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.

Read more on Novastan: Qu’est-ce qu’être un Coréen au Kazakhstan aujourd’hui ?

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.

Read more on Novastan: « Igla » : plongée dans le Kazakhstan sombre de la perestroïka avec le mythique Viktor Tsoï

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Divorce rarely begins with leaving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family as the interpreter of what is right

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words that stay after

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From city to region: different experiences of visibility

Participants consistently distinguished between urban and rural experiences.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A society between two models of marriage

Many participants compared their experiences with those of previous generations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every year on June 1st, Kazakhstan celebrates International Children’s Day. In many cities, it is marked with concerts, theater performances, and free activities for children. For families, it is a day of celebration. At the same time, a broader question arises: What does it mean to protect a child today? Is it simply about ensuring safety, education, and health, or also about taking their feelings, boundaries, and their own voice seriously?

Anyone who talks about parenting in Kazakhstan quickly encounters contradictions. Children often grow up in a strong family network, surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, and older siblings. At the same time, they are under immense pressure to succeed in school, to be multilingual, to be independent, and to thrive in a globalized world. Alongside the traditional notions of obedience and respect, a new language is gradually emerging: that of emotional closeness, personal boundaries, and dialogue.

Parenting in Kazakhstan thus exists at the crossroads of several worlds: the Kazakh extended family, Soviet-influenced educational ideals, urban performance pressures, global anxieties about the future, and a growing psychological sensitivity towards children.

Experts note that in Kazakhstan, love for children is not changing. What is changing is the language of that love. Previously, care was primarily expressed through actions – feeding, clothing, and educating a child, perhaps later helping them find housing. Today, another question is increasingly being added: What does the child themselves feel?

Family as a sanctuary – and as a source of pressure

One of the most enduring characteristics of Kazakh parenting is the significant role of the extended family. A child often grows up not only with their mother and father, but amidst a wide circle of relatives. Sometimes this includes neighbors, family friends, or people from the neighborhood.

Anar Kakimova, mother of four, founder of the parenting community “Parentsclub” and the children’s club “Readkids,” describes such a family as a “holistic organism.” In this model, a child learns early on that they are supported not just by one adult, but by an entire network. In Kazakh society, she says, many feel that they are not alone in this world. Ayana Tokeyeva, a psychologist, lecturer, and mother of three with 15 years of experience in school and preschool education, sees a key strength of Kazakh upbringing in the continuity between generations. Values ​​are conveyed less through direct instruction than through example, atmosphere, and relationships between generations.

The saying that it takes a village to raise a child therefore sounds almost literal in the Kazakh context. But Maiya Li, an art therapist and psychological counselor with international experience, points to a change: In the cities, this “village” no longer always exists in its former form. Young families often live far away from grandparents, one parent works long hours, and mothers are often left to care for small children largely on their own.

However, the extended family also has another side. It can provide support, but it can also exert pressure. Children grow up in a dense web of expectations: how they should behave, whom they should respect, how they should learn, what profession they should choose, what constitutes a “good son” or a “good daughter.”

Tradition and Modern Psychology

In Kazakh culture, there is a well-known principle: Until the age of five, a child is considered a khan; from five to fifteen, they are educated; and from fifteen onward, they are to be respected like an adult. Ayana Tokeyeva sees in this not only tradition but also a connection to modern psychology. In the first years of life, a child primarily needs love, acceptance, gentleness, and emotional security. From this, a fundamental trust in the world develops.

This idea shows that a gentle approach to children is not simply a Western import. Kazakh educational concepts have long included the idea that young children need protection, closeness, and acceptance. Only later are they gradually introduced to responsibility and independence.

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Gender roles are also being renegotiated. While boys were traditionally seen more as future pillars of the family and girls as guardians of warmth and security, younger parents today are more frequently asking how caregiving can be combined with education, career choices, and self-realization. Maiya Li points out that in some families, the expectation persists that a girl’s primary life path must lead primarily through marriage and motherhood. This issue is sensitive for Kazakhstan: The country is modernizing, women are gaining more educational and career opportunities, but traditional views remain.

From Obedience to Dialogue

For a long time, parental care in Kazakhstan was primarily practical. Parents invested in their children’s education, helped with their studies, provided financial support, and often remained heavily involved even into their children’s adult lives. Love was expressed less through words than through responsibility.

However, according to Anar Kakimova’s observations, communication with children in many families still revolves heavily around daily life and school: Is the homework done? Has the child eaten? Why did they get that grade? What assignments were given? Parents do a lot for their children, but they don’t always know what’s going on inside them: what they’re afraid of, what they like, what they dream about, what’s troubling them.

During her time in the United States, Kakimova noticed how naturally many parents there talk to their children about feelings, experiences, and wishes – and how visibly fathers are involved in everyday life. In Kazakhstan, the role of fathers is also being discussed more openly, but the daily responsibility for school, food, clothing, leisure activities, and the emotional atmosphere often still rests with mothers.

Maiya Li describes this shift with the term “conscious parenting,” often called “gentle parenting” in English-speaking countries. According to her, more and more parents in Kazakhstan are moving away from a strictly authoritarian model in which an adult’s word is never questioned. This isn’t about making the child the center of the family. Parents still establish boundaries. But they try to be more considerate of the child’s needs, feelings, and age, and to explain rules instead of simply demanding obedience.

This change isn’t uniform. In some families, physical punishment, psychological pressure, or discipline through fear remain part of everyday life. At the same time, Ayana Tokeyeva observes a change: parents are more aware of the consequences of pressure and are seeking help from child psychologists more often – especially during periods of high academic pressure, before final exams, or when transitioning to new educational levels.

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A new parenting culture thus begins not with the child, but with the adult: with the willingness to question their own experiences, not to automatically repeat old patterns, and to communicate with children differently.

Education as a springboard for social mobility

In Kazakhstan’s major cities, especially Astana and Almaty, parenthood is increasingly linked to investments in education. English courses, private schools, enrichment centers, sports, music, programming, creative programs, international exams, and preparation for studying abroad are part of the new strategy for many families.

English is no longer just a school subject. It represents mobility, the future, and access to a wider world. Rufina Adeleva, a mother of two and a master’s student in education and psychology, connects this interest to globalization: The digital world has reduced distances, children are exposed to people and opportunities outside of Kazakhstan earlier, and foreign languages ​​broaden educational and life paths.

Maiya Li adds that multilingualism has become a key to competitiveness – not only internationally, but also domestically. Besides English, Chinese, Korean, and other languages, Kazakh is also gaining importance for families who envision their children’s future in Kazakhstan. Multilingualism is therefore not just a path abroad, but a key to participation within the country.

Ayana Tokeyeva emphasizes that education has long been considered a central value in Kazakhstan. What is new, however, is the anxiety with which parents now view it. Artificial intelligence, technological upheavals, and the disappearance of familiar professions intensify the worry that their child will not be able to keep up in the future. The desire to give them “the best” therefore stems not only from ambition, but also from fear.

Anar Kakimova’s experience as a mentor in the “iQanat” project [a social education project launched by Kazakh entrepreneurs to support rural schoolchildren, author’s note] shows how unequally these opportunities are distributed. For young people from rural areas, international exams, career guidance, or the possibility of studying abroad represent not only motivation, but also financial, organizational, and informational hurdles. For a child from the city, an English course might be part of the weekly schedule. For young people from rural areas, the same language can be a rare opportunity to leave the predetermined path.

When Pressure for the Future Displaces Childhood

The image of the successful child in Kazakhstan is still often clearly defined: good grades, a scholarship, a prestigious profession, a secure job, and later perhaps a car, an apartment, and social status. A child’s success is often seen as a reflection of parental success.

Today, this image is becoming even more demanding. According to Maiya Li’s observations, a modern, successful child is not only expected to excel in school. They attend several courses, learn foreign languages, play sports or music, participate in competitions, have long-term goals, consider studying abroad, are comfortable navigating the digital world, and simultaneously maintain respect for family, society, and country.

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The pressure thus rests not only on the children but also on the parents. Many parents want to do everything right and, in doing so, end up controlling too much. The central question of modern parenting is therefore: How do you give a child a future without robbing them of their childhood?

City and Countryside, Freedom and Supervision

The difference between city and country remains pronounced in Kazakhstan. In cities, parents can structure a child’s childhood very carefully: A child’s weekly schedule can be almost as full as an adult’s work calendar.

In rural areas, there are fewer such opportunities. Rufina Adeleva, who herself grew up in the countryside, describes the difference this way: In the city, the focus is often on intellectual and cultural development, while in the countryside, it’s more on work and everyday life skills.

Anar Kakimova also observes that young people from rural areas often have a better understanding of the value of money, time, and opportunities. They are more cautious, more modest, and more careful with their resources. At the same time, families in rural areas often lack access to information about scholarships, international programs, career counseling, and educational pathways.

Another distinctive feature is the early independence of many children. In Kazakhstan, it’s not uncommon for elementary school children to walk to school alone, play in the yard, go to small shops, or stay at home unsupervised for periods of time. For many families, this is considered normal: A child should become independent step by step. But the line between freedom and lack of supervision is thin.

Digital Media as a New Boundary in Parenting

Over the past 10 to 15 years, parenting in Kazakhstan has been transformed by digital media. Smartphones, social networks, online games, cyberbullying, and cybersecurity are now among the everyday concerns of families.

Ayana Tokeyeva confirms that many current inquiries from parents are related to digital media. Excessive screen time can be associated with restlessness, aggression, emotional withdrawal, tantrums, school refusal, or a general lack of energy. The devices themselves are not always the problem. Often, these issues also reflect family tensions, communication problems, difficulties with peers, or the child’s inner turmoil.

This highlights the central conflict: technologies are changing everyday life faster than families can adapt their parenting models.

A New Formula for Parenting

Modern parenting in Kazakhstan is neither entirely traditional nor simply Western. Perhaps this is precisely where the new formula for parenting in Kazakhstan lies: preserving the strength of the family without increasing its pressures; enabling children to receive an education without depriving them of their childhood; fostering independence without leaving them alone; and respecting traditions without ignoring the child’s voice.

Nurgul Adambayeva for Novastan

The post Between Extended Family and Personal Boundaries: How Parenting is Changing in Kazakhstan appeared first on Novastan English.

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

In Tajikistan’s patrilocal households, many young brides enter a world where obedience, unpaid labour and constant surveillance are expected. Through the stories of four women, this article explores how control by in-laws, economic dependence and social pressure can turn marriage into a system of domination that remains largely invisible in public discussions of domestic violence.

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In Tursunzade, 25-year-old Zarkhol Mustonova took her own life after reportedly facing psychological pressure from her mother-in-law. In Khatlon region, 27-year-old Sanat Ghafforova threw herself into a river with her two children after five years of abuse from her husband’s relatives. In Fayzabad, Manora Abdufattoh died from self-inflicted injuries, reportedly unable to endure “cruel treatment from her in-laws.”

In Tajikistan, such cases are rarely described as domestic violence. When the perpetrators are not husbands, but relatives, abuse is often explained away as “tradition” or as part of the “duty” of a kelin, a daughter-in-law. In this context, marriage binds a woman not only to her husband, but to his entire family.

“I never understood what my fault was”: A system of control

Surayo remembers the day after her wedding with painful clarity. She was asked to knead dough, a routine duty for any kelin. What felt unusual was not the work itself, but the attention.

Her mother-in-law, sister-in-law and several other relatives sat around her, carefully watching every move.

“They kept watching me the whole time,” Surayo recalls. “And I noticed them whispering to each other from the side.”

In Tajikistan, many households remain patrilocal: after marriage, the bride moves into her husband’s parental home. In this system, the kelin usually occupies the lowest position in the family hierarchy. She is expected to perform hizmat: cooking, cleaning and caring for her husband’s relatives. For a new bride, these tasks are not only chores. They become a probation period during which every movement is observed and every word noted.

Surayo lived in a large household. Her parents-in-law lived there, while her sister-in-law, who lived nearby, came over almost every day with her children. The house was rarely empty. By lunchtime, it was often filled with guests. Surayo cleaned up after them, washed the dishes and repeated the same routine with every new arrival.

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“I didn’t let my mother-in-law do anything around the house, and I always spoke to her respectfully,” she says. “I didn’t allow myself to do anything that might upset her or create tension.”

And yet her sister-in-law closely observed every detail and reported it. “She was like a second mother-in-law to me,” Surayo says.

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Surayo had almost no freedom. Every action required permission. “I didn’t do anything by myself. If I went somewhere, they would ask: ‘Where are you going? Why? With whom?’”

Even her job did not give her autonomy. Instead, it intensified the surveillance. In the mornings, she cleaned up after everyone. Only once everything had been done properly did she leave for work. Yet her job displeased the family.

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No one explicitly told her to stop working. The pressure came through constant remarks: “Oh, how late she came.” “Her children are waiting for her, and she is still coming home late.” “You could go early in the morning so you can come back earlier in the evening.”

Most of these comments came from her sister-in-law. “Just for not arriving home from work exactly at five, she would tell my father-in-law. He would tell my husband, and we would end up arguing again.”

Over time, even conflicts between Surayo and her husband stopped being private. During one argument, her mother-in-law called Surayo’s parents and told them: “These two don’t match at all.”

Surayo left and lived with her parents for three months. While there, she found out that she was pregnant. A few weeks later, the pregnancy stopped developing. She had a miscarriage.

“Maybe it was because of too much humiliation,” she says, remembering those days as some of the hardest of her life.

Later, her in-laws came back for her. Leaving her husband’s home only two months after the wedding was considered shameful. When she returned, no one believed she had had a miscarriage. Her sister-in-law asked: “Why didn’t you call me when you went?” as if forgetting that they had been the ones to call her parents to take her away.

There was no support, no compassion, only blame. Despite devoting herself entirely to her husband’s household, Surayo felt like an outsider. As her father-in-law once told her: “You’re the black sheep. A daughter-in-law will always be talked about.”

“You start to feel like a slave”: Economic dependence

“I almost forgot what I was like,” Fatima says with a hesitant laugh. She used to be carefree and restless, constantly in motion. She had never imagined that her life would be limited to the walls of one house. Yet after marriage, this is exactly what happened.

“I was domesticated,” she says plainly.

She did everything expected of her: cooking, cleaning and even washing her brother-in-law’s clothes. “Since he had no wife, I had to wash his clothes. I washed everything, even his socks,” Fatima recalls.

But housework was not considered enough. Money also mattered, and Fatima did not have enough of it.

She started working as a teacher, but her salary was extremely low. “I could only buy a pack of tea, nothing more.” Her low income became another source of conflict. “I was working, but it was as if no money was coming in.”

Since teachers worked part-time, Fatima sometimes had free time. But even that did not belong to her. “If I ever just sat down and rested, they would tear me apart.” If others were watching a film, she could only sit for a few minutes before being told to return to her chores.

Her mother-in-law had raised her children alone. Without a husband, she had worked, earned money and supported the family. This gave her an authority that everyone in the household accepted.

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“My mother raised us alone, so whatever she says, we do,” Fatima’s husband told her on the first day.

From the beginning, there was no equal relationship. Her mother-in-law expected more from her. “She wanted me to be more hardworking, but I was not hardworking enough for her. She wanted me to be wealthier, and somehow I was not to her liking.”

Power in the household did not belong only to the mother-in-law. “Her daughter was the main figure,” Fatima says. Her sister-in-law was educated and had medical training, but she did not work. “She stayed at home and did the housework. But from me, they expected money.”

The pressure came from all sides. The wife of her eldest brother-in-law, her mijad, also had a say in Fatima’s life. “In front of everyone, she would say: ‘You can’t give birth to a son. You don’t have a son.’”

Fatima had three daughters. That was enough for her mijad to criticise her constantly. “A real child is a son. A daughter will be beaten. She won’t be allowed to hold her head high.”

In Tajik society, a son is often seen as the continuation of the family line. He is expected to become the main breadwinner, stay in the family and care for his parents. A daughter is raised to leave for her husband’s home and devote herself to his family.

After giving birth to three daughters, Fatima was told not to have more children. “Stop having children. You always give birth to daughters.”

In patrilocal families, kelins often lose control over their own bodies. Infertility is treated as shameful, while the number and timing of children may be shaped by elders in the household. “The pressure was huge, and I was struggling,” Fatima says.

“They were jealous”: A husband’s attention as a problem

“I was 19 when I got married,” says Nargiz. She had just started college. She had her studies ahead of her, a career to build and a husband by her side. He was attentive and caring.

She moved into a large family. At first, Nargiz felt accepted. A week after the wedding, her mother-in-law asked her to cook for the family. “Let’s see if you can cook,” she said. Nargiz was only 19, and her mother-in-law did not expect much. But Nargiz cooked well. From that moment, the relationship between them slowly began to change.

For the first eight months, she did not visit her parents once. “They were against it,” she recalls. Her mother-in-law worked at the bazaar all day. At home, Nargiz was the only adult woman, and all the responsibilities fell on her: cooking, cleaning, day after day. She simply could not leave.

“They wanted me to stay at home all the time and do housework.”

Her studies became the next source of pressure. First, she was not allowed to attend classes. Then she was not allowed to take her exams. “Don’t go,” they told her. “Just give us your student record book, we’ll handle everything.” Nargiz obeyed. But no one handled anything. In the end, she was expelled.

Such restrictions are common in extended families in Tajikistan. Kelins are particularly vulnerable because they often find themselves in a position where they cannot make decisions for themselves. Education may be perceived as a threat, not necessarily because families oppose knowledge, but because an educated woman is more likely to want to work, be independent and question family expectations.

Official data for the 2023-2024 academic year shows that women account for only 41% of students in Tajikistani universities. In other words, for every 100 male students, there are about 69 female students. Behind these figures are stories like Nargiz’s: a young woman who wanted to study, and a family that decided it was unnecessary.

Things got worse when she became pregnant. Her husband became even more attentive. “It was as if they were jealous,” she says.

In extended households, the attention of the man, both son and husband, can become a source of competition. “There is a clash between two roles: being a good husband and being a good son,” says Rustam Samadov, a masculinity researcher. According to him, the family may fear that the son will distance himself by shifting his focus to his wife. This creates tension, and that tension can become a source of conflict.

Nargiz believes her mother-in-law’s interventions were deliberate. After Nargiz’s brother found her a job, she returned home from a job interview to find her husband unexpectedly there. Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain: out of nowhere, her husband began beating her.

“I am pregnant, don’t do this,” was all she could say.

He replied: “I don’t give a damn about it.”

Her mother-in-law heard everything, but did not intervene. “She was there,” Nargiz says. “I will leave this house. I won’t live here anymore,” she whispered in desperation. “His mother called him home from work. I have no idea what she told him.”

Eventually, Nargiz gave her husband an ultimatum: either they would move out and live separately, or she would divorce him. They began living apart, and her life changed. Her husband started supporting her. There were no constant remarks, and far fewer conflicts.

Her mother-in-law still tries to intervene and insists that “if a woman works, she will develop inappropriate habits.” But Nargiz no longer reacts. “I don’t listen to her anymore. I don’t live with them, and I don’t even talk to them.”

Shattered promises

Aziza got married in her second year of university. She was 20 years old. Before the wedding, her husband promised her two things: she would continue her studies, and they would live separately from his family.

She was in love, and she believed him. For the first month, everything was as he had promised. Then things began to change. Later, she discovered that he had been spending his time and money at a computer club. Aziza became worried. She could not bring herself to speak to him directly, so she decided to talk to her mother-in-law, hoping she would raise the issue with her son indirectly.

Instead, her mother-in-law repeated everything to him word for word. Without explanation, he took Aziza and drove her to his mother’s home.

“Since you’re complaining to my mom, then live with her,” he said. “You’re staying right here and not leaving the house without my permission.”

Aziza spent three days there without changing her clothes. She had no clothes with her. “I just smelled so bad,” she recalls. No one intervened. No one even paid attention. Her mother-in-law simply said: “Go take a shower, I will give you my clothes.”

Aziza lived with her husband, his grandmother, his mother, his uncle and his brother. Six people shared a tiny apartment. Aziza waited for her mother-in-law to return from work. She mopped the floors, cooked dinner and set the table so that everything would be ready when she arrived. But when her mother-in-law came home, she would take a rag and mop the floors again, muttering: “I come home tired, and this is how it is.”

Aziza asked her husband why. “My mom has her own ways,” was all he said.

The same happened with food. Aziza cooked and left the meal on the stove. No one touched it. They simply threw it away. But her mother-in-law would still say: “I come home from work exhausted, and no one even cooks for me.”

Aziza did not understand. No matter what she did, it was never enough.

Her husband left for Russia to work. The distance did not change anything. Even thousands of kilometres away, he found ways to control her every move. “When you go out, you will call me and ask for permission,” he would say. She could not even go to the shop without his approval.

Sometimes her mother-in-law encouraged her: “Go to the shop. How would he know?” Aziza would give in and go out. Every time, her husband would call and interrogate her. Somehow, he knew.

“She never interfered, but she turned out to be a real snake all along,” Aziza says. “She just watched and reported everything to her son.”

Month by month, things piled up. Eventually, her body gave in. “I had nervous breakdowns many times.” Then two cysts appeared in her left breast. They pressed on her heart and left arm. Her arm went numb. Aziza is left-handed, so she could not write or even cook.

She had a successful surgery and was discharged the same day. Days later, still with stitches, her husband demanded that she fly to Moscow. She could barely lift her hand. Her stitches had not yet been removed. She refused.

“I was fed up. The surgery hurt, but he just kept yelling and yelling.”

Her refusal made him furious. He called his mother. Soon, Aziza received a message from her mother-in-law: “Why do you always ruin my mood?” She did not ask how Aziza was feeling. Then came message after message:

“Once, at least say nice things to him. Congratulate him. Tell him everything is fine.”

“Can’t you find a way to your husband’s heart?”

“He’ll understand you if you explain it properly. Tell him calmly: ‘I can’t do anything right now, I can’t even lift my hand.’”

“If he calls, pick up the phone. Do not ignore him!”

Aziza lay there reading the messages, overwhelmed. She was recovering from surgery, while her mother-in-law was telling her to “find a way to her husband’s heart.”

Aziza left many times and returned many times. Each time, she convinced herself that things would be different. They were not. During another conflict, her brother-in-law discussed taking out a bank loan in her name. Aziza describes the atmosphere in the family as chaotic and unbearable.

Aziza fled. Her in-laws searched for her and pressured her to return. Eventually, she filed for divorce. Her husband did not appear in court. He went back to Russia.

“We don’t know, we didn’t see. When she went to get her things, she took those documents with her,” his mother said in court in his defence. She called Aziza ungrateful. “How could you do this to my son?” Then she added something she had never said openly before: “I never liked you from the very beginning.”

Not individual cruelty, but a system

These are not only the stories of four women. They are part of everyday reality for many kelins across Tajikistan. After marriage, a woman is expected to become a “well-domesticated bride”: obedient, self-sacrificing and unwilling to question the system. Any failure to comply with these norms may be perceived as a threat to family honour, a concept deeply shaped by patriarchy.

The mother-in-law in this system is not only a source of pressure. She is also a product of it. When she first enters her husband’s house, a bride often has no voice, no independence and no status. The only path to power lies through her sons, years of obedience and proving her worth through hard work.

This is why some mothers try to keep their sons loyal to them. It is a way to preserve the limited power they have gained. A daughter-in-law may be perceived as a threat to that bond. Controlling her becomes a way to maintain authority earned through years of oppression. Without necessarily realising it, the mother-in-law repeats the same patterns because they feel like the only available way to survive.

This is not simply a matter of individual cruelty. It is a structural problem. The oppression is not always intentional, but the result is real: the system gives women very limited routes to power and few alternatives.

Family psychologist and cognitive-behavioural therapist Qimatgul Davlatbekova explains it this way: “This behaviour is often not driven by bad intentions, but by deeply held beliefs about what is ‘right’, or by the idea that ‘this is how I was raised’. However, even without any intent to harm, it can still cause serious psychological trauma for the kelin.”

From early childhood, girls in Tajikistan are taught what a “good kelin” should be like. This creates an intergenerational cycle in which norms are not only imposed from the outside, but internalised by women themselves. According to surveys, 97% of men and 72% of women in Tajikistan believe that women should tolerate violence to preserve the family.

The consequences go far beyond discomfort. “Constant control and a lack of boundaries certainly lead to chronic stress. I would describe this as emotional burnout. In this state, self-esteem drops. Often, it eventually leads to depression and a strong sense of helplessness,” Qimatgul says.

In extreme cases, the pressure becomes fatal. According to data presented by the Committee on Women’s Affairs, 212 women took their own lives in 2025 alone. Among the main reasons cited were domestic violence by husbands and their relatives, depression, emotional distress, conflicts and social isolation.

Why women do not leave

Even when they know what is happening to them, many women stay. Around 70% of Tajikistan’s population lives in rural areas, where cultural attitudes and customs are often stricter. There, divorce is not seen as a purely personal decision. A woman who leaves her husband may be labelled benomus, or shameless.

According to the Demographic and Health Survey for 2023, only 16% of women in urban areas sought help. In rural areas, the figure was even lower: only 9%. Domestic violence remains taboo in Tajikistan, which is one reason many women choose not to tell anyone what is happening to them.

This system persists across Central Asia not because people are unwilling to change, but because specific conditions keep it in place: women’s economic dependence on their husband’s family, weak legal protection and victim-blaming. Women may be blamed simply for speaking openly about family problems, which reduces their willingness to seek help or leave a harmful environment.

Culture is not fixed. It changes when legal, economic and institutional conditions change. Until that happens more fully across the region, the gap between formal gender equality and the lived reality of kelins will continue to grow.

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Article by Kibriyo Qudratbekova, Journalism student at the American University of Central Asia (AUCA)

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

and Maya Ivanova, Contributor at Novastan

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

The post In Tajikistan, daughters-in-law face a hidden system of control appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has your artistic centre of gravity evolved over time?

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

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

What was your first formative contact with music?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is why I am sincerely happy to live here.

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

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

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

How do people perceive Uzbekistan?

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

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

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

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

What piece of advice would you give to young musicians?

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

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

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

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

Interview by Mathieu Lemoine,
Contributor for Novastan

Edited in French by Anaïs Boulard

Translated by Maya Ivanova

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interview.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What are the main profiles of victims?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How is regional cooperation evolving in Central Asia?

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

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

Which achievements are you most proud of?

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

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

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

Why are children afraid to speak out?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What kind of support is needed beyond the trial?

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

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

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

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

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After this prize, what are your priorities?

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

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

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

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

Emma Collet and Mathieu Lemoine,
Contributors for Novastan

Translated from French by Maya Ivanova

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

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

Faced with archaic social expectations, Tajik women are expressing their exhaustion through a new coded language on social media. Built around the phrase “I am Tajik”, many personal testimonies have circulated in recent years.

“I am a Tajik woman and I have an unbreakable strength of spirit that allows me to overcome all of life’s difficulties,” says Madina Nigmatova, who took part in the movement.

With the aim of deconstructing stereotypes deeply rooted in Tajik society, a growing number of women and girls across the country are regularly joining this movement, celebrating a strong image of women through traditional clothing and jewellery.

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Beyond imposed roles

Far from limiting themselves to the domestic roles traditionally imposed on women – cooking, cleaning and caring for the household – which some movements, such as “tradwives” in the United States, are now bringing back into fashion, Tajik women are using the digital sphere to give voice to feminist struggles. Madina Nigmatova, a social media marketing specialist and trainer, says that women not only have the right but also the duty to be visible, fulfilled in their careers, creative and fully active in the business world.

“We know our traditions, we respect them, we pass them on to future generations. But we want to live in our time, as educated and independent women. The modern Tajik woman has learned to combine several roles: taking part in competitions, pursuing any career, while also looking after her children and managing the home,” she says.

Also read on Novastan : Comment les migrants nourrissent le Tadjikistan

This movement is taking place in a context where women and married girls in Tajikistan have limited access to electronic devices and the internet, often because of family control. In households where men work abroad, for example, mothers may receive smartphones instead of wives, thereby limiting the latter’s digital autonomy.

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A subtle deconstruction of prejudice

In her version of “I am Tajik”, Madina Nigmatova draws attention to the widespread stereotype of the accomplished woman who, in Tajik society, is often perceived as a divorced woman.

Modern women easily combine family life, professional achievement and personal fulfilment: some make pastries, others create and run online businesses, while others work as makeup artists.

Also read on Novastan : Contrôle de l’habillement des femmes au Tadjikistan : entre tradition et répression

“When the videos were shared in different groups, many comments said that, to reflect the true image of the Tajik woman, they should have shown how to cook, sweep the yard or milk cows. The Tajik woman, the kelinka, is not limited to the role of servant. She is a full person who seeks fulfilment and balance between private life and career. I feel immense admiration for them,” says Madina Nigmatova.

A long-standing trend

This trend emerged last year, when several bloggers shared a joint video in which they said they were Tajik women and that this did not prevent them from “building a career”, “living separately from their parents”, “dressing as they wish”, “running a blog”, “not being married at 32”, “doing business”, or “creating a company”.

Also read on Novastan : Comment l’appareil judiciaire discrimine les femmes au Tadjikistan

The video sparked fierce controversy and a wave of hatred, particularly because the young women spoke in Russian while presenting themselves as Tajik. Yet the negative reactions did not manage to put an end to the trend. On the contrary, the more malicious comments multiplied, the more they increased the feeling of exhaustion with social injunctions. What women once kept silent out of shame, they now express more freely.

Multiple demands

“I am Tajik, I am 26 years old and I am postponing marriage because I am afraid of drastic changes in life; the institution of marriage frightens me because I have seen few successful examples around me,” Leila writes on her page.

“I am Tajik: I got married at 37. My only daughter is four and a half. I am 43. I lived and continued my studies in Italy, in the south to be precise. I have lived in Russia for 18 years. Before becoming an eyebrow specialist, I worked for 12 years as a stylist, buyer and merchandising department manager in major companies in Moscow,” Zarina says.

Also read on Novastan : Faut-il renforcer l’arsenal juridique contre les violences sexistes au Tadjikistan ?

“I am a Tajik woman who finished a Russian school in Tajikistan and I did not get married straight away. I am Tajik and I grew up in a traditional family and no, I was not scolded, we never argued before I left. On the contrary, I was truly supported,” writes Omina.

“I am Tajik and I do not allow myself to give unsolicited advice, such as: ‘One child is not enough, you need to have another one. It is not in your plans? Then your husband will end up leaving you,’” says Shakhzoda.

“I am Tajik, and I deliberately chose to marry a Kazakh, simply because that is what I wanted. When I want something, I refuse to forbid myself from having it,” says Bargigul.

Backlash and masculinist reactions

These posts regularly receive thousands of views and hundreds of comments. Women tend to leave positive and inspiring replies.

By contrast, fuelled by underlying misogyny, comments from men are generally far from encouraging. They include: “your eyes are not those of a Tajik woman”, “you dishonour the nation”, and “marrying a foreigner destroys the Tajik gene”. Many other comments in the same vein seek to discredit the activities and positions taken by many women in Tajikistan.

A simple format

The phrase “I am Tajik” can be personalised by adding something for which one has been criticised, felt shame, or which is, on the contrary, a source of pride.

Examples include: “… and I earn much more than men”, “… and I do not know how to make plov, and that is perfectly fine”, “… and I speak five languages”.

Also read on Novastan : Ces femmes tadjikes qui s’approprient les professions « masculines »

The video is often filmed in a pleasant setting where the women feel safe, with a posture intended to appear authentic. Traditional elements of Tajik culture in clothing or decor are often highlighted, because promoting cultural heritage and traditions is not incompatible with feminist emancipation.

The hashtags #iamtajik, #tajikgirlpower and #ihavetheright often accompany these messages and help them spread more widely.

“We are different, but we are all Tajik”

Many Tajik girls have also taken part in the “duxtari tojik” trend, meaning Tajik girl. In these videos, they embody women from different regions of the country, challenging the boundaries of regionalism — a phenomenon that remains very present in Tajik society.

Accompanied by a song by Tajik singer Nobovar Chanorov, which evokes girls from different regions, the emphasis is placed on cultural richness and regional identity rather than geographical division.

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“I did not know there were so many styles of traditional clothing in our country,” Bahora says in one of her videos. Several moved internet users responded by highlighting friendship between all regions of Tajikistan.

The message is regularly shared in several languages. At the request of her followers, makeup artist Farangis offers looks inspired by different regions of Tajikistan, accompanied by brief explanations in Tajik, Russian and English. The movement goes beyond the country’s borders and more broadly inspires women from neighbouring countries. This is notably the case of an Uzbek blogger who also joined the movement, presenting the wedding dresses of Tajik women from different regions.

This trend unites Tajik women across the continent: from Iran to China, each video brings its own personal touch.

The post Tajik women reveal themselves through the “I am Tajik and…” trend appeared first on Novastan English.

Local historian Gafur Chermatov details how the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic contributed to the war effort during the Second World War, known in the USSR as the Great Patriotic War.

Victory in the Second World War was achieved at the cost of immense suffering for millions of people of different nationalities. During the most difficult trials, both at the front and in the rear, the peoples of the USSR were united and bonded as never before – and probably as never again afterwards.

“We never had a single case of defection to the enemy. The Tajiks were always distinguished by their modesty, courage and unconditional respect for the commander’s combat orders. I will always keep the best memories of my Tajik comrades-in-arms,” recalled Lieutenant General Andrei Vedenin, who took part in the Battle of Rzhev, in his memoirs.

The 118th Rifle Division, which he commanded, was made up of almost 80% Central Asian fighters, mainly Tajiks.

Volunteering in the name of victory

On 22 June 1941, the terrible echo of war reached Tajikistan. One of the first reactions of Tajiks to the announcement of the war was to volunteer en masse to go to the front. In June-August 1941 alone, more than 5,857 applications to volunteer for the front were submitted to the Tajik military committee. By August 1945, more than 200,000 people from Tajikistan had been mobilised into the active army during the war. More than 15,000 other Tajiks served in the Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army between 1938 and 1940.

More than 45,000 conscripts from Tajikistan were assigned to the defence industry and military construction sites. As a result, the total number of conscripts in the army and industry stood at 245,000. Tajik workers worked in defence industry enterprises in the Novosibirsk, Sverdlovsk and Chelyabinsk regions.

At the beginning of the war, 8,874 motor vehicles, 1,115 tractors, 19,326 horses, 1,791 carts and the necessary equipment were transferred from Soviet Tajikistan to Red Army units and formations. During the war years, versatile military specialists were trained in Tajikistan for the Red Army and Navy. Female specialists were also trained: snipers, telephone operators and radio operators, while 3,000 nurses and military nurses were trained in a short period of time.

Thousands of riflemen, tank crews, machine-gunners, paratroopers and others were trained. Later, tens of thousands of workers, representatives of the collective-farm peasantry and intellectuals who had undergone military training in the republic were mobilised into cavalry divisions and other military units formed on the territory of Tajikistan.

For the defence of Stalingrad

On 17 July 1942, the Battle of Stalingrad, now Volgograd, began. It was one of the most important and fiercest battles of the war, and radically changed its course. For six and a half months, bloody and intense fighting raged relentlessly across the vast steppes of the Don and the Volga.

In May 1942, the formation of the 104th Cavalry Division was under way in Tajikistan. Conscripts came from all corners of the republic. In the shortest possible time, thousands of horses, guns, mortars, hundreds of carts, vehicles, ammunition, engineering equipment, food and fodder were loaded onto wagons at railway stations near Stalinabad, now Dushanbe.

The defenders of Stalingrad offered firm and persistent resistance to German troops, showing unparalleled courage. Hundreds of thousands of Soviet soldiers distinguished themselves there, including many Tajiks. More than 7,000 soldiers recruited in Tajikistan later received the medal “For the Defence of Stalingrad”.

A reliable reserve for the front

Having rapidly shifted towards the production of military goods, Tajikistan had already been rebuilt on a wartime footing by the end of 1942. The republic supplied the front primarily with light industry and food products, as well as non-ferrous and rare metals needed for the production of military equipment.

Also read on Novastan : Au Kazakhstan, des passionnés cherchent à identifier des soldats morts pendant la Deuxième guerre mondiale

In total, during the war years, agricultural workers delivered 500,000 tonnes of raw cotton, more than 100,000 tonnes of meat, and tens of thousands of tonnes of vegetables and fruit to the state. Thanks to their selfless labour, in 1944 the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic became one of the first in the Soviet Union to fulfil the grain procurement plan and, in addition, handed over thousands of quintals of grain to the Red Army.

Huge funds were collected in the republic for military equipment. During the war years, Tajikistan’s workers contributed more than one billion roubles to the defence fund and the weapons construction fund, including in the form of loans and cash lotteries.

An aircraft repair plant

In June 1943, the USSR People’s Commissariat of the Aviation Industry decided to create an aircraft repair plant in the village of Novobad, located in Tajikistan’s Hissar Valley, on the basis of the existing military airfield.

For this purpose, the 217th stationary aviation workshop arrived in Hissar. Construction of production buildings and workshops immediately began at the new site. By December 1943, the repair of aircraft and engines had multiplied compared with October. By January 1944, the number of employees had also increased severalfold compared with October.

The workshops supplied 12 aviation regiments during their formation and deployment to the front, as well as almost all aviation schools in the district, including those evacuated from the front line.

In total, 468 aircraft, 1,219 aircraft engines and 352 vehicles were repaired during the war. Thousands of units of complex combat and navigation equipment were returned to the front after repair: cannons, machine guns, radio equipment and measuring instruments.

Seeking shelter

Fleeing the enemy, residents of the western regions of the USSR found shelter in Tajikistan. From August 1941 to September 1942, more than 140,000 Soviet citizens evacuated from Ukraine, Belarus, the Baltic states, Moscow and Leningrad arrived in the republic. The war did not only deprive these people of shelter. Most of them, fleeing the invaders, left their homes without even taking the most basic household items. In Tajikistan, they were welcomed with warmth and care.

The construction of new houses began. In Stalinabad, 3,600 square metres of housing were built for evacuees in just eight months. More than 12,000 families were housed. To help the evacuees, money in addition to that allocated by the state, warm clothes, necessary furniture and kitchen utensils were collected.

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In the summer and autumn of 1941, a contingent from 14 orphanages arrived in Tajikistan. Among them were two orphanages for Polish children. The republic’s leaders faced the extremely difficult task of developing a network of orphanages in towns and villages. Collective farmers in the Shahrinav district of the Stalinabad region took the initiative to create orphanages for 20 to 30 children on collective farms.

Gafur Chermatov
Historian, for Asia-Plus

Translated from Russian by Sophie Combaret and from French by Mathieu Lemoine

The post Tajikistan’s contribution to the war effort during the Second World War appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

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

A lyrical writer

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

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

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

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

Stories imbued with sincerity

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

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

Like a return to childhood

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

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

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

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

Music and thought

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

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

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

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

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

A sculptor of words

As the Kabardino-Balkar poet Tanzilia Zumakulova writes:

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

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

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

Azim Aminov and Kamila Mulloyeva
Journalists for Asia-Plus

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

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

Tajikistan has one of the highest emigration rates globally, with most Tajiks migrating to Russia for work. One million Tajiks are estimated to reside in Russia at any given time, sending crucial remittances back home. However, migration is not just about money. Novastan interviewed Dr Elena Borisova who, in her book, argues that social expectations related to what it means to be a ‘good’ person play a crucial role in motivating Tajiks to move to Russia.

Tajikistan’s economy is highly dependent on remittances. Approximately one million Tajiks reside in Russia, mostly for work. When in Russia, Tajiks face xenophobia, an increasingly restrictive migration regime and even the risk of being drafted into the Russian army to fight in Ukraine. What then motivates Tajiks to continue to move to Russia, despite the growing risks involved?

Read more on Novastan: Moscow attacks highlight Tajikistan’s radicalisation problem

To discuss the paradoxes of migration from Tajikistan to Russia, Novastan spoke to Dr Elena Borisova, a social anthropologist based at the University of Sussex. Originally from Russia, Elena has studied migration since 2012. While doing her first research inside Russia, she there met an ethnically Uzbek woman who invited Elena to join her on a trip to her native village in the north of Tajikistan. Later, in 2017-2019, Borisova spent fourteen months conducting ethnographic fieldwork as part of her PhD research there. Based on this research, she published her book ‘Paradoxes of Migration in Tajikistan: Locating the good life’, which is freely available at the website of UCL Press.

Common misconceptions about migration from Tajikistan

Elena Borisova highlights two common misconceptions about migration in Russia, which also apply to migration in general. First, migration is often seen as a ‘new’ phenomenon, without a history. As her colleagues Malika Bahovadinova and Isaac Scarborough showed, in the late Soviet period, there were programs to resettle Central Asians to Russia. These were often unsuccessful, as Central Asians did not want to move. Russian ethnographers and sociologists explained this failure as the result of inherent traditionalism in Central Asia. However, when the Central Asian republics experienced deep economic crises after the fall of the Soviet Union, many Central Asians did migrate to Russia, which caught many Russian researchers by surprise.

Second, migration is often explained with the help of economic theories, in which migrants are exclusively seen as rational actors trying to maximise their economic benefits. This is coupled with ‘push-pull’ logic: Central Asia has a ‘labour excess’, which leads to a ‘flow’ of migrants that is ‘absorbed’ by Russia’s economy. This obscures the motivations and experiences of the individual migrants, and the obstacles they face. Why do Tajiks feel they need to migrate? Motivations vary.

Migration as a way to live the ‘good’ life

Elena Borisova’s work shows that migration is intimately linked with people’s pursuit of living a ‘good’ life. This is not just about getting ahead economically, but also about being recognised as a good person by your community. To achieve this status, one must engage in major life projects, such as getting married, building a house, getting children and caring for the elderly, in a good and timely manner. After the Soviet Union collapsed it became practically impossible to achieve these things while working in Tajikistan. So, migration emerged as an alternative way to fulfil social expectations.

The village where Elena Borisova lived and conducted her ethnographic fieldwork, in Sughd province in the north of Tajikistan, was transformed by the Soviet modernisation project in the 1950s. A factory was built, which provided work and infrastructure. Schools, kindergartens, libraries and even a House of Culture were built, which gradually transformed people’s lifestyles. Goods produced at the local factory were shipped all the way to Moscow, and the local youth travelled throughout the USSR for education and military service. Graduates from around the Soviet Union also moved to Tajikistan to work, and people with different ethnicities mingled at work in the factory and during social activities. Russian became the lingua franca as it was seen as an integral part of this modernity.

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the ‘modernity’ that had emerged came under pressure. The movements of goods and people throughout the Soviet space came to a standstill, and infrastructure gradually degraded. These changes were experienced as isolating the village. Interethnic social relations declined when the factory and social facilities shut down. Migration to Russia slowly started in the 1990s but really took off in the early 2000s, after the border with Uzbekistan had closed. Going to Russia was an attempt of retaining modernity, which was already linked to mobility since the very emergence of the new industrialised place on the map. It was not just about closing a financial gap, but also about perceiving the ideal of being a modern, cultured person.

Retaining modernity

A tragic paradox arises in that when Tajiks come to Russia, these modes of self-fashioning are not relevant in Russian society. The Russian migration regime sees Central Asians as unskilled, disposable labour migrants. The Tajiks are there to create modernity for the Russian middle classes but are never recognised by the Russians as being modern themselves.

While the conceptions of the ‘good’ life in different parts of Tajikistan might vary, they are always bound up with social expectations that can be contradictory. In her book, Borisova highlights the example of a man who is a single child and does not have a son himself. This requires him to simultaneously care for his immediate family and his elderly parents, for which he needs to be physically present in his village. However, he is also expected to provide for them financially, to build a house and to organise important festivities. This forces him to move to Russia to work and make money. These contradictory social expectations make him move back and forth between Russia and Tajikistan constantly, which puts a lot of pressure on him.

Weddings are particularly important social events that mark the creation of a new family, and a person’s gender and place in the extended family. To be perceived as a good person you need to have your wedding in a timely manner, before you are considered too old. Weddings then create social obligations between people and are important in establishing social networks. If you invite someone to your wedding, they ‘owe’ you and you can turn to them for future help.

The scope of festivities has differed over time, and some research suggests that they were the largest in late Soviet times. Festivities shrank during the post-Soviet economic downturn and the civil war in the 1990s but have increased in size again due to migration. Working in Russia has given people access to more financial means, and this has exacerbated competition when it comes to feasts. People feel pressured to organise larger and larger family events and are often forced to go to Russia to make enough money to pay for them.

Another paradox relates to citizenship. Russia has tightened its migration regime since 2012, and in 2016 introduced a blacklist of Tajiks who are not allowed to enter Russia. To avoid being blacklisted, many Tajiks have tried to obtain Russian citizenship. However, this should not be seen as them ‘belonging’ to Russia, but rather as an attempt to facilitate meeting social obligations and expectations at home. This, rather than ‘legality’, is their main concern. People are concerned with entry bans and illegal status only as far as it troubles the temporalities of their social being.

The impact of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine

Dr Borisova’s current research together with Dr Malika Bahovadinova examines how Russia weaponizes the institute of citizenship to attract manpower for its war in Ukraine. The regime grants citizenship as a reward for doing military service and threatens with police violence or revoking citizenship when naturalised citizens fail to meet military expectations. The Tajiks are using their decades worth of knowledge about Russia’s bureaucracy and changing migration laws to navigate these new existential risks.

Read more on Novastan: How Russia is recruiting Central Asian soldiers for its war in Ukraine

In Russian media, this has resulted in a new popular construct – that of a ‘migrant with a Russian passport’. This concept shows how the distinction between a migrant and a citizen is obfuscated. Developments like these change the perception that Tajiks have of Russia, and of migrating there. That is why many Tajiks are looking to move elsewhere. Yet, this is often easier said than done. Tajiks have established themselves in Russia for decades. They often own property there, and their children often only speak Russian.

Central Asian governments are also exploring new destinations for their citizens to work. For example, Uzbekistan signed agreements with different countries, including with Germany, which has recruited Uzbek care workers. Uzbekistan also seeks to strengthen cooperation with Saudi Arabia, South Korea, Turkey, and the UK as potential recipients of migrant workers.

Time will tell whether the diversification of Central Asian migrant workers’ destinations will continue.

The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

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The post The paradoxes of migration from Tajikistan to Russia: an interview with Dr Elena Borisova appeared first on Novastan English.

Over thirty years after the Soviet Union’s collapse, colonial influences persist in Kazakhstan. Russian remains widely spoken and serves as the primary language for interethnic communication. As language is a vital symbol of national identity, the enduring linguistic prominence of Russian poses a significant challenge to fully decolonising Kazakh identity. However, the invasion of Ukraine has spurred a young, urban middle class to confront these imperial remnants by reclaiming their native language.

Russia’s colonial war against Ukraine has sent shockwaves throughout Central Asia. Moscow’s emphasis on historical, cultural and linguistic connections makes other former Soviet republics feel increasingly uncomfortable. 

Especially in Kazakhstan, home to a sizable ethnic Russian population, many fear that their country could be next on the Kremlin’s list. These concerns are not unfounded. Since the start of the war in Ukraine, Russian propagandists have repeatedly voiced thin-veiled threats about annexing parts of their southern neighbour. 

Moreover, after partial mobilisation was announced in Russia in September 2022, hundreds of thousands of predominantly young men fled across the border into Kazakhstan. Their arrival has exacerbated existing concerns, and magnified domestic tensions between social groups that identify themselves differently.  

Although over the past three decades, Kazakhstan’s government has attempted to forge a new national identity, Russian influence remains. Since the conquest of the Kazakh steppe in the 19th century by tsarist forces, the lands and the people inhabiting the territory of modern-day Kazakhstan were shaped by imperial rule. First by the Russian Empire, then by the Soviet Union. 

In the 20th century, forced collectivisation uprooted traditional lifestyles and led to famine. Countless people flocked to towns and cities in a desperate search for food and work, places which themselves were colonial spaces, dominated by imperial infrastructure and buildings. Rapid urbanisation and industrialisation have scarred the landscape and still cause pollution and environmental and health problems to this very day. 

Russia’s linguistic legacy

But apart from these more abstract, postcolonial realities, there is the pertinent yet controversial issue of language. In the wake of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, many have grown painfully aware of the influence Russia still exerts over Kazakhstan through language. 

Over thirty years after independence, Russian remains the country’s main interethnic language. Political scientist Dossym Satpayev, in a piece for Chatham House, writes that Russification policies in the colonial era suppressed the Kazakh language so thoroughly that most forgot how to speak their native tongue. As the de facto official language of the USSR, speaking Russian was key to social mobility. 

After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the benefits of learning the Kazakh language remained negligible. Although Kazakh is the state language, and Russian a mere ‘official’ language, in reality, Russian-speakers still enjoyed significant privileges and advantages. Until recently, insufficient knowledge of spoken Kazakh was hardly considered a problem, as Russian proficiency was enough to live a comfortable life, especially in the north and in the cities, where most of Kazakhstan’s Russian-speaking population is concentrated.

In education, Russian has been more advantageous for increasing the possibilities to study at renowned schools and universities in Russia, partly because of the availability of a broader range of academic resources. Similarly, career-wise, Russian speakers have traditionally had more job opportunities. By contrast, Kazakh was viewed as backward and inferior, as sociologist Azamat Junisbai remembers how, while growing up, he associated the Kazakh language exclusively as rural, uncultured and of low status.

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

Fear for antagonising Moscow

Initially, Kazakhstan’s government made little effort to support the elevation of the Kazakh language. Policymakers were concerned that such a stance would feed into rising Kazakh nationalism, which in turn could endanger the country’s inter-ethnic stability. 

So, from the 1990s onwards, it chose to counter early national-patriotic movements by prioritising the development of a Kazakhstani civic identity. This civic identity, epitomised by the slogan ‘unity in diversity,’ sought to rally all people of Kazakhstan around the flag of the newly independent republic, regardless of ethnicity. 

However, the main threat to inter-ethnic stability did not emanate from Kazakh nationalism, nor from the country’s sizable Russian minority. As a matter of fact, Astana’s stance on the issue was long guided by the fear that, should it have followed a more ethno-national course, Kazakhstan would have risked antagonising its northern neighbour. 

Demographics driving change

Meanwhile, it was increasingly difficult for the government to balance the national interest against grassroots calls for the strengthening of Kazakh ethnic identity. After independence, millions of Russians left Kazakhstan, dramatically changing the country’s demographic make-up. Kazakhs now form a clear majority. They are the country’s fastest–growing ethnic group, and their proportion of the total population is only expected to increase. 

Satpayev, in his contribution for Chatham House, argues that the strengthening of national-patriotic sentiments and movements is occurring organically. Based on demographic trends, support for a Kazakh ethnic identity will continue to grow, while the use of the Russian language is expected to decline.

The Russian invasion of Ukraine catalysed societal developments resulting from these demographic developments, which are shaping current and future political preferences. Not so long ago, the debate on national identity was quite marginal, predominantly talked about among small-circles of Kazakh-speaking intellectual elites. The war has caused this discussion to spillover into public domain, with an ever-increasing number of people rediscovering what it means to be Kazakh in the context of persistent colonial legacies.

Language as a decolonial tool

Language possibly is the most enduring bastion of Russian influence in Kazakhstan. In an episode of RFE/RL’s Majlis Podcast, sociologist Junisbai discusses how older generations primarily engage with Russian media, which makes them more susceptible to Russian propaganda. Consequently, the idea of so-called benevolent colonialism still is widespread among the elderly. Many believe that Kazakhstan owes much to foreign rule, such as industrialisation and modernisation. 

Read more on Novastan: Pressure from Russia increases on Central Asian media outlets

This sentiment is not shared with younger generations. They have no living memory of the Soviet Union, and seek to undo the final vestiges of Russian and Soviet colonialism in pursuit of a new Kazakh identity. For them, language is a tool for decolonisation. On the streets, for example, this is reflected in the growing popularity of fashion brand Qazaq Republic. This company, famous for its trendy clothing and other merchandise with patriotic Kazakh and English language slogans, owes much of its success to ongoing societal developments.

In an article by media outlet The Diplomat, Biybaris Seitak — founder of a popular Kazakh language Instagram channel Kazakh Bubble — says that the Russian invasion of Ukraine made many Kazakhs realise “that speaking Kazakh was a matter of national security.” The war has made them feel uncomfortable talking about decolonisation in the language of the former coloniser. 

Hence, Russia’s invasion caused many to put words into deeds. The popularity of Kazakh language schools and clubs has exploded, and Kazakhstan’s government has jumped the bandwagon by introducing new plans promoting the Kazakh language.

Even though President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has stated that the proposed alphabet reform, which would see the transition of written Kazakh from Cyrcillic to a Latin-based script, should not be ‘rushed’, he has introduced several other plans for a more independent language policy. These include a mandatory Kazakh language test for people wanting to obtain citizenship, a draft plan for a new media law to increase the use of the Kazakh language, and education reforms aimed at boosting Kazakh proficiency. 

An unstoppable development

Yet, fears of backlash remain. The growing importance of Kazakh could alienate the non-Kazakh speaking population, such as the country’s still significant Russian minority. Satpayev, in his work for Chatham House, described that these people could feel ‘trapped’ or even discriminated against. A conflict of identities looms, heightening the risk of radicalisation and pro-Russian separatism which could trigger a response from Moscow.

Read more on Novastan: “An escalating manifestation of Russophobia” – Kazakhstan at the epicentre of an information war

Prior to the full-scale invasion of Ukraine, Russia used the perceived infringement of Russians’ rights abroad to intervene in neighbouring countries, either diplomatically, economically or militarily. However, chances of Russia invading Kazakhstan for the promotion of the Kazakh language are slim. Moscow is preoccupied on other fronts and, more importantly, it needs Kazakhstan for economic reasons, including for the import of dual-use goods that help Russia sustain its war effort against Ukraine. 

In short, neither Astana nor Moscow is in the position to stop the growing importance of the Kazakh language in Kazakhstan, even if they wanted to. The war in Ukraine and tensions with the West are currently constraining any meaningful Russian response. In parallel, demography is pushing Tokayev’s government ever-closer towards embracing a more ethno-centric national identity. What the future holds remains to be seen. Yet, as long as this geopolitical reality persists, the decolonisation of Kazakhstan is expected to continue. 

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The post The Lexicon of Kazakh Decolonisation appeared first on Novastan English.

Temirlan Yensebek, creator and author of “Qaznews24,” an agency of satirical news, has been detained on Saturday in Almaty. He is expected to stand trial under accusations of incitement of hatred. The court placed Yensebek in custody for the duration of the preliminary investigation. If convicted, he is facing up to 7 years in prison.

Civil activist and blogger Temirlan Yensebek, author of satirical media account Qaznews24, which masks as a news agency, was apprehended on Saturday afternoon at this home during a search. The same evening he stood a preliminary hearing and left the courthouse in handcuffs. The activist remains in custody for the next two months, until the conclusion of the preliminary investigation.

Yensebek’s lawyer Zhanar Balgabaeva told journalists that the reason for the arrest was the comic song “Yo, orystar” (“Yo, Russians”), which Yensebek added to a satirical post about Russian TV presenter Tina Kandelaki. A representative of the public prosecutor’s office filed a complaint about the post, which set events in motion.

Read more on Novastan: Pressure from Russia increases on Central Asian media outlets

Satire under scrutiny

Qaznews24 can be seen as a Kazakh analog of “The Onion” – a popular instagram page which publishes satirical pieces and perky comments on current affairs and social issues. Since its founding in 2021, Qaznews24 has featured dozens of posts about poverty, corruption, nepotism, and idolization of the powerful, laughing out conspiracy theorists, moralising hypocrits and sycophants in politics.

Although the page openly states its satirical orientation in every post, its content frequently causes confusion as the reports are being mistaken for real news. In 2021, Yensebek was accused of spreading misinformation and, after a search in his house, brought to the police office for questioning. Police issued a statement that Qaznews24 content was “disinforming the population and misleading the citizens,” labeling Yensebek as a fake news creator.

Yensebek’s colleagues then started a campaign called “Satire is not a crime,” demanding to stop the prosecution and ensure freedom of speech, which is guaranteed in the Kazakhstan Constitution. The campaign was supported by international human rights organizations such as Human Rights Watch. After linguistic experts showed that humoristic content cannot be qualified as knowingly false information, the case was closed.

However, as recent events have shown, the authorities were not finished with Qaznews24 just yet.

“New Kazakhstan,” old methods

On Saturday, 18 January 2025, Yensebek’s house was searched again – this time under the pretext of Temirlan “inciting ethnic hatred.” He was then brought to the police station and faced a short evening trial. The judge mandated his detention for two months pending completion of a preliminary investigation. This is the harshest option provided by law.

After two months of investigation, Yesenbek will likely await another trial. If found guilty, he could be facing a penalty varying from a fine to restriction of freedom for a period of 2 to 7 years, to imprisonment for the same period.

Sunday, January 19, saw a new development to the story. Journalist and ex-editor-in-chief of art and culture web-portal Art of Her, Rus Biketov, went out on a solitary picket in support of Yensebek in Almaty. He was immediately apprehended by the police. On the same day, Biketov was sentenced to 15 days detention for violating the legislation of the Republic of Kazakhstan on the procedure for organizing and holding peaceful assemblies.

No laughing matter

Historically, Kazakhstan has never scored high on ratings measuring freedom of expression and freedom of the press. According to Freedom House’s Freedom on the Net report, Kazakhstan has a score of 34 out of 100, placing it in the “not free” category. RSF World Press Freedom Index puts Kazakhstan on place 142 out of 180, falling from place 134 in 2023. Global Expression Report defines Kazakhstan as “highly restricted.”

A slight improvement on the Freedom of Expression index from V-Dem Project does not really change the overall picture. This index shows the “[b]est estimate of the extent to which people can discuss political matters at home and in the public sphere, the press, and media are free and can present different political perspectives, and the freedom of academic and cultural expression,” and Kazakhstan’s score of 0,43/1 can be described as mediocre at best.

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

The prosecution of dissidents is not new either. Indeed, Kazakh authorities have shown a considerable lack of humor – and mostly, inability to take valid criticism – on various occasions already. One might wonder how in a country where police uses torture against protesters and organized crime is on the rise, a satirical account poses the greatest threat. Yet, in reality, this crackdown on satire is all but inconsequential. The idea is not to fight the greatest evil, but to target those who dared to speak up about it.

While the situation with Temirlan Yensebek might look absurd, his detention illustrates a concerning development in restricting freedom of the speech. More importantly, it aims to send a clear warning to civil society. As Factcheck.kz editor Adil Jalilov writes in his column, “the expected result of the arrest and criminal case against QazNews24 author Temirlan Yensebek . . . [is], [o]bviously, an increased self-censorship in the entire media community.”

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

The post When Freedom of Speech Is a Joke: Author of a Satirical News Outlet Detained in Kazakhstan appeared first on Novastan English.

For many years, relations between Tajikistan and Uzbekistan have been fraught with tension. Some analysts even dubbed the ties between the two countries a Central Asian ‘cold war’. But luckily, things are slowly improving. The return of the Tashkent-Dushanbe night train is a testament to this bilateral thaw. The new rail service connecting both capitals is, in many ways, a miniature of the past, present, and future of Uzbek-Tajik relations. 

“Your phone, please”, one officer demands. As the only man in the kupe, a train compartment, the border guards summoned me into the corridor. Reluctantly I let the officer scroll through the pictures I took during my brief visit to Uzbekistan. Pornography, photos of government buildings, military installations – whatever he is looking for, the man finds none. 

As he returns my phone, some of his colleagues enter the train to look for contraband and other prohibited items. Luggage is thoroughly searched, as well as the train’s interior. Some ceiling panels are removed and part of the flooring is opened up to examine if anything is hidden underneath. 

Despite Uzbek authorities having relaxed customs procedures over the past years, the border crossings with Tajikistan remain an uncomfortable exception. But relations between the two countries have improved significantly over the past few years. Travelling aboard the direct Tashkent-Dushanbe night train shows the slow fruition of this regional detente.

15:47 – Tashkent

Some thirteen hours earlier, my travel companion and I boarded the train at Tashkent’s central station. It was mid-May and with temperatures well over thirty degrees Celsius, our kupe was unbearably hot. Although the ticket agent had promised us air-conditioning, the one in our wagon was not working this afternoon. With sweat dripping down my back, a young Tajik mother asked if I could help her store her large suitcase. 

Nodira and her toddler son would be our cabin companions for the night, travellig to Dushanbe for a family visit. Although Tajik by birth, Nodira often pendles between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. Her husband owns a suitcase shop in Tashkent, yet she prefers the tranquil mountains of native Tajikistan over the hustle and bustle of the Uzbek capital. For a time, Nodira thought of running her own business as a professional make-up artist on Instagram, though it was no longer acceptable after becoming a married woman, she tells us. 

Ever since, Nodira has embraced a more conservative lifestyle, focusing on religion, her three children, and running the household. Tajik society is deeply patriarchal and gender roles remain traditional. However, for Nodira, social media has an important emancipatory function. It helps her learn a little English and connect with the outside world through her followers, mostly in Russian. In fact, she has become quite the influencer since our meeting on the sweltering night train. Thousands of people watch her videos in which she prepares classic Central Asian recipes in her kitchen. 

20:40 – Samarkand

Just after sunset, we made a brief call at Samarkand. The city’s magnificent architecture still reflects its historical significance as a leading centre of Persian civilisation. But Samarkand’s legacy is also highly contentious.

For centuries, the Tajik language – a variety of modern Persian – has been Samarkand’s lingua franca. However, this position has come under increasing pressure since Uzbekistan’s independence. Eurasianet writes that former President Islam Karimov seemed intent on erasing the city’s Tajik roots. 

Many in Tajikistan, however, still see Samarkand as inextricably linked to their ethnic and cultural identity. The issue of Samarkand dates back to the 1920s when the city was made part of the Uzbek SSR under the Soviets’ policy of national delimitation. In 2009, Tajik President Imomali Rahmon told journalists that in a brawl with Karimov, he had threatened to take back Samarkand by force. 

Interestingly, a significant number of Tajik speakers in Uzbekistan hold more nuanced views about their ethnicity. Research about this topic found that “many people speak a language as their vernacular language while identifying themselves with the ‘other’ ethnic group in daily life.” In the same study, Persian-speaking respondents from Samarkand primarily see themselves as Samarkandi, rather than Tajik. 

On the other hand, for people like Nodira who are multilingual and have mixed families, local, national, and ethnic identities overlap. The new rail connection also has a significant symbolic function as a token of regional interconnectedness. In many ways, the hard border between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan was a historical anomaly, in that it divided a continuous cultural and linguistic space.

05:53 – Border 

After the Uzbek border guard returns my phone and the customs officials exit the train, we ride into no-man’s land. As we accelerate, I notice that at some point during the night, we have traded our silent, electric locomotive for a noisy diesel enginge. A gust of black smoke occasionally enters through the open windows – an unfortunate tradeoff for ventilation against the heat.  

As the train pulls out of the Uzbek customs zone, we pass high walls and concrete barriers, manned guard towers, and barbed wire. Suddenly, this militarised border zone gives way to green fields, off-roading Ladas, and even some rice paddies. Despite the early hour, whole families are out working the land. Some wave to the passing train.

Indeed, a passenger train on these tracks remains a rare sight. Since independence, ordinary Uzbeks and Tajiks have been caught in the crosshairs of bilateral tensions. Lengthy examinations and searches, considerable red tape and frequent border closures had a significant impact on travel and trade. Relations between the two countries were mired in suspicion and distrust.

Uzbekistan even had parts of the border area mined, allegedly to prevent militant Islamist groups from entering the country. Hundreds of people, mostly local farmers, were killed or injured in landmine explosions. After Shavkat Mirziyoyev succeeded Karimov in 2016 as president of Uzbekistan, clearing the minefields was a top priority in his pursuit of better ties with Tajikistan.

Read more on Novastan: Moscow attacks highlight Tajikistan’s radicalisation problem

With most of the obstacles removed, the task remains to rebuild the political, economic, and cultural ties that were virtually destroyed over the past 30 years. The return of the Tashkent-Dushanbe night train, as the first passenger rail connection between the two capitals since the collapse of the Soviet Union, is a testament to this ambition.

09:41 – Dushanbe

On April 18 this year, Mirziyoyev and Rahmon signed a ‘Treaty on Allied Relations’ in Dushanbe. The treaty consists of 28 documents covering various areas of cooperation, ranging from cross-border trade to food safety, and from fostering intercultural exchange to transport and communication. 

In a statement, the President of Uzbekistan declared that bilateral relations between the countries had “risen to an unprecedented level”. Uzbek news website Darya.uz wrote that developing new transit corridors was among the leaders’ priorities. The Diplomat previously reported that, since coming to power, Mirziyoyev has pushed for new rail projects to bolster regional integration.

Read more on Novastan: Railway between Tajikistan and Uzbekistan to be electrified

But it might take some time before this treaty will bear fruit. For now, Dushanbe is all but a regional transport hub. The railway station of Tajikistan’s capital city has the allure of that of a provincial town. Aside from the Tashkent-Dushanbe night train, the only other international connection that departs from here is the weekly ride to Volgograd – often packed with Tajik migrant workers heading to Russia. 

On the platform, we part ways with Nodira. Although we thoroughly enjoyed the journey, she is of a different opinion. With a small child, the train ride is much more comfortable than the shorter but mountainous route by road. However, the train takes twice as long to travel between the two capitals. Regional transport links still have a long way to go. Nodira concludes that she might as well take the car next time. 

Written by Julian Postulart, editor of Novastan English

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

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

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

Weaponizing legislation

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

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

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

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

Guilty of stating the facts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cultivating troll farms 

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

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

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

Sydney Millar for Lossi36

Novastan update:

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

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

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

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

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

Saodat Shermatova

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

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

Nargiz Gadayeva

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the way to gender equality

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

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

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

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

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

Darika Bolot and Shakhzoda Mirakova for Novastan

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On the evening of Saturday October 28^th, a fire broke out in the Kostenko mine at a depth of 700 metres, followed by an explosion of a methane-air mixture. 201 of 252 miners on shift were able to exit on their own, 24 of whom had injuries and needed medical help. The rescue operation continued till Tuesday, October 31^st, when the last body was discovered. All 46 of the missing miners have been found dead.

Notorious employer

Kostenko mine, along with 7 other coal mines in Kazakhstan, belongs to ArcelorMittal Temirtau, a company notorious for its security negligence. Apart from mines it also has Central Asia’s largest metallurgical plant, a mining and processing plant, four iron ore enterprises, two heat and power plants, a pipe plant and several auxiliary enterprises in its portfolio, that were obtained with huge preferences during the privatisation campaign of the mid-1990s. Many of them had issues with safety and fatal accidents in the past.

The current mine explosion is the deadliest in recent history for Kazakhstan, but it is not the first. Since 2006, more than 150 people have lost their lives working for companies belonging to AMT JSC. In 2022 alone there have been six deadly occurrences in various companies and mines belonging to ArcelorMittal Temirtau – which resulted in 13 deaths. The most recent tragedy occurred in August 2023, when 5 workers died at the Kazakhstanskaya mine when conveyor belt caught fire. The governmental commission determined a “100% fault of the employer.”

In the company’s latest statement from October 29, 2023, following the last explosion in the Kostenko mine, ArcelorMittal Temirtau mentions that “the company has made significant efforts, which have been further strengthened since 2020, to improve safety performance at ArcelorMittal Temirtau’s operations.” But this seems a rather bleak attempt to restore the company image by blaming the “complex geology” of the mines that complicates their operation while the voices have been raised repeatedly about the emergency conditions over the last few years. Workers in the Karaganda region, where the mines are located, continuously tried to improve labour conditions and mentioned the company’s focus on profit with disregard to the miners safety in their appeals.

But mines are not the only dangerous enterprise. Emergency conditions at the factories are widely known, though the company itself never issued any statements mentioning it. In 2018, there were three cases of collapse of roofs and floor slabs at factories, a collapse of the walls of a closed coal storage facility, and a massive explosion at the gas pipeline – all owned by the ArcelorMittal Temirtau and its subsidiaries. In 2019 there was another accident with a deformation and collapsed roof at the metallurgic plant. In 2021, two floor slabs with a total area of 72 square metres collapsed in the forge and press shop of Kurylysmet LLP, a subsidiary of AMT. There were no casualties or injuries, but the conditions and company’s attitude towards workers’ safety have not improved.

ArcelorMittal was continuously fined and disciplined for negligence, failure to comply with safety regulations, failure to submit the mandatory tax declaration, and polluting the environment. In November 2022, after another catastrophe that took lives of 5 workers, the president of Kazakhstan, Kassym-Jomart Tokayev, mentioned that the company has systemic problems, and “despite repeated warnings and instructions from state authorities, the situation is not getting better.”

A search for an inland investor

At the meeting with family members of the miners on October 28 the president of Kazakhstan, Kassym-Jomart Tokayev, said that the government will withdraw from co-operation with ArcelorMittal Temirtau: “I have instructed to stop the investment co-operation with ArcelorMittal Temirtau. This company has turned out to be the worst in our history in terms of cooperation with the government and enterprise.” ArcelorMittal Temirtau issued a statement on October 28 to confirm that the company “recently signed a preliminary agreement for a transaction that will transfer ownership to the Republic of Kazakhstan.”

The government also stated that “subsequent transfer of AMT JSC to other foreign investors is not considered.” However, in a long-term, the state is not planning to invest into the development of the company. “We have no plans for the state to be the owner and invest budget money. We […] must attract a private investor, and they must invest at least 3 billion dollars in the next three years. Without such investments, the enterprise will not be able to develop normally,” prime minister Alikhan Smailov said at the briefing in Majilis. 1.3 billion dollars will have to be invested immediately to ensure “resolvement of industrial and labour safety issues, modernisation of all equipment and expansion of production.”

For now, the company will stay a state property. The president appointed Vadim Basin, Deputy head of Karaganda Region, as head the coal department of ArcelorMittal Temirtau.

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The Kyrgyzstan-based non-governmental organization “Institute for Peace and Development” is shaping a new generation of peacebuilders through “Peace Clubs” in more than 150 Kyrgyz schools, contributing to the development of students, peacebuilding, and the realization of the “Kyrgyz Jarany” (“Kyrgyz citizen” – ed.) concept for the peaceful coexistence of ethnic groups.

Over 5000 young people from Kyrgyzstan have had the opportunity to become advocates for peace and have uncovered their potential through the country’s public activities. According to one of the project participants, the “Peace Clubs” activities aim to support students’ intellectual growth, prevent juvenile delinquency, and implement the government’s “Kyrgyz Jarany” concept.

“Kyrgyz Jarany” is a concept for the development of national identity, officially promoted by the government of Kyrgyzstan. The project unites all ethnic communities in Kyrgyzstan while preserving their ethnic and cultural identities.

Through a series of developed experimental training sessions, the “Institute for Peace and Development” enables students to develop empathy, along with negotiation and conflict resolution skills. Additionally, IPD allows children to implement their own projects where they can share their ideas about peace. The most important mission of “Peace Clubs” is to promote principles of diversity, tolerance, and inclusivity among young people.

The popularity of participation in “Peace Clubs” is on the rise in Kyrgyzstan

One of the coordinators, Nurzhamal Alibaeva, shared with Novastan how the IPD project has been a path to improving the skills, leadership, and personal growth of children. Notably, there has been a noticeable change in the behavior of the students. Nurzhamal emphasizes that, “Seeing them behave in a tolerant, restrained manner, respecting personal boundaries, makes me very happy. I believe that this behavior started with this project.”

“Peace Clubs” have not only helped students within the clubs but have also brought them together outside the classroom. Nurzhamal mentioned, “We started spending more time together with the students after school. They often ask me: What’s the seminar about? What will we do? Where are we going? I see this as a significant interest among children in working together in the club.”

Each student shows their individuality

Ulanbek Umetov is not only the coordinator of the “Peace Clubs” project in the Nooken district of the Jalal-Abad region but also a teacher in a local school. He has been working on the project since 2019, and with each day, he not only teaches others but continuously learns himself. His pedagogy is based on the belief in the uniqueness of each student and an individual approach to each of them, making “Peace Clubs” very popular among local youth.

No matter which school he goes to in Nooken, students are interested in the project and eager to participate in “Peace Clubs.” “If there used to be only one club in Nooken before, today there are around 30 clubs. Imagine how attractive the project is, not only for students but also for teachers in schools. I am sure this is because we teach tolerance and explain what peace is and what positive qualities a person should have,” he says.

Ulanbek Umetov teaches in “Peace Clubs” in Kyrgyz to bring together students from various remote regions of Kyrgyzstan. “The project becomes a source of inspiration and learning for everyone involved in it. We teach children valuable lessons about what peace is and what positive qualities a person should have,” he concluded.

IPD’s plans include creating 1000 “Peace Clubs” by 2030 and providing financial support for 120 peace initiatives throughout Kyrgyzstan this year.

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Nine human rights defenders are currently imprisoned for their activities in Tajikistan. In an interview with Novastan, UN Rapporteur on Human Rights Defenders, Mary Lawlor, explains the reasons for these imprisonments and the prospects for the defense’s release.

In early July, UN experts issued a release condemned the treatment of human rights defenders in Tajikistan. Often accused of extremism, they are sentenced to long prison terms in unfair trials, if they have not already fled the country.

Mary Lawlor is the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Human Rights Defenders and founder of Front Line Defenders. She was visiting Tajikistan to follow nine cases of imprisonment and meet with human rights defenders in the country. In an interview with Novastan, she explains the current situation in Tajikistan and whether it is possible for those imprisoned to be released.

Novastan: For those who did not follow the situation closely, how would you describe the human rights defender situation in Tajikistan? Who are the imprisoned human rights defenders and what are the reasons of their imprisonment?

Mary Lawlor: I went to Tajikistan on a country visit last November and December. There, I met with human rights defenders, some of them in secret because of the great sense of fear among them. They are afraid that if they speak to anyone, there could be retaliations against them and their family. I also spoke to government officials from various departments.

Human rights defenders there are subjected to completely unfair trials, that are often held in secret. They often don’t have lawyers and the judicial system is not impartial. The trials are unfair. There is also the huge problem of human rights defenders being charged with severely long sentences. The people I have looked at are being charged between 7 and 29 years.

Read more on Novastan: In Tajikistan repression continues

They are being charged and criminalized for their peaceful, legitimate work on behalf of others. Some of the human rights defenders are afraid that their names will be publicly disclosed.

Out of the 9 cases I raised, 8 of them were accused of extremism and terrorism related offenses. This is what happens in Tajikistan: the government uses it as a tactic to give lengthy sentences on false charges to human rights defenders. The government is very concerned about security because of their shared border with Afghanistan and extremism, and I do understand that. But that is no excuse for criminalizing people who are entitled to peacefully defend the rights of others in accordance with international standards to which the government of Tajikistan has agreed.

My concerns are that with these sentences there are awful pre-trial and pre-sentence conditions along with ill treatment. In some cases, there were disappearances when people were first arrested.

Nowadays, who is under threat in Tajikistan? For instance, a relative of one of the imprisoned human rights defenders says everyone who was close to this person or was working with this person have faced charges as well or have left the country.

We have heard that a lot of human rights defenders have gone into exile because they were afraid of facing charges. Some of them have been forcibly returned to Tajikistan. I heard about a human rights defender who had been forcibly returned from Russia. Somebody else was returned from Belarus, though he was not a human rights defender, so that is outside of my mandate.

In the case of Ulfatkhonim Mamadshoeva, I think it’s a particularly awful case. She was doing legitimate work as a journalist and had a history of human rights work. She received a very long sentence (21 years – editor’s note). Her family has been targeted as well. Of course, it rips apart the family.

Read more on Novastan: Tajikistan: one year since the tragic events in the Pamirs

I went to see Daler Imomali and Abdullo Gurbati in the detention center and it was heartbreaking. They are two young bloggers. Daler [Imomali] has a genetic disease from which his brother died and his mother is terrified that he will die too.

Abdullo [Gurbati] was arrested when his first child was one week old. They were devastated, both of them. And the conditions they were being held in, and had been held in, were terrible. The one good thing the Tajik government did was send doctors to give them a full medical examination.

But you can see the effect it has on their families. Abdullo [Gurbati] has never seen his baby and he cried when I met him. And I understand that Daler [Imomali]’s mother is very anxious about the fact that he could get tuberculosis or something like that in prison.

What has evolved this past year? Have you noticed any change since your last report?

No, one human rights defender who cannot be named was released, but that was because he was due amnesty.

What I am really hoping for is that this new agreement the European Union (EU) is negotiating with Tajikistan, the GSP+ (General Scheme of Preferences Plus ­­– editor’s note), will change things. The agreement includes recommendations that I made about the release of human rights defenders, fair trials, and secret trials. I understand that the EU included these recommendations in the negotiations because there can be no serious reason why such low human rights standards cannot be upheld.

I am hoping that this is something the Tajik government will do. They will give pardon or amnesty to the human rights defenders that I’ve raised in my formal letter to them on the basis that they may wish to conclude this agreement. This is of course assuming that the EU stands firm, and that the Tajik government thinks it is better for them to have an agreement with the EU.

There were negotiations about GSP+ last December. A European-Tajik human rights dialogue was held around the same time. Have we seen any results from these meetings?

We all know about human rights dialogues. I usually call them “dialogues of the deaf”. It doesn’t seem to have any influence on the Tajik government. As I said, I’m hoping that perhaps we can move forward with this GSP+ agreement.

I understand that the Tajik government has a few months before the next negotiations with the EU and that they are waiting to see the recommendations in the report that I’m going to be presenting to the UN human rights council in March next year. But I don’t know when that will be public. We have to wait and see.

Read more on Novastan: European reaction to repression in Tajikistan has no effect

I think if the Tajik government moves, it will be on the basis that they are friends with China and Russia. And they would like to be able to point out that they have an agreement with the EU too. But as we know, all the power belongs to the President (Emomali Rahmon, editor’s note) and his office, so it really depends on whether or not the President will agree. The negotiation papers have been moved to the President’s office.

How can the situation improve?

I think total reform is necessary, to be honest. The rule of law, and when I say that I mean the rule of fair law according to international standards, has to change. There needs to be reforms in the judiciary and access for human rights defenders and others to legal assistance. There needs to be more lawyers. A lot of lawyers are either not practicing, leaving, or are banned from practicing because they have been criminalized. That is on the law side.

And corruption needs to be tackled. It’s everywhere, it’s rampant. It’s accepted into society but remember every time somebody gives a bribe or takes a bribe, it means money is being diverted from services that the people so desperately need. So, corruption is a huge issue.

And then, I met so many ministers and officials, but none of them had any power. There isn’t a democracy. There has to be a reform, basically, of the government. But it seems that the President is modeling his self on Turkmenistan. He is hoping to stay there until his son takes over, as a dynasty.

The lack of human rights education for young people is a problem, too. The majority of the population is so young and there is no human rights education in schools. They say there is, but I looked at it. There isn’t. It’s about educating the people so they know their rights and are able to claim their rights.

But the government says: “No, we don’t want to do that, we are afraid of extremism.” I say that if you educate people to human rights, they won’t become extremists. The government would say: “No, look at the West, lots of people from the West joined ISIS.” Some people did join ISIS, it was quite true, but overall, putting in place a culture of respect for human rights is necessary for a country to grow in human rights policies and practices.

They really should recognize that human rights defenders are people who are peacefully defending rights of others in accordance with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The Tajik government doesn’t really understand who a human rights defender is. I think they need to start with that and gradually move towards recognizing their credibility. It’s in their interest in the long term.

Interviewed by Nane Bouvier
Editor for Novastan

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