As tourism, infrastructure projects and interest in mineral resources reshape Gilgit-Baltistan, questions over land ownership, political representation and the distribution of economic benefits are becoming increasingly urgent. Nadia Ali, a researcher at bicc-Bonn International Centre for Conflict Studies, examines questions of land governance, development and political marginalisation in Gilgit-Baltistan. Drawing on her research in Hunza and Gilgit, she discusses the region’s contested constitutional status, the implications of land reforms, the expansion of tourism and the challenges facing local communities.

Situated at the intersection of Pakistan, China, India and Afghanistan, Gilgit-Baltistan occupies a strategically important position in South Asia. Its mountains, glaciers and valleys have attracted growing numbers of tourists, while the Karakoram Highway and the China–Pakistan Economic Corridor (CPEC) have reinforced its significance for trade and connectivity.

Read more on Novastan: Gwadar, Karachi and the Central Asian Dream of the Sea

Yet Gilgit-Baltistan remains outside Pakistan’s constitutional provincial structure. For many of its residents, economic development has therefore brought renewed questions about who controls the region’s land, resources and political future.

Nadia Ali, a researcher whose work examines land governance, development and political marginalisation in Gilgit-Baltistan, has studied these tensions, including through fieldwork in Hunza. In this interview with Novastan, she discusses the region’s contested constitutional status, the implications of the 2025 land reforms, the expansion of tourism and the challenges facing local communities.

A region whose political aspirations remain overlooked

Novastan: Gilgit-Baltistan is often discussed internationally primarily in relation to the wider Kashmir dispute. What does this framing miss about the political and social realities of the region today?

Nadia Ali: Gilgit-Baltistan is not Kashmir. Yet its political fate is entangled in the India–Pakistan dispute over Jammu and Kashmir because of its historical connection to the former princely state. This has shaped how the region is represented internationally, often leaving its distinct political realities and the aspirations of its people invisible.

Both Azad Jammu and Kashmir and Gilgit-Baltistan are administered by Pakistan, but neither has the same constitutional status as Pakistan’s provinces. While Azad Jammu and Kashmir has its own interim constitutional framework and elected institutions, Gilgit-Baltistan operates under a separate administrative arrangement.

It does not enjoy full constitutional provincial status or representation in Pakistan’s federal parliament. Instead, it has been governed through a series of Governance Orders that have provided limited substantive political empowerment.

At the same time, Gilgit-Baltistan’s strategic location has made it increasingly important for Pakistan’s regional connectivity ambitions. The Karakoram Highway, its subsequent upgrades and its integration into CPEC have encouraged tourism and growing state and private interest in land and mineral extraction.

Read more on Novastan: Can Afghanistan Become Central Asia’s Bridge to the South?

Yet this growing economic importance has not brought constitutional recognition. In my view, the region’s legal ambiguity facilitates state control and external investment while weakening customary land rights.

International discussions that consider Gilgit-Baltistan only through the Kashmir dispute risk further marginalising local aspirations by subordinating people’s rights and agency to competing claims of sovereignty.

How would you describe the relationship between Gilgit-Baltistan and the Pakistani state? What are the main sources of political frustration today?

The relationship is marked by a fundamental contradiction: the state seeks control over the territory without fully assuming the political responsibilities that should accompany it.

Many residents want to be recognised as full citizens, with meaningful political representation and access to the rights and protections afforded to citizens elsewhere in Pakistan.

The state values Gilgit-Baltistan’s strategic location, land, water, mountains and mineral resources, but its inhabitants remain in a condition of legal uncertainty.

The main sources of frustration include unresolved constitutional status, limited representation, contested land rights, control over natural resources and insufficient local influence over decisions affecting people’s lives.

These concerns should not necessarily be interpreted as opposition to Pakistan itself. They are often demands for recognition, accountable governance and a meaningful voice in the region’s economic and political future.

The central question is not simply who exercises sovereignty over Gilgit-Baltistan, but whether those governing the territory are accountable to the people who live there.

Land rights and the struggle over ownership

Land has become an increasingly important political and economic issue. What is driving disputes over ownership, and what do they reveal about power and representation?

Land is particularly contentious because it is not merely an economic asset. It is also a source of community identity, livelihood and political authority.

Gilgit-Baltistan’s mountainous geography means that cultivable and residential land is limited. Expanding tourism and growing interest in mineral extraction have further increased its value.

Disputes are rooted in overlapping systems of ownership, including customary practices, communal and individual claims, and state legislation.

The Khalisa Sarkar framework, under which certain lands were classified as state property, was a particularly important source of conflict. Local communities challenged state claims over land they considered their own.

Although the 2025 land reforms abolished this framework, that does not necessarily resolve longstanding disputes over communal rights, ownership and administrative authority.

New forms of territorial control can emerge through legal reclassification, privatisation and commercial investment. The implementation of the reforms could therefore generate further disputes.

These disagreements go beyond property rights. They concern who has the authority to define ownership, regulate land use and determine who benefits from economic development.

In a region without full constitutional recognition, unresolved political questions directly affect communities’ ability to protect their livelihoods and retain control over natural resources.

Infrastructure: Greater connectivity, unequal benefits?

Large-scale infrastructure projects have transformed parts of Gilgit-Baltistan. How have they affected local communities, and who has benefited most?

Infrastructure projects have significantly improved connectivity between Gilgit-Baltistan and the rest of Pakistan.

The Karakoram Highway and other roads have made travel and the transport of goods easier. They have supported tourism and trade while improving access to education, healthcare and employment opportunities outside the region.

However, the Karakoram Highway was not built solely to improve mobility. It has also served Pakistan’s geopolitical interests, strengthened state control and attracted private investment in tourism and mineral extraction.

Beyond roads, investment in hydropower remains limited relative to the region’s potential. Communities continue to experience severe electricity shortages.

The Diamer-Bhasha Dam, a 4,500-megawatt project under construction, is primarily intended to contribute to Pakistan’s wider electricity generation and water-storage capacity, rather than provide a dedicated electricity supply for Gilgit-Baltistan.

Its development raises important questions about how costs and benefits are distributed between affected communities and the wider national population.

Digital connectivity also creates opportunities for communication, education and online employment. However, service quality remains uneven, particularly in remote mountain communities.

Major infrastructure projects may promote economic growth, but their lasting value depends on whether they address local needs and environmental risks. Community-focused development initiatives, including those associated with the Aga Khan Development Network, offer examples of approaches that emphasise local participation.

Tourism transforms Hunza’s economy and landscape

Tourism has expanded considerably in Gilgit-Baltistan. What changes have you observed, particularly in Hunza, where you conducted research?

Tourism has significantly transformed local economies and communities in Hunza, generating opportunities while intensifying environmental pressures and changing traditional livelihoods.

I see tourism not simply as economic development, but as a process that reshapes people’s relationships with land, resources and local ways of life.

In Hunza, tourism has created employment and business opportunities for guesthouse owners, restaurant operators, transport providers and tour guides.

However, it has also attracted investors from other parts of Pakistan, raising questions about who captures the greatest economic benefits.

One of the most significant concerns is the conversion of agricultural land, particularly within Hunza’s green belt, into concrete buildings, including multi-storey tourism facilities.

This transformation threatens mountain agriculture and the ecological character of the region.

Local communities are increasingly moving away from subsistence farming towards tourism-related livelihoods, potentially weakening traditional relationships with land.

Yet tourism is not the only driver of change. Rising educational attainment, employment opportunities in cities and remittances from younger generations working elsewhere in Pakistan and abroad also influence household aspirations and land-use patterns.

The central tension is between tourism’s immediate economic benefits and its longer-term social and environmental costs.

Hunza’s experience highlights the need to ask who controls land, who benefits from tourism and how development can be balanced with the protection of local livelihoods and ecosystems.

China’s presence: More visible in trade than everyday politics

Gilgit-Baltistan is strategically important for Pakistan’s connectivity with China. How visible is China in everyday life, and how do local communities perceive this relationship?

China’s presence is shaped by cross-border trade, infrastructure development, tourism and wider economic cooperation with Pakistan.

However, it is not necessarily highly visible in everyday political and economic life.

Beyond official narratives surrounding CPEC and the Pakistan–China strategic partnership, people encounter China’s presence more routinely through Chinese products in local markets, tourists visiting during the summer and official delegations.

The growing availability of Chinese-language courses at universities and other institutions also reflects the educational dimensions of this relationship.

Public perceptions are influenced by narratives portraying China as Pakistan’s close friend and an emerging global power.

My research suggests that these perceptions are not uniform. Positive views are particularly evident among people involved in cross-border trade, who see China as a source of economic opportunity.

At the same time, increasing regulations and taxation are placing pressure on small-scale traders, making it more difficult for some to sustain their livelihoods.

Climate change becomes a political question

Gilgit-Baltistan is highly exposed to environmental pressures. How are these interacting with tourism and development, and to what extent have they become political issues locally?

Climate change and environmental degradation pose major challenges because local communities depend on fragile mountain ecosystems, glaciers, agricultural land and transport routes vulnerable to natural hazards.

Rising temperatures and glacial instability threaten lives, livelihoods and essential infrastructure.

Read more on Novastan: On a disappearing Kyrgyz glacier, seven women learn to read the ice

Landslides and flooding damage roads, hydropower facilities, irrigation channels and bridges, disrupting access to markets and public services.

Tourism is adding further pressure on limited water and electricity supplies, inadequate waste-management systems and local ecosystems.

These pressures are especially difficult to manage where communities already face gaps in public services and have limited influence over development priorities.

Environmental threats increasingly intersect with political grievances. Protests over electricity shortages, clean drinking water and inadequate services are often connected to broader concerns about political exclusion and unequal development.

Climate change is therefore not simply an environmental issue in Gilgit-Baltistan. It is increasingly inseparable from questions of governance, representation and accountability.

What future for Gilgit-Baltistan?

Looking ahead, what developments do you think will shape Gilgit-Baltistan most profoundly over the next decade? Could its relationship with Pakistan change?

I believe climate change, mineral extraction, tourism expansion and implementation of the 2025 land reforms will be particularly important.

Climate change is perhaps the most immediate threat, given the region’s exposure to glacial lake outburst floods, landslides and extreme weather.

A second major development will be growing interest in mineral extraction, including through Pakistan–China cooperation.

These investments may create economic opportunities, but they could also intensify conflicts over land ownership, communal resources and the distribution of benefits.

The implementation of the Land Reforms Act 2025 will be equally important. Its consequences will depend on whether the authorities address existing disputes and recognise local communities’ claims in practice.

If decision-making remains concentrated in state institutions and external commercial interests, the reforms could reproduce longstanding patterns of marginalisation.

I therefore expect Gilgit-Baltistan’s unequal relationship with the Pakistani state to persist through new forms of economic and territorial control, unless communities gain greater influence over decisions affecting their future.

Meaningful change requires more than economic investment or land reform. It demands political representation, legal protections and recognition of the region’s rights.

Without these, Gilgit-Baltistan risks becoming increasingly valuable to external actors while its inhabitants remain politically marginalised.

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

The post Gilgit-Baltistan: Who Benefits from Development in Pakistan’s Mountain North? appeared first on Novastan English.

In Kazakhstan, autumn marks the return of military conscription. While some young men consider military service a duty to their country, others go to great lengths to avoid it. In Astana, accounts of forced recruitment in public places and violence in military barracks continue to fuel widespread distrust of the army.

Soutien à Novastan

Kazakhstan launched its autumn conscription campaign in September, with the government planning to call up approximately 23,000 men aged 18 to 27 by the end of December.

A legacy of the Soviet era, compulsory military service remains a significant social issue in Kazakhstan, affecting young men across the country. In principle, eligible men are required to serve for one year, undergoing physical and theoretical training designed to familiarise them with military life and discipline. In practice, however, many seek to avoid conscription, employing various strategies to obtain exemptions or deferments.

Despite conscription being compulsory, the army struggles to attract recruits, partly because of its troubled reputation. In recent years, increasingly aggressive recruitment practices have emerged, including reports of young men being forcibly taken away by police officers in public places.

Violence and controversy in the army

Novastan spoke to residents of Astana, Kazakhstan’s capital, to better understand their perceptions and experiences of military service. Among those interviewed, compulsory service was generally viewed negatively, with concerns about violence and safety frequently raised.

“I personally wouldn’t go. Every year, hundreds of young men come back injured. Some die, others commit suicide. There’s so much violence. Our country isn’t even at war, so it makes no sense,” says Jordan, a 23-year-old IT worker.

Conscription is indeed a source of anxiety for many Kazakhstanis. Reports of deaths, injuries, bullying and suicides have contributed to a widespread perception of military service as dangerous.

Read more on Novastan: “Inside Kazakhstan’s Army: A Harrowing Account of Violence” (in French).

One of the most widely discussed cases in recent years involved Mukhtar Yerebatan, an 18-year-old conscript who suffered a serious head injury during his service. After spending two years in a coma, he died on 23 June 2026, reigniting public controversy over violence within the military. According to the official account, he sustained the injury after accidentally falling in a toilet. His family disputes this explanation and suspects that he was deliberately assaulted.

More recently, the reported deaths of around ten young conscripts in an accident in the Caspian Sea intensified parents’ anger and concerns about military service, raising further questions about the army’s ability to protect those under its responsibility.

“The news is terrifying. If I had a son, I would never let him join the army,” says Samal, a flight attendant and mother living in Astana.

Faced with these concerns, many young men devise strategies to avoid conscription, often with the support of their families and personal networks. Some rely on legal provisions, while others resort to connections or potentially corrupt practices.

Those declared medically unfit are exempt from military service, while university enrolment can provide grounds for a deferment.

Timur, 22, a former economics and business student, says that many young men enrol at university primarily to avoid the army. He explains his own reluctance to serve:

“I don’t think it’s really for me. I don’t want to waste a year of my life. It’s not the right time. I have personal plans, I want to buy an apartment, travel…”

Ruslan, 26, a content creator who holds a PhD in anthropology, pursued higher education both out of an interest in his subject and because studying allowed him to postpone compulsory military service.

“After 25, if you haven’t served yet, you can avoid the one-year service by completing a 40-day military training course. You have to pay for it, but the conditions are much less harsh, and you’re treated better than during the regular one-year service,” he explains.

‘Abductions’ and forced conscription

With the authorities struggling to meet annual recruitment targets, the Ministry of Defence has increasingly relied on forceful recruitment methods, according to local residents.

Some describe these practices as “abductions” or “kidnappings”, referring to cases in which police officers and military personnel reportedly take young men from public places and bring them to military recruitment offices, sometimes without a clear legal justification.

Timur explains that during conscription campaigns, many young men avoid public spaces for fear of being forcibly taken away.

“The police go to places like the botanical garden, where lots of young people hang out, including potentially those who haven’t served yet. They might also go to clubs, billiard halls or video game arcades, the kinds of places where young men usually spend time.”

An informal warning network has even emerged on 2GIS, a popular mapping and navigation application in Kazakhstan, allowing users to alert one another to the presence of recruitment officers.

Users can leave comments about public locations and warn others about areas where police are reportedly carrying out conscription operations. In one message shown to Novastan by Timur, an anonymous user warns about a public garden in Astana: “Police present for conscription. They have trucks.”

Unlike some of his friends, who limit their outings during recruitment campaigns, Timur has decided not to change his daily routine.

“It would be practically impossible to keep track of every place where they might find me. A friend of mine went to a shop near his home. When he came out, they grabbed him, put him in a car and took him straight to the military recruitment office. You can get caught anywhere, but I don’t want to spend my life locked inside my house. Maybe I’ve just been lucky,” he says with a smile.

Yet Timur has himself been picked up by police officers several times over the past two years, since leaving university.

To avoid being conscripted, he has relied primarily on his personal connections.

“I have friends, including some who work in government institutions. Let’s just say they have administrative resources. Whenever I called them, I was released immediately,” he explains.

He also recounts how a friend narrowly avoided military service after being taken away by the police. His father reportedly helped him enrol at a university at the last minute, allowing him to obtain a deferment.

Others are less fortunate and lack the financial or social resources needed to escape similar situations. Although merit-based scholarships are available for higher education, competition is fierce, and enrolling at university can be an expensive strategy for avoiding conscription.

‘I improved in every way’

Despite the controversies surrounding military service, some former conscripts defend its benefits and consider it an important institution for the country.

Alikhan, a 31-year-old company director who served approximately a decade ago, remembers his experience fondly.

“If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. I became a better person. It taught me a lot in terms of mental and physical discipline. Before the army, I was really skinny. I could only do three pull-ups, but when I came back, I could do twenty. I was a better runner too. I improved in every way,” he recalls nostalgically.

He also praises the sense of solidarity he experienced during his service.

“What’s interesting about the army is that you don’t know who’s who or what kind of family someone comes from. We all wear the same uniform, and there’s no hierarchy between us. If someone is struggling, you help them straight away. Everything encourages solidarity. There are no girls, no alcohol, just an all-male environment. It’s great. Some people arrive in the army without knowing why they’re there, expecting to do nothing.”

For Alikhan, military service also plays an important role in shaping young men’s understanding of masculinity.

“Men are weak nowadays. It’s a shame you don’t have something like this in France. Military service is like another year of school, another year of education. School and high school turn you into a teenager, but the army turns you into a man.”

Although Timur has avoided military service himself, he acknowledges that the experience can sometimes have positive consequences.

He recalls a friend who was forcibly taken away and immediately conscripted but ultimately found the experience beneficial.

“The army really did him some good. He started thinking about work and what he wanted to do with his life. He had time to reflect. He told me that, yes, he got into fights sometimes, but overall, he felt he hadn’t wasted his time.”

When confronted with reports of violence and the army’s reputation, both Timur and Alikhan tend to downplay the risks. They argue that violence is not unique to military life.

“It’s a matter of chance. Accidents happen on the streets too,” says Timur.

Alikhan goes further, questioning parents who help their sons avoid conscription.

“Parents think they’re protecting their children by helping them stay out of the army. But they don’t realise that everyday life is much harder. They’re raising boys who aren’t capable of doing anything.”

Financial hardship and extortion during military service

In contrast to Alikhan’s positive recollections, Ruslan offers a more troubling account of military life, drawing on his older brother’s experience.

His brother spent a year serving in the National Guard and, according to Ruslan, endured particularly harsh conditions.

“I remember that during the first six months, he asked me to send him money almost every day. I didn’t even know why he needed it so often.”

In the unit where his brother served, extortion and violence appear to have been common practices.

Ruslan describes an informal hierarchy among conscripts based on how long they had been serving. Seniority gave certain soldiers status and authority, which could be used to justify abusive behaviour towards newer recruits.

“One time, he came home with a broken rib. He’d also lost one or two teeth. He never really went into detail, but I think the experience was quite traumatic for him. In any case, he always tried to spare me from having to serve. He said it was pointless and boring.”

Like several other Astana residents interviewed by Novastan, Ruslan and Timur favour reforming military service and moving towards a more professional army.

For them, serving one’s country should be a personal choice rather than an obligation.

“In our culture, serving your country, dying for your faith, your homeland or your family are important values in their own right. But that commitment should come from the individual, not from someone forcing them to do it.”

Alikhan, meanwhile, emphasises the importance of patriotism and the responsibility to defend one’s homeland.

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

“If we go to war, I have to go. We must be ready to defend our country. I consider it my duty to my homeland. My country isn’t just the government. It’s the place where my sisters, my parents and the people I love live. Even if I don’t want to, I have to be ready to defend it.”

The contrasting experiences of these young men illustrate the tensions surrounding compulsory military service in Kazakhstan. While some view it as an opportunity to develop discipline, solidarity and a sense of national duty, others associate it with violence, arbitrary recruitment practices and the loss of personal freedom.

Eléa Muresan,
Author for Novastan.

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

The post In Kazakhstan, Military Service Continues to Worry Young Men appeared first on Novastan English.

Former Afghan diplomat and political scientist Hamed Wahdat Ahmadzada, who holds a PhD in Political Science from the Autonomous University of Madrid, speaks to Novastan about building Afghanistan’s diplomatic presence in Spain, two decades of international engagement, the collapse of the Afghan Republic, Taliban rule, the Afghan diaspora and what Europe still misunderstands about his country.

When Hamed Wahdat Ahmadzada arrived in Madrid in December 2006, Afghanistan did not yet have a resident embassy in Spain.

Diplomatic relations between Afghanistan and Spain dated back to 1950, but for decades they had been handled through non-resident embassies. Following the fall of the first Taliban regime and the establishment of Afghanistan’s interim government, the two countries moved towards establishing permanent diplomatic representations in each other’s capitals.

Ahmadzada was selected as the first resident Afghan diplomat in Spain because of his previous studies at Madrid’s Diplomatic School, his knowledge of Spanish and his familiarity with the country. He arrived at a moment when Spain was becoming increasingly involved in Afghanistan through diplomacy, its military presence, development cooperation and reconstruction.

Almost two decades later, the Afghan Republic Ahmadzada represented no longer exists. The Taliban returned to power in August 2021 after the withdrawal of US and allied forces.

Ahmadzada spoke to Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine about the relationship he helped build, Spain’s experience in Afghanistan, the achievements and failures of two decades of international engagement, the causes of the Republic’s collapse, the situation under Taliban rule and what Europe should understand about Afghanistan today.

Novastan: You were directly involved in establishing Afghanistan’s diplomatic representation in Spain after the fall of the first Taliban regime. How did this story begin and what exactly was your role? Do you remember who the key people were and the first contacts with the Spanish authorities?

Hamed Wahdat Ahmadzada: It is important to mention that diplomatic relations between what were then the Kingdom of Afghanistan and the Kingdom of Spain were established in 1950. In 1968, those relations were raised to the level of non-resident embassies. At the time, Spain handled these relations through its embassy in Tehran, Iran, while Afghanistan did so through its embassy in Paris.

Following the fall of the Taliban regime at the end of 2001 and the creation of Afghanistan’s interim government, many countries established diplomatic relations with the newly formed Afghan government. Initially, they did so through their representations in neighbouring countries such as Pakistan or the countries of Central Asia, and subsequently through the opening of resident diplomatic missions in Kabul.

Although bilateral diplomatic relations between Spain and Afghanistan already existed, it was not until 2005 that the Embassy of the Kingdom of Spain in Afghanistan was established in Kabul. The first resident ambassador, José Turpín Molina, was appointed in March 2006.

That same year, following a decision by the Afghan government, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs began the necessary procedures to establish the first Embassy of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan in Spain.

How do you create a diplomatic representation practically from scratch? Where was it initially based, what resources did you have and what difficulties did you encounter? We would be particularly interested in an anecdote or episode from those first months that helps reconstruct how this relationship was born.

The creation of a diplomatic representation has two important phases.

The first is the preparatory phase, when the two governments make contact and express their interest in raising diplomatic relations to the level of resident embassies in their respective capitals. It should be noted that this does not have to be reciprocal: there is no requirement for both countries to establish resident embassies at the same time.

Once the approval of the receiving country has been obtained, the diplomatic and administrative structure of the representation is determined internally and the head and members of the diplomatic mission are nominated.

The second phase, or implementation phase, begins when the receiving country is informed of the members of the diplomatic delegation and, in accordance with the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, the relevant diplomatic visas are requested. Subsequently, following approval by the receiving country, the members of the diplomatic corps move to the new mission.

In my case, because of my academic training at the Diplomatic School in Madrid and my knowledge of the Spanish language and the country, I was chosen to be the first resident Afghan diplomat in Spain. After obtaining the relevant diplomatic visa, I arrived in Spain in December 2006 to establish initial contacts and begin the first procedures related to setting up the Afghan embassy in Madrid.

In Spain, these procedures are normally carried out with the cooperation of the Directorate-General for Protocol, Chancellery and Orders of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Cooperation. In our case, following the protocol meetings and initial contacts, we began the procedures for obtaining diplomatic accreditation, registering the premises and dealing with other administrative matters related to the embassy.

The great challenge was creating a new mission literally from scratch. That included finding premises, adapting them for diplomatic representation, equipping and furnishing them and, in general, creating a functioning mission in the shortest possible time.

The entire process was therefore not only complex from an official and diplomatic perspective, but also required an enormous logistical, administrative and financial effort. It meant combining bilateral diplomatic meetings with all the complexities involved in establishing and adapting premises worthy of representing a country.

In this particular case, during the first few months, the weight of all these responsibilities fell on me. But it was an enormous experience and a great honour.

How did Spain perceive the new Afghanistan in those early years, and how did Afghanistan view Spain? From your experience, were there Spanish politicians, diplomats, journalists, development workers or other figures who played a particularly important role or understood the country especially well?

From the Spanish perspective, the new Afghanistan was initially perceived as an opportunity to contribute to the reconstruction of a state that had suffered decades of war and isolation.

Spain became involved in the international reconstruction and stabilisation effort within the frameworks of the United Nations, NATO and the European Union. The Spanish presence also gradually acquired political, diplomatic, military, humanitarian and development dimensions.

During those early years, there was considerable confidence – shared by much of the international community – that creating new institutions, holding elections, training the security forces and investing in education and development would gradually make it possible to consolidate a stable Afghan state.

Spain also developed a particularly visible presence through its participation in the International Security Assistance Force (ISAF) and especially in Badghis province, where the Spanish Armed Forces assumed significant responsibilities.

For many Afghans, therefore, Spain was not simply a European diplomatic actor, but also a country whose presence had a concrete and everyday dimension in certain regions.

As for Spanish individuals, I believe there were people from very different fields who made particularly valuable contributions. Among diplomats, those who understood that relations with Afghanistan required listening to different Afghan actors and not limiting themselves exclusively to dealing with Kabul’s central institutions were important.

Read more on Novastan: Beyond the ‘Graveyard of Empires’: Rethinking the Afghan State

That capacity for dialogue was fundamental in a country that was extraordinarily decentralised in terms of real power.

There were also journalists, researchers, military personnel, development workers and people working for humanitarian organisations who developed a profound knowledge of the country precisely because they remained on the ground for extended periods.

Spain maintained an important presence in Afghanistan for almost two decades, particularly in Badghis and Herat. From an Afghan perspective, what did the Spanish presence really mean? What do you think Spain did particularly well, and what could it have done differently?

From an Afghan perspective, Spain’s presence in Afghanistan had a much deeper significance than a purely military reading of the international intervention might suggest.

Spain arrived in Afghanistan in 2002 and, particularly after assuming responsibility in Badghis, became one of the most visible faces of the international community for many inhabitants of that province. Its presence combined security, reconstruction, development cooperation, healthcare, education and training for Afghan institutions.

In Afghanistan, direct experience was particularly important: knowing Kabul did not necessarily mean knowing Afghanistan. Someone who had worked in Herat, Badghis, Kandahar, Nangarhar or other provinces could encounter substantially different political and social realities.

In my opinion, what Spain did particularly well was, first of all, combining security and cooperation. The Provincial Reconstruction Team model in Badghis allowed military personnel, diplomats, development workers and civilian authorities to work – despite all the difficulties this involved – towards relatively concrete objectives.

The Spanish Agency for International Development Cooperation developed projects in education, healthcare, water and sanitation, agriculture, rural development and infrastructure. Achieving these objectives in difficult terrain such as Badghis was complex and extremely arduous, but the consistency and efforts of the Provincial Reconstruction Team produced results.

According to official Spanish data, schools were built for around 20,000 children, healthcare services were improved for tens of thousands of people and road access was provided to a large part of the province.

That said, from my dual perspective as an Afghan and a diplomat, I believe one of the main lessons of the international presence – including the Spanish presence – is that development and institution-building could hardly be consolidated while the armed conflict with the Taliban persisted and Afghanistan continued to be the scene of rivalries and interventions by different regional actors.

Spain made an important contribution in areas such as education, healthcare, infrastructure and local development, but these efforts took place in a context of permanent insecurity that necessarily limited their scope and sustainability.

This was compounded, in my opinion, by an insufficient understanding of the country’s real power structures and, above all, by the absence of sufficiently effective international coordination and of a genuinely common political and strategic roadmap sustained over the long term.

Afghanistan could not be understood solely through Kabul and its formal institutions. It was necessary to take into account provincial and local dynamics, communities, traditional and religious leaders, social and family networks, as well as the regional dimension of the conflict.

I therefore believe that, had there been a more coherent and coordinated international strategy, a sustained long-term commitment, greater attention to regional dynamics and a more effective political response to the conflict with the Taliban, the conditions for consolidating Afghan institutions and making the progress achieved sustainable would have been significantly different.

Ultimately, I do not believe the Spanish experience can be judged solely by the final outcome of 2021. The concrete progress it produced must be recognised, but so must the extraordinarily complex political, military and regional environment in which it took place and which profoundly conditioned its results.

Beyond political and military decisions, is there a particular project, place, encounter or human story that, for you, especially symbolises the relationship between Spaniards and Afghans during those years? We are also interested in initiatives or individuals who were important in Afghanistan but are little known in Spain today.

First of all, I wish to pay heartfelt tribute to and honour the memory of all the Spanish soldiers who lost their lives while carrying out their mission in Afghanistan. Their dedication and sacrifice are testimony to Spain’s commitment to peace, stability and international security.

That said, I believe all the projects that were carried out had a direct impact on the everyday lives of Afghan citizens, whether in terms of their security and humanitarian assistance or through important projects involving drinking water, the construction of schools and support for health centres.

If I had to highlight one in particular, it would be the Spanish military field hospital established during the early years at Bagram Air Base, north of Kabul.

The hospital did not only treat personnel from the international forces. During those first months and years, it also treated very serious medical cases, and this service reached a population in great need in the surrounding villages and communities.

I personally had the opportunity to see the extremely important work they were doing. I would like to highlight the dedication, patience and effort of every member of that hospital.

I should also mention that, subsequently, with the establishment of Spain’s Provincial Reconstruction Mission in Badghis, the hospital was transferred to Herat Air Base, where it continued its important work.

Regarding the people who played an important role in developing bilateral relations, in the diplomatic sphere I must highlight Ambassador Juan Manuel López Nadal, who was the first high-ranking resident Spanish diplomat to arrive in Afghanistan in 2002 as part of the European Union mission.

In addition to representing the Spanish Presidency of the European Union, he played a significant role in strengthening the bonds of friendship between the two countries and paving the way for the subsequent establishment of the Spanish Embassy in Afghanistan.

I would also highlight Ambassador José Turpín Molina, who arrived in Afghanistan and subsequently established the first Embassy of the Kingdom of Spain in Kabul.

With his extensive knowledge of the region, great diplomatic ability and pragmatism, Ambassador Turpín became one of Europe’s major points of reference on Afghanistan.

From my perspective, at the diplomatic level of bilateral relations between Afghanistan and Spain, Ambassador Turpín left an indelible and enduring mark.

I therefore highlight the role of these two diplomats because of the challenge they faced in building strong relations under difficult circumstances and with limited resources, while also dealing with the complexity of Afghanistan’s security situation and political landscape.

Where were you when you realised that Kabul was going to fall back into Taliban hands in August 2021, and what do you remember about those days? For someone who knew the system from within, was the collapse really a surprise, or were there earlier signs that now seem obvious?

In August 2021, I was outside Afghanistan, continuing my doctoral studies at the Faculty of Law of the Autonomous University of Madrid.

My main objective was to complete my studies and, after obtaining my doctorate in political science, return to Afghanistan and continue our collective efforts as a country.

Unfortunately, Afghanistan’s fall once again into the hands of the extremist Taliban group shattered my goals and hopes, and those of millions of Afghans who wanted to see a prosperous, safe and inclusive country.

It was, and remains, very difficult to accept that Afghanistan fell into the hands of the Taliban and that twenty years of effort, sacrifice and tremendous work by both Afghans and the international community ended in this way.

It would be a mistake to reduce everything that happened and the collapse to the events of August 2021.

Afghanistan was not lost in 20 days. The mistakes accumulated over twenty years.

Without a doubt, it was a failure of the Afghan government and its most senior officials, and it was also a failure of the international community.

I would highlight four mistakes that led to the collapse.

First, a state and military forces were built that were too dependent on external support. An Afghan army of hundreds of thousands of personnel was created, but it depended enormously on the United States and its allies for intelligence, air support, logistics, maintenance, contractors and financing.

When that support decreased considerably during the final years of the Republic and the structure sustaining and supporting it disappeared, the forces were extremely weakened, which helped the Taliban occupy more territory.

Second, corruption and a lack of institutional legitimacy. Billions of dollars were allocated to Afghanistan, but this did not always succeed in building a state that the population perceived as effective, close to them and legitimate. There was corruption, clientelism and parallel power structures.

Third, Pakistan. For years, the Taliban were being fought inside Afghanistan while certain insurgent structures could find support networks and places of refuge on the other side of the border. This was a strategic contradiction that was difficult to sustain.

Fourth, the Doha agreements. The United States negotiated directly with the Taliban and established a timetable for withdrawal. The Afghan government was extraordinarily weakened and sidelined in the negotiations.

The message received by a large part of the elites, governors, commanders and members of the security forces was very simple: the United States is leaving; the Taliban are staying.

From that point onwards, what began was not only a military collapse, but a psychological collapse of the state.

It can therefore be said that the problem was not simply how the United States and NATO left Afghanistan. The problem was the series of steps that were taken and that fed this sense of collapse and abandonment.

More than five years after the Taliban’s return, how do you assess Spain’s and the European Union’s policies towards Afghanistan? Where should the balance lie between political pressure, assistance to the population and pragmatic dialogue with the de facto authorities?

Spain, because of its diplomatic experience and history of cooperation with Afghanistan, has pursued a particularly useful and pragmatic policy towards the country.

Following the evacuation of thousands of Afghans after the collapse of the regime in 2021, Spain has maintained its support for Afghan civil society and women. Through various platforms, it has reaffirmed its support for human rights and women’s rights in Afghanistan.

Spain and the European Union are aware that keeping channels of communication open in Afghanistan does not mean accepting the existing situation. It means retaining the ability to influence, understand dynamics on the ground and more effectively defend the interests of the Afghan population and regional stability.

That said, from my point of view, we have seen that over the past five years there has been no change in the Taliban’s position and that they have shown no flexibility regarding women’s rights.

Read more on Novastan: “I survived things. But I also built things”: Nilofar Ayoubi on Afghan women, exile and resistance

In August 2021, many believed that the Taliban would need to change in order to obtain international recognition. Five years later, we are seeing numerous international actors progressively adapting their policies to the Taliban’s continued presence in power.

That is probably the Taliban’s great strategic victory – and a major concern for most Afghans.

In 2021, the world was asking how to change the Taliban. In 2026, it is beginning to ask how to live with them.

This change sums up much of what has happened in Afghanistan over these five years.

It is a worrying and deeply alarming situation.

The situation of Afghan women and girls has become one of the central issues since 2021. What can Spain and Europe do that is genuinely useful under the current circumstances? Are there Afghan individuals, organisations or initiatives that, in your view, deserve much more support or visibility?

The situation of Afghan women and girls is probably one of the greatest humanitarian and human rights challenges of our time.

Five years after the Taliban’s return, Afghanistan remains the only country in the world where girls and women are, in practice, prohibited from continuing their secondary and higher education. According to UNICEF, more than 2.6 million girls have been deprived of secondary education since 2021.

In Afghanistan today, educational and professional prospects and opportunities for social participation are non-existent for women.

The Taliban have had five years to institutionalise repression against women. We are no longer dealing with an insurgent movement attempting to control territory. We are dealing with a state apparatus that uses decrees, institutions, religious police and administrative structures to impose its radical vision on society.

Faced with this reality, I believe Spain and Europe must maintain a firm position in defence of the rights of women and girls, but at the same time they must ask how that position can be translated into concrete results.

Diplomatic pressure is necessary, but on its own it is not sufficient.

I believe the European Union and Spain can play a particularly constructive role. Spain has extensive experience of cooperation, diplomacy and presence on the ground and maintains important human and institutional ties with Afghan society.

Spain should use that experience to defend the rights of women and girls, but also to amplify the voices of Afghan women themselves and facilitate access for their organisations to funding, international networks, education and opportunities.

As for Afghan individuals, organisations or initiatives that deserve greater attention, support or visibility, from my point of view every initiative, both inside the country and in the diaspora, is extremely important in the struggle against the repression witnessed and suffered by women and girls in Afghanistan.

That said, there are Afghan initiatives that, in my opinion, deserve much greater international attention and support because of their ability to keep avenues for education and autonomy open for women and girls under extraordinarily difficult circumstances inside the country.

I would highlight, for example, the work of Learn Afghanistan, an Afghan-led organisation that maintains community and digital education programmes for girls in different provinces of the country.

I also consider the work of Afghanistan Education Action important. Following the ban on secondary education for girls, it launched the Herat Online School and subsequently other educational initiatives aimed primarily at Afghan women and girls.

Beyond financial assistance, I believe these initiatives need something equally important: visibility, institutional connections and sustained long-term support.

There is something I consider fundamental: we should not speak about Afghan women solely as victims, but also as agents of change.

The international community should listen to them more, place greater trust in their abilities and provide them with the resources they need to continue doing inside Afghanistan what, in many cases, circumstances prevent them from doing formally.

The objective should not be to speak on behalf of Afghan women, but to contribute to their ability to recover their rights and their capacity to speak and decide for themselves about their future.

How has the Afghan community in Spain changed since you arrived in the country? Who made up that first community and who makes it up today? We would also be interested in examples of Afghans in Spain – academics, entrepreneurs, artists, journalists, activists or others – whose trajectories you find particularly interesting.

When I arrived in Spain, the Afghan community was still relatively small and, compared with the current situation, had a fairly discreet presence in Spanish society. However, it was not a new community. There were already Afghan individuals and families who had been living in Spain for years, even decades.

That community in the mid-2000s also reflected Afghanistan’s recent history. There were people who had arrived in Spain as a consequence of the conflicts that began in the 1970s and 1980s, others who had left during the war following the arrival of the mujahideen and the first Taliban regime, and others who had come for professional, academic or family reasons.

It was therefore a relatively small community, but one with very diverse trajectories and experiences.

During the years after my arrival, particularly between 2006 and 2021, I watched that community gradually grow and change.

Afghanistan also acquired a greater presence on the Spanish agenda as a result of Spain’s participation in the international mission, development cooperation and the growing institutional relationship between the two countries.

This also increased the number of Afghans connected to Spain for professional, academic, diplomatic and cooperation-related reasons.

But the most profound change came after August 2021. The fall of Kabul and subsequent deterioration of the situation in Afghanistan led to the arrival in Spain of thousands of Afghan citizens.

They included former Spanish collaborators, civil servants, journalists, female judges and prosecutors, professors, activists, students, professionals and their families. Spain evacuated more than 3,000 Afghan citizens during the 2021 evacuation operation.

This considerably transformed the profile of the community.

Today, on the one hand, there are individuals and families who have been in Spain for several decades; on the other, there is a second generation of Afghans who were born or educated here and have a very natural relationship with Spanish society; and finally, there is a new generation that arrived mainly after 2021 and includes very diverse professional and academic profiles.

I think it is important not to define this community solely from the perspective of refuge. Afghans living in Spain are also entrepreneurs, academics, researchers, professionals, journalists, artists, athletes and activists. Many are actively contributing to Spanish society.

There are several examples that I find particularly representative.

Shapiry Hakami is one of them. Her trajectory predates even my arrival in Spain: she has been connected to Madrid since the 1980s and in 2000 founded the Association for Afghan Women (ADMAF). Her work is an example of how Afghan women living in Spain were already creating spaces of support and raising awareness about Afghanistan long before the 2021 crisis.

Among those who arrived after 2021, I would highlight Nilofar Bayat, a lawyer, athlete and activist. Her arrival in Spain and subsequent career in wheelchair basketball demonstrate precisely that those who arrived as refugees should not be viewed solely through a humanitarian lens. They are also professionals with abilities, education and projects of their own.

I would also highlight Muzhda Hotak, an Afghan lawyer and activist living in Spain, whose trajectory reflects the efforts of many Afghan professional women to rebuild their lives and maintain their commitment to women’s rights after leaving Afghanistan.

In Catalonia, Bashir Eskandari represents another interesting dimension of this community. A writer, poet, IT specialist and activist, he arrived in Spain in 2010 and has developed an important part of his career in Barcelona, also working in the associative and cultural spheres.

He is a good example of people who have built their lives in Spain while at the same time acting as a bridge between Spanish society and the Afghan community.

It should also be mentioned that, following the arrivals of 2021, the Association of Afghan Women in Spain (AMAE) was created. It is chaired by Sunita Naseer Tarin, who, together with other Afghan women from different professions, works to give Afghan women a voice from the diaspora.

But perhaps the most interesting aspect is not only the individual names, but the collective transformation.

When I arrived in Spain, the Afghan community was relatively small and many Spaniards had very limited knowledge of Afghanistan. Today there is a much larger, more diverse and more visible community, as well as a generation of young Afghans who have studied in Spain, speak perfect Spanish and participate in very different professional, academic and cultural spheres.

The perception of the community itself has also changed. Before 2021, many people associated Afghanistan primarily with the conflict and the international presence.

After 2021, Spanish society became much more directly acquainted with the personal stories of Afghans who arrived in the country, particularly professional women, journalists, activists and students who were forced to leave their country.

From my perspective, this evolution demonstrates that the Afghan community is already part of Spanish society.

For precisely that reason, I think it is important that the debate should focus not only on reception and protection – which remain fundamental – but also on professional, academic, cultural and entrepreneurial integration.

Spain has an opportunity to make use of all this human capital.

There are people who know Afghanistan, the region, its languages and its social and cultural structures deeply and who have also acquired education and experience in Europe.

That combination can be very valuable for Spain, both in understanding Afghanistan better and in maintaining links with Afghan society even under the current circumstances.

Ultimately, the community I knew when I arrived in Spain and the Afghan community that exists today are quite different in size, diversity and visibility.

But there is also an important continuity: generation after generation, these are people who have tried to build a dignified life in Spain without necessarily losing their connections with Afghanistan.

I believe that combination – integration in Spain and preservation of an identity and cultural connections of their own – is probably one of the most interesting characteristics of the Afghan community today.

Spain welcomed former diplomats, officials, journalists, human rights defenders and other Afghan professionals after 2021. How are they rebuilding their lives, and do you think Spain and Europe make sufficient use of their knowledge and experience? What role could this diaspora play in Afghanistan’s future?

Spain made an important effort after 2021 to welcome Afghan citizens who had worked with Spain and other Western countries.

They included former diplomats and civil servants, journalists, academics, professionals, human rights defenders and their families.

Many have managed to rebuild their lives, although transferring their qualifications, experience and professional careers to Spain is not always easy, and some have had to start practically from scratch.

I believe Spain and Europe have made an important effort in terms of protection and reception, but there is still considerable room to make much better use of this human capital.

These people do not only need protection. They also possess deep knowledge of Afghanistan, its institutions, its society and regional dynamics.

That knowledge can be very useful to universities, research centres, international organisations, development cooperation and also to the formulation of European policies towards Afghanistan.

Looking to the future, the diaspora can play a fundamental role as a bridge between Afghanistan and Europe.

It can contribute to preserving Afghan human capital, maintaining links with civil society and, when circumstances permit, participating in the country’s institutional, educational and economic reconstruction.

In particular, maintaining and developing the capacities of Afghan women professionals is essential, because they represent a crucial part of the human capital that Afghanistan will need to recover.

We should therefore move from considering the diaspora solely as recipients of protection towards seeing it also as a partner and an asset for Spain, Europe and Afghanistan’s future, as well as for relations between Afghanistan and Europe.

If a reader in Spain wanted to understand Afghanistan better, whom would you recommend following, reading or listening to? We are particularly interested in researchers, professors, journalists, former diplomats, media outlets, NGOs, Afghan associations or Spanish initiatives doing valuable work on Afghanistan, even if they are little known.

If someone in Spain wanted to understand Afghanistan better, I would recommend not relying on a single source.

Afghanistan is far too complex a reality to understand solely through politics, security or the situation of women.

We also need to listen to those who know the country from within and, above all, those who have spent many years studying it or working on the ground.

Among Spanish journalists, Mónica Bernabé is, in my view, an essential reference. She lived in Afghanistan between 2006 and 2014, was a correspondent for El Mundo and has maintained a very close relationship with the country for more than two decades.

Her books Afganistán: crónica de una ficción and Crónica de un fracaso. Afganistán, la retirada are particularly interesting because they combine direct experience, journalism and a critical perspective on the international intervention.

I would also recommend Ángeles Espinosa, a journalist with a long career specialising in the Middle East and the Islamic world. Her experience as a correspondent and knowledge of the region make it possible to place Afghanistan within a broader regional context and better understand the political and social dynamics affecting the country.

Another particularly interesting reference is Pilar Requena, an RTVE journalist and reporter who has worked on international conflicts for decades and has devoted particular attention to Afghanistan.

Her book Afganistán is highly recommended for anyone wishing to approach the country through journalism and from a perspective based on years of experience.

In the academic sphere, I would highlight the publications and activities of the Research Group on Iranian Peoples (GEPI) at the Autonomous University of Madrid.

Its main objective is the study of the extensive geographical area of the Middle East and Central Asia encompassing all or a significant part of the present-day states of Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Iraq, Iran, Syria, Turkey, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Pakistan.

The group is clearly interdisciplinary and includes historians and art historians, anthropologists, philologists, political scientists and architects, among others, from countries on different continents.

Its areas of study are therefore extremely diverse and include cultural, social, religious, historical, political, literary and visual aspects.

I would also recommend the publications of Professor José Miguel Calvillo Cisneros, a specialist in international relations and cooperation whose academic career includes sustained work on Afghanistan.

His work on the country helps us understand Afghanistan’s political, historical and social evolution within a broader international context.

I would also recommend the work of Félix Arteaga, a senior analyst at the Elcano Royal Institute, who has analysed Spain’s participation in Afghanistan, the transition and issues of security and governance for many years.

To complement these perspectives, I would recommend consulting the work of the Elcano Royal Institute and the Spanish Institute for Strategic Studies (IEEE).

Both have published analyses for many years on Afghanistan, regional security, terrorism, governance, cooperation and international involvement.

Ultimately, if I had to give one piece of advice to someone who genuinely wanted to understand Afghanistan, it would be simple: Afghanistan cannot be understood solely through current affairs.

You need to know its history, its society, its power structures and its regional environment.

Only by combining these perspectives can we begin to approach the country’s real complexity.

The image of Afghanistan in Europe is inevitably dominated by war, the Taliban and humanitarian crises. If you could show our readers another Afghanistan, what would you show them? It could be a city, a region, a tradition, a memory, a literary work, a film, a filmmaker, a musician, an artist or simply something from everyday life that you consider essential to understanding the country.

If I could show readers another Afghanistan, I would begin by asking them to try to imagine the country beyond the images of war that normally reach Europe.

Afghanistan is not only a conflict, nor can it be reduced to the Taliban.

It is also a society with a millennia-old history, enormous cultural and linguistic diversity and an extraordinary capacity for resilience.

I would show them Kabul, a place of encounter, crossroads and coexistence. Balkh, the city of Maulana Rumi. And Herat, which is probably one of the cities that best represents this other Afghanistan.

Its architecture, ancient mosques and literary and artistic traditions show an Afghanistan deeply connected with culture, knowledge and exchange between civilisations.

Herat allows us to understand that Afghan history is much older and richer than the history of the past forty years of conflict.

I would also show them Bamiyan, not only because of the Buddhas that were destroyed, but because of what its landscape and history represent.

It is a place where different cultures, religions and historic routes of Central Asia intersect.

There, one understands that Afghanistan has for centuries been a meeting place between peoples and civilisations.

But perhaps I would show something even simpler: the everyday life of an Afghan family.

A shared meal, tea, hospitality towards a guest, a conversation between friends, a wedding, the celebration of Nowruz, markets, children playing or a family gathered around a table.

These are apparently small things, but they help us understand a society that, despite decades of conflict, has maintained very strong family and community structures.

I would also show the country’s enormous diversity.

Afghanistan is not a homogeneous reality. There are Pashtuns, Tajiks, Hazaras, Uzbeks, Turkmens, Baloch and other communities, with their own traditions, languages and ways of understanding life.

That diversity is fundamental to understanding both the country’s richness and many of its political complexities.

I would talk about its literary culture.

Afghanistan has produced great poets and writers, and poetry occupies a very special place in Afghan culture.

Rumi, although he was born in Balkh and his figure today belongs to several cultural traditions, is perhaps one of the best examples of Afghanistan’s historical connection with the world and with an intellectual tradition that transcends today’s borders.

I would also recommend exploring Afghan music, because it reflects precisely this mixture of influences.

Traditional music, the rubab, popular songs and the tradition of sung poetry form part of a cultural identity that remains alive even under extremely difficult circumstances.

If I had to summarise it in a single image, I probably would not choose a monument.

I would choose an Afghan family offering tea to a visitor who has just arrived at their home.

For me, that simple scene contains an essential part of Afghanistan: hospitality, the importance of family, the relationship with the community and the ability to maintain a normal life even after decades of conflict.

I believe showing this Afghanistan is important because it allows us to understand that behind the statistics, conflicts and political images there is a society with its own history, culture and aspirations.

Understanding that is also fundamental for anyone who genuinely wants to understand Afghanistan today.

What remains today of the relationship between Afghanistan and Spain that you helped build, and how do you imagine its future? If it became possible to begin a new period of cooperation in ten years, what should Spain preserve from the experience of 2001-2021, and what mistakes should it avoid repeating?

I believe that, despite the political rupture of 2021, quite a lot remains of the relationship Spain built with Afghanistan during those two decades.

There are human, professional and institutional ties, a much larger Afghan community in Spain and, above all, the knowledge accumulated by Spanish diplomats, military personnel, development workers, academics and organisations that worked in the country for years.

Spain participated in the international mission for twenty years and also developed projects in development cooperation, education, healthcare and infrastructure.

Today, the relationship is necessarily different.

Spain does not recognise the current de facto authorities and maintains its commitment primarily through humanitarian assistance and support for the Afghan population, particularly women and girls.

But that does not mean the connection with Afghan society should disappear.

If a new period of cooperation were to open in several years’ time, I believe Spain should preserve, above all, the human relationships and knowledge accumulated during those twenty years.

It should also retain the experience acquired in areas such as education, development cooperation, healthcare, institutional training and relations with local communities.

At the same time, lessons should be learned from the mistakes.

One of them, in my opinion, was that for too long the international community worked with an approach excessively centred on formal institutions and Kabul.

Another aspect that would need to improve is coordination and long-term vision.

Afghanistan suffered for decades from persistent conflict, interventions by different countries in the region and a succession of international strategies that were not always sufficiently coordinated or based on a common and sustainable roadmap.

If another opportunity opens one day, therefore, I do not believe it should simply consist of repeating what was done between 2001 and 2021.

It should be more realistic, gradual cooperation adapted to Afghan conditions, with a greater role for Afghans themselves and their diaspora.

There is something I believe Spain should never lose: the human relationship built during those years.

The Spanish soldiers, diplomats, development workers, teachers and professionals who worked in Afghanistan left personal ties that transcend political changes.

That human capital and shared memory could be precisely one of the foundations on which to build a future relationship between the two countries.

Finally, on a more personal note: after having lived through an important part of this history, what would you like Spaniards and Europeans to understand about Afghanistan that they still do not understand sufficiently? And what question about Afghanistan do you wish journalists would ask you more often, but almost never do?

After so many years living and working in Spain, and having had the opportunity to closely experience an important part of the relationship between the two countries, perhaps what I would most like Spaniards and Europeans to understand is that Afghanistan cannot be explained solely through its conflicts or the events of recent years.

Afghanistan has an extraordinarily complex history, society and cultural diversity.

There are different communities, languages, traditions, family structures and forms of social organisation that are enormously important to understanding how the country works.

I would also like people to understand that Afghans are not only victims of war, refugees or people who need assistance.

Afghanistan has professionals, academics, entrepreneurs, journalists, artists, students and citizens who want to build their own future.

Even under the current circumstances, there is an Afghan society that continues to think, create, work and try to preserve its aspirations.

There is something I consider particularly important: understanding Afghanistan requires listening more to Afghans themselves.

That does not mean that we all share the same opinion – Afghan society is very diverse – but any analysis of its future should incorporate much more local knowledge and the experiences of those who have lived there.

If I had to choose one question that I wish journalists would ask me more often, but which they almost never do, it would be precisely this:

“What do Afghans themselves want for the future of their country?”

We frequently talk about what the Taliban want, what the United States wants, what Europe wants, what Pakistan, Iran or the other countries in the region want.

But we talk much less about the aspirations of Afghan society, which is not a single entity and contains different voices and perspectives.

I believe that should be one of the central questions in any debate about Afghanistan: what country do Afghans themselves want to build, and how can the international community accompany that process without attempting to replace it?

After everything that has happened over the past few decades, perhaps that is one of the main lessons we should have learned.

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

The post From Madrid to Kabul: An Afghan Diplomat on Spain, the Taliban and the Republic’s Collapse appeared first on Novastan English.

Uzbekistan has introduced new social protection institutions and committed itself to international disability rights standards. Yet persons with disabilities continue to face inaccessible infrastructure, discrimination and bureaucratic obstacles. In an interview with Novastan, Oybek Isakov, Chairman of the Association of Disabled People of Uzbekistan, discusses the progress achieved, the shortcomings of recent reforms and why persons with disabilities must have a greater say in decisions affecting their lives.

However, he argues that legislative reforms have moved faster than their implementation. Inaccessible public transport, limited employment opportunities, inadequate social benefits and the exclusion of disability organisations from policymaking continue to undermine progress.

Speaking to Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, Isakov explains why the transition from a medical and charitable approach to a rights-based model remains incomplete.

How has life changed for persons with disabilities in Uzbekistan over the past five to ten years, beyond the adoption of new legislation?

One of the most important developments has been a change in society’s understanding of disability. Previously, the difficulties faced by persons with disabilities were often considered a personal misfortune or a responsibility for their families alone. Today, there is greater recognition that ensuring equal opportunities is a responsibility shared by the state and society.

The expectations of persons with disabilities have also changed. They no longer want simply to survive on benefits. They want to study, work, travel and participate fully in society.

Institutionally, the establishment of the National Agency for Social Protection in 2023 was an important step. The agency oversees social protection policy, while the Inson centres provide social services at the local level. New mechanisms have also been introduced to monitor compliance with social protection legislation and accessibility requirements.

Read more on Novastan: When reform reaches everyday life: Lessons from Uzbekistan and Mongolia

Nevertheless, there remains a considerable gap between legislation and everyday reality.

One particularly serious problem concerns access to social benefits. According to the figures available to us, Uzbekistan has approximately 1.06 million persons with disabilities, but only a fraction are included in the relevant social protection registry. Eligibility for certain forms of assistance is linked to registration, while the criteria for inclusion can be extremely restrictive.

For example, a father with a disability sought financial assistance from the Youth Affairs Agency to help pay his daughter’s university tuition fees. His request was rejected because he was not included in the social registry. When he attempted to register, he was refused because he had a leased car, even though he needed the vehicle to move around the city.

Disability pensions are another concern. Their low level, combined with rising living costs, leaves many persons with disabilities in an increasingly difficult financial situation.

Uzbekistan ratified the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in 2021. Has this brought tangible improvements?

Ratification was an important step, but its effects have been uneven.

For active citizens and non-governmental organisations, the Convention has become a valuable legal instrument. It allows us to refer to international obligations when communicating with government institutions, challenging discriminatory decisions and demanding the protection of rights.

However, one of the main obstacles to implementation is the absence of dedicated budget allocations specifically linked to fulfilling the obligations arising from the Convention.

The gap between commitments and reality is particularly visible in three areas.

The first is accessibility. In Tashkent and some major regional centres, new infrastructure increasingly incorporates accessibility standards. Elsewhere, progress is much slower. We still see ramps built at impossible angles, missing tactile paving, inaccessible public transport and high pavements that prevent people from moving independently.

The second is inclusive education. Although inclusive education is developing through legislation and pilot projects, ordinary schools and kindergartens often lack trained specialists, adapted teaching materials and accessible facilities. Parents of children with disabilities may face informal refusals when seeking admission to mainstream schools, leaving them with few alternatives beyond specialised institutions or home education.

The third is employment. Job quotas exist, but some employers prefer to pay penalties or formally employ persons with disabilities without providing meaningful work or suitable conditions. Prejudice remains widespread, particularly towards persons with intellectual or psychosocial disabilities.

Ratification has helped shift the discussion from medicine and charity towards human rights. But laws are changing faster than administrative practices, infrastructure and social attitudes.

Has the attitude of government institutions changed? Are persons with disabilities increasingly treated as rights-holders rather than recipients of assistance?

The government has allocated more resources, expanded the range of assistive and rehabilitation devices and increased funding for inclusive initiatives.

However, the emphasis often remains on individual material assistance rather than systemic rights. Accessibility, meaningful employment and inclusive education require coordination between government institutions and effective enforcement of legislation.

Most importantly, many decisions affecting persons with disabilities are still made without adequately considering the views and recommendations of their representative organisations.

The Convention’s principle of “Nothing about us without us” is not yet being implemented in practice.

What about public attitudes? Have stereotypes and paternalism declined, particularly among younger generations?

Attitudes are changing, although not uniformly.

For a long time, persons with disabilities were viewed either with pity or through the lens of stigma. Many lived in isolation and were rarely visible in public spaces.

Today, social media, inclusive initiatives and greater public visibility are gradually changing perceptions. People are becoming more accustomed to encountering persons with disabilities in workplaces, public transport, cafés and other everyday settings.

Younger generations tend to be more open to inclusion. Growing up with digital technologies and greater access to information has helped them see diversity as a normal part of society.

Nevertheless, paternalistic attitudes persist, including among young people. Some still assume that persons with disabilities need constant protection or cannot work on equal terms with others. The historical separation of children with disabilities from mainstream education has also limited opportunities for everyday interaction.

Language is changing too. Stigmatising expressions are gradually being replaced by terminology that puts the person first.

There is also growing recognition that occasional charitable assistance, such as distributing food during holidays, cannot resolve systemic problems. People increasingly understand the importance of accessibility, independence and equal opportunities.

Accessibility is often associated with ramps and physical infrastructure. Which less visible barriers most severely restrict independent living?

Some of the most difficult barriers are not physical. They exist in administrative procedures, digital services, employment practices and social attitudes.

Digital accessibility is a major problem. Many government websites, online public services, banking applications and media platforms remain inaccessible to persons with visual or hearing impairments. Screen readers are not always supported, while sign-language interpretation and subtitles are often unavailable.

This can prevent people from independently accessing essential services, finding employment or managing financial and legal matters.

Read more on Novastan: “Disability is a Mirror for the Development of Societies” – A Conversation with Dilmurad Yusupov

Bureaucratic procedures create another obstacle. Obtaining recognition of disability status or accessing assistive devices can require repeated visits to institutions, medical assessments and extensive documentation. For persons with significant mobility limitations, these procedures can be particularly burdensome.

Discrimination in employment is often less visible but equally damaging. Even qualified candidates may be rejected before reaching the interview stage or offered only low-paid, routine work that does not reflect their abilities.

Healthcare presents additional difficulties. There is a shortage of rehabilitation specialists, and some medical facilities remain physically or communicatively inaccessible. Medical professionals may lack sign-language skills, while diagnostic equipment is not always adapted for patients with limited mobility.

Finally, isolation within families remains a serious issue. Because of stigma or misplaced concerns about safety, some relatives discourage persons with disabilities from leaving home or participating in society.

Physical obstacles can be removed through construction and better design. But inaccessible information, discriminatory practices and deeply rooted prejudices are often harder to overcome.

In which areas is the gap between legal reforms and everyday reality greatest?

Employment, public transport and inclusive education.

Uzbekistan has adopted standards and regulations in these areas, but implementation continues to face systemic obstacles.

Read more on Novastan: Janina Arsenjeva: “Finding a problem doesn’t mean reform has failed”

Without accessible transport, people cannot reliably reach schools, workplaces or public institutions. Without genuinely inclusive education, their opportunities are restricted from childhood. And without meaningful employment, achieving financial independence becomes extremely difficult.

These problems are interconnected and cannot be resolved through isolated measures.

To what extent do persons with disabilities and their organisations participate in developing public policy?

Participation has increased, but meaningful influence remains limited.

Disability organisations are more visible and their voices are heard more frequently. However, government institutions often consult them only after decisions have largely been made.

Instead of involving organisations in drafting policies from the beginning, authorities may ask them to comment on documents that are already close to completion.

This is not genuine participation.

The disability community has demonstrated that it can influence public discussions, but progress still depends heavily on the commitment and reputation of individual activists and organisations.

What we need are institutional mechanisms that make consultation with representative organisations a mandatory and meaningful part of policymaking.

We have moved from a situation in which our voices were largely ignored to one in which we are fighting for genuine participation in decision-making.

How different is the situation in Tashkent from that in smaller towns and rural areas?

The differences are substantial.

In Tashkent, some streets and pedestrian crossings are being modernised, lifts are installed in certain crossings and low-floor buses are increasingly available. These improvements remain uneven, but they represent progress.

Outside major regional centres, accessibility often exists only on paper. High kerbs, damaged roads, inaccessible schools, hospitals and government buildings make independent mobility extremely difficult.

For some wheelchair users, leaving their homes without assistance is practically impossible.

Employment opportunities also differ significantly. Tashkent offers more possibilities in the service sector, IT, office work and remote employment. Inclusive recruitment initiatives and business development programmes are more visible.

In rural areas, economic opportunities are much more limited. Local businesses often lack the resources or willingness to adapt workplaces, leaving many persons with disabilities dependent on modest benefits or family support.

Social attitudes can also be more restrictive outside the capital. In some communities, families continue to conceal the disability of relatives because of shame or fear of social judgement.

The influence of the mahalla, or local community, does not always help overcome these barriers. In some cases, social pressure reinforces isolation.

Is there a particular development in recent years that gives you hope for the future?

Uzbekistan’s ratification of the Convention and the recognition of the country as a social state in its Constitution provide an important foundation for building a more inclusive society.

But what gives me the greatest hope is seeing young persons with different disabilities publicly demonstrate their abilities.

Young people who might previously have been isolated at home or placed in residential institutions are now presenting IT projects, developing start-ups, participating in professional competitions and speaking openly about their ambitions.

Initiatives such as Abilympics and the “Towards an Inclusive Society” awards illustrate this change.

These examples demonstrate that the greatest transformation is taking place in people’s understanding of what persons with disabilities can achieve.

If you could change one thing in Uzbekistan tomorrow to improve the lives of persons with disabilities, what would it be?

I would focus on changing public attitudes and overcoming stereotypes.

We can build ramps and adopt sophisticated legislation, but genuine inclusion will remain impossible while people continue to view disability primarily through pity, fear or shame.

As long as society assumes that a person with a disability cannot be a capable employee, parent, professional or leader, legal and physical improvements alone will not be enough.

Education and awareness-raising are therefore fundamental.

Particular attention must be paid to rural areas and mahallas, where stereotypes can be especially persistent. There, changing attitudes may mean the difference between a life of isolation and the opportunity to participate in society.

Personal examples are extremely powerful. When persons with disabilities succeed in business, culture, public administration or other fields, they challenge assumptions about what is possible.

Our association and the wider civil society sector have an important role in promoting this transformation: moving away from a medical or charitable understanding of disability towards recognition of persons with disabilities as citizens, professionals and independent individuals.

What would you like Uzbekistan to look like for persons with disabilities in five to ten years? What needs to happen to make that vision a reality?

I would like to see a country where persons with disabilities can live independently, regardless of whether they are in Tashkent, a small town or a remote village.

That means accessible public transport, streets, schools, workplaces and public institutions. It also means digital services that everyone can use, including persons with visual and hearing impairments.

I would like persons with disabilities to build careers rather than depend on minimal benefits. Employers should recognise their skills and compete to recruit talented people, instead of treating disability employment quotas as a bureaucratic obligation.

Inclusive education should become the norm from childhood, with properly trained teachers, support staff and accessible facilities. Children with and without disabilities should grow up and learn together.

Another priority is autonomy and legal capacity. Uzbekistan needs to reform arrangements that allow people to be deprived of their legal capacity and introduce supported decision-making mechanisms that respect their choices, including for persons with intellectual or psychosocial disabilities.

Achieving this vision requires several changes.

First, Uzbekistan must allocate adequate funding to implement its obligations under the Convention.

Second, accessibility standards must be properly enforced, with meaningful inspections and consequences for violations.

Third, resources and expertise must reach the regions, rather than remaining concentrated in the capital.

Fourth, disability organisations must be involved in developing legislation, budgets and urban planning policies from the outset.

Finally, public education must challenge stereotypes continuously, through schools, the media and government initiatives.

The ultimate goal should not be to report how many ramps have been built or how many programmes have been launched. It should be to assess whether persons with disabilities can actually live independently, exercise their rights and participate fully in society.

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

The post Uzbekistan’s Disability Rights Reforms: Progress on Paper, Barriers in Practice appeared first on Novastan English.

Born in Latvia and raised in Kazakhstan, Lena Wolf grew up with fragments of a history that Soviet society rarely discussed openly. In her graphic memoir, she retraces the deportation of her German family to Kazakhstan, their struggle to preserve language and identity, and her own journey from Aktobe to Germany.

For our readers in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan:

Lena Wolf’s e-book is now available at reduced regional prices on Google Play Books in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan.

Available in English and Russian.

For much of her childhood, Lena Wolf believed that all Germans came from Kazakhstan.

Aktobe was home. Her grandmother cooked German dishes alongside baursaki and manti, organised clandestine religious gatherings and spoke German to her grandchildren, even when they answered her in Russian. Around them lived families whose own histories had been shaped by deportation, repression and displacement.

Yet Wolf also learned early that being German could set her apart.

“I don’t think I really understood what being German meant to other people until I was called a fascist for the first time,” she recalls. “I was probably about six.”

Decades later, Wolf began piecing together the family history that had reached her in fragments behind closed doors. The result was a graphic memoir illustrated by Christoph Heuer, tracing almost two centuries of migration, persecution and repeated attempts to build a home.

Her grandmother Emilia was 25 when she was deported to Kazakhstan in 1941 with two young children. Like many Soviet Germans, the family initially believed the displacement might be temporary.

“They left behind their houses, land, animals – everything – still hoping they would return,” Wolf says.

They never did.

Even after Stalin-era special-settlement restrictions were lifted in 1955, Soviet Germans were not allowed to return to the areas from which they had been deported. Emilia eventually built a new life in Aktobe.

“Kazakhstan did become home for her, partly because she knew she could never return to her village in Ukraine,” Wolf says. “She found her people there and had her family around her.”

The contradiction would become central to Wolf’s understanding of her family history: Kazakhstan was both a place of forced exile and the country in which several generations of the family made their lives.

“Somewhere along the way, she too became a German from Kazakhstan.”

Growing up German in Soviet Kazakhstan

For Wolf herself, Kazakhstan carried no such ambiguity during childhood.

“For me, Kazakhstan was simply home. I didn’t know anything else,” she says. “In fact, when I was very little, I thought all Germans came from Kazakhstan.”

Read more on Novastan: Beyond any borders: a new multicultural generation in Kazakhstan

Her family’s German identity nevertheless remained clearly marked in Soviet society.

Official documents continued to identify Soviet Germans as nemets or nemka, even as German-language education, religious life and much of the community’s institutional culture had been suppressed.

“You were expected to stop being German, but you were never allowed to forget that you were German,” Wolf says.

In her family, survival meant avoiding attention. Her father’s advice was encapsulated in the Russian expression тише воды, ниже травы – “quieter than water, lower than grass.”

“Don’t attract attention. Don’t stand out. That was how you survived.”

Wolf remembers the word “German” being routinely associated with “fascist”, decades after the Second World War. Soviet Germans’ own experience of deportation and repression was largely absent from the history taught in schools.

“When you don’t know the history, you fill the gaps with your own explanations,” she says. “So people assumed that because we had been deported, we must have been guilty. The deportation itself became proof of our guilt.”

As a child, she even changed her surname when helping an elderly Soviet woman whose husband and son had died during the war.

“I invented another name for myself: Volkova instead of Wolf.”

The Russian name, she says, became a form of protection.

When Russian became the common language

Language is another thread running through Wolf’s memoir.

Her grandmother spoke German to her; Wolf usually answered in Russian. She later recognised almost exactly the same pattern among Kazakh families: grandparents speaking Kazakh while younger generations responded in Russian.

“When that happens, it isn’t only language that gets lost,” Wolf says. “Stories, traditions and knowledge can no longer be passed on in the same way.”

She remembers receiving some Kazakh-language teaching at school but says it was far too limited for children to become proficient.

Russian, meanwhile, dominated education, television and popular culture.

“You didn’t necessarily have to force children to speak Russian,” she says. “Education, television, culture and opportunities were in Russian, while Kazakh was often seen as old-fashioned or backward. Of course children were going to choose Russian.”

Read more on Novastan: The Lexicon of Kazakh Decolonisation

Looking back, she says she is glad to see the Kazakh language gaining greater prominence today.

A garden as survival – and as home

One image reappears throughout Wolf’s family history: the garden.

Her ancestors had originally migrated eastward to work the land. After deportation, a garden helped her grandmother and a neighbour survive wartime shortages. Decades later, during Wolf’s own childhood in Kazakhstan, home-grown food helped sustain the family when Soviet shops were empty.

But the garden came to represent more than food.

Wolf recounts the story of her father, whose mother was sentenced to the Gulag after attempting to leave the deportation zone and return to Ukraine. He was sent to an orphanage in Zaporizhzhia shortly after the war.

One teacher once invited him to her home for dinner. While she cooked, he played in the garden with her son.

“He remembers standing there among the flowers and plants and realising, for the first time, that the world was beautiful,” Wolf says.

The memory remained with him throughout his life.

Now 91, he can no longer maintain a large garden but still cares for flowers on his balcony in Offenbach, Germany.

“Perhaps that is what a garden means in our family,” Wolf says. “It feeds you when there is nothing to eat, but it also gives you beauty when there isn’t much beauty around you. And wherever you end up, you can plant something and make that place your own.”

A ‘return’ to a country they did not know

In 1989, Wolf and her family left Kazakhstan for Germany.

Officially, such migration was often presented as a return to an ancestral homeland. In practice, Wolf discovered that Germany was another unfamiliar country.

“What surprised me most was that in Germany I wasn’t seen as German,” she says.

“After everything our families had gone through in the Soviet Union because they were German – persecution, discrimination and sometimes literally fighting for survival – we arrived in Germany and suddenly we were foreigners.”

At 17, Wolf initially tried to assimilate as completely as possible. She stopped speaking Russian, avoided food associated with her Soviet childhood and even began using the name Helene.

Inside the family home, however, the opposite transformation was taking place.

“In Kazakhstan my parents had tried to preserve what was German,” she recalls. “In Germany, suddenly they started cooking the food they missed from Kazakhstan – plov, beshbarmak, baursaki.”

Read more on Novastan: Between integration and inheritance: How Armenians in Uzbekistan are redefining community

Wolf eventually realised that Kazakhstan could not simply be removed from her identity.

“I am a German from Kazakhstan.”

It is a formulation she prefers to the widely used German term Russlanddeutsche, or “Russian Germans”.

Wolf points out that neither she nor her parents lived in Russia. Her family had lived in Ukraine before deportation to Kazakhstan, while earlier generations had been Germans of the Russian Empire.

“The term also hides how diverse these German communities actually were,” she says. Germans deported to Kazakhstan came from Ukraine, the Volga region, Crimea, the Caucasus and elsewhere.

“For myself, I simply say: I am a German from Kazakhstan.”

Turning fragments into a history

Wolf’s decision to tell the story as a graphic memoir was partly motivated by younger generations of her own family.

Her nieces and nephews had grown up in Germany knowing little about the experiences of their grandparents and great-grandparents. She wanted to make the history accessible without reducing its complexity.

Works such as Maus and Persepolis showed her that graphic narrative could make difficult histories accessible across generations.

Some experiences, she says, were also easier to communicate visually.

“I could describe in a few sentences how people were transported for weeks in overcrowded trains, cold and hungry, and how people died along the way. But I wanted readers to see their faces, the exhaustion, the desperation and the conditions in which they were deported.”

Illustrator Christoph Heuer eventually drew more than 1,200 panels by hand, reconstructing historical environments from photographs and other archival material.

For Wolf, the research also transformed her understanding of the stories her grandmother had told her.

As a child, she had regarded them almost as dangerous family secrets: accounts of famine, deportation and death that contradicted what was being taught publicly.

“Who do you believe – your grandmother or your country and your teachers?” Wolf asks. “That’s quite a big decision for a child to make.”

Researching the memoir made her realise not only how much her grandmother had told her, but how much she had withheld in an attempt to protect her.

It also changed Wolf’s understanding of resistance.

Her grandmother’s defiance was not dramatic. It meant continuing to practise religion in secret, speaking German to her grandchildren, preparing traditional food and preserving family memories despite decades of pressure to assimilate.

“Her resistance wasn’t loud,” Wolf says. “It was quiet and persistent.”

Writing the book ultimately turned inherited fragments into a coherent family history.

“I think I had to write this book to understand who I am,” she says.

The answer to the question that once troubled her – “Where are you from?” – now comes easily.

“My answer is very simple: I am a German from Kazakhstan. And now I know what came before me.”

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

The post ‘I am a German from Kazakhstan’: Lena Wolf on deportation, memory and finding home appeared first on Novastan English.

Disability-rights expert Janina Arsenjeva discusses how activism is changing across Central Asia, why progress cannot be measured by legislation alone, and what governments, international organisations and the EU still get wrong about inclusion.

Disability rights have gained greater prominence across Central Asia over the past fifteen years. Governments have adopted new legislation and policies, disability-rights organisations have become more visible, and the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (CRPD) has provided activists with a common framework for pushing for change. Yet progress across the region remains highly uneven – and laws on paper do not necessarily translate into greater autonomy, accessibility or inclusion in everyday life.

For Janina Arsenjeva, who has worked with disability-rights actors across all five Central Asian countries for many years, some of the most significant changes are taking place beyond legislation. A new generation of activists increasingly approaches disability as a question of equality and rights rather than charity, while grassroots organisations led by persons with disabilities themselves are becoming more diverse and assertive. At the same time, people with intellectual and psychosocial disabilities, those living in rural areas and other groups remain particularly underrepresented.

In an interview with Novastan English Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, Arsenjeva discusses why there is no single Central Asian trajectory on disability rights, what meaningful participation should look like, and why international organisations need to rethink the way they work with local disability organisations. She also examines how the European Union can prevent its growing investments in Central Asia from creating new barriers, and argues that greater visibility of problems should not necessarily be interpreted as evidence of failure. Sometimes, she says, it can be the first sign that genuine reform has begun.

Novastan: You have worked with disability-rights actors across all five Central Asian countries over many years. Looking back, what has genuinely changed?

Janina Arsenjeva: One of the biggest changes for me is the disability movement itself. There are more grassroots organisations genuinely led by persons with disabilities, including younger people and women. There are also more organisations representing groups that previously had very little voice. And I see a new generation of activists who really understand disability as an issue of equality and rights, rather than charity or “curing” people. They may not always know or use the international human-rights vocabulary, but the values are there. That feels very different from fifteen years ago.

Where is the biggest gap today between what exists on paper and what a person with a disability actually experiences in everyday life? What tells you that reform is working?

I don’t think legislation is the alpha and omega of reform. You can do a lot even with imperfect laws. You can change attitudes, challenge prejudice and make persons with disabilities more visible in public life. Interestingly, one sign of progress is when we start hearing more about problems. It may look as if things are getting worse, but often it simply means somebody has finally started monitoring and talking openly about what is happening. Ultimately, though, the test is very practical. Can someone leave their home? Get support in education or employment? Find the services they need in their community? Uzbekistan, for example, has spent the last few years developing its social workforce and community-based support. That may be less glamorous than passing a big new law, but this is where reform starts changing people’s lives.

Read more on Novastan: When reform reaches everyday life: Lessons from Uzbekistan and Mongolia

How misleading is it to talk about Central Asia as though the five countries were moving along the same trajectory?

Very misleading. These are five different countries, with different politics, priorities, capacities and disability movements. Kyrgyzstan, for example, has done interesting practical work on accessibility, accessible communication and culture, and disability-inclusive emergency preparedness. In Kazakhstan, activists have done excellent work using the courts to restore the legal capacity of persons with disabilities, and there is also a growing social entrepreneurship movement. Organisations of women with disabilities are particularly strong in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. And Tajikistan has only just ratified the CRPD. So yes, there is a shared history and there are common challenges. But there is definitely no single Central Asian trajectory.

How can we tell whether participation of persons with disabilities has actually been meaningful rather than symbolic?

By now, simply saying “we consulted persons with disabilities” isn’t enough. The first question is: who did you consult? One established organisation cannot represent everybody. You need women, younger people and people with different disabilities around the table. And organisations need to be strong and independent enough to say things the government may not want to hear. Their expertise also has value, and we should stop expecting them to provide it for free. The process matters too. Was it accessible? Did people get enough information and enough time? And was this a one-off meeting, or is there a real mechanism for participation? I do see progress. Activists in several countries tell me that government doors are more open than they used to be, and governments increasingly understand that they actually need persons with disabilities if they want reforms to work.

How much has the shift from a medicalised understanding of disability towards a rights-based model actually happened?

It is uneven, but I think the shift is real. Uzbekistan is an interesting example. The creation of the National Agency for Social Protection has helped move the discussion away from a very paternalistic and medicalised approach and towards support, inclusion and living in the community. I also see the change among activists themselves. More and more people are talking about equality, autonomy and rights rather than charity. Of course, there is frustration that change is too slow, and I understand that. These are huge systems and they don’t transform overnight. But the direction matters, and so does continuing to push so that this direction is not lost.

Read more on Novastan: “Disability is a Mirror for the Development of Societies” – A Conversation with Dilmurad Yusupov

What do international organisations still get wrong in promoting disability inclusion in Central Asia?

The way international funding reaches grassroots organisations! Some of the people who know their communities best would never get through a fifty-page funding application in English with all the technical language and complicated budgets. Yet they may know exactly what women with disabilities in their community need, or what is happening to families in a remote village. They may also understand how to navigate a difficult political environment much better than an outsider does. Of course, public money needs accountability. But surely we can design funding processes that don’t exclude the very people whose expertise we need. I would also like to see much fairer partnerships between big international organisations and local groups, where local organisations are not simply there to implement somebody else’s project.

What would it mean in practical terms to make the EU’s growing investment in Central Asia disability-inclusive from the outset?

The basic principle is very simple: EU money should not be used to build new barriers. The EU already has rules and standards around accessibility, procurement, human rights and responsible business, although applying them consistently to international cooperation and investment is more complicated. But accessibility has to be considered from the beginning. If you build a railway station, public building or digital platform that people with disabilities cannot use, fixing it afterwards will be much harder and more expensive. You also need monitoring and real consequences when accessibility requirements are ignored. We haven’t solved all of this inside the EU either.

Which people are still least visible in disability policy in Central Asia? Are there issues governments and international organisations remain reluctant to confront?

People with intellectual and psychosocial disabilities are still particularly invisible, including within the disability movement itself. People living in rural and remote areas are also much less likely to be heard. And then there are issues that are simply much harder to talk about. Disability can look like a relatively easy development issue if we talk about wheelchairs, social benefits or accessibility. But then you get to legal capacity, political rights, abuse and torture in institutions, or punitive psychiatry. Those are much more difficult conversations. Local activists should guide how these issues are raised, but we also shouldn’t expect them to carry all the risk. Sometimes international organisations can say things that local activists simply cannot safely say themselves. The important thing is to do that with them, not on their behalf or without understanding the consequences.

Is a genuinely regional disability-rights movement emerging in Central Asia?

Not yet, in my view. Organisations across the region know one another and there are good examples of cooperation, particularly among organisations of women with disabilities in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. But I don’t yet see a strong, regular regional movement built around common priorities. Central Asia also falls between different international regions. Sometimes it is grouped with Europe, sometimes with Asia, so disability organisations don’t necessarily have an obvious regional home. I do think a stronger Central Asian network could be very valuable. These countries share borders, experiences and many challenges. But I would want it to be built around where the region wants to go next, rather than simply around the fact that all five countries share a Soviet past.

What makes you optimistic about disability rights in Central Asia today, and what change would you most like to see over the next decade?

What makes me optimistic is the people. I have just come back from Uzbekistan, where I met activists and persons with disabilities who are building support in their communities and pushing for alternatives to institutions. They are incredibly persistent and creative. Over the next decade, I would really like to see a more diverse disability movement, with much stronger voices from younger people and from groups that are still underrepresented: women and girls, Deaf people, persons with intellectual disabilities and others. I would also like to see better data, stronger monitoring and human-rights institutions that really play their role. And perhaps most importantly, I want us to become much more comfortable talking honestly about what isn’t working. Finding a problem doesn’t mean reform has failed. Sometimes it is the first sign that real reform has begun.

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

The post Janina Arsenjeva: “Finding a problem doesn’t mean reform has failed” appeared first on Novastan English.

For three years, a truck driver from Kyrgyzstan has been working across the European Union, sleeping, cooking and living inside his vehicle for months at a time. His story reveals both the opportunities and the precarious realities faced by Central Asian drivers working far from home.

Alex is sitting on the bed inside the cabin of his truck, his head almost touching the ceiling.

“I can’t stand,” he says as he films the cramped space around him.

On the bed beside him, he chops a cucumber next to a box of garlic. Between his legs, a gas stove supports a kazan filled with pearl barley, meat, potatoes and garlic. The truck is not only his workplace. For much of the year, it is also his kitchen, bedroom and living room.

In another video, Alex opens the small refrigerator squeezed into the cabin. It is packed with salted fish fillets and what he estimates to be between 10 and 15 kilograms of meat. Above it sits a basket of dry goods: rice, pearl barley, salt and soy sauce. When the weather is good, he cooks outside in the truck park. When it is not, everything happens inside.

Alex, a pseudonym, is in his early forties and comes from Kyrgyzstan’s Talas region. For the past three years, he has worked as a long-distance truck driver in the European Union. The wages are considerably higher than those available to him at home, but getting to Europe was difficult, and life on the road has proved far more precarious than the promise of European employment might suggest.

Losing money before reaching Europe

Alex’s path into European trucking began with failure.

On his first attempt to find work abroad, he says he lost between 60,000 and 70,000 Kyrgyz som to a posrednik, or middleman, in Slovakia. He obtained the contact through an acquaintance. According to Alex, the intermediary promised to arrange a work visa, contracts and other documents.

“The money was burned,” he recalls.

He tried again and lost money a second time, though less than on the first occasion. It was only on his third attempt that he found a viable route. Rather than relying on another intermediary, Alex contacted a Lithuanian logistics company directly through WhatsApp. According to him, the company prepared a contract, invitation letter and the other documents he needed. Within two or three months, the process was complete, and his principal expenses were administrative fees and flights.

The experience left him deeply suspicious of intermediaries. Although some of his criticism is based on what he has heard from other drivers rather than his own experience, he believes agencies can withhold information or charge workers for poorly explained services.

His experience reflects concerns documented more widely among migrant truck drivers. Research on the European road transport sector has described cases in which drivers paid high recruitment fees, faced unexpected charges after arrival or were misled about working conditions. Other research on Central Asian migration to Europe has similarly identified weaknesses in recruitment systems, including inadequate contract verification and limited pre-departure information.

A truck that doubles as a home

Once Alex started working in Europe, the realities of the job became clearer.

He has worked for companies based in Lithuania and Czechia, driving across large parts of the European Union. Alex says he initially started on around €85 per day, but once he moved into vehicle transport – the work he now specialises in – his pay rose to around €100-€120 per day, sometimes reaching €130.

His current Czech employer, he says, allows him to work for considerably longer periods and with fewer expenses than his previous Lithuanian company. By comparison, the Lithuanian employer operated what Alex describes as a “cadence” system, with drivers moved in and out of different routes and countries by minibus.

“They split drivers up across Europe, over to Germany, France, Italy and Belgium,” he says. One driver would arrive with his belongings and continue the work while another returned home in the same minibus.

The financial attraction of Europe is obvious to him.

“In Kyrgyzstan a driver’s salary is roughly $800 per journey,” Alex says, but a single trip can mean collecting cargo in China and returning to Kyrgyzstan, or driving from Kyrgyzstan through Kazakhstan and onwards to Russia.

On those routes, “nothing is provided”, he says. Repairs, tyre changes and other costs may have to be handled by the driver. Border queues can also consume days. Drivers may wait two or three days, or sometimes as long as a week, he says, while spending part of their earnings on food and other expenses along the way.

By contrast, he considers trucking in the EU better paid and, in some respects, easier. But that income comes with a lifestyle dominated by the vehicle itself.

Even buying groceries can become an expedition. In one video recorded in Germany, Alex walks back from Lidl carrying a full shopping bag. On that occasion, the supermarket was only 2.5 kilometres from where he had parked. At other stops, he says, drivers may have to walk five or even ten kilometres to reach a large shop.

Truck parking determines much of daily life. Drivers cannot simply take their vehicles into many city streets, while roadside facilities do not always provide the food or services they need. Finding somewhere to stop is itself a recurring problem. Alex has filmed parking areas where trucks double-park, occupy exits or line the roadside because designated spaces are full.

“The number one problem is always parking,” he says, especially in Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium and Czechia. Spain and France are somewhat easier, though he says parking around Lyon and Paris can also be difficult.

Basic facilities vary considerably. Alex carries his own water and has recorded truck stops without showers.

“The most important thing,” he says, “is that it has a toilet.”

Sleeping where you work

Alex says he rarely stays in a hotel or hostel while on the road. Most nights, he sleeps in the bed built into the truck cabin.

That can mean spending entire days and nights inside the same few square metres. The truck becomes somewhere to eat, sleep, exercise, store food and wait between assignments.

At night, security is another concern. Alex loops the seatbelts through the interior door handles in an attempt to make it harder for thieves to force open the cabin while he sleeps. He says he has not personally experienced a break-in, but learned the technique from other drivers and from stories circulating among them.

EU rules prohibit drivers from taking their regular weekly rest period of at least 45 hours inside their vehicles. Suitable accommodation outside the truck should instead be provided, with the cost covered by the employer.

Alex is familiar with the rule.

“For 45 hours the driver must rest and the company must provide him with a proper room so that he can go in there and sleep and rest,” he says.

But according to him, that often does not happen.

“No one arranges hotel accommodation. The driver is the one who has to sort it out,” he says, adding that in his experience only a minority of companies consistently comply.

At his former Lithuanian employer, Alex recalls drivers being housed between assignments in three large dormitories. He personally saw two of them, one with five floors and another that appeared to have four. Drivers could spend periods there waiting to be assigned another route.

His current Czech employer, he says, gives him more freedom to decide when and for how long to take a break.

When the driver carries the risk

Pay is another source of uncertainty.

Alex says his experience has varied considerably between employers. At his first company in Lithuania, drivers waiting to be deployed were supposed to receive the Lithuanian minimum wage, he says, but he claims this did not happen. Instead, while he and several other drivers waited between assignments, the company charged them €15 per night for accommodation.

Alex also alleges that one former manager at the Lithuanian company accepted payments from drivers in return for preferential treatment. According to him, drivers could pay to receive trucks with more spacious, higher-roof cabins or to move more quickly into an assignment, while others remained in the dormitories waiting for work.

When he returned to work, Alex says further sums were deducted from his salary without a clear explanation.

The reasons were difficult for him to understand. His contract was in Lithuanian, a language he does not speak. When he was eventually given a Russian-language contract, he remembers employers telling workers to sign quickly.

“Come on, sign here quickly, quickly, quickly. No need to read it, just sign it quickly,” he recalls.

“We were glad they were taking us on, so we just agreed.”

Damage to cargo can also become a financial burden.

Alex recalls transporting BMW cars for his Lithuanian employer and being charged €1,000 after some of the vehicles were found to have scratches.

His current Czech employer, he says, operates differently. The company covers the first incident of damage. On a second occasion, the cost may be divided between employer and driver, while after a third incident the driver can be expected to cover the full amount.

According to Alex, this arrangement was explained to him verbally rather than set out in his contract.

He considers such systems unfair because drivers may not always be able to see damage while loading vehicles. Snow, rain, poor lighting or darkness can make scratches difficult to identify, he says. At unloading, by contrast, inspectors may examine vehicles under bright lights or with mirrors and lamps.

“The driver does not have such capabilities,” Alex says.

Even theft can become the driver’s problem. He recalls a friend whose fuel was stolen and who, according to Alex, had to give up around half of one month’s salary to cover the loss.

A wider dispute over working conditions

Alex says his own relationships with employers have generally remained manageable. Other migrant truck drivers in Europe have experienced much more direct confrontations.

In 2023, dozens of drivers, many of them from Uzbekistan and Georgia, staged protests at the Gräfenhausen motorway service area in Germany in a dispute with their Polish employer. They accused the company of withholding wages and criticised working conditions, including long periods spent living inside trucks.

The Gräfenhausen protests attracted wider attention because they brought grievances normally scattered across motorways, parking areas and logistics depots into public view.

Alex’s own experience is not identical to that of the striking drivers. But some of the pressures he describes – long periods inside a truck, deductions he struggles to understand, and dependence on employers far from home – echo concerns raised elsewhere in the road transport sector.

The Road Transport Due Diligence Foundation has documented broader patterns in which third-country drivers may be formally employed in one EU member state while spending much of their working time elsewhere, alongside delayed wages and deductions that workers struggle to understand.

Europe through a windscreen

Alex’s life in Europe is not defined entirely by work.

During rest stops, he tries to exercise. He bought a skipping rope and trains in truck parking areas. When time allows, he walks around wherever he happens to be parked.

His journeys have also brought unexpected encounters: ships in Belgium, local markets, unfamiliar towns and landscapes, and animals he had never seen before.

On one occasion in Antwerp, Alex and some colleagues visited the zoo.

“That’s where, for the first time, I saw a flamingo,” he says. He also remembers seeing elephants and giraffes.

One thing he particularly appreciates about Europe is the greenery.

“There are even bridges that simply connect the wildlife on the right side of the motorway with that on the left-hand side,” he says, referring to wildlife crossings. “Not for cars, not for anything else, not for trains, but specifically for animals, so that the animals can cross back and forth.”

He also values being able to travel around the Schengen area during his time off without needing separate tourist visas. He has visited Paris and the Louvre, Madrid, Antwerp, Prague and Luxembourg. Rome remains on his list.

Another difference he notices is policing. In his experience, traffic police in Europe behave differently from those he remembers at home.

“They aren’t like we have back home, always waving their batons and handing out fines,” he says. “That sort of thing doesn’t happen here.”

Other aspects of life are less convenient. Alex says truck stops often offer little beyond fast food, and he sometimes struggles to find halal options along his routes.

More broadly, he feels that migrant drivers are treated as more interchangeable than local workers.

“For their own drivers they treat them differently and provide them with better vehicles,” he says of some employers.

In his view, migrant drivers are easier to replace.

“If an Indian won’t do the work, then a Russian will come to do it. If not a Russian then a Ukrainian. If not a Ukrainian then a Filipino. If not Filipino then an Uzbek, Tajik or Kazakh.”

It is his interpretation of a labour market in which drivers from different countries are constantly moving through the same companies, routes and parking areas.

Earning in Europe, imagining a future in Kyrgyzstan

But these glimpses of Europe are incidental.

Alex did not come for tourism, and he does not describe trucking as a long-term dream.

“If I could have the job I do back home, I would do it,” he says.

The reason he stays is money.

Flights to Kyrgyzstan are expensive, and Alex has relatives to support. Until recently, he says, he had spent almost two years in Europe without returning home because leaving work and paying for the journey made little financial sense.

He has two daughters. He speaks to them regularly and sends money, clothes and other things home.

Read more on Novastan: Money, boxes and absent men: the hidden economy reshaping Central Asia

“Going home is not profitable,” he says.

For now, the truck is a means to something else.

Alex is saving. His ambition is to buy one or two apartments in Kyrgyzstan and eventually establish a farm with sheep, sweetcorn and potatoes.

In Talas, he estimates that suitable land costs around €10,000 per hectare. A decent farm, he says, would require at least five to ten hectares, alongside additional investment in buildings, equipment and livestock. By his own estimate, establishing the kind of farm he imagines could ultimately require around €200,000.

“My children are growing up,” he says. “Until my pension I will work, I think. In the future I will receive a European pension.”

The cramped cabin, the long walks to supermarkets and the nights spent sleeping behind the steering wheel are, in his mind, temporary sacrifices.

Europe is where he earns the money.

Kyrgyzstan is where he imagines his future.

By Anvar Whitlock, Contributor for Novastan.

The post Far from home, behind the wheel: A Kyrgyz truck driver on Europe’s roads appeared first on Novastan English.

Producer Azimjon Rahimjonov discusses Lola Animation, the making of Share Happiness, the growth of Uzbekistan’s animation sector and the studio’s ambitions to reach international audiences.

Azimjon Rahimjonov’s career in film began on the side of a road in Tashkent.

He was 19 and trying to hail a taxi early one morning when he met an experienced cinematographer named Humoyun. The encounter proved unexpectedly consequential: Humoyun took him on as an apprentice at a small studio that mainly filmed weddings, introducing him to editing and cinematography.

Rahimjonov had already been fascinated by directing from a young age, long before he knew what the profession was called. He remembers seeking out complicated films and imagining himself behind the camera. Over time, he worked across editing, cinematography and directing, learned from Uzbek filmmaker Abdukarim Mirzayev and eventually worked in television as an editing director.

His path later took him to Istanbul, where he studied at the Hassan Bin Sabit Cinema Academy. After returning to Tashkent, he joined Najot Ta’lim at a moment when its founder, Temurbek Adhamov, was supporting a grant programme for young people interested in animation.

Adhamov told him something Rahimjonov still remembers: “One day, you will become the person who guides the young people who create this animation.”

“That was how I entered the world of animation,” Rahimjonov tells Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine.

What drew him increasingly towards the medium was its potential influence on children.

“I believe that animated films created for children can have a profound influence on their worldview and upbringing.”

A sentence on a building in Tashkent

The idea for Lola Animation’s short film Share Happiness emerged from another apparently ordinary encounter in the Uzbek capital.

Several years ago, shortly after returning from Türkiye, Rahimjonov was taking one of his regular long walks through central Tashkent. On one of the city’s most expensive streets, he noticed a luxury building under construction carrying the slogan “Share Happiness.”

Standing beside it was a bearded man who appeared to be homeless.

“He was looking at the building with admiration,” Rahimjonov recalls. “There was something childlike and sincere in his expression. It felt as though he, too, wanted to enter that house and live there.”

The image stayed with him.

When his team later decided to make a short animated film as a way of building practical experience, Rahimjonov returned to the idea. The first version of the story followed a girl and an older man who secretly entered a luxurious home and pretended to be its owners. As the project developed, the setting shifted from a house to an amusement park.

The broader context also influenced the screenplay. With wars and conflicts intensifying internationally, Rahimjonov found himself thinking increasingly about children whose circumstances deny them experiences that others take for granted.

The result was an eight-minute film about a homeless girl who dreams of entering an amusement park and the security guard whose encounter with her recalls his own childhood.

“The central idea behind Share Happiness is that no child should ever feel like an outsider,” he says. “Regardless of where they live in the world, every child deserves to be happy and to experience a full and meaningful childhood.”

The film explores childhood dreams, inequality and the tension between rules and conscience. Its title, Rahimjonov says, ultimately expresses a simple idea: happiness acquires meaning when it can be shared.

Making the same film twice

The finished film hides how difficult its production was.

Rahimjonov says, quite literally, that the team made Share Happiness twice.

The first production brought together roughly 20 to 25 young people who had completed an animation grant programme. Many were still learning the fundamentals of professional modelling, animation and rendering. Shuhrat Asayev worked as the project’s art director, alongside artists including Elyor Rahmatullayev and Shohsanam Quryozova, layout artist Muhammadyusuf Yo‘ldashev and lead animator Ilhom Karimov.

“We hardly knew how to do anything at a professional level,” Rahimjonov recalls.

But that inexperienced group became the basis of what would develop into Lola Animation’s creative team. Rahmatullayev, for example, is now the studio’s art director.

The first render alone took eight months to arrive.

“When we finally saw it, we were so excited that some of us actually cried,” Rahimjonov says. “We were saying, ‘Are we really making something this amazing?’”

Production continued for around a year and a half. Yet when the rendering process was finally finished, Rahimjonov looked back at what the team had made and concluded that it was no longer good enough.

By then, the animators themselves had improved dramatically. The directing, visual style and technical quality that had once seemed exciting now appeared inadequate beside what the team had learned to produce.

So they discarded the entire eight-minute film.

Rather than patching individual sequences, the team started again from scratch.

It was an expensive decision in time and effort, but for Rahimjonov it also demonstrated how quickly the studio had developed. The final Share Happiness became not simply a film but a record of a team teaching itself how to make professional animation.

Uzbek creators, universal story

Despite being produced in Uzbekistan, Share Happiness was deliberately not designed as an explicitly Uzbek story.

Rahimjonov says the decision was intentional.

“I wanted it to be understandable and relatable to audiences around the world,” he explains. “Whether the viewer is American, Parisian, Russian, African or Uzbek, Muslim or non-Muslim, I wanted everyone to be able to find a feeling or idea that resonates with them.”

Rather than foregrounding traditional motifs or identifiable elements of everyday Uzbek life, the team chose to concentrate on childhood, inequality and compassion.

“I believe that human values transcend national and geographical boundaries,” he says.

For Rahimjonov, however, universality does not mean detachment from Uzbekistan. It reflects his ambition to create from Uzbekistan while participating in conversations that are global rather than geographically confined.

“In a way, the film also reflects my personal perspective as an artist on today’s capitalist world.”

Building an “Uzbek Animation Factory”

Lola Animation describes itself as the “Uzbek Animation Factory.”

The phrase captures the scale of its ambitions. Rahimjonov does not see the studio’s mission simply as producing individual cartoons, but as helping create an animation ecosystem capable of developing talent, telling local stories and competing internationally.

“Our goal is to contribute to building a future where human values come first by creating animated films that are engaging, thought-provoking and promote humanity,” he says.

One of his ambitions is to make Uzbekistan’s own stories more visible internationally.

“There are many stories, struggles, challenges and beautiful values that exist in Uzbekistan,” he says. “I want to bring them to the world through animation.”

At the same time, he resists the idea that Uzbek animation must be culturally self-contained. His aspiration is to connect local experience with themes that viewers elsewhere can recognise.

“I do not see our mission simply as ‘creating Uzbek animation’. To me, it is about connecting the stories, struggles, values and challenges of people in Uzbekistan with universal issues and encouraging audiences around the world to think about them on a global scale.”

That ambition has already produced projects substantially larger than Share Happiness.

Rahimjonov points to Sehrlandiya: A Heroic Mission, developed as a full-length 3D animated film. Work on an early pilot began while Share Happiness was still in production, allowing the same team to apply rapidly developing skills to a more ambitious format.

For Lola Animation, the project became evidence that an Uzbek studio could attempt work on a scale that had previously been unusual in the regional animation industry.

A broken link between generations?

Uzbekistan is not starting from zero.

The country has a long history of animation, but Rahimjonov believes the relationship between earlier generations of artists and those entering the industry today has become fragmented.

Technologically, he says, the two periods are difficult to compare. Digital tools have transformed almost every stage of production, while contemporary animators have access to possibilities that their predecessors could scarcely have imagined.

But technology is not the same as artistic inheritance.

“I feel that, to some extent, the exchange of experience and creative heritage between generations has been interrupted,” Rahimjonov says. “This is not limited to animation; it applies to the arts as a whole.”

The skills, creative approaches and accumulated experience of older Uzbek artists, he believes, were not always successfully transferred to those who followed them.

That makes the current period particularly important. Rahimjonov points to initiatives by the Center for the Development of Children’s Content, the Cinematography Agency and other parts of Uzbekistan’s film sector as potential opportunities to reconnect domestic production with larger international markets.

His ambition is not simply to create technically impressive work, but films capable of surviving beyond the moment in which they were made.

“Just like the masters who came before us, we want to create works that retain their value for many years to come.”

An industry growing quickly

Rahimjonov describes Uzbekistan’s animation sector today as expanding rapidly.

More young people are learning the technical skills required for animation, while private studios and grant programmes are creating opportunities to turn ideas into completed projects.

According to Rahimjonov, where Uzbekistan once had only around three active animation studios, the number is now approaching 15. He also sees the expansion of the country’s IT sector as an important source of skills and infrastructure for animation.

But production remains expensive.

Technically ambitious animation requires significant investment long before audiences see a finished product, and Rahimjonov says finding investors willing to finance complex short films or long-form projects remains difficult.

That is why he repeatedly credits the support of Najot Ta’lim founder Temurbek Adhamov, whose backing helped provide the conditions in which the team behind Share Happiness could learn through experimentation.

The investment was not only in a film. It was also in people who, at the beginning, were still discovering how to build one.

Taking Share Happiness abroad

International festivals now provide Lola Animation with an opportunity to test whether Rahimjonov’s belief in universal storytelling works beyond Uzbekistan.

Share Happiness premiered at the KINOdiseea International Children Film Festival and has also participated in the Black Star International Film Festival and the CMS Lucknow International Children’s Film Festival. It was also screened at the Merveilleux & Imaginaire Film Festival in Paris in September 2026, under the support of the French national committee for UNESCO and with the leadership of Bénédicte Beaugeois.

For Rahimjonov, appearing at a festival in Paris is itself the fulfilment of one of the ambitions that accompanied the film from its earliest stages.

“When we were making the film, we wanted our idea as Uzbek creators to reach the international stage and for audiences and children around the world to see our film,” he says.

Read more on Novastan: Central Asia through the lens of… Kamila Rustambekova

What matters most to him is whether audiences understand the idea at its centre.

“If audiences understand and feel the message we are trying to convey – that every child in the world deserves to be happy – then we will have achieved our goal.”

The film may have been made by an Uzbek team, but the questions it raises – childhood, inequality, dreams, compassion and the invisible barriers created by society – are deliberately broader.

“We live in a world shaped by harsh rules and complicated realities,” Rahimjonov says. “Even so, I believe that humanity and our most beautiful values remain among the most important things we have.”

What comes next

Lola Animation is already working on its next major project.

Yo‘lbars is an animated series centred on road safety, produced by Lola Animation on behalf of Uzbekistan’s Center for the Development of Children’s Content.

Rahimjonov says the underlying motivation is straightforward: preventing children and families from losing their lives in road accidents.

The project includes around 70 characters and, according to Rahimjonov, combines an ambitious visual style with a more complex production and storytelling structure than many of the studio’s earlier projects.

The intention is again international.

“We want children around the world to enjoy watching the series while also becoming more aware of road safety,” he says.

Beyond Yo‘lbars, Lola Animation wants to produce multi-episode series and feature-length animated films across different genres and visual styles. Rahimjonov also wants the studio to expand its grant programmes and share the experience it has accumulated with other emerging Uzbek animation studios.

And after deliberately making Share Happiness culturally universal, he says future feature films may move more explicitly towards Uzbekistan.

“We want to explore authentic Uzbek characters, stories and settings in greater depth and introduce them to audiences around the world.”

For a studio that began with a group of young animators waiting eight months to see their first render, that ambition is considerable.

But Rahimjonov’s own route into the industry was hardly conventional either: from a chance meeting while waiting for a taxi to editing wedding videos, film school in Istanbul and eventually building animated worlds in Tashkent.

The next challenge is to see how far those worlds can travel.

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

The post Share Happiness, build an industry: Lola Animation’s Uzbek animation story appeared first on Novastan English.

After more than 25 years in international development, including as UNDP Resident Representative in Uzbekistan and Mongolia, Matilda Dimovska has seen reforms succeed, stall and take unexpected directions. She speaks to Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine about public services, women’s economic participation, disability rights, Mongolia’s energy transition and why locally generated solutions often matter more than imported models.

Economic reform can look convincing on paper. Governments adopt strategies, pass new legislation and create institutions, while international organisations measure progress through programmes, indicators and policy frameworks. But for Matilda Dimovska, who spent more than 25 years working in international development, the more important question is often much simpler: does a reform actually change the way people live?

Dimovska served as the United Nations Development Programme’s Resident Representative in both Uzbekistan and Mongolia. The two countries face very different economic, social and environmental challenges, but her experience in both convinced her of the importance of looking beyond formal policy change. Some of the most important lessons, she says, came not from large-scale programmes or national strategies, but from observing how reforms affected people’s daily lives and how local institutions, communities and innovators responded to change.

Across issues ranging from public services and social protection in Uzbekistan to air pollution and household energy in Mongolia, one principle repeatedly emerged: policies become meaningful only when people can actually access, use and benefit from them.

“Institutional reform becomes meaningful when people experience it”

Novastan: During your time in Uzbekistan, UNDP was closely involved in reforms of public-service delivery, local governance and access to justice. Which reforms do you think made the most tangible difference in people’s everyday lives?

Matilda Dimovska: Public-service delivery probably produced the most visible everyday change. Uzbekistan created a nationwide network of one-stop Public Service Centres, expanding the number of services available through them from 37 in 2018 to 162 in 2021, while annual uptake increased from around five million to eleven million. For citizens, particularly those living in rural areas, this meant fewer journeys between different government agencies, simpler procedures and less need to navigate multiple institutions or rely on informal connections.

Read more on Novastan: Beyond the Counter: Uzbekistan’s Public Service Reforms and the Hidden Infrastructure of the Digital State

What impressed me most was the shift towards user-centred delivery. We worked on mobile services, digital channels and making centres more inclusive for women, older people and persons with disabilities. The broader lesson was that institutional reform becomes meaningful when people experience it through services that are more accessible, dignified and predictable.

Uzbekistan also invested heavily in reforming social protection during your tenure. What did you learn about the difference between providing assistance to vulnerable people and actually helping them become more economically secure and independent?

Assistance helps people through immediate hardship, while economic security gives them the ability to make choices about their future. In Uzbekistan, I learned that social protection works best when benefits and social services are connected to skills, employment, entrepreneurship and opportunities to generate income.

Cash support remains essential, but it cannot by itself remove barriers to work, finance or public services. The broader objective should be to strengthen people’s capabilities and make sure they have equal opportunities to participate in economic and social life.

Women’s economic participation: beyond legal reform

You worked extensively on women’s economic participation in Uzbekistan. Beyond legal reforms, which barriers proved hardest to change in practice?

The hardest challenge was not one particular barrier, but the way several of them reinforced one another. A woman may have the legal right and the skills to work, yet still lack access to finance, affordable childcare, family support or opportunities in sectors traditionally seen as male. Social norms and prejudices are often the most difficult part to change.

Uzbekistan made important progress in strengthening legislation and institutions for gender equality, but changing laws is often faster than changing practices within households, workplaces and financial institutions. Women’s economic participation therefore requires more than training or entrepreneurship programmes. It also depends on accessible finance, care services, supportive employers and visible examples of women succeeding in non-traditional roles. Legal reform can open the door, but institutions and social norms determine whether women can actually walk through it.

UNDP also worked on access to justice and the rights of people with disabilities in Uzbekistan. Were there examples where changing the way a public institution worked mattered more than changing the law itself?

Yes. Uzbekistan’s ratification of the Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities in 2021 was a major step, but rights become real only when institutions change how they work. That means listening to persons with disabilities, assessing individual needs and designing accessible services that support participation and independent living.

Read more on Novastan: “Disability is a Mirror for the Development of Societies” – A Conversation with Dilmurad Yusupov

I saw the same principle in access to justice. Supporting local civil-society organisations to provide free legal assistance was intended to bring services closer to women, young people and persons with disabilities who might otherwise remain outside the formal justice system. A good law creates an entitlement, but an accessible and responsive institution determines whether a person can actually exercise it.

Mongolia: where environmental policy becomes social policy

When Dimovska moved to Mongolia, she encountered a development model under growing pressure from the intersection of climate vulnerability, poverty and inequality. Although these challenges were long-standing, their combined impact became especially visible in a country that had reached upper-middle-income status while still facing major disparities in living conditions and exposure to climate shocks.

When you moved to Mongolia, what development challenge struck you as particularly important but less visible to international audiences?

What struck me most was the close connection between climate vulnerability, poverty and unequal development. International audiences often see Mongolia through its mining sector, renewable-energy potential and vast landscapes. Less visible is the daily reality of families in Ulaanbaatar’s ger districts, many of whom live without central heating, sewerage or adequate public services.

There is also the reality of herders and their families across the country, whose livelihoods depend directly on livestock. As climate-related extreme weather events become more severe and frequent, these households face the risk of losing not only animals but their principal source of income and economic security.

Read more on Novastan: Keeping the heat in: Mongolia’s overlooked answer to Ulaanbaatar’s air pollution

Families in the ger districts burn coal because affordable alternatives are limited. This made me understand air pollution not simply as an environmental problem, but as an issue of poverty, public health and inequality. Mongolia’s challenge is therefore not only to diversify its economy or move away from coal. It is to manage economic, social and energy transitions simultaneously, without placing the greatest burden on the households least able to bear it.

Air pollution in Ulaanbaatar is both an environmental and a social issue, particularly in the ger districts. What have you learned about what it takes to make a green transition work for families who cannot simply absorb higher costs?

I learned that the cleaner option must also be affordable, reliable and practical. We cannot ask a low-income family to stop using coal if the alternative costs more, cannot keep their home warm through a Mongolian winter or depends on infrastructure they do not have. Our research found that low-income households spent, on average, 26.7 percent of their monthly income on energy during winter, more than four times the burden faced by higher-income households.

That is why our solar-heating pilot in the ger districts focused not only on technology, but also on affordability, financing models, smart metering and community engagement. We wanted to understand what would make clean energy a realistic option for ordinary households. For me, the central lesson was that a green transition will succeed only if families experience it as an improvement in their daily lives: a warmer and cleaner home, lower financial pressure and greater energy security. Otherwise, even the best environmental policy will struggle to gain public support.

Who benefits from the green transition?

Mongolia has significant renewable-energy and critical-mineral potential, but it also faces climate shocks, water pressures and persistent inequalities. What would convince you that a green transition is genuinely improving human development rather than simply generating economic growth?

I would look beyond investment volumes, exports or installed renewable capacity. I would ask whether families have affordable and reliable energy, whether new industries create decent jobs and skills for Mongolians, and whether women, young people and rural communities share in the opportunities.

I would also look at whether water, land and ecosystems are protected, and whether the revenues generated are invested in better education, health and social protection. Mongolia’s National Human Development Paper 2024 made this central point: the energy transition must be people-centred and expand the capabilities of present and future generations. For me, the real test is not only how much the economy grows, but who benefits, who bears the costs and whether the transition reduces inequality rather than reproducing it.

A solar-heated home in Ulaanbaatar

Of the projects Dimovska encountered during her years in Uzbekistan and Mongolia, one relatively small intervention in Ulaanbaatar’s ger districts stayed with her. Its significance, she says, lay not only in the technology itself, but in the fact that the solution was developed locally and responded directly to the realities of Mongolian winters.

Can you think of a community, project or encounter in either Uzbekistan or Mongolia where a relatively practical intervention changed your understanding of what development cooperation can achieve?

The solar-heating pilot in Ulaanbaatar’s ger districts stayed with me. One participating mother, Gantuya, described how solar heating had made her home warm and clean, eliminated the black smoke and freed her son from spending time tending the coal stove.

What made the intervention especially compelling was that the innovation was locally generated. The solution was developed by Mongolian experts and the climate-technology start-up URECA, with community outreach supported by a local NGO. Because it emerged from a deep understanding of the local context, cultural needs and extreme winter conditions, it was both relevant and practical. It combined solar energy, battery storage, smart heating and technology for monitoring energy use and avoided emissions.

The initial 68-household pilot then attracted district financing for another 80 households and later additional support for expansion to 450 households. For me, it demonstrated that development cooperation is often most effective when it identifies and supports local innovation rather than importing ready-made solutions. A relatively small intervention can provide the evidence, confidence and partnerships needed to take a home-grown idea to scale.

Why good reforms can remain on paper

For Dimovska, the gap between national strategies and implementation is not unique to either Uzbekistan or Mongolia. Governments can adopt ambitious reforms, but their success ultimately depends on institutions and people much closer to the point of delivery.

UNDP often works at the point where national strategies meet local implementation. In your experience, why do good reforms sometimes fail to produce results on the ground?

Because adopting a policy is only the beginning. Results depend on whether local institutions have the capacity, financing, incentives and leadership to implement it, and whether the reform reflects how people actually experience services.

In my experience, reforms often struggle when there is a gap between national ambition and local realities. Governments may adopt strong policies, but frontline institutions are expected to deliver them without the necessary resources, skills or coordination. Sometimes reforms are also designed from the centre without sufficient understanding of how citizens experience them.

Policies are more likely to succeed when they build on credible pilots that have demonstrated the concept in practice. Locally generated solutions are particularly valuable because they are rooted in the social, economic and institutional realities in which they must work. The most successful reforms I have seen have involved local authorities, frontline staff and communities from the beginning. Implementation is not the final stage of reform. It is where reform either becomes real or remains on paper.

“International organisations cannot substitute for national ambition”

After working across public institutions, social protection, justice, climate and local development, what have you come to see as the most important ingredient in a successful reform that international organisations sometimes underestimate?

I would say national commitment, and I mean more than formal government ownership. Successful reform requires institutions, leaders, public servants, communities and businesses to share a sense of direction and remain committed when implementation becomes difficult.

International organisations can bring evidence, expertise and comparative experience. They can convene partners, help test new approaches and create space for learning. But they cannot substitute for national ambition, local initiative and the sustained commitment needed to translate reform into practice.

Local drive and innovation are becoming even more critical in today’s uncertain and fragmented world. Countries need the confidence and capability to generate solutions rooted in their own realities, rather than depend on imported models. The role of international cooperation is not to import a vision or a ready-made solution, but to help turn nationally owned ambition and local innovation into stronger institutions, capabilities and results.

Matilda Dimovska served with UNDP for more than twenty-five years, including as Resident Representative in Uzbekistan and Mongolia.

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

The post When reform reaches everyday life: Lessons from Uzbekistan and Mongolia appeared first on Novastan English.

Afghanistan is often explained through clichés of tribalism, ethnic rivalry, foreign invasion and inevitable state failure. Political scientist Ahmad Fahim Abdullatif argues that these frames obscure the country’s more complex history of state formation. In this interview with Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, he discusses the collapse of the Afghan army in 2021, the Taliban’s emerging state, the legacy of Amir Abdul Rahman’s campaigns, British influence and why Afghanistan was never simply an isolated “graveyard of empires”.

Afghanistan has repeatedly been explained through shorthand: tribal society, ethnic fragmentation, religious conservatism, foreign interference or the supposed impossibility of building a modern state.

For Ahmad Fahim Abdullatif, these explanations are not only incomplete. They often prevent us from understanding how the Afghan state actually developed.

His research examines state formation through Afghanistan’s armed forces, coercive institutions and political organisations. Part of that interest emerged from the astonishing collapse of the Afghan security forces in 2021, which he watched unfold while his family remained in besieged Herat.

That collapse raised a larger historical question. Why did the Najibullah government survive for three years after the Soviet withdrawal in 1989, while the Western-backed Afghan state unravelled so rapidly after the US withdrawal more than three decades later?

From there, Abdullatif’s analysis moves both backwards and forwards: from the Taliban’s current state apparatus to nineteenth-century campaigns of consolidation under Amir Abdul Rahman, and from contemporary ethnic interpretations of Afghan politics to the colonial construction of Afghanistan as a buffer state.

Novastan: You have spent several years researching and teaching Afghanistan while seeking to move beyond exoticised or essentialist representations of the country. Was there a particular experience, encounter or intellectual frustration that led you to study the Afghan state through the history of its armed forces?

Ahmad Fahim Abdullatif: I think there is an answer on two levels, and both are rather cliché.

In terms of the armed forces, it was really the collapse of the army and security forces in 2021 that intrigued me.

I remember having discussions with my mother while she was in Herat during the summer of 2021, when the city was besieged by the Taliban. I was trying to explain to her how difficult, almost impossible, it is to take a city or fortified target without heavy artillery and air power.

After all, the Afghan government survived for three years after the withdrawal of Soviet troops in 1989, following a similar logic: the government retained control of major cities and towns, while the mujahideen controlled much of the countryside. It was only with the dissolution of the Soviet Union itself and the total cut-off of external support that the regime collapsed.

That was not what happened in 2021.

I remember my own shock and disbelief until the very last moments. How could such a thing be possible? How could such a highly equipped and numerous force unravel like that?

That curiosity pushed me to explore this puzzle in a deeper way, and also the broader questions of violence, coercion and armed force in a historical and sociological perspective. That is what led me to choose the armed forces as an angle for analysing state formation in Afghanistan.

On a broader level, my interest in state formation also comes from my own experience of growing up in Afghanistan during the early 2000s.

There was this roller-coaster of collective emotion and hope, and a desire for change and reform, but also social tensions, inequalities, vulnerabilities and uncertainty.

The country and society had already been torn apart by proxy conflict and civil war for two decades before I was born, and that legacy was inevitably still being felt.

I think I was experiencing a kind of collective post-traumatic stress disorder that manifests itself in many ways in a society after so much violent conflict and collective trauma. That made me curious to understand and untangle the complexity of what was going on, at the very least to make it more intelligible and navigable for myself.

As I discovered my passion for the humanities and social sciences, I tried to explore this curiosity through those disciplines.

State formation was an evident fit for all these interests and impasses. So in that sense, it is a very cliché case of an Afghan student of social sciences trying to understand what went “wrong” in his own country.

You contrast the Afghan government’s rapid collapse in 2021 with the Najibullah government’s survival for three years after the Soviet withdrawal in 1989. What explains that difference?

I would point to two key differences: domestic regime coherence and international support.

The army in 1989 had a more coherent bureaucracy that revolved around a corps of professionals trained along Soviet lines since the 1950s.

The army of 2021 had a much more heterogeneous composition. Former Soviet-trained professionals had been amalgamated with newer arrivals, and the criteria of patronage and proximity to ruling parties and factions were often more important than professional credentials.

Like the broader elite coalition that formed the ruling class of the country, the armed forces were heterogeneous, riddled with private interests and corruption, and lacked corporate coherence.

The second major difference was international support.

The army in 1989 was able to survive because the Soviet withdrawal did not entail an immediate and significant withdrawal of military support in terms of equipment and funding. This is why the government fell apart only after the Soviet Union itself collapsed.

By contrast, the US withdrawal entailed a much more severe disruption to the supply and maintenance of crucial equipment.

The Afghan army lost what was effectively one of its keystone elements, and soldiers and officers were well aware that military support was being drastically reduced.

I remember that in August 2021, repairs of sophisticated aircraft components were being conducted by Afghan engineers while an American contractor supervised them via Zoom.

One does not need to be a specialist to understand what an impossible task the Afghans were suddenly left with.

More broadly, after the 2020 agreement between the United States and the Taliban, the writing was on the wall for the ruling elites and state institutions as the drastic reduction in US support became increasingly evident.

Your course at Sciences Po was entitled Afghanistan: a nation-state not meant to be? After years of teaching and research, how would you answer that deliberately provocative question?

The question is really a way of hinting at certain assumptions about state formation in Afghanistan that need to be challenged.

The first is a Eurocentric, evolutionist and teleological view of state formation.

An evolutionist perspective treats the Western bureaucratic national state as the end point of a supposedly natural evolution for all societies, moving from the most “primitive” to the most sophisticated, rationalised and modernised.

That vision was evident in modernisation theory and still persists in contemporary discourses about state “fragility” and failure.

In reality, contemporary political science shows that the bureaucratic Weberian national state emerged in a very specific historical context in Europe.

Different dynamics shaped later colonial and post-colonial state formation elsewhere.

Even in Europe, the process was far from linear or intentional. It resulted from a complex interaction between geopolitical competition, territorial consolidation, internal mobilisation and reform.

When Afghanistan is treated simply as a deviation from that norm, another assumption often follows: because the process of Afghan state formation ended in civil war, it must always have been destined to fail because of some inherent characteristic of Afghan society or culture.

That is what the course title is meant to challenge.

At the same time, saying that Afghanistan differs from the typical Western trajectory does not mean it should be treated as a singular and exceptional case outside history, comparison or scientific explanation.

In my own research, I describe processes and dynamics that also occur elsewhere in the world and can be subjected to sociological and political analysis.

Exceptionalism often produces another problem: Afghanistan is reduced to an image of a peripheral, static, backward, tribal, fanatical and archaic society whose current condition is supposedly the inevitable result of its “natural” characteristics.

That view implicitly suggests that Afghanistan was never capable of developing institutional practices associated with contemporary states: citizenship, rights, political representation, bureaucracy, professionalisation, fiscal extraction and redistribution, democracy or accountable governance.

It denies the agency and dynamism of human collectives.

So the “not meant to be” part of the title is precisely what needs to be challenged.

The problem with many representations of Afghan state formation is that they reduce a complex interaction between social hierarchies, diverse social actors, domestic, transnational and international dynamics, bureaucratic processes and historical conjunctures to one-dimensional explanations based on Islam, tribalism, ethnicity or great-power politics.

Since returning to power in 2021, the Taliban have inherited and transformed institutions built under previous governments while also introducing their own political and ideological structures. What kind of state is emerging?

I think it is a hybrid form.

The Taliban have chosen not to dismantle the relatively intricate bureaucracy of the fallen republic.

Instead, they have hybridised it with their own political structures.

This can be seen, for example, in the parallel structure of rule between ministries in Kabul and the leadership council in Kandahar, in their reorganisation of the judiciary, and in their appointment of their own personnel to pre-existing bureaucratic positions.

There is therefore continuity with the bureaucratic structures of the republic, and the Taliban’s current power is built, in part, upon those structures, procedures and administrative patterns.

But this should not distract us from the ideological continuity between the first and second Taliban regimes.

The existence of a more modern bureaucracy does not mean this is not a profoundly reactionary regime.

Nor does the Taliban’s use of modern military bureaucracy and intelligence apparatuses for repression make the regime less ideologically radical.

So what we are seeing is a hybrid of more bureaucratised elements inherited from the republic combined with the Taliban’s own ideological goals and organisational practices.

Northern Afghanistan is often described through ethnic categories such as Uzbek, Tajik, Turkmen, Hazara and Pashtun. To what extent do these labels explain political and social realities?

Your question contains much of the answer.

An intersectional variety of factors such as class, locality, relations with the state, professional affiliations and social trajectories are often much more analytically useful than a reductive focus on macro-ethnic categories.

Macro-ethnic reasoning is often analytically weak and can have quasi-racial undertones.

For example, reducing the Taliban to a representative of the Pashtuns ignores both the movement’s social and historical origins and its ideological and organisational practices.

Could you give a concrete example where looking at Afghanistan primarily through an ethnic lens leads us to misunderstand what is actually happening?

A good example is the way Gilles Dorronsoro analyses the Afghan conflict in Revolution Unending, especially his criticism of what he calls the essentialist bias.

This bias became particularly evident in studies of the civil war after the Soviet withdrawal, where culturalist explanations emerged that described the conflict in non-political, exotic and reductive terms such as tribalism, ethnicity and Islam.

Explanations of the war in terms of tribalism and tribal revolts ignored the fundamental novelty of emerging political parties, as well as the participation of urban and rural populations as a whole in the conflict.

One major example of the ethnic fallacy is the interpretation of the war as a competition between macro-ethnic groups – Pashtun versus Tajik versus Hazara, and so on – and their supposed representatives, such as the Taliban representing the Pashtuns.

This ignores the fact that macro-ethnic affiliation is only one level of collective affiliation and identity among others, alongside family, religious, professional and micro-ethnic or qawm identities.

Ultimately, it was not ethnicities that made war.

As Dorronsoro puts it, it was political organisations with ideological objectives and particular institutional practices.

Reducing the conflict to ethnicity therefore fails to capture social and ideological dynamics.

The same problem applies to explanations centred entirely on Islam or religion.

Such interpretations assume that Islam inevitably produces a particular relationship between religion and politics.

But what appears mystical or culturally predetermined can often be explained more convincingly through the sociology of contending groups, such as students and the ulama, in a decidedly contemporary historical context.

That argument echoes my own goal in both my teaching and my research: to develop a more critical, complex and scientific approach to understanding Afghanistan beyond reductionist, essentialist and Eurocentric representations.

During your research, was there one historical episode that significantly changed how you understood the Afghan state?

The campaigns of Amir Abdul Rahman in Hazarajat in the 1890s were particularly horrific and revealing.

They showed how the state manipulated and instrumentalised collective identities, micro- and macro-ethnic rivalries, religious mobilisation, disorder, plunder and extreme violence in order to consolidate its authority.

They also left a profound legacy of discrimination and marginalisation for Hazara communities.

What surprised me was that these were strategies I had previously associated more with empires than with the consolidation of a nation-state.

It demonstrated that state formation in Afghanistan did not only include elements that we associate with nation-states – territorial, direct, unitary, bureaucratic and rational-legal rule.

It also contained elements of a more imperial register: indirect rule, governing through discontinuities and even the instrumentalisation of destruction and disorder.

What began in a way comparable to Abdul Rahman’s campaigns elsewhere in the north and east became especially bloody in Hazarajat because of the religious mobilisation and declaration of jihad against the Hazara, who were excommunicated because of their Shi’a faith.

This religious mobilisation was complemented by the manipulation of local rivalries between Hazaras and neighbouring communities, including in many cases Pashtuns.

The result was that Hazara communities permanently lost a substantial portion of their cultivable land and exclusive pasture rights.

The permission not only to plunder but also to enslave thousands of Hazaras attracted auxiliary militias that were not paid by the state but sustained themselves through plunder.

The state itself taxed the plunder of its military troops and took a share for itself, as it did with systematic plunder elsewhere in the country.

This was also a period in which Afghanistan was emerging as a British protectorate.

Abdul Rahman was able to focus on such violent internal campaigns partly because Britain protected Afghanistan from potential foreign aggression by Russia or Persia, while also providing the ruler with yearly subsidies, arms and access to further military purchases.

The state therefore unleashed a violent, destructive and complex process that was not entirely under its control, and consolidated its authority by instrumentalising that disorder.

The result was an immense legacy of collective trauma for the Hazara and a continuing history of marginalisation and discrimination.

There are important scholarly debates about whether these episodes constituted genocide.

At the very least, they involved mass killings, massacres, enslavement and crimes against humanity.

This episode demonstrated not only the sometimes atypical mechanisms of state consolidation in Afghanistan, but also the importance of understanding the legacy of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in explaining the country’s contemporary social and political realities.

In discussing Amir Abdul Rahman’s campaigns in Hazarajat, you distinguish between “nation-state” and “imperial” forms of state-building. Were these imperial methods exceptional to Hazarajat?

This is a very good question because it goes back to my criticism of reducing everything to macro-ethnic arguments.

There was something distinctly particular about the case of the Hazaras.

There was a religious dimension to the jihad against them because they were excommunicated on account of their Shi’a faith.

There was also widespread enslavement, as well as the transfer of arable land and pasture rights to non-Hazara groups, especially Pashtuns.

Here, we do see a genuinely macro-ethnic and ethno-religious dynamic emerging from the formation of the state and its strategies.

At the same time, many imperial features were common to all the communities subjected to central rule.

These included widespread massacres and violence, systematic plunder during army deployments and the extensive use of militias.

So although communities elsewhere were not subjected to enslavement or large-scale transfers of land and pasture in the same way, they too were subjugated through a highly coercive and autocratic process and became subordinate to a distant but coercively powerful government.

An eastern Pashtun farmer in a mountain village was not subjected to the same ethno-religious discrimination as the Hazaras, but he nevertheless shared a fundamentally similar socio-political relationship of subordination to the state and incorporation into a peripheral economy through that same process.

You point out that Abdul Rahman’s campaigns took place while Britain protected Afghanistan from external aggression and provided the ruler with money and arms. How important was British support to the consolidation of the Afghan state itself?

It was very important, and it complicates the conventional image of Afghanistan as a country historically resistant to all outside control.

The image of Afghanistan as an isolated realm, a “graveyard of empires” whose mythical population has forever resisted foreign rule, is itself a colonial trope that emerged in the nineteenth century.

Before that, rule by dynasties that would later be described as “foreign” was the norm rather than the exception.

Greeks, Arabs, Indians, Turkic dynasties from Central Asia and Mongols all conquered and ruled parts of what we now call Afghanistan.

Even when we look at the Anglo-Afghan wars and their outcomes in the nineteenth century, the picture is more complicated.

Afghanistan retained internal autonomy because of undeniable societal resistance to British invasions.

But at the same time, it became a quasi-colonial construction.

Britain largely defined and safeguarded its territory, controlled its foreign relations and incorporated it into the emerging global economic order as a landlocked buffer state on the periphery.

Territorial defence is particularly revealing.

Britain imposed substantial territorial losses on the Amir through the treaties of Gandamak in 1879 and Durand in 1893.

But it was also Britain that went to war with Iran over its claims to Herat and forced Tehran to renounce those claims by treaty.

Similarly, what protected northern Afghanistan from annexation by the Russian Empire was not simply the military strength of the Amir, but the deterrent effect of the possibility of conflict with Britain.

That meant the ruler could focus his strategies on internal repression rather than interstate warfare.

So Afghanistan was peripheralised, but never isolated.

Its political constructions drew on elements from both inside and outside the country.

It was neither entirely determined by the outside world nor independent of it.

It was neither an entirely colonial construction nor untouched by colonialism.

Even in the twentieth century, we see not only state elites drawing on resources from outside the country – military patronage and international aid – but also non-state political parties and militias whose prominence during the 1980s and 1990s depended heavily on foreign patronage.

That longer history makes the “graveyard of empires” image particularly misleading.

Afghanistan has always been shaped by interaction between domestic and external forces.

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

The post Beyond the ‘Graveyard of Empires’: Rethinking the Afghan State appeared first on Novastan English.

Bruce Pannier has watched Central Asia change for more than three decades – from the final years of the Soviet Union to a generation that no longer remembers it. In an interview with Novastan English Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, the veteran journalist reflects on independent media, Russia’s changing role, generational shifts, overlooked communities and what outsiders still misunderstand about Central Asia.

In the summer of 1990, Bruce Pannier arrived at Tashkent State University. The Soviet Union still existed. Central Asia’s five future independent states did not.

More than three decades later, Pannier has become one of the most familiar English-language voices on Central Asia. At Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL), he co-created and co-hosted Majlis, a podcast that brought together journalists, scholars and analysts to discuss developments across the region and, increasingly, to amplify perspectives from Central Asians themselves.

Today, he is part of the team behind Turan, a project covering Central Asia and the wider Turkic world. In this interview with Novastan, Pannier looks back at more than three decades of reporting and reflects on the changing media landscape, the impact of the war in Ukraine, generational change, overlooked communities and a region that, in his view, is increasingly defining its future on its own terms.

Novastan: You have been covering Central Asia for several decades. How did your interest in the region first begin?

Bruce Pannier: I was learning Russian and doing Soviet Studies in college. But I suppose everything started with two books: Eastern Approaches by Sir Fitzroy MacLean and Setting the East Ablaze by Peter Hopkirk. That was in the early and mid-1980s.

The leading American authority on Central Asia was Edward Allworth, who taught at Columbia University. I was fortunate to go and study under him. He loved Central Asia and, best of all, he knew thousands of years of the region’s history. He treated the Soviet period as just another chapter in that history, so we never looked at Central Asia through a Russian or Soviet lens.

Then I went to summer school at Tashkent State University in 1990, and I was completely hooked after that.

Were there particular places in Central Asia – a city, a region, a border area, a mountain landscape, a desert, a bazaar or an everyday encounter – that changed the way you understood the countries and societies you were covering?

Many. I worked in villages in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan in 1992 and 1993.

They all had similar lives, working on farms growing crops or herding animals, but there were different ways to do this work in every village and different attitudes about living and working in rural areas.

I was amazed to find out how religious people remained there. I arrived in spring 1992 and, in one of the first villages I worked in, someone died. We all went to the very Muslim funeral, and almost everyone knew the prayers.

I was doing sociological research and one of the questions I asked was: “What building or facility would you like to see in your village?” The answer every time – and I mean every time – was a mosque.

I certainly gained a new respect for herders. I was instructed to do what the people in the villages did. I especially disliked picking cotton, but taking a herd out to pasture was my type of work.

You have a few dogs, a stick to keep stragglers moving and a couple of rocks to throw in front of animals, usually sheep, that are moving too far ahead. You find a good grazing area and sit under a tree watching the animals eat. When it’s time to go back, you round up the herd and head back to the village.

If the job paid better, I would be doing it now.

Of course, the inter-ethnic violence in Osh in June 2010 was a shock. I had thought, or at least hoped, that was all behind everyone.

Remember, I was at Tashkent State in summer 1990 when it happened before, though we couldn’t get much information about what was going on. When I was in Osh and other parts of the Fergana Valley in 1992, the events of 1990 seemed very far away. People didn’t talk about it much.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the mountains. I love mountains and enjoyed the many times I was in the Central Asian mountains.

I liked doing the trip between Bishkek and Osh in a marshrutka just because of the views. The road was in terrible shape until the end of the 1990s, but it didn’t matter to me when I was staring out of the window, or when we stopped along the road.

One time I was with a Kazakh friend in Shymbulak – then called Chimbulak. It’s a good ski area now, and even in 1992 there was a ski lift there. There were no skiers, but I convinced one of the park rangers, for five dollars, to turn on the ski lift long enough to take my friend and me to the top.

I remember him saying, in Russian, “For God’s sake, don’t break anything.”

We walked back down, and the view was magnificent.

And obviously, the Silk Road cities were amazing. Samarkand looks so different now compared with the early 1990s, but even back then it had a charm.

It was not well tended, and the old buildings looked old and in need of repair, but it really made me appreciate how old they were. And since I worked in villages, I could imagine what it was like for a farmer or herder to visit one of the big and bustling cities.

When you first started following Central Asia, what did outside observers most often misunderstand about the region? Has that changed today?

Well, when I first started following Central Asia, there were not many outside observers. Some Western media outlets were having difficulties even spelling the names of the Central Asian countries.

Probably the biggest misconception was that the people in Central Asia had accepted that they were part of the Soviet Union. When I was at TashGU that summer, there were people from all over Central Asia studying there, and it was clear they regarded Russia as a colonizer that was pilfering the region’s resources and trying to force them to become a “Soviet man or woman.”

That has clearly changed since the USSR collapsed. Since the Kremlin launched its full-scale war against Ukraine in February 2022, we have seen some lively discussions in Central Asia about colonization and exploitation under Tsarist and then Soviet rule. Even the leaderships of some Central Asian countries are calling it a dark period in the region’s history.

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

Majlis became one of the most recognizable English-language formats for discussing Central Asia. What was the original idea behind the podcast?

Muhammad Tahir and I started Majlis in 2014 in response to the increase in fighting in northern Afghanistan. Our first programme was about Turkmenistan being the Achilles heel of Central Asian security.

We weren’t sure then that we would ever do any more podcasts, but RFE/RL management liked it, and I agreed there was a wide variety of topics beyond deteriorating security in northern Afghanistan that we could cover, starting with the great reporting RFE/RL’s Central Asian services were doing in local languages and Russian.

Muhammad was something of a showman. He really embraced being the host, with me as the “in-house” RFE/RL expert. Majlis gave us a chance to show off our people in the Central Asian services and promote people outside RFE/RL who had made, or were making, a name for themselves in the field of Central Asian affairs.

Our guests really propelled the podcast forward, and I’m glad to see so many of them are now leading scholars in the field of Central Asian studies.

Why was it important for Majlis to include voices from Central Asia itself, and how did their perspectives shape the discussions?

There was often a difference in interpretations of events in Central Asia – sometimes large differences, but mostly nuances.

Someone like me, who has studied the region, lived there briefly and travelled widely, came to different conclusions about what events in the region meant and where they were leading Central Asia.

For about the first 20 years after independence, there were not many Central Asians who could articulate, in English, their views on the course of events. But when they started to appear, Muhammad and I were, firstly, very happy and, secondly, determined to give the voices of Central Asia – often people in their 20s and 30s – an opportunity to explain what was happening in their homelands.

It was possible to disagree with what some of the people from Central Asia said, but it was important to hear how they viewed the evolving world inside and outside Central Asia.

In the end, it’s their story. I think it made for a better understanding of the region for people outside it.

Were there episodes or discussions of Majlis that particularly stayed with you because they captured a turning point in the region?

Several dealt with the deterioration of security in northern Afghanistan. Most of our guests on this topic were from Afghanistan and supporters of Ghani, or at least not supporters of the Taliban, or from Central Asia. The gradual depression with which they spoke about events unfolding in northern Afghanistan between 2014 and 2021 certainly caused me to consider more and more the possibility that the Taliban would reconquer Afghanistan.

Several of the podcasts we did about women’s rights and gender-based violence were revealing, and I learned a lot, but I was troubled by some of the assessments given by guests.

One that really moved me was the description Freedom for Eurasia founder Leila Seiitbek gave of how she was a victim of ala kachuu, bride kidnapping, and escaped because she smoked a cigarette and her kidnapper’s family rejected her as a forced bride.

How has reporting on Central Asia changed since the 1990s, especially in terms of access, sources and risks for local journalists?

When I started work for the Open Media Research Institute (OMRI) in March 1995, the internet was not much help. People at OMRI would give me photocopies of current articles from Central Asian newspapers. Sometimes I had access to the actual newspapers, though these were at least several days old and usually more like a week or two old.

Back in the 1990s, certainly in the early and middle 1990s, journalists and media outlets in Central Asia were freer to write about what they wanted, with the exception of Turkmenistan. Kazakhstan had a vibrant independent media scene, very much like the one developing in Kyrgyzstan.

But even in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, journalists were pushing the limits of coverage on matters such as corruption, the deteriorating socio-economic situation, questionable state policies and other topics.

This situation changed as governments faced increasing challenges and decided that some criticism might be valid, but that some outlets were reporting too much about problems. In Tajikistan’s case, during the 1992-1997 civil war, this could be deadly, and more than a dozen journalists, foreign and local, were essentially assassinated.

By the end of the 1990s, it was becoming more difficult for journalists in Uzbekistan to report freely on a wide range of topics. The government would find charges such as fraud or failure to pay taxes – something unrelated to journalism – to use against journalists who were exposing shortcomings in the country. This became a standard practice, and even President Islam Karimov’s nephew, who was an independent journalist, was forcibly committed to a psychiatric hospital for his reporting.

Now, journalists in each country understand where the boundaries in reporting are, and there is a lot of self-censorship being practised.

How would you describe the current generation of journalists in Central Asia compared with those reporting in the 1990s or 2000s?

I suppose the biggest difference is the range of media now available. Everything is on the web now. Back in the 1990s, outlets were confined to the basic three – television, radio and print media, what people now refer to as “traditional media.”

It was easier for governments to shut down independent outlets among these three, or pressure outlets that featured criticism of government policies. That made it very difficult for journalists at independent outlets.

Today, the same pressures still exist, but “non-traditional” media are giving independent journalists opportunities they did not have in the past. That is why many of the best reports on Central Asia are coming from people with YouTube channels. Facebook and other social networks are also giving journalists – whether journalists by training or “citizen” journalists – opportunities to speak about corruption and state mismanagement.

I think the journalists in the 1990s and 2000s were just as brave and anxious to report the big news affecting their countries as journalists today.

I would mention one development that showed me that, given the chance, good independent journalism could take root in any of the Central Asian countries.

When Shavkat Mirziyoyev became Uzbekistan’s president in late 2016, he eased state control over the media and encouraged journalists to report on the important things happening in Uzbekistan. And they did. Given some space, journalists in Uzbekistan went right after corrupt officials and reported on other topics they would not have touched during the last decade or so of President Islam Karimov’s rule.

In fact, it proved to be too candid, and Mirziyoyev’s government had to rein in some of the coverage. But it showed the spirit of independent, objective journalism was still alive in Uzbekistan and that all it needed was an opportunity to blossom.

Independent media now operate across very different spaces – inside the region, in exile and through social media, podcasts, YouTube and investigative platforms. Has this changed what independent journalism means in Central Asia?

Certainly. The role of “non-traditional” media is becoming more important all the time.

Some of the cutting-edge criticism of policies or officials in Tajikistan or Uzbekistan has been coming from YouTube channels. This is true to a lesser extent, in my opinion, in the other three countries.

And, of course, the YouTube channels and websites such as Turkmen.news and Hronikatm.com dealing with Turkmenistan are all operating from outside the country.

Which independent media outlets or journalistic initiatives from Central Asia do you think deserve more international attention today?

In Kazakhstan, Vlast.kz, Orda.kz and KazTAG come to mind as good independent media outlets that could use some international attention and, if possible, funding. Unfortunately, Orda.kz recently ceased operations after legal difficulties that included its chief editor being sentenced to eight years in prison. I’m sure there are others, but those are three off the top of my head.

In Kyrgyzstan, Kloop Media is currently banned from operating inside the country. Temirov Live has also done some great investigative reporting and was closed down. Kaktus Media is still working in Kyrgyzstan, but it is one of only a few independent media outlets left.

The Central Asia Barometer was a great initiative that did some fantastic survey work. They had European funding. Unfortunately, they were pressured into stopping work. It would be great to find a way for them to resume operations.

What I would like to see generally is some form of cooperation or organization that brings independent journalists from Europe and Central Asia together. I know Vlast.kz and Orda.kz have employed Europeans, and the results were notable.

If it were possible to get funding for a media outlet covering EU-Central Asian cooperation, such as Global Gateway, and employing young European and Central Asian journalists, I think the results would be excellent and very enlightening.

What role have exile media, independent journalists and regional analysts played in keeping Central Asian stories visible internationally?

It varies from country to country. Independent journalists, including those working in non-traditional media, have been instrumental in calling out corrupt government officials who are then fired when authorities perceive the attention these reports are garnering nationally and, in some cases, internationally. I’m thinking mainly about YouTube channels.

In Turkmenistan’s case, exile media are almost the only source of objective news about what is happening inside the country. Obviously, RFE/RL’s Turkmen Service, Azatlyk, is an exception, but Turkmen.news and Hronikatm.com are essential sites for following events in Turkmenistan.

There are some absolutely fantastic regional analysts, and since I am afraid I might forget someone, I will not list any names. So much of the best material appearing in English these days is being produced by Central Asians – and it is not translated into English; it is being written by them in English.

What can international media, donors and regional platforms do to support Central Asian journalists without distorting their priorities or making them more vulnerable?

This is a tough question. On the one hand, international publicity provides some protection for journalists – and activists and politicians – in Central Asia, and often keeps them out of prison or at least pressures authorities into some leniency.

On the other hand, in the ever-changing world, it is impossible to stay focused on any one topic. When attention wanes, these journalists are vulnerable.

International publicity around a particular journalist can also make that person a special target of authorities who do not want independent journalists or media outlets. If they work for foreign media, such as RFE/RL, governments can attack them as doing the bidding of their foreign paymaster.

The war in Ukraine has changed how many people in Europe and the United States look at Central Asia. What has it revealed about the region?

Deep-seated resentment against having been colonized, and growing efforts by many Central Asians and their governments to distance themselves from Russia.

This is particularly evident in the new security and defence partnerships the Central Asian states are forming with Türkiye, first and foremost, but also with Azerbaijan and some of the Gulf states.

Following on from that, I think Central Asians are understanding more and more that they do not need to depend on Russia, certainly not to the extent they did for the first 30 years after independence.

Russia is a leading trade partner and will remain so for the foreseeable future, but it is now clear that there are other partners, and some have ethnic or religious ties to Central Asia that Russia does not have.

Even if the war in Ukraine ends tomorrow, I don’t think there’s any way to go back to the status quo prior to February 2022.

Read more on Novastan: Who Made the Nations of Central Asia?

I still see articles that refer to Central Asia as Russia’s “backyard.” Central Asians never viewed it that way, and now they have less and less reason to accept such characterizations.

Has the war accelerated a real diversification of Central Asia’s foreign relations, or are we still overstating the change?

Accelerated. Definitely.

Prior to February 2022, Russia and China were the dominant partners for trade, investment and security, including energy security. Everyone else was at best running a distant second.

Read more on Novastan: Money, boxes and absent men: the hidden economy reshaping Central Asia

China and Russia are still important partners for Central Asia, Russia perhaps less so now. But many countries have stepped up their interaction with Central Asia. The EU and the Gulf Arab states have all increased their roles in and importance for Central Asia.

Türkiye and the Organization of Turkic States are also increasingly part of Central Asia’s future. Azerbaijan’s role in the OTS and as a key country in the Middle Corridor is bringing it closer to Central Asia, and in November 2025 there was even a “C6” meeting with the five Central Asian states and Azerbaijan.

Some people used to say Russia was the policeman and China the banker for Central Asia. Now the Central Asian states have options for both security and finance.

What are the social changes in Central Asia that outsiders tend to miss because they focus too much on presidents and geopolitics?

The younger generation, people under 30 or 35 years old, is very tech-savvy.

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, and to a lesser degree Kyrgyzstan, are all moving forward quickly and modernizing everything from architecture to online documents and payments. These three countries are becoming modern states.

Do you see a generational shift in Central Asia, especially among young people who no longer remember the Soviet Union?

Definitely, and it’s not only that almost everyone under 35 or 40 has a mobile phone and knows how to use computers.

For young people in the 1990s, it was often enough that their countries were independent. They remembered clearly what life was like as part of the Soviet Union and, even if socio-economic conditions were often not better, and at times perhaps even worse, they were independent and there was a feeling they were masters of their own destiny. Change could happen.

The current generation wants to be masters of their own destiny but often views the entrenched leadership in their countries as the primary obstacle to positive transformation. There is scepticism among some young people that their governments are willing to make changes that benefit the younger generation.

In the Soviet days, there wasn’t much people could do to change policies made in Moscow, but now they believe it is, or at least should be, possible to change policies in their own countries.

It must be frustrating for many younger people when they see their leaders cling to policies that benefit the regime, not the masses.

Which communities, regions or issues within Central Asia remain most invisible in international coverage?

There are many, but I’m just going to mention the situations of the Karakalpaks in the Republic of Karakalpakstan in western Uzbekistan and the Ismailis in the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast in eastern Tajikistan.

In both cases, the rights of minority groups are being trampled as the governments in those countries attempt to forcibly assimilate these people.

I would also mention that the situation of ethnic minorities in Turkmenistan receives almost no attention – in fairness, because it is so difficult to obtain information.

Central Asia is still relatively little known in France and Europe. What stories would you recommend European-based media cover more often?

I think the obvious story is the Middle Corridor, or Trans-Caspian International Transport Route. People in Europe don’t know much about their countries’ trade with Central Asia.

Austria, Germany, France, Italy, Romania and some other European countries are buying Kazakh oil, which is especially important now as EU countries try to stop buying Russian oil. France buys uranium from Kazakhstan, and other countries in Europe probably will as more nuclear power plants are built.

If you buy dried apricots or raisins in Poland, Germany, France, the UK or the Baltic countries, there is a good chance the dried fruit came from Uzbekistan.

Many European travellers have gone to Central Asia. Marco Polo, of course, but more recently, in the 19th century, Arminius Vámbéry from Hungary, Aurel Stein, also a Hungarian who became a British citizen, Sven Hedin from Sweden – and yes, I know about his later connection to Nazi Germany – the Frenchman Paul Pelliot, and others.

Their stories are fascinating, and they are stories of Europeans in Central Asia.

Of course, there is always the ancient Silk Road that linked Europe to Central Asia long ago. The two regions have been in contact for a long time.

Interestingly, although the climate and landscape are very different between the two regions, they are located roughly at the same latitudes, meaning if you travel straight west from Central Asia you end up in Europe, and vice versa going straight east from Europe, with only the Caucasus or southern Russia separating them.

You are now working on Turan, a project focused on Central Asia and the wider Turkic world. What are you hoping to bring to readers through it?

First, there are a lot of stories about Central Asia that are under-reported or not reported at all by media outside the region. That has generally been true since the five countries became independent in late 1991.

Second, unfortunately, there is not much money for outlets and organizations in Europe that are interested in Central Asia. The most obvious example is Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, which has been forced to drastically reduce its coverage of Central Asia due to budget cuts.

Turan hopes to fill that void to some extent and bring Central Asia’s stories to an audience on YouTube – and not only Central Asia’s stories, but those from more broadly across the Caspian, including Türkiye and Iran.

The Turan Research Center is part of the Yorktown Institute, so the coverage style leans towards that of a think tank. I think that’s noticeable from the topics and the language used. Many of the reports are based on articles written for the Turan Research Center.

I am not running the channel. I’m just a member of the team. The driving forces are the chief editor and the people doing the graphics.

What advice would you give to a relatively small independent media outlet like Novastan trying to cover Central Asia seriously?

I think Novastan is doing a great job, especially with covering youth culture. I like that Novastan covers niche topics like the French-Uzbek theatre presentation, as well as big stories such as the shrinking Caspian or the lexicon of Kazakh decolonization.

The photographs of scenes from everyday life in Central Asia are excellent.

Many – all? – of your writers have travelled or lived in Central Asia, and it shows in the coverage and choice of topics.

I think advertising is the biggest drawback for Novastan, but again, many organizations are facing this problem. Advertising requires money and a social media team.

The material is there, and in English, French and German. The problem is getting enough people to see it and recommend it, so that it comes to the attention of a wider audience.

For a European outlet like Novastan, what is the best way to work with Central Asian journalists – not only by quoting them as sources, but by building real editorial partnerships and giving their perspectives more visibility?

One possibility is offering Central Asian journalists, including those working for state media, an opportunity to write for European outlets. It would likely require translation.

And the matter of payment could be complicated, since it could lead to accusations of them being funded, and therefore influenced, by foreign sources.

But if some Central Asian journalists were willing to write without expecting remuneration, simply for the exposure in Europe and a chance to boost their credentials and CVs, it would solve that problem.

In the case of journalists writing for state media, they could present the state version of events. Agree or disagree, it is a view that needs to be taken into consideration when assessing the situation in Central Asia.

After all these years covering Central Asia, what still surprises you about the region?

There are always surprises. For me personally, the biggest surprise – and it is a happy one – is seeing the five countries getting along so well.

I travelled through Central Asia quite a bit, especially in the 1990s. I was in every country and listened to what people said about the neighbouring countries. A lot of it was negative, which was really strange to me, since when I was in summer school in Tashkent in 1990 there were people from all over Central Asia, many different ethnicities, and they all agreed that Moscow, the Soviet government, was exploiting them.

There was a sort of equality, a kinship that formed between the peoples of the different Central Asian Soviet republics, a quiet mutual agreement that they were all being neglected and mistreated.

But once they were independent, there were some cruel comments about the neighbours and other indigenous ethnic groups. And, of course, the worst expression of this was in southern Kyrgyzstan in June 2010.

I was there, mostly in Osh, speaking to people from every side, and it was often chilling and always extremely disappointing and sad to hear what so many people were saying at that time.

That situation is at least becoming better now. That sense of brotherhood and common cause I heard in talks with groups of Central Asians at Tashkent State in 1990 is returning, though now the Central Asians are stronger, no longer victims of a colonizer.

Central Asia is still often covered internationally through politics, security and geopolitics. Which authors, musicians, filmmakers, photographers, artists or cultural works from the region would you recommend to readers who want to understand Central Asia differently?

This would also be a very long list, and I worry about leaving somebody out.

For material in English, and often in Russian, some of the authors I would recommend are Temur Umarov, Assel Tutumlu, Diana Kudaibergen and Asel Doolotkeldieva, just to name a few. There are obviously dozens more.

You can find the work of Central Asian scholars on several Western websites, and I will just mention the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace and the Oxus Society.

I will say it’s worth looking at the media outlets in all five Central Asian countries as much as possible. Even state media and the journalists working for these outlets are worth following, even in places like Turkmenistan where almost every article mentions “Hero Arkadag.”

It is one side of the story, the side the governments tell their people.

There are many good journalists and outlets outside Central Asia that do fantastic jobs keeping track of events in the region or posting photos of life there that convey to people what it’s like to be there, what you see in front of your face.

When I was working there in the 1990s, hardly any people from the West were going there, so nobody knew much about it. Now there are many people writing about Central Asia who have travelled extensively there, spent a lot of time in one or several places, or have just been following events and writing about them.

The level of knowledge is so much higher than it was. It makes me smile all the time to see how many great people are sharing their deep knowledge and experiences of Central Asia with the rest of the world.

I am not familiar with contemporary filmmakers and musicians, so I really couldn’t say much about them. I would recommend watching the movies Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan are making about their history.

It is important to see how their forefathers are portrayed and think about the effects that has on the people living in these countries today.

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

The post Bruce Pannier: “Central Asians never viewed their region as Russia’s backyard” appeared first on Novastan English.

In September 2026, Princeton University returned to life after the summer recess, with students back on its Collegiate Gothic campus and the Princeton Triangle Club holding auditions for its latest annual musical. Exactly a century earlier, the same student troupe opened Samarkand, a lavish romantic comic opera named after the Central Asian city, before a paying audience in nearby Trenton, New Jersey.

No footage of the production is known to survive, and its undergraduate performers have long since passed from living memory. But the centenary of this forgotten play offers a revealing glimpse into the American collegiate imagination of Central Asia in the 1920s, when Samarkand could serve as shorthand for a sumptuous, composite Islamicate Orient rather than for anything particularly specific to the city or the region.

Princeton’s Samarkand

Princeton’s century-old student-run Triangle Club provided the institutional setting where an Orientalist imagination of Central Asia could become the subject of a polished Ivy League theatrical production. Founded in 1891, the Club is the oldest touring collegiate musical-comedy troupe in the United States, having built its reputation by staging an original show each academic year and taking it beyond Princeton. Undergraduate students write and perform each production, while professional directors and choreographers prepare it for public performance. Samarkand, billed for the 1926-27 academic year, was the Club’s 38th annual comic opera production and was staged four years before the opening of McCarter Theatre, where the annual tradition has since been anchored.

    True to the Club’s traditions, Samarkand was a product of undergraduate authorship and performance combined with professional theatrical supervision, and its premiere brought Princeton’s Orientalist fantasy before a paying public in the Garden State’s capital. On December 15, 1926, the production opened at the Trent Theatre in Trenton, a public commercial venue twelve miles (nineteen kilometers) from Princeton. In operation from 1903 to 1972, the Trent Theatre predated McCarter and served as a temporary stage after the destruction of the on-campus Casino Theatre briefly left Princeton University without a suitable theatrical venue.

Undergraduates wrote the libretto, lyrics, music, and dialogue and filled every credited role in the cast and chorus. Because Princeton admitted only men until the 1969-1970 academic year, male students also performed the female characters. Donald Clive Stuart, a professor of dramatic literature at Princeton, directed the show, while other theatrical professionals staged its dances and arranged and orchestrated its score (no playwright or script adviser was credited).

    Samarkand presents a rather conventional comic-operatic mixture of prophecy, romance, court intrigue, and sudden acquisition of power. Act I opens in the throne room of Haroun-El-Emenope, Caliph of Ashkabad, whose court includes his daughter Shelmardeen, the magician Attar-Bey-Bey, and the ambitious wazir Raschid. A voice from a feared magic urn foretells Haroun’s death and Shelmardeen’s marriage to a vagabond. Zahirudin, a mysterious adventurer from Samarkand whose name is said to mean “Fate,” arrives in search of the renowned princess, courts her with songs about the Golden Road to his native city, and eventually departs with her.

Raschid plots the Caliph’s death, seeks Shelmardeen for himself, and directs jealousy and suspicion against Zahirudin. A dancing girl named Yasmini, two rival suitors, four conspirators, and the Djinn of the urn complete the principal cast. Act II takes place in an enchanted garden, where the prophecy is fulfilled through a convenient reversal: death claims the cruel Caliph of Samarkand instead of Haroun, after which Zahirudin is proclaimed Caliph and marries Shelmardeen.

An Orientalist Fantasy of Central Asia

    The surviving visual materials for Samarkand presented Central Asia through generalized Orientalist imagery of luxury, mystery, and theatrical exoticism. The play’s black-and-gold playbill cover features an enthroned, elaborately dressed figure before an immense peacock tail, with dense ornament covering nearly every part of the design. The play’s orange-and-black sheet-music cover presents a turbaned man and a richly costumed woman beneath a drooping tree as the man points toward a distant city of domes and minarets under a crescent moon. The program’s costume drawing of Attar-Bey-Bey depicts the court magician in a long robe, broad sash, extravagant jewelry, and elaborate headdress against a dark flame-shaped backdrop. None of these elements is distinctly Central Asian.

The most candid commentary on this imagery appears in a garment advertisement beneath the program’s setting descriptions. A cartoon turbaned figure dreams of a modern outfit while the caption declares, “All this Oriental splendor stuff reminds us we’ve some pretty splendid male wardrobings for Americans. At least Princeton undergrads and alumni tell us so.” The joke makes explicit what the covers and costume imply: the play’s Samarkand was a marketable image of “Oriental splendor,” and the advertisement addressed its theatergoers directly as American consumers, particularly Princeton students and alumni.

Samarkand on Tour

    Samarkand took Princeton’s Orientalist fantasy on a national tour that eventually encompassed twenty-four performances, and reviewers across its itinerary consistently valued the production’s humor, spectacle, and theatrical polish. After three performances in Trenton on December 15-17, 1926, the Club appeared in Washington (December 18), Baltimore (December 20), New York’s Metropolitan Opera House (December 21), Pittsburgh (December 22), Cincinnati (December 23), Nashville (December 24), and Birmingham (December 25). After a one-day interval on the day after Christmas, the tour resumed in Memphis (December 27), followed by Little Rock (December 28), St. Louis (December 29), Chicago (December 30), Indianapolis (December 31), Cleveland (January 1, 1927), Syracuse (January 3), and New York again (January 4). The Club later performed in Orange, New Jersey (February 18), Newark (February 21), and Philadelphia (February 25-26). On June 17-18, shortly after the end of the spring semester, the play was staged one last time at Princeton’s University Gymnasium (destroyed in a fire in 1944).

All twenty-four known performances occurred during the 1926-27 academic year, and no evidence has emerged of a later revival. After opening night, The Daily Princetonian declared that Samarkand “took its place among the best of recent Triangle Club plays,” although it observed some roughness in the most demanding dances. The New York Times called the Metropolitan Opera House performance “a hit” and praised its songs, jokes, dancing, costumes, and settings. Newspapers in Nashville, Birmingham, St. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, Syracuse, and other stops repeatedly commended the catchy music, clever lines, scenic effects, colorful costumes, disciplined chorus, and professional finish. The surviving notices offered little discussion of the play’s geographic or cultural accuracy.

A City Reduced to a Dream

    In Samarkand, the city honored in its title serves primarily as a geographically and culturally distant realm whose name promises romance, wealth, happiness, and power. The program identifies the setting of Act II only as “an enchanted garden in Samarkand,” and the city receives none of the social or physical detail of an actual urban setting. In a musical sequence titled “The Pilgrimage,” the Spirit of the Urn commands the characters to travel eastward over the sand, past swaying caravans and through low shadows, along a golden road where their “fondest dreams ever come true.”

Zahirudin similarly describes the place as a “dim-mooned city of delight,” and the ballet libretto calls the Golden Road to Samarkand “the pathway that leads to the land where dreams come true.” Samarkand offers rewards at every level of the plot: the journey promises riches, joy, and power; it secures the lovers’ union; and it raises the vagabond Zahirudin to the caliphate. No streets, monuments, institutions, or ordinary inhabitants appear, as the city is reduced to sand, caravans, bells, magic, an enchanted garden, and a distant promise of fulfillment.

A Composite Orient

    The cultural setting of Samarkand is a composite Orientalist fantasy that blends Arabic, Persianate, Turkic, Central Asian, and South Asian references while offering almost nothing specific to Samarkand or Central Asian history and culture. Its Arabic materials include a caliph and wazir, a Djinn from a magic urn, and the song “We Know All About the Arabian Nights (But What About the Days?).” The cast bears Arabic- and Persianate-adjacent names, while “Come to Our Altar Fires” and the “Hymn of the Fire-Worshippers” connect it to Zoroastrianism. Samarkand and “Ashkabad” are the principal regional markers, accompanied by generic palaces, deserts, and caravans; historically or geographically specific Central Asian features are virtually absent.

The suitor Haidan Sikh even introduces a South Asian religious identity into the mixture, primarily to facilitate an English pun. The religious setting is equally unstable: subjects of a caliph chant to idols, burn incense, seek prophecy from an urn, and sing to altar fires. Even the name Ashkabad presents a chronological puzzle. The city now known as Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan, officially bore the name Poltoratsk from 1919 to 1927. The coincidence was presumably inadvertent.

Inventing the East in English

    The pseudo-Islamicate names in Samarkand reveal a genuinely amusing side of the production’s Orientalism, as their foreign-sounding forms seem designed to deliver jokes in English. The rival suitors Peke Abou and Haidan Sikh are phonetic disguises for “peekaboo” and “hide-and-seek.” Haroun-El-Emenope can be heard as “around L-M-N-O-P” (an alphabetical sequence), while Attar-Bey-Bey appears to echo “attababy.” The adventurer Zahirudin seems to suggest “They hear you, Dean,” echoing the name of his eventual bride, Shelmardeen – “She’ll marry Dean.” Four conspirators named Iambad, Heezbad, Urbad, and Wirbad identify themselves as “I am bad,” “He’s bad,” “You’re bad,” and “We’re bad.” Although these puns demonstrate undergraduate ingenuity, their mechanism treats Islamicate names as decorative sounds detached from cultural context.

Before Princeton: Imagining Central Asia in the West

    The composite setting of Samarkand may be seen as part of a longer Western tradition that located Central Asia within a loosely bounded Persianate and Islamicate Orient. Montesquieu’s Lettres persanes (1721) used the wealthy Isfahani nobleman Usbek, his seraglio, and a passing allusion to the khan of Tartary as materials for a French satire of European society. Goethe’s engagement with Hafez, Ferdowsi, and Zoroastrian texts informed his own experiments in Persianate poetry and contributed to his later conception of world literature (Weltliteratur). Edward FitzGerald’s Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859) subsequently made a stylized Persian past extraordinarily popular among the English-speaking public.

More geographically explicit representations followed the routes of Arminius Vámbéry, Pyotr Semyonov-Tyan-Shanskiy, Nikolay Przhevalskiy, Sven Hedin, and Mannerheim, whose journeys across Central Asia generated travel narratives, maps, ethnographic collections, and photographs under scientific, imperial, and military auspices. Stephen Graham’s illustrated Through Russian Central Asia (1916) carried this tradition into English travel writing only a decade before Samarkand. The Russian painter Vasiliy Vereshchagin’s Turkestan Series juxtaposed bazaars, monuments, and local figures with conquest and death, while the Russian photographer Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky’s early color photography presented Central Asian cities, architecture, rulers, and inhabitants with striking immediacy. Giacomo Puccini’s opera Turandot, which premiered in Milan less than eight months before Samarkand, offered a contemporaneous example of cultural conflation: its Persian-derived title means “daughter of Turan,” although its title character is a Chinese princess and the opera is set in imperial China and incorporates Chinese folk melodies.

Tamerlane and the Western Imagination

    Western fascination with Tamerlane (Timur) had endowed Samarkand with much of its dramatic reputation long before 1926, although the Princeton play omitted the conqueror who had made the city his imperial capital. Christopher Marlowe’s two-part Tamburlaine the Great (c. 1587-1588) presented Timur as a Scythian shepherd whose military genius and boundless ambition carried him to dominion over vast territories. Around 1700, Andrea Celesti’s monumental Tamerlane and Bajazet portrayed the victorious ruler receiving the captive Ottoman sultan amid an invented display of Oriental magnificence. Nicholas Rowe’s Tamerlane (1701) offered a contrasting image of a restrained and virtuous monarch, commonly interpreted as an analog for William III, while Bajazet represented Louis XIV.

The defeat and captivity of Bayezid subsequently provided the shared historical premise for George Frideric Handel’s Tamerlano (1724), Antonio Vivaldi’s Bajazet (1735), and Josef Mysliveček’s Il gran Tamerlano (1771), all of which combined imperial conflict with captivity, dynastic romance, and suicide. Across the Atlantic Ocean, Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tamerlane” (1827) imagined the dying conqueror lamenting that his pursuit of power had cost him his youthful love. These works assigned Tamerlane radically different roles – insatiable conqueror, enlightened sovereign, sadistic tyrant, or tragic lover – and repeatedly used him to examine ambition, kingship, political rivalry, and unfulfilled love. By 1926, the name Samarkand therefore carried centuries of associations with imperial power, danger, magnificence, and romance, even though Samarkand detached those associations from Timur and his empire.

From Bukhara Carpets to the Golden Road

    The city of Bukhara appeared frequently in Western commercial accounts, as the city’s name became shorthand for Oriental luxury in the carpet trade. By the turn of the twentieth century, so-called “Bokhara rugs” had become fashionable furnishings in Paris, London, and other European and North American markets. Travel narratives reinforced the city’s reputation as a remote seat of Islamic tradition and monarchical wealth, and Prokudin-Gorsky’s 1911 color portrait of Emir Alim Khan, the last emir of the Emirate of Bukhara, preserved an especially vivid image of its royal splendor. The use of “Bokhara” in Western commerce closely parallels Princeton’s theatrical use of Samarkand: both place-names promised magnificence while conveying little about the cities and peoples they denoted.

    By 1926, Samarkand had become a familiar Western literary emblem of sensual abundance, imperial grandeur, distant suffering, and alluring travel. John Keats’s The Eve of St. Agnes (1820) invokes “silken Samarcand” amid a feast of candied fruits, spiced delicacies, gold, silver, and perfume whose imagined geography extends from Fez to Lebanon (with Samarkand nearly 2,000 miles beyond this spectrum). Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tamerlane” invites the reader to behold Samarkand as the “queen of Earth,” the supreme monument to Timur’s pride and power.

Oscar Wilde’s “The Young King” (1891) treats the city as one point in a remote Oriental panorama of splendor and catastrophe. James Elroy Flecker’s The Golden Journey to Samarkand (1913) was the Princeton production’s most immediate literary precedent, and the published score confirms the inspiration by printing two stanzas from Flecker above the cast list. The musical echoes Flecker’s pilgrims and caravans, desert shadows, ringing bells, “dim-moon city of delight,” and “Golden Road to Samarkand,” but turns his restless pursuit of adventure and forbidden knowledge into a promise of romance, riches, joy, and political power.

Orientalism for the Jazz Age

    The Orientalism of Samarkand bore the unmistakable imprint of the expanding consumer culture of the United States in the 1920s, most conspicuously in the material rewards promised by its songs at every stage of the journey eastward. Contemporary American life repeatedly intrudes upon the supposedly ancient court, where characters joke about “airplane rugs,” call old-fashioned dancing “déclassé,” invoke the blues and the Black Bottom, and warn that a Morris chair is no place for the decade’s newest steps. For Princeton students and audiences across the country, Samarkand became an imagined treasure trove of worldly pleasures that magnified familiar ambitions for wealth, leisure, fashion, romance, and social advancement, while the playbill’s myriad advertisements for clothing and hats marketed purchasable tokens of its splendor after the curtain fell.

A Century Later

    Princeton University’s relationship with Central Asia has changed profoundly since Samarkand, and the play’s centenary invites recognition of both the distance between the theatrical imagination of the region it invoked and the scholarship that has since emerged. The play’s cultural imprecision partly reflects the institutional setting of 1926, when Princeton had not yet established the department that would become Near Eastern Studies, sustained academic interest in Central Asia was inconspicuous, and Central Asians had little visible presence in the Ivy League. Leon B. Poullada, a former diplomat and political scientist who earned his doctorate at Princeton and became a prominent scholar of Afghanistan, helped lay the groundwork for this change: the memorial lecture series established in his honor in 1995 has repeatedly addressed Central Asian history and Islam.

His son, Peter Poullada, a 1975 Princeton graduate in Near Eastern Studies, later published a notable study of Turkmen history, while the department now hosts the Leon B. Poullada Postdoctoral Research Associateship in Central Asian Studies. As a relatively small university, Princeton still lacks a regional program devoted exclusively to Central Asia, but the region receives sustained attention through the Institute for the Transregional Study of the Contemporary Middle East, North Africa and Central Asia and the Sharmin and Bijan Mossavar-Rahmani Center for Iran and Persian Gulf Studies within the Department of Near Eastern Studies, as well as research conducted by faculty and doctoral students in the History, Near Eastern Studies, and East Asian Studies departments.

Princeton-trained historians such as James Pickett have become leading scholars of Central Asia; the Department of History has hosted Sarah Cameron as a visiting scholar; and recent conferences and colloquia held at Princeton have featured lectures delivered by Artemy Kalinovsky and Scott Levi. Princeton Near Eastern Studies professor Michael Reynolds’s forthcoming biography, A Life Lived like a Storm, follows Enver Pasha through a final, dramatic chapter of the former Ottoman war minister’s career in Central Asia. In March 2024, Princeton’s Central Asian Student Association received formal recognition as an undergraduate organization. A century after Samarkand staged Central Asia as a playground for American fantasy, Princeton is now a leading institution in the study of the region.

By Diego Benning Wang.

Diego Benning Wang is a historian of Eurasia and Eastern Europe. Having received a PhD in history from Princeton University, an MA in Russian studies from Columbia University, and a BA in Russian studies from New York University, he is currently a visiting scholar at Harvard University.

The post Ivy League Orientalism: Staging Samarkand in Princeton, 1926 appeared first on Novastan English.

Uzbekistan’s Armenian community has rebuilt churches, cultural centres and schools since the end of the Soviet period. Yet as Armenian increasingly gives way to Russian in everyday life, community leaders face a more difficult question: what does it mean to remain Armenian when language is no longer the principal marker of identity?

Several years ago, an elderly woman arrived at the Armenian cultural centre in Tashkent carrying books.

She was around 80 years old and had decided to donate her Armenian-language library to the community. For Georgiy Saakov, one of the eldest figures of Uzbekistan’s Armenian community, the encounter seemed at first like an illustration of cultural continuity. Then he addressed her in Armenian.

She answered in Russian. She did not speak the language of the books she had preserved.

“A grandmother who is Armenian but does not speak Armenian – a hundred years ago, that would have been difficult to imagine,” Saakov recalls.

The episode captures one of the central paradoxes facing Armenians in Uzbekistan today. Since the late Soviet period, the community has reconstructed much of the institutional infrastructure that disappeared during the twentieth century: cultural organisations, Sunday schools, churches, publications and artistic groups. Yet the transmission of Armenian itself has become increasingly fragile.

For Saakov, who has been editing the magazine of the Armenian community in Uzbekistan and has spent decades involved in its cultural institutions, this is not simply a linguistic issue. It raises a larger question about how minority identities survive in a society where integration has been extensive, intermarriage is common and Russian often functions more naturally than Armenian within Armenian families themselves.

Uzbekistan’s Armenians are far from disappearing. But what it means to be Armenian in Uzbekistan is changing.

A community older than the Soviet Union

Armenian connections with what is now Uzbekistan long predate the establishment of modern Central Asian states.

Christian communities existed in the region centuries before the Russian conquest, and Armenian merchants, craftsmen and religious missioners travelled through Central Asian commercial centres at different moments. Historical sources also point to Armenians being moved towards Samarkand during the campaigns of Timur, although the scale and precise character of these movements are difficult to establish.

Saakov situates the community within this much longer history. He points in particular to Samarkand, one of the great crossroads of Eurasian trade, where Armenian merchants and craftsmen were among the many groups who settled over the centuries.

Yet the roots of today’s Armenian community are more recent.

Its modern formation accelerated in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, alongside the Russian Empire’s expansion into Central Asia and the construction of the Trans-Caspian railway. Armenians arrived as railway workers, merchants, craftsmen, professionals and officials, joining the increasingly diverse urban populations of cities such as Tashkent and Samarkand.

By the early Soviet period, Armenians had established their own community institutions. Saakov describes Armenian Workers’ Houses operating in cities including Tashkent and Samarkand during the 1920s and 1930s, alongside cultural activities and an Armenian theatre.

This institutional life did not survive the Stalinist period. Independent ethnic, religious and cultural organisations were suppressed or absorbed into Soviet structures, while religious institutions across the USSR came under intense pressure.

As with many Soviet minorities living outside their titular republics, Armenians in Uzbekistan remained visible as individuals but increasingly lost the autonomous institutional spaces through which language and community life had previously been reproduced.

That distinction matters. Soviet modernisation did not necessarily eliminate Armenian identity, but it changed the mechanisms through which it was transmitted.

Rebuilding after decades of interruption

The late 1980s brought a new opening.

As perestroika loosened restrictions on cultural and religious organisation, Armenians in Uzbekistan began rebuilding community structures that had disappeared decades earlier. Armenian cultural centres emerged in Tashkent, Samarkand and Andijan from 1989 onwards, part of a broader revival of ethnic and cultural associations across the Soviet Union.

The process continued after Uzbekistan became independent in 1991.

The Armenian cultural centre in Tashkent established a Sunday school in 1993. In Samarkand, the Armenian Apostolic Church of Surb Astvatsatsin, built at the beginning of the twentieth century, reopened in 1995 after decades of closure. A second Armenian Apostolic church, dedicated to St Philip, was established in Tashkent in 2007.

Since 2001, Armenian organisations have operated within Uzbekistan’s system of national cultural centres, through which recognised ethnic communities organise language classes, cultural events and other activities.

For Saakov, this institutional reconstruction is one of the most important achievements of the post-Soviet period.

Today, Armenian cultural life in Uzbekistan includes dance and musical groups, educational initiatives, religious communities and the newspaper Depi Apaga, meaning “Towards the Future”, which began publication in 2006. Saakov has served as its editor since 2008.

The idea for the publication, he says, was encouraged by an encounter connected to Charles Aznavour’s visit to Samarkand for the Sharq Taronalari international music festival in 2005. For a dispersed community without its own territorial concentration, a newspaper offered another way of maintaining a shared public space.

The community also celebrates Armenian cultural figures whose lives became closely connected to Uzbekistan.

Perhaps the best known is Tamara Khanum, born Tamara Petrosyan, the Armenian-origin dancer and singer who became one of the most celebrated performers of Soviet Uzbekistan. Others include artists, musicians, academics and public figures whose biographies reflect the degree to which Armenian and Uzbek cultural histories became intertwined.

For Saakov, this is an important part of the community’s identity. Armenians in Uzbekistan do not understand themselves simply as a diaspora temporarily residing outside Armenia. Many families have lived in Central Asia for generations.

They are both Armenian and Uzbek.

How many Armenians are there?

The size of the community is difficult to establish precisely.

The last Soviet census, conducted in 1989, recorded more than 50,000 Armenians in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. Saakov estimates that around 40,000 to 45,000 Armenians may live in Uzbekistan today, with the largest concentration in Tashkent.

That figure should be understood as a community estimate rather than the result of a recent population census.

Numbers alone also reveal relatively little about participation.

As in many diaspora communities, there is a substantial difference between identifying as Armenian and regularly taking part in Armenian institutional life. Churches, cultural centres and community organisations may represent the community symbolically while involving only a fraction of those who claim Armenian ancestry.

That gap has become one of the central challenges facing community organisations.

The problem is not necessarily hostility or pressure from the surrounding society. Saakov portrays Armenians as deeply integrated into contemporary Uzbekistan and emphasises that the community is able to operate openly.

Instead, the pressures are subtler: assimilation, generational change, migration and language loss.

When Russian becomes the family language

Of these, language may be the most consequential.

Russian has long played an important role among urban Armenian communities across much of the former Soviet Union. In Uzbekistan, it became particularly significant as Armenians interacted with other minorities and with Russian-speaking urban environments.

Read more on Novastan: How Central Asia became home for the Koryo-Saram

Over time, Russian also entered the home.

For many Armenian families in Uzbekistan today, Russian and Uzbek languages are used to communicate with neighbours or colleagues. But Russian is mostly the only language in which parents speak to their children and children speak to their grandparents.

But the survival of Armenian has been developing by many ways while the cultural identification remains strong.

Saakov has written about the role traditionally played by grandmothers in transmitting language, customs and memory. His formulation – “Cherchez la grand-mère” – reflects his belief that identity historically survived less through formal institutions than through families.

The elderly woman who brought Armenian books to the cultural centre therefore represented something larger than an individual biography. The books had survived. The language had not.

Perhaps that is one of the most important limit the post-Soviet Armenian revival in Uzbekistan encounters.

A Sunday school can teach vocabulary. A church can preserve ritual. A cultural centre can organise many events, including dance performances and commemorations. A newspaper can remind readers of Armenian historical and cultural identity.

Identity beyond language

Yet language loss does not necessarily mean the disappearance of Armenian identity.

This is where Saakov’s understanding of the community becomes particularly interesting.

He cites the Armenian historian Claude Mutafian’s formulation: “Être Arménien, c’est un choix” – being Armenian is a choice.

For Armenians in Uzbekistan, that choice may increasingly take forms other than speaking Armenian fluently.

It may involve attending church on major holidays, sending children to a Sunday school, participating in cultural events, reading about Armenian history, maintaining family traditions or simply continuing to identify with an Armenian ancestry that has existed alongside Uzbek, Russian and Soviet experiences for generations.

The community’s cultural groups reflect this attempt to preserve identity through practice.

Organisations and ensembles such as Mer Ojakh, Arvest and DAR bring together different generations around music, dance and cultural events. Their significance is not only artistic. They create spaces where a community that is geographically dispersed can physically encounter itself.

At the same time, the reliance on organised culture raises another question: what happens when identity becomes something performed at scheduled events rather than reproduced through everyday life?

That tension is not unique to Armenians.

Across Central Asia, smaller ethnic communities are negotiating similar changes. Soviet-era migration, urbanisation, mixed marriages, Russian-language education, independence and more recent emigration have transformed the relationship between ethnicity, language and citizenship.

The Armenian experience in Uzbekistan therefore offers a broader window onto the post-Soviet evolution of minority identity.

Integration without disappearance

Saakov strongly rejects the idea that Armenian identity and integration into Uzbek society are contradictory.

He describes Armenians as participating extensively in the professional, cultural and social life of the country and points to the absence of a strong divide between Armenian and Uzbek public identities.

There is historical substance to that argument. Prominent Armenians contributed to Soviet and post-Soviet Uzbekistan in fields ranging from culture to science, while generations of Armenian families have developed ties to cities such as Tashkent and Samarkand that are as biographical as their ties to Armenia.

But integration also complicates attempts to define where one community ends and another begins.

Read more on Novastan: At home in Central Asia: the lives and identity of the Lyuli/Mughat

An Armenian family may speak Russian at home, Uzbek at work or school, retain an Armenian surname, celebrate Armenian religious holidays and regard Uzbekistan as its homeland.

The resulting identity does not fit easily into models that imagine diasporas as culturally self-contained communities looking permanently towards an ancestral state.

For younger Armenians, Armenia may be important symbolically even when they have never lived there. Uzbekistan, meanwhile, is not simply a “host country” but the country in which their families may have lived for several generations.

Read more on Novastan: From Bukhara to Queens: The Global Journey of the Bukharan Jews

This distinction helps explain why the Armenian community’s future is unlikely to depend on preserving an unchanged version of the past.

Its challenge is instead to determine which parts of that inheritance remain meaningful.

A post-Soviet minority dilemma

The story of Uzbekistan’s Armenians is therefore not one of straightforward disappearance or revival.

The revival is real. Institutions that had vanished under Soviet rule have been rebuilt. Churches under the leadership of Ter Hovhannes Grigoryan, the spiritual mentor of the Armenian community in Uzbekistan, continues to function successfully. The Armenian National Cultural Center of Uzbekistan, led by Vladislav Safarov, along with regional cultural centers in Tashkent and Samarkand, headed by Armen Sahakyan and Armen Der-Avanesyants, are doing their best and carrying out extensive work across various fields. Cultural organisations operate openly and the Government of Uzbekistan extends full-scale assistance and support to the community organization.

Armenian history is commemorated. Children can attend community classes. Publications and artistic groups maintain a collective public presence.

At the same time, the social foundations on which those institutions once rested have changed profoundly.

The family is less reliably Armenian-speaking. Community participation is selective. Identity competes with migration, mixed backgrounds and increasingly individual definitions of belonging.

For Saakov, this makes transmission the decisive question.

The elderly woman who arrived with her books had preserved the physical objects of Armenian culture for decades. But the language connecting her directly to them had disappeared somewhere along the way.

Her story may seem melancholy, but Saakov does not present the community’s future simply in terms of decline.

If being Armenian is, as Mutafian suggested, a choice, then every generation makes that choice under different circumstances.

In Uzbekistan today, the question is no longer whether Armenian institutions can exist. They can, and they do.

The harder question is what people will choose to do with them.

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

The post Between integration and inheritance: How Armenians in Uzbekistan are redefining community appeared first on Novastan English.

Often portrayed through poverty and begging, Lyuli/Mughat communities have lived across Central Asia for centuries. Researchers and filmmakers are now drawing attention to a much richer story of language, craftsmanship, family life and belonging.

In Shakhzoda Mirakova’s documentary We Are (At) Home, the title itself carries an argument. The film was shot largely in different districts of Bukhara, where Mirakova and her team spent time with Lyuli/Mughat families and community members. For her, the idea of “home” was not simply geographical. “Despite often being treated as outsiders, Lyuli have built their lives, families and communities here,” she told Novastan. That tension – between being deeply rooted in Central Asia and still perceived as somehow outside it – runs through much of the history of the Lyuli/Mughat.

They have lived in the region for centuries and can be found across all five Central Asian republics, although the largest concentrations are generally associated with Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and southern Kyrgyzstan, with smaller communities in Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. Their distant origins are usually linked by researchers to migrations from the Indian subcontinent, but their precise relationship with European Roma populations remains debated. Researcher Kamilla Zakirova argues that it is more accurate to understand them as a distinct Central Asian community that has often been placed within a wider Roma or “Gypsy” category, rather than simply describing them as a Central Asian branch of European Roma. Their identity today is unmistakably shaped by the societies in which they live: by Uzbek and Tajik languages, Sunni Islam, local neighbourhoods, extended families and the economic and cultural life of Central Asia.

One community, many names

Even the question of what to call the community is complicated. “Lyuli” or “Luli” is widely used in Uzbekistan and in Russian-language sources, while “Jughi” or “Jugi” is especially common in Tajikistan and parts of Uzbekistan. Historical names including Multoni or Multani and Ghorbat or Gurbat have also appeared in different parts of the region. “Mughat”, meanwhile, is an important self-designation for many people.

Zakirova notes that some community members prefer it precisely because names such as Lyuli or Jughi may carry derogatory stereotypes. At the same time, preferences differ by place and individual, meaning there is no single term that can be assumed to be universally accepted. For an international audience, she considers “Lyuli/Mughat” a useful compromise. The terminology reflects a broader difficulty: outsiders have often attempted to fit highly diverse communities into a single category. Different groups have developed within different linguistic and social environments, and this makes it difficult to speak of one single Lyuli language, occupation or lifestyle extending unchanged across Central Asia.

This distinction also matters when comparing Lyuli/Mughat with Russian-speaking Roma communities in the region, historically often referred to as Tsygane. Zakirova stresses that these are not simply interchangeable categories. The Lyuli/Mughat have developed within Central Asian society and have linguistic, religious and social practices shaped by that setting.

How important is the Indian connection?

The community’s distant South Asian origins are one of the most frequently mentioned aspects of its history, but they do not necessarily occupy the same place in the identity of people living in Central Asia today. During the making of We Are (At) Home, Mirakova encountered contradictory accounts. “We met several families, and their accounts were not the same,” she said. “Some people denied having a connection to the Indian subcontinent, while others claimed Indian ancestry.” One community leader the filmmakers met knew several words that he identified as coming from an Indian language and also described himself as having Indian ancestry, yet this kind of memory was not shared by everyone.

That distinction matters. A distant historical origin identified through linguistic or ethnographic research does not necessarily determine how people understand themselves generations later. For communities whose everyday lives have developed for centuries in Uzbekistan, Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan, India may be an ancestral reference, a family story, or something largely absent from daily identity. The more immediate cultural environment is Central Asian, and this is reflected in language, religion, settlement patterns and social life.

Speaking the languages of Central Asia

Language demonstrates this particularly clearly. Zakirova describes Lyuli/Mughat communities as generally multilingual. In Uzbekistan, Uzbek and Tajik are widely spoken, while Russian remains present, particularly among older generations. Mirakova observed much the same thing while filming in Bukhara. “The people we interviewed could speak Uzbek, Tajik and Russian,” she said. “From what we observed, Lyuli generally speak the language that is common in the region where they live, rather than using one single language across Central Asia.”

Their religious practices likewise overlap extensively with those of neighbouring communities. Most are Sunni Muslims, and celebrations and rituals associated with Ramadan, weddings, circumcision and funerals form part of the broader religious culture of Central Asia. For Zakirova, differences between Lyuli/Mughat communities are therefore often shaped less by religion than by local history, language and different levels of integration into surrounding society. Most are no longer nomadic. Communities are generally settled, often organised around extended families, neighbourhoods and local networks. The image of the permanently travelling “Gypsy” community can consequently obscure as much as it explains.

Everyday life beyond begging

The most persistent public stereotype surrounding the Lyuli is begging, and it is also the image that Mirakova most wants to complicate. “Public portrayals tend to focus on poverty and begging, which gives a very narrow picture of the community,” she said. “Spending time with people showed us that there is much more to their everyday lives, including craftsmanship, family traditions, skills and cultural practices.”

During filming in Bukhara, the team encountered families involved in forms of craftsmanship that receive little public attention. Mirakova recalls people making everyday household objects such as plates and cups, as well as carpet-making. Other people worked in waste collection, seasonal labour and work connected to pastures. The range of occupations, she felt, was becoming more diverse rather than remaining confined to only a few traditional activities. Zakirova similarly points to longer traditions of music, performance, jewellery-making, woodworking and metalworking among different Lyuli/Mughat groups, and notes that some communities have historically been associated with professional music and entertainment.

None of these occupations should be treated as universal characteristics. Mirakova’s observations relate specifically to the families she encountered around Bukhara, while the economic lives of Lyuli/Mughat communities vary considerably across the region. But they help reveal a basic problem with the dominant stereotype: economic marginalisation has often become a substitute for describing an entire culture. Craftsmanship illustrates that invisibility particularly well. “Lyuli families make plates and cups – everyday objects that people often use without knowing who produced them,” Mirakova said. The producer may remain socially invisible even when the object itself circulates widely.

School, documents and changing opportunities

The situation of Lyuli/Mughat communities has improved in some respects over the past decade, according to Zakirova, but significant inequalities remain. Education is one area where the gap is particularly visible. In the families Mirakova met, girls generally remained at school until around the ninth grade. This observation cannot be generalised to the whole population, but it reflects broader concerns about limited educational attainment and low representation in higher and vocational education.

Earlier research and official reporting have also identified problems with school inclusion, poverty and the costs associated with education. Documentation has historically posed another obstacle. Mirakova encountered people who held passports and identity documents alongside others who did not. This problem intersects with the wider legacy of statelessness in post-Soviet Central Asia. Uzbekistan’s reforms on citizenship and birth registration, including the 2020 Citizenship Law, have helped tens of thousands of formerly stateless people obtain or confirm citizenship, although these measures were not designed specifically for Lyuli/Mughat communities.

For Zakirova, that distinction is important. Broader legal reforms can still matter greatly for groups that have historically faced barriers to documentation, even when they are not targeted at a particular minority. At the same time, major challenges remain in education, poverty, housing, employment opportunities and discrimination. Representation in higher and vocational education remains particularly limited.

Integration does not mean visibility

The paradox is that a community can be deeply integrated into the language, religion and everyday life of a country without being strongly represented in its public institutions. Zakirova describes national political representation of Lyuli/Mughat people in Uzbekistan as extremely limited. She is not aware of a nationally prominent elected politician who publicly identifies as Lyuli/Mughat, nor of a major national newspaper, radio station or political organisation representing the community specifically.

This limited visibility extends to cultural representation. For decades, Lyuli communities have frequently appeared in public discourse through stories about begging, social deprivation or marginalisation. What is much less visible is ordinary life: weddings, work, religious practices, family relationships, artisanship or changing aspirations among younger generations. That is one reason Zakirova sees the appearance of younger journalists and filmmakers interested in the community as significant. She pointed specifically to Mirakova’s We Are (At) Home as an example of a younger generation beginning to explore questions of Lyuli identity and belonging from a different perspective.

Filming a community usually seen from outside

Mirakova’s documentary did not emerge from a large institutional project. Most of the filming took place locally in Bukhara partly because the filmmakers had a limited budget, and they were also able to work through people who already knew community members and helped establish contact with families. This mattered because marginalised communities are frequently documented by outsiders who arrive with pre-existing ideas about the story they expect to find. Establishing relationships through trusted contacts gave the filmmakers a different entry point.

What they encountered was not a uniform community. Neighbours responded differently to Lyuli families. Some interacted warmly with them and showed genuine curiosity about their culture and traditions, while others viewed them overwhelmingly through negative stereotypes, particularly the association with begging. Mirakova said her team did not encounter any specific state, municipal or NGO programme designed explicitly for the families they met in areas such as education, employment, housing or documentation. That does not necessarily mean no such measures exist elsewhere, but it shows how limited their visibility can be at community level.

Family, weddings and cultural life

Some of the strongest impressions Mirakova took away from the documentary had little to do with poverty. She remembers conversations about family obligations in which people described leaving or separating from their own family for the benefit or needs of another family member. The exact form of this practice varied in the accounts she heard, but she was struck by the weight placed on family duty and sacrifice.

The filmmakers also encountered tattoos or markings that some people compared visually with an Indian bindi, although Mirakova stresses that these practices varied from person to person. Such observations should not be treated as evidence of historical origin, but they reveal the kinds of cultural details that rarely appear in public representations of the community.

She would particularly like to see more attention paid to weddings and craftsmanship. “I think their wedding traditions and craftsmanship, particularly carpet-making, deserve much more attention,” she said. “These are aspects of their cultural life that are rarely visible in the way the community is usually portrayed.” That absence is itself significant. Minority communities are often made visible precisely at moments of crisis: when discussing poverty, exclusion, documentation or discrimination. Cultural life is then treated as secondary. For Mirakova, reversing that hierarchy was one of the lessons of spending time with Lyuli families.

“We are at home”

The title of We Are (At) Home ultimately returns the discussion to belonging. Lyuli/Mughat communities may have distant histories connected with South Asia. They may retain names, memories or forms of identification that distinguish them from surrounding populations. But their contemporary lives have developed over generations in Central Asia. They speak Uzbek and Tajik, practise Islam alongside their neighbours, attend the same schools, work in local economies, produce household goods and build families in the same cities and villages. Yet they can still be described as outsiders.

The contradiction is perhaps most visible in the language used about them. “Nomadic”, “Gypsy”, “beggar” and “marginalised” can all become labels through which a highly diverse population is compressed into a single social image. None of this means overlooking real inequalities. Education, documentation, housing, poverty and discrimination remain significant concerns, and representation in higher education and national public life remains limited. But reducing the community to those problems reproduces another form of exclusion.

Mirakova’s experience suggests a different starting point. “I think their skills and everyday cultural life are largely missing from public portrayals,” she said. The most revealing thing about the Lyuli/Mughat may therefore not be how different they are from Central Asia, but how thoroughly their history has become part of it.

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

The post At home in Central Asia: the lives and identity of the Lyuli/Mughat appeared first on Novastan English.

In 1890, French photographer Paul Nadar travelled through Russian Turkestan, documenting cities, landscapes and everyday life along the newly built Trans-Caspian Railway. In 2026, Spanish photographer Pablo Martínez Muñiz retraced part of his journey, using Nadar’s archive to explore how Uzbekistan – and the way outsiders see it – has changed.

Paul Nadar’s journey to Turkestan

The history of nineteenth-century photography is full of epic journeys in which adventurous photographers set off to explore distant places carrying cumbersome photographic equipment.

Their motivations varied. Some, such as Girault de Prangey, travelled east as part of a broader investigation into the cultures of the eastern Mediterranean. Others, such as Francis Frith, used travel to produce hundreds of photographs from around the world and build an international photographic business.

Paul Nadar’s journey to Turkestan in 1890 belongs to this tradition.

Paul Nadar (1856-1939), the son of the celebrated French photographer Félix Nadar, embarked that year on a two-month journey from Paris to Tashkent. He left Paris on 24 August aboard the Orient Express and reached Constantinople three days later. From there, he crossed the Black Sea by ship to Batumi before travelling via Tiflis to Baku.

Read more on Novastan: A condensed history

After crossing the Caspian Sea, he arrived at the Russian port of Uzun-Ada, the starting point of the recently constructed Trans-Caspian Railway. He then travelled by train through Bukhara to Samarkand, before completing the final stretch to Tashkent by horse-drawn carriage.

During the journey, Nadar took approximately 1,800 photographs. Most of the negatives are now preserved at the Médiathèque du Patrimoine et de la Photographie in Paris. The Getty Research Institute also holds an album entitled Photograph Album of Turkestan, 1890, containing 74 images in an unusual circular format. Other prints are scattered across private collections.

His photographs cover a remarkably broad range of subjects. He documented the Trans-Caspian Railway, its stations, workers and passengers. He photographed local rulers – emirs and beys – in portraits strongly influenced by contemporary Orientalist aesthetics. He also captured everyday scenes in the bazaars, streets and squares of Samarkand, Bukhara and Tashkent, as well as monuments, landscapes and equestrian and falconry competitions.

Taken together, the photographs constitute an extraordinary documentary and ethnographic record of Central Asian society at the end of the nineteenth century.

Nadar travelled not only with the equipment required to make large 30 × 40 cm glass-plate photographs, but also with two innovative cameras: the Kodak No. 2 and the Express Détective Nadar. Their capacity to take instantaneous photographs had a noticeable impact on the visual character of his work.

Yet Nadar’s photographs also reflected a European gaze shaped by Orientalism and by the geopolitical context of Russian expansion in Central Asia. They contributed to an image of Turkestan associated with the Western fascination with the “Orient”.

Read more on Novastan: A mosaïc wall

These photographs were therefore not neutral documents. They participated in the construction of a particular European idea of Central Asia, linked to colonial imaginaries and the romantic representation of the East that developed during the nineteenth century.

For me, one of the most interesting aspects of Nadar’s work lies precisely in this tension between documentation and cultural construction. His photographs have enormous historical and ethnographic value, but they also reveal a particular way of looking at and representing a territory, conditioned by the political and cultural context of his time.

Uzbekistan, 2026

During the first half of April 2026, with support from Uzbekistan’s Ministry of Tourism through the Embassy of Uzbekistan in Spain, I travelled to Uzbekistan to develop my photographic research and creation project, In the Country of Özbeg.

Taking Paul Nadar’s 1890 journey through Turkestan as its starting point, the project seeks to produce a contemporary reinterpretation of that experience through photography.

My aim was to return to some of the places photographed by Nadar and construct a new visual narrative about contemporary Uzbekistan. Rather than literally reproducing his historical photographs or indulging in nostalgia for an exotic past, I wanted to establish a dialogue between past and present – between two ways of looking at the same territory separated by more than 130 years of political, social and cultural transformation.

The Uzbekistan I encountered is, of course, radically different from the territory Nadar visited at the end of the nineteenth century. The Russian Revolution, the Soviet period and independence in 1991 were followed by profound urban, economic and cultural changes.

Read more on Novastan: Novastan Photo Contest 2026: the results

Infrastructure modernisation, the growth of tourism, the construction of a distinct national identity and the effects of globalisation have transformed both the physical landscape and everyday life.

Against this background, In the Country of Özbeg asks several questions. What remains today of the Orientalist imaginary constructed during the nineteenth century? How is Uzbek society represented now? How do contemporary processes of modernisation and tourism affect the visual representation of the country? And how can contemporary photography critically revisit images inherited from the past?

The project does not seek to provide definitive answers. Instead, it creates a space for visual reflection. I wanted to build a complex and open representation of Uzbekistan, avoiding exoticisation and focusing instead on tensions between tradition and modernity, memory and transformation, heritage and globalisation.

I worked in Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva – the latter being the only city among the four that Nadar did not visit.

Nadar’s archive remained a conceptual reference throughout the process. Some of my photographs establish direct relationships with his images, while others focus on aspects of contemporary Uzbekistan that have no direct nineteenth-century equivalent. Through this dialogue between historical archive and contemporary production, I wanted to reflect both on the transformation of the country and on the mechanisms through which photography itself constructs representations.

From Orientalism to spectacle

The nineteenth-century European Orientalist imagination perceived Central Asia as a world of madrasas, mosques and bazaars.

Today, however, there are other forms of architecture that can produce a comparable sense of visual estrangement while belonging to an entirely different historical and cultural context.

These include the striking examples of Soviet modernist and brutalist architecture found across Tashkent, from the city’s metro stations to Hotel Uzbekistan. But there are also more recent forms of architectural spectacle.

At Magic City in Tashkent, for example, an enormous fairy-tale castle reminiscent of Walt Disney architecture forms the centrepiece of an entertainment and commercial complex. It is a very different kind of exoticism from the one imagined by nineteenth-century Europeans, but one that is equally constructed through image and spectacle.

It is also significant to observe the Uzbek government’s construction of large cultural and religious complexes inspired by Timurid architecture.

This process of recovering and monumentalising the past creates new architectural icons intended both to project a national identity and attract cultural and religious tourism.

At the same time, these buildings reveal a tension between the recovery of tradition and the creation of genuinely contemporary architecture. Reproducing historical forms can produce an architecture close to scenography or pastiche, in which the past itself becomes an image used to represent the present.

Yet this tension becomes more interesting at the decorative level. Colours, geometries, latticework and motifs inherited from Central Asian traditions are being reinterpreted through new materials and technologies, producing a contemporary visual identity grounded in architectural memory.

The two images show the continuity and transformation of a characteristic Central Asian ornamental vocabulary.

Traditional combinations of brick and glazed ceramics in turquoise, blue and earth tones coexist with contemporary interpretations using glass, metal and modern construction techniques.

The same visual resources – colour, stars, diamonds and geometric grids – are rationalised into more regular patterns that not only decorate buildings but filter light and structure space.

This is therefore not simply a literal reproduction of the past. It is an aesthetic translation of heritage, in which historic forms and colours are abstracted and adapted to the present.

The Registan: from urban centre to global icon

Samarkand’s Registan is one of the places that most clearly illustrates the changes Uzbekistan has undergone over the past 130 years.

When Nadar photographed the square in 1890, it remained a centre of urban life: a place of commerce and movement, surrounded by madrasas that still served their original functions.

The buildings were in poor condition, but the space remained embedded in the everyday life of Samarkand.

Today, the Registan has become one of Uzbekistan’s most recognisable visual icons and a centre of the country’s booming tourism industry. Its monumental buildings have been extensively restored, while many of the cells that once accommodated madrasa students now contain souvenir shops.

The transformation is striking. The architecture survives, but the social function of the space has profoundly changed.

Representing Uzbek women

These photographs create a powerful visual contrast between two representations of Uzbek women separated by more than a century.

In Nadar’s photograph, the woman appears almost elusive, heavily covered and anonymous within the surrounding landscape. My photograph from 2026 presents a very different encounter: a grandmother and her granddaughter look directly at the camera with confidence and complicity.

The older woman’s traditional textile patterns coexist naturally with the younger girl’s pink sweatshirt. Their clothing, expressions and relationship suggest both continuity and change, while resisting the tendency to reduce contemporary Uzbek women to a single image of either “tradition” or “modernity”.

A globalised Uzbekistan

For me, these images capture Uzbekistan as a kind of living palimpsest, in which global modernity is written over layers of history without fully erasing them.

In the first photograph, a young Uzbek man poses in an FC Barcelona shirt. The club crest and Spotify logo form unmistakably contemporary symbols against a background of traditional brick architecture, illustrating the extent to which global mass culture has become part of local identity.

In the second, a balloon seller walks beside the historic brick walls of Bukhara’s Ark carrying a dense cluster of bright red heart-shaped balloons.

The plastic, ephemeral colour of the balloons stands in sharp contrast to the monumental architecture of a city that Nadar himself photographed in 1890.

Both photographs show how the symbols of the twenty-first century occupy the same spaces as the physical traces of historic Turkestan.

The road and the destination

These final two images bring the visual journey to a close by connecting movement with destination.

Nadar’s photograph documents the Trans-Caspian Railway, whose construction began in 1879. I find it fascinating to think that this infrastructure made his journey through the region – and therefore his photographic work – possible.

In his image, the railway appears fragile as it cuts across the desert landscape. To me, it evokes the epic quality associated with the early history of photography in this part of the world.

My photograph of Khiva’s walls represents the end of my own journey through Uzbekistan.

Read more on Novastan: In Khiva’s Old Town

Where Nadar’s image captures the infrastructure that enabled movement across the region at the end of the nineteenth century, my own gaze comes to rest on the solidity of Khiva’s adobe walls, glowing in the evening light at the final stop on my itinerary.

In placing these two photographs together, I wanted to connect the historical infrastructure that enabled Nadar’s exploration with the architecture that marked the conclusion of my own.

Epilogue

Travelling through Uzbekistan in Paul Nadar’s footsteps has helped me understand that photography documents not only space, but time.

In the Country of Özbeg was not conceived as an exercise in Orientalist nostalgia, but as a visual dialogue with a territory that is constantly being rewritten.

By confronting the photographic archive of 1890 with my own images from 2026, Uzbekistan emerges not as a static landscape, but as a society in which Timurid memory, the traces of the Soviet era and the symbols of globalisation coexist in everyday life.

My physical journey ended at the walls of Khiva, but the question of photographic representation remains open.

Looking at the present through the reflection of the past is, ultimately, one way of understanding how we construct our own identities in the mirror of history.

By Pablo Martínez Muñiz.

Pablo Martínez Muñiz is a Spanish photographer, university professor and researcher specialising in the history of nineteenth-century photography. He holds a PhD in Fine Arts from the Complutense University of Madrid, where his doctoral research examined Orientalism in nineteenth-century photography and the relationship between photography, travel and representations of the East. His work combines artistic practice, academic research and teaching, with a particular focus on photography, territory, representation and Orientalist visual cultures. He is a professor and academic director of the Master’s Degree in Artistic Photography at the International University of La Rioja (UNIR) and a member of the Iranian Peoples Studies Group (GEPI) at the Autonomous University of Madrid. He is also part of the research project “Crossed Perspectives between the Iranian and Hispanic Worlds: Narratives and Representations in the Contemporary Era”, funded by Spain’s Ministry of Science, Innovation and Universities (Reference: PID2023-1502740A-100).

The post In the Country of Özbeg: Photographing Uzbekistan 136 Years After Paul Nadar appeared first on Novastan English.

Kazakhstani feminist and LGBTI rights activist Zhanar Sekerbayeva was convicted of battery after a confrontation in Astana in November 2025. She says the prosecution was retaliation for her activism and part of a wider deterioration in the rights of LGBTI people in Kazakhstan.

“They said to me, ‘It will be hooliganism. Don’t worry, Zhanar. We just want to get rid of you,’” says Zhanar Sekerbayeva, a Kazakhstani feminist and LGBTI rights activist, and co-founder of the feminist initiative Feminita.

She was describing to Amnesty International what police officers allegedly told her after she and fellow LGBTI rights activists were harassed at a café in Astana in November 2025.

What Sekerbayeva initially understood would be treated as an administrative case instead became a criminal prosecution against her.

“Somebody decided it would not be an administrative offence, but a criminal one, because I think it was some kind of last opportunity for them before the amendments [to the so-called LGBTI propaganda law] came into force,” she says. “They needed a public lesson, a public lesson to everybody.”

On 22 April 2026, a criminal court in Astana found Sekerbayeva guilty under Article 109-1, Part 1 of Kazakhstan’s Criminal Code of “battery or other violent acts causing physical pain but not causing minor injury to health”.

She was fined around 178,000 Kazakhstani tenge, approximately US$380.

From harassment to prosecution

On 22 November 2025, Sekerbayeva and several friends and fellow activists gathered for a private lunch on the second floor of a café in Astana.

For security reasons, the venue’s exact address had been withheld publicly and shared only in private messages with trusted guests.

Yet a woman who had disrupted an expert roundtable on gender issues organised by the Education Community in Astana the previous day found the group there. Accompanied by several unidentified people, she began filming those present without their consent and loudly accused them of spreading “LGBT propaganda”.

When Sekerbayeva and her companions tried to leave, the woman blocked the staircase. After they eventually reached the exit, she obstructed their path again. Witnesses, including diners at nearby tables, later described how the woman physically prevented the group from leaving.

Sekerbayeva had previously survived two violent attacks in Shymkent and Qaragandy in 2021. She says the Astana confrontation left her in severe shock.

But it was Sekerbayeva, rather than the woman who had confronted the group, whom police subsequently pursued.

According to Sekerbayeva, officers followed her from one café to another and then to a shop, where she locked herself in a restroom. She says officers threatened to break down the door.

Sekerbayeva and her colleague Temirlan Baimash were eventually taken to a police station and held for around three hours before being released without formal charges.

Three days later, Sekerbayeva filed a written complaint describing the incident as unlawful stalking.

Police opened a preliminary inquiry but closed it only a few days later, characterising what had happened as no more than a “verbal conflict” that had caused no “substantial harm”.

A second complaint filed by Sekerbayeva on 12 February 2026 was rejected on similar grounds.

By contrast, a complaint against Sekerbayeva’s group was pursued and became the basis of a criminal case for battery.

From witness to sole defendant

By February 2026, Sekerbayeva had gone from being a witness to an accused person and ultimately became the sole defendant in the case.

An indictment approved on 27 March repeatedly described her and her companions as “persons disseminating information prohibited from dissemination on the territory of the Republic of Kazakhstan”.

That language reflected provisions contained in Kazakhstan’s March 2026 law banning so-called “LGBT propaganda”, although the law had not yet entered into force when the café incident took place in November 2025.

The proceedings initially involved three members of Sekerbayeva’s group, but the case eventually narrowed until she was the only person facing prosecution.

At trial, the prosecution relied largely on the complainant’s testimony, which Sekerbayeva says changed in detail over the course of the proceedings, as well as testimony from two witnesses.

According to the case material reviewed for this article, none of the available recordings – including footage from the complainant’s phone and from phones belonging to people accompanying her – show Sekerbayeva striking anyone. Sekerbayeva says the café itself had a surveillance camera, although without audio, and that police relied on only a short segment that did not show the complainant entering or the beginning of the confrontation.

The prosecution’s forensic medical report documented a single bruise on the complainant’s upper arm, which was classified as falling below the threshold of “light harm to health”.

“I should be equal in this case. I should be investigated equally with [her]. No, it was never equal. Never,” Sekerbayeva says.

Her lawyers argued that the prosecution amounted to retaliation for her human rights work and her sexual orientation.

The court rejected this interpretation.

“The defendant’s arguments about alleged persecution on political motives, as well as on the basis of her belonging to LGBT, are a method of defence and are refuted by the case materials,” the judgment stated.

The case materials nevertheless contain explicit references to Sekerbayeva’s LGBTI activism. In statements to police, the complainant repeatedly described her as an activist engaged in “LGBT propaganda”.

A conviction upheld on appeal

On 22 April 2026, the court found Sekerbayeva guilty.

She appealed, but on 2 June the Astana City Court upheld the conviction in full, finding that the original verdict had been “comprehensively, fully and objectively” substantiated.

The decision took effect immediately.

Sekerbayeva had anticipated the outcome.

“We believe the appeal court will likely uphold the lower court’s ruling,” she said before the decision. “We want to exhaust all avenues for defending our rights at the local level before moving to the international stage.”

LGBTI rights under growing pressure in Kazakhstan

The case has unfolded against a broader deterioration in conditions for LGBTI people and human rights defenders in Kazakhstan.

In late 2025, following a 2024 petition signed by 50,000 people demanding restrictions on public LGBTI representation, Kazakhstan’s parliament passed legislation banning the “propaganda of non-traditional sexual orientation and paedophilia” in the media and online.

The law was signed in December 2025 and entered into force in March 2026.

Read more on Novastan: Queer life under pressure in Kyrgyzstan

The legislation has drawn comparisons with Russia’s 2013 anti-LGBTI “propaganda” law, which international human rights bodies have repeatedly found incompatible with fundamental rights.

Amnesty International warned before the Kazakhstani legislation was adopted that such restrictions would further entrench stigma, fear and censorship.

The measure followed earlier discriminatory changes. In 2024, for example, Kazakhstan barred LGBTI people from adopting or mentoring orphans.

Read more on Novastan: When Freedom of Speech Is a Joke: Author of a Satirical News Outlet Detained in Kazakhstan

Further restrictions were incorporated into the new Constitution adopted on 15 March 2026, which defines marriage exclusively as a union between a man and a woman.

Critics also argued that the constitutional process lacked inclusive public consultation and meaningful participation by independent civil society.

The Constitution permits broader restrictions on freedom of expression, association and peaceful assembly on the basis of concepts including “constitutional order” and “public morality” – terms human rights advocates fear could be interpreted expansively.

Feminita under pressure

The case file identifies Sekerbayeva as director of Feminita, the feminist initiative for lesbian, bisexual, queer and trans women that she co-founded with fellow activists.

Feminita is one of the few organised LGBTI groups operating openly in Central Asia.

Kazakhstani authorities have repeatedly refused to register the organisation since it first applied for legal recognition in 2017.

Days before the November 2025 confrontation in Astana, Feminita had organised, funded and hosted a strategic meeting in Almaty bringing together LGBTI activists from across Kazakhstan to discuss how their work could continue under the impending “propaganda” law.

“Feminita was one of the organisers who found money, who rented a hotel and actually found the platform,” Sekerbayeva recalls. “We invited everybody, even the people who are in conflict with us.”

She says the organisation’s visibility has made both her and her colleagues targets for years.

In 2018, Sekerbayeva was arrested and convicted of “petty hooliganism” for taking part in a photoshoot challenging stigma surrounding menstruation.

In 2021, a Feminita event in Shymkent was violently disrupted by a group of men. Sekerbayeva says she was dragged by the hair and punched in the face.

She also served ten days of administrative detention following a 2025 protest against femicide.

Read more on Novastan: Women’s Day in Kazakhstan: hundreds gather for rally in Almaty

During the hearings in her latest case, Sekerbayeva says anonymous and newly created social media accounts repeatedly portrayed her as guilty and deserving of punishment.

Her mother, a paediatrician in Astana, has told her that she is too afraid of possible professional repercussions to attend the hearings.

Adapting activism under the new law

Rather than suspending its activities altogether, Feminita has adapted its public presentation.

We work on the protection of LGBT women’s rights and researchers, mobilisation of community, while also integrating feminist business ideas and eco-feminist activities into our strategic framework.”

“I just want people to see it was a political case”

Asked what justice would mean to her, Sekerbayeva says she is not seeking revenge.

“For now, for me, justice would mean reopening the case and showing that it was not correct to charge me,” she says.

“They should hold to account not only the provocateur, but also the police, the prosecutor’s office, the Committee of National Security and the akimat [local council]. Everybody should be named for how they did this provocation.”

“I don’t need apologies from them. I just want people to see it was a political case, and to see how it was created.”

Her expectations stretch beyond the immediate legal process.

“Even if I will not be alive,” she adds, “I think there will come a time when everything will be reinvestigated again. And I really believe that time will come.”

It would not be the first time Sekerbayeva has turned the label of “hooligan” back on the authorities.

Speaking to Amnesty International in 2019 after an earlier conviction for hooliganism, she said:

“Being a woman human rights defender is much more important – even if that makes me a ‘hooligan’ in the eyes of the authorities.”

By Vahid Aliyev, Global Civic Space Fellow at Amnesty International.

The post “A public lesson to everybody”: Kazakhstan convicts feminist and LGBTI rights activist Zhanar Sekerbayeva appeared first on Novastan English.

From horse archers and traditional dress to carefully staged portraits, Mongolian photographer Ganzorig Miimaa draws on the country’s nomadic heritage to create a contemporary visual language. The 500px Photographer of the Year 2025 speaks to Novastan about looking at Mongolia differently, the new generation transforming tradition, and why a childhood question about Mortal Kombat still shapes his work.

Mongolian photographer Ganzorig Miimaa spent the early years of his career looking outward.

Like many young photographers, he drew inspiration from images circulating internationally. He wanted the Mongolian people he photographed to appear “international, modern, fashionable, or classical”. Gradually, however, he began to realise that some of his strongest subjects were already around him: Mongolia’s nomadic life, history, people and cultural heritage.

Read more on Novastan: “Mongolia cannot be understood through one lens”: Dr. Mendee Jargalsaikhan on democracy, China and Central Asia

The shift has come to define his photography.

Based in Ulaanbaatar and with more than fifteen years of professional experience, Ganzorig works across portrait, documentary, commercial and staged photography. In 2025, he was named Photographer of the Year at the 500px Global Photography Awards. His portrait Queen, inspired by the elaborate hairstyles worn by Mongolian women historically, also received the competition’s Judges’ Choice award in the Portrait category. In 2026, his Ornamented Identity took second place in the professional division of the reFocus Black & White Photo Contest.

Yet Ganzorig’s work is not primarily an exercise in documenting disappearing traditions. His photographs often reconstruct them. Historical clothing, horses, archery, hunting practices and other elements of Mongolia’s visual heritage are placed within carefully controlled compositions, where lighting, colour, pose and environment become as important as the subjects themselves.

It is an approach that reflects something he sees happening more widely in contemporary Mongolia. A younger generation of artists, he argues, is increasingly treating cultural heritage not simply as something inherited and protected, but as material from which something new can be created.

Novastan English Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine spoke with Ganzorig Miimaa about photography, cultural identity and what it means to make Mongolia visible to the outside world.

Novastan: Your recent work often explores Mongolian identity, heritage and the relationship between tradition and contemporary life. What does “Mongolian identity” mean to you visually, and how has your understanding of it changed through photography?

Ganzorig Miimaa: It is difficult for me to define exactly what makes Mongolian identity unique, because I have not studied other cultures deeply enough to make that kind of comparison. But I do believe that Mongolia’s vast history, and the nomadic way of life that continues to this day, are something very special.

When I first started photography, I tried to make images similar to the ones I saw on international photography platforms. I wanted to make Mongolian people look more international, modern, fashionable, or classical.

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

Over time, I began to realise that rather than following what everyone else was doing, it was more important to find and bring out things around me that others had not yet noticed or seen.

Mongolia’s history, nomadic life, people and cultural heritage gradually became some of the closest and strongest sources of visual inspiration for me.

When you photograph subjects that outsiders strongly associate with Mongolia – horses, eagle hunters, traditional dress, the steppe – what do you look for that makes the image feel personal rather than expected?

Because my background is in advertising photography, I pay a great deal of attention not only to the idea or content of an image, but also to its visual and aesthetic qualities.

I would probably divide this kind of work into two categories.

The first consists of photographs I make while researching a subject, meeting people and travelling – images that come from real situations and events as they happen.

Read more on Novastan: Central Asia through the lens of… Kamila Rustambekova

The second consists of fully staged photographs, where I already have an image in my mind of how I want something to look. With these photographs, I work much more deliberately with lighting, colour, composition, environment and the positioning of the subject, and I try to introduce a degree of artistic interpretation and abstraction.

So when I photograph subjects that are already strongly associated with Mongolia, it is less about trying to find a completely different subject and more about finding a way to show it through my own visual language.

What usually comes first for you when making a photograph: a face, a gesture, a landscape, a colour, a story or an idea?

Ideas can come from many different things, and very often they eventually intersect.

For example, I might see someone and think, “I would really like to photograph this person.” Then, sometime later, I might witness an event and suddenly think, “This could be an interesting way to photograph that person.” Later still, I might see a location or an object and think, “This would be the right place for it.”

Things that originally had no connection to one another gradually come together in a single photograph.

But there is no fixed order. Sometimes the location comes first, sometimes the person, sometimes a story, or simply an image that appears in my mind. For me, a photograph often develops through connections between things I have noticed at completely different times.

In projects such as Ornamented Identity, you work with carefully constructed portraits and visual symbolism. How do you decide when to stage an image and when to work more observationally or documentarily?

Honestly, there is not a particularly deep philosophy behind that decision. If it were possible, I would probably stage almost all of my photographs and control every element of the image myself.

But in reality, sometimes the most practical option is to photograph something while it is actually happening. Recreating an event later might require coordinating the schedules of many people, as well as arranging costumes, horses, locations, transportation and many other things. The cost of the shoot can also increase very quickly.

So some of my observational or documentary photographs are not necessarily the result of a deliberate artistic principle. Sometimes they are simply about making the best use of the opportunity that exists at that moment.

When circumstances allow, I prefer to plan an image carefully and construct it.

Where in Mongolia do you personally find the strongest artistic inspiration? Are there particular regions, landscapes or communities that continue to draw you back?

One of the places that gives me the most inspiration and material for research is the Nomads Festival.

Cultural heritage practitioners from Mongolia’s 21 provinces gather in one place and present their ways of life, customs, crafts, clothing, traditional knowledge and skills out on the open steppe.

For me, it is an opportunity to encounter an enormous amount of information about the cultures of different regions of Mongolia in a very short period of time.

I might notice a person’s appearance, a small detail of clothing, an object, a custom or a particular skill, and that can lead me towards a new subject that I later research in much greater depth.

So for me, the festival is not only a place to make photographs; it is also a major source of research and ideas for future work.

If someone were visiting Mongolia for the first time and wanted to understand the country beyond the usual tourist itinerary, what would you tell them to do?

I have travelled abroad both with tour companies and independently.

With a tour company, you generally see a prepared itinerary and the things they have chosen to show you. Travelling independently gives you more freedom, but sometimes you have no idea where things are, what you should see, or even what you should and should not do.

So the next time I visit somewhere new, if possible, I would rather get to know a local photographer with similar interests and visit them. A local person sees the place where they live very differently from someone following a tourist itinerary.

In the same way, rather than giving a first-time visitor to Mongolia a list of famous places, I would suggest visiting a herder family and, if possible, spending some time with them and observing their everyday life.

I think getting even a little closer to how people actually live can tell you more about a country than simply visiting a list of places you are supposed to see.

What excites you most in Mongolia’s cultural scene today? Are there photographers, filmmakers, musicians, designers, writers or other artists whose work you think international audiences should know?

What I find exciting is seeing a younger generation of Mongolian artists learning from global culture and artistic practices, but instead of simply imitating them, translating their own heritage and sensibilities into forms that can reach the rest of the world.

One of the clearest examples for me is The HU. They have managed to translate elements of their own cultural heritage and sensibility through the language of contemporary global music and bring it to an enormous international audience.

There are interesting artists working in many different fields in Mongolia, but the list would become very long, so I would rather mention a few people from photography, which is the field I know best.

In nature photography, I would mention Erdenebulgan and Batsukh. In documentary photography, Davaanyam Delgerjargal and Injinaash Bor. And in fine art photography, Suniko B.

I would be very happy to see their work reach wider international audiences.

Do you see younger Mongolian artists engaging with heritage differently from previous generations?

Very differently. I think you can see this particularly clearly in music videos being made in Mongolia today.

In the past, cultural heritage and tradition were often represented more directly. The younger generation, however, is increasingly combining these elements with contemporary music, fashion, photography and new visual languages, and reinterpreting them from their own perspective.

What interests me most is that heritage is not being seen only as something that needs to be preserved, but also as something alive – material that can be used to create something new.

Are there traditions, symbols or aesthetics being reinterpreted in ways that particularly interest you?

There is one image that particularly fascinates me, inspired by historical accounts written by chroniclers of the 13th century, as well as artworks from that period: a mounted archer, carrying his bow and arrows, accompanied by his Taiga dog, with a falcon perched on his arm.

I would nominate this horseman for “the coolest guy of all time.” [Laughs]

The horse, the hunting dog, the falcon and the bow and arrows all come together in a single figure, and I find that visually incredibly powerful.

Although the image comes from centuries ago, I think it can still feel strikingly contemporary when reimagined through today’s visual language.

You have spoken about looking abroad for inspiration before realising that some of the strongest stories were around you in Mongolia. Was there a particular moment or project that changed the way you looked at your own country?

It is difficult to point to one particular moment when my thinking completely changed. Many different experiences and circumstances gradually came together to shape the way I think today.

But there is one funny memory that probably planted the first seed.

I remember playing Mortal Kombat and thinking, “Why isn’t there a Mongolian character in this game?”

And then the answer seemed quite simple: “Because you haven’t shown that character to the world enough.”

That thought stayed with me.

When you grow up inside a culture, it is easy to assume that other people know its history, characters and visual world because they are so familiar to you. But from the outside, they may hardly be visible at all.

I think part of what I do today has its roots in that thought.

Of course, as someone living inside the culture, my way of seeing my own country has been shaped by many overlapping influences – people, travel, photographs, experiences and research.

So I would not describe it as one dramatic turning point, but perhaps as one of the earliest ideas that set me on this path.

When someone outside Mongolia encounters your work, what do you hope stays with them after they stop looking at the image?

Maybe somewhere in my subconscious I want them to think, “Wow, he’s a really good photographer.” [Laughs]

But more importantly, I hope they come away with a positive impression of Mongolia.

It does not really matter whether they knew much about Mongolia beforehand. If one of my photographs makes them even a little more curious and gives them the desire to learn more about the people, history, culture and life of this country, that is enough for me.

Finally, Ornamented Identity took second place in the professional division of the 2026 reFocus Black & White Photo Contest, a year after you were named 500px Photographer of the Year. What is it about this photograph that best represents where you are creatively today?

I would probably choose that photograph.

Of course, receiving the award is important to me, but that is not the main reason I would choose it.

It is a completely staged photograph. I thought through and planned every element – the character, clothing, environment, lighting and composition. At the same time, I tried to incorporate elements of Mongolian tradition, history and cultural heritage through my own visual language.

For that reason, I think it brings together what I most want to do creatively at this point: to begin with real cultural heritage, but rather than simply documenting it, to reconstruct and reinterpret it through my own imagination and photographic language.

Interview conducted by Novastan English Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine.

The post “Heritage is something alive”: Ganzorig Miimaa reimagines Mongolia through photography appeared first on Novastan English.

Gulnoza Ismailova heads Uzbekistan’s El-Yurt Umidi Foundation, which supports Uzbek students and professionals pursuing education and training at leading institutions abroad. Her career has spanned academia, diplomacy, public administration and the Central Election Commission.

In this interview with Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, she discusses Uzbekistan’s growing investment in human capital, the return of internationally trained specialists, cooperation with European universities, the changing expectations of young Uzbeks and the Foundation’s ambition to move “from mobility to co-creation.”

Novastan: To begin, could you introduce yourself to our readers? Your career has taken you through academia, diplomacy, public administration, the Central Election Commission and now El-Yurt Umidi. Looking back, what experiences have most shaped your understanding of Uzbekistan’s development?

Gulnoza Ismailova: Looking back, I realise that every stage of my career has shown me a different dimension of Uzbekistan’s transformation.

I began my career in academia, working with young people preparing for careers in the civil service and diplomacy. Those years convinced me that successful reforms always begin with people. They also showed me that Uzbekistan’s development depends on strengthening our own institutions while engaging confidently with the world, learning from international experience and sharing our own ideas and achievements.

My years in public administration taught me another important lesson: successful reforms are never simply about adopting the right policies. They also depend on strong institutions, professional civil servants and the trust of citizens. Building that trust takes time, consistency and people who genuinely believe in public service.

Together, these experiences naturally led me to my current role at the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation. If there is one lesson my career has taught me, it is that lasting reform begins with people. Strategies and institutions provide the framework, but it is talented and committed professionals who turn ambition into reality. That lesson continues to shape the way I think about education, public service and leadership today.

For readers who may not yet be familiar with it, what is the mission of El-Yurt Umidi? What challenge was the Foundation created to address?

Many people assume that the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation is simply a scholarship programme, but our mission is much broader.

The Foundation was created because the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Shavkat Mirziyoyev, recognised that reforms require people with the right knowledge and international experience. A country can invest in infrastructure and technology, but without qualified specialists it is very difficult to achieve lasting change. That is where we come in.

Each year, we support around 500 talented young people who want to study or undertake professional training at universities and educational institutions included in the world’s top 300 rankings. Our scholars specialise in many different fields, from healthcare and engineering to public administration, education and digital technologies. What unites them is their desire to contribute to the country’s development.

Investing in human capital has become one of Uzbekistan’s key priorities. The economy is changing, technology is changing and the skills countries need are changing as well. If we want to remain competitive, we must prepare people who can work to international standards and introduce new ideas into our institutions and industries.

How has the way Uzbekistan thinks about education, talent and international cooperation evolved over the past decade?

I think the biggest change has been in the way we look at talent. Ten or fifteen years ago, studying abroad was often seen primarily as an individual achievement. Today, it is increasingly viewed as an investment in the country’s future.

There is also a much stronger understanding that education does not end with earning a diploma. We live in a world where technology, economies and labour markets are changing very quickly. Continuous learning, international exposure and the ability to adapt have become essential, both for individuals and for institutions.

The same shift has taken place in international cooperation. It is no longer simply about signing agreements or organising official visits. Today, partnerships are expected to produce tangible results, including joint research, academic exchanges, dual-degree programmes, scholarships, professional training and innovation. The emphasis is on creating long-term relationships that benefit both sides.

When selecting scholarship recipients, what qualities do you look for beyond academic excellence? What kind of future leaders does Uzbekistan hope to cultivate?

Academic excellence is certainly important, but it is only one part of the picture. High test results or admission to a prestigious university do not automatically mean that someone will make a lasting contribution to the country.

We also look for motivation, a clear sense of purpose and a genuine commitment to Uzbekistan’s development. We want to understand why a candidate has chosen a particular field of study and how they see themselves applying that knowledge when they return.

Another quality we value is curiosity. The world is changing so quickly that technical knowledge alone is not enough. We are looking for people who are open to new ideas, willing to learn from different cultures and able to work across disciplines and borders. These qualities are becoming just as important as academic achievement.

Many countries worry that students who study abroad will never return. How has Uzbekistan approached this challenge?

This is a question that every country investing in international education has to consider. There is no single solution, and I do not believe it is only about requiring graduates to come back. The more important question is whether they have meaningful opportunities when they return.

In Uzbekistan, our approach combines commitment and opportunity. El-Yurt Umidi scholars agree to return and work in Uzbekistan after completing their studies: three years for master’s graduates and five years for bachelor’s and doctoral graduates. We hope they see this not merely as a contractual obligation, but as an opportunity and a privilege to contribute to the country’s development at a time of profound transformation.

That commitment must be matched by real opportunities. Over the past several years, Uzbekistan has changed significantly. As reforms have accelerated, so has the demand for professionals with international education and experience across public administration, higher education, healthcare, industry and many other sectors.

Of course, our graduates may receive attractive opportunities abroad. What encourages them to return is the feeling that they can make a real difference here. They come back at a time when new ideas are welcomed, institutions are evolving and there is genuine space to contribute. Many tell us that this sense of purpose is one of the strongest reasons for building their careers in Uzbekistan.

Could you share some examples of former scholarship recipients whose experience abroad has made a tangible contribution to Uzbekistan?

There are many inspiring stories, and what I find most rewarding is seeing how differently our graduates contribute after returning to Uzbekistan.

One example is Bobur Turaev, a paediatric cardiac surgeon who studied at University College London with the support of the Foundation. After returning home, he became part of a team that successfully performed a highly complex heart-valve reconstruction on a six-year-old child using the patient’s own tissue. Today, he performs numerous life-saving paediatric heart operations, giving children the chance to grow up healthy and offering their families hope for the future.

Another example is Islombek Ismailov, a lecturer at Urgench State University. After completing his studies abroad, he dedicated himself to nurturing young mathematical talent. Under his guidance, his students have achieved outstanding results in international competitions. At the RUDN Math Olymp in 2025, they won one gold, one silver and two bronze medals. At the VI International Open Mathematics Olympiad in Ashgabat in 2026, they earned two gold, three silver and two bronze medals, while the university’s teams also received silver and bronze medals in the team competition. Editor’s note: RUDN Math Olymp is an international mathematics competition organised by RUDN University, also known as the Peoples’ Friendship University of Russia.

I would also mention Husniddin Khidirov, who is involved in strategic projects at the Navoi Mining and Metallurgical Company. He is applying the knowledge and international experience he gained abroad to one of Uzbekistan’s most important industries, helping strengthen the company’s strategic planning and project-management capacity.

These stories are very different, but they share a common thread. One graduate is helping save children’s lives, another is mentoring future mathematicians and another is contributing to the modernisation of a strategic industry. They remind us that the value of a scholarship extends far beyond the individual recipient.

This is how we assess the impact of our programme. We certainly look at the number of scholarships awarded, but what matters even more is what happens afterwards: whether our graduates improve institutions, introduce new ideas, advance research, mentor young people or contribute to the country’s development in other meaningful ways.

Which fields of study are currently the highest priority for Uzbekistan?

At the moment, our highest priority is STEM disciplines, as they provide the foundation for innovation, industrial development and economic competitiveness, all of which are central to Uzbekistan’s long-term development strategy.

Beyond STEM, we also focus on sectors that are driving the country’s economic transformation. These include energy, manufacturing, transport and logistics, agriculture and food production, tourism and services, healthcare, education and public administration.

We prioritise these fields because they are directly linked to Uzbekistan’s development goals. The country is modernising its economy, expanding digital infrastructure, improving public services, strengthening its healthcare and education systems and creating higher-value industries. Achieving these ambitions requires specialists who not only possess strong technical expertise, but also understand international standards and best practices.

As the country’s needs continue to evolve, our scholarship priorities evolve as well. We regularly review priority fields to ensure they remain aligned with Uzbekistan’s economic strategy and the skills that will be needed in the years ahead.

You have worked at the University of World Economy and Diplomacy, the Academy of Public Administration and now El-Yurt Umidi. How has the relationship between universities and public institutions changed?

I think there has been a very noticeable shift over the past decade. When I worked at the Academy of Public Administration and later at the University of World Economy and Diplomacy, cooperation between universities and public institutions certainly existed, but it was often limited to traditional areas such as internships, guest lectures or recruitment.

Today, the relationship is much more strategic. Universities are increasingly seen as partners in national development rather than simply as providers of education. Government institutions are working more closely with universities to identify the skills the country needs, develop new academic programmes, support research and innovation and prepare specialists for priority sectors of the economy.

At the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation, we see this transformation every day. We work closely with ministries, universities and employers to ensure that scholarship priorities reflect Uzbekistan’s long-term development goals.

Of course, there is still room for further progress. We need even closer cooperation between universities, government and industry to ensure that graduates have the skills employers are looking for and that research contributes more directly to innovation and economic development.

Compared with ten years ago, however, I believe we have made significant progress. There is now a shared understanding that developing human capital is a collective responsibility and that universities and public institutions achieve much more when they work together than when they work separately.

During your time at the Academy of Public Administration, you helped train future civil servants. What qualities do today’s public officials need that perhaps were not emphasised a generation ago?

The fundamental values of public service, including integrity, professionalism and responsibility, remain as important as ever. But I believe the expectations placed on public officials today are quite different from those of a generation ago.

One of the biggest changes is that we have become much more people-centred in the way we think about public administration. In the past, greater emphasis was often placed on hierarchy and administrative procedures. Since 2016, the focus has increasingly been on serving citizens, understanding their needs and improving the quality of public services. Ultimately, the success of any reform is measured by the difference it makes in people’s lives.

This shift requires a different set of skills. Today’s public officials need to be adaptable, open to new ideas and comfortable working across institutions. They need to use data and evidence to inform decisions, communicate effectively and build partnerships with universities, businesses, civil society and international organisations. Public administration has become much more collaborative.

I also believe that international exposure has become an important asset. It is not about copying what other countries do, but about learning from global experience and adapting successful practices to Uzbekistan’s own context. That is one of the reasons why the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation’s targeted traineeships are so valuable.

International education is about much more than acquiring technical knowledge. What ways of thinking do Uzbek students bring back from studying abroad?

I think the greatest benefit of international education is not simply acquiring new knowledge or technical skills. It is learning to understand context.

Today, almost any information can be found online. You can watch lectures from the world’s leading universities, read textbooks, access scientific journals and even learn new technical skills without leaving your home. But what you cannot learn from a textbook or the internet is how things actually work in practice.

When students study abroad, they are exposed to different academic cultures, institutions and ways of solving problems. They begin to see that every policy, institution and management system is shaped by its own history, culture and social context.

That experience changes the questions they ask. Instead of saying, “This is how they do it abroad, so we should do the same,” they begin to ask, “Why does this work in this particular context, and how can we adapt the underlying principles to Uzbekistan?”

I think that is a much more mature way of approaching reform. The ability to interpret context is one of the most valuable outcomes of international education. It is also one of the reasons why our graduates are often able to become effective agents of change within their own institutions.

Europe remains an important destination for Uzbek students. Beyond rankings, what makes European universities particularly valuable partners?

It is their educational philosophy. The mission of many European universities is not simply to produce highly qualified specialists, but to educate responsible citizens and future leaders who understand their role in society. This humanistic tradition has shaped European higher education for centuries and remains one of its greatest strengths.

Students are encouraged to think independently, question assumptions, engage in respectful debate and reflect on the broader social impact of their work. In other words, universities cultivate judgement, not just expertise. They place great emphasis on holistic development alongside academic achievement, helping students develop intellectual curiosity, ethical responsibility and a strong sense of civic engagement.

For us, this is particularly valuable. Uzbekistan needs highly qualified professionals, but it also needs people who are prepared to take responsibility, contribute to public life and help strengthen institutions.

That is why we look beyond rankings when choosing international partners. We value universities whose academic culture is built on openness, academic integrity, critical inquiry and a commitment to serving society. Those qualities help shape graduates who are not only excellent professionals, but also active citizens and future leaders capable of contributing to Uzbekistan’s long-term development.

What opportunities would you encourage French and European universities to explore in Uzbekistan?

I would encourage them to think beyond the traditional model of international cooperation. Student mobility will always remain important, but I believe the greatest opportunities now lie in building long-term institutional partnerships.

Our ambition is to move from mobility to co-creation: from simply sending students abroad to creating knowledge, innovation and solutions together.

I see particularly strong potential in joint research projects, dual-degree programmes, faculty exchanges, the co-supervision of doctoral students and collaborative research centres in areas such as green technologies, water and environmental sustainability, healthcare, space and engineering. These are fields where international cooperation can generate tangible benefits for both Uzbekistan and Europe.

I also believe there is significant untapped potential in strengthening cooperation between universities and industry. One example is our recent partnership involving the French National School of Civil Aviation, ENAC, Airbus and Tashkent State Transport University to develop a joint educational programme in civil aviation.

Initiatives like this demonstrate how academia, government and industry can work together to prepare specialists whose skills are directly relevant to the labour market, while also supporting technological development and innovation.

Can educational cooperation achieve things that traditional diplomacy cannot?

I believe higher education is one of the most powerful forms of diplomacy. Governments can sign agreements, but it is people who build lasting relationships. Universities create those human connections.

Every student, researcher or professor who spends time in another country gains something much more valuable than academic knowledge. They develop friendships, professional networks and a deeper understanding of another culture. Those relationships often last for decades and continue long after a particular project or government programme has ended.

In that sense, educational cooperation can sometimes achieve things that traditional diplomacy cannot. Diplomacy operates through governments, while universities connect societies. They build trust, encourage dialogue and create communities of people who continue working together throughout their careers.

I also believe education creates a different kind of ambassador. When students study abroad, they represent their country every day, not through official speeches, but through their work, their values and their interactions with others. At the same time, they return home with a deeper understanding of another society.

Political priorities may change over time, but relationships built through education, research and shared knowledge tend to endure. That is why I see higher education not only as an investment in human capital, but also as an investment in peace, mutual understanding and the future of Uzbekistan’s partnership with Europe.

Uzbekistan is becoming increasingly visible in Europe, yet many people still know relatively little about it. What would you most like European audiences to understand about the country today?

I think the biggest misconception is that many people still have an outdated image of Uzbekistan. Over the past several years, Uzbekistan has changed remarkably, and it is transforming much faster than many people outside the region realise. Today, it is a country of opportunities, yet perceptions often take longer to change than reality.

I would also encourage people to look beyond the headlines and discover Uzbekistan’s rich intellectual, scientific and cultural heritage. Central Asia has been a crossroads of civilisations for centuries, and Uzbekistan has a long tradition of scholarship, science and cultural exchange. Today, we are building on that heritage while embracing new ideas and international cooperation.

Finally, I hope more people will see Uzbekistan not simply as a country seeking partners, but as a partner with something meaningful to contribute. We believe international cooperation works best when it is based on mutual respect, shared learning and common goals.

Whether in higher education, research or innovation, we see our relationship with Europe as a genuine partnership, one in which both sides learn from each other and grow together.

Having worked with several generations of students and young professionals, how would you describe today’s young Uzbeks?

If I had to describe today’s young Uzbeks in a few words, I would say they are full of hope, dynamic, highly motivated and remarkably diverse.

They have a wide range of interests and aspirations. Some are passionate about artificial intelligence and engineering, others about entrepreneurship, science, public service, culture or the creative industries. This diversity is one of the greatest strengths of today’s generation.

I also find them to be much more globally connected than previous generations. As both an educator and a mother, I see this not only through the thousands of scholarship applicants I meet, but also through my own children. Their curiosity, confidence and ability to navigate an increasingly interconnected world reflect the qualities I see in so many young Uzbeks today.

What impresses me most is their confidence during interviews. They communicate easily across cultures and are eager to learn from the best universities around the world. At the same time, many of them have a strong desire to contribute to Uzbekistan’s future. They do not see international education as an opportunity to leave the country forever, but as a way to gain knowledge and experience that they can bring home.

Their expectations are also changing. They want opportunities to grow, to be challenged and to have their ideas heard. They value merit, openness and continuous learning, and they are looking for environments where initiative and creativity are encouraged.

Women are playing an increasingly visible role in Uzbekistan’s public and professional life. What trends have you observed among female scholarship recipients?

Over the past several years, I have seen a very encouraging change. More and more young women are pursuing international education, taking on leadership roles and building successful careers in fields in which women were traditionally underrepresented.

This progress has not happened by chance. It reflects the strong political commitment of the President of Uzbekistan to expanding opportunities for women and ensuring that girls’ education and women’s leadership are recognised as national priorities.

As a result, society has become increasingly supportive of women’s education, and today we see more women serving in senior leadership and decision-making positions across government, academia and the private sector.

At the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation, we see this trend very clearly. Nearly 30 per cent of our scholarship recipients are women, and every year we meet more talented young women studying engineering, artificial intelligence, medicine, public administration, economics and many other fields. They are ambitious, highly motivated and increasingly confident in pursuing their professional goals.

At the same time, I believe there is still more we can do, particularly in STEM disciplines, where women remain underrepresented around the world. This is not simply a question of representation. Countries are stronger when they are able to benefit from the talents of all their people.

That is why we are working with the British Council to launch a joint Women in STEM scholarship initiative. The programme is designed to support talented Uzbek women pursuing studies in science, technology, engineering and mathematics, while also encouraging more young women to consider careers in these fields.

We see this as an investment not only in individual scholars, but also in the future scientific and technological capacity of Uzbekistan.

Artificial intelligence, digitalisation and the green transition are transforming labour markets worldwide. How is El-Yurt Umidi adapting?

The pace of technological change means that no scholarship programme can remain static. We have to anticipate the skills that will be needed not only today, but five or ten years from now.

At the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation, we regularly review our scholarship quotas for priority fields to ensure they remain aligned with Uzbekistan’s national development priorities and the changing demands of the global economy.

This is an ongoing process. Every year, we assess emerging trends, consult with ministries, universities and industry and adjust our priorities accordingly.

Today, we are placing particular emphasis on areas such as artificial intelligence, information and communication technologies, cybersecurity, biotechnology, advanced engineering, renewable energy and other STEM disciplines.

At the same time, we recognise that technological transformation also requires strong expertise in public policy, education, healthcare and management to ensure that innovations are implemented effectively and responsibly.

But I believe the future will depend on more than technical expertise alone. The professionals who thrive in the coming decades will be those who combine deep knowledge in their field with adaptability, critical thinking, digital literacy and the ability to work across disciplines and cultures.

As technologies evolve, the ability to continuously learn, unlearn and relearn may become the most important skill of all.

Across the different institutions where you have worked, what have been the most encouraging changes in Uzbekistan’s governance? What challenges remain?

The most encouraging change, in my view, has been the transformation of public administration itself.

Today, there is a much stronger focus on strategic planning, project management, digital transformation, evidence-based policymaking and performance measurement. Public institutions are increasingly expected not only to implement policies, but also to think strategically, anticipate future challenges and evaluate the real impact of their work.

We have also seen a major shift towards a more people-centred approach to governance. A good example is the mahallabay approach, which brings public services and decision-making closer to communities by identifying needs and solving problems at the neighbourhood, or mahalla, level.

Today, success is measured not simply by whether a task has been completed, but by whether it improves people’s lives. I believe this represents an important evolution in the philosophy of public administration.

At the same time, every reform brings new expectations. One of the greatest challenges is ensuring that these new approaches become embedded in institutional culture rather than depending on the enthusiasm of individual leaders or teams.

Strategic planning, project management and digital transformation are not simply new management tools. They require new ways of thinking, stronger coordination across institutions and continuous investment in people’s skills.

Looking ahead, what would success look like for El-Yurt Umidi in ten years’ time?

I am a very ambitious person when it comes to investing in people and in my country’s future.

I hope the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation will be known not simply as a scholarship foundation, but as one of the key institutions driving Uzbekistan’s human-capital development.

I hope the Foundation will strengthen its broader strategic role. Beyond supporting individual scholars, we want to help identify the skills Uzbekistan will need in the future, strengthen cooperation between education, government and industry and contribute to shaping national human-capital policies.

In other words, I would like the El-Yurt Umidi Foundation to become not only a scholarship provider, but also a centre of expertise in talent development and workforce planning.

Internationally, I hope we will be recognised as a trusted partner by leading universities, research institutions and governments around the world. Our ambition is to move from mobility to co-creation, from sending students abroad to building long-term partnerships in education, research and innovation that create value for everyone involved.

I would like people to look back and say that El-Yurt Umidi helped shape a generation of professionals who transformed Uzbekistan not only through their knowledge and expertise, but through their integrity, openness and commitment to serving society.

If, in ten years’ time, our graduates are strengthening institutions, advancing science, improving healthcare, modernising industry and building lasting bridges between Uzbekistan and the rest of the world, I believe we will have fulfilled our mission.

Finally, what message would you like to send to European universities, researchers, students and policymakers about Uzbekistan today?

My message would be very simple: this is the right time to engage with Uzbekistan.

I would encourage European universities, researchers and policymakers to look beyond old perceptions and discover today’s Uzbekistan for themselves. You will find talented young people, ambitious universities, committed institutions and partners who are genuinely interested in learning, collaborating and creating knowledge together.

Uzbekistan is a country with a rich history, a vibrant culture and a young generation determined to shape a better future. We are proud of our heritage, but we are equally excited about the future we are building, one that is open, innovative and connected to the world.

I would also encourage students and researchers to consider Uzbekistan as a place for academic exchange, joint research and innovation. International cooperation should always be a two-way process. We have much to learn from Europe, but we also have our own experience, perspectives and ideas to contribute.

I sincerely hope that more European colleagues will visit our country, meet our people and experience Uzbekistan first-hand. I am confident they will discover not only a reliable academic and research partner, but also the warmth, hospitality and openness that define our nation.

The best way to understand today’s Uzbekistan is to experience it.

Interview by Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan English.

The post “This is the right time to engage with Uzbekistan”: Gulnoza Ismailova on education, talent and the country’s future appeared first on Novastan English.

After more than a century of migration, repression and adaptation, the Koryo-Saram are building new communities in the United States. Hana Sexton, founder of Koryo Saram Koreans in America, speaks to Novastan about historical memory, cultural survival and the challenge of making a little-known diaspora visible.

The history of the Koryo-Saram extends across several countries and political systems. Their ancestors began settling in the Russian Far East in the nineteenth century, many fleeing poverty, famine and Japanese colonial rule on the Korean Peninsula. In 1937, Stalin’s government deported the entire Korean population of the Soviet Far East to Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, accusing them collectively of potential collaboration with Japan.

The deportees endured a brutal journey in overcrowded railway wagons and were forced to rebuild their lives in unfamiliar conditions. Over subsequent decades, Koryo-Saram communities became deeply rooted in Central Asia. They contributed to agriculture, science, medicine, education, culture and public life, while also experiencing linguistic assimilation and the gradual erosion of some Korean traditions.

See more on Novastan: How Central Asia became home for the Koryo-Saram

Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the community became increasingly dispersed. Many moved to South Korea, Russia, Europe and the United States, creating new forms of transnational family and cultural life. Today, an individual Koryo-Saram family may have relatives in Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, South Korea, Russia and North America.

Hana Sexton grew up in Central Asia and later settled in the United States. After repeatedly encountering a lack of awareness about Koryo-Saram history, she established Koryo Saram Koreans in America, a nonprofit initiative intended to increase the visibility of the community and strengthen its connections with the wider Korean-American diaspora.

She is a member of the Council of Korean Americans and The Korea Society, and participates in cultural, community and policy events across the United States. In this interview with Novastan, she explains why the Koryo-Saram experience cannot be reduced to labels such as “Soviet Korean” or “Russian Korean,” and why preserving the community’s history matters far beyond the diaspora itself.

Novastan: Could you begin by introducing yourself and telling us what inspired you to establish Koryo Saram Koreans in America?

Hana Sexton: For more than a decade in the United States, my life has involved repeatedly answering one question: who are the Koryo-Saram?

Meeting people across very different social and professional circles taught me something important. My lifetime would simply be too short to explain the history of the Koryo-Saram individually to every new person I encountered. That exhausting realisation is precisely why I founded a nonprofit initiative dedicated to our community.

I am a Koryo-Saram Korean American. It is an identity that I claim proudly, but it is also one that is constantly obscured by misconceptions. We are frequently described as “Soviet Koreans,” “Russian Koreans,” “Central Asian Koreans” or even “North Koreans.” The reality is far more complex.

Many Koryo-Saram migrated to the Russian Far East long before the Soviet Union was established. They moved there during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often fleeing famine, poverty and Japanese colonisation. The Soviet era was only one chapter in our much longer history, just as the Russian Empire before it and the post-Soviet Central Asian states afterwards were also chapters.

Each period and each region shaped our culture, but none of them defines us entirely.

We are ethnic Koreans and today many of us predominantly speak Russian. The broader Russian-speaking Korean world also includes communities such as the Sakhalin Koreans, although their historical experience is distinct in important ways.

For me, Koryo-Saram is a collective identity for a global diaspora united by a shared history of migration, Stalinist forced displacement, trauma, resilience and cultural adaptation. We also developed a distinctive cuisine, including dishes such as morkovcha, the spiced carrot salad that has become famous across the former Soviet Union.

Through this organisation, we are no longer telling our story only one person at a time. We are trying to share our historical legacy with the wider world.

For readers unfamiliar with this history, who are the Koryo-Saram, and how would you describe their journey from the Russian Far East to Central Asia and, more recently, to the United States?

The Koryo-Saram are ethnic Koreans whose ancestors settled in the Russian Far East from the second half of the nineteenth century onwards. Labour was needed to develop sparsely populated land around Vladivostok and other border regions, and many Koreans settled there as farmers, labourers and traders. Others arrived while fleeing Japanese colonial rule on the Korean Peninsula.

Koryo-mar, the traditional language associated with the community, is now officially considered endangered. The language carries traces of the varieties of Korean spoken by the original migrants, but decades of displacement and assimilation transformed the linguistic life of the community.

In 1937, under Joseph Stalin, the Soviet government forcibly deported the entire ethnic Korean population of the Russian Far East to Central Asia, primarily Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. The authorities justified the deportation by invoking fears of Japanese espionage and alleged “anti-Soviet activities.”

Read more on Novastan: From Bukhara to Queens: The Global Journey of the Bukharan Jews

It was the first large-scale Soviet deportation of an entire ethnic community, although it would not be the last.

The journey was brutal. Families were loaded into freight and cattle wagons. Many people died from disease, hunger and exposure during the journey or shortly after their arrival. Survivors found themselves in a completely different climate and environment. They had to farm in the steppe, grow food for their own survival and meet state agricultural demands, while trying to preserve elements of Korean family and cultural life.

For decades, many deportees remained classified as “unreliable people.” Their movements were restricted and they were required to report to local authorities.

A lesser-known part of our history concerns the Korean intellectuals and officials who survived deportation and were later sent to North Korea to help establish the new state. Some were subsequently purged, imprisoned or killed by the North Korean authorities. For them, deportation was followed by another form of displacement and political repression.

Over time, the Koryo-Saram became Soviet citizens. Many entered professional life and became scientists, doctors, teachers, engineers, artists and administrators. At the same time, Soviet assimilation policies, the closure of Korean-language schools and the dominance of Russian contributed to the decline of Korean-language transmission.

Read more on Novastan: Diasporas et diversité : brève histoire des peuples au Kazakhstan

After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, many Koryo-Saram began seeking opportunities abroad. South Korea became a major destination, but the United States also attracted a growing number of migrants.

I was personally surprised to discover how many Koryo-Saram live in different American states. Today it is common to meet a Koryo-Saram American citizen with relatives in both South Korea and Central Asia.

Unlike some other communities deported under Stalin, including many ethnic Germans or Poles, the Koryo-Saram were never collectively repatriated. As a result, the diaspora is now scattered across Central Asia, Russia, South Korea, Europe and the United States.

In America, Koryo-Saram often settle in cities with established Korean communities, including New York and Los Angeles. They become part of a broader Korean diaspora while maintaining cultural and family ties to Central Asia and the post-Soviet world.

There are estimated to be around 500,000 Koryo-Saram worldwide, with growing populations in South Korea and the United States. The community’s journey is one of displacement, resilience and cultural adaptation: from early migration to the Russian Far East, through forced deportation to Central Asia, and later to the rebuilding of lives in South Korea, America and elsewhere.

Much has been written about Koryo-Saram communities in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, but far less about those living in the United States. What distinguishes the American experience, and how has the community evolved there?

The Koryo-Saram population in the United States is extremely diverse. Some people came directly from post-Soviet countries. Others were born in South Korea or another country and later moved to America for education, employment or family reunification.

Even Koryo-Saram living in the United States are not always aware of the full diversity of the community here.

Unlike the Soviet deportations, migration to the United States is generally voluntary. This allows Koryo-Saram to integrate into American society under completely different circumstances.

In my own case, I entered the American diplomatic and policy world relatively easily as the spouse of a former US diplomat. Other people make different choices. Some surround themselves primarily with Americans. Others remain within Russian-speaking social circles. Some identify strongly as Korean American and build their networks among ethnic Koreans.

Read more on Novastan: Qu’est-ce qu’être un Coréen au Kazakhstan aujourd’hui ?

One characteristic that many Koryo-Saram communities share is a tendency towards insularity. I believe this is partly a legacy of our complicated history and the experience of living for generations as a distrusted or misunderstood minority.

At the same time, many families successfully preserve Koryo-Saram traditions. These include hansik, Korean food culture, hwangap, the traditional celebration of a person’s sixtieth birthday, family rituals and distinctive forms of Koryo-Saram cuisine.

In the United States, Koryo-Saram may identify simultaneously with the broader Korean diaspora and with Russian-speaking immigrant communities. This creates opportunities for networking and cultural exchange, but it also means navigating several identities, languages and national backgrounds.

The American Koryo-Saram experience is shaped by voluntary migration, economic opportunity and comparatively successful integration into US society. It shares historical roots with Central Asia but is also influenced by post-Cold War migration and the blending of Korean heritage with American life.

I hope that, as Korean Americans, we will become a more confident, outward-facing and globally connected diaspora.

What are the main objectives of Koryo Saram Koreans in America? What kinds of activities do you organise, and what needs within the community are you hoping to address?

At present, my main priority is raising awareness and increasing the visibility of the Koryo-Saram community. This work is vital, and it requires thinking beyond one’s own experience in order to advocate for people who often remain unseen.

I believe that South Korea, the United States and wider society all benefit from greater cross-cultural understanding and from recognising the diversity that exists within the Korean diaspora.

Read more on Novastan: The Lexicon of Kazakh Decolonisation

The needs within the Koryo-Saram community are broad and can be difficult to address.

Many people face cultural barriers when asking for help. Some find it extremely difficult to admit that they are low-income or vulnerable. They may come from backgrounds in which revealing weakness historically invited exploitation rather than support.

One of my goals is to bridge that gap and help create an environment in which people feel safer asking for assistance.

I take great pride in fostering cross-cultural understanding through grassroots advocacy.

On Samiljeol, Korea’s March First Independence Movement Day, in 2025, I became the first Koryo-Saram in America to participate in a joint commemoration with Korean Americans in the state of Florida. I built on that milestone by taking part in a larger Korean-American commemoration in Georgia in 2026.

In autumn 2025, I represented South Korea at FusionFest in Orlando, one of Florida’s largest multicultural festivals. I organized a cultural display featuring reproductions of national treasures from the National Museum of Korea, traditional hanbok, heritage skincare and other elements of Korean culture.

I also modelled a traditional hanbok during the FusionFest fashion show, accompanied by music from KPop Demon Hunters. In addition, I have carried the South Korean flag at several major cultural events in Florida.

Alongside grassroots events, I invest in leadership and institutional engagement by participating in major Korean-American and US policy forums. I attend these events at my own expense because I believe that the Koryo-Saram diaspora needs a visible voice in such spaces.

I have attended the Van Fleet Policy Forum, the flagship policy event of The Korea Society.

I have also participated in the Council of Korean Americans’ annual Envision Gala and Summit, the Federation of Korean Associations US’s national leadership convention for presidents of Korean associations, and the World Korean Business Convention in Duluth, Georgia.

Ultimately, I believe that South Korea, the United States and the Koryo-Saram community all benefit from mutual collaboration, deeper cultural understanding and a shared appreciation of our Korean heritage.

Many Koryo-Saram families remain connected across Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, South Korea, Russia and beyond. How transnational is the community today, and what kinds of links exist between these different diasporas?

The Koryo-Saram diaspora is deeply transnational. Strong family, cultural and economic ties connect communities across Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Russia, South Korea and other countries.

As I mentioned earlier, the Koryo-Saram were never collectively repatriated. For that reason, they can now be found across the world.

Koryo-Saram in America often have relatives working or living in South Korea, Central Asia, Russia or Europe. This creates expanded social networks and a broader sense of identity and belonging, but it also produces challenges.

These include identity tension, legal and political complexity, social isolation and the practical difficulty of maintaining family life across borders.

Our history spans more than a century of migration, repression and cultural survival. As a result, Koryo-Saram identity is often a living negotiation between contrasting political, social and cultural frameworks.

One example concerns children born and raised in South Korea to parents who are not South Korean citizens. In many cases, those children do not automatically acquire South Korean citizenship. They may later be required to return to Russia or Central Asia, where they face additional questions about identity, belonging and integration.

I am not afraid to enter uncomfortable rooms or spaces, because that is often where change must be made.

It is not uncommon for people to ask whether the Koryo-Saram are “communists”. This is insulting, but such questions usually reflect genuine ignorance rather than deliberate hostility.

The diaspora lived for decades under the Soviet label of an “unreliable people” after the 1937 deportation. After surviving that history and eventually reaching the United States, the last thing many people want is to prove repeatedly that they should not be distrusted because of where they come from.

This is one reason why many Koryo-Saram do not identify publicly as Koryo-Saram. It can be exhausting to remain permanently on the defensive.

Being part of a transnational diaspora offers cultural richness, economic opportunity and global connections. But it also brings identity challenges, risks of cultural loss and substantial emotional and logistical demands.

Success often depends on how well individuals and families manage these multiple worlds, using technology and community networks to sustain connections without becoming overwhelmed by distance or isolation.

You are also active in organisations such as the Council of Korean Americans and The Korea Society. How has this broader engagement shaped your work, and do you think awareness of the Koryo-Saram experience is growing within Korean-American and US policy circles?

I see myself as trailblazing by becoming the first Koryo-Saram American to join both the Council of Korean Americans and The Korea Society.

These are among the most prominent Korean-American organisations in the United States.

Because I have an American MBA and practical experience of foreign-service life, I am able to engage with policy, academic and business environments. I understand the language used in those circles and can find a sense of belonging there.

This is a significant step forward. Awareness of the Koryo-Saram experience is gradually growing, but much more work remains to be done.

Korean-American organisations are increasingly aware that the Korean diaspora is not limited to migration directly from the Korean Peninsula. It also includes communities shaped by life in China, Japan, Central Asia, Russia and other parts of the world.

The Koryo-Saram experience adds an important dimension to that wider history. It shows how Korean identity survived and changed under Russian imperial rule, Soviet repression, Central Asian integration and post-Soviet migration.

Uzbekistan has qualified for its first FIFA World Cup, and Central Asia is receiving increasing international attention. Do you think this growing visibility is also creating greater interest in the region’s Korean communities, or do the Koryo-Saram remain largely overlooked?

Uzbekistan’s World Cup qualification has undoubtedly increased Central Asia’s international profile. However, its effect on the visibility of the Koryo-Saram is likely to remain indirect and relatively limited.

The community is still underrepresented in Western media. Without deliberate cultural, journalistic or diplomatic outreach, Koryo-Saram history can easily remain overlooked, even as international interest in Central Asia increases.

Nevertheless, any positive attention given to Central Asia helps us in the broader sense. When more people become curious about Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan and the wider region, there is a greater opportunity to introduce them to the communities that have contributed to its social and cultural development.

Read more on Novastan: Uzbekistan at the World Cup: The White Wolves Enter the Global Stage

Several internationally known figures have Koryo-Saram heritage or partial Koryo-Saram ancestry.

They include Lomon, also known as Park Solomon, the Uzbekistan-born South Korean actor; Nellie Kim, the Olympic gymnastics champion; and Gennadiy Golovkin, the world boxing champion.

Figures such as these undoubtedly contribute to the visibility of the diaspora. Yet the wider history of the Koryo-Saram remains much less well known than their individual achievements.

How are younger generations engaging with their multiple identities – Korean, Central Asian, Russian-speaking and American? Are there particular challenges in preserving language, culture and historical memory?

America seems to me to be an ideal place in which to preserve culture.

Because many of our organisation’s activities revolve around culture and heritage, I have met Korean Americans who immigrated to the United States more than 40 years ago. This includes both Koreans from the Korean Peninsula and Koryo-Saram Koreans.

Some have preserved as “heritage” cultural practices and social norms that are no longer common in contemporary South Korea or in post-Soviet countries. Diaspora communities sometimes preserve a version of culture that reflects the period in which people emigrated.

I did not grow up in the Soviet Union, and I always felt that I had a strong sense of American individualism. I was never afraid to be different, even though I grew up without Americans around me.

Ironically, it was in America that I encountered what I considered a Soviet mentality most clearly. That experience helped me recognize how different I was from what I understood as a stereotypically Soviet mentality.

In a similar way, one may encounter patriarchal South Korean social norms in some Korean-American communities even when those norms no longer exist in exactly the same form in contemporary South Korea.

There is no single model for younger Koryo-Saram.

Some are not merely preserving their multiple identities. They are reinventing them in ways that reflect both their heritage and the globalised world in which they live.

Others in the United States currently show little interest in their background or in what their ancestors experienced. It can be very comfortable to become a fully integrated American.

Many Koryo-Saram already possess a global outlook and have relatively little difficulty integrating into American society.

At the same time, I believe the community carries shared generational trauma. When you work with Koryo-Saram for long enough, you may notice certain behavioural patterns even among people who do not speak Russian or who do not publicly identify as Koryo-Saram.

Language loss remains one of the greatest challenges. Many younger people no longer speak Koryo-mar or Korean. Some do not speak Russian either. In such cases, identity is transmitted through food, family stories, names, photographs, celebrations and memories rather than language.

Historical memory can also become fragmented. A young person may know that a grandparent was deported but may not know the details. Another may know the family’s migration route but feel little emotional connection to it.

Preservation therefore requires more than nostalgia. It requires education, documentation, community spaces and opportunities for younger generations to interpret the history in their own way.

Looking ahead, what projects are you currently working on, and where do you see the greatest opportunities for cooperation between Koryo-Saram communities in the United States, Central Asia and South Korea?

We are preparing to participate in a Korea Liberation Day event, and I hope we will make history by participating for the first time in the upcoming Council of Korean Americans Summit in Los Angeles.

Koryo-Saram communities in the United States, Central Asia and South Korea share a common heritage. They can build on this to develop cultural, economic and educational cooperation.

Cultural preservation and exchange

Koryo-Saram communities in Kazakhstan and South Korea have worked for years to revive Korean traditions, language and cuisine.

In the United States, where the Koryo-Saram population is growing, there is also increasing interest in Korean heritage.

Cooperation could include joint cultural festivals and language-immersion programmes connecting communities in America, Central Asia and South Korea.

Youth-led initiatives in Kazakhstan, including Korean Sunday schools, could inspire similar programmes in the United States and South Korea. Such initiatives would help younger generations build a stronger sense of identity and shared history.

Economic and business cooperation

Projects such as K-Park in Alatau City, Kazakhstan, demonstrate how Koryo-Saram entrepreneurs can strengthen economic links between Kazakhstan and South Korea.

Koryo-Saram in the United States could act as an additional bridge, connecting Central Asian and South Korean businesses with American markets.

Promising sectors include Korean culture, Korean food, technology and creative industries.

Cooperation could take the form of co-branded products, joint ventures, professional networks and investment platforms linking the three regions.

Education and research

Koryo-Saram descendants in the United States, Central Asia and South Korea possess increasingly strong academic and professional networks.

Cooperation could include joint research on Korean history, diaspora studies, migration and cultural adaptation, as well as student and scholar exchanges.

Universities in South Korea, Central Asia and US cities with significant Korean populations, including New York and Los Angeles, could establish partnerships focused on heritage, language and diaspora studies.

There is still a great deal of Koryo-Saram history that remains insufficiently documented, especially at the family and community levels.

Tourism and heritage tourism

K-Park in Kazakhstan is intended to serve as both a cultural landmark and an economic hub.

Similar initiatives could be developed in the United States and South Korea. Heritage tourism routes could connect significant Koryo-Saram locations and communities across several countries.

Visitors could learn about Korean culture as it developed in the Russian Far East, Central Asia, South Korea and the United States.

Such projects could contribute to cultural diplomacy and deepen mutual understanding.

Policy and diaspora engagement

Given the strong diplomatic ties between South Korea and the Central Asian states, Koryo-Saram communities could advocate for policy frameworks that support diaspora engagement.

This could include cultural grants, support for research and education, diaspora investment incentives, easier routes to legal status or naturalisation and greater recognition of Koryo-Saram heritage in national historical narratives.

The greatest opportunities lie in cultural revitalisation, cross-border business networks, educational partnerships, heritage tourism and policy advocacy.

By pooling resources and networks across the United States, Central Asia and South Korea, Koryo-Saram communities can strengthen their shared identity while contributing to sustainable cultural and economic development.

Finally, if there is one message you would like Novastan’s readers to take away about the Koryo-Saram experience, what would it be?

The Koryo-Saram story is not simply a footnote in Korean history.

It is a living testament to resilience, cultural endurance and the quiet power of identity in the face of displacement and erasure.

For more than a century, the Koryo-Saram have navigated migration, forced deportation, language loss and assimilation. Yet they preserved elements of Korean culture through food, theatre, newspapers, music, family celebrations and community gatherings.

Our journey demonstrates that identity is not static. It evolves, adapts and endures.

History is not preserved only in official documents. It also survives through everyday acts of remembrance: cooking morkovcha, preparing family dishes, maintaining traditions, telling children about their grandparents or performing traditional dances at family celebrations.

The Koryo-Saram story is one of endurance with dignity, adaptation with pride and the belief that heritage can remain alive even when the ancestral homeland is far away.

It is also a call to recognise and honour such histories, not as isolated curiosities, but as vital threads in the global story of human resilience.

Interview conducted and edited by Mathieu Lemoine.

Photographs courtesy of Hana Sexton.

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

The post From Central Asia to America: The Koryo-Saram Diaspora Finds a New Voice appeared first on Novastan English.

In Tashkent’s Seoul Garden, a train marked “1937” runs across the background of a bronze memorial. In the foreground, a Korean family arrives with children and bundles. An Uzbek elder extends a hand of welcome.

The monument, erected for the 80th anniversary of the resettlement of Koreans to Uzbekistan, carries inscriptions in Uzbek, Korean and Russian. It thanks the Uzbek people for their warmth and kindness toward the Korean diaspora. The scene compresses the Koryo-Saram story into a single image: forced movement, uncertainty, survival and the later memory of Central Asia as both a place of exile and a place of refuge.

Read more on Novastan: « Nous sommes plus Russes que Coréens » : biographie d’une Coréenne au Kazakhstan

The Koryo-Saram are often described as the Korean diaspora of Central Asia. The phrase is accurate, but incomplete. Their history begins in Korea, passes through the Russian Far East, is violently reshaped by Stalinist deportation, and continues in the cities, collective farms, theaters, newspapers, kitchens and families of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.

For many Koryo-Saram, Central Asia is not only the place to which their ancestors were sent. It has become home.

From Korea to the Russian Far East

The ancestors of the Koryo-Saram began moving from Korea to the Russian Empire in the second half of the 19th century. Some were fleeing poverty, famine or social instability. Others crossed into the Russian Far East in search of land and security. Later, Japanese colonial domination of Korea added another layer to this movement.

In the Russian Far East, Korean communities took root. They farmed, built villages, created schools and organized cultural life. After the 1917 revolution, they became part of the Soviet Union’s complex nationality system, developing a distinct Soviet Korean identity.

The name Koryo-Saram can be roughly understood as “Korean people,” with “Koryo” referring to an older name associated with Korea. By the 1930s, Soviet Koreans had become a visible community in the Far East. But their position near the border with Korea and Manchuria, at a time of growing tension with imperial Japan, made them vulnerable to suspicion. Soviet authorities increasingly viewed them through a security lens, despite the fact that most had no connection to Japanese power.

In 1937, that suspicion became mass punishment.

The train to Central Asia

In the autumn of 1937, Soviet Koreans were forcibly deported from the Russian Far East to Central Asia. Around 172,000 people were moved, mainly to Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Families were loaded onto trains and sent thousands of kilometers away from the region where many had lived for generations.

The deportation was not an orderly transfer of population. For those who lived through it, it began not with policy language, but with a knock at the door. Families were told to gather what they could carry and leave. Most had no clear idea where the trains were going.

The journey across the Soviet Union could last weeks, in crowded wagons where people slept, cooked and relieved themselves in the same confined space. Children, elderly people and the sick were the first to die. Others arrived in Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan weakened by hunger, cold and disease, only to be placed in barracks, warehouses or unfinished settlements.

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In official documents, this was “resettlement.” In family memory, it was something else: the moment an entire people was torn from one landscape and forced to begin again in another.

The deportation of the Koreans was one of the earliest Soviet deportations of an entire ethnic group. It prefigured later mass deportations of Chechens, Crimean Tatars, Ingush, Volga Germans and others under Stalin. But unlike some of those cases, the Korean deportation remains less widely known outside specialist circles.

The official justification was security. In practice, it meant the removal of an entire population from a borderland because of their ethnicity and because of the geopolitical anxieties of the Soviet state.

Yet the deportation did not erase them. In Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, the Koryo-Saram rebuilt.

Survival in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan

Central Asia was not an empty stage on which the Koryo-Saram simply appeared. It was already a complex region of Kazakh, Uzbek, Tajik, Kyrgyz, Turkmen, Russian, Tatar, Ukrainian, Jewish, German and other communities. The arrival of deported Koreans added another layer to the Soviet remaking of the region.

Koryo-Saram families adapted quickly, often under harsh conditions. Many became associated with agriculture, including rice cultivation and vegetable production. Korean collective farms became known in parts of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Over time, Koryo-Saram also entered education, science, engineering, medicine, administration, culture and trade.

Their integration was shaped by Soviet structures. Russian became the main language of public life and, increasingly, of many Korean families. Soviet education opened pathways into professional careers. At the same time, the trauma of deportation and the pressure of assimilation weakened the transmission of Korean language and customs.

The result was not simple disappearance. Instead, a new identity emerged: Korean by ancestry, Soviet by experience, Russian-speaking in daily life, and Central Asian by geography, memory and belonging.

This hybridity is central to the Koryo-Saram story. They did not remain a sealed diaspora, separate from the societies around them. Nor did they fully dissolve into the Soviet majority. They became one of the many communities through which Central Asia’s multiethnic reality was lived.

A culture of adaptation

The most visible traces of Koryo-Saram culture are often everyday ones: food, family names, markets, holiday tables, memories of grandparents, and stories told about deportation.

Food is especially important because it shows how identity can survive through adaptation. In the Russian Far East, Korean cuisine had already been shaped by migration. In Central Asia, ingredients and conditions changed again. Dishes were adjusted to what was available.

The most famous example is morkovcha, the carrot salad now known across the former Soviet Union as “Korean carrot.” Made with carrots, garlic, coriander, vinegar and oil, it is not traditional Korean food in the narrow sense. It is a Soviet Korean invention, born from displacement and improvisation. Like the Koryo-Saram themselves, it belongs to more than one world.

Other dishes, such as kuksi and pigodi, also carry family memories. Yet for many younger Koryo-Saram, food may be one of the few remaining links to an older cultural world. A person may no longer speak Korean or Koryo-mar, but still recognize certain dishes as part of home.

This partial inheritance can be intimate and painful. It reminds younger generations that something was preserved, but also that much was broken by deportation, Soviet assimilation and decades of linguistic change.

Language, memory and silence

Language is one of the most sensitive parts of the Koryo-Saram story. Older generations preserved varieties of Korean, often referred to as Koryo-mar. But over the Soviet decades, Russian became dominant for many families. In Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, younger Koryo-Saram often grew up speaking Russian as their first language, while also navigating Kazakh, Uzbek or other local languages depending on their environment.

For some, this language shift is experienced as loss. For others, it is simply part of the reality of being Koryo-Saram. Identity is not always carried through fluent language. It may be carried through food, surnames, family stories, photographs, rituals, or the memory of an old village in the Russian Far East that descendants have never seen.

The Soviet period also shaped what could be said publicly. Like many deported peoples, Koryo-Saram families often lived with memories that were painful, fragmented or only partly transmitted. Grandparents might speak of the train journey, the first winters, the hunger, or the difficulty of beginning again. But the political meaning of deportation could remain difficult to discuss openly.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, it became easier to revisit these histories. Yet memory remains uneven. Some younger Koryo-Saram know the story of 1937 in detail. Others know only fragments. Some feel a strong desire to reconnect with Korean language and culture. Others feel that their identity is primarily Central Asian or post-Soviet.

This is not a contradiction. It is the normal result of a history marked by migration, coercion and adaptation.

For younger Koryo-Saram, reconnecting with Korean roots is often a search through fragments. In many families, the language has faded. What remains may be a surname, old photographs, a family story about deportation, or a few dishes prepared at home.

This makes contemporary reconnection with Korea both meaningful and complicated. South Korea may represent ancestry, opportunity and cultural pride, but also distance. The Korean Wave, language classes or migration to Seoul do not simply restore a lost identity. They reveal how much that identity was transformed in Central Asia.

For many Koryo-Saram, the question is not whether they are Korean or Central Asian, but how to live with an inheritance made of both memory and absence.

Institutions of memory

Koryo-Saram culture was never only domestic. Institutions mattered too.

One of the most important is the Korean Theater of Kazakhstan. Founded in Vladivostok in 1932, it was relocated after the deportation and eventually became a major cultural institution in Kazakhstan. Its survival tells a larger story: a community uprooted by force continued to produce art, performance and collective memory in a new land.

The newspaper Koryo Ilbo also became a key institution for Soviet Koreans in Kazakhstan. Together with theaters, associations and cultural circles, it helped maintain a public Koryo-Saram identity even as language use shifted and generations became increasingly Russian-speaking.

These institutions complicate any simplistic narrative of loss. Deportation was devastating, but it also generated new forms of cultural production. Koryo-Saram identity did not remain frozen in the past. It was remade in Almaty, Tashkent, Kyzylorda and other Central Asian spaces.

The Koryo-Saram story also reaches far beyond the communities usually associated with Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan. Viktor Tsoi, the legendary frontman of Kino and one of the defining voices of late Soviet rock, had Koryo-Saram roots through his father, whose family came from Kyzylorda in Kazakhstan after the 1937 deportation. Tsoi himself was born in Leningrad, and his public image was shaped above all by the Soviet rock scene of the 1980s. Yet his family history also linked him to the deported Korean communities of Central Asia.

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Others left their mark in sport, art, scholarship and popular culture: Olympic gymnast Nellie Kim, historian German Kim, playwright and filmmaker Lavrenti Son, designer Jenia Kim, singer Anita Tsoy and Uzbekistani painter Nikolai Shin all point, in different ways, to the breadth of Soviet Korean experience.

Their lives show that the Koryo-Saram story is not only one of victimhood or preservation, but also of cultural production, mobility and influence across the post-Soviet world.

Tashkent’s Korean traces

In Uzbekistan, the Koryo-Saram story is not only preserved in official histories or family memories. It also appears in the quieter figures of urban life.

In 2023, our media partner Gazeta.uz profiled Yuri Kim, a second-hand bookseller in Tashkent known to customers and fellow sellers as “Uncle Yura.” The article presented him as a guardian of printed heritage, the owner of a large book collection and a familiar presence in the city’s book culture.

His story offers another way of seeing the Koryo-Saram place in Uzbekistan. Beyond the collective farms, deportation records and demographic categories, there are individual lives woven into the everyday fabric of Tashkent: booksellers, teachers, engineers, doctors, artists and neighbors. Through figures like Kim, the history of a deported community becomes part of the city’s cultural memory.

That memory is also visible in Seoul Garden. Its gate, pavilion, bell and memorial create a deliberately Korean space in the Uzbek capital. Yet the story they tell is not simply one of return to Korean tradition. It is a story of transplantation, rupture and reconstruction.

The memorial’s inscription thanking the Uzbek people reflects a common way in which the history is remembered in Uzbekistan: the deportation itself was a Soviet act of violence, but the local population is remembered as having helped the deportees survive and rebuild.

This narrative of gratitude should not obscure the brutality of 1937. But it helps explain why many Koryo-Saram families came to see Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan not only as places of exile, but also as places where life became possible again.

After 1991: new borders, old identities

The end of the Soviet Union changed the Koryo-Saram world again. Communities that had once lived within a single Soviet space suddenly found themselves divided between Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Russia, Ukraine and other newly independent states. New national languages, citizenship regimes and economic realities reshaped daily life.

For some Koryo-Saram, the post-Soviet period brought emigration. Russia, South Korea, Europe and North America became destinations. South Korea, in particular, acquired new importance. It was no longer only an ancestral reference point, but also a place of study, work, migration and cultural imagination.

Yet the relationship with South Korea can be complicated. Koryo-Saram may be ethnically Korean, but many do not speak standard Korean. Their food, history and family memories were shaped in the Soviet Union and Central Asia, not on the Korean Peninsula. In South Korea, some discover that they are seen as foreigners despite their Korean ancestry.

This creates one of the central paradoxes of Koryo-Saram identity: the ancestral homeland can feel foreign, while Central Asia, the land of deportation, can feel like home.

The global popularity of Korean culture has added another layer. K-pop, Korean dramas and South Korean soft power have made Korea more visible among young people across Central Asia. But Koryo-Saram history is not the same as the Korean Wave. It is older, more painful and more deeply embedded in the Soviet and Central Asian past.

For younger Koryo-Saram, this can produce a complex self-understanding. They may be proud of Korean ancestry, attached to Kazakhstan or Uzbekistan, Russian-speaking in daily life, curious about Seoul, and conscious of a deportation history that does not fit neatly into national narratives.

From deportation to partnership

Today’s relationship between South Korea and Central Asia is visible far beyond monuments. Korean universities recruit students from Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan. Korean dramas and pop culture circulate widely. South Korean companies are present in energy, automobiles, technology and infrastructure. In Tashkent, even a sign for KOGAS, the Korea Gas Corporation, outside Seoul Garden hints at a larger transformation.

In 1937, Koreans arrived in Central Asia in forced trains, uncertain whether they would survive the journey. Nearly 90 years later, South Korea has become one of Uzbekistan’s important Asian partners. Between those two moments lies the story of the Koryo-Saram: a community transformed from victims of forced displacement into an integral part of Central Asian society and, increasingly, a bridge between two regions that history once separated.

This bridge should not be romanticized. The Koryo-Saram are not simply intermediaries between Seoul and Tashkent, or between Korean capital and Central Asian markets. They are a community with their own history, losses and forms of belonging. Their experience cannot be reduced to diplomacy, business or soft power.

But their story does reveal something important about Central Asia itself.

The region is too often described through empires, borders, energy routes or great power competition. It is also a region made by movement: voluntary migration, forced deportation, labor mobility, exile and return.

Koryo-Saram history belongs to this larger story. It reminds us that Central Asia was not only the homeland of Turkic and Persian-speaking peoples, nor only the destination of Russian settlers. It was also a place where deported communities were forced to rebuild their lives, sometimes under terrible conditions, and where new forms of belonging emerged over time.

In Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, the Koryo-Saram are not simply a remnant of Soviet nationality policy. They are part of the social and cultural fabric of the region. Their story can be found in theaters, newspapers, apartment blocks, family kitchens, markets and cemeteries. It is present in the popularity of Korean salads, but also in quieter memories of trains, collective farms and grandparents who started again in a land they had not chosen.

To call Central Asia home after deportation is not to erase the violence of 1937. It is to recognize the strength of those who survived it, and the generations who turned exile into belonging.

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

The post How Central Asia became home for the Koryo-Saram appeared first on Novastan English.