Collective Memory - The Times Of Central Asia

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National Identity

Kazakhstan Reclaims the Golden Horde

Kazakhstan’s symposium on the Golden Horde opens, in formal institutional terms, the question of where the country locates its statehood. Held in Astana on May 19–20 under UNESCO patronage, it brought together more than 300 scholars and experts, including 120 foreign researchers from more than 20 countries. Its title was “The Golden Horde as a Model of Steppe Civilization,” with history, archaeology, culture, and identity named as focal points of inquiry. The initiative places Kazakhstan’s history outside the narrow frame of post-Soviet chronology, treating the medieval past as a problem in the formation of Central Eurasia. Kazakhstan’s turn to the Golden Horde is not a decorative appeal to the medieval past, but a claim about statehood. It seeks to place Kazakhstan’s sovereignty within older Eurasian traditions of exchange, law, political authority, and movement across the steppe. President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has put the claim in explicit form. In 2024, he described Kazakhstan as a successor to the nomadic civilization of the Great Steppe and called the Ulus of Jochi, known internationally as the Golden Horde, a pinnacle of state-building in Central Eurasia. At the Astana symposium, he returned to the same line, presenting the Golden Horde as an empire connecting East and West and influencing the development of civilizations and states. The point is not identitarian but genealogical: the recovery of a statehood tradition, not the retroactive conversion of a medieval formation into the present-day republic. The Golden Horde’s significance is as a political form whose relevance lies in rule, exchange, law, and mobility: this is where steppe history becomes state history. The symposium’s official framing emphasized the political, economic, cultural, and spiritual heritage of the Ulus of Jochi. Its final resolution was more specific, identifying the Golden Horde’s role in political traditions, international trade and diplomacy, legal institutions, numismatics, craft production, and the interaction of nomadic and urban societies. The Golden Horde thereby moves out of the narrow category of conquest and into the practical grammar of political and social order: administration, circulation, law, and exchange. The inherited Russian imperial and Soviet frame did not simply neglect the Golden Horde; it organized the question from outside Kazakhstan’s own statehood. A recent study in Nationalities Papers identifies a Soviet paradigm in which the Golden Horde was treated as foreign, destructive, and external to the emergence of the Kazakh Khanate, while the Ak Orda was favored as the more acceptable predecessor. This view did not disappear with independence. Under Nursultan Nazarbayev, the Golden Horde remained comparatively marginal in official historical narrative, even as Kazakhstan celebrated the Kazakh Khanate and the broader nomadic past. Ideological categories narrowed the possible interpretations of the past. The issue today is not reinvention but reordering. Presidential declarations provide the catalyst, not the machinery. The machinery is supplied by historians, institutes, universities, and conferences. The Nationalities Papers study describes historians as memory actors helping to move the Golden Horde from contested or marginal status toward official endorsement. It also identifies a dispute between older and newer schools of...

Victory day

Opinion: What May 9 Means to a Generation Without War Memories

One evening, sitting beside my grandmother, we opened an old photo album, the kind with thick pages and photographs tucked carefully beneath thin plastic sheets. We turned the pages slowly. At one photograph, she stopped. It showed her as a young girl beside a close relative she rarely speaks about, a man who never came home from the war. The mood changed almost instantly. For her, May 9 is not simply a date. It belongs to a family story shaped by absence, grief, and survival. For me, it is inherited. For many people of my generation, May 9 is no longer a memory of war itself, but a memory passed down by those who lived closer to it. That distance is changing the meaning of Victory Day in Kazakhstan and across much of Central Asia. The day still carries enormous symbolic weight, but the link between public commemoration and private family memory is becoming less direct. What older generations remember, younger generations are increasingly asked to learn. What Remains for Those Who Remember For older generations, May 9 remains deeply personal. It is tied to lives shaped by loss, names repeated year after year, stories retold within families, and the enduring presence of those who never returned. The meaning of the day is not abstract for people who lived through the war or grew up in its immediate aftermath. It is part of their family history. In many households, remembrance is expressed less through public slogans than through quieter acts: visiting memorials, keeping photographs, passing down names, or sharing stories that do not need much explanation. For those generations, the past has not fully receded. It remains close to the surface of the present. A Generation That Learns, Not Remembers For younger people, the connection is often weaker and less detailed. The war may still be respected, but it is no longer remembered in the same way. It is encountered through family fragments, school lessons, monuments, ceremonies, and public language rather than through the direct emotional force of lived experience. This generational gap is visible in recent polling. A 2025 survey by the Center for Social and Political Research “Strategy,” based on 1,100 respondents across nine regions of Kazakhstan, found that 46% of people aged 18-24 knew someone in their family had participated in the war but could not recall any details. Another 33% had no information at all. Among respondents over 55, only 13% reported similar uncertainty. The same survey found that many respondents could not identify a significant historical figure connected to the war, while nearly one in five could not name a single wartime event. These gaps suggest more than a decline in historical knowledge. They point to a weakening personal connection to what was once a defining collective experience. When Memory Exists Without Experience As lived experience gives way to inherited knowledge, remembrance changes form. Historical events are preserved through families, schools, state ceremonies, monuments, and media, but the emotional connection becomes harder to sustain. A...

Victory day

No Tanks on Red Square as Moscow’s Victory Day Pull Fades in Central Asia

Russia’s Victory Day parade on May 9 is set to be more restrained this year, with tanks, armored vehicles, and missile systems absent from Red Square for the first time in nearly two decades. The Russian Defense Ministry cited the “current operational situation,” while the Kremlin blamed what it called Ukrainian “terrorist activity.” Russia also reported drone attacks aimed at Moscow in the days before the ceremony, and security around President Vladimir Putin has been tightened. The reduced scale of the parade carries a resonance beyond Russia. Victory Day remains one of the most emotionally charged dates in the post-Soviet calendar, including in Central Asia, where families still remember relatives who fought, died, or labored during World War II. But across the region, the holiday has increasingly been placed inside national calendars rather than left as part of Russia’s political script. The contrast with last year is sharp. In 2025, Moscow marked the 80th anniversary of Nazi Germany’s defeat with its largest Victory Day parade since the start of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Chinese troops marched on Red Square, Xi Jinping sat beside Putin, and foreign leaders attended from across Asia, Africa, Latin America, and the former Soviet space. Tanks, rocket launchers, missile systems, drones, and other military hardware rolled through the square. This year’s guest list is more limited. The Kremlin’s initial list of foreign delegations included leaders and senior figures from Belarus, Laos, Malaysia, Slovakia, the breakaway republics of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, and representatives from Bosnia and Herzegovina’s Republika Srpska. Attendance has also been hard to read. Earlier reports said Kazakhstan’s Kassym-Jomart Tokayev and Kyrgyzstan’s Sadyr Japarov were expected in Moscow, while the Kremlin’s initial published list of foreign guests did not include any Central Asian presidents. On May 8, however, Kazakh and Uzbek media reported that Tokayev and Uzbekistan’s Shavkat Mirziyoyev were traveling to Moscow for Victory Day events. The late confirmations complicate the picture, but they do not restore the full regional show of unity seen in the last two years, when all five Central Asian presidents were present at the Moscow parade. It does suggest, however, that Moscow’s political ownership of the date is less automatic than it once was. Victory Day, which commemorates the Soviet defeat of Nazi Germany in what Russia calls the Great Patriotic War, has long been one of the main rituals of modern Russian power. It draws large television audiences, fills public space with military symbolism, and presents the Kremlin as the guardian of a sacred national memory. The holiday speaks of sacrifice and family loss, but also of nationalism and state control over history. Putin has used that language repeatedly. On May 9, 2024, after appearing on Red Square in snowfall, he said Russia was going through a “difficult, milestone period,” and warned: “We will not allow anyone to threaten us. Our strategic forces are always in combat readiness.” In 2025, he used the 80th anniversary parade to link Soviet wartime memory to Russia’s current war, saying...

Victory day

Victory, Memory, and Moscow: Central Asia’s Changing May Calendar

May is when Central Asia’s past crowds into the public square. Workers, soldiers, veterans, constitutions, unity campaigns, and the legacy of World War II all compete for space on the calendar. The dates are familiar across the region, but their meanings are no longer the same. Kazakhstan marks People’s Unity Day on May 1, Defenders’ Day on May 7, and Victory Day on May 9. Kyrgyzstan has a May calendar built around Labor Day, Constitution Day, and Victory Day. Uzbekistan has recast May 9 as the Day of Remembrance and Honor. Turkmenistan lists May 9 as Victory Day of the 1941-1945 Great Patriotic War, but it no longer carries the same public weight as the country’s main state holidays. Those choices show how each state is handling its Soviet past. May 1 can mean labor, unity, or almost nothing. May 9 can mean victory, mourning, family memory, or careful diplomacy. In Central Asia, the politics of memory rarely move through open rejection. It works through renaming, recalibrating, and changing the optics. Russia still treats May 9 as a central ritual of state power. Victory Day marks the Soviet defeat of Nazi Germany in what Russia calls the Great Patriotic War. Under Vladimir Putin, it has become a display of military strength, national sacrifice, and confrontation with the West. Since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in 2022, that message has become more direct. This year, the image projected from Moscow will be weaker. Russia is preparing to hold its May 9 parade on Red Square without the usual display of military hardware. Tanks and missile systems, long central to the spectacle, are being kept away. Russia’s Defense Ministry cited the “current operational situation,” while the Kremlin linked the change to Ukrainian attacks. For Central Asian governments, that image will be hard to separate from their own handling of Victory Day. Moscow has long used May 9 to gather friendly leaders and place the post-Soviet region inside a shared wartime story. Attendance in Moscow has become a diplomatic signal. Absence has become one too. In recent years, Victory Day diplomacy has shown how Central Asian governments try to respect wartime memory while avoiding full alignment with Russia’s narrative. This year, at least some Central Asian leaders are again expected in Moscow. Kazakhstan’s Kassym-Jomart Tokayev and Kyrgyzstan’s Sadyr Japarov have been reported among those planning to attend, though the Kremlin has not yet published a full list of foreign guests. Central Asian states cannot simply discard May 9. Millions of people from the region served in the Red Army or worked behind the front during World War II; from Kazakhstan alone, around one million people contributed to the war effort, with nearly 271,000 soldiers still listed as missing. Families still carry those memories. Monuments, veterans’ payments, school events, and wreath-laying ceremonies remain important. For many people, Victory Day is personal before it is geopolitical. Yet governments have changed the tone. Kazakhstan still marks Victory Day as a public holiday, but large military parades...

Kyrgyz Art

Munara Abdukakharova: Stories of Art, Identity, and Political Memory from Kyrgyzstan

A yellow hammer-and-sickle symbol is sewn onto black, yellow, blue and red mattresses in Up on Manas, down on Sovetskaya, a powerful artwork by artist Munara Abdukakharova presented last year at Fondazione Elpis in Milan. Inspired by the traditional kurak korpe (the hand-stitched patchwork cushions and mattresses that roll up like futons), the piece reimagines a familiar domestic object as a carrier of collective memory for Central Asian migrants, often the most tangible material link to home. Born in 1990 in Bishkek, just one year before Kyrgyzstan declared independence from the Soviet Union, Abdukakharova belongs to a generation that grew up during a profound political and cultural transition. The lingering Soviet legacy, the rise of nationalism, increasing religious influence, and the pressures of global capitalism all intersect in her work, which frequently draws on textiles, felt, and everyday objects rooted in local culture. “The art I make is mostly narrative, based on my everyday life, and depicts broader social issues in Kyrgyzstan,” says Abdukakharova from her home in Bishkek, from where she realizes most of her work. A finalist of the B. Bubikanova Art Prize, Abdukakharova works across embroidery, printmaking, photography, and installation. Speaking to The Times of Central Asia, she reflects on her path from architecture to contemporary art, the political realities shaping life in Bishkek, and the role artists play in questioning the direction of a young nation. TCA: You often describe your artistic practice as emerging from observation and your everyday experience. Did you grow up in a family that was into art? Abdukakharova: Not at all. All the members of my family are pharmacists, and while my parents wanted me to go to medical school, I couldn’t; I’m really scared of blood! (laughs) I went to an architectural school instead. I didn’t draw as a child, but I remember really liking to dismantle objects, whether it was toys or even a chair, furniture, and trying to put it back again… something I still love to do. The passion for drawing came only later on, in high school. TCA: Your decision to study architecture in Bishkek came at a time when many young people in Kyrgyzstan still looked toward Russia for their education. Could you describe the circumstances that led you to that choice and the cultural expectations surrounding it? Abdukakharova: When I finished high school in 2008, studying in Moscow was still seen as the best option. Unlike how it is today, growing up in Bishkek, there was a strong belief that anything coming from the former Soviet Union was inherently good. The teacher who helped me prepare university applications only suggested schools in Moscow or St. Petersburg; other countries were never really discussed, even though I already spoke English quite fluently. Looking back, I realize how dominant that perspective was at the time. I took a gap year, thinking that I could go to an art school later, maybe the Moscow Surikov State Academic Institute of Fine Arts. In the end, my parents didn’t let...

Historical Repressions

Opinion: Ghosts of the Gulag – A View From the Ground

Recently, The Times of Central Asia published an article titled Ghosts of the Gulag: Kazakhstan’s Uneasy Dance With Memory and Moscow. While it is essential to consider outside opinions, it is equally important to articulate how this perspective looks from within. In Kazakhstan, there are three large museums dedicated to the memory of the victims of the communist regime. These are the infamous ALZHIR (Akmolinsk Camp for Wives of Traitors to the Motherland), the museum dedicated to the memory of victims of political repression, KARLAG (Karaganda camp), and a smaller memorial complex to the victims of political repression at Zhanalyk, located about 40 kilometers from Almaty. Historians believe that around 2,500 people are buried there, including prominent members of the Kazakh intelligentsia, such as Akhmet Baitursynov, Mukhamedzhan Tynishpaev, Saken Seifullin, Ilyas Jansugurov, and Beimbet Maily. In addition to these museums, there are monuments to the victims of political repression and the famine of the 1920s–30s in many cities across the country. But it's not just about the number of museums and monuments. What matters most is that the memory of these events is preserved, and it is being carefully studied. In 2020, a state commission for the full rehabilitation of victims of political repression was established by the government. Over several years, 425 scholars, researchers, and experts have participated in its work. More than 2.6 million documents and materials have been declassified. Most importantly, this commission has rehabilitated more than 311,000 victims of political repression within the framework of existing legislation. The results of this work are documented in 72 volumes. There are no sections in these research materials divided by nationality. The approach is the same for everyone: justice and fairness for all. This calls into question the “collective amnesia that obstructs historical reckoning” referred to by Guillaume Tiberghien, a specialist in dark tourism at the University of Glasgow. Regarding any "emphasis on what the prison system ‘contributed’ to the nation” mentioned by Margaret Comer, a memory studies expert at the University of Warsaw, there are conflicts of interest and truths people would rather not face. One of the main purposes of Karlag was to serve as a major base of food supplies for Kazakhstan’s growing coal and metallurgical industries. In addition to industrial development, by 1941 the camp had 70 sheep farms, 45 cattle farms, one horse farm, and two pig farms. By 1950, 4,698 people worked on these farms, including 13 academic scientists. The communist system of corrective labor camps was an integral part of economic development, achieved through what was essentially slave labor. This is the full cynicism of the regime on display: prisoners were expected to “work off” their guilt. “The country is walking a tightrope,” Tiberghien suggests, pointing to President Tokayev’s speech on May 31, the official Day of Remembrance for Victims of Political Repression. “It wants to keep things calm, to avoid upsetting Russia.” In this speech, while calling for the rehabilitation of victims and greater access to archives, Tokayev also condemned the...