Abai Day has a very personal meaning for me because, in some ways, I feel that I grew up together with my understanding of Abai.
I was ten years old in 1995, when Kazakhstan celebrated the 150th anniversary of Abai Qunanbaiuly under the auspices of UNESCO. It was a very significant moment for Kazakhstan. We had only recently become an independent country and, as a society, we were still searching for ourselves and trying to understand what our national identity meant in this new reality.
I was born in the Soviet Union, and much of what surrounded us as children—books, fairy tales, cultural references—was Russian or Soviet. After independence, I remember suddenly discovering Kazakh poets, thinkers and historical figures in a completely different way. Abai was probably one of my first encounters with the idea that Kazakhstan had its own great
philosopher and intellectual tradition.
At school, we memorised Abai's poems, learned his songs and read his Kara Soz, the Words of Edification. I even memorised some of them. But if I am sincere, at ten years old I did not really understand what they meant. I knew the words, but I did not yet understand the ideas behind them.
And this is what makes Abai so interesting to me today. Now that I am over forty, I return to the same words and understand them very differently. His reflections on education, knowledge, responsibility, character, dignity and the development of a person have acquired meanings that I simply could not see as a child.
So for me, Abai Day is not only about remembering a great Kazakh poet once a year. It is also about returning to his ideas at different stages of our lives. The Abai I learned by heart when I was ten is not the same Abai I understand today.
And perhaps that is what makes his legacy timeless: we grow older, our country changes, our experiences change, and yet we can return to Abai and discover something new in the words we thought we already knew.