Yes, I have been to Kazakhstan; but that is like saying I’ve been to America after flying into Denver and spending a week in the mountains. I have seen a bit of this country on the borders of Europe and Asia. The only flight from Moscow leaves at midnight and arrives (with a two-hour time difference) in Astana at 6:00 a.m. The traveller’s interests are obviously placed first by the authorities! Astana, the new capital city of Kazakhstan, is a city bustling with construction, and government buildings meant to impress—monumental in almost Soviet style. I stayed in a flat in a new high-rise complex in the new part of the city. From my 17th storey vantage point I could see the cranes of new construction in every direction. This is a city in a hurry. After a meal and a rest, and a sudden thunderstorm, I had opportunity to go for a walk. I headed for the river—about a mile. Apparently this has been a cool and mild summer in the northern part of the country. Rain is normally most unusual, and the drainage system is not built for it. The streets flooded quickly, looking like rivers themselves. I watched cars attempt to manoeuvre the waters, stall, and be pushed to the side of the road. By evening the air was clear and fresh, but I had to navigate world-class puddles for my walk. The promenade along the river was most pleasant, and obviously the place for young lovers and young families in the early evening. A pretty young woman in a short skirt overtook me (I was in no hurry). Two young men noticed her and one broke away to follow her for some time, then nonchalantly placing himself next to her as she stopped to lean against the stone railing overlooking the river. They talked for some time, but I later noted the young man had rejoined his friend, alone. The lights and sounds of an amusement park emanated from across the way; from an open-air café came the inviting sounds of live folk music. The sun set; the moon rose behind the half-built city. Most pleasant.

Back in the flat I watched some TV. Or, rather, flicked through the channels in a cultural trawl. There were lots of old b/w programmes, including Soviet era stuff. One was set in the US—this was clear from the flags hanging on the walls, and a dominant picture of George Washington looking down. A 19th Century sort of bureaucrat, perhaps meant to be the president, wearing a sash over his shoulder, was ordering people around in a loud voice—especially a black servant. There was a meal which looked like it was supposed to be turkey, but consisted of a very scrawny hen shared among four people, which I took to be a Thanksgiving dinner. But, then, I don’t know. I wish I knew the plot! This is the impression people were given of America!

The next day we drove to the resort town of Bugovoe, 250 km (150 miles) north of Astana and situated amongst the only hills in Kazakhstan. The government is transforming this two-lane road into a four-lane motorway for the sake of tourism. The journey took three hours; we witnessed one accident in each direction.

My purpose in being in Kazakhstan, as in Moscow, was to teach. The church has established its education centre in a village just outside Bugovoe. I had been told more than once what the typical village would look like. This village met up with the expectations—small, wood-frame houses along a grid of dirt-track streets. I was housed in a flat in a five storey building of Soviet make. My first, and lasting, impression of everything in this village was of decay. On one end of the village there is a storage yard full of large pieces of cement flooring, sewage ducts, and rusting water tanks. So much of this village is decaying buildings, some of them lived in and others empty. Even the local government buildings consist of one rather grand new building standing next to a large but empty three-storey building. There seems to be no civic pride or activity. I walked up the stairs to my flat into unlit corridors smelling of stale cooking; where the light did reveal the walls they were dingy and depressing. The railings had been neither painted nor washed for years. No one seems to take responsibility for anything. I wondered what the employment level is for the men, seeing them looking out of the windows of their flats at all times of day.

In the classroom, however, I found life. My students were mostly young people, intelligent and keen to learn; an example of the vibrancy of the young Christian Church in this part of the world. Two were mature adults, both pastors churches and of impressive commitment. They each had fascinating stories. I relate a part of the story of one, a woman pastor from Kyrghystan.

She was soft-spoken and unassuming. What I learned arose gradually, originally out of a discussion of Asian hospitality, and the honour of being offered the head of a sheep when a guest for a meal. Batma (that is what I will call her) described a meal for a guest in a typical village setting—who gets the eyes of the sheep, who the eyes, who the tongue. Out of this came mention of proper protocol at weddings, which led to the story of her own marriage.

She was kidnapped to be a bride—a practice still normal in the villages, and somewhat in the cities. She had always known it would be that way, and so was resigned to it; she just hoped for a man she could come to love. This did not happen. Her husband was taught, by his mother, to beat her every Friday (Muslim day of prayer)—because Shaytan possessed her and needed to be exorcised on the holy day. This went on through the years of her marriage, even after her children left home. She left him after that, finally, when he nearly killed her in a beating.

There was never any question of her running away before that. To do so would have brought dishonour to her family, and the family honour was of uppermost importance. To return after being kidnapped would be to say to the world that she was not a virgin, so had been sent back. Things have not changed over the years; the family recently went through trauma when one of her nieces refused to accept the beating. She came home. The family’s honour is besmirched in the village.

She first heard about Christ through a cousin. The cousin was dying of cancer, but news came that she had been healed of the cancer when some Christians came and prayed for her (and, strangely, placed blood on her doorposts). Batma thought they were crazy. She was very religious, seeking to please God, of whom she was afraid. She spoke often to the mullah; she gave gifts to the mosque. But, finally, she came to believe that Jesus was true, that what had happened to her cousin was the real truth, unlike her Muslim faith. But she was too afraid to become a Christian. Instead, she wanted her daughters to be Christian.

But she did make the decision to become a Christian. As a result she has been wholly cut off from her family. Her mother refuses communication, because she is threatened with not being allowed to be buried in the family plot—something very important in this area where the cemeteries are the only land neatly kept. Even though the mother had nothing to do with Batma becoming a Christian, the mother is ostracised. So, she is extra harsh towards Batma in order to assure her burial place.

Her two daughters became Christians. Already married, both husbands told them they had to decide whether to remain married to them or to be Christian. Both chose their faith; their husband left them.

There is a high cost to discipleship in this part of the world. I came to teach; I learned much.