The following entries are excerpted from the diary of Uzbek-Soviet writer Saida Zunnunova (1926-1977). In May of 1950 her husband, the well-known writer Said Ahmad, was labeled an “enemy of the people” and imprisoned; he was not released until 1955. With her husband’s fate uncertain, Zunnunova continued her studies in Tashkent, struggling to support and realize herself, and to stand firm against the suspicions of neighbors and her husband’s family. She was inspired to keep a diary by a teacher who transmitted the importance of the written word.

September 9, 1951 

Unfortunately, the idea of keeping this diary came to me very late. It seems I’d lost hope. But yesterday I met Sadiy domla on my way to the university. What he told me, that “written words never perish” and “good intentions prevail,” reignited my hope. It is true that a pure, well-intentioned heart will never perish, even in a whirlwind of slander. If I am lucky enough to return to the minbar, it would be the triumph of my good intentions. Then I would like to meet “their” eyes for a moment. But no, they wouldn’t dare meet mine. This is exactly what I would like.

Today is Sunday. After I cleaned the house, I typed up class notes for Diamat [Dialectic Materialism] with the hope that some students might buy them. So what? There’s no shame in honest labor. I’ve been earning my living this way for a year. A stipend only goes so far! There are so many worries over family and the household. Because I take no pleasure in them, that is all they are to me. Even if that’s not the reality, it is for me. No letter from Said Ahmad for a month and a half. I’m so uneasy. 

September 10, 1951  

Today I don’t have class. I wrote some notes. I went through some articles that I haven’t been able to publish in newspapers. Although it has been some time, I didn’t find it necessary to change them. That means I’m still firm in my opinions. I find no fault with them. Unfortunately, the articles couldn’t complete their service and have gotten stuck among my papers. That’s okay. Written words never perish.

All happiness is gone from my married life. Every day, quarrels and gibes. Ignorant people’s intellect can only go so far. In order to annoy me, D. [Said Ahmad’s niece Dalilahon] came by and praised M. If only M. had married my husband, I wouldn’t have endured these hardships. I had a bright future. And good-looking boys loved me, too. But good looks don’t entice love. No, I have a husband. I would never be unfaithful to him. You can’t hide the past, but thinking back on it makes me feel like a sinner before my husband. It seems to be staring at me, and I shudder.

I received a letter from Andijon. In sum, today has passed painfully, like so many other recent days. There’s nothing sweet to remember. Only that I am healthy, and I am alive. Health itself is a great happiness. I sensed this recently on a day I fell ill. I had the thought then, but now I’ve almost forgotten it. By the way, today is the traditional holiday of Arafa. We couldn’t afford to make osh. This is the first time in my life I have so needed money (I’ve been in need before, but not to this level). I waited for a letter from Said Ahmad until late afternoon. What could have happened? Maybe they didn’t allow him to write. 

September 11, 1951  

After listening to D.’s nonsense about genealogy and lineage, I pitied that poor, ignorant person who doesn’t understand the flow of life, and is beyond consideration by decent people. I smiled and left for Mehrikhon’s house. We spent the whole day chatting. My poems written before I married were there with Mehrikhon. Three days before my wedding I wrote down some words and gave them to her as a memento. 

And did I ever write good things, yes, I wrote the truth. Still, I won’t write them here. Let them remain a secret to anyone who reads this, since that “secret” may denigrate the torments I am now enduring because of my honesty. The proverb states that an intelligent person speaks only the truth, but not the whole truth. At this moment, I must admit I am following that principle for the first time in my life.

Love! Love, which seemed so amazing to me two years ago, has lost its worth completely. People have made it worthless, low and filthy just like themselves. Maybe some would reproach me for these words. But if they were in my shoes and had seen all the filth behind the curtain of love, they would hate it as much as I do. Men. Oh, I so despise them that I don’t even think they deserve my harshest words. But I digress. 

So last night Mehrikhon and I went to Gorky Park. I have no choice but to mention the “suitors” walking around like sniffer dogs—their confidence in approaching women amazes me. Either all women are wicked or everyone else must be. If you don't have a man by your side, you’re viewed as unclaimed property.

I stayed over at Mehrikhon’s house. I'm starting to feel annoyed in my own home. Until recently, I channeled my devotion and respect for my husband into love for our home. But now? My heart aches coming back to this house. If only he hadn’t married me.

September 12, 1951 

In the morning, I went to class from Mehrikhon’s house. A student bought a copy of my class notes. I’ll put that money toward repairing the roof. It has been a long time since I’ve been able to send anything to Said Ahmad. No one, not a single person, mentions him, even for my sake. I don’t expect this from anyone and am not upset by it. But I am upset about my husband’s lost worth. For eight months, I sent him packages, and there were days I cried bitterly because I couldn’t find the money. Strangers would lend me money, but his own people wouldn’t spare even a small portion of their meat. That’s okay. I didn’t come up with the saying, “You’re only a relative if you’re rich!” Hard work won’t kill a person. I do all I can, and I don't look to others for help, wouldn’t put Said Ahmad in that position. The five soms I earn through my own honest work and send to him wholeheartedly will sustain him more than a hundred soms from someone else. Because I’ve poured all of my happiness at his feet, spared him nothing. I've been the most loyal and honest person to him, and will continue to be. Whether he knows or understands it is his own business! I only ask that he try to understand me properly.

Still no letter? What has happened? No one will answer me.

September 13, 1951 

I went to class in the morning and returned after 3 p.m. My mother-in-law had just come back from visiting her brother Kamoliddin. After tea, I copied some class notes. I went to a store to buy oil, but the container slipped from the seller’s hand, the oil spilled, and the container broke. Someone gave me another container and I got the oil. My mother-in-law and I put it away for the winter. Because if I can’t work during exams, we might struggle. But as long as we have oil and we can find some potatoes, we’ll be able to eat. The word “winter” makes me think of galoshes and firewood.

I owe five hundred soms. Shouldn’t have bought that atlas dress. In the evening, I couldn’t do anything because the light was so dim. I sat and daydreamed and wrote this before falling asleep.

September 14, 1951

Life for me is flat and monotonous. Because I was two hours late, Vosiq reported me to the department. When I checked the list, I noticed he hadn’t marked down his wife’s absences. I went to the department and demanded he, the class leader, be fair. They say “the truth strikes like a hammer!” He took it hard, but he couldn’t say a word.

After class, Rahbarkhon asked me to visit her. I went. She wanted the money she’d lent me, because she was planning a wedding and needed it. I asked if she could wait until I received my stipend. In the evening, I went to the hammam with Munirakhon and then slept.

September 15, 1951 

Some students gave me notes to copy. But since they’re in Russian, I can't do it on my typewriter. It doesn't have all the necessary letters for that language. There’s no other work, what can I do? I’ll copy as much as I can by hand. When I got home, I was only able to copy three pages. In order to get my degree, I need to re-read Aibek’s Breezes from the Golden Valley. So I started re-reading that. But the lighting was too dim, making it impossible to read or get any work done.

I keep waiting for a letter that doesn’t come.

September 16, 1951 

Rahbarkhon was marrying off her sister. Since she is a relative, I had no choice but to attend the wedding. So I went, but my heart nearly broke. I kept thinking about Said Ahmad—ever since we got married, he hasn’t laid foot in our home.

And because I don't have any money, I couldn't give a gift to the bride. I felt uncomfortable the entire day.

September 17, 1951 

I copied class notes from morning to night. Mehrikhon came and went. I have an eye infection. I recently recovered from it and now I don’t know what’s happened—my eyes have never bothered me before. By the evening, I couldn't even open them. I have to finish making the copies. The roof repair is being delayed.

September 18, 1951 

In the morning my eyes were better, so I wrote notes all day. But by evening, they again would not stay open. I had to sleep.

September 19, 1951 

After class there was a meeting regarding the Peace Committee’s address. On my way home I visited my sister-in-law. Then I went with Mashkhurakhon opa to see the movie Mexican Girl. People described it as very moving, but it wasn’t to me. In any case, it was no more tragic than what I’ve endured. Now my heart is so hardened that any kind of difficulty—be it death, separation, famine, or some other torment—seems ordinary, just the way of things. Laughter, songs, and music give me no pleasure. How I loved them until recently, but now I can’t stand them.

September 20, 1951 

When I came back from class, a man from the Raysabez [Social Protection Office] was checking whether my mother in-law was eligible to receive a pension for her son who’d died at war. I was introduced to him as an acquaintance, rather than a family member, and I went along with this. It was the first time I’d ever dared to deceive someone. If anyone blames me for this, they should first fix the system that forced me to lie. As things are, I don’t consider my lie a sin. The situation is difficult for my mother-in-law and it’s not her fault she had a child, of course. 

My only happiness is my mother, the only one who’s stood by me in difficult times. But what have I done for her? Nothing, I’ve given her nothing but pain. My dear mother! If I can’t repay all you’ve done for me, may my siblings be able to. Live long and be healthy. Did your unfortunate daughter foresee all this unhappiness? What can I do? I was born to bring you pain and to feel pain myself. 

In the evening, I read a book. Mauzia opa, Oisha opa, and I got a card reading from a woman named Polya, about the fate of our husbands. Yes, I console myself with such things. How they disgrace a truthful, decent, and pure person! The cards said Said Ahmad aka might be sick. I couldn’t sleep, seeing visions of him in different guises and crying. I cried until I couldn’t anymore. If my tears were ink, I could have written this whole entry with them. Alas, these tears are worthless, no one knows about them, and nobody asks the reason for them. But I’m talking nonsense—everyone knows the reason! What is there to ask about?

No matter what I endured, I didn’t write to him about it, I protected him. Only when it was intolerable, did I write that letter, though my pain is worse than his. What can he do? Only feel upset with himself or with me. Maybe, until he sees me with his own eyes and hears me with his own ears, he won’t know. People are so crafty. God, if I have to endure so many hardships, why didn't you make me as crafty and cunning as they are? I was always too honest, unable to hide from you and get lessons from the devil instead. Now it’s too difficult to change! It’s impossible!

September 21, 1951 

On the way home from class, Muharram opa and I stopped at a store. Muharram opa bought some bedding for herself. I asked her to buy me a meter of toweling, since our kitchen towel is worn out. I often copy notes for Muharram opa, so we’ll settle up later. If I make her a set of notes for another subject, she’ll buy me a kerogaz [diesel-powered stove]. It’s hard to get firewood in the winter, and buying diesel for a kerogaz would be cheaper.

Hosiyat opa said I should move out of my house, that I was tormenting myself, especially living with my mother-in-law. I know it's very difficult, and I'm struggling, but leaving the house would be even worse. I feel bad for my husband—I'm the only one who’s stood by him. I guess it would be hard on him if I left, too. I don't know. You can never really know how a man will react.

When I got home, Mashhura opa and Dalila were arguing. They had an argument yesterday as well. It’s strange she can't get along with her own relatives.

In the evening, we made noodles. Our ladle was broken so I tried to pour the noodles with a cup, and burned my hand.

September 22, 1951 

I returned from class feeling very tired. After resting a bit, I cooked a meal. In the evening, there was no electricity, so I just went to sleep.

September 23, 1951

It was a day off. In the morning, I ironed some clothes and then went to the hammam with Munirakhon. I copied my Diamat notes and read some books. I rarely read newspapers, which to me is an unforgivable sin. I absolutely must subscribe to one in the new year.

September 24, 1951

After class, I visited with Farog'at opa for a while. I'm glad she understands her niece's character. Back at home, my mother-in-law and I dug soil to plaster the roof. In the evening, I read a book.

September 25, 1951 

Today there was no class. It was an independent study day. In the morning, I dug some soil. I made a pincushion and read a book. I also wrote a letter to Said Ahmad.

They fired Tohiriy domla, a psychology professor at the university. “Because there was no longer a position,” according to the order. Now, because there is no psychology professor at the university, students will be forced to write their theses on linguistics. I don't know why, but I pity him—he was one of my favorite teachers. They say he's going to sell his car and go to Moscow. Hopefully he does. In Moscow he might find more justice.

September 26, 1951

After class, I dug soil. Copied class notes and read a book. In the evening Mauzia opa and I read each other’s fortunes with cards just like crazy people. Even that did not console us. I lay down and closed my eyes tightly. Still no letter. 

September 27, 1951 

Around 4 p.m. I returned from class. All day my mood was low. There are so many evil people in the world. Oh God, I wish you’d made me like them or not at all. I’ll go before you and plead! If you are real, and if you create people as unhappy as I am—don’t do it! After all, you’ll hear only damnation and no praise for your creations. Behold, one of your most faithful servants rebelling against you. But so long as my fate is under your command, my rebellion is also under your command.

I repent, may my mother be healthy, may her life be long. If you are righteous, reveal the truth as soon as possible, and shed light on the injustice done to me!

September 28, 1951 

After class I waited for my stipend. The teller never came. I’ll get it tomorrow.  Back at home I felt really bad. My eyes are opening now. My condition is worsening every day. I didn’t want to do anything. I went to Tursunoy's house and we sat around playing dutor. 

September 29, 1951 

After class I received my stipend. I was late for the party meeting because I went to buy bread from the cafeteria (there was a line). By the time I arrived, Simkin had finished his lecture. He criticized me for not working. He was right. What could I say? It was true. I’ve become like that… 

September 30, 1951 

In the morning, I went to the market and bought some things for a package I wanted to send Said Ahmad. I also paid 180 soms to Rahbarkhon (I still owe her 120). I will put the other 100 soms toward fixing the roof. Mashkhura opa couldn't find a container for oil, so I went back to the market and got one. I went to Salomatkhon aya's to get some oil and money my mother had sent from Andijon.

Back at home, I got busy sewing a sack and preparing the package. I didn’t copy any notes today or read any books. It was a day off. I even forgot to wash my hair.