Living mainly in the south, where they work in agriculture, they have gained a reputation as hard-working, law-abiding people.

And while they are acutely aware that their mother country has become the region's economic and military giant, they are increasingly unhappy with their loss of status in Kyrgyzstan.

Few make much of a noise about their national identity. The historic and cultural differences between the Kyrgyz and Uzbek peoples - descendants of nomadic and agricultural cultures respectively - run deep.

More recent disputes have fuelled this ancient antagonism, including conflicts over borders and natural gas, which Uzbekistan supplies to Kyrgyzstan.

Against this unfavourable background, the Uzbeks are struggling to find ways to express their identity. Their main forum is the Assembly of the People of Kyrgyzstan, which represents the republic's minority groups.

This body serves to control - as well as represent - the minorities, and has the status of a consultative organ of government under President Askar Akaev.

Within this official forum, the Uzbeks remain politically split, while groups such as the Uzbek National-Cultural Centre struggle for leadership of the community.

Davran Sabirov, a deputy in the assembly and vice-president of the Society of Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan, helped set up the Uzbek National Center in Kyrgyzstan in 1991.

He claims that as soon as the society began highlighting Uzbek problems in Kyrgyzstan, the authorities set up a rival Uzbek organisation to weaken them.

While the various Uzbek organisations fight for supremacy, other Uzbeks have no desire to be identified with either.

"I am Uzbek by name, but in every other way I'm Kyrgyz," said Ernst Akramov, a well-known surgeon and politician. "All my roots are here. I have never even been to Uzbekistan, and in any case, I was born and raised in an international milieu."

Akramov says a 'real step towards equality' for all minorities would involve scrapping bodies like the people's assembly. "The main criteria should be citizenship, not national identity," he said.

As Uzbek community leaders note demands are growing for the state to assign a quota of government posts to ethnic minority candidates.

Alisher Sabirov, a deputy in the national parliament, says this quota need not be totally mechanical. "The fact that there are 14 per cent of Uzbeks in the country does not mean Uzbeks need 14 per cent of government posts," he said.

"But we are in danger of forgetting that Kyrgyzstan is a multi-ethnic state and that Uzbek representation in government is declining. Before, there were eight Uzbek deputies in the Kyrgyz parliament. Now there are only five."

Tension between Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan inevitably means Uzbek representatives in the Kyrgyz government are seen as agents of the Uzbek government in Tashkent.

In theory, Uzbeks can compete for any post in the country. In the 2000 presidential elections, for example, Anvar Artykov, an ethnic Uzbek, put himself forward as a candidate. But he was disqualified after failing to pass an exam in the Kyrgyz language.

"Introducing a language test is a move to block candidates that the authorities don't like," said Ernst Akramov. "It doesn't happen anywhere else in the world and shows the extent of prejudice towards citizens who are supposed to enjoy equality under the constitution."

Davran Sabirov says Uzbeks have "virtually disappeared" from the country's power structure. "The excuse is that none of them are competent or specialised enough," he said. "I find it difficult to believe that among one million Uzbeks they could not find anyone with the sufficient expertise."

Political discrimination is not the only source of concern among Uzbeks. They fear their opportunities for getting an education in their native language are also shrinking.

"The Uzbek diaspora used to employ text-books published in Uzbekistan," said Davran Sabirov. "But after Uzbekistan switched to Latin script, this dried up. What we want are Uzbek textbooks published in Kyrgyzstan, but the government says there is no money. As things stand, Uzbek children simply do not get a decent education."

Apart from the problems they face inside Kyrgyzstan, the Uzbek community is inevitably affected by the republic's tricky relationship with Uzbekistan. Every time Tashkent reduces the supply of natural gas to Kyrgyzstan, Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan feel the heat.

"Naturally, the Uzbek community feels uncomfortable," Alisher Sabirov said. "They get drawn into arguments and really suffer when the Kyrgyz media starts heating up the situation and stirring hostility to Uzbekistan."

Uzbeks in Kyrgyzstan blame both governments for the gas dispute. Davran Sabirov says Uzbekistan should solve the problem, so that the diaspora in Kyrgyzstan would not suffer as much as it does.

Ernst Akramov disagrees. "We have a market economy and must abide by its laws," he said. "In the marketplace, you get nothing for free. The same applies to gas."

The attempt to preserve 'Uzbekchilik' - the Uzbek way of life - on Kyrgyz soil, is a continuing struggle. Uzbeks feel a natural pride in their historic homeland but have to hide it. Publicly, they must distance themselves from Uzbekistan, knowing that any demonstration of sympathy will irritate the Kyrgyz authorities.

They do not dare openly approach the Uzbek government about their grievances, while at home, the problems of the minorities are buried under the slogan 'Kyrgyzstan is our common home'.

The slogan is the source of much bitter humour among all ethnic minorities. "If our president says Kyrgyzstan is our common home and we are all equal, we should ensure his words match reality," said Ernst Akramov.

This feeling is common to all ethnic groups in Kyrgyzstan, including the 70,000 Uigur. They all complain of the lack of equal opportunities and of discrimination against minorities.

For the moment, their protests smoulder quietly in a country which has 26 ethnic communities, all subject to a government policy of divide and rule. But if their anger coalesces, it may not be so easy to control.

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Late last month, Turkmen border guards opened fire on Uzbek brothers, Rashid and Nuratdin Matkurbanov, killing the former and wounding the latter. The incident occurred close to the Dustlik collective farm in the Khorezm region of Uzbekistan.

Tashkent's acknowledged that the two men had crossed illegally, but protested over the guards' excessive use of force.

The brothers were going to Turkmenistan to stock up on petrol as they had done a hundred times before. They made money smuggling gasoline from Turkmenistan. Nuratdin says the guards shot them as they were crossing back into Uzbekistan on their motorcycle, laden with canisters of fuel.

"We almost made it but then our money bag fell off the motorbike, so we had to drive back to pick it up," he said. "All of a sudden, one of the guards opened fire. He shot Rashid, who died instantly. Then they started shooting me. They got me in the arms and the stomach. I ran, but they chased me well into Uzbek territory."

Nuratdin is still in a hospital. Rashid's body was returned to Uzbekistan the following day. The brothers' family is furious. Their grieving mother, Jumagul Matkurbanova, flung herself in protest against the barbed wire fence that Turkmenistan installed last spring along its side of the border.

The local Uzbek authorities have tried to hush up the incident and have agreed to try to prevent Uzbeks crossing the border.

Customs and tax authorities were instructed to stop petrol dealers from bringing in their merchandise from Turkmenistan. Traffic police were ordered to impound motorcycles belonging to residents in the border zone.

Local government officials exhorted the brothers' relatives to forget about the incident and to come to terms with Rashid's death. His relatives say they are in a difficult situation, caught between the ruthlessness of their neighbouring state and the indifference of their own authorities. Indeed, Uzbekistan has done little to protect its citizens and seems more intent on curbing cross-border trade.

For most residents of Khorezm, however, this trade is the only means of survival. "Unemployment and poverty compels our children to crawl under barbed wire," said Jumagul Matkurbanova, with tears in her eyes. "They are risking their lives every day they cross the Turkmen border."

Her sons fell victim to both governments' security concerns. While Ashgabad has gone furthest by putting up a barbed wire fence, both states have demarcated their frontiers and introduced visa requirements.

Abdy Kuliev, former Turkmen foreign minister, believes the restoration of good relations between Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan will take time and some major democratic changes. "As long as both are ruled by dictators," he said, "these nations will be drawn ever wider apart. The policy of their rulers leaves them no choice."

Ordinary people have now lost their cross-border business. Barbed wire has been thrown between close relatives. To visit each other, people have to pay for a visa. The inhabitants of the frontier regions are nostalgic for a time when life was quieter, safer and more affluent.

Sharipboi Yakubov, 74, has been in the gardening business for 60 years. The border runs through his backyard. His fruit orchard, wheat and rice fields are on the other side of a barbed wire fence.

"I lost my harvest and I lost my market," the old man complained. "I've always sold my fruit and vegetables in Turkmenistan. I can't even go see my kin there anymore."

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Despite the intensive heat and constant wind, the builders are working in two shifts. During the construction, 12 trucks, about 10 earth moving machines, 6 bulldozers, 3 excavators and other machinery are being efficiently used. Workers of the Qizilqum cooperative and drives of the Elbek private enterprise are working especially actively. БЗЮ Green gardens and peasants' farms will be created in place of the barren deserts in Qoshrabot next year.

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Universities must demand that would-be students already have something published in the press, apart from pass a writing examination.

To put it briefly, a journalism department is a place for more or less creative and talented young people. Otherwise, they will go on `training' untalented journalists who are incapable of creative writing, of grasping news developments, analysing events and assessing them from their own point of view, to say nothing of deeply specializing in their field - the prime requirements for journalists - and who do not know their place in society.

A legal basis for free media and for fostering its activities has been created in Uzbekistan, just like elsewhere in the world. The government is giving its constant attention to this matter. The thing now is to train and retrain free and broad-minded and professional journalists.

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Praised on Uzbek Television by David Pearce--the head of the World Bank office in Uzbekistan--on 30 June, the decree introduced several key modifications to existing legislation. One section exempts small- and medium-sized enterprises from the obligation to sell hard currency receipts to the state at an exchange rate set by the Uzbek National Bank. Another allows those same businesses to export their own goods, labor, and services for foreign currency in cash at a rate based on demand, through the cash departments of banking institutions.

Until now, hard currency had been sold at an artificially inflated rate favoring the local currency, the som, which discouraged both exporters and potential foreign investors. According to Robert Rosenberg, IMF permanent envoy to Uzbekistan, the delays in making the national currency convertible were becoming dangerous, given the low levels of foreign investment and exports, Uzland.uz reported. The new move is aimed at reversing that trend.

Another important aspect of the latest decree allows a number of authorized banks to sell and buy foreign currency in cash at rates based on supply and demand, through special exchange points. However, commercial banks, lacking special authorization for foreign currency operations, can only purchase foreign currency.

Uzbek citizens can exchange up to $300 at authorized institutions upon presenting a passport, a valid visa issued by a foreign country, and an air or rail ticket. Non-residents can also buy hard currency, but only in the amount of previously registered exchanges, proved with an appropriate receipt from the respective transactions. The resolution further stipulates that private individuals from Uzbekistan are not allowed to take more than $5000 out of the country without permission form the Central Bank.

A third key shift gives foreign companies and firms the opportunity to purchase specified amounts of certain high-liquidity products with freely convertible currency. Although the content of high-liquidity output, or highly desirable products, is still pending definition, Pearce believes the move will encourage competition between the existing state system, which currently controls the sale of these products, and alternative exporters.

The last major innovation in currency market deregulation involves purchases of foreign currency by Uzbek enterprises: Businesses will be exempt from the 5 percent commission surcharge currently levied for buying freely convertible currency.

In addition to the new currency deregulation provisions, the Uzbek cabinet took steps to prevent violations of existing legislation on circulation of foreign currency in the republic. The Interior Ministry, the National Security Service, the State Taxation Committee, and the Prosecutor's Office will step up measures to suppress the illegal circulation of foreign cash and identify counterfeit bank notes in an effort to strengthen confidence in Uzbek authorities’ abilities to provide an investment-friendly environment for foreign businesses.

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An attempt by Hojaev to promote greater awareness about state censorship practices appears to have prompted his ouster. On June 18, the editorial department of the Tashkentskaya Pravda newspaper opened an exhibition called "Without Censorship" -- the first of its kind in Uzbekistan, or in the CIS. Hodjaev covered a wall with articles that had been banned from publication by Uzbek authorities. It was designed as a work-in-progress, to which journalists could make ongoing contributions.

The exhibition proved immensely popular. Within just a few hours, the original 2-square-meter exhibition panel was covered, and a second panel was installed. The articles in the exhibit did not contain state secrets, nor did they contain calls for violence, discrimination or other activities prohibited by the Constitution of Uzbekistan. Most pieces expressed a relatively independent perspective on routine economic and social developments, and were critical of local authorities.

The Uzbek government, which is battling an Islamic insurgency, has stepped up efforts in recent years to control the spread of independent information. In a late June speech , President Islam Karimov called on journalists to improve the quality of their writing. [For background see the Eurasia Insight archive].

On July 6, regional authorities, who sponsor the paper, announced an overhaul of Tashkentskaya Pravda’s organizational and financial structure. The paper would be merged with its Uzbek-language partner newspaper "Toshkent Haquqati." Under terms of the merger, one editor would oversee the joint publication, effectively ousting Hodjaev. A restructuring commission was established to oversee the merger.

According to Hodjaev, officials had been looking for a way to remove him from his position for a long time. Officials claimed that the papers’ merger was done purely in the financial interests of the paper. But some Tashkentskaya Pravda staffers said the changes were clearly motivated by political considerations.

"What are these financial interests, what can they be?" asked Yuri Chernogayev, a well-known journalist with the newspaper, "everything will stay the same, the staff will stay the same, the circulation will stay the same. Financial reasons are not a legitimate excuse. Our paper has good, stable conditions."

According to Chernogayev, the merger has had a severe chilling effect on Tashkentskaya Pravda reporters and staff. Many called for the closure of the censorship exhibition. Meanwhile, reporters who planned to contribute an article to the exhibit suddenly changed their mind after seeing what had happened to Hodjaev. "We were warned by the authorities that we’re a government paper, and that the exhibition was a movement in the wrong direction – that it was too outrageous," Chernogayev said.

Tashkent officials had long been displeased with the editorial direction of Tashkentskaya Pravda. "The Hokimiyat (local authority) thinks the paper is useless," Chernogayev said, "and therefore the Hokimiyat gives it almost no support." Supplies and equipment in the office are brought by the employees from their homes. In the last year, staff had to pay the year’s phone bill out of their own pocket. "We’ve just been one big headache for them," he said, "so I’m sure they’d just like to shut us down."

The day after the decree, Hodjaev wrote in his last editorial column for the paper that true patriotism meant "not time-serving, servility, hypocrisy and cowardliness" but the open expression of discontent and criticism of shortcomings in Uzbekistan’s development in order to ensure that the president’s ideals were implemented.

Now, journalists at the paper speak grimly of the future of such open expression following the departure of Hodjaev. They worry that though the name of the paper will stay the same, the content will probably change, and the new editor will probably not allow the same freedom of expression it had under Hodjaev. "If a free press in Uzbekistan is like an apple tree," Chernogayev mused, "then the Tashkentskaya Pravda was like the last apple. When it falls off, you can cut down the tree."

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On an Monday afternoon in late May, a call comes from a local human rights activist in Tashkent. "The Sukhandarya trial has started," the woman says urgently. "Quick, go -- but you need written permission from the Supreme Court to get in."

I immediately jump into a taxi and rush to the Supreme Court. There, I am kept waiting for four hours as I attempt to secure the required permission. During this time I am repeatedly told that someone will soon be free to see me. I greet court personnel as they enter and exit the hallways inaccessible to me, and chat with two judges, who, with broad smiles, tell me that access is entirely unrestricted – "Should you have any problem, just give a call." Their smiles dampen slightly as I carefully enter their coordinates into my notebook. Ultimately, however, I am informed the Supreme Court never issues written permission for observers to attend trials, and, as this trial is open, there is no need for it anyway.

The next morning at the Akhmal Ikromov courthouse – one of four courthouses in the city in which the trial is being held – security is tight. Parked trucks restrict access to the courthouse, and ropes seal off the street, blocking motor and pedestrian traffic. Close to 30 policemen guard the premises, and an excited police dog is restrained on its leash. A fire engine and first aid vehicle are on hand. Armed soldiers stand guard inside a two-meter high iron fence surrounding the building, and inside the entrance to the courthouse.

When I arrive half an hour early, the judge is already inside the building. I present my credentials to the police officers and guards, but am told that only those with written permission from the Supreme Court are allowed entry. "You must speak to the judge," they add. "But the Supreme Court does not deliver written permission to monitors, and the judge is inside," I point out, "please let me in and I will ask for his permission once inside." They refuse. I then pull out my mobile phone and punch in the Supreme Court numbers obtained the day before. Luckily, I reach one of the judges, pass the phone to the police officer in command, he receives the go-ahead, and I am let in the building.

Every morning thereafter, I must obtain permission from the judge as though for the first time. The police officers know me by now, but they, without exception, insist that I wait for the judge. Each day, the same ritual: he approaches in his chauffered Volga, gets out, shakes hands with the crowd of police officers, turns his back on the street and passes through the impregnable iron fence. I run up from behind, calling out my request for entry. "I will send someone to admit you when I am ready," he says, his face clouding over in annoyance. But it is only because I beseech every court official who passes through the gates to remind him of his promise that I am admitted each day.

On the first day, the judge demands that I produce a letter of entry from the Supreme Court. "I have been to the Supreme Court," I explain patiently, "and they gave me oral permission, stating that they never issue written permission for observers." He is unimpressed with this answer, and asks to whom I spoke there; fortunately the name of one of my judge acquaintances makes an effect. "Do you have a tape recorder," he asks, and when I answer no, he gestures to me to sit down. I pull out my notebook. Five minutes later, he explodes. "I never said you could take notes! and I asked if you had a tape recorder," he screams. "Please leave now and come back only if you have written permission from the Supreme Court." There is a silence. I apologize, and, under his dark glare, hastily put away the notebook.

The security presence inside is also impressive. Close to fifteen police officers and soldiers take up half the space in the courtroom, and two armed soldiers stand at attention facing the cage off to one side, where the twenty defendants are seated. Other armed soldiers are at the entrance, and stationed at the head of the staircases leading to the courtroom. There are five state lawyers, the judge, three court officials, the procurator, the registrar, and one woman who manually transcribes the proceedings, even though it is impossible for her to keep up with the pace of the different speakers. Other than myself and my interpreter, there are no other members of the public in the room.

The accused are pallid as white chalk, thin, their skin starved for sun after six long months in prison. Their faces bear an expression midway between anguish and inscrutability, as though resigned to their pre-determined fates. The air conditioning is not working, there are no windows to open, but thanks to a skylight in the ceiling, sunlight streams straight in. The temperature approaches 40 degrees Celsius in the room. The heat is oppressive, and throughout much of the trial court officials and the policemen silently sleep, the lawyers and procurator alternately sag down in their seats, forcing themselves to blink their eyes and sit up straight at intervals, the standing guards sway from side to side. But the defendants never nod off. Their gaze remains trained on whomever is speaking, and, when relatives are present, all of their eyes speak floods and volumes from behind the bars; they have not seen their loved ones for six months. The judge too, whether due to an exceptional constitution or habit, remains fresh and alert.

Outside on the street, relatives, most in traditional dress, crouch on the sidewalk under the shade of trees. Many have traveled over 10 hours by car from the south, from relocation centers to which over 3,000 mountain villagers have been permanently removed to following the fighting. The first couple of days, they, like me, approach the guards at the gates and repeatedly request entry, but have since given up. They have good reason not to make themselves too prominent, as authorities have employed every means possible to contain protest and information about the trial. Relatives have been forbidden by authorities in the south to travel to Tashkent to attend the proceedings, many have been stopped at checkpoints and returned home once having stated they were travelling to the courthouse. Officials from Sherobod have made trips to Tashkent to forcibly return groups of relatives on specially-arranged buses. Other relatives have been ejected from private residences in the city. Police patrol the sidewalk, asking relatives for their personal coordinates and their reason for having traveled to Tashkent.

The trial itself is completed in five days, astonishingly fast given the 14-15 charges with which each of the defendants has been charged, as well as the large number of defendants. The indictment holds that the accused provided the IMU militants with food and shelter, showed them mountain pathways, and conducted foreign currency transactions with the militants. The prosecution fails to produce any material evidence substantiating these activities, and only half a day is dedicated to their defense. One by one the defendants relate that they were either located up to 100 kilometers (62 miles) away from the actual site of the military activities, that they never witnessed the latter, were tortured in detention, and forced to memorize and recite prepared confessions. Some weep, other lift their shirts or drop their pants to display red burn marks or wounds inflicted by the alleged torture.

Almost a full day is devoted to the viewing of videotaped sessions of the defendants’ questioning periods while under investigation. Investigators bark out questions one after the other as though at an oral examination. One defendant, a schoolteacher, is visibly amused by the theatricality of the process, and, having missed a cue, laughs out loud on camera when he is prompted by the investigator. He grins again sheepishly when the investigator guides his hand to trace on a map on the wall, the area where the fighting took place. Another defendant during the whole of his confession keeps his head bent downwards. His mother turns to me, "Look! He is reading from his lap!" There is almost a full day of these droning videotapes, and, due to their repetitiveness and the heat, the courtroom becomes restless and inattentive. When the judge rises to leave the room, defendants, lawyers, relatives and court officials burst into indiscrete chatter, drowning out the evidence which is to provide the basis for a guilty verdict.

There are only two witnesses for the defense, and two for the prosecution. The lawyers, half of whom straggle in late each day, sit passively, like the defendants eerily resigned; they on occasion ask a question when prompted by the judge. Their questions are of such an accusatory tone that on the first day, my interpreter asks me whether they are lawyers for the prosecution or the defense. "It is as though the lawyers have already decided that they are guilty!" she exclaims. The defense’s arguments take all of 40 minutes.

Chaotic confusion surrounds the verdict delivery date. On the day that it is set to be read, a Tuesday, nobody has been informed that it is postponed. The ambulance arrives, the policemen, a lawyer or two, even the procurator, and they learn the news along with me. The same the following day. No one at either of the four court houses is able to confirm when the verdict will be read. Finally, without announcement, the verdict is delivered simultaneously in all four court houses. All of the defendants are found guilty. Had not relatives chosen to stay on at physical and financial risk, no one would have been aware.

Editor's Note: Marie Struthers is a freelance journalist and a consultant with Human Rights Watch.

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Urgench, the capital city of Khorezm oblast, had normal weather once. It snowed in the winter and rained in the spring; the temperature changed with the seasons. Now Urgench is warm and dry all year round. The winter is colder than the summer, but the climate can no longer be called temperate. In the absence of rain, rivers and canals are drying up. Khorezm oblast is in a state of permanent drought. Formerly, clouds crossed the Aral Sea, picked up water, and spilled it as rain on Urgench. Now, as the Aral Sea evaporates, they pick up salt instead of water.

As cloud formations blow through, they bring the grey skies, wind, and low barometric pressure that one normally associates with rain. That may explain why while public habits appear unchanged, public health appears abysmal. Khonshoyim Nizomova, a doctor, told Uzbek television in spring that more than 90 percent of women in the Karakalpak district are anemic, with poor ecology a primary cause. A range of health problems from birth defects and infant mortality to cancer and respiratory ailments are on the rise. The cotton harvest in Khorezm is decreasing, and if you accept a cup of tea from a local host the flavor will remind you of the ocean.

Some, like Ososkova, are responding to this drought and strange weather. The United Nations Common Country Assessment for Uzbekistan, released on June 7, calls the increasing salinization of land and water the greatest single threat to the nation’s environment. The State Committee for Science and Technology and Samarkand State University convened the first international conference on fighting desertification in Samarkand nine days later. Participants learned that natural resource losses in Uzbekistan due to desertification are equal to the nation’s GDP, and that sixty percent of Uzbekistan’s agricultural land may go barren from dryness. President Islam Karimov has also recently declared a state of water emergency in Karakalpakistan and Khorezm. Water trucks will deliver emergency supplies. On July 2, Japan approved a $2.5 million grant, through the Asian Development Bank, to Karimov to provide emergency relief.

Yet living in Tashkent, you would never know about any emergency. The fountains of the capital run all summer, and municipal sprinklers wet grass and asphalt. The city’s gutters run with wastewater from car washing, garden irrigation, and leakage from pipes. The city is full of gardens. Water use per capita in the cities of Uzbekistan is 170 liters per day, 570 liters per day in smaller towns. This is much more than necessary, or than most nations at a similar stage of economic development use. Rural Uzbekistan is just as profligate. Cotton, the foundation of the Uzbek economy, is a thirsty crop. Its great need for water is compounded by Uzbekistan’s rudimentary irrigation system. Open ditches and canals feed fields, one of the least effective methods of bringing water. It is estimated that 30-50 percent of irrigation water is lost to evaporation. Simply switching to a drip irrigation system would make a huge difference in water loss.

It’s not surprising for hard-pressed cotton farmers or others a thousand kilometers away to fritter away water. In Urgench, residents have noticed the water problem - dinner table talk turns often to the shattered local ecology- but surprisingly few habits have changed. In a region where the average canal is a foot deep, residents water the streets to keep the dust down. They lavish their orchards with water and keep their dachas lush and green. The city center fountain is always on. One local family grows wheat at their dacha that they have no intention of harvesting. Driving through the streets, you see flower gardens and green grass. Visitors to Urgench often see the shrunken Amu Daryo River, which once fed the Aral Sea. The Aral Sea is an internationally recognized ecological disaster, and inhabitants take bitter pride in surviving.

The government seems to be similarly resigned. It can sponsor a conference, but how is it responding to that conference’s findings? Sending water trucks is a short-term solution. The problem is hardly local: in Turkmenistan, according to Uzbek media, desertification has yielded crop shortfalls of up to 40 percent. No matter how pleasant this summer may be in Urgench, Ososkova’s evidence is foreboding. Uzbekistan’s government and industries must quickly figure out how to protect water resources for the future.

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