Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia [1 ed.] 9789811943270, 9789811943287

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THE STEPPE AND BEYOND: STUDIES ON CENTRAL ASIA

Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia Edited by Hélène Thibault · Jean-François Caron

The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia

Series Editor Jean-François Caron, Department of Political Science and International Relations, Nazarbayev University, Astana, Kazakhstan

Surrounded between Europe and Asia, Central Asia has been neglected by many experts for a very long time. Many reasons may explain this situation, such as the language barrier and the fact that the region remained inaccessible for the most part of the 20th Century. However, this situation is clearly about to change in light of the growing interest of the academic interest for this region and the purpose of this series is to enhance the understanding of this region which is has always been at the crossroad of various civilizations. From a multidisciplinary perspective, this series examines the history of the region, its past struggles with colonialism and communism as well as the political and sociological challenges Central Asian countries are currently facing with the emergence of the new Silk Road and the strategic power shift in the region. It also proposes to render accessible to English-speaking readers the important oral literary tradition of Central Asia, which is one of the largest in the world.

Hélène Thibault · Jean-François Caron Editors

Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia

Editors Hélène Thibault Department of Political Science and International Relations Nazarbayev University Nur-Sultan, Kazakhstan

Jean-François Caron Department of Political Science and International Relations Nazarbayev University Nur-Sultan, Kazakhstan

ISSN 2524-8359 ISSN 2524-8367 (electronic) The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia ISBN 978-981-19-4327-0 ISBN 978-981-19-4328-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

Contents

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An Overview of Shame and Its Manifestation in Central Asia Hélène Thibault and Jean-François Caron

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Conceptualizing Shame Jean-François Caron

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Purity vs. Safety: How Uyat Undermines Youth’s Sexual Literacy in Kazakhstan Karlygash Kabatova

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“Uyat Emes” or the Process of De-Shaming in Kazakhstan Moldir Kabylova

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Ashamed to Mother: The Practice of ‘Nebere Aluu’ in Kyrgyzstan Zhibek Kenzhebaeva and Elena Kim

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The Role of Uyat or the Culture of Shame in the Regulation of Queer Subjectivities in Kazakhstan, and Forms of Resistance Against It Mariya Levitanus

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CONTENTS

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Shaming as a Form of Political Accountability in Kazakhstani Politics Hélène Thibault

Index

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Notes on Contributors

Caron Jean-Fran¸cois is an associate professor at the Department of Political Science and International Relations at Nazarbayev University. He holds a Ph.D. from the Universit´e Laval (2010) and has published more than a dozen monographs. He is the editor of “The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asian” series with Palgrave MacMillan. Kabatova Karlygash is a researcher and advocate for youth’s access to sexuality and gender education in Kazakhstan. She has been studying the topic since 2017 independently and while at The Central AsiaAzerbaijan Fellowship Program (George Washington University, U.S.) and The John Smith Programme for Central Asia (John Smith Trust, UK). In 2018, Karlygash founded and runs UyatEmes.kz—an educational project intended for young people and parents to learn about healthy relationships, sexual and reproductive health and rights. Karlygash is also a member of PaperLab (a public policy research center based in Kazakhstan) where she is involved in applied research and project coordination. Karlygash holds an MA in Politics and Security from the OSCE Academy in Bishkek and is an alumna of the Soros Foundation/International Centre for Policy Advocacy’s Public Policy Fellowship Program. Her research interests include sexuality education, gender issues, and human rights. Kabylova Moldir is a Ph.D. candidate in Social Policy at the University of Nottingham in the United Kingdom. Her current research project focuses on mothers’ participation in paid work in Kazakhstan and the

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impact of social policy mechanisms, family institution and labor market on it. Prior to doing her Ph.D., Moldir has been working as a public policy consultant at the first national consulting company in Kazakhstan the Centre of Strategic Initiatives (CSI) where she has been involved in the evaluation of population’s trust in governmental bodies. As part of volunteer work, she leads several educational projects as a media director at the Kazakhstan Ph.D. Association in the United Kingdom (KPAUK) which include academic webinars, articles and competitions. She holds a BA in Social Policy from the University of Kent and an MA in Public Policy from University of York, UK. Kenzhebaeva Zhibek is currently a Primary and Middle School counselor at the Bishkek International School (BIS), Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan and a psychologist at the Institute of Behavioral Health and Applied Research, which provides free psychological counseling services. Prior to that, she worked at the Child Support Center for children victims of violence under Bishkek’s mayor office. She has a Master’s degree in Applied Psychology with a Child and Adolescent Counselling and Counselling Psychology Concentrations from the American University of Central Asia. She enjoys reading books and is the author of several book reviews and the founder of a book club. Kim Elena is a professor of Social Sciences at the American University of Central Asia, Bishkek Kyrgyzstan. She is currently a visiting professor at Bard College, New York. Elena’s teaching and research focus is on gender and international development, gender-based violence, and gender politics in Central Asia. More specifically, her ethnographies concern practices such as child marriage, bride-kidnapping, and foreign-funded crisis intervention in Kyrgyzstan. Elena has often served as a consultant to United Nations Development Program, United Nations Environmental Program, UN Women on matters of investigating intersections among gender, women, and violence. Her publications include chapters in several books and articles including the Violence against Women, Journal of Gender Studies, Gender, Technology and Development, Central Asian Survey, Rural Society, and Women and Therapy. Levitanus Mariya is a lecturer in the Faculty of Life Sciences and Education at the University of South Wales. She received her Doctorate in Psychotherapy from the University of Edinburgh in 2020. Her thesis

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is entitled “Regulation and Negotiation of Queer Subjectivities in postSoviet Kazakhstan”. Her study looks at the narratives of queer people in Kazakhstan, considering what regulates queer lives, and how do people negotiate their queer subjectivities. Her research interests include gender and sexuality, everyday lives of queer people in Central Asia, and qualitative decolonizing methodologies. Thibault Hélène is an associate professor in the Department of Political Science and International Relations at Nazarbayev University (NU) since 2016. She holds a Ph.D. from the University of Ottawa (2014). She is also a co-investigator in the Political Economy of Education Research (PEER) Network. She specializes in issues of religion, gender, and sexuality in Central Asia. Recent publications include: “Are You Married?: Gender and Faith in Political Ethnographic Research” in the Journal of Contemporary Ethnography and “Where did all the Wahhabis go? The evolution of threat in Central Asian scholarship” in Europe-Asia Studies and “Male Sex-work in Kazakhstan a distinct market?” in Central Asian Affairs.

List of Tables

Table 3.1 Table 4.1

Table 4.2

Table 4.3

Table 4.4

Messages communicated to youth divided by gender The respondents’ reactions to the statement in the survey “The statue of lovers in Nur-Sultan offends the honour of Kazakh women because it depicts them in a tight-fitting dress that emphasises the curves of the body” The participants’ responses to the question in the survey “Will you feel uncomfortable in relation to your community if, instead of a traditional wedding with relatives, your son or daughter chooses to spend the money on other purposes (honeymoon abroad, buying a home, starting a business, etc.)?” The respondents’ reactions to the statement in the survey “Today, people should not depend on public opinion. Everyone has the right to do what he/she wants, even if others do not like it” The respondents’ reactions to the statement in the survey “The feeling of fear of disappointing others and the desire to avoid public condemnation (uyat) is an important part of Kazakh culture and should be a guide in decision-making”

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LIST OF TABLES

Table 4.5

Table 4.6

Table 4.7

The participants’ responses to the question in the survey “You were invited to an important event (funeral, wedding, besiktoy) during an epidemic and quarantine. Your refusal would be regarded by the hosts of the event as disrespect for them and other guests. What would you do?” The survey results demonstrating responses to the question “Do you have experience of studying/working/living abroad?” and coloration between the respondents’ experiences of living abroad and sense of shame The survey results illustrating coloration between size of the cities in Kazakhstan and the respondents’ sense of shame

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CHAPTER 1

An Overview of Shame and Its Manifestation in Central Asia Hélène Thibault and Jean-François Caron

Shame, referred to as uyat in Kyrgyz, Kazakh and Uzbek, and as sharm or ayb in Tajik, remains a powerful regulatory mechanism in Central Asian societies that constrains individuals’ behaviors and encourage them to conform to the dominant social norms. Shelekpayev defines uyat as “a set of repressive practices in relation to individuals or groups and their reactions to certain events, including the condemnation of obvious or perceived misconduct, guilt and imposition of guilt, body shaming, victimization and victim blaming, invention of (false) morality—that can be manifested through emotional and physical abuse” (Shelekpayev, 2020). In Kazakh, the expression “uyat bolady” (there will be shame) remains widely used and its invocation is meant to deter someone from doing something which people will consider shameful. These norms

H. Thibault (B) · J.-F. Caron Nazarbayev University, Nur-Sultan, Kazakhstan e-mail: [email protected] J.-F. Caron e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_1

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usually rely on a heteronormative conservative gender order, kinship solidarity as well as hierarchical family relations in which elders hold significant power. Uyat is locally depicted as an ancient tradition inherent to Central Asian communities (Krupko, 2020) but more than an old age reminiscence, its prevalence in contemporary social and political dynamics is undeniable, though disputed. In this volume, authors explore various manifestations of the culture shame in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. In contemporary Central Asia, discourses of shame are commonly used to regulate female behavior by asserting men’s control over female mobility and sexuality. Popular narratives, and to some extent, official ones (Nozimova, 2022; Suyarkulova, 2016; Thibault, 2016), denounce self-expression, perceived promiscuous behavior or disrespect for national values and instead emphasize modesty, obedience and respect for tradition (Peshkova, 2021; Zhussipbek & Nagayeva, 2021). Most of the chapters in this volume will reflect the phenomenon of gender regulation, from the taboo of sex education in schools (Kabatova), favored heteronormativity (Levitanus) to the compliance of parents to give their firstborn to adoption to the husband’s parents (Kenzhebaeva and Kim) whereas Kabylova’s chapter will challenge the assumption that uyat norms are becoming more prevalent. Yet, uyat is not limited to the imposition of gender norms. It encompasses a wide range of social interactions such as taking care of one’s elderly parents, expected family and kinship solidarity as well as public responsibility for people in position of power. In this volume, Caron also offers a theoretical discussion to distinguish between shame and guilt and highlight the societal mechanisms based on which uyat is made possible. Finally, Thibault’s contribution addresses the many uses of shame in Kazakhstani politics as a form of political accountability in the absence of competitive elections. While focusing exclusively on Central Asia, this volume resonates with previous research on the issue of shame focusing on different socioeconomic contexts. The seminal works of sociologists Norbert Elias’s The Civilizing Process (2000 [1939]) and Erving Goffman’s The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (2021 [1959]) have shed light on the issue of shame in contemporary Western societies. Scheff summarized Elias’ argument in this schematic way: “1- As physical punishment decreased, shame became increasingly dominant as the main agent of social control. 2- As shame became more prevalent, it also became almost invisible because of taboo” (Scheff, 2014, p. 117). Stewart argues that in Euro-American societies, codes of honor and shame became obsolete by the 1900s with

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the advent of state judicial control (Stewart, 2001). In contrast with most Western countries, in many Mediterranean, Middle Eastern and Asian societies, shaming is not invisible and on the contrary is to some extent becoming even more prevalent, echoing Goffman’s proposition about the risk of shame in all social interactions, from failure to participate in family gatherings, to dress inappropriately in public or to betray the country by allowing foreign interests to buy local companies or land. Peristiany’s influential edited volume published in 1966 revealed the prevalence of honor and shame as a regulatory mechanism in Mediterranean societies, from Greece to North Africa (Peristiany, 1966). It emphasizes the importance of reputation and the tight social ties that unable shaming where honor is not individual affair but a collective one. With the development of feminist studies, research on the issue of honor and shame conducted by anthropologists and sociologists has been increasingly focusing on the regulation of gender, sexuality identities and practices. Scholars have also shown how, across the Muslim world, the social order is heavily gendered and the honor of communities rests on women’s behavior, preferably characterized by modesty and obedience (Gilmore, 1987; Gilmore & Feldman, 2010). Societies that rely on symbolic prestige and appearances also impose norms on men and “to perform ‘manly’, in other words, to exaggerate the qualities traditionally associated with masculine domination, such as power, strength and authority” (Stepien, 2014, p. 9). If codes of honor and shame are grounded in local contexts and temporalities, they also extend to migrant communities as Akpinar (2003) shows in her study of Turkish female immigrants in Sweden where the protection of women is maintained through control on their sexuality. Whereas the honor and shame system might be conceptualized as a reminiscence of traditional values and social order, its specific manifestations change over time and adapt to (post)modern realities and changing economic settings. Because it relies on closely knit communities, shaming tends to lose its potency in large, urban, diverse settings where social ties are not as strong and where one can live an anonymous life, free from the judgments of the community. In contemporary Central Asia, honor and shame bears a specific significance because of nation-building processes that have contributed to the redefinition of social and ethnic identities since independence in 1991 due to the glorification of carefully selected national traditions. Honor and shame, a profoundly relational mechanism, is also impacted by the economic collapse that followed independence. The state disengagement

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from social welfare led to an increase in people’s reliance on local communities and extended family to secure their finances, access property or find good employment. In this context, personal behavior comes under more scrutiny and maintaining a good reputation can guarantee one’s social esteem as well as financial and professional success. In terms of gender, the transformation of the Central Asian gender order reflects much of the Soviet state’s codification of gender relations marked by the promotion of women’s rights as well as heteronormativity and an unchanged division of labor at home (Kamp, 2016; Kandiyoti, 2007). A carefully crafted promotion of national traditions that occults a non-binary gender order that once prevailed in some regions of Central Asia, contributes to the reinforcement of conservative values and the imposition of hegemonic masculinity and femininity models (Peshkova & Thibault, 2022). In some communities, deviation from those definite, prescribed behaviors for men and women can lead to shaming. In the field of Central Asian studies, some authors have contributed to our understanding of shame within local communities. For Shelekpayev (2020), uyat became an element of (bio) politics in Kazakhstan to impose a conservative heteronormative gender order in the mid-2000s when political expression became more limited which prompted people to resort to uyat tools to define their own identity, including political, which could not find expression by other means. In their investigation of bride-kidnapping in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, Werner and Sataeva demonstrate that discourses of shame are used to pressure young women to stay in their “new family” after being abducted (Sataeva, 2017; Werner, 2009). Female sexuality is under intense scrutiny and female sexual pleasure denied or deemed unimportant (Harris, 2005; Thibault, 2018). In contrast, some studies demonstrate that women also find ways to circumscribe the fear of being shamed and make some independent choices, like becoming second wives (Thibault 2021) or lying to their surroundings or something more radical like hymenoplasty (reconstruction of the hymen) (Zhanabayeva, 2018, p. 37). Yet, for others this medical procedure represents a form of violence and might actually contribute to support gender discrimination and reinforce female submission (Kim et al., 2022). In Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan, scholars have demonstrated that contrary to young females whose virginity must be preserved, young men are encouraged and pressured to show their sexual prowess (Harris, 2004, p. 79; Zhanabayeva, 2018, p. 39). In Kyrgyzstan again, research showed that poor men are pressured by their parents to marry in order to

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acquire some social status despite not having enough savings to organize a proper wedding. In some cases, this leads to men abducting women to bypass the financial burden connected to notoriously lavish wedding ceremonies known locally as “toi” (Kim & Karioris, 2020). A few studies have addressed how uyat and prevalent gender norms also constrain men to act and perform according to an idealized version of masculinity. Focusing on Tajikistan and in light of deteriorating economic conditions, Behzadi shows how women miners’ exclusion from mining work is negotiated through notions of honor and shame and linked to men’s loss of sense of self since the disintegration of the USSR and the reconfiguration of masculinities with new work and resource struggles (Behzadi, 2019). In recent years, social media has also allowed shaming to be extended to the larger public and women’s behavior continues to be scrutinized and reprimanded (Arystanbek, 2022; Kudaibergenova, 2019). Beyond gender dimensions, others have addressed shame in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic and argued that the pressure to participate in family gatherings despite quarantine regulations might have contributed to the spread of the virus (Caron & Orlov, 2022) in Kazakhstan. Finally, focusing on broader family and community dynamics, scholars have also revealed that adult children will be shamed for inadequate care given to their parents (Kalysh et al., 2015). In the public realm of Central Asian societies, a number of wellpublicized events have demonstrated the prevalence of this social tool and the impact it may have on people, even the powerful. In 2017, Aliya Shagieva, the daughter of former Kyrgyz President Atambayev, created a scandal after she posted photos of her bump and of her breastfeeding her new-born child on Instagram. She was accused of shaming her family by sharing photos deemed too revealing (Amidi, 2017). Young people, and especially females, are clearly more affected by this custom which tends to reinforce a patriarchal conservative value system that emphasizes the importance of female modesty, a traditional family where the wife is subordinate to her husband, and children (even adults) to their parents. In 2018, Zere Asylbek, a then 19-year-old singer from Kyrgyzstan released a video clip which immediately went viral because of its perceived provocative content. In it, Zere appears wearing a loose, knee-lenght skirt, a purple bra, no shirt but a black blazer which reveals the flashy bra. Behind her, we see young women dressed in long robes. After jumping in a lake, all of them re-emerge wearing different outfits, ranging from jeans and

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shirts to traditional Kyrgyz dresses. The message is meant to be emancipating, encouraging women to wear whatever they want. The video, and more specifically the singer’s revealing outfit, provoked an intense backlash in Kyrgyzstan and Zere even received death threats for what conservative actors consider to be an insult to the Kyrgyz culture. The signer’s father, who claimed not to be too much in favor of her approach nevertheless supported her and himself sharing a powerful message on social media: “Zere is my daughter. The free daughter of free Kyrgyzstan” (Wood, 2018). Even though women are usually the primary targets of this custom, shame is used in a variety of ways and its weight is also felt by men, especially homosexuals and men who don’t live up to societies’ idea of masculinity, who are targeted and shamed for their behavior. One notorious example from Kazakhstan has to do with Q-pop1 boy band Ninety-One. Despite being immensely popular among youth, their androgynous looks, use of make-up and colorful outfits made them very unpopular among conservative circles in Kazakhstan, who accused them of insulting national culture. Some of the band’s concerts were canceled in the southern cities of Kyzylorda and Shymkent due to protests and the authorities’ fear that anger could escalate (Tan, 2021). Given the strong heteronormative character of the dominant gender discourse in Central Asia, homosexuality inevitably also falls into the realm of uyat, if not of criminal behavior. There were long periods of Soviet history when homosexuality was outright criminalized and it remains so in Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan today whereas Tajikistan, Kazakhstan have decriminalized homosexuality after independence. Yet, same-sex marriage is not recognized, and homosexuality is overall not socially accepted. According to 2019 survey results, a great majority of Kazakhstani respondents preferred not to have neighbors who are from the LGBT community. The numbers were particularly high (70.2%) among the 18–29 age group whereas 65,4% of respondents from the 61 years old and above category would be uncomfortable living next to homosexuals (Friedrich Ebert Stiftung 2019, p. 84). Cases of harassment, public shaming and violence are common in the region (Kluczewska, 2019). As Levitanus discusses in this volume, society’s intolerance is internalized and non-heterosexual individuals are not only shamed by others but also feel shame. Given how much media 1 Q-pop refers to Qazaqstani pop, a style of music that is inspired by Korean pop music known as K-pop.

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coverage those examples received and the very content of this edited volume, one can think that uyat is only used to dictate proper gender behavior, yet it goes beyond the dimension of gender and has implications for other types of social and political repercussions which some of the chapters in this volume will also highlight. The concept of shame has a particular resonance in Central Asia not only because it is considered a traditional feature of the local ethos but also because it was a political tactic commonly used in the USSR to impose discipline. Shaming was frequently used by the highest instances of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU) to keep members in line and impose party discipline (Cohn, 2015; Fitzpatrick, 1999; Ledeneva, 2011). Becoming a party-member was perceived as an achievement that only exceptional and irreproachable individuals could boast about. In Central Asia, local members of the CPSU were methodically sanctioned and shamed for their involvement in polygynous marriages, bride-kidnapping and other “feudal” traditions (Cohn, 2015, p. 146). Shaming also extended to ordinary citizens who violated socialist norms. For instance, prorabotka, or rituals of public shaming, were organized in schools, universities and workplaces to condemn individuals who had deviated from the norm. Offenses ranged from expressing bourgeois views, being drunk in public or laziness (Stephenson, 2021). In the context of Central Asia, one could argue that the totalitarian power of the Communist party to control individual behavior through symbolic violence was superimposed on pre-existing local traditions. Today, those legacies intertwine to form a complex system of socio-political regulation. Kazakhstani scholar Igor Krupko (Krupko, 2020) suggests that in Kazakhstan, uyat has become a powerful method of imposing symbolic violence. Anchored in the Islamic and Soviet normative frames that have stripped history of its sexual content, the narratives emphasize the pure nature of the Kazakh nation. What he calls a “nostalgic utopia” rests on national symbols and cultural codes, contributes to the production and reproduction of social hierarchies, as well as increases the symbolic capital of those who initiate those narratives. In this regard, an episode that took place in Kazakhstan in 2019 is revealing. A Kazakh man in his forties, Talgat Sholtaev, gained recognition when he publicly denounced the unveiling of a statue in the capital Nur-Sultan which depicts a man and a woman holding each other, because it was possible to see the contours of the female body. Outraged by this artwork which he felt was shameful, he covered the female statue in a colorful robe to protect her dignity

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and posted his actions on social media which led to intense debates. While some praised Sholtaev for his performance, others ridiculed him and the “Uyatman” was made into a cartoon “hero” by illustrator Murat Dilmanov. As a response, Asel Bayandarova, a successful plastic surgeon from Almaty, posted photos of herself wearing only panties while hiding her breast with one arm and declared that Kazakh women should not have to submit to the “stupid” values of traditions. Following Bayandarova’s post, other women copied her stunt and protested against the outrage expressed by moralists. Although most of the shaming took place online, there are also cases of real-life intimidation of women who are considered immoral and shameful to the Nation. These two cases illustrate how uyat manifests itself in the twenty-first century. In the digital age, shaming is no longer limited to the local community and can now be extended to the entire nation and beyond borders with the help of social media. According to Krupko, “Uyatmen has become a symbol of extreme conservatism and patriarchal views in Kazakhstan” (Krupko, 2020). However, uyatmen’s actions are not met with defeating attitudes. On the contrary, some of those affected by discourses of shame often decide to fight back. As Levitanus writes in this volume “Shame is fundamentally relational”. One of the reasons why discourses of shame are used in attempts to regulate behavior in Central Asia is due to the fact that kinship bonds and other types of social ties remain very strong (Borisova, 2002; Satybaldieva, 2015; Schatz, 2005). Even if solidarity ties remain very important, Central Asian societies are also moving toward a certain individualization of communities. This is due to several factors including the changing nature of the workplace, internal and international mobility (Dall’Agnola, 2021) as well as changing societal values which praise individual accomplishments over group solidarity as Kabylova argues in this volume. Urban Central Asian communities are also undergoing a certain “revolution of intimacies” (Thibault, 2022) marked by the liberalization of social mores and sexual practices. Given its importance in the regulation of Central Asian societies, it is surprising that the literature on this topic is extremely limited (Krupko, 2020). This volume is an attempt to explore the many variations of the concept of shame in Central Asia’s contemporary societies. While we acknowledge the legacies of pre-revolutionary and Soviet cultural norms, we leave to others the task of studying the historical roots of this tradition and focus on its contemporary manifestations. Some of the questions that authors in this volume address are: Among what groups of people

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is shaming more prevalent? What are the behaviors that are generally labeled as shameful? Is the younger generation less inclined to abide by the demanding nature of this custom? What are the forms of resistance people have developed against it? Is the fear of uyat challenging other forms of authority, such as the one coming from the state or is it on the contrary, used to affirm the authority of the leader? Caron’s chapter sets the table for our understanding of shame and guilt. Caron reminds us the need to differentiate between a “culture of guilt” and a “culture of shame”. Guilt is based on introspection and the idea that a specific action violates one’s conscience or a universal moral rule, while shame rests on the fear of external sanction. One could also add that feelings of guilt ultimately lead to legal sanctions that societies impose on people, while shame relies more on the fear of social tyranny that transcends the legal dimension, and which often turns out to have more limiting effects on people’s behavior. As mentioned earlier, the notion of uyat today is more likely to be associated with conformity to gender norms and in this volume, Kenzhebaeva and Kim, Kabatova and Levitanus explore the uses of shame to regulate sexual behavior and gender norms in Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan. Based on extensive fieldwork conducted in Kazakhstan, Levitanus examines how uyat is used to marginalize non-heterosexual behavior and how shame is internalized but also resisted by local queer communities. If uyat is understood as a tool to prevent deviation from the norm, then queer people embody the ultimate subversion of heteronormative norms and exhibit ‘improper’ gender behavior. The author’s reflexive stance provides a rich understanding of gender dynamics and the struggle for the recognition of sexual diversity in Kazakhstan. Also focusing on Kazakhstan, Kabatova’s first-hand account reveals the deep underlying feelings of shame associated with sexuality among youth and more specifically, sexual education in Kazakhstan which lie in the taboo of discussing sexual matters not only within the family but also in schools because of the seemingly biased attitude of teachers and educators toward “deviant” behavior. Her study also highlights the differentiated tolerance of female vs male teenagers based on the understanding of proper behavior and female purity. One of Kabatova’s most surprising finding is the connection between the perceived purity of Kazakh language and the taboo of sex talk. Finally, her study also highlights the public health problems associated with the lack of professional sex education in Kazakhstan.

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Kenzhebaeva and Kim’s chapter also focuses on the shaming of female behavior but this time, in the context of family dynamics. Their research sheds light on the relatively unexplored phenomenon of “nebere aluu” which in Kyrgyz translates as “take a grandchild”. According to this tradition, new grandparents will adopt their sons’ firstborn child and raise them as their own youngest child. Based on in-depth interviews, the two authors reveal how the practice, relatively common in Kyrgyzstan and to some extent in other Central Asian countries, proves to be very painful for mothers who try to oppose it. Yet, this form of geriarchic order (rule of the elders) is inscribed in patriarchal regime that determines the role of young women as child-bearing individuals whose bodies can be commonly owned and replaced. Given their subordinate position within the social hierarchy, women’s resistance is met with discourses of shame and is difficult to pursue. What these three chapters have in common is that they show the connection between the state-sponsored and popular nationalist narratives and everyday gendered practices. The authors’ findings reveal that hegemonic patriarchal heteronormative narratives are powerful and constrain people’s behavior. However, those three contributions also show that people tend to resist those norms and retain independence from elders or distant social actors. Kabylova furthers this argument by contending that uyat practices of the modern age in the form of online shaming, are not effective and on the contrary, generate powerful backlashes that delegitimize the efforts of those who shame. Focusing also on gendered performances, Kabylova argues that uyat is losing of its significance in Kazakhstan given the ongoing process of modernization and individualization of society where people tend to pay less attention to the opinion of others. Shaming of sexual practices and gender non-conformity are not the only ways that shame is used for regulating social behavior. In that regard, Thibault explores how shame is used in Kazakhstan as a political tool to legitimize one’s authority or delegitimize those of others. Shaming is made possible by the hierarchical structure of power and paternalist politics that glorify the leader. Closely connected to the practices of kompromat (gathering compromising material), shaming is also used to sanction some individuals who have attracted too much attention or got themselves involved in scandals and have tarnished the government’s image. A close look at those dynamics reveals two tendencies:

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those who are publicly shamed in a formal manner tend to keep their position whereas those whose stories are leaked to the public via the media fell into disgrace. This volume is an attempt to shed light on a relatively unexplored, yet determinant, aspect of socio-political dynamics in Central Asia and to theorize some of the social practices and mechanisms of shaming. The authors bring a nuanced perspective on the issue by not only insisting on the oppressive nature of uyat but also by demonstrating how people manage to navigate and resist those social constraints. At the exception of Levitanus, the authors in this volume did not adopt a reflexive stance, even if as residents and natives of Central Asia, they have personally experienced shame in one form or another. We hope that in the future, scholars will engage in deeper ethnographic research to explore this profoundly relational phenomenon. While this volume mostly focuses on gender issues, we hope that future studies will widen the scope of research and include topics such as ethnic and economic nationalism. The increasing integration of Central Asian states into the globalized economies and regional networks, notably the increasing presence of Chinese interests in the region, have already sparked nationalist protests which might become more common in the near future.

References Akpinar, A. (2003). The honour/shame complex revisited: Violence against women in the migration context. Women’s Studies International Forum, 26(5), 425–442. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.wsif.2003.08.001 Amidi, F. (2017). President’s daughter sparks breastfeeding debate with photo. BBC, 30 July. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-40479231 Arystanbek, A. (2022). “Can you beat your wife, yes or no?”: A study of hegemonic femininity in Kazakhstan’s online discourses. East European Politics. https://doi.org/10.1080/21599165.2021.2024516 Behzadi, N. E. (2019). Women miners’ exclusion and Muslim masculinities in Tajikistan: A feminist political ecology of honor and shame. Geoforum, 100, 144–152. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.geoforum.2019.01.001 Borisova, E. (2002). Rol’ neformal’nykh institutov v upravlenii Kazakhstanom [Role of formal and informal institutions in the ruling of Kazakhstan]. Bectnik Evpazii, 1, 27–47. Caron, J.-F., & Orlov, D. (2022). Uyat or the culture of shame as a vector of Covid-19 contamination in Kazakhstan. In J.-F. Caron, & H. Thibault (Eds.), Central Asia and the Covid-19 pandemic. Palgrave Macmillan (The

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Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia). https://www.palgrave.com/ gp/book/9789811675850. Cohn, E. (2015). The high title of a communist: Postwar party discipline and the values of the Soviet regime. Cornell University Press. Dall’Agnola, J. (2021). Patriots or world citizens: The identity of post-Soviet people in a globalised world. Europe-Asia Studies, 0(0), 1–21. https://doi. org/10.1080/09668136.2021.1874305 Elias, N. (2000). The civilizing process: Sociogenetic and psychogenetic investigations. Wiley. Feldman, S. (2010). Shame and honour: The violence of gendered norms under conditions of global crisis. Women’s Studies International Forum, 33(4), 305– 315. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.wsif.2010.02.004 Fitzpatrick, S. (1999). Everyday Stalinism: Ordinary life in extraordinary times: Soviet Russia in the 1930s. Oxford University Press. Friedrich Ebert Stiftung. (2019). Tsennosti Kazakhstanskovo Obshestva v Sotsiologicheskom Izmerenii (Values of the Kazakhstani Society in Social Measurements). Gilmore, D. G., & Gilmore, D. D. (1987). Honor and shame and the unity of the Mediterranean. American Anthropological Association. Goffman, E. (2021). The presentation of self in everyday life. Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Harris, C. (2004). Control and subversion: Gender relations in Tajikistan. Pluto Press. https://eprints.soas.ac.uk/20793/. Accessed 3 July 2021. Harris, C. (2005). Desire versus horniness: Sexual relations in the collectivist society of Tajikistan. Social Analysis: The International Journal of Social and Cultural Practice, 49(2), 78–95. Kalysh, A., Nuketayeva, D., Kanagatova, A., Suleimenova, Z., Sadikovich, S. A., & Zhumashova, Z. (2015). Family etiquette of Kazakhs. Global Journal of Sociology: Current Issues, 5(1), 28–33. https://doi.org/10.18844/gjs.v5i 1.92 Kamp, M. (2016). The Soviet legacy and women’s rights in Central Asia. Current History, 115(783), 270–276. Kandiyoti, D. (2007). The politics of gender and the Soviet paradox: Neither colonized, nor modern? Central Asian Survey, 26(4), 601–623. https://doi. org/10.1080/02634930802018521 Kim, E., & Karioris, F. G. (2020). Bound to be grooms: The imbrication of economy, ecology, and bride kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan. Gender, Place & Culture, 1–22. https://doi.org/10.1080/0966369X.2020.1829561 Kim, E., Orozalieva, R., & Molchanova, E. (2022). A (re)markable bride: Bargaining with virginity-regulating practices in post-socialist Kyrgyzstan. Central Asian Affairs 9(2–3), 291–320.

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Kluczewska, K. (2019). Donors’ LGBT support in Tajikistan: Promoting diversity or provoking violence?. In Sexuality and translation in world politics. E-international relations (pp. 112–126). https://www.e-ir.info/2019/08/ 12/donors-lgbt-support-in-tajikistan-promoting-diversity-or-provoking-violen ce/. Accessed 25 October 2021. Krupko, I. (2020). Igor Krupko. Uyat mythology. Khan Tengri, 3 November. https://ia-centr.ru/han-tengri/oriental/igor-krupko-mifologikauyata/. Accessed 16 September 2021. Kudaibergenova, D. T. (2019). The body global and the body traditional: A digital ethnography of Instagram and nationalism in Kazakhstan and Russia. Central Asian Survey, 38(3), 363–380. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 02634937.2019.1650718 Ledeneva, A. V. (2011). Can Russia modernise?: Sistema. Cambridge University Press. Nozimova, S. (2022). Imagined women: Bearing, rearing, and wearing the Tajik Nation. Central Asian Affairs 9(2–3), 321–347. Peristiany, J. G. (1966). Honour and shame: The values of Mediterranean society. University of Chicago Press. Peshkova, S. (2021). Gender structure. In D. Montgomery (Ed.), Central Asia: Contexts for understanding. Pittsburgh University Press. Peshkova, S., Jenrbekova, R., & Vilkovisky, M. (2022). Prevrashenie (transformation) of Bacha: Cracks and ghostly matters in the National/ist Heritage of Central Asia, Central Asian Affairs, 9 (2–3), 177–207. Peshkova, S., & Thibault, H. (2022). Gender as intersections: A different way of seeing Central Asia. Central Asian Affairs 9 (2–3), 149–175. https://doi. org/10.30965/22142290-12340019 Sataeva, B. (2017). Public shaming and resistance in the context of the bride kidnapping phenomenon in Kyrgyzstan. University of Utrecht. Satybaldieva, E. (2015). Political capital, everyday politics and moral obligations: Understanding the political strategies of various elites and the poor in Kyrgyzstan. Europe-Asia Studies, 67 (3), 370–387. https://doi.org/10.1080/ 09668136.2015.1020003 Schatz, E. (2005). Reconceptualizing clans: Kinship networks and statehood in Kazakhstan. Nationalities Papers, 33(2), 231–254. https://doi.org/10. 1080/00905990500088594 Scheff, T. (2014). Goffman on emotions: The pride-shame system. Symbolic Interaction, 37 (1), 108–121. https://doi.org/10.1002/symb.86 Shelekpayev, N. (2020). ‘Govorit’ so stisnutymi zubami: styd, vlast’ i zhenskoye telo v sovremennom Kazakhstane (Speaking with clenched teeth? Shame, power and female body in contemporary Kazakhstan). Novoe literaturnoe obozrenie, 161(1). https://www.nlobooks.ru/magazines/novoe_literaturnoe_ obozrenie/161_nlo_1_2020/article/21977/

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Stephenson, S. (2021). “A ritual civil execution”: Public shaming meetings in the post-Stalin Soviet Union. Journal of Applied Social Theory, 1(3), 112–133. Stepien, A. (2014). Understanding male shame. Masculinities Journal, 14(1), 7–27. Stewart, C. (2001). Honor and shame. In N. J. Smelser, & P. B., Baltes (Eds.), International encyclopedia of the social & behavioral sciences (pp. 6904–6907). Pergamon. https://doi.org/10.1016/B0-08-043076-7/00884-6 Suyarkulova, M. (2016). Fashioning the nation: Gender and politics of dress in contemporary Kyrgyzstan. Nationalities Papers, 44(2), 247–265. https://doi. org/10.1080/00905992.2016.1145200 Tan, Y. (2021). The K-pop inspired band that challenged gender norms in Kazakhstan. BBC, 4 January. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-55359772. Accessed 02 03 2021. Thibault, H. (2016). Female virtue, religion and state ideology in Tajikistan. Ceria Briefs (10). https://www.centralasiaprogram.org/female-virtuereligion-state-ideology-tajikistan Thibault, H. (2018). Labour migration, sex, and polygyny: Negotiating patriarchy in Tajikistan. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 41(15), 2809–2826. https:// doi.org/10.1080/01419870.2017.1400086 Thibault, H. (2021). Mnogoҗenstvo v Kazahstane (Polygyny in Kazakhstan). Edu.e-history, 3(27), https://doi.org/10.51943/2710_3994_ 2021_3_152http://edu.e-history.kz/ru/publications/view/1701 Thibault, H. (2022). Male sex-work in Kazakhstan: A distinct market? Central Asian Affairs, 9(2–3), 378–402. https://doi.org/10.30965/22142290-bja 10035 Werner, C. (2009). Bride abduction in post-Soviet Central Asia: Marking a shift towards patriarchy through local discourses of shame and tradition. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 15(2), 314–331. https://doi.org/10. 1111/j.1467-9655.2009.01555.x Wood, C. (2018). Girl and the nation: Central Asia’s gendered quest for national identity—The diplomat. The Diplomat, 29 September. https://thediplomat. com/2018/09/girl-and-the-nation-central-asias-gendered-quest-for-nationalidentity/. Accessed 16 September 2021. Zhanabayeva, N. (2018). Restrained by uyat [shame]: Culture of dating and romantic relationships among urban Kyrgyz youth. Nazarbayev University. https://nur.nu.edu.kz/handle/123456789/3313. Accessed 3 July 2021. Zhussipbek, G., & Nagayeva, Z. (2021). Human rights of daughters-in-law (kelins) in Central Asia: Harmful traditional practices and structural oppression. Central Asian Survey, 40(2), 222–241. https://doi.org/10.1080/026 34937.2020.1850423

CHAPTER 2

Conceptualizing Shame Jean-François Caron

Trespassing the boundaries of what is allowed in order to experience what is not permitted is certainly a desire that every human beings have experienced at least once in their lives. In return, this passage to the dark side of what is socially forbidden is not something that can be done easily. On the contrary, unless of being a sociopath, reasonable individuals will be teared up by numerous fears and questions before crossing the red line between what is allowed and forbidden, such as suffering the consequences of being caught, if acting beyond the social norm is justifiable or utterly reprehensible as well as what others will think of our behavior. Following the work of the late American anthropologist Ruth Benedict (1946), facing these fears and questions will mainly be done through two main mental schemes, namely either through “guilt” or through “shame”. In this short chapter, I will discuss the conceptual differences between these two notions and focus on the social consequences of their distinctive functioning as well as how they are impacting people’s behaviors. As I will stress out, while the notion of guilt has a detrimental impact on

J.-F. Caron (B) Nazarbayev University, Astana, Kazakhstan e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_2

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individuals’ decisions to act or not in a certain way, at least some types of guilt cannot be compared in any way with the idea of shame which foundations are socially constructed and by nature liberticidal beyond what is reasonably acceptable in free and democratic societies. In the case of Central Asia, this notion which is known as “uyat” or “aye”, leads to social stigma and oppression on the part of people who are not abiding with the dominant norms. Fear, that is the fear of being punished, serves an important societal purpose. Indeed, the Modern reflection has been profoundly anchored from Machiavelli to Michel Foucault into the need for people to fear being punished by the state as the only way to maintain peace, order and stability within political associations (Caron, 2019a). Indeed, if humans are naturally thought to always give priority to what is good for themselves even if it comes at the expense of others’ rights or interests (Caron, 2019b, p. 13), the possibility of being able to organize social life depends upon the capacity to hinder their selfishness and to find ways that will force them to consider their individual actions within their broader societal context and the interests of others. According to this realistic assessment of human nature, this can be achieved in many ways. For instance, Machiavelli thought that the power of the law, the development of a complex set of counter-measures that might prevent one group from imposing its views on other groups with diverging interests, of a sense of patriotism or an astute use of religion were all means that can achieve the well-needed pacification of human relations. This view on the necessity of social control as a prerequisite for justice between humans and good governance can then follow two different paths, one of them being what can be labeled as an acceptable way of restricting individuals’ freedom through reasonable limitations and another one that would rather depend upon the fear of being judged by others according to their own subjective or cultural understanding of what constitutes and acceptable behavior. If the former is what defines guilt (and is socially needed) and derives primarily from individuals’ conscience (Hiebert, 1985, p. 213), the latter is on the contrary the essence of shame (and constitutes an unacceptable restriction on peoples’ freedom). It is possible to argue that a society will achieve this primary objective when its individuals will have internalized within their psyche these publicly known interdictions in such a way that their conscience should be negatively affected whenever they are about to pose a forbidden act or after they have disobeyed a rule not out of fear of being punished,

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but rather because their projected or completed actions are colliding with what their individual conscience dictates. In other words, the quintessential form of social control is when individuals no longer perceive forbidden behaviors as a social construct that is imposed on them by an external force that is ruling them out of fear, but rather when their own conscience is refraining them from pursuing what is thought to be undesired actions. Achieving this domestication of the inherently anarchical and selfish human nature is what ultimately guarantees the long-term stability of societies as well as their internal peace and order. Indeed, if restricting one’s behavior would entirely lie upon the fear of being punished, intersubjective harmony would disappear as soon as this feeling would cease to be hanging over peoples’ heads. Being able to shift from that type of fear to a self-imposed limitation of one’s behavior deriving from his/her conscience is therefore a societal need and the guarantee for the maintenance of collective freedom. Obviously, managing this type of control over human beings can either be legitimate or an unreasonable way of monitoring their lives and to deny them the capacity to pursue warranted behaviors. In an ideal world, these taboos should not be the result of a social construct that are artificially imposed in order to allow one individual or a group of people to instill an unreasonable control over other individuals’ actions and freedom simply as a way to maintain its control over them. What I have described as the necessary domestication of human life must not subordinate individuals’ natural right to pursue what are socially acceptable behaviors and conceptions of the good life, which is why restraining oneself from transgressing a given rule should solely lie upon a principle of justice that can be universally accepted and understood by everyone irrespective of their culture, religion or conception of the good life. To be more precise, a legitimate and reasonable sense of guilt will exist when there is a correlation between what is officially proscribed by the political association to which people belong to and individuals’ capacity to understand it as an action that violates first and foremost their conscience. As such, this sense of guilt must be justified on peoples’ practical public reason, which is the voice of the natural law of reason that has the ability to transcend individuals’ cultural or religious differences. This idea lies upon John Locke’s vision of a pre-political and natural respect between individuals according to which individuals should feel the discomfort of an internal sense of guilt at the mere thought of ignoring the need to restrict their will when they are about to pose an action that may be detrimental to others.

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Locke was indeed of the opinion that human beings are endowed with reason, dominated by a universal morality that can govern intersubjective behavior in a way that predates the existence of a formal state law which can unfortunately err and tyrannize individuals. Such individual reason, which of itself imposes limitations on human actions, is a natural consequence of the fact that individuals are not born to live in isolation from one another. Consequently, the exercise of freedom can only be a social reality that has no choice other than to consider the interest of others, failing which humans would only be doomed to destroy each other: a behavior which would then be unnatural insofar as the instinct for self-preservation is typical to all human beings. This is why this Lockean understanding of human behaviors is attached to what I have previously described as a form of “responsible citizenship” where people have the ability to restraint on their own some of their actions that may prove detrimental to the interests of others (Caron, 2021a, 2021b). As I have already argued elsewhere (Caron, 2014), distinguishing what is allowed from what is forbidden is not open to relativism. On the contrary, despite their profound diversity and multiplicity of conceptions of the good life that we can find and that are encouraged to flourish in liberal societies, individuals nonetheless have the capacity to regulate their behaviors according to the respect of certain universal principles of justice. In order to achieve such a possibility, the consensus around the principles of justice should not lie on comprehensive or particular doctrines, but rather on universal norms that everyone can accept, despite their respective religious or cultural beliefs. Considering the deep pluralism of liberal societies, these universal norms, which can be discovered by any reasonable human being, are the only element people have in common that can allow them to organize their peaceful living together through a common vocabulary. This is where the Rawlsian notion of an “overlapping consensus” comes into play. This notion corresponds to the values that constitute the basic elements upon which every rational human being is able to accept. More precisely, this agreement will be possible through the use of public reason, which can be defined as the language of universal and transcultural principles of justice with which people can debate the finalities of their political community, in a way that does not refer to any particular religious doctrine. Since the principles inherent to an overlapping consensus are seen as inalienable and fundamental individual rights, everyone has the same capacity to question and assess their individual actions as well as those of others. When that sense of guilt

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derives primarily from peoples’ individual conscience and their practical reason, formal prohibitions enacted by the state only end up playing a surrogate role as the sense of culpability, rather than the fear of being punished, will be sufficient in guiding peoples’ actions. It is easy in this context to understand that guilt is not inherently liberticidal. It is on the contrary a necessary feature of individual freedom and the very possibility of being able to live in harmony with others while facing minimal restrictions on our behaviors. Coincidently, guilt ought to be considered as a needed virtue for the sake of common life. Considering the foundations of Modern Liberal societies that lie upon the individual and its rationality rather than on relationships, it is obvious why guilt is considered to be the sole justified way of controlling people’s behaviors contrary to other countries, such as Japan, and traditional societies where shame plays a more socially accepted role (Scheff, 2014). Contrary to guilt, this feeling lies upon a totally different logic, as the decision to behave in a certain way is not dictated by what our conscience dictates with the support of our practical reason, but is rather associated with the fear of being judged by others. As such, if guilt is deriving from one’s rational conscience and can be felt independently from others, shame is for its part a social construct that will depend on the imposition of relativistic norms by individuals or groups of people who are controlling a given society and who are imposing them in order to maintain their dominance, which follows Erving Goffman’s statement that “there is no interaction in which participants do not take an appreciable chance of being embarrassed or a slight chance of being deeply humiliated” (1959, p. 243). The fear of being shamed is therefore at the core of what John Stuart Mill once described as social tyranny (2003), that is when the society itself—and not the state—is preventing individuals from posing certain actions. Such a form of tyranny can easily become “more formidable than many kinds of political oppression” (Mill, 2003, p. 76) insofar as individuals are left unable to fight it through legislative means because it goes beyond state control. As a consequence, this type of fear ends up “penetrating much more deeply into the details of life, and enslaving the soul itself” (Mill, 2003, p. 76). While this might be more obvious in traditional societies that emphasize the importance of interpersonal relationships, we cannot deny the fact—and Mill was totally aware of it—that people living in Modern Liberal societies also know the weight of this feeling as the myth of the self-sustaining individual simply does not match the reality

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in which they are living despite their growing tendencies toward hyperindividualism (Caron, 2020) and the ever growing number of legislations punishing discrimination against groups whose beliefs of behaviors differ from the ones from the majority. “Uyat” is most likely a good example of this type of fear as the various contributions in this edited volume are showing with great pertinence. In the very patriarchal and conservative societies of Central Asia, shame is a very pervasive form of social control over women used by other members of the family circle as a way to maintain or gain a social status (like in the case of the “nebere aluu” custom). The same can be said with regard to the maintenance of heteronormative ideals that forces individuals not abiding by these norms to silence their uniqueness or, worst, to commit suicide out of fear of facing stigmatization or social disapproval. In return, the price to pay for refusing to abide by this system can be very costly. Indeed, many authors have previously described and explained the prevalence of family ties and obligations between members in the region (Rigi, 2004; Schatz, 2004). This cultural norm, which bears the ethical obligation of helping one’s family members, penetrates all levels of Central Asian societies and has been identified as one of the principal reasons for the region’s systemic corruption and nepotism, which Edward van Roy (1970) refers to as “the ethnocentric factor”. In such a scenario, facing “uyat” from one’s family circle means being ostracised from individuals whose support is fundamental for fulfilling basic needs. In other words, when shame ends up playing such a societal role, the path out of servitude may simply be too difficult to overcome for a majority of people: a situation that expresses Mill’s aforementioned quote about the strength this feeling may have on peoples’ will. Furthermore, even though the fear of being shamed has been associated in the literature on gender and sexual-related issues, it is also important to note that “uyat” expands well-beyond these aspects and, coincidentally, may have broader social consequences as well. Like it has been shown elsewhere (Caron & Orlov, 2022), the fear of being labeled as “uyat” has for instance played a detrimental role during the COVID19 pandemic since many individuals in Kazakhstan refused to abide by the state’s decree to avoid large gatherings (family dinners, weddings or funerals) in order to prevent the coronavirus from spreading and to prevent the healthcare system from being overwhelmed out of fear of being shamed for refusing such an invitation.

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In conclusion, if there are acceptable ways of domesticating human nature in a way that will not become utterly liberticidal for people, the control can also become unreasonable and hinder individuals’ inalienable right to pursue the course of action that they will deem more able to allow them to pursue happiness. While the form of guilt that has been discussed in this short text is a prime example of how controlling human freedom ought to be done, shame is on the other hand akin to a form of social tyranny that is not only detrimental to peoples’ natural rights, but that can also lead to serious social consequences when the fear of being shamed ends up having more importance than what conscience dictates through the use of practical reason.

References Benedict, R. (1946). The chrysanthemum and the sword: Patterns of Japanese culture. Houghton Mifflin. Caron, J.-F. (2014). Rethinking the sense of belonging of ethnocultural minorities through reasonable accommodations in a liberal perspective. Journal of Intercultural Studies, 35(6), 588–603. Caron, J.-F. (2019a). On human nature and how to control it. In The Prince 2.0 : Applying Machiavellian strategy to contemporary political life (pp. 23–32). Springer. Caron, J.-F. (2019b). On the objectives of governments: Preventing domestic conflicts. In The Prince 2.0 : Applying Machiavellian strategy to contemporary political life (pp. 13–22). Springer. Caron, J.-F. (2020). The Western model of liberal democracies and the need for authority. In A sketch of the world after the Covid-19 crisis: Essays on political authority, the future of globalization and the rise of China (pp. 5–21). Palgrave MacMillan. Caron, J.-F. (2021a). Irresponsible citizenship: The cultural roots of the crisis of authority in times of pandemic. Peter Lang. Caron, J.-F. (2021b). La citoyenneté irresponsable: Les racines culturelles de la crise de l’autorité en temps de pandémie. les Presses de l’Université Laval. Caron, J.-F., & Orlov, D. (2022). Uyat or the culture of shame as a vector of Covid-19 contamination in Kazakhstan. In J.-F. Caron & H. Thibault (Eds.), Central Asia and the Covid-19 pandemic (pp. 7–34). Springer. Goffman, E. (1959). The presentation of self in everyday life. Garden City: Doubleday/Anchor Books. Hiebert, P. (1985). Anthropological insights for missionaries. Baker Academic. Mill, J.-S. (2003). On liberty. Yale University Press.

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Rigi, J. (2004). Corruption in post-Soviet Kazakhstan. In I. Pardo (Ed.), Between morality and the law: Corruption, anthropology and comparative society (pp. 101–117). Ashgate Pub Ltd. Schatz, E. (2004). Modern clan politics: The power of ‘blood’ in Kazakhstan and beyond. University of Washington Press. Scheff, T. (2014). The ubiquity of hidden shame in modernity. Cultural Sociology, 8(2), 129–141. Van Roy, E. (1970). On the theory of corruption. Economic Development and Cultural Change, 19(1), 86–110.

CHAPTER 3

Purity vs. Safety: How Uyat Undermines Youth’s Sexual Literacy in Kazakhstan Karlygash Kabatova

Introduction “We are young, and before everything else we are Kazakhs. It’s wrong to know all these things.” This was the response of a sixteen-year-old Kazakh boy in Atyrau to a question about whether young people need information about sexual and reproductive health in their native language. Atyrau is a city in west Kazakhstan with a harsh climate and constant dusty winds. The region produces oil and natural gas, on which the economy of the whole country relies. The boy’s response was the sad epitome of the things I learned in the course of a study I conducted in 2019. There are no SexEd classes within the formal system of education but there is a strong resistance from certain groups of people to any initiatives aimed at changing this. The purpose of the study was to understand how youth and parents in Kazakhstan perceive sexuality

K. Kabatova (B) Researcher and Advocate for Youth Sexuality Education, Nur-Sultan, Kazakhstan e-mail: [email protected] URL: https://www.Uyatemes.kz © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_3

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education. What discourses regarding sexuality education circulate among youth and parents in Kazakhstan? What are their concerns? How can sexuality education be instituted in the school system? What the boy said sounded both shocking and simple, and made me doubt everything I thought I knew about the reasons for low sexual literacy in Kazakhstan. Could it be that it was not reliable information about sex that young people were lacking but the willingness to receive it? In Kazakhstan, the lack of sexuality education leads to a plethora of problems such as unplanned teen pregnancies and teen abortions (often self-induced or in unlicensed facilities), abandoned newborns, early marriages, and sexually transmitted diseases (STD). According to a large 2018 study, even though the average age of first sexual contact in the country is 16.5, 46% of people aged 16–19 are not aware of the potential consequences of abortions and contracting STD (Alimbekova & Shabdenova, 2018, p. 53). Children and youth are practically given no information about these issues at home or at school, while society at large deems any interest toward the topic as shameful. Sexual activity among young people is also stigmatized. In the absence of any guidance about safe sex, young people are exposed to misinformation through social media, online pornography, and myths about sex circulating among peers. Some state officials resent initiatives to reduce unwanted pregnancies, including teen pregnancies, instead seeking to raise the birth rates in Kazakhstan (Sputnik, 2019). However, the growing number of protests by mothers with many children (Mukhit, 2021), who are unhappy with a lack of social and financial support from the government, shows that a blind focus on increasing the population will engender many negative social and economic consequences. Moreover, a British Institute for Health Research demonstrates evidence, that “children born to teenage mothers have a 60% higher risk of infant mortality, a 30% higher rate of low birthweight, and a 63% higher risk of living in poverty” (Hadley, 2019). In this chapter, I will present findings from my 2019 study—in particular, how the culture of uyat is tightly intertwined with the capacity of young people to find and receive reliable information, question existing social norms, and become empowered to protect themselves as they begin to form romantic and sexual relationships. Uyat is generally considered as

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a practice of shaming and seeing something as shameful. However, this concept is complex and can be defined from different perspectives. Aiman Kodar, an academic specialist on Turkic culture, sees uyat as the first of the pillars of Kazakh upbringing that informs children of “what is shameful, tabooed and cannot be done under any circumstances” (Suvorova, 2019). Zhaslan Nurbayev, a historian, believes that uyat helps protect traditionalism, which many people see as the basis of the Kazakh nation. If traditional social norms deteriorate, the very essence of the Kazakh people will too, they think (Kabatova, 2020, p. 27). Diana T. Kudaibergenova, a political and cultural sociologist who studies nationalism, power, and gender, agrees that uyat and particularly shaming “is often used as a legitimation for maintaining a so-called or imagined ‘traditional’ order” (Kudaibergenova, 2019, p. 365). At the same time, she reckons that uyat is “also a discourse of resistance for those who want to question or counter” practices of retraditionalization, which she explains “as a powerful and power-seeking discourse about one’s culture, nation and tradition in the wake of globalization and growing nationalism” (Kudaibergenova, 2019, p. 365). Thus, culturally uyat is a loaded concept but can be generally understood as a method for people to keep each other’s behaviors in accordance with collective norms. In the context of sexuality, it would be considered uyat to expose one’s sexual life in any way, like openly discussing sex or sexual partners or even admitting having sex at all. This relates to a greater extent to women and youth.

Methodology The study was the continuation of my work raising awareness about the advantages of comprehensive sexuality education. I wanted to collect empirical data to evaluate the demand for sexuality education among Kazakhstani youth and parents. The primary research method was focusgroup discussions. With the help of a colleague, I conducted ten focus groups: one with parents of young children and teenagers, and one with teenagers in five selected cities. The research participants were not related to each other and were recruited by a social research firm. In this chapter, I will focus on the views and experiences of teenage participants in the study and the messages that parents communicate to their children. The selected cities were Almaty, Atyrau, Nur-Sultan (formerly Astana), Shymkent, and Ust-Kamenogorsk, which I selected to represent different regions of the country—center, east, west, south, and north. Almaty is

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a cultural hub of the country with the most ethnically diverse population. Nur-Sultan is the capital, where students supposedly have better access to various learning opportunities, like outside-of-school courses, modern libraries, and scientific competitions. Atyrau, Shymkent, and UstKamenogorsk represent peripheral cities where distinct local cultures and social norms might affect the overall approach to education. The teenage focus groups involved students from grades 9–12 (ages 14–17). Both Kazakh and Russian speakers were recruited, and all groups but one included an equal number of males and females (eight persons total in each group). Parents of participants provided written permission for their children to take part in the study. Each parent focus group included equal numbers of men and women; they ranged in age from 28 to 45 and spoke Kazakh and/or Russian. The firm recruited parents of both young children and teenagers, as I wanted to discuss aspects of parenting depending on the age of a child. With the help of the focus groups, I wanted to learn where teenagers look for information about sexuality and sexual and reproductive health (SRH); what topics are especially important to them; how easy or hard it is to find reliable information; who they would like to get it from, in which circumstances, and from what age; what types of media are the most attractive and provide for efficient learning and acquisition of skills. These discussions with young people revealed many insights into their experiences growing up. For the purpose of this chapter, I will discuss the following three factors that impact the level of young people’s awareness about SRH and healthy relationships that were the most consistent in all focus groups: 1) the role uyat plays in the ability to search for and receive information, and in the quality of information provided to them; 2) linguistic-cultural socialization and family relationships; 3) gender-based differences in the messages youth receive. In general, young people realize the risks of unsafe sexual behavior: in the words of one participant, “Pregnancy, diseases, AIDS, HIV.” However, in all five teenage focus groups, the participants overestimated their sexual literacy. Many thought they “knew everything,” but a deeper discussion revealed a lack of familiarity with even basic information that would have made it easier for them to go through puberty. While they

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technically understood what sex was, the teenagers had scarce or distorted knowledge about how to avoid unwanted pregnancies or STD. Male respondent, age 17 (Almaty): “I have friends from small towns. They know what sex is and how to do it, but they don’t know even the basics of contraception.” Male respondent, age 17 (Almaty): “I heard that girls are recommended to have sex at 17 because by 18 they develop some kind of bacteria ...”

The Role of Uyat in Getting Informed Schools and Teachers In my previous work (Kabatova & Marinin, 2018), I analyzed the absence of reliable sources of information about SRH and the lack of a consistent, systemic approach to educating youth on this subject. One major reason for this absence is a cultural taboo against discussing sex and SRH, especially between adults and youth. This problem remains even though schools try to organize some sexuality education activities. According to teenage respondents, occasionally medical specialists pay visits to schools to deliver lectures for senior students. They speak about risks of unplanned pregnancies, abortions, and STD and show videos. The following is characteristic of these attempts at sexuality education: • lectures on prevention of early pregnancies and contracting STD are often given only to female students; • lectures on contraception happen rarely and generally only for male students; • the lone chapter about the human reproductive system in the biology textbook is often left for independent home study without any discussion in class. International research has repeatedly demonstrated that prohibitions are almost never a good strategy to prevent young people from doing something. For example, in 2012, a group of researchers in the United States conducted a meta-analysis of 23 abstinence-based sexuality education programs in several U.S. states (Chin et al., 2012). This extensive

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analysis showed that efforts to prevent sex among youth by prohibiting and demonizing it were ineffective. Abstinence-based programs did not help to reduce the number of teenage pregnancies or the frequency of HIV and other STD among teenagers. Nevertheless, abstinence-based programs continue to be supported by state governments in the United States, and visiting lecturers at Kazakhstani schools use a similar approach. Teenagers mention that this information comes too late, and that they wish it was given in grades 6–7. Based on the accounts of teenagers in all five cities, school teachers basically take no part in raising sexual literacy of students. Male respondent, age 16 (Shymkent): “They [visiting speakers] talk about precautions: ‘Don’t do this; otherwise this will happen.’ Just as they must they gather all the information and show it on an interactive board. Everyone [students] watches it and says they won’t do that.” Male respondent, age 15 (Almaty): “I think I learned [about sex] in the sixth grade. Teachers never told us anything. We would go for a break, and all friends would watch porn websites. That was the only way to learn.” Female respondent, age 16 (Atyrau): “Nobody [among teachers] wants to talk about it.” Male respondent, age 16 (Atyrau): “For example, biology. The whole third term was supposed to be dedicated to this, but nobody talked about it.”

Participants in the parent focus groups often shared opinions about “promiscuity,” “waywardness,” and a lack of respect for authority in the current generation of young people compared to older generations. As the reason, they cited modern parents’ preoccupation with work and survival, which leaves no time for quality interactions with children. Parents regret that “nowadays children are not afraid of their parents.” However, the teenage focus groups showed that children try their best to meet parents’ expectations “to be good.” In the parent focus group in Nur-Sultan, I was lucky to have two schoolteachers. This allowed me to investigate how both parents and educators perceive youth. Discussions in this group demonstrated how

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adults trivialize young people’s experiences and troubles and fail to see them as autonomous individuals who deserve attention and respect. Female respondent, age 43, teacher, mother of three (Nur-Sultan): “Our school counselor tells me: ‘Can you imagine, a girl from your class came to me saying that she’s in love with another girl. Take notice that she is strange.’” Moderator: “Do you think she did the right thing by telling you?” Female respondent: “She did the right thing. I might have known [something] already ...” Moderator: “What can you do [about the situation]?” Female respondent: “I will just tell her mom” Male respondent, age 36, father of four: “Did you tell the mom?” Female respondent: “I observed the girl for some time. Turned out in the summer she dated a girl, and in September she got a boyfriend. She went and told about it to the counselor but not her mom.”

This example demonstrates how the inability to accept diversity in sexuality and the readiness to stigmatize certain groups of people is transmitted from the personal sphere into the professional. School specialists whose duty is to take care of children’s well-being, including mental health, find it appropriate to break children’s trust and ethical rules of confidentiality (i.e., they discuss students’ private matters among each other in a judgmental way). None of the parents in this focus group questioned professionalism of the teacher and the counselor or raised the issue of children’s rights. Such an attitude toward youth is not unique to teachers and parents. Zhussipbek and Nagayeva argue that mindsets of the majority of people in Kazakhstan were determined by the “Strict Parent model,” based on “obedience to hierarchy, on one hand, and disrespect

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toward (and even violation of the rights of) those who are of lower status” (Zhussipbek & Nagayeva, 2019, p. 138). Sexual diversity is widely unacceptable in Kazakhstan, and any alternative to heteronormative relationships is viewed as shameful. A sociological study about the values of Kazakhstani society found that LGBTQ + people are viewed as the second least-favorable social group, after drug addicts: 70% of respondents said they would not want to be neighbors with LGBTQ + people (Ismukhanova et al., 2020, p. 70). This attitude was also visible in the parental focus-group discussions. According to several participants, when their children ask anything about LGBTQ + , they respond that people from these communities are sick and not to be approached, looked at, or even discussed. Several parents remembered how they paid closer attention to their children’s behavior after suspecting them of homosexuality and worrying about it. In fact, “non-traditional” sexual orientation scares Kazakhstani parents so much that in extreme cases, they commit crimes and various violent acts against their children. In a recent case that was widely covered in local media, parents forced their homosexual son to marry a woman, kidnapped him, and subjected him to brain surgery to “cure” his homosexuality (Radio Azattyq, 2020). Family Relationships Teenage focus-group participants who have trusting relationships and open communication with their parents demonstrated a better understanding of the process of pubescent development, SRH, and healthy relationships. There appears to be a positive correlation between the quality of family relations and sexual literacy of a teenager. The participants who reported having such a connection with their parents were more often from bilingual or Russian-speaking families. Young people lacking this openness in their families are wary of speaking about puberty, sex, or SRH with parents, siblings, and other family members. They are concerned that they would be suspected of having too much interest in sex. At the same time, most often these teenagers believe their parents to be highly knowledgeable about sexual literacy and would like parents to initiate these conversations. When asked why they think their parents were very knowledgeable, several teenage participants in different cities said it was because their parents were able to have children.

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Both at school and home, the idea that sex and intimacy is bad, dirty, and shameful is constantly communicated to youth. Nor do positive discussions about healthy and harmonious relationships take place between adults—at least not in a way that is visible to young people. According to teenage respondents, normally parents refrain from showing affection to each other in front of their children, and when people kiss on TV, children (even teenagers) are told to close their eyes or leave the room. This all raises a question: How should young people (who will become adults and most likely be pressured by their families to start families of their own) learn to build healthy relationships? All they know is that after the wedding, pregnancy is no longer shameful. However, nobody explains that family planning, taking care of one’s own SRH, and maintaining respect for one another is as important after getting married as prior to it. Suffering under the weight of parental expectations to be good and unwilling to displease them even with questions, children suppress their natural curiosities about their developing bodies and interpersonal relationships. Youth equate being informed about sexuality with wanting to have sex—and sex is seen as bad, dirty, and shameful. Moderator: “What is sexual and reproductive health?” Male respondent, age 16 (Atyrau): “Purity.” Female respondent, age 15 (Nur-Sultan): “In many traditional Kazakh families with our mentality such topics are not widely discussed. It’s a delicate topic. It’s not discussed often.” Male respondent, age 16 (Atyrau): “Yes, Kazakhs are such people. We don’t dress openly here like in America.” Female respondent, age 16 (Atyrau): “Such are the traditions and customs.”

Depending on how conservative parents are, sexuality education can be taken to mean only promotion of abstinence before marriage. Having the best of intentions, parents sometimes end up fully denying the fact

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that sex is a natural part of human life. Again, this raises the question: How could youth possibly learn about healthy relationships and building a family if parents teach them that only bad things come out of sexual relationships? Male respondent, age 40, father of a 12-year-old girl (Shymkent): “He [nephew] says: ‘I don’t know what sex is.’ Then he asks me. I say that it’s a shameful thing. It’s not something you could be proud of.” Female respondent, age 44, mother of four (Shymkent): “This [sex] is a bad thing. You’ll see it for yourself when you grow up.”

Uyat and Linguistic-Cultural Socialization Discussing these issues with each other and with the moderators, teenagers demonstrated the views that circulate in their surroundings— family, school, and the society at large. Regardless of the region and the language they spoke (Kazakh or Russian), it was clear that all participants came from families whose beliefs about sexuality, gender roles, and relationships were patriarchal. Male respondent, age 16 (Shymkent): “Sexuality education is [meant] for two young people not to engage in a sexual relationship before marriage; it’s to prevent it.” Moderator: “From what age do you think it is OK to engage in such relationships?” Male respondent, age 16 (Shymkent): “From 25, because only at 25 one reaches full sexual and reproductive maturity. At 22–23 a baby can be born sick.”

In my analysis, I roughly assigned all teenagers (39 people in total) to two types. Type One was a more informed teenager who is open to learning about SRH and tends to speak openly about such topics. Type Two was a teenager who is more timid, less knowledgeable, and somewhat apprehensive about showing interest in SRH. I observed a connection between such behavior and the language that prevailed in the families and the surroundings of young people. Regardless of their ethnicity, teenagers who grew up in a bilingual (Russian and Kazakh) or monolingual Russian-language environment largely fell into the first type.

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They shared their opinions more openly and said that they could go to their parents with questions or problems. The youth who grew up in Kazakh-language families and studied in the Kazakh language largely fell into the second type. Type Two young people have more hierarchical relationships with their parents. Communication between children and parents in such families, as described by the participants, largely precludes detailed discussions about SRH and relationships. These are very sensitive topics that both adults and children try to avoid at all costs. Parents, elder siblings, and other relatives insinuate that children should be responsible, “behave,” and “not bring shame to the family.” Thus, youth are cautious about what they say, take notice of their parents’ moods, and act in order to avoid irritating or angering their parents. They seek to be in line with parents’ conservative patriarchal values and reproduce them further. Female respondent, age 16, (Nur-Sultan): “Parents instill some kind of fear in a child that some things are shameful, and then the child gets scared and does the wrong thing.” Female respondent, age 16, (Nur-Sultan): “Probably those in the Russian-language class* not just appear to be more mature; they simply talk about it [SRH] more. Kids in the Kazakhlanguage classes act discreetly, hide things. They are shamed. It’s probably this Kazakh mentality, a different way of upbringing.”

It was possible to discern that Kazakh-speaking teenagers felt a very strong connection between their national or ethnic identity and their sexual identity. One might even go as far as to say that being a Kazakh meant needing to deny having any interest in sex or sexual pleasure for the sake of sustaining the image of being “good.” This observation is consistent with what anthropologist Ulan Bigozhin writes about as Kazakh youth’s tarbie (“upbringing” in Kazakh): “[Y]ounger generations are expected to have ‘proper tarbie,’ which means rejection of deviant forms of behavior, including premarital sex, alcoholism, and smoking among other things. Not having proper tarbie can negatively affect the social capital of parents, a family, and even a lineage” (Bigozhin, 2019, p. 123). The risk of damaging a family’s social capital or reputation is in fact what bringing uyat to the family signifies.

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It seemed that because youth internalized the idea that sex was bad, and Kazakh language is the language of their parents and ancestors (who are to be respected and honored), they could not bring themselves to receive any information about sex in Kazakh. The topic is too inappropriate to be expressed in their mother tongue. This way of thinking often stops Kazakh-speaking youth from searching for information about contraception, even if they decide to engage in sexual relationships. Teenage focus group in Atyrau: Moderator: – “Do we need Kazakh speaking bloggers [to talk about sexuality education]?”

Male respondent 1, age 16: – “Not for this topic.”

Male respondent 5, age 16: – “If your little sister created such video content that would be published everywhere, the whole Kazakh nation would see it. Would you not feel ashamed? Would your honor not be hurt? Would you not be embarrassed knowing that kids younger than you are, young generations watch such videos?”

Female respondent, age 16: “I don’t need it. I know Russian well, but there are Kazakhs who don’t know Russian.”

Regardless of the language, all parents admitted that open conversations with children made them feel awkward. Nonetheless, as with teenagers, they generally fell into two rough categories based on the prevailing language in their family. Irrespective of their ethnicity, parents who were bilingual but mostly Russian-speaking in their daily lives and interactions with their children were more likely to have told them about puberty, hygiene, and relationships, and overall have a friendly demeanor with children. They welcome their children’s questions despite the potential embarrassment. They believe that youth should learn things from

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parents, who are better equipped with reliable information, than from peers. Male respondent, age 36 (Nur-Sultan): “The best thing is to be friends with the child so that he could open up saying: ‘Dad, I like that girl.’ So that he wouldn’t feel embarrassed by such moments. Got to be friends with the child.”

Parents whose primary language of communication is Kazakh preferred to avoid such conversations completely and prevented children’s slightest interest in “shameful” topics by threats and scolding. They were subjected to a more conservative parenting style in childhood and now employ that style in their own families. Uyat permeates all spheres and relationships in a Kazakh family. Parents feel ashamed to talk with their children about relationships and contraception, or to respond to questions regarding these issues. Even if parents know that their daughter or son is dating and might be exposed to the risk of an unplanned pregnancy or STD, they feel too ashamed to initiate the conversation. At the same time, they feel ashamed if their child becomes pregnant before marriage or brings home a pregnant girlfriend. Female respondent, age 46, gynecologist, mother of 16 and 19-year-old boys (Shymkent): “A mother should be close with her daughters, a father—with his sons. I can’t tell a lot of things to my sons. They have a father who will explain it. Even if they have sexual relationships, I feel ashamed to discuss it with them. How can I?” Moderator: “Did their father talk to them?” Female respondent: “No.”

Parents are aware that Russian speakers and Kazakh speakers approach childrearing differently, and they explain it in terms of their ethnicities rather than the linguistic-cultural environments. Thus, it is considered that ethnic Russian families engage in more relaxed interactions with children compared to Kazakh families. It is worth mentioning, though, that ethnic Kazakh parents who grew up bilingual and now have bilingual

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families also prefer a more open and relaxed style of childrearing than parents who use only Kazakh language in their families. Given the differences in the linguistic-cultural socialization of Kazakhstani youth, the main conclusion is that approaches to sexuality education should be informed by an understanding of the different cultural environments that characterize Kazakh and Russian-speaking households. While society at large remains conservative and patriarchal, especially in Kazakh-speaking families, the culture of uyat will prevent positive discussions of sexuality and body development between parents and children. Saying these things out loud is considered unacceptable. It is uyat. Youth whose dominant language is Kazakh are brought up with this worldview. Therefore, to succeed with them, sexuality education should begin by slowly and steadily normalizing these sensitive topics. The curricula should be developed in Kazakh considering Kazakh culture, instead of the usual practice of translating learning materials from Russian into Kazakh.

Uyat and Gendered Messages Kazakhstani society is very much gender-normative. As elsewhere, the desire to preserve the “traditional” ways of living leads to unfair distribution of responsibilities between genders. It is fascinating how unbalanced the amount and type of society’s requirements for young people are depending on gender. Adults as well as youth expect girls to behave responsibly and for boys to “be boys,” and this refers to all spheres of life. According to Kazakhstan’s Bureau of National Statistics, employed women dedicate 3 h, 36 min per day to unpaid work like household chores and caregiving, which is 2 h, 27 min longer than the time employed men spend doing the same. Unemployed women are occupied with unpaid work 4 h, 5 min per day, compared to only 1 h 24 min for unemployed men (Kazakhstan Bureau of National Statistics, n.d). Another example of deeply entrenched gender socialization is how girls are raised to be good kelins (daughters-in-law) and sons to dominate them as husbands: “Contemporary Kazakh understanding of ‘kelin’ equals an obedient and selfless slave that is also a family member” (Kudaibergenova, 2018, p. 381). During the teenage focus-group discussions, I took notice of young people’s eagerness to comply with traditional gender roles, whereby females are expected to be modest and in need of approval, and males to be confident and experienced. Girls demonstrated a lack of interest in

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and knowledge about sex, while boys claimed to be well-informed and joked a lot. Gender-based violence researcher Aizada Arystanbek rightfully states that “Kazakh women’s bodies and behavior are subjected to constant policing by others, as they are expected to act according to the standards of hegemonic femininity to preserve their respectability and the right for protection” (Arystanbek, 2020, p. 59). Parental focus groups confirmed what teenagers shared about the messages society communicates to them directly and indirectly. From families, schools, media, popular culture, and social norms, youth learn to assign a significantly larger share of responsibilities to females than males. It is a common belief among both youth and adults that girls are more serious and boys are less accountable. Therefore, it seems reasonable to think that girls should take responsibility for unplanned pregnancies, sexual and physical violence committed against them, and similar situations. Below are direct quotes from focus groups reflecting the gendered messages communicated to youth (Table 3.1). This table demonstrates a blatant discrepancy in requirements imposed on women compared to men. Parents justify all the prohibitions and limitations inflicted on daughters by their desire to protect them and by “traditions.” The willingness to preserve these traditional gender roles is so strong that forced to choose between increasing a child’s safety and complying with people’s ideas about what constitutes being a “proper girl,” a father might choose the latter. Male respondent, age 40, father of a 12-year-old girl (Shymkent):

Table 3.1 Messages communicated to youth divided by gender Girls What youth hear from their -Don’t walk alone families (quotes from -Don’t wear tight clothes teenage focus groups) -Don’t wear your hair loose -Behave! Don’t go near boys; who knows what’s on their minds. A lot of rapes happen nowadays -Don’t go out after 9 p.m

Boys -Use condoms -Use protection

(continued)

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Table 3.1 (continued)

What parents tell their children (quotes from parent focus groups)

Girls

Boys

-We forbid things. She gets invited to a birthday, we don’t let her go. We believe that proverbially a girl must be forbidden things -Kazakhs always said that a girl should be disciplined (forbidden to do things) by forty families -A woman must be one step below a man. A man should be respected -Now that you’re growing up, try not to come close to boys. You must preserve yourself -In general, a girl must get married pure -Girls should be taught motherhood, how to swaddle a baby correctly; not geography and algebra there’s no need for that. [They should be taught] how to greet the husband and caress him -If a girl gets pregnant, she’s the only one responsible -Girls should be controlled -Just don’t get into situations like that … It’s never just this bad boy’s fault. No. She went there, ended up in those circumstances, got treated that way and is now crying … If a person gets into a situation, it’s their fault -Those [women, girls] get raped who dress openly. Those who wear hijabs are not raped -A girl must start a family by the time she’s 30

-Our elder son is a university student. We can’t forbid him something -Son, put a couple condoms in your pocket. You might fail to resist [temptation] at any moment -If you go to see girls, take a rubber -Be careful

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“Since it’s a girl, martial arts don’t suit her. Some parents let daughters do wrestling. Why? I think it’s wrong to let a girl go into wrestling or boxing. It must be either dancing or gymnastics. She should try a pepper spray [for protection].”

Conclusion The ultimate goal of my work over the past four years has been helping youth in Kazakhstan become more informed about their SRH and rights. That is why, along my research projects, I launched an educational online platform for youth and parents called Uyat Emes (uyatemes.kz), which stands for “not a shame” or “not shameful.” It is my strong opinion, though, that the best way to approach the issue is by making SRH part of the school curricula, because only schools would be able to reach almost 100% of young people in the country. That requires normalizing the concept of youth sexuality education and convincing parents and the general population that there is benefit in it rather than harm. As the research findings presented above have shown, uyat is one of the fundamental reasons why this work is so challenging. Parents want safe, healthy, and happy lives for their children. Sexuality education teaches young people to know their boundaries, guard them, and not violate those of others; it teaches the importance of sexual and reproductive health and ways to take care of it. It demonstrates the benefits of gender equality for all people. Through focus-group discussions, parents were slowly coming to this realization, though the power of uyat still kept them from taking a more active position in educating their children. Teenage focus groups showed how, despite the potential awkwardness, young people are longing for closer relationships with their parents. They want parents to take responsibility and start having more open conversations with them. While fear of embarrassment from discussing sex is shared by basically all generations and ethnicities in Kazakhstan, this chapter has shown how uyat particularly affects the sexual literacy of Kazakh-speaking youth. Probably, the most striking finding of my study is that a lack of reliable sources of information in the Kazakh language might not be the biggest problem. The main problem is the discomfort Kazakh-speaking young people feel about receiving information about sex in their native language. Their conservative families, parents, and grandparents speak this language. Having internalized the idea that sex is bad, dirty, and shameful,

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they find it almost unbearable to read or hear anything about it in the language of their ancestors—and this would be true even if such information became widely available. Thus, the solution to raising sexual literacy among this subset of Kazakhstani youth lies in both developing culturally informed educational materials in Kazakh (instead of simply translating from other languages) and gradually normalizing discussions of sexual and reproductive health.

Bibliography Alimbekova, G., & Shabdenova, A. (2018). Sotsiologicheskoye issledovaniye po izucheniyu sostoyaniya reproduktivnogo zdoroviya podrostkov i molodyh lyudei 15–19 let, ih seksual’nogo povedeniya i dostupa k uslugam i informatsiyi v oblasti ohrany reproduktivnogo zdoroviya. Paper presented at the preliminary results press-conference, December 4, 2018. Arystanbek, A. (2020). Trapped between east and west: A study of hegemonic femininity in Kazakhstan’s online and state discourses. MA Dissertation, Central European University. Bigozhin, U. (2019). “We love our country in our own way”: Youth, gender, and nationalism. In M. Laruelle (Ed.), The Nazarbayev Generation: Youth in Kazakhstan (pp. 115–132). Lexington Books. Chin, H. B., Sipe, T. A., Elder, R., Mercer, S. L., Chattopadhyay, S. K., Jacob, V., … & Santelli, J. (2012). The effectiveness of group-based comprehensive risk-reduction and abstinence education interventions to prevent or reduce the risk of adolescent pregnancy, human immunodeficiency virus, and sexually transmitted infections. American Journal of Preventive Medicine, 42(3), 272– 294. Hadley, A. (2019). Teenage pregnancy and young parents: A short briefing. Articles, briefings and presentations, University of Bedfordshire. https://www.beds.ac.uk/media/265957/teenage-pregnancy-short-bri efing-april-2019.pdf. Accessed on December 10, 2019. Ismukhanova, G., Sharipova, D., Turekhanova, B., Rakisheva, B., Nasimova, G., Yermakhanova, S., … & Gurevich, L. (2020). Tsennosti kazakhstanskogo obschestva v sotsiologicheskom izmereniyi (Values of Kazakhstan Society in the Sociological Dimension), DELUXE Printery. Kabatova, K. (2020). V poiskah zdravogo smysla. Uyatemes.kz, February 1, 2020. https://uyatemes.kz/v-poiskah-zdravogo-smysla. Accessed September 15, 2021. Kabatova, K., & Marinin, S. (2018). Polovoye prosvescheniye v sisteme shkol’nogo obrazovaniya Respubliki Kazakhstan: Uchit’ nel’zya, molchat’s? Paper presented at the PaperLab Discussion Club, April 27, 2018.

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Kudaibergenova, D. T. (2018). Project Kelin: Marriage, women, and retraditionalization in post-soviet Kazakhstan. In M. Najafizadeh & L. L. Lindsey (Ed.), Women of Asia. Globalization, development, and gender equity. Routledge, pp. 379–390. Kudaibergenova, D. T. (2019). The body global and the body traditional: A digital ethnography of Instagram and nationalism in Kazakhstan and Russia. Central Asian Survey, 38(3), 363–380. Mukhitkyzy, A. (2021). “Mnogodetnye materi v Nur Otane”: Trebuyem oplatit’ posobiye po 42500 kazhdomu rebionku.” Radio Azattyq, February 22, 2021. https://rus.azattyq.org/a/31115495.html. Accessed on May 10, 2021. Radio Azattyq. (2020). “Izgnaniye Dzhinnov I operatsiya na mozg: istoriya geya iz Uralska.” Radio Azattyq, February 29, 2020. https://rus.azattyq.org/a/ kazakhstan-uralsk-human-story-gay/30448975.html. Accessed on September 08, 2021. Sputnik.kz. (2019). “Prezervativy dlya shkolnikov: mnogodetnyi otets deputat vozmutilsya predlozheniyem.” Sputnik Kazakhstan, February 18. https:// ru.sputnik.kz/20190218/prezervativy-shkolniki-mazhilis-deputat-9336529. html. Accessed on May 10, 2021. Suvorova, K. (2019). “MEN SEN EMES” (Face the Music), YouTube, Tihiy Svet, January 2021. www.youtube.com/watch?v=UreqjWn5yU0. Accessed on September 15, 2021. “The average number of hours spent on unpaid domestic work, by sex,” Agency for Strategic planning and reforms of the Republic of Kazakhstan Bureau of National statistics. (n.d.). https://gender.stat.gov.kz/page/frontend/det ail?id=112&slug=-90&cat_id=2&lang=en. Accessed on September 15, 2021. Zhussipbek, G., & Nagayeva, Zh. (2019). “Cognitive unconscious”, “Modern conservatism”, and “Core liberal values” in the context of youth’s national identity”: Youth, gender, and nationalism. In M. Laruelle (Ed.), The Nazarbayev Generation: Youth in Kazakhstan (pp. 133–151). Lexington Books.

CHAPTER 4

“Uyat Emes” or the Process of De-Shaming in Kazakhstan Moldir Kabylova

Introduction More than mere shame or disgrace, the cultural code of uyat refers to a whole system of values and symbolises a long tradition of acceptable moral-ethical conduct in society. Adherence can build one’s positive reputation and approval on the part of others. At the same time, uyat is a powerful tool used by traditionalists and moralists to condemn what they see as “abnormality”. Kazakhstan is becoming part of the globalised and digitalised world, where conservative values and norms are going through a transformation and society, especially young people, is redefining the uyat culture. This chapter aims to examine how important the uyat cultural code is for people’s decision-making in Kazakhstan in the context of the ongoing detraditionalisation and individualisation processes. A mixed method approach has been applied. Overall, 607 participants from across Kazakhstan have taken part in an anonymous

M. Kabylova (B) University of Nottingham, Nottingham, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_4

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online survey and the data has been analysed by a thematic research analysis method. The primary data derived from the survey supports the main argument of this paper that the uyat cultural code’s influence on people’s decision-making process or de-shaming in Kazakhstan is waning as a result of ongoing detraditionalisation and individualisation processes in the country. The majority of people who participated in the survey chose answers that prioritise individual choice over community interests and demonstrate independence from public opinion and a willingness to go against social norms and traditions in cases of risks to one’s safety and well-being. The concept of uyat, which carries a deeper meaning than mere shame or disgrace, is currently a controversial topic in Kazakhstan. The notion of uyat in the Central Asian context refers to a whole system of values and symbolises a long tradition of acceptable moral-ethical conduct in society, which when adhered to can build one’s positive reputation and approval on the part of others. On the other hand, uyat is a powerful tool used by traditionalists and moralists to condemn what they see as “abnormality”: “a local concept of shame is used as a mechanism for controlling correct gender performance, as well as an instrument of punishment for deviant behaviour” (Zhanabayeva, 2018, p. IV). In particular, uyat seems to be targeting women the most, inspecting their intimate self-expression and perceiving them mainly through the lens of “purity”. As a reaction to restrictions created by uyat, a growing feeling of resentment is being expressed on online platforms in Kazakhstan. Women are using sexualisation of their bodies as a weapon against shaming and a symbol of claiming control over their lives (Kudaibergenova, 2019). Initiatives aimed at normalising sex education and shamelessly speaking out about topics surrounding sex and reproduction among young people and families (Kabatova, 2018) might also be considered as forms of opposition against the stigmas created by uyat and are indicative of the polarisation of the society towards traditions. Like the rest of the world, Kazakhstan is becoming part of the globalised and digitalised world, where conservative values and norms are going through a transformation and society, especially young people, is redefining their identities and older notions of appropriate behaviour. Uyat is not an exception; it seems to be undermined by the current middle-class urban society in Kazakhstan who are going through a process of detraditionalisation. This chapter aims to examine how important the uyat cultural code is for people’s decision-making in Kazakhstan

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in the context of the ongoing detraditionalisation and individualisation processes. In order to answer this research question, a mixed method approach has been applied. Overall, 607 participants from across Kazakhstan have taken part in an anonymous online survey and the data has been analysed by a thematic research analysis method. In terms of the structure of the chapter, the next paragraph provides real-life cases of uyat in the Kazakhstani context with a purpose to elaborate on the definition of the uyat. In the Methodology section, the author explains the reasons for using a survey as a research method, describes the process of collecting the data and lists the research hypothesis to be tested. The Theoretical Discussion section demonstrates the ongoing detraditionalisation process by giving examples of the Westernisation, globalisation, individualisation of young generations, feminism and changing family institution. The survey results are presented and analysed in the next section. The last concluding part summarises the main findings of the study and suggests avenues for further research.

Manifestation of Uyat in the Local Context Certain interpretations and implementations of the uyat code exacerbate gender inequality by predominantly targeting women. Professor of Gender Studies Bartkly (1990) claims that shame is gender-biased because women are exposed to more frequent and ever-present shame whereas men experience episodic periods of shame. Women, whose conduct and appearance are under constant scrutiny, are often morally judged and “slut shamed” (Ringrose et al., 2013). A Kazakhstani Instagram male blogger with nearly 100,000 followers published a scenarized video featuring himself in which he gives a “morality speech” to a woman dressed in a top and jeans, alleging that women in seductive and attractive attire are to be blamed for the increase of sexual abuse of underage children (Newtimes, 2021). The gender bias in uyat practices has also been argued to be a factor in the increasing cases of newborn babies being abandoned in public places. The main factors that cause such potentially fatal outcomes have been listed as the shame of premarital sex, early pregnancies and inappropriate conduct (Bagayeva, 2012). The President of the social and political research centre “Strategy”, Gulmira Ileuova, has stated that: “It is easier for young woman in Kazakhstan to give birth to and throw away a newborn rather than to raise her/him out of wedlock” (Kumenov, 2018).

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A deep fear of being rejected by family and society, and a feeling of devastation from not being able to live up to the standards of uyat expectations are likely to make these girls consider their lives as not worth living and, thereby, women’s rights are degraded. People rarely question the role of the baby’s father, but instead lay the blame and shame on women for becoming pregnant outside of marriage. Uyat has also been preoccupying the online world. The case of 18year-old Shereen Narchaeva, a young woman who posted a photo of herself on social media posing half-naked wearing national jewellery and a saukele, the national wedding headdress, caused a backlash among conservative and nationalist people who publicly accused her of being uyatsyz (shameless), undeserving of wearing national dress and of dishonouring the Kazakh nation (Instagram, 2019). A group consisting of hundreds of men held a protest in the village Sarbastau in 2019 calling on Kazakh women to remain modest and refrain from exposing their bodies on the Internet (365Info.kz, 2019). Online shaming and online bullying comments shifted to online harassment for young Instagram blogger Shereen, whose controversial post gave rise to hundreds of death threats, expressions of physical abuse and nationalist sexist insults (Instagram, 2019). This case demonstrates how online uyat is turning into a larger scale problem and posing a danger to the lives of internet users whose conduct might be considered as less traditional, disrespectful to the Kazakh nation and over-sexualised.

Research Method This research applied a mixed method approach: a quantitative survey was chosen to collect the data and a qualitative thematic analysis method was applied to interpret the results. A survey was considered one of the most efficient ways in terms of time and cost to grasp a large number of people’s perceptions about the uyat cultural code in Kazakhstan. Due to the COVID pandemic restricting people’s mobility and the researcher’s location outside of Kazakhstan, the survey was conducted online on the Survey Monkey platform in April 2021. The link to the questionnaire, consisting of 10 closed questions, was distributed to groups of people through the communication applications WhatsApp and Telegram. Conducting an online survey has benefited the research in terms of flexibility and accessibility as well as enriching the results as respondents located in different parts of Kazakhstan could participate in the survey.

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Nevertheless, a quantitative research method survey has potential risks for the research results such as the inability to obtain in-depth answers on a topic and conduct a follow-up study. Moreover, there is a risk of receiving unreliable data from an anonymous online survey because there is no control over who is taking part in the survey. The survey results might not be representative of all layers of society but rather demonstrate opinions of mostly urban middle-class, educated groups of Kazakhstani citizens because the researcher used her network for snowball gathering of responses and distributed the survey link to people who belong to these groups. Overall, 607 respondents participated in the survey. They were aged between 18 and 65 and above. 65% of the respondents were male and 35% were female. They were 20 Kazakhstani cities including large cities of republican importance Nur-Sultan, Almaty and Shymkent. The respondents predominantly identified themselves as Kazakh and other seven largest ethnic minority groups of the country such as Russians, Koreans and Uzbeks. Demographic characteristics allow the researcher to compare perceptions of uyat among young and old, Kazakhs and nonKazakhs, men and women, residents of big and small cities, and different regions of the homogenous West and South predominantly populated by ethnic Kazakhs, and the East and North where Russian-speaking residents prevail. Respondents have also been differentiated into groups of those who have had experience of living abroad and those who have not left the territory of Kazakhstan. Approximately 55% of the survey participants answered positively about having an experience of living outside the country and 45% replied negatively. The indicator of exposure to life outside of Kazakhstan is considered to be an important factor in influencing respondents’ perception of the uyat cultural code. Witnessing different cultures and ways of conduct abroad might transform uyat culture in Kazakhstan by making people reconsider their viewpoints and look at social norms in their homeland from a critical perspective. Numerous studies have demonstrated that living abroad increases travellers’ empathy for people from different cultures (Jackson, 2008), makes them reflect on self-identity and differentiate between individually constructed and culturally imposed beliefs (Adam et al., 2018) and contributes to identity transformation through assimilation to different cultures (Gu, 2015).

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In addition, comparisons of perceptions of the uyat cultural code will be made between residents living in high-density cities with populations greater than 1 million such as Almaty, Shymkent and Nur-Sultan, medium-size cities populated by between 300,000 and 900,000 residents and smaller cities with less than 200,000 inhabitants such as Aktau, Turkistan and Taldykorgan. This comparative analysis aims to demonstrate that people residing in large cities have a more individualist approach to life where they prioritise their self-interests above interests of community. This might be explained by the studies conducted by Buchecker and Frick (2020) and Wilson (1999) that the high mobility and anonymity of the urban environment contribute to an erosion of urban residents’ sense of community and an increase in their individual autonomous life. By contrast, residents of smaller cities are more likely to be under social pressure to follow community norms and live up to uyat expectations because of a slower-paced life in a homogenous society common in low-density areas that allows more time for higher interaction with relatives and the community. The survey has been designed with the aim of examining how important the uyat cultural code is for people’s decision-making process in Kazakhstan as a result of increasing detraditionalisation and individualisation processes. Five hypotheses have been developed to test the statement above: 1. The majority of people in Kazakhstan are indifferent to acts that are non-compliant with the uyat cultural code taking place outside of their family circle. 2. The majority of people in Kazakhstan prioritise individual and family interests over community expectations set within the uyat cultural code. 3. The majority of people in Kazakhstan are less willing to comply with the uyat cultural code if it requires going against the law and puts safety of self and society at risk. 4. The majority of Kazakhstani people, who have experienced living abroad, are less likely to be influenced by the uyat cultural code than their compatriots because globalisation and mobility contribute to detraditionalisation. 5. Residents of densely populated cities are more likely to make individualist decisions that prioritise the interests of individuals over

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community interests dictated by the uyat cultural code in comparison with people living in the less populated cities of Kazakhstan.

Theoretical Discussion. The Undermining of Uyat in Kazakhstan Kazakhstan has been going through a gradual detraditionalisation process which is taking place in predominantly urban areas of the country that might be characterised as having resistant and sceptical attitudes to traditions and established norms. Scholars such as Beyer and Finke (2019) have emphasised the rise of traditionalism after the fall of the Soviet Union in Central Asia. As part of the ruling elite’s agenda to build national identity, authorities relied on the selective glorification of traditions, referred to as “invented tradition” (Hobsbawm & Ranger, 1983). However, Kazakhstan has simultaneously been witnessing detraditionalisation tendencies. The young Russianspeaking urban middle-class population of Kazakhstan has been engaged in redefining established norms. Marlene Lareulle, scholar and Director of the Institute for European, Russian and Eurasian Studies at George Washington University, has named young people in their early thirties and twenties “The Nazarbayev Generation” and emphasises the difference between them, particularly those who are urban and Western educated, and the previous older Soviet generation and their conservative peers. They are characterised as being more open to the global world, individualistic, valuing their uniqueness and challenging given norms such as gender identities and social practices (Laruelle, 2019). Moreover, according to the World Values Survey conducted in 2011 and 2018 for Kazakhstan, the results demonstrate that Kazakhstan tends to share more values with Eastern Europe rather than with their Muslim neighbouring nations such as Uzbekistan and Tajikistan (Eurasian Research Institute, 2020). Although Kazakhstan is technically situated in the left bottom quarter of the graph where countries with traditional and survival values are placed, it is on the upper edge of it and is intruding into the Orthodox Europe zone of the graph next to more democratic countries such as Romania, Armenia and Bosnia. It might indicate that people who took part in the survey perceive themselves or wish to be holding more democratic and secular values akin to those of their Eastern European neighbours rather than those held by their more conservative Central Asian neighbours and

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the Islamic states of the Middle East and North Africa. Unfortunately, we cannot know how the values of Kazakhstan’s population have changed over more extended period of time because the earliest data in the World Values Survey is from 2011. Detraditionalisation has been described as: “the decline of the belief in a pre-given or natural order of things. Individual subjects are themselves called upon to exercise authority in the face of the disorder and contingency which is thereby generated” (Heelas, 1996, p. 2). Detraditionalisation has also been described as “the socio-cultural interruption of traditions … which are no longer able to hand themselves on from one generation to the next” (Boeve, 2005, p. 104). The power of traditions and social norms is being replaced by the authority of individuals who bring self-defined rules and create disorder and uncertainty instead of the preceding predictability and stability. The detraditionalisation theory falls under the larger realm of ideas exploring late-modernism and individualisation, which are extensively written about by well-established sociologists Anthony Giddens and Ulrich Beck. Giddens (1991) argues that in the pre-modern age people followed the pre-determined lifecycle decisions and traditions of their community and ancestors, whereas in the late-modern late-capitalist period traditional institutional factors such as family, social norms and religion have less influence over people’s decisions. Technological revolutions in communication and post-industrialisation such as capitalism and privatisation have dramatically transformed people’s relationships not only with others but with themselves as well, first considering themselves as individuals and then as members of the community. Individualisation is an inseparable part of the modernisation age, which is characterised by a weakened influence of traditions on people’s decision-making processes and the strengthening of reflexive independent thinking about one’s selfexistence, which is referred to as “reflexive modernization” (Beck, 1992). Individualisation is when more people experience freedom of choice regarding their private lives, they follow less traditional collective norms when making decisions (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2009). It might be argued that the uyat cultural code is losing its relevance in contemporary society in Kazakhstan in comparison with the past as more people are making decisions without taking into account traditional norms including the uyat cultural code. The next sections will explore the main factors contributing to the detraditionalisation of Kazakhstani society.

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Westernisation The first major process that has enormously contributed to the detraditionalisation of the uyat cultural code in Kazakhstan is Westernisation, which is a term for western powers influencing the social, cultural, political, and economic spheres of Asian, Latin American and African countries (Hafez & Grune, 2015)—a broadcasting of more liberal and democratic values by means of mass media and popular culture. A study evaluating the impact of external world processes on post-Soviet people’s sense of national identity has revealed that young and urban people in their twenties identify themselves more as “world citizens” and are less nationalist in comparison with people from older generations and working-class backgrounds (Dall’Agnola, 2021). Western values, expressed in their political ideology and promoted by the entertainment industry, such as freedom of speech, democracy, independence, directness and liberty, contradict traditional norms that the uyat cultural code upholds, such as modesty, obedience, silencing and restriction. In comparison with characteristics of the uyat culture, Western values seem to be more reflected in the lifestyles of the mostly urban middle-class Kazakhs. The speeches given by Kazakhstani people on the TedX Talks are a clear illustration of this statement. Lawyer and human rights activist Saule Mektepbayeva speaks about the need to modernise the content of the uyat code with universal notions of justice, equality, freedom and rationality in order to make Kazakhstan a constitutional state (Youtube, 2016a). In another TedX Talk presentation, a high school girl Aygerim Bulekbaeva shares with her audience an epiphany that happened to her when she was brave enough to go against her parents’ will to make her a professional violinist and instead chose her own path of professional development (Youtube, 2015). Zaure Ozmat, who was included in the list of the “30 most successful people aged under 30” by Forbes Kazakhstan, confessed that despite society condemning her for divorcing and continuing her university studies as mother to a young child, she challenged social norms by choosing herself and her career aspirations (Youtube, 2016b). In another Kazakhstani TedX Talk, Kamila Tuyakbayeva advises parents and other caregivers not to feel ashamed about talking honestly about intimacy with their children and stresses the importance of such conversations in increasing sexual literacy and the positive impact on reducing abortion and cases of sexually transmitted infection (Youtube, 2019). All the above examples demonstrate speakers who are building life lessons based on Western values of freedom of speech, independence from social pressure and directness while articulating socially urgent issues and

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walking away from values centred around the uyat cultural code such as obedience, social approval and being silent on controversial topics.

Globalisation The culture and traditions of Kazakhs are not only influenced by Westernisation, but are also undergoing detraditionalization due to trends and events happening around the globe, in the phenomenon often referred to as globalisation. Anthony Giddens (1990, p. 64) identified globalisation as “the intensification of worldwide social relations which link distant localities in such a way that local happenings are shaped by events occurring many miles away and vice versa”. As an example of globalisation eroding traditions related to the uyat cultural code one could cite the influence of Korean popular culture on traditional gender roles in Kazakhstan. Young men from the new-emerging Q-pop boy band Ninety-One are challenging the masculine, heteronormative male figure dominant in Kazakhstani society. The band members’ dyed hair, pastelcoloured clothes, accessories such as earrings and flexible dance moves caused a public outcry, shaming them for dishonouring Kazakh nation (Tan, 2021). Arman Nurmukhanbetov, a young activist supporting the revival of ancient traditions and leader of the “Day of Kazakh national attire” movement supported traditionalists who successfully managed to cancel some of Ninety-One’s concerts in a number of Kazakhstani cities. Nurmukhanbetov argued that Kazakh males should be portrayed as brave heroes riding horses as their ancestors did (Kruglova, 2016). His views are also reflected in the survey results of more than 2000 participants, the majority of whom, 70%, regard it as shameful for a young man to dye his hair, wear earrings and skinny jeans and listen to Q-pop songs (Qalaisyn, 2020).

The Individualisation of Generations Y and Z Today’s young people born in the 1990s and 2000s, also known as generations Y and Z, demonstrate the prevalence of individualisation over collectivism in their decision-making processes. They are the new citizens of the country, born in an independent Kazakhstan, brought up during capitalism and consumerism, and they seem to be self-centred and prioritise their own interests and benefits; whereas generation X or boomers, born in the 1970s and earlier, were raised during the proletariat communist political order where standing out and nonconformity were prohibited. The generation who was born after the collapse of the

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Soviet Union is referred to as “The Nazarbayev Generation” and, based on the results of the World Values Survey and other surveys conducted by the international organisations and research centres, it has been pointed out that generations Y and Z are more individualistic and democratic (Laruelle, 2019). For example, an increasing number of young people are choosing alternative ways of organising their weddings instead of having a traditional Kazakh marriage ceremony with hundreds of guests. A 2019 article headlined “New Kazakhs” featured three couples in their twenties, who, after convincing their parents that a wedding was a waste of money and traditions did not play an important role in their lives, invested the money initially saved for the wedding ceremony in opening up small businesses and purchasing property (Weproject, 2018). Representatives of generation Z, born in the late 1990s, have also shared their experiences of conducting small gatherings with a small number of closest friends and emphasised that their decision to have a modern wedding was made independently, free from the older generation’s interference (Weproject, 2019). The fact that several of the young people from the above-mentioned articles confessed that a traditional marriage ceremony following old customs was important for older people in their families might indicate that although the impact of this old-fashioned mentality practised within the family is present, it does not outweigh young people’s longing for change. The 43-year-old folklore and pop singer Karakat Abyldina, who is popular among the Kazakh-speaking population of Kazakhstan, draws comparisons between her generation and contemporary young people (Stan, 2019). According to Abyldina, she has lost many opportunities in her life due to the uyat factor and fears of being inappropriate in the eyes of the public, whereas today’s young people do not strive to meet expectations of those around them but are focused on making themselves happy first (Stan, 2019).

Feminism Globalisation and the advance of information technology communications have accelerated the growth of feminist mobilisation in Kazakhstan, which had already experienced a glimpse of female empowerment during the Soviet period with drastic increases in the number of girls and women in education and the workforce. Today, feminism is one of the crucial driving forces steering the detraditionalisation process and redefinition of the role of uyat in society.

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Feminism is finding increasing support among citizens of all generations, both women and men, and is gaining recognition by the governmental, academic and non-governmental sectors. A survey poll conducted in 2020 among 2861 participants in Kazakhstan indicated that 85% of them did not view women publicly supporting equal rights for women as shameful (Qalaisyn, 2020). Moreover, for the first time, the authorities have given permission for a feminists’ march to take place in Almaty on International Women’s Day in Kazakhstan after several years of prohibiting the event (Kim, 2021). During the march, which brought together at least 500 people, activists raised issues related to women’s equal rights and the need for more effective legislation prosecuting sexual harassment and domestic violence (Azattyq, 2021). Protestors at the march, the majority of whom were young women and men in their twenties and thirties, carried posters with phrases such as “don’t shame women for their bodies”, “its not uyat to fight for your rights” and “expressing your views is not uyat” (The Adamdar, 2021; Village, 2021). An increasing number of female scholars researching issues of feminism and gender equality are also detraditionalising the sphere of academia and raising awareness of social problems centred around uyat by talking, writing and publishing works about it. For instance, the Rector of Akhmet Yassaiu University Zhanam Temirbekova and Professor of Suleiman Demirel University Moldiyar Yergebekov have been invited as speakers to the political talk-show Talap Talks, where they provided knowledge-based answers to the most prevalent stereotypes and misinformation about gender equality in Kazakhstan (Youtube, 2021). A university instructor Aigerim Kusaiynkyzy is conducting research on the topic of gendered economics and openly speaks about the detrimental impact of uyat on a woman’s potential within conservative families, where her choices are controlled and manipulated by her surroundings throughout her life (Azattyq, 2019). All the academics mentioned above consider themselves to be feminists and their research is contributing to the development of feminism in the academic field, enlightening and stimulating students and readers to question the relevance of traditions to women’s empowerment, including the uyat cultural code.

The Changing Institution of the Family The detraditionalisation process might also be observed within the family institution of Kazakhstan, which has been going through a drastic transformation in its structure and functioning. Fewer people see family, especially in the form of a breadwinner union, as a necessity for survival. An

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increasing number of contemporary Kazakhstani families are becoming diverse and do not resemble the traditional household prevalent in Kazakh society half a century ago. The first symptom that proves how the family institution is going through the detraditionalisation process in Kazakhstan is a dramatic increase in the divorce rate among young couples. According to the data provided by the National Statistics of the Republic of Kazakhstan (2019), almost 40,000 marriages ended in legal separation out of overall 160,000 ones registered in 2019. Young female Kazakh Muslims showed more loyalty and support for the increasing divorce rate in the country compared to old and male compatriots (Dall’Agnola & Thibault, 2021). The second trend that demonstrates families abandoning traditional dynamics is the decrease in the number of nuclear families as a result of young people choosing to stay single for longer. Women’s increased economic independence has given them freedom to postpone marriage and not follow in the footsteps of their mothers and grandmothers who got married earlier for cultural, economic and reproductive reasons. There has been a close gender parity in labour market participation—80% for women and 86% for men aged 16–58 in Kazakhstan in 2019 (The National Statistics of the Republic of Kazakhstan, 2019). Moreover, the family institution in Kazakhstan is experiencing a crisis as more young people are choosing cohabitation instead of registered marriages. During the round table themed “The role of families in the modernisation process of Kazakhstan society”, the director of the Social-Demographic Development Research Centre Batzhan Akmuldina stated that increasing cases of cohabitation among couples in Kazakhstan implies that family is ceasing to be a symbol of traditions (Inform Buro, 2018). According to Aigerim Ashimova, an analyst from the “Kazakhstan Institute of Social Development”, as a result of young people preferring to be self-centred instead of family-centred and co-habitating instead of marrying due to reasons of economics and a changing mentality, family traditions and customs, aimed at strengthening bonding between relatives and conducted after marriage, are practised less regularly (Azattyq, 2020). Thirdly, more cases are being observed of Kazakh young people marrying foreign nationals, of men marrying divorced women with children from their first marriage and young men choosing much older women signifying that people are breaking social norms, reshaping the classical perception of a Kazakh family and making it flexible, accepting and progressive. According to the survey of 2861 respondents conducted in 2020 in Kazakhstan, about 70% did not consider international marriages between a Kazakh and foreigner as shameful (Qalaisyn,

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2020). Instagram contains a variety of public accounts, quite popular among Kazakhstani users, such as Anel who is married to an Austrian citizen and has more than 50,000 followers, Diana who is the wife of an Italian man and has 300,000 followers and Madina, who is married to a Japanese national and has 18,000 followers (Anelns, 2021; Italybydiana, 2021; Vierrarosa, 2021). The support that these women receive from online users based in Kazakhstan through the outpouring of positive reactions might indicate the Kazakhstani public’s acceptance of international marriages which are less likely to preserve national traditions. An article named “Women who broke the system of Kazakh stereotypes” among other heroines features producer Bayan Maxatkyzy who first initiated divorce with her long-term husband due to falling in love with another married man (Newtimes, 2017). Despite the enormous social pressure and verbal harassment directed to her as a public figure on internet, Bayan states that the majority of people she knows supported her and she remains one of the most famous people in the country with more than 4 million followers on Instagram (Bayanmaxatkyzy, 2021; Vlast.kz, 2021). Successful businesswoman Dana Ormanbayeva is an example of the revolution that the traditional family is experiencing currently in Kazakhstan because she, as a mother of two sons, one of whom is diagnosed as on the autistic spectrum, married for the second time a man, who is 10 years younger than her (365Info.kz, 2017). Moreover, famous Kazakh-speaking singer Altynai Zhorabayeva, who remarried with children after divorce, confessed that the decision about her second wedding did not come easily to her: she felt ashamed due to social condemnation related to several factors; she was “already 40 years old”, the mother of three children and her then potential husband was younger than her (365Info.kz, 2020). The cases of these above-mentioned women being publicly vocal and bold about decisions which went against social norms and perceptions of uyat, and the approval they were shown from the online community might be an indication of more people admitting that the personal definition of family happiness is more important than the socially approved notion of it.

Results and Discussion Hypothesis 1 The degree of the detraditionalisation and individualisation processes transforming the uyat cultural code in Kazakhstan can be seen in people’s opinions on perceived vulgarity. Modesty, chastity and selfrestraint are three of the characteristics considered as worthy by the uyat

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cultural code. “The Lovers” monument is situated at the heart of the left bank in the capital Nur-Sultan between symbolic sightseeing attractions such as the Bayterek, Nur Zhol boulevard, the KazMunayGas office skyscraper and the Khan Shatyr entertainment mall, and the area is often occupied by office workers, local residents and tourists spending their leisure time there (SmartGuide, 2021). From the perspective of uyat culture, the monument might be considered as inappropriate and dishonouring the Kazakh nation because it portrays a Kazakh-looking woman in a very tight transparent dress that reveals the outline of her body. It has been described as “the most erotic monument in Central Asia” (Silk Road Adventures, 2021). For example, a man named Talgat Sholtayev, also known as the “Uyatman”, gained popularity after he covered the female statue of the “Lovers” with a large scarf because he felt ashamed for its vulgarity (Azattyk, 2016).

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Vibirai. (2016). Ckylьptype “BlЮblennye” v Actane otpetyxipyЮt nekotopye qacti tela. Vibirai. https://astana.vibirai.ru/articles/skulpt ure_vlublennye_v_astane_otretushiruut_nekotorye_chasti_tel-1945526. Accessed on 29 June 2021.

Ok.ru. (2021). PamRtniki mipa. Ok.ru. https://ok.ru/group5400 1872601162/topics. Accessed on 29 June 2021. This paper states that people in Kazakhstan are becoming more accepting of and less judgmental towards those events and actions that are non-compliant with the uyat cultural code and that these people form the majority of the adult population. The accuracy of Hypothesis 1 that “the majority of people in Kazakhstan are indifferent to acts that are non-compliant with the uyat cultural code taking place outside of their family circle” has been partly supported by the survey results. Overall, more than 60% of respondents did not agree that the “Lovers” monument offends the honour of Kazakh women: out of which almost 30% think that art should be given more freedom to express the beauty of the

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body and about 35% agree that case is exaggerated, but are hesitant to see more nudity in art. In contrast, about 30% replied positively to the statement that the monument dishonoured the reputation of Kazakh women: almost 20% of them believe that the purity of the Kazakh woman’s image should be preserved and more than 10% are sceptical about the relevance of this controversial monument, especially to be exposed in a public space for everyone to see. The rest, more than 7% of the respondents have predominantly demonstrated indifference to the subject and written that they have either not seen the monument or they simply do not care: “It’s just a monument” (Table 4.1). The fact that the majority of the respondents do not consider the “Lovers” monument to be offensive to Kazakh women might signify that the uyat cultural code is going through detraditionalisaiton and fewer people are basing their opinions around the uyat. It might also indicate that people are becoming more individualistic as they react with less prejudice to events in society perceived to be “outside the norm” and they respect freedom of expression. Moreover, the survey results demonstrate that the excessive and severe reaction of publicly shaming such “outside the norm” events does not represent the majority of public opinion. It is often used by the mass media and social media bloggers as a way to attract an audience and increase their popularity and, consequently, give the false impression that the uyat cultural code persists and retraditionalisation is on the rise. Despite the popularity of the Uyatman in mass media and the high circulation of his character on the Internet, he was a single “hero” and had few followers because his act has not been repeated and no groups have been formed in the wake of his activities. He has not been treated with seriousness but has rather acquired the reputation of an odd person who gets easily offended. He has been turned into a cartoon character, the “Uyatman” by the illustrator Murat Dilmanov who portrayed him in a ridiculing and bizarre way (Kumenov, 2018). The fact that Talgat Sholtayev, also known as the Uyatman, and his conduct have been distinguished and talked about in society signifies that publicly shaming and interfering in strangers’ affairs is uncommon and shocking. The results lead to a conclusion about the fallacy of existing stereotypes of Kazakhstani people as having high uyat expectations of themselves and their surroundings. The stereotype about a strong uyat culture in the social environment of Kazakhstan is fuelled by the extravagant and scandalised reactions of a few representatives of the local community which

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Table 4.1 The respondents’ reactions to the statement in the survey “The statue of lovers in Nur-Sultan offends the honour of Kazakh women because it depicts them in a tight-fitting dress that emphasises the curves of the body”

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is then often generalised as characterising the reaction of the public as a whole. Nevertheless, the majority of respondents not finding anything shameful is a statue cannot be used as a sufficient evidence to argue that people are detraditionalising uyat culture. The results to this particular question might have turned out differently if instead of the statue a photo capturing a real Kazakh woman in erotic attire with traditional elements standing in public space was shown to the respondents. Hypothesis 2 The survey questionnaire contains questions aimed at evaluating the level of individualisation in Kazakhstan society and its impact on community expectations structured by the uyat cultural code. Hypothesis 2, that “people in Kazakhstan prioritise individual and family interests over the community expectations set within the uyat cultural code” was tested through three survey questions. The first question was centred around weddings: “Will you feel uncomfortable in relation to your community if, instead of a traditional wedding with relatives, your son or daughter chooses to spend the money on other purposes (honeymoon abroad, buying a home, starting a business, etc.)?” A wedding, known as a “toy” in the Kazakh language, is a widely practised event that bears great symbolic importance in Kazakh culture. A Kazakh wedding is a traditional ceremony because it is conducted in several stages involving ancient customs such as kuda tusu (two sides of families meeting each other), kudalyk (exchange of presents), neke kiu (ceremony in a mosque), kyz uzatu (farewell ceremony from a bride’s family), bet ashar (introducing a bride to a groom’s family) and the wedding itself (Edelbay, 2012; Weproject, 2017). The central figures are not the bride and groom, but the parents and families on both sides. Through the marriage of two children, a family extends and the two sides become kin. A clear illustration of this is shown by the Kazakh saying: “A husband lasts 100 years, a relationship between relatives on both sides lasts 1000 years” (Qazaqstan, 2014). Conducting a wedding serves as a way of recognising parents’ authority in social circles and paying respect to the community. A wedding is considered as a gesture of generosity to family and relatives because the hosts share their happiness with the community (Shegirbaev, 2020). Moreover, weddings these days represent an indication of a family’s well-being and prosperity and people who cannot afford it take out bank loans or become indebted to relatives in order to avoid the shame of their poverty being exposed (Ergaliev,

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2018). Even during the lockdown restrictions imposed after the COVID19 pandemic, “underground” weddings kept taking place, a phenomenon associated with the needs of uyat culture to meet the expectations of the community and stay loyal to customary traditions (Shegirbaev, 2020). Nevertheless, in the modern age, the importance of a wedding in Kazakhstan society is being transformed as more people are modernising and simplifying it by excluding traditional customs and limiting the number of guests, while others are deciding not to have a wedding at all (American Councils, 2019). This change has been exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic as there has been a tendency to reduce the number of weddings conducted, with fewer guests being invited after the easing of lockdown (Mamashuly, 2020). In one of his speeches, the President of the Republic of Kazakhstan emphasised the need to concentrate resources on more substantial aspects of life: “The time of big lavish celebrations is leaving and it should be replaced by reason, science, knowledge and hard-work” (Informburo, 2020). Just over the half of those surveyed, 55%, responded that their children’s decision not to have a wedding ceremony would not make them feel uncomfortable in the public eye and they would allow their children to freely choose. Similarly, about 30% of respondents said that they would not be affected by their children’s decision if the money was spent on big causes such as the purchase of housing or investment in business. Only 3% would feel discomfort in relation to their community if their children refused to have a wedding considering it as being alienating from family and relatives. About 8% answered positively, explaining it as a custom to be followed (Table 4.2). Overall, three-quarters of respondents, thought that children skipping the wedding ceremony would not cause any discomfort to themselves in the public eye. These results indicate that well-established traditions, such as weddings, are losing importance and people do not feel obliged to follow them to be part of the community. Moreover, the fact that the majority of the survey respondents prioritised their children’s choice above social norms might suggest people in Kazakhstan are becoming more individualistic. The second survey question, aimed at testing Hypothesis 2, asks respondents about the insignificance of public opinion when it comes to an individual’s interests: “Today, people should not depend on public opinion. Everyone has the right to do what he/she wants, even if others do not like it”. The role of society and community is very important in the

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Table 4.2 The participants’ responses to the question in the survey “Will you feel uncomfortable in relation to your community if, instead of a traditional wedding with relatives, your son or daughter chooses to spend the money on other purposes (honeymoon abroad, buying a home, starting a business, etc.)?”

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uyat cultural code because uyat is a socially constructed concept shaped by commonly practised norms and it needs the approval of others. An individual’s personal choice which is linked to individualisation, on the other hand, contradicts the uyat cultural code because it allows one to disregard community interests in order to prioritise one’s own wishes. Less than half of the respondents agreed that people should not depend on public opinion if it does not imply breaking the law; whereas almost 20% think that public opinion and laws should not restrict a person’s ability to make decisions. Those who chose an option of a balanced approach when sometimes public opinion should be taken into account constituted 30%. A minority of 3% replied negatively and placed the interests and opinion of society above an individual’s wishes. Once again, the majority of the respondents, which comprised twothirds of those surveyed, indicated that social pressure and public opinion are not important for them. The survey results imply that their decisions are less likely to be influenced by the uyat cultural code because it is usually constructed and expressed through public condemnation (Table 4.3). The next survey question is very similar to the previous one and asks the respondents their viewpoint on the importance of meeting society’s expectations. But the fear of letting down the community is presented as a part of Kazakh culture in the question: “The feeling of fear of disappointing others and the desire to avoid public condemnation (uyat) is an important part of Kazakh culture and should be a guide in decisionmaking”. This question was designed to test the reliability of responses to the previous question. The majority of the respondents, almost 40%, chose a positive answer that included scepticism about public opinion as not being always reliable. Similarly, almost 20% agreed that this Kazakh culture of meeting community expectations should be preserved. In contrast, overall 40% did not agree with the statement: more than 20% said that it is an outdated concept and the public tends to be emotional and unjust in its judgement, and about 20% believed that the world has long moved away from collectivity and social morality, and only the law shapes the rights and obligations of an individual (Table 4.4). The fact that two similar questions received varied responses might be explained by the presence of the phrase “Kazakh culture” in the second question. Overall, about 60% agreed that meeting public expectations is important in Kazakh culture and should be used in decision-making

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Table 4.3 The respondents’ reactions to the statement in the survey “Today, people should not depend on public opinion. Everyone has the right to do what he/she wants, even if others do not like it”

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Table 4.4 The respondents’ reactions to the statement in the survey “The feeling of fear of disappointing others and the desire to avoid public condemnation (uyat) is an important part of Kazakh culture and should be a guide in decision-making”

processes, which is about 10% less than respondents to the previous question who agreed that a person should be independent from public opinion in decision-making. Respondents might regard public opinion as unimportant but they are more willing to perceive public opinion and social

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pressure as something positive when it is associated with Kazakh culture. Does this imply that people are sincerely ready to put public interest first in order to preserve Kazakh culture or do they feel a sense of moral obligation to agree with a statement in order to appear respectful to traditions? Hypothesis 3 The third hypothesis is as follows: “People are less willing to comply with the uyat cultural code if it requires going against the law and puts the safety of self and society at risk”. It aims to evaluate how the risk of legal action and negative health consequences change people’s position on the uyat culture. To the question “You were invited to an important event (funeral, wedding, besiktoy) during an epidemic and quarantine. Your refusal would be regarded by the hosts of the event as disrespect for them and other guests. What would you do?” the majority of respondents, about 60%, chose to abstain from going to the event. Although 30% of them would feel uncomfortable with the hosts of the event, they would refuse to attend, whereas the 35% of those not going indicated that safety was more important to them than people’s opinions. The respondents who would go to the event comprised overall 35%: 15% would feel guilty for breaking the law and 20% explained their decision by a determination to enjoy life despite the consequences (Table 4.5). The fact that the number of people who would refuse to attend the event was almost twice the number of those who would attend the event, 60 and 35% respectively, demonstrates people prioritising safety and lawfulness above the social pressure to look good in the public eye. The survey results imply that society in Kazakhstan is going through a detraditionalisation process whereby they are reevaluating the significance of traditions in their lives and placing them below the well-being of people and social justice. This research finding goes against the assumption that has often been heard since COVID-19 restrictions have been imposed that people in Kazakhstan would attend large gatherings because it is uyat (shameful, impolite) to decline an invitation. This assumption may have been based on publicly known cases of “underground” events during the quarantine period which have received condemnation on social media (Facebook, 2020; Tengrinews, 2020). It should be pointed out here that people have been breaking COVID19 quarantine regulations and gathering together across the world despite the cultural and social differences that exist between countries. For

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Table 4.5 The participants’ responses to the question in the survey “You were invited to an important event (funeral, wedding, besiktoy) during an epidemic and quarantine. Your refusal would be regarded by the hosts of the event as disrespect for them and other guests. What would you do?”

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example, there has been an increase in number of illegal weddings, parties and other gatherings organised in England (Independent, 2021; The ; BBC, 2021a, 2021b, 2021c; BBC, 2021a, 2021b, 2021c) and crowds with excessive numbers of attendants protesting in the streets of London demanding an end to the lockdown (BBC, 2021a, 2021b, 2021c). People have been fined for breaking the law on public gatherings in France, Hong Kong, Canada and China during the lockdown period as well (The Connexion, 2021; South China Morning Post, 2020; Global News, 2021; AsiaNews.it, 2021). It might be suggested that there were other explanations apart from uyat culture for people’s decisions to participate in collective meetings despite the legal restrictions such as a longing for socialisation, overestimating their state of health, mental issues, fear of missing out, denial of the existence of COVID, belief in conspiracy theories and distrust of state officials. However, one could argue that the respondents’ potential decisions might contrast to their real actions and they might have attended public events during the lockdown. Nevertheless, the fact that majority of the respondents expressed refraining from attending prohibited public events signifies their aspirations and willingness to acknowledge importance of public safety above public shame. Hypothesis 4 “Kazakhstani people who experienced living abroad are less likely to be influenced by the uyat cultural code than their compatriots who have not left the territory of Kazakhstan because globalisation and mobility contribute to detraditionalisation” is hypothesis number 4 and has been proven right by the comparative studies drawn between the responses of two groups with and without the experience of living abroad. The respondents who had lived abroad were more likely to choose answer options that went against public opinion and characterised them as being without uyat, whereas those who had not lived abroad favoured options compliant with the uyat cultural code. Almost 70% of those respondents with foreign experience would feel socially comfortable if their children did not have a wedding, whereas this number was about 45% among those without foreign experience. More than 10% and almost 5% of the respondents without foreign experience replied that they would feel uncomfortable in the public eye because having a wedding is a national tradition and it is better not to be separated from relatives; whereas the indications were 4 and 2% respectively among respondents who had lived abroad. Moreover, 30% of the respondents without foreign

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experience agreed with the statement that the “Lovers” monument dishonoured the image of Kazakh women and that their pure reputation should be preserved, and about 20% of them thought that art should be given more liberty to demonstrate beauty of the body; whereas these indicators among the respondents with foreign experience constituted 10 and 35% for these questions respectively. Furthermore, almost 30% of the respondents without foreign experience chose the option to participate at an event during the pandemic lockdown and 20% of them would not go but would feel uncomfortable in front of the hosts for abstaining; while 15 and 35% of the respondents with foreign experience chose these options. The respondents without foreign experience that replied positively to the statement that a person should be independent from public opinion but respect the law was 40% and 4% for the statement that interests and opinions are vital for an individual not to go astray, whereas these indicators constituted 50 and 1.5% respectively among the respondents with foreign experience. Similarly, almost 30% of respondents with foreign experience agreed that the desire to avoid public condemnation is part of Kazakh culture and should be preserved: almost 20% said it is an outdated belief and 10% agreed that the world has moved away from collectivity towards individualism. These questions received a response rate of about 10, 30 and 20% among those who had lived abroad. The survey results suggest that globalisation and mobilisation, as international relocation for study and work purposes is becoming more common, transform people’s identities and make them question the social norms they were brought up with. For example, international students who have lived and studied in England are more likely to show empathy to their surrounding, more open to new experiences and less focused on their and their ethnicity’s problems but rather consider themselves as global citizens in comparison with what they thought before beginning their studies abroad (Jackson, 2008). Moreover, international living experience “makes the familiar strange” where one is constantly engaged in comparing domestic and foreign experiences and transformative self-reflexive processes; as a result, increasing chances of developing transnationalised identities that go beyond ethnical and geographical boundaries (Gu, 2015, p. 20). However, it might be the case that people who took part in the survey on uyat cultural code are not more detraditionalised due to the experience of living abroad, but may have been unconventional to begin with, and more open to new experiences before and that motivated them to travel

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abroad. Moreover, social class and financial status might also determine the level of the detraditionalisation because people from well-off backgrounds have the resources to travel and invest in their educational and professional development, thereby increasing their international mobility (Table 4.6). Hypothesis 5 Hypothesis 5 is “Residents of densely populated cities are more likely to make individualistic decisions that prioritise the interests of individuals over the interests of the community dictated by the uyat cultural code, in comparison with people living in less populated cities of Kazakhstan”. The survey respondents who filled in the questionnaire were residents of over 20 cities, which were classified into three groups according to the size of population. The biggest cities with a population of more than 1 million inhabitants are Almaty (1.9 million), Nur-Sultan (1.1 million) and Shymkent (1 million). The medium-sized cities have populations ranging between 500,000 and 200,000 and these include Aktobe (500,000), Karagandy (500,000), Taraz (350,000), Table 4.6 The survey results demonstrating responses to the question “Do you have experience of studying/working/living abroad?” and coloration between the respondents’ experiences of living abroad and sense of shame

(continued)

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Table 4.6 (continued)

(continued)

Pavlodar (330,000), Oskemen (330,000), Semey (320,000), Atyrau (300,000), Kostanay (250,000), Kyzylorda (240,000), Oral (230,000) and Petropavl (220,000). The smallest cities, with populations below 200,000 inhabitants comprise Aktau (188,000), Turkistan (170,000), Kokshetau (150,000), Taldykorgan (145,000), Ekibastuz (130,000) and Zhezkazgan (87,000).

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Table 4.6 (continued)

(continued)

The fifth hypothesis was not supported by the survey results because the responses within the big, medium-sized and smaller cities clusters are inconsistent. Three cities made up almost half of the overall survey sample, totalling 301 out of 607. The number of respondents identified as from Almaty

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Table 4.6 (continued)

(continued)

was 183, Nur-Sultan 57 and Shymkent 61. Within the big cities group, Shymkent stood out. For example, 51% of the Shymkent-based respondents think that the fear of disappointing others and the desire to avoid public condemnation are part of Kazakh culture and should be a guide in decision-making, whereas only 13% of those living in Almaty and 10% of those living in Nur-Sultan had the same opinion. Moreover, there

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Table 4.6 (continued)

(continued)

was a considerable difference in the response rates between Shymkent on the one hand and Nur-Sultan and Almaty on the other regarding the participation in public events during the pandemic. Only 12% of Almaty and 17% of Nur-Sultan respondents would go to an event despite the lockdown restrictions, whereas almost 34% of those surveyed from Shymkent would do the same. Similarly, a higher number of respondents from Shymkent regarded the “Lovers” monument as dishonouring the

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Table 4.6 (continued)

image of Kazakh women and agreed that their purity should be reserved, whereas this number was lower for Almaty and Nur-Sultan with those responses being 14 and 12% respectively (Table 4.7).

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Table 4.7 The survey results illustrating coloration between size of the cities in Kazakhstan and the respondents’ sense of shame

(continued)

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Table 4.7 (continued)

(continued)

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Table 4.7 (continued)

(continued)

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Table 4.7 (continued)

(continued)

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From the data outlined above, the respondents from Shymkent are more likely to show a preference for following social norms and prioritising collectivism over individualism in comparison with the other big cities Almaty and Nur-Sultan. This trend might be explained by the location of Shymkent in the Southern region of Kazakhstan close to the border with Uzbekistan, which has a reputation for strong patriarchal and conservative traditions. Although perceptions of the traditional and patriarchal South have contributed to a sense of “otherness” within Kazakhstan and generalising the Southern inhabitants as “uneducated misogynists from Kazakhstan’s Texas” (Koch & White, 2016), influence from the neighbouring Uzbekistan with strong traditional gender norms does not help to improve the reputation of the Southern Kazakhstan. According to the Gender Equality Index of Eurasian countries, Uzbekistan has the worst indicators of women’s rights in law and practice after Afghanistan (OECD, 2019). Despite the Uzbekistan government’s greater involvement in promoting gender equality values through the anti-discriminatory state policies and international conventions such as those drawn up by the United Nations, women are still regarded as the possessions of their family and are expected to look after the household and in-laws after marriage (UNDP, 2020; Informburo, 2018b). Shymkent society is also impacted by Uzbek culture through large Uzbek communities inhabiting the South. Uzbeks are the second-largest ethnicity living in Kazakhstan, mostly concentrated in the South region with 456,400 residents (Assembly, 2015). Shymkent has the largest Uzbek community living in the city after Kazakhs—Uzbeks comprise 17.79% of the population (Vlast, 2019). The different responses may also be explained by Almaty’s diverse population and higher number of ethnicities from slavic origins such as Russians and Ukrainians as well as Koreans and Germans, who have less conservative views and are less restricted by the uyat cultural code. Almaty was formerly the capital of the Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic during the USSR period and Russians had been predominantly forced to migrate to Almaty by the state as part of the Russification of Central Asian urban areas. By the 1970s, the ratio of Russians had reached more than 40% of the overall Kazakhstan population, most of whom were relocated to cities (Zardykhan, 2010). Similarly, Nur-Sultan is the capital city located in the Northern Kazakhstan and attracts immigrants from neighbouring cities; it historically had a greater population of ethically Russian people

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because of its close borders with the Russian Federation but now has a predominantly Kazakh population. The response rate among residents of the smaller cities has not proved the fifth hypothesis as these did not demonstrate an inclination to choose responses shaped by the uyat cultural code. On the contrary, these responses have been spread almost evenly between answers prioritising individual interests and regarding both an individual’s and the public’s interests. However, the reliability of the data might be undermined due to the low number of smaller city residents who took part in the survey. The number of the Aktau-based respondents was twelve, Turkistan-ten, Kokshetau-twenty, Taldykorgan-ten, Ekibastuz-one and Zhezkazgan-ten. The comparative analysis of the responses between the bigger and smaller cities of Kazakhstan suggests that population size and urbanisation level do not have an impact on the residents’ perceptions of the uyat cultural code. According to Hypothesis 5, it would be predicted that the inhabitants of bigger cities would be more detraditionalised and alienated from the uyat cultural code, whereas those living in smaller cities would be more likely to associate themselves with traditions and social norms. The survey results, on the contrary, have demonstrated that Shymkent, despite its large population size of over one million people, favoured Kazakh traditions and public opinion. The responses received from the smaller cities have contradicted the statement about residents of homogeneous smaller communities following social norms and traditions. There was no distinct inclination towards choosing tradition-centred answers among the smaller city residents in the survey.

Conclusion The primary data derived from the survey supports the main argument of this paper that the uyat cultural code’s influence on people’s decision-making process or de-shaming in Kazakhstan is waning as a result of ongoing detraditionalisation and individualisation processes in the country. The majority of people who participated in the survey chose answers that prioritise individual choice over community interests and demonstrate independence from public opinion and a willingness to go against social norms and traditions in cases of risks to one’s safety and well-being. However, the main conclusion of the paper cannot be presented as certain statement and considered as reliable data due to limitations of the

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study. The small sample size undermines the results to represent opinions of the whole population. There is a risk of imbalanced inclusion of people from various social classes because the snowball sampling method has been held predominantly in middle-class, Russian-speaking, urban and educated circles of people. Hence, voices of the working class, rural and Kazakh-speaking residents are less likely to be reflected in the research results. In addition, the survey format does not allow to ask open-ended questions and conducts follow-up study, which restrict the depth of the results. Despite the limited scale and reliability of the research, the results demonstrate glimpse of the detraditionalising change happening in people’s attitudes in Kazakhstan. It contradicts the research works on rising retraditionalisation process in Central Asian countries including Kazakhstan who, on the contrary, argue that the country has been returning to practicing reshaped national traditions since the collapse of the Soviet Union on multiple levels such as political, social and cultural (Commercio, 2014; Kudaibergenova, 2018; Thibault, 2021; Waskiel, 2019; Zhussipbek & Nagayeva, 2020). In contrast, this paper suggests the parallel process of de-shaming taking place in society, some members of which place their individual roles and wishes above the inherited traditions and social norms including practicing the cultural code uyat. Considering the fact that the country is relatively young and its been only 30 years since it became independent and open to the world from the totalitarian Soviet regime, the detraditionalisation process seems to be in its beginning stage and is expected to strengthen fuelled by globalisation and digitalisation, which are creating the global citizens who share similar values and experiences. For further research in the future, more research needs to be conducted using larger representative sample size to identify the impact of social class and education on the difference in perceptions of the uyat cultural code and detraditionalisation trends among Kazakhstani people.

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CHAPTER 5

Ashamed to Mother: The Practice of ‘Nebere Aluu’ in Kyrgyzstan Zhibek Kenzhebaeva and Elena Kim

Introduction In December 2020, a seventeen-year-old girl killed herself in a village in Kyrgyzstan. A year before, she got married and had a child. When the child was one week old, her mother-in-law took the baby away and kicked the girl out of the house. The mother-in-law changed the child’s name in the documents and the child was officially hers. The girl tried to see her child several times. She failed. So, she decided to leave this world. (From personal correspondence with a participant)

Z. Kenzhebaeva (B) · E. Kim American University of Central Asia, Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan e-mail: [email protected] E. Kim e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_5

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This article examines the phenomenon of ‘nebere aluu’, translated from the Kyrgyz language as ‘take a grandchild1 ’. According to it, older parents adopt their sons’ firstborn child and raise them as their own youngest child (‘kenzheh’). Seen as an ethno-national custom practiced in Kyrgyzstan and other Central Asian countries like Kazakhstan (Ospan, 2018), nebere aluu is supported by proverbs such as ‘tun bala turnanyky’ (literal translation is ‘the first child is crane’s’) which means that the first child does not belong to their parents. Specific situations may vary, and the child can re-join their biological parents due to the latter’s sickness, financial predicaments or death of the grandparents. In some circumstances, however, these children continue living with their grandparents through adulthood. While the literature on nebere aluu in Kyrgyzstan is insufficient, Kazakhstani historians have discussed its emergence many centuries ago (Kalmurat, 2020). A man’s firstborn child was considered to belong to the man’s parents (Stasevich, 2007) who received the infant as a replacement for those offspring who grew up and left, filling up thereby the ‘empty nest’ (Zhuikova & Pechnikova, 2014). Nusipokasuly (2014) suggested that the practice emerged to prevent infant mortality in the case a newborn was placed in full responsibility and care of the young mothers themselves who, historically, were often too young to be trusted with such a task (Ignatenko, 2016). For Nusipokasuly, raising a ‘kenzheh’ worked to contribute to psychological wellbeing of the adoptive grandparents by inducing the feeling of being needed and less isolated. Kapalova (2020, as cited in Zhetigenova, 2020) proposed an explanation based on family economics and labor distribution among the old and young. She posited that in a patrilocal multigenerational household, younger family members were engaged in animal husbandry and farming, while the older generation stayed at home with the youngest one. As time progressed, they would become emotionally bonded with the children and would oppose being separated from them. Considering the local social norms of unconditional complicity and respect to parents, individuals succumb to the pressure to separate from their offspring. Practices comparable to nebere aluu have been recorded in various locations around the world. In Northern Benin, grandparents are reported to foster-parent their grandchildren. Such arrangement is characteristic for ten to forty percent of children and is explained as 1 We adapted the Kazakh ‘nemere aluu’ to its Kyrgyz translation due to lack of the name of the practice commonly used in the Kyrgyz language.

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socio-economically beneficial for both the young parents and the older grandparents (Alber, 2004). While the former received financial support, the latter would have the rights to the labor of the adopted children and relied on their care when old. Unlike in Kyrgyzstan though, adoptive children would be produced by women and presented as gifts to older women in exchange for their own daughters whom they have lost to the marriage of the latter. Similar family scenarios were identified in Sudan and Sierra Leone (Bledsoe & Isingo-Abanike, 1989). Besides anthropological explorations of the phenomenon, existing literature has emphasized the negative effects of nebere aluu on the children themselves. Scholars have listed psychological consequences such as emotional deprivation, anxiety and mental trauma among the individuals who were adopted and raised by their grandparents (Fyodorova, 2016; Ulanova, 2018). Scholarship on child-parent separation (Howard et al., 2011; Luo et al., 2019; Zhao et al., 2017) revealed that mothers developed depression, emotional pain, grief, guilt, distress, loneliness and powerlessness even after up to two decades since separation (Schen, 2005). In contrast to what we discuss in this chapter, these findings pertained to circumstances such as labor migration, incarceration of mothers, their sickness, etc. In the context we study, nebere aluu is an intricate phenomenon that cannot be traced exclusively to an economic necessity, or a practical solution or an unquestionable tradition. Rather, it operates as a function of a more complex combination of factors. We examine the practice from the perspective of gender regimes and cultural values, ideological discourses on family and power relations—all of which are intersecting and dynamic. Nebere aluu is an ambivalent and a contentious space, a social normsinformed practice which must be followed to legitimately operate in the Kyrgyz society as individuals of specific sex, ethnicity, social roles, etc. We argue that as a practice, nebere aluu is upheld and regulated by the mechanism of ‘uyat’, understood as comprised of public disapproval of culturally condemned behaviors and threat thereof, combined with feeling of shame, guilt, and inadequacy on the part of the individual (Sataeva, 2017). The power of uyat is in its capacity to influence people’s choices to conform to cultural ideals and to avert stigmatization and isolation. When applied to women, uyat has been described as a performance in which women’s personal experience does not count (Cvetkovich, 2012). We assert that the two, uyat and nebere aluu, are closely linked and that

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the latter corroborates the former and works to marginalize and victimize young women. While public shaming is known as a particular form of social interactions that affects all social actors in Kyrgyz society, it has the power to determine the position of women in Kyrgyz society (Cvetkovich, 2012). When applied to women, uyat works to socially construct their representations in accordance with the dominant gender regimes and, as our study shows, ethno-national sentiments. The connections between those have been articulated by Yuval-Davis (1997) through conceptualizing national women as, inter alia, the biological and cultural reproducers of the nation. More recently, Nozimova (forthcoming in 2022) illustrated how national ideology in Tajikistan instrumentalized narratives about women’s roles in the public and private spheres, informed decisions about female bodies and ways of dress—all in the efforts to mobilize competing ideological forces on nation building programming. Thus, women’s behavior acquired primary significance for preserving the dignity and the honor of the nation through their performance in the family. For the everyday lives of ordinary women, this meant that they were expected to abide by basic moral standards such as being modest, obedient, married and respectful of traditions. Uyat collaborates with nebere aluu in that it operates within and supports existing patriarchal regime influencing how women perform their roles as mothers, wives, daughters-in-law and individual people. As a practice and as an idea, it defines the status of young women in Kyrgyz society, in agreement with which women are treated as public objects whose bodies could be commonly owned and replaced. As such, they are ‘completely depersonalized; they are no longer counted and treated as persons with their own wishes and requirements’ (Sataeva, 2017, p. 9). At the same time, nebere aluu appears to indicate and emphasize the authority and status of men and the higher position of older women within families, both foundational to the patriarchal gender regime in Kyrgyzstan (Handrahan, 2004; Ismailbekova, 2016). Transgressing these power structures is sanctioned by public shaming as an open disgracing of ethnic traditions, disrespecting the elders and disobeying authority. Social punishment entails isolation and social exclusion, both unbearable in the communities like those in Kyrgyzstan which praise collectivism, family connections and clan relations. Prevalence of kinship and family ties in formerly nomadic societies has been described as essential to their lifestyle and survival in the conditions of transhumance (Rigi, 2004; Schatz, 2000, 2004). This cultural norm, bearing the ethical obligation of helping one’s

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family members, is thought to penetrate all levels of Central Asian societies, and as such underliers systemic corruption and nepotism, which Edward van Roy (1970) refers to as an ‘the ethnocentric factor’. It must be noted that contemporary expression of nebere aluu in Kyrgyzstan is an understudied phenomenon. Reviewing existing academic literature and, in particular, scholarly sources related to Central Asia, we could not identify sufficient amount of systematic knowledge on the issue. We observed it being discussed occasionally in some other contexts, but we were unable to pinpoint any quantitative studies ventured to establish incidence and prevalence of the practice. Any other systematic assessment of the direction and strengths of trends in nebere aluu in Central Asia have not featured in our search. Our exploration is by no means a comprehensive investigation either. Instead, our analysis is conceptualized as one of the gradual steps to generate empirically based understanding of nebere aluu afforded by our qualitative research approach. We deemed it imperative for sparking critical discussions and inspire future research and inform program and policy development for change. In relation to uyat, we have tried to contribute to existing scholarly discussion on this topic in three ways. First, we drew analytic connections between uyat and nebere aluu and described these linkages from the perspective of women who had actually experienced it. Second, in contrast to insightful discussions of the role of uyat in manipulating women’s premarital behaviors or conjugal decisions, our focus was on what happened after the wedding. Our findings illustrated that uyat continued to shape women’s lives through social constructions around the expected roles of daughters-in-law, wives and mothers. Third, we illuminated how these women engaged in negotiating strategies, accommodating to the pressures and resisting oppression caused by nebere aluu. We contended that their experience was of continuous interaction with nebere aluu imbued with controversies which intricately interlinked constructs such as power relations based on age and gender hierarchy, ethnic identity, national traditions and various notions of motherhood. Research Context: Kyrgyzstan Our discussion takes place in contemporary Kyrgyzstan, a land-locked Central Asian country with a population of slightly more than six million people and with a recent history of political instability and economic precarity. The country boasts progressive national legislative frameworks

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which advances gender equality. The Kyrgyz government is a party to most international human rights treaties. The country hosts a vibrant civil society which has played an important role in promoting and protecting women’s rights and freedoms. However, the status of women is characterized by gender inequality, rampant violence against women and discrimination. Scholars have indicated that independence from the Soviet Union marked a resurgence of traditional gender ideology corroborated by the new notions of national identity, which, in the desire to dissociate from the Soviet, tried to distance the new Kyrgyz nation from the soviet policy of women’s emancipation and egalitarianism in the family (Commercio, 2014; Suyarkulova, 2016). Discriminatory sociocultural norms have been associated with the rise of customary norms that included bride kidnapping and early/child marriages of girls (Hoare, 2009). Domestic violence is widespread with almost a third of women between ages 15 and 49 experiencing physical violence at least once in their life (Childress, 2017). Cultural norm reinforced the perception that violence was a normal and natural part of marriage which women should endure, and men were expected to perpetuate (Childress, 2017). Methodology Analysis in this chapter draws upon six in-depth interviews collected between January and April 2021. Participants were recruited through social media platforms, namely, Facebook and Instagram. They were five ethnic Kyrgyz and one Korean (married to a Kyrgyz man) women between ages of twenty-five and seventy, residing in six different provinces of Kyrgyzstan. All participants owned their place of living, a house or an apartment and at least one source of income. Their children ranged in age from seventeen months to thirty-six years at the time of the interview. Three interviews were conducted in a face-to-face format and three were carried out online. Interviews were audio recorded, transcribed and analyzed using a thematic analysis approach. All research protocols were approved by an Institutional Review Board. Findings In what follows, we selectively highlight three different stories of nebere aluu to demonstrate its diversity and complex expressions. (1) Nora had her son removed from her seventeen years ago. She still lives separated

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from him. (2) Elina managed to have her son returned to her a year after he was taken away from her. (3) Karina is currently undergoing the process of separation.

Nora: Enduring Nebere Aluu We begin by introducing Nora,2 a woman in her early forties and a mother of three children, the eldest of whom still lived with his paternal grandparents. Nora’s story is one of endurance because separation from her firstborn child, which happened more than a decade ago, continues to haunt her and shape her current life situation. A university graduate and a professional, Nora married her distant relative (whom we will call Eric) at the insistence of her father who arranged the wedding. Following it, she moved to live with Eric at his parents’ house in a village. Three months later, Eric left for Moscow as a labor migrant while Nora, being pregnant, stayed with his parents. After she delivered her baby-boy, Nur, Nora was ‘confronted with a fact: that I must wean the baby [stop feeding the infant with mother’s breastmilk and accustom the child to other kinds of food] and say good-bye to my parents within two–three days’. Nora was to join Eric in Moscow, earn money, send the money back home and leave the child with his grandparents. She accepted this decision as a temporary solution to ensure financial flows into the family, the situation was such that he, as the oldest son, must provide for everybody and drag forward the entire family like a locomotive. I understood that it was not a time for me to be capricious. I thought a grandmother did not mean bad and would look after him for a short period of time.

But in reality, the separation lasted much longer. Nora did not see her son for four long years, At first, they [in-laws] told us not to spend the money on plane tickets, because they wanted [to use this money] to finish this and that, they did not tell us what [they were spending the money on]. They did not allow us to come “why do you need to come here in anyways?” My husband saw his son for the first time when he was already four years old.

2 All names of the informants and their families used in this chapter are pseudonyms.

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As time progressed, Nora noticed that her mother-in-law restricted and prohibited any communication between her and Nur. She ignored Nora’s requests to send Nur’s photos or to let her talk to him over the phone. Nora felt that her mother-in-law was instigating her son against her, ‘she brainwashed him. For example, she forbade him to learn Russian and threatened him ‘if you learn Russian, you mother will take you away to Moscow’’. The older woman convinced Nut that his mother had dumped him as a child. In fact, Nora wanted to have her son back, but she was not allowed to. As Nur grew older, he himself refused to join the family. At the time of the interview, he was seventeen years old and attended a high school. Nora did not want to insist for him to live with her in fear of traumatizing him ‘I don’t want to pester him. He does not want to and I can’t force a grown-up boy. I left things to happen as they will’. Nora learned her lesson and would never give away her subsequent children, I fight with my teeth and legs, but I will not give my girls to anybody. This is my strong word to you. You shouldn’t agree to any … to be led by somebody and to want to please somebody. You should not do this. Under no circumstances. You need to be sturdy and independent”.

Nora envisioned that one day she would have a conversation with her son and she would tell him everything and try to get him to understand what happened, I will not try to justify myself. I am clean before Allah, and my thoughts were good ones. I did not do anything wrong. I only wanted to please my husband and his parents. The time will come when he understands me.

Elina: A Story of Reverted Nebere Aluu A story, both different and similar, was about Elina, a sixty-one-year-old woman, a mother of three adult children. She married Tursun when she was twenty-four while being a university student. When they had their first son, Beka, Tursun’s parents decided to adopt the infant: Everyone started preparations. My mother-in-law turned fifty and she had just retired. She even asked to have it in the documents that she would be the principal guardian. My father-in-law, too. He was looking forward to having his first grandson.

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Elina reflected that if her firstborn was a girl, the situation might have unfolded differently but theirs was the first son of the first son and ‘it was very meaningful for the father-in-law. It was almost a tradition’. Tursun agreed to have his son adopted by his parents, but Elina took this situation with a heavy heart, feeling ‘terrible and wanting to fight. We had many disputes and disagreements’. Tursun felt that he could not ‘disobey his parents and must give the child to them’. For him, this was the right thing to do. He told Elina not to even say that it was her child. She also saw many other peer students whose children were raised by their paternal grandparents. In the end, Elina obeyed her husband and agreed. Elina was told to wean Beka which she did when he was seven months old and right after that he was taken to his grandparents’ village. Recalling this time, she said ‘I had what I think is now called ‘a depression’’. She would go and visit her son under any pretext, but as she said, ‘in the presence of your in-laws you can’t even kiss your child, you can’t even come close to him’. However, she realized that she traumatized Beka every time she would visit and leave him: ‘We were selfish, but we realized it much later. Every time we left, the child would cry and disobey. So, we stopped coming’. Elina started a journal and recorded everything about her experience during these trying times. It helped her to cope with the separation. Elina’s own mother adopted her own three grandsons, the eldest sons of three out of five of her sons. She advised Elina to obey her husband and in-laws and submit her son to them. Later, however, she was, in fact, instrumental in negotiating with Elina’s in-laws and convincing them to return the child after only one year of raising him as their own. Elina’s mother was instrumental in this decision. Using her own example, she threatened them that the child will not obey and will not belong to anyone in future. Elina and her husband were delighted when it happened. Having their son back with them, Elina and her husband started a new life in the capital city. Elina gradually fully immersed herself in motherhood. At first, she worked in a school and had flexible work hours while the child was in daycare. Soon after she became pregnant with her second child and quit her job entirely. Elina was grateful that her in-laws allowed Beka to continue addressing her and Tursun as ‘mom’ and ‘dad’. She noted that in some other families the adoptive grandparents forced the child to call their parents as ‘baike and dzhene’ (older brother and the wife of the older brother). Yet, she did voice criticism of what happened,

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It was very difficult for the child. He was weaned early and was often sick. He probably was homesick. We were not supposed to come for visits so that he would not miss us more. But how could we not come to see him? We would come for at least once a month. This (nebere aluu) creates many difficulties for the child and the mother.

She was upset about the quality of the upbringing that her son was receiving at the house of her in-laws and silently worried about not being able to intervene, I was sad that I could not raise him and see him grow. He learnt to curse at the age of one year and seven months. They (name of the province) curse a lot in general and when a child does that, the grandpa and grandma were just so happy. They praised him for that and told him he was a real man. There were many cases like that and I worried he would grow up like that”.

Elina said that she corrected these educational failures in her son but in more general terms, she had an opinion that the time spent with his grandparents did not affect her son’s personality. She continued believing that the role of grandparents in the upbringing of her son was significant in passing to him certain norms such as respect to elderly people, which she viewed as an ethnic Kyrgyz tradition. She felt grateful for them for giving ‘him everything they could give him to the best of what they could’.

Karina: Nebere Aluu in Action Karina was a rural woman in her early twenties with a university degree. She married her two-year-long boyfriend Karim three years ago and moved in with him and his mother (Rosa) in his native village. Nebere aluu marked Karina’s marriage from its start as the discussion of her giving up her child was a routine topic discussed among Rosa and her guests over tea. They did not ask for Karina’s opinion, let alone her consent, ‘literally one month [after the wedding], I was not even yet pregnant, they started talking about it.. that the first child will stay with the grandmother and so on and so forth’. She confronted Karim and warned him with ‘if this is what is going to happen, I will simply divorce you. It is no bloody use to me [mne eto nafig ne nuzhno]’. She refused to be seen as a ‘surrogate mother’ and ‘to leave her children at random [gde popalo]’. The last

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phrase hurt him, he objected and pinpointed that ‘this was his family and it was not a ‘random’ place. He asked me to not say this again’. Karim himself had undergone nebere aluu and later was fostered by his father’s sister, Rosa, whom he treated as his own mother. Karina tried to communicate her categorically negative position to Karim but not to Rosa. ‘I kept silent because there was no conflict yet. And I was not even pregnant yet’. She turned for help to her own mother who told her not to be ‘nervous about it, just have a baby first and then you will see what you can do’. In these conversations, Karina learned that her mother, too, was subjected to having her eldest son seized by her mother-in-law but some ‘fortunate circumstances’ prevented this from happening. Karina’s mother hoped that fortunate circumstances would also appear in Karina’s life. But Karina was worried about the uncertain prospects of her motherhood and these concerns affected her pregnancy and postnatal experience, alienating her from her child: Since I got pregnant and after I had my daughter, I still haven’t had the feelings that I have had her. I love her but I have not yet even felt the motherhood thrill, the joy of being pregnant, of having a pregnant belly. I have not experienced it. I understood that I should have had this feeling and that I should enjoy these moments. But when you have this everyday… not really a pressure but circumstances, it is very difficult. Well, all the nine months [of pregnancy] I carried these heavy thoughts. Sometimes I even would forget that I was pregnant.

When Karina and Karim had their daughter, Jasmin, nebere aluu ‘started happening’. Karina remembered that, literally, as soon as I was released from the hospital… everybody who came to our house [Karina mentioned that in the village, people just come visit her mother-in-law several times a day and have tea]… I served them tea… and everybody who came were like ‘she has no choice. She will give you the child’. And so on.

Rosa and her relatives intended to force Karina to wean Jasmin as early as possible to facilitate her earlier transfer. Karina complained that she wanted to exclusively breastfeed her child until she would be six months as she was informed by the research she read and by the doctors she attended. She felt devastated to learn that Rosa secretly fed solid food to the child. Karina attempted to convince Rosa to discontinue doing so in

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the best interest of the child’s health. She agreed in words but did not actually stop doing it, I caught her do that a few times. I did not want to fight with her. I hugged her [Rosa] and told her that I would like to breastfeed the child till she turns twelve months and that I wanted her to have a good immune system. She agreed and we had a deal that she would not give her any solid food till she [Jasmin] was at least five months old. But she started giving her food at four months, though our doctors told us not to give anything but breast milk till six months. She could hardly wait till the child was four months old. Even so, she had fed her secretly from me. I pretended I did not notice anything. What is the use of scolding her like a child? She is a grown woman!

At the time of the interview, Rosa had stepped in as the child’s main caretaker and Karina was being separated from Jasmin Now my daughter is seventeen months. We weaned her at fourteen. And now she sleeps with her grandmother. She sleeps with her. Sometimes she cries because she wants to be with me. And at these moments we have these [conflicts]. At these moments I have these feelings that I am a bad mother. My child is crying over there, I am like, I can’t do anything.

All of them continued living as one household and this made certain aspects of nebere aluu both easier and more difficult for Karina, All of this has affected all my life. I do my best to try to spend at least some time with my child. But I can’t do it to the maximum that I want to. I cannot even dress her the way I want. She chooses her clothes. She buys it.

Karina’s efforts to fight for her daughter and herself were not successful. They turned to fights and resulted in her being blamed for causing them because, as a young bride, she was expected to unconditionally obey the rest of the family. Karina said she did not want to incite open conflicts any longer but intervened where and when it was possible: If she cried for a long time and couldn’t calm down, I came to take my daughter. I told the mother that I would put her to sleep and bring her back to her. The next day, my daughter cried again, and I came to take her. But my mother-in-law told me that the little girl simply did not want to go

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to bed, and I came inconveniently. She was offended that I arrived. Two days ago, again. She was crying. My mother-in-law and her own mother berated her [the little girl]. They told her that she was ungrateful because after all the care she received from her, she still wanted her mother. Well, I couldn’t tell her ‘well, why should she not want to be with her own mom?’ I can’t object during these moments. I feel so bad. I am so sad and I want to cry.

Karina voiced her protests to Karim who would tell her that she did not understand ‘certain things’. A few weeks before the interview, Karina received a home-based job in a network marketing to keep herself updated and have some social life outside of her family and be distracted from the oppressive atmosphere at home. Also, Karina reported that she had opted for an approach which allowed her to maintain physical proximity to her daughter by ensuring this proximity to her mother-in-law. Motivated to migrate away from the village, she intended to invite Rosa to live with them whenever they go. I can’t leave my child, but I can invite my mother-in-law. Even if they pressure me all the time, and even if they pressure her, and hurt her, I will be near her at all times. I don’t want her to think that I have abandoned her at my own will. I don’t want her to think that she was so bad that her mother left her. Because they don’t understand any of these. I will be there to protect her, to kiss and hug her, to tell her that I love her. If I am not around, it will be more difficult for her.

At the time of the interview, Karina’s unmarried younger brother-inlaw was the reason why they could not move immediately. It was another convention that a parent cannot leave their adult but unmarried children without their supervision.

‘the Child as Hostage’: Nebere Aluu Mediating Relationships Between a Mother and a Son The roles of fathers in nebere aluu were more complicated than what we presented as their agreement with the practice, obedience to the elderly parents and/or passive acceptance of what should come. Instead, their behaviors of seemingly soft compliance were indicative of their committed shaping, facilitating and maintaining specific son-parents’ relationships. Kim and Karioris (2021) described the cultural imperative of a ‘good

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son’ as a necessary part of Kyrgyz masculinity and an aspired identity. To qualify for this category, young men must satisfy requirements directly linked to their marriage and family—being successfully married and having offspring, preferably male, and take care of their parents. Presenting the men’s first child to their parents marked the transition in the quality of their relationships in which their solidarity increased. While nebere aluu served as a sign of care, respect and affection from sons to their parents, refusal to do so was accepted as a purposeful rejection of fulfilling their socially expected filial duties. Karina once told Rosa that she wanted to raise Jasmin herself, which Rosa did not understand. She asked why Karina had married Karim then? For Rosa, the nebere aluu scenario was automatic and part of their marriage package. She scolded Karina as below, you must take care of me because I am your dependent. You are saying you are taking away your child from me because you are not taking care of me. You are not looking after me if you are taking her away.

For the older woman, being given her first granddaughter was being given filial care, trust and support. For Karim, this was a customary practice and an expected duty to ensure ‘ermek bolsun’ (having life full of meaning and entertainment) for his mother, which was a guarantee that she would not be lonely, bored and isolated, but, instead, busy, feeling needed and entertained. He could not violate these expectations in fear that it would break his mother’s heart. Jasmin’s transmission to Rosa operated a function of establishing an additional system of care provision for Rosa. Jasmin was expected to grow and get to know and assist her grandmother. This expectation infuriated Karina who exclaimed ‘I did not have a baby so that she must become a home attendant to somebody while still being little herself’. Karim remained aloof to her exasperation and did not see why having his child serve the needs of his mother was not acceptable for his wife. ‘She will not serve a ‘somebody’, she will serve my mom’, he said. Relatedly, raising Jasmin at her place, guaranteed Karim’s commitment to Rosa and ensure that her adult son would visit her and provide material support. She was aware that even if Karim would come visit his mother, he would visit his daughter anyways. In all these ways, the child mediated a new form of relationships between a mother and her son, a transition therein, through which both

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had their roles and statuses emphasized and enhanced. Jasmin was central in the process of his expression of devotion and a promise of never abandoning her. She operated as a material assurance, a collateral, for this loyalty. Such an arrangement, however, was based on the idea of instrumentalizing Karina’s body, her reproductive capacity and her assumed docility. It discarded Karina’s own desires, plans and worries, and, in general, her personhood. Her body, emotions and humanity had to be sacrificed for the social contract between her husband and his parent could be accomplished. As Nora said, ‘the most difficult thing in all this is this attitude that you have been used… like you are now a product to be disposed of’. Nebere aluu objectified young women through imposing on them the social expectations applied to young brides, the status which signaled them as a objects of instrumentalizing attitudes and treatment. Sexual objectification undermined women’s autonomy and equality, therefore, was always wrong (Nussbaum, 1995). Yet, for women, to resist their own sexual objectification was to disrespect the taken-forgranted and glorified connection between a mother and a son. If taken outside of her conversation with Karim, Karina’s objections such as ‘I am not your surrogate mother’ would be cast with public shaming and isolation.

Nebere Aluu for the Status of the Grandmother It has been argued that in Kyrgyzstan, women control the private domain through their traditional roles as mothers and keepers of the hearth and home through negotiations of power and through maintaining responsibility for their children (Ismailbekova, 2016). It must be noted that public shaming of one family member (a young daughter-in-law) entails consequences for the rest of the household. While the young woman would be the central culprit in the situation, her immediate social surroundings would be scrutinized in terms of their skills in properly educating their ‘faulty’ family members. A young daughter-in-law who violates cultural norms undermines the reputation of her mother-in-law whose authority might appear inadequate to the outsiders. The repercussions of public shaming on the older women would be their loss of expected benefits which are associated with her age and acquired status of a mother-in-law. Aksana Ismailbekova’s study in rural Kyrgyzstan revealed how women construct their authority throughout their lifespan within kinship relations, marriage and filiation (2016). She argued that

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women gained authority with age and with successful passage of all socially imposed stages and milestones required within the Kyrgyz family ideology. Older women’s achievement of control and power mainly laid through a birth of a son and his successful marriage. The latter connoted having a respectful in-house bride and production of offspring. Nebere aluu allowed the older women to demonstrate their successful achievement thereof. Women of Rosa’s social standing (having a married son and grandchildren) were expected to publicly demonstrate it. Karina explained it as ‘if you are a grandmother, then you must necessarily have a small child whom you carry around with you all the time everywhere you go!’ In her specific case, such behavior was supported by other locally specific social conventions. To specify, Karina was surprised to discover that it was a common behavior in their village to avoid being seen alone outside their homes and even during mutual home visits. She explained, ‘in my town, if you are invited as a guest, you just go. Here, this is not so. They [people living in her current village] just can’t go anywhere alone. They need to take somebody with them’. We agree with Ismailbekova that many Kyrgyz women of Rosa’s age have a history of a long and challenging trajectories within their marriage and patrilocal home economies. They worked hard and endured much to fulfill all the norms contained within the ideal Kyrgyz family script in expectation to attain authority later in their lives. They gained power within the patriarchal system and in complex interactions within their families and extended households. Such attainment of new authority was achieved by the ‘mothers-in-law who control their daughters-in-law and this is where they can fully enjoy their power’ (Ismailbekova, p. 277). Nebere aluu expresses and enables the exercise of such power. In the story of Nora, her mother-in-law used nebere aluu as an opportunity to continuously emphasize her power over Nora and underline her capacity to control and punish by isolating her daughter-in-law from her son and instigating the child against her. Nora brought many examples, one of which was when she was neither informed, nor invited to her son’s circumcision and its celebration, even though she was staying at a neighboring village at that moment. She felt heartbroken and taken advantage of, ‘my mother-in-law has always been against me. She did not think I was a fit for their family. And she used my son to brainwash him against me’. It is important to emphasize that women’s growing access to increased authority within a Kyrgyz family should not be seen as universal and linear.

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Ismailbekova herself showed how the authority of each older person was constructed in constant negotiations within the household and might result in diminishing such authority. In Nora’s case, both she and her husband alienated themselves from the older woman and concentrated on their family and two younger daughters. They even discontinued financial provision of his parents. In her case, construction of authority through age and relationships with her son was incomplete. In Elina’s case, her own mother managed to convince Elina’s in-laws to return the child to his biological mother whose authority was constructed through mutual negotiations which were advantageous to all.

Competing Narratives: A Good Mother or a Good ‘Kelin’ Nebere aluu presented a continuous and a complex dilemma for women like our informants. On the one hand, they intended to follow a standard of motherhood in which they should raise their own children. This parenthood scenario corresponded to their ideals, plans and preferences. On the other hand, there was a powerful social construction of the daughter-in-law, ‘kelin’ which, in the context of nebere aluu, contradicted and undermined their more globalized vision of motherhood. Karina’s account was an especially glaring illustration of the tricky bind she found herself in. She told us that being a good mother was impossible for her and whatever she did would hurt her daughter Jasmin. For example, when Jasmin would reach for her and want to be cuddled by her, Rosa scolded the child for being ‘ungrateful’ and yelled at her. This instigates anxiety and guilt in Karina. Cuddling her own daughter resulted in the little one being punished. Not responding to Jasmin’s calls and refusing to snuggle her was also inacceptable and unnatural to Karina. But doing so would save her toddler from the grandmother’s criticism and rebuke. She sighed, ‘I am scared for my child because she [the mother-in-law] will pressure her not to love her mother. And also, I will be forgotten as her mother. I am sad and angry’. In oscillating between the two narratives, one of the mother and one of the ‘good daughter-in-law’, the discourse on kelin proved to be stronger. Karina was very articulate in explaining this choice, I can’t say that I am a good mother. Because… You know what I think? A mother is a person who can be relied upon, who will protect you, who

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will always understand you and who will always love you. But I can’t be all these to my daughter. I have the status of a kelin and I must be silent. I feel that I am betraying my child. Like, I am not on her side. As if I give up on her by being silent…

It might be apparent that women could become socially ostracized if they failed as kelins but also if they failed as mothers. But the latter was merely not seen relevant in the circumstances we described. In nebere aluu, kelins’ roles as mothers were not considered pertinent. Nora was barred from any communication with her child and even her implorations to send her the boy’s photos did not receive support from her motherin-law. Elina’s in-laws were initially motivated to put their own names in the child’s birth certificate to formalize their guardianship over him. Karina’s concerns over breastfeeding her daughter were not given any consideration. She felt that her mother-in-law, treated me like a six-year-old who has no opinions. But when it comes to house chores, I must be smart. So, I must simultaneously be a child and an adult. I must not speak up, but I must work like an adult woman. It is hard.

These women’s children were not deemed theirs. Therefore, their roles as mothers were outside of social scrutiny. These roles were taken over and substituted by their in-laws. Yet, these women continued being kelins. They were still young new brides who recently joined their patrilocal families and occupied the lowest position in their husbands’ households. As kelins, their submission to authority of their mothers-in-law was implied. They must perform as ‘morally accepted wives, credible daughters-in-law’ (Ismailbekova, 2016, p. 269) as part of their socially expected operation within their households. If they did, they would gradually gain more culturally legitimate authority, respect and status in older age when they could engage in negotiation, strategizing and manipulation (Ismailbekova, 2016). But for the young kelins, the maneuvering space was limited. They were in the position in which they yet had to prove that they were worthy of being selected as the kelins of their household. Violating social norms around these representations would necessarily invoke public shaming. Uyat, as explained earlier, referred to both, the actual act of being publicly shamed and the perceived threat of its utterance and repercussions. Both worked

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to discipline women’s choices, decisions and behaviors. Our data illustrated participants motivation to avoid any expression of uyat. Karina, for example, accepted her circumstances because she did not want ‘a big scandal’. For Elina, even though it was difficult for her, she did not regret obeying her mother who told her to agree and give her child away, ‘had she not convinced me, I would have made a big scandal and left the family. If I held my position. But I did not. And that was why things went very well. You need to endure it’. Nora, too, avoided confronting her mother-in-law and would sneak in to see her son in secretly from her mother-in-law. All the informants were aware of uyat and were aversive to the prospects of being shamed. They knew that it was socially dangerous to violate what was seen as cultural norms, traditions and folk wisdoms. Here, again, the relationship between uyat and women’s chosen behavior is moderated by the fear and the perceived threat of uyat. They understood that disrespecting them could not go unpunished. They, thus, negotiated within themselves and tried to reframe what was going on with them in terms which were less of violence against them but more from the perspectives of the tradition which were now theirs as well. ‘It was just a normal thing in this village’, said Karina. Elina explained that nebere aluu, historically, was a practical necessity which lost its relevance with modernization: Raising up your grandchildren is an ancient tradition. The Kyrgyz lived in one yurt and it was not problematic for the parents. It was not important who the child sleeps with. They took a grandchild from every child and raised them up like they were their own. It was a good tradition because both mothers and fathers also raised their own children. Later on, families started living separately and that is why this all happened. It was only in the Soviet Union that youth started separating from their parents and live separately and it created problems. But all the grandparents adopted their grandchildren with good intentions.

Nebere aluu a Kyrgyz tradition for Elina in which ‘kelins were not allowed to speak. They were to do what they were told and endure. If they did not like anything, they were told to go elsewhere, because the patrilocal family could take full care of the child’. Traditions like these, for Elina, were useful for conserving the values of respecting the elders and being proud of the Kyrgyz culture. She added that kelins must immerse

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themselves in their spousal families and fully accept their way of life, ‘she was a member of the new family and must adopt their values. But if her ambitions were too strong, and if she did everything herself, it would not be easy’. Diverting from what she saw as ethnic traditions, for Elina signified disrespect to older people and to the nation. Behaviors of kelins in nebere aluu were thus framed within the public scrutiny and as a legit object for public surveillance and possible shaming. Young women’s own experiences of violated motherhood remained within the framework of their individualized experiences and seen as irrelevant for the family and wider community. As Karina explained, her reluctant behavior was viewed as ‘oobu zhok’, which meant ‘weird, awkward, extravagant’ and explained by her urban upbringing ‘kind of ‘oh, she grew up in the city’’. Sometimes, it was criticized as expressing her ‘non-Kyrgyzness’, ‘she is ‘oruz munoz’ [having a Russian personality, who does not know and does not live according to national values], she is like a Russian’. Accepting nebere aluu, instead, promised her a recognition of her being part of the family, community and, in general, her ethnicity. As kelins, women like Karina, have to accept unequal power relations within their new households and bargain with it, like all three participants did. In these negotiations, the room for resistance might be limited but possible and, as our study illustrated, these young women find their own ways of claiming ownership over their bodies, over their children and over their lives, alas, with different levels of success.

Conclusions We have illustrated the practice of nebere aluu on the basis of three specific stories which demonstrated how varied, complex and ambivalent this phenomenon is. Our attempt was to describe how it happens from the perspectives of the women who themselves have encountered it. We showed a complex relationship between nebere aluu and the threat of public shaming, uyat. This relationship was largely mediated by the cultural and social expectations applied to the roles and position of young brides, the kelins. Uyat-facilitated nebere aluu instigated practices which undermined women, perpetuated inequality and valorized patriarchal hierarchies. Uyat in action within the practice of nebere aluu affected them in straightforward ways. It affected their emotional state, their cognitive experiences, their physical bodies and it changed their behaviors.

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Nebere aluu forced these young women to participate in the social organization of son–mother relationship in which their bodies were exploited to produce material evidence of the connection and filial loyalty. The women were reduced to reproducing bodies whose humanity and personhood did not count. We demonstrated how nebere aluu was instrumentalized by families and communities to maintain the system of constructing women’s authority through their children and grandchildren and emphasize their growing status. We explained how women could gain more access to power and decision-making within a patriarchal household and society with age and filiation. Nebere aluu fits well with these processes and helped the aging women establish and demonstrate their success. In all these circumstances, kelins were negotiating their competing roles of daughters-in-laws and mothers of their children. The contradictions between those roles led to painful outcomes and it was often the case that the role of kelin took precedence. Uyat, the fear of being shamed, isolated from their families, the aversion to confrontations motivated our informants to accept nebere aluu as part of their marriage. They tried to reframe in terms of ethnic traditions which everybody must observe. Having said that, we should mention that even within the tiny room for manipulation that these young women had, they managed to resist and to sneak in, in ways which were available and possible for them, to express their maternal love and care for their children. Much remains to be learned about nebere aluu-uyat interface to obtain a fuller picture of this phenomenon, our analysis suggested that it might be a less visible but a powerful form of gendered control which maintained hierarchies and inequities whose disruption by women might have the potential to challenge the entire patriarchal structure of society.

References Alber, E. (2004). Grandparents as foster-parents: Transformations in foster relations between grandparents and grandchildren in Northern Benin. Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, 74(6), 28–46. Bledsoe, C., & Isingo-Abanike, U. (1989). Strategies of child-fosterage among Mende grannies in Sierra Leone. In Ron J. Lesthaeghe (Ed.), Reproduction and social organization in Sub-Saharan Africa. University of California Press. Childress, S. (2017). “Plates and dishes smash; married couples clash”: Cultural and social barriers to help-seeking among women domestic violence survivors in Kyrgyzstan. Violence Against Women, 1–23.

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Commercio, M. E. (2014). The politics and economics of “retraditionalization” in Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. Post-Soviet Affairs, 31(6), 529–556. Cvetkovich, A. (2012). Depression: A public feeling. Duke University Press. Fyodorova, A. (2016). Kazahskii obychai otdavat pervenca i ego vliyanie na psihiku rebenka [Kazakh custom of giving a firstborn and its impact on the psyche of the child]. Yvision.kz. https://yvision.kz/post/694905 Handrahan, L. (2004). Hunting for women. International Feminist Journal of Politics, 6(2), 207–233. Hoare, J. (2009). Development and gender in Kyrgyzstan. Research Report. Social Research Center. September, 2009. Bishkek. Howard, K., Martin, A., Berlin, L. J., & Brooks-Gunn, J. (2011). Early mother– child separation, parenting, and child well-being in Early Head Start families. Attachment & Human Development, 13(1), 5–26. Ignatenko, N. S. (2016). Attachment system in Kazakh families associated with the traditions and customs. In A. E. Eremeev (Ed.,) X Mejdunarodnaia nauchno-prakticheskaia konferenciya “Nauka i obshestvo: problem sovremennyh issledovaniy” [X International Scientific and Practical Conference “Science and Society: Problems of Contemporary Research”] (pp. 41–44). Omsk Humanitarian Academy. Ismailbekova, A. (2016). Constructing the authority of women through custom: Bulak village, Kyrgyzstan. Nationalities Papers, 44(2), 266–280. Kalmurat, A. (2020). “Ya staralas ne skuchat po materi”. Vospitanniye babushkami i dedushkami” [“I tried not to miss my mother”. The ones raised up by grandparents]. Radio Azattyk. https://rus.azattyq.org/a/kazakhstan-chi ldren-who-live-with-their-grandparents/30398758.html Kim, E., & Karioris, F. (2021) Bound to be grooms: The imbrication of economy, ecology, and bride kidnapping in Kyrgyzstan, Gender, Place & Culture, 28(11), 1627–1648. Luo, J., Zou, J., Ji, M., Yuan, T., Sun, M., & Lin, Q. (2019). Emotional and behavioral problems among 3- to 5-year-olds left-behind children in poor rural areas of Hunan Province: A cross-sectional study. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 16(21), 4188. Nozimova, S. (forthcoming in 2022). Imagined women: Bearing, rearing and wearing the Tajik Nation. Central Asian Affairs. Nusipokasuly, A. (2014). Tungysh nemeresin kenzhesine balau [Eldest grandchild as a youngest child]. In Tal besikten jer besikke deyin [From the wooden cradle to earth]. “Oner 21-gasyr” Public Fund. Nussbaum, M. C. (1995). Objectification. Philosophy & Public Affairs, 24(4), 249–291. Ospan, B. (2018, November 23). “Pochemu kazahi “daryat” detey babushkam i dedushkam – tradiciya “Nemere alu” [Why Kazakhs “give” children to

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psychological characteristics of families keeping the secret of adoption]. Vestnik Iuzhno-Uralskogo Gosudarstvennogo Universiteta, Series , Psychology, 7 (2), 22– 29.

CHAPTER 6

The Role of Uyat or the Culture of Shame in the Regulation of Queer Subjectivities in Kazakhstan, and Forms of Resistance Against It Mariya Levitanus

Introduction On 30 January 2018, a video of a kiss between two women in Esentai mall in Almaty was posted on Facebook by Eldar Mamedov (Utepova, 2018). Apart from the kiss between the two women in the cinema hall, the video featured a man (presumably Mamedov) and a woman yelling at the kissing couple, saying ‘Shame! Have you completely lost your conscience? There are kids around’. Mamedov’s post contained the following writing:

M. Levitanus (B) Counselling, Psychotherapy and Applied Social Sciences, School of Health in Social Science, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, Scotland, UK e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_6

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These might be someone’s children and sisters or acquaintances. REPOST this. Make them talk to them. Maybe it is still possible to summon them, correct them or at least put them to shame. #shameless #kazakhstan #almata #esentaimall #kinopark #upbringing #uvd [Internal Affairs Department] #lawmakers #morality #all #people #good #deeds #notall #girls #notagoon #soul #aching. P.S. While there is a fine and ‘Oybay’ [expression of public judgement] for praying five times [a day] in public places, the pinks and blues [a derogatory term for lesbians and gays] have roaming freedom. (Feminita & Alma-TQ, 2019, p. 7)

Although Mamedov deleted the video within a day of posting it, the post gained widespread attention and was reposted on various other social networks. Comments under the video posted by Mamedov included death threats, calls for violence and other hate speech (Feminita, 2019; ILGA Europe, 2019; Knight, 2019). In February 2018, a complaint was filed by the two women in the video together with the help of an activist from the feminist group Feminita. After two hearings, the court established that the two women behaved ‘immorally’ and that Mamedov acted ‘as a defender of the morality of the population’ (Feminita & Alma-TQ, 2019, p. 8). In August 2019, the two women appealed to Kazakhstan’s supreme court. The court ruled that Mamedov’s post on social media violated the women’s right of privacy and ‘untouchability of personal life’, rejecting the lower court’s arguments (Knight, 2019). While Kazakhstan decriminalised consensual same-sex conduct in 1998, the lives of Kazakhstani queer1 people remain characterised by a lack of legislative protection, stigmatisation, fear and societal homophobia (Alma-TQ, 2016; Article19, 2015; Human Rights Watch, 2015; Vanner, 2009). Judith Butler famously articulated shame as the product of ‘the stigma… of queerness’ (Butler, 2014, p. 233). Growing up as a queer person in Kazakhstan, I had first-hand experience of stigma and shame and how this feeling lodged itself in my body. I was ashamed of my

1 In this chapter, I use queer to encompass people who do not conform to normative

sexualities and gender binary. I follow Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s definition of queer as ‘…the open mesh of possibilities, gaps, overlaps, dissonances and resonances, lapses and excesses of meaning when the constituent elements of anyone’s gender, of anyone’s sexuality aren’t made (or can’t be made) to signify monolithically’ (Kosofsky Sedgwick, 1993, p. 8 original emphasis).

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queerness. Sara Ahmed (2004) has theorised this feeling. Ahmed (2004) writes: Shame can be described as an intense and painful sensation that is bound up with how the self feels about itself, a self-feeling that is felt by and on the body… shame impresses upon the skin, as an intense feeling of the subject ‘being against itself’. (p. 103)

Shame is fundamentally relational; it is a result of a relation between a person and an actual or an imagined other who are located in a specific context (Guenther, 2011; O’Donnell, 2017; Popa, 2017). Indeed, shame and shaming are intertwined with social inequalities both reflecting and reinforcing the normative order (e.g. Ahmed, 2014; Butler, 1993; Probyn, 2005). Shame is, therefore, political, and convoluted with history and political events in a given society (Kosofsky Sedgwick, 2003; Munt, 2019; Popa, 2017). At the same time, shame holds multiple possibilities in its ambivalent nature and potentiality for resistance and activism (Kosofsky Sedgwick, 2003; Munt, 2007; Nussbaum, 2004; Probyn, 2005). Anthropological theories of ‘Honour and Shame’ have been widely used to study gender, sexuality identities and practices and their meanings across the Muslim world (e.g. Feldman, 2010; Gilmore, 1987; Reeves, 2011; Sataeva, 2017; Werner, 2009). In her ethnography on control and subversion of gender in Tajikistan, Harris (2004) highlights the centrality and regulatory power of the Honour and Shame system (nomys and ayb in Tajik; p. 73). Harris, along with Wikan (2008), explains that there is a variation across time and space of what is seen as appropriate and what is deemed as shameful; however, according to Harris, there are specific determining characteristics of Honour and Shame hegemony in Tajikistan. Harris suggests: Masculine gender identities, and with them men’s honour, are highly dependent on the visible demonstration of their ability to control their womenfolk. That makes men extraordinarily vulnerable, since a single deed or even word can destroy their honour … and this is what allows gossip to play such a vital role in social control. (Harris, 2004, p. 73)

Harris (2004), therefore, stresses the importance of public visibility of a given transgression(s) in Honour and Shame dominated societies. Similarly, Wikan (2008) highlights that what is important is the public

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knowledge of the inappropriate conduct or the rumour. Consequently, it is not the challenge or the violation of the norm itself that is critical here, but the visibility and the public perception of the violation that is then required to be followed by punishment. The stigma that follows norm transgressions and uyat or the shame associated with it has been argued to be one of the central regulating forces of gender order in Kyrgyz and Kazakh culture (van der Heide, 2015; Werner, 2009). van der Heide (2015, p. 293) points out that the phrase ‘Uyat bolot ’ (Kyrgyz: ‘there will be shame!’) is typically used by the Kyrgyz to control transgressions of norms. Similarly, in her study of bride abduction, Baigamai Sataeva (2017) argues that the Kyrgyz ‘El emne deit ?/What will people say?’ (Sataeva, 2017, p. 25) is the crucial aspect of regulation of gender norms within Kyrgyz families. Sataeva (2017) argues that El emne deit? serves a Foucauldian panopticon function (Foucault, 1977) in controlling and surveilling any violations of the norms within the family. According to Sataeva (2017), All social behaviour tends to be modified in order to avoid being shamed in front of other people […] [t]his understanding is often used as a benchmark by which to preserve traditions as well as the honour and dignity of the family within the framework of these traditions. (p. 25)

Appealing to the phrase ‘what will people say?’, shaming and rumours played an important role in regulating everyday life of queer participants in this study. Queerness, that is transgressions of gender and sexuality, has a close relationship with uyat or shame in Kazakhstan. The subject of sex itself is associated with shame. In her article on normalising sex education in Kazakhstan, Karkygash Kabatova (2018) points out that one of the key barriers to sex education in Kazakhstan is the culture of uyat. ‘It is uyat for unmarried women to get pregnant, but it is also uyat to talk or ask about sex’ (Kabatova, 2018, p. 4; original emphasis). This creates a taboo and a veil of silence around the topic of sex and sexuality, as well as any relationships before and outside of marriage, in Kazakh families. A discourse nicknamed ‘Uyatman’ has been a vivid illustration of the regulatory function of shame in relation to gender and sexuality in Kazakhstan. The ‘Uyatman’ narrative started in March 2016 when Tolgat Sholtayev covered one of the statues in the centre of Astana with a scarf (Kudaibergenova, 2019b). Sholtayev, who called himself a ‘Uyatman’, was offended by the ‘nudity’ of the female figure in the statue of a man and

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woman in love by Kazakh sculptor Tolepbai Erbolat. The discourse of uyat and the character of ‘Uyatman’ inspired by Sholtayev has gained popularity over recent years. The main ‘aim’ of ‘Uyatman’ is to patrol and stop women from behaving ‘indecently’ (Kumenov, 2018). For example, it was a ‘Uyatman’ who was shaming the two women kissing in the Almaty shopping mall. Kudaibergenova (2019b) argues that ‘Uyatman’ is a symbol of resistance and a way to criticise tradition and traditional values, while at the same time ‘Uyatman’ is a way to enforce retraditionalising practices. Through retraditionalization, actors seek to establish power over defining what ‘national tradition’ means by rethinking tradition in a more contemporary sense… In this context, shaming is often used as a legitimisation for maintaining a so-called or imagined ‘traditional’ order that more generally represents heterosexual normative behaviour more than anything else. (Kudaibergenova, 2019b, p. 365)

Journalist Assel Satubaldina (2017) explains the nuanced and complex nature of uyat: ‘Uyat, though translated as shame, actually reflects a much stronger social code that condemns any actions that go beyond the traditional norms prevalent in Kazakh society’. When using the notion of uyat, it is important to shed light on other regulatory regimes in the socio-historical context of Kazakhstan. Feminist scholars of Central Asia highlighted the importance of looking at the histories, spatialities and contemporary relevance of shame or uyat and the Honour and Shame system, and the entanglements of this (these) system(s) with (post-) Soviet gendered practices and regulations (Behzadi, 2019; Reeves, 2013; Werner, 2009). In this chapter, I will examine the role of the culture of uyat or shame in regulating the lives of queer people in Kazakhstan. I will also explore the ways in which queer people resist this social code. I consider those experiences within a socio-historical framework and analyse the ways in which various regulatory strategies (both current and historical) interact with one another and are reflected within the narratives of queer people in Kazakhstan.

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Methodology This chapter is based on ten in-depth interviews with eleven people (two people were interviewed as a couple) aged between 20 and 45 at the time the research was undertaken. Interviews were conducted in November 2017 in Almaty, Nur-Sultan (formerly Astana), and Karaganda as part of a doctoral research project about the everyday lives of queer people in Kazakhstan (Levitanus, 2020). Interviews were conducted in Russian. Participants were recruited using two sampling strategies: snowball sampling with the help of community activists and acquaintances, and purposive sampling using advertisements on closed social media groups for Kazakhstani queer people. Out of the eleven participants, three identified themselves as cisgender gay men (cisgendernyj muzhchina gei), three as bisexual women (biseksulka or biseskual’naja zhenshina), one as a lesbian, one as a pansexual, two as transgender women (transgendernaja zhenshina) and one identified as a transgender man (transgendernyj muzhchina). Other identifying characteristics, such as ethnicity, religion and profession, were not noted unless they were deemed important by the participants themselves. Furthermore, any identifiable information was omitted. The decision to collect limited information about participants was made in order to prioritise anonymisation and safety of participants in this study. One participant, Gulzada, chose to be known by her real name and ‘renounced’ her right to anonymity (Wiles et al., 2008). Foucauldianinformed narrative analysis (Tamboukou, 2013, 2015) was employed to examine the narratives of queer people in the light of specific power structures and discourses around gender and sexuality in Kazakhstan. The original research was approved by the University of Edinburgh Ethics Committee. In social science research, a researcher’s reflexivity can be roughly defined as a researcher’s engagement in explicit self-awareness; that is, the ability to situate oneself in the context of one’s research and acknowledge the potential effects of one’s stance(s), identity(ies), bias(es) and context(s) in relation to one’s participants while considering how these may influence the research process and outcome (Etherington, 2007; Finlay, 2003; Veroff & DiStefano, 2002). As pointed out above, I identify as queer; however, most people perceive me as a feminine cisgender woman. Born in Kazakhstan, I am ethnically half-Russian and half-Jewish. Given the complexity and ‘hybridity’ of my identity (Narayan, 1993,

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p. 30), I cannot neatly place myself as being either ‘in’ or ‘out’, being a queer Kazakhstani yet living abroad (Dwyer & Buckle, 2009). Interviews were conducted in Russian. This choice was made as I am not proficient enough in the Kazakh language. The Russian language is officially used along with Kazakh in Kazakhstan. The most recent national census results in 2009 showed that 94.4% of the population understood spoken Russian (The Agency on Statistics of the Republic of Kazakhstan, 2011).2 It is worth pointing out that the Russian language in Kazakhstan is different from the Russian language in Russia (Sabitova & Alishariyeva, 2015), reflecting specific socio-cultural phenomena that can be observed in phonetic and grammatical levels of language as well as vocabulary used to denote equivalent-lacking words to represent the social reality of Kazakh culture (e.g. ‘akim’ for the ‘head of administration’, or ‘toy’ for ‘big festivity’; Sabitova & Alishariyeva, 2015). Being a Russian-native speaker who grew up in Kazakhstan, I am familiar with the Kazakhstani Russian language nuances. Even though no participants have been excluded because of language skills, conducting interviews in Russian is an obvious limitation of my research as it limited access to participants who are not proficient in Russian. The language of shame or uyat and the role of my translation and interpretation are also important to acknowledge. Given that the interviews were conducted in Russian, participants in this study did not use the word ‘uyat ’ per se; words such as ‘styd’ (‘shame’) or ‘pozor’ (‘disgrace’) were used by the participants. Interestingly, the language question can be raised in relation to some of the actions associated with the ‘Uyatman’ in Kazakhstan, many of whom also use Russian. For example, Eldar Mamedov spoke Russian when addressing the two women in Esentai mall in the video posted. His later social media post was also written for the most part in Russian.3 This is consistent with Kabatova’s findings (this 2 Russian remains the dominant language of other ethnic minorities in Kazakhstan, including Belarusians, Tatars, Germans, Koreans and other ‘linguistically Russified’ ethnicities living in Kazakhstan (Smagulova, 2008, p. 446). Moreover, Russian is still a widely used language for a large number of ethnic Kazakhs (Smagulova, 2008). According to Jankowski (2012), although not officially recognised as such, Russian is taken as an interethnic language in Kazakhstan. Additionally, the majority of Kazakhstani mass media groups still publish and broadcast in Russian (Bauer, 2010; Uffelmann, 2011). 3 The post also contained the Kazakh word ‘Oybay’, which Feminita explained as an ‘expression of public judgement’ (Feminita & Alma-TQ, 2019, p. 7), but it can also be translated as an ‘expression of surprise fear or delight’ (Sozdik.kz, 2021).

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volume) highlighting that Russian and not Kazakh is commonly used to talk about sex and sexuality-related issues in Kazakhstan. Given the simultaneous peculiarity and universality of shame (Probyn, 2005), I have chosen to engage with the narratives of participants of this study using various theoretical lenses and interpretations, some local (uyat, ‘styd’) and some from other geographical locations. While self-disclosure is a debated terrain within qualitative research (Dickson-Swift et al., 2006; Wigginton & Setchell, 2016), I chose to be open about my queer identity with my participants during interviews. Being open about my queerness was in part due to my belief that transparency and congruence were crucial to build relationships with my participants (Evans & Barker, 2010; McDonald, 2013). However, my decision to be transparent was partially to ensure my own safety and confidentiality as I was not ‘out’ in Kazakhstan at the time of this research, and I informed my participants about that. This is when I experienced shame: telling my participants that despite researching queer lives and being ‘out’ in Scotland, I was not comfortable with being open about my queerness in Kazakhstan. Indeed, I was neither ‘in’ nor ‘out’, yet I felt the shame of both being and not being ‘out’ as a ‘proud’ homosexual of the west’ (Duggan, 2002; Munt, 2019, p. 234; Puar, 2006). Philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre argued in his 1943 book ‘Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology’ translated by Barnes in 1996, that: ‘I am ashamed of what I am. Shame therefore realises an intimate relation of myself to myself’ (p. 221). At the same time, he writes, ‘I am ashamed of myself as I appear to the Other’ (p. 222). Sartre highlights the multi-dimensional quality of shame. On the one hand, shame is about one’s relation to oneself. On the other hand, shame is about the way the subject appears before the other. I felt ‘doubly afflicted’ to use Munt’s (2019, p. 235) terminology or ashamed of being ashamed. I did not feel at ease with my decisions while trying to carry myself with confidence in front of my participants. My ‘imaginary audience’ was multiple and consisted of different facets of my positionality: Kazakhstani, British, Russian, Jewish, queer, counsellor, activist and others. ‘[S]hame is perhaps unique in its constitution in that both the gaze of the viewer and the viewed are necessary, which can cause the affect’s own amplification’ (Schroth, 2021, p. 145). I recall feeling the heat in my face and chest, a sensation that something was happening inside me every time I explained my situation, reflecting and revealing to my interviewee the inner turmoil that I experienced at the time. I

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believe that this entangled positionality I embodied at the time of the research equalised the power imbalance in the research relationship, and the sharing of the sensitive information was a mutual process, rather than one-directional (see Evans & Barker, 2010; McDonald, 2013 for more information on disclosing queer identity in research settings). My experience of the double bind of shame (Munt, 2019) gave me an insight into the potential impact of the effects of homonormativity (Duggan, 2002) and homonationalism (Puar, 2006, 2007), along with the complex geopolitics of Kazakhstan and the discourse of Eurasianism on the queer lives of Kazakhstani people living in Kazakhstan and abroad (Anceschi, 2014; Buelow, 2012; Golam, 2013; Munt, 2019).

Results Silence Around Sexuality One of the first themes that emerged from this study was related to the silence around any non-heteronormative practices and sexuality more broadly. The silence and silencing of queerness begins in childhood. For example, Miras, a Kazakh in his early twenties who identifies as a cisgender gay man, spoke about his experience of attending a Kazakh school as a gay boy: I don’t have experience of studying in a Russian school, that’s why I cannot compare, right? But what was it like for a young gay boy to be at a Kazakh school? It wasn’t a matter of a lack of acceptance. There wasn’t such a thing as being gay. Nobody spoke about it. Not students, not teachers. It’s as if it simply did not exist, right? It created a kind of a cultural vacuum, where nothing could get in from the outside world. In Kazakh schools, kids, even secondary school students [‘ucheniki starshych klassov’] don’t have a sexual identity. Nobody talks about it and nobody discusses it. Even when I was younger, maybe sixth-seventh grade [roughly 12-13 years old], I don’t remember, we had a subject ‘Valeology’ and it had a section on sexuality when they told us when a person became sexually active. This was the only moment when sexuality was mentioned at all. Yes… There is no sex. Of course, there was [sex] amongst students and all. But there was such a taboo. Everything was kind of asexualised. (Miras, Astana)

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Miras speaks about the lack of conversation around gender and sexuality diversity and a ‘taboo’ associated with topics related to sex and sexuality. Miras’s words are consistent with Kabatova’s (2018) findings on the state of sex education in Kazakhstan. Kabatova (2018) found that the initial level of awareness about sexual health was higher among Russian speakers. Kabatova (2018) believes that this particular disadvantage of the Kazakh-speaking youth compared with Russian speakers in relation to levels of sex education is due to the lack of credible information in the Kazakh language, which is compounded by the culture of shame or uyat. Despite the ‘taboo’, Miras mentioned having a ‘Valeology’ class, which featured the first explicit conversation about sexuality for him. This is consistent with Kabatova (2018) who mentions that some regions of Kazakhstan have implemented Valeology as a pilot sexuality education course for students aged between 15 and 19 years old. However, in Miras’s words, despite having a Valeology class, the general sense is that ‘there is no sex’ and that there is no such thing as a sexual identity. Indeed, Kabatova (2018) speaks about some of the flaws of Valeology, highlighting that the course is too focused on navigating the ‘dangerous behavior of boys and men’ (p. 3), suggesting that there is room for improvement to make the course more well-rounded. This is consistent with existing research from other countries, which highlights that sexuality education in itself does not necessarily mean it is effective in reducing negative attitudes towards queer people. In fact, it may play a role in doing the opposite by reinforcing the stigma of queerness when representing non-heterosexual and non-cisgender people as deviant (e.g. Elia & Eliason, 2010; Fisher, 2009; Shrestha et al., 2020). Miras gives an example of the impact of the silence around sexuality diversity, stating that it felt like ‘there wasn’t such a thing as being gay’. A lack of acknowledgement, voice and visibility in the public sphere may contribute to a general sense of a lack of ontological security and isolation (Baer, 2013; Rotkirch, 2002; Stella, 2015). I will return to the topic of the impact of shame on queer individuals later in this chapter. The silence around topics concerning relationships and sexuality extends beyond schools. Participants in the study emphasise that within Kazakh families, it is uncommon to talk about sex, sexuality and relationships. Amir, who identifies as a cisgender gay man in his mid-thirties, explains:

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Typically, in a Kazakh family and in my family as well, no private topics were ever raised. We did not have conversations about sex nor talk about some kinds of relationships. We did not have those heart-to-heart conversations [‘zadushevnaja beseda’] about relationships and other things. And in general, even amongst my friends and other people I know, we did not do that. No one talked to their parents about their relationship or other private matters. (Amir, Astana)

Miras echoes Amir’s statement saying: Well, the Kazakh family is quite specific. In a Kazakh family, there is no sex. We have children but no sex. Interesting Yes, yes, yes. That’s why the most explicitly sexual conversation in Kazakh family is – ‘when will you get married?’ This is most scandalous [‘skandal’noe’]. Beyond that – no way. (Miras, Astana)

This is consistent with Kabatova (2018) who highlights that, ‘[t]ypical Kazakh parents are not comfortable discussing sex with their children’ (p. 3). At the same time, Kabatova (2018) highlights that Kazakhspeaking children are ashamed to ask for advice. Miras’s narrative confirms that the only acceptable framework within which to talk about sex is heterosexual marriage and procreation. This potentially creates an additional barrier for Kazakhstani queer people to disclose their identities and seek support from their families and communities. Some participants in this study attributed the silence to Soviet values. For example, Anna, a bisexual woman from Karaganda, talked about her parents being ‘Sovetskoj zakalki’ (or ‘Soviet forged’), highlighting ‘those things [sexuality and relationships outside of marriage] were simply never discussed’, and that ‘it is in principle impossible for their parents to accept such a thing [bisexuality]’ (Anna, Karaganda). Similarly, Amir, who spoke about the unspeakability of topics related to private life, relationships and sexuality in Kazakh families explains: Our parents are of the Soviet generation where it wasn’t supported, I mean talking about sex and private relationships. (Amir, Astana)

Silencing of any discussions around sex and sexuality was one of the key strategies to regulate queerness in the Soviet Union. As Francesca Stella (2015) writes, ‘references to sex and erotica were considered to

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be dubious and morally reprehensible’ (p. 35). Conversations about the sexual body, non-reproductive sex and sexual pleasure in the Soviet Union were taboo and elicited negative attitudes when spoken outside of the private domain (Kon, 1995; Stella, 2015; Zdravomyslova, 2001). Gender and sexuality diverse practices transgressed Soviet gender order and were stigmatised and deemed to be deviant and perverted (Clech, 2018; Healey, 2001, 2017; Stella, 2015). It is unclear whether the silence that participants in this study are describing can be attributed to Soviet taboo or Kazakh uyat in relation to talking about relationships and sex outside of matrimony. It is also possible that the two ‘silences’ intertwine and reinforce each other. What Will People Say? One of the themes emerging from the interviews, specifically with Kazakh participants, was the extent to which extended families were involved in the process of regulation of their queer family members’ lives. This falls in line with existing literature on the centrality of family and a more extensive network of kin for Kazakh people (Ashwin, 2000; Harris, 2006; Zdravolmyslova & Temkina, 2007) as well as the regulatory power of the extended family in Central Asia, which encompasses many aspects of people’s lives, including sexuality (Harris, 2004, 2006; Sataeva, 2017). Sometimes the involvement of extended family was direct, for example, a cousin ‘outing’ or disclosing her queer cousin’s sexuality to other family members. At other times, it was less immediate. For example, Miras talks about one of the conversations he had with his mother: My mother told me that she could overcome many things, but she would not be able to live if her father found out I was gay. So, the biggest problem is my granddad. My mum comes from a family where her father is in charge of everything; he is a patriarch, a god... and if this god and master finds out that his daughter has a gay son, she will not survive. I was surprised by that because I hardly see him. He lives in another town. It was bewildering to me that I should sacrifice my life and my wellbeing because my mother doesn’t want to disappoint her father. He is practically

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a stranger to me, and I asked how come this stranger plays such a big role in my life. This is where we are at with my mother. (Miras, Astana)

One of the biggest fears for Miras’s mother is that her father, an elder in her family, will find out about her son’s non-heterosexual sexuality. This is an example of the system of Honour and Shame or Kazakh uyat potentially at play. It would be uyat for Miras’s mother if her father discovers that his daughter brought up a man who does not conform to heteronormative expectations—a gay man. Therefore, Miras’s sexuality is a potential source of dishonour to the family. This is the case even though Miras’s grandfather is ‘practically a stranger’ and lives far away from them. It appears that Miras’s mother has internalised the societal Honour and Shame structure in becoming her own observer, to use Foucauldian terminology (Foucault, 1977). Consistent with the Honour and Shame system, it is the visibility of the deviance that bears repercussions. ‘Since above all it is the image that is important, punishment will follow not so much the actual violation of the norms as the violation being made public’ (Harris, 2004, p. 74, original emphasis). Consequently, silencing, making invisible and avoiding any acknowledgement or discussion of sexual or gender non-conformity are some of the crucial strategies to retain honour within the family and the wider community for the families of queer people in Kazakhstan. Ensuring public invisibility as a form of regulating queer people in Kazakhstan is highlighted in the narrative of another participant. Bolat, an ethic Kazakh who identifies as a gay man and who was in his early twenties at the time of the interview, told me about his relationship with his parents after he came out to them. Bolat’s parent’s first reaction was a denial and suggestion that he ‘just hadn’t met the right woman’. After that, a long period of silence around the topic of Bolat’s sexuality ensued. Despite the apparent denial and the lack of acknowledgement, following the disclosure Bolat’s father has been actively monitoring his son’s public appearance. For example, Bolat explains, If I wore any LGBT-related symbols or signs on my clothes, he would immediately be on my case saying: ‘take it off right now!’ He would also threaten me, saying: ‘there’ll be hell to pay’ [‘tebe malo ne pokazhetsia’]. He would threaten me with physical violence. (Bolat, Astana)

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Bolat’s father also used the internet to ensure the invisibility of Bolat’s queerness: It went sometimes as far as my father sending me screenshots of my [queerrelated] posts, insisting that I delete them from my page immediately. (Bolat, Astana)

Bolat’s narrative highlights the paradox: on the one hand, Bolat’s family denied the truth about Bolat’s sexuality and avoided conversations about it, while, on the other, Bolat’s father used resources to ensure his son’s sexuality remained invisible to the public. When I asked Bolat about what he thought was behind his parent’s desire to hide his sexuality, Bolat responded: I think they believe that if people find out it will be a disgrace [‘pozor’]. (Pause) Basically, they are worried about what people will say about me. Because now they are proud… if I am attending meetings and workshops. They like that, and they tell relatives and friends that, ‘Bolat is doing this and that’ […] They think that my sexuality will ruin [‘perecherknet ’] everything, that people will look at me in a different way, that they will speak differently to me or stop communicating with me at all. And that people will stop communicating with my parents. (Bolat, Astana)

Bolat continues: They are ashamed. They are ashamed [‘im stydno’] that others will find out about this. For them, it is my private life. It should not be like that; nobody should know about it. They are especially afraid of the reaction from our family and people we know. Especially family… I don’t personally care about who knows. If they write, they write and so be it. Naturally, for my parents, they say ‘If somebody finds out, if they see something, they will start ringing and writing. And how will we look people in the eyes after that?’ So, they start with this talk. They are worried about what other people will say. (Bolat, Astana)

In this extract, Bolat demonstrates the importance of the public appearance of the child. As Sataeva (2017) writes about shaming in the context of Kyrgyzstan, ‘[e]very aspect of vital activities are paraded before the community, relatives, friends, and acquaintances in order to gain public approval’ (p. 25). According to British scholars Valentine et al. (2003),

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children ‘are a ‘public’ face of their family’ and ‘if a child does not turn out right’, parents can not only blame themselves but fear that others will blame them too, and that the whole family’s identity will be ‘spoiled’ (p. 484). This idea is consistent with the regulatory power of uyat or the Honour and Shame model, where disobeying ‘the norm’ and especially the public visibility of such disobedience leads to the risk of dishonouring the entire family. Similar to Sataeva’s (2017) ‘El emne deit ?/What will people say?’ (p. 25), ‘what will other people say?’ and ‘how will we look people in the eyes?’ are some of the crucial aspects of the regulation of queerness within Kazakh families. Internalisation of Shame What is the effect of the system of shame or uyat and the regulatory practices I described above on the lives of queer people? This question kept coming up during the interviews and when I was analysing the narratives. For example, during the interview with Anna and Sasha, a bisexual couple from Karaganda, Anna said to Sasha, ‘hey, lower your voice, we have neighbours and they have ears’. We were in their apartment at the time and it was the middle of the day, yet the fear of being overheard and ‘found out’ was very much alive as we were talking about things that they previously had not discussed with anybody other than between themselves. Another participant known as Ekaterina, a transgender woman in her mid-twenties, talked about the level of fear with which she lives daily: While my fear has decreased since I moved to the big city, I still feel it inside me. For example, when I need to tell someone or if I have a suspicion that someone has found out... I used to be overwhelmed with fear. ‘What if they insult me, call me names, reject me or kick me out? (Ekaterina, Almaty)

Ekaterina mentioned that with time the level of fear diminished for her, saying that, ‘[s]lowly, I learned that there are people who don’t care about this kind of thing at all and my self-confidence started to grow’. Yet, I wonder how those fears imprinted themselves on Ekaterina’s body? Miras talked more explicitly about the effects of the internalised gaze on the Kazakhstani queer community:

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If I were to speak about the everyday life of a gay man in Kazakhstan, or lesbians or non-cisgender and non-heterosexual people... The biggest problem we face, bigger than homophobia in society, bigger than violence, is internalised homophobia. And inner abuse. Because at some point society does not need to hate you and beat you up. At some point, you start to hate yourself and beat yourself up. I know that this is something I will be fighting my entire life…. (Miras, Astana)

Here, Miras exemplifies the workings of internalised shame and oppression (Appleby & Anastas, 1998; Pharr, 1988). The growing body of research that originates mainly from developed nations reveals clear connections between queer individual’s experiences of harassment, rejection, violence or discrimination and health consequences (Kon, 1998; Nagornaya, 2009), such as low self-esteem, psychological problems, substance and alcohol abuse, risky sexual behaviours and suicidality (e.g. D’Augelli et al., 2001; Lewis et al., 2003; Perez-Brumer et al., 2015; Peterson & Gerrity, 2006; Testa et al., 2015). There is also a body of literature drawing connections between shame among queer people and the loss of self-esteem and internalised self-hatred and long-term psychological consequences, leading to suicide and other self-destructive behaviours (McDermott et al., 2008, 2015; Roen, 2019). Such experiences of discrimination have also been linked to internal stressors, homophobia, heterosexism, homonegativity, transphobia and internalised stigma and prejudice (Allen & Oleson, 1999; Hendricks & Testa, 2012; Herek et al., 2009; Meyer, 2003; Szymanski & Chung, 2002; Williamson, 2000). Sasha, a bisexual woman from Karaganda, spoke about her inner turmoil as she started to have feelings for her partner, Anna. Sasha says: I was so confused. There was just a heap of thoughts and such a lack of understanding. What’s happening to me? I was scared, terrified. I felt I was torn apart. I couldn’t understand my emotions and feelings anymore. (Sasha, Karaganda)

Sasha talked about struggling with being bisexual. Some of her struggles culminated in her feeling depressed. In The Psychic Life of Power, Butler described the dynamics of the production of subjectivity when it is being subjected. This applies to the workings of shame:

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[P]ower that at first appears as external, pressed upon the subject, pressing the subject into subordination, assumes a psychic form that constitutes the subject’s self-identity. The form this power takes is relentlessly marked by a figure of turning, a turning back upon oneself or even a turning on oneself… the turn appears to function as a tropological inauguration of the subject, a founding moment whose ontological status remains permanently uncertain. (Butler, 1997, p. 34)

Ahmed (2004) talks about the effects of a prolonged experience of shame resulting in the subject feeling suicidal. Similar to Butler, Ahmed speaks about the subject’s movement ‘back into itself’ as being ‘simultaneously a turning away from itself’, which may eventually lead to the subject having ‘nowhere to turn’ (p. 104). To expel the ‘badness’ that shame provokes, ‘I have to expel myself from myself’ (Ahmed, 2004, p. 104). Mokros (1995) explains that suicide is a logical solution to the continuous experience of shame and ‘intolerable self-ridicule (pathological shame) and to the impossibility of reclaiming or achieving a sense of social place’ (p. 1096). One of the participants in my study brought up the topic of suicide as he lost one of his friends to suicide just the day before the interview. I didn’t want to finish on this note, but I think it is important. In the last six months, I have lost two people to suicide; they were both very close to me. One guy, a friend with whom I shared a flat once, killed himself in August. And yesterday… Well, we weren’t really that close. He was a young guy who had just graduated. We saw each other every now and again, in the clubs. I heard yesterday that he killed himself. [pause] I’m not sure how to react…. (Amir, Astana)

Given that the event happened just the day before the interview, Amir found it difficult to talk about it. Before we ended the interview, he said the following: This is the reality we have to face. It’s now easier for me because this is the sixth person in my life who ended their own life. The sixth person I know... and now this is becoming ordinary. (Amir, Astana)

Amir fears that losing people to suicide is becoming an ‘ordinary experience’ for him. Kazakhstan scores high on the suicide scale compared

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with other countries. According to Varnik (2012), Kazakhstan ranked seventh in the world for the prevalence of suicide among adults. Suicide was identified as the leading cause of mortality of those aged between 15 and 19, leaving Kazakhstan with one of the highest adolescent suicide mortality rates in the world (UNICEF, 2020). There is a substantial body of research, predominantly from developed countries, demonstrating a strong relationship between identifying as queer, being young and suicidal or non-suicidal self-harming (e.g. Bailey et al., 2014; Bostwick et al., 2014; Ellis et al., 2014). In his Masters research on suicidality among gay and bisexual men in Kazakhstan, Seksenbayev (2018) found that 55% of the 204 participants in his study reported severe suicidal thoughts and previous suicide attempts. There are no statistics that show the levels of suicide among queer people in Kazakhstan. Amir’s narrative made me wonder about the role of shame or uyat in the suicidal tendencies of queer people in Kazakhstan, and the silence surrounding the prevalence of suicide in the Kazakhstani queer community. Resistance to Shame However, the effect of shame and reactions to it are not univocal among participants in this study. Queer theorists who have been interrogating the notion of shame also exposed its ambivalent nature, moving away from the essentialist view of shame as negative self-assessment and offering a productive conception of shame, looking at its cultural-specificity, relational and contextual nature (Ahmed, 2004; Munt, 2007; Probyn, 2005). Looking through this lens, in some contexts shame can indeed generate abasement, despair and inner destruction, however, in other contexts shame is capable of mobilising ‘the self and communities into acts of defiant presence, in cycles of disattachment and reconnection’ (Munt, 2007, p. 216). Therefore, shame can serve a function of affectively uniting those who are marginalised in their recognition of each other’s shared experiences (Moon, 2009). The importance of being open, sharing experiences and being an activist came up in the narratives of participants in this study. For example, Amir told me that for him, activism has some therapeutic functions. In becoming an activist, I found myself: I can gather people; read and educate others; give interviews; participate in training events on gender and sexuality-related matters. I am interested in this stuff. Another thing is

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that it helps to improve visibility, it helps to bring the community together, but also, it’s like therapy for me. It helps me to accept myself more. I no longer think how to fit in, how to conform to heteronormativity. I no longer think about getting married to a woman and having children just so that no one finds out about me…. (Amir, Astana)

Amir talks about owning his stigmatised and ‘shamed’ identity; by educating others and advocating issues around gender and sexuality, Amir seems to reclaim his gay identity. Amir’s narrative is consistent with the idea that shame seems to disappear when it is public and when it is shared (Holmes, 2015). Apart from binding and healing, shame also has a fundamentally relational aspect to it, which reflects that shame is an essential affect of intersubjective life, revealing that others matter to us (Kosofsky Sedgwick, 2003). As Probyn (2005) argues, shame ‘illuminates our intense attachment to the world, our desire to be connected with others, and the knowledge that, as merely human, we will sometimes fail in our attempt to maintain those connections’ (p. 14). When we feel shamed, our stakes and interests in the other are exposed and our vulnerabilities become visible. This can explain why families go such a long way to control their queer children, sisters, brothers and cousins. From this lens, shame or uyat can be interpreted as an enactment of care. The productive potential of shame can also be at the core of the explanation why most participants in this study chose to comply with the silence or follow the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ strategy within their families. Anna and Sasha explained how they navigate the family dynamics: Anna:

Sasha:

Anna: Sasha:

My ex-girlfriend’s mother always said, ‘it would be better if I guessed than knew for sure’ [about your sexuality]. I think [my] parents hold similar views. It’s better for them. In my opinion, many parents who don’t understand it [being bisexual or non-heterosexual], and of course there are those who do, but for those that don’t… We always called each other sisters, from the very beginning. This affects us psychologically [‘psychologicheskyj sdvig ’], let alone because we are like this [in the same-sex relationship] and that would be incest ((Sasha is laughing))… But again, we never know what our parents really think. Because we never raise this topic. And god forbid if that should happen.

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Anna:

I think we should never raise it [the topic of their relationship]. (Anna and Sasha, Karaganda)

Anna and Sasha talk about the importance of retaining ambiguity and raising the topic. Anna believes that due to her parents being of Soviet upbringing and Orthodox, they will not understand. They also touch upon their strategy to call themselves ‘sisters’ to justify their relationship and cohabitation to others. Sasha highlights some of the costs of such a strategy and the impact of the strange and incestuous nature of such an explanation framework. Interestingly, later in the interview, Anna pointed out that her mother knew about her previous same-sex relationships: …Once mum asked me [asked whether I am a lesbian]. Well, I laughed it off and changed the subject, ha ha ha ((Anna imitates laughter)). Well, mum knew about some of my relationships, but we didn’t speak about them…. (Anna, Karaganda)

Even though Anna’s mother openly asked her about being a lesbian, Anna chose to retain ambiguity and avoided answering her question. Sasha then pointed out that Anna’s father also might know about them being together as a couple. This becomes apparent when they gather at the table: Anna: Sasha: Anna:

Yeah, it happens mostly as a joke. So for example, I would suggest giving a toast to the family [during a family gathering] and he would… He would say things like, ‘now, to which family are you drinking?’

This is an illustration of tacit knowing (Decena, 2011) or an ‘unspoken secret’ (Zavella, 2003, p. 238) between all the family members. It appears that the decision to avoid naming their relationship and retaining ambiguity is a conscious and agentic choice that Sasha and Anna, as well as their family members, make. This can be used as a way of keeping peace, avoiding shame and caring for their family members (Natrova, 2004; Stella, 2015). It must be pointed out that discomfort of accommodating silence and silencing is not just carried by queer people themselves. The ‘burden’ is also carried by the families. For example, Ekaterina, a transgender woman in her mid-twenties, spoke about a conversation that she had with her grandmother:

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I understand that for them the opinion of others is very important. My grandmother and I are still talking about it. She might say, ‘I went there and there, and this neighbour has been talking about you’. Well, before, when I left for college and visited occasionally, I would visit all dressed up, coming by car with a boyfriend. And this is a small town. Moreover, I wore makeup. So, all the gossipers in the shop, people, friends… everybody was asking ‘who is she with in the car? Is there a man there? Oh my God’. My grandmother used to tell me all about it. When I spoke to her I told her, ‘tell them to speak to me directly. Because you cannot control what I wear and what I do. But okay, if you do not like it, I will visit on my own. I can visit with the minimum of makeup and wearing trousers. I will not wear dresses if you would like it more that way’. She said, ‘No!’. Because it is a small town and people talk. Nobody would do anything to me. (Ekaterina, Almaty)

Ekaterina’s narrative illustrates the power of gossip and shaming in response to queer visibility in Kazakhstan. Ekaterina was willing to accommodate in an attempt to make it easier for her grandmother, who lives in a small town where gossip is prevalent. Yet, Ekaterina’s grandmother responded to her suggestion with a defiant ‘No!’. During the interview, Ekaterina did not elaborate on how the conversation ended. Yet, she spoke about how close she feels to her grandmother and how grateful she is for her support and care. While I touch upon the idea of queer pride and the generative sense of community in this chapter, I chose to focus on more nuanced expressions of resistance. I argue that silence, silencing, hiding and retaining ambiguity can all be interpreted as ways to resist dominant discourses of shame or uyat. Ahmed (2004) writes about the fundamental discomfort of queerness. Ahmed explains that this discomfort is ‘not about assimilation or resistance, but about inhabiting norms differently’ (p. 155 original emphasis). Queer lives remain shaped by heteronormativity; however, they fail to reproduce it, which, in turn, creates the possibility to change the normative scripts within society. Ahmed (2004), therefore, asserts that, ‘the closer that queer subjects get to the spaces defined by heteronormativity, the more potential there is for a reworking of heteronormative’ (Ahmed, 2004, p. 152 original emphasis). I see this process of reworking evident within the narrative of participants of this study. It is not necessarily evident in political action (as this is something that can also be attributed to the privilege of class and education), but through subtle

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interactions, such as Ekaterina’s grandmother saying ‘No!’ to her granddaughter, offering to hide her transgender identity or by not openly discussing one’s sexuality and by doing so, preserving the family bond. Even though queer Kazakhstani people might not choose to be open about their identities, they might be controlled and their visibility might be regulated by shame or uyat; the fact that they keep living within a heteronormative environment and connecting with their family members and communities means that those relationships, environments and even shame and shaming themselves are being queered.

Discussion Within existing literature, the use of uyat predominantly refers to the cultural tradition that regulates Central Asian communities (Kabatova, 2018; Sataeva, 2017; Zhanabayeva, 2018). In Kazakhstan, the notion of community implies ethnic diversity.4 Indeed, the nationalising regime followed by (former) President Nursultan Nazarbayev aimed to create a comprehensive discourse of the Kazakh nation encompassing interethnic harmony (Kudaibergenova, 2016, 2019a). This raises the question of whether the culture of shame or uyat in relation to queerness is an interethnic phenomenon in Kazakhstan. In this chapter, I chose to apply the concept of uyat to participants who identified as ethnically Kazakh as well as non-Kazakh participants. My interethnic use of uyat is consistent with existing research. Caron and Orlov (2022) conducted a survey with 803 respondents in August 2020 that was based in Almaty, Nur-Sultan, Petropavlovsk and Shymkent. Their study aimed to identify the reason why people in Kazakhstan broke social distancing rules to participate in large family gatherings during the Covid-19 pandemic. Caron and Orlov (2022) argued that the custom of uyat was one of the key reasons why such gatherings continued during Spring 2020. Caron and Orlov identified that the custom of uyat is intimately connected more with ethic 4 During the Soviet era, deportation and mass immigration of various groups of people resulted in Kazakhstan becoming the only republic in the Soviet Union in which the indigenous population became a minority population (Spehr & Kassenova, 2012). The newly independent Republic of Kazakhstan consisted of over 100 ethnic groups, among which Kazakhs and Russians were by far the biggest (Olcott, 1995, 2010). Therefore, defusing the potential interethnic tensions and promoting inclusive identity among the Kazakhstani population became one of the priorities (Cummings, 2003; Spehr & Kassenova, 2012).

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Kazakhs than with ethic Russians. However, they found that avoiding having one’s behaviour labelled as uyat has been extremely important for both ethnic groups. Caron and Orlov (2022) write ‘[e]ven amongst ethnic Russians, this fear of not abiding by social norms plays an important role, albeit to a lesser degree than for ethnic Kazakhs, which means that Kazakh culture is transcending the country’s ethnic divisions and shows the effect of ‘Kazakhstanization’ on people’s minds and its effectiveness as a form of majoritarian nationalism (Caron, 2019)’ (p. 12). The findings of this study fall in line with Caron and Orlov’s (2022) study, indicating that the culture of uyat, while more pronounced among Kazakh participants, was also prevalent across different ethnicities living in Kazakhstan. It is important to acknowledge the limitations of this research in the fact that it did not focus on narratives associated with uyat among queer people in Kazakhstan, but instead had a broader focus on the queer narratives of everyday life where the culture of shame and uyat emerged as one of the core themes. Further research is needed to consider the awareness of the custom of uyat among queer people in Kazakhstan and their relationship with this discourse, as well as the impact of an individual’s dominant language and ethnicity. Another question that arises is whether the silencing or taboo around being non-heteronormative is uyat in the Central Asian cultural sense, or whether it is another facet of heteronormative conservatism prevalent in the region (Buelow, 2012; Latypov et al., 2013; von Boemcken et al., 2018; Wilkinson & Kirey, 2010), as well as in neighbouring Russia (e.g. Edenborg, 2018; Kondakov, 2014; Moss, 2017; Persson, 2015; Stella, 2015). In my application of the concept of uyat in this chapter, I follow Kudaibergenova (2019b) who argues that in the context of Kazakhstan, uyat serves a function of retraditionalisation that sets to control heterosexual norms and punish any ‘deviant’ or non-heteronormative behaviour. Kudaibergenova (2019b) maintains that while practices of traditionalisation might be seemingly connected with ‘old perceptions and beliefs in sacred traditions’ (p. 375), they often represent a patriarchal traditionalist agenda. In this way, the local concept of uyat serves a norm-setting function that is not unique to the context of Kazakhstan (or Central Asia). I, therefore, argue that uyat is one of the many tools used in Kazakhstan to regulate deviance and acts to maintain ‘traditional’ heteronormative order. Other discourses echoed in the narratives of participants in this study included: the legacy of Soviet discourses of silencing, medicalisation and criminalisation of queerness (Clech, 2018; Healey, 2001; Kon, 1993;

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Stella, 2015) and the impact of Russian LGBT-hostile legislation and discourses (Persson, 2015), given that Russian TV and Russian internet are widely used and popular in Kazakhstan (Bauer, 2010; Junisbai et al., 2015; Uffelmann, 2011). In line with existing research on the centrality of visibility of norm violations and their regulations in the Honour and Shame system, the findings of this research offer a potential explanation of why controlling queer people’s visibility within public settings has played such an important role within the everyday life narratives of queer people in Kazakhstan. This ‘control’ seems to be performed by proximate and extended family members and by queer people themselves as well as by strangers. With time, surveillance and shame starts to be internalised, and it is the fear of shaming rather than the act of shaming itself that begins to shape people’s behaviour and choices (‘what will other people say?’). Importantly, this chapter acknowledges what Fischer (2018, p. 371) refers to as the ‘slipperiness’ of shame in acknowledging the multiplicity of ways in which the shame is deployed and resisted by queer people in Kazakhstan and their families. As Ahmed writes, ‘emotional struggles against injustice are not about finding good or bad feelings, and then expressing them. Rather, they are about how we are moved by feelings into a different relation to the norms that we wish to contest, or the wounds we wish to heal’ (Ahmed, 2004, p. 201). Hence, I argue that uyat is not only a regulatory discourse but also a discourse of resistance (Kudaibergenova, 2019b). Examples of this include when one wears queer symbolism on the street, when a family decides to adhere to a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ protocol to avoid losing familial bond while retaining their queer relationship as an ‘open secret’ (Zavella, 2003, p. 238), and when a family member refuses to comply to social pressures in supporting their transgender grandchild.

References Ahmed, S. (2004). The cultural politics of emotion. University Press. Ahmed, S. (2014). The cultural politics of emotion. 2nd edition, Edinburgh University Press. Allen, D. J., & Oleson, T. (1999). Shame and internalized homophobia in gay men. Journal of Homosexuality, 37 (3), 33–43.

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CHAPTER 7

Shaming as a Form of Political Accountability in Kazakhstani Politics Hélène Thibault

Introduction As discussed in this volume’s introduction, uyat can be understood as a cultural practice that consists in shaming individuals who have deviated from the norm and done something deemed shameful by the rest of the community. Traditionally used as a form of socio-political self-regulation that ensured social cohesion, uyat has been adapted to contemporary realities and its reminiscence in the twenty-first century has evolved into something more complex, in part because of social media and the rapid transmission of information. As most of the chapters in this volume reveal, the contemporary manifestations of uyat mostly target female and queer bodies and uyat is used to impose a heteronormative patriarchal order. Yet, uyat is also pervasive in other social and political interactions and used to ensure the reproduction of current formal and informal institutions. In the political realm, this can take the form of public scolding

H. Thibault (B) Nazarbayev University, Nur-Sultan, Kazakhstan e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7_7

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of politicians or leaking compromising information to the media. In this chapter, I explore the issue of shaming as a regulatory mechanism in Kazakhstani politics.1 Having its origin in the Soviet era’s public shaming of the enemies of the Party and in the tradition of uyat, shaming allows on the one hand, controlled public critique and on the other hand, compliance. Kazakhstani scholar Igor Krupko (2020) argued that in Kazakhstan, uyat is used to enforce symbolic violence but in this chapter, I will argue that it also represents a form of accountability in the absence of open political competition and limited freedom of expression. In addition, I will show that shaming is used selectively as a tool to ensure compliance, punish insubordination, and restore state legitimacy. I first review the very few academic publications that have addressed the use of shame in comparative politics. I then offer a discussion about the nature of political rule in Kazakhstan and its connection to the use of shaming as a controlled critique of the work of the government by providing a number of empirical examples of how shaming is used in the Kazakhstani context and making a distinction between public shaming and leaked scandals. Finally, I argue that the widespread use of social media might democratize shaming and represent a way for citizens to reclaim the right to criticize and hold politicians accountable.

Shaming in Contemporary Politics Quasi absent from studies in comparative politics, “Naming and Shaming” is a concept frequently referred to in the literature on international relations. More specifically, shaming concerns the non-respect of human rights in countries that tend to violate them frequently and actions that could threaten international stability, for instance, the development of a nuclear program (Nutt & Pauly, 2021). Naming and shaming is a tactic used by powerful international actors who monitor and denounce violations of human rights in other countries that are likely to be less powerful so that a threat can be formulated. If some argue that it can be efficient in reducing the intensity of abuse (Franklin, 2008), albeit for a 1 This text was submitted to the publisher in November 2021, two months before the January 2022 violent unrest. Whereas I have tried to consider the most recent developments, the text reflects political dynamics during the Nazarbayev era.

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short period of time, others have argued that shaming is not efficient (Hendrix & Wong, 2013). On the contrary, shaming campaigns are likely to provoke anger and backlashes which domestic political actors can use to rally people around a common foreign enemy (Snyder, 2020). A similar type of shaming, supported by public accusations and eventual sanctions, has almost no equivalent in the domestic politics of democratic countries but does in non-democratic ones. Political scandals in democratic countries are not uncommon, and they can be used as a political tactic against opponents to discredit them. Because of the free press and investigative media reporting, political scandals are uncovered relatively frequently, and politicians can easily be subjected to unwanted media attention (Yioutas & Segvic, 2003, p. 571). Political scandals as salient media events may not have a great influence on the establishment of the public agenda. One of the most notorious political scandals of the twentieth century is certainly the adulterous affair between serving US President Bill Clinton and White House intern Monica Lewinsky, which was exposed in 1998. Despite the magnitude and sensationalist character of the sex scandal, scholars found that it did not affect Clinton’s popularity in the long-run (Miller, 1999). Perhaps this is because in democracies, power is less personalized and there is a clearer separation between the private and public spheres. Yet, scholars have found that in democracies, the involvement of politicians in scandals tends to have a negative effect on voters’ attitudes toward institutions and the political process (Bowler & Karp, 2004). In democratic countries, revelations of unethical behavior or involvement in corruption schemes take place because of investigative journalism, leaks to the press made by opponents or simply by mistake. Scandals take place in an open political playing field and feelings of shame or guilt might emerge due to public exposure of wrong doings, but we have to distinguish these occurrences from the scandals that emerge in authoritarian countries where freedom of press is limited. In states where self-censorship and punitive censorship are common, what is leaked to official media is in most cases carefully vetted by powerful actors. Like in the international scene, where human rights violations accusations are made by authoritative countries toward less powerful ones, the unveiling of political scandals in authoritarian countries are likely to be made by powerful actors who intend to pressure individuals into taking certain actions, to discredit or discard opponents. This was a common practice and the USSR. Even though ordinary citizens were subjected to this practice for violating the

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ideological orientations of socialism, such as being a drunkard or unemployed, the targets were more likely to be Party members (Fitzpatrick, 1999; Stephenson, 2021). Rituals of public shaming were carefully crafted and used to ensure party discipline. In Xi Jinping’s China, public confessions are part of the criminalization of activism (Fu & Distelhorst, 2018, p. 111). Strangely reminiscent of public shaming campaigns that took place during the Cultural Revolution, critics and opponents are exposed in order to set examples for activists who could potentially challenge authorities (Wallace, 2020). In Chechnya, televised shaming conducted by President Ramzan Kadyrov himself has become routine since the mid-2010s. The range of “offenses” varies from one’s inability to reconcile with their spouse to criticism formulated against the authorities for which citizens have to apologize to Kadyrov and the Chechen population (Robinson, 2018). In authoritarian contexts where freedom of press is limited and the media are subjected to strong (self)censorship, the privilege to publicly shame others tends to be restricted to authorized players, like in Kazakhstan where power is highly concentrated. I argue that in Kazakhstan, shaming is used by powerful actors to criticize poor government performance, while at the same time, spare the top leadership’s reputation and offer a semblant of political accountability.

Limited Accountability in Kazakhstani Politics If there was some form of elite competition in the early days of independence, the First President of Kazakhstan, Nursultan Nazarbayev, effectively managed to concentrate power to his inner circle after fighting off elite fragmentation in the mid-2000s with the rise of powerful actors such as Nazarbayev’s son-in-law Rakhat Aliyev and oligarch Mukhtar Ablyazov2 (Cummings, 2005). The nature of the regime in Kazakhstan has often been described as “soft authoritarianism” (Matveeva, 2009; Schatz, 2009; Thibault, 2019) which is best described as a regime that “relies more centrally on the means of persuasion than on the means of coercion, although coercion remains a part of the ruling elite’s arsenal” (Schatz, 2009, p. 203). Some of the tools that are at the disposal of political elites include co-optation, control of media as well as the ability to 2 Aliyev allegedly committed suicide while being detained in an Austrian prison on charges of kidnapping and murder while Ablyazov went into exile (Junisbai, 2010).

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direct the public’s attention away from serious issues that could threaten regime survival (Sagadiyeva, 2021), which is made possible by limiting the freedom of press and controlling dissident voices (Lewis, 2016). Going beyond clan affiliations, political and economic elites are quasi undistinguishable and the two spheres of influence are well-integrated (Junisbai, 2010). The level of both grand and petty corruption is quite high and the largest benefactors are left untouched (Cooley & Heathershaw, 2017). Despite some intra-elite competition, the Kazakhstani political system has been remarkably stable since independence in 1991 and Nursultan Nazarbayev remained an uncontested leader for 28 years, even after his surprise resignation in March 2019 and until January 2022 when mass protests and intra elite competition led to unprecedented political instability and violence. Nazarbayev retained significant influence as the Chair of the Security Council until January 2022 and until November 2021, as the leader of the Nur-Otan Party, which dominates political life in Kazakhstan. The Security Council holds consultative functions but it can also veto the appointments of key government ministers and regional governors, called akims. Nazarbayev’s status of the Leader of the Nation (Elbasy in Kazakh) also protects him and his family from prosecution (Burkhanov et al., 2021, p. 21). Nur-Otan completely dominates the political scene, both at the executive and legislative level and limited political competition and freedom do not allow for other parties to become real challengers. Members of the country’s executive top leadership all belong to Nur-Otan. The party also dominates the legislative branch of power and won 84 of the 107 seats in the last parliamentary elections in 2021 while Ak Zhol and the Communist Party won respectively 12 and 10 seats.3 At the local level, Nur-Otan also dominates with 77.5% of the seats in the local representative organs called Maslikhats.4 On May 25, 2021, President Tokayev announced the signing of new laws meant at increasing local political accountability, including the direct elections of rural akims.5 The results of the election held on July 25, 2021, showed that 60% of the incumbent akims remained in position and 85% of the 3 Official site of the Mazhilis of The Republic of Kazakhstan, https://www.parlam.kz/ en/mazhilis/General/Deputats, Accessed 10 November 2021. 4 https://turantimes.kz/politika/22880-skolko-mandatov-poluchili-partii-v-mestnyhmaslihatah.html, Accessed 10 November 2021. 5 https://www.gov.kz/memleket/entities/mfa-budapest/press/news/details/209649? lang=en.

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winners were affiliated with the party Nur-Otan, leaving little hope for dramatic changes in governance.6 The January 2022 violence during which popular protests turned into violent civilian unrest, prompted the Kazakhstani government to appeal to the Collective Security Treaty Organization (CSTO) to restore order. This had led to the death of at least 227 people, including 19 security force members, thousands of arrests, and reports of torture and mistreatment.7 Against the backdrop of the street protests, a vicious intra-elite conflict was also taking place. Nazarbayev himself, and most of his close family members and associates lost their hold on the most important political positions and financial assets.8 In the aftermath of those events, Tokayev announced political reforms meant to decentralize, democratize, and liberalize the Kazakhstani political system. However, observers are doubtful that the changes announced were sufficient to bring about real change.9 In addition to the absence of electoral competition, the electoral system used to elect members of the Parliament called the Mazhilis contributes to the lack of political accountability. In Kazakhstan, parliamentary elections are conducted based on a proportional representation electoral system with closed lists.10 In such systems, the country represents one big constituency and voters will cast their vote for a political party and not for specific representatives who will later be designated by the leadership of the party to serve as parliamentarians. As a result, citizens have a limited ability to hold politicians accountable for their management of public affairs. Moreover, Kunicova and Rose-Ackerman found that countries with proportional representation systems with closed lists are most susceptible to corruption than to open-list proportional representation and plurality systems, specifically because “geographically large 6 https://thediplomat.com/2021/08/akim-elections-more-cosmetic-reform-in-kazakh stan/, Accessed 10 November 2021. 7 https://www.hrw.org/news/2022/02/21/independent-investigation-kazakhstan-kil lings-torture-priority#, Accessed 10 April 2022. 8 https://eurasianet.org/kazakhstan-net-tightens-around-nazarbayev-clan-as-nephew-arr ested, Accessed 10 April 2022. 9 https://foreignpolicy.com/2022/04/04/kazakhstan-reforms-january-protests-tok ayev/, Accessed 10 April 2022. 10 Chapter 3, Article 21 of the Law on Elections in the Republic of Kazakhstan, https://adilet.zan.kz/eng/docs/Z950002464, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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districts limit voters’ ability to monitor incumbents” (Kunicová & RoseAckerman, 2005, p. 573). In Kazakhstan, this phenomenon is amplified due to limited freedom of speech, the dominance of one-party, and the scale of corruption. Even though Kazakhstan is a very large state with a diverse ethnic population, its population size is relatively small (18 million) and the country is a centralized unitary state in which local organs of power serve as executive branches of the central government. In March 2022, President Tokayev announced that Kazakhstan would now be divided into 17 regions (instead of the previously 14) and three cities of republican significance (Almaty, Nur-Sultan, and Shymkent). The regions’ representatives, the akims, are directly nominated and removed by the President. A unitary form of government does not necessarily impede democracy as many unitary states are considered democratic, such as France and Japan for instance. But in Kazakhstan, the problem lies in political appointments as well as cadre-rotation practices that are characterized by a frequent turn-over of akims at the regional and city levels. In Kazakhstan, the average tenure for akims between 1991 and 2013 was of 3.3 years and nearly 40% of all appointments entailed the rotation of personnel from one province to another (Siegel, 2018, p. 263). Elite reshuffling is used as a way to purge undisciplined actors who are embezzled in corruption scandals but is also applied selectively. According to Siegel, insubordination is more dangerous than corruption (2018, p. 260) and the central government tries to prevent potential rivals from emerging. Siegel argues that cadre rotation has more to do with state formation than to authoritarianism or regime politics and aims to weaken all local social bases of support for regional officials. As a result, accountability is minimal since local politicians do not need, and should not, rely on the popular support of the constituents they serve. One way to overcome the lack of accountability is shaming.

Shaming as a Form of Political Accountability Because power is highly concentrated, the responsibility for the government’s inadequacies or poor performance necessarily lies with the executive. Yet, because of the hierarchical nature of power relations and a certain cult of personality around the figure of the First President, open critique is not possible. As I will demonstrate in the following section, shaming can be used as a tactic to criticize poor government performance,

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while at the same time, keeping face. I will present some examples below and draw some conclusions to distinguish public criticism from leaked scandals that are more likely to negatively affect politicians. Overall, I considered 30 public cases that included evident criticism of public officials and/or the leak of compromising materials on public officials during the period from 2010 until 2021. Two observations can be made. First, evidence shows that individuals who are publicly criticized and shamed by powerful actors such as the President or the Prime Minister for their inability to perform their professional duties tend to be high-ranking officials. This kind of public criticism seems to be carefully orchestrated but harmless since the shamed individuals have remained in position afterward after being shamed. It is rather meant at showing to the public that the government acknowledges its inadequacies and is acting upon it but without questioning the composition of the government. It also reinforces the governmental hierarchy as subordinate actors are reminded of their lesser position. Given the authoritarian context and the control of media in Kazakhstan, it remains very difficult, and even dangerous, to formulate critique against the most powerful actors. Indeed, if highrank politicians such as Ministers and low-rank officials can be criticized publicly, the top players are rarely the object of onward criticism, especially the First President, Nursultan Nazarbayev. For instance, revelations made in October 2021 by the Pandora Papers investigation team revealed that Nursultan Nazarbayev’s alleged third wife (Thibault 2021), 40year-old Assel Kurmanbayeva, received 30 million dollars in an off-shore account in 2010. Only one Kazakhstani outlet, Hola News, published the story but access to its website was quickly blocked, the article removed, and the main editor resigned.11 Even after the January 2022 violent unrest in Kazakhstan which resulted in the sidelining of Nazarbayev’s clan, very few local outlets exposed their immense wealth. President Tokayev, while blaming corrupt officials who got right at the expense of ordinary taxpayers, has not openly named anyone from the Nazarbayev family. Second, scandals and media leaks that concern civil servants and public officials tend to implicate low-ranking or regional officials, never members of the Parliament or the cabinet of Ministers. The compromising stories tend to expose improper personal behavior, and not necessarily political

11 https://globalvoices.org/2021/10/23/news-site-founders-editor-resign-under-pre ssure-from-kazakhstans-authorities/, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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scandals and are made public in online and traditional media. In those instances, the low-rank officials are more likely to be dismissed. Public Scolding of High-Rank Officials by Powerful Actors In Kazakhstan, public criticism is a privilege reserved to the most powerful actors. Those who publicly criticize officials the most are Nursultan Nazarbayev and Nurlan Nigmatulin, who served as the Head of the Presidential office in 2014–2016 and as Chairman of the Mazhilis from June 2016 until February 2022. Both of them have criticized public officials very harshly, but their tone is somewhat different. Nazarbayev normally uses the informal “ty” to address officials which clearly indicates their subordinate positions and is somewhat infantilizing. In Russian, “ty” is used to address close family members, friends, and children whereas the pronoun “vy” is used to politely address strangers, elders, and people in position of authority as a sign of respect. In contrast, Nigmatullin’s critiques are equally harsh, but he addresses officials using the more polite “vy”. Although I found fewer cases showing Tokayev publicly criticizing officials, when he does, he uses “vy” to address his subordinates and the tone is less emotional than Nazarbayev’s and Nigmatulin’s vehement critiques. On April 27, 2016, during a meeting related to the development of the capital Astana12 and preparation of EXPO-2017,13 Nazarbayev severely criticized the work of the then Akim of Astana Adilbek Dzhaksibekov. Specifically, the reason Dzhaksibekov was criticized was the stench from Taldykol lake. Nazarbayev told Dzhaksibekov: “You don’t do anything. It stinks! If you and Khoroshun14 will not solve this soon, I’ll set up a yurt and you’ll live near Taldykol, so you will have to smell the stench. Shame on you. Astana stinks”.15 Dzhaksibekov was removed from his position in June 2016 but appointed to a more prestigious and authoritative position

12 The capital was renamed from Astana to Nur-Sultan one day after Nursultan Nazarbayev’s resigned as president in March 2019. 13 The capital Astana hosted the World Fair in 2017. 14 Sergei Khoroshun was the Deputy-akim of Astana. 15 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsNqOj1JHzk, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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as President’s Chief of Staff.16 A year later, Nazarbayev was also not very pleased with the work of the then Akim of Astana, Aset Isekeshev, who was ruthlessly reprimanded for his mishandling of city infrastructure on the eve of the opening of EXPO-2017. “You washed the face, but the butt is still dirty. Together with the Minister of Culture you don’t do shit! (ni xpena ne delaete vy)” Despite that, Isekeshev stayed in his office of the Akim of Astana until September 2018, when he was appointed the President’s Chief of Staff.17 On two separate occasions in October 2019, Nigmatulin who was acting as the Chairman of the Parliament, harshly criticized Magzum Mirzagaliyev, the Minister of Ecology, Geology, and Natural Resources who had been nominated just a few months prior, in June 2019. On October 9, 2019, during the Mazhilis plenary session, Nigmatulin addressed the issue of ineffective distribution of the state budget. Specifically, it was noted that the minister could not control the work of contractors which resulted in the inability of the ministry to supply localities with drinking water. While criticizing the minister, Nigmatulin accused him of incompetence in organization of the work of the ministry. A week later, he was once again accused of incompetence and sloppiness in front of the Mazhilis while presenting a bill concerning the transportation of pollutants. Following the presentation, Myrzagaliyev was asked a few questions and his confusing answers which prompted Nigmatulin of incompetence and accused him of not having read the bill.18 A year later on October 28, 2020, Nigmatulin once again expressed strong discontent toward the work of Myrzagaliyev in front of the Mazhilis. Myrzagaliyev’s proposal to introduce a reform of the environmental code, which attempted to monitor the possession of livestock throughout the country was deemed “stupid and useless” and the Minister was recommended to go spend some time in a village in order to “understand the difference between a chicken and cow”.19 Despite the substantial

16 https://www.rferl.org/a/nazarbaev-replaces-presidential-administration-head/294 82539.html, Accessed 10 November 2021. 17 https://kursiv.kz/news/politika/2018-02/nazarbaev-ministru-finansov-ya-tebe-del ayu-segodnya-vtoroe-zamechanie-trete, Accessed 10 November 2021. 18 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ja1FrVqdqUI, Accessed 10 November 2021. 19 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R566CKWLHy8, Accessed 10 November

2021.

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critiques, the young Minister remained in position and was nominated as the Minister of Energy by Tokayev in January 2021. In Parliament, Ministers are sometimes criticized for their inability to speak Kazakh. Interestingly, it appears as if that the task of commenting on this issue is delegated to other members of Parliament. One explanation could be that deputies are not allowed to formulate substantial critiques toward the work of the cabinet but can formulate criticism on more cosmetic, yet sensitive issues, such as the use language. On March 11, 2020, during the Mazhilis plenary session, Vice-Minister of Digital Development, Innovation, and Aerospace Industry Askhat Orazbek was asked a question by Deputy Narine Mikaleyan in Kazakh language to which Orazbek responded in Russian. The Chair of the Mazhilis said “It is very wrong to answer a question which was asked in Kazakh language in Russian”. Additionally, he pointed that the deputy Mikaleyan, could speak Kazakh even though she is ethnically Armenian, whereas Orazbek, a Kazakh, could not. After being criticized, Orazbek still holds the office of the Vice-Minister of Digital Development, Innovation, and Aerospace Industry.20 Similarly, on February 3, 2021, during the Mazhilis plenary session, Aset Irgaliyev, the Minister of National Economy was criticized and laughed at by both Nigmatullin and Deputy Bolat Dyusembinov for his inability to provide clear answers to questions and for not answering questions in Kazakh. Dyusembinov told the assembly: “It is a shame that you did not respond in your mother tongue”21 Obviously, their inability to use Kazakh language in the Parliament was not a sufficient reason to fire the vice-Minister and the Minister who remained in their position after those incidents. On July 15, 2019, during an extended meeting of the government, President Tokayev criticized the work of akimats and ministries and gave specific orders to their respective heads. Even though a number of issues were raised on the meeting, Tokayev specifically criticized three top officials. The Minister of Defense Nurlan Yermekbayev was criticized for being unable to organize the work of his ministry and to deal with the aftermath of the explosion in an ammunition depot in Arys in June 2019 and was given a severe reprimand from the President. Following

20 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrC2-V50WLE, Accessed 10 November 2021. 21 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kTvsfwSD4Bg, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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this, Tokayev criticized Askhat Aimagambetov, the Minister of Education for giving out “Bolashak” educational scholarships to high-ranked state servants. Finally, the President criticized Altai Kulginov, the Akim of NurSultan for his failure to manage the Astana LRT project.22 Tokayev spoke with emotion and told his audience: “100 billion tenges are lost. There is no sadder story in the world”.23 Despite being criticized and given severe reprimands, Yermekbayev, Aimagambetov, and Kulginov have remained in their respective offices. An exception to the absence of consequences after having suffered public criticism is the spectacular dismissal of the entire government that took place in February 2019, three weeks after President Nazarbayev harshly criticized his entire cabinet in front of cameras. On January 30, 2019, during an extended meeting with the government, Nazarbayev criticized the work of all cabinet ministers led by Prime Minister Bakytzhan Sagintayev for their inability to effectively use state money, maintain economic growth, control the prices of goods, attract investment, and make decisions independently. Nazarbayev also told the cabinet “You are cowards, not government and Ministers. You shake before making any decision. What do you work for?”24 His words were met with silence by an uncomfortable crowd of Ministers and cadres. He then proceeded to scold individual Ministers for their inadequacies while addressing them using the informal “ty” instead of the more polite form “vy” in Russian which in Kazakhstan, is used to define hierarchies. Even though Nazarbayev toned down his criticism and invited Ministers to work harder toward the end of the meeting, three weeks on February 21, 2019, Nazarbayev dismissed the entire government. In his announcement, he stated that the government had been unable to create incentives and instruments for economic growth. One month later in March 2019, Nazarbayev himself resigned from his position as President.

22 The Light Rail Transit (LRT) project is a public transportation system designed to reduce increasing traffic congestion and reduce gas emissions in the capital. It was initially supposed to be completed for the Expo in 2017 has become a symbol of corruption standing ostensibly for all to see in the capital city. https://www.rferl.org/a/ex-dir ector-of-kazakh-transit-company-placed-on-interpol-wanted-list/30094464.html, Accessed 10 November 2021. 23 https://tengrinews.kz/kazakhstan_news/tokaev-raskritikoval-proekt-lrt-v-stolitse373862/, Accessed 10 November 2021. 24 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sPxpzW3jiRg, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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Another exception is when President Tokayev criticized the quality of the roads on his Twitter account on April 12, 2021, claiming that the state budget was being ineffectively spent on the construction and repair of the roads.25 Four days after President Tokayev’s tweet, Ulan Alipov, ex-Chairman of the Board of the national company “KazAvtoZhol”, was dismissed together with some his other close subordinates.26 Following his dismissal, Alipov has not held office in any state institutions. In the following section, I will present critiques that were not formulated by officials but that are related to stories that made it to the media, created scandals, generated popular discontent and criticism and eventually led to the dismissal of certain officials. These cases either involve a violation of the law or a violation of an ethical code of conduct. As I will discuss below, the leak of information might be intentional or accidental. Given that the collection and dissemination of information are done rather covertly, it is quasi-impossible to determine the sources of leaks. One observation is that the leaking of compromising material rarely concerns high-ranked central government officials and those who have been dismissed after being compromised are mostly regional officials. Scandals and Dismissals of Low-Rank Officials In the post-Soviet context, the exposure of stories that lead to public discreditation can be closely connected to kompromat, the Russian abbreviation of “compromising material”. Ledeneva (2006) provides the most comprehensive definition, which is “discrediting information that can be collected, stored, traded, or used strategically across all domains: political, electoral, legal, professional, judicial, media, or business” (Ledeneva, 2006, p. 58). Being widely used in post-Soviet politics and the media of since the 1990s, many researchers claim that kompromat has its origin in the Soviet Union (Ledeneva, 2018; Gorlizki, 2013; Markowitz, 2017; Oates, 2019; Pearce, 2015). Specifically, kompromat can be either created or gathered (Pearce, 2015, pp. 1163–1165), can be “genuine, fabricated, exaggerated or some combination of the three”, published or unpublished (Bailey et al., 2018, p. 435), and can target either an individual 25 https://ru.sputnik.kz/regions/20210412/16775819/tokaev-kritika-kachestvodorog-kazakhstan.html, Accessed 10 November 2021. 26 http://vecher.kz/prezident-rasporyadilsya-uvolit-ryad-chinovnikov-iz-za-plokhikhdorog-v-strane, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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or an institution (Oates, 2019). Despite the fact that most of the work is done undercover and that “the most powerful instances of kompromat today are undocumented” and are “known for a closed circle of insiders” (Ledeneva, 2006, p. 81), there are examples of the use of such type of kompromat in Russia, Kazakhstan, and Uzbekistan (Markowitz, 2017). One of the functions of kompromat that is visible to the public is the discreditation of political and/or private actors. This kind of kompromat involves the publication of certain information that a target “would find embarrassing or even degrading” (Oates, 2019). According to Darden “individuals who believed that they could be subject to arrest at any time would be more likely to obey orders from above” (2008, p. 47). However, when blackmail becomes insufficient or certain individuals or groups challenge the existing leadership, kompromat files can be released to the public and these individuals “find themselves under close scrutiny or prosecution” (Ledeneva, 2011, p. 7). This is how compliance to state directives is ensured. It appears that monitoring and data collecting remains fairly common in Kazakhstan today. A recent large-scale investigation conducted by the Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project (OCCRP), a consortium of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and journalists from around the globe, revealed in 2021 that a spyware called Pegasus, produced by Israeli firm called NSO, and which is only sold to governments, had been used to spy on the telephones of possibly thousands of politicians, powerful business individuals, and activists. So far, Pegasus’ presence has been recorded in only 10 countries and Kazakhstan is among them. As of November 2021, the OCCRP managed to identify 92 individuals (Abramov & Patrucic, 2021) among the nearly 20,000 Kazakhstani phone numbers found in the database. Being on the list does not provide assurance that the person’s phone was hacked but that they were of interest to the NSO Group client, which is very likely to be the Kazakhstani government. The people targeted represent some obvious actors such as opposition leader in exile Mukhtar Ablyazov who founded the Democratic Movement of Kazakhstan, which is now banned in Kazakhstan. However, most people were among the country’s top political and economic actors such as former Prime Minister Bakytzhan Sagintayev, the then Prime Minister Askar Mamin, and even current President Kassym Jomart-Tokayev. Finally, the list contains only a handful of journalists and local and foreign activists, which contrasts with other countries’ lists where activists were the main targets, not serving politicians. The presence

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of people so close to the circle of power on the list is an indicator that some central actors want to ensure of the loyalty of their closest collaborators. Yet, the people who have been targeted by media campaigns are not found among the top leadership but at lower echelons of power. Moreover, some of the stories created public outrage were often the results of unintended self-sabotage due to social media posts made by the actors themselves. The case of Gabidulla Abdrakhimov—the then Akim of Shymkent in July 2019 is a good example of self-sabotage. On July 23, 2019, during a visit in London, Abdrakhimov uploaded a video on his Instagram account where he is standing in front of the Ritz-Carlton hotel and stating that every Kazakhstani should work and travel abroad. He also expressed his gratitude to the elder generation and Elbasy. Following his publication, Abdrakhimov was subjected to criticism by the public and, eventually, by the President’s Chief of Staff Kusherbayev who criticized his extravagant behavior.27 Following this, Abdrakhimov was dismissed from his office on July 30, 2019, by a decree issued by President Tokayev. Yet, two months after his dismissal, Abdrakhimov was appointed the Counselor of the Prime Minister. In January 2021, he became the Vice-Minister of Culture and Sport.28 Another case of self-discreditation concerns Aibatyr Zhumagulov, the ex-Chairman of the Board of Social Health Insurance Fund and his wife Gulbarshyn Zairova who had been continuously subjected to investigations from journalists for posting pictures and telling stories about her family’s lavish lifestyle on Instagram. On July 8, 2020, she announced on Instagram that her husband had offered her a twelfth car, a post which gathered the public’s attention. Following this, Zhumagulov, was criticized by President Tokayev for being too glamorous. Specifically, on July 10, 2020, during a government meeting, Tokayev said “Recently, there has been a lot of talk about the Board of Social Health Insurance Fund. It seems to me that it is necessary to put a more businesslike and less glamorous person there to stop all sorts of rumors and gossip around this fund. Of course, in general, the government should analyze the activities 27 In 2019, photos of Abdrakhimov and his alleged young second wife vacationing on a luxury yacht also generated a lot of criticism. https://365info.kz/2019/03/akima-shy mkenta-zastukali-na-yahte-s-tokal, Accessed 10 November 2021. 28 https://online.zakon.kz/document/?doc_id=30103925&pos=10;18#pos=10;18, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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of the fund as such. How successful he is, how effective he is”. Following Tokayev’s comments, on July 10, 2020, Zhumagulov was dismissed from his office. After his dismissal, Zhumagulov has not held office in state structures.29 Other cases involve low-rank individuals who have been caught redhanded in some sort of compromising situations. For instance, on April 17, 2020, an unknown Instagram user uploaded a video of Zhanbolat Ziadin, the then Head of Almaty Criminal Police Department driving luxury vehicles and violating multiple violations traffic rules. Ziadin was dismissed a day after that leak.30 On two occasions in December 2020 and March 2021, unknown Instagram users published videos of Miras Zhumagulov, the then Head of Department of Culture of the Eastern Kazakhstan Oblast, physically fighting with other men in restaurants in the city of Oskemen. He was removed from his position in April 2021.31 Other cases involved the violation of quarantine rules by public officials, especially, their time spent in saunas. Dinmukhamed Seitov, the then Chairman of the Court of Kerbulak District of the Almaty region and Sayan Shilgimbayev—the then Attorney of Panfilov District of Almaty Oblast were both filmed relaxing with friends and being drunk in a sauna at a time when social gatherings were strictly prohibited. Following the publication of the video, the General Prosecutor’s Office initiated an investigation, which resulted in the dismissal of both Seitov and Shilgimbayev from their respective offices.32 A similar case implicated five top representatives of the Anticorruption Agency of the Akmola region who were caught in a sauna during the quarantine. On April 18, 2020, the regional police officers filmed a video of Anticorruption Service employees in the sauna during the state-wide quarantine. In the video that shows the officials half-naked, the Head of the Investigation Directorate Turgabekov tries to bargain with police

29 https://online.zakon.kz/Document/?doc_id=35368208&pos=1;11#pos=1;11, Accessed 10 November 2021. 30 https://ru.sputnik.kz/incidents/20200417/13724384/video-kortezh-politseyskyi.

html?_ga=2.120089423.614442410.1621937727-270400356.1617121001, Accessed 10 November 2021. 31 https://tengrinews.kz/kazakhstan_news/oskandalivshegosya-chinovnika-v-vko-uvo lili-434554/, Accessed 10 November 2021. 32 https://tengrinews.kz/kazakhstan_news/uvolen-prokuror-skandalnogo-video-saunealmatinskoy-oblasti-402892/, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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officers by saying “We need to relax a little bit. We just went out for the first time in a month. Let’s solve this problem between ourselves”. Two days after the publication of the video, the Chair of the Anticorruption Agency reported that all five civil servants were dismissed without the right to hold office in any of government structure in future.33 In the cases discussed here, it is unclear who released the videos and for what purpose but their actions resulted in the dismissal of the faulty individuals. Unlike high-ranking officials who get to bear very harsh public criticism but stay in position, low-raking officials are more easily dismissed. We can also question whether the police had been tipped about the unlawful officials’ behavior by some individuals with a specific agenda. Perhaps these episodes were staged by competitors eager to discredit their colleagues and/or superiors. One thing is certain, however. Social media has become a tool to criticize and expose politicians’ and officials’ fault lines. In the next section, I will discuss some cases which suggest that citizens might using social media to anonymously criticize or ridicule local leadership.

Conclusion: The Democratization of Shaming? Even though the authorities have also gotten hold of some of the online space by using alleged independent bloggers to undermine or tone down some embarrassing or shocking truths (Lewis, 2016) such as the killing of sixteen striking oil workers in Zhanaozen in 2011, it appears that the opening of the media landscape and easy Internet access space has created new avenues for simple citizens to anonymously criticize politicians and hold them accountable. As Shelekpayev (2020) suggested, vanishing political freedoms compelled people to resort to uyat to articulate their own identity around issues of honor and shame, including political ones. The accessibility of information and the rapid diffusion of content via social media inevitably enables citizens to do so. However, these tools are also likely to be used by politicians to discredit their opponents. Once considered depoliticized and under strict government surveillance (Anceschi, 2015), the Kaznet (short form for Kazakhstani Internet), might be undergoing a transformation that can enable some

33 https://liter.kz/pyatero-sotrudnikov-departamenta-antikorrupczionnoj-sluzhby-uvo leny-za-otdyh-v-bane/, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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form of emancipation or at least, provide avenues for criticism (Agnola & Wood, 2022). In November 2021, a series of bizarre, and somewhat comical videos, started circulating on social media and gained a lot of visibility on the. The videos show the same group of shirtless “African men” (specific country unknown) dancing and singing and addressing messages to different Kazakhstani akims. The first to be targeted was the akim of the city of Oskemen in East Kazakhstan. The group of shirtless black men is saying: “Zhaksylyk Omar is the best akim!” Then one of the men kisses the akim’s photo and the group starts dancing together. The video went viral on Instagram. The akim of Semey, Bakytzhan Bayakhmetov, was also targeted and the same group of men praised him for having “the most beautiful mustache”, while dancing around Bayakhmetov’s portrait. A few days later, the akim of Taraz, Yerzhan Zhilikbayev, was named “the most beautiful akim”. The group also danced for the akim of the city of Aktobe, Askhat Shakharov to wish him Happy Birthday.34 Shakharov reportedly threatened to sue the person who ordered the video to be made.35 The videos are not especially insulting but their bizarre nature and somewhat homoerotic character certainly make the targets uncomfortable in a country where heteronormativity is predominant and people in position of authority are used to be addressed with the utmost respect. It is still unknown who has commissioned those videos but what we know is that this group of African men make a business of recording all sorts of videos upon request. Their Instagram page entitled Privet iz Afriki (Hello from Africa) is filled with dozens of videos recorded for a Russianspeaking public. The production of any video costs 4000 rubles (around 56 $USD). Most of them are birthday wishes to private individuals but some of them, like in the case of Kazakhstan, definitely have a political tone. On November 13, 2021, the group itself reposted a headline from one of the main online newspapers in Kazakhstan, Tengri News which had the following title (in Russian) “Hello from Africa. Why do half-naked

34 https://tengrinews.kz/kazakhstan_news/privet-afriki-polugolyie-mujchinyi-pozdravly ayut-453758/?fbclid=IwAR0rhAIp0J6ZTHlRLWoRjrzxRxqPKvT75WMEFbEpguwwuT SLWdMSwyqMSng, Accessed 10 November 2021. 35 https://www.kazpravda.kz/news/obshchestvo/akim-aktobe-nameren-suditsya-iz-zavideo-ot-afrikantsev, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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men are congratulating Kazakhstani akims?”36 The group mentioned that they produce videos on request and that it was not their intention to insult anyone. Whereas the videos mentioned above have a somewhat humorous tone and gently ridicule akims on no particular issues, others definitely touch upon current political problems that have generated strong discontent recently. For instance, on October 17, 2021, one of the videos from the group Privet iz Afriki shows the men holding a sign where it is written “Don’t touch Malyi Taldikol”.37 It refers to a lake called Malyi Taldikol which is located on the outskirts of the capital Nur-Sultan. The lake is currently being dried out to make way to new housing complexes, a move that has angered the capital’s residents since it will negatively affect the local wildlife. Similarly, the akim of Aktau, Nurdaulet Kilybai, was targeted for his disastrous urban planning. In a video from Privet iz Afriki released on November 1, 2021, the same men are holding a sign which reads “Thanks for the tulips, Nurdaulet Kilybai!”38 It refers to the city’s decision to plant hundreds of plastic tulips in the streets of Aktau in the summer of 2021 at the cost of $US 35,000. This action was not only deemed unesthetic and absurd but also a serious waste of tax payers’ money since the plastic tulips soon melted under the southern heat.39 It is unclear who is commissioning those videos that target Kazakhstan’s akims but it is possible that they are made at the request of citizens, given their low cost. It would represent an easy, cheap, riskfree way for citizens to criticize the work of their local administration. There is also a possibility that the videos are commissioned by local political actors to discredit their opponents. However, regional and city akims are powerful actors in Kazakhstan as they hold significant executive power, granted by the President himself and it takes more than a

36 https://tengrinews.kz/kazakhstan_news/privet-afriki-polugolyie-mujchinyi-pozdravly ayut-453758/?fbclid=IwAR0rhAIp0J6ZTHlRLWoRjrzxRxqPKvT75WMEFbEpguwwuT SLWdMSwyqMSng, Accessed 10 November 2021. 37 https://newtimes.kz/obshchestvo/138184-ne-trogaite-malyi-taldykol-tantsuius hchie-afrikantsy-zapisali-video-o-zasypke-ozera, Accessed 10 November 2021. 38 https://www.inaktau.kz/news/3244886/afrikancy-poblagodarili-akima-aktau-za-tul pany, Accessed 10 November 2021. 39 https://eurasianet.org/plastic-flowers-wilt-in-kazakhstans-latest-spending-scandal, Accessed 10 November 2021.

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few awkward embarrassing clips to remove them from office. The recent reform in Kazakhstan allowed citizens to elect municipal akims for the first time in July 2021 but the results revealed that the political landscape has remained relatively unchanged and dominated by the Nur-Otan party. Moreover, according to a survey conducted among 1200 residents, an important portion of the population (45%) were unaware that elections of rural akims have been introduced in the country and the voting turn-out was very low.40 Given the authoritarian context and the control of media in Kazakhstan, it remains very difficult, and even dangerous, to formulate critique against the government, especially, toward the most powerful actors. Indeed, even if high-rank politicians such as Ministers and low-rank officials can be criticized publicly, the top players are rarely the object of onward criticism. As evidence presented in this chapter shows, criticism of government representatives appears to be carefully crafted by the top leadership and intended to strengthen the political hierarchy as well as give a sense of accountability to the public in the absence of genuine electoral competition and limited freedom of expression. In contrast, smaller political players are discredited more discreetly, and the public outing is more likely to result in their dismissal. Whether this form of public shaming is performed by citizens or local competitors is unclear but it reveals that in the Kazakhstani context, criticism of the most powerful is off-limits and can only target minor players. Unlike in the field of international relations where “Naming and shaming” seems to be counter-productive and provoke backlashes, it seems relatively efficient in the Kazakhstani context, where local traditions of uyat and hierarchical power relations intersect. Acknowledgements The author would like to acknowledge the research contribution of Alisher Shariyazdanov who worked as a research assistant under contract for this writing project.

40 https://masa.media/ru/site/reformy-issledovanie?fbclid=IwAR0I51_I4fLmQsaXGrF vV36ONZIGeV-5vzWMk5idqgI52zcuZQFNGk1biEA, Accessed 26 November 2021.

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Index

A Authoritarianism, 157

C Children/Youth, 5, 6, 9, 24–38, 45, 51, 55, 56, 61, 62, 69, 94, 95, 98–101, 105, 107, 109–113, 118, 126, 127, 131, 135, 159 Conservatism, 8, 139

D Deviance, 129, 139 Domestic violence, 54, 98

E Elite, 49, 154, 155, 157 Emancipation, 98, 168

F Freedom, 16–19, 21, 50, 51, 55, 58, 98, 155

G Gender roles, 32, 36, 37, 52 Grandparents, 10, 94, 95, 99, 101, 102, 111 Guilt, 1, 2, 9, 15–19, 21, 95, 109, 153

H Harris, Colette, 4, 119, 128, 129 Hegemonic femininity, 37 Hegemonic masculinity, 4 Heteronormativity, 2, 4, 135, 137, 168 Hierarchy, 10, 97, 158, 170 Homosexuality, 6, 30

K Kazakh language, 9, 33, 34, 36, 61, 123, 126, 161 Kazakhstan, 2, 4–7, 9, 10, 20, 23, 24, 29, 30, 43–56, 58, 59, 61, 62, 67, 82, 83, 94, 118, 120–126, 129, 132–134, 137–140, 152,

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2022 H. Thibault and J.-F. Caron (eds.), Uyat and the Culture of Shame in Central Asia, The Steppe and Beyond: Studies on Central Asia, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-4328-7

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INDEX

154–159, 162, 164, 166, 168–170 kompromat, 10, 163, 164 Kyrgyzstan, 2, 4–6, 9, 10, 93–98, 107, 130 L Lesbian, 122, 132, 136 M Modesty, 2, 3, 5, 9, 51, 56 Motherhood, 38, 97, 101, 103, 109, 112 N Nationalism, 25, 139 Nazarbayev, Nursultan, 138, 154–156, 158–160, 162 O Obedience, 2, 3, 51, 52, 105 P Parents, 2, 4, 5, 24–26, 28–39, 51, 53, 61, 94, 95, 99–101, 106, 109, 111, 127, 129–131, 135, 136 Patriarchy, 5, 8, 10, 20, 32, 33, 36, 82, 96, 108, 112, 113, 139, 151 Politicians, 152, 153, 156–158, 164, 167, 170 Public shaming, 6, 7, 96, 107, 110, 112, 152, 154, 170 Purity, 9, 44, 59, 76

Q Queer, 9, 118, 120–129, 131, 132, 134–140, 151

R Resistance, 9, 10, 23, 112, 119, 121, 137, 140

S Scandal, 5, 10, 111, 152, 153, 157–159, 163 Sexuality, 2–4, 9, 24–27, 29, 31, 32, 36, 118–120, 122, 125–130, 135, 138 Social media, 5, 6, 8, 24, 46, 59, 67, 98, 118, 122, 123, 151, 152, 165, 167, 168 Social pressure, 48, 51, 56, 64, 67, 140 Soviet norms, 7

T Tajikistan, 4–6, 49, 96, 119 Tradition, 2–4, 7, 8, 10, 25, 37, 43, 44, 49, 50, 52–56, 62, 67, 69, 82, 83, 95, 96, 102, 107, 111–113, 121, 138, 152, 170

U Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), 5, 7, 82, 153 Uyatman/Uyatmen, 8, 57, 59, 120, 121, 123 Uzbekistan, 6, 49, 82, 164