In the summer of 2016, I visited Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region also known as East Turkistan in the very northwest of China and in the very east of Central Asia for the last time.

I walked into an Uyghur book store in the city of Kashgar where I had previously lived for around two years, studying the Uyghur language and Uyghur marriage practices.

I was familiar with the many bookstores spread across Kashgar – some state run, some private – constituting a rhizomatic intellectual heart of the city.Here I had bought, read and discussed Uyghur language novels, collected essays of social commentary and academic works for more than half a decade. The bookstore I walked into now was close to Idgah, the main Uyghur mosque in the centre of the city.I inquired about new publications and noticed Xalide Isra’el’s “Altun Kesh” (Golden Boots) on their shelves. An excellent novel delving into memories of the Cultural Revolution and the following decades of modernization seen from an Uyghur perspective. The main character, an elderly Uyghur woman, describes her frustration at struggling to communicate with her grandchildren who visit a Chinese language school. I knew the education policies were changing. The Uyghur language was under pressure in public contexts and hardly used as a language of instruction any longer, but what people spoke in Kashgar was mainly Uyghur and the books were still embellishing shelves across the region. As a matter of fact, 2016 had been a record year in Uyghur language publications from more than ten different publishing houses. Little did I know that Xalide Isra’el’s novel was going to be one of the last or how painfully relevant its narrative was about to become.In the back of the store sat three old Uyghur men drinking tea. They called me over when they heard me converse in Uyghur. This was common. Many were curious about a white guy speaking Uyghur, and Kashgar, despite the increasing surveillance, was a place of easy contacts and open minds. A city I loved and felt at home in. Where I made many friends. But this time it wasn’t for friendship or small talk. The old men didn’t have any questions for me, nor did they want to test my Arabic script reading ability or discuss a poem. One of them poured me a piyala(small earless China bowl) of tea. The other, a heavy man with a full beard and lively eyes wearing a green Kashgar doppa (skull cap), looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot. Then he told me: “Our young men are disappearing from the villages. Please tell it to the world. We don’t know what happens to them.”