How the Kazakh Steppe Maintained the Soviet Empire 

While racing across the steppe between Almaty and Karaganda on the overnight train, I tried to imagine those condemned to serving in the labour camps across the landscape being transported on a similar route. I found this much easier done, however, when standing in the middle of the steppe, having travelled by car on a snow-scorched road cutting through a vast expanse of nothingness. No hills ornamented the border between sky and land, low houses and rough hounds being the only evidence of life. The exposed landscape offered no shelter from the cutting wind and snow, so we stood bundled up but burned by the harsh weather. Being outside was hard for even a few minutes, let alone days of hard labour. At least our taxi driver offered to wait and pick us up after visiting the museum we were there to see; he made it clear no one else would find any reason to drive out to the middle of nowhere in this weather.

The steppe is certainly not a scarce resource, Kazakhstan being the country with the largest expanse of dry steppe. However, it is still a valuable historical site, the land etched deeply with a Soviet history that still looms large over Kazakh identity today. This land that can sustain only the hardiest of living beings is the site of the fruitful propagation of one of the most powerful empires in history. The Soviet Empire used this blank space, razing the land of nomads after brutal collectivisation, to support nuclear and cosmonautic innovation. Fittingly, the steppe’s role in maintaining Soviet power represented both sides of the empire as it was also home to a huge network of Gulag labour camps. Therefore, how the Soviet empire maintained its reputation can be traced back to the Kazakh steppe.

The city of Karaganda echoes with Soviet history. The capital of Karaganda Oblast, its steppe has been home to some of the most prolific Soviet scientific activity. The nuclear test site in Semipalatinsk, known as the Polygon, has been used for Soviet nuclear weapon testing since 1949, dividing its test area into slices in which it studies the impact of nuclear activity on different materials, living and dead. Despite the danger of entering such an area, our guide tells us that the site is not barred off at all, possibly making it the only nuclear site that takes walk-ins. For the people of Karaganda, it is impossible to be in the dark about the Polygon: the debris of these tests has littered the Karaganda steppe, some of which is proudly displayed in the Ecological Museum. Our guide insisted it was cleaned and thus safe to hold, and although I was not aware that this was possible, I obliged and held a massive piece of glass he had found on one of his expeditions into the steppe. He explains that finding this refuse was considered cool at school, and people would collect it and show it off. I suppose he never broke that habit.

This nuclear awareness has shaped the identity of the city. Aside from the ecological museum, the city is packed with businesses, shops and restaurants brandishing "eco" as a badge of identity. Even the stolovaya, which are usually pretty reliable in their old-fashioned style, is branded with a green leaf logo. Our guide at the Ecological Museum explained how the city is a hub for ecological activity. The oblast is rich in raw materials and endangered animals, but aside from this, the legacy of nuclear activity has raised many people’s awareness of the impact of fossil fuels and nuclear tests on the environment. The museum is also an NGO for research into how the landscape reacts to its extraordinary circumstances, hosting scientists with varied interests in the life of the steppe. Our guide was personally fascinated by the Saiga antelope, but he and his colleagues often took trips out into the steppe to observe the effect of scientific activity on the environment.

However, the close ties with atomic science have not been welcomed with open arms. Our guide told us how scared the people of Karaganda had grown of nuclear energy. No one wants more nuclear power plants to be built, so the museum is aimed at educating schoolchildren about the importance of clean energy and the safety of the atom. He explains that, for the environment’s sake, it is important for local people to let go of their fears, partially a hangover from the Chernobyl disaster, and embrace the power of the atom. It all seems rather in vain, as although October’s referendum on building another nuclear plant resulted in favour, our guide told us that no one he had talked to in the oblast was positive about it. Because of this, he was doubtful about the results’ legitimacy; whether or not this is warranted, it certainly shows the strong anti-atom sentiment that he is surrounded by. The grip of Soviet trauma has clearly not loosened with time.

Nuclear science is not the only Soviet science gripping Karaganda. Although the city of Baikonur is more than 1000km away from Karaganda, its cosmonautic legacy has not failed to leave its mark on the city. Right next to his nuclear litter, our guide showed us his impressive collection of space junk that had showered the region during launches. He also tells us about his experiences watching the launches, both as a child and an adult. “Ask anyone from around here” he says, “and they will tell you the weather changes when they launch.” This physical evidence of Soviet advancement makes it impossible to ignore the activity in this neighbouring town, despite Baikonur being closed to visitors. Of course, this science is not only Soviet, and watching launches is still an exciting prospect for the scientists working at the museum, but Russia’s tight grip over the region and its Soviet legacy continues to be a reminder of the empires’ claim to Kazakh land.  

The steppe was also the site of a huge network of labour camps called the Karlags (Karaganda Gulag). One scientist, Alexander Chizhevsky, invented an air-ionising chandelier that cleaned the air for the inmates who worked in the Karaganda mine. Many scientists, once released, had nowhere else to go and stayed in Karaganda, resulting in Karaganda having a strong scientific legacy and a prestigious medical university to this day.

Although many of the camp buildings themselves have been wiped from the steppe, due to harsh weather or lack of maintenance, the KARLAG and Alzhir museum have preserved the history of the imprisoned. The KARLAG museum makes use of the Soviet administrative building, complete with its red star, housing exhibits and installations recreating life in the camps. The buildings surrounding it, in which the people of Dolinka live, are pointed out to us as the old mess halls and dorms for staff. The building itself was constructed by prisoners, as was the Semipalatinsk Polygon. These camps did not only serve to support the Soviet ideology and culture of fear but sustained much of the Soviet scientific development. Although the barracks have been wiped from the steppe, much of the physical and administrative infrastructure remains and has become a part of everyday life for the people of Dolinka, not allowing the wound of this tragedy to heal.

The unassuming steppe must not be underestimated. The Soviet empire was maintained as much on the Kazakh steppe as in Moscow: although Russia dominates Soviet studies, without its constituent parts it could not have sustained itself. Karaganda oblast is one example among many of the way in which the wound of Soviet imperialism, development, and oppression remains open on the Kazakh steppe. Considering this past is key to understanding how modern Kazakhs think about their surroundings and their politics.