Linguist and court-certified translator Mahabat Sadyrbek recently published an English-language textbook on Kyrgyz grammar, helping make the language more accessible to international learners. Novastan spoke with her about what teaching Kyrgyz reveals about the language itself – from multilingual slang and regional varieties to culturally untranslatable words, artificial intelligence and the enduring power of the mother tongue.

Kyrgyz remains comparatively difficult for English-speaking learners to study, with far fewer teaching materials available than for many more widely taught languages. Mahabat Sadyrbek’s Kyrgyz grammar textbook in English therefore represents not only a practical learning resource, but also an effort to explain the internal logic and cultural richness of the language to a wider international audience.

Building on this work, Novastan asked her how Kyrgyz is changing today, what its words reveal about Kyrgyz society, and what the language needs in order to flourish in the digital age.

Mathieu Lemoine, Novastan: When you hear young people speaking Kyrgyz in Bishkek today, what sounds completely different from the Kyrgyz spoken by their parents or grandparents? Could you give us some concrete examples?

Mahabat Sadyrbek: The most noticeable difference is not necessarily grammar, but rhythm, vocabulary and the degree of code-switching. Many young people in Bishkek move effortlessly between Kyrgyz, Russian and, increasingly, English.

A sentence may have a Kyrgyz grammatical structure while incorporating Russian or English words. One might hear expressions such as мен аны блоктоп салдым – “I blocked him” – or мага скрин кылып жиберчи – “Send me a screenshot.”

What fascinates me as a linguist is how naturally Kyrgyz adapts these borrowed words. A word like “block” becomes the Kyrgyz verb блоктоо, which can then take all the usual Kyrgyz grammatical endings. This illustrates the remarkable flexibility of the language.

Many young speakers also use expressions such as кринж – “cringe”, токсик – “toxic”, вайб – “vibe”, гешталт – “gestalt” – and контент – “content”. Most of these entered Kyrgyz through Russian-language social media, although they ultimately originate in different languages, most commonly English.

The language of my parents and grandparents sounded quite different. Older speakers tended to use more proverbs, indirect expressions and culturally rich vocabulary. When describing a respected person, for example, they might use words and expressions such as даанышман, эки сүйлөбөгөн, элге-журтка жугумдуу or сөзү өтүмдүү.

Эки сүйлөбөгөн literally describes someone who “does not speak twice”: a person who keeps their word. Элге-журтка жугумдуу refers to someone who is well liked and respected within the community, while сөзү өтүмдүү describes a person whose words carry weight. Each expression highlights a different aspect of wisdom, integrity, social respect or moral character.

For me, this is not simply a story of decline. Languages naturally evolve. The important question is whether new linguistic layers enrich Kyrgyz while preserving its own expressive traditions.

Which Kyrgyz words or expressions are becoming less common today, and what is being lost with them?

I would be cautious about saying that words are disappearing completely. Many traditional expressions are still actively used, especially outside the largest cities. However, some are gradually moving from everyday speech into passive vocabulary.

Words such as нарк, ызаат, кут, жөрөлгө, энчи and ашар represent far more than dictionary definitions. They express cultural concepts that have developed over centuries and remain deeply rooted in Kyrgyz culture.

Take нарк, for example. It refers not only to values or norms, but also to inherited standards of dignity, honour, moral worth and proper conduct.

Likewise, ызаат goes beyond simple respect. It encompasses respectful conduct, courtesy, consideration and appropriate behaviour towards others.

Кут can be described as a life-giving blessing associated with harmony, dignity and well-being. Жөрөлгө refers to a custom, traditional observance or ritual. Энчи describes an inherited portion or personal share traditionally assigned to someone, while ашар is the practice of voluntary collective community work.

These concepts reflect cultural values that cannot easily be reduced to single English words.

Kyrgyz kinship terminology provides another example. The language distinguishes relatives with remarkable precision, reflecting social roles and obligations that are often lost when these terms are replaced by broader Russian words.

Traditional proverbs are also becoming less common among younger speakers. Earlier generations often expressed criticism or advice indirectly through proverbial language, allowing sensitive ideas to be communicated tactfully and without confrontation. As this tradition weakens, communication may become more direct, but it also loses some of its subtlety.

The loss, therefore, is not merely lexical. It concerns cultural memory and ways of understanding social relationships that have shaped Kyrgyz society for generations.

Are there new Kyrgyz words, slang expressions or ways of speaking that you particularly like? Where do they come from?

One expression I particularly like is Жашоо керемет – “Life is wonderful.” It has become especially popular among younger generations. I appreciate its simplicity and optimism. To me, it expresses an outlook on life that encourages gratitude and resilience, even in difficult times.

More generally, what I admire most is the linguistic creativity of young Kyrgyz speakers. Rather than simply borrowing international words, they adapt them to Kyrgyz grammar and make them their own.

Kyrgyz is an agglutinative language with a highly productive grammatical system that allows borrowed words to be integrated almost effortlessly into native word formation. For example, лайк becomes лайктоо – “to like” – while блок becomes блоктоо – “to block.”

One can naturally say лайктап койчу – “Please give it a like” – or аны блоктодум – “I blocked him.” Although the vocabulary may be international, the grammatical structure remains unmistakably Kyrgyz.

I also welcome the increasing use of native terminology such as санарип – “digital”, санариптешүү – “digitalisation” – and жасалма интеллект – “artificial intelligence.” These examples show that Kyrgyz is fully capable of creating its own terminology for new technologies and contemporary life.

Borrowing has always been part of the history of Kyrgyz. Over the centuries, the language has absorbed vocabulary from Arabic, Persian, Mongolian and Russian. What matters is not whether words are borrowed, but whether Kyrgyz remains a language in which people can discuss every aspect of modern life with confidence.

How different can Kyrgyz sound from one region to another? Are there words, pronunciations or expressions that immediately reveal where a speaker comes from?

One of the things I find most fascinating about Kyrgyz is its remarkable regional diversity.

Even the name of a simple household item can vary considerably. A washing basin, for example, may be called дагара, тазик, таштек, чылапчын or илеген, depending on the region. Such differences often allow Kyrgyz speakers to identify someone’s regional background almost immediately.

Pronunciation and intonation differ as well. The speech of Naryn is often regarded as particularly clear and conservative, while speakers from Issyk-Kul, Talas and Osh each have characteristic rhythms and local vocabulary that many Kyrgyz immediately recognise.

The broadest distinction is traditionally made between northern and southern varieties. Standard literary Kyrgyz is largely based on northern speech, whereas southern varieties have developed under stronger historical contact with Uzbek and Tajik.

Today, however, regional identity is becoming increasingly fluid. Internal migration, especially to Bishkek, has brought together speakers from every part of the country. As a result, urban Kyrgyz often blends regional features with Russian influence and the language of social media.

A person’s speech may therefore reveal not only where they grew up, but also where they studied, where they worked and the communities with which they identify.

Is there a Kyrgyz word or expression that says something important about Kyrgyz culture but becomes flat or inaccurate when translated into Russian or English?

One of my favourite examples is кут. It is often translated as “blessing”, “good fortune”, “grace”, “luck” or “prosperity”, yet none of these English words fully captures its meaning.

In Kyrgyz culture, кут is far more than luck or material prosperity. It refers to a life-giving force that brings harmony, dignity, abundance and spiritual well-being to a person, a family or even a place.

It cannot be bought, earned through wealth or measured in material terms. Rather, it represents an inner quality that gives life balance, purpose and meaning.

The concept is deeply woven into everyday life and language. Kyrgyz people commonly say кут болсун or куттуу болсун to mark almost every important life event: a birthday, moving into a new home, a wedding, the purchase of a new car, a new job or any significant new beginning.

Although these expressions are often translated simply as “Congratulations”, they convey something much richer. They express the wish that this new stage of life will be accompanied by кут – that it will bring not only success, but also harmony, well-being and lasting fulfilment.

Its deeper significance becomes especially clear in the expression үйдүн куту. Literal translations such as “the blessing of the house” or “the luck of the house” fail to convey what the phrase truly expresses.

It refers to the person whose presence fills a home with warmth, stability and emotional strength. Traditionally, this expression is most often associated with a woman, particularly a mother or grandmother, although it can equally describe anyone whose character, wisdom and care hold a family together.

I find кут especially fascinating because it illustrates how a single word can preserve an entire worldview. Embedded within it are ideas about family, spirituality, human relationships and social harmony that require several sentences to explain in English.

It also reminds us that translation is rarely a matter of replacing one word with another. Sometimes, it means translating an entire culture.

When Kyrgyz speakers mix Kyrgyz and Russian in the same sentence, is this simply natural bilingual speech, or can it gradually change the structure and vocabulary of Kyrgyz itself?

Both are true.

For millions of people in Kyrgyzstan, switching between Kyrgyz and Russian is a natural part of everyday communication. Bilingual speakers often alternate between the two languages depending on the topic, the people they are speaking with or the social setting.

This kind of code-switching is common in multilingual societies and should not automatically be viewed as a problem.

At the same time, long-term bilingualism can gradually reshape a language. Borrowing vocabulary is a normal part of linguistic development, and Kyrgyz has incorporated words from Arabic, Persian, Mongolian and Russian throughout its history.

The more important question is whether Kyrgyz remains capable of expressing every aspect of modern life.

If fields such as law, medicine, science or information technology continue to function primarily in Russian, speakers may gradually lose the habit of discussing these subjects in Kyrgyz. Russian influence may also extend beyond vocabulary, affecting sentence structure, idiomatic usage and habitual ways of expression.

Rather than portraying this as a competition between two languages, I see it as a question of balance. Russian remains an important language of education, science and international communication for many Kyrgyz citizens.

The challenge is to ensure that Kyrgyz develops alongside it rather than beneath it. This requires investment in education, terminology, literature, media and digital technologies, including artificial intelligence.

A confident language is not one that fears outside influence. It is one that can absorb new ideas while preserving its own identity and expressive richness.

Where is the most inventive Kyrgyz being produced today: literature, rap, comedy, cinema, social media, television or everyday conversation?

If I had to choose just one place, I would say social media without hesitation.

It is where Kyrgyz evolves most rapidly and where new words and expressions can spread almost overnight. Young people experiment with humour, irony, memes and wordplay in ways that would have been unimaginable only a generation ago.

Many of these innovations disappear as quickly as they emerge, while others quietly become part of everyday speech. Creativity, however, is by no means confined to social media. Every medium contributes something different to the language.

Contemporary music, especially rap, has introduced new urban vocabulary and fresh ways of talking about identity, migration, relationships and social change.

Comedians capture the richness of spoken Kyrgyz through regional accents, code-switching and everyday situations that audiences instantly recognise.

Literature serves a different purpose. It preserves depth, nuance and stylistic richness, allowing writers to explore the emotional and philosophical possibilities of Kyrgyz in ways that fast-moving digital communication rarely can.

Cinema occupies a unique place because it brings all these layers together. A good film lets us hear authentic conversations, regional varieties, humour, silence and emotion within the same story. In many ways, it reflects how people actually speak more faithfully than formal television or official media.

What excites me most is that Kyrgyz is no longer confined to traditional domains. Today, it thrives in podcasts, YouTube channels, stand-up comedy, rap, independent films and online discussions.

To me, this diversity is one of the clearest signs of a healthy language. A language stays alive when every generation reshapes it while remaining connected to those who came before.

Which contemporary Kyrgyz writers, poets, musicians, filmmakers, comedians or online creators should foreigners discover if they want to hear the language as it is alive today?

Like any living language, Kyrgyz is shaped by many voices, genres and regional traditions. Anyone who wants to experience Kyrgyz as it is spoken today should explore a wide range of cultural forms rather than searching for a single representative figure.

In cinema, I would recommend starting with two filmmakers whose work reflects different dimensions of contemporary Kyrgyz culture.

Read more on Novastan: Cinéma kirghiz : Black Red Yellow, une histoire d’amour contrarié

Aktan Arym Kubat is internationally recognised for his poetic and deeply human films, which capture the rhythm of everyday life, the emotional richness of spoken Kyrgyz and the relationship between people, tradition and landscape.

Ruslan Akun, by contrast, represents a younger generation of filmmakers whose work has reached wide audiences both in Kyrgyzstan and abroad. His films offer an accessible introduction to contemporary Kyrgyz society while presenting the language in a natural, everyday setting.

Anyone interested in contemporary spoken Kyrgyz should also explore today’s music scene, especially rap. Artists such as Begish, Bayastan and Ulukmanapo demonstrate how the language continues to evolve through music.

Their lyrics blend traditional linguistic resources with contemporary vocabulary, global influences and the realities of modern urban life.

At the same time, I would encourage listeners not to overlook Kyrgyz oral traditions. Hearing a skilled manaschy, a performer of the Epic of Manas, reveals another dimension of the language: its rhythm, imagery, formulaic expressions and extraordinary narrative power.

Although this tradition is centuries old, it remains a vibrant part of Kyrgyz culture.

I would also encourage people to explore Kyrgyz-language podcasts, YouTube channels and independent online creators. They often reflect everyday speech more naturally than formal media.

Read more on Novastan: Manas and the Making of Kyrgyzstan

One YouTube channel I would especially recommend is Tilimpoz, as well as Nakta Podcast. They explain the meanings, origins and cultural nuances of Kyrgyz words and expressions in an engaging and accessible way.

To understand a language, it is not enough to read its literature or study its grammar. You also need to hear people telling stories, making jokes, arguing, singing and creating. That is where a living language reveals itself most fully.

Can Kyrgyz currently speak convincingly about artificial intelligence, medicine, law, sexuality, psychology and other modern subjects, or do speakers often have to switch to Russian or English?

The question is less whether Kyrgyz can express modern concepts than whether speakers have access to the linguistic resources needed to use it confidently in specialised domains.

Like many languages that are expanding their role in education, research and technology, Kyrgyz is still developing consistent terminology in fields such as artificial intelligence, medicine, law and psychology.

Legal, medical and technical concepts are not always standardised, and many professionals continue to use Russian terminology because that is the language in which they received their education. Switching to Russian is therefore often a matter of habit rather than necessity.

Artificial intelligence presents both a challenge and an opportunity. What Kyrgyz needs is not only new terminology but also high-quality digital resources: comprehensive dictionaries, terminology databases, language corpora, spell-checkers, speech-recognition tools, machine translation and AI systems trained on reliable Kyrgyz-language data.

Without such infrastructure, the language risks becoming less visible in the digital world.

At the same time, I am optimistic. Kyrgyz has a remarkably productive grammatical system that enables it to create new vocabulary while preserving its own linguistic identity.

Throughout its history, it has successfully adapted to changing cultural, political and technological realities. There is every reason to believe it can do the same in the age of artificial intelligence.

Ultimately, the future of Kyrgyz will not be determined by the number of borrowed words it contains. It will depend on whether its use continues to expand across education, research, technology, public administration and scientific communication.

A language remains strong when it is able to serve every sphere of life, from everyday conversations to academic research and technological innovation.

What is one sentence in Kyrgyz that you find especially beautiful, powerful or revealing about the language? Could you write it in Kyrgyz and explain what it means?

There is one sentence I return to again and again. I often recite it at the end of my public talks because, more than any other, it expresses how I feel about my native language:

«Бул менин өлбөс, өчпөс, көөнөрбөс эне тилим.»

A close English rendering would be:

“This is my immortal, unfading and timeless mother tongue.”

Yet no translation can fully convey the emotional depth of the original. The three adjectives өлбөс, өчпөс and көөнөрбөс are closely related, but each contributes its own shade of meaning.

Together, they express the idea of a language that endures across generations. It does not disappear, it does not lose its vitality, and it never ceases to matter.

For me, these words are far more than a poetic expression. They reflect my relationship with the Kyrgyz language and much of what has shaped my academic work.

As a linguist and a court-certified translator, I have come to see language not simply as a tool of communication, but as a living repository of history, memory, values and ways of understanding the world that cannot always be carried across into another language.

Languages naturally evolve. They borrow words, develop new forms of expression and adapt to changing realities. That is not a sign of weakness, but of vitality.

As long as people continue to speak, learn, create, question and dream in Kyrgyz, the language will continue to grow while remaining true to itself.

That is why I always return to these words:

«Бул менин өлбөс, өчпөс, көөнөрбөс эне тилим.»

Interview conducted and edited by Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief of Novastan English.

The post A Language in Motion: Mahabat Sadyrbek on Teaching Kyrgyz to the English-Speaking World appeared first on Novastan English.

When Nurzhan Toishy first heard Metallica in the late 1980s, he recognised something unexpected in the riffs: the rhythmic language of the Kazakh dombra. More than two decades later, that intuition gave birth to Aldaspan, a band that replaced electric guitars with electric dombras. What began as a musical experiment also became part of a wider debate over tradition, modernity and the place of Kazakh culture in contemporary music.

In 1988, Nurzhan Toishy was listening to Metallica when the opening of Motorbreath caught his attention.

To many listeners in the late Soviet Union, the aggressive riffs and speed of American thrash metal represented a musical world far removed from traditional Central Asia. To Toishy, however, something about it sounded strangely familiar.

“I recognised in the first riffs a manner of playing characteristic of the dombra,” the founder and producer of the Kazakh band Aldaspan told Novastan.

It was an observation that would stay with him for decades.

Metal and dombra music, he says, had effectively been playing alongside each other in his head since childhood. But it took around twenty years before he had the money, time and musicians capable of turning the idea into something tangible.

The result was Aldaspan: a rock project built not around the electric guitar but around electrified versions of Kazakhstan’s emblematic two-stringed instrument.

Its premise might sound like a novelty. In practice, however, Toishy argues that the musical distance between the Kazakh steppe and heavy metal is considerably shorter than it appears.

How the Kazakh dombra became a metal instrument

To understand his argument, Toishy says listeners should first hear the dombra without distortion, amplifiers or drums.

The dombra is a long-necked, two-stringed plucked instrument at the centre of Kazakh musical culture. One of its most important traditions is the küi: an instrumental composition which can communicate stories, historical memory and emotion without sung lyrics.

UNESCO inscribed the traditional art of dombra küi on its Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2014, describing it as a practice that connects communities to their historical roots and helps transmit Kazakh cultural knowledge between generations.

Within that tradition, two broad performance styles are usually distinguished: tökpe and shertpe. The distinction is more complex than simply “fast” and “slow”, although that is how Toishy initially explains it to an unfamiliar listener.

Tökpe, historically associated particularly with western Kazakhstan, tends towards a more forceful and expansive style, often involving rapid movement across the strings. Shertpe, strongly associated with central and eastern Kazakhstan, places greater emphasis on individual plucking, melodic nuance and lyricism. Ethnomusicological research describes tökpe as characteristically rapid and broad in scope, while shertpe tends towards greater subtlety and expressive variation.

For Toishy, the connection with rock becomes particularly apparent in the faster tökpe küi tradition. He recommends first listening to traditional tökpe küi performances – including the pieces collected in this playlist – and only then returning to Metallica’s Motorbreath.

By contrast, Seken Turysbek’s well-known Köñil Tolqyny is an example of the slower, more lyrical shertpe küi tradition. Toishy mentions it to illustrate the stylistic range of dombra music rather than as a direct comparison with Motorbreath.

“If you listen to what I have mentioned, you will understand how obvious these things are yourself,” he says.

Aldaspan later explored the two traditions in different releases. Toishy points in particular to Elge Qait and Tokpe Light. The band’s own discography describes the 2012 Elge Qait as a collection primarily of slow shertpe küi.

For him, then, putting the dombra into heavy rock was less an attempt to force two incompatible genres together than to amplify a connection he believed was already there.

Six strings, but no guitars

Aldaspan’s crucial decision was not simply to place a traditional instrument over a conventional rock arrangement.

There would be no electric guitar.

The project instead developed around lead, rhythm and bass electric dombras. Its original formation paired three variants of the instrument with drums; the band’s debut album Attila, released in 2011, mixed ethno-rock and thrash metal with throat singing. Aldaspan’s current official history dates the fully formed concept to 2009, when Toishy began pursuing the idea of running the sound of the dombra through overdrive and distortion.

For a musician, electrification presented an obvious problem.

The attraction of the dombra lies precisely in the distinctive character of its sound. If amplification and distortion simply made it imitate an electric guitar, the experiment would lose much of its purpose.

“That was what I feared most – that the sound of the dombra would become the sound of a guitar,” Toishy says.

His conclusion after experimenting was that the distinctive timbre survived.

In his own estimation, around “90 percent” remained recognisably dombra, while perhaps “10 percent” acquired a metal character. The numbers are subjective, of course, but they capture the balance he was seeking: power without erasing identity.

Even Toishy says he did not initially know exactly what kind of ensemble would emerge once overdrive and distortion were applied to the instruments. Only after recording, mixing and listening back to several albums did he feel that Aldaspan had created not simply one sound but several variations of ethno-rock.

Among the works he considers particularly important in that evolution are El Dastan, Uly Kosh, tracks from Attila, and the albums Tokpe Light and Elge Qait.

There is also a striking economy to the band’s basic setup.

“Across our whole group, there are six strings,” Toishy says of the three two-stringed dombras.

The apparent simplicity is precisely what surprises audiences, he says. A small traditional instrument associated by many with acoustic performance can suddenly produce the density and physical impact expected from a rock band.

Toishy believes another quality differentiates the instrument from the guitar.

“The dombra is close to the timbre of a man’s voice,” he says. “When it plays, physiologically its sound is closer to the human voice than a guitar is.”

He is careful to present that as a personal perception rather than a scientific claim.

“How dare you ruin such an instrument?”

If rock audiences were intrigued, some guardians of musical tradition were considerably less enthusiastic.

Toishy remembers the first reactions of Kazakh audiences as a kind of astonishment: how could such a small instrument make so much noise – and so many different kinds of noise?

“Even now at our concerts, people genuinely feel the impact of the live performance and don’t believe their eyes,” he says.

Rock listeners, he recalls, were particularly won over by the band’s first album Attila and the solo in the track Edige.

But some traditional musicians from an older generation saw the experiment very differently.

Their response, Toishy remembers, was essentially: “How dare you ruin such an instrument?”

One conservatory teacher, he says, even suggested that people should be put in prison for what they were doing to the dombra.

The anecdote is humorous in retrospect, but the disagreement underneath it is significant.

Aldaspan touches on a question that extends far beyond one Kazakh rock band: what does it mean to preserve a traditional instrument?

Is preservation primarily about maintaining established forms of performance? Or can radically changing the environment in which an instrument is played also help keep it culturally alive?

The dombra is not a marginal object in Kazakhstan. It is one of the country’s most visible cultural symbols. Since 2018, Kazakhstan has even celebrated National Dombra Day on the first Sunday of July.

That symbolic weight makes experimentation more sensitive. An electric dombra is not merely a new piece of musical equipment: for some listeners it interferes with an object tied to ideas of heritage, history and Kazakh identity.

Yet traditional dombra culture itself is hardly static. Different regions developed different instruments, techniques and schools, while contemporary performers continue to adapt their instruments to new stages and performance environments.

Aldaspan pushes that process considerably further – but Toishy’s concern about preserving the dombra’s timbre shows that the band does not understand modernisation simply as replacing the traditional sound with a Western one.

The point, for him, is to make the dombra capable of entering another musical space without ceasing to sound like itself.

Rediscovering what was already there

Toishy also sees the reception of Aldaspan as part of a broader change in how Kazakhstan relates to its own cultural inheritance.

“What changed was people’s awareness and a reassessment of what we Kazakhs have as an ethnic group,” he says.

The internet played an important role in that process, in his view.

Greater exposure to music and culture from around the world could have weakened interest in local traditions. Toishy believes the opposite happened as well: comparison allowed Kazakhs to hear their own musical heritage differently.

“Kazakhs, through comparison, discovered the beauty of their own instruments and compositions,” he says.

He sees the result as part of a wider cultural revival, accompanied by renewed public interest in Kazakh and Turkic history.

That observation has a visible contemporary context. Traditional instruments now coexist in Kazakhstan with rock, electronic music, world music and other hybrid forms. Almaty’s Spirit of Tengri festival, held since 2013, has developed into a major platform for contemporary ethnic and world music, bringing together performers who combine inherited musical traditions with global genres. Its 2026 edition again presented ethno-fusion and contemporary ethnic music to a large open-air audience.

Aldaspan nevertheless occupies an unusually uncompromising position within this landscape.

Rather than adding a dombra as a marker of local colour to an otherwise familiar rock sound, it asks the instrument itself to do the work normally performed by the guitar.

The resulting music becomes an argument of sorts: modernity does not necessarily require abandoning the traditional instrument.

Warriors, memory and the imagined steppe

History is as important to Aldaspan’s identity as musical technique.

Asked which historical figure most inspires him, Toishy refuses to choose one.

Instead he invokes a collection of personalities and traditions – among them the eighth-century Turkic prince Kül Tegin, Genghis Khan, commanders and warriors – that together form what he describes as a wider Turkic warrior culture.

Some of his broader historical claims go well beyond scholarly consensus, and are best understood as part of his personal interpretation of Eurasian history rather than statements of established fact.

But that worldview helps explain Aldaspan’s artistic universe.

The band is interested not only in how old music can sound through modern equipment, but in whether contemporary Kazakh popular culture can use older histories, heroes and narratives as raw material of its own.

Toishy says the Kazakh language and Kazakh musical traditions remain among the strongest elements shaping the band’s identity.

Actively combining them with contemporary genres, he believes, creates something that cannot simply be replicated elsewhere.

It is a form of cultural confidence that differs from preservation behind glass. The past becomes material to be rearranged, amplified – and distorted.

From an American dream to European festivals

For years, Toishy’s imagined destination for the band lay across the Atlantic.

“As a child I dreamed of stages in the United States,” he says.

He eventually spent six years living there. The experience changed his ambition.

Today, he wants Aldaspan to reach European rock festivals.

Toishy believes European audiences are more receptive to unusual combinations of musical cultures and genres. It is explicitly his own judgement – and one he jokingly acknowledges Americans may dislike – but he now sees Europe rather than the United States as Aldaspan’s most promising international audience.

There is something fitting about that ambition.

Aldaspan is a deeply Kazakh project created partly through encounters with music from elsewhere. Its origin story begins with a teenager in Soviet Kazakhstan hearing an American metal band and unexpectedly recognising the dombra inside it.

Nearly four decades later, Toishy still seems fascinated by the same possibility: that listeners who believe they are hearing two completely separate musical worlds may discover that the boundary between them is less obvious than expected.

For newcomers, he suggests starting with three Aldaspan tracks: Edige from Attila, El Dastan from Uly Kosh, and Turk Kultegin from Balqadisha.

Listen to those, then to an acoustic küi. Then perhaps go back to Motorbreath.

That is the comparison Toishy has been asking people to make since 1988.

And whether or not every listener hears exactly what he hears, Aldaspan has already demonstrated something else: an instrument does not have to remain sonically unchanged to carry a tradition forward.

Sometimes two strings, an amplifier and a distortion pedal are enough to make the steppe sound unexpectedly contemporary.

By Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan-English, based on an interview with Nurzhan Toishy.

The post From Küi to Metallica: How Aldaspan Electrified the Kazakh Dombra appeared first on Novastan English.

Archaeologist and museum specialist Oktyabr Dospanov on the lost world of Muynak, the memory of the Aral Sea and the cultural heritage of Karakalpakstan.

For much of the outside world, Muynak is represented by a single image: rusting ships stranded in a desert. For Oktyabr Dospanov, however, the town was once an island, a busy port and the setting of a childhood filled with ship bells, gulls, music and the smell of freshly caught fish. In this interview, the Karakalpak archaeologist and museum specialist recalls the human world that disappeared with the Aral Sea, explains why the region’s cultural history reaches far beyond the ecological catastrophe, and reflects on what should be preserved for future generations.

This interview was conducted in Russian and translated into English.

See more on Novastan: Souvenirs éphémères

The story of the Aral Sea is usually told through statistics: falling water levels, rising salinity, abandoned ports and millions of tonnes of salt and dust lifted from the exposed seabed. Those figures describe the scale of the disaster, but they cannot fully convey what it meant to lose a sea that organised the economy, culture and daily rhythms of an entire region. Dospanov belongs to the last generation that remembers the Aral as an ordinary presence rather than a vanished world. Born in Muynak, he later became an archaeologist and museum specialist. His professional path began in 1979, when Igor Savitsky invited him to join an expedition at Janpyk Kala, an ancient Khorezmian settlement near the Sultan Uvays mountains. He subsequently worked at the museum in Nukus that now bears Savitsky’s name, devoting decades to the archaeology, ethnography, art and environmental history of Karakalpakstan.

Novastan: You grew up in Muynak when it was still a living port. What kind of town was it?

Oktyabr Dospanov: My childhood was spent in Muynak, which at that time was a real island in the Aral Sea. For me, it is not simply my birthplace. It was an entire world, filled with sounds, smells and the feeling of continuous life. It is difficult today to imagine that Muynak was once one of the region’s largest fishing centres.

The town’s life was inseparable from the sea. There were five large fishing collectives, twelve fish reception points and two cargo ports. One was in Muynak itself, on the shore, and the other was around twenty kilometres away at Usay, on the opposite side of the island. The fishing industry set the rhythm of the whole town.

Muynak seemed never to sleep. Even late at night, people were always walking through the streets: some going to work, others returning after their shift. Work continued around the clock. I can still hear the ship bells, the grinding of the port cranes, and the hum of fishing vessels and engines. These sounds were a natural part of everyday life.

The city was also remarkably diverse. Engineers, sailors, fishermen, teachers, doctors, scientists and artists came from across the Soviet Union. Karakalpaks, Uzbeks, Kazakhs, Russians, Tatars, Koreans, Ukrainians and many others lived side by side. In the mahallas, neighbours helped one another build houses, celebrated holidays together and supported families in difficult times. That sense of community was one of Muynak’s greatest riches.

What do you remember most vividly about the sea itself?

For my generation, the Aral was not a symbol of tragedy. It was the symbol of a happy childhood, filled with the sound of waves and the cries of gulls. Hundreds of vessels stood at Muynak’s quays: cargo ships, fishing schooners, tankers, barges and tugboats. The port operated day and night. It seemed impossible that the sea could ever disappear.

The coast was rich in life. There were reed beds, lakes and wetlands, and an extraordinary number of birds: pheasants, wild ducks, flamingos, pelicans and, above all, gulls. The silver gulls that local people affectionately called ‘laughing gulls’ accompanied us from morning until evening. Fishermen watched them because they could reveal the position of shoals of fish.

I also remember the clean, fresh air. The sea did not have the harsh salty smell that people often imagine. A constant wind made even the hottest summer days easier to bear. In winter, the sea froze and the cold was severe. We swam, fished and played football on the shore. Children came to the nearby pioneer camp from many parts of the Soviet Union, and the coast had holiday homes, sanatoriums and tourist facilities.

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What remains most powerfully in my memory is not a landscape but a smell. When I was five or six, my father and his friend Ibadulla took me out in a small wooden boat. Far from the shore, we met a large fishing seiner commanded by a man named Tazhibay-aga. He showed me the bridge, the cabins and the engine room. The hold was filled with fish. I pointed to the largest one, a huge catfish, and insisted that it was a shark. Everyone laughed.

We stayed on the vessel for almost two days. I saw how the fishermen worked and lived. The engine room smelled of diesel fuel, motor oil, metal, sea moisture, fresh fish, wooden decks and salt-soaked ropes. It was sharp, but warm and alive. To me, that was the smell of the real Aral Sea. Sometimes I close my eyes and I am back there, hearing the engine and the waves against the hull.

Muynak also had a social and cultural life that is rarely mentioned. Where did young people meet?

Muynak did not live by work alone. It had two cinemas. The best known was Sputnik, just a few steps from the shore and beside the market. After an evening screening in summer, people would walk along the waterfront, listen to the waves and stay outside talking for a long time. Later, in the second half of the 1980s, the Berdakh cinema opened in another part of the city. It was a modern cultural centre for films, concerts and public events.

The cultural centre of the fish-canning plant was another important place. It had a library and hosted theatre, amateur performances, concerts and celebrations. Young people especially loved the weekend dances. Many people met their future partners there.

There were also several cafes. The most famous was Tolqyn, which means ‘wave’ in Karakalpak. It was not simply somewhere to eat or drink tea. Families celebrated birthdays and weddings there, friends met, music played, and people exchanged news and made plans.

Music was everywhere. On warm evenings, young people gathered spontaneously in courtyards, on squares or near the sea. Someone would bring a guitar, accordion or bayan, and people would sing together. There were no mobile phones or social networks. People listened to one another and spent long evenings in company. At weddings and major family celebrations, bakhshi – traditional storytellers and musicians – performed epics and legends to the accompaniment of instruments such as the dutar. Ancient oral tradition and modern youth culture existed naturally alongside each other.

When did people understand that the retreat of the sea was irreversible?

The process was gradual. The first alarming signs became visible in the late 1960s and early 1970s. At first, people hoped it was temporary and that the sea would return. A special canal was dug from the port towards the receding water so that vessels could continue to sail. But the water withdrew faster than people could adapt.

Fishermen noticed the change first. Their catches became smaller. Fewer schooners went out. Ships that had entered the port freely began to run aground, surrounded by sand and salt blown from the exposed seabed.

Read more on Novastan: Football de rue

I remember how the sound of the city changed. Muynak had always lived through the noise of its port: bells, cranes, engines, fishermen’s voices, metal cables and waves at the quays. Then came silence. It arrived almost imperceptibly, but that silence was the most frightening thing. When the ships stop sounding, when the sea can no longer be heard and the port ceases to live, you understand that more than water is disappearing. An entire world is going.

The marine painter Rafael Matevosyan, who devoted more than half a century to the Aral Sea, described an early morning when he woke to voices and crying. Residents had gathered on the shore. Overnight, the water had retreated by dozens of metres. Boats that had been moored at the pier were lying on dry sand. Some people prayed, some cried and others simply stared at the departing water. Matevosyan later captured that moment in a painting called The Sea Has Gone.

The human consequences came quickly. Enterprises closed, fishing declined and families lost their livelihoods. Many people left Muynak for other cities or republics. The city lost not only employment and population, but also confidence in its future.

“Then came silence. It arrived almost imperceptibly, but that silence was the most frightening thing.”

What disappeared with the sea beyond the fishing industry?

Fishing was not just a source of income. It was one of the oldest forms of economic life in the Aral region and had shaped people’s identity for centuries. Archaeological excavations reveal fish represented on ceramics, bronze objects, wall paintings and household items. Fish also appeared in carpets, embroidery, jewellery, woodcarving and textiles. It symbolised water, life and prosperity in an arid region.

For many families, fishing and factory work passed from parents to children. To work at the fish-canning plant was considered respectable. People were proud that their labour mattered to the whole country. When the sea disappeared, traditions that had formed over generations also weakened: techniques and practical knowledge, recipes and fish cuisine, songs, stories and the everyday vocabulary of life by the water.

The psychological loss was equally important. Many residents came to feel that they had been left at the edge of a lifeless desert, far from the world’s attention, with the best part of their lives behind them. When former residents meet today, they often cry. Those tears express joy at seeing one another, but also nostalgia for a world that cannot be restored.

That is why the memories of the last witnesses matter so much. There are still people who remember the port cranes, the crowded waterfront, the smell of fresh fish and the horizon of open water, but their number decreases every year. Their oral histories, family photographs, songs and personal objects are part of the region’s heritage. The Aral Sea is not merely an environmental problem. It is the fate of millions of people.

Tourists now come to photograph the ship cemetery. What do you wish they understood about Muynak?

I am glad that people are interested in our region, but I would like them to see more than an unusual tourist attraction. Behind every ship is a human life. Behind every photograph are thousands of families who lost the world they knew. Every metre of exposed seabed contains the memories of people who sailed from this port, caught fish, built homes, raised children and believed the sea would last forever.

Visitors should try to imagine another picture: an expanse of water reaching the horizon, fishing vessels returning to port, gulls overhead, children laughing on the shore and a town full of movement. Only then can they understand what was lost.

At the same time, Karakalpakstan should not be reduced to catastrophe. This region has been a crossroads of nomadic and settled civilisations for thousands of years. The art of the Aral region carries images of animals, birds, plants, water and steppe. Its carpets, textiles, jewellery, embroidery, carved wood and yurt interiors preserve symbols that connect people to the natural world. Muynak was one part of a much wider cultural landscape.

Your own career began with archaeology. How did Igor Savitsky influence you?

My path into science began in 1979, when I met Igor Vitalyevich Savitsky. He invited me to join an archaeological expedition at Janpyk Kala, one of the great monuments of ancient Khorezm on the right bank of the Amu Darya. That expedition became my school of archaeology. It showed me how rich and insufficiently studied the history of Karakalpakstan was.

Savitsky later invited me to work at the museum in Nukus. He was not only a remarkable artist, collector and museum builder. He taught a whole generation to see culture as an interconnected whole. Through him, I understood that archaeology is not simply excavation. It is a way of understanding people, their worldview and their relationship with nature, history and art.

Karakalpakstan is an open-air museum. It has hundreds of archaeological sites, from antiquity to the late medieval period. Ancient Khorezm stood at the meeting point of major Eurasian trade and cultural routes. Nomadic and settled worlds interacted here, alongside influences from Iran, the Mediterranean, the steppe, Turkic states, the Arab world and Central Asia. Irrigation systems created from at least the first millennium BCE made possible cities, fortresses, palaces and settlements in desert landscapes.

The region’s spiritual history is equally layered. Zoroastrian, Buddhist, early Christian and Islamic traditions all left traces in monuments, rituals, ornament and symbolism. Archaeology records those processes in layers of soil and objects, while oral tradition preserves them in images and stories. Both are necessary.

Savitsky’s importance also lies in the way he built the museum. When he founded it in 1966, he created departments of archaeology and ethnography alongside the art collection. He had first come to Karakalpakstan through the Khorezm Archaeological and Ethnographic Expedition, and during fieldwork he produced hundreds of paintings and drawings of archaeological sites, village life, plants, animals and the region’s changing light. He was interested in the smallest details of traditional culture – a ceramic ornament, carved wood, a textile pattern or a piece of metalwork – because he saw each of them as a language through which a people expressed its worldview.

His study of Karakalpak traditional woodcarving remains especially important to me. He showed how the decorative culture of the region emerged from the meeting of settled agricultural traditions and the nomadic culture of the steppe. At the same time, he understood that many Russian artists of the 1920s and 1930s had been erased from public life by repression and ideological pressure. He largely gave up his own artistic career to find, protect and collect their work. That devotion created one of the world’s most important collections of Russian avant-garde and early Soviet art.

He was equally committed to the emerging Karakalpak school of painting. Kydyrbay Saipov, then the region’s only professionally trained artist, became his close friend and ally. Together they encouraged younger artists, organised exhibitions and helped create an artistic environment in which remarkable talents could develop. Among the painters associated with this generation were Zhollybay Izentaev, Zholdasbek Kutymuratov, Abdulla Erimbetov, Bazarbay Serekeev, Aman Atabaev, Murat Khudaybergenov, Daribay Tazhimuratov and Amangeldy Utegenov.

My strongest memory of Savitsky is still from the expeditions. He was modest and extraordinarily hardworking. He could spend hours examining a ceramic vessel, an ornament or a fragment of cloth, explaining its symbols and the techniques used to make it. Every find and every meeting with a traditional craftsperson delighted him. He did not merely study culture; he lived through it.

Which landscapes or historical places best reveal the depth of Karakalpakstan?

The Ustyurt Plateau is unlike anywhere else. Its chinks, cliffs and canyons are magnificent, but the landscape also contains ancient and medieval burial mounds, necropolises, caravanserais, wells and signal towers. They recall the routes that connected East and West across an extremely demanding environment. The saiga is a symbol of Ustyurt, and images of these animals appear in rock art thousands of years old.

The former seabed is also becoming a new and extraordinary landscape. It attracts ecologists, geologists, archaeologists and palaeontologists. Along former shorelines, people find fossil shells, marine remains and, according to local accounts, even the teeth of ancient sharks – reminders that the geological history of this territory reaches back to seas far older than the Aral.

Karakalpakstan is therefore much more than a disaster zone. It is a place where one can read the history of the Earth and the history of human civilisation in the same landscape. Natural and cultural heritage are inseparable here.

Can the region recover environmentally, and what has changed through the planting of saxaul?

When the sea dried, its exposed bottom became a saline desert. Dust and salt storms carried sand, salt and chemical residues over enormous distances. Planting saxaul, kandym and other desert shrubs was one of the most effective ways to stabilise the soil. After decades of work, vegetation now covers significant areas of the former seabed, reducing the intensity of dust and salt storms and creating conditions for new ecosystems. Some animals and birds are returning.

This does not mean the crisis is solved. Safe drinking water, efficient water management, public health, education, transport and sustainable employment remain fundamental. Climate change adds pressure by altering rainfall, accelerating glacier loss in the Pamirs and Tien Shan, and changing the flow of the Amu Darya and Syr Darya. The full restoration of the former sea is an extremely difficult question and cannot depend on one country alone. It requires regional cooperation and rational water use.

The most important lesson is that economic development must not again be built on the assumption that nature is inexhaustible. Any new investment should create dignified local employment, use water responsibly and meet high environmental standards. The people who live here must benefit directly.

Whose work should people read or see if they want to understand Karakalpakstan beyond the Aral Sea disaster?

First, I would name Berdakh, the great Karakalpak poet. His work became one of the spiritual foundations of the national culture. It speaks about the history of the people, moral values, love of the native land and the search for justice and freedom. No less important is Ajiniyaz, one of Central Asia’s major poets and thinkers, whose writing celebrated solidarity between peoples, humanism and respect for human dignity.

In the visual arts, one must of course return to Igor Savitsky and to the artists whose work he helped preserve. Rafael Matevosyan is also indispensable to the memory of the Aral Sea. For more than half a century he painted its water, boats, fishermen and everyday life. Gulls appear repeatedly in his work. After the sea had largely disappeared, he would visit the exposed seabed and say: ‘I believe my gulls will return.’ Those words were later inscribed on his grave.

There is also a deeply personal figure I do not want to omit: my uncle, the Karakalpak writer and translator Shaniyaz Mambetmuratov. He died when he was only 43, but he left an important mark on the literature and culture of Karakalpakstan. The Aral Sea was at the centre of his writing – its open waters, the Amu Darya, fishermen, the landscape and the lives, labour and hopes of ordinary people.

He was extraordinarily well read. It seemed that there was hardly a book in Muynak’s municipal library that he had not opened. He translated foreign authors into Karakalpak, hoping both to introduce local readers to world literature and to show outsiders the richness of his own culture. In the 1960s and 1970s, he used to say that one day Europeans would come to Muynak and the Aral Sea to discover the beauty, history and culture of this region. At the time, that sounded almost impossible.

Part of his work was translated into German and a collection was published in Germany, although he did not live to see it. In a sense, his prediction has now come true: people arrive from across the world, not only to witness an ecological catastrophe but also to learn about Karakalpakstan’s literature, culture, history and inhabitants. As long as his books are read, his voice continues to speak.

Dospanov shared two of his uncle’s poems, translated here, especially for Novastan, from Karakalpak via Russian.

The Seagull

1959

— Seagull, soaring high across the sky,
You seem a messenger of my love.
Why do you circle anxiously above me,
Calling me once more towards the seashore?

— Seagull, flying through the blue of heaven,
Why do you fill my heart with restless thoughts?
Had I not caressed the waves of the sea,
Would spring ever have returned to these shores?

The Blue Sea

1958

Do not judge me harshly when I praise the sea;
Simply look towards the blue edge of the earth.
Like a festive salute marking a great victory,
The blue sea laughs before my eyes.

This blue sea is my native Aral;
With all my soul, I breathe its fresh wind.
And should you wish to know what makes it so majestic,
Know this: within it live both my destiny and my age.

Who else should journalists speak to while the memory of the old Muynak is still alive?

They should begin with the remaining members of the older generation: former fishermen, ship captains, workers from the fish-canning plant and residents of the coastal settlements. They remember the cranes, boats, factory, crowded waterfront, fresh fish and uninterrupted horizon. Such memories cannot be reconstructed from official archives once the witnesses are gone.

It is equally important to record artists, musicians, traditional craftspeople and guardians of oral culture. Young ecologists, archaeologists, museum professionals, historians and civic activists should also be heard, because they connect the past with the region’s future. And journalists should not overlook teachers, farmers, doctors, students and women raising families. The real history of Karakalpakstan is made from many ordinary lives, not only from famous names.

We are among the last living witnesses of the full Aral Sea. That creates a duty to preserve oral testimony, family photographs, private archives, household objects, songs and stories. These materials are as important to the region’s heritage as archaeological monuments and museum collections.

What gives you hope when you think about the future of Muynak and Karakalpakstan?

Above all, people give me hope. Despite everything this region has experienced, its inhabitants have not lost their love for their land or their willingness to work for its future. Human resilience has always been the main strength of the Aral region.

I see a younger generation studying foreign languages, ecology, archaeology, art, museum work, science and information technology. Many of them do not want to turn away from their history. They want to preserve it and show the world that Karakalpakstan is a region of extraordinary cultural heritage and future possibilities.

The world’s growing interest also matters. Archaeologists, artists, scientists, photographers, travellers and students come not only because of the Aral Sea, but also for ancient Khorezm, Ustyurt, the Savitsky Museum and Karakalpak culture.

If I had unlimited resources, I would set three priorities. The first would be human welfare: drinking water, health care, education, infrastructure and good jobs, particularly so that young people can imagine a future here. The second would be ecological restoration and responsible use of natural resources, including water-saving technologies and continued planting on the former seabed. The third would be culture, science and international cooperation. I would like Karakalpakstan to become a major centre for archaeology, museum partnerships, artistic residencies, environmental education and cultural tourism.

The future cannot rest only on natural resources or only on economic growth. It must bring people, nature and culture into balance.

Is there one story you would most like European readers to carry with them?

I would tell them the story of the Camel Trail. Elders said that long before modern roads, caravan routes crossed Ustyurt and the shores of the Aral Sea. Camels connected Khorezm with the Volga region, Kazakhstan and lands farther east and west. They sensed the route better than people and could find wells and caravanserais even at night, in sandstorms or fog.

One trail, used by generations of caravans, led towards the Aral Sea. It was not merely a road. It carried trade, encounters, knowledge and culture. Merchants, craftsmen, poets and pilgrims travelled along it. Goods moved with songs, legends, ideas and traditions.

As the sea retreated, harbours vanished and routes were covered by sand. Yet people say the Camel Trail did not disappear. It survived in memory. You may no longer see it on a map, but you can feel it when travelling through the region. It is an invisible thread between past and present.

For me, the legend means that the most important roads do not cross only deserts and steppes. They pass through human memory. Today, the trail can acquire a new meaning. Where caravans once carried goods, it can now carry research, cultural projects, art and friendship between peoples. It can become a symbol of dialogue between Central Asia and Europe.

Perhaps the trail no longer exists on the ground. But while memory remains alive, the road never ends.

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

The post “My Childhood Was Spent on the Shore of a Sea That No Longer Exists” appeared first on Novastan English.

Originally from Uzbekistan, conductor Aziz Shokhakimov has been leading the Strasbourg Philharmonic Orchestra since 2021. At 38, this first Uzbekistani conductor in Strasbourg, passionate about French music, has followed an impeccable path. Interview.

In Strasbourg, Aziz Shokhakimov has been Music and Artistic Director of the Strasbourg Philharmonic Orchestra since September 2021. In this role, he also works closely with the Opéra national du Rhin, as the orchestra regularly performs opera there. He already knew the Strasbourg ensemble well, having conducted it as a guest from 2014 before taking up its leadership.

Born in Uzbekistan and trained in the capital Tashkent, Aziz Shokhakimov did not so much choose conducting as grow up within it. At just eleven years old, in a children’s and then school orchestra, he learned the profession through practice, sometimes compensating for missing instruments by playing certain parts himself. This early start nurtured a visceral relationship with the collective: the orchestra as a living organism, made of listening, discipline and trust.

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In Strasbourg, a border city whose Franco-German fusion he admires, his presence is particularly visible in the orchestra’s major popular events. For the 2026 New Year’s Eve and New Year concerts, the Strasbourg Philharmonic Orchestra brought together more than 3,800 spectators in a full Erasme Hall, around a programme entitled Florilège lyrique, which Novastan attended. Under the direction of Aziz Shokhakimov, the evening celebrated the voice, with two international soloists: Uzbekistani soprano Barno Ismatullaeva and tenor René Barbera. The Choir of the Opéra national du Rhin also took part, in a festive atmosphere greeted by long ovations.

Beyond the Strasbourg stage, Aziz Shokhakimov also appears in the documentary O’zbekistonlik, produced by Uzbekistan’s Club. The episode devoted to him, available on YouTube with English subtitles, is part of a series highlighting Uzbek personalities who have faced obstacles but managed to make their way to the highest level: a way of offering concrete role models and nurturing a positive collective narrative around Uzbekistanis abroad. From France, Aziz Shokhakimov sometimes describes himself as an “informal cultural ambassador”: someone who, through encounters, makes people want to look at Central Asia differently. Interview.

Novastan : To begin with, could you introduce yourself and look back at the major stages, the turning points, that shaped your artistic and professional path?

Aziz Shokhakimov : I am a conductor. I was born and grew up in Uzbekistan, and I received my musical training in Tashkent.

A decisive turning point in my professional life came in 2010, when I won second prize at the Gustav Mahler International Conducting Competition in Bamberg. It is one of the most prestigious competitions for conductors. From that moment on, I began receiving invitations in Europe, the United States and Japan. One could say that my international career really began with that competition.

Looking back, what were the moments that most clearly shaped you as an artist and as a conductor?

Honestly, I never felt that I consciously chose this profession. Becoming a conductor happened very naturally.

I began conducting at a very young age, when I was eleven. At first, it was a kind of experiment suggested by my teacher, Vladimir Borisovich Neymer. I first worked with a children’s orchestra, then with a school orchestra. We often lacked instruments: if there were no percussion instruments, I played the parts myself; if other instruments were missing, I would go to the piano.

In reality, I literally grew up inside the orchestra. Of course, later I received academic training at the conservatory, but my training as a conductor began in childhood, in contact with real musicians.

Has your artistic centre of gravity evolved over time?

Yes, absolutely. Over time, many things change: repertoire priorities, working methods, the way one achieves a result…

But I feel that since childhood, I have had an inner ear, a musical energy that has never left me. The tools evolve, experience deepens, but that inner drive, my fundamental relationship with music, has remained the same.

What was your first formative contact with music?

Music was part of my life from early childhood, because both my parents are musicians.

But a truly decisive moment came later, when I was playing viola in a youth symphony orchestra in the Volga region of Russia. There, I saw young people of different nationalities, religions and countries making music together, sharing the same scores, the same sound, with joy and commitment.

It made a deep impression on me. I was probably quite idealistic as a child, but that experience confirmed something important: music really has the power to unite people.

Which teachers, mentors or institutions most influenced your discipline and musical imagination?

All my teachers influenced me, each in their own way. But above all, Vladimir Borisovich Neymer, who was like a second father to me.

Good and bad teachers alike shape you: good ones show you how to work and how to treat others; bad ones mainly teach you what not to do.

I am convinced that one never stops learning. There is an Indian proverb I like very much: “No one is your friend, no one is your enemy – everyone is your teacher.” I try to approach every encounter as an opportunity to learn.

Do you still play an instrument? And have you sung or worked on your voice?

Yes, today I mainly play the piano. I played the viola for a long time, but the piano has become my main working instrument.

I also studied singing. First at school, then seriously at the conservatory. Not because I wanted to become a singer, but to understand vocal technique, breathing and how the voice works. For a conductor who works with opera and choirs, this knowledge is essential.

For readers who do not know Ortasaray, how would you describe the place where you grew up?

Ortasaray, when I was growing up there, was surrounded by nature. There was a lot of greenery, birds, fishing trips, mushroom picking in spring. From my home, we had a magnificent view of the mountains.

This connection with nature deeply influenced me. I still love mountains just as much, and whenever possible, my family and I try to spend our holidays there, whether in the Black Forest or in the Alps.

Unfortunately, the region has changed a lot since then, and much of that natural environment has disappeared.

Did the mountain landscape and the multicultural environment have a lasting impact on your sensibility?

Absolutely. The mountains shaped my relationship with space and silence, while the multicultural environment shaped my relationship with others.

In Ortasaray, I grew up among Kazakhs, Koreans, Russians and Turks. From childhood, I lived among several languages and cultures, and that seemed completely natural to me. I think that is also why it later became easy for me to adapt to different countries, without cultural conflict or inner resistance.

You move between several linguistic and cultural worlds. How do languages “live” in you, personally and professionally?

For me, language is not just a tool for communication: it is a way of thinking, a cultural framework and even, in a certain sense, part of music.

To understand German music, for example, knowledge of German is extremely important. Phrasing in Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart or Haydn often follows a linguistic logic. This influences articulation, structure and above all phrase endings.

In German, endings carry particular weight. In Russian or French, they function differently, and this can sometimes influence the way musicians intuitively feel form.

In rehearsal, language therefore often becomes an element of musical explanation. More broadly, I believe that the more languages one speaks, the more one opens up and develops culturally, both as a musician and as a person.

Before moving to Strasbourg, what image did you have of the city?

I already knew Strasbourg quite well before moving here. I had been conducting here since 2014, almost every two years, so I had time to discover the city, its architecture, its musical life, and I already had friends here.

I really like this city. You can feel the fusion between French and German cultures, which creates a very special atmosphere. Geographically, it is also a unique place: Germany and Switzerland are just nearby.

That is why I am sincerely happy to live here.

What surprised you most here, and what do you miss from home?

I am fascinated by the combination of French freedom and German precision. That is what makes Strasbourg so distinctive.

On a personal level, I miss my family most, even if I am not particularly sentimental. With technology, distance is less restrictive today, and I try to go to Tashkent regularly.

How do people perceive Uzbekistan?

Some people know Central Asia well, while others know almost nothing about it. But often, after meeting me, they become curious and start reading, searching, learning. In that sense, I sometimes feel like an informal cultural ambassador for my region.

And yes, Uzbekistan is more visible than before. The country seems more culturally open, and that changes the way it is perceived.

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Through your international engagements, which orchestras have made the strongest impression on you?

Every orchestra leaves something behind: a sound, an atmosphere, a human connection. But this season, I was particularly impressed by the Royal Scottish National Orchestra. I worked with them very recently, and I was struck by their enthusiasm, professionalism and commitment.

What piece of advice would you give to young musicians?

First, be honest with yourselves: are you really ready to devote your life to music? Music requires immense commitment and sacrifices: time, stability, sometimes even one’s personal life. You can never stop progressing; the moment you stop, you begin to fall behind.

There is a saying: “Choose a job you love, and you will never feel like you are working a day in your life.” There is some truth in that, but musicians work enormously hard. Love simply makes that work meaningful.

If you could correct one illusion about success in music, what would it be?

The illusion of quick success. Real success in music is not a single moment: it is a long process, built on daily work, doubts, mistakes and gradual progress. And for me, that is precisely what makes music so precious.

Interview by Mathieu Lemoine,
Contributor for Novastan

Edited in French by Anaïs Boulard

Translated by Maya Ivanova

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 From Uzbekistan to Strasbourg: Aziz Shokhakimov, a conductor between cultures and languages appeared first on Novastan English.

In 2025, the Uzbekistani NGO Istiqbolli Avlod received the Human Rights Prize of the French Republic. For its director, Nodira Karimova, this distinction is both an honour and a heavy responsibility. In an interview with Novastan, she discusses her fight to eradicate human and sexual exploitation affecting the most vulnerable populations, particularly in Uzbekistan.

On 10 December 2025 in Paris, the French National Consultative Commission on Human Rights (CNCDH) awarded the Human Rights Prize of the French Republic “Liberty – Equality – Fraternity” to the Uzbekistani NGO Istiqbolli Avlod. Alongside four other international organisations, the association was recognised for its commitment to fighting the exploitation and trafficking of children, whose number of victims continues to rise according to the latest United Nations data.

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Istiqbolli Avlod has been fighting human trafficking since 2001, with a particular focus on children and women. Its founder and director, Nodira Karimova, emphasises that irregular labour migration, especially to Russia, Kazakhstan and Türkiye for Uzbekistani citizens, is a gateway to human trafficking.

Observing that young victims of sexual exploitation are afraid of law enforcement and distrust the justice system, the association launched the project “Child-friendly justice – Do not fear the court” to promote a fair, caring and child-sensitive judicial system.

Interview.

Novastan : In December 2025, you received the Human Rights Prize of the French Republic. What does this mean for you and your work?

Nodira Karimova : This recognition is particularly important for us. First of all, it confirms that our long-standing work in the field of human rights protection, especially children’s rights, is visible and valued not only nationally, but also internationally.

It is also a sign of trust in the principles and values on which our organisation’s work is based: protecting human dignity, access to justice and support for the most vulnerable people. It may also help strengthen the confidence of partners, state institutions and the international community in our organisation. In short, it broadens our opportunities while placing a great responsibility on us.

Does human trafficking remain a serious problem in Central Asia today, particularly in Uzbekistan?

Uzbekistan is one of the most densely populated countries in Central Asia and one of the youngest in terms of demographic composition, with a predominantly young population. While this represents significant potential for the country’s development, it is also a major challenge: according to available estimates, more than 600,000 young people enter Uzbekistan’s labour market every year, and this figure could approach one million in the coming years.

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However, employment opportunities within the country do not always make it possible to provide jobs for all young people, especially outside the capital. Under these conditions, labour migration becomes one of the main ways for many people to earn a living. In the current situation, migration is largely unavoidable for Uzbekistan.

Despite the state’s efforts to expand access to employment, some young people without a profession or sufficient information continue to leave for work abroad informally, relying on advice from acquaintances.

Irregular migration often becomes an entry point into human trafficking and directly increases the risks of sexual exploitation for girls and women who are precarious and lack legal status abroad. Under these conditions, girls and women more often trust acquaintances or intermediaries who promise to find them a job, establish the necessary contacts and “solve all problems”, without realising the possible consequences of such offers.

It is also important to note that the risks of sexual exploitation do not exist only abroad. Sexual exploitation within the country, including the involvement and exploitation of underage girls in prostitution, also remains a serious problem and requires particular attention.

How do you interact with the authorities to combat this phenomenon? Do you consider the measures and policies adopted by the state to be effective?

Our organisation has established cooperation with state structures for more than 25 years, which has made it possible to build lasting partnerships and practical interaction. We submitted more than 20 proposals during the drafting process of the law on combating human trafficking, most of which were taken into account and included in the final version of the law.

In cooperation with the Ministries of Internal Affairs and Foreign Affairs, a referral mechanism for victims of human trafficking was created, particularly regarding their return to their country of origin and the legal assistance provided to them. We also often organise joint events, such as roundtables and conferences.

Also read on Novastan : Bilan de 30 ans de défense des droits de l’homme en Asie centrale

This cooperation is based on a series of memoranda of understanding and partnership agreements signed with key public institutions. These include the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Republic of Uzbekistan, the Migration Agency and the Children’s Ombudsperson.

In addition, our organisation is one of the few non-governmental organisations to have signed a cooperation agreement with the Office of the Prosecutor General of the Republic of Uzbekistan. This makes it possible to establish more systematic and institutional cooperation in the areas of prevention, response and protection of victims’ rights.

It is important to note that the NGO Istiqbolli Avlod is part of the National Commission on Combating Human Trafficking and Decent Work, which enables us to take part in discussions on public policy, make proposals and raise issues based on our field experience. This helps establish dialogue between the state and civil society.

Do you consider the measures and policies adopted by the state to be effective?

The adoption of several legal documents, including the law on combating human trafficking, has been very important because they provide a normative basis. However, adopting laws is only the first step. The main challenge today is to move from regulation to the effective implementation of decisions, especially at the regional and local levels. In other words, the laws exist, but it is essential that they actually work in practice.

To what extent do geopolitical tensions and recent conflicts influence human trafficking?

From our organisation’s perspective, geopolitical tensions and armed conflicts have a direct impact on migration and, consequently, on the dynamics of trafficking. One of the most significant factors in recent years has been the war in Ukraine, which has changed traditional labour migration routes from Central Asia to Russia, including for Uzbek citizens.

Also read on Novastan : En Ouzbékistan, l’origine des transferts de fonds depuis l’étranger se diversifie

We are seeing more and more migrants choosing Türkiye as an alternative destination, for several reasons, including cultural, religious and linguistic proximity, as well as the possibility of visa-free stays for 90 days. However, many arrive without knowing the existing legislation on employment and the legality of their stay, and continue working informally after their permitted stay expires. Under these conditions, migrants often find themselves without legal protection and become vulnerable to exploitation, including sexual exploitation. The risk is particularly high for women.

What are the main profiles of victims?

In cases of sexual exploitation, the victims are often women aged between 25 and 35. Many of them are divorced women with children, who are also responsible for elderly parents. Economic pressure increases their vulnerability.

Their level of education is usually fairly modest. Women with higher education are very rare among the victims.

As for minors, many come from socially vulnerable families. It often happens that their parents are themselves abroad as labour migrants, or that the children have grown up without parental support.

For men who are victims of labour exploitation for economic purposes, they are generally men aged between 19 and 45, often from large families and rural areas, with little vocational training. They go abroad to provide for their families and may find themselves in situations of forced labour, restrictions on their freedom or debt bondage.

Are people in Central Asia more exposed to trafficking within the region or abroad?

Cases within countries also exist, particularly in terms of sexual exploitation involving minors, but they remain difficult to measure because many remain hidden. The phenomenon is both internal and transnational, but the risks linked to international migration are the most frequent.

Has the withdrawal of foreign funding from the United States and support for official development assistance, decided by President Donald Trump in early 2025, affected you?

Yes, these changes have had a significant impact. For many years, the US Department of State and the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) were among the main donors supporting the fight against trafficking in Uzbekistan. These funds were used, for example, to finance the hotline and legal assistance for victims. Today, the reduction in international funding has made it more difficult to maintain these services.

Also read on Novastan :Les conséquences de l’arrêt de l’USAID en Asie centrale

The annual US report on human trafficking also played an important role in encouraging states to improve their policies. Unfortunately, today there are no longer any major active international projects in this field in Uzbekistan, which forces our organisation to seek new sources of funding.

How is regional cooperation evolving in Central Asia?

In recent years, Central Asian countries have shown greater cooperation and regional partnership. However, in practice, migration and human trafficking issues do not yet seem to occupy a central place on the common agenda.

From the point of view of NGOs, concrete cooperation remains limited and has often been linked in the past to projects run by international organisations.

Which achievements are you most proud of?

We are particularly proud to have publicly raised the following issue: a child must not be alone during an investigation or trial. We have shown that legal and psychological support for child victims is not only possible, but necessary.

This practice has become an integral part of our work and can be considered a good practice at the international level.

One of the most memorable moments was when, after a trial, a minor said: “This is the first time I feel that I am being believed”. At that moment, it became clear that our work is not only about legal protection, but also about restoring dignity and a sense of safety.

Why are children afraid to speak out?

This fear often results from a combination of factors: the family’s reaction, social stigmatisation, distrust of the police and threats from exploiters.

In some families, the police are perceived as a threat rather than as protection. Children grow up with this fear, while exploiters also use blackmail and the victims’ sense of shame to maintain control over them.

Also read on Novastan :La souffrance silencieuse des belles-filles en Ouzbékistan

A genuinely child-sensitive pathway begins with the family’s reaction. Adults must respond with support and seek to protect the child. From the first contact with the authorities, the child must be accompanied by a lawyer and a psychologist. Interviews should never take place without these specialists.

How do you identify children at risk when exploitation is hidden?

Identifying children at risk is one of the most difficult aspects of our work, especially when exploitation is concealed, for example through online recruitment, informal networks or cross-border movements.

We regularly organise information activities in neighbourhoods, known as mahallas in Uzbekistan, where we meet parents, teenagers and representatives of local communities. Particular attention is paid to the hotline, and we widely disseminate information about it so that children and families know where to seek help.

Also read on Novastan : En Ouzbékistan, une justice clémentes sur les violences sexuelles

We also distribute information materials in busy places, such as schools, medical facilities and public spaces. We hand out flyers and cards with the organisation’s contact details and organise information meetings and prevention discussions. But given the scale and hidden nature of the problem, we know that these efforts remain insufficient.

We also organise training for law enforcement agencies. However, there is an objective difficulty: high staff turnover. Officers often change and information work has to start again.

In practice, one of the most effective mechanisms remains word of mouth. Often, it is former beneficiaries or their families who pass on the information.

What kind of support is needed beyond the trial?

The trial is only one stage. After it, the child’s life continues, and this is where comprehensive support is essential. The first priority is to ensure the child’s own safety, which means not leaving them in an environment where there remains a risk of violence or pressure. In some cases, temporary accommodation in a safe place is necessary.

The second key element is psychosocial support, with long-term psychological assistance: working on self-esteem, guilt, feelings of shame and rebuilding trust.

Work with the family is also essential. Parents themselves may be in a state of shock or confusion. Then come the return to school, post-trial legal assistance, for example to obtain compensation, protect personal data or avoid further proceedings.

The main difficulty concerns the funding of long-term psychosocial support. A trial has clear timeframes, but rebuilding a child’s life can take years. Yet this type of support is the most difficult to finance and coordinate.

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After this prize, what are your priorities?

It is difficult to identify a single priority, because protecting children requires a comprehensive approach: prevention, legal support, training of professionals and interinstitutional coordination.

In the current context, one of our priorities is to find sustainable sources of funding in order to maintain and develop the mechanisms already in place.

If we had to name one reform we would like to see progress over the next 12 months, it would be the implementation of a mandatory interinstitutional protocol for cases involving child victims, with the guaranteed participation of a lawyer and a psychologist.

At the same time, we believe it is necessary to strengthen public information: to explain clearly that a child must never be alone in court. The mandatory participation of a lawyer and a psychologist must be seen not as an additional measure, but as a fundamental guarantee of children’s rights.

Emma Collet and Mathieu Lemoine,
Contributors for Novastan

Translated from French by Maya Ivanova

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 Paris, an Uzbekistani NGO’s fight against human trafficking recognised with the French Republic Human Rights Prize appeared first on Novastan English.

The short story collection Hold Me in Your Arms, by Hafiz Saifullaev, has been nominated for the Sadriddin Ayni Literary Prize.

The book Hold Me in Your Arms (Moscow, 2024), by Tajik writer Hafiz Saifullaev, was nominated by the Sughd branch of the Writers’ Union of Tajikistan for the Sadriddin Ayni Literary Prize. This undoubtedly represents an important milestone in the landscape of contemporary Russian-language Tajik literature.

At first glance, the writer’s short stories may evoke a sense of ambivalence. Some find them highly personal, intimate and linguistically simple, yet complex in terms of perception and the depth of thought they convey. Others see in them a rather cerebral, rational form of writing, driven by the need to express the words of the soul, emotional fractures. In any case, by grasping the subtleties of the subtext, it becomes clear that a prosperous future awaits this Russian-language writer, a true sculptor of words.

Tajik media outlet Asia-Plus has read Hold Me in Your Arms, published in 2024 by Pero publishing house in Moscow, and has drawn the following conclusions.

A lyrical writer

Hafiz Saifullaev is a lyrical writer, in whom East and West intertwine naturally. His prose is imbued with the world around him. Trees, mountain rivers and high peaks all appear in his work in a philosophical and poetic form.

Also read on Novastan : Hymnes de sang, un recueil de nouvelles tadjikes de l’époque de la perestroïka

The most essential feature of his short stories is the absence of any distortion in his ideas about the world, people and their lives. Hafiz Saifullaev expresses his thoughts and feelings with such sincerity that his words seem to emerge in a moment of pure truth, without any artifice:

“I was sitting on a bench in the park. In the orange flames of autumn, wrapped in my black jacket, I looked like a piece of coal that had not yet caught fire. I had opened my laptop and was staring at the screen. I was searching for the Word. A cat distracted me from these useless ramblings, having crept up close without my noticing. It was grey, speckled with white, almost transparent. Floating, perhaps…”

Stories imbued with sincerity

The writer is fully aware that the loss of sincerity and inner truth is fatal to literature. And yet Hafiz Saifullaev’s short stories are not limited to a simple account of what he has seen or experienced: they take the form of philosophical meditations, reflections on life and death, the past and the future, the irreconcilable struggle between good and evil, joy and sorrow, the moment and eternity:

“Seeing my mother lying in bed, strangely stern, I went up to her and took her cold hand in mine. Her chin was held up by a bandage. ‘It’s over,’ I told myself, ‘Mama is dead.’ I looked at her, trying to imprint her features in my memory. But instead, her young face came back to me, her laughter. I stayed like that until I placed the pillow back under her head. Under the pillow was a folded velvet waistcoat, the one I loved. I could not hold back my sobs and leaned towards her, taking her in my arms. It was then that I heard her voice: ‘Do you love me?’ I began breathing again. My mother’s light flowed into my chest. No one saw it. It remains a secret between my mother and me.”

Like a return to childhood

Hafiz Saifullaev’s prose stands out for the richness of its vocabulary and the variety of its rhythm.

The language of his works is rich, metaphorical and simple, “almost materially tangible”, according to critic Sanoat Azizova. His thought is both visual and philosophical. The absence, in his miniature stories, of grandiloquence or declarative tone, often characteristic of more conventional prose writers, reveals the combination of genuine artistic talent and deep intelligence.

Reading Hafiz Saifullaev’s miniatures gives rise to a poignant feeling of nostalgia: the memory of one’s own childhood. In many of his stories, the colours are more vibrant, the snow whiter, the sky more azure and unfathomable. In the short story Hold Me in Your Arms, this is exactly the case: one’s breath is taken away by the brilliance of its wonderful, colourful epithets.

It is a rare thing to read a text of such coherence and density, written in a single breath, to the point that one almost regrets that the memories of childhood come to an end, that they are interrupted…

Music and thought

These are only a few sketches of impressions born from reading, or listening to, these musical stories by a talented writer who has brilliantly established himself in Tajikistan’s Russian-language literature. Reading his miniature stories, the reader perceives both music and thought, wrapped in the garment of his poetic imagination:

“There is the Word. The one whose function is to awaken man. And there it suddenly appears in the context of a sentence, of a story.”

This is exactly what happens in the short stories of the collection Hold Me in Your Arms.

Also read on Novastan : « Un thème éternel » : entretien avec l’autrice kazakhe Roza Mouqanova

Hafiz Saifullaev is moving through literature seriously and confidently. He must continue to remain always close to people, to live events fully alongside his characters. For this is what matters most for a writer, a poet, a creator. And there is no greater happiness than to be understood by those for whom one creates.

A sculptor of words

As the Kabardino-Balkar poet Tanzilia Zumakulova writes:

“And to dry someone’s tears,
To soften pain, O poet, you must be
Not an actor playing a role,
But shed bitter tears yourself,
And not suppress true suffering.”

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To conclude these reflections on Hafiz Saifullaev’s book Hold Me in Your Arms, a work that can rightly be described as poetic prose, it is possible to say that its author, a true sculptor of words, undoubtedly deserves to be awarded the prestigious Sadriddin Ayni Literary Prize.

His prose, as poet Nizom Kosim states, “brings together all that is best: the pull of plot and imagery, the brilliance of imagination and fantasy, the subtlety of themes and characters, a rich and vivid language. How could one not appreciate such prose?”

Azim Aminov and Kamila Mulloyeva
Journalists for Asia-Plus

Translated from Russian by Lisa D’Addazio and from French by Mathieu Lemoine

The post “Hafiz Saifullaev’s prose marks a fruitful turning point in Russian-language Tajik literature” appeared first on Novastan English.

Berlin’s Sinema Transtopia hosted the first edition of Central Asia: At The Crossroads on September 27–28, 2025, a new short film festival spotlighting bold and diverse voices from Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and the Uyghur region of China. The two-day event offered a vivid glimpse into the region’s emerging cinema: from intimate personal stories to striking social portraits. In this article, we highlight some of the most memorable works featured in the programme.

On September 27 and 28, Berlin’s Sinema Transtopia hosted the launch of the Central Asia: At the Crossroads short film festival, held in parallel with a sister programme in Tashkent supported by the independent Tashkent Film School. Alongside a main selection showcasing works by filmmakers from Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and the Uyghur region of China, the festival also featured a workshop on decolonial and feminist approaches to film writing and curating, and a talk exploring the challenges of filmmaking and festival organisation.

The films were thematically curated into four independent sections – Radical Hopefulness, Tender is the Youth, Kinds of Remembrance, and Yurt – bu? Homeland – is? Yet across all screening blocks, several overarching themes emerges, ranging from the routines of everyday life, questions of youth and identity, collective and personal memory, feminist and queer perspectives, to various other pressing social issues. This article will discuss several programme highlights.

Read more on Novastan: “JAÑA CEKARA” Film Festival Forced to Go Online due to Pressure from Law Enforcement

Mirtemir Is All Right

Daytime shots of a dilapidated hut in dusty Nukus gradually give way to evening scenes of a bustling street. In this way, directors Sasha Kulak and Michael Borodin juxtapose the two sides of young Mirtemir’s reality. In the morning, he is a caring older brother, watching over his sister, and a grandson tending to his blind grandmother; in the evening, he becomes a fast-food waiter and a street singer, entertaining passersby with the help of a mobile karaoke machine. Such early responsibility fell upon him after his mother left for a neighbouring country to earn a living.

Mirtemir himself dreams of doing the same: leaving for Almaty to work as a waiter. Though he has learned to balance work and pleasure – finding, for instance, a moment in the middle of the day to roller-skate with his younger sister – it becomes clear both to the viewer and, perhaps, to the boy himself: childhood is slipping away. Games and mischief are giving way to the care of loved ones and the pursuit of family well-being.

The documentary, almost reportorial in style, lends the story a particular authenticity and restrained emotional depth. And even if the viewer cannot be sure whether Mirtemir truly exists, one thing is beyond doubt: the film addresses a pressing social issue — that of children left without parental care in Uzbekistan, where adults are forced to migrate for work to provide for their families. Despite its youthful and at times ironic tone, attuned to both the protagonist’s age and the atmosphere of his surroundings, Мiртемiрде бэрi жаксы (Mirtemir Is All Right) raises profoundly serious themes of poverty, forced maturity, and the loss of childhood.

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Comrade policeman

If you have ever wondered how Kazakhstani news media actually operate, Assel Aushakimova’s short film will satisfy that curiosity completely in just thirteen minutes. The story of producing a pseudo-television report on the state program Жолда Қабылдау (“Reception on the road”) unfolds into a charming satire — not only of contemporary news broadcasting but also of the inner workings of law enforcement institutions.

The essence of the program itself becomes clear through the carefully selected takes of the so-called report: at specially designated roadside points, any citizen may approach police representatives with a question or concern. For illustrative purposes, the local journalist Nur (played by Dinara Aliyeva) chooses to film directly opposite one such station — a minivan faintly resembling a police van. Nearby, at a small table, a policeman responsible for the post leisurely cracks sunflower seeds. Yet a single shot of a lonely “reception point” proves insufficient — the program’s popularity among the public must be demonstrated. Thus, Aliyeva’s character resorts to a peculiar solution: she persuades a taxi driver to act as a citizen with a question.

The comic tension reaches its peak when both participants of the improvised “reception” begin speaking to the camera about their supposed experience — or rather, haltingly reading from a pre-written script of the state television channel.

Although the film was released four years ago, it has lost none of its relevance. The confusion over the capital’s name (Astana or Nur-Sultan?) still provokes a smile, while its ironic portrayal of state media operations continues to resonate sharply with viewers’ sense of recognition.

Read more on Novastan: New voices – Central Asian short films at the GoEast Festival 2024

Blue Gate

A poignant story by Kyrgyz director Narghiza Dotieva appeared in the thematic block Yurt – bu? Homeland – is?, dedicated to reflections on the notion of home. Unlike the other films in this section, which approached the idea of home through the prism of memory, cultural belonging, or even denied the concept of home as a constant and fixed place, Көк Дарбаза (Blue Gate) presents a different, more tangible image — that of a house hidden behind blue gates. Yet does the director confine herself to this single interpretation?

The protagonist – a solitary, reticent young man – is drawn, inexplicably and irresistibly, to those very blue gates. Or rather, to what lies beyond them: an old, humble house, a half-bare garden, and, beside it, on a timeworn bench, a blind old woman catching rays of sunlight. Unable to remain a timid observer, the young man repeatedly sneaks into the yard – pulling weeds here, mending the bench there, the old woman’s favorite resting spot. Though blind, she nevertheless senses his presence and something more: his loneliness. It seems she is the only one around him who has truly seen him — not his face, but his soul.

A tragic accident on the road separates the two, though only physically. The spiritual bond between them endures, like a thread entwining the branches of the trees stretching from the house toward the lake – the young man’s final, secret gesture of care left as a gift to the old woman.

Thus, Көк Дарбаза, in answering the question “What is home?”, transcends the boundaries of physical space. It is a story of spiritual closeness arising despite the absence of blood ties, despite circumstance and silence. A story of love, attachment, and acceptance, transforming the very notion of “home” into a metaphor for human connection and inner warmth.

For updates on future screenings or editions of the festival, follow the Central Asia: At The Crossroads Instagram-page.

All photos used in this article are published with the permission of the photographer, @fogg_films.

Written by Darya Loza

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

The post Central Asia: At The Crossroads – highlights from Berlin’s new regional film festival appeared first on Novastan English.

With “Central Asia through the lens of…” Novastan presents Central Asian photographers and their work.

Kamila Rustambekova is a photographer and filmmaker based in Tashkent and Amsterdam. In her work, Kamila studies the imagery and untold stories of modern Uzbek society. For several years, she has been exploring her own family history and the communities of Uzbekistan.

Hi Kamila, thank you for taking time and speaking with us. Could you please give us a quick introduction about yourself?

I grew up with my family in Yangiyul, a small industrial city near Tashkent. I studied sciences in a lyceum and later completed a bachelor’s degree in economics in Tashkent. Currently, I live between Amsterdam and Tashkent. I’m doing a two-year master’s program in filmmaking in Amsterdam. My main artistic mediums are photography and film, broadly speaking.

When it comes to creatives, I always think about when they made the choice to pursue it “full-time” instead of placing it as a hobby. What is your relationship with creativity and was there a moment when you knew you wanted to pursue it as a career?

It’s really hard for me to generalise two decades of experience into a few words. I never thought of photography as the main focus of my life or as a career path. Culturally, socially, and at home, I grew up with the idea that I had to pursue a ‘normal job’, something stable that would allow me to make a living. While studying economics, I completed internships and was working, but after some time I felt disappointed and unsure whether I wanted to dedicate my life to that. In Tashkent, I met a lot of creative people and that shifted something in me. It made me realise that maybe I could take seriously what I naturally gravitate toward and do best.

Read more on Novastan: Central Asia through the lens of… Behzod Boltayev

I first saw your photos on Novastan and then again on Nowness Asia. How does it feel to become more internationally recognised?

I don’t really feel internationally recognised, I wouldn’t put it that way. But I do think that representing Uzbekistan, even indirectly, comes with a sense of responsibility, especially because voices from the region are still so underrepresented. The ethics of representation is something I think about a lot, it’s complex and challenging. I don’t claim to speak for Uzbekistan as a whole, what I present is a very specific gaze, by a specific person from a specific place and time.

Of course, I’m always grateful and happy when my work gets published or exhibited, it means a lot to me. To be seen, to matter.

Talk to me about ‘The Home, The Field and The Flux’. You recently combined this collection from another series called ‘Another Paris’. Why did you combine the two and what does ‘The Home, The Field and the Flux’ mean to you?

This idea had been with me for a while — to combine the project on independent farming with the one about cotton picking. Both were photographed in the same visual style, with the same distance, approach, aesthetics, so bringing them together felt natural. They both are about modern agriculture practices and internal migration in Uzbekistan. Cotton pickers often travel from specific areas to the Tashkent region during harvest season, while farmers move to Farish [a mountain village in Jizzakh region] for about eight months to grow crops like melons, watermelons, tomatoes, and sometimes peanuts, peas, or sunflower seeds.

The work is an attempt to document labor practices in Uzbekistan, and to look at how temporary communities form around this movement. It’s also about post-colonial agricultural structures, and how ideas of home shift when people live between places for much of the year.

‘The Home, The Field and The Flux’ documents adapting to land and traditions, whereas, I believe ‘New Uzbekistan’ is the evolution of culture and its intersection with traditions. What do you think of this understanding of ‘New Uzbekistan’

For me, this project is more about pop culture, globalisation, and the broader visual and symbolic landscape of contemporary Uzbekistan. I’m asking: What are the recurring themes, patterns, small details that define this area? What images would I show to a non-human creature from another reality who’s never heard of Uzbekistan? I think showing my collection would be fun, no?

It’s an ironic and playful attempt to portray Uzbekistan and at the same time question the official political narrative of “New Uzbekistan”. I see Uzbekistan as a vast field of untold stories, since they’re not always easy to find naturally. I recreate and collect everything that feels vivid, funny, and meaningful to me. These become cultural symbols for me.

You say how “narratives of diamond paintings [pictures made out of numerous small coloured rhinestones, which can be assembled at home as a hobby] reflect the country”. I was wondering if you could expand on why these mosaics of pop-culture represent Uzbekistan?

Narratives in diamond paintings come from global pop-culture and these paintings themselves are produced in China. But what you actually find in stores across Uzbekistan reflects what people are buying and gravitating toward here, as a mirror of local taste/values.

I collected the most popular narratives – religious iconography, cute animals, fantasies about Paris, portraits of Leo Messi. They tell a lot about a place, not because they originate there, but because they’ve been chosen, distributed, and assembled here.

“Sabrina” is a beautiful collection highlighting the secure bond of family. What is your relationship with this family and what was your motivation for this collection?

I met this family during a spontaneous trip around Uzbekistan with my friends. We were just enjoying ourselves, not really knowing where we’d end up next. I had always wanted to visit Farish, the birthplace of my grandfather. We made it there, and while in a taxi, the driver suggested we visit Sentob, a beautiful mountain village that had become a bit of a tourist destination. That’s where I met Sabrina and her father.

They invited us to their home, introduced us to the rest of the family and we cooked lunch together.

After that, we visited a few more times and stayed overnight. Gradually, my connection with Sabrina, her mother Gulnoza, younger brother Anis, and father Mashrab became deeper. Eventually, they moved to Angren, an industrial town near Tashkent. I visited them, they visited me. They met my family. I tried to be there for meaningful moments: birthdays, new years, the birth of Sabrina’s baby sister.

Now Sabrina is doing her bachelor’s degree in Tumen, Russia, and I’m super proud of her. She feels like a little sister to me, and her mother calls me her daughter. Through my work, I’ve been lucky to find many new homes and families, and this is one of them. The last time I visited them was especially emotional, I cried a lot, I felt so safe and loved.

Finally, do you have any upcoming pieces that people should know about?

I’m currently working on my graduation project for my masters degree. It’s a research-based work exploring girlhood in exile. I try to bring forward girls’ experiences, the search for home, and the attempt to construct a new one. Part of the project takes the form of a ‘zine’ [a small specialised magazine] built from found footage. I use images from rental listings to create an endless house tour — a continuous, imagined living space made up of countless beds, toilets, and washing machines.

I’m also working with 3D animation as a way to build imagined worlds. Compared to my photography practice, my film practice has always been more personal, more introspective. This project is about loneliness, solitude, isolation, lack of enjoyment, apathy, teenagehood, the exploration of sex, and the mother-daughter relationship.

Thank you Kamila Rustambekova. Where can we stay up to date on your work?

You can find updates on my Instagram @kamilarustambekova and website kamilarustambekova.com

This conversation was edited and condensed for clarity.

Written for Novastan by Lex Durham-Arnold

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

The post Central Asia through the lens of… Kamila Rustambekova appeared first on Novastan English.

A recent change in the law allows women to drive buses and heavy vehicles in Uzbekistan. This is a significant step forward for Uzbekistan’s transportation industry, a demonstration of active dedication to promote gender equality and diversity in the industry.

Nargiz Gadayeva and Saodat Shermatova showed interest in becoming the country’s first female bus drivers – and, according to the Tashkent transport company, these women have been granted official permission to drive large-capacity buses and electric vehicles.

Saodat Shermatova

On February 28, Saodat Shermatova, a 49-year-old woman from Samarkand and a mother of two, took the bus driver’s seat for the first time in her life. She has been interested in transportation industry since her teenage years, although she studied law to follow her father’s footsteps. 

“There were no women drivers in our family, so I had to be the first,” says Saodat. In 2005, she obtained a category D driving license, which allows her to drive a bus with more than 8 passengers. Saodat’s husband was “worried about safety issues” when she decided to apply for the position – but still decided to support his wife in her endeavors to make it easier for her to complete a mandatory one-month training program for female drivers.

Nargiz Gadayeva

Nargiz Gadayeva, a 57-year-old woman from Qarshi, joined the training program right after Saodat. She started driving when she was twenty and has been working as a driving instructor for ten years. Her colleagues encouraged her to become one of the first female bus drivers in Uzbekistan. 

“When I told my family members about it, they thought I was kidding”, says Nargiz. “Only after my first working day did they start worrying more about me.”

Initially, she was interested in working in tourism, but after the changes in the law, she became determined to pursue a career in bus driving. 

“I want to be an example for other women in Uzbekistan. Women are capable of many things as long as we work hard and have perseverance,” says Nargiz.

In the history of Uzbekistan, there have been numerous examples of women-pioneers who decided to pursue spheres formerly dominated by men. One of the prominent examples is Bashorat Mirboboyeva, the first woman to start operating a locomotive. Together with the other 26 women, she applied to the railway courses that were organized by the Tashkent official railway institution and later worked delivering supplies to the frontline. After World War II, she switched to a diesel engine and became the first woman in the USSR to enter this field. 

Another example is Tursunoi Akhunova, the first female driver of a cotton harvester. She was also the brigade foreman at the collective farm. With her commitment, productivity increased greatly over the years, which also brought her two Hero of Socialist Labour titles – the highest degree of distinction in the Soviet Union for exceptional achievements in industry and culture. 

On the way to gender equality

Azizakhon Khodjayeva is responsible for the gender equality project in the Transportation Authority. She believes that the law made Uzbekistan one step closer to eliminating gender-based stereotypes. The two women are working full-time, driving for eight hours every day, and it is planned to hire another fifteen female drivers next year. 

Before the law was changed, many Uzbek women left the country to work as drivers in Russia, which also meant having a reasonable salary. Legal restrictions did not allow women to drive buses, which is why they had to leave their families home and go abroad in search for opportunities. 

Read more on Novastan: Uzbekistan: when women demand to have a voice

According to the World Bank’s 2022 Women, Business, and the Law research, Uzbekistan scored 70.6 out of 100, with 100 representing equal legal status for men and women in the labour market. Among other Central Asian countries, Kazakhstan scored 69.4, while Tajikistan got 78.8.

This score can partially be attributed to the Soviet Union legacy – in Uzbekistan, as well as in Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan, there is a list of professions that are banned for women. This list has been created in 1978 in the USSR and included 431 professions; some of them migrated to the laws and labour codes of the independent republics after the Soviet Union collapsed. In Uzbekistan, this list consisted of 44 professions that were deemed harmful or dangerous for women, such as mining or metallurgy. In 2019, the list was terminated by the presidential decree, although the professions are still listed in the labour code.

Darika Bolot and Shakhzoda Mirakova for Novastan

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The post Hitting the road: the first female bus drivers in Uzbekistan appeared first on Novastan English.

We are continuing our series of articles on Kazakhstani documentaries revolutionizing everyday life. Documentary film directors and producers Kristina Mikhailova, Dana Sabitova and Almira Ismailova analyze Kazakhstani documentaries in cultural, social and industrial contexts. This time we will focus on the short film “Alaqan” directed by Aida Adilbek, looking at its relationship with decoloniality and genre transgression, and talk to Aida herself about the family documentary.

Kristina Mikhailova: Aida Adilbek represented Kazakhstan this year at the goEast Film Festival, which for 20 years has been one of the most important platforms for films from Central Asia and Eastern Europe. Aida curated a program of short films by DAVRA, a collective of Central Asian female cultural activists. This year the film festival also held a symposium on the decolonization of the (post)soviet screen, where Aida was a speaker on the panel “Post-, Neo-, and De-colonial Central Asia“. This is where we should start discussing the film “Alaqan,” as it was Aida Adilbek who represented Kazakhstan in the context of decolonial optics, which is important for Central Asia in the current political climate.

Whereas for many years in a row, film festivals have turned directly to national film studios in search of  Central Asian films – Kazakhfilm, Uzbekfilm, Tajikfilm, Turkmenfilm, and Kyrgyzfilm, this year we can finally say that the Central Asian countries were represented by independent filmmakers. For Kazakhstan, this is a turning point in the perception of an unwieldy national film studio, which has long failed to reflect the state of Kazakhstani society on the screen.

Dana Sabitovia: “Kazakhfilm” remains a major player in the distribution of state funding. For example, in 2022, of the projects financed by the State Center for Support of National Cinema (SCSNC), only about 20% of the projects belonged to Kazakhfilm. After amendments to the Law on Cinematography were introduced at the end of 2022, only then would “Kazakhfilm” receive at least 35% of the total amount of funds that the state spends annually to support the production of national cinema.

In 2019, according to the audited reports of the SCSNC, the amount of state support for films amounted to 1.8 billion tenge, in 2020 – 3.76 billion tenge, in 2021 – 5.93 billion tenge. In 2021, 8.37 billion tenge was allocated, of which 3.8 billion was not utilized, which affected the reduction of the amount in 2023. In 2023, 6.02 billion tenge was allocated for state financing of cinema.

With scandals in the film industry starting in May, unscheduled inspections of the activities of the SCSNC, and, for the most part, the typical non-compliance with deadlines, it remains highly questionable whether in 2023 this support will be utilized and whether films will be made. Will these films, directors and producers represent Kazakhstan at major international film festivals with a decolonial lens, as in the case of Aida Adilbek?

The budget for the independent film “Alaqan” included only the camera rental and the purchase of three litres of milk. As a matter of principle, I would like to keep the production costs in litres, without converting it to tenge. Aida did everything herself: from the camera and sound recording to directing and editing. The fact that Aida is the nucleus of her own film, not allowing the crew into the space, creates an intimate atmosphere that is characteristic of the author’s documentary cinema and invites the audience to participate in the events taking place. Moreover, the filmmaker goes beyond the boundaries of auteur documentary cinema, experimenting with borderline states of form, closely observing her grandmother’s daily practices, sacralising them and perceiving them as ritual. This is an experimental docu-art.

Aida is a multidisciplinary artist and curator. Her artistic practice evolves around the ideas of femininity explored through cultural codes and the unfathomable simplicity of domestic life. She works in performance, video art and the documentation of reality. 

Almira Ismailova: If one could touch the forehead of the four films we studied, “Alaqan” would be the hottest. Aida’s grandmother, like a great foremother, rubs the malleable qurt in her hands, on which the entire life of her family is written. This action is akin to an ancient sacrament. The oldest woman of the family shows her granddaughter the process of preparing the qurt, from boiling the milk to shaping the oblong, brackish qurt. Aida familiarizes the viewer with this practice, watching only the hands of her grandmother and the other women of her family: Aida’s slender fingers rinse the kese (teacup) with water, and we see Aida’s mother’s hands watering the garden.

Applying Carl Jung’s theory of archetypes, developed by Jung as part of his study of the collective unconscious, to “Alaqan,” we see how the central image of Apa combines several archetypes. When the grandmother prepares the qurt, she realizes the archetype of the Creator. She worries for her relatives, realizing the archetype of Caring. When she reads a book, she realizes the archetype of the Child, marvelling at everything. We observe such a three-dimensional, even multidimensional character development in a short film, which is not always possible even in a full-length movie. Aida manages to do this solely through a sophisticated, unconventional form. In addition to intra-image dramaturgy, the author builds dramaturgical structure through locations. The heroines exist on three levels of existence: the grandmother lives in heaven, where she makes a white qurt; mother, as a tamer of black hose snakes, dwells in a dark dungeon; the two women meet on earth for tea with lepyoshka.

Aida Adilbek: Until I started editing the movie, I didn’t even know it would be a documentary. I had envisioned an experimental video, something static, like a video of making qurt. But when I watched all the footage, I suddenly realized that I wanted to leave all the roughness of the footage and the feeling of my observation. I liked the non-static footage better, which is a little wobbly. I’ve been told by a few movie friends that it’s a bit “off”. I, on the other hand, liked these scenes much better because they are lively, as is the whole voice cast, and the sounds that happen in the background. They were really stirring me up too, and I thought I wanted to leave it as it was.

In 2019 I started my master’s in London at Goldsmiths. I went to Almaty on my vacation. I think it happens so often that when you go away from somewhere for a long time (I was away for a year) and then come back, you see reality differently. I suddenly realized that my parents had aged. Then my grandmother came, and I realized that she had aged too. When I saw them all the time, I didn’t notice. And here, when a little time had passed for me away from them, I suddenly saw that they were ageing. They don’t last forever. And I started to have existential questions. And with the qurt, too, because my grandmother always brings me qurt. There are very few people in our family who like qurt as much as I do, so my grandmother purposely brings it to me.

I thought then that if my grandmother passed away, there would be no one else to make qurt. Not me, not my mom, not my sisters, no one. So I started recording my grandmother, following her around the house and filming her making qurt on my iPhone. None of that worked. I had a bit of a breakdown – I deleted all the files, I didn’t like them. But there was one freeze frame that I liked. It was a dark background with a very contrasting hand and a white qurt. That shot stayed in my head for a long time.

I came back to it while preparing an exhibition for Documenta with the DAVRA team. We talked to Saodat Ismailova, the creator of DAVRA, about the plans. I came back to the subject and said that I wanted to film my grandmother making qurt. She said: “Go ahead.” I borrowed a friend’s camera, told my grandmother, “When you get here, let’s make some.” She told me to buy three litres of fresh, steamed milk and prepare it so that it starts to sour. We bought it, started filming, and during the shooting I realized that this was a film about three generations of women in my family.

Kristina Mikhailova: It is absolutely impossible to imagine Aida with her warm project within the walls of “Kazakhfilm,” because the huge film studio can hardly accommodate Aida as an artist. It is also practically impossible to present Aida’s project as pitch to apply for state funding. Obviously, this situation needs to change, Aida documents our everyday life with stunning accuracy, constructing actual narratives about Kazakhstani society. But no one will allow directors and producers to spend public money on a personal movie about a grandmother. When you study documentary filmmaking, this is the first stereotype that Kazakhstani teachers will greet you with: “Make a movie about what you know! Make one about your grandmother.” In a way, this devalues any movie about a grandmother, about all the grandmothers of Kazakhstan, postulating it as something not serious, academic, amateur, and unimportant. But if every other viewer cried during screenings of “Alaqan,” why can’t we recognize that the personal and the family are the most important aspects through which we, as a society, form our subjectivity?

Read more on Novastan: Sweet Milky Corn:  the film, in which everyone recognizes themselves

I work as a documentary film director and producer. They are two positions that sometimes contrast each other. For me, as an artist, it is very important that these contrasting dialogues are within myself. The next commentary I say only as a producer who thinks about the developing horizons of documentary film including market horizons. Producers and decision-makers of documentary films in Kazakhstan focus on long outdated thematic constructs. SCSNC and the Ministry of Culture and Sport of Kazakhstan announced exclusively themed open calls. These slots are a monstrous legacy. Every documentary filmmaker is obliged to fit their feelings, vague premonitions and reflections of several years of his life into these slots. This is why I sharply contrast the notion of “documentary filmmaker” and “documentary artist”. “Documentary filmmaker” fulfils one’s expectations and fits into the shoebox of meanings prepared for him. The “documentary artist” independently initiates a topic that is interesting and feasible for them in the context of producing knowledge about Kazakhstani society.

Overcoming industry constraints is not the job of the documentary artist; it is the job of the producer. The producer secures financial opportunities, incorporates the artist’s unique vision into existing structures with their limitations, and advocates for the needs of the project throughout the production and distribution stages. We refer to the production of documentary filmmakers working with decolonial narratives as decolonial production.

But decolonial production in Kazakhstan currently doesn’t exist. Kazakhstani documentary film producers either work at “Kazakhfilm” or own private studios and ateliers producing commercial content. In the airless space of open talks, my colleagues engage in deep discussions about the creative industry, sharing naively optimistic hopes. It is easy to find many master classes by Kazakhstani documentary filmmakers on how to make real documentary films. But in practice, statistically assessing the industry, we see funding opportunities only for commercial orders and for films based on a thematic plan that has been handed down from above.

It is worth taking a complete look at the reasons for this. Current film professionals for the most part have direct or indirect backgrounds only in the Russian/Soviet education system. Interaction with the international film industry/education system is only available to a limited number of people. By the term “international industry” we do not mean the “Western” industry in its negative connotation, but the Asian, American and European markets together. Institutionally, such interaction is not supported in any way by the state or private foundations.

The knowledge obtained fragmentarily is introduced into the local industry and soon dies out as alien elements.

Elementary co-production in cinema with many countries is closed for Kazakhstan because we have not signed key conventions or memorandums. Lack of education and limited alternative financing options lead to the fact that there is no producer for Aida Adilbek’s next film. In the current outlook, her cinema will either exist marginalized for a narrow audience or will eventually transform into something conformist.

As a filmmaker and artist, I take a more gentle view of this painful question. My oppressed colleagues, professionally nurtured by the shock therapy of the 1990s, the financial pre-crisis debauchery of the 2000s, and the almost criminal laws of the local film industry of today, have no time, energy, or desire for reflection and solidarization. Especially if each of us personally is in total dependence on project financing. If there is a project, there is a budget, there are salaries, there are temporary minimum social guarantees. If there is no project, the whole scheme collapses for the 30-50 people involved in making the movie.

We at “Women make docs” organize online sessions for Central Asian documentary filmmakers and producers, where we introduce representatives of major international institutions and foundations to projects from the region in order to increase funding opportunities. Filmmakers from Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Turkmenistan ask the following questions: “Is there censorship in international foundations?”, “What genres do international foundations support?”, “What topics are of interest to international foundations?”.

Such questions suggest that documentary filmmakers in Central Asia think of themselves as craftsmen, fulfilling thematic and genre orders, which are censored at all stages of filmmaking, from idea to final cut.

Aida Adilbek was a participant in one of the sessions, where she asked whether international funds accept applications for hybrid films that combine several genres. The answer was positive, with the clarification that the average budget for such a film is 200-300 million tenge, while the Kazakhstani budget for documentaries is fixed between 25 and 50 million tenge.

The regional conference “Decolonization of Central Asia: Changing Narratives” organized by the Institute for War & Peace Reporting in Almaty on 15-17 March 2023 resulted in recommendation notes for civil society, governments, media and international organizations. In terms of documentary filmmaking and decolonial production, I think it is necessary to prioritize governmental-level financial support for documentary projects working in all forms and genres with the concept of Kazakhstani identity. Very personal, almost intimate documentary stories, family documentaries, archival documentaries – this is what will help ethically introduce the decolonial discourse into a broad public discussion without creating new collective trauma. Aida said in an interview about her first solo exhibition that for her, the process of decolonization is about putting ourselves at the center, producing knowledge about ourselves, taking close-up shots of ourselves. In this regard, it is noteworthy that “Alaqan” consists almost entirely of close-ups.

Aida Adilbek: For me, the close-up is, first of all, cozy. It’s a bit claustrophobic. It’s very strange. It’s a bit complicated because it doesn’t always fit everything. It’s incomprehensible, but at the same time it’s very clear to me. I think the close-ups are very sincere in the way everything works. The movie for me started with a contrasting close-up of my grandmother’s hands. And I called the movie “Alaqan” (kaz. for “palm” – editor’s note).

There are several meanings in the film title. Hands play a major role in the movie. They produce something or teach other hands to do something. I have a lot of videos on my phone of people doing something with their hands. It’s one of the most beautiful moments and the most sincere, when people are not concerned with how they look, who they are, what they are. They are completely in the process, including my mother and grandmother, who taught me different things in the movie.

Alaqan is also a two- to three-color pattern that looks like a snake. My interpretation is that this pattern is similar to the veins and arteries that are in our palms. They are yellow, green or blue, pink. During the DAVRA practices we were looking at what Ilon pari is. It is the spirit of the snake. When the snake peels off its skin, it is like a woman giving life to her daughter and passing on her most important qualities to her daughter. We are passing something very important from one woman to another from generation to generation. In fact, it’s like one woman living in different bodies for thousands of years. That was very important to me in the movie. That’s why the title somehow came together right away. “Alaqan” – these hands, this pattern that has the meaning of blood, and continuation, and palm, and everything.

My film during Documenta was a part of the project “Chilltan suv” (Uzbek. for “water of the Chiltans”) related to water. Chiltans are helper spirits that have different forms and manifestations. I wanted to think about how a woman heals the space, the people around her, the house and everything she touches through water, through milk. This is also why I included my mother’s gardening in the movie. I myself mostly have some still small domestic role, also related to water. I wash dishes.

Someone told me that the rain scene in the movie was unnecessary. Of course, I don’t tell everyone the concept of the connection with water, people don’t need to know. It’s only important for me to know. I always want to leave the rain in the final cut because it doesn’t have any intellectual context.

Almira Ismailova: I think the main theme that Aida reveals to the general audience in her movie is the fear of death. She tries to adopt her grandmother’s recipe for making qurt as soon as possible, and the camerawork and the choice of angles epitomize her desire. The grandmother’s regal calmness in the face of the inexorable end is palpable. Aida’s fear is not constraining. She even seems to resign herself to it. It is a constructive fear that shortens the distance between Aida and her grandmother. It made me wonder how this came to be. The dramaturgy of the movie does not obey the precepts of American textbooks about the three-act structure, and it is difficult to pinpoint exactly who the antagonist and protagonist are, yet Aida and the grandmother seem to oppose each other. When the protagonist realizes their similarities to the one they are opposed to, the story has a new dimension. Within the universe of the movie “Alaqan,” Aida and the grandmother together stop being afraid of dying. And this therapeutic effect gives Aida the opportunity to experience the loss of a loved one in real life.

The director skillfully works with subtext, revealing the image of the grandmother through action. As the qurt is being prepared, we hear from the grandmother: “Ädemileyin degen son, söytip shigadi goy – teris qaray” (“When you want to make it more beautiful, it turns out wrong”). She is touchingly worried that it is during the filming that the qurt will not turn out right. Aida’s grandmother carefully collects the mass from her hands, which is used to make the qurt, down to the last grain. She, as a person of the generation who has had many challenges, has a very reverent attitude to food. Milk was valued by Kazakhs as something sacred: it must not be spilled on the ground or desecrated. Probably, that is why white colour symbolizes something good and pure. If they wanted to praise a person in any way, they always added the word aq (Kaz. for “white”) – aq jarqin (Kaz. for “cheerful”), aq könil (Kaz. for “good-natured”). Through the episode with the joint reading of the story about Jirenshe and the clever girl, we understand what human qualities the grandmother admires. This way of telling about the hero allows the viewer to come to conclusions and makes the relationship between the author and the viewer comfortable, not abusive.

Aida Adilbek: The most important motto of my work – not only artistic, but also curatorial – is that I do it for myself. But it is important to make exhibitions for people, so I want to make them as comfortable as possible. The hall where I showed “Alaqan” during my solo exhibition was very cozy, comfortable, with carpeting and pillows. And during Documenta, the day of my solo exhibition, I had to put on a performance. The concept consisted of three parts: a sound installation, the movie “Alaqan” and a performance. All in different halls. Visitors walk through all three halls. The three works had to be connected several times a day. The movie was played cyclically in the hall and the audio installation was turned on three times a day. The performance was called “Chilltan suv.” Chilltan figures – conventionally creatures generated by water – appeared in the hall. During that performance, I suddenly realized that these creatures were milky, like qurt. Probably, when all rivers and waters originated from Umai, they were filled with the milk of her breasts.

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This article was first published by Vlast.kz

Visual materials are provided by the “Women make docs” collective

The post “Alaqan”: Aida Adilbek’s decolonial documentary cinema appeared first on Novastan English.

A heated debate continues in Kazakhstan’s film industry around redistribution of the resources among the titular creative elite, privileged officials, and monopolists of the field. The industry, which depends entirely on state funding, is paralysed by unscheduled audits and constant postponements. Filmmakers speak out against each other, finding neither collegiality nor professional solidarity. The only possible way out of the corruption scandals is to focus on the films produced by this film industry, which remain permanently invisible to the Kazakhstani audience.

In this series of articles, directors and producers Kristina Mikhailova, Dana Sabitova and Almira Ismailova take an in-depth look at Kazakhstani documentaries from artistic, production, industrial and social perspectives, and discuss with the directors the very conditions of existence of their breakthrough films.

Kristina Mikhailova: We act as a “Women make docs” collective and, being documentary filmmakers ourselves, we decided to reflect on the work of our colleagues together and to bring it into the sphere of public discussion. Our country constantly lacks professionals who write about cinema, and especially about documentaries. We read short audience reviews, near-professional personal reflections, and impressions, but very few authors try to analyse the films themselves and their inner potential, rather than solely the influx of cash for the creative industry. Over the last couple of years, we have taken part in several documentary filmmakers’ associations, which has given us a clear understanding that contemporary auteur documentary filmmaking in Kazakhstan exists under very specific conditions. One of the aims of this series of articles is to try to make sense of this complexity in its entirety, without rejecting or neglecting it. Why should audiences make an effort to find and watch Kazakhstani documentaries that you will never see in the cinema?

Almira Ismailova: Just a few years ago, when documentaries were becoming more and more relevant and spectacular all over the world, when creative documentaries were winning Grand Prix at Class A festivals (“Honeyland” Sundance, 2019 and “On the Adamant” Berlinale, 2022), when documentaries were entering live action territory and winning Oscars (“Nomadland” Chloé Zhao, 2020), Kazakh cinema continued to spew the templates of traditional TV format. However, the year 2022 became a time of transformation for Kazakh documentary filmmaking and the emergence of artists in it. While watching the latest films that have come out, we have seen some trends that are important to pay attention to.

Kristina Mikhailova: Our focus is on four key films: “Jel paıda bolǵan jer” (“The place where the wind starts”) by Dzhanibek Murtazin and “Voice of the Glacier” by Yadykar Ibraimov, both funded by the State Centre for National Film Support, as well as “Sweet Milky Corn” by Aizhan Kassymbek and “Alaqan” (“The palm”) by Aida Adilbek, both of which were created by independent authors. These films stand out in the stream of niche documentaries, available to Kazakhstani viewers on YouTube or television, which are characterized by their exceptionally informative presentation style, acute social agenda and ‘talking heads’. Whereas, documentary cinema in the world is an international language with unique tools for making sense of reality. Why do viewers trust documentary more and more? Because documentary is taking the form of a revelation, becoming an increasingly intimate artistic statement. Finally, we can say that almost radical artists have appeared on the documentary scene in Kazakhstan, who are not just fast melting state or scarce independent grant money, but are developing their own distinctive style, questioning hierarchies, and revolutionizing everyday life.

Almira Ismailova: We will start with Aizhan Kassymbek’s “Sweet Milky Corn.” The film’s genre is that of an acute social documentary. The main character, Kairat, is an orphan boy who suffered a head injury as a child. He, like Odysseus, wanders the residential neighbourhoods of Almaty and sells sweet milky corn. He dreams of getting a house and believes in people’s ability to see him as an equal. We are used to the fact that in fiction films, the hero is plagued by conflicts invented by the screenwriter. In a documentary, the protagonist comes to the filmmaker with a set of conflicts. Depending on which subject the director focuses on, these “sores” are revealed. Aizhan, why, for you, is Kairat the protagonist of a documentary?

Aizhan Kassymbek: In documentary cinema, I think the most important thing is to find the main character of the film. Kairat always lived next door to me. I used to hear him walking around the yard every summer and shouting: “Sweet Milky Corn!” I decided to meet him. When I talked to him, I saw some sort of infinite kindness and warmth from a man whose life has been doomed to suffer since birth. He is in a very difficult situation. In addition to living in poverty, he was abandoned as a child and has a disability. Due to a head injury, he was placed in a mental facility and was there for about 8 years. It was a great shock and revelation for me to stand next to a man who has had such a difficult life and that he sees the world as a nice place and still has some hopes, some dreams. He doesn’t want to achieve something huge or high up. No, he just wants to have a business, and that business will be built on selling corn. I realized I wanted to make a film about him because he is a unique person.

Almira Ismailova: Aizhan’s work is a striking example of a character-driven documentary, and Kairat is a very lively, active, and enterprising character. He is busily writing down his income and expenses in a notebook, making plans on how to spend it. Next to him, we see a domineering, strong woman, his adoptive mother. She peels corn and smokes a thick cigarette majestically. Aizhan, as a director, apotheosizes her majesty. The mother says that when Kairat gets a flat from the state, they will let him live alone. In doing so, Aizhan offers the viewer a world where not everything is so obvious. We understand that relationships in the family are complicated and confusing, and the likelihood of getting a flat tends towards zero. The author leaves us alone with these thoughts; the understatement becomes the very way the director interacts with the viewer. This understatement emotionally charges the story.

Kristina Mikhailova: Aizhan’s character is a typical hero of a social story, but we see that the author has a very atypical attitude towards him as a hero of tragedy. Kazakh documentaries, as well as documentaries from the entire post-Soviet space, always position themselves negatively towards tragic events. The viewer feels pity for unhappy people because they are doomed to feel pity. Without any alternative optics, without any artistic comprehension. This may sound harsh, but this way the authors are engaged in a historical falsification, an idealization of the suffering tragic hero. Such falsification evokes a natural emotional rejection, especially in documentary films, because we, as viewers, expect to see a documentary reality captured on the screen, but all we see is a false documentary interpretation. I think there have been so many documentaries of this kind, especially on television, that it is very difficult to overcome this bias emotionally.

But Aizhan has succeeded. It’s amazing, but in the two feature-length films that Aizhan has had time to make in her ten-year career as a director, I fully identify with the characters who appear on the screen. I’m talking about the films “Ot” (“Fire”) and “Sweet Milky Corn”, where the main characters are middle-aged men who struggle daily to survive on the outskirts of the city. And I differ from them. We are in completely different positions, but after each film I am left with the feeling that Aizhan has made a film about me again, about my neighbors from the outskirts and center of Almaty, about my fellow filmmakers who are forever in debts and without the minimum social security. That’s why we put the title “The film, in which everyone recognizes themselves”. Aizhan doesn’t idealize Kairat. In one scene, his adoptive mother says, “Sometimes he shouts, ‘Shut your mouth!’. I am afraid of him in these moments. Kairat is a big lad, he could hit you. He won’t face consequences, he has a yellow card [card for the mentally disabled].”

Guided by the typical logic of creators of “pity” documentaries, this scene simply should not be in the film. But Aizhan has this scene, and for me, it reveals the reverse side of the character’s infinite kindness. We ponder what Kairat’s submissive acceptance of his own extreme oppression has transformed into.

Almira Ismailova: Yes, indeed, this kind of hero was impossible ten years ago. Suffice it to compare Kairat with the heroes of Adilkhan Yerzhanov’s “Constructors” and “The Owners”. They do not know how to survive in the world of capitalism, corruption, and lawlessness, infinitely imitating life instead of living. Kairat has the courage to face his fears and is excited by the very will to live. There is no blind obedience to fate in him; he is so strong and inventive that he is able to gamble with destiny. Kairat barely makes ends meet, but he insists that selling corn is a business, treating his humble livelihood as an entrepreneur’s income. This choice is probably driven by desperation, but Aizhan presents Kairat as an active, resilient man with an entrepreneurial streak. She is keenly aware of Kairat as a hero of our time.

Aizhan also raises the question of how people with disabilities are treated in Kazakh society. One of the directors of the orphanage dissuaded Kairat’s adoptive mother from taking him. “Jyndy boldy deıdi da“ [“He said he’s gone crazy”], says the foster mother regarding one case of Kairat’s placement in a psychiatric hospital. The woman understands in her gut how much Kairat needs family and freedom. In another scene, the funicular trip to Kok-Tobe, Kairat’s friend tells him how he fought in court to get his legal capacity back. We see how the seemingly sensitive and commonly used word ‘special’ offends such people.

Aizhan’s camera captures the vibrant matriarchal beginnings of Kazakh society. We literally feel the tight rope of Kairat’s relationship with his mother trembling, we realise her importance to Kairat. Throughout the film, they experience a spectrum of emotions: tenderness, fear, and despair. In the final scene at the wedding, the two of them sit together on a bench in the courtyard, in identical poses, and smoke cigarettes. They are calm and at peace. They are becoming equal.

Also notable is the shot in which the three grannies go on patrol in flip-flops and colourful dresses. Aizhan had a wide shot of their movement along houses crossing the road, along vegetable stalls and small shops. In the scene finale, they walk away into the archway between the houses. This scene is musically intensified, brought to the level of absurdity of Jim Jarmusch, with whom Aizhan has been compared in the pages of Variety. With this scene, Aizhan confesses her love for the sometimes unsightly and grey but important for her Almaty. She places her characters in a non-ideal but dear and cosy atmosphere of “mikry” (residential neighbourhoods), where life flows and people eat sweet milky corn.

Dana Sabitova: Speaking of the author’s background, Aizhan has established herself as a director of feature films. Her debut feature film, “Ot” (“Fire”), premiered at the Busan International Film Festival in South Korea. “Fire” tells the story of a “kedei jomart”, a generous poor man, Tolepbergen, who embodies the stubborn, unhappy, resilient Kazakh people. This film was funded by the State Centre for the Support of National Cinema (SCSNC) in 2020, with a budget of thirty-four million tenge (£60,000). For a feature film with 25 shooting days, this is an unbearable minimum, with almost no sufficient salary for the film crew. State financing involves enormous bureaucracy and tight deadlines, which unfortunately only apply to filmmakers and not the State Centre. The deadlines for the payment of tranches to film workers by the SCSNC are routinely violated and not regulated by any supervisory authority. Apparently, this is why when Aizhan started working on her documentary debut, she did not consider the possibility of state public funding.

Aizhan Kassymbek: We started shooting in 2018 with very little funding, which was only enough to rent a camera. The shooting lasted for two years. For two years, whenever we had a bit of money, we ran to shoot Kairat. I didn’t expect any help from the government. To be honest, I didn’t even know where to apply with such an idea, it was 2018. And even now I don’t know where to apply. Yes, you can go to the SCSNC, but it’s a very long wait and the story slowly disappears. It was very important for us to capture some key moments in the life of the protagonist.

Documentary filmmaking works with a complicated system. You first write a script, fill out applications, look for a budget, apply to local and international funds, and only then do you start shooting. Everything takes a very, very long time. That’s where the big difficulty is because everything disappears: the character, the situation. To be honest, I still don’t know how you can work on a documentary when you know all this stuff.

Kristina Mikhailova: I heard from Aizhan several times that she quits cinema. But I’m glad it always turned out to be a joke filled with despair and sadness. Of course, I completely share the bewilderment as to why directors and producers continue to work within this system, which has been designed, seemingly on purpose, so that documentary filmmakers have no chance to make their voices heard. This seems quite logical, because a good documentary film is a wide discussion about our society at international film festivals, on major streaming platforms. If Aizhan’s film criticizes the injustice of the social hierarchy existing in Kazakhstan, asks uncomfortable questions and claims to be a politicized artistic event, then the state structures that create and multiply official narratives create conditions that make it impossible for Aizhan’s film to exist.

But this film does exist. We write about it; we look for ways to overcome this situation. A distinctive feature of such social films is the potential impact factor. Special international funds create a safe space for this kind of cinema, providing funding. But you can imagine how competitive they are. And the important fact here is that Aizhan’s story is extremely local. It has to be seen by a Kazakh audience; it’s made for our society. I especially want to point out that with regard to “pity” gruesome cinema there was a stereotype that the authors are motivated by greed, that it is a cheat code to get to international festivals, that the authors make films about our depressive reality in order to gain favor with international institutions and festivals. That’s not true, this is a myth! There isn’t even an equivalent of the word “chernukha” in English [literally – “blackness”, metaphorically – “nastiness”]. This kind of cinema is not a popular product on the international market. It is up to Kazakhstani audience to support Aizhan’s next film by co-opting and creating alternative avenues of financing. Because Aizhan, in turn, is creating a cinema to be a screen-sized mirror for our society.

Dana Sabitova: As a producer who works directly with the crew and manages the production processes, I can’t help but talk about the crew. Aizhan created her film in close tandem with cinematographer Aigul Nurbulatova, whose work was in competition at this year’s Cannes Film Festival. It is a very special and personal experience, with the director following the characters through the film and the cinematographer controlling the third eye, shadowing them. It is through this third eye of the cinematographer that the audience can see the film. Aigul has filled the film with a special space, where we can breathe in the atmosphere of a “Baraholka” flea market or a neighbourhood in Almaty. This atmosphere is almost non-existent in the space of Kazakh films, as if “Baraholka” does not exist in our reality at all.

Going back to the question of limited funding opportunities, the total budget of the film does not exceed one million tenge (£1,750), including a cash prize of $1,000 from Internews at the AÝT Central Asia pitching of the Qara Film Fest documentary festival in 2021. It’s safe to say that this is a utopian budget. Only the director’s stubborn focus on her character and a burning desire allowed this film to be born. The cinematographer and the director worked for free.

In documentary filmmaking, it is impossible to get the whole production budget at once, as it is in feature films or TV series, for example. Documentaries are made gradually as money comes in for the different stages of production. Yes, it does take a very long time, and it is impossible to get funding from foreign institutions without some kind of pre-production, without visual material for the future film. In the European film industry, this problem is solved by separate funds that only finance the initial development and research of the project. This takes one or two years of fully paid work. In most cases, the Kazakhstani production scheme of the State Centre offers three months for the full production, from the idea to finished DCP. That means that if you need more, the development and preliminary research should be made by the director and producer for free, with no salary or resources. Theoretically, it is possible to start work on a film with state public funding only for the development. But, firstly, for some reason such precedents have not happened. Secondly, in this case, 100% of copyright for the film would be owned by the Ministry of Culture and Sports of Kazakhstan. Subsequently, not being owners of the rights, the authors of the film cannot apply for further financing to any foreign fund.

It’s a vicious circle. So, it turns out that while the heart and soul burns for the cinema, the authors either agree to impossible deadlines or shoot independently, with practically no budget. That’s what Aizhan did, too. In both cases, this leads to directors and producers to burn out quickly. They have no energy left to think about how these films will reach the audience, distribution, sales and film festivals. Aizhan could also shoot the first material on her own, and then find an international co-producer and participate in international pitchings. But this option only works if the author is prepared to work on the film under risky conditions for at least five years, the first three of which are free of charge.

Kristina Mikhailova: We want to talk to the audience about this film because, although it addresses a common acute social theme – people living in difficult social conditions – it transforms this oppressive reality with the unbearable lightness of its style. Aizhan Kassymbek treats her characters with a degree of love where pity and sympathy are expressed through great respect for another person’s sense of dignity, as opposed to the arrogant fixation of another person’s grief. The step from political exploitation of the subject to artistic and political reflection is precisely why every Kazakhstani citizen will recognize themselves in “Sweet Milky Corn.”

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

This article was first published by Vlast.kz

Translated by Anna Wilhelmi

Edited by Abby Scripka

Visual materials are provided by the ‘Women make docs’ collective

The post Sweet Milky Corn:  the film, in which everyone recognizes themselves appeared first on Novastan English.

Three French-Korean brothers have set themselves the challenge of driving from their native Alsace in France to South Korea − a family adventure they share on their Youtube channel. Novastan went to meet them in the Kyrgyz capital, Bishkek, where they are working on a number of documentaries on nomadic culture and traditions.

It was in April 2021 that the Philippe brothers hit the road. “The three of us did reunite at our parents’ place, in Alsace, and it hadn’t been the case for a long time“, the eldest of the trio, François Phillipe, explains. At that time, Michel had just completed his studies, François was back from his trip to Turkey and Stéphane left his job.

The plan is to cross part of the globe aboard their 4×4 Nissan Pathfinder to reach Korea, the land of their ancestors. It was an idea that ran over François’ mind, who then had already hitched his way to Turkey one year prior, joined by his brother Stéphane up until Greece.

In Bishkek, while they are busy editing several videos for their YouTube channel, Novastan went to meet them. It has been four months since they arrived in Central Asia. After several months spent in Turkey, Georgia and Iran, they went through Russia to cross Kazakhstan and undertook a journey through Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. But it is in Kyrgyzstan that the three siblings stayed for the longest time, appealed by nomadic life and Kyrgyz culture.

A childhood dream for the family

“We always told ourselves that someday, we would go round the world,” Stéphane Philippe explains. “And today, it is finally really happening!”

“Sons of East and West”, like they nickname themselves on their YouTube channel, felt the need to reconnect with their identity. As dual citizens, they discuss at length the hurdle of identifying themselves at the crossroads of two cultures, but also the richness this situation brings them.

To them, one of the most exciting aspects of this journey is to undertake it with family. “In the future, we will have children, a family of our own, and we will not be able to do it between siblings ever again, so it is now or never,” Michel Philippe discloses. The vlog format on YouTube also seems to them to be a way to create lasting memories.

Nomadic culture and traditions

Indeed, the siblings want to highlight both lifestyles and ancestral traditions. “We can see how the world is modernising, so we want at any cost to film traditions, nomadic life, because it actually is an emergency“, François explains. While passing through Georgia for several months, they dwelled on transhumance practice on a mostly little known to tourists road, even unknown, which earned them recognition from the locals. In Iran, the three brothers spent several weeks in contact with the nomads, in an attempt to discover specificities of their culture.

It is sometimes challenging in countries which gradually open themselves to mass tourism. But through “random” encounters, they nevertheless reach inhabitants who show them the way to their unique history.

Central Asia, a must-see

What is better than Central Asia to discover nomadic lifestyles? Since the beginning of this journey, this is the region they dreamed about − a step they did not want to miss at all cost, as they explain in videos while facing the camera, although it would have been easier to cross Asia Minor in order to reach Eastern Asia. Kazakh and Kyrgyz steppes were worth the travel for the three siblings.

“We really craved to discover Central Asia and its nomadic culture, it was very important for us,” explain the brothers almost in unison. On the programme: a documentary on eagle hunting in Kyrgyzstan, on transhumance, and on the mythical game of kok-boru.

Another milestone − to meet the Korean Diaspora of Kazakhstan, deported since the Stalin era: a very important identity matter. A teaser of the reporting was posted on their YouTube channel, which will deal with Korean traditions that continue to live on in Kazakh steppes.

Not always a simple journey

The travellers-youtubers also open up about their daily challenges to travel. “We are far from being professionals“, one of them discloses. With the journey itself to be organised, the idea to produce full-length documentaries may be constraining. “But we are attempting to progressively become professionals to have a good video rhythm and qualitative content.”

In their videos, the YouTubers do not hesitate to share occasional challenges they meet on the road. Their car breaking down atop a mountain range in Kyrgyzstan, the failure to meet a snow panther, or the struggle to cross terrestrial borders, which sometimes are closed or packed.

“To cross the border between Russia and Kazakhstan took us three days!” Arriving a few days after September 21, 2022, the Philippe siblings were on the border at the same time as thousands of Russians fleeing partial mobilisation. In a video, they describe daily life in the line to the border control, but also the anxiety of these thousands of Russians attempting to escape war.

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

The post The Philippe brothers: a journey from France to Korea via Central Asia appeared first on Novastan English.