When American scholar Mark Reese set out to share Uzbekistan’s most celebrated novel with the world, he never imagined that his work would be pirated by the very institutions he had hoped to support.

Reese, who first came to the country as a Peace Corps volunteer in the 1990s, spent more than a decade translating O‘tkan Kunlar (Bygone Days), the seminal 1920s novel by Abdulla Qodiriy. His English edition was a scholarly milestone – the first time the novel, considered Uzbekistan’s literary classic, had been made accessible to English-speaking readers.

The book was warmly received. In 2019, Reese was awarded the Uzbek state’s Order of Do‘stlik, or Friendship, for his contribution to cultural understanding. During a follow-up visit the next year, he gave signed copies of the book to universities and ministries across the country.

“All parties asked how they could support my work,” he tells The Times of Central Asia. “I presented a copy and explained that they could purchase more at a steep discount.” Each donation came with a clear stipulation: the book was not to be copied, resold, or distributed further.

For a time, the project seemed to blossom. Uzbek students used the book in academic papers. One university even adapted it into an English-language stage play. Reese granted permission for such use, as long as it remained non-commercial and he was credited. By 2021, he had entered a publishing partnership in Tashkent and was preparing to distribute 5,000 official copies in 2026. Agreements to publish in Turkey and Qatar were also underway.

Then, quietly, the book escaped his hands.

Reese learned from students in the Ferghana Valley that a full PDF of the translation had been uploaded to the Telegram channel of a university library. When he opened the file, he recognized something chilling – his own handwriting on the inside cover. The scan had been made from a gifted copy. It was high-resolution and clearly done using professional equipment.

The source of the leak soon became clear. The rector of Uzbekistan’s State World Languages University, known locally as Jahon Tilli, confirmed in an interview that his vice rector had scanned the book as part of a digitisation initiative.

“They did so without my permission,” Reese said. “And the file was then shared with 1.3 million university students and 6.3 million school students.” The book was everywhere – on servers, in group chats, on flash drives. In at least one case, students tried to send the file to a printer and sell it.

Reese took the case to court. The verdict was in his favour: the court ruled that copyright theft had occurred. But instead of holding the university responsible, the judge placed the blame squarely on the vice rector. Reese believes this was a calculated move. “It’s a common ploy to reduce damages,” he said. “I’m now expected to sue the individual for up to $30,000, but courts usually award just 20 to 40 percent of that.”

This, for Reese, is the deeper problem. There is no effective system to hold Uzbek institutions accountable for intellectual property violations. Unlike in neighbouring Kazakhstan, where IP law allows claimants to pursue damages against organisations, Uzbekistan restricts claims to individuals. The result, according to Reese, is institutional impunity.

“There are no real IP rights in Uzbekistan,” Reese tells The Times of Central Asia. “Nothing meaningful is being done. Government agencies avoid liability. The leadership of those institutions avoid liability. It’s plausible deniability.”

Reese’s warning is stark: the unchecked spread of piracy is not only unjust to creators, it undermines Uzbekistan’s ambitions to build a creative economy. “IP theft is the rule, not the exception,” he said. “And that puts a knowledge-based economy at risk.”

Over the past few years, Uzbekistan has opened up to foreign investment and launched an ambitious university-building drive. But Reese questions whether the country is doing enough to protect the intellectual output those institutions are supposed to foster. “Why would a university or business come to Uzbekistan if it still remains a place of IP banditry?” he asked. “IP is the centre of the American experience. It is what we do.”

He is not the only American with these concerns. Dan Patterson, CEO of the Uzbek-American agribusiness firm Silverleafe, is also seeking damages, for a different kind of dispute, in the country’s courts. Both men are recipients of the Do‘stlik medal.

While Reese continues to pursue legal action, his concern extends beyond compensation. He sees the situation as emblematic of a broader cultural challenge. “You can and should expect your work to be co-opted and stolen,” he said of the Uzbek system, which he has engaged with for three decades. “It’s not about one book. It’s about setting the rules for what kind of society you want to have.”

For now, his hopes remain simple. He still dreams of seeing his book on sale at Tashkent Airport, nestled among the souvenir chocolates and keychains – an English-language gateway into Uzbekistan’s literary history. But until basic protections for authors and translators are in place, he says, the country’s creative economy will remain built on uncertain ground.