Our People > Manon Madec

Manon Madec

Journalist

Manon is a French journalist covering Central Asia and its neighbouring countries. A graduate in International Economics from the University of Paris Dauphine, she explores the region’s cultural and social dynamics through long-form reporting and field investigations.

Articles

Data Center Valley

Can Kazakhstan Power Its AI Ambitions?

For now, it is only a vast construction site lost in the steppe, a few kilometers from Ekibastuz, a mining city in northern Kazakhstan. Cranes move behind fences in the shadow of a Soviet-era power station. It is hard to imagine that, from 2027, this site is supposed to become the first piece of a giant artificial intelligence campus. Known as Data Center Valley, the project is eventually expected to reach one gigawatt. At full capacity, it could consume as much as 8.8 terawatt-hours a year, Kazakh media Qyzyq estimated, around 7% of Kazakhstan’s current electricity generation. Development will be gradual, with an initial 50-megawatt facility scheduled to enter service in June 2027. U.S.-based Firebird.ai and state-controlled Kazakhtelecom are leading the industrial project. Yet the futuristic bet collides with a more prosaic reality. “Economic and industrial growth in Kazakhstan is currently outpacing the rate of commissioning and modernization of generating capacity,” the Ministry of Energy acknowledged in a response to The Times of Central Asia. In 2025, the gap between domestic generation and consumption reached 1.5 terawatt-hours, forcing the country to import electricity, mainly from Russia. President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has acknowledged the scale of the challenge. At the National Kurultai in January, he said data centers consume electricity on a scale comparable to metallurgical plants and that Kazakhstan’s existing generation was “clearly insufficient” for its development plans. He called energy self-sufficiency a key state priority and ordered an expansion of generating capacity, including new coal-fired power. How, then, can Kazakhstan power a campus that could consume almost six times that shortfall? More strikingly, when the government prepared its 2026 electricity forecast, neither Data Center Valley nor any other AI or data-center project was included. The ministry says they will enter its calculations from 2027 - the same year the first facility is due to start operating. [caption id="attachment_54529" align="aligncenter" width="1774"] The mine of Bogatyr is expanding to increase production[/caption] From Coal to Algorithms In Ekibastuz, the answer comes down to one word: coal. “In essence, Kazakhstan is turning Ekibastuz coal into export digital revenue,” Kazakhtelecom chairman Bagdat Musin has said. Electricity generated locally would be converted into computing services sold internationally. No major named customer contract has been announced, although Firebird says it holds guaranteed service contracts with global players. Amazon and G42 have been named as companies entering the ecosystem, while Kazakhstan has also held talks with Microsoft and OpenAI. The landscape appears built for that ambition. Nearby lies Bogatyr, one of the world’s largest open-pit coal mines. From the observation deck, terraces of rock descend 300 meters into the earth. Excavators and haul trucks look like toys at the bottom. “Ekibastuz is a very smart choice: energy is abundant and cheap here, while proximity limits transmission losses between the power station and the consumer,” Yevgeny Masternak, CEO of mine operator Bogatyr Komir, told TCA. To keep pace with anticipated demand, the company plans to raise annual production from 42 million tonnes in 2024 to more than 56 million...

3 weeks ago

Smart Cities

Ten Years On, Kazakhstan’s Digital Experiment Moves Closer to Citizens

On a snowy afternoon in Taldykorgan, a group of university students reacts with excitement at the mention of the words “smart city.” “Finally!” one of them says, but they struggle to define what it actually means. Artificial intelligence? Cameras? Faster internet? It doesn’t really matter. For them, the concept signals something simple: progress. That expectation has accompanied Kazakhstan’s digital strategy for nearly a decade. When the government adopted the “Digital Kazakhstan” program in 2017, the goal was to modernize public administration and infrastructure through data. Astana and Almaty were the first testing grounds. But the real challenge began elsewhere. To scale the model nationally, authorities turned to medium-sized towns and small urban centers, places where infrastructure gaps were sometimes more visible than innovation. In some regions, electricity supply remains unstable. In others, sidewalks, heating networks, or waste management systems require urgent upgrades. Aqkol: The Laboratory Aqkol, a town of around 13,000-14,000 residents located 100 kilometers north of Astana, became the country’s first official pilot in 2018. The project, developed in partnership with Kazakhtelecom JSC, Tengri Lab, and the Eurasian Group, aimed to create a “conceptual model” of an intelligent city. Around 3,000 sensors and 150 cameras were installed to monitor everything from traffic flows to air quality. In theory, Aqkol became a data-driven microcosm. In practice, the transformation was uneven. [caption id="attachment_43867" align="aligncenter" width="2560"] During winter, some residents of Aqkol contend with poor street lighting and snow-covered roads; image: TCA, Manon Madec.[/caption] At first glance, Aqkol does not immediately appear transformed. On the main avenue, two heated bus stops operate through the winter. Nearby, smart benches equipped with Wi-Fi and charging ports stand mostly unused. A seventy-year-old resident waiting for his bus acknowledges that “the city has become more comfortable.” [caption id="attachment_43864" align="aligncenter" width="2560"] In Aqkol, residents are waiting for more “smart” bus stops; image: TCA, Manon Madec.[/caption] Yet a few streets away, there are no sidewalks and limited street lighting. “Children walk home from school in the dark,” says Nadejda, a resident in her thirties. Zeinolla, a taxi driver native from Aqkol, questions whether the investment reached the entire town. To understand the project, one has to step inside the Smart Aqkol control room. In a small office, screens display live environmental and security data. Air quality is measured every ten minutes. During winter evenings, coal-burning households generate visible emission peaks on the graphs. “With these systems, we see exactly when pollution increases,” explains Asylbek Baiboranov, deputy director of the Smart Akmola regional program. “We can identify patterns and respond faster.” On one of the large LED screens, a woman’s portrait appears alongside a live video feed of her entering what looks like a post office. The system matches faces in real time. “The surveillance cameras are equipped with facial recognition technology,” Baiboranov explains. Since their installation, recorded offences have fallen by roughly 20%, according to him. Taldykorgan: more security, more environmental considerations Taldykorgan already has an extensive camera network. Ameer, a student, supports further expansion. A smart city,...

7 months ago

afforestation

Planting Trees to Heal Old Wounds: Can a Desert Forest Save the Aral’s Last Residents?

In the Aralkum Desert, afforestation campaigns have multiplied since the early 2000s. They are meant to slow the sandstorms, temper a rapidly warming climate, and protect the health of those still living in the shadow of the Aral Sea. But the promised results have not appeared yet. The road from Aralsk to Aiteke Bi cuts through a palette of ochre and dust. Trucks drift forward in pale clouds, dragging the desert behind them like a long train. In these villages scattered along the former shoreline of the Aral Sea, the wind never leaves. It is abrasive, restless, and a witness to a vanished water body that once cooled the hottest corner of Kazakhstan. Respiratory diseases now run through family histories, and doctors say they can recognize lungs shaped by ecological collapse. At the polyclinic in Aiteke Bi, patients describe the same symptoms with weary precision: breath shortening too quickly, coughs that never fully recede, a fatigue that never seems to lift. Nuralay, 52, says the storms “get into the house, into the throat, into everything.” She admits she cannot remember a season without irritation in her chest. For Dr. Kuanyshqar Assilov, who has watched the pattern deepen for years, the cause is unmistakable: decades of airborne salts, pesticide residues, and industrial chemicals lifted from the dried seabed of the Aral Sea. [caption id="attachment_39897" align="aligncenter" width="1378"] In Aralsk, sand covers everything[/caption] Marat Narbaev, executive director of the International Fund to Save the Aral Sea (IFAS), recounts the disaster’s origins with a mixture of resignation and habit. He traces it back to the 1960s, when Soviet planners diverted the Amu Darya and Syr Darya to feed cotton monocultures. “The cotton was used to make clothing for soldiers and ammunition,” he says. Today, he argues, the basin faces two pressures: “climate change and demographic growth. Fifty million inhabitants… soon seventy.” In this landscape, the promise of restoring the region through afforestation has acquired symbolic weight. Saxaul trees - hardy, grey-green, capable of surviving in brackish soils - are planted by the millions on the exposed seabed. Officially, they are meant to stabilize sand, calm storms, and cool the surface. Unofficially, they carry the hope that life here might once be breathable again. Survivalist tree? On paper, the saxaul is a biological survivalist: roots plunging more than 30 feet deep, the ability to stabilize dunes, lower surface salinity, and grow dense enough within a few years to slow the wind. In Aralkum, a village east of Aralsk, residents praise the planting that lines a dozen houses. “It really worked, the storms became more bearable,” a man says. Then he shrugs: more trees should have been planted. “We asked for the other side of the village, but there’s no funding left.” Nowadays, half of the trees have died, and the rest lie buried beneath the dunes. [caption id="attachment_39896" align="aligncenter" width="1378"] In Aralkum village, half of the surviving trees barely emerge from the sand[/caption] Sometimes, past plantations have almost zero trees left. According to a 2021...

10 months ago

Q-Pop

Q-Pop Is Back. Is Kazakhstan Ready This Time?

Around 2015, Kazakhstan saw the rise of Q-pop, led by the boy band Ninety One. A decade on, the cultural tension remains: while youth artists enjoy greater visibility, many observers argue that freedom of expression is still shaped by a silent boundary — ‘you can make music, but not stir too much controversy. A little over a decade ago, five young men in earrings and pastel clothes released “Aıyptama!” (“Don’t blame me”) - a slick, catchy track in Kazakh, with a video that looked like it came straight out of Seoul. The group, Ninety One, was born out of a reality TV show modeled on the K-pop system. At the time, Kazakh-language pop had little presence on mainstream radio or TV, where Russian-language and Western hits dominated. Much of the Kazakh-language music most people heard came from weddings and folk performances rather than commercial pop charts. Occidental pop, rock and Russian-language hip hop ruled the charts. So, when Azamat Zenkaev (AZ), Dulat Mukhamedkaliev (Zaq), Daniyar Kulumshin (Bala), Batyrkhan Malikov (Alem), and Azamat Ashmakyn (Ace) debuted as a group, they looked and sounded like nothing the local music scene had ever seen. Their appearance sparked outrage. In Karaganda, a 2016 concert was canceled after protests. “We are against them because they dye their hair and wear earrings!” a demonstrator shouted, captured in the 2021 documentary Men Sen Emes (Sing Your Own Songs) by Katerina Suvorova. “No parent would want their son to look like a woman,” a conservative activist added. Even their producer, Yerbolat Bedelkhan, noted, “They shook up Kazakh show business with their unusual looks.” And yet, their rise was unstoppable. Despite boycotts and online abuse, Ninety One topped national charts. Each video release became an event. Over time, their success helped make gender-fluid aesthetics more visible in Kazakhstan’s pop scene — and made singing in Kazakh fashionable again among young audiences. But their aesthetics stood in sharp contrast to the state-promoted model of Kazakh masculinity. [caption id="attachment_37776" align="aligncenter" width="770"] Ninety One; image: JUZ Entertainment[/caption] Revival and Restriction: The State’s Masculine Ideal In 2017, then-President Nursultan Nazarbayev launched Rukhani Zhangyru – a sweeping state program for “spiritual renewal.” Its goal was to forge a unified Kazakh national identity after decades of Soviet domination, largely by reigniting traditional values. Streets were renamed after historical khans, a National Dombra Day was established, and the country began shifting from Cyrillic to the Latin alphabet. But the cultural revival came with a gender script. School textbooks were rewritten, according to a 2021 Rutgers University study, to cast masculinity as a blend of strength, rationality, and emotional restraint. The ideal Kazakh man - the Batyr - was reimagined as a stoic warrior of the steppes. In this context, Ninety One’s aesthetics didn’t fit in. “Many thought Q-pop artists didn’t act like ‘real Kazakhs’,” Merey Otan, a musician and PhD candidate at Nazarbayev University told The Times of Central Asia. “Wearing makeup, earrings, or bright clothes, expressing emotions or sexuality – these all clashed with a...

11 months ago

Historical Repressions

Opinion: Ghosts of the Gulag: Kazakhstan’s Uneasy Dance With Memory and Moscow

In May 2025, the authorities in Moscow unveiled a life-size bas‑relief sculpture of Josef Stalin in the Taganskaya metro station. The next month, a statue of Lenin was pulled down in Osh, Kyrgyzstan. Between these two symbolic acts lies Kazakhstan, caught in a tug-of-war over the memory of Soviet-era repression. Between 1920 and 1960, millions of prisoners were deported to more than fifty labor camps across what was later to become the Republic of Kazakhstan. Those who weren’t executed on the spot — political opponents, intellectuals, artists — were forced to work in mines, construction sites, or collective farms feeding Soviet industrial expansion. The death toll remains unknown but is believed to be in the millions. Today, this dark past draws in history buffs and thrill-seekers. But darktourism.com, the go-to website on the topic, warns them: forgotten cemeteries, ghost villages, crumbling camps — this gulag archipelago is well hidden in the steppes. No sign points the way to the Museum of Political Repression in Dolinka, housed in the former headquarters of Karlag, one of the largest camps of the Soviet Gulag system. The only other gulag transformed into a museum is ALZHIR, built on the ruins of the Akmola camp near Astana. It commemorates the 18,000 women imprisoned between 1939 and 1953 for being the wives of “traitors to the motherland.” These two museums now stand as official symbols of Soviet repression in Kazakhstan, and, more subtly, as frontline sites in a broader memory war across the former Soviet Union. Selective Memory When the museums were nationalized in the 2000s, their message became tightly controlled. Portraits and quotes from former president Nursultan Nazarbayev began to cover the walls. Guillaume Tiberghien, a specialist in dark tourism at the University of Glasgow, calls it a “selective interpretation of history.” The goal? To unify the country’s 160 ethnic groups under a shared narrative of collective suffering. At both Karlag and ALZHIR, guides emphasize acts of solidarity between Kazakh villagers and deportees — hospitality, compassion, bits of cheese tossed over barbed wire fences to feed the starving. [caption id="attachment_34338" align="aligncenter" width="2560"] Execution scene recreated at the Karlag museum; image: Manon Madec.[/caption] The past is staged. Between wax statues with sunken faces, sound effects mimicking heartbeats, and torture room reconstructions, the visitor is drawn into a visceral experience, sometimes at the cost of accuracy. “You wonder if the museum overdoes it to trigger emotion,” Tiberghien remarks. Margaret Comer, a memory studies expert at the University of Warsaw, explains: “It’s sometimes easier to mourn victims than to identify perpetrators.” [caption id="attachment_34337" align="aligncenter" width="2560"] Execution scene and fake blood, reconstructed in the Dolinka museum; image: Manon Madec.[/caption] The complicity of local Kazakhs is never addressed. Russian responsibility is blurred behind vague terms like “NKVD” or “Stalinist repression.” At ALZHIR, visitors learn only about Sergey Barinov — a Russian commandant described as cultured, discreet, and caring toward the women detained. The other two camp directors are never mentioned. In other former Soviet republics — Ukraine, the Baltics, Georgia — such...

1 year ago