In What Does It Mean to Be Kazakhstani? Power, Identity and Nation-Building, Diana T. Kudaibergen, a prominent scholar of Central Asian politics and society, delivers a timely examination of national identity formation in post-independence Kazakhstan. Kudaibergen explores how state narratives and policies shape the meaning of belonging in Kazakhstan as it enters its fourth decade of independence. Kudaibergen’s work makes a significant contribution to the literature on hybrid identities in post-imperial contexts, drawing on hundreds of interviews, observations, archival data, and fieldnotes over a period of 12 years (2011–2023). The author argues that although regime elites advocate for a state-driven civic identity, internal unrest and a resurgence of pluralistic opposition are redefining what it means to be “Kazakhstani.”

The book is structured into six thematic chapters, situating it within broader theoretical debates in nationalism and postcolonial studies. Kudaibergen’s book opens with a critical overview of Kazakhstan’s history and vocabulary, with a particular attention to the asharshylyq (the famine of 1932–1933), collectivisation, the Semipalatinsk Nuclear Testing Polygon, Nazarbaev’s “eternal nation” policy, protests such as Zhanaozen (2011) and Qandy Qantar (2022), and a unified “Kazakhstani” identity. This overview helps to understand what Kazakhstan and its modern culture are like, and is especially useful for those who need such a mind map. The 1986 Zheltoqsan protests in Alma-Ata (now Almaty), which became a major national trauma, are analysed based on burned archives and eyewitness accounts. The author examines everyday identities such as Kazakhs, Russians, Kazakhstani Russians, mambets, mankurts, and shala Kazakhs, and analyzes how the state has approached such a Soviet legacy of ethnic divisions in the post-independence era, from Nazarbayev to Tokayev. Kudaibergen also addresses the effects of the Russo-Ukrainian war, describing the influx of Russian men into Kazakhstan — a phenomenon they explore through terms like relocates, exiles, migrants, and even the concept of a fourth Zhuz. The book explores Kazakhstan’s greatest crisis and trauma since independence — the 2022 Bloody January protests — and how they challenged the regime’s politics, shaped the civic culture of Kazakhstanis, and how ethnicity surprisingly played a minor role despite expectations to the contrary. In the Afterword, Kudaibergen briefly discusses how decolonising Kazakhstan starts with de-Nazarbayefication. They argue that genuine national transformation requires challenging and transcending the centralised, personality-driven governmental frameworks instituted during Nazarbaev’s leadership.

This book moved me to tears multiple times — specifically in Chapters 2, 5, and 6 — highlighting the harrowing extent to which a state can inflict suffering on its own citizens in response to protests. Esteemed scholars — including Assel Tutumlu, Marlene Laruelle, Edward Schatz, Selbi Durdiyeva, Alexander Diener, and Cynthia Werner — offer glowing praise, applauding the book for its readability, analytical depth, originality, and urgency. One of the book’s key strengths is the author’s immersion in their personal stories, experiences, and traumas that reflect and explore sociologically complex events and the politics of “Kazakhstani” identity. Another strength is that Kudaibergen unpacked the fluid and hybrid nature of national belonging, presenting a detailed approach that recognises its diverse and often contradictory aspects. Overall, the book makes significant contributions to nationalism studies by offering a nuanced analysis of how Kazakhstani national identity is constructed and contested through both bottom-up processes and post-independence political practices.

Kudaibergen’s detailed analysis is undoubted; however, it remains firmly rooted in the Kazakhstani context. Readers interested in drawing parallels across Central Asia or examining Kazakhstan within a wider post‑Soviet or global frame may need to contextualise these findings within wider regional scholarship. By linking local Kazakhstani stories with global themes, the book should not only enrich academic discourse but also challenge us to rethink how nations are imagined. Given the ongoing nature of events such as the Russo-Ukrainian war and post-Qandy Qantar developments and migration shifts, some insights may be subject to change. This is a natural limitation when engaging with contemporary issues, and it highlights the book’s relevance to current debates. Diana T. Kudaibergen acknowledges the fluidity inherent in such inquiries, noting that their book “is a more modest, reflective exploration of complex events and the life of identity, an invitation to ask similar questions without hoping to find definitive answers” (xiii). The book leaves the reader not with easy answers, but with the right questions.

What Does It Mean to Be Kazakhstani? is a much-needed contribution to the study of identity, power, and nation-building in Central Eurasia. The work is highly recommended for scholars, students, and anyone seeking to understand the evolving politics of identity in Kazakhstan. Its depth, clarity, and critical insight make it also essential reading for scholars of nationalism and Eurasian studies alike.