This handmade embroidery on Uzbek cotton, dyed in turquoise, replicates two pieces from my great-grandmother's dowry. The original Suzani embroidery, from the Jizzakh region, featured nine 'moons' and was meant to be passed down to me as the eldest daughter. However, when I was a child, it was cut into sections and distributed among extended family, leaving only two pieces with us, which now inspire my installation.

In my creative reconstruction, I use the missing 'moons' to depict stories of the women in my family from the 1920s to today. These abstract illustrations reflect the narratives I grew up with, forming a non-hierarchical genealogical tree—a rhizome of relations—connected by threads. Women, traditionally excluded from family trees, are central in this work, with a hidden AR layer further exploring the invisibility of their experiences.

The name Oybibi holds two meaningful parts: 'Oy', meaning 'moon', and 'Bibi', translating to 'lady' or 'dame'. Despite the significance of her name, she was never addressed as Oybibi; instead, friends and family called her Oliyaxon. Oybibi passed away twenty days before I was born, and I never had the chance to meet her. According to my mother, I would have been named after her, had circumstances been different. However, no one could bring themselves to inform her of Oybibi’s passing.

In 1939, Oybibi had her first child and eventually gave birth to six children. Her husband served in the Soviet Army during WWII, but his health never fully recovered, and complications led to his untimely death in his forties. Despite many hardships, Oybibi managed to provide for her family as a 'zavkhoz'—a house manager—for the Cabinet of Ministers of the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. Her access to primary education set her apart from many other Uzbek women who, unfortunately, did not have the same opportunities.

My mother recalls that they called Oybibi 'the grandma General', reflecting her tough, reserved nature. In fact, they were slightly afraid of her. She chain-smoked like there was no tomorrow; she smoked till her very end. Her favourite pastime was watching boxing matches and men's football, and her years of navigating a patriarchal society left a lasting mark on her. To her, engaging in activities that were traditionally masculine seemed to legitimise her role as the head of the family. I wonder if I'll ever understand what her personal fight was.

Grandmother Kh., Oybibi's daughter, had always harboured a deep desire to become a dancer and devote herself to the arts. She danced with Botir Zokirov before his rise to fame, performing to the rhythm of the Uzbek doira—originally a feminine percussion instrument shaped like a circle. However, Oybibi couldn’t allow her eldest daughter to pursue such an ‘unserious’ path, mainly because, in her world, it wouldn’t lead to a suitable marriage.

The textile industry in Uzbekistan was rapidly expanding due to the excessive cultivation of cotton, a colonial project of the USSR that spanned over a century, marked by forced and child labour practices. This still has profound effects on the people and environment of Uzbekistan today. Kh. gave up her dream of dancing and entered the industry of cotton—paxta. Yet, her love for the spotlight couldn’t be suppressed. With access to the latest fabrics and designs during times of scarcity, she dazzled those around her with her fashionable looks. She fondly recalls her late husband, who supported her on long work trips, taking over household duties and childcare. She would often say, “You’ll never find an Uzbek man like him; they simply don’t exist.”

On one of her work trips, she represented the Republic at the 1975 Baghdad International Fair; the only story she tells from that trip is how she cooked Uzbek pilaf for Saddam Hussein and his delegation. She habitually masks her achievements by weaving a narrative that aligns with the traditional expectations of an Uzbek woman. Her life is a beautiful, yet suppressed dance.

The textiles chosen for this installation are intentional: a blend of dyed Uzbek cotton and old stock Soviet linen.

Grandmother U. wrote a memoir—a rare gem of herstory among the many memoirs and shajara that feature only the men of the family. She is convinced it can never be published in Uzbekistan, as it contains too much criticism of the male leadership in the UzSSR at the time. To me, it is a subconsciously feminist work that remains unpublished.

She writes in her memoir: “Poverty was destined for us by our grandfather, Qodir ibn Yahyo ibn Rahim, the representative of the Central Asian Islamic clergy in Tokmok, modern-day Kyrgyzstan. When the Soviets took control of Turkestan, Qodir foresaw the consequences more clearly than anyone. In 1924, he returned to Tashkent and voluntarily surrendered all his lands and valuables to the new government. He also instructed his children to avoid becoming attached to material possessions, urging them to focus on gaining knowledge instead.” The impact of Soviet rule can even be seen in the names of her female cousins: Sanoat (Uzbek for ‘Industry’), Ziroat (‘Agriculture’), and Sur’at ('Rates of Growth').

When my grandmother U. was eight years old in 1948, she survived a hit-and-run accident by a motorcyclist. However, too afraid to tell her family, she kept her pain to herself. For sixteen years, she suffered intense pain, undiagnosed by numerous doctors. Despite this, she completed her education, ghostwriting academic papers in Russian for her male cousins and writing her dissertation on the construction of the first colour television centre in Tashkent. She even refused my grandfather’s marriage proposals multiple times, believing her suffering was a punishment from higher powers. Battling pain, she fought for her right to work against the wishes of her in-laws. Only after her first child was born did doctors discover the cause of her suffering: kidney necrosis.

U. was one of the few women to lead the construction of the Tashkent TV tower and later became its first director. In her memoir, she recounts numerous instances of standing up to the incompetence of male leaders in her field; her colleagues called her ‘the Iron Mother’. The TV tower became her life’s project, woven into every story, every event—symbolising her resilience and ambition. She was awarded the USSR State Award for her achievements but only revealed it after her husband’s death, not wanting him to feel overshadowed by her success.

Great-grandmother L.’s name translates to ‘the long-haired one’. She descended from a line of Shahs who lost everything during Soviet rule. She married my great-grandfather, the son of a Silk Road merchant who fled to China to escape repression and labour camps. Their marriage was brief: L. passed away at the age of 25. According to the family tale, after washing her hair, she ran out into the wind while caring for her two young children, which led to a severe case of meningitis.

My great-grandfather vowed to remarry only a woman who couldn’t have children, believing that only an infertile woman could learn to love her stepchildren as her own. Great-grandmother I. fulfilled this role—an outspoken Xorazmian woman, an active socialite, and one of the first women in Uzbekistan to board a plane and parachute jump in the 1930s, when many women around the world hadn’t yet secured the right to vote. She understood the true value of clandestine connections between women in a male-dominated communist society. My mother recalls her knowing all the women who could help in difficult times. Through this rhizomatic network of friendships and favours, she became a strong backbone for the family she married into.

The piece is intentionally incomplete, reflecting a centuries-old tradition of leaving embroidery unfinished as a wish for a happy and prosperous future. The ‘yulduz nusxa’ ornament on the parachute is my dedication to my younger sister, the youngest woman in my family, whose name translates to ‘star’—completing the familial and cosmological framework of the installation.