Don't Mess with the Missus—Central Asia's Women Warriors

By Kelly Raftery

I know what I should do when asked to write about a famous warrior. I should tell you about Manas, who united forty tribes to throw off an oppressive regime and create the Kyrgyz nation. Or, if I wanted to stay in the neighborhood, I could tell you about Uzbekistan’s Tamerlane, who conquered much of Central Asia, the Middle East and Russia. I could write about the Grandaddy of them all-Genghis Khan, who began life homeless and hungry and ultimately ruled an empire that stretched from the Caspian to the Sea of Japan.  

Central Asia does not lack for warriors. And, given that the ones I have listed above are little known in the Western world, I really should pick a warrior and give a good overview. Instead, I would like to introduce you to Central Asia’s women warriors. 

Amazon on horseback. Red-figure neck-amphora, ca. 420 BC.  From the State Collections of Antiques, Munich.

Ancient Greek tales introduced the world to the idea of a race of barbaric women warriors that came thundering out of the Steppes on horseback. Mythic hero Hercules was sent on a mission to steal the Amazon Queen's golden girdle, but instead he fell in love with her. Hercules returned from his mission golden girdle in hand, though not obtained by force. These tribes of women were said to be a savage, matriarchal society in which a girl could not take a husband before she had made her first kill in battle. Greek artists were fascinated by the idea of a race of women warriors and their representation can be found in their art and writings. 

Statue of female warrior
from ancient Rome

Until very recently, the idea of a Bronze-age female dominated culture was considered a myth that simply grew more fanciful in its retelling. Only in the last century have archaeologists begun to excavate kurgans-or burial mounds-in Russia and Kazakhstan that suggest there is more than a bit of truth in these myth. Among recent discoveries are graves of women that contain weapons along with jewelry. A bronze arrowhead nestles alongside ornate gold earrings in one grave. The bones of one thirteen- or fourteen- year-old girl showed a bowing of the legs, an indicator that she had spent much of her young life on horseback. Both Russian and American researchers continue to excavate and find tantalizing clues to this ancient civilization. More information can be found here and here.

Moving forward in history, it should be noted that Genghis Khan’s daughters played an integral role in administering his empire. While his sons were sent forth to acquire new territory, it was his daughters who were sent to rule over conquered peoples and establish the communication and financial networks that were key to the Mongols’ success. Khutulun, one of Kublai Khan’s nieces was a prominent warrior in her own right, supporting her father’s rule of Central Asia. Stories say that she would ride directly into an opposing army to kidnap a warrior before anyone could prevent her from taking a captive. Khutulun even set forth a challenge that she would only marry the man who could beat her in a wrestling match. Eventually she did marry, though as a result of political necessity, not due to a loss. 

To bring our topic full circle, I would now like to introduce you to Kyrgyzstan’s woman warrior, Kurmanjan Datka.  A teenaged Kurmanjan was sent to the head of a neighboring tribe as a bride. On her wedding day, having met her groom for the first time, she fled, breaking with tradition. Kurmanjan first fled to China and then later returned to her father’s camp, where she met and fell in love with a powerful military leader and politician who had taken the title of datka-which means general or lord. 

After thirty years of marriage, Kurmanjan’s husband was killed during political infighting. Kurmanjan assumed her husband’s role both politically and militarily. She was given the title of datka and recognized as the legitimate leader of the Kyrgyz people by the neighboring khanates. Kurmanjan Datka withdrew from public life after the Russian annexation of her territory and the subsequent execution of her favorite son. 

Kurmanjan Datka with one of her sons, early 1900s.

To me, the most notable warriors of Central Asia are the ones who are often lost to history, the ones who bore children and did battle in equal measures.

Bite-Sized Pockets of Love

By Kelly Raftery

A few months into my marriage, I asked a question any new bride might ask, “What is your favorite food?” My Kyrgyz husband answered, “Manty with pumpkin.”  I believe my response might have been something eloquent and deeply meaningful, along the lines of, “What the heck is that?”

Manty is a potsticker.  A lamb potsticker.  Steamed, not fried.  A dumpling.  No more, no less.  With my husband’s explanation of dough wrapped around meat in mind, my younger self set off on a Mission to make the Perfect Manty.  It was more than food, it was my first real challenge as a wife and I would not let it defeat me. 

 

First off, to make the perfect manty, one must obtain a special piece of equipment–a dumpling steamer–basically a large stockpot topped by layers of metal steaming racks.  Next step is the dough.  As a new bride, I doggedly pursued making the perfect manty dough from scratch--flour, water, and a bit of salt.  The dough should be substantial enough to hold the filling in, yet thin enough to not be chewy or tasty of flour.  During an early attempt, my new husband watched his American-brought-up-on-TV-dinners-and-canned-vegetables-wife struggle with the dough, then he abruptly grabbed the rolling pin out of my hands and muttered something along the lines of, “Don’t they teach women anything here?”  Apparently, in Kyrgyzstan making and rolling dough of all kinds is a task mastered by every child.  

Once dough preparation had been appropriately delegated, we moved onto the filling.  Mix together finely chopped lamb, onion, and pumpkin with some salt and pepper.  Then center a small amount of lamb and vegetables on a square of dough, seal the edges with water, make the dumpling look pretty by folding the dough into a nice design on top, place on oiled steaming racks over a big pot of boiling water and leave for 45 minutes.  There you have it – perfect manty!  Except it wasn’t.  

For months, I tried to make the food my husband craved, what reminded him of home and it just never turned out right.  The dough was too thick, the filling was just wrong.  We bought pumpkin after pumpkin after pumpkin, tried different cuts of lamb.  Every weekend for months was filled with experiments in manty-making.  I was determined to get it right, even if it killed me and him both.  And, while it never went that far, I do remember one batch that resulted in us both doubled over with stomach pain and fighting for the bathroom.  Each failed batch of manty seemed to reinforce my own overwhelming feeling of being completely unsuited to being a Kyrgyz wife.  My husband, who had left his whole life behind for me, deserved someone who understood his culture and how to roll dough properly.

One day, not far from Embassy Row in Washington, DC, a wise Kyrgyz woman told me the secret, which was both culinary and linguistic.  The word tykva in Russian is generally translated as “pumpkin” but it means more than that, it means “squash.”  I was trying to make jack ‘o lantern pumpkins into something edible when I really should have been using butternut squash.  That afternoon, we passed a farmer’s market and excitedly picked out a suitably curvy and coffee colored specimen for the next batch.  The manty filling was right for the first time.  Mission successful, first test as wife finally completed, tragedy averted.  

There have certainly been refinements over the years – I have stopped trying to make my version look like a proper Kyrgyz dumpling, favoring substance (i.e. taste) over style, I buy wonton wrappers, skipping the rolling pin and we top ours with a totally non-traditional squirt of Siracha sauce.  

   

On chilly autumn afternoons, you will find my husband and me doling teaspoons full of lamb and vegetables into bite-sized pockets of love, our home filling with heavenly-smelling clouds of warm steam.  The first batch out of the steamer is devoured in minutes and my husband and son eat manty for every meal until they are gone then plead, “More manty, please!”  In our home, love and comfort are measured in manty.     

Off The Beaten Track: Remembering Turkmenistan

Our guest this week is Heather Keyes. Heather now lives in New York City but spent a decade living abroad. She studied international health, spent several years working in international health market research, and now works in medical research, but has remained passionate about writing throughout her career. She believes she may hold some kind of exchange-student record (having been an exchange student in the AFS, Rotary, and Lions Club programs as well as having been a US Peace Corps Volunteer) and plans to write a book (or at least complete a short story) some day. The Tolkuchka market photos were taken by the friend Heather references in this blog entry (who prefers to remain anonymous online when permitted).

From 2000 to 2001, I lived in Lebap Velyat, in the eastern part of Turkmenistan. Before and since that time I’ve lived in New Zealand, South Africa, Norway, the Czech Republic, and Germany, though now I live in my home country (the USA). I’m not a big traveler—which surprises some given my history—but going places to work or study and spending multiple months or years is quite different to planning and taking trips, which is what I define as travel (at least in the sentence “I like to travel”). 

  

Tolkuchka Camel Market

I do not like to travel. I am (very) prone to motion sickness, I do not enjoy airports, planes, or buses, and I am terrible at (in no particular order): identifying what should be seen in/at a destination city; figuring out when a good time to visit would be; driving in a relaxed manner in any setting; altering my sleep schedule significantly; finding reasonably priced transportation; finding accommodation that isn’t overpriced as well as awful; picking restaurants that aren’t overpriced as well as awful; taking pictures; sending postcards; finding souvenirs that I or anyone would ever value; packing suitcases that don’t feel loaded with cement when carrying them; and being without filter coffee (or, as we call it back where I grew up in Minnesota: “coffee”). Because of these deficits—but also because I am well aware of the many interesting places that there are to see in our world—I am a major fan of this blog and I am grateful to friends of mine that indulge me with travel pictures and updates. I genuinely admire those who travel well and enjoy it (even though I know I’ll never be among them).

Tolkuchka Carpet Market

I spent the past weekend with a friend that I know from my time in Turkmenistan. We’ve now been friends for much longer than the time we spent there and many life events have occurred over this decade-plus of friendship. Nonetheless, when together, our conversations regularly take us back to Turkmenistan and this past weekend was no exception. As I rode the train (note the omission of train travel from my list of travel dislikes and deficits above) home to New York City on Sunday night, my mind was alive with memories from that time. As the week has progressed, those memories have spurred others, which have brought back even more.

Visions of camels and carpets and silk worms and mud ovens…that feeling of sinking your teeth into that fresh warm round bread or a ripe pomegranate… images of yurts, bazaars, flamboyant fabrics, and intricate embroidery… reflections on archeological ruins and nomadic peoples and history…memories of picking cotton and desert treks and spotting constellations in sky unimpeded by lights or humidity…thoughts of village parties and former colleagues (and even one former dictator) have been dancing through my head since my visit to my friend. I can feel the sun and the dust and that crunch of the salt underfoot when walking in (parts of) the desert.

Photo by Kerri-Jo Stewart

Re-remembering a place via a weekend of storytelling with someone ‘who was there’ was such a gift. The ability of the mind to collect and tuck away events as well as people, sites, smells, sounds, and stories astounds me. The ability of a friend associated with a time and place to access all those memories makes me grateful. I’m not sure that I’ll ever make it back to Turkmenistan, and I’m not sure that I need to, but something I will take from my experience there—and my experience this past weekend—is the greatest comfort that there is to the travel-challenged: a good adventure really can last a lifetime. 

So, go out and have one (or remember one)!