At Central Asian airports, remittances do not always look like money. They can look like taped cardboard boxes arriving from Istanbul, oversized suitcases from Moscow, bags of clothes bought in Turkish markets, phones, cosmetics, fabrics, spare parts, children’s shoes or household appliances carried across borders as luggage. In a village in southern Tajikistan, they can look like a half-finished house paid for by a son working in Russia. In Kyrgyzstan, they can arrive as a notification on a banking app. In Uzbekistan, they can help pay for a wedding, medical treatment, a sibling’s education or the first stock for a small shop.

Remittances are often described as a financial flow. In Central Asia, they are closer to an invisible welfare state. They pay for food, debt, construction, school fees, ceremonies, medicine and daily consumption. They keep families afloat, sustain rural economies and reduce pressure on governments that cannot create enough jobs at home. But they also reveal one of the region’s deepest vulnerabilities: millions of households depend on wages earned elsewhere.

The dependence is most visible in Tajikistan. For years, Tajikistan has ranked among the most remittance-dependent countries in the world. Money sent home by workers abroad has represented more than a third of GDP in recent years, and in some estimates even more. The numbers matter, but they do not fully capture the social reality. In parts of the country, especially poorer and rural regions, migration is not an exception but a stage of life. Young men leave after school, before marriage, after marriage, or when family debts accumulate. They go to Moscow, St Petersburg, regional Russian cities, construction sites, markets, warehouses and service jobs. Some return seasonally. Others stay away for years.

This absence has reshaped village life. In some Tajik communities, working-age men are missing for long stretches of the year. Women, grandparents and children manage daily routines, land, livestock, school, family ceremonies and household budgets. The money sent from Russia gives women responsibility, but not always authority. A wife may manage the household, but major decisions can still be made by an absent husband, his parents or the wider family. Migration can strengthen families by giving them income, but it can also strain marriages, delay return, create second households abroad or leave women carrying both economic and social burdens.

Also read on Novastan: In Paris, an Uzbekistani NGO’s fight against human trafficking recognised with the French Republic Human Rights Prize

Kyrgyzstan tells a related but slightly different story. Labour migration, especially to Russia and Kazakhstan, has long supported households across the south and in rural areas. Remittances once represented close to a third of GDP; more recently the share has fallen, partly because of economic diversification and changing migration patterns. Yet the money remains crucial. It pays for homes in Osh, Jalal-Abad and Batken, supports families in villages, and helps households survive when local wages are low. Unlike Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan also benefits from membership in the Eurasian Economic Union, which gives its citizens easier access to the Russian labour market than Tajik or Uzbek migrants. But this advantage does not remove the underlying dependence on external work.

Uzbekistan is different again. Its economy is larger and more diversified, so remittances make up a lower share of GDP than in Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan. But in absolute terms, Uzbekistan is one of the region’s major remittance recipients because of its population size and the large number of citizens working abroad. Uzbek migrants work in Russia, Kazakhstan, Türkiye, South Korea, the Gulf and increasingly other destinations. The state has tried to regulate labour migration more actively, including through organised recruitment and agreements with foreign employers. Still, much of the system remains family-driven: someone leaves, sends money, returns, leaves again, or helps another relative migrate.

Kazakhstan occupies another position in this regional economy. It sends migrants abroad too, but it is also a destination. Workers from Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan come to Kazakhstan for construction, agriculture, services, markets and domestic work. In this sense, Kazakhstan is not only part of the remittance map as a country of origin, but also as a regional labour hub. Turkmenistan, by contrast, is harder to include with precision. Migration exists, but reliable data is limited and the country’s closed political environment makes the scale of remittances more difficult to assess.

Also read on Novastan: The paradoxes of migration from Tajikistan to Russia: an interview with Dr Elena Borisova

How the money is sent has changed dramatically. In the 1990s and 2000s, many families associated remittances with money-transfer offices and familiar brands such as Western Union, MoneyGram, Zolotaya Korona, Unistream or Contact. A migrant would queue, send cash, and relatives would collect it in a bank branch or transfer office. That world has not disappeared, but it has been transformed by sanctions, banking restrictions, digitalisation and the spread of smartphones.

Today, remittances often move through mobile banking apps, card-to-card transfers, e-wallets, national payment systems and fintech platforms. A migrant in Moscow can send money from a Russian bank account to a relative’s card in Dushanbe, Osh, Samarkand or Namangan. In Tajikistan, fintech and banking services such as Alif, Dushanbe City, Eskhata or other local platforms have become part of everyday financial life. In Uzbekistan, digital payment ecosystems such as Click, Payme, Uzum Bank and bank apps allow money to move quickly into household budgets. In Kyrgyzstan, mobile banking and card systems have made transfers faster and more routine.

This technical shift matters. When remittances arrive instantly, migration becomes part of daily household management. Money is no longer only a monthly transfer collected in cash. It can pay for groceries, utilities, school supplies, medicine or construction materials almost in real time. The migrant is physically absent but financially present. A father in Russia can still pay a bill in Tajikistan. A brother in South Korea can send money for a wedding. A son in Kazakhstan can support his mother’s medical treatment. Digital transfers make separation easier to manage, but they also normalise it.

Yet not everything moves through banking apps. Central Asia also has a “box economy”. Shuttle traders, relatives and small entrepreneurs carry goods across borders, especially through routes linking the region with Türkiye, Russia, Dubai and China. Istanbul is particularly important. Flights between Istanbul and Tashkent, Bishkek, Dushanbe, Almaty and other cities carry not only tourists and business travellers, but also small traders moving textiles, clothes, shoes, cosmetics and household goods. Some items are gifts. Others are for resale. Many fall somewhere in between. The result is a blurred line between migration, remittances and trade.

This matters because goods sent or carried home can function like remittances. A migrant may not send cash, but may bring phones, clothes or equipment that can be sold. A woman may travel to Istanbul, buy merchandise, and return to sell it in a bazaar or through Instagram and Telegram. A relative abroad may send goods through cargo services rather than money through a bank. In household economies where cash is scarce and small trade is common, goods are another way of transferring value.

The comparison with elite mobility is revealing. Central Asian governments also promote a very different kind of movement: students, civil servants and professionals sent abroad through state-backed scholarship schemes. Kazakhstan’s Bolashak and Uzbekistan’s El-Yurt Umidi belong to this world. They are designed to bring skills, networks and prestige back home. But they highlight the contrast at the heart of Central Asian mobility. Some citizens leave as future administrators, engineers or specialists. Many more leave as builders, drivers, cleaners, carers, traders or seasonal workers whose earnings keep households afloat.

Also read on Novastan: “I only needed a passport” : In Ukraine, Central Asian prisoners of wars caught between loyalty and regret

Russia remains the centre of this system, but it has become a more uncertain centre. Since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Russia has needed migrant labour more than ever, especially in construction, manufacturing, logistics and services. Labour shortages have increased the demand for Central Asian workers. At the same time, migrants face a harsher environment: police checks, nationalist rhetoric, bureaucratic uncertainty, military recruitment pressure and social hostility. After the Crocus City Hall attack near Moscow in March 2024, Tajik migrants in particular reported more raids, deportations and difficulties entering Russia. Tajikistan even summoned the Russian ambassador over the treatment of its citizens.

This has exposed the fragility of a model built on migration. For Russia, Central Asian workers are necessary but politically vulnerable. For Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan, migration reduces unemployment and brings in money, but it also exports social problems rather than solving them. If Russia tightens rules, deports workers or becomes less attractive, households across Central Asia feel the shock. If the rouble weakens, remittances lose value. If migrants face discrimination, the cost is borne not only by them, but by families waiting at home.

Destinations are diversifying. South Korea attracts workers through more regulated labour schemes. Türkiye combines labour, trade and cultural proximity. The Gulf has become more visible. Kazakhstan remains a regional magnet. Europe is still more difficult to access, but increasingly present in aspirations and small migration networks. But diversification is uneven and often expensive. For many families, Russia remains the most accessible option because of language, networks, transport links and relatively low entry costs.

The central question is therefore not whether remittances are good or bad. For many families, they are indispensable. They reduce poverty, finance education, build homes and open small businesses. Without them, social hardship would be much deeper. But dependence on remittances also allows states to postpone harder questions: how to create jobs at home, how to raise rural incomes, how to protect migrants abroad, how to support women left in charge of households, and how to turn money sent home into productive investment rather than only consumption.

Also read on Novastan: In Kyrgyzstan, one in four families lives below the poverty line

Remittances are Central Asia’s invisible welfare state, but they are also a warning. They show the strength of family solidarity across borders, and the weakness of domestic labour markets. They connect Tajik villages, Kyrgyz towns and Uzbek neighbourhoods to Moscow, Istanbul, Almaty, Seoul and Dubai. They arrive as bank notifications, cash transfers, cargo parcels and taped cardboard boxes. They build houses and empty villages. They pay for weddings and prolong absence. They keep economies moving, but they also reveal how much of Central Asia’s future is still being financed by people who had to leave.

Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan-English

The post Money, boxes and absent men: the hidden economy reshaping Central Asia appeared first on Novastan English.

This article is published as part of a partnership between AUCA and Novastan, which brings graduate students’ academic work to a wider readership. Through this collaboration, Novastan aims to highlight research produced in and on Central Asia, and to make academic perspectives more accessible to the public.

In 2024, nearly one in every two marriages in Bishkek ended in divorce. According to official statistics, 45.4% of marriages registered in the capital resulted in divorce, compared to the national average of 28.9%. Across Kyrgyzstan, divorce has become increasingly common over the past several years. The trend is gradual rather than dramatic, but it is consistent. While roughly one in four marriages ended in divorce several years ago, the figure is now approaching one in three nationally and nearly one in two in Bishkek.

Also read on Novastan: Between Extended Family and Personal Boundaries: How Parenting is Changing in Kazakhstan

These numbers suggest that divorce is no longer unusual. Yet statistics tell only part of the story. Demographic change does not automatically transform social attitudes. A phenomenon can become common while still carrying stigma, judgment, and social consequences. This contradiction sits at the center of contemporary discussions about divorce in Kyrgyzstan.

This article is based on my own research that combined 31 survey responses, eight in-depth interviews, and an analysis of more than 200 social media comments. Rather than asking why people divorce, it explores how divorce is experienced, interpreted, and discussed in contemporary Kyrgyz society. It focuses not on legal procedures but on the social life of divorce: the conversations, expectations, judgments, and cultural meanings that continue long after a marriage ends.

One finding emerged repeatedly throughout the research: although divorce affects both spouses, its social consequences are often profoundly gendered. Women were more willing to discuss their experiences, while men frequently avoided conversations about divorce altogether. Existing scholarship suggests that emotional restraint remains an important part of dominant expectations of masculinity, while women are more often expected to explain, justify, and carry the social consequences of family outcomes.

Divorce is becoming statistically ordinary. Socially, however, it often remains a highly visible event, particularly for women.

Divorce rarely begins with leaving

If you listen carefully to how people talk about divorce, the story rarely begins with separation, it begins with staying.

Participants repeatedly described years of trying to preserve relationships before seriously considering leaving. They spoke about compromise, adaptation, and the belief that greater effort might eventually solve existing problems. Divorce did not appear in their stories as a first option. It appeared only after other possibilities had been exhausted.

“I kept thinking maybe I just need to try a bit more”.

“I thought it was my responsibility to keep the family together, even if it was hard”.

These statements reveal an important pattern. For many participants, especially women, the question was not whether they should leave but whether they had done enough to stay. The burden of proof worked in one direction, continuing the marriage required little explanation, ending it required justification.

Also read on Novastan: In Tajikistan, daughters-in-law face a hidden system of control

Several interviewees described spending years adapting to circumstances they considered temporary. They hoped that communication would improve, that family tensions would ease, or that personal sacrifices would eventually strengthen the relationship. In many cases, divorce was viewed as a last resort rather than a legitimate option among many possibilities.

What is particularly striking is how often responsibility was framed in gendered terms. Several women described feeling personally accountable for the success or failure of the marriage, even when difficulties involved both partners equally. When relationships deteriorated, many initially interpreted this not as evidence of incompatibility but as evidence that they needed to try harder.

As a result, divorce is rarely experienced as a single decision. Instead, it emerges at the end of a long process shaped by effort, repetition, compromise, and self-questioning. Before leaving comes staying, and before staying comes the belief that staying is what one is supposed to do.

Living under the question: “What will people say?”

Long before divorce becomes visible to others, many participants begin imagining how it will be perceived.

Several interviewees described preparing explanations before speaking to relatives or friends. Others delayed conversations entirely. What mattered was not only the existence of social reactions but the anticipation of them.

“You think it’s your situation, but very quickly it’s not just yours anymore”.

This finding resonates with the concept of “uyat”, often translated as shame. Scholars describe uyat as a mechanism through which social norms are maintained and behaviour is evaluated through the eyes of others. The concept extends beyond individual embarrassment. It reflects an awareness that personal actions can become subjects of collective evaluation.

Also read on Novastan: Bound by Tradition: Silent Suffering of Daughters-in-Law in Uzbekistan

Within this context, divorce is rarely experienced as a purely private matter. Participants frequently described thinking not only about their own feelings but also about how neighbours, relatives, colleagues, and acquaintances might interpret the situation.

Survey results reflected this pattern clearly, reactions came from multiple directions simultaneously. Friends and colleagues were among the most frequently mentioned groups, followed by parents and relatives from the spouse’s side. Extended family members, neighbours, and members of the broader community also played important roles.

The significance of these reactions lies not only in what people say but in the awareness that divorce becomes socially visible. Once it becomes visible, it enters conversations. It becomes interpreted, discussed, and evaluated.

“The hardest part wasn’t the divorce itself, but the realization that people would see it and talk about it”.

Female participants discussed this anticipation particularly often. Many worried about how others would interpret their divorce. Concerns about reputation, respectability, and blame appeared repeatedly. Some feared being seen as selfish. Others worried that people would assume they had failed as wives or mothers.

Also read on Novastan: Uzbekistan: when women demand to have a voice

Men were not absent from these conversations, but they appeared less frequently as subjects of social scrutiny. Women, by contrast, often expected to be asked what they had done wrong, whether they had tried hard enough, or why they failed to preserve the marriage.

The result is that social norms become powerful not only because people enforce them but because individuals internalize them. Even before reactions occur, people anticipate them. In this way, the possibility of judgment becomes part of the divorce experience itself.

Family as the interpreter of what is right

While society creates a broader environment of expectations, family often becomes the institution through which divorce acquires moral meaning.

Participants frequently described conversations focused less on emotional well-being and more on responsibility, effort, and obligation.

“I felt like I had to prove that I didn’t just leave without a reason”.

Relatives encouraged participants to remain patient, think about the children, and continue trying to preserve the family. Yet these expectations were rarely distributed equally.

Also read on Novastan: Through roads, markets and silence: Tolomush Zhanybekov films Kyrgyzstan’s unseen lives

Several women described being reminded of their duties as wives and mothers. References to patience, sacrifice, and endurance appeared repeatedly in their stories. Existing research from Kyrgyzstan and other patriarchal societies suggests that women are more likely to be viewed as guardians of family stability, making their decision to leave more visible and more likely to be questioned.

Importantly, these conversations were not always experienced as hostile. Many participants emphasized that relatives acted out of concern. Advice was often framed as support rather than criticism. Yet even supportive conversations frequently relied on the same assumptions: that preserving the family should remain the primary goal.

Participants also described being reminded of the years invested in the marriage, shared responsibilities, and the consequences of divorce for children. These arguments transformed divorce from a personal decision into a moral question. Leaving the marriage was not evaluated only in terms of individual well-being. It was evaluated in relation to obligations toward family and community.

This dynamic helps explain why divorce can remain socially difficult even when it becomes more common. Statistical frequency does not automatically remove moral expectations. The expectation to preserve the family continues to shape how divorce is interpreted and discussed.

The words that stay after

After the legal process ends, another dimension of divorce often remains: language.

Participants described encountering labels such as “razvedenka”, a term used for divorced women that frequently carries negative social connotations.

“When people say ‘divorcee’ it’s no longer just a fact. It’s as if everything about the person is immediately understood”.

Perhaps the clearest evidence of gendered perceptions appeared here. Participants repeatedly referred to labels used for divorced women, while comparable labels for divorced men appeared far less frequently in interviews and online discussions. This asymmetry suggests that women’s marital status remains more socially visible after divorce.

Also read on Novastan: « Kourmanjan Datka » : l’épopée féminine, nationaliste et historique de la reine de l’Alaï

The label does more than describe marital status. It often implies assumptions about character, responsibility, and social value. As a result, women frequently carry a social identity attached to divorce long after the legal process ends.

Several participants described subtle shifts in social interactions. They noticed changes in how people spoke to them, what questions they asked, and what assumptions they made. Some reported feeling excluded from certain social situations. Others described being treated as cautionary examples rather than individuals with unique experiences.

One participant recalled not being invited to a wedding because she was perceived as bringing bad luck. Whether such incidents are common or rare, they reveal how divorce can acquire symbolic meanings that extend beyond the event itself.

Language matters because it shapes perception. When a complicated life experience becomes reduced to a single label, the label often replaces the story behind it. People stop asking what happened and begin assuming they already know.

From city to region: different experiences of visibility

Participants consistently distinguished between urban and rural experiences.

“In villages everyone knows each other. In the city you can divorce and nobody knows”.

The difference is not necessarily one of values but of visibility. In smaller communities, personal information circulates rapidly through overlapping social networks. Divorce therefore becomes more public and more difficult to separate from one’s reputation.

Also read on Novastan: L’Asie centrale en documentaires et courts-métrages

In cities such as Bishkek, greater anonymity creates more opportunities for privacy. Social expectations remain present, but they are reinforced less through constant observation.

Participants frequently described village life as a setting where personal events quickly become collective knowledge. In such environments, divorce is more likely to become a topic of discussion across different social circles. This visibility can intensify pressure and increase awareness of public judgment.

For divorced women, this visibility often carries additional consequences. Reputation remains closely tied to expectations surrounding marriage and family, making community scrutiny particularly significant.

These observations correspond with broader demographic trends. Divorce rates tend to be higher in urban areas than in surrounding regions. Although many factors contribute to this difference, participants frequently linked it to varying levels of visibility, anonymity, and social control.

A society between two models of marriage

Many participants compared their experiences with those of previous generations.

“They stayed together not because they were happy, but because that’s how it was supposed to be”.

Increasingly, younger generations evaluate relationships not only by their longevity but also by their quality.

Also read on Novastan: Nicolas Faye : « Le Kirghizstan aspire à être mieux reconnu sur le plan international »

“We no longer look at how long people lived together, but at how they lived”.

Participants linked this shift to education, media exposure, and growing discussions about emotional well-being and healthy relationships. Access to new ideas has expanded conversations about personal boundaries, mutual respect, and emotional fulfillment.

Yet new ideas have not replaced older expectations entirely. Instead, both coexist.

This coexistence creates tension. Individuals may value personal well-being while simultaneously feeling pressure to conform to traditional expectations. They may believe that unhealthy relationships should end while also fearing the social consequences of divorce.

As a result, divorce occupies an ambiguous position in contemporary Kyrgyz society. It is becoming more common and, in some ways, more accepted. At the same time, it continues to carry stigma and remains subject to social judgment.

The findings reveal a central paradox. Divorce in Kyrgyzstan is becoming statistically ordinary, yet socially it often remains extraordinary.

The research also suggests that these consequences remain deeply gendered. While both men and women experience separation, women more frequently bear the burden of public evaluation, family expectations, social labeling, and responsibility for preserving relationships.

In this sense, divorce is not judged solely as the end of a marriage. It is often interpreted as a reflection of how successfully women are perceived to have fulfilled expected social roles.

Understanding divorce therefore requires looking beyond legal procedures and demographic statistics. It requires examining the cultural expectations, family dynamics, social norms, and gendered assumptions that continue to shape how separation is experienced and understood in contemporary Kyrgyzstan.

As divorce becomes increasingly common, an important question remains: will social attitudes eventually adapt to demographic reality, or will the gap between lived experience and public perception continue to persist? For now, the evidence suggests that while marriage is changing, the expectations surrounding it still carry considerable weight. That weight is often invisible, but for many divorced women, it remains impossible to ignore.

By Amaliia Abubakirova, Journalism student at the American University of Central Asia (AUCA)

Edited by Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan-English

The post The Hidden Weight of Divorce in Kyrgyzstan: Why Its Social Consequences Remain Gendered appeared first on Novastan English.

Central Asia is often described as the next frontier in the global race for rare earths. The reality is both more promising and more complicated. Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and their neighbours do hold major reserves of critical raw materials, from uranium and copper to chromium, manganese, tungsten, antimony, graphite and rare earth elements. But much remains uncertain: some deposits are still under exploration, processing capacity is limited, and the most valuable parts of the supply chain remain outside the region.

What is already clear, however, is that governments, state mining companies and foreign investors are moving fast. The European Union has signed critical raw materials partnerships with Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. American investors are looking at tungsten and rare earths. France is active in uranium. Development banks are financing graphite and mining governance. China remains the unavoidable reference point, because it dominates global refining and processing.

For Central Asia, the question is not only what lies underground. It is whether the region can avoid becoming simply another supplier of raw materials for richer industrial powers.

Why these minerals matter

Also read on Novastan: Carbon neutral by 2060? Kazakhstan’s green pledge faces a reality check

The term “critical raw materials” can sound technical, but the products they make possible are familiar. A smartphone contains copper, tungsten, rare earth elements and other metals. An electric vehicle depends on lithium, graphite, copper and sometimes cobalt. Wind turbines require steel, copper and powerful permanent magnets. Satellites, missiles, semiconductors and aircraft all need specialised metals.

Rare earths are only one part of the story. They include elements such as neodymium, praseodymium, dysprosium, cerium, lanthanum and yttrium. Some are used in permanent magnets for electric vehicles, wind turbines, drones, missiles and electronic devices. Others are used in polishing, catalysts, lasers or specialised industrial applications.

But Central Asia’s strategic importance is wider than rare earths. Uranium is essential for nuclear power. Copper is needed for electrical grids, renewable energy infrastructure, electric vehicles and data centres. Graphite is used in battery anodes. Tungsten hardens steel and is used in cutting tools, aerospace and defence. Antimony is used in flame retardants, ammunition, batteries and semiconductors. Chromium and manganese are essential for steel. Titanium is used in aircraft, spacecraft and medical implants. Molybdenum strengthens steel used in pipelines, industry and defence. Gallium is important for semiconductors, radar systems and advanced electronics.

In other words, the issue is not only about “green energy”. It is also about industrial power, military technology, digital infrastructure and geopolitical dependency.

What is actually known

According to the OECD, Central Asia holds a significant share of global reserves of several critical raw materials. The region accounts for around 39% of global manganese ore reserves, 31% of chromium, 20% of lead, 13% of zinc, 9% of titanium, 6% of aluminium, and about 5% each of copper, cobalt and molybdenum.

Kazakhstan is the strongest player. It is already the world’s largest uranium producer and can export many of the materials included in the European Union’s critical raw materials list. Its known strengths include uranium, chromium, manganese, copper, titanium, tungsten, beryllium, gallium and rare earth potential.

Uzbekistan is also increasingly visible. The country has large copper resources, uranium, molybdenum, tungsten, gold-associated metals and rare metals. Its mining sector is dominated by national champions such as Almalyk Mining and Metallurgical Complex, Navoi Mining and Metallurgical Company and Navoiyuran.

Kyrgyzstan has a smaller mining sector, but it is important for antimony, gold and rare earth occurrences. Tajikistan is also relevant for antimony, silver and rare metals. Turkmenistan remains the least transparent case, with public information still much thinner than for the rest of the region.

Kazakhstan’s rare earth moment

The strongest recent rare earth story comes from Kazakhstan. In 2025, the Kazakhstani authorities announced the discovery of the Zhana Kazakhstan deposit, reportedly containing more than 20 million metric tons of rare earth metals. The deposit is said to include neodymium, cerium, lanthanum and yttrium, with an average content of about 700 grams per ton.

The announcement attracted attention because neodymium and related elements are central to permanent magnets used in electric vehicles, wind turbines and defence technologies. But it should be treated with caution. A deposit is not the same as a mine. A mine is not the same as a processing industry. And processing rare earths is technically difficult, expensive and environmentally sensitive.

This is one of the main problems in the global rare earth race. China does not dominate only because it has resources. It dominates because it controls refining, separation and manufacturing capacity. For Central Asia, the real challenge is therefore not only geological. It is industrial.

The companies entering the race

In Kazakhstan, several national and foreign actors are already positioning themselves.

Tau-Ken Samruk, the state mining company, is expected to play a central role in exploration and strategic mineral projects. Kazatomprom remains the key uranium actor, while Eurasian Resources Group is important for aluminium, copper, cobalt and gallium. ERG has announced plans to produce gallium in Kazakhstan, a metal used in semiconductors, radar systems and missile guidance.

American interest is also growing. Cove Capital has been linked to tungsten projects in Kazakhstan, including Northern Katpar and Upper Kairakty, in partnership with Tau-Ken Samruk. Tungsten is strategically important because it is used in hard metals, defence and industrial tools, while Western countries are trying to reduce dependence on China.

Sarytogan Graphite, active in Kazakhstan’s Karaganda region, is another example. Graphite is essential for battery anodes, especially in electric vehicles. The European Bank for Reconstruction and Development acquired a stake in the company in 2024, showing that development banks are also entering the critical minerals field.

In Uzbekistan, the main actors are domestic state companies. Almalyk Mining and Metallurgical Complex is central for copper, molybdenum and other metals. Navoi Mining and Metallurgical Company remains one of the country’s major mining giants. Navoiyuran, the Uzbekistani uranium company, has signed with France’s Orano to develop a new uranium mining venture.

These examples show that the critical minerals race is not only a matter of abstract geopolitics. It is already visible in company strategies, financing decisions and bilateral agreements.

Europe, China, Russia and the United States

For Europe, Central Asia is attractive because it offers potential diversification. The European Union signed a strategic partnership with Kazakhstan in 2022 on sustainable raw materials, batteries and renewable hydrogen value chains. In 2024, it signed a similar memorandum with Uzbekistan. The first EU-Central Asia summit in Samarkand in 2025 also placed critical raw materials within a broader agenda of trade, transport, energy and connectivity.

For the United States, Central Asian minerals are part of a larger attempt to reduce dependence on China in strategic supply chains. Interest in tungsten, rare earths, gallium and other materials fits into this broader competition.

Also read on Novastan: L’héritage de Tabochar : l’extraction d’uranium au Tadjikistan et ses conséquences

China remains the central actor, even when it is not directly mentioned. It is the world’s dominant processor of rare earths and many other critical minerals. Any Western strategy on Central Asian resources is therefore, implicitly or explicitly, about reducing China’s leverage.

Russia still matters through legacy infrastructure, Soviet-era geological knowledge, uranium links and regional influence. But Moscow is no longer the only external actor able to shape Central Asia’s mineral future. This is one reason why the topic is becoming politically sensitive.

The real bottleneck: processing

The most important part of the story is not extraction. It is processing.

A country can have uranium, copper, tungsten or rare earth deposits and still capture only a small part of the value. The highest profits and strategic leverage often come from refining, separation, metallurgy, battery components, magnets and advanced manufacturing.

This is where Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan are trying to change the model. Both countries want more local value creation, not only raw exports. Uzbekistan is promoting mining reform and industrial processing. Kazakhstan is trying to position itself as a partner for value chains rather than just a supplier of ore.

Also read on Novastan: En Ouzbékistan, la percée saoudienne dans le secteur de l’énergie

The risk is obvious. Central Asia has already experienced extractive economic models: cotton, oil, gas, uranium and metals have often generated revenue without creating diversified, high-value economies. Critical minerals could reproduce the same pattern under a greener label.

Environmental and social risks

Critical minerals are often presented as tools of the green transition, but their extraction can be environmentally damaging. Mining requires water, energy, chemicals and waste management. Rare earth processing can be particularly polluting if not properly regulated. In a region already facing water stress, desertification and fragile ecosystems, this matters.

There are also governance questions. Who benefits from new mining projects? How transparent are contracts? Are local communities consulted? Are environmental standards enforced? Do projects create skilled employment, or mainly export raw materials?

Also read on Novastan: En Asie centrale, le marché des véhicules électriques fait ses débuts

For Central Asian governments, the opportunity is real. But so is the danger of a “green resource curse”, where global demand for clean technologies reinforces old patterns of dependency, opacity and environmental damage.

A starter pack for readers

The simplest way to understand the issue is this:

• Rare earths such as neodymium and dysprosium are used in magnets for electric vehicles, wind turbines and defence technologies.
• Uranium is used for nuclear power.
• Copper is used in electrical grids, renewable energy, electric vehicles and data centres.
• Graphite is used in battery anodes.
• Lithium is used in rechargeable batteries, though Central Asia is not yet a major global lithium centre.
• Cobalt is used in batteries and aerospace alloys.
• Tungsten is used in hard metals, cutting tools, aerospace and military equipment.
• Antimony is used in flame retardants, ammunition, batteries and semiconductors.
• Chromium and manganese are used in steelmaking.
• Titanium is used in aircraft, spacecraft and medical implants.
• Molybdenum is used in high-strength steel.
• Gallium is used in semiconductors, radar and advanced electronics.
• Beryllium is used in aerospace, satellites, telecommunications and defence systems.

This is why Central Asia’s mineral base is suddenly being watched so closely. The region is not only sitting on obscure metals. It may hold some of the materials needed for the energy transition, digital technologies and modern defence industries.

More than a mine?

The coming years will show whether Central Asia can turn critical minerals into a development opportunity. The region has the resources. It has growing diplomatic attention. It has national mining companies and foreign investors willing to engage.

But the decisive question is whether Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and their neighbours can move beyond extraction. Without processing, transparency, environmental standards and local value creation, the new critical minerals boom could simply repeat older patterns of dependency.

Also read on Novastan: Le Kazakhstan renforce son emprise sur son uranium face à une demande mondiale croissante

Central Asia is not yet the next rare earth superpower. But it is becoming an important region in the global competition for critical raw materials. For the region itself, the challenge is to ensure that what lies beneath the ground helps build something above it.

Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan-English

The post What lies beneath Central Asia? Rare earths, critical minerals and the new race for resources appeared first on Novastan English.

Some books are interesting because they tell a story. The Sands of Oxus: Boyhood Reminiscences of Sadriddin Aini is interesting because it captures an entire world at the moment before it disappears.

Through the eyes of a clever, frightened and observant boy in late nineteenth-century Bukhara, Sadriddin Aini turns childhood into history. Village schools, sandstorms, canals, cholera, hunger, superstition, poetry, cruelty and humour all pass through the same narrow lanes.

The result is more than a memoir: it is a portrait of old Central Asia, and a quiet explanation of why that world could not remain unchanged.

Why the past refused to become propaganda

Originally published in Tajik as Yoddoštho / Ёддоштҳо between 1949 and 1954 in Stalinabad (now Dushanbe), The Sands of Oxus: Boyhood Reminiscences of Sadriddin Aini, appeared in English in 1998. Published at a time when Soviet writers were often expected to celebrate factories, production and Stalinist progress, Aini instead returned to childhood. That choice matters because the book is not a nostalgic retreat into the past. It is Aini’s attempt to explain how a child of old Bukhara became a modern writer, reformer and Soviet-era national figure.

Also read on Novastan: “Hafiz Saifullaev’s prose marks a fruitful turning point in Russian-language Tajik literature”

The book begins in rural Bukhara, among village celebrations, halva workshops, shifting sands, irrigation canals, family disputes, religious lessons, fasting, fairs, harvests and death. Aini writes about the physical struggle of everyday life: villagers fighting sandstorms, digging canals, enduring hunger and disease. But he also captures the mental universe of the time: fear of demons, belief in exorcism, the authority of religious teachers, the prestige of Persian poetry and the weight of inherited customs.

One of the most striking things about the book is that it does not read like simple Soviet propaganda. Aini certainly condemns the old order. Poverty, superstition, arbitrary power, clerical abuse and social cruelty appear throughout the book. However, the book does not present history as a clean march from darkness to socialism. Lenin is absent; Saadi is present. Poetry often matters more than ideology.

That ambiguity made Aini’s work powerful, but also politically delicate. Aini was not an anti-Soviet dissident, and Yoddoštho was published in the Soviet Union. The memoirs could be read as anti-feudal, anti-clerical and pro-enlightenment, which made them acceptable to Soviet editors. Yet his writing sat uneasily within Soviet nationality policy. It preserved a Persianate world of Islamic learning, village ethics, oral memory and Bukharan social complexity. It helped build modern Tajik identity while also describing a shared Central Asian past that did not fit neatly into Soviet national borders.

Bukhara between Tajik and Uzbek memory

The renewed relevance of The Sands of Oxus lies in the fact that Central Asia is once again debating its past. Jadidism, Bukhara, colonialism, Soviet modernisation, Islamic heritage, national identity and the relationship between Uzbek and Tajik cultural histories are all being reconsidered.

Aini stands exactly at that intersection. He was born in what is now Uzbekistan, wrote across Tajik and Uzbek contexts, and described Bukhara, a city central to both national narratives. His memoirs are therefore not only personal recollections. They are an archive of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century Central Asian life: village customs, schools, professions, beliefs, family structures and social hierarchies.

This is why the book speaks so strongly today. It recalls a Central Asia before national borders hardened, when Persianate culture, Turkic speech, Islamic education, local identities and imperial pressures overlapped in complicated ways.

In Tajikistan: a national classic

In Tajikistan, Aini is foundational. He is not simply a writer, but a national institution: the father of modern Tajik prose, a builder of the literary language, and a figure through whom Tajik Soviet and post-Soviet identity have been narrated.

For Tajik readers, Yoddoštho is more than an autobiography. It is almost a national archive. Through Aini’s childhood, Bukhara becomes part of a recoverable Tajik past. Village life, old schools, artisans, religious figures, intellectuals and reformers all become elements of a literary homeland.

The book therefore carries emotional and cultural weight. It preserves a world that Tajik national memory claims as central to its own formation.

In Uzbekistan: a shared but sensitive legacy

In Uzbekistan, Aini’s reception is more layered. He belongs to Uzbek literary history as well: he lived in Bukhara and Samarkand, wrote in Uzbek contexts, and engaged with the Jadid and Soviet transformations of the region.

Yet his legacy is sensitive because his work also helped define a distinct Tajik literary identity, often by presenting Persian-speaking Bukhara as a central part of Tajik cultural history. In a country where Bukhara is one of the great symbols of Uzbek heritage, this creates a complex overlap rather than a simple national ownership.

Today, as Uzbekistan revalorises Jadidism and revisits its early modern intellectual history, Aini can be read in a new way: not only as a Soviet Tajik monument, but as a Bukharan intellectual whose life crossed the Uzbek-Tajik divide.

Before borders hardened

Beyond Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, The Sands of Oxus is less of a national classic, but it remains an important regional text. In Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Turkmenistan, Aini does not occupy the same canonical place as national literary figures such as Abai, Chingiz Aitmatov or Makhtumkuli. Yet his memoirs illuminate a shared Central Asian problem: how traditional authority, religious education, rural poverty, imperial pressure and Soviet modernisation interacted before borders and national canons became fixed.

Also read on Novastan: Central Asia through the lens of… Behzod Boltayev

The book is therefore valuable not only for Tajik or Uzbek readers, but for anyone interested in how Central Asia entered the twentieth century.

A past too complex for Soviet ideology

The Sands of Oxus is not a fast book, but it is a rewarding one. Its power lies in detail: a schoolroom, a sandstorm, a canal, a death, a rumour, a poem, a beating, a feast. Through these fragments, Aini turns childhood into a map of pre-Soviet Central Asia.

The book refuses to belong neatly to one category. It is Tajik and Bukharan, Persianate and Soviet, autobiographical and political, nostalgic and accusatory. That refusal is exactly what makes it so relevant today. At a time when Central Asian states are reassessing Jadidism, Soviet rule, colonial legacies and the ownership of cities such as Bukhara, Aini’s memoirs are a reminder that the region’s past cannot be divided cleanly into today’s national narratives. They show a world where Persianate culture, Islamic learning, rural poverty and early reformist politics overlapped before Soviet borders turned shared histories into competing national legacies.

Maya Ivanova, Author for Novastan-English and Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan-English

The post Bukhara Before the Border: Aini and the Politics of Tajik-Uzbek Memory appeared first on Novastan English.

Few works of literature are as politically alive as the Kyrgyz epic Manas. It is not simply an old poem, nor only a heroic tale recited by specialists. In Kyrgyzstan, Manas is a national reference point, a school subject, a monument, an airport name, a political symbol and a language of identity. It tells the story of a people gathering around a hero, but it also helps explain how modern Kyrgyzstan imagines itself: independent, mountainous, resilient, threatened from outside, and always searching for unity.

A story too large to stay in the past

The origins of Manas are difficult to date precisely because the epic was transmitted orally for centuries before being written down. Kyrgyz tradition often presents it as a very ancient work, sometimes linked to events of the ninth or tenth century; Western scholarship has been more cautious, pointing out that the earliest references are much later and that parts of the plot may reflect political realities from later centuries. In 1995, four years after independence, Kyrgyzstan turned Manas into a state-building event: the UN General Assembly formally recognized the year as the millennium commemoration of the Kyrgyz national epic.

What is certain is that Manas belongs to a living oral tradition. It was performed by manaschi, epic reciters who chant the story without musical accompaniment and who are respected not just as performers, but as carriers of memory. UNESCO describes the trilogy of Manas, Semetey and Seytek as a work that expresses the historical memory of the Kyrgyz people and tells of the unification of scattered tribes into one nation.

What the epic is about

At its core, Manas is a heroic epic about unity, warfare, migration, leadership and survival. The central figure, Manas, is a warrior who gathers and defends the Kyrgyz people against powerful enemies. The wider trilogy continues through his son Semetey and grandson Seytek, turning the story into a multi-generational saga of struggle, succession, loyalty, betrayal and renewal. The trilogy is a narrative about Manas’ uniting the forty scattered Kyrgyz tribes against attacks by powerful neighbours and leading his people through the Altai and toward the Alai region.

Also read on Novastan: « Manastchy » : l’âme kirghize dans toute sa poésie

The epic is enormous, but its political grammar is clear: a people survive when they unite; a leader is legitimate when he protects the community; enemies are both external and internal; and identity is forged through memory, sacrifice and struggle. This is why Manas is not read merely as literature. It is often treated as a national code.

Why Manas matters so much to Kyrgyz people

For Kyrgyz people, Manas is important because it offers a deep narrative of origins and continuity. It links modern Kyrgyz identity to a heroic past, to nomadic culture, to the mountains, to clan memory and to the idea of unity among the “forty tribes”, a motif also echoed in the forty rays of the Kyrgyz flag. This matters especially because Kyrgyzstan, like other post-Soviet states, had to build a national story after 1991. Manas offered something older than the Soviet Union and broader than a modern state border. It gave independent Kyrgyzstan a heroic genealogy, a cultural anchor and a language of sovereignty. In a young state marked by regional divisions, political upheaval and economic vulnerability, the epic’s promise of unity has remained attractive.

Manas in school and education

Yes, Manas is studied in Kyrgyzstan. It appears in school education and in higher education through literature, cultural history and “Manas studies” or Manasovedenie. In schools with the Kyrgyz-language teaching Manas is studied in eighth grade, in schools with the Russian-language teaching – in ninth grades and the eleventh grade in courses on Manas studies.

The epic is also used more broadly as a source of moral and civic education. Research on Kyrgyz education links Manas to the upbringing of schoolchildren and youth, especially through themes of cultural heritage, wisdom, moral values and national identity. At university level, the University of Central Asia has offered a “Manas Studies” course examining the epic’s role in the formation and development of Kyrgyz society and national identity.

Also read on Novastan: Le président kirghiz a signé le décret pour renommer Djalal-Abad en Manas

This educational presence is important politically. Teaching Manas is not just about preserving folklore. It is about shaping citizens through a national story.

Manas in everyday life

In Kyrgyzstan, Manas is everywhere. It appears in statues, street names, school lessons, cultural festivals, public ceremonies, tourism branding, official speeches and national iconography. Performances by manaschi remain part of social gatherings, celebrations and ceremonies. Traditional Manas performances take place at social gatherings, community celebrations and ceremonies, preserving the practice as a living form rather than a museum object.

The epic is also physically present in Bishkek. The statue of Manas on Ala-Too Square places the hero at the symbolic centre of the capital. Streets, institutions and cultural initiatives carry his name. Bishkek’s main airport was named “Manas” at the suggestion of Chinghiz Aitmatov, in honour of the hero of the Kyrgyz national epic. Manas functions as the country’s most recognisable national symbol. Even people who have never read or heard the full epic know Manas as the emblem of Kyrgyz strength, unity and sovereignty.

The political uses of Manas

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, Manas acquired a new political function. Kyrgyzstan was no longer a Soviet republic but an independent state, and nation-building had to reconcile two potentially competing ideas: Kyrgyz ethnic identity and citizenship in a multi-ethnic country. For ethnic Kyrgyz, independence meant becoming the titular people of a sovereign state. For many Russians, Uzbeks, Germans, Jews and other minorities, it could also create a sense of sudden displacement within a country they had long considered home.

President Askar Akayev therefore used Manas carefully. He presented the epic as a unifying source of national values, but avoided turning it into an openly exclusionary ethnic ideology. This was politically important after the Kyrgyz-Uzbek clashes in the Ferghana Valley and amid fears that Russians, Germans and Jews would leave the country in large numbers. Drawing on the Soviet-era recognition of Manas as cultural heritage, Akayev promoted seven principles inspired by the epic as a basis for independent Kyrgyzstan’s national ideology. These principles softened the epic’s more divisive themes, including ethnic conflict, religious antagonism and hostility toward China, and instead emphasised ethnic pride, friendship among nationalities, hard work, respect for nature, humanism, nobility and forgiveness.

Also read on Novastan: L’épopée de « Manas » : encyclopédie de l’histoire et des mœurs kirghizes

This political use has continued in different forms. After 2010, the promotion of Manas intensified partly because of heritage politics, including concern over China’s 2009 UNESCO inscription of the Manas tradition associated with Kyrgyz communities in China. More recently, Manas has returned as a tool of state symbolism under President Sadyr Japarov. In September 2025, Japarov signed a law renaming Jalal-Abad, Kyrgyzstan’s third-largest city, as Manas. 

This is where the epic becomes current affairs. Invoking Manas allows political leaders to wrap infrastructure, centralisation, regional development, sovereignty and national unity in heroic language. It can inspire cohesion, but it can also serve as political theatre: a way to claim legitimacy by presenting contemporary decisions as continuations of an ancient national mission.

A national epic, but also a political risk

The political power of Manas lies in its flexibility. It can be used to promote unity in a divided country, cultural pride in a globalised world, and sovereignty in a region shaped by Russian, Chinese and broader geopolitical influence. But the same flexibility can also narrow public debate.

When leaders invoke Manas, they borrow the authority of the nation’s deepest cultural symbol. That can make ordinary political choices appear sacred or inevitable. A city renaming, a state-building project, a moral campaign or a geopolitical message can be presented not merely as policy, but as loyalty to ancestral memory.

Also read on Novastan: Un conteur récite l’épopée de Manas pendant plus de 14 heures pour battre le record du monde

This is the double edge of Manas. As an epic, it preserves a people’s imagination. As a political symbol, it can elevate power above criticism.

Why Manas still matters today

Manas remains valid today because Kyrgyzstan still faces many of the questions the epic dramatises: how to hold a diverse society together, how to defend sovereignty between larger powers, how to balance regional identities, how to define leadership, and how to transform memory into a future rather than a museum.

Also read on Novastan: Manas, de la tradition orale au jeu vidéo

The epic’s message of unity is still powerful, especially in a country with strong regional identities and a history of political upheaval. Its warnings are also still relevant. Manas shows that unity cannot be reduced to slogans. It depends on justice, loyalty, wise leadership and the ability to hold a community together without erasing its differences.

That is why Manas should be read not only as a monument of Kyrgyz culture, but as a living political text. It is the story Kyrgyzstan tells about where it comes from. It is also one of the languages through which power in Kyrgyzstan still explains where the country should go.

Maya Ivanova for Novastan

The post Manas and the Making of Kyrgyzstan appeared first on Novastan English.

Kyrgyz director Tolomush Zhanybekov turns his camera toward the people and places often left outside the frame: cemetery guards, pensioners selling their belongings, children facing humiliation, brothers bound by care and solitude. Born in Balykchy and based in Kyrgyzstan’s contemporary film scene, he builds a cinema rooted in roads, bazaars, industrial landscapes and social margins.

His films The Road, Birdsong, Balyk and Barakholka reveal a Kyrgyzstan far from the usual images of mountains and nomadic traditions. Through silence, fragile encounters and carefully chosen locations, Tolomush Zhanybekov explores loneliness, vulnerability and the quiet dignity of people living on the edges of public attention.

Faites un don à Novastan

In an interview with Novastan, the young filmmaker discusses his childhood, his relationship with cinema, the places that shape his work, the ethics of filming vulnerable people and the emergence of a new generation of Kyrgyz directors seeking to show an authentic, unvarnished Central Asia.

Novastan : Could you tell us about your journey into cinema? When did you first feel that you wanted to become a director?

Tolomush Zhanybekov : Since childhood, my main friend was the television. I hardly ever left the house: I watched all kinds of films and, figuratively speaking, spoke with the screen. Stories for my own films were constantly being born and developing in my head. Most likely, the desire to become a director came from that childhood solitude.

You were born in Balykchy, and several of your films seem very closely connected to specific places. Could you tell us where The Road, Birdsong, Balyk and Barakholka were shot, and why you chose those particular locations?

My graduation film, The Road, was shot in the city of Balykchy, where I was born and grew up. It is a very textured, visually rich place. Birdsong was shot in the village of Kaji-Say, in the Issyk-Kul region. In Soviet times, it was a thriving industrial town where coal was mined, and there was a uranium tailings site nearby. Today, there is a persistent feeling that time froze there somewhere in the 1990s. Balyk and Barakholka were shot in Bishkek, the capital of Kyrgyzstan.

For readers discovering your work for the first time, could you briefly present each of these films in two or three sentences: what is it about, where does it take place and what drew you to this story?

The Road: The story of a 65-year-old cemetery guard. He lives and works far from the noise of the world, and in this silence, alone with those who have passed away, he paradoxically feels much more comfortable than among the living.

Birdsong: A documentary about two brothers. The elder brother finds it difficult to go outside, and the only person who looks after him is his younger brother, who goes to the village centre every day in search of casual work. Their meeting at the end of the day is the most important thing in their lives. Since childhood, I had been interested in what it means to have a brother, how such relationships work, how brothers support one another and what they talk about. One day, in a small village, I met these protagonists and understood that I had to make a film about them.

Barakholka: A documentary about pensioners. Every weekend, near my home, they set up a street market where they sell their old, vintage belongings. I have always been fascinated by watching them, their daily lives and the past they are selling off.

Balyk: A short fiction film about a teenager who stutters heavily, which makes it difficult for him to communicate with others. It is partly a personal story, as I faced this problem myself.

For readers who do not know Kyrgyzstan well, how would you describe places such as Balykchy, Bishkek, Barakholka or Kaji-Say, geographically, socially and personally?

Balykchy is the city of my childhood, in northern Kyrgyzstan, surrounded by picturesque but harsh landscapes. A place of winds and memories.

Bishkek is the city where I grew up. It is a noisy capital, where people from all regions come in search of a better life, creating a bubbling social melting pot.

Read also on Novastan: Kirghizstan : les déchets radioactifs continuent de polluer les eaux de Kadji Saï

Kaji-Say is an abandoned industrial trace of a bygone era, squeezed between the mountains and Lake Issyk-Kul, where history itself seems to have come to a standstill.

Barakholka is not just a market, but a living open-air social archive, where people’s destinies are revealed through old objects.

How important is location to you in the process of making a film? Do you first find a place and build a story around it, or does a character appear first, after which you look for the right space?

In my work, location is a fully-fledged character. It conveys the atmosphere of the film in its own right. Sometimes I see a textured place, and a plot immediately begins to take shape within it. And sometimes I work the other way around: first the image of a character is born, and then I look for a space that could organically receive that character or emphasise their inner state.

Your films often focus on people who usually remain outside public attention: children, pensioners, solitary figures, people living or working in difficult social conditions. Why are you drawn to these kinds of protagonists?

In contemporary Kyrgyz cinema, these layers of the population are undeservedly neglected. They are rarely shown on screen. Mentally, all my characters are united by a deep inner loneliness, and it is precisely this vulnerability, this invisibility to the wider world, that attracts and moves me most.

In The Road, the road seems to be something more than just a physical space. What does it mean to you?

You are right. During my student years, I first came face to face with death: every autumn during my four years of study, someone in my family died. This tragic cycle forced me to think constantly about death and even, subconsciously, to wait for it. It may sound naive now, but at the time I desperately wanted to make sense of and understand a person’s departure. From these experiences came the metaphor of the road as a path between worlds, a transit from life into non-being.

Silence and atmosphere also play a very strong role in The Road. Is silence important in your cinema?

Yes, absolutely. To return to the previous question: to make sense of such fundamental things as life and death, silence was vitally necessary for me. In addition, as a director, I feel very close to a pure visual language. I like it when thoughts, feelings and dramaturgy can be conveyed to the viewer without unnecessary words, through pauses and the atmosphere of the frame.

Birdsong was your first documentary film. What pushed you towards documentary cinema?

By nature, I am a contemplative person. Since childhood, I could sit for hours and openly observe people, although now, of course, I do it more carefully and tactfully. Documentary is the foundation of cinema. It always contains genuine organic life, living human faces and real stories that cannot be artificially constructed within the framework of a fiction script.

How did you meet the protagonists of Birdsong, and how did you manage to build trust with them?

I was walking through the centre of the village and sat down at a bus stop, observing the local residents. From a distance, a man wearing a kalpak approached me. We began talking. From what he told me, I understood that he lived with his elder brother, was constantly looking for any kind of casual work and spoke about him all the time, with immense tenderness and anxiety. I suggested that he appear in a film, he agreed, and I immersed myself in their fragile, closed world.

Read also on Novastan: Vie et mœurs des déchets uraniques centrasiatiques

The trust between us probably emerged on the level of pure energy. My original intention was to make this film with great love and respect for them. I think the viewer feels that warmth through the screen and through the way the camera angles were chosen.

When you film real people, especially vulnerable people, how do you decide what can be shown and what should remain off camera?

It is always an extremely difficult inner dilemma. In documentary cinema, you very quickly become close to your protagonists. They become dear to you, and subconsciously there is a strong desire to protect them, to defend them, to show them from their best side.

During filming, I gather a lot of material. At the editing stage, when the final story is being built, I always mentally put myself in their place: how would I feel if this personal information became public? Here it is critically important to sense the fine line between artistic truth and ethics, to understand what needs to remain for the dramaturgy and what must be hidden from the viewer’s eyes forever.

In Balyk, the main character is a boy who lives between school, work at the market, loneliness and humiliation. Where did this story begin?

The word Balykchy means “fisherman” in Kyrgyz. In childhood, our family lived by cooking and selling fish. In addition, during my school years, I stuttered very badly. I remember that in the lower grades we had speed-reading tests: we had to read as many words as possible in one minute. In second grade, my classmates read between 40 and 65 words, while because of my stutter I managed only nine.

It was an enormous stress and trauma. At home, alone, I could read completely normally. I would memorise texts in advance, but as soon as I stood in front of the class, everything collapsed. The plot of Balyk grew out of these painful personal memories.

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

What does the title Balyk mean to you? Is the fish a symbol in the film?

Yes, the fish is a key symbol here. When you cut or kill a fish, it does not make a single sound. Its “facial” expression does not change; you cannot read pain or emotion in it. My main character is locked in the same way in his muteness and loneliness in the face of a cruel outside world. He suffers silently, like a fish.

The market in Balyk is not only a workplace, but an entire social world. What did you want to show through this environment?

I wanted to capture our authentic bazaar. It is a unique space, always incredibly interesting to be in and to observe: all kinds of types, destinies, tragedies and comedies collide there. Moreover, the East is historically and culturally tied to bazaar culture. It is its heart and the mirror of society.

Faites un don à Novastan

Balyk is a Kyrgyz-French co-production. How did this international collaboration come about, and did it influence the development of the film or its reception?

In 2024, a Script Lab for authors from Central Asia was organised in Kazakhstan as part of the Post Space film camp. My mentor was Katya Khazak, a producer from France. At that time, I already had a rough cut of Balyk. I showed her the material, she liked the film very much and offered to help complete it at a high international post-production level.

Our project was supported by the European fund Creative Europe MEDIA. Thanks to this collaboration, we shortened and significantly improved the editing, and carried out professional sound correction and colour correction. This greatly raised the artistic level of the film.

Could you explain the title Kesilish joldogu pensionerlerdin maekterinen (Barakholka)? How would you translate it into English or French?

In English, the title translates as: Conversations of Pensioners at a Crossroads. The title contains a double meaning: the physical crossroads of the streets where they stand, and the crossroads of life at which they find themselves in the twilight of their days.

Why did you decide to film pensioners at Barakholka? What did you want to convey through their conversations?

I wanted to reveal their deep social loneliness, but at the same time to show their desperate, touching attempt to remain part of society, to be among people. Through their everyday conversations, sometimes sad, sometimes paradoxical, an astonishingly sincere and unembellished life emerges.

The outside view of Kyrgyzstan often focuses on mountains, nomadic traditions and impressive landscapes. Your films, by contrast, turn more towards everyday life, urban or semi-urban spaces, roads, markets and social margins. Is this a conscious choice?

Yes, it is an entirely conscious artistic choice. Our country is incredibly full of contrasts. Of course, we have majestic mountains and postcard landscapes, but there is another side of reality too: the everyday life of ordinary people, urban outskirts, the underside of society. This underside is still very little explored and rarely conveyed in cinema, and it is precisely this that I want to reveal to the viewer.

How would you describe the current generation of young Kyrgyz directors?

We are a generation of sincere and, in a good sense, naive directors. There is an enormous, pure desire burning in us to make films despite any difficulties and to rediscover for the world an authentic, non-ceremonial Central Asia.

Also read on Novastan: « Kourmanjan Datka » : l’épopée féminine, nationaliste et historique de la reine de l’Alaï

What are the main difficulties independent filmmakers face in Kyrgyzstan today: funding, distribution, education, censorship, access to audiences?

I would say that the main problems are specialised education and an acute lack of infrastructure for film production. Making films in co-production with other countries is especially difficult. We still lack the legal and technical foundations for easy international partnerships.

Do you feel part of a broader Central Asian cinema, or do you primarily see your work in the context of the Kyrgyz film scene?

I think I feel more like part of a broader regional, Central Asian cinema. Our countries have very similar historical backgrounds, common social problems and a mentality that is close in spirit, so we understand each other’s pains and joys very well.

What would you like international audiences to better understand about Kyrgyzstan through your films?

I do not have any specific educational or didactic goal. My task as a director is simpler and, at the same time, more difficult: to tell human stories honestly. If, through these local stories, foreign viewers can empathise with the characters, then the universal language of cinema has worked.

For Novastan readers who would like to discover your work: where can they watch your films? Are The Road, Birdsong, Balyk and Barakholka available online, shown only at festivals, or can they be watched on request?

Unfortunately, the films are not freely available online for now. They are currently in an active period of their life, so legally they can mainly be seen at film festivals.

Are there any upcoming screenings or festivals where viewers in Kyrgyzstan, France, Europe or online will be able to see your work?

No screenings are planned for the very coming months. The main wave of screenings and festival premieres is expected closer to autumn, when the new global film season traditionally begins.

Also read on Novastan: « Centaure » : film poétique et critique sur la société kirghize

If readers discover your work through this interview, which film would you advise them to start with, and why?

I would recommend watching them in strict chronological order, starting with the 2022 work. That way, viewers will be able to see not only the stories of the characters, but also my personal evolution as an author, the development of my directorial language and my cinematic thinking as a whole.

What are you working on now, and would you like to make a feature film in the future?

Right now, I am working on my next short film. At the same time, I am taking a big step forward: I am writing the screenplay for my debut feature film.

Interview by

Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief at Novastan-English

Maya Ivanova, Contributor at Novastan

Thank you for reading this article! If you have time, we would appreciate your feedback, either through this anonymous form or by email at editorial@novastan.org. Thank you very much!

The post Through roads, markets and silence: Tolomush Zhanybekov films Kyrgyzstan’s unseen lives appeared first on Novastan English.

On 10 February, Kyrgyz President Sadyr Japarov dismissed Kamchybek Tashiev, head of the State Committee for National Security, or GKNB, and a central figure in power for several years. His removal, followed by dismissals targeting those close to him in several institutions, brings an end to an alliance that had structured Kyrgyzstan’s political-security apparatus.

The ruling tandem that had dominated Kyrgyzstan for more than five years has finally cracked. On 10 February, by dismissing Kamchybek Tashiev, head of the State Committee for National Security, by decree, Kyrgyz President Sadyr Japarov did not merely end a long-standing collaboration with his closest ally. He also regained control of the coercive apparatus that had until then been one of the pillars of the system established since he came to power in 2020.

Faites un don à Novastan

For more than five years, Kamchybek Tashiev had been the most powerful man in Kyrgyzstan after the president, overseeing the main anti-corruption investigations. He appeared publicly during spectacular arrests and embodied an increasingly omnipresent security apparatus. A co-founder of the Mekentchil party and a key actor in the political upheavals that brought the tandem to the top of the state, he had gradually turned the security services into a pillar of the regime. In a political system marked by the personalisation of power, his influence extended far beyond the institutional framework of his position.

Under his leadership, the GKNB became one of the nerve centres of the state. Its prerogatives expanded, its resources increased and its visibility grew. Internal promotions, the allocation of housing to officers, nepotism and direct interventions in the management of sensitive economic cases: Kamchybek Tashiev had gradually built a network of authority and loyalty that structured the regime’s balance.

Kamchybek Tashiev, security architect of Sadyr Japarov’s regime

Kamchybek Tashiev began his political career in 2007 as minister of emergency situations. After disagreements with former Prime Minister Daniyar Usenov, he left his post in 2009, before siding with the opposition during the Kyrgyz revolution of 2010. These events enabled him to found his party, Ata-Zhurt, in 2006, and to win the early parliamentary elections of 10 October 2010 with 15.89% of the vote and 28 seats.

He thus returned to political life as a member of Kyrgyzstan’s Supreme Council from 2010 to 2013. In 2014, Ata-Jurt merged with Respublika in an attempt to win the 2015 parliamentary elections, but this merger displeased Kamchybek Tashiev, who left the party and joined Mekenchil, which he had co-founded with Sadyr Japarov on 16 June 2010 and which brought together many members of Ata-Jurt.

Novastan est le seul média en français et en allemand spécialisé sur l'Asie centrale. Entièrement associatif, il fonctionne grâce à votre participation. Nous sommes indépendants et pour le rester, nous avons besoin de vous ! Vous pouvez nous soutenir à partir de 2 euros par mois (défiscalisé à 66 %), ou en devenant membre actif par ici.

The parliamentary elections of 4 October 2020 once again turned into a conflict extending beyond the political sphere, with major demonstrations from 5 to 15 October 2020. Amid this new socio-political chaos, former Prime Minister Sadyr Japarov and his supporters, including Kamchybek Tashiev, increased pressure on former President Sooronbay Jeenbekov, who resigned on 15 October 2020. As a result, Sadyr Japarov became acting president and appointed Kamchybek Tashiev head of the GKNB on 16 October that year.

Also read on Novastan : Condamnation d’Almazbek Atambaïev : retour sur le parcours mouvementé des anciens présidents du Kirghizstan

His influence was also visible during the border clashes with Tajikistan in April 2021 and September 2022. As head of the GKNB, the body overseeing the border guards, Kamchybek Tashiev played a central role in managing operations and ceasefire negotiations. These crises strengthened his image as a strongman guaranteeing Kyrgyzstan’s territorial integrity.

Dismantling extended to several institutions

Tashiev’s departure has been accompanied by a wider reorganisation. Within the GKNB itself, his deputies for state security were removed, and a new acting head was appointed without delay.

President Japarov then stated that an Investigative Committee would be created and would report directly to the president, while the GKNB’s area of competence would be reduced. The agency will henceforth focus on intelligence, counterintelligence, counterterrorism and organised crime, Radio Azattyq noted. “It is necessary to depoliticise the State Committee for National Security and free it from the influence of political parties, ideologies and various stakeholders,” assured Jumgalbek Shabdanbekov, the new GKNB chief appointed on 19 February, in an interview with the local newspaper Vecherny Bishkek.

But the reshuffle goes far beyond the security apparatus alone. The minister of natural resources, ecology and technical supervision, Meder Mashiev, as well as his deputy minister, Bolot Jusupbekov, were dismissed. In the south of the country, considered Tashiev’s electoral stronghold, mayors, notably in Osh and Manas, are being replaced.

Also read on Novastan : Les pistonnés : portraits au vitriol des enfants des présidents kirghiz

Even more significantly, people directly close to Kamchybek Tashiev have been targeted. While the parliamentary mandate of his brother, Shaiyrbek Tashiev, has not so far been called into question despite rumours of dismissal, the head of the transport prosecutor’s office, Nurgazy Matisakov, who is Tashiev’s nephew, has been removed. These decisions reflect a desire to neutralise not only one figure, but an entire family and political network.

A shift ahead of the presidential election

This rupture comes one year before the 2027 presidential election, in a climate marked by criticism of the economic and energy situation, as well as by a petition calling for an early vote.

Also read on Novastan : Le Kirghizstan s’inquiète d’une crise énergétique majeure cet hiver

Presidential statements, however, have sought to ease tensions. On 13 February, the head of state told the state news agency Kabar that there was no division between his supporters and those of his former ally, assuring that his “friendship with Kamchybek Tashiev will continue”. A few days later, he added: “We remain friends. But he will not resume public office. He needs to rest and focus on his health.”

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

The end of the tandem between Sadyr Japarov and Kamchybek Tashiev thus marks a phase of increased concentration of power in the hands of the presidency. It remains to be seen whether this centralisation will durably strengthen the stability of Kyrgyzstan’s system, or whether it will reveal new fault lines within the political elites.

Lenny Cabrol Noto
Contributor for Novastan

Thank you for reading this article! If you have time, we would appreciate your feedback, either through this anonymous form or by email at editorial@novastan.org. Thank you very much!

The post In Kyrgyzstan, after the dismissal of the GKNB chief, the political-security apparatus is reshuffled appeared first on Novastan English.

The visit to Bishkek on 26 February by EU sanctions envoy David O’Sullivan reflects the European Union’s tougher stance on the circumvention of sanctions targeting Russia in the region. Kyrgyzstan could thus become the first country targeted by heavy counter-sanctions from Brussels.

Since the start of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022, Central Asia has become a strategic link in parallel trade flows allowing Russia to keep its economy afloat. Faced with this situation, the European Union is sharply toughening its tone, placing Kyrgyzstan on the front line of its new pressure strategy.

Faites un don à Novastan

Bishkek’s role as a re-export platform is now documented. Analyses show a surge in Kyrgyz imports from China, notably trucks, components and industrial parts, which are then re-exported to the Russian market.

According to internal European Commission documents cited by Kazakh media outlet Kursiv, imports of so-called “priority” goods, often dual-use civilian and military products, from the European Union to Kyrgyzstan have increased by around 800% since 2022. Over the same period, Kyrgyz exports to Russia have jumped by around 1,200%, fuelling suspicions of re-export to the Russian market.

This circuit allows Moscow to bypass Western restrictions, while undermining international rules on trade transparency.

Activation of the “anti-circumvention” tool

For the first time, Brussels is considering deploying its most coercive instrument: the sanctions anti-circumvention tool. This mechanism, which would be part of a twentieth sanctions package – delayed by Hungary’s veto – would make it possible to ban the export of certain products to a third country without having to provide irrefutable proof of their re-export, as reported by Reuters.

Novastan est le seul média en français et en allemand spécialisé sur l'Asie centrale. Entièrement associatif, il fonctionne grâce à votre participation. Nous sommes indépendants et pour le rester, nous avons besoin de vous ! Vous pouvez nous soutenir à partir de 2 euros par mois (défiscalisé à 66 %), ou en devenant membre actif par ici.

The targeted measures could include export bans on industrial machine tools, including CNC machines, and radio equipment, as well as action against the financial sector. A Kyrgyz cryptocurrency company is reportedly under scrutiny for allegedly supporting financial interests linked to Russia.

Discussions are focused instead on targeted measures, Radio Free Europe explains, such as listing Kyrgyz companies or financial institutions if they facilitate the circumvention of restrictions against Moscow.

A major diplomatic crisis

This Western pressure is considerably straining relations between the EU and Bishkek, at a time when the country is also trying to move closer to the United States. David O’Sullivan, the EU’s special envoy for sanctions, personally urged the local authorities to change their policy.

“We are not asking Kyrgyzstan not to have trade relations with Russia. We are only asking that this trade relationship not involve the deliberate circumvention of our sanctions,” he stressed during his visit to Bishkek on 26 February.

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

Kyrgyzstan’s response has so far been direct, according to sources quoted by the British daily Financial Times: the country reportedly threatened to take the European Union to international courts if such sanctions were imposed. These allegations were immediately denied by the Kyrgyz government, local media outlet 24.kg reported in early March.

Roman Fuster
Contributor for Novastan

Thank you for reading this article! If you have time, we would appreciate your feedback, either through this anonymous form or by email at editorial@novastan.org. Thank you very much!

The post Kyrgyzstan in the EU’s sights for the twentieth sanctions package against Russia appeared first on Novastan English.

Used as a symbol throughout Central Asia, whether by sports clubs or municipalities, the snow leopard enjoys great popularity. This helps ensure its protection, as it is included on the international list of endangered animals.

The snow leopard, or irbis, is a large feline living in the mountains of Central and South Asia. Today, the species is on the Red List: only between 3,500 and 7,500 individuals remain worldwide. Officially, snow leopards have the status of a “vulnerable species”, one level below the “endangered” category.

In 2013, in Bishkek, during the Global Snow Leopard Conservation Forum, International Snow Leopard Day was established. It is celebrated on 23 October. On this date, experts and environmentalists organize various events dedicated to the protection of snow leopards.

Fergana News has decided to make its modest contribution to raising awareness about the preservation of rare species and is publishing an article prepared using data from the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP).

From Afghanistan to Siberia

The irbis is a large mammal of the feline family, living exclusively in cold climates. The snow leopard has a long, slender body which, including the head, can reach 100 to 130 centimetres in length. Its thick coat, marked with dark ring-shaped spots, provides excellent protection against frost.

Its distinctive feature is its long, bushy tail, which measures between 80 and 105 centimetres. The predator weighs between 22 and 40 kilograms.

The geographical range of snow leopards is fairly vast, covering around 1.2 million square kilometres. It stretches from the Hindu Kush range in eastern Afghanistan, through the Pamir, the Tian Shan, the Karakoram and the Himalayas, as far as the Altai and the Sayan Mountains in southern Siberia.

These animals are therefore found in the territory of four former Soviet republics of Central Asia: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. These predators favour large prey, especially ungulates: sheep, mountain goats, argalis, roe deer and deer. But they also sometimes hunt smaller animals, such as ground squirrels and even birds.

A habitat threatened by human presence

The snow leopard fears humans. This is why, in some regions, it is called the ghost of the mountains. The animal lives at altitudes between 1,000 and 4,000 metres — more rarely up to 6,000 metres — above sea level and hides in caves and hard-to-reach valleys. It is practically impossible to encounter one. If one appears on a camera trap, it is already considered a real stroke of luck.

However, humans have managed to create problems even for these hermits. The issue is poachers engaged in the smuggling of wild ungulate horns. Illegal hunters reduce the food resources available to snow leopards.

Read also on Novastan : Sauver la panthère des neiges : comment les scientifiques luttent pour la survie d’une espèce

Shepherds also contribute to the problem. Because of pasture degradation, they are forced to move higher into the mountains, thereby driving irbises out of their usual habitats. Moreover, the felines remain predators and sometimes attack domestic livestock, risking becoming targets themselves for armed shepherds.

Climate change, linked to rising temperatures and the drying-up of glacial water sources, is also forcing the predators to migrate in search of more suitable habitats. All these factors have brought the snow leopard practically to the brink of extinction. Fortunately, some committed people understand the importance of preserving the mountain ecosystem, including its rare species.

A group of volunteers

In an area of the Tian Shan range in Kyrgyzstan, a group of volunteer rangers has formed and taken responsibility for monitoring 380 square kilometres in one of the harshest regions of Central Asia. Braving freezing cold and armed poachers, these volunteers strive to protect the prey and habitat of snow leopards.

As one of them, Baatyrbek Akmatov, explains, he and four of his companions are responsible for monitoring the Baiboosun community reserve. Many of these activists are former hunters and understand the scale of the damage caused to nature by wildlife smuggling, including of ibexes.

“We decided to launch this initiative, otherwise we will lose everything,” Baatyrbek Akmatov says of his group’s activities. “I don’t want to show children on my mobile phone that we once had this environment, these animals. I want them to be able to see them with their own eyes.”

The volunteers are supported by international organizations, in particular UNEP, as well as by local partners such as CAMP Alatoo and the Ilbirs Foundation. The project also receives financial support from Germany’s International Climate Initiative.

Changing mindsets

According to UNEP, the Kyrgyz government could not afford to pay the rangers, but gave them the authority to manage the territorial corridor and arrest poachers. In addition, experts from the United Nations Programme trained the volunteers and provided them with the necessary equipment.

At first, many local residents were outraged by the patrols. Shepherds feared they would be banned from grazing their livestock. But over time, according to Baatyrbek Akmatov, residents began to change their mindset, becoming aware of the importance of environmental protection.

UNEP’s partners became actively involved, training the population in agricultural practices less vulnerable to climate change. As a result, many people turned to beekeeping, cheese production or greenhouse farming, which helped increase their incomes.

The results of the patrols, the rangers say, are already being felt. For the first time in almost two decades, wild boars have returned to the region. Mountain goats, which had almost disappeared from sight, are now regularly observed. Deer antlers have also been discovered in the mountains, a sign that they too may be returning. Finally, recently, 12 snow leopards were spotted in and around the Baiboosun reserve.

Strict measures to protect the leopard in Uzbekistan

It should be emphasized that the protection of irbises is ensured at state level in all the former Soviet Central Asian republics where this feline species lives. It is listed in the Red Books of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.

In addition, the authorities provide for penalties for hunting rare animals. For example, in Uzbekistan, poachers are prosecuted under the provisions of a government decree on damage to wildlife. According to this text, the fine for harming irbises amounts to 3,000 base calculation units — 1.2 billion soms, or 85,600 euros — for citizens of the republic, or 400,000 dollars — 343,000 euros at the Central Bank exchange rate — for foreigners.

Read also on Novastan : Deux léopards des neiges photographiés près du grand lac d’Almaty, une première en plus de 30 ans

Furthermore, in 2021, the Uzbekistani authorities adopted the Action Plan for the Conservation of the Snow Leopard in the country, covering the period up to 2030.

The snow leopard as a national symbol

The snow leopard is also remarkable for its imprint on culture and sport, becoming a widespread element of heraldry. The irbis is a national symbol for two countries. In Kazakhstan, this predator acquired this status during the presidency of Nursultan Nazarbayev. It was explained that, since ancient times, this rare animal had embodied power, strength and prosperity.

Indeed, the snow leopard appears on the national currency. It is represented on the 10,000 tenge banknote from the 2003 issue and on banknotes of the same value issued in 2024. The stylized high-mountain feline was also the official mascot of the 2011 Asian Winter Games, which were held in Almaty and Astana.

Since July 2025, the snow leopard has also appeared on new Kazakh passports, in holographic form, helping to protect the document against counterfeiting.

An ornament for many coats of arms

In December 2023, the president of Kyrgyzstan, Sadyr Japarov, signed a decree recognizing the snow leopard as a national symbol of the country. It was stated that the species was not only part of the country’s natural heritage, but also a symbol of national identity, strength and freedom, widely present in the republic’s culture, folklore and heraldry. Recognizing the irbis at such a high level was intended to unite the efforts of the authorities, scientists, civil society organizations and international organizations to protect and promote these felines.

The irbis appears on the coats of arms of certain cities, districts and republics, and not only in Central Asia. The animal has thus long adorned the heraldic emblems of Russian regions such as Tatarstan and the Republic of Khakassia, as well as districts of the Krasnoyarsk region, including Ermakovsky and Shushensky.

Read also on Novastan : Le léopard des neiges, symbole national de la diplomatie verte au Kirghizstan

As for Central Asian cities, the spotted feline has been incorporated into Almaty’s coat of arms since July 1993. It holds in its mouth a branch bearing eight apple blossoms, corresponding to the number of districts in the municipality.

Since January 1994, a highly stylized snow leopard has appeared on Bishkek’s main symbol. According to the emblem’s description, the irbis is drawn at the centre of an azure circle inside a white square. The whole composition is set against the background of a fortress silhouette, and beneath the broken line of the mountains appears the name of the Kyrgyz capital.

An ideal symbol for athletes

In July of the same year, the coat of arms of Samarkand, in Uzbekistan, was adopted, with the snow leopard also playing the central role. According to artist Grigory Ulko, who designed the emblem, he was inspired by a legend according to which an irbis descended from the mountains to bless the builders during the founding of the city. To better understand the structure of the predator’s muzzle, the artist drew his domestic cat, Prokhor.

One could say that the snow leopard leads a sporting life, so much do its strength and endurance attract the founders of sports clubs. For example, in the Kontinental Hockey League, two teams have chosen to refer to the animal in their names: Ak Bars Kazan and Barys Astana. The trend also extends to summer sports: in 2024, in the Kyrgyz city of Karakol, a team named Bars was created, with, of course, a magnificent irbis as its logo.

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

But the most famous link between the big cat and sport is undoubtedly the title of “Snow Leopard”, awarded to seasoned mountaineers since the Soviet era, more precisely since the 1960s. Since 1990, this prestigious title has been awarded to those who have climbed five “7,000-metre peaks” of the former USSR: two peaks in the Tian Shan and three in the Pamir.

Such is the irbis: rare, discreet, but emblematic, especially in Central Asia.

The editorial team of Fergana News

Translated from Russian by Aruzhan Urazova and from French by Mathieu Lemoine.

The post How Central Asia is trying to protect the snow leopard appeared first on Novastan English.

Last April, Kyrgyzstan’s special forces carried out heavy-handed raids on two of Bishkek’s most popular electronic-music bars. Expecting a hotspot of drugs and illicit activity, officers found instead a young, diverse nightlife community carving out one of Bishkek’s few remaining safe spaces for self-expression. After a year marked by escalated repression and shrinking civil liberties in Central Asia’s “island of democracy,” Novastan sits down with two leading figures from the targeted venues to discuss how their communities endure as Kyrgyzstan slides deeper into authoritarianism.

Kyrgyzstan has long been seen beyond Central Asia as a rare abode of democratic values in a region dominated by post-Soviet authoritarianism. When Sadyr Japarov, the country’s current president, suddenly rose to power in the wake of the 2020 Kyrgyz Revolution, he swore to the nation from day one to protect the Kyrgyz people’s cherished liberty. Four years later, the president himself has emerged as the largest threat to Kyrgyzstan’s already fragile democracy.

Japarov’s governance in just the first two years of his rule landed Kyrgyzstan on the 2022 Freedom House Index’s list of “consolidated authoritarian regimes.” In 2024, Kyrgyzstan earned a position on the CIVICUS Monitor’s “watchlist of countries experiencing a rapid decline in civic freedoms.” At the heart of Japarov’s consolidation of power lies the systematic erosion of Kyrgyzstan’s already flimsy freedom of expression. Japarov has frequently deployed his power over state institutions to stifle dissent in both political and civic spheres. An unlikely casualty of the crackdown has been Bishkek’s emerging techno scene.

Japarov’s Techno Raids

On the night of 14 April 2024, Kyrgyzstan’s special forces, working alongside local police, raided Ailan Bar to conduct a search for illegal substance use at electronic music gatherings. In addition to heavy firearms and drugs tests, the police brought along a professional camera crew to document the raid for their social media page. The following night, another raid was done at PLUR, another of Bishkek’s techno institutions, in a similar fashion. Both bars are central to Bishkek’s electronic music scene and known throughout the city for providing above all else a “safe space” for all partygoers, regardless of background. 

In both instances, officers drew their weapons and forced the men present to lie on the floor with their hands behind their backs while they searched the venues. According to RFE/RL, police assaulted several people at Ailan Bar, striking one in the leg and another in the stomach.

In both raids, police were noted to be genuinely surprised with the minimal amount of illicit substances they were able to sniff out. At Ailan Bar, officers opened the raid with a lecture on “irresponsible drug use,” a message that fell flat when only three of the dozens present tested positive for cannabis use. The police statement regarding that night notes they were only able to find “a ready-made cigarette with narcotics” and a packet of a legal anti-epilepsy medication.

The lack of significant narcotics did not surprise Chyngyz, one of Ailan Bar’s directors and part-owners. “Our community is quite healthy in that sense,” he asserted. Chyngyz explained that like himself, the vast majority of those who enjoy techno music in Bishkek do not use illegal substances at their parties. “I think if people truly love electronic music, they don’t need drugs.”

Read More on Novastan: Inside Bishkek’s Metal Boom: Portrait of a Music Pioneer in Kyrgyzstan

Unlike most patrons to Bishkek’s techno venues, some of the police involved with the raid were later revealed to be engaging in illegal activities themselves. “In the fall, I read in the news that one of the investigators present at the raid got charged with corruption,” Chyngyz stated.

New Wave of Kyrgyz Populism Threatens Self-Expression

For both partygoers and staff, the raids were an unprecedented shock. Up to that point, both bars had been cooperative with local police and had never faced any prior incidents. Both the heavy-handed police tactics and the state’s post-raid messaging indicated that the operations were directed from the highest levels of government.

The raids aligned neatly with Japarov’s emerging populist agenda to enforce traditional Kyrgyz values. “In the government’s eyes, young people must study and start a family. There’s no room for alcohol and dancing,” Chyngyz states. 

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

In addition to sensationalizing illegal drug usage in electronic music spaces, authorities have begun to frame Bishkek’s techno community as a conduit for LGBTQ+ influence, portraying it as a danger to Kyrgyz youth due to the bars’ inclusive policies. LGBTQ+ youth in Kyrgyzstan already face severe state and social repression, and to many, Bishkek’s electronic music parties are the only spaces where they are fully allowed to be their truest selves. This, to those running Bishkek’s techno institutions, is a red line they will not back down from. “Keeping our environment safe for all is our main responsibility,” Chyngyz states firmly.

Repression Necessitates Adaptation

After the raid, PLUR bar began adjusting its strategies to deal with the new wave of state repression. Constrained by resources and now under the state’s watchful eye, the bar’s operators refused to surrender to their opposition. “We hadn’t done a lot yet. We still hadn’t shown everybody what we really want to create,” says Innokentii, PLUR’s creative director. “No one has told us no yet.” 

Ailan Bar, too, remained committed to their vision to provide safety and a safe space for their community in the months following the raid. However, their brazen commitment to provide for and defend the LGBTQ+ community had to transition to more covert operations if it were to continue in the new repressive climate. Prior to the raids, Chyngyz used to host regular “queer nights” at Ailan Bar. He is firmly committed to continuing these events, but recognizes that Ailan Bar’s public advertising must now be more strategic. “It is all about being discreet. Queer people must know that they are welcome here, but also the wrong people must not know that queer people are welcome.”

Read More on Novastan: Queer life under pressure in Kyrgyzstan

Since the raid, Ailan Bar has closed its physical location and transitioned to a model where the organization pops up for one-time events across Kyrgyzstan. The bar’s organizers note that they feel safer in Kyrgyzstan’s more remote regions away from the state’s watch. 

PLUR has since taken on a new identity as QQ Bar and moved into a smaller space closer to the city center. Innokentii sees the move as an opportunity to learn from their past mistakes. “I want to make it stable enough to continue without me if I leave the country. I’m not from here—I don’t want to die here,” he says. Innokentii, like a large part of Bishkek’s contemporary techno community, came to Kyrgyzstan from Russia in recent years to flee war drafts. Helping to create spaces for electronic music in Bishkek helps him feel close to the subculture in his home country, a subculture that remains his central inspiration.

In order to ensure their subculture survives, Chyngyz has founded a DJ school within Ailan Collective to train and teach the next generation of Bishkek’s rebellious electronic music scene.

The Future for Bishkek Ravers

While law enforcement targeting youth subcultures is nothing new for Kyrgyzstan, those involved with Bishkek’s techno scene note that the current wave of repression feels different than those that have preceded it. “With the previous government, it is not right to categorize what we had as ‘freedom.’ We had negligence. We could only exist freely because the government didn’t care about us,” Chyngyz notes. “Now, authorities no longer turn a blind eye–they have a blueprint and they follow it. They’re populists, and populists have to show results in order to keep the people happy.”

After the raids, both bars saw their regular number of attendees dwindle. However, since the bars have implemented new strategies to prevent police altercations, they have largely been successful in fending off further government attacks. In just over a year and a half since the April raids, the crowds have largely returned. QQ Bar, even in their smaller venue, now sees over two hundred attendees at their most popular events. 

The techno community in Bishkek is as diverse as it is tight-knit. Chyngyz notes that he always finds it hard to describe the demographics of his crowd to others, as it spreads across every age group, profession, and walk of life. Innokentii, however, notes that there is one thread that unites all of their party participants. “Unlike techno scenes in larger cities, in Bishkek, everyone who comes is a character.”

With the survival of Bishkek’s techno institutions, the venues now serve as a cultural meeting point for the city’s other repressed creative communities. Innokentii notes that it is not an uncommon sight at QQ Bar to see people from Bishkek’s art industry, bar industry, rock scene, and rap underground all mixing freely.

Bishkek’s electronic music vanguard now sees their scene’s creativity and resilience as more than a local story. They have created something unique that they want to share with the world. While domestic challenges persist, few in Bishkek’s techno leadership appear ready to back down. “If you’re scared, you do it scared. So we do it scared,” Chyngyz remarked.

Chyngyz believes that the techno scene’s ability to adapt to evermounting challenges and unite diverse communities is not only what has led to the scene’s survival in Bishkek, but truly illuminates what the community is all about. “Techno is something that has the power to unite completely different people with completely unrelated backgrounds–people who maybe can’t even speak the same language. But they love techno, and enjoy the space it provides. Out of nothing, you create common ground.”

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

Joseph Fisher for Novastan

The post “If You’re Scared, You do it Scared”: How Bishkek’s Techno Scene Survives State Repression appeared first on Novastan English.

It has been one year since the Organization of Turkic States approved the implementation of a common Turkic alphabet, designed for uniform use in all member states. Under the guise of bolstering Turkic unity, Ankara has spearheaded the initiative with the aim to draw the Central Asian states into its political orbit. However, due to limited funds, lack of political incentives, and preexisting linguistic policy, the Central Asian states have largely chosen to ignore the common alphabet entirely. 

In September 2024, the Organization of Turkic States (OTS) announced to the world the creation of a 34-letter common Turkic alphabet based on the Latin script, approved on paper by all member states. The initiative, spearheaded by Türkiye, has been in the works since the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991. Now one year since the common alphabet’s announcement, the manoeuvre has yet to make the large waves in the Central Asian information space that Türkiye had initially hoped for.

The proposed common alphabet exists within the larger regional debate surrounding the political futures of the Central Asian languages. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, many of the newly independent republics began the process of transitioning their languages from a Cyrillic to a Latin-based script. However, in Central Asia, the decision of switching to a Latin script remains a fierce debate across the region even three decades later. 

Türkiye, under President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s expansionist foreign policy, has offered a guiding hand by leading the OTS initiative to create a common Turkic alphabet. Türkiye first adopted the Latin script in 1928 as a part of its early independence-era modernisation reforms. By encouraging the Central Asian states to undergo a similar process, Türkiye also aims to cement its position as the dominant centre of the Turkic world.

So far, Erdoğan’s plan has not cultivated many strong allies in Central Asia’s political elite. Most states in the region remain embroiled within national debates over the post-Soviet future of their titular languages, making Central Asian governments particularly resistant to carry out such a monumental linguistic shift at the international level.

Competition for “Middle Power” Status

In the year since the OTS announcement, regional heavyweights Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan remain resistant in adopting the common Turkic alphabet within their borders. According to Nargiza Muratalieva, a Bishkek-based political scientist, “Kazakhstan is not ready to share its leadership in Central Asia, given its attempts to promote itself as a middle power.” Kazakhstan has spent the post-Soviet decades centralizing Central Asian political power within its own borders, with the goal to secure a respected “middle power” status to both the region and the international community at large. Uzbekistan, the largest Central Asian country by population and second largest in terms of GDP, shares similar ambitions. Both countries view the Turkish-led OTS alphabet as an attempt by Türkiye to cement itself as the dominant power in the region, and thus, a threat to their respective national directives.

Read more on Novastan: The Lexicon of Kazakh Decolonisation

While both nations have yet to consider the implementation of the common Turkic alphabet, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan have independently embarked on national plans to switch the script of their titular languages from Cyrillic to Latin. In both cases, the political leadership has underestimated the difficulty of this task, leading to much longer timelines for the initiative than initially expected. Currently, both states are stuck in a transitional state where both scripts are used interchangeably. Critics complain that the current linguistic paralysis in the countries is both confusing for citizens and financially taxing for administrations. The Diplomat reports that the 2018 budgetary estimate for Kazakhstan’s Latinization program sat at US$664 million, equivalent to roughly 39% of Kazakhstan’s GDP for that year.

The challenges Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan have faced implementing a Latin script have meant that neither government seems willing to invest in the OTS alphabet as a third system for their citizens to learn and their country to switch to. Even Turkmenistan — a state which successfully phased out Cyrillic usage in the 1990s — remains resistant to the OTS plan to change their national standard. Largely closed off from the outside world and averse to foreign influence, the common Turkic alphabet offers few advantages to Ashgabat.

Kyrgyzstan: The Cyrillic Exception

At the unveiling ceremony of the common Turkic alphabet, all eyes were on Kyrgyzstan. To mark the alphabet’s adoption, Erdoğan gifted each represented nation a copy of two books translated into the new alphabet. One of the books was a novel written by Chinghiz Aitmatov, a regionally renowned author hailing from Kyrgyzstan. Erdoğan’s choice was hardly coincidental. Kyrgyzstan today is the only Turkic state to not even attempt to switch the national script away from Cyrillic.

Western analysts attribute Kyrgyzstan’s continued use of Cyrillic to the close relationship with Russia the country has maintained through its post-Soviet independence. Russia largely views increased Turkish influence in Central Asia as a threat to its foothold in the region, and acts to mitigate the country’s power in states like Kyrgyzstan where it still holds considerable influence. However, in the case of Kyrgyzstan’s refusal to adopt the OTS Latin-based alphabet, Muratalieva believes the reasons are more pragmatic than political. “The simplest explanation is the lack of financial resources to accept and to introduce this alphabet on a national level,” Muratalieva explains. While Türkiye has spearheaded the alphabet initiative on paper, the country has remained resistant to supplying funds to OTS member states interested in making the national switch. The lack of available funds severely limits the capacity of financially-limited states like Kyrgyzstan, the smallest economy of the OTS bloc.

When Sadyr Japarov, the president of Kyrgyzstan, was asked about his opinion on the linguistic future of the Kyrgyz language, he stated that “it is too early to talk about transitioning the Kyrgyz language to the Latin alphabet”, RFE/RL reports. Muratalieva believes Japarov’s strategy is to watch and wait how its larger regional neighbours Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan fare in their respective transitions to a Latin-based script. “If one of them succeeds, Kyrgyzstan will follow,” she theorizes.

Azerbaijan as a Potential Model

Not all hope is lost for Turkish power in Central Asia. Azerbaijan, while outside the region, provides a model for the post-Soviet Turkic states open to cooperation with Türkiye, showing how partnership with the state can lead to successful development. Türkiye and Azerbaijan have been close allies ever since the country gained its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. This strategic partnership has allowed for Azerbaijan to largely chart its own path, both economically and politically distant from Russia. 

One of the first directives Azerbaijan embarked on after independence was the complete transition of its national language from Cyrillic to Latin, a goal it achieved by the turn of the century. The Azerbaijani Latin-based script in its modern form is now very closely related to both the Turkish standard script and the newly proposed OTS alphabet. Such linguistic integration between the two nations has opened many new doors for transnational partnership, successes closely monitored by the Central Asian states.

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

Since the beginning of the Russo-Ukraine War, Central Asian states have become increasingly hesitant of close partnership with Russia. Regional leadership fears Russia’s close geographic proximity to their borders may lead to future military conflict. Türkiye, attempting to offer an alternative to Russian partnership in the region, markets its distance from Central Asia as a compelling security guarantee. While maintaining territorial distance from potential Central Asian partners, Türkiye benefits from cultural and religious closeness to the region’s common Turkic heritage. The common Turkic alphabet is only one of many pathways the country is intent to forge with Central Asia through the leverage of common Turkic traditions. Turkish soft power in Central Asia, while currently marginal, is steadily increasing with time.

Türkiye has made it clear that it is willing to take on administrative and economic sacrifices to implement the new alphabet within its own borders, but has maintained its reluctance to take on the financial burdens necessary to implement the script in the Central Asian Turkic states. Combined with Türkiye’s unwillingness to meddle in preexisting linguistic turmoil in Central Asia or directly confront Russia’s lingering cultural influence over the region, has enough time passed to call the OTS common alphabet project a failure? Likely so. 

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

Joseph Fisher for Novastan

The post Dead in the Water: Has the Common Turkic Alphabet Failed to Boost Turkish Influence in Central Asia? appeared first on Novastan English.

Kyrgyzstan is sliding down to full blown autocracy. The country has traditionally stood out for offering greater protections for free speech, political parties, and NGOs than any other Central Asian nation. However, this began to change after President Sadyr Japarov came to power, reshaping the nation’s political landscape. Today, the once-free press is no longer truly free.

On October 28, 2025, the Oktyabrsky District Court in Bishkek declared three independent media outlets – Kloop Media Foundation, TemirovLive, and Ait Ait Dese (TemirovLive’s Kyrgyz-language sister channel) – as extremist organisations. In Kyrgyzstan, anyone who now shares materials produced by these outlets can face criminal charges. This move marks yet another step in the ongoing repression of independent media in the country.

Just a month ago, on September 17, 2025, two video makers from the Kloop, Alexander Alexandrov and Joomart Duulatov, were sentenced to a penal colony for five years. Both were charged for involvement in the production of videos for TemirovLive, that would allegedly have incited public unrest. The lack of evidence was striking throughout the trial. No connection could be proven between the work of Alexandrov and Duulatov with TemirovLive, or between Kloop and TemirovLive. On top of that, even the prosecutors themselves admitted that the videos concerned contained no direct incitements to civil unrest.

These accusations came after eight (former) Kloop employees were arrested in late May 2025, and held for questioning by the security forces, the GKNB. None were initially allowed to see their lawyers. The next few days, all suspects were released except for Alexandrov, Duulatov and two accountants. The GKNB subsequently published videos in which the (former) employees confessed to inciting civil unrest. These videos were likely taken under duress, as Alexandrov seemed to indicate himself. All four were taken to court, where the two journalists retracted their confessions. The accountants denied their involvement in the case. While shocking, the sentencing comes as no surprise.

The crackdown on Kloop and TemirovLive is the latest example of tightening repression under the regime of President Sadyr Japarov.

Read more on Novastan: Leaving the Island – Japarov’s campaign to silence independent media

The TemirovLive link

Kloop and TemirovLive have, for many years, been strongholds of independent journalism in Kyrgyzstan. Apart from this, the alleged link between Kloop and TemirovLive seems to come mostly from both outlets’ reporting on corruption. Resultingly the two organisations, as well as their founders and staff, have been repeatedly pressed with legal charges in the past.

Most infamous is the case of Bolot Temirov, the founder of TemirovLive, who was arrested on January 22, 2022, for the possession of drugs, which he claims were placed on him. This happened two days after he and his platform TemirovLive published a new investigation, accusing the head of the GKNB, Kamchybek Tashiev, of corruption.

Kloop and the Organised Crime and Corruption Reporting Project (OCCRP), a US NGO supporting investigative journalism on organised crime and corruption, subsequently discovered that TemirovLive and Temirov himself were monitored long before the publication. In May 2022, Temirov was stripped of his Kyrgyz citizenship, after which he was acquitted on practically all charges laid against him later that year, in September 2022, because the investigation against him had been prejudiced. Still the harassment did not stop: Temirov was forcibly exiled to Russia in November 2022 in just a few hours’ time. His lawyers, friends and family did initially not know what had happened to him.

Want more Central Asia in your inbox? Subscribe to our newsletter here.

New laws and the beginning of the end for free media

Japarov has taken numerous steps to restrict free journalism since coming to power following the 2020 October Revolution. First, on July 28, 2021, he implemented a law that would allow an “authorised state body” – whatever that may be – to block websites that publish so-deemed “false or inaccurate information”. To date, the Ministry of Culture has been its principal executor, as it has been actively persecuting free media under this new law.

In April 2024, the Kyrgyz parliament also passed a foreign agent law, akin to the one in Russia, which further limits the possibilities of NGOs and media that receive funds from abroad. The rationale for passing the foreign agent law is clear: to silence dissenting voices. Under the previous administration, numerous articles were published exposing large scale corruption, particularly in the Matraimov case, where a large politically connected corruption scheme was exposed in the Kyrgyz customs agency, stealing several million dollars.

Furthermore, Kloop’s election observation missions documented blatant violations during the 2020 and subsequent elections, prompting a partial recount and rerun of the 2021 parliamentary elections. These findings, along with Kloop’s daily reporting, underscore the vital role that that independent media has played in Kyrgyzstan, even in the face of mounting repression.

Read more on Novastan: In Central Asia, the Freedom of Press is in Decline

The autocrat’s way: closing publications and arresting critics

Kloop is not the first to meet the ire of Kyrgyzstan’s government. Over the past years, the authorities have adopted two main tactics for targeting media. One involves targeting key figures within organizations, through arrests, exile, intimidation or constant surveillance by security forces. The other focuses on restricting media outlets, including forced closures and the blocking of their websites.

In January 2024, eleven journalists from TemirovLive and Ait Ait Dese were arrested, even after Temirov himself had been exiled. During the same time, their offices (and that of 24.kg, another independent media outlet) were raided by the GKNB. Three journalists were eventually sentenced to long prison terms for calling for civil disobedience. According to Kyrgyz law it is illegal to call “for active disobedience to legitimate demands of the representatives of the authorities (…)”. Those found guilty of violating this law can face a minimum sentence of five years imprisonment.” The law’s ambiguous phrasing makes it easy to target journalists and other government critics.

The first victim of the earlier-mentioned disinformation law from July 2021 was the local branch of Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL), known as Azattyk. In October 2022, Azattyk was forced to close down over materials published about the September 2022 border conflict between Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, which became a highly sensitive political issue. The Ministry of Culture argued that the materials published contained false information. The website remained blocked until July the next year, when Azattyk and the Ministry of Culture reached a settlement. For their part, Azattyk had to delete a video they had made about the conflict. In return they were allowed again to operate in Kyrgyzstan.

The laws on civil disobedience and disinformation have been used repeatedly against free media all across Kyrgyzstan, for instance against 24.kg, Kaktus media, Next TV, and Aprel TV. Most recently, in August this year, a new law was passed restricting foreign ownership in media organisations to 35%.

Read more on Novastan: Closure of Radio Azattyk sparks discontent from civil society and international human rights activists

The repression of Kloop

The recent arrests are not the first time that Kloop was targeted. On August 28, 2023, Kloop was taken to court over allegedly failing to name all media activities it was engaged in, as per its foundational charter, and not registering as a mass media outlet. The next month, its website was blocked.

During the court case, more allegations were levelled against Kloop: their alleged criticism would spur people on to protest against the government and lead to their reader’s ‘zombification’. The brunt of the lawsuit focused on the alleged ‘negativity’ of Kloop’s reporting. According to the prosecutors, this negativity could also lead to sexual anomalies or “chemical (…) addictions.”

In the end, Kloop was formally liquidated. It tried to go to the Supreme Court over the case, but the Court denied the request without informing the defendant within one month – as is legally required. Afterwards, Kloop continued its work under the legal entity of Koomar Media. Despite the blocking and outlawing of the Kloop legal entity, the Kloop journalists continued their investigations. This included an investigative piece on the president and his close associate Kamchybek Tashiev, head of the GKNB. The eki dos (two friends), as they are commonly called, would be involved in various corruption schemes.

The sentencing of Alexanderov and Dulaatov served as yet another stark warning that Kyrgyzstan’s democracy is in retreat. At best, those engaged in anti-corruption journalism must now fear for their freedom; at worst, it signals that no journalist is safe. With the declaration of TemirovLive, Kloop, and Ait Ait Dese as extremist organisations, the threat extends beyond journalists. Anyone who reads or shares independent media content can now face prosecution, even if they are not directly involved in journalism. The future of Kyrgyzstan’s independent press remains uncertain – but one thing is clear: the outlook is bleak.

Written by Stijn van der Veen

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post Kyrgyzstan’s march to smother the free press appeared first on Novastan English.

In October and November, avant-garde music duo Vtoroi Ka will be touring Europe, from Istanbul to Reykjavík. This is the first tour of its kind for a popular music band from Kyrgyzstan, and represents another significant milestone in its burgeoning career. 

Like the rest of Central Asia, Kyrgyzstan is experiencing a pop music boom, partly thanks to its growing presence on international streaming platforms. However, local artists still lag behind those in neighbouring Kazakhstan, which has long established itself as a pop culture powerhouse, even winning a Grammy Award. Although Kyrgyzstani artists frequently perform concerts abroad, their audiences are usually limited to members of the Central Asian diaspora. 

The innovative Bishkek music duo Vtoroi Ka is now embarking on an ambitious tour to change that. From 17 October to 12 November, the band will perform in eleven different countries on sixteen dates, taking them from Istanbul to Reykjavík. This tour is unprecedented for a contemporary music band from Kyrgyzstan and represents a watershed moment for the local music scene. For Vtoroi Ka, however, it is the next logical step in their burgeoning career.

The organisers of the Iceland Airwaves festival in Reykjavík, at which Vtoroi Ka will perform on 7 November, share this opinion. In their presentation on the festival website, they express their strong conviction about their future career: ‘With the momentum building as it is, it won’t be long before Vtoroi Ka are the name at the tip of the tongue of your cooler best friend’s lips.’

Bakai Kolchaev, the band manager and director of Infinity Music, the leading music distributor in Bishkek, explains that the idea of a European tour had been in the air for some time, given the band’s growing international fan base. ‘We carefully examined the indicators in various countries in Europe and beyond – the figures showed that there is considerable interest,’ Bakai told Novastan. He added that the band is streamed particularly often in countries such as Germany, France, Poland and Spain.

Hip-hop in southern Bishkek 

Vtoroi Ka was founded in the mid-2010s by Sultan and Ilya in the Asanbay district in the south of Bishkek. The two school friends had met some ten years earlier – the band’s name refers to the designation of that class, ‘2K’. They started creating underground rap music with homemade beats in their home studio and releasing it on YouTube and local platforms, some of it accompanied by self-made music videos.

This led to the release of their debut EP, Iz Okna (‘From the Window’), in 2017. Eventually, they took it down from streaming services because they were no longer happy with the quality. However, the eponymous single, complete with music video, can still be found on YouTube, offering a glimpse into the group’s early work. 

The duo was already contemplating breaking up in early 2020 when they made their first local hit with the single Resnitsam stalo tyazhelo (‘My Eyelids Turned heavy’). Six months later, they released their first ‘official’ album, Den’ Zavisimosti (‘Dependence Day’). This musically rich hip-hop record introduces the band’s everyday life, their business, and their longings in their ‘hood’, the microdistrict of Asanbay.

As they gained immediate acclaim in the local hip-hop scene, Sultan and Ilya had already turned to writing completely different music. Their second album, Serial, released in 2022, still contains a few rap tracks, most notably the single 39 Shkola (‘39th School’), dedicated to a Bishkek school renowned for its performances in street battles at the time. However, with its portrayal of intense teenage life, the album already shows strong signs of musical eclecticism. Fans of 2000s pop rock will also find plenty to enjoy here.

Always on the move

In July 2022, the single Teni ot Palm (‘Palm Shadows’) marked the next breakthrough. With its memorable bass line, the track became a summer hit, gaining popularity far beyond Kyrgyzstan. To this day, it remains Vtoroi Ka’s most-listened-to song. The accompanying music video featured Sultan and Ilya in bizarrely old-fashioned gangster roles for the first time, a concept they continued to develop in subsequent years. For example, the track Vstrechayte Govnyukov (‘Welcome the shitheads’), released in early 2023, was accompanied by a retro-style music video, in which the two artists portray themselves as troublemakers who arrive in your city with a ‘whole squad’ and their ‘live live-band’.

Read more on Novastan: Sex, Drugs, and Postpunk – the new album of Bishkek’s Duo Vtoroi Ka

From then on, ‘always on the move’ became the motto for both Vtoroi Ka and for their artistic gangster characters. Sometimes they appear as elusive fugitives, as in the single Gde-to za granitsey (‘Somewhere Abroad’), sometimes as hustlers who are always on the lookout for the next big coup, as in Tonirovannyi Kaban (‘Tinted Benz’), in which the two set off with their business partner ‘Real Bayke’ (played by Bakai) to conquer Saint Petersburg. This also marked the beginning of the band’s travels, with parts of the videos being shot during their first concerts in Russia.

By that time, Vtoroi Ka had already been on the radar of Russia’s leading music critics for a while. In July 2022, the hip-hop magazine The Flow first reported on the two ‘newcomers’. Journalists such as Nikolaj Redkin and Danya ‘Pornorap’ publicly expressed their enthusiasm for the ‘incredibly stylish shitheads’ who produced the ‘best music videos of the past year [2023]’.

Post-punk and rave

Vtoroi Ka made their definitive breakthrough in the Russian-speaking world with the album Svinaya Poputka (literally a ‘Piggy Ride’), released in April 2024. With their post-punk-inspired yet consistently colourful and ironic tracks, the band clearly struck a chord. The album topped The Flow’s Top 50 ranking for that year and appeared in several other best-of lists.

However, that success did not stop the group from reinventing themselves time and again. They announced the end of their post-punk phase on social media when they released the album. Indeed, the GO PUBE EP, released in March 2025, shows them moving more towards electronic music. Their visual aesthetic has also evolved, away from the image of leather jacket-wearing gangsters. Instead, it revolves around a psychedelic, imaginative reinterpretation of everyday Kyrgyz motifs. 

Such elements can already be found in earlier music videos, such as Dura (‘Silly Girl’) and the video for Soundcheck, and their latest single, Minimum iz sta (‘Minimum out of a Hundred’). Reminiscent of the early noughties in both music and visuals, this latest piece also announces their upcoming album, Svobodnye Dvizheniya (‘Free Movements’).

Kyrgyz carnival 

These new directions are also accompanied by geographical expansion. Following a mini-tour of Russia in May 2025 and appearances at several festivals in China in August, Vtoroi Ka are now moving Westwards with their ‘whole squad’ and their ‘live live-band’.

With all these musical metamorphoses, even More Zvukov, the Berlin booking agency organising most of the tour, finds it difficult to assign the ‘innovative’ band to a genre. The promotional text states that they are ‘known for their unique blend of electronic, alternative, and indie sounds. Combining experimental beats with heartfelt lyrics, Vtoroi Ka creates music that transcends genres, resonating with listeners across diverse cultural landscapes.’

Nevertheless, there are some constants that have given the collective a clear identity over the years, whether their music features raw trap beats, melancholic basslines or powerful electro. Throughout their work, they present themselves and their surroundings in a lighthearted and self-ironic manner, without resorting to slapstick. Their combination of quirky motifs and artistic precision gives their work a very carnivalesque quality.

Nevertheless, their carnival is unmistakably Kyrgyz. These musical globetrotters have always maintained strong ties to their hometown of Bishkek. From the start, they have been ambitious to create a distinctive Bishkek sound. The Russian used in their lyrics is a Kyrgyzstani Russian, full of terms that prompted the journalist interviewing them for The Flow to ask several follow-up questions. The two are also eager representatives of Kyrgyzstan in their visual language, creating their own unique imagery full of playful details that stand out from tourist clichés. 

Art director Yuliya Petrova, who has been working with Vtoroi Ka since 2021, has certainly played a part in creating this visual world. She has also directed most of the band’s recent videos. The team around the musical all-rounders Sultan and Ilya, who write, record and mix their own music and lyrics, has also further grown.

Full venues and real energy

Their session musicians, who are featured in various live videos, such as this reinterpretation of their hit Teni ot Palm, include a drummer, a guitarist and a sound engineer. There is also a communications officer, and Bakai, the manager who takes care of all organisational matters ‘so that the musicians can concentrate fully on their art.’

‘Vtoroi Ka is a large team that takes music and image seriously,’ Bakai summarises. He believes that their growing success, manifested in tens or even hundreds of thousands of listeners in different corners of the world, is only ‘natural as they do everything honestly, deeply and to a high standard.’

During the tour, Bakai continues, he hopes for ‘full venues and real energy.’ In this respect, at least, some of the upcoming tour dates are looking promising: one of the two Berlin concerts and the Hamburg concert sold out weeks before the start of the tour. 

Click here for the list of Vtoroi Ka’s tour dates.

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

Florian Coppenrath for Novastan

The post Welcome the Shitheads: Bishkek band Vtoroi Ka goes on a European tour appeared first on Novastan English.

Bishkek musical duo Vtoroi Ka has recently dropped its third album: carnivalesque postpunk in a world where nothing is as serious as it seems. Novastan’s review.

“These post-Soviet cities have already seen quite some nonsense/ But after seeing our Kyrgyz squad up close/ the lockdown has been abruptly enacted for some reason“, says the chorus of the single “Vstrechyaite Govnyukov” (“Welcome the shitheads”), released in February 2023. The retro-aesthetic video shows an exuberant wedding party stirring up the Kyrgyz capital Bishkek. The audience has been warned: the “shitheads” are coming to cause a lot of trouble.

“Shitheads” – Govnyuki in Russian – is what Sultan and Ilya of the duo Vtoroi Ka, currently one of the most exciting music groups in Central Asia, call themselves. They adopted the term from a video blogger who mocked them with it and turned it into something positive. As Sultan says in a long interview with the online magazine SRSLY: “[We are] two shitheads. We’re explorers. The kind that aren’t afraid to try things and are constantly on an artistic quest.”

At the beginning of May, Vtoroi Ka released their third album, Svinaya Poputka, a mysterious title that could literally be translated as “piggy ride” – a not entirely inaccurate description of the listening experience. It opens with the inviting bass line of “Teni ot pal’m” (“Palm Shadow“): “Come take me quickly to where the palm shadows are…”

A cheerful Joy Division

The song, which was released in June 2022 together with a music video filmed in Bishkek and on Lake Issyk-Kul, is the duo’s most successful hit to date. A total of six of the eleven tracks on the album had previously been released as singles, all with funny and colourful videos. Die-hard fans of the group will therefore recognize some of the songs, but in any case Svinaya Poputka offers a musically delightful half hour.

Since their debut album “Den’ Zavisimosti” (“Dependence Day”, 2020), which was still clearly a rap album, Vtoroi Ka seem to be moving further and further back into the musical past. The second album, “Serial” (2022), features excursions into the alternative teen rock of the 2000s, and the most recent tracks are full of allusions to the post-punk of the 1970s and 1980s.

However, the characteristic sound of bass, drum computer and synthesiser, which according to one critic is sometimes even reminiscent of the late Soviet cult band Kino around Viktor Tsoi, does not underpin a dark soundscape as is so often the case. “Vtoroi Ka play post-punk, but their music doesn’t have the depressive vibe so typical for the genre,” emphasises hip-hop magazine The Flow. On the contrary: Svinaya Poputka is full of colourful irony – a kind of cheerful Joy Division, as those who grew up with English-language music might say (especially as Sultan’s bass voice is not so dissimilar to that of Ian Curtis).

Read also at Novastan: Inside Bishkek’s Metal Boom: Portrait of a Music Pioneer in Kyrgyzstan

Musical references and quotations can be found in abundance, whether in the lyrics themselves (“An old cassette, vernissage in the loudspeakers“) or in the musical elements. The reels that Sultan and Ilya use to promote their music on social media are like building instructions. For example, for Dura (dummy), their latest single: “Oh, try singing like Zhanna Aguzarova“, an eccentric Russian-speaking singer who was particularly successful in the late 80s.

Sex, drugs and gangster romance

While Svinaya Poputka takes listeners back to the 80s musically, its content primarily relates to the first decade of independence after the end of the Soviet Union. In the words of another reviewer: “The main characters in these songs are bandits and shitheads from the times of the wild 90s, such country road romantics”.

This is symbolised by the “Tonirovannyi Kaban” (“Tinted Boar”), which is enthroned on the album cover with Bishkek’s skyscrapers and a “Kosh Kelingizder” sign (Kyrg. for “Welcome”) in the background. On closer inspection, you can also recognise a “pig duck” on the sign, the signature of graffiti artist Cherv1, which adorns many a wall in Bishkek. Kaban – Russian for wild boar – is the popular name for the Mercedes W-140, a status symbol particularly popular among the nouveau riche and mafia of the post-Soviet 1990s. However, the bonnet is emblazoned with a pig’s snout instead of the usual star.

The single of the same name, in which Sultan and Ilya stage themselves as music dealers, is also dedicated to the “Tonirovannyi Kaban“: Bakai Kolchaev, director of the Bishkek music label Infinity Music, which also distributes the music of Vtoroi Ka, plays the role of a mob leader in the music video.

But unlike the Russian cult series Brigada, which definitively associated the “Kaban” with the criminal 90s, Svinaya Poputka is not so serious. “We don’t want to be taken seriously – like Skryptonite. We want to be simpler, with irony. Sometimes serious, but with a bit of fun,” says Ilya, summarizing the group’s approach.

Through music, colourful imagery and witty language the actually serious references turn into carnivalesque. A typical example for this is the music video “Dura” (“Dummy”), whose bizarre characters seem to come from Alice’s Wonderland. At the same time, the piece is peppered with allusions to the world of erotic webcams, an equally lucrative and dodgy business in Kyrgyzstan, and a recurring motiv in Vtoroi Ka’s work.

Dura‘s text speaks of “her” admirers (“Ukhazhory“), who “give her money wholeheartedly and so earnestly“, while she repeatedly goes “on air”. The same applies to the extremely danceable “Ona sovsem odna” (“She is all alone”): “Her body is a glossy comic for adults“, and further: “All admirers are wild, with brisk movements, unarmed/ In the chat, uncles over 40 are frolicking“.

The underworld of Vtoroi Ka with its very likeable characters, always on the lookout for the next “Dvizh”, the next adventure, is romantic. In “Boomerang”, a couple hides from unclear dangers in cosy togetherness in anticipation of the next Dvizh: “Here we are an easy target/ Let’s leave these rooftops“, whether meant metaphorically or literally. “We don’t have to die yet”, it says, as in “Teni ot Pal’m”, which tells of a girl who has become a “great shooter“, probably not without allusion to Luc Besson’s Leon – The Professional.

Obviously, if you die, you can’t have fun anymore. Intoxication and artificial paradises run through the album like another leitmotiv. The place of longing, where the palm trees stand, is one “where a kilo of junk for the nose costs a thousand“. Or “Pomyat“(“Crumpled”), a wild piece about the state “when there is nothing to recharge yourself with“. “Bong” stands out in particular with its rock’n’roll rhythm – and is, unsurprisingly, dedicated to the water pipe, which, according to the lyrics, should definitely feature in Vtoroi Ka’s Stage Riders (or that of their fictional characters?).

Flawless craftsmanship

Svinaya Poputka impresses no less with its detailed and flawless production, all handcrafted by Sultan and Ilya, who, by their own admission, like to control “everything from start to finish” when it comes to their songs. Without overloading their songs, they manage to surprise you – even on the hundredth listen – with a noise in the background, an imaginative rhyme or a particularly successful transition. The tracks are entertaining, all around two and a half minutes long, with snappy intros – and therefore fit perfectly into the streaming age. However, if you listen to the whole album in one go, you might get the feeling that you’ve had enough of the interplay between bass and drum machine.

But Vtoroi Ka, who must have felt the same way when they were working, have an answer to this: “We would like to say that we are concluding our post-punk story with this album. From now on, there will be other songs, other videos, maybe a different us.” We can therefore remain curious – and quickly browse through their video library – so that we can still claim to have discovered this gem before it became mainstream.

Svinaya Poputka can be heard on all streaming services.

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post Sex, Drugs, and Postpunk – the new album of Bishkek’s Duo Vtoroi Ka appeared first on Novastan English.

Central Asia’s young filmmakers and their work are extremely diverse. The audience at the 24th goEast film festival in Wiesbaden was able to see this for themselves in various short film programmes. Novastan reviews.

The 24th goEast Festival of Central and Eastern European Film took place in Wiesbaden from 24 to 30 April. In addition to two films in the main competition, Central Asian cinema was mainly represented with short films, which were shown in four different programmes. Three of them competed in the Rheinmain Short Film Competition. In addition, goEast showed “New Voices from Central Asia” in cooperation with the ZDF/ARTE short film magazine, a programme dedicated solely to the region. We present our highlights.

Black Wagon

Mining is one of the most important economic sectors in Kyrgyzstan. However, Adilet Karzhoev’s documentary film “Black Wagon” impressively shows the catastrophic conditions under which coal and other raw materials are mined. He takes viewers inside a private mine in southwestern Kyrgyzstan and illustrates the cramped conditions underground.

Darkness and dust dominate the aesthetics, while the workers make their way through the labyrinth of corridors with their bare bodies glistening with sweat. Background noise is loud and threatening. Within this surreal setting, Karzhoev nevertheless manages to capture the normality of everyday life that the workers create for themselves 500 metres underground: The tea brought down the shaft in a coal lorry and fresh air in bags. During the breaks, the miners eat and laugh about the unsolvable conflicts surrounding the Kumtor mine, the largest gold mine in the country, and the never-ending border conflicts.

The group sits together around a smartphone and watches a video. But danger literally hovers over the everyday scene: collapses and accidents can happen here at any time, parts of the shafts are only supported by wooden beams instead of safer metal struts. When a wall partially shatteres, the cameraman has just enough time to get his equipment to safety. According to the end of the film, one to two workers a month lose their lives in one of more than 300 private mines around the town of Sülüktü in south-west Kyrgyzstan.

Only at the end of the film are the viewers led out of the shaft into the daylight together with the workers. The miners are paid in cash and sent away – until their next assignment. Many of the workers work in mines for years, sometimes their entire lives – including those who have their say in Karzhoev’s film. At the end, when the camera once again shows the vast mountain landscape around the mine, it becomes clear why: mining remains the great economic hope for the region. However, Karzhoev’s short film puts an important spotlight on the inhumane working conditions – and it is to be hoped that these will receive even more attention in the future.

The late wind

Saya is pregnant. But shortly after her boyfriend Kairat finds out, he disappears without a trace. The film accompanies Saya on her search, which is repeatedly interrupted by street protests. Is Kairat running from responsibility? Or is his disappearance linked to the protests?

Although the film gets by with little plot and a minimum of dialogue, director Shugyla Serzhan creates an atmospheric film that stands as a symbol for today’s Kazakhstan. This is thanks in part to lead actress Tolganay Talgat, whose sensitive performance allows us to share Saya’s innermost feelings and contributes greatly to the unsettling atmosphere that hovers over the entire film. While Saya constantly longs for warmth and security and paints childlike pictures of the sun on the steamed-up window, she is constantly denied this closure. Shooting in Almaty’s wintry, grimy weather creates an omnipresent grey that emphasises the film’s oppressive mood.

Even if the street protests seem rather pathetic in view of the low film budget, they inevitably bring back memories of the Qantar, one of the most traumatic events in Kazakhstan’s recent past. Saya’s search remains unsuccessful, her questions unanswered. Together with her, the whole country looks into an unclear, but definitely unsettling future.

Old Things

Three men bathe in a canal, a girl talks lovingly to stuffed animals at a flea market, a worker proudly shows off his library card. “Old things” by Roman Zakharov is a portrait of the Uzbek capital of Tashkent that shows the contradictions of the post-Soviet city without falling into bold depictions.

Instead, Zakharov explores the multi-layered spectrum that the city offers, and in particular the people who live and work in it. There is a bread seller selling his wares by the roadside, a dog owner complaining about all the trash in the city, a passer-by talking about the political changes in the country. Zakharov subtly juxtaposes different realities: new buildings and parks, dirt on the roadside and neatly polished memorials, critical voices and oversized national flags. Different linguistic worlds also come together: sometimes Russian is spoken, sometimes Uzbek, and sometimes even the director, who comes from Kazakhstan, reaches the limits of his language skills in the conversations.

Read more on Novastan: “Alaqan”: Aida Adilbek’s decolonial documentary cinema

Zakharov’s short film seems to loosely follow the course of a day: from sunrise and a bazaar that seems to be just waking up, to the blazing midday sun on Tashkent’s Independence Square, to the Independence Monument in “Yangi O’zbekiston” Park in the form of a giant Huma bird glowing in bright colours in the evening. The juxtaposition creates the impression of a rounded portrait that impressively expresses the polyphony of the Central Asian metropolis and allows nuances to emerge that are otherwise often sought in vain in depictions of the Uzbek capital, and which allow for breaks with the usual national narratives.

Ask

Kyrgyz director Naizabek Sydykov’s dystopia takes us to a ruined city ruled by a bizarre dictatorship. According to the “great leader”, a “city of the future” is to be built here, but first the inhabitants are forced to demolish all the remaining houses. The compulsion to uniformity (“Be like the others”) and the surveillance are reminiscent of George Orwell’s works.

Read more on Novastan: “Ayban Ferma”: translatin George Orwell into Kyrgyz

Teenager Umut is one of the few who questions the circumstances. By chance, he discovers a capsule containing old plans of the city that is being destroyed. Umut realises: “There will be no city of the future, because we have already destroyed it.” When he dares to confront the “great leader” with questions at the next meeting, he is declared ill by his own parents, who fear that he will become a pariah, excluded from the glorious future. Umut also has to apologise publicly. Only his girlfriend (whose name is unknown), whom he has let in on his discovery, stands by him. Starting with her, more and more people begin to question the system.

Even if the actual reasons are probably to be found in the budget, Sydykov creates an incredibly cheap aesthetic in “Ask”, which seems to have been specially designed for the dictatorship portrayed and perfectly emphasises its absurdity. And although the film’s political message seems rather simple, “Ask” is a successful parable of contemporary regimes such as those in Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan or even in Kyrgyzstan under Sadyr Japarov, in which the political leadership always promises fundamental renewal without actually delivering it. It is time to question things.

Mirtemir is alright

Karakalpakstan in the summer of 2022: in the autonomous republic protests break out and are violently suppressed by the Uzbek government. The filmmakers Sasha Kulak and Mikhail Borodin travel to Nukus in the midst of this situation to get a first-hand impression. They meet Mirtemir at a mobile karaoke station on the city’s main square.

Mirtemir, who appears “like a teenager from Kreuzberg or Williamsburg” (goEast programme booklet), captivates the two filmmakers and the result is a wonderful portrait of a Karakalpak teenager who radiates incredible optimism. His life is not easy: he cares for his blind grandmother, with whom he lives, as his mother has gone abroad to work (a plan that Mirtemir also harbours himself). During the day he works in a fast food restaurant and at night at the karaoke station. But despite all his hardships, Mirtemir has a lightness of touch that comes from deep within.

With “Mirtemir is alright”, Kulak and Borodin provide an insight into a region that, apart from the Aral Sea and the Savitsky Museum, hardly receives any attention in the West. Through their camera work, which is sometimes frontal and usually very close to the protagonist, they create a film that – despite being a documentary – becomes almost fictional at times. And Mirtemir’s boundless confidence also raises the question of whether this light-heartedness is not an act in view of the camera. A film too good to be true?

No. Because the film does not turn a blind eye to the problems, but contrasts them with Mirtemir’s optimism with a laugh. The narrative has a serious background: Mirtemir shares the fate of many other children left behind by migrant workers from Central Asia, although viewers only learn this in the fade-out. But despite all this, Mirtemir’s positivity is infectious and, together with him, we can look forward to a bright future.

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post New voices: Central Asian short films at the GoEast Festival 2024 appeared first on Novastan English.

On the night of May 17 to May 18, an angry crowd turned against South Asian students and workers in Bishkek. The attack occurred after a video was published on social media of an incident between Kyrgyz men and several foreigners, that took place several days earlier.

Foreigners, particularly from South Asia, were attacked in Bishkek on the night of May 17 to May 18. According to the Kyrgyz media outlet Kloop, the attack was the result of outrage caused by a clip on social media. This footage, that was published anonymously, shows several men beating up a Kyrgyz man in the courtyard of a hostel on May 13. At the time, the men were identified as South Asian students.

The video, which went viral, sparked outrage among some Kyrgyz, who saw the incident as a “humiliation for their nation”, as reported by Eurasianet.

Kloop reports that various social media began to report the death of a participant in the brawl. These claims were denied by the police.

Later, on May 20, a statement from the Kyrgyz Interior Ministry provided much needed context to the footage: after being harassed outside, the foreign students returned to the hostel where they were staying. The assailants followed them and began ransacking the residence, stealing some of their belongings. As the Kyrgyz men entered the female dormitories, the foreign residents retaliated and hit the attackers in turn.

Riots get out of hand

However, the images had already been interpreted differently. Around one hundred people gathered near the hostel to voice their discontent about the incident on May 17, demanding justice.

To calm the crowd, the police arrested the three foreign nationals involved in the scuffle and opened an investigation into hooliganism. The Ministry of the Interior even published a video showing the men in question – Egyptians, not South Asians – apologising to the Kyrgyz people and promising to accept their share of responsibility for the violence.

But their detention did not lessen the crowd’s discontent. Instead, people started to block the road in response to attempts by the police to disperse the crowd. Despite the arrest of ten protesters, the demonstration did not disperse and several hundreds more joined. Later, around fifty people were arrested. At around 1 a.m., stones were thrown at the student dormitories and several foreign students were beaten up.

The crowd dispersed at dawn

The police have not only started a case against the three detainees involved in the incident that was recorded several days earlier, but also against some of the demonstrators – for hooliganism as well.

The rioters, mainly young men, used social media throughout the night to encourage others to join. By 3 a.m., around 1,000 people had gathered in the city centre, according to the Kyrgyz media outlet Kaktus Media.

The police addressed the demonstrators and promised that all those responsible would be brought to justice. The demonstrators finally began to disperse at around five in the morning after multiple warnings by the police, and with the help of a popular influencer who convinced the crowd to leave.

Radio Free Europe described the unrest as the worst seen in Bishkek since the elections of 2020 that brought current president Sadyr Japarov to power. The police’s inability to maintain order has also caused concern.

Around forty injured

Eurasianet reported that a total of 41 foreigners sought medical assistance following the attack on May 17, 11 of whom were still in Bishkek hospitals on May 20.

The Pakistani embassy in Kyrgyzstan reported that 14 Pakistani students were injured on the night of the riots, Kloop added. The diplomatic mission denied reports of the deaths of Pakistani citizens.

The victims received a visit from the Health Minister, Alymkadyr Beïchenaliev. According to the minister, foreign students will be treated free of charge at the request of the President of Kyrgyzstan.

Demands in the face of immigration

While the demonstrators were demanding that the foreigners involved in the incident filmed on May 13 would be prosecuted, they were also calling for an end to labour migration from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, explains Radio Free Europe.

In recent years, thousands of nationals from these countries have come to study or work in Kyrgyzstan, while at the same time hundreds of thousands of Kyrgyz are leaving the country in search of work.

Also read on Novastan: Moscow attacks highlight Tajikistan’s radicalisation problem

“It’s a new phenomenon. These migrants are just about everywhere. In taxi services, in car washes, as couriers in food delivery services. They are prepared to work and live for 300 dollars”, said Edil Baïsalov, Deputy Minister of Social Affairs in an interview with The Insider. “Of course, we expel those who violate the law and the visa regime […] Above all, we want to create jobs for our citizens”.

The head of Kyrgyzstan’s intelligence services, Kamtchybek Tachiev, said that the protesters’ demands were “to a certain extent correct”. Referring to official statistics, he said that the main violators of the migration law were Pakistani and Bangladeshi citizens. According to him, there are a total of around 5,000 illegal migrants in Kyrgyzstan, including 1,360 Pakistanis and 1,300 Bangladeshis.

An already complicated situation for foreign workers

The recent violence was a rare outburst of xenophobia. Two days before these events, the police had announced that delivery services employing 400 foreign students, most of them from Pakistan, had been shut down on grounds of road safety problems.

On the same day, Kyrgyzstan’s State Committee for National Security arrested 28 Pakistani nationals for “illegally working” in a sewing workshop in Bishkek.

Foreigners repatriated

By the morning of May 21, more than 1,200 nationals had already returned to Pakistan on chartered flights, reports Radio Free Europe: planes took off from Bishkek for the Pakistani cities of Islamabad, Lahore and Peshawar. The Pakistani and Indian embassies have advised their citizens not to leave the country unless necessary.

On the same day, Kyrgyzstan’s Foreign Ministry said that Pakistani Foreign Minister Muhammad Ishaq Dar would visit Kyrgyzstan and meet with Kyrgyz officials to discuss the situation of Pakistani students in Bishkek.

Fears for Kyrgyzstan’s reputation

The Kyrgyz authorities are trying to defuse tensions and reassure foreign students. President Sadyr Japarov gave a speech on May 20 in which he declared that “all those responsible for the attacks on foreign students will be punished. We have succeeded in building a state based on the rule of law. That is why we will support order”.

Edil Baïsalov visited the dormitory that had been attacked, apologising and offering students a guarantee of safety. “Your parents and relatives should know that there is no threat to you in Kyrgyzstan and that the authorities bear full responsibility for your well-being. The events of one night do not reflect the attitude of our people towards you”, said the deputy minister.

However, like others, journalist Chris Rickleton recalls the arrest of publicist Oljobai Shakir, sentenced to five years in prison in May after criticising the Kyrgyz authorities for transferring several spa centres near Issyk Kul Lake to the Uzbek government. He was convicted of “inciting riots”. There is no guarantee that the young people who actually called for riots on the night of May 18 will receive such a harsh sentence.

Zoé Toulouse
Editor for Novastan

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post Violence against foreign students in Bishkek appeared first on Novastan English.

Since the fall of the Soviet Union, the Kyrgyz Republic has been considered an island of democracy in a largely autocratic region. However, the latest administration has spent the last two years reshaping the country into a populist ethno-state. 

This text was originally published on 18 October 2023 by our partner media outlet Lossi36.

One of the first groups targeted by the country’s current president Sadyr Japarov in his nationalistic agenda was the media. This is a common tactic by those with dreams of total control and has provided Japarov with the foundation to pass a series of deleterious legislation for the once proud democratic stronghold. As more independent media outlets continue to become targets, the prospects of preventing this backsliding become increasingly grim. 

Weaponizing legislation

In August 2021, the “On Protection from Inaccurate (False) Information” law was passed in the Kyrgyz Republic. This legislation, part of Japarov’s larger “spiritual-moral development” agenda, gave Kyrgyz officials the authority to suspend the activity of any online portal that shares false information or that “defames the honour, dignity and business reputation of another person.” The vagueness of the law allows nearly anyone who disagrees with a publication to bring a case against the publisher. 

The implications of the legislation are extremely dangerous as government officials could easily use this law to bring claims against whistleblowers of corruption and prevent them from speaking out. Unfortunately, this is only one of a slew of laws that breach the right to freedom of the press in the Kyrgyz Republic. 

Among these laws was a new directive to impose fines on those who distribute “harmful information” in an effort to protect children. Much like previous laws, the wording of the legislation is extremely vague, employing language such as “denying family values” or “justifying violence,” concepts open to a number of interpretations, making it a perfect tool for targeted censorship.

In the fall of 2022, Japarov’s administration went a step further in attacking the freedom of press through targeted amendments to the “Law on Mass Media.” Among the proposed reforms were penalties for “abuse of freedom of speech” and a prohibition on foreign nationals from opening media outlets in the Kyrgyz Republic. This law is still under discussion and many drafts of the law have been scrapped following public discussion. However, many in the media sphere are already preparing for the worst, especially those who have already been shut down through the law on inaccurate information.

Guilty of stating the facts

Expectedly, the writers of this legislation have been quick to employ it to shut down their perceived enemies within the media sphere. Member of Parliament Nadira Narmatova, who has also proposed punishing organisers of women’s marches and banning TikTok, has been a particularly staunch advocate for this crackdown on media freedoms. In October 2023, Narmatova launched a petition calling for the closure of Azattyk, Kloop, and Kaktus.Media. Since then, the majority of them have been temporarily blocked in the country. 

Read more on Novastan: Closure of Radio Azattyk sparks discontent from civil society and international human rights activists

In November 2022, Azattyk became the first victim to have its bank accounts frozen and access to its site blocked. Azattyk was shut down using the inaccurate information law with the claim that one of their videos was inciting “ethnic hatred.” The video in question covered the armed conflict on the Kyrgyz-Tajik border, which many Kyrgyz government officials believed to be more sympathetic to Tajikistan. The government later blocked Azattyk’s bank account in early 2023 utilising the loose phrasing of the  law “On countering the financing of terrorist activities and the legalisation (laundering) of criminal proceeds.” While the decision to close down Azattyk was ultimately annulled in July 2023, the use of this law to at least temporarily shut down a reputable news site set a new precedent. 

The next major independent media outlet targeted was Kloop, which was presented with a lawsuit in August 2023 for engaging in journalism despite being registered as an NGO. Among other unsubstantiated claims, Kloop was also tried for encouraging “sexual deviancy” and suicidal ideation by increasing stress levels in its readers. In actuality, Kloop regularly posts fact-checked articles that reveal cases of corruption among government officials and businessmen in the Kyrygz Republic. Many of these articles target the president, who has also publicly stated his distaste for the organisation. 

Read more on Novastan: In Central Asia, the Freedom of Press is in Decline

Kloop was eventually shut down on 13 September by the Kyrgyz Republic’s Ministry of Culture, Information, Sports and Youth Policy after refusing to pull the offending articles. Despite the shutdown, Kloop remained steadfast in their position, posting a defiant response to their website stating, “We, in turn, will not stop our work for a minute, no matter how much pressure the Kyrgyz authorities put on us. We will continue to inform you about everything important that is happening in our country, no matter how uncomfortable it may be for those in power.” Kloop also provided links for their followers on other platforms still reachable in the Kyrgyz Republic. 

Established news sites have not been the only victims of this campaign against the freedom of the press. In the last two years, over 30 bloggers, journalists, and activists have been jailed for speaking out against the government. Notable were the arrests of 27 members of the “Kempir-Abad Defence Committee” who were detained for just meeting to discuss their opposition to the Kempir-Abad negotiations in October 2022. Earlier that year, another well-known blogger and human rights activist, Bolot Temirov, was detained and stripped of his citizenship after posting videos to his YouTube channel investigating cases of corruption in the government under murky suspicions of fraud. 

Cultivating troll farms 

Not surprising, amidst this crackdown, the amount of pro-government misinformation has increased precipitously. One of the main offenders has been the Kyrgyz National Television and Radio Corporation (NTRC), which has reportedly created a number of bot accounts that have attacked opposition leaders. There also appears to be several troll farms functioning to post content solely propping up the current administration, including the Telegram channel za.sadyr.zhaparov which regularly posts about all of the ways Japarov is improving the country. The government has also arranged staged press conferences to drum up support for more controversial legislation. 

Read more on Novastan: Kyrgyzstan: Journalists complain about attempts to hack their accounts

While the international community calls for the Kyrgyz Republic to stop breaching the freedoms of their citizens, Kyrgyz officials have continued to sharpen their sticks. Soon new legislation will be passed that will give Japarov carte blanche to overturn any decision of the Constitutional Court that he deems immoral. Given the lengths that Japarov has already gone to silence those who oppose him, he will undoubtedly make full use of this new power once granted. As the situation in the country continues to deteriorate, one of the few forms of recourse that remains is to somehow find a way to reach his base in the rural regions of the Kyrgyz Republic and show them how this legislation can affect them as well. 

Sydney Millar for Lossi36

Novastan update:

During the plenary session on March 14, 2024, the deputies of the Kyrgyz Parliament Zhogorku Kengesh adopted in the third reading the bill “On Foreign Representatives”, which amends the Law “On Non-Profit Organizations”.

According to the bill, non-profit organizations that receive funds from abroad and carry out so-called “political” activities will be recorded in a special register as “foreign representatives”. These non-profit organizations (18,500 in the country in total) must submit additional reports every six months on their activities and the members of their governing bodies. They must also provide a description of the content they produce and/or distribute, indicating where it comes from and where it is intended to be sent or distributed.

The law gives authorities broad surveillance powers and poses an additional challenge for many independent media outlets, which rely on donations, grant funding, and financial support from international media foundations. The bill was criticized by the International Partnership for Human Rights (IPHR), the Norwegian Helsinki Committee, Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International and media and civil society representatives, but to no avail.

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post Leaving the island: Japarov’s campaign to silence independent media appeared first on Novastan English.

Snow leopards – an exclusively Asian species of large mammals of the cat family – live on the territory of 12 countries: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Mongolia, Russia, Nepal, Pakistan, Myanmar, Bhutan, India, China. With the help of modern technologies, scientists are monitoring snow leopards’ behaviour and lifestyle to increase knowledge about this rare species to guarantee their survival.

“It’s not that simple” – so begins the answer to any question about the protection and preservation of snow leopards as a species. Are snow leopards categorised as vulnerable or endangered species? What is the biggest threat to their survival and reproduction? What is the best and most effective way to protect them? It’s not that simple, experts invariably answer.

This vague formulation is due to two peculiarities of the snow leopards’ lifestyle that complicate the possibility of observation: they live in high-mountainous and hard-to-reach places for humans, and they regularly traverse an impressive territory in search of prey. Snow leopards are strictly territorial animals, with males maintaining and regularly making rounds of their hunting territories, which can reach up to 1000 km² in area. Cases when leopards encroached on the territory of another representative of the species of the same sex are very rare.

Although these animals need a large territory, a scientific report published in 2016 by the Swedish Institute of Agricultural Sciences confirmed that almost 40% of all protected areas in the snow leopard’s range are too small to support even one breeding pair of these endangered cats. Specialists are convinced that for the species to survive in the wild, it needs a range sufficient for free movement of at least 50 breeding females.

Surveillance methods

The availability of such data and its accuracy have become possible in the last few years thanks to the developing technologies of animal observation. Wildlife cameras produce fascinating videos and photographs of animals, as well as documenting every single individual captured in a photo. Previously, in addition to camera shots, scientists have collected animal faeces to study the DNA of snow leopards. But both types of observing and studying had their significant limitations: it was impossible to trace the range of the animal’s hunting area, to find out what and when snow leopards eat, and how long they nurture and raise their offspring.

This is where a revolutionary development – collars with GPS trackers – comes to the rescue. Several non-profit organisations and foundations have begun implementing this technology in stages. One of them, Snow Leopard Trust, with the help of partner organisations and specialists, has managed to put the collars on several snow leopards in Pakistan, Kyrgyzstan and Mongolia. They track some of the animals since 2006.

“With the help of information from the collars, we learnt in which territories the animals move. One female with a collar travelled a distance of 2,000 kilometres during the time we monitored her. We would never have been able to capture that kind of information with cameras alone. We can also see how long [snow leopard] stays in one area and how often it changes its den,” said Kuban Jumabai Uulu, Director of the Snow Leopard Trust in Kyrgyzstan.

How collars with GPS trackers work

“For us, the process of fixing a collar on an animal is a combination of skill and art,” notes Koustubh Sharma, Science and Conservation Director at the Snow Leopard Trust.

Snow Leopard Trust Senior Scientist, Dr. Örjan Johansson, is the undisputed leader among researchers involved in the implementation and development of this technology. At the origin of this ambitious research project to study the living conditions and survival of snow leopards, he has managed to collar more than 30 snow leopards in Mongolia since 2006. So far, it is the southern part of the Gobi Desert, located in Mongolia, that serves as the main area of the scientific study involving collared wild cats.

To collar the leopards, experts study the routes of a particular animal and place a trap in its path. Once the trap is triggered, a team of scientists travel to the location and sedate the animal with a safe sedative. During the time the leopard is unconscious, the scientists carefully check the animal for any injuries, put a collar on it, and collect DNA samples – blood and hair – for further study. If an animal is trapped with any injuries, it is released without a collar.

Read more on Novastan: Still under threat – snow leopards in Kyrgyzstan

The Snow Leopard Trust is particularly proud of the latest advances in collar design – the current version of the device has an automatic release system. 18-20 months after the collar is attached, it falls off the animal’s neck automatically without human intervention. While the collar is active, scientists receive new data about the animal’s location every five hours. This information allows them not only to trace the routes of movement but also to better study the behaviour and habits of the animal. For example, if scientists notice that the animal spends a significant amount of time in one place, it is likely that it has found prey and is dealing with it. As soon as the snow leopard leaves a given location, scientists examine the remains of the feast and determine by the bones which animal became the victim of the predator.

The researchers had to make sure that such an invasive approach to animal studies did not have a lasting negative impact on the wild cats themselves. To that end, before launching the tracker collar programme in the wild, the experts put the collars on snow leopards at Seattle’s Woodland Zoo. Careful assessment of the animals’ behaviour before, during and after the experiment showed that the collars did not affect the leopards. The same results were obtained after removing the collars from free-ranging snow leopards.

Captivity vs. Freedom

At the moment, about 3000 snow leopards are kept in zoos around the world. They are scientists’ last hope in the most tragic scenario.

“It is important to realise that despite loud claims that snow leopards are no longer an endangered species, such claims cannot be made with 100 per cent certainty. We still have no way of stating the exact number of snow leopards living in the wild. The interval between our estimates is considerable. We should also keep in mind that the number of snow leopards in the wild continues to decline,” explains Koustubh Sharma.

The situation is ambiguous with keeping animals in captivity as well. These are not ideal conditions, and in the history of the species, there has never been a single case when a snow leopard born in captivity was able to integrate into its intended life in the wild. But if the number of free-living individuals continues to fall and the population of wild snow leopards wanes, all hope will fall on captive-born animals. They are the key to the preservation of the species and a guarantee of its survival.

The main threats and the fight against them

The situation is not getting simpler in this matter. Snow leopards have many enemies: global warming and climate change, poachers, reducing numbers of prey, but also the local population sometimes can kill or seriously injure wild cats while defending their territory and livestock. There are also known cases when snow leopards have become collateral damage in the fight against rodents and wolves with pesticides in the predator’s habitat.

Read more on Novastan: Climate change could lead to ever more fluctuated temperatures in Central Asia

The Global Programme for the Conservation of Snow Leopards and their Ecosystems in Kazakhstan estimates that snow leopards are exposed to all the above threats. The biggest threat comes from poachers, revengeful shepherds and lawbreaking hunters. Also, despite the existing numerous international and national laws and environmental acts, snow leopards are globally threatened with extinction due to insufficient implementation of these legal documents. Human activities that encroach on snow leopards’ habitat, as well as contributing to climate change, are increasingly reducing the territory already insufficient for the species’ prolific survival.

Nevertheless, foundations and NGOs are not despairing. Depending on the most widespread threats to the species’ survival in a particular country, organisations are developing programmes to address them. For example, in remote regions of India and Pakistan, where herders often kill snow leopards to protect their livestock, the Snow Leopard Trust offers financial compensation for lost farm animals. In Kyrgyzstan, Kuban Jumabai Uuly’s team rewards park rangers for every poacher caught, and conducts information classes about snow leopards for children and families living next door to the animal’s habitat.

All countries participating in the Global Programme for the Conservation of Snow Leopards and their Ecosystems, and more than 20 animal rights organisations supported an initiative called PAWS (Population Assessment of Snow Leopards in the World). The project was presented during the International Forum on the Protection of Snow Leopards and its Ecosystems in Bishkek in 2017; its main goal is to gain the most accurate estimation of the population of snow leopards in the wild.

In the meantime, every person interested in the conservation of the species can contribute in one simple way: familiarising themselves with the realities of snow leopards’ lives. Lack of knowledge among the local population and those authorised by the authorities is also one of the serious factors negatively affecting the living conditions of snow leopards.

Photos: Snow Leopard Trust

Preview collage: Perizat Suleiman

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post Saving Snow Leopards: how scientists fight for the survival of a species appeared first on Novastan English.

Everyone in Kyrgyzstan is looking forward to a warm and sunny spring after a long and cold winter. Nooruz marks the astronomical start of the spring, or spring equinox, when day and night even up and daylight time starts to grow. March 21st is full of different events, performances, and delicious food. Novastan interviewed Kyrgyz people to find out how Kyrgyzstan celebrates Nooruz.

On the 21st of March, Kyrgyz citizens are having a Nooruz (“noo” – new and “ruz” – day) celebration. Nooruz is an ancient national celebration of the spring equinox when the day and the night become equal. It is celebrated on the 21st of March and marks the beginning of the New Year and the renewal of nature in many cultures. 

Bazarkan

Neighbors usually organize events within their village. Bazarkan is a Kyrgyz teacher from a small village called “Jangarach”.

“Nowruz was a highly awaited holiday … My mother would sew new dresses and tebeteis (Kyrgyz national hats worn by girls) for me and my sister. Everyone would clean their houses and yards for the guests and cook a lot of delicious food to share with family and friends,” says Bazarkan.

Unlike the popular belief that Nooruz is about the awakening of nature and the coming of the New Year, Bazarkan grew up with a different opinion on the meaning of the holiday.

Read more on Novastan: Beyond fun and games – the politics of Nowruz

“Nooruz is all about friendship and community,” she says. The whole day is supposed to be spent having a good time by playing traditional Kyrgyz games, eating traditional food, singing, dancing, and chatting with the neighbors to establish a stronger bond with them. 

Nowadays her village does not celebrate this holiday as it used to. “It is becoming less popular to celebrate Nooruz,” says Bazarkan sadly. Today the elders of the village still try to organize some games and celebrations but fewer and fewer people are participating. “I think this is happening due to changes in people’s beliefs and religions,” she adds. 

Ruslan

Ruslan is a youth activist who involves foreigners and tourists in cultural games such as Kok-Boru. 

“I always follow the elders. To be honest, I don’t even know when Nooruz will be this year” says Ruslan. Growing up, he celebrated Nooruz in Ekaterinburg, Russia. Now that Ruslan moved back to Kyrgyzstan, he still celebrates it with his family. Unlike before, his whole family and relatives gather together to celebrate and eat traditional food – in Russia it used to be just him and his immediate family. 

When asked about the meaning of the holiday, Ruslan uncertainly says, “The beginning, right?” 

Sezim 

“We usually celebrate Nooruz at home, however not as large as the New Year. Although, Nooruz is our New Year” says Sezim. She shares that her family usually celebrates by cooking boorsoks (traditional Kyrgyz pastry), plov, and inviting their closest relatives. When Sezim used to be younger, she used to live in the Issyk-Kul region where every Nooruz would be celebrated by having a big fair, and she would even perform there sometimes as she used to attend musical school. 

Sezim sees Nooruz as a family holiday. Her favorite parts of the Holiday are the colorful traditional Kyrgyz clothing and rituals such as the burning of juniper which is supposed to clean the house and get rid of bad spirits. 

Kubanych

For local designers, Nooruz is more than just a national holiday. It is a chance to share their art with people.

The coming of spring is celebrated yearly in the Supara Ethno-complex with a lot of laughter and fun. Every Nooruz ethno-complex comes up with different programs. Guests can take part in traditional Kyrgyz games, learn how to work with clay, take a stroll around the museum that is located on the territory of the complex, and take a look at traditional Kyrgyz clothing. 

A couple of days before the big celebration, the staff prepares sumolok (a traditional dish prepared specifically for Nooruz), which all of the guests love. 

“This event is mainly organized to teach the young generation about Kyrgyz values and traditions,” says Kubanych, the organizer of the event. Kubanych also shares that throughout the years they have witnessed more young people attending the event dressed in traditional clothing.

Background

Kyrgyzstan has been an independent country for 31 years. However, Nooruz was celebrated in this region long before. Nooruz is considered a holiday with origins in Zoroastrianism and its roots go back to ancient times before the arrival of Islam to Kyrgyzstan.

Today this holiday is celebrated in large parts of the South Caucasus, Western Asia, and Southern and Central Asia, in countries such as Afghanistan, Albania, Azerbaijan, Iran, Iraq, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Mongolia, Tajikistan, Turkey, Turkmenistan, and some parts of Russia (Bashkortostan, Dagestan, Tatarstan).

All photos by Tasnim Azimova, unless indicated otherwise

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post How is Kyrgyzstan celebrating Nooruz in 2024? appeared first on Novastan English.

Kyrgyzstan’s capital Bishkek is home to a small but vibrant metal scene. In the still largely traditional Kyrgyz society, local metal artists often struggle to find an audience, produce their music and get media attention. However, some leading figures in Bishkek’s metal scene are actively trying to promote the genre, both at home and abroad. One of these people is Alexander Degtyariov (32). He has been active in a large number of projects, produced a several albums with different bands and performs regularly in Bishkek and other places in Central Asia. His birthday festival in November 2023 attracted a large crowd of over 100 people who gathered at Bishkek’s favourite hangout place for metalheads: Bar56. Novastan spoke to metal pioneer Alexander about his life and career and the role of metal music in Kyrgyz and Central Asian societies.

“I first got into music when I was 14. I grew up in Tokmok, and back in the day that was a tough place. There were a lot of social issues, often connected to drugs. When I was in school, I started playing in a punk band. Later, a friend introduced me to a song from ‘Blur’. This resonated with me. I went online on a Kyrgyz forum to explore more music and found out that a lot of people were into one or the other of some mainstream bands, such as Metallica, ACDC, Black Sabbath and Slayer. I really liked those bands as well, but still felt like there was something missing, so I explored further.

Slowly I discovered other types of music, such as metalcore, grindcore, hardcore and melodic death metal. When I played this music for my friends, they would often shy away and say that it was too much for them. But I loved it. The louder it was and the more it provoked people, the more I liked it. I liked the anger.

When I was 16, a friend asked me to play in another band, but I found myself too old for this, as I thought that making music was something only the younger kids did. In the end he persuaded me to play after school for once. After this I kept coming back and started performing regularly.

From one band to another

In the past, there were very few metal bands in Kyrgyzstan. And those that performed only played covers. Soon after my first gigs, I started a band called Almagest. With Almagest I got to do my first big concert. It was an open-air concert for some 500 people. I loved the emotions and the energy of the crowd, how the crowd would turn into a single organism during the concert. With Almagest we also played in some local rock bars. Sadly we didn’t produce more than one single before the band split up.

Read more on Novastan: Darkestrah, a Black Metal Band from Kyrgyzstan

Around 2014, I really got into New York hardcore, but there was no-one who was playing it. I found out that supply creates demand: if you start playing something, people will come and listen to it. Some will not like it, but others will and they stick with you. That’s why I started playing more of the genre myself and founded a second band: Art of Gore. With Art of Gore we did a tour in Kazakhstan, but unfortunately our drummer got into some legal problems and we had to stop the project.

In 2016 I started yet another new project, Shahid, and another band called Devouring Genocide followed soon after. In-between I had a lot of other bands. I played every day. There is even a meme that has been going around about me starting new bands all the time.

Clash of cultures

In general it has been tough making metal music in Kyrgyzstan. Often they think you’re a Satanist. There are two ways to be into metal in Kyrgyzstan: you have to be strong or you have to hide. It is a traditional country and sometimes people react badly. Also economically, it has been tough. Back in the days we didn’t have money for equipment. When I got my first guitar, I ate noodles for half a year to pay for it. We got our drums from the old Dom Kultura, the Soviet-era hangout place for the youth. A friend of mine managed to get his hands on a studio monitor, and then we started recording. We never had a proper studio and I think there still are no professional metal studios in Kyrgyzstan.

We play in our garages, basements or wherever we can. If you have a socket, some lamps, walls and a roof, you can play. Still, the economy keeps us small. When people have little money to spend, going to concerts is not their priority. Luckily there are several good venues where underground metal bands rehearse, and there have always been people who tried to make studios, clubs and concerts for the underground. We rely on these fanatics who support the local scene.

The way is up

Nowadays the situation is slowly improving. People are starting to get more money. Before we only had old Soviet and cheap Chinese instruments, but now we’re getting our hands on better stuff. The interest among the public is also growing. Metal is spreading because of the internet. The music doesn’t depend on nationality anymore, but it has become globalised. Kids just find out through TikTok. There is a new generation of musicians coming up, now that the guys who were listening to us as teenagers have started to understand the music and interpret it in their own ways. Technology also has made it cheaper for us to make music, as some of the production has become digital.

In Kyrgyzstan the scene is less noticeable than in Kazakhstan, especially Almaty. We often play there. The population is larger and the economy is more developed as well. When we struggled to find money to buy our equipment, the guys in Kazakhstan usually managed to get something better. The scene in Uzbekistan is also growing, since the country has been opening up under the current president. Previously everything there was underground, but soon they’ll be having their first big concert by a band from outside the region, The 69 Eyes from Finland.

Read more on Novastan: Kuturgan Fest – How Bishkek Becomes the Metal Capital of Central Asia

In our small scene, everyone knows each other and tries to help each other. Back when we started we had no-one to help us. Right now there are three of us who are more or less running the metal scene in Bishkek. Arseny Zherdev plays in KASHGAR, an ethnic black metal band. He does the large concerts and manages to get big bands from outside the region. A very important moment for everyone was when Sepultura, a Brazilian heavy metal band, came to Bishkek. We couldn’t believe that happened. Mikhail Efimenko focuses on the local established bands from Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. He plays in MY OWN SHIVA, a metalcore band.

I only work with the underground people. For me it’s the emotion that matters.  If a shaman starts banging a drum and wants to make metal, I will help him. My life philosophy is around supporting creativity. Whether you play a temir komuz, grindcore, punk, death metal or whatever – that’s all great by me. Just play. If I have the possibility to help, I will help.

Music connecting the world

Through my music I connect with people from outside the country, from all over the world. The first album of my band Shahid, Откровение (Revelations), was about social problems in Kyrgyzstan: crime, revolutions, street violence, hatred, family issues, poverty, drugs, and mental health problems. It was post-Soviet melancholy, post-Union noir. It was about doom. We don’t have a lot of opportunities in Kyrgyzstan. There has been a lot of instability.

In the album I needed to speak out. I didn’t expect anyone to understand this, but it turned out that people in the entire post-Soviet region think and feel the same way. People wrote me from Ukraine, from Belarus, from Kazakhstan, Russia and Poland. I even got a message from two guys from Canada. Even though my lyrics are only in Russian, they told me that they knew what I meant and how I felt. Then I understood that with globalisation, problems are the same all over the world. And when you sing about it, people everywhere will understand you.

For us, music is more than just a hobby. It is a way of life. We’re all getting a bit older now and we have work problems, family problems, social problems and other problems. We don’t make money when we play. On the contrary: we often pay to travel and perform. But this doesn’t matter to us. We’ll keep trying to help the locals who want to play, lend them guitars, drums, microphones – anything they need. We have no material interest in this, we’re just doing this out of our passion and ideals. And I keep performing as well. Soon, I will even play with Death before Dishonour (a hardcore band from Boston, USA) in Almaty. If you would have told me this five years ago, I would not have believed you.”

Photos are courtesy of the ROCK DA BONE festival in Bishkek

For more news and analysis from Central Asia, follow us on Twitter, Facebook, Telegram, Linkedin or Instagram.

The post Inside Bishkek’s Metal Boom: Portrait of a Music Pioneer in Kyrgyzstan appeared first on Novastan English.