How a Russian man embraced Kazakh culture from birth

A Russian settler's lifelong bond with Kazakh traditions and language

Articles / Kazakh Language

Alexei Alexandrovich Dmitriev Can Recite a Bata—and Perform a Kazakh Ritual

My interviewee, a veteran educator, was born in the village of Kaztalovka. He began mastering his second native language before he could even walk. His father, Alexander Dmitriev, was a tselinnik—a pioneer of the Virgin Lands campaign—who had come to Kazakhstan from the Lipetsk region. There, he met a local girl, Raisa Urusova. The young couple fell in love and started a family.

"Back then, children were sent to nursery at just three months old. That's when I first heard Kazakh speech," Alexei Alexandrovich recalls. "And when it was time for me to start talking, I used words whose meanings I already understood. My parents told me this story: It was summer, the doors in the house were open. I was crawling on the floor. To keep me from catching a draft, my father closed the door. I burst into tears and said to him, 'Ash'—trying to continue my 'journey' beyond the door. He didn't understand. He'd open the door, and I'd crawl forward happily; he'd close it, and I'd wail. When my mother came home, she explained that this wasn't just baby babble—it was a conscious request to open the door, but in Kazakh."

Language comes easily when learned through playful interaction, without pressure. So even before school, the boy had effortlessly picked up conversational Kazakh. Though his school notebook for the subject was covered in his teacher's red corrections, immersion in the village—where people spoke both languages fluently—laid a solid foundation for his command of Kazakh. By then, his vocabulary was rich enough to retell a Russian fairy tale in Kazakh.

After school came university, military service, and work. Everywhere he went, his second language acted like a key, unlocking the hearts of those around him—classmates, comrades-in-arms, colleagues. Often, these interactions blossomed into lifelong friendships.

By profession, Alexei Dmitriev is a physical education teacher. After graduating, he spent four years working at a school in Fort-Shevchenko, Mangystau Region. Returning to West Kazakhstan Region in 1988, he held various roles in education, including head of the tourism department and instructor at the regional center for youth tourism and ecology. For Dmitriev, expeditions are a true school of life—one that teaches essential survival skills without modern comforts, fosters a deeper connection with nature, and instills discipline, responsibility, and teamwork. He has inspired many young people, including those from remote Kazakh villages in the region, to embrace local history and geography. After all, knowing and cherishing one's homeland—its flora, fauna, language, and traditions—is the cornerstone of patriotic education for the younger generation.

"In the Ural region, Russian and Kazakh cultures have deeply intertwined," says Alexei Alexandrovich. "I feel closer to the Kazakh mindset than to the way of life in Russia's border regions. Kazakhs are known for their generosity and hospitality. There was a time when even the poorest family would slaughter their last sheep if guests arrived. When I speak of today, I don't mean lavish feasts for hundreds in restaurants—I mean everyday bonds, where families remain friends across generations. True friendship isn't just about festive gatherings and celebrations; it's about standing by each other in hard times. And sometimes, friends and neighbors become closer than blood relatives."

It's no coincidence they say that unity in society begins with the friendship of neighbors—those who live next door or down the street.

"Once, a mother from Astrakhan came to visit our neighbors while they were at work," he recalls. "They left me their keys. I let her in, put the kettle on. You could see she wasn't used to such trust from what seemed like strangers. But all her tension vanished when I spoke to her in Kazakh, reassuring her, explaining that we always look out for one another."

Years ago, his neighbors invited him to perform the tüsau kesu ritual—the first cutting of the cradle straps—for their daughter, Zamira. No one remembers now which way her first steps went. As she grew, she spent years hiking through the Urals and the Maly Uzen as part of a youth expedition led by Alexei Dmitriev. Today, she has graduated from university, works as a teacher, and is a mother herself.

He always keeps treats in his pockets for the neighborhood children. And not long ago, Alexei Alexandrovich even became an honorary grandfather. According to the qyrqynan shyğaru tradition, Zamira's daughter-in-law, Akkorkem, was meant to take her son, Miras, to the mosque. The boy's father was at work, and his grandfather couldn't return from his trip in time for the 40-day ceremony. Once again, the neighbor came to the rescue.

"The young mullah explained that a man should hold the child," he says proudly. "When he asked how I was related to the boy, Akkorkem simply said, 'Ata' [Father]. And as the mullah recited the prayers, Miras didn't cry once."

A wise man once said, "You live as many lives as the languages you speak." For a teacher, knowing languages is twice as vital. His true mission isn't just teaching the basics of a subject—it's shaping citizens and patriots. And to do that, he must first set an example for his students.