East Turkestan

It was a journey I had dreamed about for years.

My travel companion was Ferhat, a friend from Rotterdam. A true world traveller. In fact, he was the only person who could have pulled me into making this journey in the first place. He had chosen these destinations largely because he knew how much they meant to me.

From Amsterdam, with a layover in Istanbul, we flew to Almaty, the land of apples. A year earlier, my solo trip through Central Asia had ended there. This time, it was our starting point. There was something symbolic about that. A return, but from a different version of myself.
We arrived late at night. The city lights felt distant and unfamiliar, as if I were observing them from behind glass. After a few hours of sleep, we stepped out the next morning, fuelled by a traditional Kazakh breakfast, and began exploring.
We visited St. Nicholas Cathedral, its colourful façade standing out against the urban backdrop. Then the Independence Monument. Proud, symbolic, rooted in national identity. The statues of Abay Kunanbaiuly and Zhambyl reminded me how every country carries its poets and thinkers as silent guardians of its culture.

Yet that day, all of Almaty seemed to revolve around something else entirely: the Backstreet Boys. They were performing in the city, and everywhere we went people were talking about the concert. Posters, conversations, excitement. It was strangely surreal. Global pop culture blending into Central Asian streets.
We walked for hours.

The following day, we visited the Ascension Cathedral, a striking wooden structure that seemed almost too delicate to withstand time. Nearby, in the park, burned the Eternal Flame. A memorial to the victims of the First and Second World Wars. Watching the flame flicker, I found myself thinking about the universality of loss. Every country, every family, every generation carries its own version of grief.

We continued to the Green Bazaar, where locals sold fresh produce, spices, meats. What struck me most was the abundance of horse meat. Widely consumed and culturally normal in Kazakhstan, though not common in many other Muslim societies. It was a reminder that religion and culture do not always align neatly; Central Asia carries layers of history deeper than simple labels.

From there we visited the Central Mosque, peaceful and spacious. And then the Raiymbek Batyr Mausoleum, a place where people come not only to pay respects but also to pray for health and well-being.

It was our final day in Almaty.
The next morning, we would move on to our next destination.

Xinjiang.
A region that today is officially part of China, yet in the hearts of many Turks is called East Turkestan. For decades it felt distant, almost unreachable. For me, it had been a quiet dream for more than twenty years. A place wrapped in history, identity, and unanswered questions.
For a long time, access to the region was complicated. Restrictions, bureaucracy, uncertainty. But now, circumstances had shifted. It had become accessible again, and until the end of 2025 there was no visa requirement for Dutch citizens. It felt like a narrow window in time. An opportunity that might not return.
From Almaty, it was less than a two-hour flight to Ürümqi, the capital of what many still call East Turkestan.

Our flight departed at 21:00. As the plane lifted off from Kazakhstan, I felt a subtle shift inside me. This was no longer just tourism. This was stepping into a region layered with political tension, cultural memory, and personal curiosity.
Two hours later, we landed.
Technically, it was still night. But because China operates on a single time zone, Beijing time, despite its vast size, we suddenly found ourselves three hours ahead of Almaty. It was 2 a.m. when we stepped onto Chinese soil.
The airport felt different immediately. The security checks were intense. Cameras seemed to hang everywhere. Every few meters, watching silently. The atmosphere was controlled, structured, observant. Questions were asked. Documents examined. Faces scanned. Yet, despite the visible surveillance, the process itself was efficient. Like they are living in 2085. After a series of standard questions, we received our entry stamps without major difficulty.
It was official.
China became the 45th country I had visited.
There was a quiet satisfaction in that moment. Not because of the number itself, but because of what this specific country represented to me. A place I had thought about for decades. A region whose name carried emotional weight.
From the airport, we took a taxi into the center of Ürümqi. The city lights cut through the darkness, modern highways stretching ahead of us. It was almost surreal: after years of imagining this place, I was finally here, driving through it in the middle of the night.
We checked into our hotel in silence, exhaustion mixed with anticipation.
Our East Turkestan adventure had begun.
But beneath the excitement was something else too. A quiet awareness that this land was not just geography. It was identity. History. Sensitivity. And I was entering it as both a traveller and someone emotionally connected to the name it carries.

After the usual check-in procedures, we decided to take a short walk and, if possible, find something to eat. It was already 3 a.m. local time, yet surprisingly there were still small food stalls open. The city did not feel asleep, only quieter, as if breathing more slowly.
We found a modest eatery near our hotel. A few meat skewers, bread, tea. Simple and comforting after a long journey. And then came our first culture shock. When converted to euros, the bill was just €3.50. I knew the region was affordable, but this felt almost unreal. Even our hotel, a surprisingly luxurious room, cost only €20 per person per night.

The next morning, we stepped outside and immediately felt the shift.
We were literally in another world. Just the day before, we had walked through a city shaped by post-Soviet architecture. Concrete blocks, wide avenues, remnants of another era. Now we were surrounded by unmistakable Chinese influence. Everything was clean, meticulously maintained, orderly. The infrastructure felt modern and deliberate.
And safe.
Yes, Xinjiang felt very safe, at least for visitors. The state’s heavy presence was undeniable. Surveillance cameras were everywhere. Security checks frequent. There was an atmosphere of control that could not be ignored. No one approached us. No one tried to sell aggressively, beg, or pickpocket. There was an almost clinical absence of disorder.
But safety has two sides.
The Uyghurs, the local population, live under intense pressure. The strict governance has created an environment of fear. It was visible not through open confrontation, but through restraint. No one dared to initiate conversation. No one lingered too long near us. It was a silence that felt learned.
At first glance, everything appeared prosperous. People were well dressed. Streets were lively. Faces did not seem burdened. And yet, the awareness of what lies beneath such visible order never left my mind.
After breakfast, we began exploring in earnest.

We started at the International Grand Bazaar, a vast complex of souvenir shops, spice stalls, and local delicacies. Architecturally, it was impressive. Domes, minarets, and structures inspired by Islamic design. Yet many of these buildings no longer functioned as places of worship. They were aesthetic echoes of faith rather than living religious centers.

From there, we wandered through the inner streets of Ürümqi and briefly visited Khan Tengri Mosque before continuing to the Shaanxi Great Mosque. This mosque left a deep impression on me. It was unlike any I had seen before.
From the outside, it resembled a traditional Chinese temple. Curved roofs, wooden structures, intricate ornamentation. Inside, the decorative style and colour palette felt more Chinese than Middle Eastern. It was a remarkable fusion of civilizations, Islam expressed through Chinese architectural language. A reminder that identity adapts, survives, reshapes itself depending on geography.

Next, we visited People’s Park, one of the most peaceful places in the city. Water features reflected the sky. Groups of people gathered to play board games. Others sat in cozy teahouses drinking tea.

Music floated through the air, and small groups danced spontaneously.
The Uyghur language, an ancient Turkic tongue, echoed around us. With some effort, I could follow fragments of conversations. It felt strangely intimate. Hearing linguistic familiarity so far from home. Communication was still challenging; hardly anyone spoke English. We relied on shared Turkic expressions, gestures, and Google Translate. Somehow, it worked.

There was something about People’s Park that calmed me deeply.
From the park, we walked back toward our hotel. On the way, we arrived at a lively street: Hotan Street, a culinary hotspot known for authentic Uyghur dishes and street food.
The atmosphere was vibrant. Smoke rose from grills. Laughter mingled with the scent of spices.

There, we tried Doghap, a refreshing, centuries-old Uyghur drink made from creamy yogurt, crushed ice, and natural honey. It was simple, cooling, nourishing. A small pleasure, but meaningful.

That evening, we went out for dinner in one of Ürümqi’s shopping centers. Inside, a hall had been transformed into a lively food court filled with small stalls offering countless dishes. The variety was overwhelming. Grilled meats, hand-pulled noodles, rice dishes, soups, flatbreads, sweets. Choosing felt like a small challenge in itself.
We finally settled on a selection of Uyghur specialties. The flavours were rich but balanced. After days of emotional heaviness, there was something grounding about sharing a good meal. Food has a way of pulling you back into the present.

After dinner, we decided to absorb a little more culture and entered a traditional Uyghur café nearby. The atmosphere shifted immediately. Soft lighting. Carpets. Low wooden tables. Ornate textiles draped along the walls.
I ordered a pot of rose tea and Ferhat ordered a water pipe. The staff were dressed in traditional garments, and guests were invited to wear local clothing as well. Some did so enthusiastically, posing for photos, embracing the moment.

The evening unfolded slowly. There was live music. Rhythmic, melodic, deeply rooted in Central Asian tradition. Then came the dancing. Graceful movements, expressive hands, spinning skirts. The performances were joyful, proud, and alive.
For a few hours, the world felt uncomplicated.
Just music. Tea. Laughter. Movement.
These are the evenings we travel for.
Not only to see monuments or collect passport stamps, but to feel present. To sit in a place far from home and realize that beauty still exists, even when life elsewhere feels fragile.

The next day, we set out to explore more of Ürümqi’s landmarks.
Our first stop was Shuimogou Park, which is another beautiful green space filled with flowing water and shaded pathways. At the top of a hill stood a colourful Buddhist temple. We climbed slowly, taking in the scenery below us. From above, the city seemed distant and contained, almost peaceful.

Inside the temple grounds, we watched Buddhist worshippers pray. Their movements were deliberate and calm. Incense drifted softly through the air. Observing them, I felt something shift inside me. Different faith. Different language. Yet the human act of seeking comfort through prayer felt universal.
From there, we continued to Hongguangshan Park. A mountain park crowned by a towering Buddha statue and temple complex. The scale was impressive. The statue stood silently, looking out over the landscape as if guarding it. We walked through the grounds, absorbing the blend of natural beauty and spiritual architecture.

Later, we made our way to Hongshan Mountain, the “Red Hill.” More walking. More climbing. At the top stood an old tower and another temple, overlooking the city from a reddish ridge that gave the mountain its name. By then, our legs were heavy, but there was something satisfying about the physical exhaustion. It was honest tiredness. Not emotional depletion, but the kind earned through movement and exploration.

By evening, we returned to our hotel completely worn out.
After a short rest, we went back to the same food court where we had eaten the night before. There was comfort in familiarity, in knowing what to expect. Later, we returned to the same traditional café, once again sitting beneath soft lights, sipping tea, letting the music carry the night.

Two days in Ürümqi had done me more good than I had anticipated.
The anxiety that had greeted me each morning was softer now. Not gone, but quieter. The city, with all its complexity, had offered me something unexpected: stability. Structure. Beauty. And moments of presence.
We didn’t stay out too late. The next morning, we had to leave early for our next destination.
But as I lay in bed that night, I realized something important:
This trip was not an escape from reality.
It was a reminder that I was still capable of feeling calm within it.

Early in the morning, I took a taxi to the airport. This was where my path would separate from Ferhat’s. He had planned a longer and more intensive program across Asia, while my heart was set on East Turkestan. We said goodbye quietly, without ceremony. There was no sadness in the separation. Just two travellers following different callings.
My next destination was Kashgar.
Although geographically close to Kyrgyzstan and not impossibly far from Almaty, reaching Kashgar was surprisingly complicated. Roads were long and indirect. The most efficient route was by air, and so after a two-hour domestic flight from Urumqi, I landed in one of the most historically significant cities of the Turkic world.
Kashgar is not just a city, it is a symbol.
It is the birthplace of Mahmud al-Kashgari, the 11th-century Uyghur scholar and linguist who compiled Dīwān Lughāt al-Turk, the earliest comprehensive dictionary of Turkic languages. In many ways, he is considered the first known Turkologist. A guardian of linguistic heritage long before modern nationalism existed.

I stayed in a traditional guesthouse in the heart of the historic old town. A private room cost the equivalent of ten euros per night. Simple, authentic, intimate. From the moment I checked in, I felt there was no time to waste.
Kashgar is often called the Pearl of the Silk Road, and within minutes of walking its streets, I understood why.
Unlike Ürümqi, where sights were scattered across a modern cityscape, everything in Kashgar was concentrated in the old center. It was immersive. You did not visit it, you entered it.
I wandered for hours.
Every alley had its own character. Narrow streets where coffee was brewed in hot sand. Entire rows of copper craftsmen hammering and shaping souvenirs by hand. Barbers cutting hair outside their shops in the open air. One street was draped with vibrant carpets hanging from walls like flowing paintings. Another was dedicated to Uyghur musical instruments. Dutars and rawaps crafted and displayed proudly.

Even the architecture felt theatrical: wooden cartwheels and ceramic pots decorated facades and even trees. Teahouses, some centuries old, hosted live music and traditional dance performances. On the central square, large dance shows were performed for crowds. Women lined up at beauty salons to be styled in traditional Uyghur clothing, posing for photographs, which was especially popular among domestic Han Chinese tourists.
It was beautiful.
But it was also curated.

This was the image the state wanted to show: smiling dancers, colourful culture, harmony and celebration. A living museum of “ethnic diversity.”
Deep down, I sensed that the Uyghurs could only move within a carefully defined frame. The joy I saw felt rehearsed. The choreography extended beyond the stage.
At night, the old city transformed completely. Warm lights illuminated the mud-brick walls. Lanterns glowed softly. The atmosphere became magical. Almost like stepping into a fairy tale. For a moment, it was easy to forget everything else.

But then came the reminders.
Security checks were everywhere. At the entrance of parks, the old town, bazaars: Metal detectors, scanners, uniformed guards. Every movement filtered. Every entrance controlled. Surveillance was not hidden; it was normalized.
I visited the Id Kah Mosque, historically the largest mosque in East Turkestan. Today, it functions largely as a museum. Like the other mosques I had seen in the region, it no longer operated as an active house of prayer in the way one would expect. I had yet to see a mosque truly alive with worshippers.
Each closed prayer hall confirmed what I already suspected.
I also visited the mausoleum of Yusuf Has Hajib, the Turkic poet, statesman, and vizier who authored Kutadgu Bilig, one of the foundational works of Turkic political philosophy. Standing there felt like standing in a lineage. A connection stretching back a thousand years.

I spent two days in Kashgar.
In the guesthouse, I tried to socialize with domestic Chinese tourists using a translation device. Conversations were shallow but polite. It seemed clear that state narratives had shaped perceptions effectively. According to them, everything was stable. Nothing was wrong. There was development, prosperity, order.
I did not discuss politics. Not here. Not openly.

One evening, I chose a slightly more upscale restaurant. There was live music again, traditional dance, warm lighting. After some time, the owner came to sit at my table. He spoke a little Turkish, enough for basic conversation. He told me he was doing well, that he had opened the restaurant together with a Chinese business partner.
We spoke casually at first.
Then, when the music became louder, I dared to ask quietly:
“How are the Chinese towards you?”
He looked at me.
I will never forget that look.
There was no anger. No outrage. Only fear. Pure, contained fear.
Subtly, almost imperceptibly, he moved his eyes, signalling that I should not continue. When the music swelled again, he leaned slightly closer and whispered:
“There are cameras.”
From that moment, we changed the subject. We talked about how beautiful Kashgar was. About tourism. About food.
As a foreign tourist, little would happen to me. But he could easily disappear into a “re-education camp.” The weight of that reality hung between us long after the music stopped.
That conversation was my true confirmation.
The colourful streets, the performances, the dancing. All of it existed within invisible boundaries. And those boundaries were enforced silently.

Kashgar was my final destination in Xinjiang. From here, my gradual journey home would begin.
But I left with more than photographs.
I left with admiration for a resilient culture and with the image of a man whose eyes said more than any words ever could.