Sulaiman-Too in Osh, Kyrgyzstan, intertwines sacred space, religion, memory, and kinship. Cemeteries honor ancestors, transmit knowledge, and sustain community, yet state-led urban development threatens graves, exposing tensions between heritage, religious devotion, and modernization.
Sulaiman-Too in Osch, Kirgistan, verbindet heilige Erde, Religion, Erinnerung und Familien miteinander. Die Friedhöfe dort dienen der Ehrung der Vorfahren, sie vermitteln Wissen und stärken die Gemeinschaft, doch die staatlich gelenkte Stadtentwicklung bedroht die Gräber und offenbart Spannungen zwischen Kulturerbe, religiöser Hingabe und Modernisierung.

In Central Asia, as in many parts of the world, to disturb the dead is to disturb the moral order. Graves are not mere plots of land; they are nodes in a network of sacred relations. When the state burns or bulldozes cemeteries, it risks burning bridges of trust with its citizens. This intertwining of sacred space, memory, and community is not limited to cemeteries alone. It extends to other sites of devotion and pilgrimage, such as Sulaiman-Too, the sacred mountain which is located at the heart of Osh in southern Kyrgyzstan. The mountain is not only a geological landmark in the Fergana Valley, but also a spiritual place that has attracted pilgrims, saints, migrants, and ordinary believers for centuries. Sulaiman-Too was a site of ritual devotion. This mountain also has a reputation of being a holy place, hosting shrines, mosques, and sacred caves[1].
But Sulaiman-Too is also a place for the deceased relatives of many Osh residents. Since Soviet times, the mountain’s slopes are occupied by numerous cemeteries — the resting places of Kyrgyz, Uzbeks, Tatars, and others who used to live in Osh and called this their home. Among the graves lie prominent Soviet-era singers, scholars, community leaders, and ordinary local people. The families of these people would get together during Ramadan to clean the graves, pray, and honour the memory of their ancestors. This commemoration is also an important family and religious ritual where all the family members within several generations would learn the importance of the remembrance of their deceased relatives, passing on oral knowledge about the names and lives of their ancestors that might otherwise be forgotten[2]. This is a key part of local kinship systems, linking past, present and future through social gatherings during Ramadan.
Yet, in recent years this sacred geography has collided with the ambitions of the current state. The recent cemeteries have been burned, graves dismantled, and bones exhumed in the name of urban development, road extension, and “green zones.” As the mayor of the city said ‘let us remove all the cemeteries in order to create a green zone to earn money from tourists’[3].
A Cemetery in Conflict
Local residents recall that during the Soviet Union, the state decided to use Sulaiman-Too for burials — partly due to a shortage of land, partly to free up fertile fields for cotton production. Between the 1960s and 1978, the southern cemetery was active; burials in the northern cemetery continued until as late as 2013. In total, more than a thousand people were laid to rest on the slopes.
By law, graves should not be reused or repurposed until at least 25–30 years have passed. Yet, according to residents, the state began pressuring families to relocate remains barely 13 years after the last burials. Bulldozers appeared. The mayor’s office spoke of re-cultivation, greening, and urban development[4].
Every year some tragic episodes occur where parts of the cemeteries are burnt in what are apparently wildfires. Official explanations point to climatic conditions and accidental fires. Some local residents, however, pin blame on a lack of water due to the state not maintaining irrigation systems, and others see it as an intentional attempt to clear space for new projects.
For many families in Osh, this was not only an outrage but a deep spiritual violation. As one elderly resident told me, “99% of those buried here are our ancestors. Some of the bones belong to people whose children and grandchildren are still alive, live nearby and visit them often. This place is sacred for Uzbeks, but also for all the peoples of Osh.”

Three Days to Collect the Dead
In July 2025, the situation also escalated dramatically in other parts of Osh city, where the decision was to remove the cemeteries located near the local mahallas in order to widen the roads. Residents were told they had just three days to exhume their relatives and re-bury them elsewhere. Those who lived in Osh had to carry bones down the mountain and pay the required 3,000 som (30 Euro) fee for a new burial site[5]. But what about families who had migrated to Russia or Europe? Many could not return in time. Their ancestors’ remains were collected in heaps, with bones buried together in communal graves.
This rushed process left many residents in shock. An 88-year-old male informant, whose parents were buried on the mountain, recalled bitterly: “We have lived here for generations. How can they [the State] tell us our cemeteries must disappear? They want to make a park, a green zone. But our ancestors deserve peace. Let the deceased rest in peace, please!”
Development vs. Memory
The dispute over Sulaiman-Too’s cemeteries is not just about land. It is about ethnicity, such as Uzbek mahalla cemeteries versus the Kyrgyz state. It is also the clash between heritage and development, sacredness and business. The state envisions wide roads, recreational spaces, and tourist-friendly landscapes. But Osh residents envision continuity — a landscape where the living cares for the dead, where cemeteries signify communal identity, and inter-generational knowledge is transferred.
One of the most painful aspects has been the silencing of disagreement. Few locals dare to protest openly, fearing repercussions from the authorities. One man explained, “We cannot express our opinions, as this may lead to problems and pressure from the state.” Another added, “Please broaden the road on the other side of the road. But don’t disturb the graves.” Their requests, however, were ignored.

Sacred Mountain, Global Heritage
The irony is that Sulaiman-Too is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Its cultural and spiritual significance is internationally recognized. Tourists climb its trails, visiting sacred caves and shrines. Yet, the cemeteries — equally a part of its sacred landscape — are treated as obstacles to development.
For some locals, hope lies precisely in UNESCO. One community elder, Aziz, aged 76, expressed faith that international protection might shield their cemeteries: “UNESCO supported us before. They sponsored our houses. Tourists do not only come to see the mountain or the apartment blocks, but also to see the traditional houses of the people living there, their clothing, and their customs. Maybe they will protect us again.”
But UNESCO’s mandate is limited, and cultural heritage often becomes a battleground of selective preservation. Which parts of the past deserve saving? Which can be erased for the sake of “progress”?
Why Cemeteries Matter
To outsiders, it may be tempting to see cemeteries as replaceable, especially in crowded cities, such as Osh. Yet anthropology reminds us that cemeteries are not just about the dead — they are about the living. They are places where memory is protected, where families renew bonds across generations, where cultural identity is affirmed. This is the heart of the local kinship system, Islam and community.
It is precisely this deeper social and religious significance that makes current developments in Osh resonate with earlier historical struggles. There is a parallel between Soviet times and today: while burial rites were actively defended against state repression during the Soviet era, today they face new pressures—urban development and shifting social priorities—that threaten their continuity. In both cases, cemeteries symbolize a boundary for the community, marking a domain where religious identity and kinship ties must be protected. As Marianne Kamp (2010) argues, during the Soviet times death practices (i.e., performing funeral prayers) represented a kind of red line for Central Asians, and many were ready to defend them against the state at any cost, especially when other religious practices were repressed.[6]
Between Stones and Stories
The story of Sulaiman-Too’s cemeteries is unfinished. After the Soviet times, new state projects (i.e. between Soviet times and the current developments in Osh) threaten the graves every year. Each year, the state plans the expansion of roads against the quiet resistance of families. Meanwhile, tourists snap photos of the mountain, unaware that just beyond the trail lies a battlefield of memory.
As one local put it emotionally: “This is not only a cemetery. It is our history, our ancestors, our identity. To erase it is to erase us.”
The future of Sulaiman-Too will depend on whether development can learn to coexist with sacredness — whether roads and green zones can be built without uprooting bones. For now, the mountain stands as a reminder: heritage is not just about monuments, but about the fragile bond between the living and the dead.
[1] Liu, Morgan. 2012. Under Solomon’s Throne. Uzbek Visions of Renewal in Osh. Pittsburgh:University of Pittsburgh Press.
[2] Ismailbekova, A. 2017 Blood Ties and the Native Son: Poetics of Patronage in Kyrgyzstan. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
[3] https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1157690362852446&rdid=Hhg4YvfQirEo59NI
[4] https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1157690362852446&rdid=Hhg4YvfQirEo59NI
[5] https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=1101498778600604&rdid=bCohodiCTh5OaIFm
[6] Kamp, M. (2010) ‘Where did the mullahs go? Oral histories from rural Uzbekistan’, Die Welt des Islams, 50(3–4), pp. 503–531.
Aksana Ismailbekova is a Research Fellow at Leibniz-Zentrum Moderner Orient (ZMO) in Berlin. In 2025 she was a Leibniz — Newcastle University Fellow.
Title picture: Gateway to a staircase leading to a museum precinct on Sulaiman-Too mountain. Adam Harangozó, CC BY-SA 4.0.










