Renovations to the Bibi-khanym Mosque in Samarkand, Uzbekistan have sparked debate over whether they preserve or sanitise the city's real history. Photo / Getty Images
Renovations to the Bibi-khanym Mosque in Samarkand, Uzbekistan have sparked debate over whether they preserve or sanitise the city's real history. Photo / Getty Images
If you’ve travelled to ancient cities like Rome, Athens or Varanasi, you’ll be familiar with the sight of ruins; magnificent structures that, through centuries of bad weather and battles, have been reduced to echoes of their original glory.
Restoration can be an awfully expensive process but if destinations have the money, it seems like an obvious response. Why not repair significant buildings, so people can enjoy them?
Well, as one attraction along the famous Silk Road in Uzbekistan demonstrates, the debate of whether people should restore ruins, and how, is a complicated one.
In the city of Samarkand, the Bibi Khanym Mosque is a must-visit attraction. Its turquoise dome dazzles in the light, gold tiles cover the walls and clear calligraphy wraps around its massive gateway. Given it was built some 600 years ago, it seems in impossibly good nick, and it is.
Because, as beautiful as it looks, it’s not the same structure that was commissioned by the Asian conqueror, Timur in the 15th century. The domes have been rebuilt and the walls have been remade larger, the tiles have been replaced (in a medieval style, no less) and the calligraphy is a 20th-century addition.
The Bibi-Khanym mosque, which was one of the largest in the Islamic world. Pictured during the 19th and 20th century after repairs. Photo / Uzbekistan State Archive; RFE/RL
Some say the building was doomed to a complicated life from the start. After rushing construction, Timur allegedly demanded it be torn down and rebuilt larger, making for an unstable structure.
It didn’t take long for the stone to start crumbling. Timur’s successors made half-hearted attempts to patch up the crumbling building, but no moves were made to address its deep structural flaws and by the 18th century, it was more likely to be frequented by thieves stealing the expensive bricks rather than religious devotees.
A slow collapse was catalysed by an earthquake in 1897, which brought down the inner arch of the main iwan and drove massive cracks through the main dome and totally collapsing another.
Things took a swift turn in the 1970s with the election of Uzbekistan's first president, Islam Karimov. As home to some of the world's most iconic Islamic architecture, Karimov wasted no time in launching a mass restoration plan across the region.
According to Karimov’s logic, by restoring ancient architecture such as Bibi Khanym Mosque, they could restore Timur’s legacy and reinvigorate the region’s national identity.
The Bibi-Khanym mosque, which was repaired in the 20th century. Photo / Uzbekistan State Archive; RFE/RL
Uzbek conservationists stabilized and restored the damaged main dome, rebuilt the collapsed entrance arch, reconstructed smaller side domes and replaced the crumbling masonry with new, almost identical bricks.
The Shah-i Zinda mausoleum, which is dated as far back as the 11th century, is pictured in the 19th and 21st century. Photo / Uzbekistan State Archive; RFE/RL
Similarly, Timur's grand mausoleum was also rebuilt and decorated with a new Quranic inscription while Islamic religious schools have been retired and the city's public square refurbished.
The Amir Temur mausoleum, originally built in the 14th century. Photo / Uzbekistan State Archive; RFE/RL
New cities, mixed reviews
The response, however, hasn’t exactly been the national pride Karimov intended. Instead, the shiny new domes and freshly painted inscriptions have incited heated debate between locals, scholars, international bodies and visitors.
Some argue repairs are an essential part of maintaining these sites and attracting tourists who are critical for the economy. Others claim the sloppy restorations that have damaged the original structures beyond repair. Architectural historian Robert Hillenbrand, in a popular article, claims corners were cut to expedite the restoration, as sections of calligraphy were replaced with ‘creative’ interpretations of what could have existed. The result being ‘gibberish’.
The historian also noted that the mosque seems to have grown since it was first built, explaining that conservationists rebuilt the walls much taller and with bricks that lacked historical accuracy. Despite granting Samarkand World Heritage status as a "Crossroad of Cultures", UNESCO has also repeatedly condemned the approach Samarkand has taken to restoring many of its buildings.
Without expert knowledge of historical architecture, foreign visitors seem less critical and more delighted by the shiny new tiles, freshly paved squares and sparkling domes.
Locals are equally amazed by the new developments. Speaking to National Geographic, guesthouse owner Odil Jahangirov said locals from around Samarkand and capitals like Tashkent also take joy in seeing the restored prayer halls in the “Gilded Madrassa” or mosaics in Samarkand’s necropolis.
"They're more city-type, they don't really see old buildings every day. They want to feel that old spirit: Samarkand for them is a little exotic," he said.
While the debate centres on the cities and their updated attractions, University College London researcher Ona Vileikis said the real consequences will be felt further afield. In particular, those living just outside the spotlight of government and international interest.
University College London researcher Ona Vileikis said the prioritisation of certain attractions in Samarkand could divert government attention away from struggling outer regions. Photo / Twitter
"The local, vernacular architecture is mostly unacknowledged," said Vileikis, adding that neighbourhoods have been divided into those that are attractive to tourists and those that are not.
The latter, according to Vileikis, are far more vulnerable to being demolished and turned into roads or apartments.
Collaboration marks a better way forward
The debate of whether the restoration of an ancient attraction renews or erases its authenticity is as old as the sites themselves.
Fortunately, for the locals and visitors of the old Silk Road city, the Uzbek government seem willing to start doing things differently.
After several meetings with UNESCO in 2021, the duo launched an initiative that proposes far more collaboration with local experts and communities and seeks to preserve not just beauty but history.
Far from a perfect panacea for past wrongs, the initiative does highlight a new way forward, one that considers the needs of tourists and locals, prioritises historically accurate materials and honours Uzbekistan’s genuine past and present rather than the “Silk Road” fantasy.
