Many individuals can point to a specific book that has transformed their lives. For my wife and me, one particular work altered our fates forever. Our love story began in our teenage years, and we are now happily married, largely due to my unexpected encounter with a banned novel at a relative’s home.
In the summer of 2009, during a sweltering evening in Kumul, Xinjiang, I was just 16 years old. My father insisted that I join him to visit a distant relative, where hours would be spent reminiscing and enjoying a lavish meal. As a teenager striving to be polite, I sat through their conversations, nodding along while trying to mask my growing boredom in the brightly lit living room with its small windows.
Seeking an escape from the dull atmosphere, I requested to explore the host’s study, which was filled with countless books. While perusing the meticulously organized shelves, my attention was drawn to a seven-volume Uyghur novel. It was nestled in a corner, possibly hidden on purpose, and seemed to beckon me. I inquired about borrowing it, and the host leaned in closer, speaking in hushed tones. “It’s a powerful narrative about the horrors of the Cultural Revolution,” he cautioned. “It’s prohibited by the government, so don’t let anyone see it, avoid taking it to school, and return it once you finish.” The book was titled Leyighan Bulaq (The Muddy Spring) and authored by the renowned Uyghur writer Jalalidin Băhram.
By the time we returned home around midnight, I was overwhelmed with curiosity. I opened the first volume and found myself unable to stop reading. I became engrossed in the lives of the characters—teachers from a rural part of my homeland—who faced forced labor, cultural assimilation, and political indoctrination. The narrative revolved around three young couples, centered on themes of friendship, love, and resilience.
Despite my earlier promise to keep the book to myself, I felt compelled to share it with Rabia, my closest academic rival and a secret friend from school. We communicated through handwritten notes, our only means of interaction in a conservative Muslim town where cross-gender friendships were frowned upon. Although Rabia was shy and often avoided me at school, our exchanged notebooks created a private sanctuary.
I couldn’t resist introducing her to the treasured novel. Disregarding the warnings, I secretly brought it to school and slipped it into her bag along with my notes. “The friendship in this book is so genuine,” I wrote. “I value our friendship in the same way.”
While we had communicated through notes before, this time something changed; an innocent yet risky emotion emerged: love. As we discussed the book’s characters and plot, our personal feelings began to intertwine with the story. At one point, I wrote, “I think I have feelings for you, just like Hikmet had for Gulziba.” With that simple line, our love story took flight.
A year later, I left home to pursue studies abroad. Our relationship faced challenges but endured through phone calls and online messages. For us to reunite and build a life together, however, Rabia needed a passport, a nearly insurmountable obstacle due to the stringent regulations imposed by the Xinjiang authorities on Uyghurs. After being denied the opportunity to take a university entrance exam because she wore a headscarf—one of the many indignities faced by Uyghurs under increasing government control—she relocated to Beijing for a language course.
This move proved advantageous, allowing her to navigate the strict passport regulations in our hometown. Four years after I left, in 2014, she finally arrived in Istanbul, where I was studying, and we wed in 2020. Unfortunately, many of our family members, including Rabia’s parents and siblings, as well as my father, were unable to attend the ceremony.
Like many newlyweds, we were joyful, yet we were also forced into exile due to the alarming events unfolding back home. Under Xi Jinping’s “strike hard” campaign, Chinese authorities arbitrarily detained hundreds of thousands of Uyghurs without due process, including my father.
As the Chinese government punishes Uyghurs for maintaining contact with those abroad, we were unable to share significant milestones in our lives with our loved ones. When our two-year-old daughter passed away in November 2023 due to an incurable illness, we laid her to rest in Istanbul, mourning the loss of the cherished memories she could have created with her grandparents back home.
In late 2024, we relocated to London, opening a new chapter in our lives. As we unpacked, we came across our old school notebooks—more than a dozen—and began reading the letters we had exchanged in secret over a decade ago. We realized that, much like the narrative of Leyighan Bulaq, our lives had been marked by tragedy, yet also by friendship, love, and resilience. We celebrate the love story we have crafted together and the healing we have achieved, all thanks to a forbidden book.
