Hovli : A Truly Uzbek House

Different styles of houses around the world are shaped according to their geography, history and culture. One such example is an Uzbek house — hovli. Hovli is not just a house; it’s a lifestyle.

Hovlis in rural areas of Uzbekistan are usually designed in a similar way. Nowadays, however, Uzbek hovlis vary depending on their location — rural or urban — the period in which they were built, and many other factors. 

In cities today, hovlis have taken on a slightly different form compared to their older counterparts, as the lifestyle of people have changed because of technological advances, social, economic and other developments. Those who grew up in a hovli—whether in the city or a qishloq (village)—often reminisce about childhood activities that were possible only in a hovli.

A back door of a hovli in qishloq

A typical Uzbek hovli in rural or suburban areas usually consists of five main zones:

1. Living Area

The main materials used for building houses include mud and hay . In many villages of Uzbekistan, these traditional materials are still in use today. They help keep rooms warm in winter and cool in summer.

Some rooms, particularly living rooms, featured sandals. Sandal is a specially built hole in the floor where burning coal or wood is placed. A xontaxta (a traditional low-legged table) is set on top of it and it is then covered with a ko’rpa (a traditional duvet filled with cotton and quilted with hand stitches). Family members gather around the table, tuck their legs under the ko’rpa and warm themselves in this cosy way.

2. Supa

Drying apricots on the roof

Spring in hovli

Supa is the main outdoor area for gathering, work and leisure. It’s usually a concrete platform that serves as the central outdoor space for everyday life. On top of it, there is typically a chorpoya, a dining table and other household items. 

The chorpoya — a traditional wooden platform with short legs — is one of the main pieces of Uzbek furniture, if not only one. Families often eat, relax, work, and even nap on the chorpoya, making it a multifunctional centrepiece of the hovli during the summer months. 

When we were children, we used to sleep on the chorpoya on summer nights. It was usually covered with a mesh net, which was tied to the vine-covered arbor above the chorpoya to protect us from mosquitoes. This area was the centre of our summer family activities — sealing jars of murabbo (jam made with large chunks or whole fruits), povidlo (a smooth, mashed fruit preserve), kompot (a sweet drink made with cherries, apricots, apples, and other summer fruits), and so on.

Once, my mom and I sealed 50 three-litre glass jars of tomato juice. I was always the one washing the jars, since my hands could easily fit inside them. First, I would wash them with washing powder, then rinse them twice with clean water before lining them up on an old linen dasturkhon (tablecloth) spread across the chorpoya. Sunbeams would occasionally strike the jars directly, drying them further and creating gleaming reflections that danced across the glass walls. My mom would fill each jar with small red tomatoes and other ingredients, then top them with a tablespoonful of salt — white as snow. That simple scene would stir something tender in her, as if the salt itself awakened a quiet memory or long-held emotion.

Seasonal vegetables and fruits proudly boasted their vibrant colors under the relentless sunlight, taking different shades at each stage of the process — whether being washed in large bowls of water, resting to dry, or neatly arranged in glass jars, waiting for hot juice or water to be poured over them.

Lunch breaks usually consisted of simple summer dishes: a cholop (similar to ayran but with chopped cucumber), or an egg soup (made with freshly-picked, well-ripened tomatoes from tomorqa), a salad or just a watermelon served with bread. And there was the king of all dishes: fried potatoes. Back then, there was only one way to cut potatoes — into slices. The trend of potato wedges came much later, but once it did, it quickly replaced the traditional slicing.

Another regular activity was laundry. Back then, people washed everything by hand — you needed three large washbasins. The clothes were scrubbed with washing powder and soap, often twice, and then rinsed several times until no trace of chemicals remained.

These days would usually end with a quiet sense of satisfaction from the work accomplished. One couldn’t help but feel joy just by looking at the jars — placed upside down — waiting to be transferred to the warehouse.”

Hand-made wool rug hanging for drying somewhere in Nurota

Another popular activity — now almost forgotten — was washing carpets. Today, many people rely on companies to do the job, but back then, it was a fun and communal task, especially loved by children. Barefoot, we would soap and scrub the carpet laid out on the supa, then leave it to dry under the open sky. 

The joy of seeing perfectly dried clothes and freshly cleaned carpets brought a deep satisfaction — one that no social media can offer today.

3. Tomorqa

Tomorqa — or ogorod, as it’s called in Russian — is a naturally irrigated piece of land used for growing various vegetables.

When I was a child, my parents would buy ready-to-plant tomato seedlings, about 30–45 cm tall, with their roots wrapped in soil and secured in plastic bags to keep them moist.

When I visited Europe for the first time — particularly the UK — I noticed that household gardens were often watered by rain or sprinkler systems, and crops were grown in open, flat plots.

Ubiquitous lights of the full moon lighting a hovli

In contrast, in Central Asia, especially in Uzbekistan, home gardens — known as tomorqa — are carefully organised into narrow garden beds, locally called jo‘ya. These garden beds are arranged in rows, separated by small furrows. Water is brought from a nearby ariq (irrigation ditch), and flows in a serpentine pattern between the beds, soaking the soil efficiently while minimising waste. This traditional method of irrigation is an affective way to conserve water in our dry region.

To prepare jo‘ya (garden beds) for tomatoes, someone would typically use a traditional tool called a ketmon. The ketmon is a hand hoe widely used in Uzbek agriculture. It features a flat metal blade and a long wooden handle, and it’s essential for shaping garden beds. But the ketmon is more than just a tool — it’s a cultural symbol of the hardworking rural lifestyle in Uzbekistan.

There are many sayings and idioms about the ketmon in everyday speech. One popular phrase is “ketmoni uchdi” (literally, “his ketmon flew”), which means that someone’s affairs have gone well or turned out successfully. This expression originates from the 1990s Uzbek sci-fi comedy “Abdulla Qodiriy yoki Stiven Spilbergga bag‘ishlanadi” (“Abdullahjon, or Dedicated to Stephen Spielberg”), a cult classic where a boy arrives in an Uzbek village in a UFO and ends up living with the locals.

Another person would be responsible for making deep holes for the seedlings, while someone else carefully placed the seedlings into the holes, which were then filled by the next person. I still remember the distinct smell of tomato seedlings — earthy, green, and full of promise.

4. Molxona or Orqa Tomon

We didn’t have cows, but we still had a designated area — called molxona or orqa tomon — for keeping other animals like hens, turkeys, and occasionally ducks.

Families who did have cows usually had a separate shed for storing dried grass, hay, and other types of dried plants to feed the cattle during the winter months.

5. Tandirxona

The tandir is one of the most important elements of a hovli. The word tandir in Uzbek comes from the Persian tanūr, which itself originates from the Arabic tannūr, where tin means “mud” and nūr means “fire” or “light.”

Tandirxona or tandirboshi

When I visited Georgia, I was surprised to see that they also have a tandir — but they call it a tone or tonne.

In India, it’s known as a tandoor; in Georgia, tone; in Armenia, tonir; in Azerbaijan, tandir; and in Turkmenistan, tamdyr.

No matter what it’s called, in every country where the tandir is part of the culture, it holds deep meaning. It’s not just an oven — it’s a symbol of warmth, tradition, and shared memories. For many Uzbek millennials, it was something truly special, full of sweet memories and tender emotions. Every one of my friends had a tandir in their hovli, and after our mothers finished baking non(bread), we’d all dig potatoes into the hot ashes. Once baked, their skins blackened by coal, we’d peel them and eat them with just a pinch of salt — it was simple, but so satisfying.

One of my friends, Gulnur, once told me they did the same with corn. I was surprised — and a little disappointed — that I had missed out on that cool experiment.

One of the best memories I have associated with the tandir is eating freshly baked non, pulled straight from the oven and dipped into cold water in a kosa (bowl). Some would enjoy it with qaymoq (a thick, double cream) — a simple yet comforting pleasure.

In Navoi, our non is very large. My mom would wake up early in the morning to knead dough in a big bowl and prepare the fire in the tandir. She baked enough bread to last us a whole week. We kept the nons wrapped in a dasturkhon and a plastic sheet, stored in our old Soviet fridge.

6. A Dog

Last but not least, no hovli is complete without a dog. An Uzbek hovli has a dog — it’s simply part of the household.

We always kept one. Each of them was different, with their own personality and quirks. My favorite dogs were named Tarzan, Alabai, and Layma.

Our dogs are one of the very few topics that unite everyone in our family — even now. No matter our differences, we can always laugh and reminisce when it comes to the dogs we raised.

Illustrations by Ulug’bek Mukhamatov (@umukhamatov)

These drawings are inspired from the memories of an artist, who grew up near the vast steppes of the Navoi region. His inspirations also come from places like Uch tut, where he studied at an Art school in 90’s, and from villages such as Lo’ndacha and Arabsaroy, once home to his grandmother and great grandmother, respectively.