Postcards from Stanland

by David H. Mould

  What is odder, Koch adds, is not the design of the Palace of Peace and Accord but the fact that it exists in a country where restrictions on religious freedom have been increasing. Although Kazakhstan portrays itself as a secular Muslim country and freedom of religion is protected by the constitution, proselytizing and missionary work are forbidden and so-called fringe groups—from fundamentalist Muslims to Jehovah’s Witnesses and Hare Krishna—have complained of harassment, including police raids on places of worship. The government increased surveillance of Muslim sects and banned prayer rooms in public buildings after suicide bombings in the western oil cities of Aktobe and Atyrau. In 2011, a new law set stringent new criteria for the registration of religious denominations and faith-based civic associations, raising minimum membership thresholds, requiring official review of religious literature, and tightening guidelines for clergy training. In a year, the number of officially recognized faiths dropped from forty-six to seventeen. The Western media, writes Koch, have failed “to scrutinize the issue of religious intolerance—instead concentrating on the eccentricity of the Pyramid project.”15

  The left bank is bisected by a broad pedestrian mall. At one end, on the bank of the Ishim River, close to the Pyramid, is the presidential palace—the Ak Orda (White House), its blue-and-gold dome topped with a golden spire. There’s more gold inside in the majestic halls used for state and ceremonial events, including the pessimistically named Hall of Extended Negotiations. Twenty-one types of marble were used for the floor patterns. According to the palace website, “Metaphorically, it reflects a steppe civilization in the mirror of the European culture, a synthesis of arts of the planet’s largest continent—Eurasia.” I have no idea what that means, but it’s typical of the lyrical descriptions of most of Astana’s new buildings.

  FIGURE 8.3 Ak Orda presidential palace, Astana (photo by Natalie Koch)

  The Nur Astana mosque is the largest in Central Asia, with room for five thousand worshippers inside and another two thousand outside (presumably only in summer). The glass, concrete and granite structure is 40 meters (131 feet) high, symbolizing the age of the Prophet Muhammad when he received the revelations; the minarets are 63 meters (207 feet) high, the age of Muhammad when he died. Unlike other left-bank buildings, the government did not pay for construction. The mosque was a gift from the Emir of Qatar.

  At the other end of the mall is a monument to consumerism. Foster’s other major architectural contribution, Khan Shatyr, has been described as “the largest tent in the world.” To compare it to something you can buy from an upscale outfitter or even to a large marquee is a gross understatement. The needle-tipped structure, 500 feet tall and with a floor area the size of ten football stadiums, is designed to evoke the traditional nomadic dwelling, the yurt. It leans sideways, as if blown by the wind from the steppe. Khan Shatyr is constructed from three translucent layers of a fabric called ethylene tetrafluoroethylene suspended on a network of cables strung from a central spire. The transparent material allows sunlight through, which, in conjunction with air heating and cooling systems, is designed to maintain an internal temperature of 15–30 Celsius (59–86 Fahrenheit) in the main space and 19–24 Celsius (66–75 Fahrenheit) in the retail units.

  FIGURE 8.4 Nur Astana Mosque, Astana (photo by Natalie Koch)

  FIGURE 8.5 Khan Shatyr, Astana (photo by Natalie Koch)

  Khan Shatyr roughly translates as the tent of the khan, or king, but it’s all about business and entertainment, not politics. Koch admits that in this case, the “utopian or theme-park theme is unavoidable.”16 Underneath the tent is a huge shopping mall with squares and cobbled streets, movie theaters, a botanical garden, boating river, mini-golf, roller coaster, water park, and indoor beach resort, with sand, palm trees, and tropical plants shipped in from the Maldives. If Dubai can have its indoor ski slope, then Astana deserves its tropical beach.

  Our left-bank tour is almost done. We’ve covered politics (Ak Orda), religion (Palace of Peace and Accord and Nur Astana Mosque), and commerce (Khan Shatyr). What’s left, apart from government buildings, exhibition halls, museums, malls, and high-rise apartment blocks? Education—and the showpiece is the new Nazarbayev University.

  University Dreamland

  Most universities in Central Asia I’ve visited since the mid-1990s are in some state of disrepair—from the curriculum and academic management to the facilities and classrooms. On the outside at least, universities in Astana look in better shape. ENU has new, well-maintained academic buildings. Visitors to the glavni corpus enter through a huge foyer, leading to a museum on the history of Turkic languages and a large auditorium used for political rallies and public events.

  ENU is ostentatious, but Nazarbayev University, the president’s pet project, is almost surreal. I’d read about the heavy investment in construction and the contracts with leading universities in the United States, the UK, and Asia, but nothing prepared me for the view from the entrance portico. A long, wide mall, with fountains, palm trees, and carefully manicured shrubs, all enclosed under a huge atrium (palm trees don’t do too well in an Astana winter). Lining the atrium are five-story blocks, each reserved for one of the international partners. When Koch showed pictures of the university’s interior to focus groups in Almaty, most participants thought it was a shopping mall.

  Why is Kazakhstan spending millions on Nazarbayev University when facilities and conditions at other universities are lacking, when teachers have to take two or three jobs to make ends meet, when there’s no paper for the printer in the dean’s office and sometimes no chalk for the chalkboard? It’s about creating world-class education, of course, to provide the workforce for business and government. But it’s also about Kazakhstan’s image on the world stage.

  Location is everything, and Nazarbayev University is the first complex you pass when you drive in on the airport road. I approached the university from the other direction on the Number 10 bus. Workers were planting flats of flowers in the newly cultivated beds. Vehicles rolled up for the start of the workday—Mercedes, BMWs, and SUVs, disgorging well-dressed administrators. A luxury bus arrived with what I assumed (by their more casual dress, balding heads, and laptops) were foreign faculty, bused in from the prestigious Highville apartment complex in the new city.

  Will the investment succeed? Of course it will. The university has the president’s name on it, so anything short of success is unthinkable. To help fund the project, money was diverted from what many in higher education agree had been one of Kazakhstan’s success stories—the Boloshak program, which provided scholarships for outstanding students to do their undergraduate education abroad, mostly in the United States and Europe. Now there are no more undergraduate scholarships; only PhDs will be funded, and there won’t be many.

  How well Nazarbayev University creates the “international education on the steppe” experience remains to be seen. Although instruction is in English, most students are from Kazakhstan so they are not exposed to students from other countries and cultures. And the moment they leave the classroom and get on the bus back into the city they’ll be speaking Kazakh and Russian again. Graduates will certainly have a competitive edge in the job market, but creating an elite group at the expense of improving general standards in higher education leaves other talented students, especially in the regions, at a disadvantage.

  Welcome to the Eurasian Education Space

  “Those are English words—but this is not English.” The phrase, which I dutifully attribute to Stephanie, seemed apt when I opened a book presented to me by ENU on my first visit in September 2010. It was a hefty tome titled Nursultan Nazarbayev and the Eurasian Education Space, published to mark the country’s advances and investments in higher education in the post-Soviet era and a higher education conference at ENU.

  The introduction claims that Kazakhstan’s trilingual policy in higher education (teaching in Kazakh, Russian, and English) has helped the country advance economically and promoted peace. There’s some truth to
that. However, if this book is any guide, the English part of trilingualism has still some way to go. Let’s start with the title. Russian speakers often translate prostranstvo as space, but in this context it sounds silly; “sphere” is better. Not as silly, however, as the captions to the photos, most of which featured conference speakers, signing ceremonies, and group shots of participants. There are the “orderly rows of professors of natural sciences faculty,” some of whom look as if they are quietly snoozing. A picture of four unidentified delegates is bizarrely captioned “In the cycle of supporters of the Eurasian integration.” The group shot of university rectors is modestly titled “The memorable photograph.” Then there’s “The Eurasian vector of intercultural dialogue” (the ENU rector with delegates in national dress at the Palace of Peace and Accord). I don’t know about the after-conference parties, but the daily activities apparently got pretty lively. A picture of a mildly enthusiastic standing ovation is titled “The wild audience applauds.” And then there are “the wild discussions behind the scenes of the forum.” I can imagine the conversation. “You know, Erlan, I’m just crazy about this Eurasian integration idea.” “Me too. Another cup of tea?”

  Of course, it’s all too easy to poke fun. This was a significant conference, and the participants discussed serious issues. But if you’re going to avoid the Borat make-benefit-glorious-nation-of-Kazakhstan tag and present the country (and university) as players on the world stage, the least you can do is hire a good English copy editor. This was a costly publication, with high-quality printing and glossy color photos, but the budget apparently did not include a close review of the text, which was probably translated word for word, the editor sometimes opting for the second or third dictionary meaning.

  Unfortunately, literal translations are all too common in official communications. Irina, who has excellent English, told me that she once offered to correct the numerous errors in a coffee-table history book produced in her home city of Karaganda. Her offer was refused. The book, she was told, was translated by a “leading professor of English language and literature.” Who was she to think she could improve the text?

  Looking for Students

  The student took the mobile phone call five minutes into my two-hour Saturday morning class at ENU on media and business. “That was the dean’s office,” she said. “We all have to go now. We’re very sorry.” I looked at my notes and the group exercise my interpreter had translated into Russian. “What is it this time?” I asked wearily. “We don’t know. Maybe a forum or a rally to show support for our president. Can we go?” I shrugged. “Of course. Hope to see you next Saturday.”

  Halfway through the semester at ENU, I had learned to adjust to an unpredictable schedule. Sometimes the students were there. Sometimes they weren’t. Occasionally, I knew why, but most of the time I had no idea what had happened to them. There were forums, conferences, university events, student talent shows, the March Nauruz celebration, and, in the weeks leading up to Kazakhstan’s presidential election in April 2011, rallies in support of Nazarbayev. I felt sorry for the students. Some felt sorry for me. “You’ve come so far to teach us,” they said.

  Room assignments were switched without notice. Often Diana and I spent the first ten minutes of class searching for our student group. Every session was interrupted by students opening the door, in search of their own classes. At least we weren’t the only ones who felt lost. Some days began with a frantic search for classroom keys.

  Security makes sense only if there’s something worth stealing, but the only movable objects in the classrooms were the heavy wooden desks. Anyone trying to carry one out would not have gotten far. A uniformed guard sat at the only entrance to the building. Occasionally he checked IDs, but most of the time he smiled and chatted with the students. It’s another Soviet hangover. You need to have a building guard, even if there’s nothing worth stealing.

  The contrast between what I was trying to teach my students and their daily educational reality was palpable. I told them that knowledge gained through rote learning and repeated on tests and in oral examinations was not as important as the ability to think, analyze, and weigh evidence. My classes encouraged them to think, question data, challenge official sources of information. Yet when they left the classroom to attend a political rally, they became passive observers of changes in their country.

  Passivity can make you sleepy, and apparently a few dozed off during speeches about Kazakhstan’s Industrial-Innovative Plan for 2020 or the customs union with Russia and Belarus. I asked one student who sat for six hours in an auditorium what he remembered. He shook his head. “We were just bodies there—our minds were somewhere else,” he said.

  Can You Teach Russian Stylistics?

  The faculty had a class schedule, of sorts, but apparently I wasn’t a good fit for it. Although I had agreed on the classes I would teach with Dean Omashev at our meeting in September 2010, apparently he had forgotten to inform his staff, and my arrival took them by surprise. None of the classes were on the schedule. The assistant dean said the schedule had already been signed by the rector, and no changes were possible. I would have to teach classes already listed, substituting for other teachers.

  We decided that my “Politics and Media” class was close enough to a political science class. My proposed class on reporting on business, environment, health, and education did not come close to anything on the schedule. Perhaps I could teach Russian style and stylistics? It seemed a surreal question, considering that I was working through an interpreter and planned to take Russian classes. Well, how about children’s literature? We went through other approved classes before deciding that I would teach the reporting class, and they would call it children’s literature. A teacher was sent to round up students. I introduced myself and asked the students if they had any questions. “What’s this class about?” one asked.

  My schedule was revised a month later after we discovered why more than half the students were not showing up for two of the three weekly sessions. It turned out that the dean’s office had combined two groups, and one was already scheduled for a different class at two of the meeting times. We reduced this class to a single one-hour weekly session and I was given additional teaching—a first-year group for one hour a week, a second-year group for one hour a week, and another second-year group for two hours on Saturdays. I had no idea what the students were doing in the other sessions. I resigned myself to giving a series of guest classes, hoping the students learned something.

  They probably did (or at least that’s what they told me). However, my experience points to structural problems in a higher education system that still has to shake off its Soviet past.

  The first is the group system. Students entering a university take most courses with the same group of fellow students throughout their college career. The system has benefits, especially for students who are struggling. There’s always someone to help you outside class, or take notes if you miss a session. But it also encourages academic dishonesty, with students routinely signing attendance sheets for missing group members, and sometimes submitting assignments in their names. More worryingly, students who spend every day with the same group of peers are not exposed to the perspectives of other students.

  The second is the rigid curriculum. Soviet-style central planning is still the norm, with ministries of education dictating curricula. Although elective courses are being introduced, most universities have little flexibility in adapting to the job market or to student interests.

  The third is the teaching itself. Teachers who have earned graduate degrees in Europe or North America often adopt an informal, interactive style, building projects and discussion into class. But those who have spent their lives in the system teach the way they were taught—from behind the lectern. The teacher is the authority. Student questions are not welcome.

  The fourth is assessment. At most universities, achievement is still largely measured by hours spent in the classroom or in so-called practical work
(most of it unsupervised), not by learning outcomes or competencies. There is little or no time for outside work—reading, papers, projects, the independent research and critical thinking that are viewed as critical in Western education. Teachers are paid by the class hour, not by the course, so they have no incentive to reduce the number of hours they teach.

  The fifth is financial. Most investments in higher education have been in new buildings and equipment. Pay rates for teachers have not significantly increased, and many work at two or three universities (or have part-time jobs outside teaching) to survive. Talented teachers have left for jobs in business, government, or international organizations. University teaching is still a prestige profession, but quality in some disciplines has declined.

  Poor teacher pay contributes to the sixth problem—corruption. Despite high-profile attempts to root out the problem, bribery is common. Prices range from several thousand dollars for admission to a top university (without even taking the entrance examination) to a few dollars for a pass on a course test. Students admit paying bribes; teachers admit soliciting them.

  None of my ENU students offered me a bribe. Not because they knew I was earning six or eight times what their teachers were being paid. Or because they thought I had higher standards. They simply had no reason to try to bribe me because I was not allowed to assess their work. Despite the random teaching schedule, I gave a few tests and assignments. I was told they could not be included in the assessment. “The dean is afraid you’ll fail some students and they’ll complain,” a colleague told me. “Just forget about it.”