Aliya Rysimbetova
Poetic polyphony of contemporary women writers of Kazakhstan
When I familiarized myself with the essay topics for the writer’s residency, something clicked inside me upon reading the topic about women’s perspectives on Kazakhstani history and culture. ‘If there is an inner impulse, then this is the topic,’ I thought.
The second reason for choosing this topic was the profound impact of the work by English writer Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own. The central thesis of Woolf’s feminist essay is that a “woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
Virginia, unlike her brothers, did not receive a formal higher education. She sought knowledge in
libraries, where she encountered obstacles: “… [L]adies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction.” This fact deeply upset me when I first read about it. I spent most of my high school and university years in libraries myself. Thanks to this experience, I am now a Kazakhstani poet and writer, which also motivated me to explore the theme of the female gaze in literature.
Nearly a hundred years after the publication of Woolf’s work, her insights remain relevant. Even today, in some countries, women’s writing careers are hindered not by a lack of intelligence or talent, but by a lack of access to education and personal resources.
In this essay, I will examine the reflections of Kazakhstani women writers on the events of the bloody January 2022 (kandy kantar in Kazakh), as it was reported in the media.
So, let’s turn the calendar back two years. On the evening of January 5th, the entire country was engulfed in rallies for the first time in the history of independent Kazakhstan, which made it all extremely frightening.
Some time later, I came across a selection of poems by Kazakhstani authors on the Internet. Kazakhstani poets were among the first to determine the degree of tragedy and digest the events of the Bloody January.
During those days, there was an unbearable silence from the authorities. The people of Kazakhstan were stripped of their rights to communicate and access information; both the internet and cellular communications were down.
Lines from a poem by journalist and poet Irina Gumyrkina encapsulate this reality:
Spell out the emails, letter by letter,
Be silent like ‘Telegram’.
Nearly impossible, yet if it is—
Let us go till the morning.
The information vacuum created a fertile ground for the proliferation of falsehoods and panic. Those few who still had books in their homes found themselves with ‘lucky tickets’ to escapism. As poet Anastasia Belousova aptly noted in her poem, this was ‘a time to read poetry, not news’:
it’s time to read poems, not news
to listen to thoughts, not YouTube.
My family and I first heard official accounts of the events through the radio.Earlier, my father had reached out to a friend (our landline phone was still operational) who was following TV broadcasts from Russia. This friend relayed to Dad the news of the happenings in Kazakhstan. I eagerly awaited the end of these calls to catch any fragments of news.
People from different cities, unable to communicate with each other, make similar efforts to find out what was happening.
This unique mode of information exchange during those times was captured by poet Ksenia Rogozhnikova:
bits of news
communicated by landlines
limited Internet
meted out in Almaty
we are back to watching TV
Writers tend to interpret historical events and cultural narratives by filtering them through their personal experiences, family histories, and ancestral lineage.
This approach is poignantly illustrated in an excerpt from a poem by Kazakhstani poet and writer Oral Arukenova:
the inner she-wolf whispers
there is nothing more powerful than blood,
more defenseless than shelter.
I tell myself not to be afraid—
these are just words.
♪ truth home blood ♪
Our experiences, emotions, and reflections manifest in various forms—be it performances, paintings, songs, poems, articles, or stories. The medium of expression is secondary to the essence of their creations, which is rich in artistic methods, including the use of new techniques, vivid metaphors, unique punctuation, or distinctive turns of phrase.
For instance, Ksenia Rogozhnikova introduces the hybrid word ‘cantarober’ in her poem, blending ‘kantar’ and ‘December’ to convey a unique concept:
on an endless day
of unknown
cantarober.
Through contemporary Kazakhstani poetry, we observe the voices of female authors as a vital and inseparable part of documenting history and preserving cultural identity.
For example, Irina Gumyrkina, in addressing an abstract lyrical hero, implores him to write a petition ‘so that there will be something to tell the next generation’:
If you find a network,
Write a petition
To the heavenly office,
So that there’s something to tell
To the next generation.
These insights underscore the significant role of women writers in articulating and interpreting Kazakhstani history and culture, highlighting their contributions to the narrative fabric of our society.
Women have always possessed a distinct voice and vision. However, given the long-standing influence of a patriarchal society, their access to education, writing, politics, and certain professions has been historically restricted.
The contemporary reevaluation and response of women to national and global events generate invaluable writings for future generations. These works not only preserve pivotal moments through a unique lens but also inspire the next generation of girls to embrace courage, find their own voices, and pursue their dreams.
The journeys of Kazakhstani poets and writers exemplify the potential role models for women whose voices are currently silenced or limited for various reasons. Social conventions may attempt to dim a woman’s voice, but they cannot diminish her strength and authenticity.
Resources such as the Telegram channel ‘Metajournal,’ the online journal Angime, the LTERRAtura website, and the online journal Dactyl were instrumental in the research for this essay, highlighting the vibrant and accessible platforms for women’s literary expression.
Nauryzbek Sarsha
A Chant Erupting from the Heart
(The Story of One Song)
Every generation of children born post-Independence has embraced the tradition of staging plays for Independence Day, starting their preparations in early December. These performances typically open with a depiction of Kazakh youth gathering in a square, invariably featuring the portrayal of Kairat Ryskulbekov’s final statement at his trial. The young actor embodying Kairat dons a bloody gauze bandage and handcuffs, elevating his head with pride as he delivers a recitation:
I am clean of sins,
I’m twenty-one,
I’m of rare blood,
My soul soars like a lark.
Take my life if you must.
My name is Kairat,
My essence – Kazakh,
A man, a worthy sacrifice.
If you wish to shoot, then shoot.
As the evening draws to a close, everyone rises to their feet, joining voices in the melancholic yet defiant strains of “Zheltoksan Zheli” (“Wind of December”). This somber anthem, weaving together threads of sorrow and aspiration, regret and pride, along with a rekindled spirit of valor and fervent hope, invariably leaves a tightness in our throats. Following the chorus, in sync with the song’s rhythm, a student steps forward to recite:
Old men will fade away,
Children shall arise,
Mothers will bring forth life,
The steppes will bloom anew,
Cities shall flourish,
Buds will open on the branches.
After that, the sad song continued. From time to time one could hear one of the teachers or parents watching the play sighing bitterly and saying: “Oh, how could it happen”. It seems that this was the way every production in Kazakh schools was staged…
Turning a chant into a song
The song that resonates with the aspirations for freedom and the sting of subjugation, embodying national pride, hope, and a yearning for a brighter future, was born from a moment of profound personal and collective experience. Composer Abiyrbek Tynali recounts its inception:
“I was young then, working as an actor at the Zhambyl Regional Kazakh Drama Theater in the city of Taraz (known at the time as Zhambyl). Adjacent to our residence was a dormitory of a technological institute. On the morning of December 16, as I awoke, I witnessed a throng of young men and women braving the cold as they exited the nine-story dormitory. Heading to work, the sight of vigilantes stationed at the theater’s entrance stirred unease within me. That day, it became known that Kazakh youth had congregated on Brezhnev Square in Almaty, voicing their dissent over Kolbin succeeding Konayev as the republic’s leader. The day’s newspapers branded these Kazakh youth as drug addicts and riot instigators, claims I found unbelievable. Nearing the theater, which stood on the central square, a melody spontaneously welled up within me. At that moment, I couldn’t foresee this melody evolving into a song, yet I instinctively knew it was a reflection of the indignation and defamation faced by the Kazakh youth.
The tune grew louder as I hummed, my fingers curling into a tight fist, seized by an involuntary cramp. Coincidentally, the poet Abdyrahman Asylbekov was in Taraz that day. I sought him out, driven to share the persistent melody haunting me. ‘I’ve got this tune in my head, but I can’t make sense of it,’ I told Abdyrahman. ‘Sing it,’ he urged. Junis Alimbekov, a dear friend and fellow actor at what is now the Askar Tokpanov Theater, was with us. United in purpose, we resolved to craft a song that would candidly address the December events. Despite our determination to travel to Almaty in the ensuing three days, all routes there were blocked, denying us any means of transportation. Resolved and calling upon each other’s patience, we chose instead to draw inspiration from the harsh winter of December 1969, a time so cold that livestock perished in the pastures. Though that was a severe winter, with cattle freezing to death in pastures, our hearts and minds were with the protesting youth.
Sometimes December
Is a kind month,
Just as you’d expect it to be.
But this year
Contrary to expectations
It was truly fearsome.
It’s as if we were describing the severe frost of 1969. The cold spared no one – neither cattle in the pasture, nor travelers in the steppe. That’s how these lines were born:
It froze you,
Froze me
The icy wind of December.
It killed all the flowers,
It has extinguished the rays of light,
And left a sad imprint on my soul.
And people immediately realized that the song is not really about the December wind, that it is not about the frost that stung the body with cold, but about the cold that chained the soul, when the sense of our dignity was trampled,” the composer said.
“Listening to our song, we cried with our arms around each other…”
The creation of the song marked the beginning of a challenging journey for its poet and composer, who sought to offer solace to those grieving the loss of loved ones. Their initial attempts to share their work were met with resistance and failed:
“On December 20th, when the roads to Almaty reopened, Junis and I made our way there. Our first stop was the Kazakh Radio editorial office,” Abiyrbek-aga recounted. “There, we encountered Stepan Vysochansky, a seasoned sound engineer, who agreed to record our song. With the tape in hand, we eagerly approached every office on the second floor, hoping for airtime. In one such office, a full-figured woman listened to our request but, after reviewing the song’s lyrics, declined, saying “I will lose my job anf I have a family”. Disheartened by the realization that our song would not be broadcasted, we exited the building. It was then that we crossed paths with a peculiar individual. With his hair slicked back, blue eyes shining, and a robust, deep voice despite his slender frame, he took notice of my dombra. His curiosity piqued, he inquired about our identities and origins. After we shared our story, he introduced himself as Kiyal Sabdalin, the Kazakh editorial office’s own correspondent in Almaty from the American radio Azattyk, based in Munich.” Upon learning of our predicament, Kiyal Sabdalin guided us back to the second floor of the editorial office to his own modest space at the corridor’s end. Inside, he listened intently to our song and inquired about its origins. We shared our journey – our inability to leave Zhambyl during the unrest, the refusal of Kazakh Radio to broadcast our song, and our concerns for the nation’s state. Our conversation was lengthy and, as it drew to a close, Kiyal inquired about our accommodations. I mentioned we were staying on the twenty-third floor of the Kazakhstan Hotel and were scheduled to depart that day. “Don’t leave today”, he said, handing me a card inscribed with “Radio Azattyk, Germany, city of Munich,” along with the broadcast frequencies. He advised to buy a radio, tune in and listen to a special program that evening, which would feature our song, leaving us astonished. Returning to the hotel, we tuned into Azattyk radio at the appointed time. The program commenced with a piece by the Kurmangazy orchestra, followed by an the dictor’s announcement: “Now, Kiyal Sabdalin will tell you about the recent events in Almaty. Unbeknownst to us, he had recorded our earlier conversation, likely sparing us the knowledge to avoid additional stress. The hour-long broadcast aired our candid discussion on the country’s situation and our aspirations for sovereignty. As our song played, Zhunis and I, moved to tears, embraced, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions — a poignant reflection of our concern for our people and their future, mourning the loss yet unable to initially share our tribute.
Thanks to Kiyal Sabdalin’s intervention, “Zheltoksan zheli” reached its audience on December 20, 1986, at 19:30 via Radio Azattyk, under the directorship of the late Kasen Oraltai. Later, I learned from his memoirs that in the five years following, as December approached, excerpts from our song were aired daily. Among the songs broadcasted was also “Kairau” (“Encouragement”), set to lyrics by Israil Saparbai:
Don’t be sad, boy, don’t despair,
You’ve just begun to soar.
Consider my song, my soul,
Like the gleam on water’s face.
Don’t weep, boy, don’t mourn.
It’s on the water’s flowing surface
You and your purpose mirror each other. Your destiny is the sea.
Strive to reach the shore.”
This song is best performed by the author himself. At the beginning of the song, Abiyrbek softly hums. This melody embodies the national spirit’s quest for freedom, long suppressed within the hearts of Kazakh youth. It expresses disdain for the policies of the ‘Reds,’ who orchestrated the massacre, and for the totalitarian system, as well as a longing for independence. When Abiyrbek-aga performs this song, he vocalizes the people’s tragedy, sharing their sorrow.
Abiyrbek Tynali, an Honored Worker of Kazakhstan, is not just a composer of songs that intoxicate listeners’ consciousness but creates works reflecting the historical experiences of the people. He is the author of songs such as ‘Anamnyң tili’ (‘My Mother’s Language’), ‘Fariza,’ ‘Tolgaanai,’ ‘Zheltoksan Zheli,’ ‘Atten-ai’ (‘What a Pity’), ‘Kariyalar azayyip bara zhatyr’ (‘There are fewer and fewer old people’), and ‘As-suynyn ba edi, atanan kalgan?’ (‘Didn’t your ancestors bequeath you to taste water?’).
It is regrettable that the creator of songs, which hold a special place in the hearts of the people, has not been awarded titles and accolades, which are now common. However, Time itself has provided a fitting tribute to the composer’s creativity. Proof of this are his songs, which have been cherished in the memory of the people for almost forty years.
Aliya Rysimbetova has been writing poetry since childhood. She graduated from the Faculty of Journalism and Mass Communications at the American University of Central Asia (AUCA, Bishkek) and attended a poetry seminar at the Open Literary School of Almaty. Aliya worked as a journalist for Kazakhstani television channels. She participated in the festival of young writers from Russia, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan. Her works have been published in the newspaper “Panorama Shymkent” and the online journal “Dactyl”. Currently, she is attending a prose seminar at OLSHA.
Nauryzbek Sarsha is the winner of several regional and republican poetry competitions. He is also a laureate of the special prize named after Bukhara-zhyrau. His poems are frequently featured in regional and national periodicals.
The Alma Review 