Singing The Kyrgyz Manas

SINGING THE KYRGYZ MANAS
SINGING THE KYRGYZ

MANAS
SAPARBEK KASMAMBETOV’S RECITATIONS
OF EPIC POETRY
By
Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov
With
Razia Sultanova, Gulnara Kasmambetova and Gouljan Arslan

SINGING THE KYRGYZ MANAS
SAPARBEK KASMAMBETOV’S RECITATIONS OF EPIC POETRY
by Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov
First published 2010 by

GLOBAL ORIENTAL LTD
PO Box 219
Folkestone
Kent CT20 2WP
UK
www.globaloriental.co.uk
© Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov 2010
ISBN 978-1-906876-38-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic,
mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing
from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue entry for this book is available from the
British Library
Set in Times New Roman 11 on 12 pt.

Printed and bound in England by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham, Wilts
CONTENTS
List of Illustrations vii

CD Contents vii
Preface ix
List of Contributors xvi
Part I Episodes from the Manas 1

1 Manas is born 3
2 The marriage of Manas to Kanıkey is arranged 11
3 The Great Battle 25
4 Semetey’s childhood 32
5 Semetey returns to Talas 38
6 The marriage of Semetey 44
7 Semetey takes revenge for the death of his father, Manas 56
Part II 63
1 Oral epic poetry and the Manas 65
2 The Kyrgyz Manas: recorded, performed and studied 91
3 The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 115
References 133
Index 141
ILLUSTRATIONS
between Part I and Part II
1 Manas (Episode One)

2 Manas and Kutunay (Episode One)
3 Manas rides into battle (Episode Three)
4 Manas with his warriors (Episode Three)
5 The horse race (Episode Four)
6 The white fish at the lake (Episode Six)
7 Ay-čürök as the swan maiden (Episode Six)
CD CONTENTS
CD1 Track 1 Semetey’s childhood 27.45

CD1 Track 2 Semetey returns to Talas 36.03
CD2 The marriage of Semetey 56.00
Recorded at the AHRC Research Centre Studio, SOAS, in April 2006.

Recordings engineered by Jeremy Glasgow, edited by Jeremy Glasgow and
Keith Howard.
CD catalogue numbers SOASIS 21 and SOASIS 22. © and ℗ SOAS 2009

PREFACE
Today, the Kyrgyz Manas is one of the most celebrated epic heroic poems in
the world. At the turn of the new millennium it was appointed a UNESCO
‘Masterpiece in the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity’, signalling its
global significance. It sits alongside Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, or the
South Asian Māhābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa, although politics and language
have during the twentieth century conspired against allowing it to become as
well known: while the Manas has long been considered important by
European and American scholars researching epics, the difficulty of access
to Kyrgyz lands during the Soviet period meant that it featured only
marginally in the classic works of Milman Parry and Albert Lord.
During the twentieth century, Soviet scholarship celebrated its length,
and the compilations of texts from two great bards, Sagımbay Orozbaqov
(1867-1930) and Sayaqbay Qaralaev (1894-1971), were held up in triumph:
Sagımbay’s Manas, stretching to 180,000 verse lines, was measured as four
times larger than the Persian Shahname and some forty times longer than the
Iliad; Sayaqbay’s, at 500,533 verse lines, was twenty times the length of the
Iliad and Odyssey put together, and two-and-a-half times the length of the
Māhābhārata.
To the Kyrgyz, the Manas has a distinct and deeply respected
significance, as a repository of national heritage. At a state celebration of its
supposed 1,000-year history in 1995, the Kyrgyz President, Askar Akayev,
announced that all Kyrgyz citizens should follow the ‘seven principles of
Manas’ – national unity, generous and tolerant humanism, international
friendship and cooperation, harmony with nature, patriotism, hard work and
education, and strengthening the state. Today, episodes from the Manas
feature at private and public celebrations, and where once bards performed
for villagers or khans, they now appear on national and international stages
and on TV. The Manas, then, overflows with iconicity; episodes provide
storylines for theatrical productions and for children’s books, and images
feature on billboards and in adverts.
A considerable body of material has been published on the Manas,
beginning with the nineteenth-century collections by Rotmistr Čokan
Čingisovich Valikhanov (1835-1865) and Wilhelm Radloff (1837-1918;
Vasilii Vasilievič Radlov). The primary focus of the majority of this material
x Singing the Kyrgyz Manas
is on poetry as text. Textual analysis is of course of immense value, and so

in this volume we survey what has been done by others. But, our focus here
is rather different. When a bard sings for a Kyrgyz audience he tells familiar
stories, of the exploits of heroes, of great battles, of births, marriages and
deaths, and so we attempt to offer stories that are both readable and familiar,
supplementing these with illustrations, in a way that avoids the textual
complexities that academic accounts of oral literature can introduce. This is
not a criticism of the great work done by those who translate the texts
faithfully into a close English poetic equivalent, amongst whom the most
respected name is Arthur Hatto. Their contributions retain many of the place
names, personal names, and epithets of the original, but in so doing they
remove the immediacy of the familiar known to the audience for whom the
bard sings. This is not a volume that seeks to provide fully detailed and close
translations. In addition to print translations, Hatto’s amongst them
(particularly, Hatto 1990), we note that several episodes are available in
translation and in different degrees of accuracy and detail on the Internet.
This is a suitable point at which to indicate that web sources on the Manas
are not all as reliable as one might hope, not least, broadly stated, because of
the difference and distinction between Soviet/Kyrgyz scholarship and
European/American scholarship.
In contrast to most previously published material, we also focus on one
septegenarian contemporary performer, Saparbek Kasmambetov. This book
celebrates his life, and his renditions of episodes from the Manas. For many
scholars, the golden age of epic poetry has passed, and the great bards have
died, not least because orality is today tempered in an increasingly literate
world. Now, because Saparbek went to school, then trained and worked as
an electrician and administrator, he is not Sagımbay or Sayaqbay. Unlike his
predecessors, he can read Manas texts, and he has written his own – first,
back in the late 1940s, in a green notebook requested by the Academy of
Sciences that still sits in a Bishkek archive, and more recently in two
celebrated volumes that explore lesser-known heroes. He is, as we hope
readers will agree, a bard of the first order, retaining the oral tradition he
inherited while adding detailing and other elements to his storytelling –
much as we would expect from any great singer of tales.
Part 1 of this volume translates seven episodes from the Manas, as sung
by Saparbek. The accompanying CDs contain recordings of some of these,
and our translations of all the episodes are based on Saparbek’s recordings.
As we have already indicated, in our effort to let the stories be told we have
not provided absolutely literal translations. The translation and editing of the
episodes was undertaken with Saparbek’s daughter, Gulnara Kasmambetova,
and the accompanying illustrations are by Saparbek’s granddaughter,
Gouljan Arslan.
Preface xi
Part II of the volume comprises three chapters. First, in ‘Oral Epic Poetry
and the Manas’, Howard considers epics and the literature available on them
in English and European languages. Second, recognizing that this literature
is often distinctly different in approach and at times in substance to that
written by Soviet and Central Asian scholars, Keith Howard and Razia
Sultanova then explore, in ‘The Kyrgyz Manas: Recorded, Performed and
Studied’, some of the pertinent and extensive body of material published in
Russian. Third, Saparbek Kasmambetov tells his life story, as related to
Gulnara Kasmambetova in the same style as he uses to recite episodes of the
Manas, but edited and interwoven with additional material by Howard.
Saparbek first visited SOAS in 2005, when he was invited by Razia
Sultanova to demonstrate epic recitation to her BA degree students. He
returned in February 2006 to take part in the conference ‘Music of the
Turkic-Speaking World, Performance and the Master-Apprentice System of
Oral Transmission’ organized by Razia Sultanova with Rachel Harris, Keith
Howard, Alexander Knapp, Dorit Klebe and Janos Sipos, sponsored by the
AHRC Research Centre for Cross-Cultural Music and Dance Performance.
That conference led to the setting up of the ICTM (International Council for
Traditional Music) Study Group on Music of the Turkic-Speaking World.
The audio CDs for this volume were recorded in April 2006 when, as part of
a graduate training project, a group of students were invited to spend three
days with Saparbek. They provided the audience for the recordings, and are
present in the background to the excerpts from the many hours recorded that
we have included here. We admit that this group hardly constituted the sort
of knowledgeable, familiar and responsive audience that would best suit
Saparbek’s epic storytelling. But then studio recording is itself an artifice
that is often considered – though rarely by record producers, and rarely
featuring on commercial audio recordings – inferior to recordings that
feature the local setting, with its spontaneity, interruptions, and background
soundscapes. A studio recording concentrates solely on the singer, musician,
or poet. Here, in order to faithfully preserve the performance occasion, we
have applied a very light touch in editing the recordings, retaining occasional
pauses, coughs, and points at which Saparbek clears his throat.
The art of singing epic poetry presents challenges to those unfamiliar
with Kyrgyz since, however skilful the bard, the core alternation of repeated
melodic motifs in pacing lines of regular length with intoned initial,
transitional and cadential declamations of flexible length offers limited
musical variety. The restricted palette provides much of the reason why we
have elected not to offer a lengthy musical analysis; a second reason would
be that to do so would repeat what is already available elsewhere. Readers
are invited to complement the brief discussions offered here (within both
‘Oral Epic Poetry and the Manas’ and ‘The Kyrgyz Manas: Recorded,
Performed and Studied’) by referencing Prior’s extended notation and
xii Singing the Kyrgyz Manas
discussion of the six wax cylinder recordings of an earlier bard that survive
from the beginning of the twentieth century (Prior 2006: 16–82; 95–110).
This volume is part of a series sponsored by the AHRC Research Centre.
The Research Centre was established in September 2002 as a joint venture
between SOAS, the University of Surrey and Roehampton University,
funded by the (British) Arts and Humanities Research Council. The Centre
explored questions raised by the performance of music and movement (and
by extension, other performance activities), and their interrelationships, in
artistic practice beyond the European art and popular music canons. To do
so, it sought to establish: a synthesis between the performance concerns of
different disciplines within academic research, exploring and addressing a
discrete set of activities that have performance at their core; methodologies
and techniques utilized in analysis to evaluate their appropriateness and
efficacy in resolving research questions that have performance at their core;
acknowledgement of common music, dance, and other performance arts’
concerns of cultural coding – aspects of performance determined by social
and cultural contexts. The Centre’s approach shifted the focus of study to
take on-board and explain the perceptions of performers from Asia and
Africa about their own music and dance, and about its transformations and
adaptations. This is precisely what we do in this volume, not least by
challenging some of the received understandings and interpretations of epic
heroic poetry that have been put forward – whether informed by the Milman
Parry and Albert Lord theoretical model of epic poetry or by the
Soviet/Central Asian philosophical and folkloric tradition – through the
performance, and the documentation of that performance, of a contemporary
bard, Saparbek.
Each volume in the Research Centre’s series celebrates one or more
performer, presenting discussions of, inter alia, training, context and
repertory. Each is the result of a collaborative research project, in which
performers have worked alongside academics and others – in this case
including family members of the bard – to record, edit and master audio
materials, and to discuss their background, experience and understanding of
the performance tradition for which they are renowned. Our intention is not
to offer an overview of a single music, dance, or other performance culture,
nor to present an exhaustive account of, say, epic poetry or the Manas; many
other publications seek to do this, as our list of references hopefully
indicates. Rather, we have endeavoured to bring these master performers to
readers, listeners and viewers, allowing them a voice while at the same time
unravelling salient aspects of performance.
Why? Well, the world is getting smaller. While scholars within the fields
of ethnomusicology, dance anthropology and to some extent folklore have,
and rightly, prided themselves on conducting fieldwork among responsive
musicians and dancers in obscure and remote places, the artists all too often
Preface xiii
remain distant to the resulting ethnographic representations. With Airbus and

Boeing competing to produce ever-larger airplanes, this approach is no
longer tenable. Musicians and dancers, just as do scholars, travel the world.
The romantic notion of an illiterate bard sitting in a yurt on the steppes no
longer has relevance in the contemporary world, and can mislead us into
thinking that the vibrant, thoughtful and incisive performers of today are no
more than a pale echo, or perhaps an imitation, of former glories. More so,
when the analysts and critics of their performance use theoretical models of
what once might have been. Again, distance is problematic where the
performance presented uses a language far removed from the familiar. Even
though it seems to be a rule within the commercial ‘world music’ genre that
vocalists should sing in any language other than English, the mix of familiar
and Otherness represented in the commercial genre is quite different from
recitations of the Manas. It seems, then, that the deterritorialized world for
which Arjun Appadurai famously argued (e.g., 1990), or the hyper-
consumerism of much of the global economy and its cultural forms (for
which, see, for example, Gómez-Pena 2001), has not – fortunately – reached
and impacted on Saparbek Kasmambetov and his fellow Kyrgyz bards.
Many ethnomusicologists, dance anthropologists and folklorists would
claim that their ethnographies offer faithful accounts that have been
painstakingly collected, checked and cross-referenced against all available
materials, publications and archives. In some cases, cross-referencing
requires a return to the field, to allow reflection and, perhaps, additional
discussion and deliberation. In the 1980s and 1990s, many trumpeted the
benefits of ‘emic’ accounts, (e.g., taking ethnomusicological texts, Hugo
Zemp (1981), Steven Feld (1982) and Marina Roseman (1991)). They talked
about how to capture what musicians, dancers, and actors thought about their
performance arts, and how to translate the metaphors used within the culture
studied into a familiar language. Our approach here in presenting (and
illustrating) translated episodes of the Manas represents our own take on this
issue as well as our attempt to avoid fetishising Otherness. In the 1970s and
1980s, ethnographies relating performance traditions tended to follow trends
in anthropology, often with a touch of delay. Still, all too often, the
production of performance is discussed as if confined by its locale, with
populations largely considered impervious to the global media or resisting
change, maintaining and conserving their traditions. By the 1990s, calls to
preserve the intangible heritage – performance arts and crafts – were
becoming louder. Following Alan Lomax (1985: 40–46), and his comment
that the world is an agreeable and stimulating habitat precisely because of
cultural diversity, the standardization of culture by the global media, and
cultural production made for us rather than by us, began to be questioned.
What better way of celebrating diversity than allowing musicians, dancers,
and other performance artists a voice? How, though, can scholars share
xiv Singing the Kyrgyz Manas
ownership of accounts with them? This volume is but one stage on the
journey.
Notes on Romanization
No single romanization system has yet been commonly accepted as standard

for Kyrgyz terms. Indeed, there are frequent discrepancies in the
romanizations of terms in the published literature. Here, our aim is primarily
to aid readability by a broad as well as a specialist audience.
For Kyrgyz terms, we have been guided by Thomas Pedersen’s summary
of romanization systems (http://transliteration.eki.ee/pdf/Kirghiz.pdf,
accessed on 31 March 2009). The ISO9 table for transliterating Cyrillic
(International Organization for Standardization, 1995) has proved useful,
and for the Cyrillic ‘ң’, rendered previously as ‘ŋ’ or ‘ng’, we adopt the
ISO’s ‘ņ’. Similarly, ž for Ж, č for Ч, and š for Ш. As a general guide for
those unfamiliar with Central Asian languages, ‘ņ’ is pronounced reasonably
close to ‘ng’, ‘č’ close to ‘ch’, ‘š’ to ‘sh’, and ž to ‘zh’. Long vowels are
indicated by doubling the vowel symbol. We do not, however, adopt the
additional ISO9 diacritics for vowels that complicate matters; we retain the
common rendering of ѳ as ö (rather than ISO9’s ô) and ү as ü (rather than ù).
Note an immediate mismatch: ‘Kyrgyz’ in the ISO system, but ‘Kirghiz’
in the URL address cited above. We adopt the now-common and generally
accepted ‘Kyrgyz’ and ‘Kyrgyzstan’. In fact, the Cyrillic ‘ы’, rendered
variously in previous publications on the Manas as ‘ï’ or ‘ı’, is in the ISO
system rendered as ‘y’. This is somewhat problematic because, first, there is
a different expectation of the pronunciation of ‘y’ in English, as well as a
potential resultant confusion between Cyrillic ‘ы’, and ‘й’, the latter
formerly romanized most commonly as ‘y’ rather than the former. In respect
to pronunciation, and to give a better sense of pronunciation, in the episodes
from the Manas (and where characters or places from the epic are discussed
in later chapters), we have tended to use ‘ı’ rather than ‘y’ for Cyrillic ‘ы’ in
personal names, geographical names, and ethnonyms – the exception,
though, being ‘Kyrgyz’. In this, we have been guided by the practice of
Arthur Hatto (e.g., 1990: 607–23). Our reason is because of the common
Kyrgyz finals, for which ISO9 would require ‘-ej’ and ‘-aj’ in, for example,
‘Semetej’ (where the pronunciation is more readily appreciated as closer to
‘-ey’ or ‘-ei’), and ‘-baj’ for a rich person (where the pronunciation is much
closer to ‘-bay/-bei’). Our solution is to retain ‘-ey’ and ‘-ay’, as in
‘Semetey’ and ‘-bay’.
Common spellings are used for familiar geographical names, notably
‘kul’ rather than ‘köl’ for ‘lake’. But, to respect Saparbek’s pronunciation, in
Preface xv
the Manas episodes Bukhara is rendered as ‘Bukar’, and Andijan as

‘Andıyan’. For other scripts we have adopted standard romanization
systems, for example, IAST (International Alphabet of Sanskrit
Transliteration) for South Asian terms and McCune-Reischauer for Korean.
CONTRIBUTORS
This book is primarily by, and about, Saparbek Kasmambetov. The

contributors are:
Gouljan Arslan, who produced the illustrations for this volume, is the
granddaughter of Saparbek. She received her education in London and
Oxford, where in 2009 she graduated from St Hilda’s College, University of
Oxford.
Keith Howard is Associate Dean, Research, at Sydney Conservatorium of

Music, University of Sydney. He is the author or editor of fifteen books and
author of more than 100 articles on the music, culture and religious rituals of
Korea, Zimbabwe, Nepal and Siberia. In addition to being a regular
broadcaster and occasional musician, he was director of the AHRC Research
Centre for Cross-Cultural Music and Dance Performance from 2002-2007,
founder of the SOASIS CD and DVD series and founder, director and
licensee of OpenAir Radio.
Gulnara Kasmambetova is Saparbek’s eldest daughter. She is Senior

Producer, Kyrgyz Service at the BBC World Service in London. She
produces and presents daily news and current affairs programmes and
weekly TV debates. She graduated from the Foreign Languages Faculty at
Kyrgyz National University in Bishkek and the Philosophy Faculty at
Rostov-on-Don in Russia. Before joining the BBC she worked as a regional
youth organization leader, and as a lecturer at Rostov-on-Don State
University and at the Women's Pedagogical University in Kyrgyzstan.
Razia Sultanova is Fellow at the Central Asia Forum, University of

Cambridge. She is the author of books published in Uzbekistan and
Kazakhstan (Poyushee slovo Uzbekskih Obryadov (1994); Rhythm in
Shashmaqam (1998)), and, in Britain, From Shamanism to Sufism: Women
and Islam in Central Asian Culture (IB Taurus, 2010). She has been guest
editor of Ethnomusicology Forum (‘Music and Identity in Central Asia’;
2005) and Cahiers de musique traditionelles (‘Entre Femmes’; 2005) and
Contributors xvii
has contributed to the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, MGG,
and Garland Encyclopedia of World Music. She produced regular BBC
World Service programmes on Central Asian music from 1994-1998, and
remains active as a consultant for UNESCO and other organizations.
xviii
PART ONE
EPISODES FROM THE MANAS

EPISODE ONE
MANAS IS BORN
My gratitude to Allah, for giving me the ability to sing! Let me start telling
the great story of Manas.1
I start with the birth of Manas, whose father was Jakıp, whose ancestor
was Nogay, who had seven forefathers. Jakıp lived at the time when the
Kalmaks from China invaded our lands. Our people fled their beloved
pastures, heading west to the Altai Mountains. Sixty families fled, tears
streaming down their cheeks. They vowed never to forget their sorrow.
Jakıp, too, married to the hero Böyön’s daughter Čıyördı, and also with a
second wife, Bagdılöt, shed many tears.2 His sorrow at leaving was
compounded by the fact that he had no child.
One day near Kara-kul, the water from which flows down to Lake
Kundus, an old man appeared as Jakıp dreamt. ‘Listen to me carefully,’ he
said. ‘When the full moon gracefully floats in the sky, flirting with the stars
above Koš-bulak Spring, next to which you have fallen asleep, otters will
play great games. Their loud and piercing barks and bays will celebrate
giving away in marriage their female pups to their chosen hounds. They will
be full of generosity, for during this magical night pearls will stream down,
glistening in the water of the spring.’ It was the wise man Küldür, known far
and wide for spells that brought good fortune. ‘Jakıp, Nogay’s son, you have
travelled many roads. You have endured many trials. Your flocks are sold
and your wealth spent. You suffer in poverty. Come to Koš-bulak Spring on
Friday night, when the full moon gracefully floats in the sky, flirting with
the stars. Take care not to touch any of the creatures you see. Revere them
from the bottom of your heart. Then they will share their wealth with you.’
And with this, the wise man vanished.
1
Each singer, manasči, gives a personal introduction when they begin to recite.
2
Some renderings have Čıyrdı/Čïyrdï or Čyördı/Čyördï (also known as Čakan,
Čıyrıčı, etc) and, unlike Saparbek, identify her as the same person as Bagdılöt (or
Bagdı-döölöt).
4 Singing the Kyrgyz Manas
As night fell on Friday, Jakıp took his steed Tuu-čunak, loaded him with
bags, and rode to the spring. What a magnificent scene greeted him!
Thousands of otters, their silvery coats glistening in the moonlight, paraded,
danced and played. Fantastic sounds filled the air. Keeping time to their
music, young male hounds paired off with bitches. Beyond the music, Jakıp
could hear something more. It was the sound of pearls rustling as they
flowed by, floating in the current of the spring water! He bent down and
picked up pearl upon pearl, filling his bags. The otters saw he meant no
harm, and allowed him to take all the pearls he wanted. As dawn broke, the
otters vanished. No trace of their celebration was left. Back home, the people
were amazed as Jakıp showed them, one by one, the beauty, shape and
weight of each pearl. Jakıp sold each and every one, amassing an
immeasurable fortune. With this he bought many thousand sheep, cattle and
horses. His flocks were so huge that they covered the landscape, making the
hills seethe with life.
Still, Jakıp longed for a son. One day as he rode his steed Tuu-čunak he
asked: ‘With all this wealth, who am I living for? For who do I spend so
much effort keeping my flocks safe? Why hasn’t Almighty God given me a
son? Without a son, who will inherit my wealth when my days have been
counted?’ He shed many a tear. Then, exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep. A
wonderful vision came to him as he dreamt. Who would have expected it! A
mighty eagle descended from the sky! What a terrifying sight! When it
flapped its wings it looked like a dragon! When it swung its tail it was a lion!
The eagle gently settled on Jakıp’s shoulder. Poor Jakıp considered his
situation. ‘Surely this beastly bird will not leave me alive, unless I am truly
dreaming. But if this is a dream, then Almighty God has heard my pleas and
sent a sign.’
Let’s leave Jakıp in his predicament. What was his wife, Čıyördı, doing?
She was unaware of her husband’s plight, of the eagle. But she knew her
own sorrow full well, because her skirt had never been bloodied in
childbirth. Tears ran down her cheeks. She was waiting for Jakıp to return
and comfort her, but he was late. She, too, fell asleep. What happened? She
dreamt. She dreamt that she was given an apple, round and shiny as life
itself. Eat it, poor woman, for maybe you will then see what Almighty God
has prepared for you! When she bit into it, her body was filled with life. She
looked up and saw an immortal white eagle seated on her yurt. But she woke
with a start, hearing a scream from Büdıbek’s wife. I should explain. When
Jakıp fell asleep, his horse Tuu-čunak broke loose. Büdıbek’s son, Majık,
was with him and he ran after the horse to catch it. But Tuu-čunak was no
normal horse, and quickly disappeared from sight. Majık followed.
Büdıbek’s wife had now come to Čıyördı’s yurt, lamenting what had
happened. ‘You rich people know nothing of the worries besetting us poor.
You are blind to us. Your richness hangs like fat, covering your eyes. You
Manas is born 5
are preoccupied with wealth. Because you have no children, you know
nothing of their inestimable value. Do you not know what has happened?
My son ran after Jakıp’s horse and has disappeared. Do you not care? You
don’t spare a thought for the safety of my helpless child. Where is he? Has
he been torn asunder by wolves and tigers? My child tried to please your
husband, that wretched Jakıp. He tried to catch his horse.’
The misery of having no child! Čıyördı’s sorrow was talked about so
unkindly. She felt her anger rise. Why was her husband so late? When Jakıp
arrived, she shouted at him rather than greeting him as she should. Where
was Majık? Rather than welcoming him into the yurt, she sent him out to
look for the child. He left.
At dawn the next day, in the forest near the Kermay River, Jakıp couldn’t
believe what he saw. There was his horse Tuu-čunak, but the skin of a tiger
was draped across it. ‘Oh! My destiny! Majık, Büdıbek’s son, has been eaten
by a tiger!’ But then he saw the boy. Jakıp was puzzled, for it didn’t look as
if Majık had been scratched or bitten once. He felt his joy welling up, but
still he told Majık off. ‘You are so irresponsible! Why did you disappear for
so long, bringing dismay to your parents and me?’ Majık then told Jakıp
what had happened. He had the most wonderful time, he said. He had met
forty čilten, the half-human half-spirit boys who live between this world and
the world of spirits. A tiger was preparing to pounce on him, but the čilten
surrounded it and killed it, skinning it and giving him the hide. Jakıp stood
glued to the spot! He couldn’t believe this story. There was, though, a fresh
skin draped over his horse, and how could youthful Majık have killed a
tiger? This must surely be a sign from Almighty God.
Jakıp returned home, leading Tuu-čunak covered with the tiger’s hide. He
returned with Majık. He returned Majık to Büdıbek, giving him the tiger skin
as compensation for the trouble his horse had caused. He called his
shepherds who were tending his flocks to bring his forty finest horses as a
sacrifice. He called people from all the tribes. For many days they feasted.
And as the feast reached its end, Rich Jakıp addressed a council. ‘Oh, wise
men! I had a most unusual dream. My wife, too, had a dream. Please
interpret them.’ Wise Ak-Balta came forward. ‘The eagle you saw high in
the sky is a symbol of eternity, a fame that will be timeless. The dragon you
saw is a sign that someone who will be fierce in battle is coming. The lion
you saw is a sign that someone with a brave heart is coming.’ Jakıp was
impatient to hear more, but Ak-Balta stood, deep in thought. Čıyördı
interrupted, asking about her dream. Bagdılöt, too, had also dreamt that
fearless falcons were sitting on her yurt (in those days, first and second
wives customarily lived in separate yurts). Ak-Balta offered his
interpretation. ‘From the mosaic of your dreams, I predict that Jakıp will be
blessed with a son by Čıyördı, and with more sons by Bagdılöt.’ Now, Rich
Jakıp might have deserved his reputation for meanness, but hearing this
news brought out his generosity. He slaughtered many more sheep and cattle
and horses, and the feast continued for many days.
One year later, Čıyördı began to crave for the heart of a lion. She gave a
bar of gold to Jakıp’s chief horseman, Suleyman, and ordered him to kill a
lion. Now, it is difficult to trap a lion, so many days passed. And even in
those days, lions were rare. When cornered, it was still a struggle for a man
to kill a lion. It would struggle and struggle until overcome. But, Suleyman
did kill a lion. Quickly, he brought the heart, still dripping with hot blood, to
Čıyördı. She boiled it in a cauldron, and ate it, leaving not one drop of
bouillon. In this way, she satisfied her craving. She was with child but, after
such an extraordinary craving, what sort of child would she give birth to?
Months passed and her time came. Forty women surrounded her as Čıyördı
screamed out. She fought, scratching and bruising all forty. Her labour lasted
nine whole days. Rich Jakıp could not bear it. ‘In my whole life I have never
heard the cries of a child at birth, and if I hear them now I will surely die
from a heart attack!’ He mounted his steed Tuu-čunak and rode off to
inspect his flocks of horses as they grazed on the mountainside. ‘If it is a
girl, I will give a gift of forty horses, but don’t come for me since I will want
to be left in peace. If it is a boy, I will give my best racehorse to the man
who brings me the news.’
Čıyördı was giving birth. It was as if a huge battle was waged, such was
the commotion in the midst of the forty women. After nine days, the baby’s
cry burst forth. The cry was so loud that nearby trees shed their leaves. It
was a boy. Büdıbek’s wife cut the cord. Bagdılöt went to lift the baby, but it
was as heavy as a twelve-year-old. She almost dropped it. She put butter on
her finger for the baby, as was the custom, and put her finger in his mouth.
He was so strong and hungry he almost sucked the soul from her body!
Rather than taking the normal finger of butter, he took nine bowls filled to
the brim! ‘He will be a bloodthirsty man!’ exclaimed somebody, noticing the
baby held a congealed lump of blood in his right palm. Now, look at this,
honest listeners, for there was something written in the baby’s left hand. It
was a strange sign. Nobody could read it. Nobody knew its meaning.
All the men who had gathered wanted Jakıp’s best racehorse, so they all
ran off to find him. All but one, for Ak-Balta stood watching. His wife
scolded him. ‘Why are you day-dreaming? Go and search for Jakıp! Don’t
you want his generous gift? Tell him the wonderful news!’ Ak-Balta
couldn’t bear her nagging, so mounted his horse and rode off to find the
father. He knew where Jakıp kept his favourite horses, and that was where
he went. He found Rich Jakıp, who crouched staring at his most cherished
horse as it gave birth to a foal. Jakıp used his sleeve to wipe the birth fluid
from the foal, muttering that if his own child was a boy then this foal would
become his battle steed. It is said that heroes are born at the same time as
their horses. He rose as he heard Ak-Balta calling. ‘Joy, joy, Jakıp!’ Could
Manas is born 7
the news be good? ‘Joy, joy, Jakıp! You’re blessed with a son.’ Jakıp
fainted. Ak-Balta filled his white cap with water, and threw it over Jakıp,
bringing him to his senses. Jakıp, dazed, asked to be led to his wife, to see
his long-awaited son. He burst into tears as he saw the baby, the child
foretold in dreams. He ordered a feast and, although Rich Jakıp might have
deserved his reputation for meanness, he slaughtered many sheep, cattle and
horses. People from near and far were invited. Never before had they known
such a well-provisioned feast, and for years afterwards men talked about the
games, the dances, and the sweet flirtatious glances of the girls at the feast.
Three months passed, but the son still had no name. Čıyördı scolded her
husband for looking after his herds, for storing his wealth, rather than calling
the people to a feast to chose a propitious name. Jakıp, mean as he was,
knew another feast was needed. So, people from near and far gathered once
more. On the last day of celebration, Jakıp and Čıyördı petitioned the people
to choose a name for their son. Uneasy silence fell. The people slowly
whispered all the names they could think of. No name seemed suitable for
this baby, who at three months looked like he was six years old. Jakıp
pleaded with them, for having thrown such a feast he wanted to resolve the
matter. Nobody uttered any name. Finally, an old dervish with a long white
beard spoke. Everybody looked at him. Which tribe was he from? Who had
he come with? Who was he? ‘God has given this child a name. A name has
been allocated in the realm of Almighty God. His name is inscribed in his
palm. He is Manas.’ Everybody whispered, ‘Manas’. And, before they
realized the power of this name, the old dervish disappeared.
When the boy turned three, he was as strong a presence as big puffy
clouds. When he turned four, he was as restless as unstoppable wind. He
would catch little lambs in play and dash them against rocks, killing them.
When he turned five, almost all the calves had disappeared from the village.
He didn’t understand that his playing brought death to the poor beasts. When
he turned seven, no other boy would come near him, since if he took their
hand he would crush it, and since if he kicked them their shins would
fracture. People stopped greeting Jakıp and his family. ‘What a monster!
Soon, all living things in our village will be dead! Don’t go near Jakıp’s
house if you want to live! His son plays with living creatures as if they are
toys made from stone!’
Still, his parents spoilt the child, and allowed him to do anything he
wanted. They wouldn’t listen to the complaints. Soon, they started to notice
that everybody avoided them. Čıyördı finally faced her husband. ‘Please take
your unruly son and send him to the shepherd Ošpür. Since Ošpür lives far
away, the villagers will return to living in peace. Ošpür will get our son to
look after his sheep, and this will teach him skills and make him more
sensitive towards animals.’ By this time, Rich Jakıp, too, had begun to
despair of the child’s behaviour. He feared his temper. And so he was only
too glad to follow Čıyördı’s request.
It was a challenge to get Manas to leave. Rich Jakıp promised him
adventures if he journeyed with him to Ošpür. Excited by the prospect, the
boy agreed to go, and father and son left to find Ošpür. Jakıp-kan3
discovered Ošpür had a son the same age, Kutunay. The boys’ eyes lit up
when they saw each other, anticipating the hours of play to come. Ošpür,
though, said: ‘No, boys, you’re not going to play all your time. You will
look after the lambs, and for this you will be rewarded.’ Thinking the boy in
good hands, Jakıp-kan left in high spirits. Ošpür took the two boys to where
he had corralled a flock of lambs, and left them. He expected them to
become hungry, and to suffer hardship as they defended the lambs from
wolves. But how mistaken he was! Hidden from him, alone, the two had so
much freedom. They summoned boys from the villages all around and all,
fearing Manas, came running. Manas and Kutunay formed an army! They
practised war drills, endlessly. They staged battles, endlessly. The boys
divided themselves into archers and horsemen. In truth, I should tell you that
the horsemen rode foals, because of their childlike stature. They exhausted
those foals they had separated from mares. They threw stones at each other,
endlessly. They kicked each other, endlessly. They competed in games,
endlessly. And, of course, Manas had to feed his army, and as he did so,
people began to see the army that he had assembled. People now forgot how
they had complained to Jakıp, how they had avoided him because of his
unruly son. Now, they began to pity him. Jakıp, they remarked, had begged
God to give him a son, but now the son had become a bully, an utterly
uncontrollable bully.
In the meantime, across the border in China, the canny Chinese had a
sacred book, the Dangsa,4 in which the name ‘Manas’ was written. Manas, it
3
Kan/khan: the ruler or leader of one or more tribal groups. There is significance in
introducing the term here. Saparbek is reflecting on the democratic nature of Kyrgyz
society, because the ruler went to a shepherd and begged him to take in his son;
although the ruler may have had authority, it was the people who decided what
would happen. Councils of the people – the feasts already encountered – were where
decisions were taken.
4
At this point, we have a good example of Saparbek’s historical perspective. The
title of this book indicates a text most likely written at the end of, or shortly after,
the Tang Dynasty (618-907). Today’s Xi’an was the capital at the time of the Tang
Dynasty, but in a later episode Saparbek names the Chinese capital as Beijing. To
him, the Chinese are ‘Kıtay’ (as they are referred to hereafter), much as with
nineteenth-century bards, but note that the Mongolian Qıtay, who founded an empire
in northern China at the beginning of the tenth century, are not implicated in this
identification – Hatto (1977: 273) notes that the name has long since been
transferred to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) Chinese.
Manas is born 9
was written, would be born to the Kyrgyz. Manas, it was written, would one
day march eastwards and smash Kıtay hearts to pieces. Now, fearing the
prophecy, they sent an expeditionary force to the Kyrgyz lands, instructing
them to kill every new-born boy. At that time another unusually large child
had been born in the borderlands. The Kıtay thought this child must be
Manas. They did not realize that some Kyrgyz had fled invasion and settled
in the Altai Mountains. So, the Kıtay took their time searching, and it was a
full nine years before they reached the Altai. This is why Manas was not
murdered when he was still a child. By the time the Kıtay reached the Altai,
his exploits were known far and wide.
Two years had passed since Čıyördı petitioned Jakıp. She could no longer
bear the separation, and nagged him to fetch Manas. But before he could do
so, Ošpür came to the yurt and told Jakıp he could no longer control Manas.
Manas, he said, refused to listen to advice or obey commands. Nagged by
both, Jakıp agreed to fetch Manas. When he found him, Manas was having
so much fun playing with his army that he didn’t want to return home. Jakıp
told him how much his mother missed him. He told him she cried all the
time. He told him how she berated her husband for taking Manas away.
Then Jakıp shifted tack. The army of boys, he said, needed to rest. And so it
was that Manas set out for home with Jakıp. During their journey, they met
the Kıtay force. The Kıtay recognized Jakıp-kan: ‘Foolish Jakıp, you have
failed to pay us tribute. You owe us, and you think that by hiding in the Altai
you can escape our wrath!’ Thirty Kıtay started beating Jakıp. Manas looked
on from the side, confused. He asked Imanbay, who looked after their
horses, what was happening. Imanbay explained the enemy had forced them
to flee from their lands and now required tributes. Manas’s eyes flared. His
temper rose. He picked up a stick and lunged at one of the Kıtay. With a
single strike, the man crumpled to the ground, dead. With no effort, he killed
twenty more, crushing their skulls, dashing them on the rocks. Blood was
everywhere. Those Kıtay who had not been killed fled, astonished by this
sudden show of strength.
‘What have you done, my son?’ lamented Jakıp. ‘That was an
expeditionary force, and you killed the leader, spilling his blood and
smearing his brain over the rocks. What horror you will bring on us! Those
who fled will report, and an army will be sent.’ Manas was in no mood to
listen. Riding his young filly he set off in pursuit of the fleeing Kıtay. His
father, fearing he would lose the child, rushed after him. ‘Stay, please stay.
They may have set an ambush for you! We should pay the tribute and settle
our account, for we have killed and must accept guilt. We want to live in
peace, but what will be our fate if we give them reason to rise up in anger
against us?’ Manas stopped chasing the enemy. Father and son continued
their journey home. When they arrived, Čıyördı embraced her son.
The Kıtay leader, Esen-kan, called his captains, Joloy and Nez-kara. He
ordered them to bring Manas to him, alive. Sixty great warriors prepared
themselves. Sixty camels were provisioned with all they would need for a
long journey. ‘If you fail to bring Manas to me alive, you will die’, he
warned. ‘Be canny, take care. Don’t let Manas know your intent, or he will
fight!’ The captains did as they were told. After a long journey, they found
Manas and carefully surrounded him. He was playing with his friends,
throwing the round knee bones of sheep in the Kyrgyz form of tiddly-winks.
Nez-kara moved forward when it was Manas’s turn, positioning his camel
between Manas and the bone lying at the centre that he was trying to hit.
Manas shouted at him to move, but Nez-kara stayed where he was. Enraged,
Manas threw his bone at the camel, instantly killing it. Sixty warriors
jumped on Manas, little realizing how soon death would come to each and
every one. Manas despatched them effortlessly, then tethered the sixty
camels together and led them, still fully provisioned, back to his people.
Wise Ak-Balta spoke. ‘Finally, we have our defender. We have a Kyrgyz
who can lead us. Now comes the time when we must gather our scattered
people. Now we should prepare our arms, and make ready for when Manas
comes of age.’ And so the Kyrgyz gathered and began to plan the journey
back to their land, to the land of Talas.5
5
‘Talas’ indicates the Kyrgyz lands to the northwest of the country, rather than
today’s Taraz in Kazakhstan.
EPISODE TWO
THE MARRIAGE OF MANAS TO KANıKEY IS

ARRANGED
Azız-kan married a Kyrgyz woman of exquisite beauty. Her mother had

been enslaved when the Kıtay conquered the Kyrgyz. Their son, Almambet,
was gifted with phenomenal intelligence. The Kıtay recognized his
intelligence and recruited him with five others into a special military training
school. He was more intelligent than his peers, and during his training he
found Chinese accounts of Manas. Nobody noticed him reading about
Manas. He became so overwhelmed by the generosity of the great hero that
he decided to run away, to defect and offer himself as a servant to Manas.
But he decided the best time to defect would not be for a while. Six months
before the time he had decided on arrived, the six boys began to learn how to
kill Manas. It was at that time that Azız-kan beat his wife. Almambet was so
ashamed by this that he killed Azız-kan. He quickly had to make his escape,
and so began his search for Manas. Many months passed before he found the
great hero. He prostrated himself before Manas, declaring that although he
was the son of a traitor he wished to join his followers. Many Kyrgyz
objected. How could Almambet, the son of a traitor, ever be trusted?
But Manas displayed the generosity for which he was famed. He
welcomed Almambet as his own son and threw a massive feast. Eventually,
guests began to depart, carrying gifts on their laps as they rode off on their
horses. Those with long journeys were invited to stay one more night, and
another feast was held. Manas, it was noticed, was deep in thought. He was
asking himself where an exquisitely beautiful girl could be found. Could a
girl be found whose fame stretched far abroad not just for her looks but also
because of her masterful needlework skills? ‘I would like to find such a girl
and marry her to Almambet!’ he declared.
During the following days, Almambet twice visited Jakıp’s yurt, looking
for Manas. He wanted to know what he was planning. Manas was nowhere
to be found. Before he left the second time, Almambet spoke to Kara-bök,1 a

young woman who did the domestic chores in the yurt, asking where he was.
‘Where might I find his horse?’ he asked. ‘Maybe Manas is at the yurt of his
sweetheart,’ Kara-bök giggled. Who was this? Where was her yurt? Kara-
bök again giggled. ‘Maybe he is at the yurt of his sweetheart, Akılay.’ Who
was Akılay? Where was her yurt? Kara-bök again giggled. ‘Haven’t you
seen my new sister-in-law? Go and talk with his new sweetheart, Akılay.’
With that, Kara-bök pointed the way.
Almambet arrived at Akılay’s yurt, and from his saddle shouted out. ‘Is
the master, Manas, here?’ Young Akılay was a warrior, and didn’t take
kindly to arrogance like this. Why, here was a man who didn’t even bother
to dismount from his steed! She didn’t move a finger. She didn’t stand up.
She merely called from within: ‘I haven’t seen him.’ Then, just as Kara-bök
had done, she giggled. ‘Perhaps he is with his first wife. It would seem as
though he is unable to turn his head from looking at her, for he hasn’t visited
me this year.’ Almambet had thought Manas was a bachelor, and didn’t
understand these two women. Both seemed to be making fun of him and of
Manas. I will tell you now that Kara-bök and Akılay were both wives to our
hero, but he was avoiding both.
Almambet rode back to Jakıp’s yurt, and arrived just as Manas returned.
Jakıp came out, asking where he had been. Manas replied that he had been
searching for a girl of exquisite beauty. He had been searching for a girl
skilled in handiwork, a Kyrgyz girl, or a Kalmak girl, or a Kipchak girl. He
had been searching for a girl to marry Almambet, and had looked in many
places. He had sent enquiries as far as Samarkand. He had searched for eight
days. ‘It doesn’t suit you, Almambet, a full-blooded man, to live without a
wife!’
Almambet suddenly realized what was going on. His moustache rose a
little as he smiled. One side of his moustache trembled slightly as he tried to
stop himself from laughing. ‘What about you? You are my senior, so surely
you must look for your own wife first? It would not be proper for me to
marry first! And, if you have not found a suitable girl after eight days of
searching and making enquiries, then this is no easy task!’ Both ends of his
moustache trembled, rising and falling as he warmed to his joke. ‘Kara-bök
and Akılay have just had fun with me, telling me you were likely to be found
spending time with your first wife, or with your second wife. Since both are
your wives, I now see that they were mocking you!’ Manas had to hide his
embarrassment. He turned his back to Almambet and Jakıp, whipped his
horse, and galloped off. He was gone ten more days, too embarrassed to
return.
1
Kara-börök in some versions.
The marriage of Manas 13
Now, let me tell you what had happened. Some time before, as Manas
returned from the Altai Mountains, he had entered a gorge where the
Kanguru people had set an ambush. Three hundred warriors led by Kara-bök
were waiting for him. He had fought with his customary ferocity and
defeated them. As was the custom, Kara-bök should have become his bride,
and so she joined him. But, Manas questioned how anybody he had beaten in
battle could ever make a proper wife. Then, his way was blocked by Tajiks
under Kara-tegın as he reached the lower valleys. He would have fought
them, too, but Kara-tegın saved himself by giving him Šooruk’s daughter
Akılay. So, Manas gained a second bride. But, he questioned how a girl
given as a gift to avoid defeat in battle could ever make a proper wife.
Manas eventually gathered his strength and returned to Jakıp. ‘Father, I
am now thirty years old. It is time for you to marry me, according to my
heart’s wish. Please ask the family of a girl whom I can love to give their
daughter’s hand to me. Am I not of an age when glorious gifts can be given
to future parents-in-law?’
‘My bride should not be a simple girl born to a prominent family. My
bride should not be playful like a girl who winks at the boys. My bride
should not be the daughter of peri, mischievous spirits able to suddenly
change form. She should not be a poor girl wearing a little hat with a single
feather as its only decoration, for such a girl will be mean in everything she
does. She should not be the daughter of a man with a desire for revenge
stored deep in his heart, for such a girl will never let go of resentment. She
should not come from an impoverished family, for such a girl will never be
able to think big. She should not be the daughter of a wealthy man if that
man takes on the air of aristocracy but behaves selfishly. She should not
have cracked heels or thick cheeks, for such a girl will surely be a slave’s
daughter. She should not have been brought up without knowing the love of
a father, for how can such a girl appreciate a husband? She should not be the
daughter of an unmarried woman, for such a girl will lack morality. She
should not be the only daughter of a khan who has died, for such a girl will
be surrounded by male servants each jostling to be her suitor.’
‘You have lived many years, father, and have the wisdom that comes
with age. Open your eyes wide! Talk with those around you! But, carefully
discern the truth behind what you see and hear. Even though you are old and
wise, be alert when veils are drawn over your eyes!’
And so, having told Jakıp what his wife should not be, Manas continued:
‘My bride should be lithe as a young birch yet tender, fresh yet strong. Her
hair should fall gently from her face, with a fringe that unlike a Mongol
blows in the wind. Her forehead should be wide, set with brilliant bright
eyes, eyes black like the kaukhar stone. Her teeth should be strong, arranged
like little white rocks in two regular rows. She should walk swiftly yet
carefully. She should be a daughter of the people, yet she should be
exceptionally reserved. She should think long and deep about everything she
says and does, yet she should be able to focus on any matter. She should be
generous, yet able to foresee the results of her deeds and words. Her
politeness should be matched by an ability to draw people close, for she
should be a diplomat who brings enemies together.’
‘She should be charming. She should think deeply. She should know
when to be severe in her treatment of others. She should appreciate
intelligence. Her handiwork skills should match her intelligence. She should
be balanced, feminine but wise. She should be grounded, like a stone. Her
intelligence should be matched by her conscience and by the depth of her
soul. She should not be mean, but neither should she be wasteful. When the
greedy and mean experience her generosity, they should feel sated. When
she speaks, her voice should be sweet as honey. She should have dignity, so
that she cannot easily be reproached. Now, because my name is Manas, no
matter how good or bad I may be, I deserve such a bride. You, father, have
countless sheep and horses, and it is no time to be mean as you seek my
bride!’
And so it was that Manas left his hopes with his father Jakıp. Jakıp
worried how he could find such a girl. He loaded two horses with sixty
jambı gold ingots, reckoning that a display of wealth would make him seem
a worthy father-in-law. He took slaves, reckoning they could form part of a
dowry. And with his manservant Booke, the singer’s son Meņdi-bay,2 and
Alıbek’s son Jökör, he set out on the road to Samarkand.
He followed long rivers. He followed rapidly flowing rivers. He followed
slow and broad rivers. He searched every yurt erected on their banks. He
looked for every yurt on mountain slopes, at the edges of forests, nestled in
valleys. Sometimes he would go around in circles to make sure he had not
missed a single homestead. He visited everybody he heard was articulate,
intelligent or wealthy. He visited everybody with provenance. He looked
everywhere for daughters who might make suitable brides. He looked
closely at mothers, since the Kyrgyz say that an apple doesn’t fall far from
the apple tree. But he found no girl who anywhere near met the requirements
of Manas.
He travelled on until he reached the huge city of Tashkent. He entered its
gates. What a wealthy place! It seemed as though gold flowed down each
and every street. It seemed as though gold lined the clay-walled houses
leaning in from both sides of every street. The streets were narrow and the
houses jostled for space, yet he found no girl who anywhere near met the
requirements of Manas. ‘Oh! My unreasonable son! Oh! My demanding son!
Has he given me a task that can be filled if among these thousands on
thousands there is no single girl who matches his requirements? If there is no
2
In Radloff’s text, Meņdi-bay is the counsellor of Temir-kan.
suitable girl here, where can she be found?’ Jakıp was desperate. Such was
the fame of this heavily populated city, yet within it there was no girl who
met the requirements of Manas.
He travelled on. He had heard that Bukar3 was a city of knowledge,
where people were intelligent, where mighty leaders and wealthy families
were educated. Surely it must be home to a girl with unrivalled intelligence?
He entered its gates and began to question its people. Gossip spread like fire:
‘Have you seen that old and arrogant man who shows his great wealth to
all?’
‘It is most likely that he seeks a tokol, a young concubine, to warm him in
his old age. His grave is closer than his wedding bed, yet still he looks for
young blood!’
‘If it was not for his wealth, nobody would want to show him even their
ugliest daughter!’
One man known to keep up with daily affairs said: ‘I hear he is the
emissary of a powerful spirit. He seeks a wife for the spirit, so save your
souls. Avoid him and don’t talk with him. Keep away!’
Another corrected them all: ‘You silly people! He comes from the
Kyrgyz. His people sent this old man on a long journey to find a suitable
bride for their leader. They want to become powerful. This is a once-in-a-
lifetime chance to improve your lot, so impress him with your daughters!’
Soon, Jakıp had seen 600 girls. None met the requirements set by Manas.
‘Oh! Miserable me! In my old age I have been forced to chase the dream of
my son.’ He asked Almırza, a powerful Bukar, to help search for a suitable
bride, giving him two gold ingots. Almırza returned to Jakıp two days later,
reassuring him that if anywhere could provide a bride who met or exceeded
the conditions set by Manas it would be Bukar. There was one girl who
came close to what Manas had asked for, he said. This was Sanir Abiga, the
daughter of Temir-kan, who would later be renamed Kanıkey by Manas’s
brave ally, Košoy. Temir-kan was also known as Šaatemır.4
‘Temir-kan rules thirty cities. Forty girl-friends, all of them warriors,
guard his daughter. But to marry her is surely impossible. She is no ordinary
girl, for she has been taught and guided through her life by two invisible
spirits. If you search for a century, you will find no girl who comes closer to
your son’s dream. But capturing her will prove a huge challenge, for many
suitors have come to claim her hand. Many have died in mysterious
circumstances, while many more have never dared to face her and tell her of
their wish.’
3
Bukhara.
4
Saparbek usually refers to Temir-kan as Šaatemır and, in this episode, to Jakıp as
Jakıp-kan, thereby reducing the importance of Temir-kan and emphasizing the high
status of Jakıp.
Jakıp gave two more gold ingots as a bribe so that he could glimpse Sanir
Abiga. Almırza gave one ingot to the head of Temir-kan’s security
detachment and, at an agreed time, a guide arrived to take Jakıp and Almırza
to the edge of a secret garden. It was a beautiful place, full of the wonderful
songs of birds of every species, full of fruits and berries ripe and ready to be
picked and eaten. Jakıp carefully hid himself among the thick bamboo plants
that fringed the garden. He patiently waited. He waited a long time.
Eventually, forty-one girls entered the garden. They wore flowing silk
dresses with long sleeves, and their skirts blew in the breeze. To Jakıp they
seemed a mirage, for each was so slender and youthful. They began to play,
bursting out in joyful laughter. The laughter rang in Jakıp’s ears like tiny
bells. Weary of play, they wandered the garden, picking fruits and berries.
Two were more exquisite than the others. These, although Jakıp did not
know it, were Sanir Abiga and her close companion Alooke. The two left the
group as they sought the ripest berries, and Jakıp’s heart almost leapt from
his chest as they walked straight towards him. Sweat poured from his brow
as he crouched, still as a statue, wishing he could hide himself better,
wishing the earth beneath his feet would swallow him up. The two girls
came right to the spot where he crouched, picking berries. But they failed to
see him. They stretched on tiptoe for berries and Jakıp saw their shapely
bodies beneath their silk dresses. He was transfixed. He knew no words to
describe their beauty. He sat, silent and unflinching, holding his breath,
wishing in that glorious moment to be turned to stone. Sanir Abiga’s rich
black hair was tied tightly in a single long plait woven with gold and silver
threads. The plait coiled over her hair. Her black eyebrows looked like a
swallow’s wings. Her pitch black eyes shone like a camel’s eyes. Her
forehead was broad, shaped like the moon. Her waist was firm. Her chest
curved like an antelope’s breast and her back was straight and strong. Her
voice was wonderfully clear and her words sweet as honey. Although
clothed in such a simple shift dress, she was far and away the most
outstanding girl, outshining each of her forty friends. She was at the centre
of everything, as the girls collected kokok berries and shared them out, as the
girls turned away from each other to secretly devour the delicious fruit. Jakıp
knew that Manas would fall for Sanir Abiga and marry her.
Jakıp, though, was no ordinary man. He foresaw the destiny of Sanir
Abiga. He saw the nape of her neck was narrow, and knew she could only
have a single child. ‘I suffered for so long before gaining my own child, so
how can it be that my descendents will face the same hardship?’ He foresaw
that her child was destined to leave the family as a baby, although it was the
custom for a son to stay until the father died. ‘Can this be the destiny of my
lineage? What misery!’ He foresaw that she would give birth not in her
youth, but in middle age. ‘Am I to plunge into a pit of despair, for I may not
live to see the birth of my son’s heir?’
He stared at her, mesmerized. Nobody, he thought, would find a single

shortcoming in her. What luscious, long hair! What clear black eyes! What
eyes shaded by long lashes so fine that not even a single particle of dust
could settle on them! What eyes that would cry for a lost husband! What a
lithe body, on which not even a single particle of dust could settle! He stared
at her, mesmerized. How kind she was! Her kindness would melt any
opponents. How accomplished she was! She would mend clothes, ropes, and
anything that had been torn. She would mend relationships and resolve
quarrels. Even when she knew she has been wronged, she would be
generous. How youthful she was! Yet she had great maturity in thought and
word. She would hold strongly to what she thought. She would say what she
meant. She would never need to repeat herself. She would speak with the
authority of a statesman yet remain modest without any hint of arrogance.
She would always be charitable and kind to the poor. She would always win
over the arrogant. She would treat a poor man as an able man. She would
treat an able man as a wealthy man. She would treat a wealthy man as a
powerful man. She would treat a powerful man as a human being. She would
treat a young man as a gentleman. She would be a new bride every day of
her life. She would treat her husband as a king. She would play with her king
every single night as a new bride. Yet, she was destined to give birth to just a
single heir. ‘Oh, what misery!’ And so, as he looked from the bushes, the
canny old Jakıp proved his vast wisdom.
When the flock of girls flew back inside the palace, Jakıp-kan emerged
from his hiding place. He went straight to Šaatemır’s palace and marched
into the throne room. He went up to the elaborately decorated throne covered
in plush and sat on it. He straightened his back, raising his height as if,
haughtily, he was about to lecture his subjects. Astonished and affronted, a
bek prince and two guards who had been policing the room shook
themselves. What did this old, small, frail man think he was doing? He
didn’t look powerful. He didn’t look like a rival khan. He wore plain clothes
designed for journeying, not the fashionable splendour of a leader drawing
his subjects’ admiration. He began to chat to people around him in a way no
leader would ever do. Why was he so confident? Surely, they thought, this
man was so old he had forgotten how to behave. Surely, they thought, this
man was so old he no longer knew what he was doing.
They approached Jakıp-kan, ready to throw him out. ‘Listen, old man!
You are so bald that you appear ready to be put in your grave. Your back is
bent over, forcing your gaze downwards towards your grave. You chat to
people about nothing, as if you come from the mountains and know no
better. Perhaps you are brave, but you know little about the ways of the
worldly traders of our city. You perch on the throne of the powerful khan,
and don’t know where you are. We noticed when you arrived you were not
leading a flock of sheep. We noticed when you arrived you were not
weighed down by purses of gold hanging from your belt. So, maybe you
came by mistake. Maybe you were invited to a feast at the palace, and if so
then get off the thrown and walk over to the gathering hall where others
wait. This throne is not where you belong!’
Jakıp-kan felt his heart pierced. He was not the sort of person to beg, but
why should he when custom dictated that an elderly man should be revered
and respected for his wisdom? Could it be that in Bukar only a person’s title
and wealth mattered? He felt his anger rise. ‘I came here not by accident! I
came here not to beg! I came here not to listen to stupid words from
unworthy fellows! If you think yourself worthy of my attention, open your
eyes and recognize who sits before you! What does it matter if a man sits on
the khan’s throne? Think of reasons why you should revere me. I am the one
who has just seen forty-one young and nubile maidens dressed up like
embroidered dolls in dresses that blow in the breeze. Whose daughters are
they? If they are daughters of your khan, I will look after them better than
the khan. If they are daughters of your princes, I will look after them better
than the princes. True khans and true princes should revere an emissary sent
to ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage. How can it be that in Šaatemır’s
land an emissary is not respected? What message does the khan send out
about his daughter? Go to him and say an emissary has come to ask for the
daughter’s hand. You, prince, have pierced my heart with your cruel words. I
am here on a glorious mission, and nobody has any right to behave in such a
disrespectful way!’
The prince was in no mood to apologize. He looked straight at this old
man. ‘No fool would give their daughter to a man from the mountains!
Šaatemır will be outraged if he hears an old bent man has spied on the girls
no man is allowed to see! You speak a strange tongue, not the Persian of
Bukar, and we have no idea who you are.’
‘If you want to know who I am, stop trying to intimidate me,’ Jakıp-kan
shouted back. ‘I am the son of Nogay. I come from the Altai, from far away,
from as far as the black mountain, Kara-tor. My people are the Kyrgyz,
whose lands stretch to Andıyan.5 I was praying in the bushes when I saw the
khan’s daughter. The maidens walked close to me, and I could not fail to see
them. If you do not stop insulting me, I will spill your blood. You would
surely not slaughter a man who asks for the hand of the daughter of your
people? I am not afraid of you, for if you try to kill this one old man I will
kill three old men like you before my soul departs the world. I am not afraid
of you, for if you kill this one old man slaughter and death will descend on
the people of Bukar!’
At that moment, the Muslim call to prayer sounded. Šaatemır with his
entourage converged on the mosque among a throng of people. Unable to
5
Andijan.
persuade Jakıp to leave, the prince stopped Šaatemır as he left the mosque
after praying. ‘An old man who claims to come from as far away as the
Altai, who claims to rule the lands to Andıyan, who claims to be the son of
Nogay, is in the throne hall refusing to leave,’ he clumsily reported. ‘He sits
on your throne, although I have insisted that none but you may rest on it. He
speaks not as a commoner, although he has a strange accent. He is
determined and persistent, claiming to be on a mission to find a girl to
marry. He has even seen the palace maidens! He threatens us. His behaviour
is so unsettling that I felt I should report to you before putting him to the
sword.’
Šaatemır’s anger rose, but he swallowed his temper as a thought flashed
through his mind: could there be a connection between this son of Nogay
and the legendary Manas from whom the Kıtay once fled? He turned his
anger on the prince and the two guards. ‘Why have you failed to ask who he
is? Have you checked if he has servants and troops? Have you checked the
quality of his horses? Are you sure that in his old age it is he who wants to
marry a maiden? Why did you fail to find out more before running to me?
Return to him. Calm him down. It is clear that if he talks in such a way he
cannot be a simple man. Find out if he wants to marry or if he is looking for
a bride for a relative. Does he have any sons? How did he see the palace
maidens?’
Terrified, the prince and guards ran back to Jakıp-kan. Darkness was
falling, but Jakıp still sat on the throne. The three attempted to greet him, but
got no reply. They began to quiz him. We are concerned for your safety. We
worry that the city guards will find you and beat you to a pulp. Have you
come alone? Do you have friends with you to ensure your safety? Do you
have horses harnessed, ready to escape an attack? Do you have money to pay
for food and lodgings? With this last question, Jakıp’s patience finally
snapped. ‘You poor, miserable creatures! Your city has been conquered so
many times that you no longer trust visitors! Your people have been so
severely beaten that you no longer respect visitors! You poor, miserable
men. Despite your orchards bursting with fruit and your splendid houses,
you ask me for money for food and lodging! If your people are that poor, I
will put coins in each and every hand!’
Jakıp-kan was cunning. He knew that the very richness of Bukar was the
reason why so many tribes had fought for it. He knew that a strategic
marriage of Šaatemır’s daughter would strengthen the city. ‘What meanness,
when you fail to respect guests! What cowards you are, for I see whips
hanging ready in this hall! Rather than caring for guests, you starve them.
You ply them with questions to discover their wealth, their strength, and
their identity. You may think I am a lonely old man who struggles to stand
on his feet, but I am Jakıp, the son of Nogay!’ With that, he listed all his
ancestors, ending by naming his son, Manas.
Manas? The prince, whose name was Abdukalık, thought his heart would
leap out of his mouth. He hurriedly ran off to tell Šaatemır. ‘Sir, we are
doomed! Sir, we have brought anger and wrath on ourselves! Sir, how could
we have known that this frail old man was the father of Manas? Sir, even
when he uses simple words, telling us he is our guest, he threatens us! How
did he come among us unnoticed? How did he find out everything about us?’
Šaatemır considered the situation. ‘We are being tested as we may be but
once in a lifetime. It is strange he came among us unnoticed, but this merely
indicates that Manas commanded him to do so.’ What were they to do?
‘Take him to the palace. Arrange a feast. At all times, be polite and use
utmost care in what you say. Never question where he comes from. Ask him
who wants to marry. Ask him which maiden has caught his eye. Without his
entourage and without any horses he will tell us.’
Abdukalık took Jakıp-kan to the palace guest quarters. He gave him food
and drink, and began to ply him with questions. Who wanted a bride? Which
maiden he had seen? Jakıp was cunning. Manas, he replied, had conquered
many lands, defeating many people. Manas had taken Andıyan, and now had
instructed his father to find a suitable bride. Jakıp had searched far and wide.
The prince persisted with his questions. ‘You have travelled great distances,
searching endlessly for a bride. Which maiden have you found in Bukar for
Manas?’ These were diplomatic exchanges, and they continued day after
day. The prince patiently asked questions. Jakıp-kan carefully framed
answers. Both tried to elicit details that the other tried to keep hidden.
Had Jakıp brought countless Kyrgyz warriors? Were his troops hiding in
the nearby mountains? Why did he pretend to be a helpless old man? If he
was truly the father of Manas, how did he get to Bukar? Did he have horses
close by? Jakıp, for his part, encouraged the prince to believe he was telling
the truth. The prince, for his part, wondered whether Jakıp was an imposter.
If he threw him out of the palace and called his bluff, would he bring
calamity on Bukar? The prince kept reporting back to Šaatemır, and
Šaatemır kept sending him back with more questions.
Jakıp-kan was fed well. He drank well. He rested in a luxurious chamber.
He still hid much, so five princes were sent to question him. ‘How did you,
respected and wise man, come to take on such a troublesome task? How did
you, respected and wise man, travel such huge distances? Surely you had
guards to saddle your horses? Surely you had people to look after your
needs? Surely you came with helpers, for despite your age you are in rude
health?’ Such was the urgency of the task, Jakıp responded, that he had
hurriedly left. He had sent his troops and people, his flocks and horses, into
the mountains to await his return.
Šaatemır’s mind was in turmoil. He still didn’t know Jakıp’s wealth or
position. But Jakıp-kan continued to drip-feed information. He had expected
to be invited in as an honoured guest in the palace, he said. He had assumed
he would be fed and entertained, he said. Why would he need companions

and helpers? He had walked to the city and paused to pray at the Kuuray
bushes on the outskirts, he said. As he knelt, he had heard laughter. He
thought the sound was a spring joyfully gushing forth from the rocks, but
then he saw a group of beautiful maidens picking juicy berries. He had
crouched in the shadows, making himself invisible. He had seen their
youthful beauty. One was beautiful beyond description. She was so
exquisitely special. She was the maiden he had looked for far and wide. She
was the maiden that his son might fall in love with. He would do what was
required. He would ensure the marriage to Manas. She was the bride,
whether a khan’s daughter, a prince’s daughter, a villager’s daughter, or a
spirit’s daughter.
The princes reported back and Šaatemır continued to quiz them. How had
Jakıp come to see the maidens? He knew Sanir Abiga must be the one Jakıp
had chosen, but why would he not name her? Perhaps he had a cunning plan.
Perhaps he just pretended to seek a bride for Manas. He didn’t doubt Jakıp’s
determination, but realized that he would not leave until he had completed
his mission.
There was one secret that Jakıp-kan kept: he wasn’t certain that the
maiden he had set his eye on was indeed Sanir Abiga. One morning he rose
at the crack of dawn and, accompanied as he always was by a prince trusted
by Šaatemır, he went for a walk. As he passed an orchard in the palace
grounds, he caught a glimpse of the fairy-like girl. He asked who it was and,
without thinking, the prince told him it was Šaatemır’s daughter. Jakıp felt
joy beyond belief! The chance encounter had confirmed the girl’s identity.
After the many days sequestered in the palace, Jakıp-kan’s mood
lightened. He decided to play a game. He told the prince he would give a
dowry of whatever the father asked for the right maiden. He would be
generous in order to honour the maiden. But, of course, if her father refused
to give her hand in marriage, the Bukar would regret it. The trusted prince
told Šaatemır, ‘He keeps saying how rich he is. Now he says he will pay
whatever dowry is demanded. He tells us he will not be mean, yet at the
same time he threatens all the Bukar, saying that if the father refuses all will
suffer!’
Jakıp-kan decided the time had come to put pressure on Šaatemır. He
could afford to laze in the palace no longer, he announced, so the princes
should ask Šaatemır to hold a council in order to answer his request for
Manas’s bride. Now, Šaatemır knew Jakıp had a plan. He knew that if his
request was not met there would be trouble. He ordered a council to
assemble to consider the city’s fate. He summoned all people whose tops
could be seen – those who were bald – all princes and senior residents of
each district, all judges and warriors, all mullahs and muftis. The council
was bigger than had ever been seen before. Šaatemır told those assembled
that the marriage of his daughter was of national importance. It was a matter
of war and peace. All who had assembled, rich and poor, strong and weak,
wise and senior, listened as he told them they must make a strategic
decision. Jakıp from the Altai Mountains, he said, was a guest in the palace.
He was the father of Manas, and Manas had sent him to find a bride to
satisfy his heart. The success of Jakıp’s mission depended on the council’s
decision.
‘The hand of Temir-kan’s daughter has been asked for. Among you, are
any ready to saddle horses and ride into battle? Among you, are any willing
to lose hands and feet, to take bullets or swords, to lose your life? Among
you, are any prepared to knock enemy soldiers from their saddles? Among
you, are any willing to fight the Kyrgyz, whose warriors are fearless as
wolves, for whom battle gives meaning to their lives? Are all of you ready to
battle the Kyrgyz of the Altai? We know that if we don’t give our daughter’s
hand in marriage we face a mighty battle. Among you, are any sufficiently
skilled at debating to settle terms? Among you, are any sufficiently skilled at
persuasion to make Jakıp change tack?’
All sat still, avoiding Temir-kan’s gaze. Whispers began to echo in the
chamber: ‘The fate of a maiden is to marry and find happiness with her
husband. Marriage offers the best chance of happiness for a daughter.’ ‘The
khan’s daughter is sixteen-and-a-half years old, and who knows how many
days or years will pass before a suitor is found among our people? She could
be an old maid before another comes forward.’ ‘Do we know how old Manas
is? If we are to believe what we have heard, his deeds are so glorious that it
would be no bad thing for us to become his relatives.’ Abdukalık was the
first to speak loudly. ‘Why should we give our daughter away to this man
from the mountains? Each of you owns horses, camels, sheep and goats and
could benefit from more. As a dowry, you should each request a gift of nine
of each, so that Jakıp will be forced to assemble a massive herd. The Kyrgyz
love their lives herding flocks on the mountain pastures, but imagine the
challenge to raise such a huge herd! Why, Jakıp will give up his quest and
leave us be!’
Šaatemır decided that, with this potential solution in mind, he should
finally meet Jakıp. He rose and left with Abdukalık, Akulbay, Isa, Tölöbek,
and others. Just at that time, Jakıp-kan’s jıgıts, his warriors, companions and
servants, arrived at the palace with horses ready saddled. Jakıp-kan
exchanged pleasantries and greeted Meņdi-bay, Jökör the son of Alıbek, and
the three others. Šaatemır saw the small group. Turning to those with him, he
remarked, ‘Look, he is virtually alone. He has so few companions! What
fools we are if we give him our daughter as the wife to his son!’
Šaatemır’s companions began to debate the dowry. ‘How many animals
can we ask from him? Thousands of horses? No, he will be hard pressed to
find a hundred. Six hundred sheep? No, five hundred. Will that still be too
many?’ ‘What about gold?’ asked Abdukalık. ‘Can we ask for a thousand
gold coins?’ ‘Thirty coins will be as much as he can pay, for while our city
has wealth the Kyrgyz mountain herders have surely never seen much gold!’
‘I have no intention to give my daughter away,’ Šaatemır said, firmly.
‘No matter how large the dowry, the Kyrgyz have unimaginably large herds
of horses and sheep. We cannot resolve the situation by debating the dowry
size, so the best we can do is prolong the time it takes to assemble. We must
set as troublesome a task as possible. We will demand sixty Bactrian camels,
thirty female with black heads and white bodies, thirty male with white
heads and black bodies. We will demand two hundred high endurance
camels. We will demand five hundred horses, all with white spots on their
foreheads, two hundred of which must be white with black tails, two
hundred black with white tails, and one hundred thoroughbred racehorses.
We will demand fifty thoroughbred black bulls, fifty thoroughbred yellow
bulls, and fifty bulls with spots. We will demand two thousand white and
two thousand black sheep. And we will demand forty thousand red gold
coins and a thousand jambı gold ingots each weighing 500 grams. Raising
such a dowry will, surely, prove impossible. But if the Kyrgyz want our
daughter then this is their task.’
With that, Šaatemır donned his splendid cloak and crown. As he
approached Jakıp-kan, his heart sank as he recognized the old man’s bravery
and stoicism, his dignity and confidence, his strength of character. This truly
was the father of Manas! He came dressed in splendour, but the Bukar khan
suddenly felt small and insignificant. He rushed forward to greet Jakıp-kan,
blurting out a series of questions. ‘How are your people? Why did you come
without forewarning us? Are you really looking for a bride for your son?’
Šaatemır continued, ‘I am told you have set your eyes on winning our
daughter. I convened a council, as you asked, and my people have agreed
that our daughter is a suitable bride. But she is too young, barely sixteen-
and-a-half. But, if it be God’s will, the marriage will be successful, and the
bride and groom will savour each other’s company.’
‘Amongst the Kyrgyz, a girl of ten with sufficient strength is not too
young for marriage,’ Jakıp retorted. ‘What strength?’ ‘Strength sufficient to
stay standing if a man throws his fur hat at her!’ ‘I am here to become your
relative,’ Jakıp continued. ‘We should happily join our families. The
aspirations of our children are our most treasured possessions, so fear not
that I come to take your daughter by force.’
‘I have three sons and two daughters’, said Šaatemır. ‘One is already
engaged. All have enjoyed blissfully happy childhoods. Is it Sanir Abiga, the
jewel of my life, the jewel of my eye, that you wish to be the bride of your
son?’
Jakıp-kan confirmed that it was indeed Sanir Abiga, who would later be
called Kanıkey by Manas’s brave ally Košoy. To show goodwill, he called
Meņdi-bay forward with a bag from which he took a gold ingot and ten
pieces of solid gold each the size of a horseshoe. The eyes of those
accompanying Šaatemır lit up. The old man they had thought was close to
his grave had immense wealth! A crowd gathered, each and every person
from Bukar jostling to get the best glimpse of this magnitude of gold. How
wealthy the son must be if the father could give away so much gold! How
skilful the son must be now they knew the diplomacy of the father! What did
the son, Manas, took like? Would he be a good match for Sanir Abiga? It
will be a man on whom fortune shines who gains her hand! Jakıp threw gold
coins into the crowd, impressing them one and all.
Šaatemır detailed the required dowry. Jakıp-kan agreed, thereby
impressing the people of Bukar even more. ‘Is he really able to pay such a
munificent dowry?’ ‘Is he merely giving an impression of amazing wealth?’
Just in case he could deliver what was required, the people of Bukar
prepared lavish presents. They gave Jakıp-kan gowns embroidered with gold
and the finest fur coats to take back to his people. As he mounted his horse’s
saddle, Jakıp produced thirty more gold ingots that it took the princes three
days to divide among themselves! In those same three days, Jakıp reached
Kara-tor, the black mountain where the Kyrgyz lived in peace amongst the
gorgeous scenery. They lived in valleys with magnificent rivers surrounded
by the mountains.
A week before, Almambet and Manas had gone hunting. It was time for
their return, but the night before, while camped deep in the mountains,
Almambet had a dream. He saw the moon descending from the sky, falling
until it rested beside him. Dreams, we should remember, have meanings. He
awoke just as dawn began to cut through the darkness. The morning star
shone brightly, and from where he was, he could see the moon resting next
to Manas: Manas was destined to marry Sanir Abiga. Almambet saw the
constellation of Libra, a sign of things in balance: Alooke, her close friend
and companion, from whom she had vowed she would never be separated,
was destined to be Almambet’s bride.
EPISODE THREE
THE GREAT BATTLE
Almambet and Čubak were Manas’s best friends. They say Almambet was
particularly handsome and Čubak was a celebrated warrior. Manas consulted
Almambet on matters of state and gave him important tasks, which made his
other friends jealous. It was jealousy that led Čubak to call Almambet a
Chinese spy. It was true that Almambet had once been loyal to the Chinese,
but he had switched allegiance many years earlier. Čubak compounded his
insult by warning the Kyrgyz to be on their guard because Almambet could
not be trusted. ‘Who knows what lies hidden in his heart behind his fine
appearance!’ He shouted at Almambet: ‘Who are you? Who are your
people? Where do you come from? How can you, a miserable Chinese
dissident, give me orders?’
Almambet, normally polite and gentle, was enraged. ‘How dare you call
me Chinese! How dare you call me a Kalmak, one of those unfortunates
taken across the border by their conquerors! My anger boils within me when
you call me an enemy of all Kyrgyz. Do you have a single piece of evidence
that proves my unfaithfulness? Do you have ways to see into my heart? I
will not let you get away with these insults and will strip you of your evil
jealousy! I warned you to maintain unity as a warrior of Manas. I warned
you not to drive a wedge into our friendship that can be exploited by our
enemies, for if you do the Kalmaks with surely occupy our land right to the
Altai Mountains, to the cradle of our ancestors! The Chinese will surely
overrun us, pouring a multitude of troops across our borders! Did I ever
betray you? Did I ever humiliate you? Did I ever insult you? No, is the
answer to all these questions. So, why do you seek to make my anger boil?’
In the blink of an eye Almambet, the son of Azız-kan, mounted his horse
Sar’ala and raised his axe. He was ready to fight a duel with this man who
had insulted him so deeply. He could no longer tolerate Čubak’s war of
words. The ranks of the Kyrgyz were in turmoil for, just before a decisive
battle against the Chinese two of their best warriors wanted to kill each
other. Who could avert disaster? Wise Bakay rushed forward. Such was the
severity of the crisis that he grasped Sar’ala’s reins tightly, although custom
dictated a younger warrior should hold the reins of the horse of a senior. He
pleaded with Almambet to cool down. He begged him not to fight. He turned
to Čubak, and pleaded with him to admit he had gone too far. He pointed out
that the people’s hopes for the future were invested in their friendship. What
hope would remain if these two fought each other to the death? Bakay
ordered a white mare to be slaughtered. The two warriors dipped their hands
in a bowl of the animal’s warm blood and vowed eternal friendship.
With differences settled, Almambet was sent with Sırgak to reconnoitre
the Chinese forces massed against them. Sırgak was such a fine warrior that
when he sat on his horse he appeared to be one with the animal, joined at the
hip. He would never fall asleep and was always as alert as a bird of prey. He
was utterly reliable. Almambet rode Sar’ala but led Adžıbay’s horse, Kara-
keröng. Kara-keröng was no ordinary horse. It was said to have mythical
parents and to have the amazing authority to lead any number of herds.
Almambet planned to rob the enemy of their horses, thereby sending a clear
signal of Kyrgyz strength and leaving the impression that their incursion was
just a sortie before a full attack. But to steal the horses would be no easy
task, since they were in enemy territory. Almambet had Chinese costumes in
his saddlebags, and he changed into them at the border. He passed a costume
to Sırgak, but his comrade refused to put it on. It was an insult, he said, to
disguise himself as the sworn enemy when he should fight as a Kyrgyz.
Almambet argued that warriors must be fluid as running river water, canny
as fog moving across the land and embracing all in its path. The Chinese
costumes would allow them to penetrate deep into enemy land. Since he
spoke the language he would pretend to be a Chinese traveller while Sırgak
would be his servant. Sırgak, though, must remain mute lest he uttered a
Kyrgyz word.
Sırgak relented. In disguise, Almambet looked like a lord and Sırgak a
servant. They crept across the border, reaching the Itičpeš River, seven
spears deep and wider than it was deep. On its far bank a hundred thousand
horses grazed, guarded by the shrewd and mischievous Kar’aygır. Kar’aygır,
Koņur-bay’s chief horseman, was mounted on his trusty steed Tor’aygır, a
horse so strong that he had two sacks of sand on his back to prevent him
throwing the rider. Kar’aygır looked at them: ‘Is it you, Azız-kan’s
Almambet, who defected to our enemy?’
‘Greetings, Kar’aygır! Peace to you and your horses! Yes, it is I. Yes, I
left China many years ago, but I never switched allegiance. I left to conquer
the city of Tutanshaa, where I was proclaimed khan. I have missed my
people these many long years, and now joyously return. So quickly have I
found a familiar face! Let me shake your hand.’ Kar’aygır knew Almambet
was cunning, so didn’t trust this apparent friendly approach. He knew that
contact would lead to a fight and, fearful, put his hand behind his back. ‘Do
The Great Battle 27
you think I can’t recognize Kara-keröng, the horse who leads herds wherever
he goes. Do you think I don’t know why you brought him? You intend to
steal Koņur-bay’s horses. And who is that beside you, disguised as a
servant? He looks like a fine warrior, for no servant holds himself so
proudly! No servant ever had such a lithe body and such rippling muscles!’
‘I can’t deny that my servant is indeed a brave and fine warrior, but he
serves me, despite his strength and bearing, because, unfortunately, he is
deaf and dumb.’
Kar’aygır looked on in disbelief. Convinced of the plan to steal the
horses, he focussed his mind on escape. He had to warn his master Koņur-
bay. He slowly retreated on Tor’aygır, never turning his back. When there
was enough distance from Almambet, he cast off those sacks of sand from
Tor’aygır’s back and his steed, suddenly as light as the wind, leapt away.
Almambet tried to catch him, but Sar’ala was no match for Tor’aygır. As
each of Tor’aygır’s hooves brushed the ground stones broke asunder. When
he glanced a tree it was uprooted like matchwood. Sar’ala was not so fast,
but Almambet was an accomplished horseman. At one point he almost
reached Kar’aygır, but Kar’aygır whipped Tor’aygır and it edged ahead like
a gale force wind.
There was no way to catch him. Almanbet returned to Sırgak. ‘The chief
horseman will report to Koņur-bay. Soon the Chinese will arrive. Release
Kara-keröng and let him join the herd. We will take all the horses back to
Talas.’ The two warriors created a commotion, shooing the horses across the
river behind their new leader. The horses plunged into the cold water. Most
managed to reach the far side, but some foals were taken by the current.
Meanwhile, Kar’aygır arrived at Koņur-bay’s camp. ‘Son of Kalča, Koņur-
bay, sound the alarm! Mount your steads, for Almambet has come to steal
your horses. He is taking them at this very moment!’
Koņur-bay ordered thirty thousand soldiers and twenty-five thousand
more under Nez-kara to follow him and the celebrated warrior Joloy. At the
river, his soldiers tried to repel the two enemies, but Almambet repeatedly
ran among them, his spear parting their ranks. Actually, Koņur-bay was not
concerned with these two minnows, but wanted to catch Manas, for he
believed his destiny was to kill Manas. This, he hoped, would be his
opportunity.
Back at the camp, Manas had been worrying about Almambet and Sırgak.
He could wait no longer so, although still waiting for his army to join him,
he saddled the horse Aybanboč rather than his trusty steed Ak-kula and
galloped to the Chinese border. The last thing he expected was to encounter
Koņur-bay on his mighty Algara! Ak-kula and Algara had both originally
been destined for Manas. They were the finest of fine horses. Algara was
completely black when born and a boy was assigned to look after it. All was
well until one day Algara fell into a hole. The boy struggled and struggled to
rescue it, and it was felt that because of this imperfection in judgement it
could never be the right horse for Manas. And that is how it ended up with
the enemy. Manas raced forward on Aybanboč. He saw that his two warrior
friends were surrounded, and without thinking jumped into the flowing river.
Poor Aybanboč! After the race to the border, his nostrils were steaming, and
he had no energy left. He froze as he hit the cold water. From a distance
Aybanboč looked less like a horse than a wooden table floating upside down
with four rigid legs poking up in the air. Picture the scene! Massive Manas
trying to sit on an old piece of wood, floating in the river, unable, whatever
he tries, to get his horse to move.
What a wonderful chance for Koņur-bay! Standing on the bank, he was
transfixed as he watched Manas drift from one bank to the other. Seizing his
chance, he rushed to Manas as the river’s current sent his enemy towards
him. He thrust his spear. The spear whistled past Manas’s ear. Manas fumed
with anger. Koņur-bay recoiled, then plunged his spear at Manas’s heart.
The massive Manas grabbed the head of the spear, and held it fast as Koņur-
bay drew back. The shaft was left in Manas’s hand. The current sent Manas
towards Koņur-bay once more. Koņur-bay took his sword and swung it,
trying to behead Manas. That very moment Azız-kan’s son Almambet
sensed the danger. He plunged his own spear between Koņur-bay’s ribs.
Koņur-bay recoiled in pain, screaming. But his horse Algara was no ordinary
horse: it was a Pegasus with wings. It shot into the air, rescuing its master
from certain death. Almambet failed to land a fatal blow. Aybanboč was still
frozen like wood. Water poured from Manas’s warrior’s jacket as he
managed to climb onto the bank. The battle raged. The battle raged with
such frenzy that poets would find it hard to describe in words the mayhem of
blood, dust, noise, and anguished cries. A spear was thrust into a warrior’s
stomach. A warrior searched for his severed hand. Warriors were locked in
mortal combat.
The first line of Kyrgyz warriors, thousands of them, reached Keng-kul.
They were hidden in the swirling dust of horses running around Kara-
keröng. At a signal, they swarmed onto the battlefield. Wise Bakay arrived
and delivered Ak-kula to Manas. The battle raged, the two enemies seeming
to be glued together. The warrior Joloy was there. The warrior Nez-kara was
there. Some of the troops were on foot and some were riding camels.
Turbaned troops were alongside troops wearing the wide-brimmed Kyrgyz
akkalpak felt hats. The corpses of arch-enemies embraced each other.
Finally, as is the rule of war, the moment came when the two forces
disengaged. Almambet addressed Manas as the two friends recovered their
breath. ‘This is just the enemy’s forward troops. Many thousands more
march towards us on the road. What reason do we have to risk fighting on
their territory? Let’s retreat and prepare an ambush.’
The Great Battle 29
Manas agreed. He retreated and began to set the ambush as Almambet

and Čubak went behind the enemy’s lines. They crossed the river and
stealthily crept to Čailu Mountain. Almambet saw something strange in the
distance. It was as though a mountain was moving, inexorably, towards
them. He stopped his horse as he attempted to work out what it was. ‘Listen,
Čubak! As a child, I heard of strange giants with just a single eye in the
middle of their foreheads. They inhabit the lands of Maņeldüņ. They have a
champion wrestler, Makeldöö, who rides a strange beast of burden with a
single horn. Makeldöö is such a glutton he gobbles down six cauldrons of
meat as an entrée, and considers he hasn’t eaten properly until nine pigs have
been cooked whole and put in front of him. Perhaps Koņur-bay has called
for Makeldöö’s support!’
‘This is a frightening development, but you must not lose heart.
Makeldöö has come from Alabash Mountain, for no reason but a message
from Koņur-bay that said Manas was attacking. When Koņur-bay’s
messenger reached him, Makeldöö put a few tons of tobacco into his
gigantic pipe. He smoked. When he finished puffing he cleaned the pipe out,
knocking its end on the ground to clear it. So much ash came out that the
road was blocked! There was so much ash that people could no longer pass.
It has to be Makeldöö there in the distance. Can you hear his roar? He’s so
big that he’s stuck in a narrow mountain gorge. He hits out at the rocks,
splintering them and casting them asunder as he clears his path. He will soon
be with us, so hide in the bushes. When I shoot him you come out and use
your spear and attack. Be careful, though, for giants get clumsy when they’re
wounded.’
He had not finished outlining the plan before the giant reached them.
Almambet took his musket and poured powder into the barrel. He set the
charge. He aimed at Makeldöö’s chest, the closest part of the giant’s body.
‘What if my bullet fails to pierce his thick and fatty skin? What if the dirt
that plasters his thick matted hair stops my bullet?’ He lifted the musket until
it pointed at the giant’s mouth. ‘If I shoot his mouth, I might only knock out
a single tooth. That will make him really angry, and he will pick us up and
make beefsteak out of us!’ He moved the musket up a little, aiming at
Makeldöö’s cheeks. ‘He has so much flab on his fat cheeks that my bullet
won’t penetrate!’ He raised the musket slightly, and in its sight he could see
Makeldöö’s huge, glittering, shiny, dark, single eye. ‘What can I achieve by
shooting his eye?’ There was no time left to think what to do. The giant was
upon him. He had just one chance. He aimed at the eye and shot. As the
bullet pierced it, the eye popped and liquid shot out. The eyeball collapsed
into a floppy mass. It plopped onto the ground, and like a sack it burst open.
Čubak emerged from the bushes with his spear held ready. He was going to
aim for the giant’s heart, but noticed how the fat folds of Makeldöö’s chest
shrouded it. The giant was huge! He aimed at the only part of the body he
could reasonably reach, the shins. The two warriors hacked at the monster
Makeldöö, one on the left and one on the right. It was difficult to pull their
spears out each time they struck him! They struck and stabbed, struck and
stabbed.
It was sunset before Makeldöö finally collapsed and rolled over. They
approached the giant, gingerly. Makeldöö raised his hand, as if to fight on.
‘How can we kill him?’ Almambet and Čubak continued lunging with their
swords and spears as twilight fell. Finally, Makeldöö gave up his soul. Blood
and guts poured out. There was an overwhelming stench. The scene was
truly dreadful. Čubak wanted to rest, but Almambet said they should return
to Manas carrying Makeldöö’s head as a trophy. Čubak took his axe and
swung at the giant’s throat, but he was so exhausted that he couldn’t wrestle
the axe out from the small cut he had made. ‘The giant may be dead, but he
still refuses to stop fighting!’ Together, they sliced and cut at the giant’s
throat until the head was severed. Manas would surely give them a huge
reward!
Now they tried to drag the head by its hair. It was so heavy that they
stumbled from side to side. They decided to roll it back to their horses. They
heaved the head onto one horse, but it was so heavy that the horse couldn’t
keep its balance. They filled a large sack to the brim with stones. They
loaded the sack on one side of the horse and the giant’s head on the other.
Slowly they set off. Manas was sleeping when Almambet and Čubak
arrived. He woke and looked at them, wondering what strange thing they
were carrying. Something massive hung from their horse. Could it be
jewels? Maybe they had robbed a Chinese caravan. Could it be the heads of
enemies? Maybe they had killed the traders and cut off their heads.
Almambet and Čubak tethered their exhausted horses. Almambet called
young Sırgak and, with a hint of a smile breaking at the edge of his lips, told
him to unload his horse. Sırgak thought they had brought jewels and
precious objects. He was keen. He rushed to the horse and opened the bag.
The giant’s lip plopped to the ground, slimy and slippery. The giant’s ear
slid to the ground, slithering like jelly. Almambet laughed, as Sırgak turned
pale as death. ‘If this is the head of a trader, imagine how huge Chinese
people must be!’ he muttered. ‘If this is a town-dweller, I can’t imagine the
size of their warriors! I’m not going to fight such people. I will refuse to
march a foot further towards the enemy, for I will face thousands of them, all
with heads this huge, swarming over the land like gigantic ants! If their
bodies match this massive head, I would rather return to my own land with
my tail between my legs!’
Almambet laughed. ‘Don’t lose heart, for this is not a warrior. You need
not flee like a coward. It is not size that matters, for a true warrior must find
ways to beat his enemies. That lip, that ear, and that huge head are the
remains of the giant Makeldöö. He was a wrestler from across the
The Great Battle 31
mountains. He was one of the many wonders of the world, and it took us
forty – no sixty – bullets and cuts of our swords to knock him down. But he
is dead now. Truly, Beijing is huge. It is surrounded by deep moats and
heavy fortifications. It is guarded by more soldiers than anyone can count. It
is protected by thousands of magicians. Beijing is where our real battle will
be. Don’t lose heart at seeing our little trophy, for it was just two warriors
who brought his head to you. How small we are compared to his might, yet
we triumphed. Who was Makeldöö apart from a giant ordered to fight who
would have preferred to stay with his giant people in his country, smoking
his pipe? Together, we are mighty! Together, we will triumph over our foes!
Together, we will defeat our enemy! Together we will send our enemy
scurrying away so fast that he will never dare to look back.’
By the way, I should tell you what happened to the horses. As Koņur-
bay’s front guard reached the Talas pastures, the soldiers bringing up the
rear had still to reach the border. The forces were stretched far too thinly.
The front guard were felled by local people. Behind them, many were slain
in the marshes. There was nothing the rest of the Chinese could do. The
Kyrgyz had captured their thousands of horses, perhaps a hundred thousand
beasts. They scented victory. The forty warriors of Kırgıl-čal and the leaders
of tribes friendly to Manas, led by powerful Košoy-kan, by the Kazakh
Kökčö-bay, by the wise Bakay-kan, Esen-kan, Muz-burčak, Sınčı, the poet
Raman’s son Irčı-uul, Ajıbay, Tamanbay, Eleman-bay’s son Töštük, together
with thousands and thousands of troops, were ready for the final battle. They
were ready to expel the Chinese from their land.
But, in that battle, Manas was fatally wounded by Koņur-bay.
EPISODE FOUR
SEMETEY’S CHILDHOOD
After the death of Manas, his six half-brothers, Abeke, Köböš, Čıymıt,
Köčkör, Albay and Kölbay, almost came to blows as they argued about who
should take his wife, Kanıkey. It was the ancient custom that when a
husband died his wife and children became the property of a male relative.
Kanıkey, though, was bold for a woman in those days. She announced that
she would refuse to marry any of them. ‘You were heartless when Manas
was alive,’ she told them. ‘You were never enthusiastic about his exploits.
But you counted out his wealth as soon as he died, dividing it between you,
dividing it equally, measure for measure, by using the length of a horse’s
whip. You squandered all he had achieved in his life.’ One of the brothers
was so enraged by her words that he hit her forcefully, ripping her breast
open. Blood and milk poured from the wound. He exploded with anger. ‘By
morning you will chose one of us, or we will put you to death like we would
a dog! No longer can your husband or any of his forty warriors defend you!
There is no mountain nearby where you can hide! You are a fallen, pitiful
woman, yet still you try to dominate us! We will cut you down to size! We
will put you in your proper place!’
Kanıkey was as wise as she was bold. She had an invisible helper, an
angel who took the form of a naked boy, seated on her right shoulder. Her
angel warned her of impending trouble. She had known for many years that
Manas’s half-brothers, the sons of Jakıp’s second wife Bagdılöt, would one
day claim her as their own, and she had carefully planned an escape. She had
already given her one-year-old son, Semetey, to her ninety-year-old mother-
in-law, Čıyördı, telling her to flee far away, to hide in the distant hills at a
place they both knew. Before dawn broke the next morning, Kanıkey also
fled, still bleeding and still in pain. She left all her property, thinking only of
survival. She wondered whether Semetey, the only son of Manas, and his
grandmother Čıyördı were safe. After a while, she found them hiding in the
hills. Carrying both her frail mother-in-law and her tiny hungry child, she
Semetey’s childhood 33
rushed on. She fled from her dead husband’s half-brothers, fearful that she
might be chased, fearful that she might be hunted down.
Much later, exhausted and struggling for breath, she dropped to the grass.
At that moment she glimpsed a horse following in the distance. Her heart
sank. She feared the worst, but then joy welled up in her as she recognized
old wise Bakay, the advisor to Manas. ‘My daughter! Take this trusty steed,
the piebald Tay-toru. Sit your mother and child astride it. Hurry to Bukar
and give your son Semetey to your brother Ismail who rules there. With
Ismail’s protection, Semetey has a chance to survive. When he reaches
twelve, Tay-toru will be sixty. Tay-toru will be old, but he is a strong battle
horse. Though I will likely be dead, he will surely still live. Enter him in the
big race, and if he crosses the winning post first Semetey will return to you
and the Kyrgyz will have a new leader. If Tay-toru fails, not only will you
have lost your son, but the Kyrgyz will have lost all hope of finding a true
leader.
Well, Kanıkey, Čıyördı and Semetey survived the journey. Semetey was
given to Ismail, but Ismail forced Kanıkey to vow never, under any
circumstances, to reclaim her son. Time passed. Kanıkey lived eleven long
years in a yurt with her frail mother-in-law, avoiding human contact. Many
thought she must be mad. Through the long years, Kanıkey tended Tay-toru.
Every day she rose at dawn to care for him. She lavished affection on him.
She brushed his mane. She fed him grain she selected by hand. She took him
to drink at a vital spring. She took him on long rides to build his strength. As
Semetey approached his twelfth birthday, she emerged from solitude and
joined a gathering of Ismail’s people, followers of Segıš-kan, as they
announced the famous horse race would be held. Those who looked at her
failed to recognize the woman who had spent so long alone, for she was
suddenly full of spirit and her eyes shone brightly as she thought about the
race.
She always kept Manas’s battle dress with her. During the long journey
to Bukar, she had worn his metal helmet, felt shirt and chain-link vest. As
she struggled to carry mother-in-law and son, she had leant on Manas’s
musket, Almabaš, as a walking stick. She had held Manas’s flail, which
Bölöt-bay had soaked in a bowl of tears for many days to ready it to smash
enemies. Now she put on the battle dress once more, and took the flail and
musket. She asked Čıyördı to bless her. Her frail mother-in-law stretched
arms to the sky, chanting, ‘Let my child appear to her enemies as if she is a
crowd. Let her safely reach her goal. Save, Teņri, the Almighty God, my
family.’ Armed with this powerful blessing, dressed for battle, and riding
Tay-toru, Kanıkey entered Bukar. We should remember that Kanıkey was no
ordinary woman, but a warrior who had once fought Manas, a warrior with
an invisible angel seated on her shoulder. The followers of Segıš-kan looked
on with astonishment, wondering where this apparition of the legendary
Manas had come from. Did Manas have a brother? As she passed, some
recognized Kanıkey, and these went to Ismail, telling him that his sister had
regained her mind and had entered the city mounted on a battle horse. What
trouble might she bring?
Three hundred and forty one famous horses gathered for the race. They
were paraded before the expectant crowd. First came Kanıkey’s father’s
legendary steed, Ak-tulpar, then Čaatay’s Tor’kaška, Ismail’s Sur-küröng,
Joloy’s Ač-buudan, and more. The ears of the horses stood upright like
burning candles. Their manes glistened. Their hooves, newly shod, clip-
clopped on the ground. Kanıkey called the jockey Ešen. After telling him to
train Tay-toru for six days, she added, ‘Bring him back as the winner or else
you will regret the day you were born!’ She bid the trusty piebald steed
farewell, sending her hopes off with him. She briefly mingled in the crowd,
listening to gossip, before returning to her isolated yurt.
Ismail was enraged, but devised a cunning plan into which he channelled
his anger. He summoned Semetey and sixty wrestlers, and told them to go to
the hills of Akborčuk, to find the woman who had brought shame to his
people. Semetey was told that the woman was his sister who had gone mad
when she failed to find a husband. She was, he was told, so obsessed by
failure that she had taken to wearing men’s clothing. She had forced a boy as
light as a bird to ride her old steed in the race, to further deepen the family
shame. Ismail told Semetey to find her, cut her stomach open, tie her to a
horse and drag her to her death. It was, he said, only by killing her that the
family could escape intolerable shame. And so, Semetey set out with the
sixty wrestlers, his gyrfalcon Ak-šumkar perched on his hand. Unaware that
he had been instructed to kill his mother, he vowed to find and kill the sister
who had lost her mind.
Meanwhile, Kanıkey trembled from fear and hope in equal measure. She
worried what would happen, despite being full of courage. She took the
telescope that had belonged to Manas from her leather bag. What a
wonderful instrument! As you turned its ring distant happenings came ever
closer! ‘Will it bring my desire, my vision and my hope, closer?’ Her destiny
lay in the outcome of the race. ‘If Tay-toru wins I will get my son back. As
victor, I will distribute the prize to the people of Bukar. But if Tay-toru
loses, I will long for death.’ Fearful, she determined to look through the
telescope six times.
She put it to her eye the first time, and saw a cloud of dust moving across
the distant horizon. Destiny knew no mercy, for her steed was running right
at the back, the last of the three hundred and forty one horses! She was in
despair, and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Why was I not killed as I fled the
half-brothers of Manas? I would have been better off dying like my beloved
husband.’
She looked through the telescope a second time. The heads of the leading
horses could be seen emerging from the cloud of dust. She turned the
instrument’s ring to see more clearly. Destiny knew no mercy, for her steed
was way down the field, now in sixtieth place! Her father’s Ak-tulpar led the
pack, then Čaatay’s Tor’kaška. Čınojık’s Čıyala was in third place. ‘When
will the Almighty Teņri come to my aid?’
She looked through the telescope a third time, hopeful that her plea had
been heard. The horses had reached Akči Valley, near Lake Ala-kul. Destiny
knew no mercy, for her steed was bringing up the rear of the pack of thirty
leading horses! Remember, though, that Kanıkey was no ordinary woman,
for she had an angel, a naked boy on her right shoulder. In that tear-rending
moment the angel told her to turn away from the race and wash her feet and
hands. He told her to turn away from the race and take a final bath, for the
time approached when she should die at the hands of her son. Tears poured
down her cheeks, cheeks shaped like the moon. It seemed nothing could stop
her outpouring of sorrow. ‘My kidneys will be torn from my body by
wolves. My eyes will be pecked from their sockets by vultures. My body
will be hung from horses and dragged in the dust. But all this is nothing
compared to the thought of my poor frail mother-in-law left alone with
nobody to tend to her.’ And the thought of losing her son, without the chance
to return him to his people, tore greatly at her heart. A torrent of bitter tears
ran down her cheeks.
She looked through the telescope a fourth time. The race was almost at It-
borčuk. Her father’s Ak-tulpar led. Then came Čaatay’s Tor’kaška. Third
was Ismail’s Sur-küröng, followed by Temir-kan’s Üč-tulpar. Destiny knew
no mercy, for Tay-toru was twelfth, his head still unable to cut through the
dust thrown up by the leaders as they galloped! Tay-toru seemed unable to
reach full gallop, for no breath steamed from his nostrils marking exertion.
Kanıkey’s heart tightened. She fell to the ground. Crushed, she cried out.
She prayed to Teņri.
She looked through the telescope a fifth time. The cloud of dust was ever
closer, and had now almost reached Lake Itičpeš. Her father’s Ak-tulpar led,
followed by Ismail’s Sur-küröng and Čaatay’s Tor’kaška. Destiny knew no
mercy, for although Tay-toru was beginning to catch the leaders he was still
only sixth! Despair descended over her. Suddenly, though, fire swept
through her body as she looked. Her heart almost leapt out of her mouth!
Had Teņri heard her prayer? For, she saw her beloved Manas on his horse
Ak-kula, galloping alongside Tay-toru. Almambet on Sar’ala was there.
Kara-kan’s son, Kaldar, with the warriors Čubak and Sırgak, was there.
Kökömeren was there, and Bakay who had always been as steady and
reliable as a mountain. And the brave ally Košoy. The horses of Manas’s
troop of warriors drove Tay-toru forward. Seeing her beloved Manas,
Kanıkey’s soul cried out. All her longing, all her despair, all her sorrow, all
her love, all was there in her single cry. She remembered her twelve long
years of mourning, her twelve long years filled with dreams about her
beloved. She was transfixed, unable to comprehend, unable to utter a sound,
unable to move. Her love, her despair, her sorrow were all fused together.
She tore at her cheeks, drawing blood. She summoned all her will and cried
out, pleading for her husband not to leave her alone again. It was as if she
had forgotten the race. It was as if she had forgotten the approaching danger
her angel had warned her of. Her total being was concentrated on seeing her
husband once more. Kanıkey, though, was no ordinary woman, for a naked
boy sat on her right shoulder, warning her of danger. He whispered that she
must come to her senses, for to live she must stay alert…
She looked through the telescope a sixth time. The horses of her relatives
still led the field, her father’s Ak-tulpar followed by Ismail’s Sur-küröng.
Tay-toru was now third, gathering himself up as he reached full gallop,
ready to surge ahead. He was a battle steed who knew the companionship of
other horses from racing into battle. Kanıkey knew what to do. She took
Manas’s musket Almabaš, rusty from twelve long years of disuse. She
quickly cleaned and loaded it, banged it on the ground to clear the barrel,
and fired. Tay-toru heard that familiar sound. He lowered his head, cut
through the air, and surged forward. The spirit of battle entered him. He was
perfectly tuned for speed.
Wait, though. We must leave the race for a moment, for here comes
Semetey with the sixty wrestlers. He is hunting, enjoying the chase. Wise
Bakay had predicted this eventuality and had sent his trusty attendant Sarı-
taz, whose constitution and size was like that of a giant. He had ordered him
to go to Bukar, burning wood from the forest as he travelled to make
charcoal. As he neared the city he caught a hare and tethered it tightly. He
waited for Semetey. As the boy approached, his gyrfalcon Ak-šumkar
spotted the hare. Ak-šumkar flew into the air and like a bullet headed
straight for the hare, only to find he could not lift it in his talons because
Sarı-taz had tied it tightly, anchoring it to the spot. Semetey shouted out in
anger. Why was this giant playing such a nasty game? He ordered him to
return the gyrfalcon with its prey. But Sarı-taz was no coward. He stood his
ground. ‘How can you shout at me?’ he asked Semetey. ‘You, with no
memory of your land or your father! You, who are about to kill your mother!
Talas is your land, Manas your father, and you have been ordered to kill
your mother Kanıkey.’
Semetey was enraged. He flew at Sarı-taz. Sarı-taz fought bravely,
taunting the young Semetey. ‘Is it right that you fight with me? You, with no
memory of your land or your father! Do you not know you have been sent to
kill your own mother, Kanıkey?’ Semetey beat him, and seemed about to kill
him, but Sarı-taz continued to taunt him. ‘I will not consider this a proper
death at the hand of a boy who doesn’t know his land or his father, and who
calls his mother a sister and is intent on killing her!’ Semetey realized that
Sarı-taz must be telling the truth. Sarı-taz continued, adjusting his mantra.
‘Your land is Talas, your father is Manas, and you are destined to lead your
people.’ What should Semetey do? Sixty wrestlers surrounded him who
would surely kill him if he failed to kill his mother. He turned to them, and
told them they would first watch the race and encourage his sister’s horse to
win. He promised to divide the prize between all sixty.
He hatched his plan just as Tay-toru clashed his iron stirrups against
those of Sur-küröng, and just as he caught up with Ak-tulpar. The stirrups
clashed and became entangled as his rivals struggled to keep the lead. Ak-
tulpar was a descendant of the winged horses that are the forefathers of our
greatest steeds, and there seemed no way to separate him from Tay-toru.
Bang, bang. Chink, chink. The stirrups clashed together as both horses clip-
clopped on the ground in unison. As they approached the brow of the hill,
Kanıkey could see Semetey and his wrestlers calling out, ‘Manas! Manas!’
Her heart full of sorrow mixed with joy, she saw in her son the spirit of her
husband, the ruler of Talas, her beloved Manas. Her heart quietened as she
realized she had fulfilled her duty as a wife and a mother. She had kept the
name of her legendary husband alive. She had reclaimed the rightful heir to
the lands of the Kyrgyz. She called out: ‘My beloved, generous-hearted
Kyrgyz, I have done what I was meant to. I have given Tay-toru to its
rightful owner.’ The mountains joined the shout, ‘Manas! Manas!’
Shepherds threw their crocks in the air, shouting, ‘Manas! Manas!’ Cattle
herders threw their caps in the air, shouting, ‘Manas! Manas!’
Tay-toru took the lead. He edged six heads in front of Ak-tulpar. He won
the race. The prize was huge because all had assumed Ak-tulpar would be
the winner. Semetey claimed the prize, then demonstrated his great
generosity by giving it all to the people of Bukar. He addressed his uncle
Ismail and his uncle’s father Šaatemır. ‘Accept my gratitude for raising me
safely surrounded by your wealth. Accept my gratitude for treating me as if I
were your son and future khan. Now, though, let me return to the land of my
birth.’ Semetey was so dear to the heart of the Bukar ruler that he did not
want to let him go. In protest, Semetey took to his bed. He refused food. He
refused to get up. He refused to do anything. Finally, faced by such
determination, his uncle Ismail and his grandfather Šaatemır relented.
EPISODE FIVE
SEMETEY RETURNS TO TALAS
Semetey demanded that Ismail and Šaatemır let him leave. He stayed in his
bed, refusing to do anything. It was then that Kanıkey visited him and told
him about his early childhood. ‘Many years ago, I had to flee our home,
carrying you, the joy of my eyes, and my frail ninety-year-old mother-in-
law. I was forced to flee my land, and I suffered like grass that yellows then
burns to a crisp under the blazing summer sun. Your father, Manas, was
given by Teņri.1 He was incomparable to any other man. He died as the sun
drops below the horizon, and his greedy half-brothers, Abeke, Köböš,
Čıymıt, Köčkör, Albay and Kölbay, quickly seized their opportunity to claim
their inheritance. They wanted to take me. They measured out your father’s
wealth, using the length of a horse’s whip to divide it equally, measure by
measure. They beat me. They tore my breast so that blood poured out with
breast milk. They had no sense of shame. You must never ever trust them.
You must never ever trust Jakıp-kan, their father, the father of Manas, and
your grandfather. He tasted wealth in old age. He was already elderly when
his children were born. I fled as Manas’s wealth was measured out using a
horse’s whip. I fled as the six shameless half-brothers quarrelled over who
should take me as their wife. I fled with you and my mother-in-law to Bukar.
As I rested to catch my breath at the hill above Üč-košoy, Bakay-kan, the
wise and trusty advisor of Manas, caught up. He gave us Tay-toru, the horse
of Manas’s ally, Košoy. And Tay-toru has blessed and reunited us.’
‘It is time to learn about your people. They are the incomparably
generous Kyrgyz. You must journey back to your land. You must pass
through the forest of Ak-bel, and when the trees thin out, as the grass begins
to yellow, you will approach Kırben. Ride along the banks of the Kırben
1
In many ways, it would be simpler to render Saparbek’s verse as ‘cosmos’ rather
than ‘Teņri’, but this would run the risk of implying the Greek perception of the
universe. In the Kyrgyz understanding, the world and the sky are living entities
within the embrace of a supreme deity, Teņri.
Semetey returns to Talas 39
River until you find Üč-košoy. Take long and deep breaths, fill your lungs
with the mountain pasture air for it will fill your soul. It is there you will find
the place where the people live who are incomparable to others. A dog will
run to you, barking. This is Kumaık. He is no ordinary dog, but was spat out
at birth by the mythical kök-joru birds. When birds give birth to dogs, their
offspring remain puppies for just seven days, and if they aren’t caught and
tamed within that week they mutate back into birds. Manas caught the puppy
Kumaık and made him his own. And when Manas died, the dog howled for
six days. For two months he refused to allow meat to touch his lips. He
wasted away, and became unrecognizable as the dog that had bitten at
camels and caught wolves, foxes and mountain goats. He vanished. But, he
will see you and will run to you, howling as he recognizes you as his master.
You will see a long-forgotten and neglected short-tailed white horse. Catch
it. Slaughter it as a sacrifice to the spirits of Manas and his warriors. Leave
the carcass for Kumaık as a reward for loyalty and devotion, or else the dog,
driven to despair by its extreme hunger, might tear you apart.’
‘Journey on to Keng-kul. There, I built Kök-kümböš, a secret mausoleum
for your father. I ordered the best clay to be brought on sixty camels. I
summoned sixty strong men to mix the clay with fat from seventy
slaughtered goats to make bricks that would be impervious to rain or wind,
bricks that would withstand earthquakes. I summoned builders from
Andıyan and the best decorators from Kokon.2 I summoned the best painters
and ordered them to paint a symbol in tribute to Teņri. In the centre of the
mausoleum I had Manas depicted in a fine white felt shirt and full armour.
He sits astride his white horse, Ak-kula, holding a spear firmly in his hand. I
had his best friend and ally, Košoy, depicted next to him. I had Bakay, with
his white beard, who moulded his words like gold, depicted. I had
Almambet, the son of Azız-kan, wearing his arrow-proof mailshirt, seated on
his horse Sar’ala, depicted. You will see Ak-balta’s son Čubak, attired in his
black hat, and Sırgak together with your father’s forty warriors. You will see
mothers and wives with their warriors – the daughter of Kalča the virgin
Saykal, Manas’s second wife Bagdılöt. You will see me holding you close to
my breast, with my mother-in-law Čıyördı, as we flee those who would harm
us. When you approach the mausoleum you will hear whispering, but do not
be scared away. The whispers are the voices of those whose life is depicted
inside. Revere them. Pray to your father. Pray to the departed heroes. Pray
for the dead.’
‘Journey on until you reach Kermečüü, where in the wide valley you will
find a herd of camels. In the midst of the herd will crouch one who is
particularly ugly, its long gangly legs making it look like an overgrown stick
insect. This is Jelmaıan. It will bay from the bottom of its soul when it sees
2
Kokand.
you. Big tears will pour from its eyes. Jelmaıan was your father’s battle
camel. It has bayed in sorrow since the death of Manas, and has suffered
much. It has been bullied and scorned by other camels. It has lost its fertility,
and is very old. Pat it on the back as a sign of gratitude, then slaughter it as
an offering. Offer it to the spirits of your father and his warriors, for this will
be a glorious death.’
‘Journey on to Ak-kıya. You will see a long white beard that seems to
float as it is gently blown by the wind. That beard belongs to Bakay, ninety
years old, your father’s trusty advisor. Bakay moulded his words like gold.
He suffered greatly when Manas died. His eyes are now so tired that they
have narrowed to mere slits. His body has shrunk into itself. He is thin as a
stick. But his wisdom remains as it always was. Treat Bakay as your
grandfather. Take his right hand and revere him, for he will teach you the
lives and allegiances of your people. But, I beg you, with all the joy that has
welled up in my eyes since we have been reunited, do not visit Abeke or
Köböš. They see you as a competitor and would kill you. Rather, meet your
people, talk with them, get to know them.’
‘When the time is right, go to Kara-tor Mountain in Ečkılık. This is
where I hid treasure for you. Deep in the mountain, I ordered a cavern to be
hacked out of the rock big enough to house sixty thousand sheep but with a
mouth so narrow that one person could barely crawl in. Inside, the walls
gleam with gold and silver. I covered the floor with branches cut from
evergreen trees. Late at night, I put your father’s body in the cavern, and this
is where he rests. I sealed the entrance with a rock fall so that no enemy
would find his body. My biggest secret, which I have hidden deep in my
heart, is that I ordered the six strong men who created the cavern to dig a
hole. I poisoned them with my own hand and buried them in the hole. I
covered over their grave to hide the deed. Those six poor men with their six
poor souls were loyal, and guilt for their death stains my hands. I beg you,
my son, slaughter a horse and pray to their souls for me.’
Semetey was unable to wait any longer. The very next day he put on his
warrior’s dress. He took his sword, spear and flail, packed ammunition for
his musket, and mounted his white steed Tay-buurul. He set out for the
Kyrgyz lands. He entered the thick Ak-bel forest and rode until the trees
thinned and the grass yellowed. He rode through more forest and across
lands thick with pasture until he reached the Kyrgyz border. What a
magnificent sight! The snow-peaked mountains had luxurious forests
covering their breasts. The rivers flowed from the mountains full of
impatient bustling water. The mountains and forests were full of wild goats,
arkhar sheep, foxes and wolves. Tigers roared, and the banks of the rivers
teamed with birds of every species, and with ducks, geese and swans. This
was his land.
At Kırben, the old dog Kumaık ran to him, howling in recognition. In

extreme frailty it sniffed the air. To the right Semetey saw the short-tailed
white horse. He slaughtered it in sacrifice, dismembered it, and left the
carcass for Kumaık. Journeying on he found the glorious Kök-kümböš
mausoleum. It trembled with the sound of many whispering voices, and in
awe he dismounted and entered. He could not control his wonder as he found
the depictions of Kyrgyz heroes. He found a finely detailed painting of the
battle with the Kalmaks. He found his father’s portrait. Astonished and
overwhelmed, he stared. He found his own portrait as a baby, carried on his
mother’s back. He sat down to reflect, and prayed to Manas and his heroes.
He journeyed on. On the edge of Kermečüü he found the baying old
camel Jelmaıan, now reduced to skin and bones. As it saw Semetey it
kneeled, tears gushing from its eyes. Saying a prayer to the spirit of Manas,
Semetey slaughtered it, giving this loyal creature a glorious death. He found
wise Bakay seated on his horse Bošbudan. Bakay was thin and his body had
shrunk into itself, but was still wise. What a heartbreaking meeting! Young
man and old advisor embraced although, as long as the embrace continued, it
could never be long enough. Again they embraced. Tears flowed. Bakay
offered thanks to Teņri for allowing him to see the son of Manas, the rightful
heir to the throne of the Kyrgyz. He took him to his homestead, where
everyone rejoiced at the return of the son of Manas.
The news reached Manas’s six shameless, greedy, half-brothers. Can you
imagine what Jakıp-kan was thinking? He was wondering when Semetey
would claim his inheritance. He was wondering when Semetey would
demand the return of Manas’s wealth. He thought about fighting Semetey,
but he lacked bravery. Instead, he hatched a plan. ‘Bagdılöt, my wife, we
must eliminate this trouble. Prepare poisoned drinks.’ Bakay-kan, though,
the old advisor to Manas, knew danger would lurk at every corner. He
warned Semetey that Jakıp might try to poison him. The two went to meet
Jakıp together. Bakay announced the joy of Semetey’s return and Jakıp
pretended to be overwhelmed with happiness. He called out, feigning joy.
‘The only son of my son, Manas! The only offspring of my son, Manas!
Welcome!’ As was customary, tea was served. Noting that Semetey must be
tired after such a long journey Jakıp gave cups of water to Bakay and
Semetey. Taking Bakay’s cup, Semetey spoke to his grandfather with
wisdom far beyond his age. ‘Dear grandfather, how can I drink before my
elders? I could never insult you like that. Please drink first, then I will
happily drink after you.’ Jakıp-kan and his wife Bagdılöt, and other family
members begged Semetey to drink first, since he was the honoured guest.
But Semetey insisted, saying that since he could never live with the shame if
he drank before his elders, he should drink nothing at all. With that, he stood
up and left the yurt, pouring the water into a dog bowl outside. Two dogs
went to the bowl to drink, but as they took the first gulp they dropped dead.
Semetey drew his sword from its sheath. ‘You are my grandfather, and I
came here to greet you. Is this how you greet me?’ And with that, he sliced
off Jakıp’s head.
Semetey was enraged. Abeke, Köböš and the other half-brothers had
anticipated that they would encounter Semetey at some point. But, wait a
minute. Didn’t Manas have forty warriors? What had become of his
comrades in battle, his friends, his warriors? Well, after the hero’s death,
they could do nothing but serve new masters. They had long since lost their
battle spirits. The once glorious warriors had descended into a life of
pleasure and entertainment, forgetting their glorious past. They were meant
to be the defenders of the Kyrgyz! They knew that Semetey would threaten
their leisure, so they began to plot to fight him. Anyhow, back to Abeke. He
saw his father’s head fall to the ground. He trembled with fear. He mounted
his horse and fled with those same forty warriors. He was so terrified that he
lost his grip on the reins and his horse galloped out of control. Semetey soon
caught up and killed him. The forty warriors fled towards Süü-samır.
Semetey shouted to them to stop and wait, saying they were not guilty before
him. But they kept riding. They reached Kizart Mountain in Kochkor.
Semetey’s rage grew because they refused to stop, and he chased them to
Tarmal-saz, where he slaughtered each and every one. Since these were his
father’s warriors, he ordered forty mounds to be built where they fell, at
Čamčı on the Kizal River. He offered prayers. And you can find those forty
mounds to this day.
Crowds witnessed what had happened. They begged Semetey to lead
them as their khan. Semetey took over Kanıkey’s former home. He took
back all the wealth that had belonged to Manas. For many days, Bakay and
other Kyrgyz elders told him what had happened since his father’s death.
They told him of their suffering. They told him the bad things that their
greedy rulers, the shameless half-brothers of Manas, had done. But, with
Semetey among them, the people soon forgot their sorrows. Their hopes for
a better life came true.
Kanıkey had told Semetey to bring her and his grandmother, Čıyördı,
back to Talas, so he returned to Bukar to fetch them. He greeted his
grandfather on his mother’s side, Temir-kan,3 and addressed his uncle
Ismail. He thanked them for taking him in as their own. ‘You cared for me
as if you were my father. You brought me up and educated me. You
proclaimed me as the future ruler of Bukar. But now I have seen my people
and my land. With all my respect and thanks, please allow me to take my
mother and grandmother back to Talas.’ His relatives decided he should
marry Temir-kan’s daughter Čačıke, a fourteen-year-old of unrivalled
beauty. So, with a face like the dawn, and with clothes glittering with beads
3
Saparbek at this point referred to him as Kara-kan.
and pearls, Čačıke entered a white yurt erected for their nuptials. The two
were married. Sixty camels were loaded with gold, and a huge caravan of
gifts and provisions was prepared. The caravan set off, led by Kanıkey, who
so longed to return to Talas. Her joy at returning was only matched by the
intense beauty of the land. Birds covered the sky and sang ceaselessly.
Animals of prey carpeted the ground. There was no way to paint the sheer
beauty of Talas. They entered the palace, and Čačıke grew to enjoy her new
life as the wife of the new khan. The waters of Keng-kul flowed with joy,
and more cattle and sheep than anybody could count grazed on the
mountains. Semetey ruled a prosperous and peaceful land.
Semetey began to assemble an army of loyal warriors. Kanıkey took
particular care of two six-year-olds, Kül-čoro, the son of Manas’s closest
friend, Almambet, and Kan-čoro, the son of Manas’s best warrior, Čubak.
She hoped they would remain Semetey’s most loyal and close friends. She
offered her right breast to Kül-čoro, and warm milk flowed as he suckled.
She gave her left breast to Kan-čoro, but blood flowed when he bit her. She
warned Semetey what this portended: Kan-čoro would one day become his
enemy. She told Semetey to kill him, but Semetey refused, saying he was a
mere child, and it was impossible to judge what he might become as a man.
He ignored his mother’s warning. For days, for weeks, for months, for years,
peace reigned.
Semetey reached twenty. He was a mature, confident and strong leader.
‘Six times, Manas raided the Chinese lands. Six times he planted such fear
that his enemies never retaliated. Once, Beijing fell to him and he ruled it for
six months until he was fatally wounded by Koņur-bay, the son of Kalča. I
will take revenge. What kind of son would I be if I failed to exact revenge?’
And so he sent messengers throughout the Kyrgyz lands, to the Kazakh and
Kyrgyz and Kipchak tribes. He gathered an army of twenty-five thouand
men with which to exact revenge.
EPISODE SIX
THE MARRIAGE OF SEMETEY
Jediger’s son Er-toltoy called his best friend Čın-kojo. They met at the ordo,
the seat of the tribal council, just as Semetey’s lavish caravan left the city,
just as he expressed gratitude to the people, just as as he set out for his
homeland of Talas. Er-toltoy spoke. ‘How come I’ve been deprived of
marrying that unrivalled beauty, Čačıke, the daughter of Temir-kan? She
was betrothed to me! We can’t stand here twiddling our thumbs while
Semetey leaves with her as his bride. She was betrothed to me, and I will
exact revenge for my loss.’
Čın-kojo thought a little, then replied. ‘Er-toltoy, son of Jediger, you are
greatly respected. Nobody can match your skill in archery. It is not right that
you should be shamed in this way. I have an idea for our revenge. We should
surround Akın-kan’s city and lay siege to it. What do you think? The siege
will put such fear into the minds of Kara-kan’s people that blood will drip
from their hearts. They will descend into turmoil as they suffer from hunger,
and they will wish for a quick death. We will deliver a single demand, that
they give Akın-kan’s daughter, Ay-čürök, to us. It is said that Ay-čürök’s
face shines with such unfathomable beauty that no mortal can look straight
into it. If we follow my plan, the people of Bukar will have no choice but to
agree to our demand.’
Er-toltoy eagerly agreed. He knew only too well that Ay-čürök’s dowry
would be immense. The two men sent messengers to their tribesmen, calling
them to arms, and soon seventy thousand were gathered. They marched on
Bukar, looking to all as if a river of gleaming spears and helmets was
floating down from the mountains. As that gleaming river reached the city of
the Kara-kan, it fanned out to surround it. I should pause at this point and tell
you one thing: many years before, before she was born, Ay-čürök’s father
had promised her as the bride of Manas’s son, Semetey. Now let us return.
The city of Bukar was sealed as the tribesmen under Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo
laid siege to it. Soon, no bread remained in the bakeries. Soon, no water
remained for even the wounded to drink. Blackness spread across the city as
The marriage of Semetey 45
the people sank into a dark depression. That depression was as dark as the
deepest night. Akın-kan despaired, and sent messenger after messenger to
plead for peace. Each returned with Er-toltoy’s single demand: Ay-čürök
must become his bride. Er-toltoy added a menacing comment, that if Akın-
kan failed to comply he would wish he were dead rather than merely under
siege. Akın-kan decided he had no choice. He went to Ay-čürök, his
fourteen-year-old daughter, the joy of his eyes. She was in her chamber,
surrounded by thirty friends and thirty ladies-in-waiting, all dressed in fine
silk. Ay-čürök was so white, so radiant and so fair that she seemed almost
translucent. It seemed as if had she eaten anything one would see the food
passing down her throat. Her voice was like tiny morning bells tied to lambs,
and when this radiant princess opened her mouth her voice was a treasure for
all who heard. Akın-kan told her how he had struggled to find a way to end
the siege. He told her about Er-toltoy’s demand for her hand in marriage.
The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was clever and insightful beyond
her years. She gave her dear father a proposal of her own ‘If Er-toltoy wants
my hand in marriage, let him take me in happiness rather than through
bloodshed. Let him sponsor a sixty-day celebration, a festival of never-
ending dance, never-ending music, and never-ending games. After that he
may lead me away as his bride.’ This was the message that the clever Ay-
čürök sent to the bloodthirsty Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo. Akın-kan and his sons
Abılbek and Kumar relayed the message, saying that if they were true and
honest warriors, Er-toltoy and Čın-kojo would hold the lavish sixty-day
celebration. They should end the seige and stop putting people to the sword,
stop stealing, and stop butchering the livestock during the celebration. After
the celebration, they should send envoys to escort Ay-čürök to Er-toltoy.
Čın-kojo found Ay-čürök’s reasoning compelling. He looked Er-toltoy
squarely in the eye. ‘Instead of tiring our soldiers with a long siege, let’s
celebrate. Through the feast we can show the Kara-kan just how wealthy we
are, but while the celebrations go on we can secretly spy out the land. We
will surely triumph! Ay-čürök is clever beyond her years, since her request
comes at the beginning of autumn, when cattle and sheep return to the city
from their mountain pastures, allowing relief from the people’s hunger. This
is the best time of year for a lengthy celebration. This is the best time of year
to get married.’ And so it was that they agreed to Ay-čürök’s request.
The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was clever and insightful beyond
her years. She called her best friends Kalıman and Alooke, who were
distinguished because of their clarity of thinking and delicate manners. She
held counsel with them, whispering, before calling her ladies-in-waiting. ‘I
am not a girl to be taken by force. I will turn myself into a swan and fly high
in the sky. I will glide along rivers, fly across mountains, swoop down into
valleys and gorges, and search for my proper husband. Er-toltoy claims to be
the best suitor for me, and if it comes to pass that he is truthfully the best, I
will marry him. But I will do so not because of his demand, but by my own
choice. I was destined at birth to be married to Semetey, for this is what our
fathers agreed many years ago, and so I will search for him. As I search, you
must enjoy yourselves. You must never cease singing and never stop
swinging day and night for the next sixty days. Pretend that you are playing
with me, and if anybody asks for me tell them I am sleeping, resting from
my joyful play. Nobody must discover I have left Bukar. If my destiny is to
find Semetey, so be it. If my destiny is something else, then so be it. But, I
will choose my husband.’
The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was no ordinary girl. People
thought her the daughter of peri fairies. She had been taught secret
knowledge by the peri and possessed magical powers that she carefully
concealed from those around her. And for good reason, for she could wave
her arms and be suddenly transformed into a swan! She put on her swan
costume. Its white feathers, just for a mere moment, sparkled in the sunlight,
then she flew up into the sky. She soared ever higher, passing into the clouds
and disappearing from view. Those who watched her go might have seen an
occasional sparkle high in the sky, but that was all.
The radiant moon-like beauty Ay-čürök was no ordinary girl. She crossed
Jediger’s lands, and soon reached the Chinese border. There she looked
down on Koņur-bay, son of the Kalča. Now approaching ninety years of age
he sat on his steed Algara. Wise and graceful, everything about him
demanded admiration. What a warrior! Strong, canny and brave! If only he
were not so old, this might be a man to marry. She circled around, time and
again glimpsing him. Koņur-bay was so canny that he knew the white swan
above him was not from this world. He decided he should bring the swan to
earth, but before he could take an arrow and set it on his bow, the swan
soared high into the sky and disappeared. Before he could aim the arrow, a
terrible storm rose. Fog drew in and lightning struck the ground with such
force that he was almost blinded. Puzzled, he was left contemplating this
strange happening.
Ay-čürök left the border of Kashgar. She looked down on Sanjıbek, with
his honest and sharp mind. If only he were not so old, and although she had
found him by luck rather than planning, this might be a man worth marrying.
He was fifty-eight, too old for the young and radiant princess. She flew on,
crossing the black mountain of Kata-tor. There in the place called Ošpertık
she looked down on Koyon-aaly. ‘Oh, Teņri! What a brave warrior!’ He
presided merrily over friends and warriors, joking. If he were not so old, this
might be a man to marry. He was forty-seven, a little too old for her. She
flew towards the moon and towards the sun until she reached the wide
Kazakh steppes. There she came to the Ili River that flows from mighty Lake
Balkaš and looked down at the warrior Kökčö. So wise, so brave, so mighty!
But he was known to be a typically boastful Kazakh, and at sixty he was too
old for her. She flew on towards the moon and towards the sun, covering a
great distance before she looked down on the hero Ürbü. Truly, this was a
man of power! Truly, this was a man of reason! Truly, this was a man of
wisdom! He would be a perfect husband except that he had lost his sight
and, lacking the ability to fight, was no longer a warrior.
She flew on. She crossed Ečkılüü Mountain and came to the wide lands
of Talas. This was the land of Manas, the land of the generous Kyrgyz.
There, in a gorge that opened between mountains, she spied a man so
handsome she could not take her eyes from him. He stood, young, proud and
powerful. He stood, muscular and sprightly. He was hunting with two
friends, friends so familiar that they gently brushed against each other. At
times, he let his gyrfalcon take wing to chase prey. It was Semetey, the son
of Manas, with his horse Tay-buurul. Ay-čürök knew he was the only true
match for her. Curious and joyful in equal measure, she vowed to marry him.
What a shame he had already married another, but that wife, Čačıke, had yet
to give him a child.
She flew to the palace Manas had built for Kanıkey. Nearby, she came
upon the great yurt Semetey had built for Čačıke. She landed beside it, took
off her swan costume and folded it, put on her jewels and, restored to human
form, entered the yurt. ‘Dear Sister, Čačıke, I enter your house with wood
for your fire but will leave with ashes. If you allow me to stay for a few days
I will work as your servant, while I learn about Semetey.’ Čačıke had her
measure. She knew this unusually beautiful girl hailed from her own city.
She recognized Ay-čürök as the daughter of Akın-kan. She knew what her
intention was. ‘You may not enter my yurt, nor approach it! How could I let
a girl abandoned by her menfolk, who has come looking for a husband she
herself will choose, into my yurt?’ Ay-čürök patiently repeated her request:
‘I will do what you tell me to do. I will do what you require. But, I beg you,
let me stay a few days. Our people need Semetey’s help. Our people are
suffering greatly, and Semetey is our hope for salvation.’ Čačıke was
outraged by this attempt to disguise her motives. ‘Be off with you, witch’,
she snapped. ‘Don’t put a foot near my yurt.’ Shouting and beating her, she
threw Ay-čürök out.
Ay-čürök still kept calm. ‘Šaatemır’s daughter, Čačıke’, she said. ‘I
dressed you like a sister, yet this is how you treat me. I seek a gentle
understanding soul, yet you shout at me and beat me.’ She switched her tone.
‘I will become the wife of this magnificent and brave warrior. I will become
one with his people. I will become the support for his body and soul. If you
won’t let me stay a few days, I will transform myself into a bale of white
silk. When Semetey bends down to scoop up the silk I will envelop him. I
will surround him and suffocate him, and you too will lose your husband. If
you won’t let me stay a few days, I will transform myself into a fish that
contentedly swims in the lake. Semetey will cast a line and catch me. When
he bends down to scoop me up I will turn into a dragon and swallow him,
and you too will lose your husband. If you won’t let me stay a few days, then
as Semetey hunts with his gyrfalcon on the shore of Lake Čatkal, I will be
there as a white swan. When he lets his gyrfalcon loose to catch the swan, I
will snatch his bird and fly off. He will search far and wide for his bird, and
will find me. I will have him all for myself.’ And with that she left.
Trembling with fear and rage in equal measure, Čačıke called Kül-čoro
and Kan-čoro. ‘Listen, for what I tell you is of the utmost importance. I must
rely on you to safeguard my husband and master, Semetey. When you go
hunting tomorrow, be on your guard. Under no circumstances should you
pick up silk from the ground. Do not let Semetey touch any silk. Do not let
him put his hand into a bale of silk. I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life.
Under no circumstances should you attempt to catch a white fish at the lake.
I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life. When you reach Lake Čatkal, under
no circumstances should you let Semetey release his gyrfalcon to chase a
swan. I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life.’ Puzzled, Kül-čoro and Kan-
čoro tried to get her to explain more so they could understand, but she would
only repeat one single sentence: ‘I tell you this to protect Semetey’s life.’ At
this time Semetey was fifteen years old, Kan-čoro fourteen and Kül-čoro
twelve.
The next morning, Semetey mounted Tay-buurul and lifted his gyrfalcon
Ak-šumkar onto his arm. He called his dog and headed off to hunt with Kül-
čoro and Kan-čoro beside him. As the three rode out, they saw a large bale
of silk. ‘What great value that silk must have. It is sufficient for many warm
blankets!’ Kan-čoro begged him to leave it alone, commenting that it had
probably been left by a passing caravan of traders. ‘Why should we take
something left by an absent-minded trader? We are just starting our hunt and
have no extra horse on which to carry it, so it will merely hinder our
progress. Let’s leave it.’ Soon they reached the lake, and near the shore they
saw a great white fish that looked like a carp. It glittered in the sun and its
tail splashed the shallow water as it gasped for air. ‘What great luck we have
today,’ remarked Semetey. ‘Let us catch the fish, for its flesh will make a
veritable feast!’ Kül-čoro sharply intervened. ‘It is indeed a great fish that
would make a great feast for all our friends, but we have just started our
hunt. To take it with us it will merely hinder our progress as we enter the
mountains.’
They continued to Lake Čatkal, where a carpet of wondrous flowers
framed the crystal clear waters that lapped the peaceful shore. The lake was
full of ducks, swans and geese, and among them floated a most exceptional
swan. It caught Semetey’s eye, and before either friend could utter a word,
he shouted out. ‘This time, I will not listen to either of you. There is
something strange about that swan and I am determined to catch it.’ Semetey
swiftly lifted the gyrfalcon’s hood and released the bird. Ak-šumkar, though,
was not destined to prey on the swan, for the swan rose into the air and
swooped on the gyrfalcon, catching it in its talons and taking it away.
A strange wind rose and a storm swirled around. The air was charged
with awesome sounds, bangs and crashes. Clouds covered the sky. The
strange swan with its gyrfalcon prey disappeared. As quickly as the storm
began the clouds vanished and the sun burst out. And so it was that in the
blink of an eye Semetey lost his gyrfalcon. Fretting, sweat covered his brow.
He ordered his warriors to find the gyrfalcon. He turned on Kül-čoro and
Kan-čoro. ‘Why did you warn me not to pick up the bale of silk? Why did
you stop me catching the fish? Something deeply suspicious is going on.
What secrets do you hide? His friends fled, fearful of his rage. How could
they answer when they didn’t know what was going on?
Almambet’s son Kül-čoro returned to Čačıke’s yurt. He greeted her
playfully. ‘My dear sister-in-law! It is so nice to see you. Have you wisdom
to share with me? You warned us not to pick up the bale of white silk as we
went out hunting, and we stopped Semetey picking it up. You warned us not
to catch the white fish in the lake, and we stopped Semetey catching it. You
warned us about a white swan, but we were not quick enough. Semetey let
his gyrfalcon fly to it, but Ak-šumkar was taken by the swan and
disappeared. Our feet ache with tiredness from running around doing exactly
what you told us to do. Semetey, though, is full of anger and demands we
find his gyrfalcon. We can’t face him unless we find his beloved Ak-šumkar.
Dear sister-in-law, what lies behind these strange happenings? Dear sister-
in-law who we have always revered, don’t let us down.’
Čačıke, lightning glinting in her eyes, turned her back to him. ‘I have
nothing to do with this,’ she said. ‘I told you nothing, and know nothing of
what you talk about. I know nothing about swans or gyrfalcons. I have
nothing to say to you.’ Kül-čoro was not so easily shunned. He leapt
forward, coiling the long black plaits of Čačıke’s hair in his arms. He pushed
her to the ground and took his horse’s whip, bringing it down on her back as
she struggled to get free. ‘Tell me what you know! Do you have such a short
memory that you have forgotten the warnings you gave us yesterday?’ She
continued to defy him. She told him to leave or she would tell Semetey he
had attacked her. Kül-čoro was determined, and kicked her, breaking a rib.
As the searing pain shot through her body she gave in to his demand.
‘Mindless idiot! Semetey was not yet born when his father, Manas, swore an
oath with Akın-kan. They vowed that if a daughter were born to Akın-kan
she would marry Manas’s son. That daughter is Ay-čürök, and she, that
bitch, is using magical powers to ensnare Semetey. She has turned herself
into a white swan. She has stolen Semetey’s gyrfalcon.’
Far from being upset by this, Kül-čoro was filled with joy. He rushed to
tell Semetey. ‘There is joy in your friends’ ears, but jealousy fills your
enemies’ ears. You must immediately go to your trusted advisor Bakay-kan
and find out about an oath made long ago. It is Akın-kan’s daughter Ay-
čürök turned into a swan who has caught your gyrfalcon. She was promised
to you as your bride before she was born. She was promised in an oath
sworn between Akın-kan and your father, Manas.’ This was the first
Semetey had heard of the oath. That Ay-čürök could turn herself into a
swan, well, that was totally unexpected. He went with his friends Kül-čoro
and Kan-čoro to Kanıkey’s palace and called wise Bakay to speak to them.
‘When Manas defeated the Kalmak and Kıtay, when he defeated Šooruk-
kan, he occupied Bukar. You were one year old when the Bukar leader,
Akin-kan, made an oath with Manas as a token of friendship. He promised
that if his wife gave birth to a girl, then that girl would marry you, Manas’s
son. As tradition requires, your father left ear-rings for the unborn child to
signify friendship, to signify his agreement that the two children would be
united in a future marriage. Akin-kan’s daughter, Ay-čürök, was predestined
to be your wife. But, if you honour the oath, then Čačıke, though she warms
your bed now, will become your enemy.’
Semetey’s heart lifted. He assembled twelve of his fastest horses and left
Kanıkey’s palace, heading full-gallop for Bukar. He passed through the
beautiful landscapes until his warriors dismounted to rest at Akınek gorge.
As the morning star could first be glimpsed the next dawn, as nightingales
assembled for their morning chorus, the warriors faced the distant Ürgönš1
River. Through his telescope Semetey saw how the river roared with water
rushing by. The torrent tore the roots of trees, and huge rocks tumbled along
in the force of the current. On the river’s far bank a second river seemed to
surround the city of Bukar, stretching right down to the Ürgönš. But that was
no river, for in place of water were spears and helmets that glittered in the
first rays of the rising sun. There was a camp of blue and white tents spread
at the riverbank, and within that camp he could make out what seemed to be
laughing maidens and ladies-in-waiting. He commanded Kül-čoro and Kan-
čoro to look. What they could see? Was it an enemy, preparing an ambush
by impersonating maidens and ladies-in-waiting, putting up silk tents for a
feast? Had the Kıtay once more invaded the land? He asked one of them to
move forward and spy on what was going on.
Kan-čoro said he would go if Semetey ordered it. ‘But’, he added, ‘I
always lose my tongue when I meet beautiful maidens, so I am not the right
person to send. Imagine what might happen! I would be unable to speak, so
how could I gather information?’ Kül-čoro attempted to find his own excuse.
‘There is nobody but me to go, but my horse Atkelkı has torn its shins on the
stony paths we have ridden. It won’t dare enter the river, so only if you lend
me Tay-buurul can I dare to undertake the task.’ He knew full well that
nobody but Semetey could ride Tay-buurul, so what a surprise he got when
1
Ürgench.
Semetey thoughtfully agreed. ‘There was a time when Ajin-kan offered me a

piece of gold as large as a horse’s head for Tay-buurul, but I refused. Once,
Urum-kan offered me a piece of gold as large as a cow’s head for Tay-
buurul, but I wasn’t tempted. Only I ride Tay-buurul. No one else has ever
sat on his back. What a magnificent steed! His eyes sparkle like lightning
and his ears sit erect like burning candles. His haunches are so broad he can
carry the load of a camel. Winged horses cannot compete with him for
speed. But, so be it. You, Kül-čoro, must take Tay-buurul.’ Semetey and
Kül-čoro carefully prepared the horse, saddling him, padding the saddle with
blankets, polishing its leather, fastening the reigns, checking and setting the
stirrups, brushing the mane, checking all four shoes.
Tay-buurul was the largest steed in the world! Mounted on him, Kül-čoro
was the largest man in the world! He galloped towards the river, all the time
considering his course of action. ‘Tay-buurul is known to be as fast as the
wind. He is praised for his speed. Let me henceforth borrow him from time
to time to ride around the world! He is known for his enormous power, so let
me borrow him from time to time to mount successful raids against my
enemies!’ Kül-čoro took the famous whip he had inherited from his father
Almambet, a whip that caused people and animals to bend double in
unimaginable pain. The whip had tassels of ox skin that had been dried for
sixty days before being sewn into plaits. It had a handle of evergreen wood
cut and soaked for many days. It had small but heavy lead balls fixed to the
tip of each tassel. Kül-čoro swung that whip with all his strength and struck
the horse, leaving a deep gash in Tay-buurul’s hide. The horse had never
been treated so roughly and broke into a wild gallop. He nosed forward at
such a pace that the wind rushing by his flanks almost lifted Kül-čoro from
the saddle. He nosed forward at such a pace that Kül-čoro’s knuckles turned
white because of his struggle to keep a tight grip on the reins. Kül-čoro’s
arms were frozen rigid as he held on for dear life. Tears streamed from his
eyes, spreading across his forehead and cheeks as the wind tore past. It
would normally have been a two-day journey to the river, but Tay-buurul
covered the distance in the time it takes to boil water for a mug of tea. As
horse and rider approached the river’s bank, nature presented a wild
spectacle. The river carried off whole trees, torn from the banks by their
roots, as if they were flotsam. Huge rocks rolled over in its current as if they
were gravel. There was no way to cross that river and live!
Kül-čoro sat on the bank for six full days, waiting in vain for the torrent
to subside. But there was never any sign that calmness would descend. He
sat for six full days observing the camp of blue and white tents, where thirty
joyful maidens and thirty joyful ladies-in-waiting played. He would have
liked to sit and watch the beautiful maidens for longer, thinking he was
hidden and unnoticed. But, Ay-čürök’s personal guard, a heavily built
female wrestler with stout constitution and almost jet-black skin, saw him
from her watchtower. She ran to her mistress, for by now the swan maiden
Ay-čürök had returned to Bukar and turned back into a radiant princess.
‘You will not believe it’, she began, ‘and perhaps you will be saddened, but
most likely my news will bring you great joy. My future brother-in-law, your
future husband, waits on the other bank of the river!’
Ay-čürök quickly responded, demonstrating once more that she had
wisdom beyond her years. ‘No, no, silly girl! Semetey would never sit like
that. The man you see is one of his warrior friends.’ She gathered the
maidens and ladies-in-waiting and told them to behave with decorum.
Semetey’s messenger was near and should be greeted properly. They should
make no jokes or jibes, even though the custom was for friends of the bride
to tease the groom and his party. Their minds burned with curiosity as,
dressed perfectly in brightly coloured delicate silk, they waited at the river
bank to see how Semetey’s messenger would greet them.
Poor Kül-čoro! Barely twelve years old! How could he hide from the
piercing eyes of so many astonishingly beautiful maidens? How could he
greet them with a dignity beyond his tender years? Well, with the bravura
that comes with such youth, he finally took his life in his hands. He rode
down the bank without a thought. A chunk of the grassy soil collapsed under
Tay-buurul’s heels. He rode his steed into the roaring water. A massive
boulder from the cliff plummeted into the river behind him. At times just his
eye could be seen blinking above the torrent. At times his body could be
glimpsed riding Tay-buurul. He swirled around in the maelstrom. At times
the head of Tay-buurul was all that could be seen, water streaming in an arc
behind its ears. At times the tip of Kül-čoro’s spear was all that could be
seen. But a miracle happened as Kül-čoro, just twelve years old and with so
much of life yet to live, held his own. The spirit of mighty Almambet riding
his legendary horse Sar’ala was there, aiding his child. The spirit of Manas,
greatness and generosity incarnate, was there, shouting for Kül-čoro to
triumph. The warrior Sırgak, Karakalpak’s son, was there. So was the spirit
of Azız-kan, saying, ‘My golden son, you have your full life before you in
which to flourish!’ The warrior Čubak was there, leading twenty-five
thousand troops with their spears lifted from the water, pointing to the safety
of the sky. The spirits of many warriors gathered to guide Kül-čoro and Tay-
buurul to safety. One more push! One more attempt to conquer the river!
Finally, the hooves could be seen, glistening from the water. Tay-buurul
pushed his head forward into the air, water streaming across his glistening
body. And so it was that Kül-čoro made it to the far bank. The beautiful
maidens crowded around him, the clever Kalıman, the pretty Bürül and
Ümöt, the naughty Kümbat, the fat Sugalak, the funny Jamıla and Kamıla,
the gracious Aına, and others. They caressed the warrior gently as they lifted
him down from his stead. Truly, Kül-čoro thought he had reached paradise!
We will leave him there enjoying his glorious predicament and get news
of Semetey. For six days he heard nothing from Kül-čoro, and worry
overwhelmed him. He was unable to wait any longer and mounted Kül-
čoro’s Atkelkı. Driving twelve strong horses before him, he left the gorge of
Akınek. When he reached the Ürgönš its torrent had subsided and it was
easy to cross. He reached Ay-čürök’s camp, with its blue and white tents,
and confronted her. What she had done with his warrior? He demanded Kül-
čoro be released without delay. Ay-čürök, calmness incarnate, stepped
forward as she responded. ‘Master, look at me carefully, for I am no
ordinary girl. There is a long-standing oath that cannot be broken, an
agreement made many years ago by our fathers. Without that agreement, I
would be free to find a husband of my choice. I could take Er-toltoy or Čın-
kojo, who besiege our city. But, be still, for I have not harmed Kül-čoro.
Look over there, to where he enjoys himself.’
Their all-embracing and all-enveloping love, if they are not careful,
threatens to cripple Ay-čürök and Semetey. So, let us look at Er-toltoy and
Čın-kojo. The sixty days of celebrations have ended, and both feel their
anger welling up when they realize that Ay-čürök has cheated them. ‘She
has pulled the wool over our eyes. While we scrupulously fulfilled her
demands she sent a messenger to bring Semetey. We received a message
from Šaatemır’s daughter, Čačıke, but foolishly we failed to pay attention to
it. She warned us Semetey was heading towards Bukar. She warned us
Semetey had given his horse, Tay-buurul, to his friend Kül-čoro. Why did
we fail to notice what was happening? Kül-čoro, riding Semetey’s horse, has
reached Ay-čürök’s camp. Why did we fail to spot Semetey’s white tent
pitched at Akınek? Why did we fail to notice Kül-čoro hiding for six days on
the far bank of the river? We have one final chance to show our strength. Get
the troops ready! We shall conquer our foes!’
Meanwhile, what is Kül-čoro up to? Semetey had sent him to spy on the
camp, and for six days that is what he had done. It is now midnight on the
day he crossed the river. Tired and exhausted, he has dismounted. He leans
on his spear but holds his horse’s reins, taking a nap. A river of spears
suddenly rains down as the enemy rushes into battle led by Jediger’s Er-
toltoy. In the moonlight they spy a hill that looks like a mountain. Er-toltoy
walks forward, leading his horse Sur-koyon. The hill is a warrior! He quietly
shuffles closer, still leading his horse. The warrior is Kül-čoro, sleeping on
his spear.
Tay-buurul, at the sight of Er-toltoy, pads his hooves on the ground. Kül-
čoro wakes with a start. He sees the menacing silhouette of Er-toltoy, and
jumps on his horse to chase the shadow. Er-toltoy is taken by surprise. He
stumbles on Sur-koyon’s reins as he turns to flee and falls. Kül-čoro tries to
raise the spear he is carrying, but it is the great spear of Manas, a spear far
too heavy for a twelve-year-old boy. He manages to plant the spear in Er-
toltoy’s backside, but is unable to pull it out. He lets his reins drop so he can
use both hands to pull the spear. Sur-koyon inadvertently comes to its rider’s
aid as it instinctively pulls away, trying to escape. It drags Er-toltoy, legs
entangled in the reins. Blood from his wound streams down Er-toltoy’s legs.
Kül-čoro has recovered his spear but has dropped his own horse’s reins.
Tay-buurul canters off in the opposite direction. And so it is that Er-toltoy’s
life is spared.
Er-toltoy returned to Čın-kojo. ‘Those are truly monstrous warriors if a
twelve-year-old boy can injure me in this way! But for my steed Sur-koyon,
I would no longer live. Why do we need Ay-čürök? Let us find two young
girls and marry them instead.’ Frightened by what had just happened, he had
changed his tactics. ‘You idiot’, replied Čın-kojo. ‘Aren’t you ashamed to be
humiliated by a twelve-year-old boy?’ He beat the war drums, and his
twenty-five thousand troops entered Bukar. Day and night, they battled to
conquer the city. Who did they fight? On their flanks, Kül-čoro and Kan-
čoro stopped their advance. In their midst, Semetey dispatched man after
man.
Jediger’s son Čın-kojo was no ordinary man, for his horse had forty tails,
and when it swished those tails it created a mighty wind that lifted it high in
the air. It took Čın-kojo above the melee, from where he could rain down
arrows on Semetey. Semetey wore his father Manas’s thick felt warrior
waistcoat, and soon began to look like a hedgehog. So many arrows were
embedded in it. The arrows began to weigh him down. They weighed a ton,
and he leaned against the ground. One arrow pierced Semetey’s skin. In a
moment of unbearable pain, Semetey remembered Kanıkey had sewn a
special bullet into his collar for use in emergency.
Kül-čoro noticed Semetey had fallen and rushed over, dragging him to
the safety of a cave. Kül-čoro took off the waistcoat, draping it over Tay-
buurul. He tied the horse to a stake at the cave’s entrance and took his
father’s musket, Almabaš. He loaded the secret bullet that Semetey had now
found, added wadding and pushed it into the barrel. Then, Kül-čoro waited.
He watched the sky.
Čın-kojo circled above on his horse. He saw Tay-buurul standing without
its rider and realized Semetey must be wounded. This was the chance to
finish him off! On his horse, he slowly descended. The coldly calculating
Kül-čoro checked his musket, set its charge, and fired. The sound of a loud
shot rang out. The bullet hit one of the tails of Čın-kojo’s horse, and with its
rider it plummeted to the ground. Kül-čoro rushed forward with his axe and
jumped on Čın-kojo. His axe ended his enemy’s life.
The grateful Bukar people staged a feast that lasted many days. Songs
rang out for many days. Story upon story was told, recalling their history.
Semetey’s dignified mother Kanıkey came, together with the wise Bakay-
kan. All paid their respects to the couple, blessing Ay-čürök and Semetey.
And the happy young couple, Ay-čürök and Semetey, headed off to the
Kyrgyz lands.
EPISODE SEVEN
SEMETEY TAKES REVENGE FOR THE DEATH OF HIS

FATHER, MANAS
There he resides, the once strong Koņur-bay. There he resides, in the

shadows of the great city of Beijing. There he resides, amongst countless
Kıtay and countless Kalmaks, with fellow members of his Kalča tribe. His
bravery makes enemies cower in terror. His frightening determination in all
that he does is as enormous as a great mountain. He has just celebrated his
ninetieth birthday. On his birthday, countless Beijing residents celebrated his
greatness.
There he resides, passing the time by reflecting on his life. His thoughts
dart between a thousand tiny sparkling images lodged deep in his memory.
But he is troubled by nightly dreams when he vividly recalls the courage of
Manas, and the bloody battle between the Kyrgyz and the Kıtay. Every
dream is flooded with blood, with sorrow for the deprivations his numberless
warriors suffered, with sorrow for the numberless battle deaths. How his
warriors suffered at the hands of those indefatigable Kyrgyz! How the
countless Kıtay, each as furry as the pelt of a cow, had to endure shame and
defeat because of the small and obdurate Kyrgyz! And yet, through his
cunning he wounded Manas. Every night his heart contracts as he relives the
sorrow and suffering. His ribs collapse, making breathing difficult. Every
night when he dreams he holds his breath. He has to collect his courage
before he can live another day.
One day, he brings the best Kıtay thinkers together. He calls for Čıtay-
kan and Dorday-kan, the orator and master of words Batır Kapka, and the
king, Esen-kan. He sends a horse for Esen-kan. He summons them to a
council in the ordo, putting on a feast, gathering them around a huge
cauldron brimming with plov, the famed rice dish with lamb and fruit. To all
who have gathered, young and old alike, Koņur-bay beseeches them with
these carefully chosen, scheming words:
Semetey takes revenge 57
‘Your majesty and my lord, Esen-kan. My people blessed with abundant

thoughts. I have reached ninety years of age, and all my life has been spent
defending the borders of the land of the great Kıtay. All my life has been
spent making it possible for you to live in peace. It was I who oppressed the
tenacious Kyrgyz. It was I who defeated the army led by Manas. Whatever
enemy I met, none defeated me.’
‘Recently, I met Semetey, the son of Manas. He demanded blood money
for the death of his father. So it is with the law of his land. I glimpsed how
his demand could turn into trouble when he launched an attack on one small
parcel of land on our border. For the last two years we have placated him
with gold, silver and precious stones. He has kept demanding more. In an
attempt to get rid of his men, we gave them bags of fake coins. Now we
must find a way to stop his demands. My Lord Esen-kan, my good and
clever people, I exhort you to find a way to resolve the dangerous situation
that we face. If there is no other way, let us secretly ready an army. We will
set an ambush on the banks of the Amur River, and will call Semetey to
meet us there. Then we can silence his demands forever. Our two peoples,
who have shared a border since time immemorial, can restart peace talks.’
‘Many Kıtay warriors died in the Great Battle against Manas, and it is
time we demanded blood money for each of their severed heads. We should
ask for gold and silver for our lost comrades. Many more Kıtay died from
the swords of the Kyrgyz than Kyrgyz died at our hands, yet we have never
been paid compensation. And if the Kyrgyz will not give us gold, silver and
precious stones, we should demand land. Consider what to do, and tell me
your decision.’
Koņur-bay fell silent. The king and the wise men looked furtively from
one to another. They began to debate. At times they congratulated each other
on their wisdom, clucking and grunting approval. After much time, they
concluded that Koņur-bay was the wisest among them, so he must decide
their strategy. And so it was, exactly as he had planned, that power fell into
his hands. And so it was that old and young were recruited and trained,
preparing day and night without pause for battle. Koņur-bay’s military
genius had not diminished with age, and he gathered a force of thirty
thousand troops so well trained that they moved as one, like pieces on a
chessboard. He tolerated no tardiness and ignored no weakness. He trained
them mercilessly. He used all the methods he knew to bring each and every
one to a peak of readiness.
Koņur-bay wrote a letter to Semetey. ‘I send my envoy to Talas to
express our peaceful intentions. We are brothers, yet our nations have fought
each other for no reason except that we harboured insignificant resentments
for each other’s achievements. So, respectful of our peaceful intentions, I ask
you, Semetey, to come to the Amur River, where we shall begin to talk of
peace. Let us not keep evil thoughts for each other. We shall talk as
relatives. We shall talk as friends. I look forward to greeting you. I will wait
in early spring during the month of Jalgan khora.’ On the letter he put his
heavy seal and wrote an entreaty, ‘May the Kıtay and Kyrgyz make efforts
to live in peace!’ He gave the elaborately ornamented letter to his envoy.
The envoy left for Talas.
Having respected the appropriate formalities, the envoy delivered it to
Semetey. But the son of Manas, the batır Semetey, refused to allow this
Kıtay to enter his yurt. He offered him no place to rest. Unlike the way the
hospitable Kyrgyz always behave towards guests, he offered no tea. He
curtly sent the envoy away. He sent him away with the bags filled with the
worthless sham silver and gold coins. ‘Give them back to the liar!’ He
shouted. And so the envoy became a caravan leader, with the worthless coins
his baggage. Semetey pondered what to do. He asked Kül-čoro to fetch old
wise Bakay. He asked him to fetch his mother Kanıkey. He asked him to call
the ordo administrator, Sarı-taz. They came to the palace of their leader,
respecting young Semetey’s request despite their seniority, recognizing the
gravity of the situation. Alarmed, they convened a council and read Koņur-
bay’s letter.
Wise Bakay, who had triumphed over so many trials and tribulations in
his long life, was the first to speak. ‘Koņur-bay is not a man we can trust. He
is canny, and his words mislead the whole world. His words may appear
cultured, but their wavy flourishes hide an absence of meaning. He takes
you, Semetey, to be a young boy easy to fool, a young boy unable to discern
his true intentions. He will set an ambush at the river, an ambush carefully
created to devour you. No doubt he has dug deep traps to swallow your
horses. No doubt he will deceive you, for just look at the worthless brass
coins he sent you as blood money. No doubt he will deceive you, just as he
deceived your father, Manas. Koņur-bay’s canny planning is nothing new,
for it reminds us of our troubled past encounters. Countless Kıtay warriors
will hide along the river waiting for you. Send a spy to reconnoitre the
situation! Consider carefully! He has called you to the banks of the Amur, a
place so cold that the river’s flow will be hidden under ice. As the sun
warms the water, the ice will crack and melt. He plans to start a battle,
shooting at you with muskets, forcing you to retreat as bullets rain down.
Bullets, not his warriors, will chase you, forcing you to retreat to the river
where your horses will be swallowed up as the ice breaks under their
weight.’
Then, Kanıkey, the beloved wife of Manas, the best of all womankind,
the daughter of the spirits, the mother of Semetey, turned to her son. ‘Let my
daughter-in-law Ay-čürök put on her swan form. Send her flying over the
Kıtay lands to spy on the situation. Let her see the preparations that are
underway. And while she is gone, let your warrior Kan-čoro prepare
warriors. Let him issue a call, asking each Kyrgyz tribe to send five hundred
young and strong warriors to you. Take care, though, for internal strife
amongst our tribes could damage you as badly as our Kıtay oppressors.’
Semetey accepted their advice. Ay-čürök was preparing for her journey
to search out the web being spun to capture her husband when Semetey
came into her room. ‘Take care’, he said. ‘You are like the moon, full of
happiness because you have been entrusted with this important task by your
beloved. But your beloved is concerned for your safety.’ ‘My dear husband’,
she replied. ‘All will be done as you have asked. All will be accomplished in
minute detail. I shall prepare through the night and leave at dawn.’ He left
the room. She took out a key to a big heavy chest that she always kept
securely locked. She turned the key and lifted the lid, taking out her swan
costume, as thin as gossamer. At dawn, she put the swan costume on. She
asked Teņri to bless her, to give support. She poured water into her wooden
cup, whispered a magic spell, and threw the water from her as if in symbolic
cleansing.
As the water splashed to the ground, the skies suddenly went dark. The
blue sky of the early morning was shrouded in thick clouds. Mist descended.
A sheet of rain fell, shielding Talas from the world. If you peered hard into
the mist you might have glimpsed a swan rising from the ground, flying off
to the East. That was Ay-čürök. She flapped her wings, crossing mountain
upon mountain until she reached the outskirts of Beijing. She saw an army
so large that she could not count the warriors. It appeared to her that there
were as many warriors as there are hairs on the pelt of a cow. She saw so
many battle flags that there was a constant knocking as they hit against each
other. She saw Koņur-bay leading his army to the right bank of the river,
where many tents had been pitched. Floating in the sky, she noted his
preparations for battle.
The Kıtay, though, were a people with sense. They had geomancers and
sorcerers to support their armies, who had predicted that the preparations
would be spied on. Their best archers were at battle stations, ready to fire.
Ay-čürök was quick, though, and spotted the trap. She arched upwards in the
air and turned back the way she had come. She returned to Semetey, and
reported how warriors in full armour were setting an ambush on the river’s
bank. She reported that warriors with muskets lined the banks, hidden from
view. She reported that in the hills above them heavily armed warriors were
stationed, camouflaged under tree branches. She told how even she had not
realized they were there until one ran off down the hill on a mission. She
reported that warriors mounted on elephants were stationed in the flood plain
at a meander in the river, partially hidden from view.
Nothing he heard about the Kıtay preparations could put Semetey off. He
was the son of a hero. He knew no fear. He knew no worry. He loaded his
armour on the old camel1 and broke camp. He mounted his horse Tay-buurul
and led his warriors out in the direction of the Amur. His courage was so
infectious that it spread through the ranks of warriors. Some distance before
the river he left units of warriors to set an ambush in case the Kıtay chased
him back this way. He marched forward at the head of a small convoy with
Kan-čoro and Kül-čoro until he reached the riverbank. Koņur-bay was
waiting. Semetey knew no fear. Semetey knew no worry. Without hesitating,
he rode straight to Koņur-bay. He greeted his foe politely and declared he
was ready to talk of peace.
The big nation of the Kıtay, through the mouth of Koņur-bay, stated their
demands. ‘We demand that for each Kıtay warrior who died in the Great
Battle, you pay us five bags of silver as compensation. The Kıtay suffered
more losses than you. We lost more warriors than you. If you fail to give us
bags of silver, then we will agree to an exchange of land. If you fail to give
us land, then we will trample your lands and enslave your people.’ Koņur-
bay looked around him, inviting Semetey to see the many thousand
assembled Kıtay warriors. All his warriors, he thought, were as good as at
his side.
But Kül-čoro, the fiery spirited son of Almambet, was not a person to be
intimidated by so many Kıtay. ‘Koņur-bay! You lie like nobody else! Instead
of gold and silver coins, you sent us worthless brass. How dare you demand
we pay you silver! It is the Kyrgyz who are entitled to compensation, not
you. There is no justification for your behaviour. Is your little speech just a
prelude to what you are really after? Are not all the warriors who surround
you proof of your intentions to destroy us? You, not us, are the one who has
done wrong. Amongst the Kyrgyz here gathered, none fear you. How dare
you demand we pay you silver! If you want to remember the past, then we
must seek compensation from you. You cannot trample over us!’ These were
the words of the fiery spirited son of Almambet.
Old Koņur-bay was canny, and he had no intention to give ground. He
struck a gong, signalling the attack. From all sides the Kıtay ran forward,
and from above it looked as if a moving forest had suddenly carpeted the
riverbank. These, though, were no ordinary Kyrgyz boys. Semetey was the
son of a hero, a fearless batır. He pulled from its sheath the legendary sword
he had inherited from his father. It scythed through the air and felled sixty
enemies in a single blow! To his side, Kül-čoro massacred many more with
his sword! On his other side, Kan-čoro was leading other young batır into
the fight, creating unimaginable mayhem and spreading confusion. A full-
fledged shedding of blood had begun.
1
Saparbek identified this camel as Jelmaıan, even though Manas’s camel of this
name died in an earlier episode of the epic.
As they had done in the Great Battle, it was the Kıtay not the Kyrgyz who
turned and fled. Poor Koņur-bay! He was now in his nineties. His horse
Algara, once so fast, was also old. As it had done before, it turned to run
away. ‘Poor me!’ Koņur-bay muttered. ‘In my old age I have lost my mind,
and instead of peacefully paying the compensation demanded, I persuaded
myself that I could mislead the Kyrgyz! Now it is time to face up to my past.
Why have I failed to control my ambition? Why, when I should have slowed
down with age and spoken with wisdom, did I allow a stone to hit me in the
teeth? I am no equal to these young warriors enraged like the waves of a
stormy sea! I am no equal to the strength with which they scythe through the
air with their swords!’
Koņur-bay fled, leaving six hundred Kıtay warriors massacred on the
bloodied ground. Kül-čoro saw Koņur-bay’s younger brother in the distance.
Then he saw Koņur-bay. Mounted on his horse, Kül-čoro was cantering
around a wing of fleeing Kıtay warriors, turning them back into the battle.
Terrified and fearing for their lives, the Kıtay attempted to hide behind
hillocks and under bushes. Kül-čoro broke away from them to ride after
Koņur-bay. But, just as he caught up with his foe, just as he prepared to
plunge his spear into his foe, his horse stumbled. Koņur-bay was reprieved.
Koņur-bay fled, repeatedly looking back over his shoulder. What despair
comes in old age! His despair at that moment seemed to fill the air, as he
realized he had no chance to escape the Kyrgyz foes and would soon die. He
sensed his fate. Yes, Koņur-bay sensed death. Nonetheless, the old warrior,
though aged and weak, decided he would not give in to fate without a
struggle. With all his strength he forced his horse to turn, and plunged his
own spear at Kül-čoro. A loud clang rang out as the spear caught the edge of
Kül-čoro helmet, missing his head and getting caught in his mail shirt. What
games old age plays! Koņur-bay’s strength failed him and he lost his grip on
the spear. He turned his horse to flee again, racing for the river.
Just as Koņur-bay might have thought he had escaped, Kül-čoro caught
up. With his sword, Kül-čoro aimed at the old warrior. Algara, though, still
had a turn of speed, and leapt forward. Kül-čoro’s sword missed the old man
and instead slashed the back of the horse, slicing its tail off. Poor Algara!
Now in immense pain, it continued to flee. Gathering his strength, Koņur-
bay forced it to ride out on the river’s ice. The ice broke. The tail-less Algara
was caught, panting, on a jagged piece of floating ice. Koņur-bay stayed on
the saddle, urging Algara to move on. The horse, suffering from its wound,
struggled to raise a hoof as the river turned red from its blood. Koņur-bay,
looking to all like the mountain of his former self, sat on his horse on the
floating ice. He began to doubt he could reach the far bank. Kül-čoro took
out the lasso that his father Almambet had always carried, and threw it. With
perfect precision, it dropped over Koņur-bay’s head. Kül-čoro pulled it,
tightening the loop of rope around his foe. As Koņur-bay urged Algara
forward, so the lasso pulled him back. The mountain-like Koņur-bay fell into
the water. He was dragged back to the bank where Kül-čoro waited.
Semetey rode up and ordered his friend to cut off the head of the old
warrior. Kül-čoro did not hesitate: his sword separated head from body. The
body crumpled in a heap to the ground. And so it was that Koņur-bay
received his just punishment at the hand of Semetey’s warrior, Kül-čoro.
And so it was that, by revenging the death of his father, Semetey received
the blessings of his people.
 
Manas (Episode One)
Manas and Kutunay (Episode One)
Manas rides into battle (Episode Three)
Manas with his warriors (Episode Three)
The horse race (Episode Four)
The white fish at the lake (Episode Six)
Ay-čürök as the swan maiden (Episode Six)
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
ORAL EPIC POETRY AND THE MANAS
From Homer to the World
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey have, for several centuries, provided scholars
and commentators with an ideal of epic narrative. From Aristotle, we have
inherited the idea of epic as being mimetic or representational as well as
dialogical; Daniel Prior has noted that Aristotle conceived of epic narrative
as an ‘imitation of serious subjects in a grand kind of verse’ (Poetics
V.1449b; cited in Prior 2006: 87). Epics represent a totality in terms of the
life of heroes or heroic action – hence, ‘heroic epic poetry’ – rather than
specific events or the private worlds of individuals that are typically
recounted in novels. Heroic epic poetry such as that of Homer, or the South
Asian Māhābhārata and Rāmāyaṇa, at least according to Hegel (1842/1955,
II: 406), presents the worldview of nations. It is based on a form of historic
reality. It is perceived to reflect truth, to constitute part of a national heritage.
This, in the contemporary world, is not altogether comfortable, not least due
to much of the recent critique of folklore, and criticism of the assumption
that oral transmission occurs without substantial change.1 Nonetheless, Lauri
Honko notes how many nations feel the need to draw intellectual strength
from folk culture to counter the hegemony of colonialism, Western
1
Certainly, few would today countenance a definition such as the following for folk
music, despite the fact that this was adopted by the International Folk Music Council
in 1954: ‘Folk music is the product of a musical tradition that has been evolved
through the process of oral transmission… [shaped by] i) continuity which links the
present with the past; ii) variation which stems from the creative impulse of the
individual or the group; and iii) selection by the community, which determines the
form or forms in which the music survives’ (Anon. 1955: 23; see also Elbourne
1976). All three of these aspects are regularly encountered in the published studies
of oral epics, as will become apparent later in this chapter.
commercialism and the mass media (cited in Feintuch 1988: 1–3), looking
for ‘tool[s] for thinking about matters close at hand and close at heart’.
Indeed, and confirming Honko’s observation, the Manas epic with which
this volume is concerned has been appointed a UNESCO ‘Masterpiece of the
Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity’ precisely because of its national
importance and its distinctiveness.
The heroes of epics will often be imbued with phenomenal strength, with
power far beyond the ordinary. In many instances, they may have
supernatural attributes, and episodes will often link to shamans and
shamanic ritual (as discussed by Hatto 1977: 260–62; 1989: 216–69 passim;
Reichl 1992: 122–3). Connections between bards and shamans take us into a
past that starkly and deliberately contrasts the present. Thus, Karl Reichl,
echoing Arthur T. Hatto, notes that many bards are initiated into singing epic
poetry in dreams, much as a shaman experiences sickness and dreams before
initiation as a neophyte (1992: 59). Relating those dreams, counters Prior,
was a sensible strategy to allow bards to avoid oppression during the Soviet
era. Could there be an overlap between bardic skills and shamanism?
Definitions of heroic epic poetry can be problematic when applied cross-
culturally. Any global uniformity of genre is hard to find, although Cecil M.
Bowra’s broad definition, published subsequent to his renowned volumes of
Greek poetry in Heroic Poetry (1952), is often cited:
In certain parts of the world there is still a flourishing art of telling

tales in verse, often at considerable length, about the marvellous
doings of men… This art embodies not a heroic outlook, which
admires man for doing his utmost with his actual, human gifts, but a
more primitive outlook which admires any attempt to pass beyond
man’s proper state by magical, non human means… It presupposes a
view of the world in which man is not the centre of creation but
caught between many unseen powers and influences, and his special
interest lies in his supposed ability to master these and then to do what
cannot be done by the exercise of specifically human gifts (Bowra
1952: 5).
This, though, is too glossy. It appears to reflect a perspective of the past

framed as the ruder times of nations, a period of supposedly great creativity
as barbarism gave way to civilization,2 for the heroic ethos of many poems
allows no mercy, exploits deadly exchanges, and features plenty of rage,
retaliation and retribution. Arguably, Bowra’s reflection ought to be situated
2
Paraphrasing James Hogg (1834: 280–82), who was writing about British
folksong.
Oral epic poetry and the Manas 67
in the context and time of the immediate aftermath of the Second World
War, rather than as a view that has timeless significance.3
We need a more precise definition, and one that many have found
appropriate has been offered by Albert Lord. Lord’s definition, in The Singer
of Tales, draws on the work of Milman Parry:4
…oral epic song is narrative poetry composed in a manner evolved

over many generations by singers of tales who did not know how to
write; it consists of the building of metrical lines and half lines by
means of formulas and formulaic expressions and of the building of
songs by the use of themes… By formula I mean ‘a group of words
which is regularly employed under the same metrical conditions to
express a given essential idea’… By formulaic expression I denote a
line or half line constructed on the pattern of the formulas. By theme I
refer to the repeated incidents and descriptive passages in the songs
(Lord 1960: 4).
Both Parry and Lord were familiar with the texts of the Manas and
related Kyrgyz materials collected by Wilhelm Radloff (1837-1918) in 1862
and 1869. Indeed, Parry quotes Radloff in the following way, though here
we cite the English translation of Radloff by Hatto:
When performing, the bard always employs two melodies; the first,
sung in a faster tempo, is for the narration of facts; whereas the
second, sung in a slower tempo in the manner of a recitative, serves
for dialogue… With regard to clarity of articulation, the Kara-Kyrgyz
bards excel the bards of all the other tribes, even those of the Kazak-
Kyrgyz… A bard possessed of any skill whatever always improvises
his songs on the spur of the moment so that he is totally incapable of
performing a song twice in identical fashion… From extensive
performance he has whole series of narrative elements to hand (if I
may so express myself) which he threads together to suit his needs in
the course of his narration… The bard’s art consists solely of
marshalling all these ready-made narrative elements in the order
demanded by the course of events and in linking them together with
new verses… The greater the number of different elements a bard has
at his command, the more varied his poem will be and the longer he
will be able to go on singing without wearying his listeners with the
3
As noted by Hatto (1989: 241).
4
For which see Parry’s ‘Studies in the epic technique of oral verse-making, 1:
Homer and Homeric Style’ (1930; republished in Parry 1971, 1: 266–324).
monotony of his evocations… An adroit bard can recite any theme,

any tale that is asked of him, extempore, once the order of events is
clear to him (cited from English translation in Hatto 1977: 269-70).5
Radloff’s work was, to Parry, a vital factor in his reassessment of

Homeric diction and composition. Indeed, Radloff made explicit reference to
Homer in the preface to his fifth volume, but his two visits to Kyrgyz lands
were brief. He was, therefore, unable to gain adequate understanding of the
social and cultural background, or the linguistic complexity, of the heroic
epics he recorded. As a consequence he failed, states Hatto, ‘systematically
to collate parallel formulaic passages’ and might ‘give several irreconcilable
versions of the same item’; there are errors in his translations, and he was ‘a
hardened guesser, as all pioneers have to be’ (Hatto 1977: v; 1990: ix–x).
Homer provides a foundation for European poetry, but the insights
Kyrgyz epic poetry might offer to its understanding were not taken up by
those who followed Radloff. As Reichl states (1992: 8), although Kyrgyz
epic poetry is mentioned by Wilamowitz-Moellendorff (1916), Drerup
(1920) and Nilsson (1933), it fell to Parry and Lord to reiterate its
importance to help answer questions about the development processes of
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey. However, Parry and Lord lived and worked
during the Soviet period, and were unable to travel to Central Asia. For
them, work on Yugoslavian heroic epics had to substitute,6 leaving a
reassessment – and correction – of Radloff’s recordings and analysis to
Hatto (1990).7
There are two immediate aspects of Lord’s definition that require
consideration: the very notion of heroic epic poetry, and perceptions of
orality. Firstly, epic, simply put, evokes an ahistorical and pristine heroic age
that is cast as real and has elements of historical truth but which is
essentially mythic. Secondly, in common use, the term ‘epic’ indicates
considerable length and depth, contrasting the products of popular culture,
folktales and folksongs.8 Lord warns us, however, that ‘length is not a
5
Parry quotes this in the original German.
6
See the introduction to Reichl (1992) for further discussion. A rather different take
on the situation has recently been taken by Kyrgyz scholars, some of whom
maintain that the controls of the Soviet period stopped the epic taking its proper
place within the global canon.
7
Note that in this chapter we refer to ‘recordings’ in respect to both audio
recordings and, in keeping with oral literature scholarship, to the writing down by
dictation or other means of oral texts.
8
Lord also argues that the concept of national poetry, although pitting national
heroes against foreign foes, is not comparable to heroic epic poetry.
criterion of epic poetry’ (1960: 6), for a good number of poems categorized
by scholars as epic are comparatively short. Certainly, epic poetry in the
Germanic tradition tends not to be of great length, as was pointed out a
century ago by Ker (1908: 116) – an appreciation that has left a tradition,
following the example of Andreas Heusler, to divide poetry into long epics
and (shorter) lays. Lord’s comment on length, though, contrasts Soviet
accounts, as will be considered below.
Again, Lord reminds us (1960: 31) that the quality of a story is preferred
over anything merely heroic. So, romance may feature strongly,
downplaying or diminishing heroic action. Indeed, when we consider the
recent and contemporary popularity of the second part of the Manas trilogy,
Semetey, romance is clearly favoured by recent Kyrgyz bards. The storyline
of epic poetry will or may link to actual historical events, as with one of the
five repertories in the Korean p’ansori genre of sung storytelling, which
takes the classic tale of a Chinese battle as its theme.9 However, processes of
accretion and development have occurred over time, here as with other epic
poetry, and these frame historical actuality within a larger narrative complex.
To give a different example, the Karakalpak Edige features three central
figures, Edige, Tokhtamysh and Timur, who are historical figures from
around 1400 (Reichl 2007: 19).10 Storylines of epics can also feature real
geographical places: the French epic Chanson de Roland contrasts the
wicked land of Muslim Spain to the sweet land of France; the Germanic
Nibelungenlied features a border with dangerous bad lands running from
Iceland in the northwest to what is normally named Esztorgom in the
southeast (Hatto 1989: 219).
Conceptions of orality tend to shift considerations of epic poetry from a
focus on specific stories to the structure and social settings of performance.
A performance of an epic is created for a specific audience, whether
villagers, khan [kan] chiefs, collectors or scholars. Episodes are lengthened
of shortened by a singer to reflect the interest and appreciation of their
audience. ‘Our singer of tales is a composer of tales,’ writes Lord (1960: 13).
Not just that, though, for Hatto suggests more: primary occasions for epic
poetry performance are ‘cultic’ rather than purely oriented towards
entertainment; they have ritual functions. Hatto notes that in Buryat and Ob-
9
Below, we defend the inclusion of p’ansori in this discussion.
10
Reichl (2007: 19–20) cites the entry on Edige in the Shorter Soviet Encyclopedia
(1959, third edition): ‘Edigéy – a military leader of the Golden Horde. In the
nineties of the fourteenth century he became the independent ruler of the land
between the rivers Volga and Yaik (Ural) and was the founder of the Noghay
Horde… In 1408 he invaded Rus, but was unable to take Moscow. In 1411 he lost
his sway…and fled to Khorezm. He died in a fight with the sons of Tokhtamysh.’
Ugrian traditions, performance of an epic can promote hunting and fishing,

while the Altaian Jangar epic features a spirit who demands an audience of
several dozen listeners (1989: 147–63). In one direction, this returns us to
the potential link between singers of tales and shamans. In the other
direction, we need to consider the structure of epics as they relate to the
physicality of story-telling: formulas are needed in performance because of
the speed necessary for telling the story if an audience is to be kept
interested and enthralled.
Formulas shift a singer’s attention and effort from the memorization of
chunks of storyline (and to thinking through these chunks in the middle of a
performance) to processes that evoke sequences of events and their details.
Formulas begin to account both for variation and for specific detailing. At a
generalized level, the formulas discussed by Lord include repetition,
alliteration and rhyme; parallelism, the balancing or opposition of nouns,
stereotypical phrases and substitution systems including assonance; a regular
syllable count per line and the metric or accented and unaccented groupings
of syllables; repetition and adjustments that involve the ordering of ideas in
relation to each other, the length of lines, word boundaries and ways to open
and close a song; tonal patterns; clichés and stock epithets that include titles,
places, adornments and costume, physical characteristics and so on that link
to specific characters whenever mentioned; catalogues of attributes (1960:
32–52). In respect to the last, one might cite the ships in the Iliad, or the
beauty and character of the bride-to-be Kanıkey as seen by Jakıp in
Saparbek’s telling within this volume.
Themes create a framework for epic narratives, and the same basic
incidents and descriptions are regularly encountered – councils, letters,
journeys, feasts (for weddings, receiving guests, celebrations of birth and so
on), gathering armies, battles, and more. To summarize Lord’s
consideration, but as also discussed in the writings of others including Reichl
and Hatto, a theme will develop ornamentation and detail through
transmission over time, adding human touches of character, accumulating
richness, dressing a hero or caparisoning a horse, and so on (Lord 1960: 78,
92). The bard follows the order of the action – the preparation, the dressing –
so that a sequence can be framed without any pause, whereas hesitation
might happen if the bard has to think through the order as he sings. The
outline of the story is known in advance to bard and, usually, to the
audience. Some themes tend to cling together, and thereby form recurrent
patterning (1960: 112). Repetition creates a pull in two directions, one
towards the specific episode being sung and the other towards previous or
other uses of the same theme (1960: 94); this can lead to criticism of
individual bards, for the repetition of themes at different points in the total
performance can create occasional inconsistency.11
Epic moments – using a term favoured by Hatto – are used by bards to
build an episode, and are mnemonic to the extent that a bard gravitates
towards them, decorating them with specific narrative details:
Epic moments are highly charged narrative ganglia, and… possession

of them in memory confers power in the mature bard to build up an
episode or even a string of episodes (Hatto 1980: 4–5).
These moments are ‘where major tumult and tension boil down to
understated, even quiescent images’ (Prior 2006: 92). Prior contends that
tight structures involving assemblies of epic moments were abandoned in the
Manas tradition as high scenes complete with complex ornamentation
replaced them in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (2006: 93).
This becomes more apparent where familiarity rules, notably in the use of
written texts, and becomes a key criticism made in the scholarly literature of
the use of such written memory aids. The criticism may not be completely
just, however, since Korean p’ansori texts were written down by the early
nineteenth century (Pihl: 1994: 66), Kazakhs published popular epic stories
in the late nineteenth century, and chapbooks were widely used in Khorezm
in the early twentieth century (Reichl 1992: chapter 3). Again, as
Yugoslavian epic narratives were recorded and published in the early and
mid-twentieth century, so illiterate bards asked others to read these
published texts to them, and younger people started to memorize songs from
the published texts (Lord 1960: 124–37).
Certainly, concepts of orality lead to a tendency to place epic poetry in
the past as a distinction is made between oral forms and written literature.
Lord tells us, somewhat dismissively, that singers who have memorized texts
are mere performers rather than oral poets. Now that texts proliferate,
however, scholars both seek to identify characteristics that indicate oral
composition – ‘in the background one senses the epic, which everyone knew
by heart’ is how Hatto encapsulates the phenomenon in a letter to Daniel
Prior (1997, cited in Prior 2006: 126) – and identify decline within the
performance traditions from a twilight age. That age, because of the late
nineteenth century and twentieth century writing down and compiling of the
oral texts of bards, tends to be situated just before the earliest synchronic
transcriptions or audio phonographic recordings came to be made. There is,
both in these written texts and in the scholarly literature written on them,
11
A few inconsistencies, particularly with respect to names, remain in the
translations of Saparbek Kasmambetov’s episodes printed in this volume.
considerable imagining of a past, much in a manner that has been critiqued

by accounts of folklore in Britain (Harker 1985; Boyes 1993).
Whereas studies of oral literature typically develop written texts that
document and analyse the earlier recordings and compilations of oral texts,
folklore offers a second focus, based on ethnographic studies, and
particularly on ethnography as it overlaps with performance studies. Most of
the literature of heroic epic poetry sits within the former focus, but Daniel
Prior’s important analysis, The Semetey of Kenje Kara (2006) offers
something of an exception. He situates his account with folklorists such as
Richard Bauman, Dell Hymes, John Miles Foley and Elizabeth Fine, but also
alongside studies of epic poetry by Rémy Dor (1982; in respect to Kyrgyz
epic poetry), Susan Slymovics (1987; Egypt), Dwight Reynolds (1995;
Arabic) and Karl Reichl (1995; Central Asia).12 Arguably, Prior’s approach
chimes better with Ruth Finnegan’s anthropological accounts of orality (for
example, 1992 and 2007) than with the tradition of cultural performance in
accounts following from the studies of Max Gluckman (1940) and Victor
Turner (1986).13
Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey have come down to us in written form as two
long poems. If, as has been done, these are dated to the eighth century BCE,
then they may have been created around the time a writing system
developed, but as oral literature, and following from Parry and Lord’s
theoretical positioning of epic poetry, they must be seen as a compilation
inherited from multiple authors, the outline of which was modified through
insertions, addenda, and developments made by generations of bards. This
positions a considerable amount of the research published on them.
D’Aubignac’s Conjectures in 1715 began exploring Homer’s poems as
compilations of shorter songs from multiple authors, but D’Aubignac and
others following him failed to demonstrate where songs began and where
they ended. Others, such as Walter Leaf (1852-1927), worked to find an
archetype, an original core onto which the accretions of others were added.
Within Leaf’s hypothesis, Homer lived much later than the originator, and
was a compiler of the core and its accretions. He and others suggested that,
like an onion, layers could be peeled off to return to the core. Success in
analysis would present a schema in which the three constituent components
could be delineated: the core, accretions made over time that accommodated
12
To this list could be added Reichl’s recent monograph on Karakalpak epic,
published after Prior’s text (Reichl 2007).
13
Here, I am primarily referring to British social anthropology and its accounts – a
useful exploration of which has been edited by Parkin, Caplan and Fisher (1996) –
rather than performance theory as represented by William Beeman (e.g., 1993) and
Richard Schechner (1988, 1993).
elements of other singers’ related and unrelated performances, and

idiosyncratic ornamentation and detailing associated with specific singers
(Lord 1960: 78).
Positing any archetype has proved difficult. To do so, argues Lord,
involves a ‘purely arbitrary guess at what the original might have been’,
since ‘our concept of “original” makes no sense in oral tradition’ (1960:
100). Put in a different way, Shalom Staub has noted that the folkloric search
for archetypes is a ‘slippery path’ in which genuine claims may become
spurious because of the rhetorics of presentation. This applies with acuteness
where nationalism and historical identity are at stake; this is one reason to
account for why much Soviet scholarship and much of the recent discussion
of UNESCO’s Masterpieces in the Oral and Intangible Heritage (within
which in addition to the Kyrgyz Manas, the Sakha14 oloņxo and Korean
p’ansori epic traditions are designated) continues to seek for earlier, core,
versions. Note, however, that if we have no original and no archetype, then
the concept of variant diminishes or at least loses much of its importance, a
fact that Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars have long wrestled with. Rather, in our
perspective, the available documentation offers hooks that link to specific
events or to specific singers.
Much of the published scholarship concludes that oral transmission is
conservative. On one side, this is because the framework, comprising a
skeleton or a core stitched from a sequence of themes, remains relatively
constant; on the other side it reflects the use of formulas. Onto this
framework, Lord outlines six ways that change can occur in the telling of
oral epic poetry (1960: 117–23). These arise from the relationship between
singer and audience and refine the brief statement above. The six comprise
saying the same thing in less or more lines, expanding ornamentation and
detail, changing sequence order, adding material that was not learnt from
others, omitting material, and substituting one theme for another. The
creative expertise of individual singers becomes critical:
In larger compositions the contribution of one singer’s creativity often

plays a decisive role: songs sung separately by other singers may be
knit together by a talented and ambitious bard… great epic formations
grow in the hands of a fairly limited number of performers (Honko
1995: 29–30).
To illustrate the point, as with many East Asian musical genres, Korean
p’ansori is identified with ‘schools’ (ryu or ryup’a – using a loanword from
14
Also encountered as the Yakut, a term that is most likely a Russian corruption of
Sakha, the indigenous name.
Japan) associated with founding singers, traced through genealogies of

known singers to present day exponents. Representative and expert
contemporary singers have since 1964 been appointed as ‘holders’ (poyuja)
of p’ansori as a South Korean government-sponsored Intangible Cultural
Property (Muhyŏng munhwajae).15
Written texts enforce or reinforce conservatism. They restrict much of a
singer’s ability to change, prescribing a fixed structure that fills in and
details the framework. Written texts may be put together either from a single
descriptive dictation/transcription or from an amalgamation of a set of
discrete tellings. In his admirable exposition of distinctions between writing
and the oral tradition, Lord thus notes that while oral poetry has
demonstrable formulas, the literary tradition is predominantly non-formulaic
(1960: 124–38). This is seen most clearly where amalgamations and
compilations are involved, and so such assemblages could be argued to
downgrade and eventually lead to the abandonment of the formulas of oral
poetry because compilers (or potentially, where time is allowed, singers)
reflect on a text as they correct and adjust it. Hatto is not enthusiastic:
I suggest we revive the obsolete English word ‘epopee’ for large-

scale, amorphous compilations of heroic and sub-heroic narrative
material, like the [Persian] Shahname. Such are mostly literary works,
but the vast assemblages of already full-scale epics in the laboratory
recordings of the twentieth-century wholesaling…bards…offer
examples of technically oral ‘epopees’ (Hatto 1994: 123, cited in Prior
2000: 17).
Hatto makes this comment in a discussion of two of the best documented

and most highly acknowledged Kyrgyz master singers, Sagımbay
Orozbaqov (1867-1930) and Sayaqbay Qaralaev (1894-1971), from whom,
respectively, a massive 180,000 and 500,533 lines of the Manas epic were
collected.
It is clear that most late twentieth century bards, and amongst them
Saparbek, represent at the very least an intermediate stage between the oral
and the written, or have to a degree been reliant on written texts at some
point in their professional lives. Saparbek, like many of his contemporaries,
is able to read texts and memorize them, but he still practises what he
regards as an oral tradition. While the spread of school education in the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, as well as the expansion of
scholarly recording activities, are to Saparbek legacies that allow him access
to texts, he describes his learning process in terms of listening to great
15
And the more recent UNESCO ‘Masterpiece’. See Howard (2006: 60–67).
singers, then repeatedly singing on his own and repeatedly singing in his
sleep.
Lord puts it thus:
The effect on the younger generation which could read was that the
young people began to memorize songs from books. They still learned
the art from their elders and could sing songs picked up from oral
tradition, but they were moving away from that tradition by
memorizing some of their repertory from the song books. The
memorization from a fixed text influenced their other songs as well,
because they now felt they should memorize even the oral versions.
The set, ‘correct’ text had arrived, and the death knell of the oral
process had been sounded (Lord 1960: 137).
This, though, whether desirable or not, is the world in which most heroic
epic poetry today exists, and in which much that has been documented in the
recent past existed.
Variety in Epic Poetry
Bowra identified epic poetry among the Finns, the Altais and Abakan Tatars,
the Khalka Mongols, the Tibetans, and the Sea Dayaks of Borneo (1952: 5).
However, given that Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey provided the starting point
for studies of oral epic poetry, European scholarship initially focussed
largely on European strains, adding other Greek fragments (Aethiopis,
Argonautica, Epigonoi, Herakleia and so on), the Old English Beowulf, and
medieval Irish, German, French and Norse epics. The Finnish Kalevala,
compiled by Elias Lönnrot (1802-1884) and with the shamanistic
Väinämöinen as its main hero, featured strongly. Kalevala moves from the
world’s origins to an allegory concerning the arrival of Christianity. In
Germany, there are epic moments in the early Hildebrandslied, composed in
the seventh century with a surviving partial manuscript dated to the turn of
the ninth century, but Nibelungenlied from around 1200 is the most
celebrated epic. Kudrun, composed some forty years later, turns the
Nibelungenlied’s catastrophic ending into conciliation. The Irish Táin bó
Cúailnge illustrates the heroic strand in the hero Cú Chulainn’s fatal battle
with his son Conlae, and his use of a slingstone to smash his cousin and
foster brother Conall Cernach’s chariot shaft in order to avoid a clash with
his foster father, Fergus. The three great French cycles were composed
where langue d’oïl dialects were used, north of the mouth of the Loire and
the Massif Central. They found champions amongst Anglo-Saxon writers
because they had been preserved by the French-speaking nobility of
England. The three are Le Chanson de Roland, composed fifty years before
the Nibelungenlied, Le Chanson de Guillaume, detailing the love and
marriage of the Christian lord, Guillaume, and Le Voyage de Charlemagne.
From this partial list it is clear that epic poetry comprises a mixed bag.
This becomes even starker when two 1980 and 1989 volumes edited by
Arthur Hatto and J. B. Hainsworth are considered. These document the work
of the London Seminar on Epic, held from 1963-1972.16 The Seminar
included research on European strains but ranged far wider. Cast primarily
within what Hatto as editor defined as a ‘trapeze Iceland–Uganda–Thailand–
Mongolia, that is in the main Eurasia, the classic area of heroic and epic
poetry’ (Hatto 1980: 2), the published accounts include additional materials
culled from the Ainu of Japan, the Sakha of northern Siberia and from Mali
in West Africa;17 Hatto also admits that American First Nation epics may
exist that were yet to be studied. The geographic and structural mix
discussed within the volumes, and the awareness that even this mix does not
fully embrace the available global epics, threatens to tear open any bag that
defines what epic poetry might be, scattering its contents or ingredients to
the four corners of the globe, well beyond the trapeze. Hence, when the
English Sinologist and Orientalist Arthur Waley heard about the Seminar, he
remarked: ‘When I think of epics, I think how different they all are.’ Hatto
suggests a possible arrangement of the Seminar’s materials into oral, sub-
oral and post-oral epic poetry, thereby maintaining Lord’s argument about
written texts and their affects (1980: 11). And, picking up from both Parry
and Lord, Hatto emphasizes recurrent themes that in relation to the epic
traditions of Europe include cattle raids and equivalents (Homer, Ireland),
last stands (Germany), rebellions (France) and, almost universally, kinship
and lineage, births, marriages and funerary rites (1989: 145–306). It is also
clear that he reflects a certain amount of what was then contemporary
scholarship in fields other than literature, notably by suggesting a distinction
might be made between external style – the social setting and the
performance context – and internal style – content, ethos, and existential
relevancy.
Supplementing the European epic poetry already noted, the 1989
volumes include: an account by L. P Harvey of Medieval Spanish romance,
where Poema de Mio Cid tells of events in the eleventh century and for
which a manuscript dating from 1140 survives; R. Auty’s consideration of
Serbo-Croat epic poetry, collected since 1720 and comprising in total some
16
This and the next three paragraphs summarize, primarily, the 1980 volume.
17
The selection of epic poetry studied by the Seminar reflected scholarship within
the constituent colleges of the University of London and, in particular, at the School
of Oriental and African Studies.
500,000 lines, that is strongly stylized in ethos and form while featuring
simple standing epithets; a brief account of a presentation by the folk music
collector A. L. Lloyd about performance techniques in Albania, Bulgaria,
Romania and Yugoslavia.
Beyond Europe, G. F. Cushing explores Ob Ugrian (Vogul and Ostyak)
epic poetry from East of the Ural Mountains that began to be documented in
the nineteenth century when the small population was thought to be on the
verge of dying out. Although featuring elaborate formulas based on acute
observations of the real world, Ob Ugrian epics are claimed to be distinct
because they are typically performed by a singer and shaman who narrates in
the first person the stories of spirits possessing him. The spirits, seven
children of Numi-Torem, provide the core themes. H. W. Bailey offers an
account of Ossetic (Nartä) epic tales centred on five main families within a
genealogy spanning seven generations. Ossetic epics reflect the reality of
surrounding cultures, incorporating historical figures such as Soslan, the
early thirteenth-century consort to the Georgian Queen Tamar, and Satana,
the chief female Nartä, who appears to be related to an Armenian princess.
But, stories of the world ‘reduced to an intelligible whole’ are mixed with
magic and religion, giants, death customs, and the Ruler of the Underworld,
Barastur.
Still further afield, John D. Smith notes the considerable attention that
has been lavished on the two standard Sanskrit epics, Māhābhārata and
Rāmāyaņa. Later great poems, such as Kālidāsa’s Rāghuvaṃśa and
Kumārasaṃbhava, or the even later Rāghavapāņḍavīya, bear the same
relationship to them as does Virgil to Homer, and with this in mind Smith
explores a living Rajasthan tradition, the epic Pābūjī, whose hero was
probably a fourteenth-century Rājpūt chieftain and brigand. C. R. Bawden
tracks the fluid epics of Mongol-speaking people that were in decay by the
time of their recording and documentation. Alliterative and formulaic,
Mongolian epics typically featured simple plots and recognizable
landscapes, but were ahistorical, mixing magic and the god Teņri with
earthly sports and hawks, horses, and other animals known in the natural
world. Amongst Mongol epics, Jangar was once spread among the Kalmaks,
the Buryats to the north, and throughout Mongolia. Another, Han Harangui,
considered by many to be the kernel for the tradition, has a hero also found
in Tuvan epics, Khan Kharangui. C. J. Dunn shifts attention to the Ainu of
Japan, whose epic poetry survives in fragments in written considerations by
Arthur Waley and the missionary John Batchelor, and in recordings archived
by the Japanese broadcaster NHK. Here, apart from the superior god,
Okikurumi, the gods tell their stories in the first person, while the hero
Poiyaumpe is human. Poiyaumpe has protective deities who fight others
with human attributes, while an anti-wife, Poisoyaunmat, behaves as a man
as she hunts, trades and fights. Finally, H. F. Morris opens an exploration of
East African Bahima praise poems that introduce stories of cattle herding
and of historical and legendary heroes, using highly stylized diction and
formulas. Elsewhere in Africa, we note, Swahili epics are known, and Xhosa
eulogies have been considered to be epic in terms of the way that they detail
heroic achievements, while the widespread Mandinkan Sunjata and Fula
Ham Bodêdio maintained by hereditary families of griot musicians indicate
that considerably more creative performance might be included.
To this brief survey many more epic poetry traditions can be added,
amongst them Middle Eastern traditions from Persia to Egypt, Turkic
traditions (for which see below), and epics of the Tamil (The Brothers),
Telegu (Palnādu), Tibetan (Gesar/Geser), Buryat (Aidūrai, but also Geser
and Jangar), Sakha (within the oloņxo genre, notably the tale of N’urgen-
bootur where the prince rides to the underworld to rescue the keeper of
beauty and thereby restore peace and prosperity to the world of men),18 Altai
(the Maadai-kara),19 Nenet, and even Southeast Asian dance dramas with
heroic content and links to Sanskrit epics.
Korean p’ansori is notably absent from the 1980 and 1989 volumes and,
indeed, from much of the literature on epic. P’ansori is an oral narrative,
given in speech (aniri), song (norae) and dramatic action (pallim) by a
single vocalist accompanied by a drummer. From a larger palette, five
stories – essentially with simple folktale cores – have survived to the present
time. The stories incorporate idiomatic phrases and humorous sayings,
borrowings from Chinese literature, and realistic episodes that situate stories
within the physical space and cultural milieu of Korea. They juxtapose
historical and ahistorical material: ‘Chŏkpyŏkka/Song of the Battle at the
Red Cliff’ recounts a famous Chinese battle, ‘Shimch’ŏngga/Song of the
Filial Daughter’ is situated in Chinese Sung or Ming times but shifts to the
fairyland of Uri-guk (Emerald Land), ‘Ch’unhyangga/Song of “Spring
Fragrance”’ takes place around the real-life city of Namwŏn, and
‘Sugungga/Song of the Underwater Palace’ tells of a rabbit and a terrapin
who argue and behave in anthropomorphic ways. The fifth tale,
‘Hŭngboga/Song of the Two Brothers’ turns Confucian inheritance norms
on their head, as it describes the poor but generous younger brother and his
brutish but mean elder sibling. P’ansori can rarely be considered heroic, and
18
N’urgen-bootur was dramatized for the 2006 Ysyakh summer festival in Yakutsk
that celebrated the 2005 appointment of the oloņxo epic genre as a UNESCO
Masterpiece. See Maltsev and Howard, Siberia at the Centre of the World: Sakha-
Yakutia (SOASIS DVD06, 2008).
19
The subject of a BBC Radio 4 programme narrated by the poet Benjamin
Zephaniah broadcast on 4 January 2009.
this indicates a primary reason why it has not been accommodated within
many accounts of oral epic poetry.
Scholars of Korea have thus typically shied away from referring to
p’ansori as epic poetry, preferring English glosses such as ‘one-man opera’,
‘sung narrative’ and ‘musico-dramatic genre’. However, Chan E. Park,
citing Bakhtin, Scholes and Kellogg, but reflecting on Keith Howard’s
youthful and perhaps naïve gloss of p’ansori as ‘epic storytelling through
song’, does conclude that p’ansori fits the definition of epic poetry (2003:
14–15). Indeed, analysis indicates similarities to epic genres elsewhere.
First, a performance is long if a story, full of accretions, ornamentation and
details added to the core by generations of singers, is given: contemporary
performances of a complete story, known as the wanch’ang, can last five
hours or more (eight hours is often claimed). Second, a p’ansori story is
organized into episodes equivalent to the themes of Parry and Lord (and
more recent commentators such as Hatto), one or more of which may be
lifted out from the whole and compressed or elongated as the singer tailors
their performance to a live audience. Third, each story has developed in
much the same way as Lord’s view of oral epic poetry: there is a schematic
core, easily transmitted and maintained, into which episodes slot; the totality
of a performance represents a serial composition created by multiple authors
over a long period; a student receives a story from his/her teacher or teachers
but then – at least until recent times – innovates. Indicative of the uncertainty
but hopeful of acceptance as epic, a number of Korean scholars have
attempted to frame their studies of p’ansori in terms of the Parry and Lord
account, including Sŏ Taesŏk (1969), Cho Tongil (1978, 1989) and, more
recently, Chan E. Park (2003).
The late Marshall Pihl discusses the use in p’ansori of formulas akin to
those of epic poetry in The Korean Singer of Tales (1994). His title
acknowledges a direct debt to Lord, who guided Pihl’s studies at Harvard
University. The formulas include the use and manipulation of regular meters,
word boundaries, syllable counts, syntax, clichés, tonal patterning and
acoustics:
Much of Korean p’ansori is, ultimately, a product of the same art of

formulaic oral composition that Lord describes as the genius of the
modern Yugoslavian epic… the same formulaic technique has been
useful to both for technical reasons that transcend local linguistic and
cultural peculiarities…the formula [being] a device to facilitate rapid
oral composition before an audience and, at the same time, to adapt
his work to the changing demands of his literature’ (Pihl 1994: 79).
Korea, though, is a hierarchical society, and this is reflected in p’ansori,

where the teacher-disciple relationships, and from this the maintenance of
professional genealogies, are sacrosanct (Pihl 1994: 82ff.). Styles of

performance, and the detailing of some episodes, are associated with known
‘great singers’ (myŏngch’ang) and the effect is that, if there was a time in
which successive generations of singers engaged in formulaic oral
composition, that time has long passed. Again, then, we are forced to
confront the fact that the world has changed, and the orality on which epic
poetry was once based is a thing of the past.
The Turkic People and Epic Poetry
To briefly paint a picture of the Turkic people is not an easy task. Today,
and illustrative of the complexities involved, Turkic languages are typically
divided into four groups. These, although rightly considered by Reichl as a
‘gross simplification’, are the Southwestern (e.g., Ottoman Turkish, Azeri,
Turkmen), Northwestern (e.g., Tatar, Kazakh, Karakalpak, Kipchak-Uzbek),
Central (Uzbek, Uyghur) and Eastern (Altai and Kyrgyz). Where Kyrgyz fits
is a matter of some contention: it is placed amongst the Central group by
Deny et al. (1959-1964) and, within their edited text, amongst an ‘Aralo-
Caspian group’ by Menges (1959; 1968). Chuvash, spoken east of Kazan in
the Volga region, and Sakha, spoken in Yakutia way to the north of Siberia,
do not readily fit the four-fold division, and tend to be considered as having
long since become isolated from other Turkic languages; these languages,
after all, cover a huge geographic area. Oral epic poetry is found among
many Turkic peoples, with central traditions concentrated amongst the
Karakalpaks, Kazakhs, Kyrgyz, Uyghurs and Uzbeks, but, on a broader
canvas, with additional notable traditions amongst the Altais, Azeris,
Bashkirs, Ottoman Turks, Sakha, Turkmen and Tuvans. The key Turkic
language features identified in studies of oral epic poetry are agglutination,
with verbs at the ends of phrases or lines and where a word structure can
create assonance, and the use of vowel harmony that can create a distinctive
acoustic and tonal flow (Reichl 1992: 24–7).
The Turks are first encountered in the historical record living in the
Orkhon and Yenisei river valleys in Siberia, to the north of present day
Mongolia rather than in today’s Central Asia. Mentioned in Chinese
documents from the second century BCE onwards, they were often linked to
the Huns and were feared as northern barbarians. They may be connected to
Tungusic and Palaeo-Asiatic groups in Siberia (and elsewhere in Asia),
which might potentially suggest a reason why shamanic ideas feature in

Turkic epic poetry.20
Nomadism features strongly across much of Siberia and the Eurasian
steppes, and this, too, is central to Turkic epic poetry. Nomadism is an
economic necessity that allows pasture to be maximized, moving herds of
animals to mountain slopes in summer and to valleys and plains in winter. It
links to the development of a style of housing that suits this non-sedentary
lifestyle: yurts. It is also associated with a horse culture. This latter was
described by Herodotus in his fifth-century BCE Histories in respect to the
Saka or Scythians. He describes horse sacrifices, battle-ready riders mounted
on horseback, and drinking fermented mare’s milk (qımız),21 all of which
have a place in Turkic epic poetry. Wilhelm Radloff writes:
For the Kyrgyz, the horse is the embodiment of all beauty, the pearl of
the animals. He loves it more than his beloved, and a beautiful horse
often tempts an honest man to theft… A Kyrgyz is often very loath to
leave his riding horse to the use of another (1893, I: 441, cited in
Reichl 1992: 18–19).
The Scythians, with territory extending across the steppe beyond the Syr-
Darya river and into the Tien Shan mountain range, formed one of the
Central Asian client kingdoms created a century before Herodotus by the
Persian Achaemenid empire, along with Sogdiana between the Amu-Darya
and Syr-Darya rivers,22 Khorezm (later Khiva), Bactria (Afghanistan,
Turkestan), Margiana (Merv), Aria (Herat) and Arachosia (Ghazni and
Kandahar).
In 330 BCE, Alexander began his conquest, moving northwards from
Macedonia through Herat and Kabul, crossing the Hindu Kush to Bactria
and via Samarkand crossing the Syr-Darya to crush the Scythians. The
Buddhist Kushan Empire, established by the first century BCE, won control
of Sogdiana and parts of today’s northern India and Afghanistan, developing
20
To Mircea Eliade (1951/1964), and many scholars since, shamanism is rooted in
Siberia. Eliade, however, relied on a now distrusted concept of diffusionism to
measure a historically distant archetype against remnants of similarity in surviving
belief and ritual practices.
21
Reichl usefully discusses horse culture with reference to the accounts of William
of Rubruk, a Fransiscan friar who travelled to Karakorum in 1253, staying until
1255 (1992: 17–18).
22
Known as Transoxiana, ‘beyond the Oxus’, to the Romans. This term is adopted
by Theodore Levin (as Transoxania) to denote all of Central Asia and thereby to
avoid the Soviet ‘neulogism’ of a division into five republics (1996: xiii).
trade along the Silk Road. Sedentary settlements were encouraged by trade,
but Kushan declined by 200 CE, leaving Sogdiana controlled by the Iranian
Sassanids. Nomad groups roamed the land, and the Huns took control by the
fourth century: Attila’s court, some theorize, may have used a Turkic
language. In 559, the Huns were in their turn ousted by Turkic groups who
had moved westwards from Siberia to form an alliance with the Sassanids.
The Second East Turkic Empire, which flourished for sixty years from 680,
was challenged by Arabs who took Bukhara in 709 and Samarkand in 712,
and by Tang Chinese who pushed westwards to Tashkent before being
forced into the Talas Valley in 751 and then back across the Tien Shan
Mountains.23 The earliest Turkic documents are runic, dating from the eighth
century onwards, and one from the ninth century found in the Mongolian
Selenga River region in 1909 may describe – and in fact is routinely
regarded by Kyrgyz scholars to describe – a battle of the Turks.
By the ninth century, the peaceable Samanids controlled the former
Sogdiana. The Samanids were allied to Baghdad and supported Muslim
culture (Bukhara at one time had 113 medressas), but they were also
influenced by Persian culture. In the eleventh century, after the Samanids,
the Karakhanids, from three capitals – Balasagun (now Burana in
Kyrgyzstan), Talas (Taraz in Kazakhstan) and Kashgar – completed the
conversion to Islam, fighting for lands to the south and west that included
Samarkand and Bukhara. In turn, they were destroyed by the Turkic Seljuq.
Then, in the early thirteenth century, the Mongols under Genghis [Chinggis]
Khan conquered, plundered, and burnt virtually every settlement. Central
Asia passed to the sons of Genghis Khan’s eldest son Jochi on his death in
1227, who, with their descendents, came to be known as the Golden Horde.
The days of the Golden Horde, through to the fifteenth century, are
remembered as the time when nomadic life was at its height. But
competition for land was always fierce, and internal divisions amongst the
Mongols allowed a Turkic resurgence that culminated in the brutal short-
lived empire of Timur in Transoxiana, an empire centred on Samarkand that
is today celebrated by the Uzbek state. Later, three sedentary khanates arose,
centred on Khiva, Bukhara and Kokand, bordered to the north by three
nomadic Kazakh hordes.
Tribal wars fought through to the eighteenth centuries against the
Mongols and Chinese are remembered in Kyrgyz epic poetry where the
adversaries are typically named ‘Kalmak’ or ‘Kıtay’. The Kalmak are
mentioned in Siberian annals as early as 1574. They were West Mongols or
Oirat descendants of the Jungarians, and had settled in the Ili Valley around
23
‘Episode One: The Birth of Manas’ in this volume might be considered a
reflection of this struggle for territory.
Kulja and in the Altai. In 1685, they drove the Kyrgyz south into the Fergana
and Pamir-Alay regions, and into present-day Tajikistan. They were defeated
by the Chinese Qing in 1758, and were resettled in military camps. For a
while their defeat left the Kyrgyz effectively as Chinese subjects; the Kıtay,
encountered in the nineteenth-century recordings of the Manas, are, as a
result, not the Mongolians of this name who founded an empire in the tenth
century, but rather the Qing Chinese24 – although referred to at times in
Saparbek’s recitations of the Manas as the earlier Tang Chinese.25 We might
reflect on the Manas at this point, suggesting that the threat of the
Kıtay/Chinese led the Kyrgyz into alliances with khanates further West, as
witnessed in the marriages of Manas to Kanıkey and Semetey to Ay-čürök;
alliances, equally, of course, were designed to resolve or reduce feuds, as is
indicated in the fights and arguments that some Manas versions recount in
the middle of feasts and councils.
Who, though, were the Kyrgyz? The ethnonym first identifies a tribal
federation living in the upper Yenisei river valley, north of the Eastern Huns,
that defeated the Uyghurs in 840 CE. The earliest notable residents of
today’s Kyrgyzstan were the Scythians, whose burial mounds have revealed
bronze and gold relics at Lake Issyk-kul. The Kyrgyz are encountered in
ninth- to eleventh-century Arab chronicles, and their clans had settled in the
Tien Shan area by the thirteenth century. Russian sources record the
ethnonym from the sixteenth century onwards. The seventeenth-century
Kalmak raids forced the Kyrgyz to flee to Fergana and Pamir as well as
eastwards into today’s Xinjiang. Today, the Kyrgyz live mostly in Tien Shan
and the Pamir mountains, in Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Chinese Xinjiang;
until recent wars, there was also a small population in Afghanistan.26
By the turn of the nineteenth century, Russia sought a secure southern
border and, concerned both about instability in Central Asia and British
expansionism northwards into the region from India, it sent Tatars and
Cossacks to Kazakh lands. By the 1850s, Russia initiated strategies that were
designed to remove the autonomy of the khans in Bukhara, Khiva and
Kokand, at a time when some Kyrgyz clan leaders were allied to Kokand.
Later, they took Merv in 1884 and reached the Afghan border in 1885; this
was as far south as they pushed at the time and, indeed, until the invasion of
Afghanistan in the late twentieth century. European Russians began to flood
into Central Asia, bringing urban planning, railways, Western schooling,
theatres and cinemas, and much more. An uprising in 1916 against demands
24
Hatto (1977: 272–3).
25
Note that the capital is given as Beijing, not Xi’an of Tang times.
26
Hatto (1980: 300–301). For the Kyrgyz in Afghanistan, see Dor and Naumann
(1978).
for cattle and men to support the war effort was brutally put down, and
shortly afterwards the revolution and its aftermath led to the Soviet era. The
Soviets effectively invented the five nationalities: Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Tajik,
Turkmen and Uzbek. Each, regardless of the historical and cultural reality,
got its own language, history and territory. And, following the collapse of
the Soviet Union, by the spring of 1991 each of the five republics declared
independence.
Some Kyrgyz claim an 1100-year history for Turkic oral epics, based on
the ninth-century eleven-line inscription found in Mongolia in 1909.27 The
oral epics, then, began as the story of victory in the ninth-century battle
against the Uyghurs, and were transmitted by one or more of the warriors –
in the case of the Manas, by one of the hero’s forty warriors. However, the
earliest potentially relevant surviving document28 is a heroic poem by
Maḥmūd of Kashgar dated to 1073, which is quoted in a dictionary of
Middle Turkish. A fifteenth-century copy of a late thirteenth- or early
fourteenth-century text in old Uyghur describes the birth, childhood and
heroic and military exploits of an Oguz tribal leader, showing rhyming and
assonance in seven- and eight-syllable lines – characteristics associated with
Turkic epic poetry. These characteristics, with greater agglutination and
word and structure patterning, and with a mix of verse and prose that is still
familiar today, feature in two surviving sixteenth-century manuscripts, the
‘Kitab-i Dede Qorqut/Book of Grandfather Qorqut’. While it has been
argued that these incorporate compositions from 500 years or more earlier,
the manuscripts reflect the Ottoman world of their time.29 Little additional
documentation exists prior to the nineteenth century, although two Tajik
manuscripts of the Majmū’ al-Tavarikh of Saif ad-Dīn, supposedly in part
dating to the sixteenth century, introduce Manas and his father Jakıp (as
Yakub). Jakıp, though, is identified as a Qipčak, which takes us to the
eighteenth century and to the politics of Kokand at that time, rather than
before.30
27
Bernštam (1910-1956) is widely regarded as having first suggested the link, but it
was discredited in 1962 by his fellow Soviet-era scholar, Žirmunskii (see Prior
2000: 30, and Chapter 2 below).
28
In our search for documentation, we must be wary of contrasting the Manas, as an
oral epic until relatively recently, with epic poetry such as the Shahname that was
written down earlier; such contrasts unfortunately occur regularly in the literature
(e.g., citing Kyrgyz and Soviet scholarship, on http://www.angelfire.
com/rnb/bashiri/Manas/manas.html (accessed November 2009)).
29
See Reichl (1992: 43–55) for a consideration and analysis.
30
Hatto (1977: 90–91), citing a 1962 publication. Hatto later refers to the
manuscript as ‘a late eighteenth-century propaganda document’ (1990: xvi).
To characterize Turkic epics, one might start with themes: stories telling
about heroic deeds, feasts and councils, births, bride-winning, the return of a
hero, revenge, kinship and lineage, and so on. However, if the Kalmak are
archetypal but real enemies, then the historical existence of heroes remains
questionable. Kyrgyz and Kazakh singers and their oral epic texts, at least
until the Soviets established distinct national identities, identify with the
Nogay, a legendary people populating a legendary age. The people may stem
from Tatar followers of Noghay, who was a Golden Horde prince famed for
thirteenth-century campaigns in Galicia and the Caucasus. Noghay’s
followers took his name as their ethnonym, and legends evolved as these
carried out raids and warfare far to the West, reaching Moscow, Kazan,
Astrakhan and the Crimea (Hatto 1977: 272, but compare with Reichl 2007:
22–31 and the citation above from the Shorter Soviet Encyclopedia). It is
only in the twentieth century that singers have replaced ‘Nogay’ with
‘Kyrgyz’.
We might, next, look at performance contexts. Until recent times, people
would gather to listen to performances of epic poetry at night, sometimes
returning night after night,31 often during Ramadan,32 often in yurts, often for
feasts and celebrations, sometimes before hunting expeditions set out,33
sometimes in the courts of chiefs and leaders. Bāla (1899-1994) in Khorezm
for example, Theodore Levin tells us, sang for many family members of the
khan. The khan himself usually preferred instrumental music to be
performed, though he would occasionally invite interesting singers (1996:
173–5).
Whatever the performance context, and whatever the place, an epic singer
would stop time as he entertained his audience. The singer ‘suck[ed] the
listener into the rhythm of life itself’ and life was ‘measured by the totality
of the moments of empathy between listeners and storyteller’; behind the
singer, the listener ‘sensed the patron spirit’ and felt ‘his spine set on fire’
(Kunanbaeva 2009 [1981]). Or, alternatively, ‘the expectations of the
listeners gave birth to song’ (Kunanbaeva 1991: 2).
The audience was not passive. A singer adjusted his performance as he
observed his audience, shortening or lengthening episodes, omitting or
adding material. The audience functioned as resonators for his art, through
the taste and judgement of audience members becoming the carriers of the
31
The Sakha oloņxo could purportedly continue for seven nights.
32
Note that the Soviets banned fasting during Ramadan.
33
Roberte Hamayon has discussed hunting in the context of Siberian shamanism:
enactment of the hunt in ritual soothes and distracts the prey. Could there be a
parallel with hunting episodes in oral epic poetry?
tradition itself (Braun 1961: 84–5). Reichl cites a further publication on

Kazakh epic performance by Kunanbaeva:34
At certain moments the singer stands in need of the support of the

audience, which expresses itself in exclamation-formulas and
increases his strength by its approval (Kunanbaeva 1987: 108).
An account in the travelogue of an 1863 journey to Uzbek lands by the

Hungarian Turkologist, Vámbéry, is even more evocative. Reichl cites this
(1992: 114), but here we give a longer sample than he does, taken from the
1864 English edition. Pass lightly over the characterization of singing, and
focus, please, on the description of the bard’s audience:
How charming to me, too, those scenes, which can never pass from
memory, when on festal occasions, or during the evening
entertainments, some Bakhshi used to recite the verses of
Mukhdumkuli! When I was in Etrek, one of those troubadours had his
tent close to our own; and as he paid us a visit of an evening, bringing
his instrument with him, there flocked around him the young men of
the vicinity, whom he was constrained to treat with some of his heroic
lays. His singing consisted of certain forced gutteral sounds, which we
might rather take for a rattle than a song, and which he accompanied
at first with gentle touches of the strings, but afterwards, as he became
more excited, with wilder strokes upon the instrument. The hotter the
battle, the firecer grew the ardour of the singer and the enthusiasm of
his youthful listeners; and really the scene assumed the appearance of
a romance, when the young nomads, uttering deep groans, hurled their
caps to the ground, and dashed their hands in a passion through the
curls of their hair, just as if they were furious to combat with
themselves (Vámbéry 1864: 322).
Beyond the Turkic world, much the same applies. For example,
audiences for Korean p’ansori are expected to be vocal in showing their
enthusiasm, and a considerable vocabulary of exclamations, ch’uimsae, is
known: olshigu! (‘right on!’), choht’a! or choch’i! (‘that’s nice!’),
kurŏch’i! (‘that’s perfect!’), glottal ut!, chi!, and so on.
Often, the Turkic epic singer self-accompanied himself on the dutar,
dombra, qomuz or qopuz plucked lute, or the double-bellied tar, or the
34
Cited from the English translation by Reichl (1992: 114).
bowed qobız, gıdždžak or kıyak fiddle.35 Kyrgyz singers usually do not

employ an instrument, although Kenje Kara (1859-1929) brought a kıyak to
the famous audio recording that will be discussed in Chapter 2 below36 and
Saparbek brought a qomuz to the 2006 recording sessions that the
accompanying CDs to this volume document. The instrument may have
spiritual or magical power, through its association with a great singer. Alma
Kunanbaeva writes, in respect to the dombra used by Kazakh singers, that
the instrument has a soul that brings fortune or destruction, and how ‘after
the death of the bard, the instrument has to find a new owner, otherwise it
will play at night and scare children’ (1991: 1).
The vocal style amongst Uzbek and Karakalpak singers is said to use a
constricted, tense voice, but also features high-pitched recitative climaxes
described, for instance, with the Uzbek verb qaynamāq (to boil). Altai
singers move towards the overtone singing best known from Tuva and
Mongolia as xöömii. The Kyrgyz vocal style is divided by Vinogradov into
four types, the first intoned, the second and third with tonal contours and,
accounting for 60% or more of the song, the fourth being džorgo söz
(flowing speech). The first and fourth are all that need concern us here; they
can be heard in abundance on the accompanying CDs to this volume. Within
džorgo söz, poetry is sung using the same melodic pattern for each pacing
line – the flowing speech – across a section; the repetition is formulaic and
does not allow a verse structure to emerge. According to the musicologist
Viktor Beliaev, a pacing line is contained within an interval of a third or a
fourth, typically rising a little from the opening pitch then falling back, with
falling cadential patterns of, typically, the third or fourth. Although many
other Kyrgyz songs are in duple meter, pacing lines are in triple meter, with
the basic syllable arrangement giving a trochaic tetrameter. The intoned
declamations function as transitions and endings and offer contrast; they are
non-metrical (Vinogradov 1958 and 1984, cited in Reichl 1992: 101–102;
Beliaev 1975: 16–18; Prior 2006: 96–100). The comments by Radloff, based
on his 1862 and 1869 trips to Kyrgyz lands, instructively distinguish the
two:
35
Instrument names and playing styles vary amongst different Turkic groups. For
example, the Turkish qopuz is plucked while the Karakalpak qobız is bowed; qomuz
is the normal Kyrgyz pronunciation of the same name, while kobza is the Ukrainian,
and all are by some considered to relate to the Mongolian horse-head fiddle, the
xuur/moorin xuur. See Vinogradov (1958), Beliaev (1975: 18), Reichl (1992: 100–
104; 2007: 165), Levin (1996).
36
A contemporary drawing showing the instrument is reproduced in Prior (2006:
facing page 1).
When performing, the bard always employs two melodies; the first,
sung in a faster tempo, is for the narration of facts; whereas the
second, sung in a slower tempo in the manner of a recitative, serves
for dialogue... In other respects, the melodies of the various bards are
almost completely identical (1885: xvi; cited from Hatto’s English
translation, 1977: 269).
Vinogradov usefully characterizes Sayaqbay Qaralaev’s singing of one

Manas episode. We cite him at length here, using Reichl’s translation into
English, because his comments could so easily describe Saparbek’s
technique, and as a consequence explain the vocal style encountered on the
accompanying CDs to this volume:
Qaralaev repeats… one and the same recitative-like melody up to ten

times, but endows it each time with new expressive nuances: now an
exclamation, now a simple cry, now a loud sigh, here he uses strong
accents, there soft, smooth transitions etc. In quick succession, major
and minor thirds alternate… But the descending cadence leaves the
strongest impression: fifth, fourth, tonic. Tensing his vocal chords,
Qaralaev accentuated these notes normally by a gutteral timbre,
singing the last note crescendo to fortissimo and cutting it off
suddenly. Sometimes he changed this recitative-like melody for
another, a rhythmically and metrically more pronounced melody
(1984: 494, cited from Reichl 2007: 176).
Intonation also needs to accommodate the need to move from descriptive

monologues to impersonating characters; Soviet scholarship, following
Erzakovich, has tended to distinguish recitative, illustrative singing (singing
in character), and summative declamations (Kunanbaeva 2009 [1981]). From
this, intonation is ascribed musical and stylistic qualities, as human thought
intoned, as the human intellect intoned, and as something specific to man
(Asafiev, cited by Zemtsovsky 1997: 190–92; see also Krader 1990: 9).
In Kyrgyz, the singer of epic poetry is normally called a manasči; the
term derives from a noun for the title of the epic. In other cases, more
broadly, the term for a singer can derive from the noun for a song, so, as
manasči is to Manas, so semeteyči can be to a singer who specializes in the
epic of the son of Manas, Semetey. ‘Manasči’, though, reflects the twentieth
century, and prior to Russian control, džomoqču, from the Kyrgyz noun for
epic, džomoq, was the common term. Džomoq may link to the Mongolian
domog (legend). Kazakhs and Kyrgyz also refer to singers who improvise
without texts as aqın and to žıršı, žırau (žır defining epic) or ırčı, typically
reserving the latter for singers who have memorized set texts. To the
Kyrgyz, songs are dastan, and to the Uyghurs dastanči sing dastan; to the
Sakha, oloņxohut sing oloņxo. The Karakalpaks typically refer to jırau or to

baqsı, the former specializing in heroic narratives and the latter in lyrical and
romantic epics (Reichl 2007: 17). The Turkmen refer to baxšı, and the
Uzbek to baxši singers of dāstān. Baxši, though, to the Kyrgyz means a
shaman or medicine man, and in Old Uyghur baxši and Mongolian bagši
denote a scholar or teacher.37
A singer’s training typically starts before puberty and often, particularly
from the accounts of singers active during the Soviet period, involves
initiatory dreams. Dreams reveal the heroes of epics to a singer, and indicate
that the singer has been chosen, although it is of note that the singing
profession often runs in families.38 An apprentice singer will study under
teachers, from whom he absorbs frameworks and formulas. As a singer
matures and begins to perform he adds, creatively, ornamentation and
detailing. Radloff cites a Kyrgyz singer: ‘I can in general sing every poem,
because God has laid the gift of singing into my heart... I have learned none
of my poems: everything flows from my inner being, my inner self’ (1885:
xvii; cited from the translation by Reichl (1992: 91)). In southern
Uzbekistan, Levin met Qahhār, a singer who in 1991 claimed to know more
than thirty heroic epics learnt orally; his father had known sixty-five (Levin
1996: 149–51).
Note, though, that during the Soviet period few singers could make a
living from epic poetry. Many joined theatre and entertainment troupes, or
had day jobs.
37
Beyond Turkic languages, this meaning also applies to Tungus paksi and possibly,
through Chinese, to Korean paksa.
38
Lord points out, but based on his Yugoslavian materials, that there is no class of
singers (1960: 18).
CHAPTER TWO
THE KYRGYZ MANAS: RECORDED, PERFORMED

AND STUDIED
Recording the Manas
The documentation of Kyrgyz heroic epic poetry that is available to us today

essentially began with two nineteenth-century polymaths: Rotmistr Čokan
Čingisovich Valikhanov (1835-1865) and Wilhelm Radloff (1837-1918). At
the outset, we should note that both wrote their accounts and texts for
Russian and European audiences rather than for the Kyrgyz. However, both
collected texts at a time of rapid transition in Central Asia and as the Kyrgyz
made their peace with the Russians. Both assembled oral epic poetry that has
been argued to be superior to texts collected in the twentieth century, in that,
in keeping with Parry and Lord’s comments on orality discussed in the
previous chapter, both worked with singers who had no access to written
texts. They also worked in situations where reflection was at a minimum –
later recordings were made over longer periods, and may have allowed
interjections and corrections by both singers and collectors, thereby
introducing a miscellany of detailing to extend episodes.1
Valikhanov was grandson to the last khan of the Kazakh Central Horde,
Vali, and could thereby trace his ancestry back to Genghis Khan. Although
he was an imperial army officer, he was fascinated by his own heritage and,
because of this, he was a student of things Turkic. In sum, he was a
‘reconnaissance and intelligence officer, secret agent, antiquary, amateur
ethnologer, artist, traveller, man of letters, and admired friend of
Dostoyevsky in exile’ (Hatto 1977: v). In May 1856, Valikhanov and/or his
scribe took down, by dictation over two days from a bard to the east of Lake
                                                        
1
This is the gist of the argument made by Hatto (1990: xiv–xv; 1994: 123 – in
respect to the latter, see the quote given in the previous chapter).
Issyk-kul, the tale Kökötöydün ašı – the memorial feast for Kökötöy Khan.
The bard may have been, as Prior (2002) explores, Nazar Bolot (1828-1893).
The text that survives, held in the Oriental Archives at St Petersburg
(Razryad II, opis’ 4, delo 36), is a copy of a field record written in Arabic
script – a script arguably poorly suited to Turkic languages – with
annotations and overwritings by Valikhanov and others. Valikhanov
published a brief overview of Kyrgyz epic in 1861, but his partial translation
of the texts he had collected into Russian only appeared posthumously, in
1904. This is widely cited by Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars. A facsimile of the
manuscript was issued in Alma-Ata in 1971, and it fell to Arthur Hatto to
provide an exhaustive English translation and edition in 1977.
Valikhanov was, as Hatto’s examination reveals, ‘no textual scholar of
the first order’ (Hatto 1977: v); had he lived longer, doubtless his Kyrgyz
materials would have been more fully analysed, checked, and perhaps
corrected and supplemented. Hatto has disproved the theory that Valikhanov
returned to his bard to check and correct his materials, and it is therefore to
be expected that the short time frame in which the dictation took place
precluded him mastering the formulas and formulaic expressions, and gave
opportunity to introduce inconsistencies and different renderings. The text of
Kökötöydün ašı is concentrated, running to just 3,251 lines, but is at times
still ornate, with ‘well-worn, beautifully structured epithets and other
formulae’ (Hatto 1977: 90). Many of the epithets and formulas match those
in other Manas recordings of late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century
bards. The text concerns a memorial feast, and has supplementary themes of
horse racing, games, and heroic brawling not dissimilar to – and hence one
reason why Milman Parry made reference to it – the Iliad.
Even if Valikhanov might be considered a romantic nationalist, his work
is a valuable and much treasured example of early field research on the
Kyrgyz. Beyond the Manas, an association of historians, anthropologists and
ethnographers based in St Petersburg undertook considerable research from
the 1860s through to the early twentieth century in the area. Evidence of
their work is held at the Institute of Ethnography within the Archives of the
Russian Academy of Science in Moscow (Archiv Instituta ethnografyi
Academii Nauk SSR), where hand-written notebooks describe, for example,
the variety of healing rituals practised by the Kyrgyz on the Syr-Darya river
banks.2
                                                        
2
Statiya Skryabina, K.I. ‘Sposob lecheniya kyrgyz Syr-daryinskoi oblasti’,
14/9/1907: 20. For more extensive discussions of the St Petersburg association, see
Fond obshestva lyubitleie Estestboznaniya, Antropologyi i Ethbgrafyi. Opis’ 1,
1867-1920, 441 ex: 216.
The Kyrgyz Manas 93
Valikhanov recognized that the history of Kyrgyz epics was largely

unknown. Two quotations from his 1861 paper illustrate his perspective
(cited from English translations in Prior 2000: 6–7):
[The] Manas is an encyclopaedic collection of all Kyrgyz myths, tales,

and legends, expressed in one time and grouped around one character
– the hero Manas. It is a kind of Iliad of the steppes. The way of life,
customs, morals, geography, and religious and medical knowledge of
the Kyrgyz, and their international relations, have found expression in
this enormous epopee.
This poem, in our opinion, evidently underwent newer augmentations

and alterations. It may be that its actual formation into one whole...is
something that happened in most recent times.
With reference to the second of the above quotations, Hatto remarks that,
although likely much older, it is not possible to take the Kyrgyz epic
tradition back more than two generations. Indeed, it is of note that
Valikhanov’s text of Kökötöydün ašı mentions the historical hero Jaņgır
(1783-1828; line 544 of the text), who some of the 1860s bard’s
contemporary Kyrgyz audience would have remembered, alongside the
legendary Nogay heroes and associates of Manas, Košoy and Kökčö, and the
‘infidel’ Jamgırčı.3 However, Soviet-era scholars looked at things
differently, and focussed on the first of the quotations we have cited from
Valikhanov. To them, the Manas was, and remains, an encylopaedic
compendium. It was, and is, ‘for the Kyrgyz people, who were illiterate
before the Great October revolution, the only record of their centuries-long
history’ (Žyrmunskii 1962: 85). Hence, today, it is not only considered a
historical document, but, and as Musaev notes (1979: 5), the plots and main
episodes, and the principal characters, are known by all Kyrgyz.
Before exploring further, we must return to the late nineteenth century.
Wilhelm Radloff, our second polymath, was a German-born Russian
linguist; hence in Russian and Central Asian accounts he tends to be known
under his Russian name, Vasilii Vasilievič Radlov. He was a prolific Turkic
scholar who left a considerable legacy, of which his two volumes of Kara
Kyrgyz texts, published with translations in 1885 and based on trips to the
Kyrgyz lands in 1862 and 1869, form but a part. Anonymity reigns in terms
of the bards he recorded; this is consistent with his initial aim, which was to
collect samples of Turkic dialect. He did far more than this, of course, and
his texts, also translated into English by Hatto (1990), fall into nine sections:
                                                        
3
Hatto notes that Jamgırčı is a Nogay and therefore a Muslim in Radloff's texts.
the birth of Manas; Almambet, Er Kökčö and Ak-erkeč; how Almambet

came to Manas; the duel between Manas and Er Kökčö; the marriage, death,
and return to life of Manas; Bok-murun; Közkaman; the birth of Semetey;
Semetey.4 The texts include 12,454 verse lines about Manas, and 3,005 lines
from the second and third episodes of the epic, Semetey and Seytek. He also
collected additional texts about Joloy-kan (5,322 lines) and Yer-češčuk
(2,146 lines).
Hatto concludes that Radloff worked with five bards, four in the Bugu
region to the east of Lake Issyk-kul in 1862 and one among the Solto clan
south of Tokmak in 1869 (1990: 601–603). Valikhanov, too, had recorded a
Bugu bard, but he did so barely a year after the Bugu were granted Russian
protection, which in turn followed Bugu approaches for better relations with
the West Siberian Administration as the power of the Kokand khans waned.
By 1862, though, the Russians had failed to provide much of the protection
they had promised, and raids from Kokand and from its tributary, the Solto,
left the Bugu fearing for their future. They wondered if they would be forced
eastwards, back towards the Chinese Qing who less than a century earlier
had defeated their Oirat overlords. The politics of the time, then, sit behind
both Valikhanov’s and Radloff’s texts. Hence, the precariousness of the
Nogay’s survival features in Radloff’s texts from the Bugu. Further, by
1869, when Radloff returned on his second trip, Chinese rule in Kashgaria
had collapsed, and Kokand was in full decline. Tashkent had been captured
in 1865 by General Černaev, and soon afterwards Kokand was the first of
the three khanates with their sedentary sart populations to pass to Russian
control.5 This, too, is reflected in the later text, which Hatto concludes is the
first in the collection, telling about the birth of Manas. In this, Jakıp, the
father of Manas, is portrayed as a ‘manly, resolute khan – perched like an
eagle above the newly founded Russian outpost of Vernoe’ (Hatto 1990:
xiv), while Manas himself enjoys friendly relations with the Russian Tsar.
Radloff analysed the texts he recorded. The legacy of his analysis was
incorporated into the formula theory of Milman Parry and Albert Lord, for
Radloff saw that the recurrent phrases used by bards were oral formulas. He
referred to these as častički (particles). Hatto has provided a translation from
the German:
Just as [a pianist] pieces together runs, transitions, motifs into a

pattern expressive of a given mood as the moment prompts him and so
                                                        
4
See also Hatto (1973 and 1974) for a detailed discussion and comparison of the
two episodes concerning Semetey.
5
The people of the plains and the towns, the sart, were often despised by mountain
nomads.
The Kyrgyz Manas 95
assembles something novel from what has been familiar to him, so

with the singer of epic songs. From extensive practice in performance
he has whole series of narrative elements to hand...which he threads
together to suit his needs in the course of his narration... The bard’s art
consists solely in marshalling all these ready-made narrative elements
in the order demanded by the course of events and in linking them
together with new verses (Radloff 1885: xvi ff., cited from Hatto
1977: 269).
The Manas cycle consists of three large overarching storylines. Whereas

in the twentieth century greater focus tended to be placed on the second and
third storylines concerning Semetey, the son of Manas, and Semetey’s son,
Seytek, over 80% of the total verse lines in Radloff’s texts concern Manas,
reaching Semetey only in the sixth of the seven parts. The texts are, then,
heroic more than romantic, and full of political potential rather than keeping
the politics away from the foreground. Later accounts reflect on this by
suggesting that a transition from Manas to Semetey began shortly after
Radloff’s collection was recorded, and this is indicated by a 320 verse line
text from the Pishpek district archives, dated to the 1880s or 1890s but with
no proven provenance. This deals with the courting of Semetey by his future
bride Ay-čürök (‘Moon Beauty’), and is said by Russian and Kyrgyz
scholars to relate, using a later Soviet phrase, to the ‘national liberation
movement’ ongoing in the turbulent mid-nineteenth century.6
The first Manas audio recordings, 240 verse lines on six wax cylinders of
less than eighteen minutes total duration, were made at the end of 1903 or,
possibly, at the beginning of 1904. These are the subject of an exemplary
study by Daniel Prior (2006). The cylinder recordings were made by Russian
travellers in an expedition led by Aleksandr G. Belinskii. In keeping with the
convention of the time, the written records with the cylinders at the
Phonogram Archive of the Institute of Russian Literature in St Petersburg
give Belinskii as the maker, but some researchers credit the younger Boris
Smirnov with the recording. Smirnov was an art student who later, in 1914,
wrote a travelogue about the expedition.7 The singer was Kenje Kara (1859-
1929),8 and the episode recorded was the marriage of Semetey and Ay-
čürök. Kenje Kara is probably a nickname, meaning ‘black youngest
                                                        
6
Prior (2000: 10), citing Aidarkulov (1989: 37).
7
Smirnov painted a portrait of the singer and his fiddle that is reproduced in Prior
(2006) and in a number of other publications.
8
Prior (2006: 1–3) provides a comprehensive consideration of the singer based both
on personal fieldwork and Russian-language accounts by Aidarkulov (1989: 21ff.)
and in the 1995 Manas entsiklopediya.
offspring’ – black referring to dark skin or freckles. Like Radloff’s 1869

informant, he was a Solto, born near the present-day city of Kant, but at
some point he had moved to the village of Beš-küngöy south of Bishkek
(today’s name for Pishpek/Frunze9). Smirnov recalls that he was a famous
singer, but little is known about his training or influence, although
Kydyrbaeva (1984) places him, somewhat questionably, amongst a Chu
Valley group of bards. Certainly, he sang for the wax cylinder recordings
under the patronage of the Russian authorities in what was then Pishpek, and
it is known that his regular patron was the Solto chieftain Sarıbagıš. For the
recordings, he arrived on a horse, his fiddle in a sack, wearing a sheepskin
coat and peaked hat, with skullcap underneath. Smirnov recalls the event:
It is difficult to convey the impression given by his music and singing!

It was not sounds of a voice in the sense we normally understand.
They were a kind of wild moaning and howling; there was something
in them akin to the bellow of a camel, the neighing of a horse, the
bleating of a sheep... Even the very form of the guttural, sputtering
vocal sounds could not have matched the music more. This singer is
good only on the steppe; in a room his singing seemed wild and
strange (1914: 32ff.; cited from Prior’s English translation, Prior
2006: 129).
Some fifteen excerpts of the Manas epic had been collected by the time
of the revolution in the second decade of the twentieth century. All but one
of the early twentieth-century recordings focussed on the second part of the
epic trilogy, Semetey. Prior (2000: 10) interprets the shift in poetic taste
away from the warlike hero of Manas towards his more human son,
Semetey, as being linked to the new order of urban living, education and
commerce brought by Russian influence. This point is also made by
Žyrmunskii (1961: 168), who is cited both by Prior (2000: 11) and Hatto
(1974: 35). An additional slightly curious example of the shift to Semetey is
the Hungarian scholar Almásy’s ‘Farewell of Manas to his son, Semetey’,
originally published in German in 1911 and 1912 in the journal Kelety
Szemle: Revue orientale pour les études ouralo-altaiques (and translated into
Russian in 1968). No other version of the epic existing in collections and
archives contains the episode recounted by Almásy, and indeed it falls
                                                        
9
Pishpek, a Russian town with a Kazakh name, was founded in 1878. It was
renamed Frunze in 1926 after a Russian Civil War commander born there, as the
capital of the new Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic. In 1991 it became Bishkek, the
Kyrgyz form of its original name.
The Kyrgyz Manas 97
outside the normal sequence, where Semetey is born after Manas returns
from war and dies.
The bard Sagımbay Orozbaqov, who contributed a major and huge
recording in the 1920s, was known for his Semetey. In fact, he claimed that
his inspiration came from a dream in which Semetey called him to become a
bard (the dream tag is common among bards, as will be discussed below).
However, the recording that survives is of Manas rather than Semetey. The
assumption is that he and the collectors he worked with intended to move
from Manas to Semetey, but Sagımbay’s health failed before they could do
so (Musaev 1979, 1984: 125–6).
Sagımbay was born to a shawm (surnay) musician father in Qabirga on
the northern shore of Lake Issyk-kul. Trained by a number of well-known
bards including Čonbaš Narmantay and Tınıbek (1846-1902), he is said to
have begun to sing publicly when fifteen or sixteen. He was favoured by
wealthy patrons, and had travelled to an extent, for instance fleeing political
turmoil during the suppression of a rebellion to China in 1916. He was in his
mid-fifties when the collectors arrived, led by the Bashkir folklorist Kayum
Miftakov (1882-1948 or 1949), who worked with him from 1922 until 1926.
Miftakov had been a teacher on the Kazakh steppes until 1920 when he
became a school inspector in the Talas region, and he worked with both
Sagımbay and other bards. He recruited others to transcribe the oral texts
into Arabic script, chief amongst these being Ibırayım Abdırakhmanov
(1888-1967).10 Miftakov was a new Turk, and Sagımbay seems to have
obliged his interests, referring to the ‘Kyrgyz’ rather than the ‘Nogay’ for
the first time in a recording, and to the ‘Türk’ as an umbrella ethnonym for
all Turkic people.
Sagımbay’s Manas is acknowledged by scholars to comprise the first
long text that has an overarching unified plot, although Hatto (1994: 123)
critiques it as an assembly of the episodes told by many earlier bards
recorded and arranged in almost literary fashion. Soviet and Kyrgyz
scholars, although at times characterizing Sagımbay as a captive of old, pre-
revolutionary thinking, have a different interpretation, regarding his Manas
as classic, fully formed, and of high artistic merit (see, for example,
Žyrmunskii 1962: 284). Musaev puts it thus:
Such a unique position of this variant is related to some objective

causes. First of all, it is a result of a vigorous native talent of the
narrator. Secondly, when recording the texts…[he] was [between]
fifty-five and fifty-seven years old. It was a period of maturity and
blossoming of [his] manaschi genius, as he was a professional reciter
                                                        
10
See Prior (2000: 12–16) for more details.
already for about forty years. During this period his variant was
approved by people’s masses, and [the] manaschi made his text more
precise, polished it, improved the system of events in view of advice
and decisive notes of listeners. In the third place, many of [the] now
well-known narrators of the epos were Sagımbay’s contemporaries.
He has taken much from them (1984: 126).
Certainly, during the extended period that Miftakov worked with

Sagımbay, both bard and collectors had plenty of time to reflect, adjust and,
possibly, correct their texts. We might, then, suggest that ‘collection’
became something more akin to ‘collation’. Consider, in this respect, the
vast geographic spread contained within Sagımbay’s text, from Europe
through the Caucasus, south through Mecca and into Africa, east through
India, Tibet and China to Japan. The Manas entsiklopediya published in
1995 lists 532 places and 113 ethnic groups in his recording,11 a total that
can be considered indicative of the virtually global reach of the epic, but
might also be argued to be suggestive of contemporary knowledge at the
time of recording.
Collation becomes still more evident with Sayaqbay Qaralaev, who
recorded his texts for the Manas trilogy between 1932 and 1947. Whereas
Sagımbay left an all-encompassing storyline about Manas, Sayaqbay left all-
encompassing texts for all three parts of the trilogy, Manas (84,313 lines),
Semetey (316,157 lines) and Seytek (84,697 lines). Although Hatto considers
him a ‘wholesaling Kyrgyz bard’, he occupied a central position in the
Soviet canon and continues today to be respected in much the same way in
independent Kyrgyzstan. In his life, he was honoured as a Folk Artist of the
Kyrgyz Soviet Socialist Republic in 1939 and was subsequently awarded
numerous medals. Born in Džeti-Oguz in the province of Issyk-kul, he first
heard the stories of Manas from his grandmother, and learnt his craft as a
story-teller primarily from Čoyuke (1886-1928). While Sagımbay had
dreamt about Semetey, Sayaqbay fell off his horse and, rendered
unconscious, claimed to have then met Manas’s companion Almambet.12
The celebrated writer Čingiz Aytmatov (1928-2006) signals his importance:
Our contemporary, our holy old man, our pride is Sayaqbay Qaralaev,
a native talent. He is a man of the people by origin. Poet improviser,
he is as unique an artist as the great epos. His versatile harmonical art
surprises man. Qaralaev is like a symphony orchestra…[transferring]
                                                        
11
Elmira Köçümkulkïzï, http://www.silk-road.com/folklore/mana/manasintro.html
(accessed November 2009).
12
This anecdote is reported by Kydyrbaeva (1984: 30).
The Kyrgyz Manas 99
from tragedy to lyric poetry, from lyric art to drama. During his
speech sometimes he cried, sometimes he laughed, sometimes he
sighed, sometimes he was like water, sometimes he was like the
desert, and [all] Kyrgyz could not help admiring his talent (cited, with
adjustment, from Turkish International Cooperation Agency 1995:
156).
Sayaqbay Qaralaev’s trilogy consists of the following episodes, as listed

in the 1995 four-volume publication of his recording:
A. Manas
1. Manas is born; his childhood
2. Manas’s heroic deeds
3. The marriage of Manas to Kanıkey
4. The Great Battle
5. The death of Manas, and the destruction of his achievements
B. Semetey
1. Kanıkey flees with Semetey to Bukhara
2. Semetey’s childhood
3. Semetey returns to Talas
4. The marriage of Semetey to Ay-čürök
5. Semetey’s battle against Koņur-bay
6. Semetey’s disappearance
C. Seytek
1. Semetey’s family is destroyed, Ay-čürök and Kül-čoro are captured
2. Seytek’s childhood
3. Seytek fights his enemies
4. The marriage of Seytek
5. Seytek defeats his enemies, and dies
In the episodes retold within this volume, Saparbek essentially fuses the first
two of Sayaqbay’s episodes together, merely mentions that Manas has been
fatally wounded in the Great Battle but omits any detail, and continues only
to the point where Semetey defeats Koņur-bay. Kökötöydün ašı, as recorded
by Valikhanov, can be slotted towards the end of the first part, before the
death of Manas.
The Manas: Soviet and Kyrgyz Accounts
With Sagımbay and Sayaqbay, length became a defining feature to be

trumpeted in publications. While Lord’s observation that ‘length is not a
criterion of epic poetry’ stood some small chance of tempering accounts in
the West, it became commonplace amongst Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars to

state that Sagımbay’s Manas was four times larger than the Persian
Shahname (hence, Hatto’s 1994 comment cited in the previous chapter), and
some forty times the length of the Iliad. Sayaqbay’s trilogy was measured as
twenty times the length of the Iliad and Odyssey put together, and two-and-
a-half times the length of the Māhābhārata. However, and as we will briefly
explore below, the reality of performance, which precludes extending a
telling beyond what an audience will bear, has often been ignored as
measurements of length – based on texts rather than performance – take
precedence.13 Again, in the pursuit of length, inadequate attention is
arguably given to the processes involved in editing and codifying collated
texts, or conflating different texts together.
Even though an unsuccessful representation was made requesting
support, the collation of Sagımbay’s oral texts was pointedly not funded by
the Soviet state. However, the 1925 publication in Moscow of a fragment of
Semetey rendered in Arabic script that had been recorded several decades
earlier from another celebrated bard and one of Sagımbay’s teachers,
Tınıbek, led to reflection. Because of this and other factors, official
discussions began by 1930 to consider how best to translate the Manas into
Russian. As Maxim Gorkii and Andrei Zhdanov formulated and then
promoted socialist realism, as a policy that was to be both historic and
dynamic, and as a policy in which ‘art must depict reality in its revolutionary
development’,14 so the Manas became synonymous with the Kyrgyz people.
On 10 January 1935, Protocol 66 of the meeting of Buro Kyrgyz (BKPB)
Vsesoyuznaya Kommunistichaskaya Partya Bol’shevikov (VKPB), signed
by Torekul Aytmatov, stated that a dual language publication of the Manas
should be made during the year, supported financially by the Soviet
Narodnyh Kommisarov (SNK) and overseen by a committee to be approved
by the next meeting of the Oblastnoi Komitet Vsesoyuznoi
                                                        
13
For a discussion of the processes in moving from performance to text, see
Reichl’s consideration of the Karakalpak Edige epic (2007: 142–62). Note that there
is a similar tendency to emphasize length in Korean writings about the p’ansori
genre, although little evidence exists to support the notion that before the 1960s a
complete story would be performed over many hours (Park 2003: 106–107; Howard
2006: 62–3) – in the case of the Manas, the equivalent would be a performance
lasting many days.
14
For a published version of the Soviet policy, see Zhdanov (1950: 7–15). ‘Socialist
realism’ first appeared as the title of an essay by Gorkii in 1933. For general
discussions of the policy, see Arvon (1973) and Laing (1978). Given the tendency to
view the Manas as text, for the Soviet approach to literature see Borland (1950) and,
for an account of how the policy was applied to music, see Schwarz (1983).
The Kyrgyz Manas 101
Kommunistichaskoi Partyi Bol’shevikov (OKVKPB).15 The protocol notes

that the epic was of great size, and indicates that some of those involved in
drafting the protocol recalled performances taking between sixteen and
eighteen days, and that even these performances could not be considered
complete. It noted that the epic had changed across the centuries of its
existence, developing different schools of performance, and that bards were
competitive; some bards, it suggested, had given up reciting after failing to
win competitions. From the protocol, it is clear that content was considered
more important than any regional or individual distinctions – the regional
amounting to dialect considerations, and the individual to considerations of
specific bards.
Excerpts of the Manas were printed in 1935 and 1936. Pravda published
an article reiterating the great importance of the epic on 28 September 1936,
and, between 1937 and 1940, texts originally recorded from Sagımbay and
Sayaqbay were published in a number of Soviet newspapers and journals
(Musaev 1979: 29). From 1940, a collection of chapbooks appeared in a
series titled, simply, Manas. These are associated with Ibırayım
Abdırakhmanov, who had worked under Miftakov with Sagımbay two
decades earlier. Starting in 1940 with the childhood of Manas, and based on
Sagımbay’s telling, seven further chapbooks appeared in 1941, two in 1942
and a final volume in 1944.
From the 1930s onwards, bards, given honorary titles as national folk
artists, were put on stage at state and civil functions, with the effect that
short episodic performances became commonplace. This practice was
encouraged as bards joined theatre and drama groups, at times improvising
on current issues as well as traditional episodes in their recitations. This is
not surprising, since a Manas singer adds – some would say, has always
added – theatrical elements to his performance, mimicking gestures and
adding body movements. There is evidence that by 1932 the epic was being
used as a source from which to create staged dramas. Yunusaliev usefully
reminds us how, ‘over the centuries, the Manas epic has played a role of
education, influencing the audience as a play, a staged performance, a
screen, that reflects the historical events of the nation’ (1958: iv).
Sagımbay, in his recording, stated that Manas lived a thousand years ago.
The culmination of the efforts during the 1930s and 1940s to collect and
promote the epic was to have been a celebration in 1947 of what by then was
championed as a supposed 1100-year history of the epic – dating it back to
the ninth-century inscription found in Mongolia in 1909. This historicizing,
and the promotion and celebration of the anniversary, was pushed by the
Kazakh Auezov and by a second respected scholar, Bernštam; Bernštam
                                                        
15
Reprinted in Abdykarov and Džumaliev (1995: 11ff.).
wrote and published fifteen articles between 1942 and 1946. 1946 saw a
major Russian edition of part of the Manas published in Moscow by GIHL
and running to 372 pages, compiled by Džakišev. Some excerpts from this
were subsequently quoted abroad. However, the end of Soviet liberal
tolerance to Turkic and Muslim ideas in Central Asia put paid to the
proposed celebration before it could take place. Indeed, a general campaign
against cultural nationalism spread throughout the Soviet Union in the last
years of Stalin’s life, and this made research and publication on the Manas
potentially dangerous unless done with considerable care.
A conference was convened in Frunze (formerly Pishpek) in 1952 to
decide whether the Manas met the popular criteria of socialist realism or
whether it was reactionary and bourgeois, and therefore difficult. At the
conference, and covered in the newspaper Sovietskaya Kyrgyziya, debates
were held which resolved that, although the oral epic itself was indeed
popular, every version collected to date had incorporated unwarranted
bourgeois material.16 This gave the scholars a way forward, and they began a
reconsideration and correction of the collected/collated texts. As they did so,
their work coincided with activities of the Russian Academy, members of
which conducted extensive activities in the Kyrgyz region between 1953 and
1955, collecting ethnographic and archaeological materials on local customs
and rituals;17 their work extended far beyond ethnography, for eight
notebooks from the period by Mahovoi and Vasilevoi are archived that
contain biological and ethnological data.18
Work on the Manas resulted in the Kyrgyz publication of a composite but
abridged edition, published in four volumes between 1958 and 1960. The
four volumes covered all three parts of the epic trilogy,19 the first two
Manas, the third Semetey and the fourth Seytek. They were based primarily
on Sayaqbay, but added variants from Sagımbay and other bards. This
edition remains a core and highly valued text within Russia and throughout
Central Asia. In contrast, it has been argued, but from a decidedly non-
Soviet perspective, to amount to:
                                                        
16
Prior (2000: 33–4), citing Manas entsiklopediya.
17
Kyrgyzskaya kompleksnaya archeologicheskaya-ethnografyich expedizyia
sovmestno s Nauchnyi Institute ethnologyi i anthropologyi imeni N. N. Miklucho
Maklaya AN SSSR (1955).
18
F.40, Op 1, Polevye dnevniki Mahovoi E. I., and Vasilevoi G. P.
19
Some might contend that the epic can continue beyond the three generations of
Manas, his son and his grandson: Jusup Mamai, in China’s Xinjiang region, is said
to recite the epic to the seventeenth generation (http:www.silk-
road.com/folklore/manas/manasintro.html).
…an un-annotated patchwork of various bards’ versions, chosen to be

representative of the ‘original, national’ epic and arranged together
into one narrative with connecting passages composed by the editors
themselves (Prior 2000: 34).
By this time, three primary versions of the Manas were in place that
today remain central on the shelves of the Folklore Archive of the Kyrgyz
Academy of Science. These three were by Sagımbay, Sayaqbay, and Šapak
Rismendiyev (1863-1956). These, over time, have been supplemented by
recordings of other great manasči, such as Togolok Moldo (1860-1942) and
Moldobasan Musulmankulov (1893-1973). Togolok’s image appears on the
20 som Kyrgyz currency note, while Moldobasan is considered a leading
bard by the musicologist Beliaev (1975: 39). A consideration by
Kydyrbaeva, Kyrbyšev and Jainakova published in 1988 adds a further
manasči to this core grouping, Mambet Čokmorov (1896-1973). The three
co-authors offer the following justification:
If until now the complete Manas trilogy was discussed through the
performance of Sayaqbay Qaralaev, today we must incorporate the
version performed by Mambet Čokmorov, recorded between 1959 and
1972. This consists of 397,557 verse lines, among them 302,608 lines
concerning Manas, 71,609 Semetey and 23,340 Seytek (1988: 3).
Čokmorov’s recorded texts are catalogued as items 212–30 in the manuscript

archives of the Kyrgyz Academy.
A considerable amount of scholarship on the Manas had been put in
place by the early 1960s, and a bibliography of Russian language
publications was able to list 695 items that had been produced by 1961
(Berkova and Sagidova 1961: 298–369). The promotion of Manas identified
the epic, within a Soviet ideology based on Marx and Engels but in the
tradition of late nineteenth-century anthropologists such as L. H. Morgan, as
the repository of Kyrgyz folklore. So, generations of bards, without a written
script available to them, were said to have, in the words of Samar Musaev,
preserved ‘every important change in political, ideological, and economical
life of the people during its long historical development’. The oral epic was
held up as ‘the main spiritual treasury, where everything that the people had
gained was stored’. It had ripened ‘in the deepest layers of the people’s
world-view during many centuries’, and had been transmitted ‘with such a
high artistic outlook and wide scope’ that it still enthused and amazed the
people of the twentieth century. Hence, it was uniquely popular and populist,
and ‘the people of different specialists, various ages [and] different
education[s], read the published texts of the epos with a delight…
considering it to be the national pride of the people (Musaev 1984: 93, 96,
98).
Keeping with Soviet thinking, the oral epic was held to have arisen ‘in a
pre-class society as a common heroic tale of all the people, projecting the
struggle against external and internal usurpers, calling on scattered tribes to
unite’. Its songs had ‘served as keen weapons in the class struggle’, and its
singers had in the nineteenth century, just as their texts began to be
collected, ‘moved from khans and landowners to liberation from social
inequality’ (Beliaev 1975: 16–20). In keeping with the demand that art
reflect revolutionary development, bards were held to have been influenced
by ‘progressive Russian democratic culture’, so that in the text collections
and in contemporary performances of bards, ‘the flowering of the
revolutionary music contributed to the eradication of the dark aspects of the
old way of life and the rise of class consciousness’ (Beliaev 1975: 29).
Soviet scholarship balanced the primary national and popular nature of
the Manas against other epic traditions in the Soviet Union and Central Asia,
and, but to a lesser extent, sought to promote epic traditions from the Soviet
Union to the world. Hence, to quote Beliaev, the Manas ‘belongs to one of
the oldest types of folk musical-poetic art… considerably older than the epic
traditions of many other peoples of the USSR’ and occupying an
intermediate position between the earlier tradition of the Sakha and later
types elsewhere in Central Asia (1975: 16). Others such as Kononov,
following Radloff (specifically, pages 49–52 in his 1893 critical edition),
considered the Manas to be strongly connected to other Central Asian epics,
reflecting similar histories in, for example, conquests, to those related in
Oguz-kan, an epic about the legendary ancestor of the Oguz Turks, elements
of which were discussed many centuries ago in the writings of the Persian
Rashid-ad-Din (1247-1318).20 Meanwhile, to quote Musaev, ‘Manas is well
known in the Soviet Union and abroad. Through the Russian language, its
texts became a property of [the] world’s culture’ (1984: 95).
The Soviet perspective did not readily align itself with the work of
foreign scholars, some of whom attempted, Musaev claims, ‘to distort the
Soviet reality…to use the epos for disseminating hostile bourgeois
fabrications’ (1984: 115). The distortion was also said to reflect language
and access limitations, and this continues to be a criticism. Hence, Elmira
Köçümkulkïzï writes that Hatto ‘misunderstood many words, customs, and
socio-cultural issues’ because he did not speak Kyrgyz and had not lived
amongst the Kyrygz, while a second translation, by Walter Mayor, was
based only the ‘beautified Russian translation’, thereby undermining its
                                                        
20
As republished in Russia in 1958, see particularly pages 81–7. See also Kononov
(1958: 45–8).
authenticity (http://www.silk-road.com/folklore/manas/ manasintro.html;

accessed November 2009).
As a counterbalance to Musaev’s contention of distortion, Prior (2000)
asserts that a close examination of Soviet-era documents from the
communist party and other archives21 would demonstrate that the local and
Soviet research and promotion of the Manas involved plenty of adjustment
and political manoeuvring. We should not expect it to have been otherwise.
Socialist realism has largely not been a concern for foreign scholars, who
have tended to be interested in the Manas as part of global knowledge about
heroic oral epic traditions, or who, to put it in a different way, have sought to
expand global knowledge through detailed ethnographic and textual
accounts of the Manas and other epic traditions. In contrast, to Soviet
scholars, and still today amongst Russian and Kyrgyz scholars, the most
important matter has been the determination of variants, to distinguish the
main plot from other elements in order that the epic can be fully and
correctly understood (see, for example, Musaev 1979: 60 and 92). This is
one reason why so many writers note the length, in verse lines, of
recordings. Hence, Musaev notes that sixty-five ‘variants’ comprising in
excess of 2,000,000 lines were by the late 1970s kept by the Kyrgyz
Academy of Science (see also Musaev 1984: 98–9). Amongst them, in
addition to those already mentioned and although not regularly named by
commentators but as he tells us below, were the texts written out in pencil in
a small green book by the teenage Saparbek Kasmambetov.
Complex questions of formation and development underpin the analysis
of variants, as Žyrmunskii notes (1962: 85). This reflects, as Polivanov had
already stated (1936/2: 42), and paralleling long-established understandings
of the Iliad and Odyssey, that the huge size and complex poetic form within
the Manas, and the regulation of text by prosody and alliteration, mean that
it cannot be considered to be the work of a single author. A set of
assumptions are applied by Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars to resolve the
questions, cast within three hypotheses that extract episodes or elements
from the epic and relate them to historical events. The first, promoted by
Auezov and Bernštam and as briefly noted above, claims that the Manas
epic arose out of the interaction between the Uyghurs and the ancestors of
the Kyrgyz when the two inhabited the Orkhon and Yenisei river valleys
between the seventh and ninth centuries. This hypothesis relies on an
interpretation of the ninth-century runic inscription found in the Selenga
River region in 1909: Auezov and Bernštam consider the inscription’s
                                                        
21
The appropriate documents have been collected and published by Abdykarov and
Džumaliev (1995) as part of the millennial celebrations of the Manas held in
Kyrgyzstan in 1995.
‘Yaglakar-kan’ denotes a leader of the Kyrgyz ancestors who is the

prototype for Manas. They claim, again based on the limited inscription, that
a Kyrgyz or proto-Kyrgyz nomadic state was established after the defeat of
the Uyghurs around 840, and that it is the defeat of the Uyghurs which is
related in the epic as Manas’s great campaign (see, e.g., Bernštam 1942: 10-
11). In the second hypothesis, based on ethnographic, linguistic and
archaeological data, the Turkologist Yunusaliev (1958) proposes that key
events in the epic describe wars between the Kyrgyz and tribes who spoke a
Mongol language. In the third, Žyrmunskii himself theorizes that a later
origin is more appropriate, and places the origin between the fifteenth and
eighteenth centuries. His evidence is the incorporation of known historical
events and names, and the inclusion of both a concept of nationhood and a
distinct worldview (1962: 95).
While these hypotheses offer some data about potential origins, scholars
contend that, because the epic has many more events woven into its fabric,
different chronological layers, marking events known in the historical record
and of great significance for the Kyrgyz people, can be revealed and
analysed. This takes us back, of course, to the theoretical positioning of
scholars studying Homer a century before. Equally, though, the Manas is
considered to incorporate elements that indicate the origins of local and
regional customs and traditions, a step further than Homeric scholarship
needed to take, but a step required by the Soviet frame. Hence, in
Kökötöydün ašı, all the people near the hero’s deathbed cry and weep, and
we are told that from that time onwards this became the custom. Again,
performance involves interaction with an audience, and so bards once gave
different variants for villagers in a yurt and for feudal lords in their palaces,
the remnants of which, with the names and attributes of historical sponsors,
can be detected. Žyrmunskii argues that comparative studies of different
variants can reveal these ancient layers, feudal ideology, and more recent
Turkic and civil culture (1962: 90). Thereby, studies will be able to
demonstrate that the formation of the epic in its entirety took place over
many generations. If this is accepted, then he and others argue that the
Manas should be considered a mainstream document based on the real
history of Central Asia, not merely a myth or legend.
Certainly, the epic offers rich evidence of Central Asian rituals, feasts
and other customs. These are explored in a three-volume work prepared
before and latterly designed to accompany the national millennial
celebrations of 1995 by Musaev, Orusbaev and Rudov (1984-1995). Some,
as had also been discussed three decades earlier by Žyrmunskii (1962: 92ff.),
match customs, morals, and ways of thinking that can be found among the
Uyghur, Kazakh, Uzbek, and some Chinese groups. Examples include the
feast thrown by Jakıp after his own and his wives’ dreams prior to the birth
of his son, which matches the common tradition of tule; the episode where
the hero is raised by a shepherd (but where Manas goes to Ošpür, in the
Uzbek epic of Gorogly the shepherd is Edige); and, as is common in other
Central Asian epics, Manas marries several times (Žyrmunskii 1962: 100–
102). Again, the way that the newborn Manas is named by elders or ritualists
is characteristic in all versions, though those who name him vary from
‘Dubana’ according to Sagımbay to the mysterious ‘Hižr’ of Sayaqbay, and
to four prophets in Radloff’s earlier recording of an anonymous bard. In the
early manuscript ‘Kitab-i Dede Qorqut/Book of Grandfather Qorqut’, the
newborn son of the khan is named by the wise leader and shaman, while in
the Uzbek Alpamysh epic, the holy Ali takes on the identity of a shaman to
name the child (Samoilovich 1911: 299; Divaev 1916: 206).
The musical instruments recounted in the epic (as opposed to the string
instruments that bards may use to self accompany) are also common
throughout the region. These include surnay shawms that are integral for
celebrations, and drums, gongs, surnay, and brass trumpets such as the
karnay sounding the battle cry: ‘A hundred sticks, a thousand surnay, ten
thousand karnay’ announces the warriors’ march into the great battle
(Žyrmunskii 1962: 31).
Religious elements within the Manas are shamanistic or animistic as well
as Islamic, indicative, Soviet and Kyrgyz scholars contend, of the different
layers set down over time. In some tellings such as that of Sagımbay, Jakıp
prays for a son before a Sufi sacred tomb (or, more accurately, before a
sacred place); not so with Saparbek as retold in the episodes within this
volume, where the vision that portends the death of his son suggests totemic
elements. References to helping spirits who sit, for example, on the shoulder
of Kanıkey, or as the forty čilten who protect Majık, Büdıbek’s son, from a
tiger, seem reminiscent of the stories of Sufi saints. In some versions of the
story, Manas plans a pilgrimage to Mecca so that he can pray for a son, but
he abandons the long journey when Kanıkey announces she is pregnant.
Elsewhere in the story, Manas prays as a Muslim. He prays in the morning
as Koņur-bay creeps up, and as he bends his head in supplication Koņur-bay
cuts his neck with his sword (Žyrmunskii 1962: 40–49). In some versions,
Almambet is a Muslim living amongst the heathen Chinese, who flees after
Esen-kan, who has refused him the hand of his daughter in marriage, plans
to kill him. All of this must post-date the spread of Islam.
In contrast, Manas is regularly described through animistic totemic terms,
as a lion or tiger, as having a blue mane, as being bloodthirsty. Again,
Kanıkey, the widow of Manas, is seen praying to a sacred tree prior to
fleeing his brothers with her son Semetey. When Kanıkey abandons her son
to save his life, stepping over the branch of a freshly felled young tree, she
forces the baby to step over a sharp blade and the bowl of a dog, and in
stating this the storyteller goes back to cultural practices that predate the
spread of Islam. The helping spirits, too, are as shamanistic as they are Sufi:
throughout Central Asia ancestral spirits function as a core component of

memory and life. The spirits, it must be stated, have been incorporated into
Central Asian Sufi practices (DeWeese 1996). One legacy of this is that, to
bards, the spirits of heroes are key in transmitting knowledge of the epic.
Evidence of this is widespread amongst Turkic people (Bertels 1948: 137).
Rahmatullin states that ‘the legend of spiritual contact is something special
about Manas himself, as it gives him an image of the highest
accomplishment and prestige’ (1968: 94). Musaev goes further, stating that it
is widely considered that to become a manasči is only possible after
dreaming, and that the dream or dreams allows the bard to become more
confident of his talent and destiny (1979: 47). Manas, or other heroes,
appears with warriors or kin in dreams, and may threaten illness and
misfortune if the fledgling bard refuses to take up singing. It is interesting to
consider how this played out in Soviet times; it is also intriguing to note that
dreams and visions characterize the calling of shamans in many regions.
Saparbek Kasmambetov relates in Chapter 3 how he dreamt of Manas
when aged twelve; thereafter, he recalls several strange spiritual
interventions. His account parallels stories remembered about other bards.
For example, and famously, in 1916, Sayaqbay dreamt as he journeyed away
from the turbulence of rebellion towards China of a white yurt in the place of
a big black rock.22 He fainted at a cacophony of sound that seemed to fall
from the sky. He entered the yurt when he woke and was greeted by
Kanıkey, who fed him. As he left, he was met by Wise Bakay and some of
Manas’s forty trusted warriors. Again, as a child, Mambet Čokmorov began
to recite the Manas when herding sheep on the mountains on his own. His
right side slowly became paralysed, perhaps, it has been suggested, because
he was reciting sacred texts without any audience. His uncle sacrificed a
horse and trained Mambet to perform before an audience, but the boy would
only perform in the family house. His mother, who often claimed to see
Manas and other heroes in her dreams, encouraged him. Although he had no
memory of it, Mambet would often recite the whole night. His mother
eventually slaughtered a lamb to the heroes, and thereafter Mambet recited
for forty days without stopping, travelling between different people’s
houses, and thereby he revealed himself as a true manasči (Čokmorov
Mambet, Rukopisnye fondy AN kyrgyzskoy SSR, inv n 214, tetrad’ 1). And,
the great singer Tınıbek was in his youth returning back to his village home
from Kara-kul. Feeling tired, he stopped and fell asleep. He dreamt that a
                                                        
22
Manas entsiklopediya (1995, 1: 185). He journeyed to Kashgar to escape political
unrest, as Central Asia rose in rebellion against Russian control, and it is tempting to
contemplate whether significance was being ascribed to the colour white, by
conflating the white guards who later fought in the East.
large group of people approached him: forty warriors on horseback were

escorting their leader, and the leader was riding a white horse. They
dismounted to have a break, spreading food on the grass, and instructing
their servants to share food and honey with the young Tınıbek. The servants
told Tınıbek it was Manas on his white horse Ak-kula. Before he could go
up to them, they saddled their horses and rode off. Still sleeping, Tınıbek
began to sing about Manas, and when he awoke his body was full of songs
about the great hero. His horse, which had been tired, now galloped at speed
to his village. Tınıbek kept singing all night, having received his bardic gift
(Auezov 1962: 22–3).
Placing shamanism and its related ritual practices in the past supports the
idea that bards were once synonymous with shamans. A legend about the
nineteenth-century bard Keldıbek retains the idea of shamanistic power:
when he sang, it is said that the yurt he was in shook, the wind rose to
hurricane force and a storm blew in; in the centre of that storm, Manas and
his warriors could be seen, their horses’ hooves making the ground tremble
(Auezov 1962: 18; Rahmatullin 1968: 94). The overlap can be seen in the
various meanings of baxši/baxšı/bagši/baqsı across the region. For example,
Levin usefully defines two distinct categories of Uzbek baxši, reciters of oral
poetry, the first concerned with artistic entertainment and the second using
music as an aid to healing (1996: 146). He indicates that the two were at
some point in the past fused together in single individuals. Again, at the
Buryat National Theatre in Siberia in 2001, I watched a drama in which a
shaman was unable to control the spirits, so a blind bard was entrusted with
rescuing the groom who at his wedding ceremony had been stolen and taken
to the Underworld.23
Kyrgyz legend has it that the first bard was Jırchı uul, the son of Jırman
and one of the forty warriors of Manas, who sang a lament to Manas at his
funeral. The famed bard Toktogul is the next to be remembered. He is said to
have collected popular songs, adding them to the epic. Toktogul is
remembered in a proverb: ‘Toktogul-bay yurčybol, Tolubay-bay synčybol,
Jeerenče-bay čečenbol! (May you be as amazing a singer as Toktogul, as
knowledgeable as Tolubay, as eloquent a speaker as Jeerenče!)’ (Žyrmunskii
1962: 34). One famed bard’s name from the eighteenth century is
remembered, Noorus, and a number of nineteenth-century bards are known –
although we do not know their birth and death dates – amongst them
Keldıbek Barıboz, Balıbek Bekmurat Kumar and his son Naimanbay,
Tınıbek Džapy, Akılbek, Dıkambay, Čonbaš Narmantay and Čoyuke Omur
(Auezov 1962: 19 and 29; Musaev 1979: 34).
                                                        
23
Excerpts are recorded on Misha Maltsev and Keith Howard, Siberia at the Centre
of the World: Buryatia (SOASIS DVD07, 2008).
Today, Manas bards are distinguished by rank. The greatest and most
highly esteemed, both living and dead, are known as čon džomoqču/čon
manasči, and those in the second rank as čınıgi džomoqču/čınıgi manasči. In
the top rank sit Sagımbay and Sayaqbay, bards considered to have created
their own complete versions of the epic. While Sayaqbay in his life had the
nickname ‘Homer of the Orient’, because of the huge corpus of verse lines
he recorded, Žyrmunskii considers that Sagımbay recorded the only classical
version that has survived into recent times, although he notes the presence of
some pan-Turkic sentiments and ideas that reflect more contemporary issues
(1962: 51–9, 284). In the second rank sit Moldobasan Musulmankulov,
Bagıš Sazanov, Togoloko Moldo, Šapak Rısmendiyev, and Mambet
Čokmorov, bards with great knowledge and with personal versions of
substantial episodes. These trained disciples. Beneath these come čala
džomoqču/čala manasči, craftsmen who learn from skilful bards and perform
parts rather than the complete epic. Finally, beginners and students sit in a
fourth category, as yurenčuk džomoqču or yurenčuk manasči. The Kazakh
writer Muhtar Auezov offers an alternative classification with only two
ranks, čon manasči that denotes the few bards who know and can perform all
three parts of the epic (Manas, Semetey, Seytek) and čala manasči, denoting
the majority of bards these days, bards who know only shorter segments
learnt by heart (Auezov 1962: 18). Little is known about teaching styles in
earlier times, although many differentiate two core geographically-situated
schools of performance, the Tien Shan (of whom a celebrated exponent was
Sagımbay) and Issyk-kul (in which school sit Sayaqbay and many others,
including Saparbek).
Although, as discussed in the previous chapter, the musical components
of recounting the Manas mainly consist of non-metrical intoned
declamations and džorgo söz flowing speech, bards can incorporate many
song styles: košok laments, arman complaints, kereez statements of will,
instructional songs (sanaat našıat), travel songs, džomoq narrative songs,
and more (Musaev 1979: 9). In his novel ‘Jamilia/Telegram’, Čingiz
Aytmatov speaks of the tender, penetrating and yearning loneliness of
Kyrgyz songs, where the voice wavers then rings out with great power,
reflecting the landscape of mountains, steppes, rivers, skies and people’s
feelings (2007: 66–7). Some general introductions to music contain valuable
comments on the Manas, such as Musika Lugati (1987: 192), the third
volume of Muzykal’naya entsiklopedia (1976, 3: 430), and Muzykal’nyi
entsiklopedicheskyi slovar (1990: 323).
A large proportion of the published musicological work on the Manas
takes the form of transcription and analysis, even though there is a limit to
the analysis that can be offered due to the prevalence of recitation. Some,
then, would regard the recitation of the Manas as less than a musical art.
Others, though, have written following Asafiev’s lead to elaborate on the
musical and stylistic qualities of intonation, giving it almost

anthropomorphic qualities (as noted in the previous chapter). Examples of
musicological scholarship following the latter include publications by
Diušaliev (1993, 1994, 1999 and 2007) and Moldogaziev (1995), who
transcribe and analyse recordings of Sayaqbay with an emphasis on
virtuosity and the general characteristics. Valuable transcriptions have been
produced by Vinogradov (1958; as discussed in Aliev, Sarypbekov and
Matiev 1995) and Alagušov et al. (1989). A further transcription was
published as a four-page supplement to the account of Alagušov (1995). One
scholar, somewhat tangentially, observes the influence of the performance of
manasči on piano music (Nadyrshina 1994).
These and other discussions (e.g., Kyrgyzskyi muzykal’nyi folklor (1939),
Beliaev (1962/1975) and Zataevich (1971)) segregate music from textual
analysis. In fact, as a rule, musicologists have paid little attention to
performance aspects such as how the epic was performed, the context,
individual traits, audience impact and interaction, and so on. Archive
recordings similarly fail to convey artistic presentation in performance. It is
reasonable to assert that the reason for the lack of consideration of
performance is because the text – that is, the poetry itself – has been the
main focus of scholarly attention. Indeed, the dominant research
methodology, broadly developed through studies of literature by Roman
Yakobson, Yuri Lotman and others, evolved from Ferdinand de Saussure’s
(1815-1913) structuralist approach, moderating textual analysis through
linguistic and literary theory. This attracted ethnographers and literature
specialists to the Manas, but in a way that devalued the artistry developed,
perhaps over many centuries, in its performance. This is, as we have
indicated in the previous chapter, not so different to scholarship on epic
poetry in Western Europe or North America. However, the Soviet system
added further requirements that its scholars were expected to comply with.
Hence, and although musicologists and folklorists had less of a role to play
than ethnographers, historians, ethnologists, literature specialists and
philologists, the principal requirement of all scholarship was to demonstrate
that the Manas was an example of folk art. Scholars were required to prove
its value as precisely this, concentrating on its origins, on the role of the
people in the events portrayed, and on providing a historical frame that
explained its development in ways that suitably matched ideology. Once this
is recognized, then we can begin to account for why musical talent and
distinction or skill has so far not been thoroughly considered, and we can
also appreciate the reason for the generalizations about social contexts that
appear frequently in different publications.
To Soviet, Russian and Kyrgyz scholars and other writers, then, the
Manas is narodnost: the heroic epic belongs to the Kyrgyz nation and to the
Kyrgyz people. Čingiz Aytmatov, in cognisance of this, revived the idea of
the 1947 celebration of the Manas in three communist party congresses

during the late 1970s and 1980s. His appeals resulted in a call for a 1,000-
year celebration that would celebrate the heritage of the Kyrgyz people as
well as draw international attention. Following independence, the Kyrgyz
President, Askar Akayev, paid attention to Aytmatov, issuing a decree in
1992 that stated the Manas was a ‘symbol of the unity and spiritual revival
of the Kyrgyz nation and of its culture, dignity and consciousness’.24
A state celebration was duly arranged to mark the 1,000-year anniversary
in 1995, with performances and publications (including the two-volume
Manas entsiklopediya already cited several times in this volume) at home
and abroad. This, according to contemporary commentaries, constituted the
largest gathering within the state in modern times. It functioned as a
symbolic memorial feast to Manas, and his supposed tomb, in the
northwestern region of Talas, was reconstructed.25 The Manas is today
sufficiently iconic to stand as the name of airports and streets, and for much
more. However, some such as Toktaiym Umetaliyeva, president of a local
non-governmental organization, argue that the impetus to preserve and
protect it has stalled in recent years, when the Kyrgyz government missed
the opportunity to have the Manas promoted through UNESCO.26
At the time of the 1995 celebrations, President Akayev announced that all
Kyrgyz should follow the ‘seven principles of Manas’ – namely, national
unity, generous and tolerant humanism, international friendship and
cooperation, harmony with nature, patriotism, hard work and education, and
strengthening the Kyrgyz state. Although it can be argued that all seven are
thoroughly embedded within the totality of the Manas, it is not easy to
pinpoint exact statements about them as individual and distinct principles.
Arguably, too, while the seven principles make the epic ‘the main source of
spiritual guidance for [the] reborn nation’ (Kinzer 2000), isolating them and
separating them as single principles threatens the organic, all-encompassing
nature of the epic. This same concern, surely, is pertinent in attempts to
discover and isolate layers, or to substantiate any elements as archetypal, or
to propose any framework as the original form. In other words, it could well
be that analysing the constituent parts of the Manas from the perspective of
                                                        
24
Item 70 in Abdykarov and Džumaliev (1995).
25
http://www.silk-road.com/folklore/manas/manasintro.html.
26
http://www.cacianalyst.org/?q=node/5208 (Central Asia-Caucasus Inst. ‘Analyst’,
accessed November 2009). Behind this sits a fear of China: as China has rapidly
moved to list and protect its intangible heritage, so the Manas has been declared a
part of that heritage. While the epic exists amongst singers in Xinjiang, some
Kyrgyz fear China aims to reclaim the territory – Kyrgyzstan – that it once
occupied.
contemporary rationalism robs it of its power and identity. And that power
and identity is present both in the large-scale texts that have been recorded
and analysed and in the individual performances of bards. Hence, it is to a
bard that we now turn: Chapter Three explores the life of Saparbek
Kasmambetov.
CHAPTER THREE
THE MANASČI, SAPARBEK KASMAMBETOV
In her childhood, Gulnara Kasmambetova remembers her father, Saparbek

Kasmambetov, visiting the celebrated Sayaqbay Qaralaev. Both manasči
lived in Ribachie, a town known today as Balykchy. The great singer
Sayaqbay, elderly, short and stout, with moustache but no beard, was dressed
in a dark suit. He was seated just as he often was on a bench below a Soviet-
style apartment block by the side of a road. He seemed out of place. He lived
with his son in the larger of the two statutory-sized apartments, a two-
bedroom three-roomed unit, but there was little for him to do. He should, at
least according to the common image we have of the Central Asian bard,
have been in a village in the countryside practising his trade. Horses and
carts should have been rumbling by, people should have been greeting and
chatting to each other, children should have been playing.
The life of the manasči has changed. These days, bards live surrounded
by modernity. They sing on urban stages. Some are feted by the state, and
frequently sing in front of TV cameras or radio microphones. Many are
engaged to make celebrations special. Qaralaev, a friend of Saparbek since
the latter’s childhood, was one of these, as were Šaabay Azızov (b.1927) and
Urkaš Mambetalyev (b.1935) – who used to call Saparbek ‘Sapke’, a term of
endearment. Saparbek, too, is one of these. He has been filmed many times,
and Bokunbay Burkeev, formerly a linguistics scholar who for many years
has produced programmes on folk culture for Kyrgyz TV (KTR), today has
some thirty hours’ video of him singing (Burkeev is one of the few who
studies Manas from a phenomenological approach, identifying what happens
in performance). In several ways, however, Saparbek represents an older
generation of bard, or, more accurately, a continuation of the bardic
tradition.
His sense of history is that of a nomad from the steppes, taking the Manas
stories as fact, with little concern for a specific historic time – ‘a long time
ago’ does nicely. He tells his story with a frame that stretches seamlessly
from that past to the present, and so the epic is part of his daily life. In 2006,
116 Singing the Kyrgys Manas
when Gulnara took Saparbek to Uffington near Swindon in England, where a

white horse of considerable antiquity is carved into the chalk of the hillside,
he immediately identified it as Ak-kula, Manas’s steed. Manas, he recalled,
had befriended so many warriors, so he must have given the steed to one, to
one who had ridden to this distant country, to one who had created this
monument to the horse when it died. Saparbek began to improvise lines:
‘Your animal soul, left so far away from home, I have come from that distant
place and found you.’
Again, his telling is based on an internalized sense of place that at times
would struggle to readily fit onto a map. Consider the Great Battle (Episode
Three above): the Kyrgyz troops reach Keng-kul (today’s Ala-kul south of
Karakol) while stones that legend has it mark each of Manas’s warriors are
situated at Santaš, a little north and to the east of today’s Taldy-Suu; the
retreat traversed virtually the entire country, from the Chinese border along
Issyk-kul, down a gorge that leads to Bishkek, and almost to Talas; many of
the Chinese were slaughtered in marshes near today’s Tokmok. The region
around Talas in the northwest of today’s state is paticularly associated with
Manas, and is where legend has it that Manas’s grave is situated, but
consider Semetey’s return (Episode Five). As Kanıkey flees she first rests at
Üč-košoy, in the Talas region. But, when Semetey returns, he does so in a
sequence that begins further south: he first goes to Ak-bel south of Narin
near the border, then to Kırben near Jalalabad, close to today’s border with
Uzbekistan. From here he goes north to Üč-košoy, then back south to Lake
Keng-kul in the Osh region (a different lake to the lake of the same name
near the eastern border with China) and to Kermečüü south of Osh, before
returning to Ak-kıya in Talas.
Nonetheless, Saparbek lives in the modern world. He is well able to read,
but if he ever used the written Manas texts that had been printed by the time
he was growing up – to briefly reflect on the common view that we have
moved from a time when bards learnt within an oral tradition – he did so
way back in his youth. He is known to never sing episodes the same twice,
and he improvises when he sings. This has not always been easy for his wife
who, when she was a model communist teacher, knew that one line sung in
haste might attract criticism from the authorities and had the potential to
wreck her own career.
Saparbek was, and still is, expected to sing at parties and gatherings.
Picture the scene: food and drink has been consumed in considerable
quantity, and jokes and chat exchanged. A manasči describes the ‘must sing’
moment, and so Saparbek will prepare to sing, adjusting his poise, breathing
deeply, withdrawing from the general chat around him. He will begin much
as an aqın or ırčı, for his first lines will reflect on the event and the food. He
will likely praise the hosts, offering snippets of humorous stories about those
present, teasing, congratulating the birthday boy (‘Is he really that young?’),
The manasči, Saparbek Kasmambetov 117
or maybe offering a little social commentary (‘Have we all voted today?’).

The audience, warmed, will wait for him to launch into an episode from the
Manas. Sometimes he will be asked for a specific episode. As Gulnara was
growing up, he would take his young daughter to many of the parties, but
once he began to sing he would be so taken up by the task at hand that he
would not notice her go off to play with other children. She, for her part, was
not yet attracted by what she thought of as the deep and gruff voice that
characterized the bardic style of recitation, nor, since she was in a Russian
school, by the complex and at times archaic Kyrgyz texts.
Saparbek was born on 31 May 1934. In that year, his family moved from
the regional centre of Narin at the western end of the Tien Shan Mountains
to Kochkor, where his father was appointed by the government to manage
the collection of animal hides from farmers. The family had a small livestock
holding that his wife, Sairake, managed in the Chalai Jailoo alpine pastures.
They would erect their yurt near relatives and friends in early May, when
spring reached the snow-capped mountains. May is a blessed time of year,
when sudden and sharp showers pass quickly, providing sustenance to the
pasture’s rich green carpet and to its generous sprinkling of myriad
multicoloured flowers. As the showers pass, so the sun comes out, shining as
if smiling like a child. A fresh breeze plays on the grass, blowing one way to
turn the landscape green and the other to summon forth a burst of blues,
yellows and reds as the flowers open their petals. People and animals alike
are warmed, awakening from the frosts of winter and bursting, with vitality,
into life.
That year, Sairake was heavily pregnant, expecting her fifth child. On the
very day she was due to give birth she continued the household chores,
milking cows, boiling milk, feeding her daughter Ayımkul and her son
Imanakun. All night she had been in labour. She came out of the yurt.
Maintaining her graceful poise as best she could she walked past the storage
tent. She was heading for a huge black stone known as ‘Kalkaman’. At that
stone, passers-by would stop to take a break. Riders would sometimes
dismount from their horses and take a nap in its cool shadow. Children
climbed it and jumped from the top, or hid behind it to escape the tasks their
parents had given them. The elders would occasionally gather beside it to
hold an important council.
Kukush, Sairake’s sister-in-law, had arrived a week before to look after
her. She followed Sairake to the stone. Some lambs that were sheltering in
its shade ran off. Sairake leaned on it. Kukush hurriedly gave her a bakan
stick, the stick with a forked end that is used in the kitchen to hang utensils
and bags of yoghurt. Standing behind Sairake, she put her arms around her
belly, squeezing as the mother pushed her child. The mother’s loud cry was
followed by the baby’s first yell. It was a boy. Kukush delivered the baby
into her apron, cut the umbilical cord. She wrapped the baby in her scarf and
gave it to Sairake. And so, the tiny newcomer found comfort in the warmth
of the spring sun and from the gaze of his mother’s loving eyes.
‘Joy! I’ve got a little brother!’ shouted Sairake’s eldest son, Imanakun.
Neighbours gave him sweets and coins, and blessed him with the words,
‘Long live your brother!’ Sairake’s husband, Kasmambet, was overjoyed,
and thanked God over and over again. The new arrival dispelled the grief in
his heart left after the loss of his two elder sons, Imangazi and Asıranbek. He
slaughtered a lamb and invited relatives and wellwishers to a feast. Grateful,
he looked at his wife. ‘We live together, moving from one place to another.
Our life is a continuous journey, so I name my new son ‘Saparbek’ – ‘Safe
Journey’. He took the child in his hands, raising him up three times, each
time repeating the name, ‘Saparbek, Saparbek, Saparbek! My son has been
safely delivered near the powerful Kalkaman Stone. If God wills, Saparbek
will be special.’
Life continued. After his work in Kochkor was done, Kasmambet
returned with his family to Narin, where he was to lead a work team
supplying timber. When Saparbek was four, the Soviet authorities launched
a campaign to eliminate illiteracy. Hundreds of housewives, including
Sairake, were enrolled. As was common in those days, she took the child
Saparbek along. He would run to her between his games, sit on her lap and
suckle her breast. One day when the teacher asked Sairake to read out loud,
she struggled to remember the alphabet. Saparbek looked up from her breast
and in a clear voice said, ‘Mum, say “a”, that’s the letter “a”’. The whole
class burst into laughter.
Once war was declared in 1940, Kasmambet’s work became more
demanding. More and more timber was needed. His team cut evergreen trees
in the mountains, took them down the slopes to the Narin River, lashed them
together with steel chains, and pushed them out into the current so the timber
floated downstream. Many had been recruited to the Red Army, so there was
a severe manpower shortage. Kasmambet had to work alongside his workers.
One day, he jumped from his horse as the men struggled with a chain they
were using to tie the timber together. He was tall and his long hair reached
down his back – a very unusual sight, since Kyrgyz men normally shave
their scalps – and he gathered his hair in a makeshift pigtail as he
approached the men. The chain suddenly freed itself, and its end struck him
on the head, killing him instantly.
Before Saparbek had completed his first year at school, his father’s
family in Issyk-kul decided his widow should move the family and livestock
back to Kasmambet’s natal village, Korumdu (Korundy). The long journey
by cart, leading their cows, horses, goats and sheep, took nearly a month.
They travelled through gorges and along the banks of rapidly flowing rivers.
Sairake filled the long hours by thinking about her lost husband, about
widowhood and loneliness, and about how to raise the children. But she was
never totally lonely, since she carried stories in her memory, and her whole
body would become animated as she told those stories to her children.
Sometimes, as they journeyed, they glimpsed a fox, and Sairake would
tell a tale about the mischievous adventures of such an animal. Sometimes
they would see birds flying high in the sky, and Sairake would relate a story
about love. She would tell stories about the trees, about picking up the
flowers that were everywhere beneath their feet. Evenings were reserved for
the most exciting tale, which she gradually unfolded from one evening to the
next. This tale told about Kyrgyz batır – brave young heroes who fought
bloodthirsty beasts. The heroes fought many-headed dragons, but the
dragons grew a new head if one was chopped off, so every evening there
were new dragon’s heads to describe, and every evening a batır had to be
summoned to chop a new head off. Sometimes the tale was so funny that
Sairake had to squeeze her words out through fits of laughter. The children
would hold their stomachs as they giggled, but they screamed when danger
reared up or when horrors were described. Saparbek would get more scared
than his siblings and would grasp Imanakun’s hand. But Imanakun would
produce horrible gurgles from deep in his throat that made his younger
brother even more frightened.
They finally arrived in Korumdu, and the family of Abdıkerım,
Kasmambet’s younger brother. Old Kyrgyz tradition allowed a widow to
return to her parents, leaving children with her husband’s relatives, or to
marry one of her husband’s brothers. This was how the nomads ensured that
a widow and her children were taken care of. Abdıkerım, though, was
already married, and his wife was reluctant to welcome the open-minded and
independent-thinking Sairake into her household. Sairake’s well-tended
stock, though, proved a good enough temptation to ensure she was allowed
to stay under the same roof.
As war continued, more relatives left for the army. Sairake decided it
would be best to move to live near her own relatives in Kochkor. She took
what remained of her livestock, loaded her belongings on a cart, and left
with Imanakun, Ayımkul and Saparbek. Again, the journey was filled with
tales, as she told the children of dark enemies and brave heroes. The heroes
would emerge from the waves of the ever-cool Lake Issyk-kul riding white
horses that seemed to be born from the foamy water. They would ride off to
crush the enemy.
When they were a day from Ribachie, the town at the western edge of the
lake, and before they reached the crossroads where roads led off to the
capital, Frunze, and Narin, they came across a young woman. She greeted
Sairake, asking if she could have a lift on their cart. She said that like them
she was going to Kochkor. To start with, Sairake hesitated, because the two
eldest children and she were walking so as not to tire their only horse as it
dragged the loaded cart. But the prospect of having a companion for the last
part of the journey outweighed her concerns. The women and children
moved on, talking about war, hardship, and the lack of food. The young
woman told Sairake that her parents-in-law had died after her husband left
for the war, and that she was now travelling to join her relatives. They hadn’t
reached Ribachie by nightfall, so they set a camp. Sairake made a small fire
and boiled a drink of oats, sharing her scarce food with the unknown woman.
She gave the woman one of her precious blankets.
Dawn broke and Sairake woke up. She noticed that her guest’s blanket
was cold. The woman had gone. Sairake’s small amulet, which she kept
together with her most valuable possession, her mother’s silver bracelet, was
lying near one cartwheel. Realizing that the woman had probably been lying
about going to Kochkor, she roused the children. As she packed up camp and
prepared to move on, she noticed her little bag of precious oat flour was
missing. In Ribachie, she exchanged her silver ring for half a loaf of bread.
Now she had a new story, about a half-beast half-woman who cheated
people and stripped them of their belongings. A brave woman noticed in the
burning oil of a lamp the reflection of the beast-woman looking down from
the round open frame that tops a yurt. She quickly took the lamp, went
outside and poured the hot oil over the mischievous creature. Never again
would that beast-woman approach anyone! Never again would it try to steal!
The village elders blessed the brave woman, saying that any small loaf of
bread she baked would always prove enough to feed a whole tribe. ‘I got this
bread from her, and here it is for us to eat,’ Sairake then said, moving from
story back to life. She gave a slice of bread to each child, and that half loaf
sustained the family until they reached Abdırasul, Sairake’s brother, and his
family in Kochkor.
Life was not easy in those days. The old, and the women and children,
replaced the young in the fields; the wartime burden of agriculture rested on
their weak shoulders. Women gave their jewellery to be melted down to
make tanks. Food was scarce. The only things they had to share were rare
letters from serving relatives and their grief when word came of a battle
death. To lift their spirits, in the evenings old men would sometimes gather
around a fire to hear about the great hero, Manas. ‘Mum, who was Manas?’
asked Saparbek. Sairake responded: ‘Manas was the bravest batır. He fought
our enemies long, long ago. His story is so huge that it has to be told by
manasči bards. One day you might meet a bard.’ He was now nine and was
meant to attend school, but the teacher had been drafted and there was
nobody left to teach him, so he stayed at home helping his mother.
That night Saparbek slept uneasily. Occasionally he would wake, crying
and screaming. ‘There, there, what’s the matter, my son?’ ‘Mum, I can see a
massive battle. There are many warriors on horseback armed with sticks,
swords, and bows and arrows. They almost trampled me underfoot as I tried
to escape from them!’ ‘It is just a dream. Calm down’, his mother said. As
usual, she got up very early the next morning. She took a bucket and went
out to milk a cow. The yard, muddy after rain, was full of the imprints of
horseshoes. She yelped in shock. It was as if a great herd of horses had
galloped around it! You see, for nomads, dreams are real. They are part of a
different reality that co-exists with the daily life that we experience. The
nomads live in both realities, accepting dreams as omens, signposts,
reminders. Saparbek’s dream needed to be heeded. Sairake called relatives
and neighbours and prepared a sacrifice. She slaughtered a little goat – the
hardships of war meant she could not spare a larger animal, and in later life
Saparbek would comment that if only a bigger goat had been sacrificed he
would surely have been blessed with a stronger voice.
As life went on, Saparbek would ride a stick, imagining it as his horse.
From time to time he would rhyme words, amusing the boys he played with.
But there was little food. Sairake, hearing her relative Junušbey had become
a governor in Issyk-kul, decided to ask for help. She left the two older
children in charge of the house and put Saparbek on her cow – she couldn’t
risk leaving it in the children’s care because there were hungry and desperate
deserters hiding in the area. Off went mother and son to Junušbey. Again,
the journey was filled with tales, but now it was Saparbek who created most
of them. Sairake wondered where he had learnt them.
They reached Korumdu as a group of actors touring collective farms were
performing. Sairake and Saparbek listened to their jokes and songs. The
legendary Sayaqbay Qaralaev was among them. People begged him to sing.
This was the first time Saparbek had come across a living bard and, eyes
wide open, he listened as Sayaqbay sang about Kanıkey, the widow of
Manas. Without realizing, he inched himself closer and closer until he was
sitting right beside Sayaqbay. He was mesmerized by the rhythmic chanting,
the lines of poetry suddenly switching from agitation to galloping, from
tragedy to tenderness, from crying to lyrical romance. Words poured like a
stream, igniting his imagination but also lulling him. He fell asleep. As
Sairake tried to lift him away, Sayaqbay gestured to leave the boy alone. The
next day, a grateful Sairake was given a sack of flour by Junušbey. Mother
and son set off back to Kochkor. All the way, Saparbek tried to imitate the
great bard. He could remember some lines, but mostly he made up the story
and an imagined form of recitation.
Back in Kochkor, Sairake milked the cows with her fellow women on the
collective farm. Saparbek, like his fellow school children, was also assigned
tasks. In the early mornings the farm brigadier, Asek – who had been sent
back from the front after losing a leg –, loaded a donkey with four čanače
goatskin bags of yoghurt, and Saparbek would deliver them to the farm
workers cutting hay in the mountains. It wasn’t long before the workers
complained that the bags were only half full when Saparbek brought them.
Saparbek told the brigadier what was happening: men with guns stopped him
every day, drank some of the yoghurt, and threatened him with violence if he
told anybody. Asek guessed these must be deserters, hiding out in the hills.
Knowing it would take days before help arrived, he added a smaller fifth
čanače to the donkey’s load so both workers and deserters could be fed.
It would take Saparbek half the day to reach the farm workers and half to
return. On the way back, darkness descended quickly in the mountain gorges
he passed through, and he would sing loudly to stop himself getting scared.
When he had exhausted the lines he knew, he improvised his own songs.
Sometimes he sang about batır heroes and sometimes he created a song that
mocked his friends. As the days passed, so it became his habit to improvise
lines about his surroundings. One evening, Brigadier Asek called him to a
village meeting and asked him to sing about lazy farm workers. Saparbek
began:
Karagul and Daadey have forgotten their task:

They left hay behind, and now it sits rotting.
But there are those who have worked hard,
Who put in great effort and who gained stars,
Who drank the yoghurt I brought them,
And who are now to be praised and thanked.
Once the harvest was in, Saparbek had more time to play with his calf. It
was like his pet. One day after school he went to the field where it grazed but
could not find it. As he continued to search for it, he walked far from home.
It was getting dark when he came to a river running across rocks, and on the
river’s bank he bumped into an old man. The man was struggling to load
firewood onto an emaciated donkey. Saparbek greeted him and helped load
the wood. The man, telling Saparbek it was now too dark to find his calf,
invited him back to his home. The man was more than seventy, and lived
with his wife in a single room carved into the rock of the hillside. Amongst
the Kyrgyz, even a child is a guest, and guests must be revered as God’s
messengers. So, the old man slaughtered a small goat and, as its meat
cooked, invited Saparbek to sing. Clumsily, Saparbek began to recite,
imitating the great Sayaqbay, leaning forwards and backwards, gesticulating
with his hands, tapping the time out rhythmically on his knees. The old man
looked on until Saparbek finished, and then told told him to listen.
The old man was Šapak Rismendiyev (1863-1956), a famous manasči.
Rismendiyev, with his well trained but thin voice, began to tell how Manas
had fought the Chinese in a great battle. It was a bloodthirsty tale, and this
time Saparbek did not fall asleep. He held his breath as he listened. The old
man, small and frail when seen in the shadowy and murky light of a single
oil lamp, became a warrior, scything the air with his hands as if plunging an
imagined sword into countless enemies. His voice strengthened to a deep cry
as batır heroes were wounded and died. Every cell in Saparbek’s body
seemed to absorb the epic, until the batır drove the Chinese back and, still
grieving for their fallen comrades, brought news of victory back to their
people. The story ended as supper was served. Sated, Saparbek slept. The
next morning he left, taking meat and an old scarf as gifts from the old man
for his mother.
Saparbek continued to search for the calf but couldn’t find it. He decided
to return home, and as he approached the village he met his mother. She was
looking for him. He gave her the meat and scarf, and told her how he had
met the manasči Rismendiyev. Sairake sent him home. Late the previous
night she had seen smoke rising from a chimney above a small house that
distant relatives lived in on the outskirts of the village, and she now headed
there. She suspected they had cooked a feast. As she approached, the wife
came out to greet her, standing between her and the door. Sairake pushed
past, and saw in the corner of the room a calf’s skin, still wet with blood, that
had hastily been covered with hay. She was enraged. She could barely feed
her family, but had resisted killing the calf because Saparbek was tending it
so carefully. The woman pleaded: ‘You must forgive us, for our children’s
bellies are swollen with hunger and we can hardly walk anymore. After all,
we are you kin!’ Sairake asked why they stole from her rather than seeking
help. She knew the husband, her relative, was a deserter, and threatened to
report him. And that is precisely what she did.
With no calf, Saparbek took to fishing. He was now twelve. Once, he was
fishing when the sun was high in the sky and when the calm sound of the
flowing river seemed to be harmoniously at one with the insects that buzzed
around. A voice jolted him out of his thoughts: ‘Do you know that a fish
speaks through its tail?’ From nowhere, a small stunted man in a red robe
had come and sat beside him. ‘Look, a fish is pulling your line!’ Saparbek
swiftly lifted the line from the water, and the small fish on its end inscribed a
half circle in the air, its silvery flanks glistening, then splashed back into the
river. ‘What a pity’, remarked Saparbek. He glanced to his side but the man
had disappeared, and he could see nobody for miles in any direction. He was
terrified. He threw his rod in the water and ran home. Since then, he has
never fished and has never eaten fish.
That same night he dreamt he was at a big festival. Over there, people
cheered wrestlers. Over there, a crowd listened to a competition of aqın
poets. Over there, young people gathered around swings, laughing and
joking. Over there, people were served fermented mare’s milk, qımız. Over
there, horses paraded before a race. On top of the hill he could see a group of
elders, and amongst them was a man dressed for battle. He stood out from
the crowd, dignified and mighty. It was Manas!
The next morning, Sairake gave Saparbek a drink made from oats, the
only food they had left. ‘All night you were telling how Manas gathered the
Kyrgyz tribes to fight their enemies. Were you dreaming?’ He remembered

the gathering, but didn’t know he had been reciting the story. Sairake opened
her palms and slowly made a gesture of blessing, stroking them across her
face and bringing them together at her heart. ‘My darling son, let God, the
Mighty Teņri, protect you!’ She whispered a prayer to the spirits of the great
heroes. ‘Great spirits of our ancestors protect and support my son!’
The war ended when Saparbek was fourteen. Life remained harsh, but
that didn’t stop children playing. At school, when the bell rang to signal a
break, boys wrestled each other, showing off to the girls, though the girls, of
course, pretended not to notice. Paper planes flew around. Squeaking and
screaming and other sundry noises filled the old brick building. Saparbek
didn’t join his peers. Rather, he took the teacher’s place, reciting and
improvising, gesticulating, chanting slowly then rapidly, his voice
modulating upwards then downwards in pitch. Soon, when he recited the
stories of Manas and Semetey, he was the star of every school event.
In the late 1940s, the Academy of Sciences in Frunze launched a
campaign to collect folktales and folksongs. Researchers came across
Saparbek, and paid his mother 15,000 roubles, giving her a green notebook
and pencils with which to write down his stories. Sairake had never
imagined her boy’s childish reciting could be worth so much. She had not
realized that he was reciting his own version of Semetey, the second part of
the epic triptych. A lot of mutton fat was burnt in the oil lamps during long
evenings as Saparbek filled up that notebook. A year later, the researchers
returned with a request to publish his manuscript, but the family had moved
to Issyk-kul and could not be found. The green notebook remained,
untouched and unpublished, in the Academy archive.
Saparbek graduated from school in 1948 and was sent by the local
authorities to study electrical engineering at a vocational college in Tokmok,
a town in the Chu Valley near Frunze. He dared not refuse, because his elder
brother Imanakun had been sent to a teachers’ college in Narin the previous
year but had left after six months, unable to endure the deprivations of
student living. When the authorities had demanded he return, Sairake stood
up for him, only to see him conscripted into the Red Army. Saparbek chose
study over possible conscription. He soon found that he liked sharing a room
with eight or more students.
Sometimes, though, Saparbek would loudly recite during his sleep, often
falling out of bed. At first, his roommates found this funny, but they soon
wearied of him and asked the tutors to solve the problem. The teachers liked
the healthy, witty and able Saparbek, so they arranged for a tiny room to be
built for him at the far end of the corridor. He moved there, but this only
made the situation worse: now the whole hostel could hear him reciting in
his sleep!
After completing his training, he returned to Kochkor to work as an

electrician. There was much to do, because Lenin had proclaimed during the
October Revolution in 1917 that ‘Communism is the power of the Soviets,
plus the electrification of the country.’ Wealth from the rich had been
expropriated, and now the Kremlin used it to fit all houses with ‘Lenin
bulbs’. Saparbek was part of a great strategy, even though he lived in a
remote and distant corner of Central Asia.
Occasionally, when theatrical troupes visited the villages, Saparbek
would be called on to provide lighting for temporary stages erected under the
open sky. One day, a troupe from the Narin Drama Theatre came. After the
theatrical part of the performance, the actors changed into national dress to
give a folk music concert. There was a break of about half an hour before the
concert, and as the impatient audience waited somebody shouted out, ‘Let
young Saparbek entertain us while we wait!’ Saparbek duly obliged,
borrowing a qomuz fiddle. He mounted the stage:
Snowcaps on the eternal mountains

Resemble the white hats of the Kyrgyz.
My people graze their livestock on high pastures
Their lives are inseparable from the mountains.
As the mountains witness the passing of centuries,
So the Kyrgyz survive calamities.
We are born in the mountains and we say we are Kyrgyz,
And nobody can deny our pride.
The crowd cheered with enthusiasm, ‘Bali! More!’ Saparbek continued, to

the accompaniment of laughter, clapping and whistling:
Now is the turn of actors to sing,

They fear being outshone by me.
Instead of making them jealous and tight,
I must provide them with electric light!
After the concert a well-known bard who was touring with the troupe
came up to him: ‘Little brother, join us. Let’s perform together.’ He agreed.
He remained an electrician of sorts, but now he electrified the performances
as he and one other bard, Aytaliev, competed on stage, alternating verses.
Aytaliev was older, but singing in duet their voices complemented each
other: Aytaliev’s long melodies accompanied by virtuosic qomuz fiddling
contrasted but worked well against Saparbek’s sparse qomuz and rapid-fire
chanting. Saparbek called Aytaliev ‘Aitake’ and Aytaliev called Saparbek
‘Sapash’. The troupe was kept busy touring towns, villages and remote
camps throughout the summer. They would travel on open lorries, sheltering
from the rain under a felt mat, a mat that became their bed when there were
no guesthouses. In winter they played at the Narin Theatre.
In 1959, during a party after one performance, Aytaliev announced in his
slow humorous manner to the distinguished actors: ‘Sapash, it is time for
you to marry’. ‘I can’t get married when I haven’t met the right girl yet,’
Saparbek responded. ‘We have found someone for you. She is Asangul, a
star of the Narin Teachers College.’ Well, Saparbek wasn’t tall, but he was
handsome enough and had a good physique. He would comb his hair back
and let one metal tooth sparkle in the light so that girls would think him
attractive. He went to the college. Rather than ask to meet Asangul, he found
girls from Issyk-kul. Charmed, they invited him for tea at their hostel. Before
he could ask about Asangul, a girl rushed into the room. The prefect was
coming! The girls quickly removed the cups, replacing them with open
books, but they couldn’t think what to do with Saparbek. The door opened,
and a petite girl appeared, her hair tied in two careful and equal plaits.
‘Guests aren’t allowed in the hostel!’ She snapped. ‘Who is this?’ Nobody
answered, so Saparbek stood up, introduced himself, and asked the prefect
her name. It was Asangul.
Saparbek felt his mouth drop. His heart missed a beat. She asked
something, but his heart was drumming so loudly he couldn’t hear what she
was saying. She asked again: why was he in the room. He responded that he
had come to invite the future teachers to the theatre, where his troupe was
staging a historical drama. What a shame it was he was an actor, thought
Asangul, looking at this handsome lad. Acting though, well, it was not
considered a serious profession. She thanked him for the invitation and told
him to leave. As he walked back, he tried to work out how he could arrange
tickets for all the girls. But he couldn’t think straight, since he kept seeing
her face in his mind’s eye. His heart was melting.
‘Aitake’, he called out. ‘She is coming!’ ‘Who?’ ‘Why, Asangul!’ The
whole troupe knew who would be the special guest that evening. Saparbek
waited near the ticket office until Asangul entered the foyer, accompanied by
a group of girls, with more following, and more behind them… Saparbek
had never expected so many to come. Asangul looked at him, pushing her
chin out and raising her head: ‘I brought just one class, since the other is out
on attachment in schools. Shall we go in?’ He asked her to wait as he rushed
into the theatre to find Aytaliev. Sweat was dripping from his forehead as he
announced the girls’ arrival. ‘Let them in.’ ‘But there are thirty girls!’
Aytaliev pushed Saparbek back the way he had come, telling him to keep the
girls in the foyer for as long as he could. How could they be accommodated
when the show had sold out?
Saparbek tried to keep his cool, asking the girls to introduce themselves.
He quickly got confused as to who was who, and became increasingly
flustered. He was relieved when the bell rang. Ushers led the girls into the
theatre, and he rushed backstage to put on his costume. Standing at the

drapes, he could see the girls seated right at the front on a makeshift
collection of chairs. Asangul was in the centre, seeming to him like the jewel
at the centre of an engagement ring. That night Saparbek performed his
favourite episode of the epic, when Ay-čürök puts on her swan costume and
flies high in the sky to look for Semetey, the man she is destined to marry.
Saparbek put his whole heart into the story. He rode a wave of inspiration,
passionately. He could not stop. A thunderstorm of applause came as two
colleagues led him from the stage.
The whole college buzzed with excitement. The prefect, the model
student, courted by an actor! Her teachers worried that such a star student
might marry beneath herself. A verse that Saparbek wrote for Asangul soon
spread:
I am a nightingale of Issyk-kul who found inspiration,

You are a flower of Tien Shan Mountain radiating joy,
Let’s hold hands forever in mutual admiration,
Let many flowers be born from our joy.
Young men, it is said, wrote out that verse for their girlfriends. Later it was
set to a melody, and that melody is now so popular that people think it must
be an age-old folksong.
Asangul was eighteen and was in her final year at college. She lived with
a distant aunt in Narin, to whom she was a real gift. One day during the
winter holiday she was standing on a ladder, painting the walls of her aunt’s
house. She stretched and fell, breaking her arm. She had her arm in a
makeshift cast when, late that night, she heard a truck pull up outside. She
put a coat over her nightshirt and went out to see who was there. A girl
called from the cab, telling her to get in before she froze. She was surprised
to find Saparbek already inside the cab. She didn’t object as they drove
along the main street, but she grew more concerned as they drove into the
countryside. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s go back.’ The girl smiled at her:
‘Saparbek is kidnapping you!’ Asangul burst into tears. Saparbek put his arm
around her, covering her with a warm blanket, but she was too proud to give
in and let him know she secretly had fallen for him. ‘Where are you taking
me?’ ‘To my mother’s house near Ribachie, in the Issyk-kul region.’ ‘But I
must finish college!’ ‘You will’, he said, ‘but first we must get my mother’s
blessing.’
It was dawn when they arrived. Sairake lived some distance from the
centre, across the railway tracks. When she heard the truck approaching, she
took a handful of wheat flour. She sprinkled it over Asangul’s head as she
came through the door to wish the couple a prosperous life. She covered
Asangul’s head with a white scarf in the traditional way that symbolizes the
transition when a young woman becomes a wife. She led her behind the
curtain that separated one corner of the room, where as a young bride she
must sit as relatives and well-wishers are invited to bless her and give the
couple presents. Sairake saw her swollen arm; the cast had shifted on the
break and needed changing. She scolded Saparbek for his cruelty. She
picked up fresh cow dung from outside and used this to fashion a cast,
wrapping the arm tightly in a clean bandage. She chuckled as she told
Asangul she would have to put up with the smell, but that the dung would
soon set as a solid cast.
A mullah should have conducted the nuptials, but this was a time when
the Soviets discouraged religious practice, so they made do with an elderly
man from the neighbourhood. Stories filled the next few days. Sairake told
Asangul about her husband, Kasmambet. He had been exiled to Almaty in
1917, but had joined a Red Army unit led by a Kyrgyz revolutionary and
travelled to Narin to eliminate counter-revolutionaries. ‘He was tall. When
he mounted his horse – you know our horses here are shorter than those in
the valleys – he didn’t use stirrups, because his legs hung down almost to the
ground. He wore an army uniform, but they couldn’t find a cap or boots to fit
him, so he had handmade boots and a big handmade hat crafted from black
and white wool that made him appear even bigger. He was nicknamed
“Alabapak”, “black and white hat”. He was made an inspector of internal
affairs, and he was so big and imposing that it was enough for him to shout
to someone from the other side of the river, telling them to report to the
police station. Nobody ever challenged him.’
Within earshot of neighbours, Asangul asked how Sairake came to marry
him. The neighbours quickly whispered that he had been her second husband
before Sairake could prepare her answer. ‘My father Sidik married me to the
son of Kobogon Aji in Kochkor. But he died before I could become
pregnant, so I was married to a wealthy Uzbek widower in Narin called
Raimjan. He had a big house in the centre of town, but when he heard the
Bolsheviks were eliminating the rich he fled to China. I refused to go with
him. Our house was confiscated, and I began to work in a little shop selling
tandır, bread baked in the clay oven. One day, I pitied a starving soldier and
gave him a piece of bread, and others then came, crowding the shop, hoping
for handouts. Their commander chased them away, telling me I wasn’t to
give them anything. The hungry soldiers stopped coming, but the
commander came back and gave me a present of fragrant soap. I remember
his big hand being stretched out in what was such a generous gesture in
those difficult days. He asked me to marry him. That commander was
Kasmambet.’
Sairake asked Asangul about her parents. Weren’t they from Ak-moyun
Village in the district of At-Bashy? Asangul, curious, confirmed that they
were. When she said that her father had died in the war, Sairake told her she
was sorry to hear this, since she had known him, and had also met her
mother. Sairake continued: ‘One day a tired man with the air of a nobleman
came to our house, accompanied by a pleasant-looking woman. He asked if a
man called Alabapak lived in our house. He told Kasmambet that his family
had once owned huge herds that roamed the vast pastures near Ak-Moyun.
But then the Bolsheviks arrested his father and put him in Frunze prison.
They confiscated the family property, giving it to the collective farm. They
sent the family to the Ukraine, but as they travelled there, the cart carrying
their possessions overturned in a stream. They lost everything. So, now they
were struggling. That was your father, Kerimkul, with your mother, Sabira.
It was dangerous in those days to help anybody who had been stripped of
wealth. People avoided them. Kasmambet, though, was touched by your
parents’ dignity, and gave them a cart loaded with goods. He told them they
could use it as a mobile shop, to both disguise themselves and make a
living.’
The newly-weds returned to Narin. They rented a tiny one-roomed shack
furnished with just a carpet and two blankets. Asangul became a school
teacher. Each time the troupe went touring and he had to leave his young
wife, particularly when she fell pregnant, Saparbek was troubled. In April
1960, Asangul gave birth to her first son, who Saparbek named ‘Suiunbek’,
‘Be joyful’. Saparbek and Asangul’s relationship, though, grew tense
whenever he toured far and wide. Suiunbek was sent to Sairake so that she
could look after him. Asangul became more and more lonely. She would
wait patiently, greeting Saparbek with love and affection when he returned.
After a while, though, she would be angry rather than affectionate when he
returned, pleading for them to be allowed to live as a normal family.
Eventually, she gave Saparbek an ultimatum: he must chose between her and
the theatre. He left the troupe and, moving with Asangul to Ribachie, took a
job as an electrician. She changed schools, and the family were given a new
bungalow near the city power station. Ribachie, with factories and a large
ethnic Russian population, was at a busy junction in the Issyk-kul region, a
crossroads where roads from Narin, Frunze and the road eastwards to China
met, at the end of a gorge. Asangul grew accustomed to the ferocious winds
that blew along the gorge, blown from where breezes in the Frunze region
met the colder air in the mountainous pass. The winds were known as the
‘ulans’.
In February 1962, their first daughter, Gulnara, was born. Saparbek was
happy, seeing his poem come true: ‘Let many flowers be born from our joy.’
When mother and daughter were discharged from hospital, he would bathe
his daughter and wrap her in a towel. Her wet hair stood to attention, just
like the coat of a wet kitten, so Saparbek, laughing, gave her the nickname
‘Kuku’. Father and daughter were inseparable. Kuku sat on Saparbek’s arm,
like a bird on a branch, and he took her everywhere.
One night, Asangul woke up and heard Saparbek singing. ‘Don’t do that,
you’ll wake the child!’ she pleaded. He continued. She turned on the light,
and discovered he was singing in his sleep. She shook him, but couldn’t
wake him. It was as if he was in a different world. Kuku began to cry and
Asangul, who had never seen Saparbek like this, panicked. She wrapped her
daughter in a blanket and rushed out from the house into a fierce wind. She
hurried over to the house of Saparbek’s brother, Imanakun.
‘Aba! Aba!’ she called, using the respectful term of address for an older
male relative. Imanakun’s dog began to bark. A light came on and her
brother-in-law, with his wife Buruluš, came out. ‘Saparbek is singing in his
sleep and, no matter what I do, he won’t wake up.’ They calmed her, telling
her that he had sometimes done this as a child. And so it was that she got
used to him chanting in the middle of the night. Sometimes he would recite
calmly, and sometimes he kept singing for so long that Asangul fell asleep,
lulled. She got used to him ending these subliminal performances by
chanting the names of his wife, his son, and his daughter. The couple slept
on the floor and sometimes he would roll around, bumping into walls or
violently waving his hands, and on those nights Asangul had to remove
sharp and heavy objects, take her child in her arms, and go to sleep at
Imanakun’s house.
Saparbek still wanted to perform. Despite Asangul’s objections, he quit
his job as an electrician and joined the Ribachie Cultural Centre troupe.
Again, he would be absent from home for months on end as he toured the
countryside. Sometimes, Asangul thought he would never return, but he
always came back. He would bring presents, and he would sit silently as she
scolded him. Then, one time when he returned, his wife had left. In panic, he
ran to her parents, but they refused to talk to him. ‘My daughter doesn’t need
a light-hearted actor!’ her stepfather shouted. What could Asangul do? If she
returned home, nothing would change, yet her daughter missed him as much
as she. A letter arrived summoning her to meet the Minister of Education in
Frunze. When she turned up, he reminded her she was a talented teacher, but
that if she divorced she would damage her chances of joining the Communist
Party. He told her that Saparbek was no longer an actor, but had been made
manager of the Cultural Centre. It was Sairake who had intervened. She had
visited the minister.
Reunited, Saparbek’s job was now to organize mass spectacles, promote
groups of performers as they toured schools and factories, and help the main
troupe develop repertory. Domestic bliss was marred when Saparbek came
home drunk, and this soon became a regular occurrence: people were poor
and there weren’t any bars in Ribachie, so his many friends would bring
alcohol to the Cultural Centre. Saparbek was fired when the authorities
received a complaint about the drinking. Jobless, he began to write for
newspapers. As a touring actor, he had seen the many social and industrial
injustices that existed around the country. He knew about the polluted rivers,
the poorly built schools and the cheating shopkeepers. Now, building on
what he had observed, he became a correspondent for TASS, the Soviet
agency. With his new position, he could both write and sing his
commentaries on injustice and criticize the authorities to enthusiastic
audiences. He knew how to gather information from an audience and to
weave it into his singing, quite unlike the official aqın who were expected to
praise the communist authorities.
He sang to his fifth daughter, Chinara, when she cried:
Stop crying little Chinibai,

I will sing you a lullaby.
On my hands my baby flies
Like a jolly bird in the sky.
Even though sons were favoured in those days, Saparbek loved his
daughters. His second daughter, Dinara, was born in 1964, and Sairake took
care of her. His third, Ainara, was born with a heart defect, and Asangul’s
mother, Sabira, took care of her. Sabira managed the unimaginable, bringing
back a spoiled but smart girl a year later. Saparbek celebrated this by writing
a poem for International Women’s Day that was published in the literary
journal, Alatoo. Next came their fourth daughter, Venera, and in 1975, a son,
Jildižbek, ‘Star Boy’.
In 1975, they moved to Tamchy, a small town on the shore of Lake Issyk-
kul where Asangul, now a member of the Communist Party, was appointed
school principal. A year later she was put in charge of a school in her natal
At-Bashy, where they lived for four years. There, Čeč-döbö Hill stood in the
middle of the river valley, and this sparked a memory to Saparbek as being
the hill where Manas’s ally, Košoy, had built a fortified castle. The hero
Almambet, he remembered, had been buried there. He found ruins, and
recalling how little the epic told about Almambet and Košoy he decided to
create a new heroic episode. He would sing this at parties, and Asangul
encouraged him to write it down. It took many years before he published a
book of the heroic text, Er Košoy, in 1994. His book was edited by the
celebrated writer Čingiz Aytmatov. The introduction, written by Bolotbek
Sadikov, included the following statement: ‘It is the task of future linguists
to research the Manas from an academic perspective. Now, however, it is
our duty to acquaint the Kyrgyz people with Er Košoy, through the version
known to Kasmambet’s son, Saparbek.’
Encouraged by the reception of his book, Saparbek published a further
heroic episode in 2003, this time about Bılerek, a young ally of Manas. In
this, he weaved some of the tales he had been told by his mother when
journeying from place to place. While Košoy is one of the ancient heroes of
the Manas epic, Bılerek might well be Busuruk, a son of Jaņgır who in the
1860s briefly ruled Kashgar; it is thought that his name has been mangled
over time by the Bugu bards (Hatto 1977: 140).
In 2009, the year in which we are writing, Saparbek has celebrated his
seventy-fifth birthday. He is a father, grandfather and great-grandfather. He
has carried through his life a great gift of story-telling, winning many
competitions as a manasči and an aqın. He has performed in stadiums, in
theatres, at state celebrations and at private parties. If one collected all of his
performances, and transcribed the many TV and radio recordings that have
been made of him, they would fill many volumes.
Saparbek was officially recognized for his skills by the Kyrgyz Republic
in 2005. In 2009, his birthday was celebrated by an exhibition and
symposium held at the National Library in Bishkek. But he remains
primarily a singer of the people, a true manasči. When he sings his people
still listen, cheer and clap, becoming one with him and entering into his
world of the timeless heroic epic, the Manas.
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INDEX
Abdıkerım, 119 Ak-kıya, 40, 116

Abdırakhmanov, Ibırayım, 97, Ak-kula, 27-8, 35, 39, 109, 116
101 Ak-moyun village, 128
Abdırasul, 120 Ak-šumkar, gyrfalcon, 34-6, 47-9,
Abdukalık, 20, 22 50
Abdykarov, T. A., 101, 105, 112 Ak-tulpar, 34-7
Abeke, 32, 38, 40, 42 Akulbay, 22
Abılbek, 45 Ala-kul lake, 35
Ač-buudan, 34 Alabash mountain, 29
Achaemenid empire, 81 Alagušov, Balbai, 111
Adžıbay, 26 Alatoo, literary journal, 131
Aethiopis, epic poem, 75 Albania, 77
Afghanistan, 81, 83 Albay, 32, 38, 42
Africa, xii, 76, 78, 98 Alexander, 81
AHRC Research Centre for Algara, 27-8, 46, 60-61
Cross-Cultural Music and Alıbek, 14, 22
Dance Performance, xi-xii, Allah, 3
xvi Almambet, 11, 12, 24-31, 35, 39,
Aına, 52 49, 51-2, 60-61, 94, 98,
Ainu, 76-7 107, 131
Airbus, xiii Almásy, G., 96-7
Ajıbay, 31 Almaty (Alma-Ata), 92, 128
Akayev, Askar, ix, 112 Almırza, 15-16
Ak-Balta, 5-7, 10, 39 Alooke, 16, 45
Ak-bel forest, 38-9, 116 Altai, 3, 9, 13, 18, 22, 25, 75, 78,
Akborčuk hills, 34 80, 83, 87
Akči valley, 35 Amu-Darya river, 81
Ak-erkeč, 94 Amur river, 57, 59, 61-2
Akılay, 12-13 Andijan, xv, 18, 39
Akılbek, 109 angel, 32, 35-7
Akınek, 50, 53 Appadurai, Arjun, xiii
Akın-kan, 44-5, 47, 49-50 aqın, singer, 88 116, 123, 132
akkalpak, felt hat, 28 Arabic, 72
Argonautica, epic poem, 75 BBC, xvi-xvii, 78

Aristotle, 65 Beeman, William, 72
Arslan, Gouljan, x, xvi beheading, 30, 42, 61
Arvon, Henri, 100 Beijing, 8, 31, 43, 56, 59, 83
Asangul, 126-31 bek, prince, 17, 19, 21, 24
Asek, 121-2 Beliaev, Viktor M., 87, 103-4,
Asia, xii 111
Asıranbek, 118 Belinskii, Aleksandr G., 95
Astrakhan, 85 Beowulf, epic poem, 75
At-Bashy district, 128, 131 Berkova P. N., 103
Atkelkı, 50, 53 Bernštam, Aleksandr, 84, 101-2,
Auezov, Muhtar O., 101, 105, 105-6
109-10 Bertels, Evgenii, 108
Auty, R., 76-7 Bılerek, 131-2
Aybanboč, 27-8 Bishkek (Pishpek, Frunze), 95-6,
Ay-čürök, 44-55, 58-9, 84, 95, 99, 102, 116, 119, 124, 129,
127 132
as swan maiden, 45-50, 58-9, blood money, 57, 60
127 Boeing, xiii
Ayımkul, 117, 119 Bok-murun, 94
Ayteliev, 125-6 Bölöt-bay, 33
Aytmatov, Čingiz, 98-9, 110-12, Bolot, Nazar, 92
131 Booke, 14
Aytmatov, Torekul, 100 Borland, Harriet, 100
Azeris, 80 Bošbudan, 41
Azız-kan, 11, 25, 26, 28, 39, 52 Bowra, Cecil M., 66-7, 75
Azızov, Šaabay, 115 Boyes, Georgina, 72
Bagdılöt, 3, 6, 32, 39, 41-2 Böyön, 3
Bailey, H. W., 77 Braun, Maximilian, 85-6
bakan, stick, 117 Britain, 75
Bakay (Wise Bakay), 25-6, 31, Büdıbek, 4-6, 107
33, 35, 36, 38-42, 49-50, Bukhara, xv, 15, 18-20, 23-4, 33-
54, 58, 108 4, 36-7, 44-6, 50, 52-5, 82-
Baktria, 81 3, 99
Balkaš lake, 46 Bulgaria, 77
Balykchy, see Ribachie bullets, 29-31, 54, 58
Barıboz, Keldıbek, 109 Burkeev, Bokunbay, 115
Bashkirs, 80 Bürül, 52
Batchelor, John, 77 Buruluš, 130
batır, hero, 58, 60, 119-20, 122-3 Buryat, 69, 78, 109
battle, 25-31, 57, 60-2, 99, 116 Čaatay, 34-5
Bauman, Richard, 72 Čačıke, 42-3, 44, 47, 49, 50, 53
Bawden, C. R., 77 Čailu mountain, 29
Index 143 
Cambridge, university of, xvi Drerup, Engelbert, 68

camels, 10, 23, 28, 39, 41, 43, 60 dreams, 24, 97, 106, 108-9, 121,
čanače, goatskin bag, 121-2 124
Caplan, Lionel, 72 Dunn, C. J., 77
Caucasus, 85, 98 dutar, stringed instrument, 86
Čeč-döbö hill, 131 Džakišev, U., 102
Chalai Jailoo, 117 džomoqču, see manasči
Chanson de Guillaume, epic Džumaliev, S. R., 101, 105, 112
poem, 76 Ečkılık, 40
Chanson de Roland, epic poem, Ečkılüü mountain, 47
69, 76 Edige, epic poem, 69, 100, 107
China, 3, 8, 11, 25-31, 43, 80, 82- Egypt, 72, 78
4, 89, 97-8, 102, 106-8, Elbourne, R. P., 65
112, 116, 123, 128-9 Eleman, 31
caravan, 30 Eliade, Mircea, 81
Dangsa, History of Tang, 8 Engels, Fredrick, 103
Qing Dynasty, 8, 83, 94 envoy, 57-8
Tang Dynasty, 8, 82-3 epic poetry
Cho Tongil, 79 change, 73-4
čilten, spirits, 5, 107 epic moments, 71
Čın-kojo, 44-5, 53-5 epopees, 74
Čınojık, 35 formula, 67, 70, 74, 79, 94-5,
Čıtay-kan, 56 116
Čıyala, 35 instruments used in, 86-7
Čıymıt, 32, 38, 42 orality, 71-2, 92, 104
Čıyördı, 3-9, 32-3, 39, 42-3 performance, 85-9, 94-5
Čokmorov, Mambet, 103, 108 texts, written, 74-5, 101, 116
constellation, 24 themes, 70, 76
Cossack, 83 vocal style, 87-9, 96, 110-11
council, 21, 56-7, see also feast Epigonoi, epic poem, 75
Čoyuke, 98 Er Kökčö, 94
Crimea, 85 Er Košoy, epic poem, 131
Čubak, 25, 29-31, 35, 39, 43, 52 Er-toltoy, 44-5, 53-5
Cushing, G. F., 77 Erzakovich, B. G., 88
Cyrillic, xiv Esen-kan, 10, 31, 56-7, 107
Deny, Jean, 80 ethnomusicology, xiii
dervish, 7 feast, 7, 45-6, 56-7, 106, 123, see
De Weese, Devin, 108 also council
Dıkambay, 109 Feintuch, Bert, 66
Diušaliev, Kamchybek, 111 Feld, Steven, xiii
dombra, stringed instrument, 86 Fine, Elizabeth, 72
Dor, Rémy, 72, 83 Finnegin, Ruth, 72
Dorday-kan, 56 Finns, 75
fish, 47-9, 123 Hogg, James, 66

Fisher, Humphrey, 72 Homer, ix, 65, 67-8, 76-7, 106,
flail, 33 110
Foley, John Miles, 72 Honko, Lauri, 65
folklore, xii, 65, 72, 124 horse race, 33-7
folk music, 65, 66, 124 Howard, Keith, 74, 78-9, 100, 109
fox, 40 Huns, 80, 82-3
France, 69, 75-6 Hymes, Dell, 72
Frunze, see Bishkek Ili river, valley, 46, 82
Fula, 78 Iliad, ix, 65, 68, 70, 72, 75, 92-3,
geomancers, 59 100, 105
German epics, 69, 75, 76 Imanbay, 9
Genghis Khan, 82, 91 India, 81, 83, 98
Georgia, 77 International Alphabet of Sanskrit
Gesar/Geser, epic poems, 78 Transliteration, xv
Ghazni, 81 International Council for
giants, 29-31 Traditional Music, xi
gıdždžak, stringed instrument, 87 International Folk Music
Gluckman, Max, 72 Council, 65
Golden Horde, 69, 82, 85, 91 Music of the Turkic Speaking
Gómez-Pena, Guillermo, xiii World, Study Group, xi
Gorkii, Maxim, 100 International Standards
Gorogly, epic poem, 107 Organization, xiv
Greek epics, 75 Irčı-uul, 31
griots, musicians, 78 Ireland, 75, 76
Hainsworth, J. B., 76 Isa, 22
Ham Bodêdio, 78 Ismail, 33-7, 38, 42
Hamayon, Roberte, 85 Issyk-kul lake, region, 83, 91-2,
Han Harangui, 77 94, 97, 110, 116, 119, 126-
Harker, Dave, 72 7, 129, 131
Harris, Rachel, xi It-borčuk, 35
Harvey, L. P., 76 Itičpeš river, 26
Hatto, Arthur, x, 8, 66-71, 74, 76, Jakıp, 3-24, 41-2, 70, 84, 94, 106-
79, 83-5, 88, 91-8, 100, 7
104, 132 Jalgan khora, month, 58
Hegel, Georg W. F., 65 jambı, gold ingots, 14, 16, 23-4,
Herakleia, epic poem, 75 43, 51, 57
Herat, 81 Jamgırčı, 93
herd, 3-5, 22-3, 26-7 Jamıla, 52
Herodotus, 81 Jangar, 70, 77, 78
Heusler, Andreas, 69 Jaņgır, 132
Hildebrandslied, epic poem, 75 Japan, 73-4, 76, 98
Hindu Kush, 81 Jediger, 44, 46, 53-4
Index 145 
Jelmaıan, 39-40, 41, 60 Kashgar, 46, 82, 84, 108, 132

jıgıt, warrior, 8-10, 22, 30-32, 39, Kasmambet, 118, 128, 131
42-3, 52-4, 57-62, 108-9, Kasmambetov, Iamanakun, 117-9,
120 124, 130
Jırchı uul, 109 Kasmambetov, Saparbek, life
Jırman, 109 story, 115-32
Jökör, 14, 22 Kasmambetova, Ainara, 131
Joloy, 10, 27, 34 Kasmambetova, Chinara, 131
Joloy-kan, epic poem, 94 Kasmambetova, Dinara, 131
Jungarian, 82 Kasmambetova, Gulnara, x, xvi,
Junušbey, 121 115-7, 129-30
Jusup Mamai, 102 Kasmambetova, Jildižbek, 131
Kabul, 81 Kasmambetova, Venera, 131
Kalča, 27, 39, 43, 46, 56 kaukhar, black stone, 13, 108,
Kaldar, 35 117-8
Kalevala, epic poem, 75 Kazakh, xvi, 10, 31, 43, 46, 67,
Kalkaman, stone, 117-8 80, 82-4, 85-8, 91, 96-7,
Kalıman, 45, 52 101, 106
Kalmaks, 3, 12, 25, 41, 50, 56, 77, Kazan, 85
82-3, 85 Keng-kul lake, 28, 39, 43, 116
Kamıla, 52 Kenje Kara, 87, 95-6
kan/khan, 8, 23, 69, 85, 94 Ker, William P., 69
Kan-čoro, 43, 48, 50, 58, 60 Kerimkul, 129
Kandahar, 81 Kermay river, 5
Kanguru, 13 Kermečüü, 39-41, 116
Kanıkey, 11-24, 32-7, 42-3, 47, Khiva, 82-3
50, 54, 58, 70, 83, 99, 107, Khorezm, 69, 71, 81, 85
116, 121 Kinzer, Stephen, 112
as Sanir Abiga, 15-24 Kipchaks 12, 43
wounded, 32, 38 Kırben river, 38-9, 41
Kapka, batır, 56 Kırgıl-čal, 31
Kara-bök, 12, 13 Kitab-i Dede Qorqut, epic poem,
Karakalpak, 52, 69, 80, 87, 89, 84, 107
100 Kıtay, 8-10, 11, 19, 50, 56-9, 60-
Kara-kan, 35, 44, 45 62, 82
Kara-keröng, 26-8 kıyak, stringed instrument, 87
Karakorum, 81 Kizal river, 42
Kara-kul lake, 3, 108 Kizart mountain, 42
Kara-Kyrgyz, 67, 93 Klebe, Dorit, xi
Kara-tegın, 13 Knapp, Alexander, xi
Kara-tor, 18, 24, 40, 46 Kobogon Aji, 128
Kar’aygır, 26-7 Köböš, 32, 38, 40, 42
karnay, trumpet, 107
Kochkor, 42, 117-8, 120-1, 125, 109, 111-9, 124-5, 128,

128 131-2
Köčkör, 32, 38 Academy of Science, x, 103,
Köçümkulkïzï, Elmira, 98, 104-5 105, 124
Kokand, 39, 82-4, 94 folk artists, 98, 101
Kökčö, 31, 46, 93 language, xiv-xv
kök-joru, birds, 39 National Library, 132
Kök-kümböš mausoleum, 39, 41 scholarship, x, xi, 68, 73, 82,
kokok, berries, 16 84, 93, 97, 104-6
Kökömeren, 35 Kyrgyz TV, 115, 132
Kökötöydün ašı, epic poem, 92-3, Laing, Dave, 100
99, 106 Leaf, Walter, 72
Kölbay, 31, 38 Lenin, 125
Kononov, A. N., 104 Levin, Theodore, 81, 85, 87, 89,
Koņur-bay, 26-8, 31, 43, 46, 56-9, 109
60-62, 99, 107 Lloyd, A. L., 77
Korea, xvi, 69, 73, 89 Lomax, Alan, xiii
McCune-Reischauer London Seminar on Epic, 76-8
Romanization, xv Lönnrot, Elias, 75
Korumdu (Korundy), 118-9, 121 Lord, Albert, ix, xii, 66, 68-76,
Koš-bulak spring, 3-4 79, 89, 91, 94, 99
Košoy, 15, 23, 31, 35, 38, 93, 131 Maadai-kara, epic poem, 78
Koyon-aaly, 46 Macedonia, 81
Közkaman, 94 Māhābhārata, ix, 65, 77, 100
Krader, Barbara, 88 Majık, 4-5, 107
Kudrun, epic poem, 75 Majmū’ al-Tavarikh, 84
Kukush, 117-8 Makeldöö, 29-31
Kül-čoro, 43, 48-55, 58, 60-62, 99 Mali, 76
Küldür, 3 Maltsev, Misha, 78, 109
Kumaık, dog, 39, 41 Mambetalyev, Urkaš, 115
Kumar, 45 Manas, 3-33, 35-7, 41-4, 47, 49-
Kumar, Balıbek Bekmurat, 109 50, 54, 56-7, 60, 62, 83-4,
Kumārasaṃbhava, 77 93-9, 103, 106-8, 112, 116,
Kümbat, 52 120-1, 123-4, 131
Kunanbaeva, A. B., 85-9 Almabaš, musket, 33, 36
Kundus lake, 3 battle dress, 33, 54
Kushan empire, 81 birth, 6, 94
Kutunay, 8 half-brothers of, 32-3, 41-2
Kuuray bushes, 16, 21 mausoleum, 39, 40, 112, 116
Kydyrbaeva, R. Z., 96, 98, 103 name, 7, 8
Kyrgyz, 9, 11-12, 22, 25, 31, 41, seven principles of, 112-3
43, 56-8, 60, 67-9, 72, 80,
83-5, 87-9, 92, 96, 102-3,
Index 147 
manasči, singer of epic poems, 3, Nepal, xvi

88-9, 103, 108-11, 115-6, Nez-kara, 10, 27-8
120, 132 Nibelungenlied, epic poem, 69,
Mandinka, 78 75, 76
Maņeldüņ, 29 Nilsson, Martin P., 68
marriage, 11-24, 44-55, 83, 94, Nogay, 3, 18-19, 85, 93, 97
99, 107 Noghay, 69, 85
bride kidnapping, 127-8 nomads, 80-82, 86
dowry, 22-4, 44 N’urgen-bootur, epic poem, 78
Marx, Karl, 103 oath, 49, 50, 53
Mayor, Walter, 104-5 Ob-Ugrian, 69-70, 77
Mecca, 98 Odyssey, epic poem, ix, 65, 68,
medressa, 82 72, 75, 100, 105
Meņdi-bay, 14, 22, 24 Oguz, 84, 104
Menges, Karl Heinrich, 80 Oirat, 82, 94
Merv, 82-3 oloņxo, epic genre, 73, 78, 85, 89
Miftakov, Kayum, 97-8, 101 Omur, Čoyuke, 109
Moldo, Togolok, 103 ordo, tribal council seat, 44, 56-7,
Moldogaziev, Turganbai, 111 58
Mongols, 8, 75, 77, 82-4, 87, 89 Orkhon river, 105
Morgan, L. H., 103 Orozbaqov, Sagımbay, ix-x, 74,
Morris, H. F., 77 97-104, 107, 110
Moscow, 85 Osh, 116
Russian Academy of Sciences, Ošpertık, 46
92 Ošpür, 7-9, 107
mufti, 21 Ossetia, 77
mullah, 21, 128 otters, 4
Musaev, Samar, 93, 97, 101, 103- Ottomans, 80
6, 108-10 Oxford, university of, xvi
musical instruments, 86-7, 107 Pābūjī, epic poem, 77
musicology, 110-11 palace, 18, 21, 47, 50
musket, 29-30, 33, 58-9 p’ansori, epic storytelling genre,
Musulmankulov, Moldobasan, 69, 71, 73, 78-80, 86, 100
103 Park, Chan E., 79-80, 100
Muz-burčak, 31 Parkin, David, 72
Naimanbay, 109 Parry, Milman, ix, xii, 67, 68, 72,
Narin, 116-7, 119, 124, 125-9 76, 79, 91-2, 94
Narin Drama Theatre, 125-6 Pedersen, Thomas, xiv
Narin Teachers College, 126 peri, fairies, 13, 46
Narmantay, Čonbaš, 97, 109 Persia, ix, 74, 78, 82, 100, 104
narodnost, national, 111 Pihl, Marshall R., 71, 79-80
Naumann, Clas M., 83 Pishpek, see Bishkek
Nenet, 78 plov, rice dish, 56
Poema de Mio Cid, epic poem, 76 Rubrik, William of, 81

poison, 41-2 St Petersburg
Polivanov, E. D., 105 Oriental Archives, 92
Pravda, newspaper, 101 Phonogram Archive, 95-6
Prior, Daniel, xii, 65, 74, 87, 92-3, Šaatemır, see Temir-kan
95-7, 102-3, 105-6 Sabira, 129
Qabirga, 97 sacrifice, 39-41, 108-9, 118, 121-
Qaralaev, Sayaqbay, ix-x, 74, 88, 2
98-103, 107-8, 110-11, 115, Sadikov, Bolotbek, 131
121 Sagidova, E. K., 103
qımız, fermented mare’s milk, 81, Saif ad-Dīn, 84
123 Sairake, 117-21, 123-4, 127-31
Qipčak, 84 Sakha (Yakutia), 73, 80, 85, 89
Qıtay, 8 Samanids, 82
qobız, stringed instrument, 87 Samarkand, 12, 14, 81-2
qomuz, stringed instrument, 86-7, Samoilovich, A. N., 107
125 Sanir Abiga, see Kanıkey
qopuz, stringed instrument, 86-7 Sanjıbek, 46
Radloff, Wilhelm (Vasilii Sanskrit, xv, 78
Vasilievič Radlov), ix, 14, Santaš, 116
67-8, 81, 87-9, 91, 93-6, Sar’ala, 25-7, 35, 39
104 Sarı-taz, 36-7, 58
Rāghavapāņḍavīya, epic poem, sart, people of towns and plains,
77 94
Rāghuvaṃśa, epic poem, 77 Sassanids, 82
Rahmatullin, K., 108-9 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 111
Raimjan, 128 Saykal, 39
Rajasthan, 77 Schechner, Richard, 72
Raman, 31 School of Oriental and African
Rāmāyaņa, epic poem, ix, 65, 77 Studies, xii, 76
Rashid-ad-Din, 104 SOASIS, xvi
Red Army, 118, 124, 128 OpenAir Radio, xvi
Reichl, Karl, 66, 68-9, 71-2, 80-1, Schwarz, Boris, 100
84-9 Scythian, 81
Reynolds, Dwight, 72 Second World War, 67
Ribachie, 115, 119-21, 127, 129- seal, 58
30 Segıš-kan, 33
Ribachie Cultural Centre, 130 seige, 44-55
Rismendiyev, Šapak, 103, 122-3 Selenga river, 105
Roehampton University, xii Seljuq, 82
Romania, 77 Semetey, 32-62, 83, 94-100, 102-
romanization, xiv-xv 3, 107, 110, 116, 124
Roseman, Marina, xiii Serbo-Croat epic, 76
Index 149 
Seytek, 94, 95, 98-100, 102-3, Talas, 10, 31, 36-43, 47, 82,
110 97-9, 112, 116
Shahname, epic poem, ix, 74, 84, Tamanbay, 31
100 Tamil, 78
shamanism, 66, 81, 85, 107-9 tandır, clay oven, 128
Siberia, xvi, 76, 80, 82, 85, 94, tar, stringed instrument, 86
see also Sakha, Tuva Taras, 10, 82
Sidik, 128 Tarmal-saz, 42
silk bale, 47-9 Tashkent, 14, 82, 94
Silk Road, 82 TASS, news agency, 131
Sınčı, 31 Tatar, 83
Sipos, Janos, xi Tay-buurul, 40, 47-8, 51-4, 59-60
Sırgak, 26-8, 30-31, 35, 39, 52 Tay-toru, 34-8
Slymovics, Susan, 72 Telegu, 78
Smirnov, Boris, 95-6 telescope, 34-6, 50
Smith, John D., 77 Temir-kan, 14-16, 35, 42, 44
Sŏ Taesŏk, 79 as Šaatemır, 15-24, 37-8, 47,
socialist realism, 100-101, 105 53
Sogdiana, 81 Teņri, 33, 35, 38, 41, 46, 77
Šooruk, 13, 50 text, x
sorcerers, 59 Tibet, 75, 78, 98
South Asia, ix, 65 tiddly-winks, 10
Soviet scholarship, ix-xi, 68, 73, Tien Shan mountain range, 81-3,
84, 93, 97, 104-6, 111-12 110, 117, 127
Spain, 76 tiger, 5, 40, 107
spear, 28, 52-4, 61-2 Timur, 82
Staub, Shalom, 73 Tınıbek, 97, 100, 108-9
steppes, xiii tobacco, 29
Sufism, 107-8 Tokmok, 94, 116, 124
Suiunbek, 129 tokol, concubine, 15
Suleyman, 6 Toktogul, 109
Sultanova, Razia, xi, xvi-xvii Tölöbek, 22
Sunjata, epic poem, 78 Tor’aygır, 26-7
Sur-küröng, 34-7 Tor’kaška, 34-5
Sur-koyon, 53, 54 Töštük, 31
surnay, shawm, 97, 107 Tungus, 89
Surrey, university of, xii Turk (Turkic/Turkish), 78, 80-9,
Süü-samır, 42 97, 108
Swahili, 78 Turkmen, 80, 84
sword, 31, 60-61 Turner, Victor, 72
Syr-Darya river, 81, 92 Tuu-čunak, 4-6
Táin bó Cúailnge, epic poem, 75 Tuva, 77, 80, 87
Tajiks, 13, 83-4 Üč-košoy, 38-9, 116
Üč-tulpar, 35 Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Ulrich

Uffington, 116 von, 68
Umetaliyeva, Toktaiym, 112 wolf, 5, 39-40
UNESCO, ix, xvii wrestlers, 34-7, 123
Masterpieces in the Oral and Xinjiang, 83, 102, 112
Intangible Heritage of xöömii, overtone singing, 87
Humanity, ix, 66, 73-4, 78 xuur, moorin xuur, stringed
Ürbü, 47 instrument, 87
Ürgench river, 50, 53 Yaik, 69
Urum-kan, 51 Yenisei river, 83, 105
Uyghurs, 80, 83-4, 88-9, 105-6 Yer-češčuk, epic poem, 94
Uzbeks, xvi, 80, 82, 84, 86-7, 89, Ysyakh, Sakha festival, 78
106-7, 109, 116, 128 Yugoslavia, 68, 71, 77, 89
Valikhanov, Čokan Čingisovich, Yunusaliev, B., 101, 106
ix, 91-4, 99 yurt, xiii, 5, 9, 11-12, 41, 43, 47,
Vámbéry, Ármin, 86 49, 106, 117
Vinogradov, Viktor Sergeevich, Zataevich, Aleksandr
87-8, 111 Viktorovich, 111
Virgil, 77 Zemp, Hugo, xiii
Volga, 69 Zemsovsky, Izaly, 88
Voyage de Charlemagne, epic Zephaniah, Benjamin, 78
poem, 76 Zhdanov, Andrei, 100
Waley, Arthur, 76-7 Zimbabwe, xvi
warriors, see jıgıt Žyrmunskii, V. M., 84, 93, 95,
wax cylinder recordings, xii, 95-6 105, 107, 109-10
whip, 51

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SINGING THE KYRGYZ MANAS

SINGING THE KYRGYZ

Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov

Razia Sultanova, Gulnara Kasmambetova and Gouljan Arslan

First published 2010 by

© Keith Howard and Saparbek Kasmambetov 2010

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Set in Times New Roman 11 on 12 pt.

List of Illustrations vii

Part I Episodes from the Manas 1

between Part I and Part II

1 Manas (Episode One)

CD1 Track 1 Semetey’s childhood 27.45

Recorded at the AHRC Research Centre Studio, SOAS, in April 2006.

CD catalogue numbers SOASIS 21 and SOASIS 22. © and ℗ SOAS 2009

is on poetry as text. Textual analysis is of course of immense value, and so

remain distant to the resulting ethnographic representations. With Airbus and

No single romanization system has yet been commonly accepted as standard

the Manas episodes Bukhara is rendered as ‘Bukar’, and Andijan as

This book is primarily by, and about, Saparbek Kasmambetov. The

Keith Howard is Associate Dean, Research, at Sydney Conservatorium of

Gulnara Kasmambetova is Saparbek’s eldest daughter. She is Senior

Razia Sultanova is Fellow at the Central Asia Forum, University of

EPISODES FROM THE MANAS

THE MARRIAGE OF MANAS TO KANıKEY IS

Azız-kan married a Kyrgyz woman of exquisite beauty. Her mother had

to be found. Before he left the second time, Almambet spoke to Kara-bök,1 a

He stared at her, mesmerized. Nobody, he thought, would find a single

he would be fed and entertained, he said. Why would he need companions

THE GREAT BATTLE

Manas agreed. He retreated and began to set the ambush as Almambet

SEMETEY RETURNS TO TALAS

At Kırben, the old dog Kumaık ran to him, howling in recognition. In

THE MARRIAGE OF SEMETEY

Semetey thoughtfully agreed. ‘There was a time when Ajin-kan offered me a

SEMETEY TAKES REVENGE FOR THE DEATH OF HIS

There he resides, the once strong Koņur-bay. There he resides, in the

‘Your majesty and my lord, Esen-kan. My people blessed with abundant

ORAL EPIC POETRY AND THE MANAS

From Homer to the World

In certain parts of the world there is still a flourishing art of telling

This, though, is too glossy. It appears to reflect a perspective of the past

…oral epic song is narrative poetry composed in a manner evolved

monotony of his evocations… An adroit bard can recite any theme,

Radloff’s work was, to Parry, a vital factor in his reassessment of

Ugrian traditions, performance of an epic can promote hunting and fishing,

Epic moments are highly charged narrative ganglia, and… possession

considerable imagining of a past, much in a manner that has been critiqued

elements of other singers’ related and unrelated performances, and

In larger compositions the contribution of one singer’s creativity often

Japan) associated with founding singers, traced through genealogies of

I suggest we revive the obsolete English word ‘epopee’ for large-

Hatto makes this comment in a discussion of two of the best documented

Variety in Epic Poetry

Much of Korean p’ansori is, ultimately, a product of the same art of

Korea, though, is a hierarchical society, and this is reflected in p’ansori,

professional genealogies, are sacrosanct (Pihl 1994: 82ff.). Styles of

The Turkic People and Epic Poetry

which might potentially suggest a reason why shamanic ideas feature in

tradition itself (Braun 1961: 84–5). Reichl cites a further publication on

At certain moments the singer stands in need of the support of the

An account in the travelogue of an 1863 journey to Uzbek lands by the