Kyrgyz films of Kazakh festival            

Despite being Turkic nations, settled along the shores of the Caspian Sea, and once lived together within the Soviet Union, it is regrettable how little we truly know or understand about Central Asia. Yes, our curiosity and kinship are undeniable, we feel affection because we share the same roots, but our familiarity with the culinary traditions of other Turkic cultures is no deeper than our wintertime habit of eating Georgian khinkali. The same is true for their cinema and broader culture, which we have yet to explore in any meaningful way. Because that vast geography conceals a wealth of cultural treasures still waiting to be uncovered.

As a step toward discovering that hidden treasure, I would like to talk about two Kyrgyz films that competed at the 10th Baiqonyr Film Festival in Almaty, Kazakhstan, where I took part as the chairperson of the NETPAC (Network for the Promotion of Asian Cinema) jury. One reason for this choice is the special sense of kinship I feel toward Kyrgyzstan — it was the first foreign country I visited, and I lived there for a while and called home — and the other is my admiration for the country’s unwavering cinematic spirit and movement, which thrives regardless of the challenges it faces.

Before moving on to the films themselves, it is worth taking a brief look at Kyrgyzstan’s film policy. According to akchabar.kg, “In 2025, the state allocated more than 500 million Kyrgyz som (equivalent to 9,718,293 Azerbaijani manat) for film production. This funding was used for the production of TV series, animation films, and festival films.” By contrast, five years ago, this figure was only 30 million som.

Overall, in a country with a population of 7.3 million that produced around 52 feature films between 2020 and 2024, it’s impossible not to see this figure as a success for such a market. These numbers prove that the country has a continuous cinematic tradition, a legacy that finds fresh expression in the works of its emerging filmmakers.

The first film I’d like to talk about is Mother by Bayaman Asanaliev. This 12-minute documentary, built entirely on observation, features the director’s own mother as its central character. The title is well chosen in many respects, since the viewer is never quite sure which “mother” the film is about — the director’s mother, or women who have just given birth and become mothers themselves. The main character is a gynecologist, and over the course of twelve minutes we witness her demanding work and the unwavering smile that never fades despite the hardships. Rated “18+,” Mother portrays, with unflinching honesty, the pain, labor, and raw intensity of childbirth.

The film is presented as it is — unembellished, devoid of aesthetic or cinematic ornamentation. Inevitably, in such a film we see women in their most intimate and vulnerable moments. What makes it even more remarkably, this process — often treated as taboo across much of the world — is filmed by a 25-year-old man.  In truth, he merely observes his mother at work through the camera. It is a man’s gaze upon womanhood —to celebrate the act of elevating motherhood and having the courage to look directly at the naked truth of a woman’s suffering.

Mother is a process-driven film. It shows how the doctor prepares for her work, examines her patients, and what happens inside the building. It teaches even viewers unfamiliar with childbirth through real, unfiltered footage. This is precisely why the camera is not static. For instance, when a baby is born, the moving camera shifts from wide shots to close-ups. It is noticeable that a tripod is absent. Just as the process itself is intense and tense, the film’s dynamics adapt accordingly.

After the daytime and nighttime vistas of my beloved Bishkek and the Ala-Too mountains, the northern branch of the Tien Shan, we are greeted by the emergency service vehicle. From there, the film is divided precisely into three parts: the first, a Caesarean birth accompanied by conflict; second, a complication faced by the mother as the fetus presses against her cervix from the inside. The main character and the doctor delivering the news hope that there will be no premature birth and that the cervix will not tear. For another doctor, managing the labor of an adult woman proves arduous, prompting her to seek assistance from our central character. Thus, films “rising pressure” moments commence. As American sociologist Barbara Katz Rothman says, “Birth is not only about making babies. Birth is about making mothers–strong, competent, capable mothers who trust themselves and know their inner strength.” This segment of the film serves as a vivid illustration of that aforementioned quote.

Indeed, I cannot recall a film that has depicted childbirth — the pinnacle of creation — in such a realistic way. As local saying goes, “No matter with whom you are, power and effort rest with the one bringing life into the world.” Yet childbirth is also a “community” consciously formed by women. In this difficult process, six women come together: one braids the hair of the woman preparing to give birth, the other ties it back, and they even exchange jokes. This is a “a country of creation by women”. What is most extraordinary, however, is that the person patiently capturing these painful moments on camera is a male director. Famous footages also show that most men faint while participating in childbirth or cannot tolerate even the lowest dose of a pain similar to labor administered electrically. Yet the filmmaker not only maintains his composure but conveys the intensity of the pain with profound sensitivity.

Nasreddin Tusi (also known as Nasir al-Din Tusi) says that a child’s love for a mother is intentional whereas a mother’s love for her child is innate. In this scene, you fully grasp the meaning of that statement. But what is most striking is that the woman, the most emotional of beings, confirms her womanhood here as well. At 12:05, the mother of the newborn is discussing: should the birth date be recorded as March 10 or March 11? She chooses the 11th, because she lost her father on March 10.

Such details elevate the film beyond a mere observational exercise, giving it vital, human elements and revealing the core of feminine nature. Having gone through such a difficult process, the woman now makes you laugh with her question, makes decisions, speaks, and even make you think. This is the woman herself: ten minutes ago, she screamed; now, she decides.

In the film’s third segment, the third child comes into the world. A young mother, struggling to hold her newborn, and another mother, anxious outside because her daughter is in labor. Retaining these dialogues in the film establishes an intimate bridge between the audience and the unfolding events.

It is worth noting a particular detail: while the director portrays the weight and raw reality of childbirth, the mothers’ faces remain unseen, and the birth is never captured in close-up. This can be seen as the director’s attempt to preserve the sacredness of the birth, or as a considered choice made with the viewer’s reflection and sensitivity in mind.

The film concludes with the protagonist being sent to rest. The mission has been successfully completed. The protagonist reveals her personal connection with the director when she turns to the person behind the camera and says, “Don’t film me like this, son!”

The film ends with the faces of the three newborns.

Prior to its screening at the Baigonyr Festival, Bayaman Asanaliev’s Mother had already participated at the Vienna International Short Film Festival (Vienna Shorts) and the Nomad Film Festival. The entire film was shot in just three hours, though the successful take came on the third attempt, and the final cut was only achieved after seventy rounds of editing. According to Bayaman, one of the recorded sequences featured a woman in a coma. However, since that mother passed away, he chose not to include her scenes in the film.

The second film I want to discuss is Golden fish by Aijamal Mirbek kyzy, a young director and student at Kyrgyz-Turkish Manas University. Little Sezim, who has no family other than her father, loses him at sea. When the villagers try to find a way to tell the girl about the tragedy, the fishes help them. They give Sezim a jar containing a golden fish, telling her that her father has been transformed into the fish. Although the opening scene imbues the events with a sense of forcible poetry, the story itself is deeply touching.

Through small details showing the child’s longing for his father, his interaction with him, and the way his friends and the entire village join in this fairy tale to support Sezim, the director masterfully highlights the profound importance of a father’s presence in a child’s life.

Considering that fish are usually “caught” or “given as gifts,” they also serve as a metaphor for sacrifice, suffering, or the value of transformation. A fish swimming in water symbolizes the flow of life, the passage of time, or the persistence of existence. In this film, the fish embodies precisely the continuity of life itself. Furthermore, the fish in the jar represents both the father’s freedom and little Sezim’s moral sacrifice.

In its visual approach, the film makes successful use of natural light and Kyrgyz national elements (cinematographer: Nurbek Azamatolu; art director: Nargiza Mamatkulova). Moreover, the young protagonist’s acceptance of reality—the process of growing up—is conveyed more through imagery than through dialogue.

At the film’s conclusion, Sezim decides that her father has grown tired of swimming in the small jar and he belongs in Issyk-Kul. The audience never witnesses whether she actually releases the fish—her father—into the lake. Yet this is secondary. What truly matters is her discovery of courage within herself. Golden Fish is emotionally powerful and, although its dialogues are sincere, the somewhat scattered main narrative leaves certain questions unanswered for the viewer.

Working with animals and children is considered one of the most challenging aspects of filmmaking. Yet the young female director succeeds in handling such a sensitive subject with child actors. It is precisely for this reason that the film earned “Best Director” in the “International Short Films” category at the X Baiqonyr Film Festival.

Much like Mother, Golden Fish was also made on a very limited budget. Both films convey the same message: to become a director, one’s first project does not require a starting budget of 10,000 manats. For aspiring young filmmakers finding their voice, the essential task is to convey much within a limited space, with a minimal crew, and in a brief span of time.

The Golden Fish team comprises six members, whereas Mother was made by no more than four. Yet in both films, the teams succeeded in fully realizing their creative potential.

Both films, each under 12 minutes in length, demonstrate that Kyrgyz cinema is worth exploring and study. They truly capture the spirit of nomadic existence, an intimate connection with nature, and the essence and soul of Central Asia and Turkic heritage with impressive authenticity.

Afag Yusifli