Tired of others telling my story: Reclaiming Kazakh identity on my own terms

On a personal journey to “discover” her own identity, Aisulu Omar explores her family past, the legacies of Soviet rule in Kazakhstan, and more modern ways of understanding Kazakh culture.

I have a complicated relationship with my grandmother. She is strict and distant, yet occasionally surprises us with a dark joke — a rare glimpse of warmth — and always expresses her love through actions rather than words. Her generation endured colonisation, witnessing firsthand how the Soviet Union systematically stripped our people of language and culture.

Because of this experience, she clearly recognised imperial attitudes among Russians in Kazakhstan and refused to treat them as normal or acceptable. Despite the obstacles they faced, she and my grandfather skillfully navigated the new reality posed by communism’s establishment in Central Asia, earning university degrees and establishing careers as an accountant and a teacher. 

Their success came at a cost; I recognise echoes of their struggle in my own life in the US, where I similarly navigate the corporate tech world — one designed predominantly by and for white men — by code-switching, concealing parts of my identity, and adapting to fit a culture not built with someone like me in mind. 

Language, memory, and survival

Like many Kazakhs of her generation, my grandmother took a Russian name in public and faced rejection if she spoke Kazakh or openly embraced her cultural identity — a common occurrence then, emblematic of the time period’s broader suppression of culture. She often recounted her challenges proudly, highlighting how adeptly she overcame the language barrier by attending a Kazakh-speaking school and then successfully passing all her exams in Russian to enter a Russian-speaking university, proving to everyone that her people could succeed even when forced to use a non-native language.

Yet, despite these hardships, she often spoke nostalgically of the Soviet system, praising its fairness: if you worked hard, you received an apartment and had assured access to education. In contrast, she viewed modern Kazakhstan critically, lamenting that “everyone is a sellout now.”

At home, my grandmother preserved Kazakh traditions, speaking our language, practicing shamanistic rituals like burning adraspan (wild rue), and predicting the future using goat bones, known as assyk (knucklebone). She would make zhety shelpek (a type of fried bread, usually made on Fridays) and always served as our living memory of the old traditions for celebrations or other important events. 

My mother belongs to the next generation, born and raised in the Soviet Union in the late 20th century, where she primarily spoke Russian. She grew up reading every classic Russian novel, and was a proud Soviet “pioneer” in school. She became a doctor, driven by ideals of contributing to a “greater good.” However, she was much less connected to Kazakh traditions, compared to my grandmother, and only recently began speaking Kazakh occasionally.

In contrast, my generation was born into a post-Soviet, independent Kazakhstan. Our identities were shaped by distorted histories taught in school, and by the constant struggle to escape economic hardship in a newly post-communist society — all while coming to terms with the profound loss of our culture and language during Communist rule. Although Kazakhstan formally gained independence in 1991, many of us have struggled since then to reclaim and redefine our collective identity, grappling with complex cultural questions concerning language, history, and the place of religion and tradition in modern society.

For much of the last century, our history was written by Soviet historians through the lens of Russian imperial ideology. Today, it is often reframed by Western historians, who bring their own imperialist assumptions. My own life reflects this tension: I grew up speaking Russian at school and in most public spaces, but switched to Kazakh when speaking with my grandparents. At my Russian school, I studied Pushkin and Tolstoy as part of the standard Soviet curriculum — and even learned to assemble a Kalashnikov rifle — while Kazakh traditions and history were largely absent from the classroom.

Critical historical events, such as the man-made Kazakh famine of 1919–1922 and the brutal repressions under Soviet rule, were entirely omitted from our textbooks. As Kazakhstan sought to reclaim its identity, many people turned back to Islam, a faith prevalent before the Soviet era. However, even Islam was not exactly reflective of the traditional spiritual beliefs held by my ancestors, further illustrating the complexity of reclaiming our cultural heritage.

Reckoning with trauma 

In 2019, the Kazakh hip hop artist Maslo Chernogo Tmina captured the difficulties of modern Kazakh self-identification in his song “Tak za kogo zhe bolet’ na etoi zemle i za kogo lyubit” (“So who is there to root for in this land, who is there to love?”), with his titular question reflecting the country’s ongoing struggle to define national heroes and cultural icons. 

In the song, Maslo Chernogo Tmina sings “We don’t know what happened yesterday, and we don’t know what will happen tomorrow,” as the music video depicts a man sitting underground, desperately trying to record everything he sees above on the surface. 

Above him, a whirlwind of critical moments from Kazakh history unfolds, our people’s journey from Tengrism and the Mongol invasion, through the Soviet-induced famine (Asharshylyk) and their repression of Kazakh intellectuals, to the 1985 Tengiz oil field disaster, the 1990s’ racketeering and hardship, and contemporary social issues such as domestic violence against women.

The song resonates deeply with my own experience continually questioning my identity whenever I explore Kazakh history. I frequently rewatch Maslo Chernogo Tmina’s music videos; they deeply resonate with where I am in my own journey of decolonisation, and I often share them with my partner and friends as an introduction to Kazakh art and culture.

Maslo Chernogo Tmina’s music incorporates elements of jazz, soul, and hip hop to powerfully express generational trauma, emotions, and a fundamentally human experience. However, its music video primarily utilises a male perspective, and occasionally employs sexist language and promotes toxic depictions of masculinity. In this way it is similar to other films like Aisultan Seitov’s Qash (2022), Eldor Urazbayev’s Transsiberian Express (1977), or Yermek Tursunov’s The Old Man (2012), which also explore Kazakh identity and history from predominantly male perspectives. 

One film, Madina, directed by Aizhana Kassymbek, which centres on Kazakh women and features an all-female Kazakh cast, more genuinely reflects the female experience. It follows Madina, a working-class dancer and single mother navigating the harsh realities of Kazakh society. It portrays the men around her as rarely taking responsibility, overwhelmed by their own unresolved trauma, which they pass on onto those nearby. While most women in the film internalise sexism —  for instance, by framing their ambitions around finding a wealthy partner and speaking as if dependence were a virtue — Madina is uncomfortable with these expectations. Her strength comes instead from the profound love she feels for her child, which drives her each morning to imagine and work toward a better world.

Madina’s story felt deeply familiar — her story was my mother’s story, too, and the everyday life in a small apartment that Kassymbek beautifully but realistically captures reminded me vividly of my own childhood. I saw in it the quiet beauty found in my mother’s loving gestures; I felt the powerful feminine energy of my grandmother’s ever-present humor filling our home. I rarely find such genuine beauty and resilience reflected in movies or any other form of media.

Healing

Having lived in the US for so long, I sometimes feel like my Kazakh identity is buried, seldom depicted accurately or clearly enough even for me to fully grasp. I’m still figuring out my identity. I’m grateful for spaces — Central Asian communities and Kazakh songs and films — that help me reflect on who I am, where I come from, and where I belong.

In the wake of Kazakhstan’s independence from the Soviet Union, daily survival was the primary focus for many young Kazakhs, and I felt immense pressure growing up to secure my future. My family faced severe economic hardship, so pursuing identity and thinking about history were luxuries. My mother often recounts days when even basic necessities, like baby diapers, were beyond her means. My grandmother would insist I finish every meal, haunted by memories of past famines. Experiences like these made it profoundly challenging to heal from the anxiety and trauma passed down through generations.

Yet, as I’ve grown older, I’ve realised that understanding my country’s collective past is not just a privilege, but a powerful act of reclamation. It is a way of healing and honouring the sacrifices of those who came before us, recognising their struggles, and forging a stronger, clearer path forward. My hope is to break this cycle of generational trauma by looking it in the eye. If I decide to have children, I don’t want them to carry this generational pain. I want them to maintain a sense of their Kazakh identity beyond this suffering of the past.

Because of this, I carry profound resilience and deep empathy for the hardships of others —  qualities passed down to me from generations of Kazakh women, like Madina, my mother, my grandmother whose strength is rooted in love even amidst overwhelming adversity.