Latest / The Story of Uzbekistan: Silk Road Kingdoms and Soviet Legacy — Fexingo History / The Tashkent Metro: Soviet Architecture Under Central Asia's Streets
Transcript
- Lucas: Luna, we've done a lot of episodes on Uzbekistan's surface — the Registan, the Silk Road cities, the Soviet reconstruction after the 1966 earthquake. But I want to take you underground today. Have you ever been in the Tashkent Metro? Luna: I haven't. I've seen photos — it looks like a palace. Lucas: It really does. The Tashkent Metro opened in 1977, and it's one of the most beautiful subway systems in the world. But it was born out of catastrophe. After the 1966 earthquake leveled much of the city, Moscow poured money into rebuilding — and part of that was a metro that would show off Soviet engineering and Central Asian pride. Luna: So it's a direct result of the earthquake we talked about in episode 91. Lucas: Exactly. And if today's episode gives you a new way to see Tashkent — maybe you're planning a visit or just love architecture — I want to mention that the reason we can do these deep dives ad-free is listener support. If this is useful to you, buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo helps keep the show going. No pressure, just a simple way to say thanks. Luna: I think it's great that people can chip in to keep history free of commercials. Lucas: Right. So back to the tunnels. Brezhnev personally approved the metro project in 1972. The challenge was the geology — Tashkent sits on a high water table from the Chirchiq River, and the soil is loess, which is prone to liquefaction in earthquakes. Engineers had to go deep — about 40 meters — and use waterproof concrete and special drainage systems. Luna: Forty meters down. That's like a ten-story building going underground. Lucas: And what they built down there is stunning. Each station was designed by a different architect, and they competed to outdo each other. Take Alisher Navoiy station, named after the 15th-century poet. It's got huge chandeliers, blue and white ceramic panels depicting scenes from Navoiy's works, and marble columns. It feels like a ballroom. Luna: I've seen photos of the chandeliers — they're enormous. Lucas: Then there's Kosmonavtlar — Cosmonauts station. It opened in 1984, during the height of the Soviet space program. The whole ceiling is a blue mosaic with stars, planets, and portraits of cosmonauts, including Vladimir Dzhanibekov, who was born in Uzbekistan. The walls are lined with a white metal relief that looks like a spaceship hull. Luna: It's like walking through a science fiction movie. Lucas: And Pakhtakor — Cotton Picker station — is a tribute to Uzbekistan's main crop. The columns are carved to look like cotton bolls, and the walls have mosaic panels showing happy cotton farmers. It's pure socialist realism, but beautifully done. Luna: Cotton was such a huge part of the Soviet economy here — and the environmental disaster we covered with the Aral Sea. Lucas: Right. So the metro isn't just pretty; it's a propaganda tool. Every station tells a story about Soviet Uzbekistan: the friendship of peoples, the triumph of labor, the reach of science. But it also incorporates local traditions. You see motifs from suzani — the embroidered textiles — and girih, the geometric tile patterns from Islamic architecture. The Soviet architects deliberately blended socialist themes with Uzbek heritage. Luna: Was there any tension in that blend? I mean, the Soviets suppressed religion, but they used Islamic art patterns. Lucas: That's a great question. Officially, the patterns were presented as 'national' rather than 'religious.' The girih stars and arabesques were called 'Uzbek folk ornament.' But everyone knew where they came from. It was a careful balancing act — celebrate the nation, but don't mention Islam. After independence in 1991, some stations were renamed. The central station was called Red Square — Krasnaya Ploshchad — and now it's Mustaqillik Maydoni, Independence Square. They removed the hammer and sickle mosaics in some places, but most art stayed. Luna: Was photography really banned until recently? Lucas: Yes. Until 2018, taking photos in the Tashkent Metro was strictly prohibited. Officially, it was to prevent terrorists from studying the layout. But many people think it was to control the image of the system — the Soviet era was sensitive, and later the government wanted to avoid showing aging infrastructure. Now you can photograph freely, and tourists do. Luna: Who actually built the tunnels? I read somewhere it involved convicts. Lucas: It's a bit of a gray area. The core construction was done by the Metrostroi trust, a specialized Soviet agency, but they used a mix of Komsomol volunteers — young Communist enthusiasts — and, yes, some convict labor from the Gulag. The inmates worked on the deeper excavations and the drainage systems. It wasn't a full-scale camp, but forced labor was part of the story. The volunteers, though, were celebrated as heroes. They worked in shifts around the clock, and the first line — seven stations — was completed in five years, which was fast given the conditions. Luna: And it survived earthquakes? That was the whole point. Lucas: It did. In 2011, a magnitude 5.4 earthquake hit Tashkent, and the metro kept running. The tunnels were designed to flex slightly with seismic waves. The stations themselves are also built to serve as bomb shelters — those heavy concrete doors at the entrances can seal off the system. Luna: So it's a dual-purpose infrastructure — transport and defense. Lucas: Exactly like many Soviet metros. But the beauty is the real legacy. Now there are 29 stations across three lines. The newest ones, like Tashkent's Yunus Rajabiy station, have modern glass and steel designs, but the older Soviet stations remain the most visited. You can ride the whole system for the equivalent of about 20 cents. Luna: I've heard the trains are super quiet. Is that true? Lucas: They are. The tracks are laid on rubber pads to reduce vibration, and the Soviet era trains — built in Mytishchi near Moscow — are famous for their smooth, silent ride. You can almost hear a pin drop. But the stations themselves are noisy with echoes — people's footsteps, conversations, the occasional announcement in Uzbek and Russian. Luna: Do you think the metro will ever be expanded to cover the whole city? Lucas: There are plans. In 2020, a new line was proposed to connect the airport to the center. Funding is the issue. But for now, the Tashkent Metro carries about 200,000 passengers a day, and it's still a source of pride. It's a reminder that even under a totalitarian system, ordinary people could build something beautiful and functional. Luna: I want to visit it now. Especially Kosmonavtlar. Lucas: When you go, buy a token — they're plastic jettons with the Tashkent logo — and ride the whole circle line. Get off at every station for a minute. It's like a museum tour. And if you're hungry, there's a little samsa stand near the exit of Alisher Navoiy. That's a real Tashkent experience. Luna: Samsa and Soviet chandeliers. What more could you want? Lucas: Exactly. So that's the Tashkent Metro — a subterranean Silk Road of marble and mosaic, built from disaster, and still running.