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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published by UNDP Uzbekistan and is republished here with permission.

Dildora Nurmatova has a very pleasant smile and she smiles a lot.

She smiles as she explains what the samples are in the university lab, as she walks through the peanut field, as she explains what is inside the bags and containers in her family workshop, and when someone reaches for the brown notebook she carries everywhere, she quickly holds it tight with a smile.

“I don’t leave it anywhere – it has all my work,” she says.

The notebook is filled with calculations, observations and records. It travels with her between the laboratory, the field and the family business in Andijan region. Dildora is pursuing her PhD in agriculture, raising two children and building a business from a crop she first became interested in as a researcher. 

She is also about to turn 30.

For Dildora, this seems to come with a sense of urgency. There is still so much she wants to do. She talks about “catching up”. Yet, watching her move between the laboratory, the field and home, one wonders how anyone could catch up with her. 

Dildora is among the 417 women business owners and entrepreneurs whose paths have crossed with UNDP’s Aid for Trade initiative since 2022. Its trainings, entrepreneurship support, and mentorship programmes were shaped to improve productive capabilities, job creation and the export potential of businesses. 

Dildora’s initiative, however, started with the peanut. 

It started with a different kind of peanut 

Her fascination with peanuts began during her master’s studies, when she was researching different varieties and came across one developed by another woman scientist – Amanova Maxfurat. It was unusual: larger than conventional peanuts and distinctive in taste. 

Dildora wanted to see what it could do outside research. After obtaining the necessary certification and permission from the scientist for small-scale production, she began growing it herself. 

The variety has the potential to yield around six tonnes per hectare, according to project data. In 2024, Dildora’s enterprise was already harvesting five tonnes from one hectare, which yielded almost 3 tonnes of first-grade peanut kernels.  

But Dildora was interested in more than yield.

She began looking at the whole plant and what could be done with every part. This approach is deeply rooted in Uzbek culture, where using resources thoughtfully and finding a purpose for everything have long been part of everyday life. 

The good kernels were obvious. They could be sold or roasted and packaged as snacks. Selling processed snacks instead of raw crop gave her a three-fold increase of profit. Lower-grade kernels did not have to be discarded either – they could be milled and used in other products. This is why she would need a sorting machine. 

Then there were the parts most people would consider waste. 

The green stems could feed animals. The hard outer shells could be ground down for animal feed. Even the thin red skins surrounding the kernels could be ground and used as rabbit feed. 

But finding a possible use for something is not enough for Dildora – she wants to know the best way it can work. Her natural mindset is tuned to a waste-free value chain, which echoes well in the Aid for Trade initiative. In the last years, it has supported 77 small businesses in adopting more waste-reducing, energy and water efficient business practices.  

Before Dildora began making animal feed, she consulted a professor to understand what a healthy ration should contain for different species. She now prepares different mixtures, accordingly, adding minerals and other supplements in calculated proportions depending on what type of animal the order is placed for. 

This is how Dildora tends to work: An idea comes first. Then she learns, consults someone who knows more. She calculates, tests and records. 

And the results go into her favorite brown notebook. 

A family business in every sense 

Her business has an unusual name: ErElDi. There is a simple explanation. Er comes from Erkin – her father, El from Eldor, her brother and Di from Dildora – herself a nice family team. 

To understand the business, it helps to visit their home: vegetables grow in neat rows outside; the production equipment is carefully maintained; inside the workspace, everything is in its place; beside the first-aid kit stands a vase of flowers. There is work everywhere, but there is also warmth. 

Conversations overlap. People tease one another and laugh. 

This is also the place Dildora’s two children wait for her when she is in the field or laboratory. Her younger child is only a few months past one. When Dildora works, her brothers’ wives help care for the children. 

Her ambitions, in other words, are not pursued alone. The same is true of the business. 

Her brother works with her. And her father is particularly proud to tell visitors something that makes Dildora laugh again: his daughter taught him how to use the equipment. She also taught him how to prepare the mixture. There is no ceremony around this reversal of roles. Her father simply seems delighted by it.  

The researcher in the family happens to be his daughter. She knows the calculations. He learned from her. And now they work side by side. 

From an idea to a production line 

There was, however, a limit to how far ingenuity alone could take the family. 

If ErElDi was going to move from experiments and small-scale production to a viable business, it needed equipment, reliable electricity and proper space for processing. 

Through UNDP’s Aid for Trade initiative, supported by the Government of Finland, the enterprise received equipment for peeling, crushing, frying and drying peanuts, as well as packaging machinery. The support also included a separate processing workshop, a three-phase power line, mentoring, and consultancy on product development, processing, and business management.  

ErElDi is not alone. It was among the 30 businesses supported by Aid for Trade across the Ferghana Valley, half of them start-ups venturing into identified sustainable value chains. Each grew with its own mix of technical assistance, mentorship and entrepreneurship support, and access to assets and financing. Together, they generated almost 500 jobs, more than two thirds now held by women. 

This support gave the family the means to do more with what they were already growing. And Dildora is the one who can make maximum use out of anything. 

Instead of selling only a crop, they process it. Instead of throwing away by-products, they look for another use for them.  The snacks go to wholesale market in Andijan, milled peanuts are bought by local ice-cream producers and bakeries, and animal feed is prepared based on orders (but in the rural community where they live, there is always demand). 

The enterprise has demonstrated a capacity to produce 1,000 packages of peanuts per month, and has created several jobs, alongside additional income opportunities for farmers and lower-income rural households.  

There are still things Dildora wants to improve. These days she is working on a new collaboration that would allow her to potentially expand the area for planting and experimenting. 

Almost 30 
 
Back at home, the scientist who is also an entrepreneur thinking about new products is also a mother about to turn 30, thinking about the next academic degree. 

But as strong as she is, it helps not to do it alone. Aid for Trade’s mentorship programmes support women like Dildora who are starting out in business, drawing on the knowledge and experience of others. In 2024 and 2025, the programmes connected 33 experienced women entrepreneurs with 74 newcomers and provided technical and practical support to 15 women-led start-ups as they developed their businesses. 

In Andijan, women entrepreneurs like Dildora are shaping the region’s economic future. As their businesses grow, new jobs expand the opportunities for other women in different roles, and their knowledge and experience pave the path for emerging entrepreneurs through community and mentorship networks. Women-led businesses with upgraded productive capacities and business skills are demonstrating that women in rural communities can gain financial independence and even promote circular economy solutions. 

Around Dildora, the family makes room for all of it – caring for the children, tending to the home, learning the equipment and building ErElDi together. 

And somewhere nearby is that brown notebook. There is still space for a lot of new work. 

 —

UNDP recently completed its regional “Aid for Trade in Central Asia” initiative, funded by the Government of Finland. For over a decade, the initiative worked across Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan to advance more diversified, inclusive and future-fit economies, adaptive to the green and digital shifts reshaping global markets and trade. It enhanced the capabilities of businesses and institutions for developing job-rich, sustainable value chains and strengthened enterprise productivity and competitiveness. 

 The project contributed towards SDG 5 (Gender Equality), SDG 8 (Decent Work and Economic Growth), and SDG 17 (Partnerships for the Goals). 

By Shakhnoza Zafari, Head of Comms at UNDP Uzbekistan.

The post Nothing to Waste: Dildora’s Science of Peanuts appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sentence on a building in Tashkent

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

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

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

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

The image stayed with him.

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

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

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

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

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

Making the same film twice

The finished film hides how difficult its production was.

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

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

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

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

The first render alone took eight months to arrive.

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

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

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

So they discarded the entire eight-minute film.

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

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

Uzbek creators, universal story

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

Rahimjonov says the decision was intentional.

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

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

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

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

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

Building an “Uzbek Animation Factory”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A broken link between generations?

Uzbekistan is not starting from zero.

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

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

But technology is not the same as artistic inheritance.

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

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

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

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

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

An industry growing quickly

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

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

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

But production remains expensive.

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

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

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

Taking Share Happiness abroad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What comes next

Lola Animation is already working on its next major project.

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

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

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

The intention is again international.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uzbek-born concert pianist Diana Skobina began playing at four and performed with the National Orchestra of Uzbekistan at nine. Now based in the United States, she has performed at venues including Carnegie Hall’s Weill Recital Hall, the Musikverein in Vienna and Walt Disney Concert Hall. As she enters a new stage of her career, Skobina is increasingly looking back to the musical culture that shaped her – and towards ways of bringing Uzbek and Central Asian composers to wider international audiences.

This article was produced as a paid partnership with Diana Skobina.

For Diana Skobina, music began at home in Tashkent.

Her earliest memories of the piano are not of formal lessons or concert halls, but of listening to her mother play Beethoven, Rachmaninoff and composers including Georgy Mushel and Boris Gienko. She remembers sitting nearby, captivated by the sound and thinking simply: I want to be able to play that.

She began lessons at the age of four. By nine, she was performing with the National Orchestra of Uzbekistan – an experience she now sees as the moment when music ceased to be something private.

“It was the first time I understood what it actually means to be a performer – that music isn’t just something you work on alone, it’s something you give to other people,” she tells Novastan.

Yet Skobina says there was never a single moment when she consciously decided that the piano would become her life.

“It crept up on me gradually. Music became so woven into my everyday life that at some point it stopped being a decision and just became who I was.”

Today, that journey has taken her from musical institutions in Tashkent to conservatories in the United States and onto international stages. But as her career has expanded geographically, Skobina says her relationship with Uzbekistan has become more, rather than less, important to her artistic identity.

A musical education shaped in Tashkent

Skobina studied at the Uspensky School of Music in Tashkent, where she describes an environment in which musical education was taken seriously from an early age.

Her teachers Tatiana Sotnikova and Guzal Ardashirova gave her what she describes as the fundamentals of her musical education: careful listening, attention to detail, discipline and respect for the score.

“Being a musician takes discipline, patience and consistent work,” she says. “But it was never only about discipline for me. It was also where I found curiosity, discovery, real joy.”

At the State Conservatory of Uzbekistan, where she studied with Professor Elmira Mirkasimova, music gradually changed from a passion into a professional path. Mirkasimova encouraged her to go deeper into structure, phrasing, character and expression – lessons that Skobina says continue to influence her performances today.

The technical foundations of that education remain central to the way she approaches the piano.

“The biggest lesson was that technique should never exist for its own sake. It has to serve the musical idea,” she says.

She learned to pay close attention to sound, articulation, rhythm, structure and character, but also to search beneath the notes for the intention of the composer.

“A technically clean performance was never the goal in itself. Every detail has to ultimately serve communication and expression.”

When Skobina later continued her education in the United States, she encountered different musical traditions and teaching methods. But she never saw that as a reason to abandon what she had learned in Uzbekistan.

“I’ve always seen it as something to build on, not replace.”

Learning to build an artistic career in the United States

Moving to the United States required another kind of education.

Skobina says one of the biggest differences she encountered was the expectation that professional musicians must actively shape their own careers rather than concentrating exclusively on artistic development.

“Back home, my job was to become the best musician I could be,” she explains. “In the US, I learned that an artist also has to create their own opportunities – build relationships, connect with audiences, collaborate, teach, understand the practical side of the profession.”

Her studies at the Lynn University Conservatory with Dr Roberta Rust were important in that transition. Rust encouraged her to combine rigorous preparation with greater artistic individuality and to develop her own voice rather than reproduce an established formula.

The experience also pushed Skobina to become more independent professionally.

“I had to navigate a new culture and a new professional landscape while staying true to myself,” she says. “That balance – adapting and growing without losing the foundation I brought with me – still matters to me today.”

She later continued her training at the Manhattan School of Music and has now completed her postgraduate studies there, working with pianist and educator Dr Wael Farouk.

Skobina credits Farouk with encouraging her to listen more deeply to tone and colour, think more carefully about musical structure and interpretation, and approach memorisation in new ways. His influence, she adds, went beyond technique.

“What touched me just as much was his generosity and genuine care as a teacher,” she says. “He reminded me that real musicianship and real kindness go hand in hand.”

From Carnegie Hall to the Musikverein

Skobina’s career has since taken her onto stages including Weill Recital Hall at Carnegie Hall in New York, the Musikverein in Vienna and Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles.

Those performances have inevitably carried symbolic weight.

“Each has its own history and atmosphere, and standing on those stages naturally makes me reflect on the journey that got me there,” she says.

Yet she is reluctant to identify one venue or performance as the moment everything changed.

Rather, her sense of possibility developed gradually – through concerts, audiences, backstage moments and the accumulated realisation of how far music had carried her from where she began.

“The prestige of the hall has never been the most important thing to me,” she says. “What matters most is the relationship between the performer, the music and the audience. Even in the most celebrated room in the world, I want to feel that I’m communicating something sincere.”

Uzbekistan remains part of the sound

That idea of communication is also closely connected to Skobina’s sense of cultural identity.

“Uzbekistan is deeply present in who I am as an artist,” she says.

Growing up in Tashkent meant hearing European classical music alongside the musical traditions of Central Asia. Skobina believes the coexistence of those musical worlds helped shape her sensitivity to melody, rhythm, colour and emotional nuance.

She compares it to language: the sounds heard during childhood can continue to influence the ear long after someone stops consciously thinking about them.

“I don’t set out to make a piece sound ‘Uzbek’, or to layer one tradition visibly onto another,” she explains. “It’s more that my background comes through naturally in how I interpret music, because it’s simply part of who I am.”

“Cultural identity doesn’t need to be added to the music artificially – it’s already there, quietly shaping how I listen and how I communicate.”

That heritage is increasingly influencing not only how Skobina performs, but also the repertoire she wants to champion.

She names Mukhtar Ashrafi, Georgy Mushel, Mutal Burkhanov, Mirkhalil Mahmudov and Rustam Abdullaev among the Uzbek composers whose work she would like to see reach larger audiences. She is also particularly interested in drawing attention to women composers from Uzbekistan.

“There’s so much wonderful music from Uzbekistan and Central Asia that international audiences simply haven’t encountered yet,” she says.

For Skobina, the objective is not to present the repertoire primarily as unfamiliar or “exotic”, but to make a case for its artistic value in its own right.

“When I play music from Uzbekistan for an international audience, it feels personal – I’m sharing something connected to my home with people who may be hearing it for the first time.”

She hopes future concerts, recordings and collaborations can place Central Asian works alongside more established classical repertoire and allow listeners to encounter them as part of a living musical tradition.

One piano, two pianists

Collaboration is another important part of Skobina’s musical life.

She performs with her husband, pianist Sergei Skobin, as the Skobin Duo, working across four-hand and piano-duo repertoire.

Playing together, she says, requires a different form of listening from solo performance.

“As a soloist, you’re responsible for the whole musical architecture yourself. In a duo, you have to build one musical organism together with another person.”

That means listening constantly – to timing, direction, sound, phrasing and the other performer’s intentions – while retaining an individual artistic voice.

Their marriage creates a degree of instinctive understanding, Skobina says, but not necessarily agreement.

“We don’t always hear things the same way, and I think that’s actually productive. Our conversations about phrasing, tempo, articulation and character often lead us somewhere neither of us would have found alone.”

Their repertoire has included Dvořák’s Slavonic Dances, the four-hand version of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue and music connected to their Central Asian heritage.

For Skobina, the experience has also influenced her solo playing.

“Playing chamber music has made me a better listener, and that’s made me a better solo pianist too.”

Teaching the next generation

Teaching occupies an increasingly important place alongside performance.

Skobina says the influence of her own teachers – from Tashkent to Florida and New York – has convinced her that music education is not simply about transmitting technique.

She sees traces of each stage of her own education in the way she now works with students: discipline and foundations from her early teachers in Uzbekistan, depth from her conservatory training, individuality from Lynn University and a more developed understanding of sound and structure from Manhattan.

But she does not want her students to reproduce her own path.

“Every student is different,” she says. “Some need technical guidance, some need to learn to trust themselves, some need help finding their own voice, some just need someone to believe in them.”

“I don’t want my students to become copies of me. I want them to become themselves – independent, thoughtful musicians who can listen, question and make their own artistic decisions. Most of all, I want them to love music.”

A new international chapter

Skobina has recently been welcomed as a signed artist with Global Art & Culture USA, which she sees as an opportunity to bring several strands of her career together.

She hopes the new stage will support further international performance, recordings, collaborations and projects combining artistic work with education and cultural exchange.

In particular, she wants to develop programmes introducing audiences to music from Uzbekistan and Central Asia.

“I’m especially drawn to projects where different cultures meet through music,” she says. “For me, cultural exchange only really works when it’s grounded in genuine artistic dialogue.”

It is also an opportunity to define more clearly what she wants her international artistic identity to represent: an artist whose career and education span countries and institutions, but whose musical roots remain firmly connected to Uzbekistan.

Building that career has not always been straightforward.

Skobina speaks openly about the less visible aspects of international musical life: years of preparation, applications, travel, financial pressures, uncertainty and the constant need to create opportunities.

“There are moments where you have to be patient with yourself and keep moving even when the path isn’t clear,” she says.

But the reward remains essentially the same as it was when she first sat at the piano.

“There’s something incredibly special about sitting down at the piano and feeling, for a moment, that the audience and I are sharing the same emotional space.”

“And I feel especially fortunate that music has let me stay connected to Uzbekistan while building my life here in the US.”

Bringing Central Asian repertoire onto the international stage

With her postgraduate studies now completed, Skobina wants the coming years to bring more performance, recording, teaching and collaboration.

She plans to continue expanding her solo repertoire while developing the Skobin Duo and other chamber projects.

One of her clearest ambitions is to create programmes and recordings that place familiar works from the European classical repertoire alongside lesser-known music by Uzbek and Central Asian composers.

For Skobina, the point is not to separate the two traditions but to allow audiences to hear them in conversation.

“I’m also drawn to collaborations with musicians from different backgrounds and projects that combine performance, education and cultural exchange,” she says.

Her goal is an international career that continues to expand without weakening the link to where it began.

“I began this journey as a little girl in Tashkent, and I feel fortunate that the piano has taken me to so many places and introduced me to so many wonderful people.”

“I don’t know exactly where the next chapter leads, but I know I want to keep learning, performing, sharing music, and representing my culture with warmth and pride.”

For Skobina, the idea ultimately returns to the same principle that first drew her to performance as a child: music as something shared.

“Music has always been about connection for me,” she says. “It connects me to my childhood in Tashkent, to the traditions I was raised in, to the life and education I built in the US, and to audiences and musicians from many different cultures.”

“That’s what I hope to keep doing through my career – using music to connect people, while carrying forward the culture and heritage that shaped who I am.”

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

The post From Tashkent to the international stage: Diana Skobina brings Uzbek music to new audiences appeared first on Novastan English.

Seoul has elevated its relationship with Central Asia to summit level and placed critical minerals, supply chains and industrial cooperation at the centre of the agenda. But four experts interviewed by Novastan argue that the real test will be whether South Korea can turn regional diplomacy into investment, local value creation and practical cross-border cooperation across five very different states

When the leaders of South Korea and the five Central Asian states met in Seoul on 16 September, the symbolism was difficult to miss. A relationship that had operated through the Korea-Central Asia Cooperation Forum since 2007 was elevated to heads-of-state level for the first time, while the Seoul Declaration set out a broader framework for cooperation in industry, infrastructure, technology, climate and people-to-people ties.

The economic agenda was equally prominent. South Korea and the Central Asian states established a C5+1 meeting of industry ministers, agreed to deepen cooperation on critical minerals and supply chains, and dkiscussed local processing, manufacturing, infrastructure and digital transformation. A parallel business summit produced 19 memoranda of understanding.

But the diplomatic upgrade does not necessarily mean that South Korea suddenly has a coherent regional strategy for Central Asia.

The five states differ markedly in economic structure, resources, labour markets and their existing relations with Seoul. Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan have by far the deepest Korean industrial and political ties, while Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan occupy very different places in the relationship.

The more important question is therefore not whether South Korea has become more interested in Central Asia. It plainly has. It is whether a regional diplomatic framework can add something meaningful to relationships that will remain, in practice, highly differentiated.

Four specialists interviewed by Novastan suggest that it can – but only if Seoul avoids treating Central Asia as either a single economic bloc or simply a new source of strategic raw materials.

A new emphasis, not a new relationship

South Korea’s growing focus on supply-chain resilience can easily be presented as a dramatic shift. Yet Matteo Fumagalli, Director of the Institute of Middle East, Central Asia and the Caucasus Studies at the University of St Andrews, sees considerably more continuity.

“There is indeed an additional emphasis on supply chain resilience,” he told Novastan, but this is being added to “pre-existing priorities” rather than replacing them.

The change reflects a series of shocks that have forced governments to think differently about economic vulnerability: Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, worsening trade tensions and instability in the relationship between the United States and China.

Alexandre Haym, an analyst of South Korean foreign policy, similarly places the current push in a longer trajectory. Seoul’s recent initiatives build on earlier efforts, including the New Northern Policy and the K-Silk Road strategy. In this reading, economic security has accelerated South Korea’s engagement with Central Asia rather than fundamentally reinventing it.

Critical minerals nevertheless give the relationship a new sense of urgency.

Central Asia possesses uranium, rare metals and other resources attractive to a Korean economy heavily dependent on imported inputs. Yet Fumagalli cautions against assuming that Seoul intends to replace its existing suppliers with Central Asian ones.

“I don’t think that Seoul’s objective is for Central Asia to become a key source of imports,” he said.

The key word is diversification.

South Korea is looking for additional suppliers and additional options, not necessarily a new dominant source of raw materials. And the distance between identifying a mineral deposit and incorporating it into a Korean industrial supply chain remains considerable.

Central Asian governments have only recently begun updating geological data that in some cases dated back to the Soviet period, Fumagalli notes. Exploration may identify promising reserves, but commercial development still requires finance, infrastructure, processing capacity, reliable energy and water, and customers willing to buy the resulting products.

That distinction matters because summit diplomacy can make a deposit strategically interesting without making it economically viable.

“Investment. Investment. Investment”

From the Central Asian perspective, the priorities are not identical to Seoul’s.

Asked what the region most wants from South Korea, Fumagalli’s answer was emphatic:

“Investment. Investment. Investment.”

For Central Asian governments, diversification is not simply about selling minerals to an additional foreign buyer. It is also about attracting capital, technology, training and industrial activity that remains in the region.

Aidar Kurmashev, Head of the Department of Asian Studies at the Kazakhstan Institute for Strategic Studies, argues that the success of a minerals partnership should therefore be assessed by the productive capabilities it creates.

“Resource exports can generate revenue,” he told Novastan. “The more demanding task is to use that activity to develop processing, engineering services and suppliers that can remain competitive over time.”

Technology transfer, in this sense, cannot simply mean importing Korean machinery. It requires local engineers able to operate and improve production processes, laboratories capable of maintaining quality standards, trained maintenance teams and domestic suppliers able to meet industrial specifications.

The objective need not be to manufacture the most sophisticated finished product domestically. In some cases, a refined metal, industrial component or intermediate material may represent a more realistic step up the value chain.

What matters is whether Korean investment leaves behind skills and commercially viable production.

That is also where the interests of Seoul and Central Asian governments can diverge.

South Korea wants resilient access to strategic inputs. Central Asian states increasingly want to avoid remaining exporters of unprocessed resources.

Professor Jieon Lee, Head of the Department of Central Asian Studies at Hankuk University of Foreign Studies, argues that an engagement driven too narrowly by Korean supply-chain concerns could undermine one of Seoul’s principal advantages in the region: the relatively positive image it has accumulated through education, culture, technology and long-term cooperation.

A relationship perceived as extractive would put that goodwill at risk.

One region, five different relationships

The difficulty for Seoul is that there is no single Central Asian economic model to which it can apply a uniform Korean strategy.

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan are the obvious anchors. Both have substantial populations, established industrial links with Korean companies, important mineral resources and large Koryo-saram communities.

Their relationship with Seoul is therefore qualitatively different from that of Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan or Turkmenistan.

Fumagalli notes that South Korea itself needs different things from different Central Asian states. Labour migration, for example, matters more in its relationships with Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan than with Turkmenistan. Training programmes or cultural cooperation may have greater relevance elsewhere.

Lee argues that the answer is not to force uniformity, but to combine differentiated bilateral relationships with cooperation on what she calls “regional public goods.”

These could include water management, climate cooperation, human-capital development, digital governance and different stages of the critical-minerals value chain.

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan may remain Seoul’s main industrial partners. Cooperation with Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan might place greater emphasis on education, hydropower, labour mobility or development cooperation, while Turkmenistan presents a different set of opportunities in energy and logistics.

A regional strategy, in other words, does not require each country to receive the same Korean factory, investment package or sectoral priority.

Its value lies elsewhere.

Where regionalism can actually help

Kurmashev offers perhaps the clearest test of whether the new summit format matters.

“The summit can give political authority to work that already has an institutional base,” he said.

Simply creating another opportunity for leaders to meet would “change very little.”

The regional format becomes useful when it tackles problems that cannot be solved through a bilateral investment agreement alone.

A Korean company could build a factory in Kazakhstan, buy inputs from Uzbekistan and sell its products across several Central Asian markets. Yet even an excellent bilateral relationship cannot by itself resolve incompatible certification rules, unpredictable border procedures or transport arrangements involving several jurisdictions.

A delay at a border can undermine an investment whose financing and construction proceeded smoothly.

For Kurmashev, the summit’s significance will become clearer when it is possible to “trace a political decision to an observable change across a border.”

This also provides a more realistic way for the smaller Central Asian economies to participate in Korean-led production networks.

Regional cooperation need not mean reproducing an entire industrial chain in every country. A specialised supplier in Kyrgyzstan or Tajikistan could benefit from a larger network centred on production elsewhere if borders, certification and logistics allow it to participate.

This is less spectacular than announcing another billion-dollar investment package.

But it may ultimately matter more.

The Middle Corridor is not the whole answer

Transport is another area where political rhetoric can obscure commercial reality.

The Middle Corridor across the Caspian Sea and South Caucasus has gained enormous geopolitical visibility as governments search for routes that reduce dependence on Russia.

For South Korea, however, geography creates an additional complication.

Because North Korea blocks direct overland access from South Korea to the Eurasian continent, Korean cargo must first travel by sea before entering a continental route.

“The Middle Corridor is important to many countries,” Fumagalli said. But for Korea, simply getting goods onto the Eurasian landmass adds both time and cost. Seoul is therefore examining multiple possibilities rather than betting everything on a single route.

Kurmashev likewise cautions against treating connectivity as one uniform corridor problem.

Korean goods entering Kazakhstan may arrive through China. A Korean-invested Kazakh factory selling to Europe may have a much stronger interest in the Trans-Caspian route. The same factory selling to Uzbekistan primarily needs predictable transport within Central Asia.

“The Middle Corridor is important, but its relevance depends on the origin and destination of the cargo,” he said.

The underlying issue is therefore less glamorous: customs procedures, compatible digital systems, certification, transport reliability and clear responsibility when shipments are delayed.

Those are precisely the areas in which a regional political framework can potentially complement bilateral investment.

Korea’s soft advantage – and its limits

South Korea does have one advantage that is harder to measure than investment flows.

It is generally perceived differently from Russia, China or the major Western powers.

Fumagalli describes Seoul as retaining a relatively “non-threatening” profile in Central Asia, reinforced by the extraordinary reach of Korean popular culture.

Historical ties through Koryo-saram communities, Korean universities, consumer technology, development programmes and K-pop all contribute to a familiarity that conventional economic statistics do not capture.

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

Kurmashev nevertheless warns against turning that favourable image into an assumption of automatic trust.

Korea has no history of ruling Central Asian territory and shares no border with the region, but governments, companies and local communities may still perceive individual projects differently. A positive national image does not settle concerns about employment, water use, working conditions or the terms of a particular investment.

Lee points to another increasingly important dimension: the experience of Central Asians in South Korea itself.

Students, migrant workers and other Central Asian residents encounter questions of labour rights, integration, discrimination and visa insecurity. Those experiences also shape perceptions of Korea.

Economic diplomacy therefore does not take place separately from human relationships.

A country may enjoy strong cultural appeal while simultaneously damaging its reputation through the everyday experience of the people who study and work there.

The test comes after the summit

The first Korea-Central Asia summit has already succeeded in one respect: it has institutionalised a relationship that Seoul increasingly regards as strategically important.

The Republic of Korea government itself emphasised that cooperation should move beyond individual infrastructure projects toward local processing, manufacturing, industrial capacity and “mutually beneficial value chains.”

The harder question is whether that language produces projects.

Fumagalli would watch whether announced investments – particularly in areas such as renewable energy – actually move forward.

Kurmashev proposes an even more concrete measure: financing secured, factories operating, transport becoming more reliable, and local companies acquiring capabilities they can use beyond a single Korean partnership.

For Lee, the regional framework will also have to prove that it can address shared problems without pretending that Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan are interchangeable.

And Haym’s emphasis on continuity provides an important corrective to the language of diplomatic breakthroughs. South Korea has been building relationships in Central Asia for decades. The summit did not create them. It gave them a new institutional form.

That may be precisely why the most realistic Korean strategy will remain regional in form and bilateral in practice.

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan are likely to continue attracting the deepest economic engagement. The other Central Asian states will participate through different sectors, at different scales and for different reasons.

That is not necessarily a failure of regionalism.

The real test is whether the new framework can make those unequal relationships work better together – allowing investment to cross borders, local companies to enter production networks, skills and technology to remain in the region, and Central Asian governments to gain meaningful new economic choices.

If it does, South Korea may carve out a distinctive role in one of the world’s increasingly crowded arenas of economic diplomacy.

If it does not, Seoul will have succeeded in creating another summit – without fundamentally changing what lies beneath it.

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

The post South Korea’s Central Asia strategy is regional in form, bilateral in practice appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

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

“Institutional reform becomes meaningful when people experience it”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women’s economic participation: beyond legal reform

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mongolia: where environmental policy becomes social policy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who benefits from the green transition?

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

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

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

A solar-heated home in Ulaanbaatar

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

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

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

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

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

Why good reforms can remain on paper

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

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

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

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

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

“International organisations cannot substitute for national ambition”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uzbekistan has one of the youngest populations in its region – and a generation increasingly conscious that it will inherit some of Central Asia’s most severe environmental challenges. From biodegradable plant pots to clean-water projects in Karakalpakstan, young Uzbeks are turning climate anxiety into action.

In 2026, Uzbekistan completed its first national census since independence. The preliminary results revealed a population of 39,047,321 – 810,617 more people than previous official estimates had suggested.

They also underscored just how young the country is. The largest age group is children under five, numbering around 4.6 million, while the median age is just 29.5 years.

That demographic profile represents both an opportunity and a challenge. Today’s children and young adults will drive Uzbekistan’s future economy, shape its cities and institutions, and place growing demands on resources. They will also inherit a country already confronting water scarcity, desertification, extreme heat and the long environmental legacy of the Aral Sea disaster.

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

Many are acutely aware of what lies ahead.

A 2022 UNDP study on climate awareness among young people in Uzbekistan found that 92% of respondents were either deeply or somewhat concerned about climate change. Water scarcity, health risks and desertification ranked among their major concerns.

Increasingly, some young Uzbeks are moving beyond concern towards practical action.

From climate concern to climate action

One attempt to channel that engagement is the Youth Climate Actions Network, which brings together young environmental activists from Central Asia as well as Azerbaijan, Türkiye and Hungary.

Supported by partners including Uzbekistan’s National Committee on Ecology and Climate Change, UNICEF and the Zamin Foundation, the initiative combines environmental education with leadership and advocacy training.

This year’s 52 Climate Champions were selected through an open call by Eco-Schools. Participants attended training, represented Uzbekistan at events including the Regional Environmental Summit in Astana, the International Youth Forum in Istanbul and the Eco Expo in Samarkand, and organised activities in communities across Uzbekistan.

According to programme figures, the participants have trained more than 17,000 of their peers, planted around 1,900 trees, collected more than 18 tonnes of waste for recycling and organised Eco Festivals in hundreds of schools.

At the Eco Expo in Samarkand in June, the scale of youth involvement was difficult to miss.

Green University students acted as ambassadors for their academic programmes. Teenagers Kamila and Veronica represented UNICEF and spoke about their UniSat project, which involved launching satellites over the Aral Sea. Other young activists put their language skills and local knowledge to use with international delegations, drawing attention to environmental initiatives from regions such as Syrdarya which might otherwise struggle for visibility.

But some of the most interesting projects were found in the Start-up Hall, where young entrepreneurs were attempting to turn environmental problems into viable businesses.

Turning environmental problems into businesses

Rayhona represented Organic Living, a Tashkent-based brand producing alternatives to plastic-heavy and chemical-intensive household products.

“We care about nature, we care about our health, and that’s why people who love a healthy lifestyle and nature choose us,” she explained.

The company produces items including soap made from coconut oil and detergent sheets designed to replace conventional washing detergents and their plastic packaging.

Organic Living’s products are already sold in shops in Tashkent and online. Its premise is simple: environmental awareness can create consumer demand, and that demand can make greener alternatives commercially viable.

For Shakhida Karlibayeva and Miyratdin Azhiniyazov, the problem they wanted to address was rooted much closer to home.

The two co-founders of ECOPOTS come from Karakalpakstan, where large-scale planting programmes are being used to stabilise soils and establish vegetation on and around the exposed seabed of the former Aral Sea.

Tree planting creates an environmental paradox of its own. Seedlings are frequently raised and transported in single-use plastic pots, which can then become waste in a region where recycling infrastructure remains limited.

ECOPOTS offers an alternative. Karlibayeva and Azhiniyazov produce plant pots from wool and other natural ingredients. Seedlings can be planted directly into the ground without removing the container, reducing root disturbance while allowing the pot itself to biodegrade.

Such enterprises show how environmental problems can generate opportunities for innovation. But Uzbekistan’s ecological challenges extend far beyond problems that consumer choice or a successful start-up can solve.

Read more on Novastan: “My Childhood Was Spent on the Shore of a Sea That No Longer Exists”

For young activists from Karakalpakstan in particular, environmental action can mean confronting problems rooted in decades of ecological degradation.

Living with the Aral Sea crisis

“In Karakalpakstan, the drinking water crisis is inseparable from the legacy of the Aral Sea,” says Gulnaz Jagiderova, a former Youth Climate Action Consultant for UNICEF who recently completed an MA in Social Change, Environment and Sustainability as a Chevening Scholar at the University of Manchester.

For Jagiderova, the growth of youth environmental initiatives across Uzbekistan offers grounds for optimism – but not an excuse to underestimate the scale of the challenge.

“What gives me hope is the scale of youth-led climate and environmental action emerging across Uzbekistan,” she says.

“The challenges remain systemic and long-term. But when young people in frontline regions move from awareness to implementation, organising, innovating, and holding institutions accountable, solutions become grounded in lived reality.”

Few initiatives demonstrate that transition from awareness to implementation as directly as the work of another young environmental activist, Gulnaz Abutova.

Abutova divides her time between Nukus and Tashkent and is the founder of Clean Water, a non-profit organisation installing small-scale water treatment stations in villages in the Aral Sea region.

Each station can provide safe drinking water for up to 2,000 people and costs around UZS 120 million – slightly more than US$10,000 – to install.

“Clean water work is deeply personal to me because it turns a simple idea into tangible change,” Abutova says.

“Seeing this direct impact reminds me that meaningful change begins with taking action.”

The work requires not just environmental expertise but fundraising, logistics and cooperation with communities. Clean Water has so far installed stations serving ten villages, with plans for another five.

Abutova combines the voluntary initiative with her work at the Aral School, an ecological education programme commissioned by the Uzbekistan Art and Culture Development Foundation.

Her experience illustrates both the possibilities and the limitations of youth-led environmental action. A purification station can transform daily life in a village. Scaling that impact across an entire region facing structural water insecurity is a far larger task.

A generation willing to act

None of the young people I met appeared under any illusion about the scale of Uzbekistan’s environmental challenges.

Climate change intersects with problems that have accumulated over decades: the degradation of the Aral Sea basin, pressure on increasingly scarce water resources, waste management, desertification and the need to reconcile economic growth with environmental sustainability.

Youth programmes, social enterprises and local initiatives cannot resolve these problems alone. Nor should responsibility for tackling them be transferred onto a generation that did not create them. Large-scale change will ultimately depend on public policy, investment, infrastructure and cooperation between Uzbekistan and its neighbours.

But the growing involvement of young people matters.

Some are lobbying and educating their peers. Others are developing products, planting trees, launching environmental businesses or finding practical ways to bring clean water to communities. Their projects differ dramatically in scale, but they share a conviction that environmental problems are not simply something to be endured.

Uzbekistan’s young population will live longest with the consequences of the decisions being made today. Increasingly, its members are also demanding a role in shaping what happens next.

By Sophie Ibbotson, Uzbekistan’s Ambassador for Ecology.

The post From the Aral Sea to eco start-ups: Uzbekistan’s young climate generation appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was not what happened in 2021.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second major difference was international support.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is what the course title is meant to challenge.

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

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

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

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

It denies the agency and dynamism of human collectives.

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

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

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

I think it is a hybrid form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your question contains much of the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One major example of the ethnic fallacy is the interpretation of the war as a competition between macro-ethnic groups – Pashtun versus Tajik versus Hazara, and so on – and their supposed representatives, such as the Taliban representing the Pashtuns.

This ignores the fact that macro-ethnic affiliation is only one level of collective affiliation and identity among others, alongside family, religious, professional and micro-ethnic or qawm identities.

Ultimately, it was not ethnicities that made war.

As Dorronsoro puts it, it was political organisations with ideological objectives and particular institutional practices.

Reducing the conflict to ethnicity therefore fails to capture social and ideological dynamics.

The same problem applies to explanations centred entirely on Islam or religion.

Such interpretations assume that Islam inevitably produces a particular relationship between religion and politics.

But what appears mystical or culturally predetermined can often be explained more convincingly through the sociology of contending groups, such as students and the ulama, in a decidedly contemporary historical context.

That argument echoes my own goal in both my teaching and my research: to develop a more critical, complex and scientific approach to understanding Afghanistan beyond reductionist, essentialist and Eurocentric representations.

During your research, was there one historical episode that significantly changed how you understood the Afghan state?

The campaigns of Amir Abdul Rahman in Hazarajat in the 1890s were particularly horrific and revealing.

They showed how the state manipulated and instrumentalised collective identities, micro- and macro-ethnic rivalries, religious mobilisation, disorder, plunder and extreme violence in order to consolidate its authority.

They also left a profound legacy of discrimination and marginalisation for Hazara communities.

What surprised me was that these were strategies I had previously associated more with empires than with the consolidation of a nation-state.

It demonstrated that state formation in Afghanistan did not only include elements that we associate with nation-states – territorial, direct, unitary, bureaucratic and rational-legal rule.

It also contained elements of a more imperial register: indirect rule, governing through discontinuities and even the instrumentalisation of destruction and disorder.

What began in a way comparable to Abdul Rahman’s campaigns elsewhere in the north and east became especially bloody in Hazarajat because of the religious mobilisation and declaration of jihad against the Hazara, who were excommunicated because of their Shi’a faith.

This religious mobilisation was complemented by the manipulation of local rivalries between Hazaras and neighbouring communities, including in many cases Pashtuns.

The result was that Hazara communities permanently lost a substantial portion of their cultivable land and exclusive pasture rights.

The permission not only to plunder but also to enslave thousands of Hazaras attracted auxiliary militias that were not paid by the state but sustained themselves through plunder.

The state itself taxed the plunder of its military troops and took a share for itself, as it did with systematic plunder elsewhere in the country.

This was also a period in which Afghanistan was emerging as a British protectorate.

Abdul Rahman was able to focus on such violent internal campaigns partly because Britain protected Afghanistan from potential foreign aggression by Russia or Persia, while also providing the ruler with yearly subsidies, arms and access to further military purchases.

The state therefore unleashed a violent, destructive and complex process that was not entirely under its control, and consolidated its authority by instrumentalising that disorder.

The result was an immense legacy of collective trauma for the Hazara and a continuing history of marginalisation and discrimination.

There are important scholarly debates about whether these episodes constituted genocide.

At the very least, they involved mass killings, massacres, enslavement and crimes against humanity.

This episode demonstrated not only the sometimes atypical mechanisms of state consolidation in Afghanistan, but also the importance of understanding the legacy of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in explaining the country’s contemporary social and political realities.

In discussing Amir Abdul Rahman’s campaigns in Hazarajat, you distinguish between “nation-state” and “imperial” forms of state-building. Were these imperial methods exceptional to Hazarajat?

This is a very good question because it goes back to my criticism of reducing everything to macro-ethnic arguments.

There was something distinctly particular about the case of the Hazaras.

There was a religious dimension to the jihad against them because they were excommunicated on account of their Shi’a faith.

There was also widespread enslavement, as well as the transfer of arable land and pasture rights to non-Hazara groups, especially Pashtuns.

Here, we do see a genuinely macro-ethnic and ethno-religious dynamic emerging from the formation of the state and its strategies.

At the same time, many imperial features were common to all the communities subjected to central rule.

These included widespread massacres and violence, systematic plunder during army deployments and the extensive use of militias.

So although communities elsewhere were not subjected to enslavement or large-scale transfers of land and pasture in the same way, they too were subjugated through a highly coercive and autocratic process and became subordinate to a distant but coercively powerful government.

An eastern Pashtun farmer in a mountain village was not subjected to the same ethno-religious discrimination as the Hazaras, but he nevertheless shared a fundamentally similar socio-political relationship of subordination to the state and incorporation into a peripheral economy through that same process.

You point out that Abdul Rahman’s campaigns took place while Britain protected Afghanistan from external aggression and provided the ruler with money and arms. How important was British support to the consolidation of the Afghan state itself?

It was very important, and it complicates the conventional image of Afghanistan as a country historically resistant to all outside control.

The image of Afghanistan as an isolated realm, a “graveyard of empires” whose mythical population has forever resisted foreign rule, is itself a colonial trope that emerged in the nineteenth century.

Before that, rule by dynasties that would later be described as “foreign” was the norm rather than the exception.

Greeks, Arabs, Indians, Turkic dynasties from Central Asia and Mongols all conquered and ruled parts of what we now call Afghanistan.

Even when we look at the Anglo-Afghan wars and their outcomes in the nineteenth century, the picture is more complicated.

Afghanistan retained internal autonomy because of undeniable societal resistance to British invasions.

But at the same time, it became a quasi-colonial construction.

Britain largely defined and safeguarded its territory, controlled its foreign relations and incorporated it into the emerging global economic order as a landlocked buffer state on the periphery.

Territorial defence is particularly revealing.

Britain imposed substantial territorial losses on the Amir through the treaties of Gandamak in 1879 and Durand in 1893.

But it was also Britain that went to war with Iran over its claims to Herat and forced Tehran to renounce those claims by treaty.

Similarly, what protected northern Afghanistan from annexation by the Russian Empire was not simply the military strength of the Amir, but the deterrent effect of the possibility of conflict with Britain.

That meant the ruler could focus his strategies on internal repression rather than interstate warfare.

So Afghanistan was peripheralised, but never isolated.

Its political constructions drew on elements from both inside and outside the country.

It was neither entirely determined by the outside world nor independent of it.

It was neither an entirely colonial construction nor untouched by colonialism.

Even in the twentieth century, we see not only state elites drawing on resources from outside the country – military patronage and international aid – but also non-state political parties and militias whose prominence during the 1980s and 1990s depended heavily on foreign patronage.

That longer history makes the “graveyard of empires” image particularly misleading.

Afghanistan has always been shaped by interaction between domestic and external forces.

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

The post Beyond the ‘Graveyard of Empires’: Rethinking the Afghan State appeared first on Novastan English.

On 16 September, Seoul hosted the first-ever Korea–Central Asia Summit, bringing President Lee Jae-myung together with the heads of state of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan – a dialogue that has run at ministerial level since 2007, now elevated to heads of state and producing a joint “Seoul Declaration” on supply-chain cooperation (Seoul Shinmun, 李대통령 16일 첫 중앙아시아 정상회의). Most coverage has treated this as a diplomatic first, full stop – a historic photograph, five new bilateral memoranda, a summit that “elevates” a relationship, nothing more. The more interesting story is why it took this particular shape now, in September 2026 rather than at any point over the preceding three decades, and what that shape reveals about a quiet shift in how Seoul thinks about the region.

From aid recipient to resource partner

For most of the three decades since 1992, Seoul’s relationship with Central Asia has combined development assistance with a real, if modest, industrial footprint – Daewoo’s car assembly plant in Uzbekistan since the 1990s and Samsung’s household-appliance manufacturing among the longest-running examples of Korean direct investment in the region (Modern Diplomacy, “K-Silk Road Boosts Seoul’s Central Asia Presence”). But that investment sat for decades within a relationship organized primarily around cooperation and technical assistance rather than resource dependence. That balance is now shifting. The Presidential Office frames this summit’s central purpose as combining Central Asia’s critical-mineral reserves with Korean processing technology – supply-chain language layered on top of the older development framing, not replacing it outright (Korea Herald). The anxiety behind this is concrete: by 2025, South Korea’s mineral-import dependence had reached roughly 99.7 percent, with more than four-fifths sourced from China (Kim et al., “Central Asia as New Battle Grounds”).

The build-out has been rapid and institutional, not rhetorical. Just three days before the summit, Korea’s industry ministry convened the first-ever “C5+1” meeting of industry ministers with all five Central Asian states, agreeing to build supply chains spanning mining, refining, high-value materials processing and finished-goods manufacturing, alongside a parallel track on industrial parks, smart-factory cooperation and manufacturing AI (Newspim, 한-중앙아 산업장관회의). On the ground, Korea’s own state geological survey (KIGAM) has agreed with Uzbekistan to carry out joint exploration of nickel and cobalt deposits at Sultanuvays, with the explicit logic – laid out by Korean officials themselves – that public-sector exploration is needed to de-risk projects private mining firms won’t touch without proven reserves; if the deposits prove commercially viable, the plan is to move toward a joint venture and eventually refining and production, with Korean firms invited in at that stage (Herald Business, “중앙아시아에서 여는 핵심광물 협력의 새 길”). In his own bilateral meeting with Uzbek President Mirziyoyev ahead of the summit, President Lee explicitly proposed pairing Korean processing technology with the Asian Development Bank’s financing capacity to stabilize Central Asian mineral supply chains (Segye Ilbo) – a formulation that captures Seoul’s emerging model exactly: Korea supplies expertise, others supply capital and territory.

The connectivity problem

None of this works if the minerals cannot reach Korean plants, and here the summit’s ambition runs ahead of infrastructure – though it is worth being precise about which infrastructure. Neither Korea nor Central Asia shares a border with the other, so cargo has, in principle, several ways to travel: north through Russia, west across the Caspian toward Turkey and the Black Sea (the “Middle Corridor”), or east and south through China to a Pacific port. Public Korean commentary on the K-Silk Road initiative has invoked the Middle Corridor as a rhetorical alternative to routes dependent on China’s Belt and Road infrastructure (BISI, “Korea’s new ‘K-Silk Road’ Initiative in Central Asia”), but there is little public evidence that Seoul has committed to the Trans-Caspian route specifically as the backbone of its minerals strategy. If anything, the available evidence points the other way: a peer-reviewed routing study comparing options for Korea–Central Asia cargo found that a China-transit corridor – Incheon to Qingdao to Horgos to Almaty – outperformed alternatives on cost, the single factor logistics firms weighted most heavily (Wang and Yeo, “Selecting a Cargo Transport Route to Central Asia”). The same BISI analysis is candid on this point: China’s Belt and Road infrastructure is likely to remain the dominant channel for regional development projects regardless of what Korea builds, precisely because it already exists at scale.

A Korean government-commissioned study of logistics barriers in Central Asia, based on interviews with Korean freight-forwarding firms already operating in the region, found customs procedures and inadequate transport infrastructure – not any single missing corridor – to be the two most severe obstacles, ranked above financing or licensing constraints (National Knowledge Information System, 중앙아시아 물류장벽 연구). Read against that finding, the more accurate framing is not that Seoul’s mineral strategy hinges on completing a specific Trans-Caspian route, but that it depends on a broader and messier connectivity problem – customs harmonization, storage capacity, transport reliability – that touches every route out of the region, Chinese-transit ones included.

Seoul’s response has been to avoid the corridor-building role entirely regardless of which route eventually dominates. Rather than financing rail or port capacity itself, Korea is positioning as a technology and processing partner layered onto infrastructure others pay for – hence President Lee’s pitch to route Korean expertise through Asian Development Bank financing rather than bilateral Korean capital in his meeting with President Mirziyoyev (Segye Ilbo).

Why now

Two pressures help explain the timing, though they are best read as a plausible interpretation rather than an explicitly stated Korean rationale. The first is status, and here Seoul has been unusually candid in its own words. President Lee has framed the summit explicitly as part of a wider diplomatic diversification, telling his own senior secretaries that “the global order is rapidly becoming multipolar” and that “this is exactly the moment to join hands with more countries and expand our diplomatic reach into more diverse regions” (Daily Hankook, 유럽서 첨단산업·중앙아서 핵심광물) – a framing his own spokesperson echoed by describing Korea as having “joined the resource-diplomacy race” already under way among the major powers (Asia Economy, 강대국 ‘러브콜’에 몸값 뛴 중앙亞). That timing follows a French state visit built around advanced-industry cooperation, suggesting a deliberate, sequenced diplomatic expansion rather than a Central Asia-specific reaction. It sits, too, against a crowded backdrop: roughly ten “C5+1”-style formats now link Central Asia to outside powers, Japan’s dating back two decades and Washington’s marking its tenth anniversary last November with over $100 billion in announced deals (CIRSD; U.S. State Department). For a country that has cultivated middle-power status as deliberate policy, being among the last major economies without a leaders’-level format with the region plausibly carried a cost measured in standing, even if no Korean official has said so in those terms.

Central Asia is not a passive audience

The five governments arriving in Seoul are practiced at extracting better terms from competing suitors without committing to any one of them. Kazakhstan runs parallel Caspian and Chinese overland links simultaneously rather than choosing between them (Times of Central Asia). Uzbekistan’s own framing of cooperation with Korea explicitly stresses local refining capacity and technology transfer over raw extraction (Kim et al.) – a hedge against what regional analysts call a “green resource curse,” and a pointed contrast with Chinese capital, which regional governments increasingly criticize for financing without technology transfer. Uzbekistan’s insistence, in the KIGAM nickel-cobalt talks, on holding open the option of a joint venture rather than a straightforward extraction concession is one small but telling instance of that same instinct at work – Tashkent structuring the deal so that value stays onshore if the deposit proves out. With Washington, Tokyo, Brussels and now Seoul all running comparable outreach in the same eighteen-month window, the five republics can accept summits and memoranda from all of them while committing exclusively to none, and each new suitor arriving in the region only strengthens that leverage rather than diminishing it.

An open bet, not a settled shift

The institutional architecture – the ministerial-to-presidential upgrade, the new C5+1 industry channel, joint KIGAM exploration on the ground – is real and represents coordination that didn’t exist two years ago. But the connectivity infrastructure needed to make a minerals strategy commercially viable does not yet exist in reliable form on any route, and Korea’s own logistics-sector research says as much: firms already moving freight through the region, not diplomats drafting communiqués, are the ones flagging customs and infrastructure as the binding constraint, regardless of whether that freight ultimately crosses the Caspian or transits China. What the summit signals, then, is a bet rather than a breakthrough: that being an early, technically credible partner is valuable now, even before the logistics catch up, and that Gulf, European and multilateral capital will eventually close the connectivity gap into which Korean firms can plug their offtake deals. Whether that bet pays off depends less on what is signed in Seoul this week than on whether the region’s transport and customs bottlenecks, on whichever route ends up mattering most, get resolved soon enough to matter.

By Kodirjon Eshonkulov.

Kodirjon Eshonkulov is an independent researcher specializing in Central Asian geopolitics, transboundary infrastructure, and relations with the European Union. He is a graduate of the Graduate School of International Studies at Ajou University in South Korea. Since 2017, he has worked as a correspondent and television journalist covering social and political reforms in Uzbekistan.

The post From Development Partner to Strategic Supplier: What Seoul’s First Central Asia Summit Really Signals? appeared first on Novastan English.

Bruce Pannier has watched Central Asia change for more than three decades – from the final years of the Soviet Union to a generation that no longer remembers it. In an interview with Novastan English Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine, the veteran journalist reflects on independent media, Russia’s changing role, generational shifts, overlooked communities and what outsiders still misunderstand about Central Asia.

In the summer of 1990, Bruce Pannier arrived at Tashkent State University. The Soviet Union still existed. Central Asia’s five future independent states did not.

More than three decades later, Pannier has become one of the most familiar English-language voices on Central Asia. At Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty (RFE/RL), he co-created and co-hosted Majlis, a podcast that brought together journalists, scholars and analysts to discuss developments across the region and, increasingly, to amplify perspectives from Central Asians themselves.

Today, he is part of the team behind Turan, a project covering Central Asia and the wider Turkic world. In this interview with Novastan, Pannier looks back at more than three decades of reporting and reflects on the changing media landscape, the impact of the war in Ukraine, generational change, overlooked communities and a region that, in his view, is increasingly defining its future on its own terms.

Novastan: You have been covering Central Asia for several decades. How did your interest in the region first begin?

Bruce Pannier: I was learning Russian and doing Soviet Studies in college. But I suppose everything started with two books: Eastern Approaches by Sir Fitzroy MacLean and Setting the East Ablaze by Peter Hopkirk. That was in the early and mid-1980s.

The leading American authority on Central Asia was Edward Allworth, who taught at Columbia University. I was fortunate to go and study under him. He loved Central Asia and, best of all, he knew thousands of years of the region’s history. He treated the Soviet period as just another chapter in that history, so we never looked at Central Asia through a Russian or Soviet lens.

Then I went to summer school at Tashkent State University in 1990, and I was completely hooked after that.

Were there particular places in Central Asia – a city, a region, a border area, a mountain landscape, a desert, a bazaar or an everyday encounter – that changed the way you understood the countries and societies you were covering?

Many. I worked in villages in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan in 1992 and 1993.

They all had similar lives, working on farms growing crops or herding animals, but there were different ways to do this work in every village and different attitudes about living and working in rural areas.

I was amazed to find out how religious people remained there. I arrived in spring 1992 and, in one of the first villages I worked in, someone died. We all went to the very Muslim funeral, and almost everyone knew the prayers.

I was doing sociological research and one of the questions I asked was: “What building or facility would you like to see in your village?” The answer every time – and I mean every time – was a mosque.

I certainly gained a new respect for herders. I was instructed to do what the people in the villages did. I especially disliked picking cotton, but taking a herd out to pasture was my type of work.

You have a few dogs, a stick to keep stragglers moving and a couple of rocks to throw in front of animals, usually sheep, that are moving too far ahead. You find a good grazing area and sit under a tree watching the animals eat. When it’s time to go back, you round up the herd and head back to the village.

If the job paid better, I would be doing it now.

Of course, the inter-ethnic violence in Osh in June 2010 was a shock. I had thought, or at least hoped, that was all behind everyone.

Remember, I was at Tashkent State in summer 1990 when it happened before, though we couldn’t get much information about what was going on. When I was in Osh and other parts of the Fergana Valley in 1992, the events of 1990 seemed very far away. People didn’t talk about it much.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the mountains. I love mountains and enjoyed the many times I was in the Central Asian mountains.

I liked doing the trip between Bishkek and Osh in a marshrutka just because of the views. The road was in terrible shape until the end of the 1990s, but it didn’t matter to me when I was staring out of the window, or when we stopped along the road.

One time I was with a Kazakh friend in Shymbulak – then called Chimbulak. It’s a good ski area now, and even in 1992 there was a ski lift there. There were no skiers, but I convinced one of the park rangers, for five dollars, to turn on the ski lift long enough to take my friend and me to the top.

I remember him saying, in Russian, “For God’s sake, don’t break anything.”

We walked back down, and the view was magnificent.

And obviously, the Silk Road cities were amazing. Samarkand looks so different now compared with the early 1990s, but even back then it had a charm.

It was not well tended, and the old buildings looked old and in need of repair, but it really made me appreciate how old they were. And since I worked in villages, I could imagine what it was like for a farmer or herder to visit one of the big and bustling cities.

When you first started following Central Asia, what did outside observers most often misunderstand about the region? Has that changed today?

Well, when I first started following Central Asia, there were not many outside observers. Some Western media outlets were having difficulties even spelling the names of the Central Asian countries.

Probably the biggest misconception was that the people in Central Asia had accepted that they were part of the Soviet Union. When I was at TashGU that summer, there were people from all over Central Asia studying there, and it was clear they regarded Russia as a colonizer that was pilfering the region’s resources and trying to force them to become a “Soviet man or woman.”

That has clearly changed since the USSR collapsed. Since the Kremlin launched its full-scale war against Ukraine in February 2022, we have seen some lively discussions in Central Asia about colonization and exploitation under Tsarist and then Soviet rule. Even the leaderships of some Central Asian countries are calling it a dark period in the region’s history.

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

Majlis became one of the most recognizable English-language formats for discussing Central Asia. What was the original idea behind the podcast?

Muhammad Tahir and I started Majlis in 2014 in response to the increase in fighting in northern Afghanistan. Our first programme was about Turkmenistan being the Achilles heel of Central Asian security.

We weren’t sure then that we would ever do any more podcasts, but RFE/RL management liked it, and I agreed there was a wide variety of topics beyond deteriorating security in northern Afghanistan that we could cover, starting with the great reporting RFE/RL’s Central Asian services were doing in local languages and Russian.

Muhammad was something of a showman. He really embraced being the host, with me as the “in-house” RFE/RL expert. Majlis gave us a chance to show off our people in the Central Asian services and promote people outside RFE/RL who had made, or were making, a name for themselves in the field of Central Asian affairs.

Our guests really propelled the podcast forward, and I’m glad to see so many of them are now leading scholars in the field of Central Asian studies.

Why was it important for Majlis to include voices from Central Asia itself, and how did their perspectives shape the discussions?

There was often a difference in interpretations of events in Central Asia – sometimes large differences, but mostly nuances.

Someone like me, who has studied the region, lived there briefly and travelled widely, came to different conclusions about what events in the region meant and where they were leading Central Asia.

For about the first 20 years after independence, there were not many Central Asians who could articulate, in English, their views on the course of events. But when they started to appear, Muhammad and I were, firstly, very happy and, secondly, determined to give the voices of Central Asia – often people in their 20s and 30s – an opportunity to explain what was happening in their homelands.

It was possible to disagree with what some of the people from Central Asia said, but it was important to hear how they viewed the evolving world inside and outside Central Asia.

In the end, it’s their story. I think it made for a better understanding of the region for people outside it.

Were there episodes or discussions of Majlis that particularly stayed with you because they captured a turning point in the region?

Several dealt with the deterioration of security in northern Afghanistan. Most of our guests on this topic were from Afghanistan and supporters of Ghani, or at least not supporters of the Taliban, or from Central Asia. The gradual depression with which they spoke about events unfolding in northern Afghanistan between 2014 and 2021 certainly caused me to consider more and more the possibility that the Taliban would reconquer Afghanistan.

Several of the podcasts we did about women’s rights and gender-based violence were revealing, and I learned a lot, but I was troubled by some of the assessments given by guests.

One that really moved me was the description Freedom for Eurasia founder Leila Seiitbek gave of how she was a victim of ala kachuu, bride kidnapping, and escaped because she smoked a cigarette and her kidnapper’s family rejected her as a forced bride.

How has reporting on Central Asia changed since the 1990s, especially in terms of access, sources and risks for local journalists?

When I started work for the Open Media Research Institute (OMRI) in March 1995, the internet was not much help. People at OMRI would give me photocopies of current articles from Central Asian newspapers. Sometimes I had access to the actual newspapers, though these were at least several days old and usually more like a week or two old.

Back in the 1990s, certainly in the early and middle 1990s, journalists and media outlets in Central Asia were freer to write about what they wanted, with the exception of Turkmenistan. Kazakhstan had a vibrant independent media scene, very much like the one developing in Kyrgyzstan.

But even in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, journalists were pushing the limits of coverage on matters such as corruption, the deteriorating socio-economic situation, questionable state policies and other topics.

This situation changed as governments faced increasing challenges and decided that some criticism might be valid, but that some outlets were reporting too much about problems. In Tajikistan’s case, during the 1992-1997 civil war, this could be deadly, and more than a dozen journalists, foreign and local, were essentially assassinated.

By the end of the 1990s, it was becoming more difficult for journalists in Uzbekistan to report freely on a wide range of topics. The government would find charges such as fraud or failure to pay taxes – something unrelated to journalism – to use against journalists who were exposing shortcomings in the country. This became a standard practice, and even President Islam Karimov’s nephew, who was an independent journalist, was forcibly committed to a psychiatric hospital for his reporting.

Now, journalists in each country understand where the boundaries in reporting are, and there is a lot of self-censorship being practised.

How would you describe the current generation of journalists in Central Asia compared with those reporting in the 1990s or 2000s?

I suppose the biggest difference is the range of media now available. Everything is on the web now. Back in the 1990s, outlets were confined to the basic three – television, radio and print media, what people now refer to as “traditional media.”

It was easier for governments to shut down independent outlets among these three, or pressure outlets that featured criticism of government policies. That made it very difficult for journalists at independent outlets.

Today, the same pressures still exist, but “non-traditional” media are giving independent journalists opportunities they did not have in the past. That is why many of the best reports on Central Asia are coming from people with YouTube channels. Facebook and other social networks are also giving journalists – whether journalists by training or “citizen” journalists – opportunities to speak about corruption and state mismanagement.

I think the journalists in the 1990s and 2000s were just as brave and anxious to report the big news affecting their countries as journalists today.

I would mention one development that showed me that, given the chance, good independent journalism could take root in any of the Central Asian countries.

When Shavkat Mirziyoyev became Uzbekistan’s president in late 2016, he eased state control over the media and encouraged journalists to report on the important things happening in Uzbekistan. And they did. Given some space, journalists in Uzbekistan went right after corrupt officials and reported on other topics they would not have touched during the last decade or so of President Islam Karimov’s rule.

In fact, it proved to be too candid, and Mirziyoyev’s government had to rein in some of the coverage. But it showed the spirit of independent, objective journalism was still alive in Uzbekistan and that all it needed was an opportunity to blossom.

Independent media now operate across very different spaces – inside the region, in exile and through social media, podcasts, YouTube and investigative platforms. Has this changed what independent journalism means in Central Asia?

Certainly. The role of “non-traditional” media is becoming more important all the time.

Some of the cutting-edge criticism of policies or officials in Tajikistan or Uzbekistan has been coming from YouTube channels. This is true to a lesser extent, in my opinion, in the other three countries.

And, of course, the YouTube channels and websites such as Turkmen.news and Hronikatm.com dealing with Turkmenistan are all operating from outside the country.

Which independent media outlets or journalistic initiatives from Central Asia do you think deserve more international attention today?

In Kazakhstan, Vlast.kz, Orda.kz and KazTAG come to mind as good independent media outlets that could use some international attention and, if possible, funding. Unfortunately, Orda.kz recently ceased operations after legal difficulties that included its chief editor being sentenced to eight years in prison. I’m sure there are others, but those are three off the top of my head.

In Kyrgyzstan, Kloop Media is currently banned from operating inside the country. Temirov Live has also done some great investigative reporting and was closed down. Kaktus Media is still working in Kyrgyzstan, but it is one of only a few independent media outlets left.

The Central Asia Barometer was a great initiative that did some fantastic survey work. They had European funding. Unfortunately, they were pressured into stopping work. It would be great to find a way for them to resume operations.

What I would like to see generally is some form of cooperation or organization that brings independent journalists from Europe and Central Asia together. I know Vlast.kz and Orda.kz have employed Europeans, and the results were notable.

If it were possible to get funding for a media outlet covering EU-Central Asian cooperation, such as Global Gateway, and employing young European and Central Asian journalists, I think the results would be excellent and very enlightening.

What role have exile media, independent journalists and regional analysts played in keeping Central Asian stories visible internationally?

It varies from country to country. Independent journalists, including those working in non-traditional media, have been instrumental in calling out corrupt government officials who are then fired when authorities perceive the attention these reports are garnering nationally and, in some cases, internationally. I’m thinking mainly about YouTube channels.

In Turkmenistan’s case, exile media are almost the only source of objective news about what is happening inside the country. Obviously, RFE/RL’s Turkmen Service, Azatlyk, is an exception, but Turkmen.news and Hronikatm.com are essential sites for following events in Turkmenistan.

There are some absolutely fantastic regional analysts, and since I am afraid I might forget someone, I will not list any names. So much of the best material appearing in English these days is being produced by Central Asians – and it is not translated into English; it is being written by them in English.

What can international media, donors and regional platforms do to support Central Asian journalists without distorting their priorities or making them more vulnerable?

This is a tough question. On the one hand, international publicity provides some protection for journalists – and activists and politicians – in Central Asia, and often keeps them out of prison or at least pressures authorities into some leniency.

On the other hand, in the ever-changing world, it is impossible to stay focused on any one topic. When attention wanes, these journalists are vulnerable.

International publicity around a particular journalist can also make that person a special target of authorities who do not want independent journalists or media outlets. If they work for foreign media, such as RFE/RL, governments can attack them as doing the bidding of their foreign paymaster.

The war in Ukraine has changed how many people in Europe and the United States look at Central Asia. What has it revealed about the region?

Deep-seated resentment against having been colonized, and growing efforts by many Central Asians and their governments to distance themselves from Russia.

This is particularly evident in the new security and defence partnerships the Central Asian states are forming with Türkiye, first and foremost, but also with Azerbaijan and some of the Gulf states.

Following on from that, I think Central Asians are understanding more and more that they do not need to depend on Russia, certainly not to the extent they did for the first 30 years after independence.

Russia is a leading trade partner and will remain so for the foreseeable future, but it is now clear that there are other partners, and some have ethnic or religious ties to Central Asia that Russia does not have.

Even if the war in Ukraine ends tomorrow, I don’t think there’s any way to go back to the status quo prior to February 2022.

Read more on Novastan: Who Made the Nations of Central Asia?

I still see articles that refer to Central Asia as Russia’s “backyard.” Central Asians never viewed it that way, and now they have less and less reason to accept such characterizations.

Has the war accelerated a real diversification of Central Asia’s foreign relations, or are we still overstating the change?

Accelerated. Definitely.

Prior to February 2022, Russia and China were the dominant partners for trade, investment and security, including energy security. Everyone else was at best running a distant second.

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

China and Russia are still important partners for Central Asia, Russia perhaps less so now. But many countries have stepped up their interaction with Central Asia. The EU and the Gulf Arab states have all increased their roles in and importance for Central Asia.

Türkiye and the Organization of Turkic States are also increasingly part of Central Asia’s future. Azerbaijan’s role in the OTS and as a key country in the Middle Corridor is bringing it closer to Central Asia, and in November 2025 there was even a “C6” meeting with the five Central Asian states and Azerbaijan.

Some people used to say Russia was the policeman and China the banker for Central Asia. Now the Central Asian states have options for both security and finance.

What are the social changes in Central Asia that outsiders tend to miss because they focus too much on presidents and geopolitics?

The younger generation, people under 30 or 35 years old, is very tech-savvy.

Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan, and to a lesser degree Kyrgyzstan, are all moving forward quickly and modernizing everything from architecture to online documents and payments. These three countries are becoming modern states.

Do you see a generational shift in Central Asia, especially among young people who no longer remember the Soviet Union?

Definitely, and it’s not only that almost everyone under 35 or 40 has a mobile phone and knows how to use computers.

For young people in the 1990s, it was often enough that their countries were independent. They remembered clearly what life was like as part of the Soviet Union and, even if socio-economic conditions were often not better, and at times perhaps even worse, they were independent and there was a feeling they were masters of their own destiny. Change could happen.

The current generation wants to be masters of their own destiny but often views the entrenched leadership in their countries as the primary obstacle to positive transformation. There is scepticism among some young people that their governments are willing to make changes that benefit the younger generation.

In the Soviet days, there wasn’t much people could do to change policies made in Moscow, but now they believe it is, or at least should be, possible to change policies in their own countries.

It must be frustrating for many younger people when they see their leaders cling to policies that benefit the regime, not the masses.

Which communities, regions or issues within Central Asia remain most invisible in international coverage?

There are many, but I’m just going to mention the situations of the Karakalpaks in the Republic of Karakalpakstan in western Uzbekistan and the Ismailis in the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Oblast in eastern Tajikistan.

In both cases, the rights of minority groups are being trampled as the governments in those countries attempt to forcibly assimilate these people.

I would also mention that the situation of ethnic minorities in Turkmenistan receives almost no attention – in fairness, because it is so difficult to obtain information.

Central Asia is still relatively little known in France and Europe. What stories would you recommend European-based media cover more often?

I think the obvious story is the Middle Corridor, or Trans-Caspian International Transport Route. People in Europe don’t know much about their countries’ trade with Central Asia.

Austria, Germany, France, Italy, Romania and some other European countries are buying Kazakh oil, which is especially important now as EU countries try to stop buying Russian oil. France buys uranium from Kazakhstan, and other countries in Europe probably will as more nuclear power plants are built.

If you buy dried apricots or raisins in Poland, Germany, France, the UK or the Baltic countries, there is a good chance the dried fruit came from Uzbekistan.

Many European travellers have gone to Central Asia. Marco Polo, of course, but more recently, in the 19th century, Arminius Vámbéry from Hungary, Aurel Stein, also a Hungarian who became a British citizen, Sven Hedin from Sweden – and yes, I know about his later connection to Nazi Germany – the Frenchman Paul Pelliot, and others.

Their stories are fascinating, and they are stories of Europeans in Central Asia.

Of course, there is always the ancient Silk Road that linked Europe to Central Asia long ago. The two regions have been in contact for a long time.

Interestingly, although the climate and landscape are very different between the two regions, they are located roughly at the same latitudes, meaning if you travel straight west from Central Asia you end up in Europe, and vice versa going straight east from Europe, with only the Caucasus or southern Russia separating them.

You are now working on Turan, a project focused on Central Asia and the wider Turkic world. What are you hoping to bring to readers through it?

First, there are a lot of stories about Central Asia that are under-reported or not reported at all by media outside the region. That has generally been true since the five countries became independent in late 1991.

Second, unfortunately, there is not much money for outlets and organizations in Europe that are interested in Central Asia. The most obvious example is Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, which has been forced to drastically reduce its coverage of Central Asia due to budget cuts.

Turan hopes to fill that void to some extent and bring Central Asia’s stories to an audience on YouTube – and not only Central Asia’s stories, but those from more broadly across the Caspian, including Türkiye and Iran.

The Turan Research Center is part of the Yorktown Institute, so the coverage style leans towards that of a think tank. I think that’s noticeable from the topics and the language used. Many of the reports are based on articles written for the Turan Research Center.

I am not running the channel. I’m just a member of the team. The driving forces are the chief editor and the people doing the graphics.

What advice would you give to a relatively small independent media outlet like Novastan trying to cover Central Asia seriously?

I think Novastan is doing a great job, especially with covering youth culture. I like that Novastan covers niche topics like the French-Uzbek theatre presentation, as well as big stories such as the shrinking Caspian or the lexicon of Kazakh decolonization.

The photographs of scenes from everyday life in Central Asia are excellent.

Many – all? – of your writers have travelled or lived in Central Asia, and it shows in the coverage and choice of topics.

I think advertising is the biggest drawback for Novastan, but again, many organizations are facing this problem. Advertising requires money and a social media team.

The material is there, and in English, French and German. The problem is getting enough people to see it and recommend it, so that it comes to the attention of a wider audience.

For a European outlet like Novastan, what is the best way to work with Central Asian journalists – not only by quoting them as sources, but by building real editorial partnerships and giving their perspectives more visibility?

One possibility is offering Central Asian journalists, including those working for state media, an opportunity to write for European outlets. It would likely require translation.

And the matter of payment could be complicated, since it could lead to accusations of them being funded, and therefore influenced, by foreign sources.

But if some Central Asian journalists were willing to write without expecting remuneration, simply for the exposure in Europe and a chance to boost their credentials and CVs, it would solve that problem.

In the case of journalists writing for state media, they could present the state version of events. Agree or disagree, it is a view that needs to be taken into consideration when assessing the situation in Central Asia.

After all these years covering Central Asia, what still surprises you about the region?

There are always surprises. For me personally, the biggest surprise – and it is a happy one – is seeing the five countries getting along so well.

I travelled through Central Asia quite a bit, especially in the 1990s. I was in every country and listened to what people said about the neighbouring countries. A lot of it was negative, which was really strange to me, since when I was in summer school in Tashkent in 1990 there were people from all over Central Asia, many different ethnicities, and they all agreed that Moscow, the Soviet government, was exploiting them.

There was a sort of equality, a kinship that formed between the peoples of the different Central Asian Soviet republics, a quiet mutual agreement that they were all being neglected and mistreated.

But once they were independent, there were some cruel comments about the neighbours and other indigenous ethnic groups. And, of course, the worst expression of this was in southern Kyrgyzstan in June 2010.

I was there, mostly in Osh, speaking to people from every side, and it was often chilling and always extremely disappointing and sad to hear what so many people were saying at that time.

That situation is at least becoming better now. That sense of brotherhood and common cause I heard in talks with groups of Central Asians at Tashkent State in 1990 is returning, though now the Central Asians are stronger, no longer victims of a colonizer.

Central Asia is still often covered internationally through politics, security and geopolitics. Which authors, musicians, filmmakers, photographers, artists or cultural works from the region would you recommend to readers who want to understand Central Asia differently?

This would also be a very long list, and I worry about leaving somebody out.

For material in English, and often in Russian, some of the authors I would recommend are Temur Umarov, Assel Tutumlu, Diana Kudaibergen and Asel Doolotkeldieva, just to name a few. There are obviously dozens more.

You can find the work of Central Asian scholars on several Western websites, and I will just mention the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace and the Oxus Society.

I will say it’s worth looking at the media outlets in all five Central Asian countries as much as possible. Even state media and the journalists working for these outlets are worth following, even in places like Turkmenistan where almost every article mentions “Hero Arkadag.”

It is one side of the story, the side the governments tell their people.

There are many good journalists and outlets outside Central Asia that do fantastic jobs keeping track of events in the region or posting photos of life there that convey to people what it’s like to be there, what you see in front of your face.

When I was working there in the 1990s, hardly any people from the West were going there, so nobody knew much about it. Now there are many people writing about Central Asia who have travelled extensively there, spent a lot of time in one or several places, or have just been following events and writing about them.

The level of knowledge is so much higher than it was. It makes me smile all the time to see how many great people are sharing their deep knowledge and experiences of Central Asia with the rest of the world.

I am not familiar with contemporary filmmakers and musicians, so I really couldn’t say much about them. I would recommend watching the movies Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan are making about their history.

It is important to see how their forefathers are portrayed and think about the effects that has on the people living in these countries today.

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

The post Bruce Pannier: “Central Asians never viewed their region as Russia’s backyard” appeared first on Novastan English.

In September 2026, Princeton University returned to life after the summer recess, with students back on its Collegiate Gothic campus and the Princeton Triangle Club holding auditions for its latest annual musical. Exactly a century earlier, the same student troupe opened Samarkand, a lavish romantic comic opera named after the Central Asian city, before a paying audience in nearby Trenton, New Jersey.

No footage of the production is known to survive, and its undergraduate performers have long since passed from living memory. But the centenary of this forgotten play offers a revealing glimpse into the American collegiate imagination of Central Asia in the 1920s, when Samarkand could serve as shorthand for a sumptuous, composite Islamicate Orient rather than for anything particularly specific to the city or the region.

Princeton’s Samarkand

Princeton’s century-old student-run Triangle Club provided the institutional setting where an Orientalist imagination of Central Asia could become the subject of a polished Ivy League theatrical production. Founded in 1891, the Club is the oldest touring collegiate musical-comedy troupe in the United States, having built its reputation by staging an original show each academic year and taking it beyond Princeton. Undergraduate students write and perform each production, while professional directors and choreographers prepare it for public performance. Samarkand, billed for the 1926-27 academic year, was the Club’s 38th annual comic opera production and was staged four years before the opening of McCarter Theatre, where the annual tradition has since been anchored.

    True to the Club’s traditions, Samarkand was a product of undergraduate authorship and performance combined with professional theatrical supervision, and its premiere brought Princeton’s Orientalist fantasy before a paying public in the Garden State’s capital. On December 15, 1926, the production opened at the Trent Theatre in Trenton, a public commercial venue twelve miles (nineteen kilometers) from Princeton. In operation from 1903 to 1972, the Trent Theatre predated McCarter and served as a temporary stage after the destruction of the on-campus Casino Theatre briefly left Princeton University without a suitable theatrical venue.

Undergraduates wrote the libretto, lyrics, music, and dialogue and filled every credited role in the cast and chorus. Because Princeton admitted only men until the 1969-1970 academic year, male students also performed the female characters. Donald Clive Stuart, a professor of dramatic literature at Princeton, directed the show, while other theatrical professionals staged its dances and arranged and orchestrated its score (no playwright or script adviser was credited).

    Samarkand presents a rather conventional comic-operatic mixture of prophecy, romance, court intrigue, and sudden acquisition of power. Act I opens in the throne room of Haroun-El-Emenope, Caliph of Ashkabad, whose court includes his daughter Shelmardeen, the magician Attar-Bey-Bey, and the ambitious wazir Raschid. A voice from a feared magic urn foretells Haroun’s death and Shelmardeen’s marriage to a vagabond. Zahirudin, a mysterious adventurer from Samarkand whose name is said to mean “Fate,” arrives in search of the renowned princess, courts her with songs about the Golden Road to his native city, and eventually departs with her.

Raschid plots the Caliph’s death, seeks Shelmardeen for himself, and directs jealousy and suspicion against Zahirudin. A dancing girl named Yasmini, two rival suitors, four conspirators, and the Djinn of the urn complete the principal cast. Act II takes place in an enchanted garden, where the prophecy is fulfilled through a convenient reversal: death claims the cruel Caliph of Samarkand instead of Haroun, after which Zahirudin is proclaimed Caliph and marries Shelmardeen.

An Orientalist Fantasy of Central Asia

    The surviving visual materials for Samarkand presented Central Asia through generalized Orientalist imagery of luxury, mystery, and theatrical exoticism. The play’s black-and-gold playbill cover features an enthroned, elaborately dressed figure before an immense peacock tail, with dense ornament covering nearly every part of the design. The play’s orange-and-black sheet-music cover presents a turbaned man and a richly costumed woman beneath a drooping tree as the man points toward a distant city of domes and minarets under a crescent moon. The program’s costume drawing of Attar-Bey-Bey depicts the court magician in a long robe, broad sash, extravagant jewelry, and elaborate headdress against a dark flame-shaped backdrop. None of these elements is distinctly Central Asian.

The most candid commentary on this imagery appears in a garment advertisement beneath the program’s setting descriptions. A cartoon turbaned figure dreams of a modern outfit while the caption declares, “All this Oriental splendor stuff reminds us we’ve some pretty splendid male wardrobings for Americans. At least Princeton undergrads and alumni tell us so.” The joke makes explicit what the covers and costume imply: the play’s Samarkand was a marketable image of “Oriental splendor,” and the advertisement addressed its theatergoers directly as American consumers, particularly Princeton students and alumni.

Samarkand on Tour

    Samarkand took Princeton’s Orientalist fantasy on a national tour that eventually encompassed twenty-four performances, and reviewers across its itinerary consistently valued the production’s humor, spectacle, and theatrical polish. After three performances in Trenton on December 15-17, 1926, the Club appeared in Washington (December 18), Baltimore (December 20), New York’s Metropolitan Opera House (December 21), Pittsburgh (December 22), Cincinnati (December 23), Nashville (December 24), and Birmingham (December 25). After a one-day interval on the day after Christmas, the tour resumed in Memphis (December 27), followed by Little Rock (December 28), St. Louis (December 29), Chicago (December 30), Indianapolis (December 31), Cleveland (January 1, 1927), Syracuse (January 3), and New York again (January 4). The Club later performed in Orange, New Jersey (February 18), Newark (February 21), and Philadelphia (February 25-26). On June 17-18, shortly after the end of the spring semester, the play was staged one last time at Princeton’s University Gymnasium (destroyed in a fire in 1944).

All twenty-four known performances occurred during the 1926-27 academic year, and no evidence has emerged of a later revival. After opening night, The Daily Princetonian declared that Samarkand “took its place among the best of recent Triangle Club plays,” although it observed some roughness in the most demanding dances. The New York Times called the Metropolitan Opera House performance “a hit” and praised its songs, jokes, dancing, costumes, and settings. Newspapers in Nashville, Birmingham, St. Louis, Chicago, Cleveland, Syracuse, and other stops repeatedly commended the catchy music, clever lines, scenic effects, colorful costumes, disciplined chorus, and professional finish. The surviving notices offered little discussion of the play’s geographic or cultural accuracy.

A City Reduced to a Dream

    In Samarkand, the city honored in its title serves primarily as a geographically and culturally distant realm whose name promises romance, wealth, happiness, and power. The program identifies the setting of Act II only as “an enchanted garden in Samarkand,” and the city receives none of the social or physical detail of an actual urban setting. In a musical sequence titled “The Pilgrimage,” the Spirit of the Urn commands the characters to travel eastward over the sand, past swaying caravans and through low shadows, along a golden road where their “fondest dreams ever come true.”

Zahirudin similarly describes the place as a “dim-mooned city of delight,” and the ballet libretto calls the Golden Road to Samarkand “the pathway that leads to the land where dreams come true.” Samarkand offers rewards at every level of the plot: the journey promises riches, joy, and power; it secures the lovers’ union; and it raises the vagabond Zahirudin to the caliphate. No streets, monuments, institutions, or ordinary inhabitants appear, as the city is reduced to sand, caravans, bells, magic, an enchanted garden, and a distant promise of fulfillment.

A Composite Orient

    The cultural setting of Samarkand is a composite Orientalist fantasy that blends Arabic, Persianate, Turkic, Central Asian, and South Asian references while offering almost nothing specific to Samarkand or Central Asian history and culture. Its Arabic materials include a caliph and wazir, a Djinn from a magic urn, and the song “We Know All About the Arabian Nights (But What About the Days?).” The cast bears Arabic- and Persianate-adjacent names, while “Come to Our Altar Fires” and the “Hymn of the Fire-Worshippers” connect it to Zoroastrianism. Samarkand and “Ashkabad” are the principal regional markers, accompanied by generic palaces, deserts, and caravans; historically or geographically specific Central Asian features are virtually absent.

The suitor Haidan Sikh even introduces a South Asian religious identity into the mixture, primarily to facilitate an English pun. The religious setting is equally unstable: subjects of a caliph chant to idols, burn incense, seek prophecy from an urn, and sing to altar fires. Even the name Ashkabad presents a chronological puzzle. The city now known as Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan, officially bore the name Poltoratsk from 1919 to 1927. The coincidence was presumably inadvertent.

Inventing the East in English

    The pseudo-Islamicate names in Samarkand reveal a genuinely amusing side of the production’s Orientalism, as their foreign-sounding forms seem designed to deliver jokes in English. The rival suitors Peke Abou and Haidan Sikh are phonetic disguises for “peekaboo” and “hide-and-seek.” Haroun-El-Emenope can be heard as “around L-M-N-O-P” (an alphabetical sequence), while Attar-Bey-Bey appears to echo “attababy.” The adventurer Zahirudin seems to suggest “They hear you, Dean,” echoing the name of his eventual bride, Shelmardeen – “She’ll marry Dean.” Four conspirators named Iambad, Heezbad, Urbad, and Wirbad identify themselves as “I am bad,” “He’s bad,” “You’re bad,” and “We’re bad.” Although these puns demonstrate undergraduate ingenuity, their mechanism treats Islamicate names as decorative sounds detached from cultural context.

Before Princeton: Imagining Central Asia in the West

    The composite setting of Samarkand may be seen as part of a longer Western tradition that located Central Asia within a loosely bounded Persianate and Islamicate Orient. Montesquieu’s Lettres persanes (1721) used the wealthy Isfahani nobleman Usbek, his seraglio, and a passing allusion to the khan of Tartary as materials for a French satire of European society. Goethe’s engagement with Hafez, Ferdowsi, and Zoroastrian texts informed his own experiments in Persianate poetry and contributed to his later conception of world literature (Weltliteratur). Edward FitzGerald’s Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám (1859) subsequently made a stylized Persian past extraordinarily popular among the English-speaking public.

More geographically explicit representations followed the routes of Arminius Vámbéry, Pyotr Semyonov-Tyan-Shanskiy, Nikolay Przhevalskiy, Sven Hedin, and Mannerheim, whose journeys across Central Asia generated travel narratives, maps, ethnographic collections, and photographs under scientific, imperial, and military auspices. Stephen Graham’s illustrated Through Russian Central Asia (1916) carried this tradition into English travel writing only a decade before Samarkand. The Russian painter Vasiliy Vereshchagin’s Turkestan Series juxtaposed bazaars, monuments, and local figures with conquest and death, while the Russian photographer Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky’s early color photography presented Central Asian cities, architecture, rulers, and inhabitants with striking immediacy. Giacomo Puccini’s opera Turandot, which premiered in Milan less than eight months before Samarkand, offered a contemporaneous example of cultural conflation: its Persian-derived title means “daughter of Turan,” although its title character is a Chinese princess and the opera is set in imperial China and incorporates Chinese folk melodies.

Tamerlane and the Western Imagination

    Western fascination with Tamerlane (Timur) had endowed Samarkand with much of its dramatic reputation long before 1926, although the Princeton play omitted the conqueror who had made the city his imperial capital. Christopher Marlowe’s two-part Tamburlaine the Great (c. 1587-1588) presented Timur as a Scythian shepherd whose military genius and boundless ambition carried him to dominion over vast territories. Around 1700, Andrea Celesti’s monumental Tamerlane and Bajazet portrayed the victorious ruler receiving the captive Ottoman sultan amid an invented display of Oriental magnificence. Nicholas Rowe’s Tamerlane (1701) offered a contrasting image of a restrained and virtuous monarch, commonly interpreted as an analog for William III, while Bajazet represented Louis XIV.

The defeat and captivity of Bayezid subsequently provided the shared historical premise for George Frideric Handel’s Tamerlano (1724), Antonio Vivaldi’s Bajazet (1735), and Josef Mysliveček’s Il gran Tamerlano (1771), all of which combined imperial conflict with captivity, dynastic romance, and suicide. Across the Atlantic Ocean, Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tamerlane” (1827) imagined the dying conqueror lamenting that his pursuit of power had cost him his youthful love. These works assigned Tamerlane radically different roles – insatiable conqueror, enlightened sovereign, sadistic tyrant, or tragic lover – and repeatedly used him to examine ambition, kingship, political rivalry, and unfulfilled love. By 1926, the name Samarkand therefore carried centuries of associations with imperial power, danger, magnificence, and romance, even though Samarkand detached those associations from Timur and his empire.

From Bukhara Carpets to the Golden Road

    The city of Bukhara appeared frequently in Western commercial accounts, as the city’s name became shorthand for Oriental luxury in the carpet trade. By the turn of the twentieth century, so-called “Bokhara rugs” had become fashionable furnishings in Paris, London, and other European and North American markets. Travel narratives reinforced the city’s reputation as a remote seat of Islamic tradition and monarchical wealth, and Prokudin-Gorsky’s 1911 color portrait of Emir Alim Khan, the last emir of the Emirate of Bukhara, preserved an especially vivid image of its royal splendor. The use of “Bokhara” in Western commerce closely parallels Princeton’s theatrical use of Samarkand: both place-names promised magnificence while conveying little about the cities and peoples they denoted.

    By 1926, Samarkand had become a familiar Western literary emblem of sensual abundance, imperial grandeur, distant suffering, and alluring travel. John Keats’s The Eve of St. Agnes (1820) invokes “silken Samarcand” amid a feast of candied fruits, spiced delicacies, gold, silver, and perfume whose imagined geography extends from Fez to Lebanon (with Samarkand nearly 2,000 miles beyond this spectrum). Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tamerlane” invites the reader to behold Samarkand as the “queen of Earth,” the supreme monument to Timur’s pride and power.

Oscar Wilde’s “The Young King” (1891) treats the city as one point in a remote Oriental panorama of splendor and catastrophe. James Elroy Flecker’s The Golden Journey to Samarkand (1913) was the Princeton production’s most immediate literary precedent, and the published score confirms the inspiration by printing two stanzas from Flecker above the cast list. The musical echoes Flecker’s pilgrims and caravans, desert shadows, ringing bells, “dim-moon city of delight,” and “Golden Road to Samarkand,” but turns his restless pursuit of adventure and forbidden knowledge into a promise of romance, riches, joy, and political power.

Orientalism for the Jazz Age

    The Orientalism of Samarkand bore the unmistakable imprint of the expanding consumer culture of the United States in the 1920s, most conspicuously in the material rewards promised by its songs at every stage of the journey eastward. Contemporary American life repeatedly intrudes upon the supposedly ancient court, where characters joke about “airplane rugs,” call old-fashioned dancing “déclassé,” invoke the blues and the Black Bottom, and warn that a Morris chair is no place for the decade’s newest steps. For Princeton students and audiences across the country, Samarkand became an imagined treasure trove of worldly pleasures that magnified familiar ambitions for wealth, leisure, fashion, romance, and social advancement, while the playbill’s myriad advertisements for clothing and hats marketed purchasable tokens of its splendor after the curtain fell.

A Century Later

    Princeton University’s relationship with Central Asia has changed profoundly since Samarkand, and the play’s centenary invites recognition of both the distance between the theatrical imagination of the region it invoked and the scholarship that has since emerged. The play’s cultural imprecision partly reflects the institutional setting of 1926, when Princeton had not yet established the department that would become Near Eastern Studies, sustained academic interest in Central Asia was inconspicuous, and Central Asians had little visible presence in the Ivy League. Leon B. Poullada, a former diplomat and political scientist who earned his doctorate at Princeton and became a prominent scholar of Afghanistan, helped lay the groundwork for this change: the memorial lecture series established in his honor in 1995 has repeatedly addressed Central Asian history and Islam.

His son, Peter Poullada, a 1975 Princeton graduate in Near Eastern Studies, later published a notable study of Turkmen history, while the department now hosts the Leon B. Poullada Postdoctoral Research Associateship in Central Asian Studies. As a relatively small university, Princeton still lacks a regional program devoted exclusively to Central Asia, but the region receives sustained attention through the Institute for the Transregional Study of the Contemporary Middle East, North Africa and Central Asia and the Sharmin and Bijan Mossavar-Rahmani Center for Iran and Persian Gulf Studies within the Department of Near Eastern Studies, as well as research conducted by faculty and doctoral students in the History, Near Eastern Studies, and East Asian Studies departments.

Princeton-trained historians such as James Pickett have become leading scholars of Central Asia; the Department of History has hosted Sarah Cameron as a visiting scholar; and recent conferences and colloquia held at Princeton have featured lectures delivered by Artemy Kalinovsky and Scott Levi. Princeton Near Eastern Studies professor Michael Reynolds’s forthcoming biography, A Life Lived like a Storm, follows Enver Pasha through a final, dramatic chapter of the former Ottoman war minister’s career in Central Asia. In March 2024, Princeton’s Central Asian Student Association received formal recognition as an undergraduate organization. A century after Samarkand staged Central Asia as a playground for American fantasy, Princeton is now a leading institution in the study of the region.

By Diego Benning Wang.

Diego Benning Wang is a historian of Eurasia and Eastern Europe. Having received a PhD in history from Princeton University, an MA in Russian studies from Columbia University, and a BA in Russian studies from New York University, he is currently a visiting scholar at Harvard University.

The post Ivy League Orientalism: Staging Samarkand in Princeton, 1926 appeared first on Novastan English.

Uzbekistan has increasingly treated Afghanistan not only as a security concern but as a potential trade and transit bridge linking Central and South Asia. In this interview, Aziza Mukhammedova, Leading Research Fellow at the Center for Afghanistan and South Asian Studies at Uzbekistan’s Institute for Advanced International Studies (IAIS), discusses the rapid growth of bilateral trade, the future of the Termez-Hairatan corridor and Trans-Afghan railway, the risks posed by Afghanistan-Pakistan tensions, and what would need to happen for Afghanistan to become a genuine regional economic connector.

For years, Afghanistan was discussed in Central Asia primarily through the language of security, instability and border risk. Uzbekistan has increasingly tried to change that framing.

Since the Taliban returned to power in 2021, Tashkent has pursued an increasingly pragmatic relationship with Kabul, expanding trade, energy links and transport cooperation while promoting Afghanistan as a potential bridge between Central and South Asia.

The economic relationship has grown quickly. Uzbekistan’s trade turnover with Afghanistan rose from around $674 million in 2021 to almost $1.68 billion in 2025, while Afghanistan became one of the most important markets for Uzbek exports. Cross-border infrastructure has expanded through the Termez International Trade Centre, cooperation on the Hairatan-Mazar-i-Sharif railway has continued, and Uzbekistan has continued to promote the much more ambitious Trans-Afghan railway towards Pakistan.

But the larger ambition remains uncertain.

The Trans-Afghan railway is still under development, financing remains unresolved, and the economic viability of the project will depend on whether substantial and reliable freight flows actually materialise. At the same time, tensions between Afghanistan and Pakistan, water disputes around the Amu Darya and questions over whether Afghanistan itself would benefit economically from transit all complicate the picture.

To understand what is changing, and what remains aspirational, Novastan Editor-in-Chief Mathieu Lemoine spoke with Aziza Mukhammedova, Leading Research Fellow at the Center for Afghanistan and South Asian Studies at Uzbekistan’s Institute for Advanced International Studies (IAIS). Her research focuses on Afghanistan and regional connectivity between Central and South Asia.

Novastan: Uzbekistan has invested heavily in the idea of Afghanistan as a connector rather than simply a source of security risks. Since the Taliban’s return to power in 2021, what has actually changed in Uzbekistan-Afghanistan economic relations? Which developments would you identify as the clearest evidence that this approach is producing tangible results?

Aziza Mukhammedova: I would separate the bilateral economic results, which are already quite visible, from the broader idea of Afghanistan as a regional transit connector, which is progressing but has not yet been fully realised.

Since 2021, the most important change has been that Uzbekistan has moved from simply preserving economic ties with Afghanistan to systematically building economic infrastructure around those ties. Engagement has become much more institutionalised.

The clearest evidence is trade. Uzbekistan’s trade turnover with Afghanistan stood at roughly $674 million in 2021, but increased to $1.14 billion in 2024 and almost $1.68 billion in 2025. Bilateral trade has therefore grown by approximately two and a half times compared with 2021. Afghanistan also became one of Uzbekistan’s most important export markets, with Uzbek exports reaching around $1.5 billion in 2025.

A second tangible result is the creation of physical and institutional infrastructure for cross-border commerce. The Termez International Trade Centre, formally opened in August 2024, is particularly significant because it is not simply another political initiative. It provides Afghan entrepreneurs with simplified access to Uzbekistan, including a special visa regime, commercial facilities and access to services. According to Uzbek government figures, more than 800,000 Afghan citizens visited the centre in 2025, while exports through it reached about $320 million.

We can also see growing institutionalisation of bilateral trade. Uzbekistan opened trade houses in Kabul and Mazar-i-Sharif in May 2025, and the two sides signed a preferential trade agreement in June 2025. Cooperation on the Hairatan-Mazar-i-Sharif railway has also continued, with the Uzbek operator remaining responsible for servicing the line.

Energy is another important dimension. Uzbekistan exported around 1.8 billion kWh of electricity worth more than $90 million to Afghanistan in 2024, and the relationship is now moving beyond electricity sales towards infrastructure development, including the long-discussed Surkhan-Pul-e-Khumri 500 kV line.

However, I would distinguish these achievements from the larger claim that Afghanistan has already become a fully functioning connector between Central and South Asia. That transformation is still incomplete.

The most ambitious project, the Trans-Afghan Railway linking Uzbekistan through Afghanistan to Pakistan, remains under development. There has nevertheless been concrete progress: in July 2025, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and Pakistan signed a trilateral framework agreement to prepare a feasibility study for the Termez-Naibabad-Maidanshahr-Logar-Kharlachi route.

So I would say Uzbekistan’s strategy is already producing tangible results, but primarily at the bilateral and cross-border level. The next test will be whether these achievements can be converted into genuine regional connectivity.

Termez and Hairatan already form the most developed physical connection between Uzbekistan and Afghanistan. How much further could this corridor realistically be developed without waiting for the Trans-Afghan railway?

There is considerable room to develop the Termez-Hairatan corridor further even without waiting for the Trans-Afghan railway.

In the short term, relatively modest improvements in border management, terminals and logistics may generate a higher return than building entirely new infrastructure.

The corridor already has the basic assets: the Friendship Bridge, road and rail connections, the Hairatan-Mazar-i-Sharif railway and a growing logistics cluster on the Uzbek side. Traffic is already increasing. In July 2026, the governor of Surkhandarya stated that freight transportation with Afghanistan by road, rail and river had doubled.

I would identify four areas where practical measures could have a substantial impact.

The first is customs and border processing. Reducing the time a truck or wagon spends at the border can be almost as important as increasing physical railway capacity. Uzbekistan has proposed a “one-stop” principle at border crossings, greater integration with its E-logistics platform, electronic vehicle registration and online cargo monitoring.

Second is railway-terminal capacity. The Hairatan-Mazar-i-Sharif line already provides a functioning 1,520-mm-gauge connection into northern Afghanistan. Capacity can still be increased through additional sidings, better loading and unloading equipment, faster wagon turnaround and terminal rehabilitation.

Third is developing Termez and Hairatan as a single logistics ecosystem. More bonded warehouses, cold storage, container handling, consolidation facilities and predictable truck scheduling could reduce both costs and congestion.

Fourth is road-transport regulation and fees. Harmonising charges, permits, documentation and vehicle requirements could make the route more commercially attractive without laying a single kilometre of new track.

So I would not see the choice as Termez-Hairatan versus the Trans-Afghan railway. Improving Termez-Hairatan now is probably the best way to prepare for the larger corridor later.

The Trans-Afghan railway is often presented as transformative. At this stage, which route and financing model appear most credible? Is there a risk that political enthusiasm is running ahead of demonstrated freight demand?

At this stage, the eastern route through northern and central Afghanistan to Kharlachi on the border with Pakistan appears to be the most realistic option, primarily because formal trilateral technical work is already under way.

In 2025, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and Pakistan agreed to prepare a joint feasibility study for the Naibabad-Maidan Shahr-Logar-Kharlachi route.

Financing is much more complicated. The project is expected to cost several billion dollars, and a purely commercial PPP or BOT model would be difficult because a private investor would have to assume construction, political, security and demand risks simultaneously.

A more credible option would be blended financing combining state participation, concessional finance from international financial institutions, and private investment in terminals, rolling stock and operations.

The key question is the freight base.

The railway is unlikely to be economically sustainable if it relies only on trade between Uzbekistan and Pakistan. Its viability would require substantial transit flows from Kazakhstan and other Central Asian countries, potentially Russia, stable Afghan export volumes and reliable access to Pakistani ports.

There is therefore a real risk that political enthusiasm could run ahead of demonstrated commercial viability.

The project has a strong strategic rationale because it would diversify Central Asia’s access to seaports and significantly shorten southbound routes. But a strategically important project is not automatically a financially viable one.

The current feasibility study needs to demonstrate that realistic freight volumes, tariffs and operating costs can support the project without simply assuming that large cargo flows will appear once the railway is built.

Could Afghanistan-Pakistan tensions now represent a greater obstacle to the corridor than insecurity within Afghanistan itself?

Potentially, yes, but I would distinguish between security risk inside Afghanistan and geopolitical risk at the corridor’s southern gateway.

Pakistan is not simply another transit country. It provides the connection to the ports that gives the entire railway much of its geoeconomic value.

Even if the Afghan section operates normally, prolonged disruption at the Afghan-Pakistani border could affect the corridor as a whole. The experience of 2026 illustrates this clearly: border closures significantly disrupted Afghanistan’s external trade, raised logistics costs and forced part of the traffic to seek alternative routes.

At the same time, I would be cautious about describing bilateral tensions as a fundamental obstacle.

The fact that Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and Pakistan signed a trilateral agreement on the feasibility study and continued political consultations on regional connectivity demonstrates that all three sides recognise a substantial shared economic interest in keeping this direction open.

The railway should therefore not only be seen as dependent on political stability. It can also contribute to it.

Once significant commercial interests, transit revenues and access to regional markets become tied to the corridor, the economic cost of prolonged disruptions increases for all parties. That creates an incentive to insulate transport cooperation, as far as possible, from fluctuations in bilateral relations.

You have also examined the possibility of extending the China-Pakistan Economic Corridor into Afghanistan and towards Central Asia. Would integration with CPEC complement the Trans-Afghan railway, or risk creating new dependencies?

From Uzbekistan’s perspective, I would see integration with CPEC primarily as a complement to the Trans-Afghan railway rather than an alternative.

The two projects perform different functions. The Trans-Afghan railway is intended to create the north-south link from Central Asia through Afghanistan, while CPEC could provide access to an already developing network of transport, logistics and port infrastructure inside Pakistan.

For Uzbekistan, however, the key principle is not dependence on a single corridor, but multiplication of connectivity options.

This is consistent with Uzbekistan’s broader transport strategy. Tashkent is simultaneously promoting the Trans-Afghan Corridor, the China-Kyrgyzstan-Uzbekistan railway and routes towards the Caspian and Europe. CPEC should therefore be understood as one component of a diversified regional network.

Read more on Novastan: China-Kyrgyzstan-Uzbekistan railway: Who wins from Central Asia’s new trade route?

The optimal outcome would be interconnection without exclusivity.

Central Asian states have developed different relationships with Taliban-ruled Afghanistan. Do you see their policies gradually converging

I do see gradual convergence, but I would describe it as convergence in practice rather than convergence in perception.

Central Asian states increasingly accept that Afghanistan under the Taliban is a long-term regional reality and that economic isolation is neither practical nor conducive to regional stability.

New regional formats are significant in this regard. In February 2026, Central Asian representatives discussed Afghanistan collectively in Astana, and in April the first Central Asia-Afghanistan Consultative Dialogue was held in Kabul, focusing on trade, transit, connectivity and regional cooperation.

However, national approaches remain distinct.

Uzbekistan has gone furthest in conceptualising Afghanistan as part of the region’s economic architecture. Turkmenistan’s approach is similarly pragmatic but more infrastructure- and energy-driven. Kazakhstan has moved rapidly towards economic normalisation, while Tajikistan remains more security-sensitive, although even Dushanbe has become considerably more pragmatic.

So I would not say Central Asia is developing a single policy towards the Taliban.

What is emerging is a common regional minimum: engagement with Kabul, preservation of security dialogue, expansion of economic relations and an interest in Afghanistan’s greater regional integration.

How much leverage does Uzbekistan’s pragmatic engagement give Tashkent on issues beyond trade and security, particularly women’s education and political inclusion?

Uzbekistan’s engagement gives Tashkent a certain degree of influence, but I would describe it as access-based rather than coercive leverage.

Uzbekistan has maintained regular political contacts with the Taliban authorities, expanded economic cooperation and positioned itself as a constructive regional partner. This creates channels through which sensitive issues can be discussed.

However, the limits of this influence should also be recognised.

Issues such as women’s education and political inclusion are closely connected to the Taliban’s internal ideological and institutional calculations and are therefore much less responsive to bilateral economic incentives than trade, infrastructure or border security.

Read more on Novastan: Nilofar Ayoubi on Afghan women, gender apartheid and rebuilding life in exile

The fact that restrictions on women’s secondary and higher education remain in place in 2026 demonstrates how limited sustained international engagement has been on this issue.

Uzbekistan’s comparative advantage lies elsewhere: maintaining trust, keeping difficult issues on the agenda and encouraging gradual change without sacrificing the channels of communication that make such influence possible in the first place.

Water is becoming increasingly important in Afghanistan’s relations with its neighbours. Could the Qosh Tepa Canal reshape Afghanistan’s relationship with Central Asia?

Yes, but I would be cautious about drawing a direct parallel with Afghanistan-Pakistan hydropolitics.

The common factor is that Afghanistan is becoming a much more active upstream water user.

For decades, limited irrigation infrastructure meant that the Central Asian water balance developed largely without significant Afghan withdrawals. The Qosh Tepa Canal changes this reality. Afghanistan is not party to the existing regional water-sharing arrangements, while the canal could substantially increase its use of the Amu Darya.

Water also becomes more politically sensitive when supply is already under pressure from climate change, glacier loss, population growth and agricultural demand.

However, I think the Central Asian response is developing in a different direction.

Uzbekistan has deliberately framed Qosh Tepa as an issue for dialogue rather than confrontation. President Mirziyoyev has proposed involving Afghanistan directly in regional discussions on Amu Darya water use and establishing a joint working group to assess the canal’s impact.

The key challenge is to move from a system in which Afghanistan was largely outside regional water governance towards one in which it becomes an integrated participant in transparent, data-based basin management.

What would Afghanistan itself gain from becoming a major transit country? Is there a risk that corridors could cross the country without producing much local development?

Afghanistan could gain substantially, but the benefits should not be reduced to transit fees alone.

The more important opportunity is to use connectivity to lower Afghanistan’s own transport costs, expand access to regional markets and stimulate economic activity along the corridor.

There is a real risk of what I would call a “transit without transformation” scenario: trains cross Afghanistan, revenues are collected at the border, but relatively little value remains in the Afghan economy. Railways by themselves do not automatically create development.

To avoid this, the Trans-Afghan Corridor should be developed not simply as a transport line but as an economic corridor.

That means creating logistics centres, dry ports, warehouses and processing facilities around key nodes; connecting agricultural and mining areas through feeder infrastructure; encouraging Afghan companies to participate in transport and logistics services; and developing industrial or export-oriented zones along the route.

The distinction is between Afghanistan as a transit territory and Afghanistan as a participant in regional value chains.

The first generates some revenue. The second can generate jobs, investment, exports and new centres of economic activity.

Finally, looking towards 2030, what indicators should we examine to determine whether Afghanistan is genuinely becoming a bridge between Central and South Asia?

By 2030, I would look at several concrete indicators rather than at the number of agreements or political declarations.

The first is actual transit volume: how much cargo is moving through Afghanistan between Central and South Asia, and what share of that traffic is genuine through-transit rather than bilateral trade with Afghanistan itself.

The second is commercial reliability. A functioning bridge requires regular freight services, predictable transit times, competitive costs and the ability to move cargo throughout the year.

If businesses begin choosing the Afghan route because it is commercially rational rather than politically encouraged, that would be a very important indicator of success.

Third, I would look at network integration: whether Afghan routes are effectively connected northward to Uzbekistan and the wider Central Asian railway system and southward to Pakistan’s transport network and ports.

Fourth is Afghanistan’s own economic participation. If logistics hubs, processing industries, services, employment and Afghan exports grow around these corridors, Afghanistan would be becoming part of regional value chains rather than simply territory crossed by foreign cargo.

Finally, I would examine whether connectivity has become institutionalised enough to survive political fluctuations.

So by 2030, the decisive question should be very practical: are goods moving through Afghanistan regularly, competitively and in growing volumes, and is Afghanistan itself capturing part of the economic value created by that movement?

If the answer is yes, then the idea of Afghanistan as a bridge between Central and South Asia will have moved from geopolitical aspiration to economic reality.

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

The post Can Afghanistan Become Central Asia’s Bridge to the South? appeared first on Novastan English.

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.

Uzbekistan’s Armenian community has rebuilt churches, cultural centres and schools since the end of the Soviet period. Yet as Armenian increasingly gives way to Russian in everyday life, community leaders face a more difficult question: what does it mean to remain Armenian when language is no longer the principal marker of identity?

Several years ago, an elderly woman arrived at the Armenian cultural centre in Tashkent carrying books.

She was around 80 years old and had decided to donate her Armenian-language library to the community. For Georgiy Saakov, one of the eldest figures of Uzbekistan’s Armenian community, the encounter seemed at first like an illustration of cultural continuity. Then he addressed her in Armenian.

She answered in Russian. She did not speak the language of the books she had preserved.

“A grandmother who is Armenian but does not speak Armenian – a hundred years ago, that would have been difficult to imagine,” Saakov recalls.

The episode captures one of the central paradoxes facing Armenians in Uzbekistan today. Since the late Soviet period, the community has reconstructed much of the institutional infrastructure that disappeared during the twentieth century: cultural organisations, Sunday schools, churches, publications and artistic groups. Yet the transmission of Armenian itself has become increasingly fragile.

For Saakov, who has been editing the magazine of the Armenian community in Uzbekistan and has spent decades involved in its cultural institutions, this is not simply a linguistic issue. It raises a larger question about how minority identities survive in a society where integration has been extensive, intermarriage is common and Russian often functions more naturally than Armenian within Armenian families themselves.

Uzbekistan’s Armenians are far from disappearing. But what it means to be Armenian in Uzbekistan is changing.

A community older than the Soviet Union

Armenian connections with what is now Uzbekistan long predate the establishment of modern Central Asian states.

Christian communities existed in the region centuries before the Russian conquest, and Armenian merchants, craftsmen and religious missioners travelled through Central Asian commercial centres at different moments. Historical sources also point to Armenians being moved towards Samarkand during the campaigns of Timur, although the scale and precise character of these movements are difficult to establish.

Saakov situates the community within this much longer history. He points in particular to Samarkand, one of the great crossroads of Eurasian trade, where Armenian merchants and craftsmen were among the many groups who settled over the centuries.

Yet the roots of today’s Armenian community are more recent.

Its modern formation accelerated in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, alongside the Russian Empire’s expansion into Central Asia and the construction of the Trans-Caspian railway. Armenians arrived as railway workers, merchants, craftsmen, professionals and officials, joining the increasingly diverse urban populations of cities such as Tashkent and Samarkand.

By the early Soviet period, Armenians had established their own community institutions. Saakov describes Armenian Workers’ Houses operating in cities including Tashkent and Samarkand during the 1920s and 1930s, alongside cultural activities and an Armenian theatre.

This institutional life did not survive the Stalinist period. Independent ethnic, religious and cultural organisations were suppressed or absorbed into Soviet structures, while religious institutions across the USSR came under intense pressure.

As with many Soviet minorities living outside their titular republics, Armenians in Uzbekistan remained visible as individuals but increasingly lost the autonomous institutional spaces through which language and community life had previously been reproduced.

That distinction matters. Soviet modernisation did not necessarily eliminate Armenian identity, but it changed the mechanisms through which it was transmitted.

Rebuilding after decades of interruption

The late 1980s brought a new opening.

As perestroika loosened restrictions on cultural and religious organisation, Armenians in Uzbekistan began rebuilding community structures that had disappeared decades earlier. Armenian cultural centres emerged in Tashkent, Samarkand and Andijan from 1989 onwards, part of a broader revival of ethnic and cultural associations across the Soviet Union.

The process continued after Uzbekistan became independent in 1991.

The Armenian cultural centre in Tashkent established a Sunday school in 1993. In Samarkand, the Armenian Apostolic Church of Surb Astvatsatsin, built at the beginning of the twentieth century, reopened in 1995 after decades of closure. A second Armenian Apostolic church, dedicated to St Philip, was established in Tashkent in 2007.

Since 2001, Armenian organisations have operated within Uzbekistan’s system of national cultural centres, through which recognised ethnic communities organise language classes, cultural events and other activities.

For Saakov, this institutional reconstruction is one of the most important achievements of the post-Soviet period.

Today, Armenian cultural life in Uzbekistan includes dance and musical groups, educational initiatives, religious communities and the newspaper Depi Apaga, meaning “Towards the Future”, which began publication in 2006. Saakov has served as its editor since 2008.

The idea for the publication, he says, was encouraged by an encounter connected to Charles Aznavour’s visit to Samarkand for the Sharq Taronalari international music festival in 2005. For a dispersed community without its own territorial concentration, a newspaper offered another way of maintaining a shared public space.

The community also celebrates Armenian cultural figures whose lives became closely connected to Uzbekistan.

Perhaps the best known is Tamara Khanum, born Tamara Petrosyan, the Armenian-origin dancer and singer who became one of the most celebrated performers of Soviet Uzbekistan. Others include artists, musicians, academics and public figures whose biographies reflect the degree to which Armenian and Uzbek cultural histories became intertwined.

For Saakov, this is an important part of the community’s identity. Armenians in Uzbekistan do not understand themselves simply as a diaspora temporarily residing outside Armenia. Many families have lived in Central Asia for generations.

They are both Armenian and Uzbek.

How many Armenians are there?

The size of the community is difficult to establish precisely.

The last Soviet census, conducted in 1989, recorded more than 50,000 Armenians in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic. Saakov estimates that around 40,000 to 45,000 Armenians may live in Uzbekistan today, with the largest concentration in Tashkent.

That figure should be understood as a community estimate rather than the result of a recent population census.

Numbers alone also reveal relatively little about participation.

As in many diaspora communities, there is a substantial difference between identifying as Armenian and regularly taking part in Armenian institutional life. Churches, cultural centres and community organisations may represent the community symbolically while involving only a fraction of those who claim Armenian ancestry.

That gap has become one of the central challenges facing community organisations.

The problem is not necessarily hostility or pressure from the surrounding society. Saakov portrays Armenians as deeply integrated into contemporary Uzbekistan and emphasises that the community is able to operate openly.

Instead, the pressures are subtler: assimilation, generational change, migration and language loss.

When Russian becomes the family language

Of these, language may be the most consequential.

Russian has long played an important role among urban Armenian communities across much of the former Soviet Union. In Uzbekistan, it became particularly significant as Armenians interacted with other minorities and with Russian-speaking urban environments.

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

Over time, Russian also entered the home.

For many Armenian families in Uzbekistan today, Russian and Uzbek languages are used to communicate with neighbours or colleagues. But Russian is mostly the only language in which parents speak to their children and children speak to their grandparents.

But the survival of Armenian has been developing by many ways while the cultural identification remains strong.

Saakov has written about the role traditionally played by grandmothers in transmitting language, customs and memory. His formulation – “Cherchez la grand-mère” – reflects his belief that identity historically survived less through formal institutions than through families.

The elderly woman who brought Armenian books to the cultural centre therefore represented something larger than an individual biography. The books had survived. The language had not.

Perhaps that is one of the most important limit the post-Soviet Armenian revival in Uzbekistan encounters.

A Sunday school can teach vocabulary. A church can preserve ritual. A cultural centre can organise many events, including dance performances and commemorations. A newspaper can remind readers of Armenian historical and cultural identity.

Identity beyond language

Yet language loss does not necessarily mean the disappearance of Armenian identity.

This is where Saakov’s understanding of the community becomes particularly interesting.

He cites the Armenian historian Claude Mutafian’s formulation: “Être Arménien, c’est un choix” – being Armenian is a choice.

For Armenians in Uzbekistan, that choice may increasingly take forms other than speaking Armenian fluently.

It may involve attending church on major holidays, sending children to a Sunday school, participating in cultural events, reading about Armenian history, maintaining family traditions or simply continuing to identify with an Armenian ancestry that has existed alongside Uzbek, Russian and Soviet experiences for generations.

The community’s cultural groups reflect this attempt to preserve identity through practice.

Organisations and ensembles such as Mer Ojakh, Arvest and DAR bring together different generations around music, dance and cultural events. Their significance is not only artistic. They create spaces where a community that is geographically dispersed can physically encounter itself.

At the same time, the reliance on organised culture raises another question: what happens when identity becomes something performed at scheduled events rather than reproduced through everyday life?

That tension is not unique to Armenians.

Across Central Asia, smaller ethnic communities are negotiating similar changes. Soviet-era migration, urbanisation, mixed marriages, Russian-language education, independence and more recent emigration have transformed the relationship between ethnicity, language and citizenship.

The Armenian experience in Uzbekistan therefore offers a broader window onto the post-Soviet evolution of minority identity.

Integration without disappearance

Saakov strongly rejects the idea that Armenian identity and integration into Uzbek society are contradictory.

He describes Armenians as participating extensively in the professional, cultural and social life of the country and points to the absence of a strong divide between Armenian and Uzbek public identities.

There is historical substance to that argument. Prominent Armenians contributed to Soviet and post-Soviet Uzbekistan in fields ranging from culture to science, while generations of Armenian families have developed ties to cities such as Tashkent and Samarkand that are as biographical as their ties to Armenia.

But integration also complicates attempts to define where one community ends and another begins.

Read more on Novastan: At home in Central Asia: the lives and identity of the Lyuli/Mughat

An Armenian family may speak Russian at home, Uzbek at work or school, retain an Armenian surname, celebrate Armenian religious holidays and regard Uzbekistan as its homeland.

The resulting identity does not fit easily into models that imagine diasporas as culturally self-contained communities looking permanently towards an ancestral state.

For younger Armenians, Armenia may be important symbolically even when they have never lived there. Uzbekistan, meanwhile, is not simply a “host country” but the country in which their families may have lived for several generations.

Read more on Novastan: From Bukhara to Queens: The Global Journey of the Bukharan Jews

This distinction helps explain why the Armenian community’s future is unlikely to depend on preserving an unchanged version of the past.

Its challenge is instead to determine which parts of that inheritance remain meaningful.

A post-Soviet minority dilemma

The story of Uzbekistan’s Armenians is therefore not one of straightforward disappearance or revival.

The revival is real. Institutions that had vanished under Soviet rule have been rebuilt. Churches under the leadership of Ter Hovhannes Grigoryan, the spiritual mentor of the Armenian community in Uzbekistan, continues to function successfully. The Armenian National Cultural Center of Uzbekistan, led by Vladislav Safarov, along with regional cultural centers in Tashkent and Samarkand, headed by Armen Sahakyan and Armen Der-Avanesyants, are doing their best and carrying out extensive work across various fields. Cultural organisations operate openly and the Government of Uzbekistan extends full-scale assistance and support to the community organization.

Armenian history is commemorated. Children can attend community classes. Publications and artistic groups maintain a collective public presence.

At the same time, the social foundations on which those institutions once rested have changed profoundly.

The family is less reliably Armenian-speaking. Community participation is selective. Identity competes with migration, mixed backgrounds and increasingly individual definitions of belonging.

For Saakov, this makes transmission the decisive question.

The elderly woman who arrived with her books had preserved the physical objects of Armenian culture for decades. But the language connecting her directly to them had disappeared somewhere along the way.

Her story may seem melancholy, but Saakov does not present the community’s future simply in terms of decline.

If being Armenian is, as Mutafian suggested, a choice, then every generation makes that choice under different circumstances.

In Uzbekistan today, the question is no longer whether Armenian institutions can exist. They can, and they do.

The harder question is what people will choose to do with them.

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

The post Between integration and inheritance: How Armenians in Uzbekistan are redefining community appeared first on Novastan English.

In August-September 2026, the annual Shanghai Cooperation Organization summit took place in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Initially conceived as a platform for regional security cooperation, the organization used its 2026 summit to reiterate demands for a multipolar international order through appeals to Eurasian connectivity. State-overseen media in some of the organization’s authoritarian member states repeatedly invoked euphemistic terms such as “Silk Road” and “Digital Silk Road” alongside declarations of multipolarity. These references accompanied efforts by regional powers, particularly China and Russia, to secure recognition as global powers and challenge the predominance the United States has exercised since the end of the Cold War. For the post-Soviet states of Central Asia and the South Caucasus, embracing the Silk Road paradigm presents a particular dilemma, as they seek greater international recognition through a framework that designates them primarily as intermediaries between larger powers.

Read more on Novastan: In Central Asia, China is taking advantage of Russia’s isolation at war

The Making of the Silk Road Paradigm

 Since the early 2010s, the Silk Road has become a pervasive framework for representing Central Asia and the South Caucasus in tourism, scholarship, current affairs, and policy analysis. Many hotels and travel agencies in these regions bear the name or feature imagery of camels and caravans, while international tour operators market visits to these countries as Silk Road journeys. Conferences and institutional associations, including the Tbilisi Silk Road Forum and the Silk Road Universities Network, adopt the same designation. American academic institutions have also embraced it, most notably the Silk Road Studies Program formerly affiliated with Johns Hopkins University and Indiana University’s incipient Silk Road Studies program.

Uyghur and Uzbek restaurants across Western Europe and North America operate under names such as “Silk Road” and “Caravan.” The Chinese-American cello virtuoso Yo-Yo Ma applied the same paradigm to musical performance through his Silk Road project, conceived in 1998. Its eclectic ensemble reduces the rich musical traditions of various Eurasian nations to one or two representative performers, prioritizing national representation over demonstrating genuine historical musical connections across Eurasia. In a 2021 video from Tashkent, Uzbekistan, the popular Emirati food blogger Khalid al-Ameri gleefully attributes the enormous portions of Tashkent-style pilaf (to’y oshi) to the appetites of merchants traversing the Silk Road, as if local culinary traditions existed chiefly to serve transient traders.

    The Silk Road paradigm was popularized in the former Soviet space during late perestroika, almost a quarter-century before China launched the Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) in 2013, as  late Soviet and early post-Soviet publications attest. UNESCO provided institutional endorsement by launching a research program dedicated to the “Silk Roads” in 1988. In 1994, the Samarkand Declaration on Silk Road Tourism established a framework for international cooperation to promote the region’s historical routes and cultural heritage. Four years later, Baku hosted a conference on the restoration of the historic Silk Road under the EU’s auspices. The United States adopted the designation for its own New Silk Road initiative in 2011. Uzbekistan’s 2009 postage stamps promoted the theme, followed by subsequent issues depicting mapped routes, camels, caravans, and other popular Silk Road imagery. Russia also issued a Silk Road commemorative coin honoring the Eurasian Economic Community. The tourism expansion across post-Soviet Eurasia in the 2010s further encouraged Silk Road branding. For the newly independent states of Central Asia and the South Caucasus, the paradigm offered a means of asserting historical identities and international significance after the Soviet collapse amid the limitations of established Western regional classifications, as Central Asia and the South Caucasus fitted awkwardly within conventional definitions of the Middle East, Eastern Europe, or South Asia.

    Scholarship and popular historical writing in the English-speaking world have helped popularize the Silk Road as a framework for interpreting Central and Inner Eurasia. Valerie Hansen and Susan Whitfield have made substantial contributions to the study of underexplored communities and cultural encounters through works organized around this designation. Christopher Beckwith’s monograph applies the term to a broad history of Central Eurasia while emphasizing the historical agency of the region’s vernacular communities. Peter Frankopan adopts the pluralized Silk Roads for an expansive Eurasian synthesis for a general readership. In their accounts of premodern Eurasia, these authors organize historical interpretation around a designation that did not exist during the periods under examination. Maps of the Silk Road and its supposed branches, now ubiquitous in tourist promotions and geopolitical analysis, further reinforce the impression that the term describes a coherent framework. References to the Silk Road also supply historical context in prominent Anglophone media outlets’ reporting on the dire human rights situation of the Uyghurs.

    The Silk Road paradigm often entails a teleological interpretation of Eurasian history by projecting the modern concept of globalization onto premodern exchanges. Conventional accounts describe a network of routes linking China with Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean from the period when the Han and Roman empires coexisted to the mid- or late fifteenth century, before the Age of Discoveries fundamentally reshaped global connections. Replacing a single road with a plurality of routes leaves largely intact the presumption that these exchanges constituted a coherent and enduring trans-Eurasian system. The term itself was a nineteenth-century coinage, appearing in Carl Ritter’s work in 1838 before the German geographer Ferdinand von Richthofen gave it greater scholarly prominence in 1877. The existence of exchanges between distant regions does not establish that the people involved shared a conception of a unified system joining Eurasia’s eastern and western extremities. Treating their activities as successive stages of globalization risks attributing a common direction to interactions shaped by distinct local circumstances and changing sociopolitical realities. The conventional fifteenth-century endpoint similarly obscures the continuation of overland exchange across the Eurasian landmass into the modern period.

    The Silk Road has also acquired a geographical scope that encompasses entire regions of Central and Inner Eurasia. In this usage, Central Asia, Iran, the Caucasus, Anatolia, and Mesopotamia fall under a common designation derived from their association with routes connecting China with Europe. The term consequently covers the political, social, religious, and cultural histories of these territories, including developments whose significance extends well beyond commercial or cultural transmission. This usage conflates the history of connections among regions with the histories of the regions themselves. Establishing that a society participated in a network of exchange provides limited justification for treating that network as the principal framework for interpreting its historical development.

Between China and Europe

    The Silk Road paradigm presents China and Europe as the principal cultural and commercial centers of premodern Eurasia, relegating the intervening lands and peoples to an intermediary position within a linear rather than territorial conception of space. This hierarchy obscures the development of local political institutions and intellectual traditions, assigning historical importance primarily according to a society’s contribution to exchanges between the two endpoints.

The mathematical scholarship of al-Khwarazmi, the philosophical and medical writings of Avicenna, the musical theories of al-Farabi, the astronomical discoveries of al-Biruni, the linguistic and ethnographic works of Mahmud al-Kashgari, and the poetry of Ferdowsi, Rumi, Omar Khayyam, Ahmad Yasawi, Yusuf Balasaguni, and Ali-Shir Nawa’i exemplify contributions whose significance exceeds the transmission of ideas between distant centers and deserves consideration in its own right. Even when exchange remains the principal subject of inquiry, emphasizing these two endpoints understates India’s importance. During the Roman period, Mediterranean commerce with India, often through Central Asia, was considerably more voluminous than commerce with China. The Seleucid Empire and the Greco-Bactrian and Indo-Greek kingdoms had sustained earlier political and cultural connections, whose Hellenistic legacies persisted beyond their rule.

    The Silk Road paradigm’s Sino-centrism and Euro-centrism often obscure the cultural agency of vernacular communities in Central Eurasia. Communities selectively adapted and appropriated cultural imports, changing their forms and significance before they circulated further. Scholars such as al-Khwarazmi elaborated the Indian system underlying Arabic numerals before it reached Europe. Chess acquired new rules, pieces, and social meanings as it spread from India through Persia and onward to Europe, with “checkmate” being a Persian loan. Christian communities adapted Syriac script to write Sogdian and Old Uyghur. Regional variants of instruments such as the zurna, qanun, and kamancha differ in construction and performance practice, reflecting the musical traditions and preferences of the communities that developed them. Regional preparations of noodles (laghman, lamian), dumplings (chuchvara, manti), fried dough (çäkçäk, tush, sachima), and fruit leathers (lavashak, guodanpi) also require attention to local specificities.

Exchange Beyond Trade

The Silk Road paradigm’s emphasis on commerce often obscures the role of conquest, pastoral mobility, and permanent migration in facilitating cultural exchange across Eurasia. Scythian expansions and the Arab, Mongol, and Timurid conquests intensified cultural contacts through military service, imperial rule, and population displacement, frequently under conditions of extreme violence. Timur’s deportation of artisans from conquered cities to Samarkand made forced migration a major source of the Timurid capital’s architectural and artistic achievements. Similar developments followed Shah Abbas I’s deportation of Armenians from Nakhichevan to Isfahan, where churches combined Armenian and Safavid architectural characteristics. Nomadic communities sustained other forms of exchange through seasonal movement and recurrent encounters with settled populations.

Research on mountain routes through Inner Asia suggests that pastoral mobility helped establish some of the connections subsequently used by long-distance traders. The migrations of Qypchaqs, Seljuks, Kalmyks and other Oirat groups, and Alans carried military practices, oral literature, and material culture into new settings, where interactions with settled populations encouraged further adaptation. Jewish diasporic communities across Central Eurasia maintained connections through kinship, religious institutions, and scholarship, sustaining exchanges that extended beyond the activities of merchants, best exemplified by the Moroccan-born rabbi Yosef Maimon’s efforts to promote religious education and Sephardic liturgical practices among Bukharan Jewish communities in Central Asia during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Commerce itself often depended on the routes and social relationships established through these movements.

Silk Without China

The history of silk production further undermines the Silk Road paradigm’s Sino-centrism. Sericulture had spread into Central Asia and Iran well before the thirteenth century, and tenth-century geographical accounts describe silk production across much of Iran. Communities developed their own practices of silkworm breeding and textile manufacture, while Shaki and Shamakhi in modern-day northern Azerbaijan became important centers of silk production and trade in the Caucasus. Before Azerbaijan took control of the city in late 2023, one of the main streets of Stepanakert (Khankandi), the de facto capital of Armenian-controlled Nagorno-Karabakh, was called Silk Weavers’ Street (Metaqsagorts’neri poghots).

The smooth, colorful khan atlas (“royal silk”), produced most famously in the ancient city of Margilan in the Ferghana Valley, is widely regarded as a national symbol of Uzbekistan. The expansion of production diversified the sources of silk entering regional and distant markets while sustaining its commercial importance. Raw silk remained a major export of Safavid Iran in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and Iranian workshops produced luxury fabrics for domestic consumption and foreign buyers. In Shaki, wealth from silkworm breeding and cocoon sales supported urban development in the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as reflected in the magnificent summer palace of the Shaki khans. These economies depended on local agricultural conditions and commercial institutions and could sustain production and exchange without continuous input from China. The association of silk with China, therefore, provides little justification for assigning a subordinate historical role to societies that became substantial producers and exporters themselves.

From Historical Metaphor to Geopolitical Strategy

    The Silk Road paradigm’s retrospective Sino-centrism also lends historical legitimacy to the Chinese government’s contemporary geopolitical ambitions. China’s position among the largest premodern economies provides an insufficient basis for assuming comparably extensive political influence, cultural ties, or transit connections with the principal centers of Central Eurasia and beyond. The extent and character of these connections varied considerably across periods, depending on changing political arrangements and networks sustained by communities and Eurasian land empires with their own interests and institutions.

Read more on Novastan: China in Central Asia: Fact-checking and myth-busting

Official Chinese presentations of BRI invoke the pluralized historical Silk Roads to portray contemporary transit investments as the renewal of historical connections. This presumed continuity frames the expansion of Chinese interests as restoring a lost position, encouraging acceptance of Beijing’s ambitions to reshape Eurasia’s political and economic development. Central Asia and South Caucasus states embrace the same framework to attract Chinese investment, promote transit infrastructure centered around China, and secure greater international recognition. Their self-presentation as intermediaries risks making that recognition contingent on their usefulness to larger powers, while reinforcing a historical hierarchy that privileges China’s geopolitical objectives.

Read more on Novastan: China-Kyrgyzstan-Uzbekistan railway: Who wins from Central Asia’s new trade route?

Marco Polo and the Politics of Eurasian Space

    The Silk Road paradigm’s anachronistic Sino-centrism also appears in bestselling American author Robert Kaplan’s use of Marco Polo’s travels to interpret contemporary geopolitics. In The Return of Marco Polo’s World, Kaplan uses the Venetian traveler’s itinerary to explain the strategic significance of China’s expanding connections across Eurasia and the Indian Ocean. The itinerary of a single traveler offers limited grounds for establishing either the density of historical exchange or a common geopolitical orientation among the societies he encountered. Polo’s journeys depended on Mongol imperial arrangements and networks maintained by merchants, religious communities, and local authorities, whose activities served numerous purposes beyond connecting Europe with China.

Kaplan explicitly presents Kublai Khan’s empire as a guide to contemporary Chinese strategy, encouraging the interpretation of Mongol-era connections as precedents for China’s present ambitions, although Chinggisid imperial domains encompassed much of Eurasia and included political centers well beyond China. This analogy risks attributing a continuous geopolitical agenda to distinct political entities and subordinating other Eurasian societies to a narrative of Chinese resurgence. Kaplan’s advocacy of a sustained American naval presence also exposes a tension in his emphasis on Chinese centrality: American naval power helps sustain the maritime trading system on which China depends, while US military positions and alliances along the First and Second Island Chains constrain China’s pursuit of predominance in the western Pacific.

What the Eurasian Frame Leaves Out

    The Silk Road paradigm’s Eurasian frame also erases the Western Hemisphere when used to interpret contemporary global power dynamics. The United States, which emerged from the Cold War as the sole superpower, lies outside this paradigm’s geographical space. The postwar economic order still depends on financial arrangements shaped by American power, with the US dollar retaining its central role in international transactions, banking, and reserve holdings. The scale of the US economy and the global operations of US corporations sustain commercial relationships that cannot be adequately represented through routes joining China and Europe. American corporations, especially those based in Silicon Valley, occupy leading positions in the global high-technology industry. US military deployments and alliances, including a naval presence along major shipping routes, remain integral to the security arrangements within which much of this commerce occurs. Interpreting Chinese infrastructure expansion primarily through a Eurasian historical frame risks overstating China’s capacity to displace American dominance by discounting the United States’ pivotal role on the global stage.

When Influence Ran East

    The history of China’s Tang dynasty (618–907) challenges Sino-centric accounts of Eurasian exchange that portray China primarily as a source rather than a recipient of cultural influence. Conventionally celebrated as an apogee of Chinese cultural achievement, the Tang period coincided with extensive political and cultural engagement with Central Asia. The Tang capital, Chang’an (Xi’an), maintained close ties with the region, where Tang campaigns and protectorates established a substantial, though uneven, presence. Turkic soldiers and commanders contributed significantly to Tang military power, while Uyghur allies provided crucial assistance during the eighth century. Central Asian music and dances shaped Tang court entertainment, notably through Sogdian dances, while the pipa, often called the Chinese lute, developed from Middle Eastern and Central Asian prototypes. Elite men and women adopted Central Asian clothing and equestrian fashions; Crown Prince Li Chengqian dressed as a Turkic khan, established a tent camp within the palace grounds, and ate mutton cut with his sword. Sogdian communities in Chang’an and other urban centers contributed to commercial, artistic, and religious life, with manuscripts recovered from the caves of Dunhuang preserving evidence of their activities and beliefs. Imported fruit varieties, vegetables, and livestock, including peaches from Samarkand and prized Central Asian horses, further demonstrate the material significance of these contacts.

Christianity and Manichaeism reached Tang China through networks connecting Iran and Central Asia. Translations of Buddhist and Christian scriptures expanded Chinese religious literature, while Buddhist translation continued an earlier process of incorporating Sanskrit terms into Chinese. Li Bai (Li Bo), among China’s most celebrated poets, may have been born in modern-day Kyrgyzstan. Popular narratives about the battle of Talas in 751, fought between the Tang dynasty and the Abbasid Caliphate, often obscure the political agency of Central Eurasian communities by crediting the Abbasid victory with bringing Chinese westward expansion to a definitive end. The conflict emerged from regional rivalries involving Ferghana and Chach, whose ruling families sought allies to advance their own interests. Karluk forces played an important part in the Tang defeat, with Chinese accounts attributing the outcome partly to their defection to the Abbasid side. Tang expansion depended heavily on Turkic troops and commanders and alliances with Sogdian rulers. Tang garrisons remained in the Tarim Basin after Talas, while An Lushan’s rebellion in 755 and subsequent Tibetan advances led to Tang’s decline. An Lushan (Rokhshan in Sogdian), a general of Sogdian and Turkic ancestry, captured two Tang capitals and forced the emperor to flee, while the prolonged conflict severely weakened the dynasty.

Beyond the Silk Road

    Prominent historian of Central Asia Scott Levi has advocated the scholarly embrace of the Silk Road paradigm despite its conceptual laxity. However, its acceptance in Western academia would inevitably lend greater legitimacy to the expansive agenda of an authoritarian dictatorship whose repressive policies have actively destroyed the communities and cultural legacies that have long formed the backbone of Western imaginations of the Silk Road.

By Diego Benning Wang.

Diego Benning Wang is a historian of Eurasia and Eastern Europe. Having received a PhD in history from Princeton University, an MA in Russian studies from Columbia University, and a BA in Russian studies from New York University, he is currently a visiting scholar at Harvard University.

The post The Silk Road Paradigm and the Dilemma of In-Between appeared first on Novastan English.

Mongolia’s position between Russia and China is often portrayed as a geopolitical constraint. Researcher and writer Bolor Lkhaajav argues that Ulaanbaatar instead seeks to combine strong ties with both neighbours with an increasingly ambitious “third neighbour” policy spanning critical minerals, energy, technology, diplomacy and security.

Bolor Lkhaajav is a specialist in East and Northeast Asia who has published more than 200 articles and commentaries in multiple languages. She writes regularly on diplomatic history, foreign and security policy, geopolitics, economics, politics and society. She is currently working on Mongolia’s foreign-policy grand strategy and has been accepted to a PhD programme beginning in autumn 2027.

In this interview with Novastan, she discusses how Mongolia is navigating the geopolitical consequences of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the growing importance of South Korea and other “third neighbours”, the country’s critical-mineral potential, environmental pressures and Mongolia’s distinctive position in a rapidly changing Northeast Asia.

Novastan: You are currently working on Mongolia’s foreign-policy grand strategy. How would you describe the country’s strategic approach today, and how has it evolved in the changing geopolitical environment since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine?

Bolor Lkhaajav: In 2011, the Mongolian Parliament adopted the country’s Foreign Policy Concept, a legal document mapping out Ulaanbaatar’s foreign-policy strategy to meet modern-day demands while maintaining a balance between its two neighbours – Russia and China.

One of the important elements of the concept was the formal introduction of the “Third Neighbour” Doctrine. The idea of a “third neighbour” had long existed in Mongolian history and diplomatic circles, but it had never been explicitly defined and applied in such a transparent way. Since 2011, the policy has become one of the pillars of Mongolia’s foreign-policy grand strategy.

Read more on Novastan: “Mongolia cannot be understood through one lens”: Dr. Mendee Jargalsaikhan on democracy, China and Central Asia

It is specifically intended to strengthen Mongolia’s diplomatic, political, economic and cultural links with countries outside Russia and China, while at the same time reinforcing bilateral and trilateral engagement with Moscow and Beijing.

Since Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, Mongolia has experienced the consequences of Russia prioritising its domestic energy supply. Given Mongolia’s heavy dependence on Russian fuel, intermittent shortages have become a regular occurrence over the past six months. This also highlights why it is crucial for Mongolia to invest in renewable energy and work with third-neighbour partners to strengthen the country’s energy sector. I would not say that Mongolia can achieve energy independence at present, because that is simply not realistic.

Russia’s war in Ukraine has also changed the geopolitical and security dynamics of Northeast Asia. For Mongolia’s foreign-policy grand strategy, it is crucial that its only two neighbours remain free of conflict.

Mongolia’s grand strategy seeks to position Ulaanbaatar as a stable, democratic actor on the world stage. It is not dependent on the foreign policies of its neighbours, or of any other country, nor on their global engagements. Mongolia may respond differently to external challenges, but these will not fundamentally alter the country’s foreign-policy grand strategy.

Mongolia’s “third neighbour” policy has been central to its diplomacy for decades. Which relationships do you think have the greatest potential to deepen in the coming years – whether with South Korea, Japan, India, the European Union, the United States or others – and why?

Mongolia’s “Third Neighbour” Doctrine provides a much broader framework that envisages mechanisms for cooperation across different sectors and stages of development. It is not restricted to the mining sector.

At its core, the Third Neighbour Doctrine is both a concept and a foreign-policy practice encompassing multiple mechanisms that support Mongolia’s geopolitical balance between the two major powers surrounding it, Russia and China, while also placing an emphasis on reinvigorating the country’s bilateral and multilateral engagements outside their respective spheres of influence.

Within the region, relations between Mongolia and South Korea have certainly expanded tremendously. This is partly because of South Korea’s successful commercial presence in Mongolia and its more recent interest in diversifying its critical-mineral supply chains. Japan’s interest and investment follow, although not to the same extent as South Korea’s.

European partners will continue to play a crucial role in Mongolia’s democracy and development. Building on strong bilateral relations with European partners, Ulaanbaatar aims to increase cooperation on climate change, renewable energy and sectors that align both with Mongolia’s development priorities and with European standards and regulations.

Read more on Novastan: “Heritage is something alive”: Ganzorig Miimaa reimagines Mongolia through photography

With the United States, however, environmental and renewable-energy cooperation is unlikely to be a central focus under Donald Trump’s administration. In many respects, the current administration’s priorities do not align with Mongolia’s core values at present.

The US has shown interest in Mongolia’s critical minerals. However, given Washington’s posture towards both Moscow and Beijing, Ulaanbaatar is not particularly confident about the prospects of concluding a major deal.

One of the largest US contributions to Mongolia to date has been the successful implementation and launch of the Water Compact funded by the US Millennium Challenge Corporation.

You have written extensively on Mongolia’s relationship with South Korea, as well as on India and the European Union. How far can these partnerships help Mongolia translate diplomatic diversification into real economic diversification, given the constraints of geography, infrastructure and export routes?

Mongolia’s partnerships with South Korea, India, the European Union and others vary considerably according to the kinds of investment each partner is interested in pursuing. These are not all equivalent partners, and each can offer something different.

For example, India’s $1.7 billion soft loan for Mongolia’s first major greenfield oil refinery is a major boost for the country’s domestic supply and also has potential for exports.

The EU, on the other hand, is more interested in investing in human capital and civil society, promoting democratic values, and supporting the green transition, forestry and governance. Mongolia has a great deal to gain from its relations with the EU.

For example, the Mongolian government can learn from the EU’s Artificial Intelligence Act as the country moves towards establishing data centres and becoming a more digital nation. These ambitions will in turn create a need for greater cybersecurity capabilities, which countries such as South Korea, India and the United States can provide.

The logistical challenge involved in exporting Mongolian goods is obvious, and there are no magical solutions. All exports ultimately need to transit through Russia or China.

It is therefore strategically important for Mongolia to maintain the strongest and most stable possible bilateral and trilateral relations with both neighbours. Mongolia-China railway connections, as well as Mongolia-Russia transit corridors, are equally important for expanding Mongolian exports to Europe and elsewhere in the world.

Critical minerals and uranium are attracting growing international attention to Mongolia. What opportunities does this create, and what would Mongolia need to do to turn this interest into durable economic and strategic benefits?

Mongolia’s exploration and export of critical minerals and uranium form part of the country’s diversification strategy, even though they remain within the mining sector.

Mongolia holds an estimated $1-3 trillion in untapped mineral reserves, including significant deposits of copper, fluorspar, coal and rare earth elements.

South Korea is already working on building a stable supply chain to support its technological development. During South Korean President Lee Jae-myung’s state visit to Mongolia in July, Ulaanbaatar and Seoul signed a Comprehensive Economic Partnership Agreement (CEPA), which included the elimination of 2-5 percent tariffs on critical minerals.

In 2025, a South Korean critical-minerals research hub was established in Ulaanbaatar. This was recently followed by the launch of joint scientific research between the Mongolian National Rare Earth Corporation and the Korea Basic Science Institute.

Read more on Novastan: What lies beneath Central Asia? Rare earths, critical minerals and the new race for resources

Given South Korea’s advanced manufacturing industries, including steel, automobiles and semiconductors, the country has considerable demand for high-purity molybdenum powder. Moreover, South Korea’s growing interest in becoming more active in the defence industry and manufacturing makes Mongolia’s natural resources a strategic asset.

France has also become the first European country to seal a major uranium deal, signing a $1.6 billion investment agreement in 2025. These interests can be mutually beneficial: France requires uranium for its nuclear-energy sector, while Mongolia can use the partnership to diversify its exports.

For Mongolia to continue attracting investment from global partners, however, the country’s political system needs to be stable.

More than anything else, I think the constant changes of government, government plans and budgets, changes to the taxation system, and corruption are among the main obstacles to Mongolia’s development.

Mongolia recently hosted UNCCD COP17 in Ulaanbaatar, a subject you have also written about. Beyond the diplomatic visibility of hosting a major UN conference, what could COP17 realistically mean for Mongolia in areas such as desertification, land restoration, water security and environmental finance?

This year’s COP17 included discussions on finance, water, land and people, and food systems. Each of these issues has direct implications for Mongolia.

Water security, water pollution and land restoration in particular are closely linked to major mining operations in the country. Over the years, we have come to understand that environmental-protection clauses must be included as part of responsible mining. These requirements are understandably costly, but they are something the Mongolian side needs to demand regardless.

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

During COP17, mining giants such as Rio Tinto announced strategies to contribute to Mongolia’s fight against desertification and water pollution and to restore forests, including planting 5,000 hectares of forest, investing in renewable energy for company use and introducing new technologies to replenish groundwater.

Oyu Tolgoi, one of Mongolia’s largest mining operations, began paying water-pollution fees in 2026, with regular quarterly payments of 150-200 million Mongolian tugrik, or roughly $42,000-$55,000. These practices are intended to set an example for other major mining companies operating in the country.

Water security and water pollution will become even more important issues in the coming years as the construction of data centres is already being discussed at government level.

Their environmental impact needs to be studied thoroughly, and Parliament will need to develop appropriate legal and regulatory mechanisms for such projects.

You have also written about the changing geopolitical environment in Northeast Asia. What new opportunities or challenges does this create for Mongolia, particularly as relations among Russia, China, North Korea, South Korea and Japan continue to evolve?

Over the last five years, Northeast Asia has become a hotspot of geopolitical transformation, and recent events have only highlighted these shifts in the post-Second World War international order.

These are dynamic and complex international-relations issues, but I will mention the most significant ones here.

Russia’s war in Ukraine created tremendous opportunities for North Korea. Pyongyang is moving towards becoming a de facto nuclear state, most likely with the backing of both Russia and China.

For Mongolia, regional peace and security are crucial, and this includes peace on the Korean Peninsula. Mongolia currently maintains, and will continue to maintain, open diplomatic channels with North Korea regardless of Pyongyang’s actions. There are also some economic incentives for doing so.

Despite Mongolia’s landlocked position in Northeast Asia, one of its geopolitical advantages is that it is the only country in the region without territorial disputes or unresolved historical grievances with neighbouring states. This is a significant advantage for Mongolian diplomacy and creates opportunities for Ulaanbaatar to develop diverse political, economic and cultural engagements.

In the short to long term, Mongolia’s economic engagement with all regional actors is likely to continue.

Moreover, in order to diversify its energy sources – a need that has become more pressing because of the consequences of Russia’s war in Ukraine and fuel shortages – Mongolia will require support from China as well as third-neighbour investment in the energy sector.

India is currently supporting Mongolia’s first greenfield oil refinery, which is expected to become operational in 2028.

Finally, what aspect of Mongolia’s international position do you think remains most misunderstood outside the country, and looking five to ten years ahead, what would successful diversification actually look like for Mongolia?

I think one of the main misconceptions among observers of Mongolia is the idea that the country somehow has to choose between Russia and China.

Mongolia’s histories with Russia and China differ, and its diplomatic and economic relations with the two countries also differ tremendously. To think that Ulaanbaatar needs to choose between Russia and China in modern-day diplomacy is therefore not only a misconception, but also something that simply does not apply to Mongolian foreign policy.

The second misconception is that, because of Mongolia’s landlocked position between Russia and China, the third-neighbour policy is unsuccessful.

I have come across views that undermine Ulaanbaatar’s third-neighbour approach, arguing that the policy cannot genuinely counterbalance Russian and Chinese influence. But the misconception lies in assuming that this is what the policy is designed to do.

Mongolia needs robust relations with Russia and China. That is itself a foreign-policy priority. The Third Neighbour Doctrine is an addition to strong relations with Mongolia’s only two neighbours, not an alternative to them.

From both a foreign-policy and implementation perspective, since 2011 – over a period of 15 years – Mongolia’s third-neighbour relationships have flourished and will continue to develop through niche partnerships and new mechanisms for cooperation.

If one looks at the impact of Mongolia’s third-neighbour policy in its entirety, it becomes clear that it is not limited to economic diversification. It also encompasses culture, education, technology, innovation, modernisation and everything else that a modern society demands.

If there is one thing slowing Mongolia’s third-neighbour engagement, it is the country’s political instability, constant changes of government, shifts in investment laws and regulations, and, finally, corruption.

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

The post Bolor Lkhaajav: “Mongolia does not need to choose between Russia and China” appeared first on Novastan English.

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

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

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

One community, many names

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

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

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

How important is the Indian connection?

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

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

Speaking the languages of Central Asia

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

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

Everyday life beyond begging

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

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

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

School, documents and changing opportunities

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

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

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

Integration does not mean visibility

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

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

Filming a community usually seen from outside

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

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

Family, weddings and cultural life

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

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

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

“We are at home”

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

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

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

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

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

In 1890, French photographer Paul Nadar travelled through Russian Turkestan, documenting cities, landscapes and everyday life along the newly built Trans-Caspian Railway. In 2026, Spanish photographer Pablo Martínez Muñiz retraced part of his journey, using Nadar’s archive to explore how Uzbekistan – and the way outsiders see it – has changed.

Paul Nadar’s journey to Turkestan

The history of nineteenth-century photography is full of epic journeys in which adventurous photographers set off to explore distant places carrying cumbersome photographic equipment.

Their motivations varied. Some, such as Girault de Prangey, travelled east as part of a broader investigation into the cultures of the eastern Mediterranean. Others, such as Francis Frith, used travel to produce hundreds of photographs from around the world and build an international photographic business.

Paul Nadar’s journey to Turkestan in 1890 belongs to this tradition.

Paul Nadar (1856-1939), the son of the celebrated French photographer Félix Nadar, embarked that year on a two-month journey from Paris to Tashkent. He left Paris on 24 August aboard the Orient Express and reached Constantinople three days later. From there, he crossed the Black Sea by ship to Batumi before travelling via Tiflis to Baku.

Read more on Novastan: A condensed history

After crossing the Caspian Sea, he arrived at the Russian port of Uzun-Ada, the starting point of the recently constructed Trans-Caspian Railway. He then travelled by train through Bukhara to Samarkand, before completing the final stretch to Tashkent by horse-drawn carriage.

During the journey, Nadar took approximately 1,800 photographs. Most of the negatives are now preserved at the Médiathèque du Patrimoine et de la Photographie in Paris. The Getty Research Institute also holds an album entitled Photograph Album of Turkestan, 1890, containing 74 images in an unusual circular format. Other prints are scattered across private collections.

His photographs cover a remarkably broad range of subjects. He documented the Trans-Caspian Railway, its stations, workers and passengers. He photographed local rulers – emirs and beys – in portraits strongly influenced by contemporary Orientalist aesthetics. He also captured everyday scenes in the bazaars, streets and squares of Samarkand, Bukhara and Tashkent, as well as monuments, landscapes and equestrian and falconry competitions.

Taken together, the photographs constitute an extraordinary documentary and ethnographic record of Central Asian society at the end of the nineteenth century.

Nadar travelled not only with the equipment required to make large 30 × 40 cm glass-plate photographs, but also with two innovative cameras: the Kodak No. 2 and the Express Détective Nadar. Their capacity to take instantaneous photographs had a noticeable impact on the visual character of his work.

Yet Nadar’s photographs also reflected a European gaze shaped by Orientalism and by the geopolitical context of Russian expansion in Central Asia. They contributed to an image of Turkestan associated with the Western fascination with the “Orient”.

Read more on Novastan: A mosaïc wall

These photographs were therefore not neutral documents. They participated in the construction of a particular European idea of Central Asia, linked to colonial imaginaries and the romantic representation of the East that developed during the nineteenth century.

For me, one of the most interesting aspects of Nadar’s work lies precisely in this tension between documentation and cultural construction. His photographs have enormous historical and ethnographic value, but they also reveal a particular way of looking at and representing a territory, conditioned by the political and cultural context of his time.

Uzbekistan, 2026

During the first half of April 2026, with support from Uzbekistan’s Ministry of Tourism through the Embassy of Uzbekistan in Spain, I travelled to Uzbekistan to develop my photographic research and creation project, In the Country of Özbeg.

Taking Paul Nadar’s 1890 journey through Turkestan as its starting point, the project seeks to produce a contemporary reinterpretation of that experience through photography.

My aim was to return to some of the places photographed by Nadar and construct a new visual narrative about contemporary Uzbekistan. Rather than literally reproducing his historical photographs or indulging in nostalgia for an exotic past, I wanted to establish a dialogue between past and present – between two ways of looking at the same territory separated by more than 130 years of political, social and cultural transformation.

The Uzbekistan I encountered is, of course, radically different from the territory Nadar visited at the end of the nineteenth century. The Russian Revolution, the Soviet period and independence in 1991 were followed by profound urban, economic and cultural changes.

Read more on Novastan: Novastan Photo Contest 2026: the results

Infrastructure modernisation, the growth of tourism, the construction of a distinct national identity and the effects of globalisation have transformed both the physical landscape and everyday life.

Against this background, In the Country of Özbeg asks several questions. What remains today of the Orientalist imaginary constructed during the nineteenth century? How is Uzbek society represented now? How do contemporary processes of modernisation and tourism affect the visual representation of the country? And how can contemporary photography critically revisit images inherited from the past?

The project does not seek to provide definitive answers. Instead, it creates a space for visual reflection. I wanted to build a complex and open representation of Uzbekistan, avoiding exoticisation and focusing instead on tensions between tradition and modernity, memory and transformation, heritage and globalisation.

I worked in Tashkent, Samarkand, Bukhara and Khiva – the latter being the only city among the four that Nadar did not visit.

Nadar’s archive remained a conceptual reference throughout the process. Some of my photographs establish direct relationships with his images, while others focus on aspects of contemporary Uzbekistan that have no direct nineteenth-century equivalent. Through this dialogue between historical archive and contemporary production, I wanted to reflect both on the transformation of the country and on the mechanisms through which photography itself constructs representations.

From Orientalism to spectacle

The nineteenth-century European Orientalist imagination perceived Central Asia as a world of madrasas, mosques and bazaars.

Today, however, there are other forms of architecture that can produce a comparable sense of visual estrangement while belonging to an entirely different historical and cultural context.

These include the striking examples of Soviet modernist and brutalist architecture found across Tashkent, from the city’s metro stations to Hotel Uzbekistan. But there are also more recent forms of architectural spectacle.

At Magic City in Tashkent, for example, an enormous fairy-tale castle reminiscent of Walt Disney architecture forms the centrepiece of an entertainment and commercial complex. It is a very different kind of exoticism from the one imagined by nineteenth-century Europeans, but one that is equally constructed through image and spectacle.

It is also significant to observe the Uzbek government’s construction of large cultural and religious complexes inspired by Timurid architecture.

This process of recovering and monumentalising the past creates new architectural icons intended both to project a national identity and attract cultural and religious tourism.

At the same time, these buildings reveal a tension between the recovery of tradition and the creation of genuinely contemporary architecture. Reproducing historical forms can produce an architecture close to scenography or pastiche, in which the past itself becomes an image used to represent the present.

Yet this tension becomes more interesting at the decorative level. Colours, geometries, latticework and motifs inherited from Central Asian traditions are being reinterpreted through new materials and technologies, producing a contemporary visual identity grounded in architectural memory.

The two images show the continuity and transformation of a characteristic Central Asian ornamental vocabulary.

Traditional combinations of brick and glazed ceramics in turquoise, blue and earth tones coexist with contemporary interpretations using glass, metal and modern construction techniques.

The same visual resources – colour, stars, diamonds and geometric grids – are rationalised into more regular patterns that not only decorate buildings but filter light and structure space.

This is therefore not simply a literal reproduction of the past. It is an aesthetic translation of heritage, in which historic forms and colours are abstracted and adapted to the present.

The Registan: from urban centre to global icon

Samarkand’s Registan is one of the places that most clearly illustrates the changes Uzbekistan has undergone over the past 130 years.

When Nadar photographed the square in 1890, it remained a centre of urban life: a place of commerce and movement, surrounded by madrasas that still served their original functions.

The buildings were in poor condition, but the space remained embedded in the everyday life of Samarkand.

Today, the Registan has become one of Uzbekistan’s most recognisable visual icons and a centre of the country’s booming tourism industry. Its monumental buildings have been extensively restored, while many of the cells that once accommodated madrasa students now contain souvenir shops.

The transformation is striking. The architecture survives, but the social function of the space has profoundly changed.

Representing Uzbek women

These photographs create a powerful visual contrast between two representations of Uzbek women separated by more than a century.

In Nadar’s photograph, the woman appears almost elusive, heavily covered and anonymous within the surrounding landscape. My photograph from 2026 presents a very different encounter: a grandmother and her granddaughter look directly at the camera with confidence and complicity.

The older woman’s traditional textile patterns coexist naturally with the younger girl’s pink sweatshirt. Their clothing, expressions and relationship suggest both continuity and change, while resisting the tendency to reduce contemporary Uzbek women to a single image of either “tradition” or “modernity”.

A globalised Uzbekistan

For me, these images capture Uzbekistan as a kind of living palimpsest, in which global modernity is written over layers of history without fully erasing them.

In the first photograph, a young Uzbek man poses in an FC Barcelona shirt. The club crest and Spotify logo form unmistakably contemporary symbols against a background of traditional brick architecture, illustrating the extent to which global mass culture has become part of local identity.

In the second, a balloon seller walks beside the historic brick walls of Bukhara’s Ark carrying a dense cluster of bright red heart-shaped balloons.

The plastic, ephemeral colour of the balloons stands in sharp contrast to the monumental architecture of a city that Nadar himself photographed in 1890.

Both photographs show how the symbols of the twenty-first century occupy the same spaces as the physical traces of historic Turkestan.

The road and the destination

These final two images bring the visual journey to a close by connecting movement with destination.

Nadar’s photograph documents the Trans-Caspian Railway, whose construction began in 1879. I find it fascinating to think that this infrastructure made his journey through the region – and therefore his photographic work – possible.

In his image, the railway appears fragile as it cuts across the desert landscape. To me, it evokes the epic quality associated with the early history of photography in this part of the world.

My photograph of Khiva’s walls represents the end of my own journey through Uzbekistan.

Read more on Novastan: In Khiva’s Old Town

Where Nadar’s image captures the infrastructure that enabled movement across the region at the end of the nineteenth century, my own gaze comes to rest on the solidity of Khiva’s adobe walls, glowing in the evening light at the final stop on my itinerary.

In placing these two photographs together, I wanted to connect the historical infrastructure that enabled Nadar’s exploration with the architecture that marked the conclusion of my own.

Epilogue

Travelling through Uzbekistan in Paul Nadar’s footsteps has helped me understand that photography documents not only space, but time.

In the Country of Özbeg was not conceived as an exercise in Orientalist nostalgia, but as a visual dialogue with a territory that is constantly being rewritten.

By confronting the photographic archive of 1890 with my own images from 2026, Uzbekistan emerges not as a static landscape, but as a society in which Timurid memory, the traces of the Soviet era and the symbols of globalisation coexist in everyday life.

My physical journey ended at the walls of Khiva, but the question of photographic representation remains open.

Looking at the present through the reflection of the past is, ultimately, one way of understanding how we construct our own identities in the mirror of history.

By Pablo Martínez Muñiz.

Pablo Martínez Muñiz is a Spanish photographer, university professor and researcher specialising in the history of nineteenth-century photography. He holds a PhD in Fine Arts from the Complutense University of Madrid, where his doctoral research examined Orientalism in nineteenth-century photography and the relationship between photography, travel and representations of the East. His work combines artistic practice, academic research and teaching, with a particular focus on photography, territory, representation and Orientalist visual cultures. He is a professor and academic director of the Master’s Degree in Artistic Photography at the International University of La Rioja (UNIR) and a member of the Iranian Peoples Studies Group (GEPI) at the Autonomous University of Madrid. He is also part of the research project “Crossed Perspectives between the Iranian and Hispanic Worlds: Narratives and Representations in the Contemporary Era”, funded by Spain’s Ministry of Science, Innovation and Universities (Reference: PID2023-1502740A-100).

The post In the Country of Özbeg: Photographing Uzbekistan 136 Years After Paul Nadar appeared first on Novastan English.

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.

From Tashkent classrooms to Miami conservatories, violinist and researcher Irina Antsiferova traces how Uzbek composers transformed a Western instrument by drawing on local melodies, rhythms and performance traditions.

One of my childhood memories takes me back to Tashkent in 1992. I am sitting beside my mother in a taxi as we make our way through the city streets to my music school. The radio is playing, and suddenly the sound of a gijak, a traditional Uzbek bowed string instrument, catches my attention. I listen closely, fascinated by how familiar it sounds, and turn to my mother.

“It sounds so much like a violin!”

She nods.

We are on our way to the Uspensky Specialized Music School, where I was studying violin at the time, a school that continues to educate talented young musicians today. When I arrive for my lesson, I unpack my instrument and take out one of the pieces I am studying: Uzbek composer Nazarov’s Song and Dance.

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

Suddenly, I hear a connection. The sound of the gijak that I had just heard on the radio and the music written on the page in front of me seem to belong to the same musical world.

Something clicks: this is how this music should sound.

I did not know it then, but perhaps a small researcher was already beginning to emerge inside me. That curiosity stayed with me for decades. Eventually, it led me to become a Doctor of Musical Arts and to devote my doctoral research to the role of Uzbek composers in developing repertoire for Western string instruments.

Discovering Uzbek music from America

When I later came to the United States as a student, I encountered an extraordinary mixture of musical cultures. In Miami especially, Latin American and Afro-American traditions are everywhere. I also encountered music connected with Native American traditions. Russian symphonic repertoire, meanwhile, is a familiar part of American conservatory and orchestral life.

Uzbek classical music was different.

Outside relatively specialised circles – particularly among musicians who had grown up in Uzbekistan or studied at the State Conservatory of Uzbekistan – the composers I knew so well were largely unfamiliar.

Perhaps geography plays a role. Uzbekistan is thousands of kilometres from the United States. But its musical history is anything but isolated.

For centuries, the territory of present-day Uzbekistan stood at a crossroads of cultures. Persian, Turkic, Arab, Mongol and later Russian traditions intersected there. Its position along the Silk Road and centuries of political transformation produced a musical culture in which different traditions continually encountered and reshaped one another.

During the Soviet period, another major transformation took place. New theatres, concert halls and educational institutions appeared, including the State Conservatory of Uzbekistan, founded in 1936. Western classical forms and instruments increasingly interacted with Uzbek traditional melodies, rhythms and performance practices.

The result was not simply Western music with an “Uzbek flavour”. Over time, a distinctive musical language emerged, and with it generations of composers and performers who developed their own approach to Western classical instruments, including the violin.

Read more on Novastan: When the clarinet speaks Uzbek: bringing an overlooked classical repertoire to the world

One of the most fascinating figures in this story was Georgi Mushel.

Georgi Mushel: between Russia and Uzbekistan

Georgi Mushel was born in Tambov, Russia, in 1909 and studied at the Moscow Conservatory, where his teachers included Nikolai Myaskovsky, Mikhail Gnessin and the pianist Lev Oborin. The harmonic colours of Claude Debussy and Maurice Ravel also left a strong impression on his musical language.

In 1936, after graduating from the Moscow Conservatory, Mushel moved to Tashkent to teach at the newly established State Conservatory of Uzbekistan. The move transformed his musical life.

He immersed himself in Uzbek traditional music and became familiar with instruments such as the surnay, doira and dutar. He worked with Uzbek musicians and collaborated with ethnographer and composer Victor Uspenskiy. He eventually arranged 55 Uzbek folk songs, a project that became something of a compositional laboratory for him.

In his earlier compositions, Mushel sometimes quoted Uzbek melodies directly. Gradually, however, the influence became deeper.

Rather than simply inserting folk tunes into European compositions, he began to absorb their musical logic: modal writing, meaning music based on scales other than the conventional Western major-minor system; recurring rhythmic patterns; and textures that evoked the sound of instruments such as the dutar.

Read more on Novastan: Finding links between electronic and folk music in “Waiting for the Sea”

The Uzbek and European elements had begun to speak the same musical language.

A violin sonata that speaks Uzbek

One of the clearest examples is Mushel’s Sonata for Violin and Piano in D Minor, composed in 1950 and dedicated to Mikhail Gnessin.

The three-movement sonata follows a recognisable Western classical structure, but listening closely reveals another musical world beneath it.

The second movement, Moderato con anima, is particularly striking. It is written in an unusual 5/4 metre – five beats to a bar – and draws on the Uzbek folk melody Gazhagim (“My Curls”), which Mushel had previously harmonised as part of his collection of 55 folk songs.

But melody alone does not explain why the movement sounds Uzbek.

Rhythm is equally important.

The heartbeat beneath the melody: usul

One of the fundamental concepts in Uzbek traditional music is usul, a recurring rhythmic pattern that provides the structural foundation for a piece.

Traditionally, usul patterns can be played on the doira, a frame drum widely used in Uzbek music. Performers produce contrasting sounds, often described as bum, a lower sound struck towards the centre of the instrument, and bak, a higher sound played closer to the edge.

What fascinates me as a violinist is the relationship between this stable rhythmic foundation and the freedom of the melody above it.

The usul can remain remarkably precise while the melodic line breathes with rubato – flexible timing in which the performer slightly stretches or compresses the tempo for expressive effect.

This matters when a Western-trained violinist approaches Mushel.

The notes may be printed using familiar Western notation, but playing them exactly as one might play Brahms or Beethoven does not necessarily reveal their character. Uzbek rhythmic interpretation can involve subtle emphases and flexibility that notation alone cannot convey.

The performer sometimes has to read between the lines.

In the second movement of Mushel’s sonata, rhythmic patterns can be connected to traditional Uzbek structures, including those associated with Chambarcha Irok (a 5/4 rhythmic pattern (usul) associated with the Irok repertoire of Shashmaqom). They can be heard particularly clearly in the left hand of the piano part.

There are other clues.

The movement’s modal language helps create its distinctive Central Asian character. At another point, Mushel seems to evoke the sound of the dutar, the traditional Uzbek plucked string instrument.

For the violinist, this changes the physical approach to the instrument.

I find that playing the pizzicato – plucking the violin strings rather than using the bow – closer to the bridge gives the notes greater clarity and helps suggest the sharper articulation of a plucked traditional instrument.

These may seem like small performance decisions. But together they reveal something important.

Performing this repertoire requires understanding not only what Mushel wrote, but also the musical culture from which those sounds emerged.

More than borrowing

This is what makes the Uzbek violin repertoire so interesting to me.

It would be easy to describe it simply as a meeting between “East” and “West”, but that formulation is too simple. What happened in twentieth-century Uzbekistan was more complex.

Western instruments such as the violin entered an environment with its own sophisticated traditions of melody, rhythm, ornamentation and performance. Uzbek and Uzbekistan-based composers did not merely place folk material inside European forms. They increasingly adapted those forms to another musical sensibility.

For performers, that means technique cannot be separated from context.

A violinist can play every written note correctly and still miss the character of the music. Understanding the rhythmic logic of the doira, the articulation of the dutar, the expressive flexibility of Uzbek melody or the sound world of the gijak can fundamentally change how a passage is approached.

That was the lesson I had already begun to discover as a child, without yet having the vocabulary to explain it.

From Tashkent to Miami

Mushel’s sonata remains part of my repertoire today.

And so does Nazarov’s Song and Dance – the piece I remember opening as a child after that taxi ride with my mother more than three decades ago.

There is something beautifully circular about that memory.

Back then, my mother and I were riding through Tashkent towards my violin lesson at the Uspensky School. I was a child trying to understand why the violin music on my stand sounded somehow connected to the gijak I had just heard on the radio.

Read more on Novastan: From Q-pop to Hip-Hop: Kazakhstan’s Multilingual Sound

Today, I drive myself to teach at a conservatory in Miami.

And the question that began in that taxi has never completely left me.

Only now, instead of asking my mother why these musical worlds sound connected, I explore that question as a violinist, teacher and researcher – and introduce my own American students to the Uzbek music that first taught me to listen differently.

By Irina Antsiferova.

Irina Antsiferova is a violinist, educator and Doctor of Musical Arts. Her research examines the influence of Uzbek musical traditions on repertoire for Western string instruments. She is currently based in Miami.

The post How Uzbek Composers Made the Violin Their Own appeared first on Novastan English.