A Conversation with Mrs. Alua Nurbay
More than a century after his death in 1904, his works remain central to Kazakh cultural identity. Almost every Kazakhstani knows at least who he is, and many can recite lines from his poetry or quote his wise words.
Recently, I asked my six-year-old daughter what she had been learning at school. Without hesitation, she stood up straight, clasped her little hands behind her back, and proudly recited Abai’s poem “Autumn” from memory. Her small voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the words she knew by heart. Watching her face light up as she pronounced each line, I listened carefully and felt their weight in a new way.
This was not only about nature, it spoke of preparation, of endurance, and of the way ordinary people must adapt their lives to survive the harsh season ahead. I realised that Abai was using autumn as a lens through which to observe social conditions and human resilience. This union of landscape and livelihood, where the changing environment is inseparable from human effort and need, gives the poem a moral and social dimension far beyond its seasonal surface.
Abai wrote about emotions and situations such as family conflict, ambition, jealousy, misunderstanding, love, and romance. His poetry touches on all of these. But as my daughter’s recitation reminded me, even a poem about autumn carries a deeper lesson. It is about how we face hardship, how we prepare for what comes, and how we endure together with our families, our communities, and our resilience Intact.
That evening, I looked at my daughter differently. She had not just memorized a poem for school. She had carried forward a lesson from a man who died more than a hundred years before she was born. And somehow, standing in our kitchen with her book still open in her hands, it all made perfect sense. Once you get past the surface, you see that this is still true. Abai’s words are not just Kazakh words. They are human words. And that is why they still speak to us.