In Yaghnobi villages, there is no clear line between the sacred and the everyday.
A sickle is never just a tool. A loom is never only for weaving. Even a water jug—balanced on the hip of a girl walking a mountain slope—is more than a vessel. These objects are wrapped in memory, language, and meaning. Their presence in proverbs, oral stories, and regional vocabulary shows how tools once shaped the moral rhythm of daily life.
To lose a tool in this context isn’t only about losing function—it’s the erosion of a gesture, a ritual, a story once shared by all.
The Sickle — доре (dore)
In the lexicon, the word доре—sickle—appears frequently. More than just an agricultural implement, it carries the seasonal logic of summer, the gendered labor of harvesting, and a subtle spiritual thread.
Модар бо доре алаф мебурид.
Mother cut grass with a sickle.
Beyond its practical use, the dore often marked ritual beginnings. The first cut of hay in a season was sometimes accompanied by blessings—short, whispered words passed between generations. In some homes, children weren’t allowed to touch a sickle until they had heard a quiet line of protection, a way of reminding them that work was always a conversation with the land.
The Loom — тос (tos)
The loom, or тос, holds one of the most symbolically rich places in Yaghnobi tradition. Though many looms have disappeared from homes, their presence lingers in language.
Spinning thread, ресидан (residan), was once more than craft—it was metaphor. It meant shaping fate.
Ҳар кас ресмон ресад, бахти хеш мебофад.
Whoever spins thread, weaves their own fortune.
Old or broken looms are sometimes still kept in homes as memory objects—relics of matrilineal labor and wisdom. The loom was often placed near the hearth, grounding it in the heart of the household. And while its sound may be gone, the loom continues to speak through proverbs, dreams, and metaphors of time.
The Water Jug — кӯза (kūza)
The кӯза, or water jug, was a staple of daily life—but more than that, it was social and sacred.
To fetch water was often a group act. Women and girls carried jugs together from mountain springs, sharing jokes, songs, and greetings. The path to water was sometimes treated with reverence, as one would treat a shrine.
And the jug itself?
Кӯзаи шикаста – рӯзи шикаста.
A broken jug is a broken day.
The phrase speaks both literally and metaphorically. If the jug breaks, the day’s rhythm collapses. But it also suggests something deeper: the jug as a body, a day, a vessel of meaning. When it cracks, the world falters.
A range of smaller objects—common, but powerful—are embedded in Yaghnobi speech:
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қошуқ (qoshūq) – spoon, used not only for eating but for stirring medicinal herbs or soups for fevers
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дар (dar) – door, often associated with memory (“this is Malika’s door”), naming spaces after people or stories
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танӯр (tanūr) – clay oven, the physical and social center of many households, where food was prepared and stories shared
Each of these items has survived in language, even where the physical objects no longer remain in daily use.
Today, many Yaghnobi families no longer live in the valley. They’ve moved to towns, to cities, and with them, many of these tools have been left behind. Looms stand silent. Jugs are replaced by plastic. Sickles hang for decoration.
But the language endures.
“Like a broken jug, I cannot carry today.”
“She weaves her answers slowly.”
“His words cut like a fresh sickle.”
Even when the objects disappear from the home, they remain in memory and metaphor. These tools, once used with hands, now live in voices.
And in that way, the sickle still cuts.
The loom still spins.
The jug still carries.