From growing up as a bacha posh in Kunduz to becoming an entrepreneur, journalist and women’s rights advocate, Nilofar Ayoubi has experienced the freedoms and restrictions imposed on Afghan women from unusually different perspectives. Now based in Poland, she speaks to Novastan English Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine about gender apartheid, political participation, exile, the legacy of Afghanistan’s pre-2021 media landscape and why the country should also be understood through its connections with Central Asia.

For much of her childhood, Nilofar Ayoubi lived publicly as a boy.

Growing up in Kunduz in northern Afghanistan, she became a bacha posh – literally a girl “dressed as a boy” – a practice through which some Afghan families allow daughters to assume a male social identity, often giving them access to freedoms otherwise restricted to girls. Ayoubi has previously recalled attending school, practising karate, riding bicycles and moving through public space with freedoms that disappeared when, around puberty, she could no longer continue living publicly as a boy.

The experience would shape the political outlook that followed. Before the Taliban returned to power in August 2021, Ayoubi built businesses employing women, worked in journalism and founded the Women’s Political Participation Network in 2020, amid growing fears that women’s rights would be bargained away during peace negotiations. She also headed Asia Times Afghanistan and worked as an editor with Akhbar Afghan.

When the Taliban entered Kabul in August 2021, that public profile placed her at particular risk. On 23 August, she left Afghanistan with her husband and three young children and eventually rebuilt her life in Warsaw. She has since continued advocating internationally for Afghan women while maintaining contact with women inside the country.

Five years after the Taliban returned to power, women and girls remain excluded from secondary and university education and face sweeping restrictions on employment, movement and participation in public life. Ayoubi is among those campaigning for this system to be internationally recognised as gender apartheid.

Yet she is equally insistent that Afghan women should not be understood solely through what has been done to them.

“I survived things,” she tells Novastan. “But I also built things.”

Novastan: You spent much of your childhood as a bacha posh, experiencing freedoms that were denied to girls. When you eventually had to begin living publicly as a girl, what did that transition teach you?

Nilofar Ayoubi: It taught me something very early that many people spend a lifetime trying to articulate: freedom can be determined by something as arbitrary as how society perceives your gender.

For around thirteen years, I lived as a bacha posh. As a boy, I could go to school more freely, ride a bicycle, practise karate, move through public spaces and experience a degree of independence. Then I had to return to living publicly as a girl, and suddenly the world around me became smaller.

I was the same person. My intelligence had not changed. My courage had not changed. My abilities had not changed. Only society’s perception of me had changed.

That experience shaped almost everything I later became.

It made me understand that the restrictions imposed on Afghan women were never evidence of women’s inability. They were evidence of a system deliberately limiting their possibilities.

It also taught me that freedom is not abstract. Sometimes freedom is simply being able to walk somewhere without permission. To ride a bicycle. To study. To speak loudly. To occupy space without apologising for your existence.

Once you have experienced both sides of that invisible wall, it becomes impossible not to see it.

Before 2021, you built businesses and employed hundreds of women. Did you see giving women jobs and financial independence as a form of activism?

Absolutely.

I never separated women’s economic independence from women’s rights. A woman who earns her own income gains something beyond money. She gains bargaining power inside her family, greater control over her choices, confidence, mobility and, sometimes, the ability to leave situations she would otherwise be trapped in.

That is political power at its most practical level.

In Afghanistan, I saw women with extraordinary ability who were prevented from using it, not because a law necessarily prohibited them, but because of family pressure, social expectations, insecurity, lack of childcare, restrictions on movement, harassment and the constant calculation of reputation.

Read more on Novastan: Bound by Tradition: Silent Suffering of Daughters-in-Law in Uzbekistan

This is something international discussions about women’s rights sometimes miss. Changing a constitution is important, but a progressive law does not automatically change what happens behind the door of a home.

I wanted women working with me to earn, learn and understand that their labour had economic value.

Entrepreneurship therefore became another form of activism for me. Instead of only saying that women were capable, I could create environments in which they demonstrated it every day.

And they did.

You also worked in journalism. Looking back, what had twenty years of relatively open media actually changed in Afghan society, and how much of that legacy survives today?

Afghanistan’s media sector before August 2021 was imperfect, sometimes chaotic and certainly not completely free, but its transformation was extraordinary.

A generation grew up hearing women questioning politicians on television, journalists investigating corruption, young people debating religion, governance and society, and citizens openly criticising powerful people.

That matters.

Freedom of expression does not only produce newspapers and television programmes. It changes what a society believes it is entitled to ask.

We built that culture over twenty years, often at enormous personal risk. Afghan journalists were threatened, attacked and killed long before August 2021.

Today, the institutional space for that freedom has been devastated. Women journalists have been systematically pushed out of public life, censorship and self-censorship have become pervasive, and independent journalism operates under extraordinary pressure.

But I do not believe the intellectual legacy disappeared.

You cannot expose an entire generation to debate, information and freedom of expression and then completely erase the memory of it.

The Taliban can close a newsroom. They can intimidate a journalist. They can impose restrictions on what can be published. What is much harder is making millions of Afghans forget that another reality once existed.

That memory is itself a form of resistance.

You founded the Women’s Political Participation Network shortly before the previous political order collapsed. What did Afghan women involved in the network actually want from politics?

The women I worked with did not simply want seats in rooms. They wanted influence over the decisions being made inside those rooms.

There is a very important difference between representation and participation.

Read more on Novastan: More Women in Central Asian Politics – But Where Is the Power?

Too often, women’s political participation in Afghanistan became a numbers exercise: How many women are attending? How many women are in parliament? How many women are sitting at the table?

But the real question should have been: Do these women have power?

Can they influence negotiations? Can they shape budgets? Can they challenge decisions? Are women from outside Kabul included? Are younger women included? Are women from different ethnic, socioeconomic and political backgrounds represented?

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

When we founded the Women’s Political Participation Network in 2020, the peace process was already creating enormous anxiety among women. Many could see that women’s rights were becoming negotiable in the pursuit of a political settlement.

We were not asking the international community to “save Afghan women.” Afghan women had been saving themselves, organising themselves and fighting for political space for years.

We were asking not to be traded away.

Unfortunately, that distinction was not taken seriously enough.

You argue that what the Taliban have created should be recognised internationally as “gender apartheid”. Why is that terminology important?

Because words determine how the world understands a crime.

What exists in Afghanistan today is not a collection of unrelated discriminatory policies. It is a systematic architecture of exclusion based on gender.

Girls have been denied secondary and university education. Women have been pushed out of much of employment and public life. Their freedom of movement has been restricted. Their visibility in public space has been deliberately reduced. Their access to parks, gyms and many other areas of ordinary life has been curtailed.

This is not simply “conservative governance.” It is not merely a women’s-rights problem.

It is a system.

When exclusion becomes systematic, institutionalised and enforced by the state because of the sex of the person being excluded, our language must reflect the scale and nature of what is happening.

That is why I advocate for recognition of gender apartheid.

Calling it discrimination risks making it sound as though women are experiencing unequal treatment within society. Afghan women are increasingly being denied the right to participate in society itself.

The terminology also matters legally and politically. Recognition creates pressure for accountability and makes it much harder for governments to normalise relations while pretending that the systematic persecution of half the population is simply an internal cultural matter.

No government should be permitted to make women socially invisible and still expect normal diplomatic legitimacy.

You remain in contact with women inside Afghanistan. How different are those conversations from discussions about Afghanistan at international conferences?

The difference can be enormous.

At international conferences, Afghanistan is discussed through phrases such as “engagement,” “stability,” “humanitarian access,” “dialogue” and “pragmatism.”

Inside Afghanistan, the conversation is about survival.

It is about a girl watching another academic year disappear. A woman wondering how she will support her children because she can no longer work. An activist deleting messages because she is afraid her phone might be searched. A journalist trying to continue working while navigating censorship and intimidation.

These are not theoretical policy questions for them. They determine the architecture of their daily lives.

One thing outsiders repeatedly underestimate is Afghan women’s agency.

Women inside Afghanistan are not sitting passively waiting for someone abroad to rescue them. They are teaching girls secretly, documenting abuses, working where they can, supporting families, organising networks and finding extraordinary ways to resist erasure.

Another mistake is assuming that silence means acceptance.

When speaking carries the possibility of detention, violence or retaliation against your family, silence cannot automatically be interpreted as consent.

Sometimes silence is survival.

You have also become one of the people international media turn to when telling the story of Afghan women. Do you feel frustrated by the way foreign media portray them?

Yes, very much.

Afghan women have suffered enormously, and we should never minimise that suffering. But suffering is not our entire identity.

I have always resisted the idea that Afghan women should be presented only through photographs of burqas, poverty and despair.

Before August 2021, Afghan women were journalists, prosecutors, judges, politicians, entrepreneurs, athletes, teachers, artists, activists, police officers and students.

After August 2021, they did not suddenly lose their intelligence, ambition or political consciousness. They lost the institutional space in which they were allowed to exercise them.

That distinction matters.

I know something about this personally. My own story has been reported internationally many times, and I am grateful that people have cared enough to listen. But I never want the most painful parts of my life to become the only explanation of who I am.

I survived things. But I also built things.

That is true for millions of Afghan women.

Victimhood may describe something that happened to a person. It should never become the total definition of that person.

You grew up in Kunduz, with deep historical and cultural connections to neighbouring Central Asia. Is Afghanistan too often viewed solely through South Asia, the Middle East or the “war on terror”?

Absolutely.

Growing up in Kunduz gives you a very different geographical imagination of Afghanistan.

Northern Afghanistan has always been connected to Central Asia through trade, migration, language, ethnicity, families and culture. The borders on modern maps are politically important, but human relationships across that geography are much older.

Afghanistan is often analysed externally according to whichever geopolitical crisis is dominant. During the last twenty years, it was overwhelmingly interpreted through terrorism, Pakistan, NATO and the war on terror.

That framework obscures how historically interconnected Afghanistan is.

Looking north reminds us that Afghanistan is not simply the western edge of South Asia or an appendage of the Middle East. It is also deeply connected to Central Asia.

For Kunduz, Balkh, Badakhshan and other northern provinces, understanding relationships with Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan helps explain trade, culture, identity, security and political dynamics that cannot be understood solely through Kabul or Pakistan.

Afghanistan has always stood at a crossroads. Reducing it to a battlefield between competing powers has prevented outsiders from understanding the country as a society.

You had to rebuild your life after arriving in Poland. Has becoming an entrepreneur again in Europe changed how you think about economic independence?

Yes, because exile forced me to experience economic independence from another perspective.

On 23 August 2021, I left Afghanistan with my husband and our three very young children. I went from a life and career that I had spent years building to arriving in Warsaw and facing enormous uncertainty.

I had to start again.

There is something profoundly humbling about becoming a refugee. Your qualifications, reputation, networks and achievements do not necessarily cross a border with you in the same way your body does.

Rebuilding businesses and professional life in Europe reminded me that entrepreneurship is not only about financial independence. It is also about identity and dignity.

In Afghanistan, creating businesses was partly about expanding women’s possibilities within a restrictive environment.

In Europe, rebuilding became partly about refusing to allow displacement to reduce me permanently to the identity of “refugee.”

I am proud of surviving, but I do not want survival to be the highest ambition available to displaced women.

We should be able to rebuild, lead, create, employ people and contribute economically to the societies in which we now live.

Economic independence means different things in Warsaw and Kabul, but its psychological foundation is similar: the ability to make choices about your own life.

After years of conferences, meetings and appeals to governments, what kind of international action do you still believe can make a concrete difference?

After five years, I have become much less interested in statements and much more interested in consequences.

The Taliban have learned that international condemnation is often temporary and rarely carries sufficient cost.

We issue statements. We organise conferences. We express outrage. Then another meeting takes place, another diplomatic channel opens and another concession is described as “pragmatic engagement.”

Engagement without benchmarks becomes normalisation.

I am not arguing that the international community should abandon Afghanistan. Isolation that harms ordinary Afghans is not a solution either. Humanitarian assistance must continue, and Afghans should not be punished for the actions of the Taliban.

But engagement must have conditions.

There should be measurable requirements concerning women’s education, employment, movement and participation in public life. Afghan women and independent civil society must have meaningful representation in international discussions about Afghanistan, not ceremonial invitations after decisions have already been made.

There must also be accountability. That means supporting international legal mechanisms, documenting abuses, protecting journalists and human-rights defenders, and advancing the recognition of gender apartheid in international law.

At the same time, international support should reach Afghan-led initiatives directly, particularly women-led education, media, civil society and humanitarian networks.

I have spent years helping vulnerable Afghans, including women at immediate risk, journalists, activists and families trying to escape danger. One lesson has become very clear to me: sometimes relatively small, targeted interventions change an actual human life more effectively than another multimillion-dollar conference about Afghanistan.

What has failed is the repeated assumption that Afghan women’s rights can be postponed until some future political settlement.

We have seen where that logic leads.

Afghan women do not need the world to speak endlessly about how courageous they are. They need the international community to make their persecution politically, diplomatically and legally consequential.

I still believe international action can make a difference. Otherwise I would not continue doing this work.

But solidarity without consequences eventually becomes ceremony.

And Afghan women have had enough ceremonies.

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

The post “I survived things. But I also built things”: Nilofar Ayoubi on Afghan women, exile and resistance appeared first on Novastan English.

Often portrayed through poverty and begging, Lyuli/Mughat communities have lived across Central Asia for centuries. Researchers and filmmakers are now drawing attention to a much richer story of language, craftsmanship, family life and belonging.

In Shakhzoda Mirakova’s documentary We Are (At) Home, the title itself carries an argument. The film was shot largely in different districts of Bukhara, where Mirakova and her team spent time with Lyuli/Mughat families and community members. For her, the idea of “home” was not simply geographical. “Despite often being treated as outsiders, Lyuli have built their lives, families and communities here,” she told Novastan. That tension – between being deeply rooted in Central Asia and still perceived as somehow outside it – runs through much of the history of the Lyuli/Mughat.

They have lived in the region for centuries and can be found across all five Central Asian republics, although the largest concentrations are generally associated with Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and southern Kyrgyzstan, with smaller communities in Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan. Their distant origins are usually linked by researchers to migrations from the Indian subcontinent, but their precise relationship with European Roma populations remains debated. Researcher Kamilla Zakirova argues that it is more accurate to understand them as a distinct Central Asian community that has often been placed within a wider Roma or “Gypsy” category, rather than simply describing them as a Central Asian branch of European Roma. Their identity today is unmistakably shaped by the societies in which they live: by Uzbek and Tajik languages, Sunni Islam, local neighbourhoods, extended families and the economic and cultural life of Central Asia.

One community, many names

Even the question of what to call the community is complicated. “Lyuli” or “Luli” is widely used in Uzbekistan and in Russian-language sources, while “Jughi” or “Jugi” is especially common in Tajikistan and parts of Uzbekistan. Historical names including Multoni or Multani and Ghorbat or Gurbat have also appeared in different parts of the region. “Mughat”, meanwhile, is an important self-designation for many people.

Zakirova notes that some community members prefer it precisely because names such as Lyuli or Jughi may carry derogatory stereotypes. At the same time, preferences differ by place and individual, meaning there is no single term that can be assumed to be universally accepted. For an international audience, she considers “Lyuli/Mughat” a useful compromise. The terminology reflects a broader difficulty: outsiders have often attempted to fit highly diverse communities into a single category. Different groups have developed within different linguistic and social environments, and this makes it difficult to speak of one single Lyuli language, occupation or lifestyle extending unchanged across Central Asia.

This distinction also matters when comparing Lyuli/Mughat with Russian-speaking Roma communities in the region, historically often referred to as Tsygane. Zakirova stresses that these are not simply interchangeable categories. The Lyuli/Mughat have developed within Central Asian society and have linguistic, religious and social practices shaped by that setting.

How important is the Indian connection?

The community’s distant South Asian origins are one of the most frequently mentioned aspects of its history, but they do not necessarily occupy the same place in the identity of people living in Central Asia today. During the making of We Are (At) Home, Mirakova encountered contradictory accounts. “We met several families, and their accounts were not the same,” she said. “Some people denied having a connection to the Indian subcontinent, while others claimed Indian ancestry.” One community leader the filmmakers met knew several words that he identified as coming from an Indian language and also described himself as having Indian ancestry, yet this kind of memory was not shared by everyone.

That distinction matters. A distant historical origin identified through linguistic or ethnographic research does not necessarily determine how people understand themselves generations later. For communities whose everyday lives have developed for centuries in Uzbekistan, Tajikistan or Kyrgyzstan, India may be an ancestral reference, a family story, or something largely absent from daily identity. The more immediate cultural environment is Central Asian, and this is reflected in language, religion, settlement patterns and social life.

Speaking the languages of Central Asia

Language demonstrates this particularly clearly. Zakirova describes Lyuli/Mughat communities as generally multilingual. In Uzbekistan, Uzbek and Tajik are widely spoken, while Russian remains present, particularly among older generations. Mirakova observed much the same thing while filming in Bukhara. “The people we interviewed could speak Uzbek, Tajik and Russian,” she said. “From what we observed, Lyuli generally speak the language that is common in the region where they live, rather than using one single language across Central Asia.”

Their religious practices likewise overlap extensively with those of neighbouring communities. Most are Sunni Muslims, and celebrations and rituals associated with Ramadan, weddings, circumcision and funerals form part of the broader religious culture of Central Asia. For Zakirova, differences between Lyuli/Mughat communities are therefore often shaped less by religion than by local history, language and different levels of integration into surrounding society. Most are no longer nomadic. Communities are generally settled, often organised around extended families, neighbourhoods and local networks. The image of the permanently travelling “Gypsy” community can consequently obscure as much as it explains.

Everyday life beyond begging

The most persistent public stereotype surrounding the Lyuli is begging, and it is also the image that Mirakova most wants to complicate. “Public portrayals tend to focus on poverty and begging, which gives a very narrow picture of the community,” she said. “Spending time with people showed us that there is much more to their everyday lives, including craftsmanship, family traditions, skills and cultural practices.”

During filming in Bukhara, the team encountered families involved in forms of craftsmanship that receive little public attention. Mirakova recalls people making everyday household objects such as plates and cups, as well as carpet-making. Other people worked in waste collection, seasonal labour and work connected to pastures. The range of occupations, she felt, was becoming more diverse rather than remaining confined to only a few traditional activities. Zakirova similarly points to longer traditions of music, performance, jewellery-making, woodworking and metalworking among different Lyuli/Mughat groups, and notes that some communities have historically been associated with professional music and entertainment.

None of these occupations should be treated as universal characteristics. Mirakova’s observations relate specifically to the families she encountered around Bukhara, while the economic lives of Lyuli/Mughat communities vary considerably across the region. But they help reveal a basic problem with the dominant stereotype: economic marginalisation has often become a substitute for describing an entire culture. Craftsmanship illustrates that invisibility particularly well. “Lyuli families make plates and cups – everyday objects that people often use without knowing who produced them,” Mirakova said. The producer may remain socially invisible even when the object itself circulates widely.

School, documents and changing opportunities

The situation of Lyuli/Mughat communities has improved in some respects over the past decade, according to Zakirova, but significant inequalities remain. Education is one area where the gap is particularly visible. In the families Mirakova met, girls generally remained at school until around the ninth grade. This observation cannot be generalised to the whole population, but it reflects broader concerns about limited educational attainment and low representation in higher and vocational education.

Earlier research and official reporting have also identified problems with school inclusion, poverty and the costs associated with education. Documentation has historically posed another obstacle. Mirakova encountered people who held passports and identity documents alongside others who did not. This problem intersects with the wider legacy of statelessness in post-Soviet Central Asia. Uzbekistan’s reforms on citizenship and birth registration, including the 2020 Citizenship Law, have helped tens of thousands of formerly stateless people obtain or confirm citizenship, although these measures were not designed specifically for Lyuli/Mughat communities.

For Zakirova, that distinction is important. Broader legal reforms can still matter greatly for groups that have historically faced barriers to documentation, even when they are not targeted at a particular minority. At the same time, major challenges remain in education, poverty, housing, employment opportunities and discrimination. Representation in higher and vocational education remains particularly limited.

Integration does not mean visibility

The paradox is that a community can be deeply integrated into the language, religion and everyday life of a country without being strongly represented in its public institutions. Zakirova describes national political representation of Lyuli/Mughat people in Uzbekistan as extremely limited. She is not aware of a nationally prominent elected politician who publicly identifies as Lyuli/Mughat, nor of a major national newspaper, radio station or political organisation representing the community specifically.

This limited visibility extends to cultural representation. For decades, Lyuli communities have frequently appeared in public discourse through stories about begging, social deprivation or marginalisation. What is much less visible is ordinary life: weddings, work, religious practices, family relationships, artisanship or changing aspirations among younger generations. That is one reason Zakirova sees the appearance of younger journalists and filmmakers interested in the community as significant. She pointed specifically to Mirakova’s We Are (At) Home as an example of a younger generation beginning to explore questions of Lyuli identity and belonging from a different perspective.

Filming a community usually seen from outside

Mirakova’s documentary did not emerge from a large institutional project. Most of the filming took place locally in Bukhara partly because the filmmakers had a limited budget, and they were also able to work through people who already knew community members and helped establish contact with families. This mattered because marginalised communities are frequently documented by outsiders who arrive with pre-existing ideas about the story they expect to find. Establishing relationships through trusted contacts gave the filmmakers a different entry point.

What they encountered was not a uniform community. Neighbours responded differently to Lyuli families. Some interacted warmly with them and showed genuine curiosity about their culture and traditions, while others viewed them overwhelmingly through negative stereotypes, particularly the association with begging. Mirakova said her team did not encounter any specific state, municipal or NGO programme designed explicitly for the families they met in areas such as education, employment, housing or documentation. That does not necessarily mean no such measures exist elsewhere, but it shows how limited their visibility can be at community level.

Family, weddings and cultural life

Some of the strongest impressions Mirakova took away from the documentary had little to do with poverty. She remembers conversations about family obligations in which people described leaving or separating from their own family for the benefit or needs of another family member. The exact form of this practice varied in the accounts she heard, but she was struck by the weight placed on family duty and sacrifice.

The filmmakers also encountered tattoos or markings that some people compared visually with an Indian bindi, although Mirakova stresses that these practices varied from person to person. Such observations should not be treated as evidence of historical origin, but they reveal the kinds of cultural details that rarely appear in public representations of the community.

She would particularly like to see more attention paid to weddings and craftsmanship. “I think their wedding traditions and craftsmanship, particularly carpet-making, deserve much more attention,” she said. “These are aspects of their cultural life that are rarely visible in the way the community is usually portrayed.” That absence is itself significant. Minority communities are often made visible precisely at moments of crisis: when discussing poverty, exclusion, documentation or discrimination. Cultural life is then treated as secondary. For Mirakova, reversing that hierarchy was one of the lessons of spending time with Lyuli families.

“We are at home”

The title of We Are (At) Home ultimately returns the discussion to belonging. Lyuli/Mughat communities may have distant histories connected with South Asia. They may retain names, memories or forms of identification that distinguish them from surrounding populations. But their contemporary lives have developed over generations in Central Asia. They speak Uzbek and Tajik, practise Islam alongside their neighbours, attend the same schools, work in local economies, produce household goods and build families in the same cities and villages. Yet they can still be described as outsiders.

The contradiction is perhaps most visible in the language used about them. “Nomadic”, “Gypsy”, “beggar” and “marginalised” can all become labels through which a highly diverse population is compressed into a single social image. None of this means overlooking real inequalities. Education, documentation, housing, poverty and discrimination remain significant concerns, and representation in higher education and national public life remains limited. But reducing the community to those problems reproduces another form of exclusion.

Mirakova’s experience suggests a different starting point. “I think their skills and everyday cultural life are largely missing from public portrayals,” she said. The most revealing thing about the Lyuli/Mughat may therefore not be how different they are from Central Asia, but how thoroughly their history has become part of it.

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

The post At home in Central Asia: the lives and identity of the Lyuli/Mughat appeared first on Novastan English.

Why Soviet borders do not make Central Asian statehood artificial

In January 2026, Russian state television commentator Vladimir Solovyov did what a small but persistent chorus of Russian nationalists has done regularly since the invasion of Ukraine: he described Central Asia as part of a natural Russian sphere of power and suggested that Moscow could extend its military operations there if it judged this necessary. The remark prompted a sharp response from Uzbek politician Alisher Qodirov, who dismissed it as propaganda and stressed that the states of Central Asia are sovereign and capable of defending their interests. The exchange was brief, but the argument behind it is familiar. Russian nationalist commentators periodically suggest that Central Asian sovereignty is somehow contingent – an accidental product of Soviet administrative borders rather than the outcome of a deeper political history. Western coverage often treats such statements primarily as geopolitics: another expression of Russia’s post-imperial anxiety or its competition with China for influence in the region. Recent analysis of Russian-Central Asian relations has documented the growing frequency of such irredentist rhetoric. That interpretation is not wrong, but underneath it lies a historical claim that deserves to be addressed on its own terms. The idea that Moscow simply “invented” the nations of Central Asia is misleading.

Soviet rule profoundly reshaped Central Asian nationhood. It territorialised identities, codified languages, built national institutions and created republics whose borders later became international frontiers. But that is very different from saying that Central Asian political identities appeared out of nothing in 1924. The process drew on pre-existing communities, political movements, religious institutions and local elites, and it was negotiated, appropriated and contested by Central Asians themselves. Modern Central Asian nations are therefore neither timeless entities that survived unchanged from antiquity nor arbitrary creations handed down fully formed by Moscow. They emerged from a much longer interaction between local political life, Russian imperial rule, indigenous reform movements and Soviet nationality policy.

Political life before the Bolsheviks

Central Asian nationhood cannot be understood by starting the clock in either 1917 or 1924. Pre-Soviet Turkestan was not an empty political space waiting for Bolshevik ethnographers to give it shape, although it would be equally anachronistic to imagine that the region already possessed mass national movements corresponding neatly to today’s five republics. Society was overwhelmingly rural, literacy remained limited, and modern political ideas about nationhood circulated mainly among relatively small urban and educated circles. Adeeb Khalid’s study of Jadidism and colonial society provides the key background for this pre-revolutionary political and intellectual landscape. Russian imperial rule had also transformed the region’s social and political structure well before the Bolshevik Revolution, particularly through settler colonisation, the creation of new administrative centres and the expansion of a Russian-speaking bureaucracy whose influence was disproportionate to the size of the settler population in many parts of the region.

The empire restricted indigenous participation in imperial politics while preserving a degree of local administration. At village and volost level, Muslim communities could manage taxation, minor judicial disputes and communal affairs, but their authority remained subordinate to Russian officials. Elections could be annulled, administrative decisions required approval, and Muslim political participation was constrained by the colonial state’s suspicion of wider political mobilisation. This system was therefore neither simple exclusion nor meaningful self-government. Russian rule combined political marginalisation with the selective preservation of indigenous elites deemed useful or reliable. The Emirate of Bukhara, for example, survived as a nominally sovereign protectorate under Russian domination, retaining its court, treasury and Islamic establishment. The Khanate of Khiva remained under a similar arrangement, while Kokand, regarded as less manageable and more threatening to imperial control, was annexed outright in 1876. Local political authority thus survived, but in fragmented and highly constrained forms determined by the priorities of empire.

Read more on Novastan: Bukhara Before the Border: Aini and the Politics of Tajik-Uzbek Memory

By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, one of the most important new expressions of indigenous reform was Jadidism. The Jadids – their name derived from the usul-i jadid, or “new method”, of education – were Muslim modernists who founded schools, newspapers and theatres and sought to reform education, religious life and society in cities including Tashkent, Samarkand and Bukhara. Education stood at the centre of their programme. Some Jadid reformers advocated or experimented with education for girls well before the Soviet state later presented women’s emancipation as one of the defining achievements of socialist modernisation. Khalid’s work remains a foundational source on Jadid reform, education and indigenous intellectual life. This does not make the Jadids straightforward proto-nationalists in the modern sense, nor were they politically unified. But it matters because it demonstrates that debates over reform, identity and political authority already existed before Soviet power consolidated itself across the region.

The Jadids were not the only indigenous source of authority. The ulama – Muslim scholars, judges and teachers – represented another deeply rooted social and religious establishment. Some opposed Jadid reform, while others adapted to the changing political environment after 1917. Their authority was neither uniform nor uncontested, but it long predated the Bolsheviks and remained socially significant across much of Turkestan. A 2024 study of the Tashkent Ulama society documents how religious scholars organised politically during the revolutionary opening of 1917. By the time Soviet leaders began reorganising Central Asia, they were therefore not working on an empty political map. They were intervening in a region where multiple forms of authority, identity and reform were already competing, and where Muslim intellectuals, religious figures and local elites had their own ideas about how political life should develop.

What Moscow actually did in 1924

The decisive Soviet intervention came with the national-territorial delimitation of Central Asia beginning in 1924. The process reorganised the former territories of Russian Turkestan, the Bukharan People’s Soviet Republic and the Khorezm People’s Soviet Republic into new territorial units associated with particular nationalities. Yet the familiar image of Moscow drawing five modern states in a single bureaucratic exercise is misleading. The Uzbek and Turkmen Soviet Socialist Republics emerged in 1924, but Tajikistan initially became an autonomous republic within the Uzbek SSR before becoming a union republic in 1929. Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan followed different territorial and constitutional trajectories, with their status continuing to evolve during the following decade. The map that ultimately became contemporary Central Asia was therefore produced through a process of repeated administrative and political decisions rather than one act of Soviet cartography.

Historian Francine Hirsch has shown that Soviet nationality policy was rooted in a particular Marxist understanding of historical development. Bolshevik officials believed societies moved through identifiable stages and that nationhood itself could be a necessary phase on the path towards socialism. This gave ethnography, census-taking and classification enormous political significance. Soviet experts attempted to identify populations, languages and national categories and then give them institutional and territorial form. The process was not simply descriptive: by deciding which languages would be codified, which categories would appear in censuses and which populations would become titular nationalities of republics, the Soviet state helped create the administrative reality it claimed merely to be recording.

Arne Haugen and other historians have placed greater emphasis on the political context in which delimitation occurred. Soviet leaders were wary of broader Turkestani, Muslim or Turkic political projects that might provide an alternative focus of mobilisation to Moscow, particularly after years of armed resistance and instability. The resulting territorial divisions therefore served both ideological and political purposes. But neither interpretation supports the simplistic idea that Central Asian nations were arbitrary inventions imposed on passive populations. Local elites participated extensively in delimitation debates, arguing over borders, cities, linguistic communities, economic resources and the status of particular populations. Their influence was constrained by Soviet power, and Moscow retained ultimate authority, but the process was not simply one of Russian cartographers drawing lines across a blank map.

This distinction matters because the argument that Soviet borders were politically constructed is true but insufficient. Nearly every modern state is the product of political construction, conflict and institutionalisation. The relevant question is not whether Soviet authorities drew borders but how those borders acquired political meaning and why they proved durable. Territorial delimitation nationalised space, but it did not by itself create fully formed nations. That required decades of institutional work carried out within the new republics themselves.

Nation-building was not a one-way process

Creating republics was only the beginning. Languages had to be standardised, alphabets repeatedly reformed, schools and publishing systems expanded, universities and academies established, literary canons assembled and histories written. New bureaucracies had to be staffed and new political elites trained. A central element of this process was korenizatsiya, or indigenisation, through which Soviet authorities sought during the 1920s to increase the presence of local nationalities in party structures, courts, ministries and other institutions. The policy was intended to make Soviet rule more legitimate and effective, but it also created cadres whose political careers, institutional interests and cultural projects became increasingly tied to the republics themselves.

Read more on Novastan: “Islands of Soviet power on the steppes”

Faizulla Khodjaev illustrates the complexity of this process. Born into a wealthy Bukharan family and active in the Young Bukharan movement before the consolidation of Soviet rule, he became one of the leading political figures of Soviet Uzbekistan. His career shows how pre-Soviet reformist politics could be absorbed into the institutions of the new republic. Similar processes occurred across the region as local teachers, writers, administrators and intellectuals entered Soviet structures and helped determine what Uzbek, Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Tajik or Turkmen national culture would mean in practice. Their room for manoeuvre was never unlimited, but they were not merely passive executors of instructions produced in Moscow.

Soviet nation-building in Central Asia was therefore neither a unilateral imposition from the centre nor a freely chosen indigenous project. It is better understood as a process of co-production under profoundly unequal conditions. Soviet institutions provided the territorial framework, controlled the political boundaries within which nation-building could occur and possessed the coercive power to decide which political projects were permissible. Central Asian intellectuals, teachers, bureaucrats and political cadres nevertheless played indispensable roles in giving those institutions substance. The Soviet state did not merely classify nationalities; it also created institutional spaces in which local actors could standardise languages, construct national histories, develop cultural institutions and train republican elites whose interests increasingly became inseparable from the republics themselves.

This is why saying that Soviet rule shaped modern Central Asian nationhood is historically accurate, while saying that Russia “created” Central Asian nations and therefore somehow owns them is not. The institutions were Soviet, but Soviet was not synonymous with Russian. The Union itself depended on tens of thousands of Central Asian officials, writers, teachers and administrators who transformed republican institutions from bureaucratic categories into lived political and cultural structures.

The contradiction at the heart of Soviet nation-building

The same Soviet system that promoted national institutions also destroyed many of the people who had helped build them. This contradiction is essential to understanding the period and prevents the story from becoming either a celebration of Soviet modernisation or a simple narrative of national emancipation. The hujum, launched in the late 1920s, sought to transform women’s lives through a state-directed campaign against veiling and seclusion. The policy was presented as emancipation, but it also turned women’s bodies into symbols of a wider struggle over modernity, religion and political authority. The backlash was frequently violent, and women who unveiled could become targets of intimidation or murder. Soviet social transformation could therefore simultaneously expand certain forms of opportunity and impose them through profoundly coercive means.

A decade later, the Great Terror devastated the intellectual and political elites of the region. Many Jadids, former reformers and local Soviet cadres who had participated in building national schools, administrations and cultural institutions were arrested, purged or executed. Faizulla Khodjaev himself was executed in 1938. Adeeb Khalid’s work on Uzbekistan captures this contradiction particularly well: Soviet national institutions were built in part by a generation that the Soviet state later decimated. The system had encouraged local intellectuals to construct republican cultures, only to accuse many of those same intellectuals of nationalism once the political environment changed.

The republics, however, survived the people who had helped construct them. That fact complicates both Soviet triumphalism and the idea that the institutions of Central Asian nationhood were merely artificial shells. A school system remains a political reality even after its founders are purged; a standardised language continues to shape generations after the intellectuals who codified it have disappeared. By the middle of the twentieth century, the republics had become institutional ecosystems with ministries, universities, artistic establishments, party hierarchies and administrative borders that organised the lives of millions of people.

The republics outlived the Soviet Union

The political significance of those institutions became unmistakable in 1991. Central Asian republics did not generally campaign for independence with the intensity seen in the Baltic states, Georgia or parts of Ukraine. Kazakhstan was the last Soviet republic to declare independence, in December 1991, and its population had earlier voted overwhelmingly in favour of preserving a reformed union. Yet when the Soviet Union disappeared, the Central Asian republics did not dissolve into one another, and they did not surrender their sovereignty back to Moscow. Instead, each inherited national administrations, education systems, territorial borders, political elites and institutional cultures that had developed over decades. Their post-Soviet governments then reworked these inheritances to construct national narratives of their own.

This does not mean that Russian influence disappeared with the Soviet flag. Economic dependence, labour migration, Russian-language media, security arrangements and institutional ties kept several Central Asian states closely connected to Moscow for decades after 1991. Russia remained particularly important to Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan, while millions of Central Asian citizens continued to live and work in the Russian Federation. Political elites often maintained strong personal and institutional links with Moscow, and Russian remained an important language of administration, education and regional communication. The post-Soviet story was therefore not one of clean geopolitical separation.

But influence is not the same thing as ownership. The states of Central Asia continued to function as distinct political units because the republics created in the Soviet period had become much more than temporary administrative conveniences. Their borders structured economic life and political careers; their education systems created national publics; their cultural institutions produced literature, historical narratives and symbols that people increasingly understood as Uzbek, Kazakh, Kyrgyz, Tajik or Turkmen. Post-Soviet elites had every incentive to strengthen these identities, because their own legitimacy depended on the continued existence of the states they governed. They did not need to invent national institutions from scratch. Much of the infrastructure of statehood was already there.

Why the argument matters today

This is where the historical debate becomes contemporary geopolitics. When Russian commentators describe Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan or other post-Soviet states as “gifts” from Russia, they rely on a particular reading of history: Soviet borders were bestowed by Moscow, and states created through those borders therefore possess less historical legitimacy than Russia itself. The implication is that sovereignty may be conditional, particularly when it conflicts with what Moscow defines as its historical sphere of interest. Recent FPRI analysis documents how this kind of irredentist rhetoric has increasingly targeted Central Asian states. That rhetoric echoes a broader revisionist understanding of the post-Soviet space in which Russia appears as the principal historical subject while its neighbours are reduced to administrative products of Soviet decision-making.

The war against Ukraine has made the political implications of such arguments impossible to dismiss. This does not mean that every provocative statement by a Russian television commentator signals imminent territorial ambition in Central Asia, and treating every rhetorical outburst as evidence of an approaching invasion would itself distort the political situation. But rhetoric matters because it helps normalise a hierarchy of sovereignty. Once some states are described as historically authentic while others are treated as accidental creations, territorial integrity becomes easier to present as negotiable.

Read more on Novastan: The Lexicon of Kazakh Decolonisation

Central Asian responses increasingly reject that hierarchy. Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and other states have diversified diplomatic, economic and security partnerships, expanded ties with China, Turkey, the European Union and Gulf states, and strengthened cooperation with one another. These policies are not necessarily anti-Russian. In many cases, governments continue to seek workable relations with Moscow while simultaneously reducing excessive dependence on it. What has changed is the growing willingness to articulate sovereignty as something inherent rather than something granted by participation in a Russian-led political space.

The history of Soviet nation-building helps explain that confidence. Modern Central Asian statehood was profoundly transformed by Soviet rule, and the republics, borders and institutions of the twentieth century remain central to the countries that exist today. But the region was not politically empty before the Bolsheviks arrived, and nation-building after 1924 was not carried out by Russians alone. It involved Muslim reformers, religious authorities, intellectuals, teachers, bureaucrats and political cadres from Central Asia itself – people who adapted to Soviet institutions, shaped them, resisted them and, in many cases, were eventually destroyed by them.

The historical reality is therefore more complicated than either nationalist myth allows. Moscow did not simply invent Central Asia, but neither did Soviet rule merely impose artificial borders on fully formed ancient nations. Modern Central Asian nationhood emerged from the interaction between older identities, imperial rule, indigenous reform movements, Soviet nationality policy and decades of local institution-building. The states that survived the Soviet Union are products of that history. That does not make their sovereignty artificial. It makes it historical.

By Shakhzoda Khusankhodjaeva. Shakhzoda is a researcher focused on conflict, gender, and regional politics, with a particular interest in Soviet and post-Soviet Central Asia.

The post Who Made the Nations of Central Asia? appeared first on Novastan English.

Historian Fernando Camacho Padilla, coordinator of the GEPI at the Universidad Autónoma de Madrid (UAM), discusses the cultural space linking Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan and other Iranian-speaking communities – and why European academia still struggles to study these connections across modern regional boundaries.

Iran, Afghanistan and Tajikistan are usually placed in different academic and geopolitical categories. Yet the histories, languages and cultures of these countries – and of Iranian-speaking communities extending across Central Asia, the Caucasus and the Middle East – have long been intertwined.

At the UAM, the Grupo de Estudios sobre Pueblos Iranios (GEPI) seeks to approach this wider Iranian world across modern political and disciplinary borders. Its members work on subjects ranging from history and literature to anthropology, gender studies, musicology and political science, while also examining the historical connections between Iranian and Hispanic societies.

Novastan spoke with historian Fernando Camacho Padilla, coordinator of the GEPI, about the meaning of the “Iranian world”, the place of Central Asia within it, the development of Iranian studies in Spain and the role academic diplomacy can play in maintaining connections across politically divided regions.

Novastan: To begin, could you briefly introduce yourself and explain how your interest in Iran and, more broadly, the Iranian peoples began?

Fernando Camacho Padilla: I had a certain familiarity with Iran from childhood, as one of my parents’ colleagues and friends was Iranian and we spent quite a lot of time with him. The Iranian Revolution, the Iran-Iraq War and the situation in the country frequently came up in family conversations.

Later, during the almost nine years I lived in Sweden, I met several Iranian exiles as well as young second-generation Iranians. In 2010, after reading extensively about the country and becoming increasingly interested in its geopolitical situation, I decided to travel to Iran.

I contacted the University of Tehran and proposed giving several workshops or courses on the contemporary history of Latin America, which was already my main field of specialisation. The response was positive and, in 2011, I had the opportunity to spend some time teaching at the university.

That experience allowed me to travel through different parts of the country for the first time. Between then and 2022, I travelled to Iran on nine occasions.

The name of GEPI refers to “Iranian peoples”, rather than simply Iran. How would you define this historical, linguistic and cultural space?

The “Iranian world” is still a relatively little-known concept and often causes some confusion, because its boundaries vary depending on the definition being used.

For GEPI, it refers to a broad cultural space encompassing areas of Central and Western Asia that have historically been shaped by Iranian civilisations or by the presence of peoples speaking languages belonging to the Iranian branch of the Indo-European language family.

It is therefore not limited to the modern state of Iran. It also includes Afghanistan and Tajikistan, the Kurdish regions, and particular communities and historical areas in countries such as Syria, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Kyrgyzstan, among others.

One element shared by many of these societies is the celebration of Nowruz, the new year festival with pre-Islamic roots that is closely associated with the Zoroastrian tradition originating in ancient Iran.

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

In Spain, Iran, Afghanistan and Central Asia are often studied separately. What do we lose by dividing regions with so many historical, linguistic and cultural connections into different academic categories?

This is an important problem in Spain, and one that specialists in the Iranian world have pointed out on many occasions.

So far, there has not been sufficient academic or political will to establish a distinct and permanent space dedicated to its study, as exists in other countries in Europe, Asia and North America.

Iran generally occupies a secondary place within programmes focused on the Arab or Muslim world, despite its obvious historical, cultural and linguistic particularities.

The countries of Central Asia, meanwhile, barely feature in Asian studies, which tend to concentrate on East and Southeast Asia.

Read more on Novastan: Bukhara Before the Border: Aini and the Politics of Tajik-Uzbek Memory

At GEPI, we try, within the limits of our resources, to help address this gap through academic and public-facing activities, including summer schools and short programmes dedicated to different countries, peoples and cultures of the region.

How have studies of Iran and the Iranian peoples developed in Spain? Which fields are relatively well established, and which remain largely unexplored?

The first courses on contemporary Iran and the Persian language began to be taught at the UAM in the mid-1970s.

Other institutions later followed, including the Complutense University of Madrid, the University of Salamanca and the University of Alicante, while some courses have also been offered occasionally in Granada and Barcelona.

The study of ancient Iranian history has a somewhat longer tradition, although it has generally been approached through archaeology.

By contrast, many other areas connected with the Iranian world remain almost entirely absent from Spanish university curricula. This is the case, for example, with the history and culture of Kurdish peoples, as well as the study of countries and regions such as Afghanistan and Tajikistan.

At GEPI, we try to fill part of this gap, although our possibilities are limited. The conditions at the UAM do not always make it easy to organise such courses, as they must be financially self-sustaining and cover all their costs through tuition fees. That means attracting a considerable number of students.

You coordinate the Group for the Study of Iranian Peoples at the UAM. Why was GEPI created, and what are its main objectives?

GEPI emerged from the need to bring together and coordinate Spanish lecturers and researchers – many of them of Iranian origin – interested in studying the Iranian world in all its breadth.

We also wanted to provide a common framework for the different projects and activities that were already under way, while establishing links with universities in the Ibero-American world and elsewhere.

The idea of creating the group first emerged in 2017, although it could not be formally established until December 2021. Our main objective is to give greater continuity and coherence to research on the Iranian world.

Read more on Novastan: From the Pamirs to the Aral Sea: Following the Amu Darya Through Central Asia

The group is interdisciplinary and brings together specialists in visual arts, history, gender studies, anthropology, musicology, political science and literature, among other disciplines, primarily within the humanities and social sciences.

In addition to regularly organising seminars and academic conferences, both in Spain and abroad, we have curated painting and photography exhibitions, created a podcast series featuring numerous interviews, and published books, academic articles and more accessible pieces for a general audience.

So far, we have developed three research projects, and we hope to launch new ones in the near future. These projects have already resulted in several books, as well as numerous articles and chapters in edited volumes.

Our research focuses primarily on relations, contacts and mutual representations between the Iranian and Hispanic worlds, both understood in a broad sense, although some members of the group also pursue research devoted exclusively to Iranian societies.

One of the main strands of your work concerns the historical relationship between Iran, Spain and Latin America. What have been some of the most important contacts between these regions?

Within GEPI, one of my main areas of interest is the historical and cultural relationship between the Iranian and Hispanic worlds. Contacts between them go back several centuries and encompass both political and social dimensions.

Among the most important sources are the chronicles written by diplomats who travelled in both directions from the 17th century onwards. These are of considerable historical and cultural value.

The work of the Spanish diplomat and traveller Adolfo Rivadeneyra is also particularly important. He travelled through Iran in the second half of the 19th century and left valuable descriptions of the country.

Curiously, despite being closer to us in time, the 20th century remains the least understood period in Iran’s relations with Spain and Latin America. Publications appearing in recent years are beginning to fill that gap, however, and GEPI has played an important role in this effort both within and outside Spain.

Among the lesser-known episodes are Ahmad Shah Qajar’s visit to Spain in 1922 and Mohammad Reza Pahlavi’s visit in 1957, as well as the latter’s trips to Argentina, Venezuela and Mexico.

The growing presence of the Spanish language and Hispanic culture in Iran also deserves greater attention.

Personally, I am especially interested in the work of the Spanish representative in Iran during the First World War. In addition to protecting the diplomatic interests of powers belonging to both sides in the conflict, he intervened on behalf of Christian minorities in northwestern Iran during the second Ottoman occupation.

It was an especially dramatic period, marked by terrible massacres committed against Armenian and Assyrian communities.

Relations between Iran and Latin America are often portrayed as recent and driven primarily by contemporary geopolitics. What does a broader historical perspective reveal?

Unfortunately, that perception is widespread, largely because there is still a shortage of rigorous research based on historical archives.

The available sources show that relations between Iran and several Latin American countries began as early as the start of the 20th century and were marked by episodes of considerable interest that remain poorly understood.

During the reign of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, these relationships became more intense and significant, particularly from the 1940s and 1950s onwards.

Iran developed important relations with countries including Argentina, Brazil, the Dominican Republic, Peru and Chile.

It is a much richer history than is generally assumed, and one that still offers many possibilities for further research.

GEPI is involved in the project “Crossed Perspectives between the Iranian and Hispanic Worlds”. What does it mean to study these relations through “crossed perspectives”?

Speaking of “crossed perspectives” means studying these relationships in both directions, looking at how each space has come to know, interpret and imagine the other.

The project analyses images of the Iranian world constructed within Hispanic societies, while at the same time examining perceptions of Spain and Latin America that emerged in Iran and other societies shaped by Persian cultural traditions.

Through history, politics, literature and visual culture, we seek to understand which experiences, events and prejudices have shaped these representations.

We pay particular attention to periods of revolution, war and crisis, and to their impact on women, children and minorities.

The ultimate objective is to move beyond simplified representations and encourage a closer and more reciprocal understanding between the two worlds.

You have also studied the image of Kurdistan in the Hispanic world. How has that image developed historically?

The image of Kurdistan in Spain and Latin America is relatively recent.

Although earlier references existed in travel writing, literary works and specialist studies, for a long time they remained confined to a very limited audience.

Awareness began to grow in the 1970s and particularly in the 1980s, when the Iran-Iraq War and the development of mass media gave greater visibility to the Kurdish question.

Since then, the press, travellers’ accounts, literature and political solidarity networks have brought Kurdish struggles and experiences closer to Hispanic audiences, especially in the context of contemporary conflicts.

A generally positive image of Kurdish peoples has tended to prevail in the Hispanic imagination. They are often perceived as less fundamentalist than neighbouring societies, relatively more open on questions of gender and, above all, as victims of numerous injustices, persecution and repressive policies.

In Spain, the work of journalist Manuel Martorell has been crucial in bringing greater public attention to Kurdish history and society. In more recent years, I would also highlight the work of historian and writer Yashmina María Shawki-Aziz Gómez.

In your work, you have emphasised the importance of academic diplomacy. What can cooperation between universities and researchers achieve that traditional diplomacy cannot always accomplish?

Academic diplomacy has the capacity to build bridges where politics encounters obstacles.

Direct contact between universities, researchers and students makes it possible to share knowledge, establish networks of trust and maintain common projects even when relations between governments deteriorate.

It also helps people understand other societies beyond conflicts and the simplified images frequently presented by the media.

In the case of the Iranian world, these exchanges can reveal its cultural and social diversity and challenge many deeply rooted prejudices.

Academic diplomacy does not replace traditional diplomacy, but it can keep dialogue open during periods of tension and prepare the ground for greater mutual understanding and future forms of cooperation.

What practical difficulties stand in the way of academic cooperation between Spain and countries such as Iran, Afghanistan or the states of Central Asia?

The difficulties do not have a single cause, but rather reflect a combination of political, economic and institutional factors.

In the case of the Islamic Republic of Iran, relations are not a priority for Spain in the short or medium term because of the current context of war. Nor were they a major priority previously, given the nature of Iran’s government and the influence of the United States’ position.

Spain has generally maintained a somewhat closer and more amicable attitude towards Iran than some other European partners, although without developing a genuinely deep relationship. At the same time, it opposes the war, which it considers illegal and which has had terrible human consequences as well as repercussions for the global economy.

Read more on Novastan: Uzbekistan: towards greater cooperation with Iran?

With other countries in the region, the difficulties are different. Cooperation with Afghanistan is extremely complicated while the Taliban remain in power, particularly because of their treatment of women and other serious violations of basic human rights.

With Tajikistan, relations are practically non-existent.

The Kurdish question is also sensitive because one of the central principles of Spanish foreign policy is to avoid links or positions that could be interpreted as support for separatist movements.

In Iran, the Spanish Embassy provides support and assistance, and some individual initiatives receive funding. However, there is no substantial state budget prioritising this region, including through the Spanish Agency for International Development Cooperation.

Political barriers, a lack of resources and limited knowledge therefore all play a role, although I would not necessarily describe the problem as a lack of interest.

The financial support received by some GEPI projects shows that there is a willingness to support initiatives focused on the region. At the same time, however, we also have to recognise that Spanish civil society and academia themselves need to show greater initiative in developing this kind of cooperation.

GEPI also organises public events, cultural activities and a podcast series. Why is it important for academic research to reach beyond the university?

We believe research acquires its full value when it is shared and helps people understand realities that often reach the public surrounded by prejudice or reduced entirely to political conflict.

That is why we combine seminars and conferences with exhibitions, cinema, music, public meetings and podcasts. These formats allow us to reach not only researchers and students, but also journalists, members of diaspora communities, cultural associations and anyone interested in Iranian peoples.

The response has been very positive, and we have achieved considerable reach beyond academia. Our mailing list now includes several hundred people, although only a minority attend events regularly.

What matters most is that many people with no formal connection to the university come to the UAM and participate in its activities.

Collaboration has been crucial to making this possible, including with other universities, associations such as the Centro Persépolis, different institutions and several embassies representing countries in Western and Central Asia in Spain.

These partnerships broaden our audiences and help turn the university into a more open space for encounter and dialogue.

Looking ahead, do you see opportunities to expand GEPI’s work on Central Asia and strengthen cooperation with researchers, universities and specialised media in the region and across Europe?

One of our next challenges is to develop more clearly defined research lines focusing on specific geographical areas.

We already have some experience working on Afghanistan and Kurdistan, but Tajikistan remains unfinished business for us, as do other parts of Central Asia about which there is still very little knowledge in Spain.

We believe there are good opportunities to strengthen cooperation with researchers, universities and specialised media both in the region itself and in Europe.

In particular, we are beginning to strengthen cooperation with the Centro Universitario Internacional para Europa del Este y Asia Central (CUNEAC) at the University of Cádiz, which already has solid academic links with several universities in Central Asia. So far, we have organised two major activities on Uzbekistan in Madrid, and we are beginning to plan others in Cádiz itself and at several Central Asian universities. We hope Novastan will be able to take part in some of these occasions.

We also want to continue the podcast series, broaden its themes and begin recording in more languages, rather than only Spanish and English.

We are particularly interested in developing closer links with the Portuguese-speaking world, especially Portugal and Brazil, and in conducting interviews in Persian, different varieties of Kurdish and other minority languages of the region.

In the longer term, we would like to establish an academic journal, although that will require greater institutional and financial support.

In any case, we remain optimistic. GEPI has continued to grow and expand its connections since its creation.

That has been possible thanks to the collective commitment of everyone involved in the group and their determination to develop initiatives that contribute to the growth of Iranian studies in Spain and Latin America.

Interview conducted in Spanish and translated into English by Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan English.

The post Iran, Central Asia and the Limits of Academic Geography appeared first on Novastan English.

Clarinetist Sayyod Mirzomurodov and pianist Mariya Akhadjanova have released Contemporary Uzbek Music for Clarinet and Piano, the first commercial album devoted entirely to contemporary Uzbek repertoire for the two instruments. Issued by the British label Clarinet & Saxophone Classics, the 72-minute recording brings together nine works by six composers, all presented as world-premiere recordings.

The project combines established pieces with new works written specifically for Mirzomurodov. It grew out of his effort to document, expand and bring international attention to a repertoire that had often remained inaccessible beyond Uzbekistan because of the scarcity of published scores, professional recordings and international distribution.

In this interview with Novastan’s Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, Mirzomurodov discusses his path from Surkhandarya to the United States, the influence of maqom and other Uzbek musical traditions on contemporary composition, his collaboration with Akhadjanova and the wider challenge of bringing Uzbek academic music to international audiences.

Novastan: Could you begin by telling us about your path as a clarinetist and your relationship with Uzbek classical music?

Sayyod Mirzomurodov: I was born and raised in O’zgarish, in the Sariosiyo district of Surkhandarya, in southern Uzbekistan. Music was present in my family from an early age. My father, Sultonmurod Saidov, was an artist and founded the Tajik band Parvin, which was known not only in Surkhandarya but also in Samarkand, Bukhara, Tajikistan and Afghanistan.

He was a perfectionist who expected a very high standard from himself. His seriousness towards artistic work had a lasting influence on me.

When I was in the fifth grade, I moved to Tashkent and entered the V. A. Uspensky Specialized Music School, where I began studying the clarinet. I later continued at the State Conservatory of Uzbekistan. My clarinet teacher, Bakhodir Salikhov, played an especially important role in my development.

Read more on Novastan: From Uzbekistan to Strasbourg: Aziz Shokhakimov, a conductor between cultures and languages

Another major influence was Timur Vyacheslavovich Mirzaev, the conductor of the student wind orchestra. His detailed and inspiring approach encouraged me to think beyond simply playing the correct notes and to understand the larger meaning, character and structure of the music.

In 2017, I moved to the United States to study with Amanda McCandless at the University of Northern Iowa, where I completed a Master of Music degree in clarinet performance. I later began a Doctor of Musical Arts programme at the University of Iowa, studying with Jorge Montilla and working as a teaching assistant.

Most of my early formal education was centred on the Western classical tradition. I played the standard European clarinet repertoire but did not yet have a deep understanding of the history and richness of Uzbek academic music.

As my career developed, especially after I left Uzbekistan, I became increasingly interested in my own cultural and musical roots. I began searching for works by Uzbek composers, speaking with composers directly, researching maqom and Uzbek musical history and presenting this repertoire in my recitals.

What began as a personal search eventually became a central part of my artistic work and a responsibility that I felt towards this repertoire.

How did the idea for an album devoted entirely to Uzbek clarinet music emerge?

The idea first came to me when I was an undergraduate at the State Conservatory of Uzbekistan. Even then, I understood that the main problem was not necessarily an absence of repertoire. Much of the repertoire was simply insufficiently documented, professionally recorded, published or made available internationally.

When I began my doctoral studies at the University of Iowa, I learned that I could complete a major creative recording project as part of my doctoral work. I immediately knew that I wanted to record Uzbek music.

Initially, I imagined documenting several existing works. But I also wanted the project to stimulate the creation of new repertoire. I first approached Nurali Erkaev and explained my idea to him. He responded enthusiastically and wrote Sonata-Fantaziya for me.

Through that collaboration, I developed connections with other composers. Sherzod Sobirov wrote his Fantasy, Farrukh Akramov composed his Sonata for Clarinet and Piano, and Mustafo Bafoyev wrote Buxorcha. All four works were dedicated to me. Bafoyev later wrote another piece for me, Ston Serdtsa – Cry of the Heart – which will be included on my next album.

What began as a smaller doctoral recording project eventually expanded into a 72-minute album containing nine works by six composers.

I realised there was enough material for a complete album when I saw how the new commissions could be placed alongside important existing works, including Anvar Ergashev’s Eastern Capriccio, Mustafo Bafoyev’s Clarinet Concerto and lyrical pieces representing other dimensions of the Uzbek school of composition.

The album is therefore not simply a collection of unrelated works. It presents several generations, forms and artistic directions, including fantasy, sonata, song-poem, poem-ballad, lyrical miniature, capriccio and concerto.

Together, these pieces demonstrate that Uzbek clarinet music already possesses considerable artistic depth and diversity, even though none of them had previously been commercially recorded.

Who are the composers represented on the album?

The album includes six composers from different generations and artistic directions within Uzbek professional music.

Mustafo Bafoyev is one of the most prominent figures in contemporary Uzbek music. His catalogue includes symphonic, chamber, operatic, ballet and stage music. His works combine Uzbek and Tajik intonational traditions with a sophisticated contemporary language.

Four of his works appear on the album, making him a central figure in the programme. They reveal different periods and dimensions of his music, from the early lyricism of Lirik Hikoya to the large-scale Clarinet Concerto and the newly composed Buxorcha.

Habibulla Rahimov is an established composer and educator with extensive experience writing for wind instruments. His music has been performed in Uzbekistan, elsewhere in Central Asia and internationally. His Poema-ballada represents one of the album’s more abstract and experimental sound worlds.

Anvar Ergashev was one of Uzbekistan’s most influential composers, as well as an accomplished pianist and conductor. His music is distinguished by vivid imagery, theatrical energy, rich instrumental colour and strong emotional intensity. He combined European classical forms with Eastern melodic and rhythmic traditions in a highly individual manner.

His Eastern Capriccio, written for the clarinetist Bakhodir Salikhov, is probably the most frequently performed Uzbek clarinet work represented on the album. It combines virtuosity, lyricism, improvisatory freedom and a strong theatrical character.

Nurali Erkaev is a composer, scholar and educator whose work combines serious academic research with creative imagination. His Sonata-Fantaziya brings together maqom-inspired phrasing, contemporary harmony, rhythmic transformation and the dramatic freedom of the fantasy genre.

Farrukh Akramov represents a younger generation of Uzbek composers connected with international contemporary-music festivals and masterclasses. His music combines modal lyricism and carefully developed musical ideas with modern harmony and texture.

Sherzod Sobirov is a composer and educator whose work includes chamber music, orchestration and music for traditional Uzbek instruments. His Fantasy has strong rhythmic energy, lyrical contrast and a contemporary treatment of Uzbek musical colour.

Together, these composers show that Uzbek academic music cannot be reduced to a single style. The album connects established senior figures with younger composers who are continuing and transforming the tradition in their own ways.

Is there something recognisably Uzbek about music written for Western instruments such as the clarinet and piano?

Yes, although it is not always a matter of hearing a direct quotation from a traditional melody. In many of these works, the Uzbek character is expressed through melodic behaviour, ornamentation, modal colour, rhythm, flexibility of phrasing and the relationship between instrumental music and the human voice.

Maqom and shashmaqom are especially important sources. Their influence can be heard in characteristic modal patterns, melodic turns, ornamental figures, rhythmic organisation and the gradual development of a musical line. Certain passages use modal inflections resembling a Phrygian colour, as well as augmented seconds and other intervals associated with Eastern melodic expression. Traditional rhythmic cycles, or usul, also influence contemporary works, sometimes through irregular or changing metres.

Another important quality is nola: an emotionally charged melodic sigh or cry. In Uzbek music, a line is often expected to breathe, bend, ornament and intensify almost as a singer would. The clarinet is particularly suited to this language because its sound can be very close to the human voice. It can move from an intimate, almost whispered tone to intense expression, laughter-like brightness or virtuosic energy.

Bafoyev’s Buxorcha, for example, draws on the musical world of Bukhara and on intonations related to mavrigi, shashmaqom and local song-and-dance traditions. The clarinet takes on a vocal and ornamented role, while the piano provides a flexible harmonic and rhythmic framework and participates actively in the musical dialogue. Together, the two instruments move between reflective lyricism and energetic, dance-like motion.

Sobirov’s Fantasy uses a Phrygian-flavoured sound world, song-like melodic lines, rapid changes of character and dance-like rhythmic energy. Erkaev’s Sonata-Fantaziya places maqom-inspired phrasing and rhythmic patterns within a contemporary harmonic framework.

Ergashev’s Eastern Capriccio uses augmented seconds, chromatic figuration, ornamentation, changing metres and rhythmic freedom to create an improvisatory character.

The music is therefore recognisably Uzbek not because every work imitates traditional music, but because the composers have absorbed its way of breathing, shaping melody, creating rhythm and expressing emotion.

How did the encounter between European classical forms and local traditions shape Uzbek composition?

The development of Uzbek academic music during the twentieth century involved a complex encounter between two musical systems.

Uzbekistan already possessed highly developed traditions such as maqom, shashmaqom, folk song, regional dance music and the ustoz-shogird teacher-student system, through which music was passed from one generation to another through listening, imitation, direct practice and close personal instruction.

During the Soviet period, Western systems of notation, harmony, counterpoint, formal design, orchestration and conservatory education became institutionalised.

This encounter transformed both traditions. Uzbek composers began using Western forms such as the sonata, concerto, symphony, opera, ballet and chamber ensemble while drawing on local modes, melodic gestures, rhythms, poetry and instrumental colours.

The move towards notation and institutional education was also important. Figures such as Yunus Rajabiy helped preserve and notate maqom repertoire, allowing later composers and conservatory-trained performers to study this material and reinterpret it for modern instruments.

Earlier composers such as Mutal Burhanov, Sulaymon Yudakov, Tolibjon Sadikov and Mansur Mansurov helped establish the foundations of Soviet-era Uzbek academic music. Later composers, including Felix Yanov-Yanovsky, developed increasingly individual and sophisticated musical languages.

Since independence, the interaction between national tradition and contemporary composition has continued, but it has become more stylistically diverse.

Some composers remain close to maqom, folk melody and recognisable regional traditions. Others use abstraction, dissonance, experimental textures or international contemporary techniques while retaining subtler elements of Uzbek musical thinking.

Contemporary Uzbek academic music is therefore not simply Western music with Eastern decoration. It is the result of more than a century of creative interaction between different systems of musical thought.

How did you locate the music, and what was it like to work directly with the composers?

The process was based largely on personal research and direct contact with composers, their families and performers connected with the repertoire.

None of the nine works on the album had previously been commercially recorded, although some, especially Ergashev’s Eastern Capriccio, already had a performance history.

Most of the scores were not available through international publishers or standard music catalogues. Many were sent to me directly by the composers or obtained during the collaborative process.

Eastern Capriccio requires a special explanation. Although the work circulated among clarinetists and appeared in certain collections, it had never been formally issued by a commercial publisher and could not be purchased through a regular catalogue.

I obtained the musical material from Anvar Ergashev’s widow, Namuna Ergasheva, who holds the copyright. I also consulted my former conservatory professor Bakhodir Salikhov, for whom the work was composed and to whom it was dedicated.

Bafoyev’s Clarinet Concerto had an orchestral performance available online, but there was no commercial recording and no known recording of the piano reduction used on the album.

For the newly commissioned works, the process was much more collaborative. The composers sent initial versions from Uzbekistan, and I played through the clarinet parts in the United States.

I then shared observations about register, breathing, articulation, technical difficulty, balance with the piano and which passages felt natural or less effective on the instrument. The composers revised the scores, and gradually polished versions emerged.

The artistic voice remained entirely the composer’s. My role was to contribute the practical and expressive perspective of the performer and to help the composer use the clarinet as effectively as possible.

During a meeting with Nurali Erkaev in Tashkent in the summer of 2024, we discussed Sonata-Fantaziya in detail, including its musical character, phrasing, harmony, form and the relationship between the clarinet and piano. This direct discussion had an important effect on the way I interpreted the work.

Four of the newly written pieces were premiered during my doctoral recital in March 2025 with Mariya Akhadjanova. Performing them before the recording allowed us to understand what worked in a live setting and continue refining our interpretation.

For me, this was one of the most meaningful aspects of the project. I was not only preserving repertoire from the past. I was participating in the creation of repertoire that had not previously existed.

How did your collaboration with pianist Mariya Akhadjanova shape the recording?

My collaboration with Mariya began while we were studying at the State Conservatory of Uzbekistan. We performed together frequently in concerts, masterclasses and special events in Tashkent.

She was the natural and ideal partner for this project. She is an outstanding pianist and collaborative musician, with a beautiful sound, refined technique, musical intelligence and the ability to understand both the large structure of a work and its smallest expressive details.

I was also fortunate that she was studying at the University of Iowa. Being at the same institution allowed us to rehearse regularly, return repeatedly to difficult passages and work over a long period rather than preparing the album in only a few concentrated meetings.

Mariya is from Uzbekistan and studied at the State Conservatory before continuing her education at the University of Northern Iowa and beginning her doctorate at the University of Iowa. She therefore has a deep understanding of both Uzbek musical traditions and Western classical performance practice.

That shared cultural background was important because many stylistic details are difficult to explain through words or notation alone. We often understood naturally how a phrase should breathe, where the music needed flexibility, how an ornament should be shaped or when a rhythm should feel more like speech or dance.

At the same time, we did not assume that cultural familiarity alone was sufficient. We studied the scores carefully, researched the composers, discussed the structure and character of every section and tested different balances, articulations, tempos and colours.

We also wanted to avoid treating the piano as a secondary accompaniment. In many of these works, the piano creates the rhythmic environment, dramatic tension, harmonic colour and orchestral scale. The clarinet and piano function as equal partners in a dialogue.

The album was recorded in December 2025 in the Concert Hall of the Voxman Music Building at the University of Iowa. Our aim was to respect the Uzbek character of the works while presenting them at a high professional chamber-music standard.

Why has Uzbek classical music remained relatively unknown internationally?

There are several interconnected reasons.

The first is access. Many scores by Uzbek composers are not distributed by major international publishers. A musician outside Uzbekistan may not know that a work exists, may not know where to obtain it or may need a personal connection with the composer, the composer’s family or another musician.

The second problem is the lack of professional recordings. A score is important, but notation alone cannot fully communicate all the stylistic details of Uzbek music.

A performer unfamiliar with the tradition may read the correct notes but still miss the national intonation, ornamentation, flexibility of phrase, rhythmic freedom or an expression such as nola. Recordings provide an essential interpretive reference.

Another reason is that Uzbek music abroad is often represented mainly through folk or traditional genres. Those traditions are extremely important, but they do not represent the country’s entire musical culture.

The contemporary academic layer – sonatas, concertos, chamber works, operas, ballets and symphonic works – is much less visible.

There have also been limited systems for publishing, professional recording, rights management, promotion and international distribution. An important work may be performed at a concert in Uzbekistan and then disappear from public access because the performance is not professionally documented or distributed.

Programming habits are another factor. International performers and institutions naturally return to established repertoire that already has scores, recordings, teaching traditions and audience recognition. It is much more difficult for unknown music to enter that cycle.

The album has already begun to change this situation. For the first time, all nine works exist together in a professionally produced commercial recording, released by the British specialist label Clarinet & Saxophone Classics and available internationally.

I am also collaborating with a publishing company, the composers and the relevant rights holders to prepare official editions of the scores. The recordings are already accessible internationally, and the scores are being prepared for publication so that the repertoire will also become officially and practically available to performers around the world.

Which works and composers would you recommend to listeners who want to explore Uzbek academic music further?

For a clarinetist beginning to explore this repertoire, I would recommend Anvar Ergashev’s Eastern Capriccio. It is virtuosic, colourful and theatrical, and is perhaps the most established Uzbek clarinet work internationally.

I would also recommend Nurali Erkaev’s Sonata-Fantaziya. It presents a particularly strong synthesis of Uzbek-inspired intonation, contemporary harmony, formal development, rhythmic energy and expressive freedom. It has a clear national character without depending on direct quotation, and gives both the clarinetist and pianist substantial artistic roles.

Bafoyev’s Buxorcha offers a strong connection to the musical traditions of Bukhara, while his Clarinet Concerto demonstrates the larger symphonic possibilities of Uzbek clarinet writing. Akramov’s Sonata and Sobirov’s Fantasy show two contrasting contemporary approaches.

Beyond the album, I would encourage listeners to explore composers such as Felix and Dmitri Yanov-Yanovsky, Mirsodiq Tojiev, Ikrom Akbarov and Rustambek Abdullaev, as well as other composers whose work has shaped modern Uzbek academic music.

Uzbekistan is becoming increasingly connected internationally. Are you seeing a similar opening in its classical-music scene?

Yes, I believe there are clear signs of greater international openness. This process is already taking place through composers, performers, universities, festivals, recordings and digital communication.

Uzbek composers are increasingly participating in international festivals, masterclasses, research conferences and contemporary-music programmes. Farrukh Akramov’s music, for example, has been presented in the United States, Europe, Asia and other former Soviet countries. Sherzod Sobirov’s works have also been performed internationally.

Nurali Erkaev is another important example. He combines composition, scholarship and education, and his work is rooted in serious study of Uzbek orchestration and national musical identity while also using a contemporary language that can communicate internationally.

My collaboration with him demonstrates how these connections can develop. He wrote Sonata-Fantaziya for me in Uzbekistan while I was studying and performing in the United States. I premiered the work, discussed it with him directly in Tashkent, performed it at Carnegie Hall and at universities and concert venues, and then recorded it commercially for an international label.

Performers and students from Uzbekistan are also studying abroad and creating connections between institutions and musical communities. Digital platforms make it possible for composers and performers to exchange scores and recordings almost immediately, even when they live on different continents.

The release of this album by a British label is another concrete example of this opening. It has placed works by six Uzbek composers in an international commercial recording catalogue and made them available to listeners, libraries, educators, researchers and performers in different countries.

What would success for this project ultimately mean to you?

For me, this project is already a success.

It is the first commercial album devoted entirely to contemporary Uzbek music for clarinet and piano. The fact that these nine works now exist together in a professionally produced and internationally available recording is already a major artistic and cultural achievement.

They can be heard internationally, studied by musicians and researchers and used as interpretive references by performers who previously had no practical way of encountering this repertoire.

I am deeply grateful to Victoria Samek and her team at Clarinet & Saxophone Classics for believing in the project and helping bring it to completion. Their experience and commitment gave this repertoire a professional international platform.

The effect is also visible in live performance. After concerts, students, professors, clarinetists and other musicians regularly approach me to ask about the composers, recordings and scores.

Musicians are already studying the repertoire, requesting the music and beginning to perform it themselves. The album is therefore not simply being heard as a finished recording. It is generating further musical activity.

Even before the recording was completed, I saw an example of this effect. After I premiered several of the new works, another performer contacted one of the composers to learn more about a piece and discuss the possibility of commissioning another work. This showed that the repertoire had already begun creating new artistic connections.

The official publication of the scores is the next stage. I am working with the composers, rights holders and a publishing company so that musicians around the world can obtain and perform the complete repertoire represented on the album.

The project has demonstrated that contemporary Uzbek academic music can stand on an international stage not simply as a cultural curiosity, but as substantial, expressive and artistically valuable chamber music.

For people from Uzbekistan and Central Asia living abroad, the album can create a connection to culture, memory and the feeling of home. For listeners with no previous connection to Uzbekistan, it opens a musical world they may never have encountered before.

Contemporary Uzbek Music for Clarinet and Piano is available through Clarinet & Saxophone Classics.

Interview by Mathieu Lemoine, Editor-in-Chief for Novastan English.

The post When the clarinet speaks Uzbek: bringing an overlooked classical repertoire to the world appeared first on Novastan English.

From Kazakhstan’s pine-covered lakes to Kyrgyzstan’s walnut groves and the tugai forests of the Amu Darya, Central Asia is considerably greener than its international image suggests. But fires, mass tourism and development are testing whether landscapes designated as protected are also protected in practice.

In the height of summer, a spark can be enough.

It may come from a campfire left smouldering beneath the trees, a cigarette discarded beside a road or machinery operating in dry grass. Heat, wind and vegetation do the rest. For the foresters and rangers responsible for Central Asia’s protected landscapes, the first sign may be a thread of smoke rising behind a mountain ridge. By the time a fire is visible from the nearest village, reaching it may already require hours on rough tracks with limited equipment.

Wildfires have made forests an urgent political issue far beyond Central Asia. Yet the region is rarely included in international conversations about them. To many outsiders, Central Asia remains a land of steppe, high mountains and desert: spectacular, certainly, but largely treeless.

The reality is more complicated.

Spruce forests climb the slopes of the Tian Shan. Walnut and wild-fruit trees cover parts of southern Kyrgyzstan. Pine and birch grow among the lakes and granite formations of northern Kazakhstan. Juniper woodlands survive in the mountains of Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. Along the Amu Darya and other rivers, fragments of tugai forest still provide shelter to deer, wild boar and migratory birds. Turkmenistan’s mountains and deserts contain pistachio woodland, juniper, tamarisk and saxaul adapted to some of the harshest conditions in Eurasia.

These landscapes store water, stabilise soil, support rural livelihoods and shelter wildlife. They are also being asked to perform another function: attract a rapidly growing number of visitors.

The result is a regional dilemma. Central Asian governments are creating and expanding protected areas, promoting ecotourism and announcing ambitious restoration targets. At the same time, their forests and parks face hotter conditions, fires, grazing, construction, waste and, in several countries, limited enforcement capacity.

Read more on Novastan: From the Pamirs to the Aral Sea: Following the Amu Darya Through Central Asia

The important question is therefore not only how many national parks Central Asia has. It is how effectively they are protected.

A region greener than its reputation

Central Asia’s forests are not the continuous temperate woodlands found elsewhere. Many are fragmented, highly localised and adapted to mountain, river or desert environments. Their relative scarcity makes them particularly valuable.

In eastern Kazakhstan, Katon-Karagay National Park reaches from forest and meadow to alpine tundra in the Altai Mountains. Siberian larch, fir, spruce, birch and cedar pine provide habitat for maral deer, brown bears, lynx, ibex and the elusive snow leopard. Kazakhstan describes Katon-Karagay as its largest national park and one of its most intact protected landscapes.

Read more on Novastan: How Central Asia is trying to protect the snow leopard

Farther west, the pine forests of Burabay and Bayanaul emerge almost unexpectedly from the surrounding steppe. Their lakes and accessible landscapes have made them popular tourist destinations, but accessibility brings pressure: more vehicles, more informal campsites, more rubbish and a greater likelihood that human activity will start a fire.

In Kyrgyzstan, the walnut-fruit forests around Arslanbob are among the region’s most distinctive human landscapes. Walnuts grow alongside wild apple, pear, plum and hawthorn. Local families have long depended on collecting nuts and fruit, meaning that conservation cannot be separated from questions of access, income and community rights. Forests cover only a small proportion of Kyrgyzstan’s territory, but they remain an important ecological and economic asset.

Higher in the Tian Shan, Schrenk spruce and juniper forests surround parks such as Ala-Archa, Chong-Kemin and Besh-Tash. Camera traps in Besh-Tash recorded snow leopards, argali, Siberian ibex, wolves and foxes in 2025, a reminder that protected areas contain living ecosystems rather than simply scenic backdrops for visitors.

Read more on Novastan: Artists and activists raise awareness for Bishkek’s waste problem

Uzbekistan’s mountain parks protect juniper woodland, wild-fruit species and habitats used by bears, ibex, lynx, vultures and other birds of prey. In the west, the newly created Aralkum National Nature Park represents a very different experiment: protecting life emerging in and around the former bed of the Aral Sea. Uzbek authorities report that the park contains 25 animal species, including four listed in the national Red Book.

Tajikistan’s forests cover only a small part of the country, but their ecological function is disproportionate to their area. Juniper, pistachio, almond and riverine vegetation help hold mountain soils together and regulate water. Our media partner Asia-Plus has reported that forest cover is now approximately three percent of Tajikistan’s territory and that the country’s once-extensive tugai forests have contracted dramatically under agricultural pressure.

Turkmenistan relies less on the designation “national park” than its neighbours. Its conservation system is organised largely around state reserves, including Badkhyz, Köýtendag, Repetek, Kaplankyr and Syunt-Hasardag. These protect ecosystems ranging from pistachio woodland and mountain habitat to saxaul desert, along with species such as kulan, goitered gazelle, urial and markhor.

Together, these landscapes dismantle the idea of Central Asia as an ecologically uniform expanse of empty land.

How many parks does Central Asia have?

The simple answer is that no simple regional figure is entirely reliable.

Kazakhstan consistently identifies 14 state national nature parks. In Kyrgyzstan, however, published totals vary according to whether sources count only parks administered by the principal protected-areas department or include additional sites under different arrangements. Uzbekistan distinguishes between national parks, national natural parks, natural parks and other protected categories. Tajikistan uses several park and reserve classifications, while Turkmenistan’s system centres on state nature reserves and sanctuaries.

A regional total can therefore be misleading unless the legal categories are harmonised.

This is more than a technical problem. It demonstrates how governments can report growth in protected territory without necessarily making clear what each designation permits. A strict reserve may substantially limit human activity, while a national or nature park can contain zones for tourism, roads, grazing or other forms of use.

All five countries have framework legislation governing specially protected natural territories. Kazakhstan’s principal law dates from 2006, Kyrgyzstan’s current framework from 2011, Uzbekistan’s from 2004, Tajikistan’s from 2011 and Turkmenistan’s from 2012. But these laws operate alongside forest codes, land legislation, fire regulations and individual decisions establishing or rezoning particular parks.

The legal designation is therefore only the beginning. The practical questions are more revealing: Can a hotel be built inside the park? Can livestock graze there? How many rangers patrol it? Who responds when it burns? Can its boundaries be altered to accommodate development?

When ecotourism becomes mass tourism

Kazakhstan illustrates the contradiction particularly clearly.

Its national parks have become central to the country’s domestic-tourism strategy. New roads, visitor centres, accommodation and marked routes can make nature more accessible and generate income for remote regions. But growing visitor numbers also produce waste, soil erosion, traffic and fire risk.

Research and regional reporting have already raised concerns about damage to vegetation and soils along heavily used routes. Kazakhstan is now developing a new biodiversity framework for 2026-2035, under which the total area of specially protected natural territories is expected to increase from approximately 31 million to 33.2 million hectares.

The expansion is significant. Yet adding hectares does not by itself solve overcrowding in the most accessible parks or guarantee that tourism revenue is reinvested in conservation.

Kyrgyzstan faces a similar tension. More than 250,000 people visited the country’s protected zones in 2025, generating 38 million soms in revenue. Environmental specialists interviewed by 24.kg warned that roads and hotels were increasingly reaching previously undisturbed forests.

This raises an uncomfortable question: when a protected landscape becomes economically valuable as a destination, which institution is strong enough to say that no further construction should be allowed?

Tourism is not inherently hostile to conservation. Visitor fees can fund rangers, waste collection, trail maintenance and ecological monitoring. Guides and guesthouses can give local communities an economic reason to preserve wildlife and forests.

But this requires rules based on ecological carrying capacity rather than the assumption that every increase in visitor numbers represents success.

A park can receive more tourists and earn more money while becoming less capable of fulfilling the ecological purpose for which it was established.

New parks, old capacity problems

Uzbekistan is moving rapidly in the opposite direction: rather than confronting only the overcrowding of established destinations, it is significantly enlarging its protected-area system.

On 25 March 2026, the government created the Ovjazsoy-Moviy Toglar, Pskem and Fergana national natural parks, covering a combined 188,800 hectares. It also expanded Pop National Natural Park from 10,000 to 135,300 hectares.

The expansion follows earlier decisions enlarging the Nurata and Surkhan reserves and Zarafshan National Natural Park.

These measures could protect important mountain, forest and riverine habitats before roads, settlement or intensive tourism fragment them further. Uzbekistan is also working with UNDP and the Global Environment Facility on landscape restoration in the Western Tian Shan, Nuratau and Kugitang. The programme aims to improve the management of 1.3 million hectares of forests and rangelands.

Yet rapid territorial expansion produces its own challenge. New parks require trained staff, vehicles, fire equipment, ecological inventories, zoning plans, community consultations and reliable budgets. Without them, a park may exist immediately in law but only gradually on the ground.

The distinction between planting trees and restoring ecosystems is equally important. A plantation can increase an official forest indicator while providing less biodiversity than naturally regenerating native woodland. Saxaul planted to stabilise exposed soil has a different purpose from restoring juniper forest, walnut groves or riverine tugai.

The central question is not whether tree planting is valuable. It is what kind of landscape is being created, for whom and for how long.

Fire as the test of protection

Wildfire is perhaps the clearest test of whether a protected area functions beyond paper.

In Tajikistan, more than 430 hectares of forest were reportedly affected by fires across nine regions in 2025. Extreme heat and human carelessness were identified among the causes.

For a heavily forested country, that area might appear limited. In Tajikistan, where woodland is scarce and often protects vulnerable mountain soil, every burned hectare can have wider consequences. The loss of vegetation can accelerate erosion, damage pasture, reduce water retention and expose nearby settlements to landslides and flooding.

Across the region, remoteness complicates fire response. Protected forests may be separated from the nearest equipment by poor roads or mountain terrain. Rangers are expected to monitor tourists, prevent poaching, manage relations with local communities and respond to fire, often across vast areas.

Technology can improve early detection through cameras, satellite monitoring, drones and automated alerts. But an alert only helps when someone has the equipment, personnel and access needed to act on it.

Climate change further narrows the margin for error. Central Asia is already experiencing land degradation, water scarcity and stress on mountain and desert ecosystems. A hotter, drier landscape turns ordinary negligence into a potentially devastating event.

Who is supporting conservation?

Central Asian states are not dealing with these pressures alone.

The World Bank’s RESILAND initiative supports landscape restoration and climate resilience across the region. It also promotes transboundary protected areas and ecological corridors, recognising that watersheds and wildlife do not stop at political borders.

In Tajikistan, a World Bank investment of $45 million supports landscape restoration, sustainable natural-resource management and climate resilience. In Uzbekistan, the Bank has backed a much larger programme for forest and degraded-land restoration. Regional and national projects are also financed through the Global Environment Facility and implemented by UNDP, FAO and government agencies.

IUCN works with members and state partners in all five Central Asian countries, focusing on biodiversity, protected areas and conservation policy. UNESCO supports natural World Heritage sites and biosphere reserves, while the Critical Ecosystem Partnership Fund has channelled support towards civil-society organisations in the Mountains of Central Asia biodiversity hotspot.

In April 2026, the five Central Asian countries signed a regional declaration on biodiversity conservation in Astana. The declaration is politically important, but its value will ultimately be judged in less ceremonial settings: a ranger station with working equipment, a forest where illegal cutting has stopped, a tourism project relocated away from a fragile habitat, or a village given a meaningful role in managing nearby land.

International projects can provide money, expertise and technology. Their lasting contribution depends on whether they build institutions that continue functioning after a project cycle ends.

Protection with people, not against them

Forests are rarely empty spaces.

People collect walnuts and fruit, graze livestock, gather medicinal plants, work as guides and heat their homes with wood. Restricting access without creating alternatives can turn conservation into a source of conflict. Allowing unrestricted extraction, on the other hand, can gradually destroy the ecosystem on which those livelihoods depend.

This is why the human future of Central Asia’s protected areas matters as much as their legal status.

A family collecting walnuts in southern Kyrgyzstan, a guide leading visitors through the Tian Shan and a ranger watching for smoke may have different immediate interests. But all depend on the forest surviving.

Effective conservation requires communities to receive tangible benefits, participate in decisions and understand why some uses must be restricted. It also requires governments to resist projects that promise quick tourism revenue at the expense of long-term ecological stability.

Central Asia is creating more parks, restoring land and placing biodiversity higher on its regional agenda. Those are real developments. But the coming years will show whether the region is building resilient ecosystems or accumulating protected-area designations.

When smoke rises above a forest, the distinction becomes impossible to ignore.

A boundary drawn on a map cannot stop a fire. A law cannot patrol a mountain trail. A declaration cannot remove rubbish, prevent illegal cutting or persuade a developer to build elsewhere.

For that, a protected area needs people, resources and the political authority to remain protected.

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

The post Central Asia’s Forests Under Pressure appeared first on Novastan English.

Thousands of kilometres before rusting fishing boats appear in the sands of Muynak, the Amu Darya begins as mountain water.

Its headwaters descend from the Pamirs and northern Hindu Kush through the Panj and Vakhsh river systems. The Panj marks much of the Afghan-Tajik border before meeting the Vakhsh; downstream of their confluence, the river takes the name Amu Darya.

From there, it leaves the mountains and enters an entirely different world of deserts, irrigated plains, ancient cities and modern international frontiers.

For centuries, the Amu Darya – the Oxus of antiquity – has helped determine where people could settle and where political power could flourish. Irrigation drawn from its waters sustained some of Central Asia’s great civilizations. Changes in its channels could nourish one settlement while depriving another of water. In the twentieth century, Soviet planners attempted to engineer the river on a vastly greater scale.

Read more on Novastan: The Caspian Sea Is Retreating. Central Asia Is Not Ready

Following it today from the mountains towards the Aral Sea means travelling through many of the defining questions facing contemporary Central Asia: hydropower and climate resilience, Afghanistan’s growing use of the river, cross-border trade, irrigation, agricultural dependence and the ecological legacy of the Aral disaster.

The river changes character repeatedly along the way.

In the mountains it is born. Along the Panj it becomes a frontier. On the Vakhsh it becomes electricity. At Termez it both divides and connects Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. In Khorezm it becomes the hidden infrastructure of civilization.

And near Muynak, its story ends in a landscape transformed by water that stopped arriving.

Before the Amu Darya: mountain water

There is no single spectacular spring at which the Amu Darya suddenly begins.

Its origins are dispersed across an immense mountain system. The Panj drains highland areas of Afghanistan and Tajikistan and forms a large part of their border. The Vakhsh descends through Tajikistan before joining it. From their confluence, the combined river flows westward as the Amu Darya.

The landscape is almost the inverse of what waits downstream.

Steep valleys, snow and glaciated mountains ultimately feed a river that will later cross some of the driest inhabited territory in Eurasia. Water falling or freezing high in the mountains will eventually irrigate fields hundreds of kilometres away.

That physical connection is one reason climate and water management upstream matter so much farther downstream. The Aral basin itself ultimately depends heavily on river systems fed by mountain snow and glacial melt.

The Vakhsh: turning water into electricity

Before joining the Panj, the Vakhsh has acquired another role: energy.

Tajikistan has built much of its electricity system around hydropower, and the enormous Rogun project now under construction on the Vakhsh sits at the centre of that strategy.

In June 2026, the World Bank approved a further $300 million in financing for Rogun. Once fully operational, the plant is expected to generate around 14,400 gigawatt-hours of electricity annually – equivalent to roughly 60 percent of Tajikistan’s current electricity generation – while also allowing greater electricity exports to neighbouring countries.

This illustrates one of the recurring complexities of Central Asian water politics.

For Tajikistan, mountain rivers represent energy security, winter electricity and potential exports. Downstream, the same waters sustain irrigated agriculture.

These interests are not necessarily incompatible. Reservoirs can regulate flows as well as store water. But they mean that water cannot be understood simply in terms of quantity.

When it is stored and when it is released matter too.

Already, before the name Amu Darya even appears on the map, the river has become economic infrastructure.

Then the mountains recede.

Termez: Afghanistan across the water

At Termez, the geopolitics of the Amu Darya become tangible.

The river marks the boundary between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. Beyond the Uzbek bank lies Balkh Province, while near the Friendship Bridge the Afghan border town of Hairatan forms one of Afghanistan’s principal gateways to Central Asia.

Here, Afghanistan is not an abstract subject of regional diplomacy.

It is physically across the water.

The Friendship Bridge carries road and railway connections across the Amu Darya. For decades it has accumulated political symbolism – Soviet troops crossed it during the withdrawal from Afghanistan – but today Uzbekistan increasingly wants Termez to represent something different: commerce, logistics and connectivity.

That shift is visible a short distance away at Airitom.

The Airitom Free Zone began operating in August 2024 near the Afghan border. It was explicitly created to promote international and cross-border trade and includes retail, logistics, hotel, medical and other facilities. Afghan citizens can enter the zone without an Uzbek visa for stays of up to 15 days.

The geography is striking: the zone sits beside the Amu Darya itself.

The same river that functions as a state boundary is therefore increasingly being treated as the edge of an economic corridor between Central and South Asia.

Afghanistan returns to the river

Trade is not the only way Afghanistan is reshaping the politics of the Amu Darya.

For most of the Soviet period, water allocation downstream was managed within a single political system. Afghanistan was never fully integrated into the institutional arrangements inherited by the Central Asian republics after 1991.

That asymmetry is now becoming much harder to ignore.

Afghanistan is constructing the 285-kilometre Qosh Tepa Canal across the country’s northern provinces, with the stated objective of bringing Amu Darya water to drought-prone agricultural areas.

From Afghanistan’s perspective, the argument is straightforward: the country has substantial agricultural needs and an interest in using a river flowing along its northern frontier after decades during which its ability to exploit those waters remained comparatively limited.

From downstream Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, the same project looks different.

Every substantial withdrawal upstream potentially reduces what continues towards their irrigated regions. The project has therefore become one of the most consequential new questions in Central Asian water politics.

Yet portraying Qosh Tepa simply as an approaching “water war” would be misleading. The issue is better understood as the emergence of another major water user on an already intensely exploited river.

It reinforces the central fact of the Amu Darya basin:

Everyone has reasons to use more water.

Nobody can manufacture another river.

Turkmenabat: engineering the desert

Farther west, the Amu Darya enters Turkmenistan and passes Turkmenabat.

Here the relationship between water and human settlement becomes even more engineered.

Near the city, Amu Darya water enters the enormous Karakum Canal system, which carries it westwards through Turkmenistan.

The project embodied one of the defining ambitions of Soviet hydraulic planning: rather than accept the constraints imposed by aridity, engineers would move water across the desert.

And physically, they succeeded.

Water could sustain farms, settlements and industries hundreds of kilometres away from the river.

But the same logic was being applied across the basin. Irrigated agriculture expanded dramatically in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan, while increasing quantities of water were removed before the Amu Darya reached its delta.

Yet large-scale irrigation itself was hardly a Soviet invention.

Downstream, communities had been redirecting the river for thousands of years.

Khorezm: a civilization built by canals

Few landscapes make that clearer than Khorezm.

Visitors arriving in Khiva encounter one of Central Asia’s most concentrated historic cityscapes: mud-brick walls, turquoise tiles, minarets and courtyards rising from an intensely arid environment.

What they do not encounter is the Amu Darya itself.

Khiva does not stand on the modern riverbank.

That apparent contradiction tells us almost everything about the historical relationship between Khorezm and water.

The city exists because the river was brought to it.

Khiva lies near the edge of cultivated land and historically received Amu Darya water through one of the major canals of the Khorezm oasis.

Long before modern states or Soviet hydraulic projects, inhabitants of Khorezm had learned to transform desert into an oasis through irrigation.

UNESCO’s documentation of the ancient towns and fortresses of the Aral Sea region dates irrigated agriculture in the lower Amu Darya to the end of the second millennium BC and directly links irrigation canals to the emergence of early cities in the region. Novastan has also explored the fortresses and historic landscapes of Khorezm, where the relationship between settlement and water remains visible across the region.

This history is not simply archaeological. The irrigation networks help explain why generations of people could live, farm, trade and build cities in an otherwise extremely arid landscape.

The lower river itself has never been completely stable.

Its channels shifted repeatedly. Canals silted up or were redirected. Settlements prospered and declined as their access to water changed. The Amu Darya still structures movement across Khorezm today, including crossings such as the pontoon bridge near Urgench previously featured by Novastan.

UNESCO’s documentation of ancient Khorezm explicitly notes that changes in the direction of the Amu Darya affected urban centres and that the region’s settlements were closely connected to the river’s shifting courses.

In Khorezm, controlling water meant controlling the geography of civilization itself.

Nukus: downstream of everyone

Approaching Nukus, the Amu Darya has travelled through an extraordinary accumulation of human interventions.

Upstream reservoirs regulate it.

Afghanistan is constructing new irrigation infrastructure from it.

Agricultural regions in Uzbekistan depend upon it.

Turkmenistan diverts part of it westwards.

By the time it reaches Karakalpakstan, the river represents the cumulative result of decisions made across an international basin.

Near Nukus, the Amu Darya spreads through a broad, flat landscape, its channel interrupted by exposed banks and low islands. It looks very different from the mountain water with which the journey began.

Nukus is downstream not simply geographically, but politically.

Communities near the end of a river do not determine their water supply alone. They receive the cumulative result of decisions made everywhere upstream.

That reality remains highly contemporary.

In June 2026, Uzbekistan, UNDP and the Global Environment Facility signed the concept for an Integrated Water Resources Management Plan for the Lower Amu Darya Basin. The initiative is intended to create a more coordinated and science-based framework for managing water resources and ecosystems in the lower river and Aral Sea region.

It represents an attempt to think of the lower Amu Darya increasingly as a connected hydrological system rather than simply as water divided between administrative territories.

But the scale of the historical damage becomes clearer farther north.

Muynak: a port without a sea

At Muynak, one of Central Asia’s most familiar images has almost become too familiar.

Fishing boats sit in sand.

Visitors photograph their rusting hulls. What was once evidence of economic collapse has acquired the strange afterlife of a tourist attraction.

But the boats matter because of what is absent around them.

Water.

The Aral Sea was once the world’s fourth-largest inland lake. Its hydrological balance depended heavily on the Amu Darya and Syr Darya. Massive diversion of river water for irrigation caused inflows to collapse and the sea to shrink and fragment.

For Muynak this was not simply an environmental statistic.

It meant the disappearance of the economic geography around which the town had developed.

Fishing and fish processing depended upon a shoreline that progressively moved away. As Oktyabr Dospanov recalled in Novastan’s interview, “My Childhood Was Spent on the Shore of a Sea That No Longer Exists,” Muynak was once a living port rather than the symbol of ecological catastrophe it has since become.

The rusting boats can be read almost as the final objects in a chain that begins in the mountains.

Reservoirs, canals, irrigation systems and agricultural decisions made hundreds or thousands of kilometres upstream all influence how much water ultimately reaches the lowest part of the basin.

The river’s history can almost be read backwards from Muynak.

The sea that did not entirely disappear

Popular descriptions often say simply that the Aral Sea “disappeared.”

The reality is more complicated.

The sea fragmented into separate bodies of water. Large parts of its former seabed are now exposed, while significant differences have developed between the remaining northern and southern water bodies. The ecological catastrophe has been immense, but the Aral is not literally gone.

That distinction matters.

It prevents the region from being reduced to a single image of irreversible apocalypse. The northern Small Aral has, for example, demonstrated that deliberate water-management interventions can produce at least partial ecological recovery.

On the Uzbek side, however, the landscape around the southern remnants conveys the scale of what has been lost.

One river, competing futures

It would be easy to tell the history of the Amu Darya solely as a story of environmental destruction.

That would also be incomplete.

The river continues to sustain millions of people and several very different development strategies.

Tajikistan wants electricity.

Afghanistan wants irrigated farmland.

Uzbekistan needs water for agriculture while attempting to make irrigation more efficient.

Turkmenistan remains deeply dependent on water transported away from the river through its canal system.

Karakalpakstan needs sufficient flows to sustain communities and ecosystems at the end of the basin.

All of these demands are understandable.

The difficulty is that they exist simultaneously.

Qosh Tepa therefore matters not because competition for the Amu Darya is new, but because the political geography of that competition is changing.

Afghanistan is becoming a far more significant water user in a system whose post-Soviet institutions were largely built without it. Tajikistan’s hydropower development, downstream irrigation, ecological restoration and climate pressures meanwhile have to coexist within the same hydrological system.

There is no single technological solution that eliminates that basic constraint.

More efficient irrigation can help. Better canals can help. Improved regional coordination can help. Basin-level management can help.

But none can make the Amu Darya infinite.

From ice to sand – and water again

The extraordinary thing about following the Amu Darya is how many different worlds can belong to a single river.

In the mountains, its water begins among snow and glaciers.

Along the Panj, it separates Afghanistan and Tajikistan.

On the Vakhsh, it becomes electricity.

At Termez, the river forms Uzbekistan’s frontier with Afghanistan while Airitom attempts to turn that frontier into a commercial gateway.

In Khorezm, canals carried the river towards cities that could never have survived without it.

Near Nukus, the consequences of decisions taken across the basin accumulate.

At Muynak, ships remain stranded where water once stood.

And farther beyond them, parts of the Aral Sea remain.

Central Asia’s cities are usually explained through monuments, rulers and empires – the walls of Khiva, Buddhist Termez, Nukus’s museums.

Another history runs beneath all of them.

It is a history of glaciers, channels, dams and canals.

The Amu Darya has determined where settlement was possible, where agriculture could flourish and where political power could accumulate for thousands of years.

High in the mountains, water still begins its journey towards the plains.

At the other end of that journey, ships stand in the desert while a diminished sea survives beyond them.

Between those two landscapes lies much of Central Asia’s past – and one of the defining questions of its future.

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

The post From the Pamirs to the Aral Sea: Following the Amu Darya Through Central Asia appeared first on Novastan English.

In Queens, a few words can contain the history of an entire community. A guest may be welcomed with xush omaded, an expression immediately recognisable to Tajik speakers. At the table may be osh, the regional rice dish better known internationally as plov, while grandparents move between Bukhori and Russian and their grandchildren answer in English.

The scene belongs unmistakably to New York. Its vocabulary, food and social rhythms, however, lead back to Bukhara, Samarkand, Tashkent and Dushanbe.

Read more on Novastan: How Central Asia became home for the Koryo-Saram

Over the final decades of the Soviet Union and the turbulent years that followed its collapse, most Bukharan Jews left Central Asia. Large communities developed abroad, most visibly in the New York neighbourhoods of Forest Hills and Rego Park. Others took root in Vienna, Toronto and a number of smaller centres. The result is an unusual geographical reversal: a culture bearing the name of Bukhara now has some of its most dynamic institutions thousands of kilometres away from the city itself.

Novastan has previously explored the debated origins of the Jewish presence in Central Asia and the historical importance of Bukhara and Khwarezm. The contemporary story begins where those histories leave off. How does a community remain Bukharan after leaving Bukhara? And what links do Bukharan Jews still maintain with the Central Asian societies from which they emerged?

A community whose centre moved

Despite their name, Bukharan Jews did not come exclusively from Bukhara. Communities developed across the territories that today constitute Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, with important centres in Samarkand, Tashkent, Kokand, the Ferghana Valley and Dushanbe. “Bukharan” gradually became a collective designation for a wider Central Asian Jewish civilisation shaped by Persian-speaking urban culture, Jewish religious traditions and long interaction with Uzbek, Tajik and other neighbouring populations.

Migration began well before the Soviet collapse, but accelerated dramatically from the 1970s onwards. By the 1990s, the economic uncertainty accompanying independence, the weakening of Soviet-era professional and social structures, and the opportunity to reunite with relatives abroad encouraged much of the remaining population to depart.

The community did not simply disperse. In several cities, Bukharan Jews recreated dense networks of synagogues, schools, businesses, newspapers, restaurants, cultural organisations and family associations. Queens became the most visible North American example: a place where Central Asian food, music and communal life remained present not only inside private homes, but in streets, shops, banquet halls and religious institutions.

Bukhara had not been reproduced exactly. The new community was increasingly American, urban and outward-looking. Yet it retained practices and relationships that distinguished it from both the surrounding population and other Jewish communities.

Bukhori: a Central Asian language abroad

Perhaps no element expresses this complicated identity better than Bukhori, also called Bukharian or Judeo-Tajik.

Bukhori belongs to the Iranian family of languages. It is closely related to Tajik and, more distantly, to modern Persian. It developed among the Jewish communities of Central Asia, incorporating Hebrew and Aramaic terms associated with religion and communal life, while also absorbing vocabulary and influences from Uzbek and, during the Soviet period, Russian.

To a Tajik speaker, much of Bukhori may sound familiar. Words connected with everyday life, hospitality and family reflect a shared Persian linguistic environment. But religious vocabulary, pronunciation, expressions and the historical experience carried by the language make it distinct.

Read more on Novastan: Les Juifs de Boukhara : comment sont-ils arrivés en Asie centrale ?

Everyday Bukhori contains many words immediately recognisable to Tajik and Persian speakers. A guest may hear xush omaded, “welcome,” while osh evokes both the wider Central Asian rice tradition and specifically Bukharan Jewish dishes such as oshi sabo. Such vocabulary reflects the community’s roots in a Persian-speaking Central Asian environment. Its specifically Jewish dimension is more apparent in religious terminology derived from Hebrew and Aramaic, although the precise vocabulary and pronunciation vary between speakers and communities.

Bukhori’s alphabets tell another story. It was traditionally written in Hebrew characters. Soviet language reforms subsequently introduced Latin and then Cyrillic scripts. Today, the language may appear in Hebrew, Cyrillic or adapted Latin spelling, depending on the speaker, country and intended readership.

Each script points towards a different cultural horizon: Hebrew towards Jewish religious and literary life, Cyrillic towards the Soviet experience, and Latin increasingly towards younger generations living in English-speaking countries. The lack of a single universally accepted contemporary spelling system also complicates efforts to teach the language.

Bukhori remains spoken, particularly among older and middle-aged members of the community. But it is considered endangered. Migration has strengthened Bukharan communal identity in some respects while weakening the transmission of its traditional language. In Queens, children may grow up surrounded by Bukharan food, weddings, religious institutions and family networks without becoming fluent Bukhori speakers. Russian may remain the language used with parents and grandparents, while English dominates education, work and friendships.

This produces one of the central paradoxes of the modern diaspora: Bukharan identity may be surviving more successfully than Bukhori.

Language loss does not automatically mean the disappearance of the community. A person can identify strongly as Bukharan through family, religion, food, music and social relationships. Yet language carries forms of humour, intimacy and memory that are difficult to reproduce through translation. When grandparents speak Bukhori but grandchildren understand only fragments, more than vocabulary is lost. A particular way of describing Central Asian Jewish life begins to recede.

The question is therefore not simply whether Bukhori will survive. It is also what being Bukharan will mean if it does not.

Queens: a new Bukhara?

Forest Hills and Rego Park are sometimes described as a “new Bukhara.” The expression is evocative, but incomplete.

Queens did not preserve Bukharan culture in a frozen form. It transformed it. Religious practices changed in contact with other Jewish traditions. Businesses adapted to the opportunities and demands of New York. Young people combined family expectations with American education and professional life. Community institutions became more formalised, visible and politically engaged.

Nevertheless, the density of Bukharan life remains remarkable. Synagogues and schools coexist with restaurants, food shops, newspapers, wedding halls and social organisations. Weddings and religious celebrations bring together extended families and reinforce connections that can also support professional advancement, philanthropy and mutual assistance.

The community’s economic visibility has sometimes encouraged outsiders to describe Bukharan Jews principally through wealth or influence. Such language requires caution. It can reproduce old stereotypes about Jews, money and hidden power while obscuring the ordinary work through which immigrant communities build stability.

The more interesting story is institutional. Bukharan Jews in Queens developed strong family and community networks, created businesses, funded religious and cultural organisations and became active in local civic life. Their prominence is less a mystery than the result of geographic concentration, entrepreneurship, mutual support and sustained investment in communal institutions.

Elements of Central Asian social organisation also travelled with them. Family reputation, obligations between relatives, elaborate hospitality and neighbourhood-based mutual assistance recall aspects of the mahalla, the local community structure found across Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. These practices have inevitably changed in New York, but they have not disappeared.

Queens is therefore not a replica of Bukhara. It is a new diaspora city in which selected elements of Central Asian life have been reorganised to meet American conditions.

Vienna: a Central Asian Jewish crossroads

Vienna offers a different version of the Bukharan Jewish journey.

The Austrian capital became an important transit point for Jews leaving the Soviet Union during the 1970s. Many continued towards other destinations, but some Bukharan Jewish families remained. Over time, they created one of the most substantial and active Bukharan communities in Europe.

The city now contains Bukharan synagogues, religious and social organisations, businesses and cultural initiatives. Bukhori and Russian continue to be used among parts of the community, while German increasingly dominates among younger generations. Research on Bukharan Jews in Vienna describes a community shaped simultaneously by Central Asian origins, Soviet migration, Jewish religious life and integration into a German-speaking European city.

Vienna’s experience resembles Queens in some respects, but differs in scale and urban setting. Its community is smaller and exists within a European Jewish landscape marked by its own historical sensitivities. It also remains geographically closer to the former Soviet world, potentially facilitating travel and continued personal connections.

Here too, language is an indicator of generational change. Older residents may move between Bukhori and Russian. Their children and grandchildren increasingly use German. The community remains visible, but the balance between religious affiliation, family heritage and specifically Central Asian culture is continually renegotiated.

Toronto: preserving culture through organisation

Toronto represents a third model.

Its Bukharan Jewish population is smaller and less geographically concentrated than that of Queens. The Jewish Bukharian Community of Toronto was formally established in 2003, building on earlier efforts to bring together families dispersed across the Greater Toronto Area. Cultural preservation was explicitly presented as part of its mission.

A smaller community cannot rely on neighbourhood concentration alone. Maintaining cultural life requires deliberate organisation: religious services, family gatherings, youth programmes, celebrations and spaces in which people can meet others with the same background.

This may make cultural preservation simultaneously more fragile and more conscious. In Queens, Bukharan identity can be reinforced through daily proximity. In Toronto, it may depend more heavily on people choosing to participate.

This is not a contradiction. It is the normal result of a history marked by migration, coercion and adaptation.

Vienna and Toronto therefore broaden the story beyond a simple journey from Uzbekistan to New York. They show that there is no single Bukharan diaspora experience. The survival of language and culture depends on community size, urban geography, religious institutions, migration history and the language of the surrounding society.

Is Central Asia still a homeland?

For the first generation of migrants, Uzbekistan or Tajikistan may remain associated with childhood, education, neighbours and professional life. For their descendants, Central Asia is more likely to be encountered through family stories, food, music, photographs and occasional journeys.

Diaspora visits to Bukhara and Samarkand often include former homes, synagogues, schools and cemeteries. These are not always journeys towards a place of possible return. They are journeys towards evidence: proof that the family history described by parents and grandparents belonged to real streets and neighbourhoods.

Read more on Novastan: Khwarezm et Boukhara, deux foyers anciens des Juifs d’Asie centrale

This raises a subtle distinction. Central Asia can remain emotionally important without functioning as a contemporary homeland. Bukhara may be remembered as a place of coexistence, hospitality and belonging, even when the family’s departure was driven by uncertainty or the conviction that its future lay elsewhere.

The process can also idealise the past. Nostalgic accounts may emphasise close relationships with Muslim neighbours and minimise discrimination, political restrictions or the difficulties of late Soviet and post-Soviet life. Other families may remember exclusion and see departure as liberation rather than loss.

There is no single Bukharan Jewish memory of Central Asia. The diaspora contains different generations, migration routes and political experiences.

A living community or a heritage landscape?

Jewish life has not completely disappeared from Uzbekistan. Synagogues and small communities remain, including in Tashkent, Samarkand and Bukhara. But the demographic contrast is striking: the historic centres now contain only a fraction of the population found in diaspora cities.

This creates a risk that Jewish life in Central Asia becomes treated principally as heritage.

The old Jewish quarter of Bukhara, its synagogues, cemeteries and traditional houses attract visitors and preservation initiatives. The city’s Jewish houses form part of Bukhara’s distinctive architectural landscape, although many have changed ownership or function. Some have become guesthouses, workshops or tourism businesses.

Preservation is necessary, but it raises difficult questions. Who determines how the history of a departed community is presented? Do restored buildings communicate the complexity of Jewish life, or merely provide an attractive setting for tourism? What remains of a neighbourhood when its architecture survives but most of its former inhabitants live abroad?

The remaining Jewish residents should not be reduced to guardians of monuments. Their lives, concerns and choices are part of the contemporary story. Their relationship with the diaspora may include family contacts, religious support, philanthropy and visitors, but it may also contain differences of perspective. Those who stayed did not experience the same transformation as those who rebuilt their lives abroad.

Uzbekistan rediscovers its diaspora

The relationship is not maintained only through private memory. Uzbekistan has increasingly engaged Bukharan Jewish communities abroad as part of its cultural diplomacy.

Official and academic initiatives have highlighted the historical contribution of Jews to Central Asian society. A major conference on Bukharan Jewish heritage was held at Samarkand State University in September 2025. In February 2026, another conference examined the role of Bukharan Jews in the region’s socioeconomic and cultural life, including diaspora investment, tourism and educational exchange.

For Uzbekistan, the diaspora offers several potential advantages. Bukharan Jews can promote the country as a tourist destination, support heritage projects, facilitate business contacts and reinforce an international narrative of religious coexistence.

For the diaspora, official recognition may validate a history that was sometimes marginalised. It may also create opportunities to protect cemeteries, synagogues and family heritage.

But the relationship should not be romanticised. State-sponsored celebration of Jewish history can serve contemporary political objectives. It allows Uzbekistan to present itself internationally as tolerant, open and connected to a successful global diaspora. The decisive question is whether this engagement also supports the remaining local community and permits complex discussion of the past.

Bukharan Jews may be approached as former citizens, cultural ambassadors, investors, tourists or intermediaries. They may see themselves in all of these roles – or reject some of them.

Can Bukhara survive outside Bukhara?

The Bukharan Jews remain a meaningful community. Their institutions are active, their family and religious networks are visible, and their cultural traditions continue to distinguish them across several countries.

But what is being preserved is changing.

Bukhori is weakening even where Bukharan identity remains strong. Central Asia is becoming, for many younger members of the diaspora, an inherited landscape rather than a lived one. Cuisine, weddings and family solidarity may survive more easily than language. Religious identity may grow stronger even as specifically Central Asian knowledge recedes.

The Bukharan Jewish story is therefore not simply one of disappearance or successful preservation. It is a story of selection. Every generation decides, consciously or otherwise, which elements of Bukhara to carry forward.

In Queens, Vienna and Toronto, the answer is still being negotiated – between Bukhori and English, Russian and German, memory and modernity, inherited obligations and individual choices.

Most Bukharan Jews no longer live in Central Asia. Yet they remain one of Central Asia’s most distinctive communities abroad. Their global journey has not ended their relationship with the region. It has transformed Bukhara from a place into a language, a family memory, a social world – and a question passed from one generation to the next.

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

The post From Bukhara to Queens: The Global Journey of the Bukharan Jews appeared first on Novastan English.

From Kazakhstan’s Kurultai to Uzbekistan’s Mahalla, governments across Central Asia are increasingly framing political reform through institutions rooted in local history rather than imported political models.

For much of the three decades following the collapse of the Soviet Union, discussions about political reform in Central Asia were conducted using a familiar international vocabulary. Elections, constitutions, political parties, decentralisation, civil society and good governance became the dominant language through which both governments and international organisations described political development.

Also read on Novastan: Kazakhstan’s Next Elections: Between Reform and Managed Competition

Increasingly, however, another vocabulary is emerging.

Across the region, governments are reviving concepts such as the Kurultai, the Mahalla, the Halk Maslahaty and councils of elders. These institutions are rarely presented as alternatives to constitutional government. Rather, they are increasingly portrayed as ways of making governance more legitimate, more participatory and more deeply rooted in national history.

This raises an important question. Are Central Asian governments simply giving traditional names to modern institutions? Or are they gradually developing a distinct political vocabulary through which reform itself is imagined?

Also read on Novastan: The Lexicon of Kazakh Decolonisation

Political reform is not only about changing institutions. It is also about changing the language through which those institutions are understood and legitimised.

Beyond Imported Models

All political systems derive legitimacy from history as much as from law. France invokes the Revolution and the Republic. Britain draws upon Parliament and Magna Carta. The United States continues to frame politics through the language of its Founding Fathers.

Central Asia is increasingly doing the same.

Rather than presenting reform exclusively through concepts inherited from the Soviet period or borrowed from international governance discourse, governments across the region increasingly anchor their legitimacy in historical narratives that resonate more directly with domestic political traditions.

This does not necessarily represent a rejection of constitutionalism or modern statehood. Instead, it reflects an attempt to reconcile contemporary governance with locally meaningful historical references.

Also read on Novastan: “Alaqan”: Aida Adilbek’s decolonial documentary cinema

Kazakhstan: The Kurultai and the Listening State

Kazakhstan perhaps best illustrates this evolution.

Since the January 2022 events, President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has promoted the idea of a “Listening State”, constitutional reform and the National Kurultai as central elements of the “New Kazakhstan”. Alongside referendums, electoral reform and strengthened consultative mechanisms, the Kurultai has become part of a broader effort to redefine how political authority is presented.

The Kurultai is neither a parliament nor an opposition forum. Rather, it functions as a consultative platform bringing together selected representatives of public life, academics, experts and civil society to deliberate on questions of national identity, reform and long-term development.

Whether viewed as meaningful consultation or carefully managed participation, the Kurultai illustrates an important point. It seeks legitimacy not only through elections or representative institutions, but also through an institution whose historical roots reach back to the political culture of the Eurasian steppe.

Also read on Novastan: Manas and the Making of Kyrgyzstan

Uzbekistan: The Mahalla Between Community and State

Uzbekistan offers a different but equally important example through the Mahalla.

Often translated simply as a neighbourhood community, the Mahalla is in practice much more than a local tradition. It plays a role in social assistance to families in need, neighbourhood mediation, community mobilisation, welfare delivery and the administrative interface between citizens and the state, including in sensitive areas such as the registration and monitoring of religious communities.

It also intervenes in family life, including disputes concerning marriage, divorce and domestic violence. In many cases, Mahalla-level mediation provides rapid community support. Yet it has also been criticised for encouraging reconciliation in situations of gender-based violence, discouraging divorce or prioritising family cohesion over the protection and autonomy of women experiencing abuse.

Under the banner of the “New Uzbekistan”, the Mahalla has been presented not as a relic of the past but as a cornerstone of modern governance. Its strength lies precisely in this dual nature: deeply embedded in everyday community life while simultaneously serving as an important interface between society and the state.

Kyrgyzstan: Contesting the Meaning of the Kurultai

If Kazakhstan presents the Kurultai as a consultative institution, Kyrgyzstan illustrates how the same historical concept can become an object of democratic contestation.

Successive debates over the People’s Kurultai have revolved around fundamental constitutional questions. Should it merely advise elected institutions? Should it exercise oversight? Does it strengthen democratic participation or risk creating a parallel source of political legitimacy?

Rather than providing definitive answers, Kyrgyzstan demonstrates that historical institutions themselves become arenas of political debate when adapted to modern constitutional systems.

Turkmenistan: Tradition as State Legitimacy

Turkmenistan represents perhaps the most institutionalised version of this regional tendency.

The Halk Maslahaty, together with councils of elders and the symbolic authority of aksakals, presents political authority through the language of continuity, wisdom and national consensus. These institutions are not designed as arenas of political competition. Instead, they frame presidential authority within narratives of collective consultation and historical legitimacy.

Their significance therefore lies less in electoral politics than in the symbolic vocabulary through which political authority is justified.

Tajikistan: Statehood, Unity and the Persianate Legacy

Tajikistan follows a different path.

Its political vocabulary is less centred on Turkic or nomadic traditions than on national unity, statehood and the Persianate cultural heritage. References to the Samanid dynasty, the Tajik language and the country’s civil war increasingly serve to anchor contemporary political authority within a narrative of historical continuity and national resilience.

At the local level, elders and community mediation continue to play important social roles. While these traditions are not usually presented as formal instruments of political reform, they nevertheless perform a similar function: linking governance to ideas of continuity, cohesion and collective identity.

A Region Reimagining Its Past

Taken together, these examples suggest a broader regional phenomenon.

Central Asia is not abandoning elections, constitutions or representative institutions. Nor is it simply returning to pre-modern forms of governance.

Instead, governments are increasingly combining modern constitutional structures with institutions, concepts and symbols drawn from selectively reinterpreted historical traditions. The result is neither a rejection of international governance norms nor a simple revival of the past. It is a process of institutional hybridisation.

Also read on Novastan: Dead in the Water: Has the Common Turkic Alphabet Failed to Boost Turkish Influence in Central Asia?

This trend also intersects with a wider romanticisation of Turkic, steppe and nomadic heritage. Institutions such as the Kurultai or the authority of aksakals are often presented as evidence of an ancient political culture rooted in consultation, consensus and collective wisdom. Such narratives can offer valuable alternatives to the assumption that political modernity must always be expressed through imported institutional models. Yet they also carry risks. Complex historical realities can be simplified into reassuring myths, while diverse and sometimes hierarchical political traditions become reimagined as timeless expressions of participatory governance.

Türkiye’s recent decision to replace “Central Asia” with “Turkestan” in parts of its school curriculum reflects this wider intellectual shift. Increasingly, the region is being described through historical and cultural concepts associated with the Turkic world rather than Soviet-era geography or externally imposed terminology. Whether one views this as decolonisation, cultural revival or geopolitical symbolism, it illustrates the growing importance of historical narratives in shaping contemporary political identities.

More Than Words

The emergence of this vocabulary reflects deeper transformations.

A generation with little or no memory of the Soviet Union has reached adulthood. Nation-building has entered a more mature phase. Governments increasingly seek legitimacy not only through economic development or institutional reform but also through narratives that resonate with national history and collective identity.

This does not mean these institutions necessarily produce more accountable governance. Traditional concepts can broaden participation, but they may also reinforce hierarchy, exclude dissenting voices or provide new symbolic foundations for existing power structures.

The question facing Central Asia is therefore not whether it is returning to its past. It is not. Nor is it simply reproducing Western constitutional models. Increasingly, the region appears to be constructing something in between: modern states that seek legitimacy through institutions inspired as much by their own historical narratives as by international governance norms.

Whether these hybrid models ultimately strengthen accountability, broaden participation or merely repackage existing political authority remains an open question. What is already clear, however, is that Central Asia is no longer only reforming its institutions. It is also reinventing the language through which political legitimacy itself is imagined.

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

The post The Vocabulary of Reform: Why Central Asia Is Reimagining Its Political Traditions 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why these minerals matter

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

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

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

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

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

What is actually known

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

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

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

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

Kazakhstan’s rare earth moment

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

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

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

The companies entering the race

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

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

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

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

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

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

Europe, China, Russia and the United States

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

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

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

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

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

The real bottleneck: processing

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

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

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

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

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

Environmental and social risks

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

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

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

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

A starter pack for readers

The simplest way to understand the issue is this:

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

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

More than a mine?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why the past refused to become propaganda

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

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

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

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

Bukhara between Tajik and Uzbek memory

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

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

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

In Tajikistan: a national classic

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

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

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

In Uzbekistan: a shared but sensitive legacy

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

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

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

Before borders hardened

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

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

A past too complex for Soviet ideology

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

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

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

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

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.

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

“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.

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.

A recent report by a UN group reveals that the Taliban have sharply reduced the number of their security forces, disproportionately so in the region bordering Tajikistan. These budget cuts coincide with a resurgence of attacks along the border between the two countries. These developments are helping to reshape the previously strained relations between Kabul and Dushanbe.

Haibatullah Akhundzada, Afghanistan’s de facto leader, has ordered a 20% reduction in the number of security forces in response to budgetary constraints. This is according to a report by the Analytical Support and Sanctions Monitoring Team, submitted to the UN Security Council Committee last December.

However, these staff reductions are disproportionate near the border with Tajikistan. According to the document, out of more than 4,000 commanders and officers dismissed nationwide, around 1,000 were in Badakhshan province, which borders Tajikistan’s Gorno-Badakhshan autonomous region.

Takhar, another province bordering Tajikistan’s Khatlon region, is also among the three other provinces most affected by the measure. These security force cuts, ordered last April, coincided with a resurgence of armed clashes linked to drug trafficking at the border in late 2025. On 26 and 30 November, five Chinese workers were killed and the same number injured on Tajikistani soil in attacks launched from Afghanistan, while two Tajik officers and three attackers were killed on 23 December, according to media outlet Asia-Plus.

A resurgence of border clashes in late 2025

Since then, Taliban representatives have issued several statements of support, accusing “ill-intentioned circles” or “enemies” of seeking to undermine Afghanistan’s relations with Tajikistan and China. Indeed, it is certain that these attacks were not carried out by the Taliban. They have even said they arrested suspects in the border region, without providing details, according to Afghan media outlet Tolo News.

Also read on Novastan : Au Tadjikistan, la mort de cinq Chinois relance les inquiétudes sur l’instabilité à la frontière avec l’Afghanistan

The motives of those behind the attacks are difficult to determine. In the case of the most recent attack, which killed Tajik officers, Afghan media outlet Hasht-e Subh claims that the attackers were members of Jamaat Ansarullah, a terrorist group based in Afghanistan, hostile to the Tajik government and mainly made up of Tajik citizens.

In the case of the attacks against Chinese workers, uncertainty remains. For researcher Mélanie Sadozaï, affiliated with the University of Regensburg’s Department of Interdisciplinary and Multiscalar Area Studies, whose research focuses on the Afghanistan-Tajikistan border, it is impossible to accuse any specific armed group with certainty. Interviewed by Novastan, she suggests that the attacks may have been retaliation by “drug traffickers who do not want China to be present, as this could disrupt their activities”.

“One cannot rule out either that these were ordinary people rejecting China’s activities in the region, as China extracts mineral resources under bilateral agreements with Tajikistan and Afghanistan,” Mélanie Sadozaï continues. “People are well aware that Chinese companies come to ‘plunder’ their resources without redistributing them. It could also be an act of revenge, but again, it is difficult to say,” she adds.

A new forced cooperation

In this context, a reduction in Taliban personnel responsible for maintaining order at the border can only be viewed negatively on the Tajikistani side, as relations between the two countries have taken a new turn in recent months.

After the Taliban seized power in 2021, Tajikistan positioned itself as Afghanistan’s only neighbour openly hostile to Kabul’s new rulers. While other neighbouring countries quickly adopted a pragmatic stance and, without officially recognising the Taliban, maintained ties with them for economic reasons, Tajikistan has continued to stand apart.

Also read on Novastan : L’Afghanistan taliban, un faisceau de menaces sur les pays d’Asie centrale

But open hostility is now turning into forced cooperation. Barely two weeks before the attacks against the Chinese workers, a Tajikistani delegation visited Kabul to meet its counterparts and discuss counterterrorism cooperation, the fight against drug trafficking and the porous shared border, Tolo News reported. Similarly, the governors of Afghanistan’s Balkh and Badakhshan provinces had travelled respectively to the Tajikistani capital, Dushanbe, and to Tajikistan’s Gorno-Badakhshan region, although these visits were not publicised.

The latest attacks have accelerated this rapprochement at the highest level: for the first time since 2021, the foreign ministers of Tajikistan and Afghanistan held phone calls, with two taking place in December, Asia-Plus reported.

The political impossibility of recognising the Taliban

The Tajikistani authorities delayed this moment for as long as they could, and are now trying to find a way out of this diplomatic impasse. Tajik President Emomali Rahmon has long presented himself as a bulwark against religious extremism: real diplomatic contact with the Taliban would be difficult to legitimise, both within Tajikistan and abroad.

Emomali Rahmon’s clear stance against the Taliban and his support for the Afghan opposition in exile earned him invitations to the European Parliament and to France shortly after the Taliban’s takeover of Kabul, helping to ensure the continuation of international financial assistance on which Tajikistan heavily depends. Openly collaborating with the Taliban is therefore not an option if it risks jeopardising such important funding.

Domestically, Dushanbe also wants to present itself as the protector of ethnic Tajiks, portraying them as oppressed by the Pashtun Taliban. During the Taliban’s first period in power from 1996 to 2001, the Tajikistani president supported Ahmad Shah Massoud, the leader of the Afghan resistance, who visited Tajikistan several times. That support is now extended to his son, who is also effectively based in Tajikistan, and, to some extent, to the Afghan embassy, which has become a stronghold of the former regime.

This animosity is mutual: the Taliban appear to maintain cordial relations with Sharofiddin Gadoev, one of the exiled leaders of the opposition to the Tajikistani regime. He was invited to take part in discussions in Afghanistan last May.

Economic and security emergencies

In reality, economic realities had already forced the hand of the Tajikistani authorities. Electricity exports to Afghanistan have not stopped, showing that discussions, even if purely economic, have taken place between the two sides, Eurasianet reported. Other large-scale projects suggest that completely cutting off communication between the two countries was never truly conceivable, notably the CASA-1000 electricity export project.

But it is the security situation that is genuinely accelerating diplomatic contact. Bruce Pannier, a fellow with the Eurasia Program at the Foreign Policy Research Institute, notes that it was the launch of a missile towards Tajikistan in May 2022 that prompted the first formal contact between the Taliban and the Tajikistani authorities.

Moreover, ironically, it is the fight against extremism that has pushed Emomali Rahmon to open dialogue with the Taliban. After the Crocus City Hall attack in Moscow, carried out by Tajikistani citizens recruited by the Islamic State Khorasan Province, or ISKP, it became necessary to combat the involvement of Tajikistani citizens in international terrorism, both for obvious security reasons and for Tajikistan’s international image.

Also read on Novastan : Après l’attentat en Russie, les Tadjiks face à une xénophobie massive

Yet the fight against terrorism requires deeper cooperation with the Taliban, for whom these groups also represent a threat. Tajikistani citizens are sometimes actively recruited from Afghan territory, notably by ISKP.

Following Russia

Finally, Tajikistan’s uncompromising rejection of the Taliban was beginning to entail a level of isolation difficult for a small country to manage. Dushanbe’s gradual shift could be attributed to Moscow’s official recognition of the Taliban last July. Russia may expect an ally that still largely depends on it to follow its lead by also treating the Taliban as acceptable interlocutors.

Tajikistan is thus caught between the importance of Western funding and its relationship with Russia, which it cannot risk weakening. The country is one of the most remittance-dependent in the world: remittances accounted for more than 45% of GDP in 2024, mainly coming from migrant workers in Russia. A deterioration in relations with Moscow would therefore raise fears of even worse conditions for Tajik migrants, followed by catastrophic repercussions for the country’s economy.

A rapprochement with limits

However, Mélanie Sadozaï stresses that this rapprochement has limits. “Although we are beginning to see a few photographs of official meetings between the Taliban and Tajikistani authorities, all of this is taking place in the framework of trade, energy and economic cooperation, but really in the security sphere. It is very likely that this is the maximum Tajikistan can do,” she says.

As for transferring the Afghan embassy into Taliban hands, this remains highly unlikely. Here too, Mélanie Sadozaï believes that “support for the opposition is in fact fairly discreet and was mostly rhetorical. I imagine Tajikistan has no reason to stop supporting it or to expel Mohammad Zahir Aghbar,” the ambassador of the former regime, who remains in office, “and I think it can very well play both sides: maintain its current relations with the resistance while dealing with the Taliban. The two are not incompatible.”

Also read on Novastan : Le Tadjikistan reconnaît une vaste opération d’expulsion d’Afghans

Moreover, while media reports have stated that the Afghan consulate in Khorog, in Gorno-Badakhshan, had passed into Taliban hands, creating a dual authority with the embassy loyal to the former regime, Mélanie Sadozaï says she has always found the Taliban consulate closed and inaccessible since it was damaged by an avalanche in February 2023.

A worrying situation for Tajikistan and its relations with China

The fact remains that the lack of resources on the Afghan side and the latest attacks are a problem for all parties, whether they are directed against the Tajik government or against Chinese workers. A deterioration in relations with China would be extremely problematic for Tajikistan: the country’s infrastructure relies on partnerships or loans linked to China, loans that Dushanbe is struggling to repay.

China has taken the situation very seriously, calling on Tajikistan to shed light on these events and guarantee the safety of Chinese citizens on its territory. In a rare move, the Chinese embassy in Dushanbe asked its citizens to leave border areas and remain cautious.

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“If the Chinese workers who were targeted are indeed employees of road construction companies, this creates an obvious problem for Tajikistan: the possibility that, in the long term, China might end up leaving and not finishing the projects it has started,” Mélanie Sadozaï says.

It is therefore possible that Dushanbe will seek to further protect its border, although no official announcement has been made on the matter. With the war in Ukraine, it seems unlikely that Russia will once again invest resources in the border, which Tajikistan has protected alone since 2004. “As for China, its army does not patrol along the border, but one possibility is that security will be reinforced around Chinese infrastructure, which is now very numerous along the border,” the researcher concludes.

Judith Robert
Author for Novastan

Proofread by Anaïs Boulard

The post Lack of resources in Afghanistan undermines security on the border with Tajikistan 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.

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

The post The paradoxes of migration from Tajikistan to Russia: an interview with Dr Elena Borisova 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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The post Night train to Dushanbe – a travelogue of Uzbek-Tajik relations appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

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

Surveillance methods

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

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

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

How collars with GPS trackers work

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

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

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

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

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

Captivity vs. Freedom

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

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

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

The main threats and the fight against them

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

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

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

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

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

Photos: Snow Leopard Trust

Preview collage: Perizat Suleiman

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