Jeffrey Lilley

The stories of Chingiz Aitmatov and Azamat Altay are best told together, a herculean task which Jeffrey B. Lilley’s Have The Mountains Fallen? Two Journeys of Loss and Redemption in the Cold War manages deftly.

The two Kyrgyz men, both born in the 1920s in Soviet Kirghizia, went on to live on opposite sides of the Cold War. Their story — because it is, in essence, a single story — is that of Kyrgyzstan itself, replete with tragedy and sacrifice, hope and triumph. “Their story is the story of a captive people’s aspiration for freedom,” Lilley says.

In an interview with The Diplomat, Lilley explains who Aitmatov and Altay were and why their stories matter for modern Kyrgyzstan.

For our readers who may not be familiar with them, in brief, can you describe who Chingiz Aitmatov and Azamat Altay were?

Both Chingiz Aitmatov and Azamat Altay were village boys born in a remote corner of the Soviet Union. Yet they grew up to exert a powerful influence on history, particularly the history of the Cold War and the future of their people, the Kyrgyz. I call my book a tale of the Cold War from the other side, that is from inside the Soviet Union.

Writer Chingiz Aitmatov and radio broadcaster Azamat Altay resisted Soviet authoritarianism. They led the struggle for a spiritual awakening and cultural and linguistic revival for the Kyrgyz people, one using the written word and the other his voice. Their story is the story of a captive people’s aspiration for freedom.

Both Aitmatov and Altay were born in Soviet Kirghizia in the 1920s, but fate sent them on divergent paths. Aitmatov struggled against Soviet dictatorship from the inside, writing cleverly crafted short stories and novels, while Altay fought the USSR from the outside as a broadcaster for U.S.-funded Radio Liberty. Yet even as they sat on opposite sides of the Iron Curtain, their lives were joined by a common mission to preserve the Kyrgyz people’s history, language, and culture. Both men are regarded as heroes in today’s independent Kyrgyzstan, the freest country in Central Asia.

What inspired you to write a book about Chingiz Aitmatov and Azamat Altay at the same time?

Reading Aitmatov’s works inspired me to write a biography about him in English. He is one of the best writers unknown to Americans. Though he was a communist, he didn’t write like a communist. Instead, his literary works read like stirring dramas with powerful moral messages.

But a few years into my research I learned about the broadcaster Altay. His life is fit for a movie: Fighting for the Soviet Union in World War II, he escaped from the Nazis three times, joined French partisans to liberate Paris, and eventually jumped lines to the West in 1946. He left behind all he knew, effectively losing his country. I decided to weave their two stories against the backdrop of 20th century history.

Secondly, having grown up in Asia during the Vietnam War and having lived in China during the last years of Mao Zedong’s rule, I consider myself a child of the Cold War. These men’s life stories filled out my understanding of that historical event and informed my own appreciation of “the price of freedom.” Both men paid dearly in their struggles against Soviet dictatorship: Aitmatov lost his father and Altay his country. At a time of rising authoritarianism in the world, their lives are primers on how to resist over the long haul.

Finally, I think the book fills in the Cold War picture with what was happening in Central Asia, the Muslim part of the Soviet Union. Usually we learn about the Cold War with the focus on the West and Russia, with Russia standing in for the vast and varied Soviet Union. Most people think of Soviet Central Asia as a remote corner that was largely loyal to Moscow. The book sheds light on brave souls from Central Asia who resisted authoritarianism.

In Bishkek, there’s a prominent statue of Aitmatov and his name is seemingly everywhere. Altay’s is not. Why are they remembered so differently?

The easy answer is that Aitmatov stayed behind and Altay fled. Because of his writing, Aitmatov became the most well-known representative of the Kyrgyz people in the Soviet Union, while Altay was branded a traitor in communist Kirghizia, sentenced to 25 years in prison for crossing over to the West. My informal polling of taxi drivers in Bishkek, the Kyrgyz capital, over the past two years shows that all know of Aitmatov, while maybe 10-15 percent have heard of Altay.

Unfortunately, even today in independent Kyrgyzstan, nearly 30 years after the collapse of the USSR, some people still consider Altay a persona non grata. To counter this, there is a foundation in Altay’s name that wants to build a museum and is planning a celebration of Altay in 2020, marking what would have been his 100th birth year.

In fact, I would make the case that the Kyrgyz should remember the well-known Aitmatov more visibly, that Kyrgyzstan should be known as the country of Aitmatov, much as the United Kingdom is known for Dickens, France for Victor Hugo, and Russia for Dostoevsky. Both Altay and Aitmatov deserve museums in their name for the roles they played in securing a more free and independent Kyrgyzstan.

How did Aitmatov’s writing – his frequent use of folklore, humanization of characters more often disparaged in Soviet literature, and attention to animals and the environment – reflect his upbringing and Kyrgyz culture?

Aitmatov was tightly connected to the pastoral way of life in the Kyrgyz countryside where he grew up. He learned Kyrgyz traditions and folk tales from his paternal grandmother and aunt. He studied to be a veterinarian so he had a wealth of knowledge about animals. But the most searing influence on his life was World War II. He saw first-hand the toll the war had on the Kyrgyz people, even though they were thousands of miles from the front. I believe this cataclysmic event led him to take what we would call in the West a humanistic approach and write about characters facing real life dilemmas devoid of political propaganda. He made up for his lack of literary fealty by being outwardly loyal to the communist party. That was his “price of freedom.”

In a similar vein, how do you think Altay’s experience in World War II, and his long separation from his homeland, shaped his life and career?

Altay was a lonely man for the most part in the West. He married late, never had children. His life was dedicated to keeping the history and literature of the Kyrgyz people alive. It’s no coincidence that he worked in libraries in the United States at the same time he reported for Radio Liberty, helping keep alive literature that was banned in the Soviet Union. He had his own 6,000-book library in his house in Queens, New York, including Aitmatov’s books. He had a hunger to meet any Kyrgyz who visited the U.S. during the dark days of the Cold War. Some greeted him warmly; others rejected him outright. His war experiences and alienation from his country hardened him but also were the fire that drove him to stay connected.

I know that you hope to have the book translated into Russian and Kyrgyz. Why do you think that is such an important endeavor?

Kyrgyz have told me the book should be translated so the average citizen can read it. They say it tells their history in a unique way. There’s a saying: There is no prophet in his homeland. Kyrgyz have cited that to me as a way of saying sometimes it’s easier for an outsider to tell the story, rather than an insider.

So, a group of Kyrgyz are undertaking the first crowdfunding campaign in Kyrgyz history to collect money to translate and publish a book. The goal is to produce 500 copies each in Kyrgyz and Russian. The group is called Polis Asia and those wanting to contribute can find more information here.