(By Javad Afhami)
Let me break the news to you: the statues of cultural and literary luminaries in the city of Dushanbe have suddenly, spontaneously, come to life in a collective movement and begun strolling through the streets. Rudaki is walking in the gardens on the outskirts of the city, and Ismail Samani has headed toward the Nowruzgah square, where he now leans against a wall, lost in thought.
The question is: who is behind these strange events? Who has awakened the statues and thrown the city into chaos? Can a statue—mere stone—truly wake up, come alive? Is it foreign robots attacking society? Is it America? Britain? Or perhaps… who would ever imagine that a writer with a pen in hand could turn an entire city upside down, even if her name is “Shahre-Ashub” (City-in-Turmoil)?
That is the question the city police are asking. Now we must decide: do these events constitute a catastrophe or a miracle? To what extent can the fantasies and dreams of a skilled yet under-published writer disrupt the rigid order of a closed Central Asian society and awaken minds that have retreated into silent corners?
Ms Samarqandi delivers her full, unequivocal answer—a direct and decisive response to all these questions—in the form of a polished, revealing fantasy novel. Even from the page before the story begins, where the author dedicates her book to Bahmaniyar and to all writers unjustly languishing in prison, the reader can guess the theme and direction the text will take.
The issue is writing itself: writing novels and imaginative fiction freely, safely, beyond the reach of the sharp blade of censorship. The big question is this: in a society where the habit and culture of reading have been forgotten, where books lie asleep in the corners of libraries, covered in the dust of neglect and estrangement, what is a writer’s mission? How can a writer activate the volcano of her imagination to conquer and destroy a city of rotten, passive habits? How can she awaken the statues of cultural and literary giants and compel them to walk the streets, enchanting passers-by with their magic?
At the beginning of the narrative, Shahre-Ashub admits that it was never her intention for the statues to come alive and walk. She only wanted the dead luminaries to awaken. She wanted the dead luminaries to wake up and finally speak the words that the demon of death had silenced centuries ago.
Now we must understand that everything that happens next is beyond the author’s control and will. Chaos has broken loose. The Writers’ Union, which long ago turned into a center of self-censorship and the suppression of bold, passionate talent, and which works hand-in-glove with autocratic political authorities to strike at the roots of literature—especially the novel—issues, in a passive-aggressive move, an expulsion order against a woman writer whose crime was writing about a prostitute. Shahre-Ashub herself is condemned for refusing to toe the line and for dissenting from the Union’s policies.
Over the years, the city has become a stagnant, silent, regressive society, and on the surface it seems no ray of hope penetrates this darkness from any crack.
A Woman Who Walkes with Statues is a modern novel in the guise of fantasy that portrays (Tajik) society. The first-person narrator, Shahre-Ashub, assembles the events like pieces of a puzzle and, without drowning the reader in formal or stylistic complexities, carries them along transparently and effortlessly. She digs into the roots of citizens’ backwardness and the sterility of discussions around literature, politics, and culture. “My argument was that the age of meritocracy had arrived, yet in this country no one—not even the first man, not even the statues, not even the street names—is in their proper place.” (p. 11)
But the vital climax of the story comes when control over events slips from the hands of both the writer and the narrator, and the reader is drawn—unwillingly yet in the most beautiful way possible—into the pinnacle of a writer’s dream-making artistry. The novel becomes self-sustaining; it walks on its own, independent of the author’s will. And yes—that is exactly how it should be. Who truly understands the magic of storytelling the moment the pen escapes the writer’s control and follows its own path? Who has peered into the deep pit of a master writer’s imagination and dreams, where writing intoxicates like wine and carries her beyond herself? Where does this process of creating colorful, sweet dreams actually come from? What is the source of its revelation and inspiration? Does anyone know?
Book details: A Woman Who Walkes with Statues ShahzodaSamarqandi Kheradgaan Publications, 1404 (2025–26)