The mosques were everywhere. Springing out of the undulating mountainous landscape, they were exquisite structures in myriad shapes, textures and colours—deep green, aquamarine, luminescent blue, sepia, white, and gold. Their domes sparkled brightly in the soft autumnal afternoon sunlight—a sight so startling that the buildings seemed to have been photoshopped into the terrain. Dazzling mosques were not something I expected to find while driving through Gansu province in China, a country where religious symbols are understated, even frowned upon.
My driver, who went by the name May, smiled at my awestruck expression and informed me that we were driving by “Little Mecca” in Linxia county, home to the Hui minority people, who are Chinese-speaking followers of Islam.
A week earlier, I had embarked upon a 1,200-kilometre road trip in the little-known province of Gansu, reportedly one of the poorest areas of China. But it did not look poor to my Indian eyes, as I drove past what felt like a moving tableau of the astonishing infrastructural transformation that the country had achieved—modest concrete houses dotted with solar panels standing alongside vast stretches of well-manicured cornfields and unending rows of wind turbines. I had wondered then if there was any town in this vast country that had not been touched by the bulldozer.
A serendipitous find
My journey had begun along the famed Silk Route, from Dunhuang in far west China, past the arid Gobi desert. Linxia was a serendipitous find, one that compelled me to break the journey to explore this peculiar town. Often overlooked in travel books and tourist itineraries, it serves as a pitstop for tourists on their way to the popular Labrang Tibetan Buddhist monastery further south.
“At first sight, Linxia looked like any other township in China, with its monochromatic dull grey buildings and long stretches of wide roads lined with red national flags. But the multi-coloured minarets and headscarves made it unique.”
At first sight, Linxia looked like any other township in China, with its monochromatic dull grey buildings and long stretches of wide roads lined with red national flags. But the multi-coloured minarets and headscarves made it unique.
Linxia’s mosques are remarkably diverse in architecture. Some have the typical structure of four minarets with a central dome that is common in other parts of the Islamic world. Others, with a single dome and minaret, are scaled-down versions of the larger mosques in villages along the highway. Some are made of marble and sandstone, some of plain concrete.
But the ones that stand out the most are those blending Chinese-style roofs or pagodas and carvings while retaining the basics of a traditional mosque design. In many ways, this is like the Hui people themselves—a minority community that has intermingled with the mainstream Han Chinese while remaining proudly distinctive in its beliefs and practices.
Highlights
- Linxia county in China’s Gansu province is home to the Hui minority people, who are Chinese-speaking followers of Islam.
- Linxia’s mosques and minarets give it a distinct identity.
- The Hui people have intermingled with the mainstream Han Chinese while remaining proudly distinctive in their beliefs and practices.
Heady aroma
The central street of Linxia is lined with Hui-run shops. They are mostly traders of spices and dried fruit. Carts laden with fresh dates stood at street corners. I stopped by for a meal at a local shouzhi yangrou cantin (“Hand-eaten lamb” restaurant) famous for its succulent lamb and la mian (pulled noodles)—an odd choice for a vegetarian like me, but I was eager to soak in its atmosphere.
The restaurant, neatly divided into private dining rooms, was packed with hungry customers, who casually puffed at their cigarettes while sipping plum tea. The smell of tobacco floated with the aroma of spices infused in meat to create a heady mix. Smoking in restaurants and in public places is still common in China.
I picked at my side dish of pickled radish while waiting for my order, which took an unusually long time to arrive. When Ma Xiao Hua, the lady serving at my table, finally appeared with a steaming dish of pulled noodles and green vegetables, she flashed an apologetic smile, explaining that she had instructed the cooks to prepare the stock from vegetables and not use lamb stock, since I am a vegetarian. My impatience melted away quickly. I was grateful for her sensitivity. I struck up an easy conversation with Ma Hua, who talked about her dreams of opening her own yangrou cantin one day.
Silent streets
Sated after a simple but hearty meal, I ambled through the bylanes of the city, along rows of mosques interspersed with Hui homes. The afternoon prayers had just been concluded and the late-afternoon sun bobbed through the soaring minarets. As in the rest of China, the mosques were silent, bereft of loudspeakers, purposefully embellished with national flags and deep red banners of stern government messages.
A mosque in Linxia built in the traditional Chinese style of architecture. | Photo Credit: Shruti Bajpai
At the far end of a lane, in one of Linxia’s courtyard houses, sat a pleasant-faced Hui woman sorting baskets of fermented pears, her headscarf firmly in place. She disarmed me with a spontaneous wave, asking me to come in and taste the pears. Ma Xiao Ling, who lived with her young son and her sister, started talking about her life in Linxia. But when I asked her about her religious beliefs, she hesitated and grew quiet. An air of silence hung between us. I had overstayed my welcome. It was time to leave.
In a country that can sometimes overwhelm with its breakneck progress and sense of sameness, Linxia felt different— almost like a mirage—of minarets, headscarves, and warm-hearted people with measured smiles.
Shruti Bajpai is a cultural commentator currently based in Switzerland.
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