-class geniuses
from the region might just as well never have lived.
Even though the Central Asia of Rather’s
depiction was and is an evocative image, it carries some bothersome
implications. On the one hand, it conjures up a place where the best the
United States and the world community can hope for is to limit the damage
arising from it. This means destroying whatever threatens us and then
getting out. The problem is that the thinking behind such an approach can
then become self-fulfilling: A place we judged to be hopeless
becomes truly so, and even more threatening than before. The fact that
Central Asia and Afghanistan are situated between four—and possibly
soon five—nuclear powers does not help matters.
Fortunately, this prevailing image of backwardness is
not the whole story. Since the region emerged from Soviet and Taliban rule,
the ancient continental trade routes have begun to revive. Indians and
Koreans flying to Europe stop off there. Half a dozen countries and as many
international financial institutions are busily building a network of
highways that will eventually link Europe, China, India, and the Middle
East. The fact that this is occurring without central direction means that
its extent has largely gone unnoticed. But the road building has now
reached the level of an unstoppable force. The opening of routes between
Europe and China and across Afghanistan toward the Arabian Sea,
India, and Southeast Asia and linking the Middle East, China, and India
will, in the coming decade, transform the entire Eurasian landmass. Little
that is emerging is absolutely new. Indeed, anyone interested in knowing
what the new transport configuration will look like might start by
examining the trade routes of the golden era.
Similarly, the opening of Central Asia between 1991
and 2001 is beginning to transform the region intellectually. Tens of
thousands of the region’s students have gone to study at the best
universities abroad. In an act of enlightenment worthy of their
predecessors a millennium ago, the governments of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan
have paid for these young people to acquire the most modern knowledge and
bring it back home. They return with a passion for reconnecting their
region with the global world of ideas. Within the next decade, these young
men and women will assume leadership roles in their societies and in the
region as a whole. It is hard to imagine that they will consider the
prevailing corruption to be normal, or accept Soviet-style
controls over their ideas. Even in Afghanistan the National University, the
recently established American University, and thousands of lower schools
are opening new prospects to the rising generation.
These young people quite reasonably ask, “Who
are we?” Answers pour in from every side. Many in the Middle East and
even in the West, from the White House down, tell them they are Muslims,
defined mainly by the faith in which they were raised. Alternatively, some
experts smugly invoke the notions of tribal or clan heritage to explain
what they consider the region’s hopelessly retrograde politics.
Meanwhile, local patriots hail their various national ethnic
identities—Kyrgyz, Tajik, or Uzbek—each of
which, they insist, is absolutely unique and like no other.
These proposed identities may have some basis in
reality. But all run the risk of narrowing the horizons of the emerging
generation and limiting their expectations of themselves. The attraction of
some young people to fundamentalist religious organizations or narrowly
nationalistic groups is also a cause for concern. But Central Asians have
ready at hand a meaningful past that lifts up the individual, defines each
person in terms of reason and wisdom, and places that person in the
mainstream of global developments. This is the great tradition that for 300
years made their region the center of the world of intellect. Why
shouldn’t Central Asians and their friends abroad place this
remarkable heritage, rather than some narrowly religious or national
ideology, as the lodestone of their policies today?
This means focusing more of our support and theirs on
reopening the great continental transport routes, instituting freer
borders, lowering tariffs, and reducing meddling from the governments. Free
trade must also extend to the world of ideas. This means creating the
unfettered intellectual space that enabled Ibn Sina and al-Biruni to
hypothesize on evolution rather than creationism and even to contemplate
the existence of other worlds. Though they each lived under a different
government, nobody intercepted their mail and nobody censured their
heretical thoughts. In fact, rulers competed to become their patrons and to
support their work.
Would this happen today in Central Asia? Several
governments in the region are glad to talk of unfettered continental trade
but bridle at the prospect of an unfettered exchange of ideas. Yet in every
country in the region, there are distinguished champions of the kind of
intellectual openness that will give rise to modern Ibn Sinas and
al-Birunis. With the emergence of the new generation, increasing numbers of
these people are in government. The idea of a fresh flowering of Central
Asia may seem a distant prospect, but it is not impossible, especially if
Central Asians become more familiar with their rich heritage and draw from
it relevant lessons for the present.
If this is the challenge to inhabitants of the region
today, the challenge to their international partners is to treat the
regional states as sovereign countries, not as culturally inert objects to
be shoved around on a chessboard. It is not enough to view them simply as a
“zone of [our] special interest,” as Vladimir Putin’s
government does; as a source of raw materials, as the Chinese do; or as a
fueling stop en route to Kabul, as the United States does. The better
alternative is to acknowledge that somewhere in the DNA of these peoples is
the capacity to manage great empires and even greater trading zones, to
interact as equals with the other centers of world culture, and to use
their unique geographical position to become a link and bridge between
civilizations. Such an awareness will raise expectations on all sides, and
encourage the region’s international partners to view it as more than
the object of a geopolitical game.
This, too, won’t be easy, but acquiring a deeper
knowledge of Central Asia’s past is an essential place to begin.
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S. Frederick Starr is chairman of the Central Asia-Caucasus Institute at Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies. He was the founding chairman of the Woodrow Wilson Center’s Kennan Institute and president of Oberlin College and the Aspen Institute. He began his career doing archaeological work in Turkey and teaching intellectual history at Princeton and has picked up those threads in the present article, which is based on a book he is writing.
Reprinted from Summer
2009 Wilson Quarterly
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