Where does the inspiration for great art come from? Not just technically skilled artwork, but art that says something, that impresses upon the viewer the animating energy behind the subject. Love is one obvious answer, but love can take many forms. Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov’s short story Jamila gives readers a vivid picture of how love can give rise to beautiful art.
Written during the 1950s-60s “thaw” in Soviet literary censorship which also produced Dombrovsky’s Keeper of Antiquities, Jamila breaks from earlier Soviet depictions of traditional Kyrgyz society. The family in which the story takes place, while far from a utopian setting, is not quite the villain either. Socialism too is not depicted in a particularly positive or negative light, but rather serves as more of a backdrop for the narrative than anything else. Faint allusion is even made to the suffering of the Kazakhs in the famine of the 1930s.
The story begins with a painting, painted by the narrator. It shows two travelers heading into the distance across the steppe. A mountain range looms in the background. The painting brings the narrator back to his adolescence, during the Second World War when he lived on a collective farm with his extended family. With the older men away at the front, the brunt of the farm work fell on the backs of the youths and women. Here readers are introduced to the narrator’s older brother’s wife, the eponymous Jamila. Jamila is described as hardworking, beautiful, vivacious, and willing to stand up for herself. A major focus of the story is the hidden romantic feelings the narrator has for his sister in law, whom he is assigned to help transport sacks of grain from the farm to the railroad station.
But he’s not the only character to harbor such feelings, although it may not be obvious at first. We’re also introduced to Daniyar, a man with a murky background who returns wounded from the war. Supposedly he started life in the village, became an orphan, and drifted around the Kazakh steppes until being called to serve at the outbreak of war. Though he doesn’t share much about any of his experiences, it’s implied that he had lived through a great deal of hardship. While he’s accepted into the village as long-lost kin, Daniyar remains something of a loner, and is the butt of the villagers’ jokes, pranks, and cracks. This makes him an interesting character by sparking curiosity and sympathy. He also joins the previously mentioned characters on their route to and from the station.
Although he acts closed off at first, Daniyar is eventually revealed to be a talented singer. A tune can’t truly be conveyed through text, but Aitmatov does a great job with his description, driving readers to insert their own conception of what his beautiful, emotion-laden melody about the natural beauty of the mountains and steppes would sound like. The singing also gives Daniyar depth as a character, showing us (and more importantly, Jamila) that there is actually something lovable beneath his damaged exterior. Ultimately, it helps the author show rather than tell readers that Daniyar is in love with Jamila.
The conclusion of the story, which I won’t reveal here, drives the narrator to create the work of art mentioned at the beginning. Conflict between the three main characters and the rest of the village occurs, but isn’t described particularly intensely by the author, who almost makes it into a footnote in comparison to the romance which is the focus of the story. Some readers may find this a weakness, but I am not among them. At the end of the story, it’s almost as if a tornado has passed over the steppe, leaving the dust to resume its unremarkable rest on the ground after being briefly swept up the storms mighty winds.
One of the first things I wondered after reading Jamila was whether it was autobiographical, a literary monument to a real romance which the author observed, a sort of real life equivalent of the narrator’s painting. While he did grow up in a rural Kyrgyz village and lived during the era depicted, there’s no direct evidence that similar events to those depicted in Jamila occurred in Aitmatov’s life. The real appeal of Jamila, in my opinion, is that it’s a story we want to be real: a man beaten down by a tough and lonely life finding respite in art, and through that, true love. At the same time, the story shows how the relationship between Daniyar’s songs and the romance goes both ways, as they are at once inspired by his love for Jamila and a key vehicle by which she falls in love with him. Together, the painting and the songs are potent illustrations of some different perspectives from which love can inspire art and vice versa. Jamila is absolutely worth reading for this reason alone.
