Review

Jamilia

By Chinghiz Aïtmatov

Published by Telegram Books

First published in 1957, the story is set on the floodplains of the central Asian country of Kyrgyzstan.

It is the third year of the war, and the populace is being exhorted to provide grain for the army. The ‘arduous toil of farming’ has fallen upon the slender shoulders of boys too young to be sent to the front, and any women who are strong enough.

In the village of Kurkureu, Seit, the book's narrator, works alongside Jamilia, his brother’s wife. They are of similar age, and get on well. Seit describes Jamilia as ‘quite pretty. Tall and graceful, with straight, coarse hair tied in two tight, heavy plaits. She used to wear a white headscarf at an angle on her brow. It was very becoming and accentuated her dark skin and smooth features. Whenever she laughed, her bluish-black, almond-shaped eyes would light up mischievously, and whenever she sang a saucy village ditty, a knowing twinkle would appear in her beautiful eyes.’

With her husband away at war, strong-willed Jamilia is the object of much male attention, but she sends the young men packing with a flick of her hair and a haughty gesture. Pretty she may be, but she is also a very hard worker, spending the blistering summer days loading heavy grain sacks onto a horse-drawn cart, riding many kilometres to the grain station, and unloading the sacks in dusty warehouses.

On these exhausting daily journeys, Jamilia is accompanied by Seit and by Daniyar, a brooding soldier who has been wounded in the war. Jamilia gently teases the silent loner, or ignores him completely, but he puts up with both. ‘There was something kindly, all-forgiving in his look,’ Seit says, ‘yet I sensed also a stubborn, secret yearning.’
Thus the trio fall into a pattern until, one evening, Daniyar breaks his silence and begins to sing. From that day on, their journeys home are transformed, as are Jamilia’s feelings for Daniyar.

On its surface, Aïtmatov’s story is a charming yet oft-told tale of burgeoning love. What lifts it above its fairy-tale plot is Seit’s narrative voice. Here is an adolescent boy, almost – but not quite – a man, feeling new, confusing, heartfelt emotions. He is proud of his association with Jamilia, jealous of the attention she receives from other men, ashamed of the way he joins in teasing Daniyar, entranced by those night-time journeys across the steppe, and, above all, happy when the two lovers eventually unite.

Such emotions also manifest themselves in Seit’s descriptions of the landscape. ‘The earth, cracked and seared, had grown white from the heat of day. It seemed to be cooling down, covered with salty grey flakes. The sun, quivering and shapeless, shimmered in the salty, whitish haze. Above the dim horizon, orange-red storm clouds gathered…’ When the rain comes, heralding the end of summer, it lashes down ‘in raging torrents as though it were kissing the earth in passion … while the wind howled and raged in the ravine.’

Played out against this backdrop of elemental extremes, the lovers’ desire for each other is intensified. It is a tale that deserves to be known as one of the world’s great and timeless love stories.

Reviewed by James Smith, Booktrust website editor

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Translator: James Riordan