Island of Lost Toys

A late-Soviet era residential building in downtown Almaty with a statue to a Kazakh folk hero out front

Central Asia, and especially Kazakhstan, was effectively a testing ground for Soviet experiments of all sorts. This is most tragically the case with regards to weaponry and military capability. Until the souring of relations with China, Soviet Central Asia was an inland fortress, protected by natural and political defenses on all sides. Eastern Kazakhstan was therefore selected to host the Soviet nuclear testing site: the “Polygon” zone saw some 450 nuclear explosions, only 350 below ground, several in the atmosphere. In the country’s west, the ironically-named Vozrozhdeniye (Renaissance) island in the Aral Sea was used to test biohazardous material, including weaponized anthrax.

As a testing site, the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic had the advantage of being huge, mostly unpopulated and undeveloped in a traditional sense. But besides being protected, isolated and “empty,” it was also politically a safer place in which to conduct experiments. As one friend of mine here argued, despite rhetoric about the brotherhood of nationalities, Russians did not care about the well-being of the nomadic, uncivilized and subjugated Soviet Kazakhs. If a bomb goes off on the steppe and no one important hears it, does it make a sound?

And Moscow’s exploitation of the Kazakh SSR extended far beyond weapons testing. In no particular order, this was also the site of Khrushchev’s Virgin Lands campaign in the 1950s – an attempt to transform huge areas of unproductive land into wheat and cotton fields through massive irrigation efforts and agricultural pseudo-science; experiments in the economics of penal labor – Karaganda, in northern-central Kazakhstan, was the site of the largest single camp in the system of correctional labor facilities popularly called the “gulag”; and aerospace technology – the Baikonur space center, in south-central Kazakhstan, was the heart of the Soviet space program.

1980s apartment buildings along a main shopping street. These are unique in the city.

I recently read a 1995 article by one Prof. Paul Josephson of Sarah Lawrence College about the Soviet penchant for giant infrastructural projects (“Projects of the Century in Soviet History: Large-Scale Technologies from Lenin to Gorbachev,” Technology and Culture Vol. 36, No. 3, June 1995). As Josephson points out, there were economic, political and popular incentives to undertake large-scale, unsound projects built into the Soviet system. In a system where “costs” are notionally non-existent but unemployment is a pressing problem, firms choose projects that engage the maximum number of resources. These were also prestige projects. The culture of reckless experimentation is explicable by similar logic.

But not all testing in Central Asia was so dramatic or devastating. Largely undeveloped until after the Second World War, Almaty was also a natural location in which to conduct urban planning experiments. Leftist architectural theory was strong throughout Soviet history, as even space itself would shape the evolution of homo Sovieticus, but it was hard to test theories in developed cities. According to Catherine Alexander, Dinmukhammed Kunayev’s tenure (1960-1986) coincides with Almaty’s “golden age” of urban development and expansion, necessitated in part by the flood of migrants from Khrushchev’s marginally viable Virgin Lands campaign further north (“Soviet and Post-Soviet Planning in Almaty, Kazakhstan,” Critique of Anthropology, Vol. 27, No. 165, 2007).

In ecological terms the effects were disastrous, but in urban planning and architectural terms alone, the results are mixed. A handful of massive vaguely neoclassical show-piece buildings (the opera, the Academy of Sciences) are framed by popular thoroughfares to theatrical effect. Although locals call these buildings “beautiful,” I think they do so by rote. More to my taste (although “interest” is a better word) are the late 1970s-80s apartment buildings sprinkled around the city.

People have told me that my appreciation of these buildings is “ironic,” that I “cannot be serious.” But I am. I like these buildings in the same why I appreciate most art: they’re ghastly, sure, but they reflect a real, if distorted, utopian social project. They are genuine historical artifacts. The modularity, the concrete-slab construction, the function-over-form, the (failed) space-age aesthetic mark these buildings as the very real manifestations of the theoretical principles of 1960s-80s Continental social theorists. They are Frankenstein’s monsters, and they have infinitely more character than the shiny New York skyscraper in which I used to work.

All of this raises another question: What does it do to a nation to exists among the detritus of failed experiments? How does living amongst the wreckage of so many high modernist projects-run-aground impact the social and individual psyche?

It does not appear to dissuade the inheritors from undertaking their own massive pipe-dream “projects of the century,” as a recent National Geographic article about Astana makes clear. I can recommend this article for the pictures, but I will warn that almost nothing written by the journalist meshes with what I’ve heard about Astana.

History’s a Laugh

My apologies for having become less consistent about posting. I’ve been quite busy since returning from India. Soon my life should settle back into a routine, after which time I will once again be a consistent and thrilling blogger.

Today I heard a couple of jokes (neither about Brezhnev, and I’m not clear on the origins of either) that were more tragic than humorous. An artist friend of mine told me the first over beer, cognac and black tea (all at once, though not mixed. Having this many diverse drinks in front of one is not uncommon here. The tea is supposed to soften the effects of the cognac, and the beer must be to nullify the effect of the tea. It is like an alcoholic game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors”):

History is the most exact science. As we write it, it becomes fact.

As I’ve suggested before – and as almost any history of the USSR or Communist China will note – “Stalinist regimes” are guiltier than most at exploiting the logic of this quip.

But they are not alone. Kazakhstan is a country very much in the process of re-writing its own history. Those in charge are not erasing and inventing episodes to nearly the same extent as past dictatorial administrations, but they are selectively downplaying and exaggerating in bold, if not unique, ways. For instance, the large room devoted to the Soviet era in Kazakhstan’s Central Historical Museum begins with a festive selection of the minority populations represented in the country (Belorussians, Ingush, Koreans, Kurds, etc.). Scant mention is made of the fact that most of these populations are represented here because their grandfathers and grandmothers were induced to move here by the Soviet state. The entire Chechen population of the USSR was relocated to Kazakhstan in one week in 1944. If the NKVD couldn’t deport you, they shot you. Breezing over this complicated history, the path around the room culminates in a celebration of Kazakhs’ contributions to the Great Patriotic War (World War II). Then the exhibit ends – in 1945. The next room picks up the story in 1991.

Can I blame them? Over the past 500 years, Kazakhs have enjoyed few opportunities to write their own story; for much of the time that historians believe Kazakhs constituted a self-conscious nation, they’ve been subject to external rule and pressure. This has created a terribly complex history and an even more fraught relationship to that history. The layers implicit in the second “joke,” told to me by my Russian teacher, illustrated that point.

When Timur (Tamerlane – probably an Uzbek, but claimed by the Kazakhs as a native son) conquered new lands, he was in the habit of collecting punishing taxes from the people. He’d send out his troops to requisition grain, animals, etc. Then, when the commanders had returned, Timur would summon them to him.

“Did you take their grain?” he’d ask.
“Yes sir, we did.”
“And how did the people react?” he’d continue.
“They cried.”
“That means they have more to give,” he’d conclude, and send his troops back out.

His troops would return, and each time, Timur would go through the same questions:

“Did you take their grain?”
“Yes sir, we did.”
“And how did the people react?”
“They cried.”
“That means they have more to give.”

Eventually, however, the troops would return with a different answer.

“Did you take their grain?”
“Yes sir, we did.”
“And how did the people react?”
“They laughed.”
“Then they have nothing left.”

Hilarious, right? This short story caused me to reflect on the human psychology, but not with regard to the ostensible lesson. Instead, it dawned on me that this was a Soviet joke on the surface about the cruelty of the pre-Soviet cultures and heroes in Central Asia. But discussion of Genghis Khan, Timur, and other towering figures of regional history was, I am lead to believe, largely forbidden throughout much of the Soviet period. Therefore, this is probably a Soviet joke about the Soviet system disguised as an “illegal” joke about Central Asia.

And the layers of the onion multiply as I consider that I’m being told this joke in contemporary Kazakhstan – in which it is all but a rule that one must celebrate the age of Genghis Khan and Timur, even though neither were Kazakh – by a Kazakh woman who does not speak Kazakh and identifies more closely with “her people’s” past colonizers. And there are many like her.

In short, Kazakhstan’s history is immensely difficult to untangle, but it is also incredibly intricate and fascinating. Instead of celebrating its richness, however, those who are writing the new national historical narrative are approaching this fragile structure with a hammer. In so doing, they are repeating old mistakes; they really should know better.

Central Asian in South Asia

Humanyun's Tomb. Construction began in 1562.

I am writing you this evening from New Delhi, capital of India! (I can tell you that I’m traveling this time, unlike in the past, because I now have a roommate in Almaty – my friend Leroy – and am therefore not worried about advertising my absence from the city.)

Before I explain why, however, I want to bring your attention to my short article published on The Fletcher School’s foreign affairs blog: “China: The View from Next Door.” Those of you who read my posts regularly will be familiar with the ideas and themes covered, but I hope it raises some important questions for readers. I hope to do much more of this kind of publishing in the near future.

This is my first time in India, and I am blown away. I’ve long heard from friends and fountains of “common knowledge” like Eat Prey, Love that India is an incredible place, but it is only now that I am fully convinced: the sights, sounds, smells, people, flavors are a bit overwhelming, but also invigorating and fascinating. I know very little about Indian history or the country’s contemporary situation, but I am struck by the desire to learn more.

I’m here because the Fulbright Conference for all the grantees in Central and South Asia is going to be in southern India in early March. I decided to tack on a few days to the front of the trip in order to see a bit more of the subcontinent.

Having only just arrived today, I haven’t done too much yet; however, my big tourist site for the day was Humayun’s Tomb (pictured top). If I’m not mistaken, this 16th century mausoleum is considered one of the finest examples of Mughal architecture, and I was most fascinated by the similarities I could see to Central Asian architecture from about the same period. This isn’t entirely surprising, though.

Carved stone screen at the Tomb

Humayun (1508-1556) was the son of Babur, founder of Mughal dynasty and himself a Central Asian Muslim. He likely hailed from what is today Uzbekistan. The establishment of the Mughals therefore also opened the door to Central Asian influences and innovations – including, perhaps, naan and samosas (although that assertion could well be apocryphal). That the Mughals had a heavy influence upon vernacular architecture, however, is beyond doubt.

Specifically, the forms, rhythms, weight, drama, &c. were all very familiar, but what I found exciting about the Tomb was the ways in which I could see how certain patterns had been either elaborated or simplified, embellished or refined, as they moved from Central Asia. This was clearest in the stone screens covering window openings. I also think the use of contrasting red and white stone was done with particular sophistication in this instance, giving the huge monument an energy that saves it from becoming exaggeratedly bulky.

I’m looking forward to seeing more of India. This introduction is made even more surreal due to the fact that just yesterday I was skiing in the mountains thirty minutes outside Almaty. From snowy mountaintop to Mughal tombs, curry and the warm Delhi sun – I have to say, I’m a lucky guy!

The slopes at Shimbulak, the ski resort 30 minutes from the heart of downtown Almaty.

Bandy

Yesterday (Monday) night I attended the US v. Kazakhstan match in the world championship tournament of a game I think few people have ever heard of despite its several colorful names: bandy, a.k.a. “Russian hockey” or “hockey with a ball” in Russia, “football of the winter” in Scandinavia and “ball hockey” in Kazakh.

As far as I could gather from watching a game, bandy is a lot like soccer crossed with field hockey. This was confirmed today by a quick trip to the Wikipedia page about bandy, which is actually full of fascinating facts, like: “Bandy in Norway is more an upper class sport. Ice hockey doesn’t even exist in the richer part of Oslo.”

Keeping warm at the bandy game in my winter-wear. I'm also enjoying another most traditional of Russian techniques to stay warm - drinking cheap hooch.

Also according to Wikipedia, the sport originated independently and almost simultaneously in two different countries, rather like calculus, but in the case of bandy those countries are Russia and Wales of the early 18th century. Now, however, it is popular primarily in Scandinavia and the CIS countries, although both India and the United States field teams. Indeed, according to a 2010 New York Times article, “In the United States, perhaps 300 men, 50 women and 200 youngsters play bandy. All of them live in the Twin Cities, except for a handful from Duluth who drive down on weekends.”

Low levels of popularity mean that bandy in the USA does not attract the interest and sponsorship to field really professional-quality teams, and it shows. Although the American Bandy Association website tries to be uplifting in its reporting on last night’s game, it fails to overcome the fact that Team Kazakhstan walked all over Team USA, winning 13 to 3.

I went to the game despite heavy snow with my friend Darren; Darren, despite being ethnically Kazakh, joined me to cheer on the Stars and Stripes. We were the only people supporting the US side. The only other non-Kazakh, non-Russians at the stadium were two Germans on vacation, and they were cheering for the home team. It was my first sporting event here, and it was good fun despite the loss.

What I found most interesting is that almost all of the “Kazakh” national team (more appropriately the “Kazakhstani” team, although the demonyms for this part of the world are confusing enough to be the subject of their own post) are ethnic Russians, and the fans were mixed. This is more casual evidence for either of two contradictory  propositions: 1, that Kazakhstan really has achieved Eurasian racial harmony; or 2, that this is a deeply confused “nation” in which two very different cultures coexist, more or less temporarily. I am, admittedly, of both opinions depending on the day.

The scoreboard near the end of the game

So far, the USA has done poorly in the tournament, losing to favorite Russia 19-3 the day before losing to Kazakhstan 13-3. This might not matter to anyone, but here’s why it should: the Russians are pushing to include bandy in the 2014 Olympics in Sochi, which could (given our record) adversely affect the ultimate medal count to the USA’s detriment – and everyone knows the importance of the medal count!