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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was first published by Vlast.kz

Translated by Anna Wilhelmi

Edited by Abby Scripka

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

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

Over the past six weeks, hundreds of thousands of viewers have tuned in to Dutch public broadcaster VPRO to watch the new docuseries “Along the new Silk Road”. For most people in the Netherlands, this show is their first introduction to Central Asia. But as its title suggests, the documentary is dotted with orientalist stereotypes about the region. A critical review of a missed opportunity.

The opinions expressed in this review are those of the author.  

Since its first broadcast on public television, the Dutch docuseries “Along the new Silk Road” has attracted hundreds of thousands of viewers. So far, this six-part series has averaged over one million people per episode. Even for a primetime show in the Netherlands, these numbers are impressive. 

Most notably, on Sunday March 19, the series’ third episode attracted more viewers than the paid-only live coverage of the Ajax-Feyenoord match – the country’s main football rivalry. 

The show is presented by two popular Dutch documentary makers: Ruben Terlou and Jelle Brandt Corstius. Both have made successful docuseries in the past. Whereas Terlou has had a lifelong passion for China as a photographer and speaks Mandarin fluently, Brandt Corstius is a former Russia correspondent for a Dutch quality newspaper. 

Central Asia as terra incognita

Interestingly, neither Terlou nor Brandt Corstius are experts on Central Asia. Brandt Corstius acknowledges this by stating that he only knows the region insofar as “it was part of the Soviet Union”. Terlou admits that he “always dreamt of following the magical Silk Road”. During his time in China, he saw the growing importance of China’s Belt and Road Initiative. 

Read more on Novastan: China in Central Asia: Fact-checking and myth-busting

Considering both presenters’ respective backgrounds, it comes as no surprise that “Along the new Silk Road” is not a documentary about Central Asia. Instead, the series tells a story of foreign influence, competing interests and geopolitical rivalry. This Great Game-like narrative reduces the region to little more than a great powers playground. 

By depicting Central Asia as some sort of mysterious terra incognita, “Along the new Silk Road” cannily taps into pre-existing orientalist ideas about Central Asia in the Netherlands. Often these depictions are based on stereotypical and colonialist perspectives of eastern cultures, framing them “as extremely different and inferior, and therefore in need of Western intervention or ‘rescue’”. 

Orientalism, voyeurism and white saviourism

In “Along the new Silk Road”, orientalism often takes the form of voyeurism. For example, when discussing bride kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan, the makers’ intentions of doing so remain unclear, other than illustrating the backwardness of such practices. 

Even worse is that by discussing such controversial and complex topics without providing any context, the documentary makers parasitise on the victims’ grief to imbue their audience with a sense of white saviourism. It is not difficult to see that such manifestations of orientalism help justify (neo)colonialism. 

But the most obvious orientalist reference is undoubtedly the series’ title. This cliché choice alludes to the image of exotic caravans traversing inhospitable deserts and high mountain passes. This imagined geography of Central Asia degrades the region to a simple trading corridor, rather than a place of interest in its own right – a criticism that has prevented some experts from using the concept of “Silk Road” altogether.  

The role of Dutch and Western media

But the series’ presenters are not the only ones to be blamed for this orientalist misrepresentation. In part, producer VPRO simply caters to the limited knowledge on Central Asia in Western Europe in general. 

Most people in the Netherlands would likely have a hard time pinpointing Central Asia on a map, let alone identify individual countries. For those who can, the region is often little more than a far-away, post-Soviet wasteland ruled by despotic presidents. 

Dutch media, like most other news outlets, have contributed to creating this image. Current affairs in Central Asia were long covered by correspondents based in Russia, the region’s former coloniser. For most media outlets, this was standard operating procedure until the start of Putin’s invasion of Ukraine. Yet, as the war escalated, many Western journalists were forced to leave Moscow.

Read more on Novastan: Kazakhstan’s gradual divorce from Russia

This exodus freed up resources to report on the wider implications of Russia’s war in Ukraine. Dutch media have paid considerable attention to the recent geopolitical repositioning of former Russian colonies, such as in Kazakhstan. And interest in the region is not only limited to so-called high politics. 

The colonised versus the coloniser

“Along the new Silk Road”’ also features various human interest stories. Brandt Corstius, for example, interviews a Kyrgyz woman about the declining popularity of the Russian language in her country and the revival of nomadic traditions. 

In Pavlodar, Brandt Corstius’ ends up in a hipster bar to talk with progressive Kazakh youth about the sudden influx of Russian draft evaders. These stories definitely deserve praise, as they help empower local narratives about the quest for (national) identity.  

But too often, the documentary makers frame these storylines to fit within their geopolitical grand scheme of things. A clear example of this is Terlou’s poignant interview with several Kazakh women who were imprisoned in China’s internment camps in Xinjiang, or had family members taken from them. 

Read more on Novastan: Escape from Xinjiang – stories from those who fled the camps

One by one, these women’s accounts are chilling. It is impossible not to be moved by their stories of torture and forced abortion. But after the conversation has come to an emotional climax, the camera pans to Terlou who is sobbing quietly in a corner of the kitchen. Later, in a phone call with Brandt Corstius, Terlou describes that hearing the stories of the Kazakh women felt “as if going through a break-up” with his beloved China. 

Decolonising a documentary

It is commendable that Dutch public broadcasting was willing to fund this documentary. After all, the show helped introduce hundreds of thousands of people to Central Asia, many of whom had never heard about the region before.

Yet, in “Along the new Silk Road”, Central Asia appears to be little more than an endless procession of postcolonial pain and misery. Although decisions made in Moscow and Beijing still resonate in Central Asia, regional political leadership has far more agency over the geopolitical course of their respective countries than the documentary portrays. And more importantly, the people in the region have their own histories, cultures and ideas about the future. 

Only when Western media acknowledge these unique identities, it is possible to move away from lingering orientalist views of Central Asia and – hopefully – start making documentaries the region deserves. 

Written by Julian Postulart

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The post Orientalism revisited – a very Dutch introduction to Central Asia appeared first on Novastan English.

With her most recent documentary, Rhythms of Lost Time, Anisa Sabiri proposes a journey across the most remote regions of Tajikistan, home to the last vestiges of an ancient culture. In an exclusive interview, Novastan had the opportunity to discuss the film with its young Tajikistani director. This article was originally published on Novastan’s French website on 28 September 2021.“Someone said that traditions are like a thread of life carried across time, a link to our ancestors, a sort of code of communication between generations past and future.” With this opening sentence, the theme of the film is set. The 45-minute film was directed by Anisa Sabiri, a young director from Tajikistan. Like an ethnographic work, it captures life’s moments in the most remote areas of Tajikistan, “an unknown country with the fading embers of an ancient culture at its core.” The film was completed while the director was studying in London.

The short film is presented in the second Film Festival of the Calvert Journal in an online stream from 18 to 31 October 2021. The festival seeks to explore current issues relating to Europe, the East, and post-Soviet countries through the eyes of independent filmmakers.

In Search of Ancestral Traditions

Tajikistan is rich and complex in culture, with traditional practices going back to the Zoroastrian era. While some practices remain relatively untouched, others have adapted to some extent to the changing requirements of Soviet, Islamic, and capitalist influences. In the film, which emphasizes musical traditions, local experts and inhabitants of the most remote regions of the country talk about their customs. Music is present in all parts of life, from weddings and fire ceremonies to funerals. The life of these ancient people appears to have always been set to musical rhythms, and this documentary allows us to hear what that might have sounded like. https://vimeo.com/embed-redirect/326313281?embedded=true&source=video_title&owner=79782110 In response to a question from Novastan, Anisa Sabiri explains that this film arose out her own experiences. Before becoming a filmmaker, the young director worked as a tour guide for seven years, during which time she visited remote regions of Tajikistan and established links with local people. In this way, she witnessed unique customs and was moved by the deep philosophy of the culture. As a city dweller, Anisa Sabiri is not accustomed to isolated villages, but she fell under the spell of the strong rhythms of this culture, as if they were calling to her. She began to collect and explore ethnographic documents in order to better understand the context and meaning of these practices. Saddened by the danger posed to these traditions, she had the idea to start documenting them, long before picking up her camera.

Unique Practices and an Ethnographic Approach

Shooting took place in 2018 in regions that retained most of the ancient traditions, such as Zarafshan, Fergana Valley, and Badakhshan. In light of the mountainous geography of the area, the journey was not easy, but it was important for the director to “show that the traditional practices persisted, even in Sughd Region,” as Anisa Sabiri explained to Novastan. “Sadly, traditions have disappeared in this region because it is less isolated, and the influences of other cultures and globalization are strong there. So, it’s not that culture differs from one region to another, but rather the way each region reacts to new influences. And as traditional culture is faced with numerous threats, people are reluctant to perform certain traditions,” she lamented. To acquire access to funeral ceremonies in Badakhshan required her to forge trusting relationships with elders in the communities being filmed. “In some cases the success of the shoots depended on the support of the authorities, on communication with the local population, and on personal relationships I had made thanks to my cultural activist predecessors, writer, and tour guide. But, of course, there is always the next step of connecting with individuals and gaining their trust.” The director had to be sincere in her respect for local people and convey her passion for the preservation of their way of life.

On a journey into forgotten traditions, the director and her team transport viewers to the summits of Tajikistan’s mountains to discover maddo: ritual music played when inhabitants of Badakhshan bury their relatives. Here, villagers dance and sing during funerals, not only during weddings. One highlight of the film shows Panjakent in the western part of the country. Anisa Sabiri describes a very challenging moment to film: “What was most difficult was that the two camera operators were men and we had to film the part of the ceremony restricted to women. But the family allowed us to film, and at first we kept our distance. Later, I think everyone forgot we were there.” The situation probably would have gone differently in more conservative regions of Tajikistan, Anisa Sabiri added. Unique in its genre, this transcendent funeral music is particularly fascinating to British musician Leo Abrahams, who heard a recording of it several years ago. Struck by its unusual beauty, he traveled to Tajikistan to witness the enchanting musical experience for himself.

A Precious Heritage Constrained by a Restrictive Law

This film intends to send a clear message to the world: these traditions are now more threatened than ever. The film’s participants, musicians, and historians agree: “We have lost almost everything; we have lost 90% of our entire heritage,” confirms Gulomcho Safarov, one of the film’s protagonists. While the USSR also played its part in the disappearance of such traditions, today globalization and political–religious pressures are causing the last vestiges of this traditional culture to vanish. Since the end of the civil war in 1997, the local population has had to navigate between the rise of authoritarianism and cultural conservatism.

It’s been almost 15 years since Tajikistan’s population has been allowed to weep during funerals or organize a vigil for the deceased, never mind sing or dance. Since 2007, the Tajikistani government has decided what people can and can’t do during key life events and celebrations. The law concerning the regulation of traditions and rituals controls all popular rituals. Even though traditional funeral rites had become less and less common before the law’s adoption, it has played a significant role in their disappearance.

One Perspective on Tajikistan’s History

Anisa Sabiri was born in Tajikistan’s capital of Dushanbe in 1991, the same year an independent Tajikistan was created after the break-up of the USSR. This gives her a unique vision and approach to the history of her native country, motivating her to capture these endangered traditions that might not be transmitted to the next generation. As a young award-winning author, cultural activist, and photographer, she could not simply remain indifferent to history. The film’s premiere was held in the Tajikistani capital last May, according to Tajik media outlet Asia-Plus. The location was selected by the director due to the film’s main intention: to highlight traditional culture to the local population. The screening’s result was striking, with many viewers saying they had “the impression of having journeyed to another country,” and “they didn’t know these traditions existed,” according to the director.

Her previous film, The Crying of Tanbur, is about the civil war that formed the identities of Tajikistanis born since perestroika, or after 1991. In it she introduces the sound of a ritual musical instrument, the tanbur, “which weeps for the traumas of the new generation.” More widely, the work of Anisa Sabiri aims to better grasp Tajikistani identities, and in Rhythms of Lost Time she goes farther back into the past. The director hopes “to explore the progress the Tajikistani people have made up until now to continue the traditions.” For her, “traditions are the mind and body’s means of expressing identity. As we see in the film, our people have had to endure numerous cultural wars, and every one of them has affected our identity.” Speaking on her future projects, Anisa Sabiri would like to continue to make use of the 30 hours of video and audio collected for Rhythms of Lost Time. She is also working on a feature film set during the last days of the dissolution of the Soviet Union which follows the story of a young woman from a village who tries to liberate herself in the city, but encounters hardships because of her origins and the era’s chaos. Anisa Sabiri remains drawn to questions of identity, conflict, and borders: “I find this theme fascinating, close to my heart, and very timely. Given that I am a Tajik post-Soviet child, raised in a completely Russianized family, I myself also feel this inner-conflict.”

Anisa Sabiri hopes that Rhythms of Lost Time will increase awareness in Tajikistani people and help to create a new model which integrates lost practices into the modern world. One thing is certain: in Tajikistan music and dance have accompanied people in their joy and sorrow throughout centuries. Until a theatrical release in Tajikistan, this documentary is making the rounds in international film festivals such as the Film Festival of the Calvert Journal. It seems, however, that the most meaningful recognition awaits the filmmaker at home, where her fellow Tajikistanis will see the film.

Zoé De Nadaï Writer for Novastan

Translated from French by Judy Harter

Edited by Fiona Katherine Smith

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George Itzhak’s award-winning short documentary “Waiting for the Sea” connects insights into Uzbekistan electronic music scene and its traditional music with the drying up of the Aral Sea. Novastan spoke with him about the challenges of making the film, the similarities between techno and folk music, and the film’s reception in Central Asia and beyond.

An electronic music festival in the middle of Aralkum desert, over a thousand kilometres away from the capital Tashkent? That’s the idea behind Stihia, which held its first edition in September 2018 in Moynaq, a small town in the autonomous region of Karakalpakstan, in western Uzbekistan. This town is best known for its tragic destiny: once located at the southern shore of the Aral Sea and famous for its fish industry, the town is now dozens of kilometres away from the rapidly receding shorelines of the Aral Sea. 

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Director George Itzhak, 28, who was born in Tashkent but grew up and lives in New York City, was fascinated by the idea of the festival, by the emerging electronic music scene in Tashkent and the connections of techno music and traditional Uzbek folk music. In August 2019, he travelled to Uzbekistan for the second edition of Stihia, and to dive into Uzbek culture and the capital’s young electronic music scene.

The result is “Waiting for the Sea”, a documentary representing his personal perspective as an Uzbek who has never lived in Uzbekistan and his search for the connections between ancient tradition and futuristic movement. At the same time, it breaks away from the stereotypes and clichés often used when presenting Uzbekistan, Karakalpakstan and the region of the Aral Sea.

Waiting for the Sea from George Itzhak on Vimeo.

Novastan: You were born in Uzbekistan but grew up in New York City. What made you want to return to Uzbekistan to make a documentary?

George Itzhak: I was born in Tashkent, but when I was about a year and a half old, my entire family left. My family background is that we’re Bukharan Jews, so we’re part of the Jewish minority in Uzbekistan. The Bukharan Jews started to leave Uzbekistan in the 1980s, first slowly, and then much faster after the collapse of the Soviet Union, as they were concerned about a possible religious backlash after the independence of Uzbekistan. America and Israel opened the doors for us, so pretty much all of us left by the mid-nineties. Many of them settled in New York – there are about 50.000 to 60.000 Bukharan Jews in New York City. So, we have a very big diaspora community there. 

I grew up in New York City speaking Russian at home, observing all the traditions, hearing about Uzbekistan from my grandparents, but we never went there – it just never came up. I travelled to Russia a few times, but I never made it to Central Asia. As I got older, I got married, I had a child, and suddenly something clicked in me, that I wanted to go back before starting this new part of my life. Then I found the story of Stihia and the young electronic music scene in Uzbekistan, which was fascinating to me, and I saw a really good opportunity there. 

How did you hear about Stihia?

It all started with one image that someone on my Facebook shared: It was a poster of Stihia, and it was the image of a traditional Karakalpak woman in traditional clothing. But it was very stylized, in an electronic music poster kind of way. It was almost like a magical picture: it merged the traditional culture and the way I had been used to seeing Uzbekistan with this very young, futuristic aesthetic. The combination of those two really made an impression on me, I clicked on it and kept diving into this topic and stumbled about all these stories of electronic music in Uzbekistan and Stihia, which had taken place last year. 

So, I discovered Stihia in the preparations of the second year of the festival. I totally missed the first year! But from then on, I was caught, and I started making calls, got in touch with the festival founders, formulating what this film project could be. I called my co-producer, Neha Hirve, with whom I had studied in New York, and told her: “Look, I have this crazy idea, not a lot of money, but I can promise you that it’ll be an adventure.“ And she was on board right away. We just started sharing images, sharing and finding references in the world of cinema about Central Asia. It’s a documentary, but I didn’t want it to feel like a reportage. I had seen some stories on Stihia already, but I wanted it to be something different. I wanted to be immersed and to show my own experience.

So, what followed were about three to four months of pre-production, phone calls, interviews with the interview partners shown in the film etc. I was really immersing myself in the visual world of Uzbekistan, checking out photographers from Uzbekistan – that’s how I discovered Novastan also. My main goal before going there was to try to understand the visual language of Uzbekistan. That was the key. I think the view on Uzbekistan from the West and foreigners is very orientalist. It’s all about women dancing, making Lepyoshka in the oven etc. It almost feels like looking at animals in the zoo sometimes. I feel like I have a personal responsibility here. I am from there, but I’m not really from there. I have a foot in both worlds, and I knew I couldn’t just do a basic, superficial job of this. 

How did you experience the electronic music scene in Uzbekistan and especially in Tashkent? 

There are two parts of the story: Stihia and Moynaq on the one hand, and then there was so much happening in Tashkent. My goal was to join those two straits together. I had never thought about Uzbekistan in the context of electronic music. I think that’s why the images I found online inspired me so much. I think it partly revealed my own ignorance: growing up in New York, even though I’m from Uzbekistan, everything I knew about this city and this place, I knew it through the lens of my grandparents. So, I had this kind of archaic, old view – a view stuck in the past. And when I was in that basement bar in Tashkent, it was like I was thrown into the future. It actually felt very close to New York. I think that’s simply global culture. People there had t-shirts that said “Brooklyn” on them. 

I could see that the walls that had once existed, in my grandparents‘ generation, were no longer there. I was really surprised to discover how diverse the city is. It’s a very multicultural place. I think people in Tashkent have always been cosmopolitan, but you can’t deny that there were boundaries between different ethnicities, between Uzbek Jews and Russians etc., there were some walls there. But being there and being among this group of young people, the generation coming up now, really showed me that a lot of the old boundaries that existed before, in my parents’ and grandparents’ time, were gone. 

Do you have any references that inspired you in your idea of making “Waiting for the Sea”?

I have one specific reference that was very essential when formulating this concept: it’s one French film maker of Roma origin, Tony Gatlif. His work is so influenced by folk music, and I was trying to understand how to cinematically depict music, in a way that had storytelling in mind, a way that was emotionally driven. I discovered his work and he did a film called “Latcho Drom”. It’s a story about the Roma people, told exclusively through folk music. It’s technically a documentary, but it’s also treated like a fiction film. He’s making a blend of those two formats through folk music. I guess I saw a potential there to apply that to Uzbekistan. 

In your documentary you explore the connection between traditional folk music and electronic music. What kind of a connection do you see between the two? 

This was actually the main concept I wanted to explore. The way I felt listening to Uzbek, Karakalpak, Bukharan folk music was the same way I felt when listening to electronic music. I think they’re so similar. When you put them in a dialogue together, they create this perfect lens through which you can look at Uzbekistan, its past and its future. There is a great quote by Jeff Mills, a famous American DJ, that came up during my interview with one of the festival founders: “Techno music wasn’t designed to be dance music, it was designed to be a futurist statement.” So you have these two forces: a force of the past about preserving heritage, about honouring what came before you. And you have this other force, on the other side, looking into the future, creating something new. And I really wanted to create a conversation between these two. And frankly, it just happened naturally. It just happened in Karakalpakistan, I didn’t have to force it even. 

I also think the aesthetic of Stihia and all electronic festivals is very shamanic: you have the DJ in the centre, on a stage, he’s creating this mixture of sounds and has these circles of dancers spiralling around him, reaching an extraordinary level of ecstasy. It’s very ancient in its presentation. Electronic music and ancient folk music, they both sort of speak to God. I know it sounds crazy, but the electronic music artists I talked to, talked about Stihia being their way of reaching out to the god of the Aral, to call for the rain. They themselves called it a shamanic act. And if you look at the history of folk music, it has that same root. There is a connection to something in another world. 

In the documentary, you also show that not only young people from all over the world, from Central Asia, India and Russia joined the festival, but also locals from Moynaq, elderly people and children. How would you describe the atmosphere at the festival? 

I think it’s something that happened unexpectedly. The festival organisers told me that they weren’t sure how the locals would react to the festival. I think you can’t underestimate how far and remote Moynaq is. If you consider Uzbekistan as being isolated, think about how isolated Moynaq is. Just to get there, you have to fly to Nukus and even from Nukus, which is connected to Tashkent, you have to drive three or four hours on terrible desert roads just to get to Moynaq. It’s a very remote place. In many cases, for the first time Stihia was held, many of these locals never heard this kind of music. It must have been revolutionary for them. And I think you can praise Stihia for this and the fact that they’re very inclusive. They didn’t try to create any walls. The only regulations there were came from the officials, from the police. I saw a lot of great moments of interaction there. For example, there was one Australian couple there, teaching these young Karakalpak kids how to dance. That was a beautiful moment. The film makes this point that music like this is universal. It’s not about language. It’s just about feeling and this energy that dancing can create. 

Do you feel Moynaq changed because of the festival?

On a physical level, it is changing: there’s a lot of construction happening and a lot of locals I’ve talked to kept talking about the investment in construction and building housing, new stores, new roads. You can totally see that the government is trying to make Moynaq more of a destination right now. But more importantly, there’s a spiritual change: I talked to this one young girl who lived there, and she was so excited about all these people being there and this amazing atmosphere. I think it showed people who live there that they matter in this country. They deserve attention and they’re getting it now.

Suddenly, there are people from all over the world coming to their place, and it’s not just about the tragedy of the Aral Sea anymore. Whenever people came to this place, it was all about how bad this place is. Right now, there’s a positive reason to be there. It changes so much to have a positive energy, when people are talking about this place and people come there with the intention of having a good time and are not firstly talking about health issues and economic difficulties and tragedy and ecological disaster. There’s a change there that happens. 

Do you think an event like Stihia can have an impact on the way people perceive or deal with the drying up of the Aral Sea?

It’s hard to talk about direct impacts. The film wasn’t about the ecological tragedy of the Aral Sea. So many documentaries talk about that already. This festival is more of a statement to the world, it’s more about creating a cluster of energy about this place that might lead to other things. I kept thinking about this understanding of the god of the sea. Whether they believe in it or not I don’t know, but there’s this phrase getting thrown around: “Let’s pray for rain!”, “Let’s pray to the god of the Aral!”, and I really wanted to make this a big thing on the film. This festival was basically a semi-religious act and made this big statement. I’m still processing everything I’ve seen there, but to me it’s a mixture of a shamanic act, a religious act and an act of pure, youthful punk energy. 

People might criticise that your documentary shows an idealistic view on Uzbekistan. What would you oppose to this kind of critique?

It really does show an idealistic view on Uzbekistan. That’s probably because I have this very nostalgic view myself. That’s for example why I added this Soviet film from the 1980s about the capital. It’s extremely idealized. It’s all about everyone being together and this beautiful, sunny place to live. And even with things like colour, I gave the Tashkent scene a very golden, nostalgic tone – because that’s how I experienced it. Even with Moynaq: we didn’t want to reinforce the usual picture of it as a very dusty, dead place. So, in the colour corrections, we decided to make the colours look more saturated. We used this exaggerated green, for example. We didn’t want it to seem dead. 

So of course, it’s subjective. I really put my perspective in there. What I noticed from a lot of local or native filmmakers, is that they have another perspective, they face many challenges. But I don’t, and I can’t pretend that I do. So, this film is very much the perspective of an Uzbekistan native who has never lived there. I can’t pretend to be something else. When I edited the film, I often got advice like, you should investigate this aspect and that aspect. I could also have gotten into all the other aspects of Moynaq, the dryness, the sickness of the people there etc., but that would have been another film.   

This year’s edition of the festival has been postponed to next year – are you still willing to follow up on Stihia and the electronic music scene in Uzbekistan in the future?

What I am interested in is going back. Whether I’ll be interested in electronic music, I can’t say. But I think there’re so many more stories that I could dive into there and I’m happy that the film is getting attention in the country itself – that has been great so far. So, I feel like I get a lot of trust from people in Uzbekistan, so I can go back and make more.

There’s a lot I want to explore I think, and music is definitely going to be a part of my work, because it inspires me so much. I also think I want to go down this folk music path a bit more and dig deeper in it. I think the presence of folk music in Uzbekistan is so relevant and I think there’s a lot to explore there. In general, I am looking forward to working on more documentary projects – but also on fiction. I’d love to get more into fiction film making and get to know the local fictional film industry – there are some great artists from Uzbekistan today, like Saodat Ismailova. 

You mentioned that people in Uzbekistan appreciate your work – did you get a chance to screen it there?

We haven’t had a proper screening, partly because of coronavirus. But I’ve been sending it around and I can track through the link I send people where the link is opened. And clearly people in the country are sharing it among each other because I’m getting so many views in Uzbekistan. I sent it to, like, 20 people in Uzbekistan, but it has close to a thousand views in the country, and that’s great! I think it’s probably because someone is finally making a documentary that is not focussing on the negative aspects or on ancient history only. I think the film also makes their culture experiential in other parts of the worlds: when your experience is put into a film that can be seen around the world, it’s making your experience real. I think that’s very powerful. 

Your film received the “Best documentary” award at the Moscow Shorts International Film Festival and was awarded best documentary and best cinematography at Long Story Shorts International Film Festival. How does this reward feel?

I didn’t expect any of this – I think as a filmmaker you really don’t want to put any expectations on future success. My only expectation was to make something I could show and be proud of. I am hoping for more, to be able to show it to a broader audience. I’m hoping to show it in New York as soon as I can. I want to take the film to contemporary art spaces, to galleries and to more festivals, as soon as gatherings can happen again without fear. Many of the festivals that were supposed to happen this spring will happen next spring only. I really want to show the film in the UK, in Germany, in Berlin. I want to show the film where there is a big community of creative people and filmmakers, and I want to open this window to Central Asia. 

Do you have any plans for screenings in Uzbekistan or Central Asia?

I had planned to show the movie in a festival in Kazakhstan, where the film industry is more developed than in Uzbekistan. But I clearly want to focus on organising something in Uzbekistan. I think that’s super important. But I want to make sure that not just the young people that go to electronic music parties are there, I want to have a broader audience. I think I’ll be working with the festival organisers and organise something. And hopefully at the next Stihia, they’ll be able to screen the film as well.

Interview by Annkatrin Müller
Novastan writer

The post Finding links between electronic and folk music in “Waiting for the Sea” appeared first on Novastan English.