TWO dozen older Kyrgyzstani men, a mix of ethnic Kyrgyz and Uzbeks, while away a warm Saturday over chess in a central park in Osh. They wear their traditional hats proudly—embroidered skullcaps for the Uzbeks; tall white kalpaks for the Kyrgyz—and insist that the country’s two largest groups are getting on just fine.

Rioting and pogroms around southern Kyrgyzstan cost more than 400 lives in June 2010. Nearly three years after “the war” between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks, as locals call it, this ancient city of the Silk Road has rumbled back to life. Most of the 2,000-odd homes and businesses that were burnt out have been repaired. In the famed bazaar across from the park, Kyrgyz and Uzbek traders hawk their vegetables, halal meat and cheap household goods from beyond the mountains in China.

In March a UN committee on racial discrimination reiterated the judgment of earlier international reports: “Uzbeks were mostly victims of the June 2010 events”. It also notes that in the years since the violence Uzbeks have been disproportionately prosecuted and condemned. It recommends that the national government investigate the courts’ “biased attitude” and that it review their guilty verdicts.

Time and fatigue have papered over the more jagged gashes in relations between the two ethnic groups. But the old problems that led them to fight each other—from unemployment and organised crime to unchecked rumours and the lopsided distribution of justice—have been left to fester.

A 24-year-old Uzbek who sells car parts for a living hints at the underlying tensions. His biggest complaint is police harassment. Most of the officers are Kyrgyz, and frictions since the clashes often fall along ethnic lines. To avoid trouble, “we don’t go out at night without a Kyrgyz.” At least he has Kyrgyz friends. He eschews blaming the lot of them; “five fingers from one hand are never equal,” as he puts it. His plan is to leave for Russia in search of work, as many Kyrgyzstanis do. The number of Uzbek men emigrating is known to have surged after the violence, but the government has not kept statistics on subsequent migrations.

Each side of the ethnic divide feels that the justice system has failed it. Many Kyrgyz resent the uniform reproach that has come from abroad. Passions run high at the trials, which have been marred by irregularities and intimidation. This month the Supreme Court heard the case of an Uzbek accused of participating in an especially brutal episode. Aggrieved women assaulted his lawyers inside the court.

“The judges just watched,” says Tatyana Tomina, a defence lawyer who was attacked as she tried to prove that her client was not in Kyrgyzstan at the time of the violence. Later, in the hall, she was punched in the face. “It’s obvious the court doesn’t want to see the evidence,” she says. “This is a show trial.” In March police detained the editor of an Uzbek-language newspaper on murky accusations linked to the violence. His supporters say the charges are bogus.

Many Uzbek shops were seized after the spasm of violence. Their owners have given up hope of receiving compensation. As a group, they find officials unsympathetic, or worse. The shakedowns are exhausting. “We can’t argue, but the Kyrgyz can,” says one Uzbek. Leaderless, many of the Uzbeks try to keep a low profile.