Bishkek, the capital city of Kyrgyzstan, is a rather dusty, low-hanging city. I've heard it called Almaty's little sister. Certainly, it has resemblance. Both sit beneath imposing and breathtaking mountain vistas (if anything, Bishkek may edge out her bigger sister in this competition). But Bishkek has not seen the proliferation of highways and skyscrapers that have resulted from the economic development in Kazakhstan. Bishkek retains the feel of the provincial Soviet city it once was.
Yet central Bishkek must be one of the finest collections of Soviet-era architecture, with examples ranging from the 1920s to the 1980s. I have always been fascinated by and admired Soviet architecture and urban planning. Since Bishkek is a relatively young city, founded only at the end of the nineteenth century, early Soviet planners had a bit more free reign to design than did those in some older cities. The entire downtown area is a succession of squares sprawling along wide avenues. Nearly all of these squares center on a grand monument: monuments to semi-mythical ancient Kyrgyz heroes, a monument to the "voluntary" uniting of the Kyrgyz lands to Russia in the nineteenth century, monuments to the victors of the October Revolution and of World War II, and monuments to various writers, thinkers, and musicians (Russian and Kyrgyz). One of the more interesting monuments is dedicated to a Kyrgyz ballet dancer who was named a Peoples' Artist of the USSR. Unlike most former Soviet cities, Lenin still stands in a central square, as does a statue of Marx and Engels in full nineteenth-century garb engaged in intense discussion.
The Soviets used city planning to tell a story. This was almost always a story of progress and moving into the bright future. Lenin always stands with his hand extended, showing the way into the future. Other leaders are depicted walking out onto a point, as if treading into uncertain but promising waters. War monuments invariably show men, women, children, and often animals struggling toward a summit where a final figure raises their hand in triumph. Such stories dominate the center of nearly every post-Soviet city. More recent monuments honor national heroes (such as the various monuments to Manas in Bishkek, Tamerlane in Tashkent, or Bohdan Khmelnitsky in Kyiv. Monuments to various Tsars have reappeared in St. Petersburg in the past 25 years. Most cities have some more recent monument to those who led uprisings leading to the independence of various republics, or to the suffering they felt during the Soviet period, such as the monument to the Holodomor (Ukrainian famine) in Kyiv. While the Soviet-era stories were almost always kept harmonious, the post-Soviet landscape has often become a bit dissonant, with various historical narratives jostling up against one another in a tune that doesn't quite match. Yet I value the fact that the leaders of city like Bishkek tolerate that dissonance, as history in reality is nothing if not dissonant.
There is a part of me that loves the grand use of space to tell a story. While the Mall in Washington has elements of this city-as-story, the US has generally not used urban planning to tell stories as much as European city planners (and especially Soviet ones) have. Although much of the ideology and historiography behind these grand Soviet monuments is now thoroughly discredited, these stones still stand as a reminder of a path humanity has walked. In many ways, it seems that people here and in many other places are in some way hungry for grand narratives and purposes. In our increasingly disconnected lives, perhaps we do look for something that gives meaning, that joins us together. Such a hunger is probably a very good thing, a natural and necessary corrective in a time that has probably become a bit too individualistic. Yet as both Soviet and post-Soviet monuments remind us, this hunger for narrative and purpose can be very dangerous.
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| Monument to Manas, a hero of an ancient Kyrgyz poem |
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| To the Fighters of the Revolution - Central Bishkek |
The Soviets used city planning to tell a story. This was almost always a story of progress and moving into the bright future. Lenin always stands with his hand extended, showing the way into the future. Other leaders are depicted walking out onto a point, as if treading into uncertain but promising waters. War monuments invariably show men, women, children, and often animals struggling toward a summit where a final figure raises their hand in triumph. Such stories dominate the center of nearly every post-Soviet city. More recent monuments honor national heroes (such as the various monuments to Manas in Bishkek, Tamerlane in Tashkent, or Bohdan Khmelnitsky in Kyiv. Monuments to various Tsars have reappeared in St. Petersburg in the past 25 years. Most cities have some more recent monument to those who led uprisings leading to the independence of various republics, or to the suffering they felt during the Soviet period, such as the monument to the Holodomor (Ukrainian famine) in Kyiv. While the Soviet-era stories were almost always kept harmonious, the post-Soviet landscape has often become a bit dissonant, with various historical narratives jostling up against one another in a tune that doesn't quite match. Yet I value the fact that the leaders of city like Bishkek tolerate that dissonance, as history in reality is nothing if not dissonant.
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| Monument to a Kyrgyz ballet dancer who found pan-Soviet fame |
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