Jerzy Rohozinski
The quiz of the day: He has a street named after him in Almaty, is considered the founder of the Kazakh city of Zharkent, the chief planner of Kyrgyzstan’s capital – Bishkek – and built a dam in Turkmenistan. Who was this man of many achievements?
His role in the uprising poses no controversy among historians. Colonel Jan Koziełł-Poklewski, known by the noms de guerre ‘Jakub Skała’ and ‘Hlebowicz,’ was the military commander of the Augustów and Grodno regions, the leader of the 3rd Corps of the insurgent forces, and the commander of Warsaw during the January Uprising. In 1872, having fled to France after the Uprising, he made his return to the Kingdom of Poland. Contrary to Russian assurances, he was arrested, summoned before an investigative commission and, having sworn an oath of loyalty, disappeared from sight…
It is known that he was sentenced to many years of exile in the Turkestan Region. All right – but what happened next? Enlisted into the Semirechye Cossack Army (in what is now southeastern Kazakhstan and northern Kyrgyzstan – the region of Semirechye), he began his service at Fort Verny – today’s Almaty. From that point on begin the extraordinary, and still largely unknown in Poland, chapters in the life of Cossack Ivan Ivanovich Koziełł-Poklewski.
The ‘worst’ Cossacks
The Semirechye Cossacks had a reputation as the worst among the Cossacks serving the Russian Empire – perhaps unfairly. In 1909, a resettlement official wrote of them: ‘They have been spoilt by their privileged status, which makes them lazy – and not rarely, exploiters of the natives.’
This group was originally formed by Siberian Cossacks, who in turn descended from, among others, the exiled haidamaks led by Ivan Honta and Maksym Zhelezniak, the Bar Confederates, and Napoleonic prisoners of war. As there were few women in Siberia, a decree issued by the Senate on 11 February 1865 allowed the Siberian military to purchase Kazakh daughters, who were then sent to be raised in the Orthodox faith by Russian families (who also supported them financially) until marriageable age. After reaching the age of fifteen, one of the unmarried soldiers would choose a bride from among them. The Siberian Cossacks began establishing the first stanitsas in Semirechye from 1847. From 1856 onwards, Siberian peasants seeking fortune and freedom in the new land also joined them. In 1869, around one thousand Kalmyks were also incorporated into the Semirechye Cossack Host; most of them had converted to Orthodoxy and pledged allegiance to Russia.
The group’s rather ‘motley’ origins undoubtedly contributed significantly to its poor reputation. The Semirechye Cossacks were far from a religious monolith, allowing our ‘Skała’ to openly maintain his Catholic beliefs. Unsurprisingly, Orthodox Christians made up the largest portion of the group.*
Back then, Gerasim Kolpakovsky, a half-Polish man who truly ‘got things done,’ served as both Ataman of the Semirechye Cossacks and governor of the district. Not everything worked out for him, but he showed enthusiasm. For example, he was a fervent supporter of the Christianisation of new subjects. In 1869, at his initiative, the Semirechye Orthodox Brotherhood was established to carry out missionary work among the Kalmyks – now nominally Semirechye Cossacks. The outcome was rather disappointing. The Brotherhood only managed a few years of zeal before abandoning its mission altogether. Kołpakovsky’s missionary efforts were, after all, thwarted by numerous county officials. Why? Maybe it was due to Kolpakovsky’s intolerance of bribery and corruption. Legend has it that he struck his Cossacks with a whip upon discovering their acceptance of ‘gifts’ from locals. He was also inclined towards new territorial gains. On 19 July 1871, while staying in Warsaw, Tsar Alexander II received a telegram reporting Kolpakovsky’s capture of Kuldja (now Yining in China’s Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region). He scribbled on the telegram form: ‘I am very pleased, just so long as he doesn’t drag us any further.’ He didn’t drag them further, but he could proudly pin the medal to his chest. In 1879, news arrived at Russian command that part of the Turkmen oasis of Akhal-Teke’s inhabitants had petitioned the Khan of Khiva for territory and water within Khiva. Kolpakovsky swiftly ordered the Khan to refuse their request and advise them ‘to return to their oasis and show deference to the Russian commander.’ Refusing to show submission, the Turkmens inflicted a crushing defeat on the Russian aggressor’s expedition.
Kolpakovsky was not one to sit idle, and that stirred resentment – his critics sent countless reports and complaints to Konstantin von Kaufman, the Governor-General of Turkestan. Von Kaufman carried out an inspection – and what did he find? Within Kolpakovsky’s office, two rival factions of clerks were at odds with one another. One supported the general, the other was determined to see him removed at all costs. In the end, von Kaufman kept Kolpakovsky in his post. But when the Governor died in 1882, Kolpakovsky lost his protector and was forced to step down. That same year, however, the Governor-Generalship of the Steppe Region was established in the north – and it was Kolpakovsky who took the helm, bringing the Semirechye District with him.
Ivan the Cossack
Kolpakovsky didn’t shy away from initiative – and neither did those he kept close. That’s how our very own ‘Skała,’ Jan Koziełł-Poklewski, came to his attention. His diploma from the Military Engineering Academy must have made quite an impression on Kolpakovsky, as he was immediately promoted to the rank of uryadnik [non-commissioned officer] and appointed as the construction engineer for the city of Verny (modern-day Almaty) – a fortified Cossack outpost founded in 1854. This marked the beginning of Poklewski’s remarkable career as a builder. He spent the next thirteen years conducting surveys, drafting plans, and supervising the construction of various buildings. It was in Verny that the full extent of our compatriot’s engineering talent came to light. Among his works, historians list the design of the road from Verny to Pishpek (today’s Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan), and within Verny itself – the construction of the archbishop’s residence, several Orthodox churches, government buildings, a prison, and a brickworks. His creation of an artificial pond on his own estate inspired the city authorities to construct a larger pond in the Kazyonny Garden – still in existence today in Gorky Park. He also built aryks (irrigation canals) and small bridges over them – one of these canals still runs along Abay Street today. Indeed, he left a lasting mark on the city. Today, one of Almaty’s streets bears his name – Poklewski Street (formerly Gagarin Street, until 1998) – though locals pronounce it in their own way: ‘Paklyevski.’ [Most of the buildings designed or constructed with the involvement of Jan Koziełł-Poklewski were destroyed in the powerful earthquake that struck Verny on 9 June 1887 – Ed.]
Ivan Ivanovich’s efforts, however, extended far beyond Verny. In the surrounding region, he supervised the building of supports for telegraph lines, drainage ditches, and bridges spanning the Chu, Talgar, and Ayagoz rivers. He established a stonemasonry workshop, took charge of marble quarrying and processing, and oversaw lime burning in a nearby gorge. He was the author of the blueprint for the Kokand fortress in Pishpek and the architect behind the city’s district planning. After transferring to civil service, he established a mechanical workshop, initiated coal mining, and launched coke production in Kuldja. ‘Paklievsky’ is also considered the founder of the city of Jarkent (modern-day Zharkent in eastern Kazakhstan).
Poklewski was also fascinated by water and rivers. He was among the pioneers behind the introduction of regular river transport on the Ili. In 1885, he published a brochure titled ‘A New Trade Route from the Irtysh to Verny and Kulja, and a Survey of the Ili River Aboard the Steamer “Kolpakovsky.”’ The opening section reads like a catalogue of statistics – classic output from a Tsarist officer. In the second part, however, our compatriot truly lets his imagination run wild, proposing an ambitious new waterway route using the Ayaguz, Charyn, and other rivers as canals, fed by waters diverted from the Irtysh. Why go to all that trouble? Simply put, it was a calculated investment in his future.
‘I have taken great pains and spent no small amount of money to study this northern route, and now I have come to St. Petersburg to acquaint competent individuals with the data I have gathered and to seek support for the implementation of the route I propose to Upper Turkestan,’ he writes at the end of his project.
Among the Turkmen sands
The expected support, however, never materialised. And so, in 1885, he left the Kazakh steppes far behind and ventured deep into the Turkmen deserts, to the Transcaspian Region – the latest of Russia’s conquests, where the air still carried the scent of gunpowder and blood. The conquest unfolded in stages. In 1880, construction of the Trans-Caspian Railway began from the port of Krasnovodsk. In a short time, the previously inaccessible Merv oasis on the Murghab River – a symbol of Turkmen tribal independence – was linked to the Caspian Sea, and soon after, Merv was connected with the Achal-Teke oasis. This did not please the Turkmens, but on 12 January 1881, the Russians succeeded in blowing up the wall with a mine and taking their fortress of Gök-teppe by storm. When news of the barbaric massacre spread more widely, the people of Merv lost their will to fight the Russian army. In January 1884, four khans of the local tribes and twenty four elders – one for every two thousand yurts – unconditionally pledged allegiance to the Tsar of Russia.
And it was there that ‘Skała’ was sent. As a chief engineer, he oversaw the construction of the Sultan-Bend dam on the Murgab River. Ambitious irrigation projects took off soon after the conquest of the Turkmen oases. The Russian administration was no longer satisfied with simple aryks. A dam on the Murgab was needed, as were drainage machines. And there was a need for an outstanding specialist to oversee it all. Our ‘Jakub Skała’ put in a great deal of effort, but it was all in vain. Ultimately, the Russian authorities in the Trans-Caspian region delegated the upkeep of the irrigation system to the locals, who turned to their age-old methods – with the officials opting not to interfere.
Encouraged by the ambitious irrigation projects in the Trans-Caspian Region and the exploits of ‘Skała’ on the Murgab, Russian visionaries later spun bold and daring dreams. In 1908, engineer Yermolayev proposed diverting the course of the Amu Darya westward to irrigate 565,000 hectares of the Karakum Desert. In 1915, his fellow engineer Morguchenkov aimed even higher – to irrigate 1.4 million hectares of the Ust-Yurt plateau by channeling the Amu Darya along the old Uzboy riverbed. And so they kept on dreaming, until the Bolsheviks came and, at gunpoint, forced people to dig canals, claiming the credit for being the ones who ‘succeeded.’ But that’s a whole different story…
Poklewski died in 1896 in Bobruysk – you could say, at home. Was it the old January Uprising insurgent who died, or the retired demiurge and visionary of Russian colonisation in Central Asia? Or perhaps both? And can these two faces be reconciled in one person?
* The number of Orthodox Christians among the Semirechye Cossacks was increasing. In 1867, there were 15,416 of them; by 1876, the number had risen to 22,598, although it slightly declined in the following years. In addition, other denominations were also present, although their numbers fluctuated in curious ways. In 1867, there were 22 Catholics; by 1876, the number had risen to 165, but just three years later, only one remained. What happened? Did Polish exiles join the small group of descendants of Napoleonic prisoners of war and Bar Confederates, only for the community to later disperse? Or perhaps they converted to Orthodoxy? The pattern is similar with the Lutherans. In 1867, there were 19 of them; by 1876, there was a significant increase to 63, but just a year later, they disappeared entirely. The fluctuations in the number of Muslims – most likely primarily Tatars, Bashkirs, and Kazakhs – resembled a true rollercoaster. In 1867 – 228; in 1872 – 418, a year later – only 30; and in 1877 – 499. Conversion to Orthodoxy is highly unlikely. As for Buddhists (the Kalmyks), 117 were recorded in 1867, rising sharply to 835 by 1872, but their numbers then plummeted, and by 1879, there were no Buddhists left. Did they convert to Orthodoxy? Most likely not. And if they did, it was only in trace amounts. The number of Orthodox Christians did not actually increase. The Kalmyks most likely returned to the Chinese territory, where they had originally migrated from, as they were dissatisfied with their new location. Finally, we come to the native ‘heretics.’ In 1870, 30 peasant castrates (skoptsy) appeared in the Sofiyskaya stanitsa; two years later, one more arrived. In 1874, they were all exposed as sectarians, tried by a military court, and exiled to eastern Siberia. The sect, therefore, failed to take root. A similar fate may have awaited the Old Believers – particularly the priestless faction. In 1867, there were two of them; two years later, eight; then none; but suddenly in 1878, 18 appeared – only to disappear again afterwards. They appeared, were apprehended, exiled, and then new ones appeared again. Perhaps. But can official statistics be trusted? Let us take a look, for example, at the memoirs of the painter Nikolai Karazin: I rubbed my eyes in disbelief… The light of the morning sun, just rising above the horizon, streamed thickly through the window, casting a broad beam across the clean wooden floor, climbing up the smoothly whitewashed Russian stove (…). An entire iconostasis, its images darkened with age, hung in the front corner, while the red flames of the oil lamp lit up the shadowy, mottled faces of the saints. On the hewn log walls gleamed familiar Suzdal prints depicting enormous generals on horseback, with tiny soldiers marching beside them… A hearty, robust woman stoked the samovar and was cooking something that filled the entire room with its aroma, while another woman laid the table with a clean linen cloth and placed vodka alongside assorted snacks… From the stove came the sputtering and hissing of eggs being fried in various ways; something was bubbling in a pot, releasing thick clouds of fragrant steam (…). ‘Up we get!’ greeted us a dove-grey-haired old man of athletic build as he entered the room with a cheerful stride (…). It was the master of the house himself – uryadnik Golovin, a member of the Old Believers. We were in the stanitsa of Liubovna, the first Russian settlement on our Asian border, recalled the Russian painter with fondness in 1875, describing his stay in a Cossack outpost beyond Lake Issyk-Kul, in the Semirechye region. The tidy cottage of the Cossack – an Old Believer – stands here as a bastion of Russian civilisation: the old, wholesome, and ruddy Rus. The previously cited statistics thus prove to be misleading. In 1875, after all, the column marked ‘The Priestless Old Believers’ was completely blank! Thus, the ‘heretical’ faith had, it would appear, been discreetly hidden.
Dr Jerzy Rohoziński, a historian and cultural anthropologist, is an Assistant Professor at the Centre for Totalitarianism Studies (The Pilecki Institute). His research focuses on the social and religious history of Tsarist Russia and the Soviet Union. Author of several books: Święci, biczownicy i czerwoni chanowie. Przemiany religijności muzułmańskiej w radzieckim i poradzieckim Azerbejdżanie; Bawełna, samowary i Sartowie. Muzułmańskie okrainy carskiej Rosji 1795–1916; Gruzja. Początki państw; Narodziny globalnego dżihadu; Najpiękniejszy klejnot w carskiej koronie. Gruzja pod panowaniem rosyjskim 1801–1917; Pionierzy w stepie? Kazachstańscy Polacy jako element sowieckiego projektu modernizacyjnego. Awarded the Gold Badge of Merit of the Sybiraks’ Association.
Translated by Małgorzata Giełzakowska