“Xush kelibsiz”. are the first Uzbek words that welcome me in Samarkand, in the heart of the Silk Road. Welcome!, says Farukh, my guide, as he spreads a kind smile under a cloudless sky, while the three Madrasahs of Registan Square embrace the popular music of the rubab, the stringed instrument in mulberry wood. The air is scented with spices, freshly baked bread, and candied dates. I feel like I am experiencing déjà vu.

The light runs between the carvings of ancient stone buildings, smoothing the square profiles. My gaze wanders through the mosaics royal blue and blue sea, between the symmetries and small details. It appears that everything was sewn by hand here, and the thread and threads interweave stories and cultures of people from the fifth century BC. which one is mine?

We traveled for 2 hours, leaving behind a desert as far as the eye can see.

The Fergana Valley is the most fertile and green region of the country. The trees here are abundant with pomegranates. We go through the narrow door of the spinning mill: Farukh first.

A woman called him from afar. His feet are barefoot, his head covered with a veil and his hands are fast. The rhythm of the wooden frame is tight; it presses almost to become music.
One thread, then the other and the other again. Here is the Bakhmal: the Uzbek silk velvet woven two meters a day.

Farukh answers on video call almost immediately. Except for the seamstresses and me, it's the first time anyone has seen a Samarcanda Bakhmal garment. Samarkand is 6.512 km far from here but also before our eyes. Like the pomegranate in its grains, in its gentle fabrics it becomes the union of distant stories. The journey has just begun.