A Dungan Wedding

On a bright mid-September morning, I wake early to reach the Old Train Station (Cтарый/Восточный Вокзал) in Bishkek. There I meet an acquaintance of Dungan heritage to whom I had only very recently been introduced. Alina, hearing of my interest in her people, graciously invited me to her cousin's wedding. We were soon joined by two other foreigners, friends of Alina, after which we boarded a marshrutka for Tokmok.

Our journey took us little over an hour along a dusty road from Bishkek and cost about 150 som. Map taken from the CIA World Factbook.

Il-28 Bomber monument in Tokmok.
Credit to Ondřej Žváček

Pulling in to Tokmok, a conspicuous monument appears: a retired Soviet jet from the 1950s watches vigilantly over the road into the city. Our destination is down a half-paved alley in a quiet section of Tokmok; there we are greeted by a throng of Alina's extended family and their friends. Luckily, the presence of unrelated foreigners appears to bother no one and as the female members of our party leave us for their separate dining hall, the male members are left outside to receive the impeccable hospitality of the loitering aksakals.

We are seated to drink tea from bottomless cups broader than than those common in Chinese restaurants in the West. A vast platter of food is set before us; the medley of dishes is described to us as 'Shee', though distinct from the typically Russian dish, Shchi (щи). Presented with a single bowl and a pair of chop sticks, each diner takes what he wills from the Shee, inevitably creating an amalgam

of rich, umami flavors.

                                                                                           

The busboys work furiously, leaving no attendee wanting; in a style of hospitality typical of Islamic cultures, the proprietor of the kitchen insists we eat, returning to us every hour with a new invitation until we are beyond satiated, but rather saturated with food.

Gathered around a Shee, the wedding guests entertain us with small talk and occasional history lessons. 

The tykes are eager to practice some elementary English, and I to squeeze just a few words of Dungan out of them.

We wait outside for hours on end, though not bored thanks to the verbose, but not overwhelming, engagement of the other wedding guests.







There is certainly curiosity, but not offense, on the part of the groom's family as to why we have come. A quick explanation of our interest in their culture brings forth a genuine smile.

At the threshold to the women's section, the groom, Rasul, stands for photos. For him, today's ceremony is just part of a longer, three-day celebration. His dress is boldly Indo-Saracenic, with a gown reminiscent of a Nehru jacket. He spends the entire morning entertaining his multitude of guests, awaiting the arrival of his fiance, Dinara, and her party.

Indeed, as the time approaches, his mood changes from one of mild boredom to a crescendo of nervousness. As we all wait, Rasul wrings his hands more and more, as if his bride's  tardiness were a machination of her making, infusing the relatively dull ceremony with an element of excitement.  

 

Finally, we catch the first glimpses of a small motorcade traveling up the ally, surrounded by a drove of well dressed relatives. Therefrom steps a short woman covered in sparkling cloth, but whose features are otherwise completely hidden from view. Decked in red, the color emblematic of marriage in Dungan culture, we can immediately recognize her as Dinara, the bride, arriving just before our patience ran thin. She is led by hand into the women's quarters; we are permitted, then, to follow her after removing our shoes.  

After much care is given to ensure the comeliness of her hair by her female relatives, the bride is unveiled and presented to all. The day's ceremony mostly concluded, our party leaves to return to Bishkek, after exchanging a number of profound thanks and congratulations to the couple and their families. 

On our way out, I look back at the banner hanging above the entrance to the restaurant. Thereon, I examine the only example of written Dungan I have ever encountered.                                     

When written, one can see the Chinese origins of the language; most words are mono- or disyllabic. However, also visible - though not exceptionally clear in this photo- is the word 'jahan' of distinctly Persian origin, meaning 'world'. It is this syncretic nature which intrigues me most about the Dungan language and culture and inspires me to seek out additional exposure thereto.