No Starbucks. That’s the first thing I notice when I arrive in Tashkent for the first time. It’s inherently refreshing. I’m transported back to my childhood, to the ’90s of Izmir, when the city was as untouched as Tashkent. No foreign chains. The only disruption in the Izmirian skyline at the time was the 33-storey skyscraper Hilton Hotel, a monolithic rectangle that still looms along the Kordon, in permanent contrast to the city’s coastline.

Cities are born, evolve, and fall – I’m well aware of that cycle of life. Unfortunately, my generation has been witnessing the birth of a fourth act: the hollowing out of cities. We have been standing on the sidelines as cities are reduced to former shells of themselves, falling into the trap of becoming Disneyland-like tourist attractions, stripped of their souls. Not serving those who live there, but those who visit. Worse, they shed their own skins and morph into a one-size-fits-all uniform. The curse of overtourism and overurbanisation.

I have held space as this happened to Izmir and, more painfully, to my summer home of Çeşme. Often I argue that I am too young for my childhood memories to be erased from the urban ecosystem I have built a relationship with. The destructive nature of modern Turkey has left not a single stone, tree, or street unchanged from how it was in my memory. Istanbul, the city I have chosen as a home for the last decade, shares the same fate. Its local bookstores, three-generation-owned family pharmacies and Ottoman-day sweet shops are long gone, unable to compete with conglomerate international giants. A simple stroll on İstiklâl Caddesi says it all. But how to preserve what was?

That’s why the capital of Uzbekistan feels nostalgic – familiar, yet unfamiliar in its composition.The ongoing road constructions and the disorderly conduct in traffic help. I find it interesting to observe how my memory is stirred by the everyday contours of Tahskent’s urban landscape rendering a space seen for the first time as something kindred.

The main town square in Tashkent is marked by a monument of a man on a horse. A common sight from my formative years. For Izmirians this is none other than Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Turkey, while for the residents of Tashkent it is Amir Timur, the founder of the Timurid dynasty.

Unfortunately, Tashkent lacks the historical charm and timeless beauty of Samarkand or Bukhara. In 1966 a devastating earthquake shattered the old city, reducing 95,000 homes to rubble and leaving over 300,000 people homeless. Forever altering its historic fabric. Yet, much like the mystical Huma bird on the Uzbek flag, the city rose again from its ashes. This time, rebranding itself as the blueprint for the modern Soviet city, a proud pillar of the “Soviet Orient”.

On Bunyodkor Avenue, one of the city’s beating veins, stands the Peoples’ Friendship Palace, a concert hall with nearly 6,000 seats, embodying the bold spirit of “Soviet Orient” architecture. It is a dedication to the friendship of peoples who came together after the earthquake. Designed by Moscow-born architect Yevgeny Rozanov, the building reimagines Brutalist architecture through century-old Oriental forms that have long shaped the region’s cultural identity. A beautifully creative blend of symbolism and a portrayal of local identity. The façade features a geometric reinterpretation of mukarnas, adopting a more square-shaped design, while intricately braided panels inspired by Islamic patterns envelop the structure.

Sprinkled around the heart of the city are other landmarks hailing from this era, including the Doric-columned Panoramic Cinema, Hotel Uzbekistan and the turquoise-domed Chorsu Market. However, the true crown jewel of the ‘Soviet Orient’ style is the Tashkent Metro. Renowned for its stunning tilework, the metro system stands as a testament to the architectural grandeur of its time and was the first of its kind in Central Asia.

Most recently, a new kind of chapter is unfolding in this relatively young country that came to declare itself independent after the fall of the USSR in 1991. Following the death of longtime President Islam Karimov in 2016, the country is emerging from a long-held dictatorship, struggling to find its footing without being overwhelmed by the pressures of the outside world – one that neither understands its customs nor, frankly, cares to.

In October, Tashkent hosted the fourth annual World Conference on Creative Economy, pioneered by the Uzbekistan Art and Culture Development Foundation (ACDF). It was a refreshing effort to promote dialogue on the importance of creating and consuming creative industries deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of each nation. Last year, the ACDF also spearheaded an architectural conference, featuring stars like the Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas. The foundation aspires to ignite a new cultural renaissance, one that centres on Uzbek heritage, reclaiming what was once lost. It seeks to remind this centuries-old city of its unique identity, distinct from the Russian bloc it once embraced.

It may be too early to make a definitive statement on whether Uzbekistan can effectively address issues dominating cities like Venice, Paris and Istanbul. It is also a country that hasn’t had time to speak to itself on its own. The first novel in the Uzbek language was published four years ago. More than half of the 36 million population is under the age of 28, and they have no memory of what was. The past feels distant, almost forgotten for them.

How to embrace the imposition of the world while one is still in search of one’s own voice? But also which identity should one embrace? What untold stories will one cherish? In the crumbling ruins of a lost dynasty, it is hard to choose which legends to keep, and which to let slip into silence. For now, I revel in its mystery, in the journey that is still unfolding, yet a quiet dread whispers for what lies beyond the horizon.