They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but they never ask if everyone can read those words. In Almaty, the answer is not clear. This is a city in transition. As alphabets change, language follows. As language develops, so does art. As art transforms, politics isn’t far behind. The European Enlightenment was a great example of this phenomenon; now Almaty, and Kazakhstan generally, are experiencing a Renaissance and Enlightenment of their own.
Art occupies a special place in Almaty, as it bypasses the need for literacy or language. If you were to walk into an art museum in Almaty, and wander through the halls featuring Kazakh, Russian, American, and European art, you would come out with what you put into understanding. The mystery of art is not in language, but in the beauty and the interpretation. Language complicates it. Art is universal.
Artist: Абдрашит Аронович Сыдыханов (Abdrashit Aronovich Sydykhanov)
Or if you were to watch a play without words, as we did, the art would come to life. Language in most countries can be seen as a clarifying force, but in bilingual (almost trilingual) Almaty, language can muddy the waters, distracting from the art.
The special position of art, and its independence from language is not to say that language has become sidelined in this transition period. In fact, literature is a main focus of this new era of Kazakh creativity and independence. Former President Nazarbayev catalyzed this movement with his Rukhani Zhangyru program that encourages the translation of 100 of the best foreign works into Kazakh. This political push is not only a tactic to promote nationalism, it also opens a new world for many Kazakhs. Just under half of the population lives in the Steppe, outside of major cities. Many of them, especially younger generations, only speak Kazakh. New translations will reach the Steppe and upcoming youth will be able to read Western classics heretofore not published in their language. But others (whom I have talked to on the train) have criticized this move as redundant. Those who do speak Kazakh in the cities, almost always also speak Russian. There is seemingly no point to reading literature translated into Kazakh, when the Russian translation is more reliable and widely-read.
But, this is not only a movement from above. Kazakh poets and writers are all pushing this revolution, developing a hybrid identity of their own, playing with language as a tool to describe their duality while living in a state in transition. Though some authors, such as Alyona Timofeyeva, are more discouraged about the state of Kazakh-language authorship, others have taken the initiative and begun translating their works into Kazakh, or writing directly in Kazakh. For example, Yury Serebriansky, a Kazakh-born poet and researcher, had his Kazakhstani Fairy Tales published in both languages of Kazakhstan. In our talk with him, he described how it was difficult to publish anything in Kazakh as publishing companies have not caught up with the state and popular demand for Kazakh literature.
Anuar Duisenbinov, a queer Kazakh poet, also demonstrates the challenge working with a language in transition. In his poem A Metamorph, he discusses how language has become a point of contention mostly among speakers of the language. He writes, “Söz sticks to the palate as sediment./Touching it with the tip of the tongue, i feel sweet/childhood memories return: thick and soft fur”. This line describes the duality and hybridity of the Kazakh language. Duisenbinov, himself a representative of a larger swath of the Kazakh and Russian-speaking population, finds söz, “word” in Kazakh, incidentally on the roof of his mouth. It is a sediment — a particle found in language that passed across his tongue — that he cannot remove. He speaks in Russian, but in that Russian are hints of Kazakh. For bilingual Kazakhs, the two languages are inseparable. Each is influenced by and infused with each other. That is why, when he speaks Russian, the primary language in Kazakhstan (and of the poem itself), some Kazakh is left behind, as sediment in a river.
Though the söz is incidental, it is beautiful. As natural sediment carried by glaciers, rivers, and floods, brings with it minerals that spark natural growth, Duisenbinov’s sediment is laced with memories of his childhood. It is sweet, and influences all that passes across his palate — language, food, and love. Though it is beautiful, he has no control over it — it carries both strength and weakness. Duisenbinov’s poetry exemplifies the difficulties that Kazakhs face in contemporary art and language.
I have experienced this first hand in my host family. Just a few days ago, my host mom celebrated Eid al-Fitr by inviting over her daughters and their families. I chatted with them about language and what Kazakh means to them. They told me that they speak in both Russian and Kazakh throughout their daily lives, Russian comes more naturally to them. They think and dream in Russian. But, they mentioned that recently they have begun to speak Kazakh more frequently so that they distance themselves from Russia because of the war in Ukraine. This results in some sentences switching back and forth multiple times between Russian and Kazakh. To them, language is a type of art which they have control over and manipulate as they like.
Like the nation as a whole, the creative spirit of Kazakhstan is still under construction. As the government works to translate famous novels, restore landmarks and sacred sites, the writers are in a search to control their söz — the sediment caught in their throat. They are just beginning to capture its essence, and to decide its role in the body and in greater society. How can Kazakhs embrace such an abstract concept to develop their identity? It is up to the artists of the nation to find the solution.
