Where is Sokolovka? Echoes of a Disappearing Past

In orthodox architectural history, the emphasis is on the work of the individual architect; here [vernacular, indigenous architecture] the accent is on communal enterprise… The wisdom to be derived goes beyond economic and aesthetic considerations, for it touches the far tougher and increasingly troublesome problem of how to live and let live, how to keep peace with one’s neighbours, both in the parochial and universal sense.  

Architecture without Architects, Bernard Rudofsky, MOMA, 1965  

We are driving east through Kyrgyzstan from Bishkek to Chong-Kemin, and only vaguely do we know how we will be spending the next three or four weeks.  

Slowing down, I am thinking to myself, slowing down. What a peculiar concept: to have to  remind oneself to pace, to breathe, to notice.  

I see a man on the side of the track, he waves. We stop.  

As Felix Guattari famously claimed, “nature cannot be separated from culture”. Within a capitalist framework, Guattari’s concept of ecosophy was a rather radical proposition. He called for an ethical approach to living–one that reimagines our relationships with nature, with society, and with ourselves. His ideas stood in contrast to the foundational logic of capitalism: individualism, extractivism, overconsumption and the belief in human superiority over nature. As I travel through these landscapes, I witness firsthand how the environment is inseparable from community values, trust, and the daily existence of each individual within it. This interconnectedness Guattari writes about is not theoretical here. It is experienced. It is lived.

The man’s name is Bektur. He walked to ail (the village) to pick up medication for his cow. The cow is sick, he explains. Bektur shows us his sarai (house) and then walks us to the best camping spot in the  area. He asks me about my age.The next morning, Bektur comes back on his horse and offers us some kymyz.

Three days later, we arrive at Son-Kul. We are greeted by Meerim. She is probably fourteen or fifteen,  and the only one in the family hosting us who speaks Russian. Umar, her brother, is in the field with the herd and will return late in the evening. Their family has eighty sheep, twenty mares, and six cows.

“This is a Chinese yurt, not a Kyrgyz one,” Meerim explains. “Kyrgyz ones are made of wood  and wool—they’re warmer and stay cool during the day. But these are made of fabric,  synthetic materials, and have metal fastenings. It’s cheaper that way.” 

Meerim wants to become a TV presenter and move to Bishkek. 

I feel both relieved to speak Russian, and uneasy. Sometimes, understanding your own country requires literally stepping outside of it. Colonial legacies stretch across this continent, far beyond the borders of my home country. In this case, language carries histories and power structures – it continues to live on through spoken word, cultural norms, architecture, and in the names of streets and villages. This is what Nelson Maldonado-Torres refers to as the “coloniality of being.” When an empire falls, does it cease to exist? 

Days later, as we drive past the breathtaking shores of Issyk-Kul, inhaling its almost lunar landscapes, we see a woman and a boy by the roadside, waving for us to stop. 

“Take him to the school in Sokolovka please. It’s right there,” the woman explains. 

I take her word for it. She is in her late seventies, maybe a bit older, and she reminds me of  my grandmother. She seats the boy in our car. It is only then that I realize she isn’t coming. 

“Are you not coming with us?” I ask. 

“No, it’s close—just the next ail.” 

We are terrified and fascinated by this unconditional trust: trust in people, and trust in us. What a profound, almost existential shift for me. Here we are, with this boy in our car, tasked with bringing him to the school in Sokolovka,  which is, allegedly, very close—right there—if I am to believe the woman who reminds me of my grandmother. 

As we drive on, we realize there is no sign of Sokolovka on our GPS. I stop and wait for passing cars to ask for directions. Everyone keeps waving, reassuring us that we are on the right path —while modern technology insists otherwise. We choose to trust the people, the way they trust us. Completely and unconditionally. 

We reach the first village along the way. It soon becomes clear that the farther we get from  the city, the less useful my language becomes.  

“Salamatsyzby, where is Sokolovka?” I ask. 

The boy and the children outside wave. And then it dawns on me—this is what it is: the  Soviet colonial legacy. In their push to forge a unified Soviet identity and build a perfect  communist future, the Soviets renamed cities and villages across the USSR and the newly  annexed territories. That’s how, for example, Pishkek became Frunze—until the fall of the  Soviet Union, when it was renamed Bishkek. 

The boy waves again—I see a Soviet-style building. It’s a school–I can tell. All schools in  my home country look exactly like this one. He jumps out and runs inside. I try following him to make sure he is alright. He is gone. Is our mission accomplished?

A woman with a stroller passes by. 

“Salamatsyzby, where is Sokolovka?” I ask. 

“This is Sokolovka,” she replies. 

We glance at our GPS. It displays the village name: Ak-Chiy. 

Later, I find myself searching the Merriam-Webster and Oxford dictionaries for a translation  of the word poputchiki. They suggest “fellow travellers.” I hesitate. In Russian, a poputchik is  someone going in the same direction as you, someone with whom you share the road. But the  meaning is deeper than that—the road itself can become something more, a path intertwined  in a way that transcends geography. A poputchik is not just a travel companion but someone  whose presence, even briefly, shapes your journey. 

And so we drive on, leaving Sokolovka in the past.