Non-fiction and documentary poetry: essays from AWR’s third round, part 2

Alina Gatina

Without horse boots in Cairo

Having bid farewell to my aspiration of working at the magazine “Continent,” I journeyed to Egypt to gather material on the remnants of Kipchak culture in Cairo and the reconstruction of Sultan Beibars’ mosque.

Initially, Cairo mirrored the enchanting yet unreal calm of a fictional Baghdad – bustling yet peaceful. I attained proficiency in everyday literary Arabic and forged significant friendships with students from our country, international students, a few local families, history and art teachers, Islamic architecture scholars, and some embassy staff. However, the winter of 2011 had come, and all my efforts were overshadowed by the fires smoldering on Tahrir Square’s cold cobblestones, as Cairo transitioned into a quieter, yet less peaceful state.

Had I been a war correspondent, that period might have heralded the beginning of good times for me.

In December of 2010, when I still was cherishing the dream of compiling a collection of essays on the Turkic influence on the Islamic architecture of Egypt (which I had plenty of material for), my friends and I were on route to the Arabic language exam, being held in…?  There were eight of us in two cars.: Mukhit, Rustam, Dana – from Almaty, Aidamir from Derbent, a graduate student from Tehran, whom everyone called Pers, Marek from Warsaw, and an intern at the Mexican Embassy, Cesar from Mexico City.

With ample time before our exam, we decided to drive through El Arafah (“The City of the Dead”) to take some pictures of the Mamluk Sultan Qait Bey mausoleum and acquaint Dana and Rustam with the El Arafah area. It was my and Muhit’s idea. Aidamir, Marek, the Persian and Caesar said they didn’t care and would go anywhere, as long as it didn’t involve taking the subway.

Perhaps we should have chosen the subway.

The winding labyrinths of El Arafah harbored no danger from the dead, but rather from the living. As we approached the tomb of Kait Bey, we found our way barred by a group of eight, armed with stones and sticks.

They said to us: Oaf! Entu kulluku ukhrug milarabeya! (Stop! All of you, get out of the car!).

We all got out.

– Oafu heena alelheta, – said someone dressed like a Tuareg. – La mouche vischoku lelheta, vischoku leya. Edeku aiz ashuf edeku. Entu min? (Stand here, against the wall. Not facing the wall, facing me. Hands! Hands in front, so I can see. So? Who are you?)

Mukhith said: Ehna agyaneb…talaba. Enta aiz e minnina? (We are foreigners…students. What do you want from us?).

– Felus. Hauz e minnukum tani?! (Money. What else would we need from you?!)

Mukhith said: Ehna talaba. Ma fiche felus. (We are students. We have no money.)

– Entu talaba aganeb. Ul aganeb daiman maaha felus. (You are foreign students. Foreigners always have money.)

Mukhith said: Ehna begat maanash felus…uehna metahharin ala elemtahan. Liauehna maeruhnash fi elmad hayahsal lena mushkela maa elwiza. (We’re already late for our exam. If we don’t get there in time, we’ll automatically fail, which could lead to visa problems for us).

Touareg said: Ulau entu maditunish elfelus, hatelkuvuahalas alaiku. Maschi? (And if you don’t give me the money, I’ll kill you. OK?) and pulled out a knife. A beautiful Berber dagger.

– That’s it,” Mukhith said. – My negotiating skills are exhausted. Time to buckle up. Who’s got what? I got a hundred bucks. Mukhith looked at me.

– I got about the same, only in guineas. But I’m supposed to use it to buy horse boots tonight.

– You are, but you won’t, right? – said Mukhith.

– ‘Yes,’ said I. – ‘I’d better buy some health for myself.

– Not at all,’ said Aidamir. – I just sent everything to my parents yesterday. I have twenty pounds in my pockets.

– I have no cash on me, thank God, – said Dana.

The Persian said a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty guineas.

– ‘And I’ve got a hundred,’ said Caesar.

– Three hundred and eighty-six,’ said Marek and shrugged.

When the Tuareg had stuffed our money into the pockets of his galabeya, he looked at Dana and asked what was shining on her hand. Dana turned to Mukhith.

– Say “esvera.”

– What’s that? – Dana asked fearfully.

– Just say it.

– Esvera,” she said, almost in a whisper. And then, realizing what she was talking about, she pulled down the sleeve of her sweater.

The Tuareg said: Hatiha (Give it to me).

– Maadarsh, – Dana would have said if she hadn’t been so scared. (I can’t.)

– Hati. (Come on.)

– Di hidaya. (It’s a gift.)

– Ue di sikina. (And this is a knife.)

Dana undid the bracelet and handed it to him.

– Thank you, dear, said the Tuareg in English, – I’ll pin it on my knife and tell everyone it’s a gift.

This excerpt might comprise a fragment in my autobiography, penned in later years, had I become a famous person.

Such narratives might leave readers breathless, tempting them to accept every word as the unvarnished truth. Yet, documentary prose, even with its commitment to truthfulness, remains prose. It weaves an artistic reality, sometimes at the expense of strict factuality. The events described herein anchor the milestones of my life, with the exception of the elaborated episode in Cairo’s “City of the Dead.” This particular scene turns the narrative from a straightforward report into a lively story.

Ernest Hemingway spent his lifetime transforming his biography into such a narrative, cultivating an image that captivated millions. His portraits, emblematic of an adventurous spirit, graced the walls of countless homes and offices long after he was gone. Hemingway’s exploits—from his bravery as a Red Cross nurse on the Italian front to his valor as a journalist in the Spanish Civil War—cemented his reputation as a man of fearlessness: a hunter, fisherman, soldier, boxer, lover, and explorer. The extent to which the Hemingway myth aligns with reality is a task for his biographers to decipher. Is the factual accuracy about the life of this literary giant, whose persona permeated his works, truly crucial? Perhaps to some. Yet, imagine if Hemingway had written his biography as he wished to be seen by others. A great literary work, but still documentary prose.

Almira Ismailova

January Travelogue

Sometimes to visualize something you need to describe the images as if they were happening in the present. In movies, this technique is called a flashback or MEMORY HIT // We’re  walking to the shop with my mother, and I notice that the vacant lot where we used to herd cows as children has been filled with newer houses, all clad in some sort of red-brick armor. An entire street. My mother tells me that half of the Karashilik aul, which had been abolished, has moved here. This story has stayed with me.

An acquaintance of mine, when he heard about Karashilik residents, had a funny association. In the second season of SpongeBob there is an episode where Bikini Bottom is attacked by the Alaskan Bullworm and Patrick suggests moving the entire town. The Karachilikans seem to have succeeded, settling down in clusters , some even building houses in the new location using material from demolished old houses. The ‘succeeded’ part is probably a misconception, though: they left something important behind.

In the north, where I was born, in one region alone, about 30 small villages have been abolished between 2019 and 2021. Karashilik was no exception, and it disappeared from the country’s maps in 2019. People left here in search of a better life: those who were richer went to the city, while the rest settled in neighboring villages.

In the village, they live from paycheck to paycheck, taking out a loan every summer to stock up on coal, firewood, and animal feed. They incessantly watch Russian television, which is filled with propaganda. Especially in the northern villages, there is a strong nostalgia for the Soviet Union. It represents the dream of a better society, where everyone enjoys stability and life follows a plan. People do not realize that the price for this “stability” was the destruction of their ethnic identity and utter unfreedom. It is about this kind of nostalgia that represents a ‘disease of modernity’ (Svetlana Boym, “Future of Nostalgia”) that I decided to make my movie.

December, 2021. My filmmaker friend Christina suggested I apply to the Documentary Film School and introduced me to Dana, who later became my producer. At the time I had very little idea about documentary filmmaking, but I fit right in. To get the application approved, I had to make a teaser. I had a long way to go. The project then began under the title “Where I’m from”. One of the first lines I wrote was: “Where I’m from, they talk loudly and laugh gleefully, but are completely incapable of expressing feelings, or declaring love. Where I’m from, women know how to cut carcasses and shear sheep, and men are not above growing a flower and plucking a duck. Where I’m from, children are given a mark for life by a rooster pecking at their temple. Where I come from, it’s warm even when it’s -40C”. The lines are naive but sincere, and I still align my director’s cuts  against them. And if I had to describe my homeland, it would be like this.

***

Sony HDR-XR 350 camera.

LED Filling Lamp

Continent A3 black tripod

Sony NP-FV50 Camera Battery

Sony NP-FV70 Camera Battery

Sony BC-TRP Battery Charger

Thermos

Sandwiches

Me

someone who dared to make a film[ND5]

4 January 2022.

I will take a moment to tell the story of the renaming of the capital. After more than thirty years in power, the first President Nazarbayev had to give it up in favor of the new President Tokayev in 2019. The new political figure has given the people hope for positive change. Tokayev, apparently in an outburst of gratitude to Nazarbayev, proposed to parliament that the capital be named after the first president. Parliament approved and in a few hours the city of Astana turned into Nur-Sultan. By doing this, Tokayev clearly demonstrated that it was not worth waiting for changes, but after the events of January (the Bloody January or Kandy Kantar) Tokayev’s policy seemed to have changed drastically, even a new political course “Zhana Kazakhstan” was proclaimed. Persecution of those who were the untouchables under Nazarbayev was now in full swing. Nazarbayev’s name was gradually erased from the public field. And already on September 17, 2022 the capital was again Astana. Now we see that these beautiful words did not mean much.

The plan was as follows. We will get to Astana, wait for three hours and take another train—which seemed like the cheapest way to get there at the time. My brother, a student, traveled with me. We had a long and boring ride in an open carriage  smelling of sweat, ramen noodles and fish. Once I saw the conductor hiding something in the bottom of the carriage. Now I always imagine that there is a whole universe beneath our feet: a wormy sea in which a hot-smoked Balkhash stud splashes as it beats the thick substance with its powerful fins to swim, but it is getting denser and denser. And it’s getting weaker.

The children cried and asked for cartoons, but the Internet is a fragmentary phenomenon in our vast steppes. At night the children calmed down and began to live the usual “analog” life. And as midnight approached, they fell asleep, hiding behind a thick curtain . Everyone slept like a baby until morning. It was a sound sleep of those who had broken with civilization. Our train bumped along the tracks, and seemed to wander in the dreams of the people on it. I dreamed nothing that night.

5 January 2022. By 11 a.m., we had arrived in the capital, already buzzing with unsettling news from Almaty that rippled across the country. It was clear something significant was unfolding, certainly  not the work of terrorists.

20,000 terrorists

Kantar is remembered by the lack of reliable information and the abundance of misinformation. In the conditions of the dead Internet, it was announced on TV that foreign terrorists were operating in Almaty. Propaganda told about militants, who cut off heads of military men and seized the airport. The state channels (others were not on air) showed a fabricated video of a man confessing that he was a paid robber and provocateur. It all looked like a falsification on the scale of the country.

Suddenly, the internet failed entirely. We needed to get from the new station to the old one, my brother limped beside me, nursing a broken leg, while I struggled with a bag of film equipment. Eventually, we hired a cab driver despite them demanding exorbitant fares. There was no choice but to comply. As we moved through the city, the January air felt thick with apprehension, the streets eerily empty. Reaching the old railway station, we learned that a state of emergency had been declared. Security checks were everywhere,  passengers’ possessions scrutinized. Whispered rumors in the waiting room implied that our train might be abruptly halted in the steppe, leaving us stranded and forgotten.

Meanwhile, Christina from Almaty managed to reach us by phone. She was terrified. After she called, I went downstairs to get an extra bag of Chinese noodles. And some cabbage rolls. And biscuits. And something else that wouldn’t go bad fast. Our train was the last one to leave that day.

6 January 2022. We typically reach Sarykol around 4 a.m., calling ahead as we approach so Dad can meet us at the station. By 12, possibly earlier, we lost all connection. Our only hope was that the train would indeed stop at our station, allowing us to see the familiar moving silhouette.

I rushed into the chilly hallway with my bags as fast as I could. I always dreaded missing the three-minute stop and the chance to get out of the train. With nothing else to do, I found myself gazing at the floor, ice intermingled with coal dust. ‘Here,’ I mused, ‘the ice lies beside the coal, oblivious to the latent warmth within.’ As the sleepy conductor wiped the handrail with a grimy cloth, I realized we had arrived. We’re here.

7 January 2022. We’re here, but we’ve stepped into a different reality—a reality where everyone is confined to their homes, reliant on landlines for communication, and glued to the television for endless news of a world unraveling. Christina and Dana were scheduled to fly out on the 7th to assist with the filming. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances we’re all too familiar with, they couldn’t make it. With trembling hands, I picked up the camera for the first time, beginning to shoot, once a semblance of calm had been restored. I even managed to make it to Karashilik. Only three houses remain there for winter . We called on Kairbek, whose family only comes from the city for holidays. With a square shovel, he cleared a path to the schoolhouse door and unlocked the padlock. The door creaked open just enough to squeeze through.

The footage that remains captures the determination of someone who dared to document these moments, camera rolling as they  squeezed through the narrow opening. Gasping for breath, as if the cold, knee-deep snow had claimed me, I felt an overwhelming sense of isolation. Unlike SpongeBob, who fought the Bullworm to save Bikini Bottom , I stood immobilized in the empty expanse of the village , too afraid to move. At that moment, frozen in time, I might as well still be standing there. And so, the film is named Ystyk Zher (Burning land).

// BACK TO PRESENT

Within me reside both the one who went to shoot school and the one left standing in the snow. In Jungian psychology, there exists an opposition between the concept of the self as the authentic self and the concept of the persona as a social mask. Bergman explored this psychological collision in the movie “Persona.” While the comparison might not be directly relevant, I’ll attempt to explain.

During my travels across the country amidst social cataclysm, I encountered a political self that resonated deeply with the political “self” of my people living in the shackles of fear. Simultaneously, I discovered a creative “self” endeavoring to forge a world where freedom isn’t an empty sound, where complex concepts aren’t simplified, and where trauma is experienced rather than silenced or replaced by another trauma.

This conflict isn’t about winners and losers; it represents a profound worldview gap within one people. I find myself immersed in this rupture, documenting this reality. Living within this divide is intensely painful for me, and I hope it will be easier for those who come after me. ‘Ystyk zher’ (Kazakh for ‘hot earth’) is a searing confrontation within myself and several generations of my compatriots.

30th January 2024

Alina Gatina is a novelist. She graduated from Al-Farabi Kazakh National University and the Literary Institute named after A.M. Gorky (the seminar of Oleg Pavlov). She is a laureate of literary awards such as the “Altyn Tobylgy”, “FIKSHN35”, and the  “Friendship of Nations” magazine’s prize. In 2019, she launched her literary courses and now teaches an author’s course on writing skills. Alina was also a jury member of AWR-2021, the literary award Qalamdas. She works as an invited literary and managing editor at publishing houses in Almaty, preparing books for publication.

Almira Ismailova is a playwright, curator of the festival of contemporary Kazakhstani drama “Drama.KZ” 2019/2020, editor of the “Dramaturgy” section of the online journal “Dactyl”, and a documentary film director. Studied at the Yekaterinburg State Theater Institute specializing in “Literary Creativity”. She is a graduate of the theater and film dramaturgy courses at the Open Literary School of Almaty (OLSHA), the “Fundamentals of Film Dramaturgy” course at the Zhurgenov Kazakh National Academy of Arts, and the contemporary dramaturgy laboratory of Olzhas Zhanaydarov. She was a long-lister at the “Nim-2018” drama festival and the School of Documentary Film. Participated in the Central Asian Screenwriting Masterclass (CASL) organized by the UNESCO Cluster Office in Almaty as part of the “Strengthening the Film Industry in Central Asia” project. Almira is currently directing her debut feature film “Ystyq Zher” (Warm Earth).

Non-fiction and documentary poetry: essays from AWR’s third round, part 1

Almaty Writing Residency third time in a row showed its total success. Eight participants had one week to work, discuss actual problems and, of course, create something new. Third season of the residency passed under the pennant of non-fiction literature. Contestants discussed feminism, historical truth, nonfiction and travelogues. Originally from different parts of the country and backgrounds, the residents shared different opinions and launched a powerful wave of creative discussion. Alma Review is pleased to present you the essays of the participants of AWR’s third season, so you can join it as well.

Ainel Amirhan

A guest on my OY-DETOX podcast, journalist, film, and media researcher Moldiyar Ergebekov, once shared an interesting thought: ‘The fates of the Kazakh woman and the Kazakh language are similar. They both underwent colonization. And you, being a woman who creates content in the Kazakh language, carry both of these burdens.’ For Kazakh women and girls living in a patriarchal society, which still views the world through men’s eyes, having grown up with literature, plays, and films mostly created by men, many things have become familiar and straightforward. It is only occasionally that information in their environment, through independent media and social networks, brings to light issues that lie dormant in their consciousness. To be honest, I, who grew up in a simple and conservative Kazakh family, used to engage with women’s issues not consistently, but rather sporadically. Sometimes, this seemed normal. However, when I begin to reflect on it, I realize that there were underlying reasons for me starting  the project ‘Women in the Shadows’ last year.

I was born and grew up in a tiny aul with only three streets, home to just over a hundred families at the time. Growing up, I realized that girls from the aul were not encouraged to pursue knowledge but were instead groomed to become good kelins (brides). Year after year, mothers relayed the same story to their daughters, which, in modern terms, could probably be likened to a ‘meme’.  It was about a man named Kalabai who once chased his kelin away simply because she let the lid of a cauldron slip from her hands. The man shouted, ‘Don’t you like us at all?’ Consequently, in households where a girl clumsily handled dishes, she would be cautioned, ‘Don’t rattle with the dishes! Old man Kalabai drove his kelin away for less. Do you want the same to happen to you?’ As I grew up, I harbored two fears: one, of old man Kalabai, whom I had never met, and two, of remaining unmarried.

Now, having reached a certain age and gained ‘social weight’,  while sitting in an apartment within the ‘golden square’, its most prestigious neighborhood — a place I once dreamed of not even living in, but just merely walking its streets—it’s indeed amusing to recall all of this. Over time, the difficulties, the battle against stereotypes, the tears shed, and the energy expended on the journey to the life I desired, have faded from memory. However, when I see girls who are now navigating the path I once took, facing the same challenges I encountered, I can’t help but remember what it was like.

Let’s shift from poetic reflections to the more austere language of statistics. According to data from January 2022, our country is home to 9.84 million women. This represents a 1.2 percent increase compared to the previous year, meaning women now constitute 51.4 percent of the total population. Given these figures, one might wonder why women are underrepresented in politics, major business sectors, and leadership roles. I have yet to find domestic literature or scientific studies that address this issue in a deliberate, qualitative manner, free from the author’s emotional bias. I’ve observed that women are now increasingly introspective, pondering questions like, ‘What do I want?’ and ‘Is this truly my choice?’ Yet, these questions often receive unsatisfactory responses, such as ‘A Kazakh girl should behave in such a way’ or ‘It’s our mentality.’ What we need are answers grounded in concrete data and research, accompanied by a public discourse.

In 2019, I laid my eyes on a book in a local bookstore: ‘Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men’ by British journalist Caroline Criado Perez, subtitled ‘Why do we live in a World Designed for Men Only?’, based on gender research. It could be said that this was the beginning of my journey. Every page, paragraph, and section of this book provided answers to the countless questions that had been simmering in my mind for years.

Analyzing different areas of research, Perez writes that when data is collected, it is mostly taken from data pertaining to men. This then affects our daily lives, for example, how many toilets there will be in movie theaters and theaters, what the temperature in the office will be (taking into account the temperature comfortable for skinny forty-year-old men). I was struck by the fact that, although half of the world’s population is made up of women, only men’s interests are taken into account in the construction of any new buildings, in clinical trials of new drugs. Because, it turns out, when they talk about people in general, they mean only men. Here’s an example. The book talks about the crash test of automobiles. It turns out that all car safety tests use anthropometric data from men. If the weight and height of women were taken into account, the steering wheel and pedals would have to be closer to the driver. Also, women’s anatomical features are not taken into account when making the seatbelt. This means that in a collision with another vehicle, female drivers are 47 percent more likely to be seriously injured than male drivers, and female drivers are 17 percent more likely to die.

This book served as the impetus for me to initiate the ‘Women in the Shadows’ project. Through this project, I have sought to address a myriad of questions that both I and other women and girls have asked ourselves. I cannot conceal my growing aspiration to elevate this endeavor to a new level by answering all these questions through the medium of documentary prose.

Asem Anykbekkyzy

Love the people (short story cycle)

Travel, which is like a greater andgraver science, brings us back to ourselves.

Albert Camus

Mom

Cities, like people, seem unapproachable until you really get to know them. On my first visit, Paris appeared to me as a cold, cruel, and selfish city. It didn’t feel like the romantic capital of the world as I had imagined.

However, on my subsequent visit, it greeted me warmly, like an old friend. Perhaps I had gotten to know it better? I’m not sure if that was the case, but this time, it revealed itself to me from a different perspective.

I was staying at the Haussmann Hotel. According to the information I had found, it was built in the style of Baron Haussmann, is located in the heart of Paris, in the eighth arrondissement, within the ‘Musicians’ District.’ When I got up early and descended the spiral staircase to the lobby, I encountered a middle-aged, or slightly older, couple at the reception desk. Judging by their pronunciation, they were English and bore the appearance of aristocrats from a movie. The woman donned a beautifully decorated white lace hat and an organza skirt, with a coral necklace around her neck, while the man was clad in an expensive linen suit. Feeling it impolite to stare at others for too long, I greeted them in English, and they responded with smilesю Еhe woman’s face appeared especially friendly.

As I hurried out of the hotel, taking long strides down the street, the Englishwoman shouted after me: “Wait!” I stopped in surprise, wondering what could have prompted her concern. As she approached me, she said the label on my shirt was sticking out and tucked it in for me. I felt a warmth spread through my heart.

My mom always ajusted the tags on my shirts when I was in a hurry to leave the house. I used to wrinkle my nose and say: “Mom, I’m not a kid, I’ll fix it myself.”

“Thank you very much; you remind me of my mother,” I said gratefully to the Englishwoman.

“I have a daughter just like you,” she replied with a smile.

With the feeling that it was going to be a good day, I headed to Versailles.

Travel companion

It was around four in the morning, the day of my flight from Paris to the capital of Portugal. After accepting payment for breakfast, the man at the front desk opened the door for me and, after wishing me a good journey, immediately slammed it shut with a clatter. The rays of light from the lobby disappeared, and the street was plunged into darkness.

During the day, it seemed to me that the train station, from which I could head to the airport, was not far from the hotel, and the Hotel de Ville metro station was nearby. In the dark, however, the distance seemed greater. Unable to find the station, I wandered around the city, feeling very frustrated, my glasses fogging up. There was no one around except for a few drunken vagrants. Of course, at a time like this in any country, normal people don’t walk the streets. ‘What to do now? That guy over there looks decent; I’ll try to ask him. If he doesn’t answer, I’ll call an Uber, even though there’s not much money left,’ I decided.

‘Could you please tell me where the station to catch the train to Charles de Gaulle airport is?’ I asked the guy.

‘I’m heading there too.’

‘You are?’

‘Yes. What’s your terminal?’

‘T1.’

‘Me too.’

‘God sent you to me!’ I exclaimed, unable to hide my joy.

The guy smiled a bit. We went down to the subway, and the train arrived immediately. We got into the same car.

There was another drunk guy in the car, and although I didn’t understand the language, it was clear he was rambling. While I was deciding where to sit, my swarthy travel companion said, ‘Sit next to me.’ With a stern look at the tipsy man, he sat closer to the aisle and positioned me next to the window.

I asked, ‘Where are you flying to? You have no luggage.’

‘Oh, me? I’m meeting my sister from India. She’s been traveling there for a month. Where are you from? And where are you flying to?’

‘I’m from Kazakhstan. I’m going to Lisbon, where my friends are waiting for me.’

‘Oh, I have a few friends from Kazakhstan. I’m a musician myself.’

‘What instrument do you play?’

‘Guitar. And you, do you play anything?’

‘The dombra. It’s our national instrument.’

‘I know the dombra. It’s a very special instrument.’

Indeed, they say that good conversation shortens the journey. I felt lighter, as if all my fears had dissipated with the sunrise.       

Polyglot

          Bathed in sunshine and perched on the banks of the Douro River, the city of Porto has always been a magnet for travelers. Some are drawn to its azulejo-decorated buildings, others to its wine, but my interest lay in the famed Lello Library. Rumor has it that this library’s building inspired the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. However, securing overnight accommodations is a priority before exploring the city.

Staying in a hostel is a budget-friendly option for travelers. Though the prospect of shared bedrooms, kitchens, and bathrooms may deter some, it offers a unique opportunity for solo travelers to meet new people. I was thrilled to find an affordable hostel right in the city’s heart. In Europe, mixed-gender rooms are popular, while women-only rooms often remain vacant or barely filled. This time, I found myself in an eight-bed room with five beds empty and three occupied by girls from various countries.

After settling in, I listened to a conversation between two of my roommates. One, with a distinct French accent, and the other, a stout girl in a T-shirt and shorts, I presumed to be American. They conversed in English.

The American girl shared, “I’ve been traveling alone for about a month now. I walked from Spain to Portugal, following the renowned Santiago Way.”

“Where did you stay at night?” asked the other.

“In a tent.”

“Weren’t you frightened?”

“Not at all; there were always other travelers nearby. Plus, I speak both Spanish and Portuguese.”

“Impressive! What other languages do you know?” the French woman inquired, clearly impressed.

“English, French, Russian…”

“Russian!” I chimed in, joining the conversation in Russian.

“Yes, Russian. I’m from Russia.”

“I also speak Russian,” I said in our native tongue.

“Could I hug you?” she asked, her eyes welling up with tears.

“Of course,” I replied, opening my arms. We embraced for a few minutes, me and this woman I just met.

“I haven’t heard my mother tongue or spoken it in two months. I miss home so much. Today, I’ll freshen up at the hostel, and tomorrow, I am heading home.”

“Your bravery is admirable. Not everyone can travel and live in a tent,” I commended her courage.

“I’ve travelled many places alone, but tent living isn’t easy for me. How many languages do you speak?” the French woman inquired, her big, sea-blue eyes full of curiosity.

“Just three,” I admitted, feeling somewhat inadequate among polyglots.

“Not ‘just’ three—THREE! Be proud of it; it’s impressive. I only know French and some English,” she encouraged me.

“As Chekhov said, ‘You are as many times a human as the number of languages you know.’ Speaking my native language with you has eased my homesickness, even if just for a moment,” the Russian girl said, smiling.

“Shall we have a snack together?” the French woman suggested, eager to continue our budding friendship.

“I need to do some shopping,” replied the Russian girl.

“I’d love to join. I miss eating meat. In Europe, I invariably end up eating vegan,” I joked.

“Oh, you’re vegen! I have vegetables,” the French woman said, gesturing towards a large bag, perhaps explaining her slender figure.

“No, I meant I end up living like a vegan, not a ‘vegen’ (wagon),” I corrected with a laugh.

“Ahhh, I see, my English needs work,” the French woman conceded, and we headed to the hostel kitchen together.

Spoon

The first day of my internship at the printing house of the University of Poland. Throughout the workshops and shops, images of the Prophet Muhammad and Jesus Christ were prominently displayed. The employees, mostly middle-aged men and women, began their day with a prayer before diving into their tasks.

As they explained the work process to me and shared their experiences, lunchtime approached, and we headed to the canteen together. The menu featured meat with side dishes, including a dish called “golonka.”

“What kind of meat is this?” I inquired, as was my custom when dining in Europe.

“Pork,” replied one of the binders with a smile.

“I see,” I responded, opting to eat only bread that day.

The following day featured another meat dish. Feeling a bit awkward, I posed the same question. This time, the response was “chicken.” I silently rejoiced. The bookbinder added:

“And tomorrow, we’ll have fish, followed by beef goulash the day after. So, you can eat without worries.”

With that, she passed me a spoon that had been lying at the far end of the table.

A time for love

A hardcover book required by the university was being finalized for printing in the print shop, with the finishing work well underway. I observed that one of the bookbinders would step into the hallway with her phone at precisely 11:11 every day. Upon her return, her face would be alight with happiness.

However, one day at 11:15, her expected call hadn’t come through. Her eyebrows seemed to be frozen on her face. It was the northernmost part of Poland, where the outside cold was so penetrating that if one of the colleagues was in a bad mood, the atmosphere turned truly chilly.

Concerned, I inquired, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she responded tersely.

After a pause, she commented, “He didn’t call today.”

“Who didn’t?” I asked.

“My husband.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Twenty-five years. He calls at the same time every day, and now… it’s been a while.”

“Perhaps he’s just very busy. What does he do?”

“He’s a shoemaker.”

“Maybe he’s swamped with customers. Why not call him yourself?”

Contemplating for a moment, she stepped out into the corridor with her phone. A minute later, she returned, no longer appearing as a woman of fifty but as a rejuvenated, cheerful young lady.

“And what did your husband say?”

“He really was buried in work and apologized for not being able to call.”

“There you go, and you were worried he’d forgotten about you!” my coworkers and I shared a laugh.

And just like that, everything was right again.

As a child, I was constantly exposed to phrases decrying the “rotten West, backward East,” echoing the sentiment of Abay’s second word of admonition: “there is no country and people better than ours.” Having grown and traveled the world, I’ve come to understand that there truly is no fundamental difference among us.

Ainel Amirhan PR specialist, independent journalist, and podcaster. Currently, she is the host of the podcast OY-DETOX and the YouTube project “Тасадағы әйелдер” (“Women in the Shadows”). In 2023, the OY-DETOX project won in the “Best Podcast” category at the URKER National Award in the field of publishing, radio, and internet journalism. In the same year, in collaboration with Bakytgul Salikhova, Ainel released the book “атың шықпаса, ПОДКАСТ ЖАСА” (“if you’re not famous yet, MAKE A PODCAST”).

Asem Anykbekkyzy is a student at the Open Literary School of Almaty (OLSHA), she is participating in the residency for the second time. Assem writes children’s literature.

Trams go by geography – interview with Yuriy Serebryansky, part 2

Since your research is closely connected with Kazakhstan, you need to understand the situation with language and identity in Kazakhstan. Almaty Writing Residency, your creative initiative, helps a lot in this. Tell me about this project.

I brought the idea of Almaty Writing Residency from the International Writing Program in Iowa. Now it is no longer a project, but a program; we are holding the residency for the third time this year. We – because it would not have worked out with me alone. We are the team of the residency, the Open Literary School of Almaty. And, of course, the long-standing support of the US Diplomatic Mission in Kazakhstan and Chevron. The sum of the components is a contribution to the literary life of the city, if not of the country. Every year we take up acute and actual topics, and the participants then continue the conversation on their own. The professional community and readers know about us, and not only in Kazakhstan, especially since the residency has given rise to several literary initiatives: for example, “Daktil” magazine launched a Kazakh-language section, and The Alma Review blog – the only English-language resource on literature in Kazakhstan – appeared on the criticism map. On the topic of the residency I can talk endlessly…..

This year’s theme was “non-fiction literature and documentary poetry in search of Kazakhstani identity”. The events were held in three languages, and guests included both Kazakhstani scholars and publicists, as well as guests from abroad, albeit online: Polish researcher Krzysztof Hoffman; American poet and translator Christopher Merrill, director of IWP. Indian poet Sonnet Mondal, who visited Almaty in October, was also a guest of the residency.

Even with a fairly successful literary activity, one has to do parallel work. Is this a Kazakhstani problem, or is it the same in Poland?

In Poland, publishers try to make new world literature appear in the state language as soon as possible. Classics are also translated anew, there is a demand. Translators have a lot of work, and writers still have to be something else: an editor, a university lecturer. It is quite possible to live like this in Kazakhstan. That is how I live, book royalties are part of income. Many thanks to my readers and publishers.

With AWR team, 2021

2023 was a big leap in your career in your homeland. You received the state order “Kurmet” as an author and culturologist, two medals of PEN and the post of vice-president, and your novel “Altynshash” was awarded the prize of the Assembly of the People of Kazakhstan. And all this almost overnight. How do you feel about it – and what do your colleagues say?

For most people it looks like a sudden success, I understand, but I perceive the recognition with a state award adequately. It is a symbolic capital allowing to participate in serious projects, including abroad.

And since we have touched upon the Kazakh PEN club, it is now opening its doors to the news, including younger authors. Poland has its own PEN club. In general, cultural communities there are an example of the work of public professional organizations. I have been a member of the literary translators’ association for several years, and I can say that the work is done without government mediation: if there is a need to promote books, authors collectively participate in fairs; if they need to give master classes at schools, authors agree and go there. Although it is possible to find a common language with the state: in every Polish city there is an institute of urban culture that supports professionally organized projects. Unlike ours, the system is more flexible, and work does not start with a letter to the ministry.

Do your colleagues and students in Poland know about your writing success in your home country? How do they feel about it? Including the fact that you work in Russian.

They know and are happy for me, I work not only in Russian, but also with the Russian language. If from the outside it might seem that these are some far apart areas of activity – no, they are not. Each publication is like another leaf on the same branch, it seems to me.

Yuriy plays Harold Pinter in a “Pinter against Pinter” performance, “Art&Shock” theatre, 2023

And what’s next?

Right now I am mostly working on scientific articles. Cutting emotion from the text is the hardest thing to adjust to if you are used to relying on it! Last fall, Almaty’s “Art&Shock” theater called me to play British playwright Harold Pinter in a performance based on his texts. After such an experience, I am already thinking of writing a script, and I think I could even make a movie.

Yuriy Serebriansky is a Kazakhstani author of Polish origin who writes prose, poetry and translates. He teaches at OLSA and works as an editor for Kazakhstani Polish diaspora magazine “Ałmatyński Kurier Polonijny” and Russian literary magazine “Literratura” (before 2023). His works have been translated into many languages and published in a number of different magazines. Yuriy has been awarded the prize “Russkaya Premia” twice, his book Kazakhstani Fairy Tales was named the best bilingual book for young in 2017.  

Trams go by geography – interview with Yuriy Serebriansky, part 1

Many famous writers had to combine creativity with other work. Medicine, pedagogy, military service…. Ybrai Altynsarin was a teacher, Mark Twain was a journalist, Alexander Griboyedov was a diplomat. Modern Kazakhstan has such an example as well. Kazakhstani writer Yuri Serebriansky in Poland is better known as a culturologist and editor of the Polish diaspora magazine. His books are in the National Library of Warsaw, as well as in libraries and school programs in Kazakhstan. “Destination. A Road Pastoral” and “Prazhaki” won the “Russian Prize” in 2010 and 2014; “Kazakhstani Fairytales” won best bilingual book status at the “Along the Great Silk Road” exhibition. “Black Star” was written in co-authorship with Bakhytzhan Momyshuly – a precedent when one of the co-authors is not alive. The book “About tasty and healthy Kazakhstani literature” was included in the list of thirty important books of the country. In this interview Yuriy shared his successes at home and abroad.

You have a very peculiar biography. Higher education as an ecologist led you to work as a guide in Thailand. Later there was the chief editorship in Esquire, master’s and post-graduate studies in Poland, now – scientific and translation activities. At the same time, in Kazakhstan you are still known as a writer. How did it happen?

I have been publishing since 2006. Plenty of time has passed since then, I have achieved something, and all this time I had to do something simultaneously, of course. Today my eight book are published in Kazakhstan and abroad, there is poetry, prose, children’s literature, non-fiction.

As for the facts of biography, to all of the above I would add trading on the flea market in the nineties and pioneer childhood. All together is a life experience, the basis for most of the stories.

You often represent Kazakhstan at major international literary forums, such as one of the oldest festivals in Europe, Struga Poetry Evenings in Northern Macedonia, where poets from Joseph Brodsky to Allen Ginsberg made their mark. But Poland also plays a big role in your life, doesn’t it?

There was a moment when I thought about moving there. Everything was close to me: humor, sadness, people. I decided to take a thorough approach, to study the attitude to the language, as everyone in the family speaks Russian. I could not think of anything better than to apply for a doctoral program. Moreover, the topic was approved, and this is how the study of the Russian language status in modern Poland began. In addition to my scientific interest, there was also a mercantile interest in figuring out how my teenage daughter would feel in case of a possible removal. It is clear that since the beginning of the research the situation has changed very much. Ukrainian refugees, many bilinguals or speakers of Russian language, but not of Russian culture, ended up in Poland.

Ted talk on “The Russian language is our colonial heritage. The decision is ours”, 2023

What is the difference between Kazakhstan and Poland for you?

There is almost none. After all, a lot happened at home too: the January events, the impact of the war nearby – and the sudden realization that Polish and Kazakhstani are in no way two realities, but one space. There is the distance of an eight-hour flight. But how many of them have there been already? I cannot count. When the driver in Olsztyn tells the same stories that I have already heard from the cab driver on the way to the airport from home in Almaty. But home, with the natural signs of home, is in Almaty. There is no need to buy salt and sugar, they are in the cupboard.

You are now teaching at the University of Warmia and Mazury. What does this bring to your art?

I am used to traveling, long moments of silence, hiking. Meetings and classes with students precisely imply frequent long journeys. Observing people is a true trait of a writer, which goes hand in hand with cosmopolitanism.

“Tram runs on a regular schedule” book

Your publications have appeared in Poland, Czech Republic, Switzerland, the USA and Chile, and your poems have been translated into nine languages. You have managed to work with two of the world’s largest publishers – Palgrave and Lexington. In 2021, a book of poems “Prose” was published in Russia in “Free Poetry” publishing house. And at the end of last year another one came out, this time in Ukraine, in the Kiev publishing house “Oleg Fyodorov‘s Drukarski Dvir”. What is lying behind it?

The choice of country happened for a reason. It is not only because of a deep respect and love for Kiev, but also a completely natural event: work with the Russian language leads from Poland to Kazakhstan and Ukraine. Russian is one of the global languages, and the war has strongly catalyzed this process.
The new book “Tram runs on a regular schedule” consists of short stories and novellas set in different geographical and temporal settings. Perhaps, looking as if from the outside allows to dissect the present and the past of the homeland in a less painful way. It is important to understand why, despite the fact that everyone remembers Soviet childhood so fondly – compotes, ties, dachas – this past provides so much evil. For me, the answer is that we lived on a mountain of skulls without realizing it. We did not want to look under our feet. That mountain was growing, but we thought we were growing. That is just one answer, of course.

What the book has to do with trams? Nostalgia for good old Alma-Ata?

That is the name of one of the stories about Gdansk, and when the book was being prepared, Boris Markovsky, editor-in-chief of the legendary “Khreshchatyk”, the series the book is published in, suggested that the whole collection should be called like that. I also found somewhere a photo of an Almaty tram which appeared on the cover. I thought it was a symbolic return of the tram to Almaty, especially since Gdansk in the story is Kazakhstani. The circle has closed, though still an internal one. The book is coming to Almaty, there will be a presentation. I would like to organize it in a tram, but it is impossible for now.

Yuriy Serebriansky is a Kazakhstani author of Polish origin who writes prose, poetry and translates. He teaches at OLSA and works as an editor for Kazakhstani Polish diaspora magazine “Ałmatyński Kurier Polonijny” and Russian literary magazine “Literratura” (before 2023). His works have been translated into many languages and published in a number of different magazines. Yuriy has been awarded the prize “Russkaya Premia” twice, his book Kazakhstani Fairy Tales was named the best bilingual book for young in 2017.  

Ildar Khalitov’s karmic meteorites

Journalist Yaroslav Razumov about the only kazakhstani book on meteoroids

A few years ago Ildar Khalitov from Almaty began to think about what hobbies are popular in the world today, and this eventually led to an interesting precedent in Kazakhstan, both in the literary and educational spheres.

Collecting meteorites became Ildar’s hobby. And, as is often the case in life, another event literally “popped up” at once: he saw an offer from another city on the Internet – a meteorite for 15 million tenge. Ildar did not buy it, but, talking to the owner, he learned a lot of new things and became interested in collecting meteorites.

I bought my first meteor ten days later. It weighs 620 grams, the price was one dollar per gram. The name of the meteorite is “Berezovka”, after a village in the Pavlodar region – meteorites are named for the nearest locality or other geographical landmark they were discovered, – says Ildar.

Over a few years, the collector acquired fragments of nine Kazakhstani meteorites, the largest weighing 600 grams. And he built a large database of Kazakhstani and “foreign” meteorites, and on other related topics. As a result, he wrote the book “Kazakhstan Meteorites”.

This is one of the first, if not the only, Kazakhstani popular science book in natural science in thirty years. Moreover, it is written on domestic material and by Kazakhstani author. Society and state structures should pay attention to the book for many reasons.  One being our dependence on other countries in shaping the worldview of young people and constant complaints about it. Or discussions of educational strategies – we somehow constantly lose sight of the fact that they are built not only on school and university training programs. We also need a variety of “infrastructure” in the form of various tools that educate young (and not only!) citizens in various sciences, stimulating interest in studying them further – popular science books, numerous periodicals, television content, all kinds of school lectures.

There were a lot of bad things in the Soviet education system, but here it can be taken as an example. In Kazakhstan today all this as a system is absent. There is something for “lyricists”, in the field of humanities, and often with considerable claims to quality, but for “physicists” – so far only “Meteorites” by Ildar Khalitov. He at his own expense does what the state should do. And this project is not commercial for Ildar, but rather karmic: the book is sold in stores and online platforms below the cost.

The book turned out to be a real popular science encyclopedia, it has four sections – about meteorites, comets, meteorite craters, and asteroids. But more about meteorites with a lot of related information: these are stories about people, in one way or another related to the topic – about the finders, dealers, scientists.  There is also an explanation of scientific terms and, most importantly, for the educational effect of such books – an explanation of why meteorites are important for basic science. Ildar puts it this way:

Meteorites are important for science because they are actually a “time machine”: by studying them, it is possible to reconstruct a timeline of the solar system. Water and amino acids have been found in meteorites. This all provides tremendous and interesting material for studying the origin of life on Earth.  It costs hundreds of millions of dollars for space missions to bring a piece of rock from other planets.  Not a single piece has yet been brought from Mars but about 300 Martian meteorites have already been found on Earth. More than five hundred more are of lunar origin.

Ildar’s book has a historical angle as well: he says that in ancient times iron meteorites were used for iron tools and weapons, for example, Pharaoh Tutankhamun had such a dagger. An ancient chisel made of meteorite iron was recently found near Orenburg. The topic of collisions of the Earth with huge asteroids or comets is also touched upon in “Kazakhstan Meteorites”.  A separate chapter is devoted to the meteorite craters of Kazakhstan, especially Zhamanshyn, famous in the scientific world, which is located in the Irgiz district of the Aktobe region.

Everyone knows that it exists, they talk about it in schools during geography lessons, but hardly many people know about its uniqueness. Ildar says that Zhamanshyn impactites – rocks formed when large meteoroids collided with the Earth’s surface – are represented in the museums of many reputable scientific centers in different countries. By the way, Ildar, who approaches his celestial hobby in a very systematic way, has established connections with a number of such centers. Now he communicates with fifteen museums in different countries of the world, some of them have collections of Kazakh meteorites discovered at the end of the 19th century. What we now see is that meteorites from other countries are exhibited in Kazakh museums, while ours are presented in foreign ones.

Around 70 thousand meteorites have been discovered in the world today. In Kazakhstan, since 1840, when the first one, “Karakol”, was found, there have been only 25 in total. Not thousands, pieces. The reason for this small number is our climate. The meteorite is exposed to precipitation, which gradually erodes it.  In Kazakhstan, as you know, steppes are hot and dry in summer, but in winter and autumn there is snow and rain. And it is always humid in the mountains. Most meteorites, 60%, were discovered in Antarctica, where, despite snow, the air is very dry; in such places they are preserved for hundreds thousands of years.

Map of Kazakhstan with meteorites on it

You can dedicate your life to searching for meteorites and still not find them. In recent years, though, these celestial bodies have been found more frequently. This is likely the result of the increased knowledge about meteorites, including the commercial side of the topic, thanks to the Internet: meteorites can sell well today. In Soviet times there was no big bonus for this, about a hundred rubles, and the meteorite itself had to be surrendered to the state. There are no such requirements now. And over the years of independence, about ten meteorites have already been discovered, and two more are now being registered. One of them is very large – 168 kilograms. The easiest place to look for meteorites in Kazakhstan is where they have already been found – there may still be pieces of celestial bodies that broke off on impact.

But it is not enough to find – you also need to be able to distinguish meteorites from ordinary earthly rocks. In his book  Ildar also outlined how to identify a meteorite. The most important feature is that flying at cosmic speed through the atmosphere leaves specific, as if scratched, stripes on the body of the meteorite. They are clearly visible on that meteorite on the cover of Kazakhstan Meteorites.

Will new Kazakh popular science books appear, following Ildar’s precedent, written in an interesting and not “basic” way, with high-quality content? Or will this example remain a bright but lonely celestial body, sparkling against a gray background?

Ildar Khalitov graduated from the University of Washington Business School with a bachelor’s degree in 1996. Worked and headed marketing departments in four international companies for 17 years. He has been running his own e-commerce business for the last 10 years. He is passionate about meteorits, birdwatching and writing. Lives in Almaty.

Yaroslav Razumov is a freelance journalist, economics expert, columnist, oil analyst.

Black Gold’s Literary Rules – interview with Oral Arukenova

The writer Oral Arukenova has recently received a doctorate in literary studies, something not every author can boast about. Her book “The Rules of Oil” remains among Kazakhstan’s bestsellers. In the interview, the writer told us about her recent literary prizes, publications abroad, including the collection “Amanat”, about the concept and trends of modern Kazakhstani literature, plans for the future and her next book.

Aisulu Beken: It is a big pleasure to read and observe your creative achievements. I heard that last October you won the Ibraj Altynsarin Award for the best literary work for children and teenagers. Tell us what work was that and what this event means to you.

Oral Arukenova: Yes, indeed, last year I participated in the republican competition named after Ibraj Altynsarin with the story “Мост” (“Bridge”). This is the story of a boy from a small village who is acutely experiencing the loss of his mother. Quite unexpectedly, I became not only the winner of the prize, but also the favourite of the children’s jury. The Children’s Jury Prize is the biggest and most significant victory for me. Kids’ interest in my work inspires me, and I have plans to write other works about children.

AB: Your debut book, “The Rules of Oil”, was successfully published by Meloman Publishing. When can we expect your next book? What topic will it be written on?

OA: After “The Rules of Oil” I have written many poems and prose. For example, the novel “Alma-Mater” came out in the final of the first season of the “Mecenat.kz” literary contest in 2022. This book is about students of the 70s’ generation. The events of 1986¹ are in the center of the plot. Now I am writing “Alma-Mater 2” about Soviet students who are in the first years of independence continued their studies abroad. It is a story about personal transformation and debunking myths about socialism and communism. There are outlines for a third book about the state of modern science and education in Kazakhstan, in the same style as “The Rules of Oil”. 

AB: What about your publications abroad, including the collection “Amanat“?

OA: My first foreign publication was a short stories in ZA-ZA magazine (‘Зарубежные задворки’ – ‘Foreign Backyards’) in Germany in 2018. A selection of my poems translated by Shelley Fairweather-Vega was published in the American journal ‘Brooklyn Rail’ in 2020. The American magazine ‘Suspect’ published poems by Kazakh authors in 2022 about the Kantar – Fog of January, among which are my texts. Lena Muhin, a German translator and blogger, has translated several of my works into German at jablonja.art.blog. Recently, Italian translator Massimo Maurizio translated and published poems by a group of Kazakhstani authors, among which are my texts. 

“Amanat” is a unique collection of works by female Kazakh writers. The initiator of the project was Zaure Bataeva, a philologist, writer, translator and blogger living in Brussels. She herself was involved in the selection of authors and selected the works. Then the famous American translator Shelley Fairweather-Vega joined the project. Zaure and Shelley translated the selected stories into English and found a publishing house to publish the anthology in US. The works of 13 authors are collected under one cover. This is the first anthology of Kazakh writers in US. The most interesting thing is that the literary community of Kazakhstan reacted sluggishly to this event; there was not even a presentation. But in the States, the anthology became a striking literary phenomenon. Presentations were made and reviews were written in scientific and literary journals and publications. European literary scholars did not stand aside either. The anthology presents four of my stories: two in Kazakh and two in Russian. The story “Amanat” is one of them.

AB: Where do you get your inspiration from? Who are your favorite authors?

OA: I was born and raised in central Kazakhstan, in the steppe region. My mother knew almost all Kazakh folklore by heart. I have heard and absorbed epics and folk songs since I was born. I remember as a child, I was proud of the Kazakh warriors and quoted passages from their works by heart. Now I cannot reproduce these texts, but I am sure that the germs of creativity in me come from childhood. Over time, the word “patriotism” has become commonplace and pretentious, but the endless steppe and high sky will never cease to inspire me. Nature, people, books, events, travel, communication – everything that makes up our life is a source of inspiration for me. I can re-read the works of Remarque, Borges, Chekhov, Aitmatov endlessly. The book that made the greatest impression on me at school and still remains my favorite is “Don Quixote” by Cervantes. The works of Kazakh prose writers Abish Kekilbayev, Tolen Abdikov, Talasbek Asemkulov are inspiring. Contemporary Kazakh poetry is another source of inspiration. These are poems by Pavel Bannikov, Tigran Tuniyants, Anuar Duisenbinov, Zair Asim, Selina Taisengirova.

AB: How would you define the concept of “modern Kazakhstani literature”? What are the time boundaries of modern literature?

OA: Modern Kazakhstani literature, being post-Soviet, is diverse and multifaceted. It depends on the educational background and literary preferences of the writers. People raised on classical Russian literature are usually under orthodox discourse. Admirers of Soviet literature can be recognized by their cliches and pathos. All Kazakh writers have allusions to Tengrism and oral folk art. Authors familiar with modernist and postmodernist European literature exhibit deliberate carelessness and brevity in their presentation. The boundaries of modern Kazakhstani literature can be defined, in my opinion, by dividing it into late Soviet and post-Soviet. Both of these categories, in my opinion, fit the concept of modern literature.

AB: Do you think it is necessary to include works of modern Kazakhstani literature in the school curriculum of Kazakhstan? If so, which authors do you think should be included or what works would benefit students from reading?

OA: I think it should definitely be included. Especially poetry, because it is poets who react sharply to changes and new realities of life. As for modern Russian-language poetry, I would include the works of Kanat Omar, Aigerim Tazhi, Erbol Zhumagulov, Pavel Bannikov, Zair Asim, Anuar Duysembinov, Selina Taisengirova, Aman Rakhmetov. These are poets with completely different, but unique styles. It would be useful for high school students to read the prose of Aigul Kemelbaeva, Ayagul Mantaeva, Esbolat Aidabosyn, Bakhytkul Sarmekova, Alexander Kan, Ilya Odegov, Daniyar Sugralinov, Alexander Mendybaev, Alisher Rakhat, Bakhytbek Kadyr.

AB: What development trends are characteristic of modern Kazakhstani literature?

OA: Modern Kazakh writers have a division into secular and religious texts. There are mixed options, as in Abai’s “Words of Edification”: a simultaneous attraction to secularism and to the canons of Islam. Science fiction is popular in Kazakh and Russian literature of Kazakhstan. Over the past few years, I have often participated in competitions as a jury member and have seen that this genre is represented in both children’s and adult prose. One of the global trends that has not bypassed our country is short texts, shortened novels.

AB: What are your plans for this year in terms of creativity?

OA: This year I am going to finish writing my novel and maybe I will be inspired to write poetry and short prose.

1. Protests took place in Alma-ata, Kazakh SSR, against the decision to remove Dinmukhamed Kunayev, the First Secretary of the Communist Party of Kazakhstan, from his post and replace him with Gennady Kolbin from the Russian SFSR. ↩︎

“Sisyphus” by Erkebulan Ulykbekov – a review from Daniyar Sugralinov

“Sisyphus,” a captivating and multifaceted novel, presents a largely melancholic story that intertwines themes of love, creativity, madness, and spiritual healing. The protagonist, Ahmet, a poet, falls in love with Kristina, his online admirer from the Russian city of Sochi, who becomes his muse. This virtual romantic connection not only catalyzes his creative inspiration but also his personal transformation.

The novel’s main plot twist, revealed later in the narrative, occurs during Ahmet’s flight to Kristina. In a moment of disconnection from reality, he attempts to jump out of the plane, leading to his admission to a psychiatric clinic.

In this surreal environment, Ahmet nicknames his fellow patients Gandalf, Gimli, and Legolas, highlighting the allegorical nature of the narrative. The author, Ulykbekov, explores the boundaries between imagination and reality, encouraging readers to do the same. A nameless orderly, who degrades the patients and forces them into debasement, is perceived by Ahmet as an orc, a captor of Frodo, further accentuating the fantastical elements.

A pivotal moment in the story is Ahmet’s return to Kristina’s letters, which aids in his gradual recovery. However, following the resignation of the treating doctor who had been assisting him, Ahmet is forced to feign wellness to secure his release under the care of a new doctor.

Ulykbekov delves into the deep psychological and spiritual aspects of the human personality in “Sisyphus.” He skillfully employs symbolism and allegory to explore themes of self-sacrifice, the battle against one’s own demons, and the search for true love and inspiration. In this regard, Ulykbekov’s work resonates with Ken Kesey’s “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Both authors blur the lines between sanity and insanity, questioning the foundations of normality and the societal norms that define it. The presence of an oppressive figure, the nameless orderly in “Sisyphus,” echoes Nurse Ratched’s character in Kesey’s novel. Ahmet’s struggle against the stifling clinic environment resonates with Kesey’s exploration of individual rebellion against oppressive institutions.

Just as Kesey uses his narrative to challenge perceptions of mental health and authority, Ulykbekov navigates similar themes through a distinct Kazakh cultural lens, offering a unique perspective on the struggle for personal identity and freedom within societal confines.

In summary, “Sisyphus” is an emotionally rich work that prompts reflections on human consciousness, the power of love, and the importance of art in our lives. This novel is a splendid addition to the treasury of Kazakh literature, and it leaves a lasting impression on its readers.

Yerkebulan Ulykbekov – poet and prose writer. Graduated from Kazakh University of International Relations and World Languages named after Abylai Khan. He became interested in literature at the age of 17. Has been published in Kazakhstan and Russia. Currently works as a teacher of Russian language and literature.

Daniyar “Dan” Sugralinov is a prolific writer with over 20 novels to his credit since 2017. Notable series such as “Level Up”, “Disgardium”, and “99 Worlds” have been translated into English, German, and Czech. Dan’s writing also extends to short stories and contributions to magazines like “Moscow” and “Neva.” A cinematic adaptation of his work, “Personal Growth Training” based on “Bricks 2.0,” won the Grand Prize at the 41st Moscow International Film Festival.

An old tale in a new way, or the endless odyssey of Pan Tyrtz and Murzik

Probably, I will not be mistaken if I say that each of us, keeping all the best in the mental box of memories, carefully keeps an envelope with the fairy tales we once heard and read. Simple wisdom, good advice and focus on the common sense perception of the world – all this is accumulated in fairy tales: from epic folklore to the best examples of literary fairy tales from Pushkin, Pogorelsky and to the fantastic universes of Odoyevsky, etc. Since school times, we have absorbed traditional linear plots, which formed a formulaic cliché: prologue – climax – denouement – and necessarily taken out of brackets instructive moral.

But is it that simple? Or rather, was it all so simple then, or have we become more sensitive and satiated now? Since everywhere we see a double bottom, and the tale’s plots are already perceived more as psychological layouts of scenarios of not always happy fates; and every character, be it a goat or a rooster, is no longer just a talking animal, but a mythical embodiment of the dark side of the psyche?

Fairy tale – an ideal material for analyzing the era and the aspirations of the people – has now moved into medical practice. And it is not at all hard to hear such a notion as “fairy tale therapy” and various writing studios, where aspiring pen sharks are offered to place long-familiar fairy tale characters in the realities of the modern world and solve the new era problems .

Elena Klepikova started creating “Kazakhstani fairy tales” long before it became mainstream. I find it important to mention that back in the early 2000s Klepikova, not considering the difficulties of publishing and distribution, was looking for a way out, even if not to the mass reader, but to the hearts of the readers. Thus, she was one of the first to master and realize samizdat. Besides, she should be rightfully awarded with the order of the best friend of all Almaty cats. As a consequence, the book “Stories of Patrick the Cat”, published in small circulation, can be considered the official starting point of Klepikova’s cat universe. The forerunner of all subsequent feline turns, a coloring book about a pet named Patrick, also laid a beautiful tradition of co-creation: at the presentation the author herself encouraged young readers to make pictures in color. Later, beautiful illustrations by Zitoff were embodied in postcards, and the tradition of coloring the characters was reflected in the second cat book “The Amazing Adventures of Pychtelkin and Murchalkin” (the name of both cats come from Russian “puffing and purring” – TN).

We can deduce the feline era in Elena Klepikova’s works in a trilogy, the apogee of which is the last book, summarizing a certain result, “Pan Tyrtz and Murzik”. This book has a difficult fate: let’s start with the fact that this is the third attempt of the book to acquire a material body. The story, however, has both children’s and adult versions. Klepikova’s readers probably know that the author has long been writing fairy tales for adults. For the first time “Pan Tyrtz and Murzik” left legacy on paper ten years ago. In 2012, “adult version” appeared in the oldest printed magazine “Literary Studies”. This magazine, by the way, was founded in 1930 by Maxim Gorky, who wore a bushy mustache like a well-fed cat. The novella was noticed and took an ornate route. It was published in fragments, became a finalist for the Korneichukov Prize – significant award in the world of children’s literature.

“The Amazing Adventures of Pychtelkin and Murchalkin”

In 2016, two versions of the book – for children and parents – saw the light of day at once through the platform “Publishing Solutions”, but then these were still “pilot” versions; the full-fledged book was as much as eight years away.

So who are Pan Tyrtz and Murzik really, if their path to finding a permanent home – a printed book – is so long and not easy? Although the author does not tell us this openly, it seems to me that first of all they are samurai, following the path of duty and honor.

The glorious town of Koteisk (from Russian “kot” – cat), where our heroes live, is not much different from some calm and measured European backwater. Time in it, as it should be in fairy-tale spaces, flows slowly, everything happens on time, and the whole life is written according to notes, where, as we know, there are more white keys than black ones. But you can’t do without black ones either, so that the whole polyphony of the fughetta will sound.

The esteemed kitty Pan Tyrtz, a retired professor, is like a colonel waiting for a letter, at least a modest birthday card. Instead, he receives a notice of temporary eviction from his familiar home and is forced to look for a fifth corner. Inexperienced in the rental business, he is tempted by the first advertisement for a room where, in addition to a night’s lodging, he can expect more than a bowl of dry food. Along with him in search of a shelter is a retired special forces officer Murzik, with whom Pan Tyrtz encounters during the inspection of the future housing. It is clear that in the end the situation is resolved properly, and the enterprising landlady Mrs. Murja leaves both tenants. Then the couple, or rather the trio, since Mrs. Murja herself will occasionally give out a rational suggestion, gets involved in a string of different, incredible and intricate, but still childishly simple and naive crimes, in which no evil intent is seen.

In general, the whole feline meta-universe echoes Disney animated series. There is a little bit from “Duck Stories”, where the city of ducks, as well as the city of cats, functioned according to human laws and constantly got into detective stories with a happy ending. The trio itself reminds not only Chip, Dale and Gadget, but also Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson. The profiles of Soviet actors Yuriy Nikulin and Evegniy Evstigneev should be added to the full portrait of the brave heroes: the impulsive cats are very similar to the touching old men who were written off early.

The two cats, like the previously mentioned Chip and Dale, balance each other out. Although Mr. Tyrtz is naturally thorough, unhurried and generally an academic cat, quoting Kant on occasion; he cannot, however, stand aside when he sees obvious iniquity and injustice. But he is cautious, thoughtful and stays out of the way. Perhaps once, in his youth, when Pan Tyrtz was not yet burdened with his authority and other nonsense, he was, or rather dreamed of being like Murzyk. After all, it was not for nothing that he bought a motorcycle for their needs – to race through rough terrain. Retired special forces Murzik chops from the shoulder and is ready to fit into any rally, except, of course, hunger strike! The line of culinary art and the issues of satiety, feast of the belly pass a bold dotted line through the whole book. Food even becomes an object of crime, of theft! Mrs. Murja’s famous cheesecakes were stolen and successfully found by cats.

As in any, albeit childish, but decent detective story, there is a place for a beauty, though not fatal, but rather glamorous and comical. The nickname itself, or rather the name Susu, gives off a certain French pronunciation and defines her as a pedigree, pampered kitty with a thin undercoat and allergy to budget fodder. Like true gentlemen, the cats also help Susu, saving her from mourning her stolen lipstick. The cute little kitty stays on the pages of the book until the very end of the story, and their established relationship with Murzik cannot be called a mere flirtation, but rather a tender feline sympathy.

The clumsy cat Proydokhins (the name appeares from Russian “slicker”- TN) acts as the main furry villain. All the intrigues set up by him are harmless and made in a slapdash manner, they only bring intrigue and necessary revitalization to the measured life of the town. And even so, by the end he will be sent for re-education, because in a perfect good world there is no place for evil, except for balance.

The book catches the young reader on all the hooks that attract attention and develop the imagination. Representatives of extraterrestrial civilizations, the mysteries of the Egyptian pyramids, and, of course, the legendary scares about vampires and ghosts appear on the pages.

I will not retell and interpret the entire text, because a good book should be read and internalized, as stated in the beginning – the fairy tale is a treasure trove of worldly wisdom. Written in simple and understandable language with love for people and cats, the new book by Elena Klepikova is an excellent guide to the world of real comfortable and cozy life not only for those who have just comprehended the primer and learned the taste of reading, but also for a gourmand sophisticated in children’s prose. The author is attentive to all details, delicate and courteous to all characters and, most importantly, always leaves the door ajar, giving the opportunity for revenge!

Elena Klepikova the literary awards “Golden Feather of Russia”, “Korneychuk Prize” (Ukraine), “Daroboz”, as well as laureate and prize-winner of literary prizes and competitions held in Russia, Kazakhstan, Germany. Has publications in literary journals and collections of Russia, Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Germany. Stories and fairy tales were translated into Kazakh, English, and German. Leads a seminar of prose and children’s literature at the Open Literary School of Almaty, Kazakhstan.

Anastassiya Kiriyenko is a graduate of the Department of Romano-Germanic Philology. She holds a master’s degree in Russian Language and Literature. She is a graduate of prose and children’s literature seminars led by Elena Klepikova, Ksenia Rogozhnikova, and Yuriy Serebriansky. Her work has been published in “Your Friend”, “Literary Alma-Ata”, “Big Change”, “The Road Without End”, “Autograph”, “Illustrated Guide to the Meanings of Almaty”, Esquire Kazakhstan journals, as well as in the magazine of the University of Zurich Slavicum Press.

The Third Season of Central Asia’s Exclusive Writers’ Residency to be Held in Almaty

The Open Literary School of Almaty, in collaboration with the International Writing Program (IWP), announces the Almaty Writing Residency 2024 for writers of Kazakhstan. AWR 24 is a unique platform for creative dialogue, knowledge exchange, and cultural interaction among authors in non-fiction and documentary poetry. The residency includes workshops, public readings, and panel discussions, fostering the development of Kazakhstan’s literary scene.

We invite you to attend public events at the American Space & Makerspace Almaty from March 4 to March 9, 2024. Address: Bayzakova, 280, SmArt.Point, first floor.

March 4 at 18.00 – Meet the participants of the AWR 24 residence. Poet Aigerim Tazhi, an IWP’23 participant, will be featured as a guest.

March 5 at 18.00 – The works of Ryshard Kapuscinski – Online lecture and discussion with Krzysztof Hoffman, PhD (Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznan, Poland).

March 6 at 18.00 – Meeting with Kazakhstani publishers and media. (Kursiv.media, Dergachev.Insight, Alma Review, Sөz Publishing House, Spik.kz, New Generation, Vremya, Book Club Publishing House, Zerde Publishing House, Ratel.kz, Steppe and World Publishing House, Adebiportal.kz, Orda.kz, Bookexpert).

March 7 at 18.00 – online lecture and discussion with Christopher Merrill, writer and journalist, the director of the International Writing Program (USA).

March 8 at 18.00 – open discussion about feminism in the literature of Kazakhstan.

All events are held in Kazakh, Russian, and English languages with interpretation. For more detailed information about the dates and locations of the public meetings and lectures, please visit the official Almaty Writing Residency website https://litshkola.kz/almaty-writing-residency-24eng/

For further inquiries, you can contact the residency coordinator Valeriya Krutova at litshkola@gmail.com, +7 777 124 44 44.

This project is supported by the U.S. Diplomatic Mission to Kazakhstan and Chevron.

We sell oil, we sell honor, soon it will come to the land! – review on Oral Arukenova’s book “The rules of oil”

“The Rules of Oil” (“Правила нефтянки”) is Oral Arukenova’s debut book released in 2018. It consists of nineteen ironic stories which are closely related to each other and live in the same space, where you need to follow the rules of oil if you want to live in such a world – or rather survive in it. 

«From his Atyrau experience, Petya learned a few simple rules. First, you have to enter the company nicely. The more swagger, the higher the salary and position. The higher the salary and position, the less work. Second, don’t spit in the well you drink from. Respect the locals and listen to the knowledgeable. And the main rule of safety is to clear the field and get out in time.» 

But are we talking only about oilmen? Is it only in this field that people get a job by «blat» (profitable connections), unemployment, showiness, dead wood, and people are treated according to their status and class?

The central questions of the book are about honor, life principles, about the attitude to corruption and money, about swagger, fawning over foreigners, but being indifferent to their neighbors, to their people and native language. Story after story, the reader can feel a spectrum of emotions from laughter to deep shame. The reader desperately tries to find at least one sincere and pure hero in this black oily world and finds them, first in the person of good-natured Gaukhar, who is not interested in marriage or an enviable fiancé, but rather in books and studies. Later, we find moral purity in the strong character of Kulyaisha, who has defeated corruption by resolutely sticking to her principles: “We sell oil, we sell honor, so soon it will come to the land!”.

Each story describes an ordinary everyday life of people working in the oil industry and it is told in the manner and style that expresses the main story characters’ way of thinking. The reader gets the feeling that one is not reading, but looking at what is happening from the outside, fully focused on that. The work is read in one sitting and can be absorbed within an hour or two.

The book begins and ends with the story of one main character Petya, thus probably closing the vicious circle and giving the reader a sense of satisfying closure to the story, but not closure to the dilemma. If, at the beginning of the book, he got a «free» job, made a mess of things, screwed people over and got off safe and sound, at the end of the book he gets a chance to change his life: to refuse another «free» job and start working conscientiously and assiduously. The book literally ends with the question “Will you go?” which is directed to Petya. Or to the reader as well?

The book is intended more for the Kazakhstani audience, as there are Kazakh words, expressions or concepts, the context of which can be understood by a person living in Kazakhstan. Nevertheless, the book is valuable because it is skillfully written by a talented author based on a lifetime of experience in working and managing procurement in multinational companies. 

Oral Arukenova is a prose writer, poet, literary critic and translator. She has a masters degree in law and a PhD in literary studies. Currently Oral is a researcher at the M.O. Auezov Institute of Literature and Art in Almaty. Her works have been published in magazines and collections of contemporary prose in Kazakhstan, Russia, Germany and the USA.
Her debut book “The Rules of Oil” was awarded by the independent literary contest “Altyn Kalam” in the nomination “Literary Debut of the Year” (2018). She is a finalist of the MECENAT.KZ Literary Award for the best novel about Kazakhstan (2022). The poem «Украдкой иду в парк…»  is included in the anthology “Great Works of Literature II” manifold @CUNY – of the City University of New York in the cluster “Parks and National Parks”. Winner of the 3rd Republican contest for the best work for children and teenagers (2023).