Along Untrodden Paths: Twenty-Five Years in East Turkestan

The Swedish Mission Covenant’s mission to the heathen has celebrated its 25th anniversary in Congo and China. And now the Covenant is prepared to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the beginning of its mission work also in Eastern Turkestan. It therefore seems appropriate to give the friends of the mission an overview of this mission field as well, of its conditions in the past and present, and through a few illustrative events to sketch something of the hardship and grace that the mission and its workers have experienced during these 25 years.

This is precisely the purpose of the present work. It consists of a collection of such sketches of prevailing conditions and experiences encountered there, viewed from different angles and written by different individuals. The authors have certainly taken on different topics to treat, but clearly one has not been able to avoid touching on the same matters as another, especially since they have worked in different parts of the area.[1] Yet they all have this in common: they have described only what they have seen and heard with their own eyes and ears. For they are all missionaries there. And some have worked there from the very beginning of this mission. Thus, this work offers no fanciful inventions but only witnessed realities. Yet in these witnessed realities the reader will everywhere see God’s guiding and helping hand more clearly than in many fictional or literary accounts that often receive great and general acclaim.

We are therefore convinced that this work will grant the reader not only momentary enjoyment but also lessons suited to strengthen faith in God and in the One He has sent. The Lord does not let His own perish or allow the work He has set in motion through them to be lost, even if the obstacles and difficulties encountered are ever so great. In this mission the obstacles have been many and great from the very beginning. But through perseverance, faith, and prayer they have been able to be overcome, even if they could not be removed entirely. And the barren soil of Muhammedanism, which the Covenant’s workers have begun to cultivate here, will surely in due time yield its harvests as well. Perhaps here too “one sows and another reaps.” But in such a case the Saviour has promised that both the one who sows and the one who reaps will rejoice together. The work of reaping is glorious, but the work of sowing is no less glorious, since the harvest depends upon it. If it should be granted to others to enter into our work here and reap what we have sown, may that grace be granted to them. Nevertheless, we thank God for the grace that has been given to us.

No mission has any outward attractions, and mission among Muhammedans has them least of all. The strongholds of Muhammedanism are firm and deeply intertwined with its adherents’ innate inclination toward a life according to evil and unnatural lusts. A pioneering mission work among such a people will therefore hardly be appreciated by contemporaries, who look only at immediate results. But when the heroes of the preparatory work have completed their task and gone to their rest, those who will build on the foundation laid will call them blessed who were entrusted with the great grace of carrying out the gigantic task of the beginning work. They will understand and appreciate its significance. May this thought guide the reading of this work and the evaluation of what is here offered to be seen.

How lost and forgotten the missionary must often feel in this remote land, where he stands separated from the rest of the world by perpetually snow-covered mountain ranges that rise high above the clouds, and by inhospitable desert expanses where entire caravans have perished. To be surrounded on all sides by these unassailable barriers and cut off from all civilization and all refined fellowship, year after year to endure in the patience-testing work of awakening interest in the Christian faith, in virtue and good morals, among indolent, indifferent, hostile, and in every way morally corrupted human beings—this requires more than human strength. But the present work shows what a power the strength of God is in those who surrender themselves to God in faith and obedience. And to behold this revelation of God’s power in those who believe is as glorious and uplifting as to behold God’s power working in the nature that surrounds us. Everything God does is glorious and admirable and calls forth His praise.

The country is under Chinese administration, and therefore Chinese is the official language and the officials are Chinese. But among the population the Chinese constitute a very small number. Yet for the reasons stated, a separate mission to the Chinese has also had to be undertaken. This mission struggles against equally great opposition as the Muhammedan one. The few Chinese who are there are immigrants from different provinces in the interior of China and speak very different dialects. Their interests are also directed toward other things than knowledge of God and the One He has sent. They have come to secure temporal livelihood. And for their eternal welfare they are lulled into the deepest security. Nor do they have eye, ear, or interest in the blessings of Christianity in this life. But the missionaries persevere. And their reports in this work show that they do not struggle entirely in vain. Here too, according to their own experience-based conviction, it is a matter of sowing in hope. In particular, school work must be of future importance for the victory of the Christian faith and for the introduction into the country of a more blessed culture than the one now prevailing. Rapid transformations seldom have lasting value. But changes that grow and are cultivated naturally, one from the other, endure better through trials. And what this memorial volume demonstrates is precisely that the mission in Eastern Turkestan is in the process of bringing about such changes among both Muhammedans and Chinese.

The missionary congregation must not expect to see its work completed immediately anywhere, and least of all in Muhammedan lands. But the strongholds of falsehood will eventually be broken through, and the Lord Christ will have confessors among all peoples, even among the Muhammedan ones. And when the redeemed from every nation, tribe, and tongue one day march into God’s kingdom, companies from the Muhammedan world will be among them. And then it will be seen that our work there has not been in vain.

Stockholm, April 1917.

J. P. NORBERG.

[1] Repetitions concerning the same matter should therefore be kindly excused.

By JOHN TÖRNQUIST

What drove you to leave what was dearest,
your home, your friends and kin,
the homeland where your memories are kept
among smiling valleys and shores?
What drove you toward the East’s desolate paths,
who gave you strength for the battle you fought,
when old bonds had to break
for this, the strong, the last?

Did a seeking desire drive toward gold and power,
toward comfort, toward freedom and honour?
In Asia’s poor desert tracts
no gold can you carve from the clay;
an Eden in the saga’s shimmering hue
is not sought among the East’s deserts and mountains;
no freedom is born among graves
that hide only bones of slaves.

I know what drove you: this strong Love,
which goes out to seek the wandering sheep
into the gloomiest wilderness,
where dangers constantly grow.
And the strength to sever hindering bonds
was given by the same gracious hand,
and He Himself walks by your side
to teach your arm to fight.

You do seek honour, though your lot
is not praised in earthly ways—
you are but the voice of one crying,
a trembling tone through the mist.
Your honour, your reward, prepared above the sky,
yet often veiled by fogs from your sight,
when the goal recedes farther
and hope of success fades.

What more! If in faithfulness on lonely watch
you stand to serve your Master,
“to the one who serves Me,” He has said,
“my Father shall bestow honour.”
And if you fall before glimpsing success,
what you honestly willed, not what you lost,
shall be gathered, nothing can be ravaged,
for the harvest is reaped by angels.

By G. RAQUETTE

Far within the centre of the Old World lies the inaccessible and still comparatively little-known land called East Turkestan. To distinguish it politically from West Turkestan, which is a Russian possession, it is often called Chinese Turkestan. The Chinese call the province containing this region Sinkiang (“the New Possession”). More precisely, the country lies between 74° and 97° east longitude from Greenwich and 35° to 48° north latitude — that is, directly north of Tibet and India and at approximately the same latitude as Spain. It is surrounded by border mountain ranges and is considered to form the bed of an ancient inland sea. In recent times geographers have called the southern part the Tarim Basin on account of its peculiar surface formation. A considerable portion of the land consists of barren deserts which, however, in earlier times were at least partly fertile and populated regions.

The great Gobi Desert forms the eastern boundary, and in the middle of the Tarim Basin lies the Taklamakan Desert, which is only a branch of the Gobi. To the west East Turkestan is bounded by the Tian Shan, the Alai, and the Pamir plateaus; to the south by the Karakorum (“the Black Wall”), Kunlun, and Altun-tagh (“the Gold Mountains”); and to the north by the Altai range (“the Gold Mountains”). To the east the natural boundary appears only at the mountains of China, although the southern part of the Gobi Desert stretches in between. From the west, the alpine chain of the Tian Shan (“Heavenly Mountains”), glittering with eternal snow, projects directly into the northern part of the country, so that one commonly speaks of the land north of the Tian Shan and the land south of the Tian Shan.

Where rivers descending from the mountains flow, the land presents a picture of fertility and vibrant life; but places not reached by their life-giving waters show the desolation and death of the desert. Only in the mountain regions does sufficient rain fall, and therefore the whole country below depends upon an artificial irrigation system that has existed and been maintained since time immemorial. The most important rivers are the Yarkand River (called Zerafshan, “the gold-scatterer,” in its upper course), the Kashgar River or Kizil-su, the Khotan River or Ilchi, and the Aksu and Toshkan rivers. All these converge into a main river, which under the name Tarim carries their remaining waters eastward and southeastward to Lob-Nor, a marsh region in the eastern part of the country. A peculiarity of these rivers is that most gradually shift their channels toward the right; this probably explains the curious fact that towns and cultivated areas are almost always found on the left bank. Only one river, the Cherchen River in the southeast, empties directly into Lob-Nor. Many smaller streams also exist; after irrigating land they dry up and disappear into the desert sands. North of the Tian Shan the Ili River flows westward into Lake Balkhash and therefore has no connection with the other river systems of the country.

East Turkestan is a highland lying at an average elevation of 1,000–1,500 meters above sea level. In the surrounding mountain chains, some peaks reach great heights, such as Khan Tengri in the Tian Shan (7,300 m), Muztagh-Ata in the Pamir (7,800 m), as well as Dapsang in the Karakoram (8,600 m) and Mount Everest in the Himalaya (8,800 m). The climate shows sharp contrasts — almost tropical heat in summer and winters of penetrating cold, sometimes reaching −20°C. Another cause of the continual reshaping of the land surface, besides the rivers’ shifting channels, is the annually recurring violent sandstorms, which each time move thousands of tons of desert sand from one region to another.

The principal cities, all located along rivers, are Kashgar and Hancheng (New Kashgar), Yangi-Hissar, Yarkand, Khotan, Cherchen, Maralbashi, Aksu, Uch-Turfan, Ili, Turfan, Karashahr, and Urumchi. The last is now the capital of the province of Sinkiang and the seat of the provincial governor. Between these places and with China, India, Tibet, and Russia a lively trade has existed since ancient times. Communication outward proceeds over difficult mountain routes where everything must be transported by horse, donkey, or camel. Only toward China is there a road usable by wheeled vehicles. A traveller can by this means reach Peking in about ten, possibly eight, months. The route to China now passes through the northern part of the Taklamakan, but a few centuries ago, when the southeastern corner of the desert was cultivated and populated, the road ran through those regions. Almost the entire territory with several rich cities has now been mercilessly swallowed by the desert.

As for the population of East Turkestan, no exact figures can be obtained. Official census results are unreliable because people evade registration through various clever methods in order to avoid taxation. Swedish geographers estimated the inhabitants at 1,000,000, while The Statesman’s Year Book, relying on official data, gives 1,200,000. Considering the circumstances mentioned above, we may without exaggeration double this figure, arriving at 2,400,000 — the same maximum estimate reached by Marshall Broomhall in Islam in China. Yet even this total for the whole province is probably too low.

By L. E. HÖGBERG

We stood upon a moraine height about 10,000 feet above sea level. Below us and before us spread a mountainous land of unusual beauty. In the foreground, we had the soft, arched lines of the moraine heights, rendered in a yellowish-brown hue; in the middle ground, vast, dark mountain masses with sharp contours and wild forms; and in the background lay one mountain range behind another, like high wave crests on a turbulent sea, forming four or five valleys, each several kilometers wide. The July sun shone over us in all its intense brilliance. The various mountain formations stood out sharply, and their shifting play of colors, reaching all the way to the light pale-blue tone at the horizon, gave the scene an extraordinary beauty.

As we observed the scenery, the horizon to the left darkened. Black, heavy cloud masses gathered. Driven by the storm, they were swept forward into one of the valleys. The same storm that chased the clouds also raged with violent speed across the valley floor, lifting great swirls of dust up toward the clouds. These now began to discharge their contents in a heavy rain, which to our eyes looked like a cloudburst. The intensely heated, dry air seemed to completely absorb the falling rain, which never reached the surface of the earth to settle its dust. The storm, the dust swirls, the clouds, and the rain followed that one valley exclusively, while all the others were bathed in the most glorious sunshine. Heavy shadows were cast from the clouds down to the earth, which in their dark variations of color resembled islands in the ocean. It was a scene worthy of being captured on canvas with a brush. “Great are the works of the Lord; sought out by all them that have pleasure therein.”

By AD. BOHLIN

As a result of its location in the heart of Asia and being surrounded on almost all sides by peripheral mountains—some of which are among the most extensive and highest on Earth—East Turkestan has a pronounced continental climate, which exhibits extreme contrasts between heat and cold.

Summer, which practically lasts from March through September, is very hot, and temperatures can reach 40°–45°C in the shade. Precipitation is extremely sparse, and occasionally years may pass without a single drop of rain falling. Under a nearly constantly clear sky, the heat becomes unbearable, and one might believe that everything would be scorched. All of nature, as it were, yearns for water.

Winter is far colder than the latitude would suggest, and due to the dryness of the air, the cold feels significantly more piercing than in countries located much further north. The severest cold prevails during January. As a rule, it snows a few times during the course of the winter, but the snow remains for only a few days and is, as it were, eroded away—hardly even making the ground damp.

Autumn and spring are the most pleasant seasons. During both day and night, the most agreeable temperature prevails. The only thing that detracts from the extraordinary glory of spring is the frequently occurring storms, which arise suddenly and with extreme violence but usually cease after a few hours. The layer of dust that more or less covers the entire country is thereby stirred up into massive clouds, which for weeks obscure the sun, which is then seen as if through a veil. With an easterly wind, these storms usually bring a yellowish dust from the great deserts, which gives houses, trees, and everything an unpleasant appearance and penetrates everywhere. These “yellow days” are much dreaded, and without a doubt, they are anything but beneficial for health and well-being. Fortunately, not all storms leave behind dust clouds; instead, some clear the air so that it becomes unusually clear and transparent. The Pamir Mountains, located 15 to 20 mil (approx. 150–200 km) from Kashgar and covered in eternal snow, then appear as if they were quite near and offer a view that is peerless in its grandeur.

Something particularly remarkable regarding the climatic phenomena is their regularity. The aforementioned storms arise at almost the same hour, usually in the evening, during spring and until midsummer, after which they become more rare. Summer concludes with a storm, and spring makes its entrance with a storm. Based on experience, one can predict almost to the day when autumn and spring will arrive. Once the frost has begun in the autumn, it continues until spring; and after the first [frost-free] spring night, one need not fear that the frost will return that season.

Due to the low rainfall, the country in its entirety would be—as most of it still is—a desolate desert, lacking almost all vegetation, were it not for the previously mentioned snow-capped mountains providing large areas with water. This water, which flows down to the plains in countless mountain streams, forms rivers around which larger and smaller oases—fertile and populous regions—have emerged.

These oases, with their fresh greenery, provide the most pleasant contrast to the desolate gloom of the desert and, by comparison, appear as veritable paradises. Often the boundary between these oases and the surrounding desert is so sharp that only a single step is needed to move from the lushest greenery to the sterile desert. As far as the water reaches, life and vegetation prevail. Several Nordic plants thrive excellently. To an even greater degree, this is the case with southern plants and fruit trees such as peaches, apricots, grapes and melons, pomegranates, figs, quinces, cotton, etc., all of which occur extensively and some of which are of the highest quality.

As a general assessment of the climate, one must say that it is good, even if some Europeans cannot quite endure it.

By L. E. HÖGBERG

We were traveling up toward the Pamir Mountains and had just reached a village, Igis Yar, at the foot of the mountains. The day was hot and radiantly clear. We did not see even a single one of the whirlwinds so extremely common in these parts, which lift great pillars of the easily stirred desert dust. Our day’s march was completed, and preparations for dinner were well underway.

Before us, we had a boundless view which, had our vision not been so obscured, could have swept across the Taklamakan Desert to rest only at the Indo-Tibetan mountains. To our left, we had several mountain ridges, between which valleys stretching many miles wide spread out. Behind us were the lowest foothills of the sky-high mountain masses.

In an instant, we saw a gray-brown, cloud-like wall rise up on the northern horizon. It was of colossal dimensions, and with a terrifying speed, it hurtled down through the valleys along the foot of the Pamir Mountains. One reads about the immense fronts formed by armies during wars, but here was a front so vast that our scanning eyes could not discern the “left wing.” The right wing, on the other hand, braced against the ancient mountains. Through this, one could roughly estimate the height—or perhaps more accurately, the depth—of the “storm surge.” The seething, swirling mass must have been between one and two thousand feet deep.

But now, every moment was precious. Horses, carts, baggage, and provisions—but first and foremost the people, especially the children—had to be brought to safety. There was frantic movement and febrile haste everywhere. Once everything was under cover, I had to go outside to witness the magnificent spectacle.

It was terrifying to stand and wait to be enveloped within a few minutes by this seemingly compact dust cloud. Now, the roaring of the storm can already be heard; it whistles and whines through the branches of the trees, yet the sun still shines brightly overhead. Now we see how debris, dust, and straw are seized as if by invisible hands, lifted, thrown, and rolled forward. It boils, seethes, and rages as if in a giant cauldron. Now it is time to flee.

In an instant, the air grows dark; day turns to night. We light candles in the mud hut and listen to the fury of the storm. An hour passes, and the atmosphere in the room becomes oppressive, almost unbearable. Dust and grit penetrate everywhere. We are close to suffocating.

We step outside; everything is calm again, but the air is thick with dust, and the devastation the storm has wrought is visible all around us.

By L. E. HÖGBERG

Can a city get jaundice? Surely one means that the people in the city are suffering from a jaundice epidemic? No, by no means—it is the city, the land, the mountains, the deserts, and the air that get jaundice.

Fierce storms have raged for a few days, sweeping away dust and sand, but the sky between the storm gusts has been clear. When you wake up one morning, you notice that a yellow light is filtering in through the windows. Such things do not happen so rarely, but this time the yellow hue is so intense and clear that we have never seen anything like it before.

It appears as if someone during the night hours had replaced our clear window glass with yellow panes. Walls and furniture, beds and sheets, yes, even the Göteborgs Veckotidning (Gothenburg Weekly Newspaper) have changed color and shine bright yellow. If we go outside, it is as if we were seeing everything through yellow glasses: the sky is yellow, the trees with their fresh spring greenery, flowers, leaves, houses, and people—everything is yellow.

The whole scene is also wrapped in a subdued light, and the sun’s rays are unable to penetrate the yellow haze. A strange anxiety is felt, and one seems to experience something of what the Egyptians must have felt as they wandered in impenetrable darkness. It is as if one were suffering from jaundice oneself.

What is the cause of this strange phenomenon? I asked our schoolteacher, and he answered: “There is so much bloodshed on earth that the sky itself is darkened.”

His words are worth taking to heart. Yet, our thoughts try to seek out the causes in the natural world. The storms stir up an extremely fine dust, either in the mountains or out in the desert, and carry it across the countryside. It mixes with the air, and when the storm suddenly ceases, it “hangs” suspended, sometimes for days and weeks, in the lower layers of the atmosphere.

The air becomes so saturated with it that the sun cannot be seen. Sometimes it is glimpsed only as a dull-polished metal disc. If rain then falls, every drop becomes so coated with dust that it leaves a yellowish-white stain on clothes and other objects. If the rain is sufficiently heavy, the air is cleansed by it. Otherwise, the dust slowly settles down, like muddy water clearing up, though this process in the air moves much slower. It is highly probable that the air is saturated with electricity or other unknown forces, making it possible for such a mass of dust to remain suspended for so long in completely calm weather.

By JOHN TÖRNQUIST

On the third or fourth day after passing the Russian-Chinese border at Irkeshtam, we see the mountain giants gradually shrink. From the peak of the final pass, a sliver of “the country” opens up at the eastern horizon.

The view is still crowded by numerous spurs from these ugly, infertile mountains. As if afraid to lose their prey, they stretch their rocky arms out toward the flat plains. We must ride another day and a half before we are completely rid of them, but then the land opens up—vast and free to the east and south, stretching as far as the eye can scan and much further still.

If the mountain region we left behind was naked, harsh, and inhospitable, the lowlands do not offer a much better first impression. The landscape receives us with a stony desert, interrupted here and there by a salt plain waving with high tufts of coarse desert grass—enjoyable only to camels and campfires.

Entering the Oases

From the ravines of the mountainsides, a few shallow “riverlings” cross the road. They pose no significant obstacle; in their youthful haste to reach the greenery of the oases, they forget to dig deep into the earth. Their shallow beds are easy to pass. Not even the Kashgar River is able to rule here for long. It is only after the early summer snowmelt that she presumptuously tries to show, for a few short weeks, that she is a force to be reckoned with.

Once past this river, we get our first inkling that this country has more to offer than just stones and sand:

• The Tree Groves: As if conjured out of an Oriental fairy tale, a lush grove of trees rises from the desert sand. Like most things in the Orient, it admittedly looks better from a distance than up close, but the poplars still whisper a sweet refreshment to the weary traveler.
• The Magic Transformation: Another hour’s ride, and a magic wand seems to change everything in a single stroke. We draw a deep, involuntary sigh of relief and cast a triumphant farewell glance at the deserts and mountains behind us.

We quickly forget the clay dust kicking up under our horses’ hooves as a smiling landscape meets us on both sides of the road. Here runs a small water canal lined with a dense wall of trees, vividly recalling the Psalmist’s words about “trees planted by rivers of water.” There stands a durra field, where the crop grows taller than a man—proud and thick, as if a desert storm had never chased through. By a water pond, shaded by giant poplars, a gleaming white mosque peeks through the leaves. Scattered throughout this sea of foliage are farmsteads where donkeys, dogs, spinning women, and chatting men provide the living elements of this piece of the Orient.

The Geography of East Turkestan

Thus, the country unfolds before us, alternating between deserts and oases, stretching from the Tian Shan and Pamir mountains to the Karakorum and the Gobi.

The deserts vary in character and size, occasionally giving way to their close cousins, the salt steppes. The oases also differ in scale and fertility. Rivers dig deeper and deeper into the terrain until the smaller streams are entirely swallowed up by the thirsty ground.

Yet, none of this changes the fact that the scenery remains fundamentally the same wherever you travel across the flat basin floor known as East Turkestan. This vast disc appears completely level to the eye—no hills, no undulating waves. It is only when your gaze reaches the outer rim of the surrounding mountains that it bounces back in surprise.

Topographical Note: This flat “cauldron floor” generally sits at an altitude of 1,000 to 1,500 meters above sea level. However, in the Turpan district to the east, it drops drastically to about 100 meters below sea level.

What one sorely misses amidst all this lush greenery is a proper lawn—the classic Swedish meadow with its vibrant tapestry of flowers. It has no counterpart here. Where grain and forage crops are not actively cultivated, the clay lies bare or produces nothing but thorns and thistles.

Occasionally, a green river valley will charm you from afar. You think you have found a wonderful little paradise beneath the shade of the trees, but the illusion shatters the moment you arrive. You find only a stagnant, swampy hollow where it is impossible to rest. Experience soon teaches travelers to keep their distance from these deceptive green valleys, where malaria reigns as absolute empress.

The local communities are split into villages and towns. The villages consist either of widely scattered farms or dense, cramped clusters of houses hugging the major trade routes. The larger villages often swell into miniature towns, featuring fixed bazaar days that trigger an incredibly lively trade.

The City Walls and Superstitions

After this brief detour, we resume our journey. Having ridden through a beautiful oasis for an hour or more, something suddenly rises from the fields to our left, instantly capturing our interest.

It is a long, smooth, high wall, topped with a crenellated parapet and reinforced at regular intervals by heavy bastions. A few truncated towers with curved, pagoda-style roofs rise above the crest. This is the city—or rather, its outer shell. The transition between country and city is incredibly abrupt, and it leaves a distinct mark on the inhabitants. The city dweller, no matter how poor, carries himself with an immense sense of “dignity” and gladly lets the “stupid country bumpkin” feel it whenever the opportunity arises.

The entire territory is divided into administrative districts, with the city serving as the heart and center. This is where the roads converge and where the life of the province pulses.

The larger cities are encircled by massive mud walls standing 10 to 12 meters high and measuring 12 to 18 meters thick at the base. Along both sides of the wall’s summit run 2-meter-high breastworks with loopholes. Between them lies a wide roadway where cannons can be driven around the entire perimeter if defense requires it.

Poplars by the roadside. Photo by John Törnquist.

The gate vaults are constructed from burnt brick, housing massive, iron-clad colossi of doors. Each gateway features a rectangular outer courtyard surrounded by a double wall where the guard is stationed. This effectively creates a double gate system.

Interestingly, the outer gate is never placed directly parallel to the inner main gate; it is always built into one of the flanking sides. This deliberate design serves two purposes—one practical and one superstitious:

1. The Practical Reason: It prevents an enemy from getting a straight, unobstructed shot at the main city gates during a bombardment.
2. The Superstition: It leverages the Chinese fear of evil spirits. No entrance to a courtyard, mandarin’s residence, or temple is allowed to have a straight, open path. An extra “spirit wall” is always erected if necessary. According to local lore, evil spirits find it difficult to “turn corners.” They only travel in straight lines; if they hit a wall, there is a ninety percent chance they will simply turn around and go back the way they came.

Naturally, the town planners wanted to make entry as difficult as possible for these troublesome supernatural guests. When you add a deep moat around the entire wall, which can be flooded with water at a moment’s notice, you have a defensive fortification that was not to be underestimated a few decades ago. Indeed, the fortified city of Hancheng proved its worth during the campaigns of Yakub Beg; it remained entirely impregnable to him.

Life Inside the Gates

Stepping inside such a city immediately brings on a feeling of heavy confinement. The avenues that pass for streets are generally nothing more than narrow, winding alleys. Their width is calculated so that local carts can just barely squeeze through the main thoroughfares. These larger streets are frequently covered by roofs of straw mats laid across beams stretching from house to house.

Sidewalks are entirely non-existent; the trampled dirt roadway runs directly from wall to wall. When the local carts—veritable monstrosities unique to this country—come rumbling and rattling down the alley, pedestrians must quickly duck into doorways or scramble onto the raised platforms in front of the shops. The side streets are nothing but tight trenches and dark passageways. A market square here and there or a communal water pond are the only open spaces available. The concept of a public park is completely foreign.

A chaotic bustle fills these streets, easily overwhelming the newly arrived Westerner. Pedestrians, riders, and drivers push past; donkeys, horses, and camels laden with all manner of goods mix together in a spectacularly colorful stream. Through it all, the white turbans of the crowd seem to float on top like foam on a wave. Navigating this sea of humanity on a busy bazaar day takes real practice.

This sense of confinement becomes literal for anyone caught inside after the evening salute is fired around 10 p.m. At that signal, the massive city gates are locked tight, trapping everyone inside until they are opened again at daybreak.

Architectural Monotony

The architectural style is largely identical across both town and country: the box-shaped mud hut reigns supreme. Two-story structures are a rare exception, and where they do exist, the upper floor is built with flimsy, provisional walls out of a constant fear of earthquakes.

The traditional style completely lacks windows, relying instead on a single opening in the ceiling to let in light. Nowadays, however, standard Western-style windows are becoming quite common in the homes of the wealthy, particularly within the cities. These modern houses are also being embellished with verandas and balconies. Still, the flat roof remains universal, serving as a favorite gathering place for women and children.

The only real breaks in this structural monotony are the Chinese farmsteads in the countryside and the official Chinese administrative buildings (yamens) in the towns, which are designed to reflect their homeland’s distinct architectural tastes.

The mosques also offer a welcome relief to the eye, whether they modestly peek out from the rural greenery or proudly hoist their minarets and gleaming domes above the bustling life of the city. Alongside these, the shrines of Muslim saints (mazars) stand as prominent landmarks, encountered everywhere across both desert and oasis.

Traffic between the various parts of the country flows along ancient, thousand-year-old routes that run through the land like arteries. They host a lively, shifting stream of camel and donkey caravans, carts, riders, and foot travelers. The country is blessed with relatively good roads that require little to no maintenance. The only real travel headaches occur around the rivers during flood seasons, when bridges are either missing entirely or dangerously broken down.

Yet despite its flat monotony, the landscape occasionally serves up moments of magnificent grandeur. On a perfectly clear summer day—free from the usual hovering desert dust-haze—seeing the vivid greenery framed by a backdrop of white, snow-capped peaks is a sight that commands your gaze. The countless irrigation canals do their part to beautify the land and break up the uniformity. Even the deserts possess a somber, sweeping majesty that holds a distinct charm—provided you don’t encounter them during a howling sandstorm, which quickly turns that charm into pure terror.

Ultimately, rural agriculture, livestock breeding, and urban trade secure a daily bread for the inhabitants that is perhaps more abundant, or at least more evenly distributed, than in any other province of China. The history of East Turkestan contains no record of a famine year.

Yet, the most essential thing of all is missing: a profound, heavy spiritual darkness broods over the land. One can only hope that the light of the Gospel will soon break across these populations in the heart of Asia, who live in a country so otherwise overflowing with natural sunlight!