Kazakhstan  | 

From Siberia to Kazakhstan

Articles | Publié le 06.11.2011 Here we find again our backpack-reporter, Ronan, at the border between Asia and Europe. Kazakhstan isn't really on the way, but he couldn't resist going that bit further. In Astana, he was greeted by faces scoured with age and harsh life on the central Asian steppe. Eyes, weary of foreigners, followed

The dust and the cold autumn air left a tear in my eve. Heading out of the city, I met Anatoly, an old Russian man who had chosen to remain, even though his village was a mere memory. I asked him why that was, and he told me that since the fall of communism, almost all of the Russian population had left the region. The same, he assured me, was true in Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, all of the former soviet central asian countries. I asked him if life had been hard since, if people there had targeted him, as a Russian. Sadly, he nodded his head. “That was that” was all he said. A resurgent Kazakh nationalism had made life uncomfortable for Russians.

 

A Soviet memory

 

Back in the Astana, I met Toishybek. He assures me that I have nothing to worry about, despite everything I've heard. This place is as safe as any other - a place is only ever as safe as you are yourself, he says. I appear to relax, and he pours more vodka. The conversation rolls on, and becomes more fluid. He leans in closer to me and whispers in tones that suggest counter-conspiracy. “You and I are the same” he says. Making a gesture that I don't understand, and he repeatedly points at his skin, dark and tanned, and then to mine, pale, with a few freckles. Then he points to our eyes. “I am white too, see? Caucasian! Not Mongoloid!” He squeals gleefully as he announces this private revelation. “Ah-ha” I say, nodding. Then he starts to list off great military leaders. Napoleon, Kirov and Genghis Kahn, he says, are the three greatest in the history of the world. I am afraid for the fourth. He expects me to make a connection, which I miss completely. What do they have in common? They are all caucasian, he informs me. Hesitantly, I venture that Genghis was a Mongol, surely. “Ah, but that is wrong”, I am corrected. “He was Kazakh, and caucasian. He only conquered Mongolia first.” I nod, and sip the vodka. What else could I have done?

 

On the edge of opportunity

 

Aidana told me she was really happy to see me, since they didn't get many visitors in Kostonay. She, and her friends felt a certain sadness, a sense of disconnection in modern Kazakhstan, she told me. According to her, since the collapse of the USSR, Kazakhstan had retreated into itself. “Where are our leaders?” she begs, “where are our intellectuals?” she pleads. For her, Kazakhstan is home, but if feels on the corner of things, on the edge of an opportunity she dreams of, but knows is denied to her. There is sadness in her voice, but pride, and no accusation. We sipped our tea, and shared a memory that neither of us had about the Silk Road.

 

Back into the fold

 

Returning to Russia in her vastness was an inevitability. Like the great bear, she casts a shadow over the steppe of central asia, in her past, her present, and her future. Kazakhstan is still caught up in the throes of post-soviet geopolitical and economic uncertainty. To the North, Yekaterinburg awaits. With that, entry to the Urals, and to Europe.

Rónán Mac Dubhghaill, Dublin Irlande

//Galerie

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//Rubrique Société