Despite its clearly literary title, Almaty Writing Residency stepped into the world of theatre this year — and tried to uncover questions that have long troubled people behind the scenes.
Despite the variety of theatres in Kazakhstan, the profession of the playwright remains one of the least in demand. Easy to see why: it is much simpler for a director to stage yet another version of a classic. Unlike contemporary authors, Chekhov doesn’t need to be paid, won’t argue over edits, and his themes are eternal. That is why all Kazakhstani playwrights have other jobs — you cannot make a living off theatre alone.
This became the main point of contention in the new season of Almaty Writing Residency. Six participants from different cities and with various theatre backgrounds — playwrights, actors, youth studio leaders, even screenwriters — spent a week trying to answer tough questions: Who is the hero of Kazakhstani drama? How can playwrights reach directors? Does feminism exist in our national theatre?
The process was curated by Scott Bradley, an American theatre producer and writer. He was occasionally joined by international colleagues: Ukrainian playwright Irina Serebriakova, Tashkent’s Ilkhom theatre actress Natalya Li, and Estonian producer and head of the Vabaduse Festival of Freedom Theatre Liisa Liksor. The geography of the residency also expanded this year — participants and speakers came from Almaty, Astana, Aktobe, Semey, and Karaganda.
What conclusions did the participants reach, drawing on international experience? In Kazakhstan’s theatre world, a playwright is often seen as a lifebuoy — someone called in only when a director cannot handle the text on their own, for example, when adapting a novel into a play. The themes our authors tackle are not always beneficial to theatres from a marketing or political standpoint: an “ideal” performance must sell well and avoid controversial topics. Playwrights, however, refuse to cut out big names or bold statements — the mention of surnames like Timur Turlov and Kairat Boranbaev in participants’ texts caused a stir. As a result, many playwrights end up creating theatre on their own: it is often easier to find actors and a stage independently than to seek a director’s approval. There is also still a lack of a unified database of local authors and their plays — though some progress has been made in that area.
Directors, for their part, see things differently. “We spent five years in university studying Gogol, so it is not easy to suddenly shift focus to modern works,” noted Racha Makhataev, artistic director of the Stanislavsky Karaganda Russian Drama Theatre. Galina Pyanova, leading director of ARTiSHOK, also observed that the quality of local plays does not always meet expectations — and that playwrights often take edits as personal attacks. Another recurring complaint from directors is that many playwrights do not work in theatres and are detached from the process.
But doesn’t that create a vicious circle? Daniyar Sugralinov, residency participant and popular sci-fi author, shared his perspective:
“The key paradox for me was this: on one hand, the infrastructure exists — the Drama.kz festival, the Dactyl magazine, and the Almaty Open Literary School are training new writers. On the other hand, during the “Theatres and Directors vs Playwrights” discussion, it became clear that playwrights and theatres still live in parallel worlds. But connections started to appear: through labs, progressive directors, and regional theatres that stage young authors.
Coming from prose, I realized that playwriting isn’t just about ‘writing a play’ — it’s about building a relationship with the theatre. Successful authors have not only strong texts but also an understanding of how the theatrical world works. That completely changes my approach to drama. Still, I’ve once again seen that in Kazakhstan, there’s always another path — from the outside in. Meaning: first gain recognition abroad through competitions or readings, and only then try to break into local theatres.”
Another topic of discussion was language. Modern plays in Kazakh are staged more frequently. As for plays written in Russian, they often reach the stage through translation — a vivid example being Olga Malysheva’s works staged at the Musrepov Kazakh State Academic Theatre for Children and Youth.
It is important to note that Almaty Writing Residency does not aim to instantly solve these problems. The project’s main mission is to create a space for dialogue — free of linguistic or professional barriers. After all, when else could the directors of Musrepov, ARTiSHOK, ArtKoshe, Nemetski Theatre, and Naskalny Kit gather under one roof and engage with leading playwrights like Nuraina Satpayeva, Kolganat Murat, Ainur Karim, Manshuk Kali, and others? A week-long dialogue filled with mutual claims and discoveries has taken place — and one can only hope it continues next time, but this time, already on stage.
Yuliya Gubanova interviewed the author on her fresh novel.
I was fortunate to read Kemen Baizharassova’s novel In Anticipation of Kairos even before its publication. From the very first pages it was clear: this is a book you don’t want to put down, and you dread that it might end too soon. And that is exactly what happened: I devoured it in just a couple of evenings, consoling myself with the thought that while editing I would have the chance to return to it again and again.
For me, this novel is about the light each of us carries within — the very reason we are born, and the moment that redeems all trials. In today’s world, such books feel especially necessary. That is why I encouraged Kemen to submit her manuscript to the Mecenat competition, where it deservedly made the shortlist. Everything else about the novel, I will leave to the author herself.
— Kemen, where did the book begin? — I had long wanted to draw on my medical experience in writing, but not in the form of a biography or other nonfiction. I wanted to create a work of fiction with a strong narrative intrigue, where the everyday and medical realism would intertwine with elements of the supernatural.
— How was the idea itself born? Was it a sudden impulse or a long-gestating story? — Something in between. At first, I had a plan to use my psychiatric experience in some story. I considered many ideas: some I rejected outright, some I worked on a little before they fell away on their own. But this story came together quickly.
— How much time passed from the first drafts to the final text? — If you count from the moment the idea of the story took shape, then two years. But before that, there were another two years of attempts to feel out the “psychiatric” theme.
— Did you ever hesitate to write or not to write? — No, I never have doubts about whether to write. For me, it’s only a matter of desire. If I want to, I write. If not, I don’t.
— How did you determine that it had to be a work of fiction, and not nonfiction, memoir, or essay? — To be honest, that question never even arose. Perhaps because writing, for me, has always been primarily attractive as an act of invention: the creation of imagined characters and the worlds they inhabit. Literal truth is what real life already gives us. From written stories I want a different kind of truth: the truth of art, of imagery, allegory, metaphor.
— Are the characters in the book real? Are they your patients, reflections of yourself, or invention? — My characters and their stories are always a blend. They may echo real people, acquaintances, patients, even myself, but mostly, they are imagined.
— How much of the book is autobiographical? — As a psychiatrist, it would have been foolish to write such a story without drawing on the autobiographical. That, in fact, was the plan: to use my own experience. The overwork of psychiatrists, because there are always catastrophically too few of them; the shortage of medications; and even the absurd situation when our wards were supplied with boxes of nystatin for no reason, all this is drawn directly from life. As is the “optimization” imposed in the nineties, which cost us two entire buildings. And then there are the moods: the anxiety of a first night shift, the helplessness when you can’t help, the horror when you fail to stop an epileptic seizure, when someone dies before your eyes. But I was careful to include only as much autobiography as the story required for authenticity, not a gram more.
On Characters — Dina is an incredibly strong character. She holds the space, she stays, she doesn’t judge. Where did she come from? — Good question. I never thought about it before. But reflecting now, I think Dina may be the person I tried to be for my family, for my children, someone who could be their point of support.
— You created Dias, the dream of any woman: an intellectual, an athlete, strong and empathetic. How did you feel in the moment of his creation? — Only now have I thought about it. In our parents’ generation there were many such men — reliable, steady, resilient, somewhat condescending toward women. Perhaps Dias is mostly from there. But really, my characters come into being on their own. It is impossible to make them into something else by force.
— A doctor who fails to save someone close, that is a drama. As a psychiatrist, how do you relate to that sense of guilt? — Yes, it is a particular and I would say inevitable drama. Even if the circumstances were beyond one’s control, even if you did everything you could, every doctor who loses a patient will still doubt their decisions and torment themselves. Moreover, doctors feel guilt not only when losing patients but even when losing relatives whose treatment they were not responsible for. Because the profession trains you to take responsibility onto yourself. If guilt becomes so heavy that it interferes with work and life, then the doctor themselves needs professional help from a psychotherapist — to work through the experience and understand that professional responsibility does not mean omnipotence, nor the ability to control every aspect of life and death.
On Death — One of the characters in the novel is Death. In the book she is not an enemy, but rather part of the path. Is that your personal philosophy? — It is not philosophy, but experience. Life experience. Unfortunately, death ceased for me to be something distant. With that came the realization that death is not an enemy, not a judge, not a punishment, but something that is always nearby. And if she is always near, then one must learn to speak of her, no matter how frightening.
— Have you ever spoken to Death in real life: in your mind, of course? As a psychiatrist and as a writer? — In our culture, as probably in many others, for a long time one had to accept death more or less stoically and silently. God gave, God took — no questions asked. But while alive, one was not supposed to even mention it. And it is still so. When a person suddenly speaks of death, it is believed she is already close. So I never say it. But as a psychotherapist, yes, at times I have had to stage such dialogues.
— In this book, despite all its light and warmth, there are many deaths. How did you yourself experience the loss of characters, especially the significant ones? — I lost them as if they were living, close people. Although they left at the right moment, following the internal logic of the story. But while writing, I also lost my mother and my brother, and I cried a great deal during that time. Perhaps in mourning the characters, I was still mourning my loved ones.
On Humor and Pain — Are there scenes you laughed at yourself while writing? Which ones? Were they based on real stories? — I don’t recall moments when I burst out laughing, but I did smile. For example, the scene where the heroine’s mother flees from the police when their demonstration is dispersed. Or the episode with two patients who, driven by delusions, competed over who had done more harm to the world, that came from life. The entire ward really did laugh at them during rounds.
— The characters in your book often joke even in the most difficult situations. Is that a reflection of your patients, or of your own way of coping? — Joking in difficult situations is my own strategy. And many of my patients were like that, too. We were drawn to each other, I think. And we respected that habit in one another.
— Some lines sound like aphorisms. Did you come up with them in advance, or did they arrive by themselves? — I’m not sure which lines you mean, but it sounds like a compliment, thank you. No, nothing was invented beforehand. Perhaps some are borrowed from life, but for the most part, the dialogues were born in the process of writing.
On the Professional and the Personal — Is there a difference between how patients experience trauma and how you transmuted it into fiction? — The difference is immense. A patient lives through it for real. There is a Kazakh proverb that translates as: “The place where the stone falls feels it the heaviest.” Patients are that very epicenter that takes the full impact. A writer merely describes the destruction, how it happened. Yet even so, it can be very painful.
— Some scenes in the book look like constellations, therapeutic practices, catharses. Was this a conscious transference of your professional experience onto the page, or did the text itself pull out what you hadn’t yet realized? — I didn’t set out to do it deliberately. More often it was the text that pulled it out of me. As it turned out, the text knows me better than I know myself.
— Are there characters in whom the fates of several real people have merged? Or did you deliberately separate them: “this is my character, and that is a patient”? — Yes, such characters exist. Sometimes in one character I combined the destinies and experiences of several real people like patients, colleagues, acquaintances. This allowed me to create a more multi-dimensional, living image. But I always avoided complete overlap with any one person, to preserve ethical distance and respect for real stories.
On Writing — What is the most difficult thing for you in writing? — While working in psychiatry, I managed many things: a department, an outpatient service, expert evaluations. And honestly, that was easier than managing myself. Because in writing there’s no one else — you are the only executor. And at times you are undisciplined, lazy, inclined to slack off. So the hardest thing in writing, for me, is self-organization.
— Working as a psychiatrist means thousands of human stories. How do you decide which of them becomes literary? — With difficulty. You want to take more, but you can’t overload the story. At first you spend time and emotion writing everything that seems interesting. Then you cut, keeping only those characters who will carry the narrative through to the end. From what didn’t make it into this book, I think I could easily write another novel. So sometimes I toy with the idea of a new “psychiatric” plot.
— Is writing therapy or self-destruction? What do you feel when you write? — Both. While others defend themselves against pain, you strive to strip it bare. It may not even be your trauma, but you will draw from yourself, from every vein, every cell, whatever resonates even slightly. It is painful, and somewhat against the instinct of self-preservation. But in the end, it becomes therapy.
— Do you use AI in your writing? — Embarrassing to admit, but when I wrote this book, AI didn’t exist for me yet. I only discovered it this year. So far it hasn’t been of much help. Maybe for proofreading. Or maybe I just don’t know how to use it fully. Still, it would be wonderful to have a literary slave, wouldn’t it? Then I’d have written piles of books! There are plenty of ideas, just not enough time.
— What would you advise someone who feels a text inside them, but is afraid to begin? — If you are afraid, maybe you shouldn’t start. Writing is not about a vague feeling of a text, but when it no longer fits inside you, when it demands to be written.
— Your advice for those who have already begun to write their books? — The only advice that helped me when writing this book came from Stephen King. He said: “If you want to write a book, don’t aim to write a perfect book.” That’s the advice I’d pass on.
Kemen Baizharassova is a writer, psychiatrist, and psychotherapist. Her decades of work with people in their most vulnerable states now find their way into her books. In 2025, Foliant Publishing released her novel In Anticipation of Kairos.
Review of the book by Artem Urazimbetov “Demons within us”
Why does the modern world continue to be fascinated by myths and legends?
The reasons are abundant. Humanity has always been curious about the world around it. The simple act of satisfying curiosity, combined with the development of imagination, has given rise to myths and legends since ancient times. Stepping away from reality, escaping the mundane routine, and sharing something astonishing or even terrifying, recounting wise life lessons that can be useful — isn’t this what every society seeks, in any era?
Establishing social bonds and fostering communication are vital. Preserving cultural identity and passing down heritage to new generations is crucial. Remembering and transmitting the myths and legends of one’s people can offer guidance in modern challenges or provide direct answers to questions like: how to move forward, handle problems, and overcome difficulties.
Legends are a special way to connect with the culture and everyday life of ancestors, to feel and understand how their lives unfolded.
Many will readily recall Norse myths about gods of Asgard, such as Odin, Thor, and Loki. They might remember Egyptian myths about Osiris, Isis, and Horus, where Osiris, the god of the afterlife, was murdered by his brother Set, only to be resurrected by his wife Isis who gathered his body parts. Memory also recalls Greek myths: Prometheus stealing fire from the gods to gift humans, or Hercules completing twelve labors to atone for his sins.
I want to share my impressions of the book “Demons Within Us” by Kazakhstani author Artem Urazimbetov. This collection of mystical fantasy stories, inspired by Kazakh and Turkic myths and legends, reflects the internal conflicts of contemporary society.
Twelve interconnected stories, centered around recurring main characters who serve as guides from past to present, draw readers in and evoke a nostalgic, even fearsome, childhood anticipation of the unknown and mysterious.
Congratulations to the author — he truly struck “gold”. Artem’s genre-blending work of folk fantasy, thriller, and mysticism succeeds brilliantly. Kazakh folklore continues to be passed down orally, with significant regional variations and additions. The thriller genre evokes feelings of suspense, anxiety, or even horror. Mysticism — the belief in supernatural forces and human communication with unseen, sacred energies — is also vividly present.
The masterful combination of all three elements — folklore, thriller, and mysticism — in a single book is a rare achievement. Such literature for modern Kazakh readers remains scarce, and translations into other languages are even rarer. Yet, the world holds many surprises. Kazakh legends are full of wind and freedom; even bloodthirsty Zheztyrnak — a vampire-like demon — wears silver jewelry, doesn’t melt in sunlight, and isn’t afraid of an alder stake.
Artem carefully researched Kazakh folklore, gathering fascinating materials, historical references, and old texts from libraries. His target audience — teens and older — will enjoy the book’s illustrations, inspired by Kazakh anime style.
The key characters shaping the book’s context are not only mythic heroes but also wise guides like Yeraly-ata the huntsman, who collects steppe legends, and his daring, curious grandson Arman, only thirteen but fearless and eager. By chance, Arman, visiting his grandfather from the city, spends twelve days in a remote steppe settlement. Every day with Yeraly-ata becomes an eye-opening adventure, full of stories and lessons, offering a new perspective on the often harsh world.
The main idea is to introduce readers to the multifaceted and dynamic supernatural world of the Great Steppe. What are demons of the steppes like? Where did they come from among nomadic peoples, and how can a modern city boy accept this strange world?
The book invites readers to draw parallels between imagination and reality, reflecting the inner demons we all carry within.
It turns out demons aren’t so frightening — knowledge about them, combined with caution, is key. Yeraly-ata’s grandson Arman learns that the origin of a demon’s rebirth is rooted in profound maternal grief for lost children. The crushed and betrayed Aisulu, who lost everything she loved, turns into Zheztyrnak — a bloodthirsty demon of evil.
Who is this Zheztyrnak? The word translates literally from Kazakh as “copper claw.” It embodies a young woman with a gentle half-smile who can suddenly transform into a vicious, fanged demon.
Aisulu, the heroine of the first story, embodies themes of inner conflict and self-awareness. Her character exemplifies how evil-powerful, mesmerizing — can tear victims apart with copper claws and avenge itself with brutal cruelty. The bloodcurdling details send shivers down the spine. Yet, ultimately, a strange compassion emerges for this maiden of the steppe, who conceals her deadly claws beneath a silk garment. Why does this feeling of pity arise? Possibly, it’s a reflection of the deep insight woven through Artem’s story, helping us to understand how our inner demons shape our perception of ourselves and the world around us.
The next story features screeching owls. Here, mysticism merges with the Kazakh tradition of cherishing grateful feathered friends. According to legend, owls remember the past and foresee the future. They can even distract demons like Konayak from their victims. This introduces a new demon-character — Konayak, meaning “thong-legged.” Visually, it is depicted as a being with long straps or strong tails instead of legs.
Each new day in the book presents a fresh story, narrated by a grandfather about a magical jade stone and a shaman filled with fascinating details of Kazakh life in the steppe. For example, how, in ancient times, a blacksmith performed the initiation ritual of Zhylan Aiys (“Snake Skin”) for a four-year-old boy — determining whether he would become a true hero. Or how the azure jade helped a shaman to prevail in a perilous fight and summon a life-saving rain.
The enchanting legend of four swans fills the reader’s soul with trembling love and a touch of bewilderment — because “God punishes people and rewards them through their children”. But not every parent can see with their heart.
In Yeraly-ata’s story about the daughter of wolves, there’s a heavy realization that wolves, at times, are better than humans. “Humans are far more dangerous. They commit evil intentionally. A kind soul can recognize sin and prevent it. Betrayal is a grave sin. It eats away at the soul from within”. These are the demons inside us!
And only love can produce true miracles. The legend of the Snake Lord proves this. The daughter of the underworld Lord — Bapy-Khan, a green snake, and a herdsman face death and trials but ultimately find each other. Love for parents and a beloved can restore human life.
Artem Urazimbetov masterfully shifts from one image to another — from the underworld to the cosmos. The reader learns that Kazakh folklore contains beautiful legends about celestial bodies. The celestial nomad watches over the Great Steppe, inspiring wondrous tales worthy of more than just this one book, “Demons Within Us”.
The author stirs the reader like a boat on a turbulent stream. Turning the page, we descend from the heavens to the earthly realm. We discover a new demonic female character — the Black Albasty. A terrifying story about how Albasty hunts for the souls of newborns and how a loyal dog defeats her in a fierce battle for a child’s life. The victory of the Shilten (the dog) over the demon shows that love and support from loved ones can overcome darkness. Here lies the inner conflict of life — how many unseen, greedy, malicious spirits can infiltrate a home and greedily destroy the delicate sprouts of new life?
How does new life appear? Each culture has its legend. It turns out, a bright spark is blown down from the Baiterek tree by the wind, accompanied by the goddess Umay, and a new human soul is placed into a body. Nine months later, a blessed child is born.
In “Demons Within Us”, you can learn how to appease the rain spirit Burkut-ata and choose the right pattern for weaving him a gift carpet. Patterns can be like messages — written in the fabric. We are also introduced to Yuvha, a beautiful girl-witch living by the lake, who calls young warriors with her singing. She might marry one and, after forty-nine days, devour her husband.
Can pride be considered a sin too difficult for even the Sun to resist? The reader can find an answer: “Don’t let pride take over you,” a simple but profound guideline.
In the final, twelfth story, Yeraly-ata, knowing he might never see his grandson again, introduces him to the Tasbal stone, where the soul of a hero resides. “From the Danube to Irtysh lies the endless Great Steppe. It sheltered many peoples, embraced diverse cultures, and absorbed the blood of conquerors. Nomads came and went, but freedom was never traded for gold or power. And this — is Tasbal. Our ancestor, the guardian of the steppe. His soul now lives within this stone”.
Most myths and legends reflect authentic stories, woven with human imagination and speculation — blending customs, traditions, and history. Nightmares become captivating, charming stories with a distinctive national flavor. The Great Steppe reveals itself anew, painted with unexpected colors. Through this literature, one can approach the culture and daily life of ancestors, to see and feel how they lived, and deepen self-understanding.
Artem Urazimbetov’s book is especially relevant today, in a society where stress and emotional strain are commonplace. Recognizing and working through internal conflicts is increasingly essential for mental health and personal growth.
The author explores complex, multifaceted aspects of human behavior, highlighting how unresolved inner conflicts can influence our actions, relationships, and worldview. The mythology of Kazakhstan serves as a mirror, reflecting the psychological landscape of modern society. The issues raised in “Demons Within Us” emphasize how internal demons — hidden fears, guilt, rage — can shape our lives and perceptions. As the saying goes, “The more kindness in a person, the richer their life. Life is just, and it has countless eyes that watch over our deeds.
Artem Urazimbetov is a novelist and screenwriter. Born and living in Almaty, has degrees as a systems engineer and a lawyer. Graduated from two courses of dramaturgy at the Open Literary School of Almaty (OLSHA). Writes prose in the genres of folklore fantasy, thrillers, and mystical fiction.
Lyudmila Lazareva is an author of science fiction, a member of the Union of Writers of Kazakhstan, and the editor-in-chief of the “Literary Almaty” almanac. Recognized as a laureate in several international literary competitions and has published eight books. A poet and prose writer, she favors genres such as children’s literature, science fiction and adventure, fantasy, and horror in her creative pursuits.
Outside of the Kazakh State Circus with the Aquarelle Circus Banner, Brett Brzycki. 2025.
The lights dim, and the platform lowers to reveal a pool underneath. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to watch the Moscow Circus’s Aquarelle Circus, under the Kazakh State Circus dome in Almaty, Kazakhstan. Aquarelle means painting with watercolor, and directors Karin and Arthur Bagdasarov used a large fountain set to splash color onto the scene. Throughout the circus, platforms on the stage would lower to reveal water underneath, and waters jets that erupted to capture the scattered spotlights.
The Aquarelle Circus began with a solo act; a woman showed her incredible balance and flexibility by twisting in many unbelievable positions on a tiny platform in the middle of the stage. Water sprang into the blue light, a flower shaped curtain around the gymnast. The next few acts showed acrobatic ability, with a beautiful scene of a man sitting on a swing, reading a book, and then in a dream-like sequence, being carried to great heights as the swing was pulled high into the air. Again, water burst high, framing the dance, and the man began to balance on one hand as the swing twirled and the water sprayed. Everyone in the audience held their breath as he was pulled higher and higher.
Water lines the stage for circus routines. Brett Brzycki, 2025.
There was an interesting contrast between the story being told with the water and colored lights that surrounded dances and acrobatic feats, as well as the more bright and playful acts. Although most of the audience were children, there still was a mature, awe-filled response from the adults in the audience to the dances painted in lights and fountain. Of course, not just water and spotlights colored the circus, but also the emotional and energetic music that set the mood for many of the dances.
Of course, there were breaks from the main watercolor theme: a dog training act was bright and playful, and delighted cheers from children echoed around the dome as dogs ran after each other, jumped through hoops, and disobeyed their trainer.
A clown also helped distract between each stage change, and his “hoo-hah!”s and Charlie Chaplin-esque slapstick routine was followed by many giggles. There even was a big beach ball tossed into the audience to distance from the stage members, the secret heroes of the performance. Like ninjas, the stage members helped to quickly change sets or provide equipment to the circus actors and acrobats. One stage member even helped to turn a dog that got confused back around to its trainer! During the main intermission, circus stage members set up a rope net around the set, foreshadowing the main event: tigers.
Firstly, the Bagdasarov’s played a tango scene in the middle of a checkered floor set that reminded me of a quintessential American diner. Their dance was emotional and powerful, and the red outfits they wore were striking in their boldness. There was a classically romantic charge to the dance—one that certainly set the scene for what was next.
Slinking out of a wooden tunnel, the majestic, sobering presence of the Siberian tigers definitively changed the mood. I was shocked how many tigers were emerging from the depths of the stage. It seemed like an endless train of these huge cats. They were quickly delegated positions around the platform by the two tamers, who were armed with long, black crops.
Tiger jumping through flaming hoops, Brett Brzycki, 2025.
Once seven tigers were lounging along the edge of the stage, tango music, fierce and serious, played in the stunned silence of the audience. There was a sequence of acts, with tigers pouncing through flaming hoops and rearing in a circle to show their fangs and claws. Everyone in the audience held a mix of awe and fear, and you certainly could feel the barely restrained power of the tigers.
As the act continued, I could really sense that the tigers were not completely trained, and still harbored their wild instincts. The rule of the crops was extremely present, and while many tigers initially growled at the tamers, snaps to the face and behinds sent them obediently to their assigned positions, and visible marks on their faces showed the results of this sort of abusive training. They still rebelled, however: I saw a tiger stop to defecate on stage, and another simply go back ot lounging instead of joining the circle of rearing tigers. The tamers also pranced back nervously when some tigers took longer to follow directions, and the hurried tossing of small pieces of meat was incriminating to the power and ability of the tigers to change the course of the Circus story just as quickly as a set change.
The Bagdasarov’s celebrate their conquest of the tigers with their crops in hand. Brett Brzycki, 2025.
Luckily, there were no mishaps to this act, and the end of the circus came quickly, with a wonderful act of a solo acrobat spinning with beautiful grace in the fountains lit in blue. The moment was absolutely beautiful and stunning. This was my favorite act, because it held so much energy and passion, and interplayed with the surge of the fountains at the height of the music and the flying dance.
My favorite act shining in royal purple in a majestic aerial dance. Brett Brzycki, 2025.
The Aquarelle Circus certainly played up to its name, and the creative use of the fountains and spotlights among incredibly stunning, awesome dances and acrobatic feats developed a beautiful story of an interplay between the fountains and the circus members with a gorgeous act of a circus acrobat spinning in the fountains, soaking up the colors from the water itself. However, archaic elements of tiger taming were unsettling and saddening to the modern viewer, and did not hold as much beauty as the human feats of flexibility, agility, strength, and magnificent dances.
Brett Brzycki is sophomore student at Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota, USA. A Biology major, he loves to explore historical sites and learn more about food, sports, and the ways that people interact with living cultural texts. He also loves to bake, fish, and has recently taken up golfing.
“Demons Within Us” is not merely a folklore-mythological collection of stories, but a comprehensive steppe neo-encyclopedia of evil, pain, transformation and strength. The author meticulously collects and reframes terrifying tales, giving them the sharpness of contemporary prose, while preserving the cadence of archaic breathing. This is not a horror for horror’s sake but a reconstruction of folk memory: the voice of the dead, charmed by goutweed, the scent of burnt wool, a tale of pain too deep to be erased by time.
Artem Urazimbetov is a writer, screenwriter and researcher of Kazakh mythology. His work resides at the crossroads of folklore, documentary, and literary fiction. His style is like smoke rising from a steppe fire: it draws you in, envelops you, but carries a spark of purification deep within. Artem meticulously works with Kazakh archetypes, and “Demons Within Us” stands as a vivid testament: a book-shifter, where evil is not always evil, and where the human is not always human.
Perfume of the Book: Its Fragrance and Symbols
Each story bears its own scent:
“Zheztyrnak” smells like the ashes of mother’s love. The scent of burnt wormwood, smoked copper, rusted blood and damp earth, which the clawed Aisulu clung to sobbing. This scent cuts, tickles the nostrils and stays in the hair, like smoke from a fire that burns souls.
“Konayak” evokes the scent of forest bedding warmed by fear. Leaves, moss, overripe blackberries and a musty sack of skin. The note of horror here is resinous, woody, astringent, like a death approaching step by step.
“Albasty” smells like pink flowers that no longer bloom. The scent of a passing storm, raindrops on saffron and herbs that will no longer grow in the same place. Sweetish-green, almost hypnotic, this scent – is an illusion of safety before the impossible happens.
“Totems and Tasbals” are fragrant of damp wood, blood soaked into the bark, resin, frankincense left on altar. It is the scent of prayer on scorched earth. Tart and deep, like the underground moan of ancestors.
“Aisulu” bears the scent of torn skin of time itself. The aroma of maternal madness: smoked velvet, black tar, pepper absorbed into hairs, and salt from a torn throat. Here, the bitter honey of dead children merges with the warm belly of a she-wolf that arrived too late. The smell is so vivid that it cuts the heart and evokes tears, regardless of whether you know whom you mourn.
“Screeching Owls” smell like a dense forest that remembers kindness. The scent of old wood, dusty wings, night air taut as a stretched string. A faint smoky note, chalk dust and a yellow watchful eye. Wet stones, resinous leather and a feather that smells of time. This scent is like a message: silent until you are ready to hear.
“Jada” smells of fragile destiny. The stone imbued with shamanic prayer, releasing the aroma of rare greenery, meadow herbs tea, smoked milk and scorched sand. It is a warm, masculine scent of a great journey woven with the breath of gods. It is like an artifact that no longer wears on the skin but inwardly bears you.
“Zhai” (the dog) bears the scent of wool pierced by lightning. Smoke, animal musk, prairie wind, spilled milk, and a copper tear rolling down the nose. The aroma of devotion that greets you first when returning to a homeland no longer waiting. It smells like a house that no longer exists, but the memory still guards its threshold.
“Arman” (the boy) carries the scent of a child’s resolute refusal to fear. The aroma of hot flatbreads, warm thyme tea, books opened at night, and a subtle shimmer of fear tucked beneath a pillow. A chord of kerosene, steppe dust, and Zhai’s wool break through it. The aroma is like a hope still within reach.
Overall aroma of the Book
This is the perfume of tragedy and retribution, complex and rich. Wormwood, smoke, copper, vetiver, raw tree roots and a dash of black pepper craft the scent of folklore felt not with the mind but with the gut. It’s the scent of the steppe wounded deep. When a woman-demon weeps. When jackals are silent. It is the scent of a frightened memory that you want to cuddle up to, like on the chest of a dead mother.
Emotional Impact
The gait of the Book is the step of a barefoot woman on the coals of her own fate. Each story is an olfactory chord: the bitterness of loneliness, the hypnotic honey of tragedy, the musk of helplessness and the amber longing for impossible forgiveness.
Reading of “Demons Within Us” is an inhaling of steppe spirits where groans and ashes live, and, strangely enough – the light. Light, dim, but still flickering in the scent of sacrifice and love. It shines through in Aisulu’s “human” gaze, in an owl feather, in the reflection of fire, which did not destroy, but illuminated.
Final aftertaste
“Demons Within Us” is a fragrant voyage where the bitterness of pain intertwines with the balm of loyalty, the intoxication of battle with a floral note of reconciliation, and the smoke of burnt fires with minty hope.
It is not merely a book to read, it is a perfume you apply to the skin of your soul. For those with a sensitive nose, it offers the chance to breathe in legends and recognize your own fears woven into them. Its scent is indelible like a claw mark etched into the heart.
When I read «Demons Within Us», I do not just turn pages. I peer into an invisible storyboard of an invisible movie – a poetic film where each scene is a bodily memory of the steppe, and every character is an archetype brought to life in the dense darkness of our collective trauma.
As a writer, I sense in Artem’s book a disciplined mythopoetics. He does not invent, he restores the folklore code, tunes the tone of horror, does not stylize, but listens. His texts are more than literature — they are the oral breath of ancestors. His language is not glossy plot but a wound that no longer aches because it has become ritual.
As a filmmaker, I see this as a ready-made series, a trilogy, perhaps even an epic—where each demon represents a symbol, a conflict, a bitter parable. Zheztyrnak is not just a monster; it’s a mother betrayed and lost. She embodies the collective archetype of a woman betrayed not only by humans but also by gods. Aisulu could stand next to Medea, Lilith, Hayeka, but she remains on the edge of the steppe, in an ultramarine dress – forever on the edge.
As a director, I imagine the scent of each scene: the groan of the wooden floor in a Mergen house, the pounding heart of a boy, the howling wind between dialogues. This is cinema where atmosphere reigns—sound and silence as alive as blood and moonlight. Visually, I see not a colored film but a steppe noir — bloodstained watercolor sketches, silhouettes cut sharply like with a knife.
This is more than a book about demons. It is an altar of loss and the primal fear of experiencing it. A chronicle of unshakable guilt and irreversible transformation. It is the Kazakh “Pantheon of Fallen Heroines” — a profoundly relevant reflection for the 21st century, where every demon resides within, not outside.
Artem Urazimbetov is a novelist and screenwriter. Born and living in Almaty, has degrees as a systems engineer and a lawyer. Graduated from two courses of dramaturgy at the Open Literary School of Almaty (OLSHA). Writes prose in the genres of folklore fantasy, thrillers, and mystical fiction.
Xandra Silantye is a writer, perfumer, screenwriter, composer, poet, singer. The author of fiction and nonfiction books, psychic projects, and the founder of the Perfume House «Silantye» and the first domestic brand of cosmeceuticals «Eyva».
The Almaty Writing Residency has announced an open call for its new season. In 2025, the focus shifts toward theatre: organizers are looking for playwrights, performance writers, and creators of new stage forms. The central theme is “Kazakhstani Dramaturgy in a Global Context.”
Over the past four years, Almaty Writing Residency has established itself as one of the country’s leading platforms for literary discussion. What makes the project unique is its focus on contemporary literature, contemporary issues, and conversations held in three languages: Kazakh, Russian, and English.
Each year, six authors from across Kazakhstan gather in Almaty for a week of intense creative work, including roundtable discussions, closed workshops, and open talks with guest speakers. All their free time is also spent together—in conversation. While previous seasons focused on poets, prose writers, and children’s authors, this year’s spotlight is on playwrights and innovators in theatrical storytelling.
The guest of the 2025 residency will be American playwright and University of Iowa professor Lisa Schlesinger. The jury panel reflects the residency’s high standards: it includes directors Galina Pyanova and Natasha Dubs from ARTiSHOK and the Republican Academic German Drama Theatre, Amangeldy Mukan, curator of the “Drama.KZ” festival, and literary scholar Ainur Toleu.
This year’s residency aims to raise pressing questions: — Why is contemporary Kazakhstani theatre uninterested in contemporary local plays—and how can that be changed? — Is Kazakh-language and Russian-language theatre in Kazakhstan a split reality for different audiences—or a shared platform to explore common issues? — And who is the modern hero in Kazakhstani plays?
Applications are open until August 20. More details about the residency and application process can be found on the official website.
Almaty Writing Residency is an international project by the Open Literary School of Almaty (OLSHA) named after Olga Markova and the American International Writing Program (IWP), supported by the U.S. Diplomatic Mission in Kazakhstan and Chevron.
The second review by Carleton College students on their trip into Kazakhstan’s culture.
The Illustrated Guide to the Meanings of Almaty does not simply create a map of Almaty’s most important sites, it creates a mosaic, with each story illustrating a piece of the history and culture that makes Almaty a city unlike any other. Simply walking down the street, looking at the buildings is not enough to understand the fascinating history of this city. Delivered to readers in the form of a collection of 38 stories, poems, and essays by various authors, the Illustrated Guide to the Meanings of Almaty allows you to see Almaty through a whole different lens. It is not simply a guidebook, but a love letter to the city of Almaty and all its quirks. Every building, street and park has its own unique history.
Reading the book as someone who has only been in Almaty for a few weeks, I was surprised with how many sites I was able to recognize, and how much I could relate to the contents and messages of the stories. The diversity of the stories and points of view balance out, making sure the book is not just an unchallenged adulation of the city, with many of the stories providing respectful critiques of various aspects of the city and culture. The various anecdotes in the book will make you think “hmm I haven’t thought about that before” or “wow I never knew the reason this building or street was called this”.
One story that stuck with me was “Restoration of the Soul” by Lilya Kalaus, which describes the author’s daily walks past the Ascension Cathedral, a wooden Russian Orthodox cathedral, built in 1907, that is located in Panfilov Park. Painted in soft pastels and topped with colorful domes, the cathedral stands out against the trees around it. Built entirely without nails, it’s not only an architectural feat but a deeply symbolic structure that has witnessed over a century of Almaty’s transformations. One of the most recognizable buildings in the city, by this point in my trip, I have seen the Ascension Cathedral many times. I already knew about its past as a museum (thanks to Yury Dombrovsky’s Keeper of the Antiquities), but Kalaus’s revelation that the cathedral once also served as a concert hall allowed me to see the building in a different light once again.
One memorable line that stuck with me was after Kalaus described the renovations done to the cathedral, she described her reaction as “glad that they had renewed its clothes, upset that it looked like it came from someone else’s shoulder.” The cathedral has been renovated, but its new design doesn’t fit the soul of the building. Its weathered, lived-in, authentic appearance was what made it such an important landmark of memory — it’s what gave it character. The renovations made it too clean, stylish, and inauthentic. For many Almaty residents, reading the poem may recall memories of their childhood and seeing the changes made to the cathedral with their own eyes. The cathedral is a symbol of youth, growing up and changing. For the people who have spent a lot of time in Panfilov Park, walking around the cathedral, the poem is a nostalgic reminder of times past. For tourists and non-natives, the poem gives important insight into the history of one of the most recognizable buildings in the city.
Illustration from Restoration of the Soul by Lilya Kalaus, «Knigolyub» Publishing, 2017
In Pavel Bannikov’s “Beloved Mordor”, Almaty is transformed into an ironic fantasyland. Fans of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings will recognize Mordor as the fictional continent in Middle Earth. The name Mordor is a humorous take on Almaty’s infamous smog and unpredictable weather. Despite the bleak imagery created by Bannikov’s descriptions, his love and affection for Almaty are clear.
The name of the story itself, “Beloved Mordor” makes it clear that Almaty is beloved by its residents irrespective of its flaws. The city and its imperfections are embraced and appreciated by the local population. The illustration of Bannikov’s poem is also revealing. The Esentai Tower, which houses the Ritz Carlton Hotel, is drawn as the Eye of Sauron. In Tolkien’s world, the Eye served as a physical manifestation of the imminent threat of Sauron, an evil being who seeks to rule the whole of Middle Earth.
Built in 2013, it’s one of the tallest buildings in Central Asia. With its sleek glass façade and imposing height, it rises far above the Soviet-era apartment blocks that line the streets of the rest of the city. For most residents of the city, the tower serves as both a symbol of aspiration and, at times, alienation — glossy ambition contrasted with the grounded reality of daily Almaty.
Its presence is impossible to ignore. Towering over the surrounding buildings, the Esentai Tower dominates the skyline. Living five minutes walking distance from the tower, I’ve come to rely on it almost subconsciously as a beacon guiding me home. I pass it everyday on my walk to class, and, just like the mountains behind it, the tower is an ever-present sight in the background of most of my pictures of Almaty.
While the illustration is playful, it also paints a critical picture of the tower, as a symbol of surveillance, wealth and Westernization. The drawing light-hearted pokes fun at the grandiose and extravagance of the tower as unnecessary and out-of-place.
Photograph by Anya Steigbigel
These stories are just two of the many that make up this book. Residents of Almaty and people who have already explored the city will appreciate the anecdotes and illustrations that adorn its pages. People who have not seen the sites, and who have less understanding of the city and its quirks may not derive as much enjoyment from the book, as many of its references are more niche and require at least some familiarity with the city. People who have not seen the domineering Esentai Tower in person may not gain a full appreciation for the humor and irony in Bannikov’s story. People who have not seen the Ascension Cathedral in person or who are unfamiliar with its history might not appreciate Kalaus’s perspective as much as I did.
With that said, the Illustrated Guide to the Meanings of Almaty successfully paints a new and unique picture of Almaty that all cultural and literary enthusiasts–regardless of whether they have ever even heard of Almaty or not–can enjoy.
Anya Steigbigel is a rising junior at Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota, USA, where she is majoring in Russian. She spent two months in Almaty, Kazakhstan, studying Central Asian history, culture, and the Russian language.
The first in a series of publications written by Carleton College students during their visit to Kazakhstan.
In today’s world, sometimes it is easier to stare at our screens rather than engage with reality. Whereas our short-form videos and TV shows always have happy endings, the real world can be unforgiving and cruel. Is it actually the right choice to block out everything that scares us? Evgeniy Drachukov’s new experimental play “Народное сообщение” or “The People’s Message” performed by Art-shelter BUNKER explores this theme in depth using song, dance, and dialog. Written as a response to the Russian play “Русская народная почта” or “Russian People’s Post” by Oleg Bokaev, Drachukov engages with some of the same themes and motifs as Bogaev. Like the title suggests, this performance has a practical take-home message for its audience which is only discoverable by watching the main character navigate his daily life until the end of the play.
In “The People’s Message,” Marat Ivanovich has no family or friends, only 4 bedbugs who relentlessly taunt him by scurrying around his apartment. When Marat begins to lose touch with reality while watching TV for hours on end, he must decide whether he wants to continue to stare at the box or finally look out the window towards the light.
I really wanted to find a window when I first entered Art-shelter BUNKER because it is, in fact, a converted bomb shelter without any sort of natural light, completed by cold damp air that made me happy to have my jacket. Art-shelter BUNKER is the first theater ever located in a bomb shelter, and they really leaned into the apocalyptic aspect that accompanies being in that kind of space. Street art-style paintings of martians in gas masks decorate the walls. I was especially impressed by the heavy steel doors that would definitely keep out zombies and possibly radioactive material. Considering the unique location and extraordinary decor, I knew right away that I was in for an experimental and exciting treat when I took my front row seat.
Photo caption: Is this the Martian version of Dororthy from Wizard of Oz?
I was most struck by how much emotion and action Marat Ivanovich and the bedbugs could pack into the 1 hour and 20 minute performance using such minimal props. The stage only had 5 or 6 yellow stools, a large yellow crate, and several huge white sheets. Each prop had at least two uses: for example, the white sheets could be a letter from Queen Elizabeth II or a bedbug’s (Ksenia Drachukova’s) skirt! The large yellow crate doubled as the television set and a dinner table. Using such a small number of props, having almost no costume changes, and relying upon each actor to make it clear what each physical object had become showed a level of creativity and organization I have never seen before. Choreographer Anastasia Aristova is to thank for the well-timed stunts that the bedbugs constantly perform.
Photo caption: Behold! The entirety of the props used by Marat and the bedbugs
As an American college student who has only studied Russian for about 2.5 years, I will be the first to admit that I didn’t fully comprehend everything that was being said in “The People’s Message.” In order to have the effect of overstimulation that Marat constantly feels, the play moves quickly at various volumes with rock music, stomping, and cheering, which sometimes made it hard for me to follow the dialog. While I definitely missed out and misunderstood some things (for example, why did the bedbug named Volodya (Alexander Khozhenets) come out once only wearing underwear?!), I was nevertheless able to understand the plot and message because of the dramatic physical acting each character does. Ilya Nazarov, the talented actor who played Marat Ivanovich, readily shows his descent into madness using physical gestures, like gleefully wrapping himself with a scarf like a king while looking into a white-sheet-turned-mirror. The bedbugs, namely Dariga (Sofya Nekrasova) and the Martian (Tatyana Lashina), display their boredom by playing catch with imaginary balls and swinging from the rafters using white sheets. I was enchanted by Art-shelter BUNKER’s very own bed bug Queen Elizabeth II played by Ksenia Drachukova. The bedbugs never sit still even when Marat monologues to the audience, which allows the audience to feel some of what Marat feels as his mental state deteriorates.
Knowing that Drachukov’s “The People’s Message” directly responds to the Russian play “Русская народная почта” or “Russian People’s Post” by Oleg Bokaev, I was on the lookout for various hints at their connection. Marat’s patronymic “Ivanovich” appears to be an ode to Ivan Sidorovich, the main character of Bokaev’s play. Both playwrights show their main character dealing with their loneliness by writing/reading fake letters addressed from famous people like Queen Elizabeth II. The bed bugs, it seems, are also rowdy and torment Ivan in “The Russian People’s Post”. In other ways, however, “The People’s Message” puts a Kazakhstani twist on the Russian play. In some of the TV programs that Marat cannot tear his eyes away from, we hear short snippets of contemporary Kazakhstani politics and culture, like presidential announcements from Nazarbayev and what I understood as Kazakh cooking recipes. The name Marat is a popular Kazakh male name meaning “purpose,” which is ironic considering that Marat lacks purpose when he only watches TV all day.
While I would spoil the ending of the play if I explained whether Marat chooses to continue to stare at the box or to look out the window towards the light, I personally felt more inclined to look out the window once I exited the theatre. Firstly, I missed natural moonlight as I sat in the dark windowless bomb shelter. Secondly, I received “The People’s Message” that experiencing real life is worth overcoming life’s uncertainties. Marat is afraid to leave his apartment because he prefers the predictability and comfort that TV brings, but as a result of his choice to stay inside, he becomes delusional and lonely. While I don’t have any bedbugs-friends who constantly tease me, I sympathize with Marat’s situation because I also tend to be fearful. Seeing him suffer as he rots in his apartment made me realize that I also suffer if I allow myself to stare at the box instead of going out into the world. “The People’s Message” by Evgeniy Drachukov was an excellent reminder to put aside my fear and trust that there is good to be found in the world if only I am brave enough to search for it.
Lexi Wallace is a rising senior at Carleton College in Northfield, Minnesota, USA, where she is double-majoring in Russian and Sociology/Anthropology. She spent 10 weeks traveling Central Asia with her study abroad group. The most important thing she learned while traveling is to pay attention to the children: they are the best cultural ambassadors!
Interview with the Director Sasha Shegai. Originally published in Aina magazine, translated by Hope Nicholson.
It is interesting to observe how art is currently flourishing in Kazakhstan. It is even more interesting to watch how these projects are being accomplished by women.
In this instalment of Aina Journal, we discuss theatre and documentary cinema. I really wanted to interview the director Sasha Shegai. Sasha and her friends are working on a documentary film, as well as an inclusive theatre for the elderly.
We met for the first time in real life to speak a little about her thoughts and about women in the arts.
Sasha, please tell us how this all began.
I had a crisis because for a very long time, I had suppressed my desire to film my own projects. I thought that someone should come to me from above and say “you can”, “you have the right to do this”. After the next existential crisis, I began to speak to my friends and we started to make a film about a theatre in an old people’s home. We decided to run acting courses inside and to see how it would all work out. In the end, the two projects diverged. A separate inclusive theatre for elderly actors was born.
The director Ekaterina Dzvonik worked with very cool and inclusive methods — all her principles were built on the basis of not giving actors specific tasks. For a few months, the troupe simply improvised. They saw what they were and weren’t capable of and in what way. We arrived at the idea that it could be a play based on The Little Prince. At that time, all the actors and actresses were on average between the ages of 72 and 86 and because between them, they embodied typical fairytale archetypes, it was easier for them to act and to get inside the roles. Of course, each of them had their own background.
The debut show inside the old people’s home went really well because rather than working on the result, everyone was trying to enjoy the process itself. The actors had a sense of their own subjectivity, of their importance. They aren’t simply mass entertainers like you find in large institutions where someone gathers them up, tells them what to do, and they learn the lines. No. It was important that they felt what they could do. No one told them what they should ideally do. And they did it.
A few of the set decorations were made by Madi Omarov (aged 84), a self-taught artist and resident of the Shannyrak social services centre (an old people’s home). He has a cool collage method. He draws something, then he rips up his photographs or something out of a magazine, gathers flowers, and sticks it all onto his drawings. It’s really very cool. This man sees differently and we were, and are still, very proud of how it all ended up. When we first arrived, even the residents of the home said: “You will try to communicate with them and they won’t study the text or do anything”. And look.
Did you start to film straight away?
Yes, but during the process, the idea drastically changed. In the end, the documentary film revolved around one main heroine, Vera Grigorevna. However, Vera Grigorevna was the first to tell me that we were only capturing the bad moments, and we needed to film in such a way that people would envy her. I told her that we can all imagine that people are getting in our way. I started to develop this idea and I said to her directly, remember what you like, what remains in your heart, and we can simply rework this as an alternative ending for the film.
How long have you been working on the project?
Three years.
You have raised a very important theme, which young people rarely think about with their futures far ahead of them. Do you have any plans to develop theatres in other old people’s homes?
We would really like to develop it in other homes, but for now, we need to finish off this particular theatre. We have prepared for this debut show for practically a year. We have spent our own money on sewing the costumes and decorations and so on. Now we are looking for financial support, firstly, to renew the acting courses for the residents and secondly, to stage the debut performance in the city.
I understood that liberation from the fear of aging can be found in elderly people’s transcendence of the boundaries of traditional stereotypes. They are still young at heart. We really want to resurrect the theatre. Our actors are different, they are active. The whole conception of this story from the old people’s home worked because women reflected on elderly women. In traditional stereotypes, they are only presented as mothers or grandmothers, lacking any subjectivity. Through our project, we reflect on and ask questions about who women are at the end of their lives, separate from the role imposed on them by society. A person lives a whole life and can have a family and a career. But who does a woman remain at the finale and is it important after you have reached eighty? I couldn’t answer this question by myself. In the home there are women who do not look for reflections of themselves in their surroundings. This is their finale.
This theme triggered and still triggers me. So, I arrived at the old people’s home to find an answer. I arrived there and it was buzzing with life. Everyone can have their own path and choices. The most important thing is to never apologise.
I started to catch myself asking what makes a happy finale, what is spiritual happiness? Inside, you start to devalue yourself — you’re satisfied, you aren’t hungry. But a person needs more than just to eat and sleep. This is very visible in an old people’s home. There are good living conditions, but all the same, a bother remains. All the same, a human needs another human, needs contact. They do not need someone to talk to them like children. It is important for them to feel their own importance and their remaining strength.
Do you keep in touch with your actors and actresses after you finish filming?
Yes. for example, Kairat, an actor from our theatre has been sending us cards every day on WhatsApp with hearts and bunnies for two years.
Tell us about yourself. What came before this project?
I worked as a journalist from the age of 15 to 23. I wrote in the glossy magazines which had only just appeared for us then. I was 15 and I gave all kinds of romantic advice. Maybe don’t read women’s magazines as they are written by teenagers. [laughs] I remember how I carried material round on floppy disks. Then I worked as an editor at Esquire, before I worked for a little bit in PR. I graduated as a director in Paris. And still, I waited for someone to come and tell me: “Now, Sasha, you are officially a director, you can start to film”. I somehow scared myself so much that I became an artistic producer for many years. Every year, I thought that I would just work a little bit more, save some money and then I would start to make my own cinema. Ten years passed like that. You can spend ten years of your life not doing the thing that you have always wanted to do. Then this idea catches up with you, you have a crisis that you won’t have any savings. And you still end up doing what you wanted to do.
It is important to understand that no will give you permission. No one will say, Sasha, you are ready, and also, no one will suddenly give you money. Whether you make your film, or don’t make it, the world will go on without you. People are living longer and they are doing more important things than us. Doctors cure people, teachers teach. So, this just depends on you. Sometimes I regret that I didn’t start earlier.
But maybe now is the perfect time?
Perhaps. Basically, the most important thing is to believe in yourself.
Tell us about your team.
There is a silly stereotype about women’s collectives which tells us it’s better not to work with women. But in fact, everyone that worked with me — from the producers to the camera operator — they are all my friends. That is the adventure of female friendship. Everything we did and still do is the fruit of female friendship which people have so much to say about.
How many people are in your team?
It is me, the producers Zhenia Moreva and Aiman Kulzhanova, the theatre director Katia Dzvonik, the camera operator Lera Kim, and the artists and costume artists Azhar Bimamir, Aliia Odinaeva, and Goar Igitian. People helped us a lot. It seems to me that we have developed a system of horizontal help amongst each other. We have strong connections.
What was crucial in the development of this project after it got going?
Firstly, it was when we started to submit to international pitches and forums. I had the approach that if we submit one-hundred times, one would land. I was certain that it wouldn’t go anywhere. But it turned out that out of the 6-7 programs and pitches we applied to in 2023, we were accepted everywhere. Even Ex Oriente — a very prestigious laboratory for documentalists. It is mostly for Europeans. They took our project as an exception. It was a moment of growth, but only through pain because I ended up in a team of ten directors who were all making their third or fourth films. One of them had filmed and produced for Netflix. And you’re sitting there, still on your first film. You can see how this is maybe not ideal.
When you find yourself in the company of people who are more experienced than you, you start to stretch yourself. You start to feel that you can. You ask questions, you consult and discuss with other people. This really helped me, even with the plot. It was a very big theme — a theatre in a closed space. There are two parallel realities. As soon as we started to film, the theme started to narrow down. We thought that the theatre should reflect reality and at this point, Vera Girgorevna appeared with observations about how we weren’t capturing her on camera. So, Vera Grigorevna became the co-director.
Through theatre, she begins to grasp reality. She acts. She wants the film to end one way and then wants it to end another way. The theme started to narrow even for me. Soon I understood that I wanted to change her slightly, and for me, this was a tragedy. It seemed to me that this doesn’t happen to experienced documentary filmmakers. But, on the other hand, I am now happy with how it all turned out. The film became more personal and more of a reflection of myself.
It is not just about some theatre, but about how you fight with fear when reality doesn’t suit you. At eighty, you no longer have a career or children, or they have grown up and are living their own lives. You no longer have parents. What is left for you? Only your imagination and your recollections. You can play and invent things. This calmed me down. I thought that if I end up in an old people’s home, I will also invent something for myself and will live in this invented world.
How do you have the courage to live creatively and do these breathtaking projects?
When I started to work on documentary cinema, my finances really suffered. This was a nasty shock for me at the beginning. But from that day onwards, I constantly remind myself that no-one forced me to do this.
When I went into documentary cinema, I wrote to producers and acquaintances, telling them that I sometimes take on projects as an artistic producer. I had a realistic understanding that as long as this film isn’t ready and I can’t live off it, it won’t bring in any income. It’s not worth being afraid of compromises, commercial requests or side projects which are less creative — they help us to pay for electricity and heat.
Creative projects don’t happen overnight. I understand that everyone does things differently. On Instagram, everyone posts the end result. They are all wonderful and successful. They write books, make films, and all with such ease. But you don’t see the gap when every six months you think: what is this for, take it all away, I quit, take me back.
It [Instagram] is an illusion. In reality, it is difficult and complicated for everyone. I do not know one person who would find creative work easy. And that’s fine.
Is the journey worth all of this?
At first glance, creative work is not a primary necessity. We are not curing cancer. It concerns subtle spiritual things which become important when basic needs are met. It is a selfish, but sincere impulse: if something sits inside you that requires expression, it is worth it. Yes, I hope that it’s worth it.
What do you do if you have an idea, where do you take it?
When the idea is still fragile, small, vulnerable, it is difficult. It’s as if you are opening up your soul. So that people don’t immediately demoralise you, you need to go to your friends. Discuss it and watch their reaction. Some say you should go to an institution or submit to a cinema foundation, but I wouldn’t agree. The most important thing is to begin to discuss it with someone. With friends, your mum, your husband. The idea will come and start to develop until it has finished developing and finds its own way.
Often people hold back their ideas and don’t take them anywhere because they are afraid that someone will steal them. As a result, they don’t do anything.
I have really changed my point of view on this matter. In the first year and a half, I didn’t speak to anyone at all. I hid away and didn’t show my trailers to anyone. But after I started to go to pitchings and watch many documentary film trailers, I understood that the tale of an original idea which has never been filmed is an illusion. Everything has already been filmed.
The opposite is necessary, to discuss and see the reaction. For example, seven writers could gather and discuss their ideas non-stop with each other. I think it is a western thing to constantly discuss your work with each other. You begin to hear constructive things. This is also a great skill.
But at the beginning, I took everything to heart. Any view, any comment. Then I started to think, but what’s so bad about it? It is also a skill to stop doubting yourself and your project.
What did you personally gain from this project and how did it change your worldview?
This is a therapeutic experience for me. I am battling my own fear of aging. For me, it is important to find an answer to the question: what remains with you at the end and what will be important then?
When can we expect the premiere of your film?
We have at least a year left of editing. We filmed a lot. That’s what happens when you are looking for a hero and perspectives. It is interesting that at the beginning, everyone wants to look their best in front of you and the camera, to only show their good side. You just need time. This is a living project.
Hope Nicholson is a recent graduate from the University of Cambridge where she wrote her Master’s dissertation on the contemporary authors Mariia Stepanova and Polina Barskova. She also holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Russian language and literature from the University of Oxford. Her literary journalism has appeared in The Cambridge Review of Books and The Camera, and she intends to continue writing about contemporary authors from the post-Soviet space as she embarks on a PhD in the USA.
An overview of Kazakhstani literary journals by Selina Taisengirova, originally published in the journal Daktil and translated by Sylvia Tammen.
The answer to the question of where authors publish their work is actually very obvious — they publish in Daktil, of course! But jokes aside, authors writing in Kazakhstan really do have increasing opportunities for publication in well-regarded outlets, and this essay will give an overview of them.
Just a few years ago, Kazakhstani literature struggled along without any publishing platforms of its own, and talented authors couldn’t make a name for themselves; there were no Kazakhstani literary journals, no prominent literary prizes, and no local publishing houses. The only way to get published was to turn to other countries’ markets, particularly Russia’s. So paradoxically, our authors were better known abroad than in their own country.
Now the situation has changed significantly and continues to change for the better. Today, our authors have released numerous books through Kazakhstani publishers (Zerde, Daktil’s book series, Meloman Publishing, Tentek), and they have the chance to gain recognition by competing for Kazakhstani literary prizes (the national prizes Umai and Aiboz are awarded yearly, along with Mecenat.kz and the independent prize Qalamdas). The number of professional literary journals is growing every year.
What’s interesting is that along with the new journals, there are also new formats to replace the usual online publications that all have more or less the same configuration of literary categories.
For instance, this year marked the beginning of the dedicated women’s online journal Aina, which publishes women authors from Kazakhstan and other countries in Central Asia. According to the journals’ founders, its mission is to support literary works written by women and create a single point of intersection for “authors, publishers, movie producers, writing mentors, and readers.”
The journal is published four times per year. A new jury is selected for each issue, consisting of famous women editors, philologists, writers, poets and publishers. The journal accepts poetry, prose, and criticism from both established and beginning authors. (And judging by the fact that Kulyash Arynova’s The Paying Ward appears in the latest issue, the journal will also feature contemporary plays, though there wasn’t a separate category for drama in the first two issues.)
The idea of having a journal to serve as one unified platform for women creators is very cool in and of itself. But besides that, the journal has the selling point of not only covering sensitive topics in feminist discourse, but also using each issue to present a broad perspective on what ails our society and what we can do to heal cumulative trauma. For instance, the latest issue had an interview with director Sasha Shegai about inclusive theater in a nursing home. Let’s face it: people who give any thought to the problems of “third-age people” (as the author delicately calls them in the interview) are in the minority, and people prepared to actually help the elderly feel like full-fledged participants in social life can be counted on one hand.
Even more importantly, current social issues are raised in Aina in both Kazakh and Russian; the journal is bilingual, and there’s a wide variety of content represented in Kazakh, which is definitely encouraging.
Another new arrival on the Kazakhstani literary scene this year is the multicultural and multilingual journal SØZDAY. It’s a bona fide print journal (which is quite rare these days), and it was first presented last month in Almaty. The project has recruited an international board of editors, and the journal itself will be published four times a year with categories for prose, poetry, literary criticism, and translations of Kazakhstani and foreign authors.
In the journal’s first issue, the reader can find well-known names like Oral Arukenova, Zair Asim, Tigran Tuniyants, and many others. Tigran’s poetry collection was released posthumously, which is an additional opportunity to capture and preserve the prematurely departed poet’s multifaceted personality in a concrete form. (Fortunately, many such opportunities are popping up in diverse spaces and formats.)
A whirlwind of words rises from nowhere.
Try not to scare away the “earthworms’ song of the sun after rain”.
Along the sidewalk with cobblestones squinched up in deep slumber,
Furtively slipping into the world of other dimensions.
This “wind of words” is precisely the magic that makes it possible to slip between dimensions. And if this magic makes it possible to go from this dimension to another, it also brings greetings back from that “other” dimension to ours, a dimension whose existence is contingent and objective. But somewhere there in the gap, you might meet God:
Often, at the GAP station,
God passes by, waving from the window of the train car
And then sends telegrams
SØZDAY’s founders plan for their journal to unite “not only diverse creative projects, but also diverse languages” and turn its focus on our country’s pluralism, publishing original texts in different languages along with various translations. It’s an interesting initiative, and I’m eager to see how it develops in the future.
In this overview, I’d also like to give special attention to Prostor, Kazakhstan’s oldest literary journal. The journal very recently celebrated its 90th anniversary. At one time, poems by Osip Mandelstam, Anna Akhmatova, and Marina Tsvetaeva first appeared in its pages, and its circulation reached 160,000 copies. But despite Prostor’s longstanding status as an iconic publication, it’s become less prominent in the literary space in recent years, largely due to its conservatism and lack of interest in new authors and in the changes that have been happening in Kazakhstani literature.
Last year, the poet, writer, and translator Farhat Tamendarov became the head of the journal, and it got a second wind. The editorial board continues to respect the work of literary аqsaqals1, regular contributors who have been published in Prostor’s pages for decades. Yet at the same time, the journal is seeking out new forms of participation in the literary scene and publishing young authors who have already come confidently into the spotlight or who are just getting started. All in all, the journal has ambitious plans for comprehensive literary and artistic renewal.
It’s interesting that in the second half of 2024, the journal held two poetry contests: “Roses and Sagebrush”, in honor of the poet Vladimir Gundarev’s 80th birthday, and “Free Lines”, in memory of Gerald Berger, who would have been 90 in 2024. Both contests accepted submissions from anyone who wanted to participate and offered small monetary prizes. (The winners have already been recognized, and you can find their submissions on the journal’s website.) But of course, that’s not the important thing. The important thing is that any beginning author had the opportunity to publish their work in the legendary journal Prostor, not only through sending work in for consideration for a standard issue, but also through participating in the contest. (According to the terms of the contest, all submitted texts will be published on the journal’s website, its Telegram channel, and possibly in the journal itself, at the editors’ discretion.) Today’s Prostor is ready to put new names on the map in Kazakhstani literature, and young authors have another platform — a very respected and well-known platform — from which to start their literary careers.
I’d like to think that with new Kazakstani literary journals appearing and old ones regaining vigor, interest in Kazakhstani literature will grow (which is truly essential to it). And this means that the quality of new publications will increase, new talented authors will become more visible in the Kazakhstani literary world, and a broad audience will read more good literature.
Selina Taisengirova was born in Almaty, graduated from KazNPU named after Abay. Majored in Russian language and literature. Graduate of Pavel Bannikov Poetry Seminar in the Open Literary School of Almaty (2017-2018). Editor of the criticism and journalism section in the literary magazine “Dactyl”. The author of poetic collections published on “Polutona” and in “Dactyl” magazine. Finalist of the Metajournal literary award in the nomination “Poem of the Year” (2021). Entered the prize list of the Russian literary prize “Poetry” (2021).
The word “aqsaqal“, meaning “white beard” in Kipchak languages, traditionally refers to the revered male elders in some communities in Central Asia, the Caucasus, and Bashkortostan. ↩︎
The Alma Review 
