A boy on the screen, 12-year-old Yersultan, cries in a rare emotional outburst against his father. “What am I, just cattle you can give away?” he asks, tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.
His father is confused. Moments earlier, he was furious, angered by his son’s poor school performance and lack of the skills needed to survive the harsh rural life. But Yersultan’s outburst softens his tough posture, and though he reaches out to hug the boy, he meets resistance.
Is it too late to apologise and be a family again?The answer never comes.
This scene is part of Bauryna Salu, a Kazakh Oscar nominee and the directorial debut of Askhat Kuchinchirekov. The film has won several awards, including the Special Prize at the Cinema Heritage Festival in France, the Best Youth Feature Film Award at the Asia Pacific Screen Awards, and the Best Feature Film Prize at the Ischia Film Festival in Italy. Kuchinchirekov was also nominated for the New Directors Award at the prestigious San Sebastian International Film Festival.
This scene was more than fiction – it reflected a moment Kuchinchirekov had replayed in his own mind countless times. Unlike his protagonist, Yersultan, however, he never found the courage to confront his father before he passed away.
“I could not confront my father. And I could never call my biological parents ‘dad’ and ‘mom,’ or hug them. There is a feeling inside you that doesn't let you say it,” Kuchinchirekov says, sitting in a small café on the outskirts of Almaty.
“It would feel like betraying my grandmother.”
Like Yersultan, Kuchinchirekov was given away by his parents as a child to be raised by his grandmother, who lived in a village several hundred kilometres away. This was not an act of cruelty or neglect – it was part of an old nomadic tradition practiced in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, and Karakalpakstan for hundreds of years. The custom is called bauryna salu, or sometimes nebere aluu. According to tradition, a man gives his first child to his own parents to be raised.
In another version, called bala beru, a couple gifts their first child to childless relatives or even strangers, as childlessness was considered a lonely and tragic fate in traditional nomadic societies. Those without children were referred to as kubas, or “lonely heads.” The emotional realities of the children, mothers, and grandparents involved in these practices were seldom discussed – that is, until now. Kuchinchirekov’s film, which has toured festivals and cinemas across Europe this year, seeks to give voice to their experiences.
In nomadic communities, where large families lived in multigenerational households, bauryna salu had practical roots. Young adults were occupied with tending cattle, farming, or building yurts, while elders, with more time, cared for the children. New mothers often struggled to balance household duties with raising children, so grandparents stepped in.
In theory, another purpose for the tradition was to reduce infant mortality. Young women in nomadic societies often gave birth early and frequently, lacking the experience to care for newborns. As a result, many babies died. Entrusting a child to older, more experienced hands increased their chance of survival.
Over time, the practice gained symbolic meaning, with children viewed as the source of a family’s strength and happiness. Entrusting a firstborn to one’s parents became a profound expression of love and respect.
This gift also elevated the parents’ status. For a grandmother, who has spent her life in submission to her husband or in-laws, raising a grandchild was a reward and recognition. It allowed her to apply the wisdom she had gathered over her lifetime to raise a child slowly and patiently, unlike her own children, whom she raised as a young, inexperienced woman.
It is also believed that children raised by elders grow wiser and more mature. Living among elders provides deeper exposure to the community’s traditions, stories, and values – knowledge their siblings may not receive.
In modern times, the practice often serves a different purpose: filling the empty nests of aging parents. Grandparents want company, and a grandchild is a source of purpose and support. Some grandmothers even negotiate the adoption – either formally or informally – of the firstborn before the child is born. In some families, the grandparents take over after breastfeeding ends. In others, young mothers are not even allowed to touch the child.
In many cases, the firstborn son of a son is considered as the property of the grandparents. Sometimes they demand the child, regardless of the mother’s wishes. Resisting their authority is viewed as shameful and disrespectful in deeply hierarchical societies where elders must be obeyed.
Children given away in this manner – especially boys – are raised as the youngest members of their new household and are expected to remain with their grandparents for life, supporting them until their death.
In other cases, young mothers, overwhelmed by early motherhood or subsequent pregnancies, give their children to the grandparents as a form of relief. Some mothers live or work abroad, and leaving the child behind is seen as a practical, even necessary, solution.
This was Askhat Kuchinchirekov’s story – and likely Yersultan’s as well.
The film’s protagonist lives with his elderly grandmother and leads a relatively carefree life. He supports her with household duties and clearly loves her. Despite this attachment, he cannot stop thinking about his biological parents – the people who left him shortly after birth and never sought to build a bond with him. He holds their photograph, searching for resemblance. Did he inherit his mother’s nose or his father’s eyes? Could they ever be a family?
When his grandmother dies, Yersultan travels to his parents’ village, only to face rural hardship, social exclusion, and his parents’ cold indifference.
The film delves deeply into the emotions of a child who feels rejected at birth – and his struggle to understand why.
Born in 1982 during the final decade of the Soviet Union, Kuchinchirekov, the director of Bauryna Salu, was given to his grandmother to raise after his mother got pregnant with his younger sister. Raising two children under harsh economic conditions in southern Russia, close to the Kazakh border, was more than she could manage, even with her husband’s support.
Kuchinchirekov was one year and three months old when the family brought him to northern Kazakhstan and left him at his grandparents’ humble home. He soon forgot the smell of his mother’s skin and the warmth of her body.
“For a child, everything relates to smell. If you don’t have common smells with someone, you don’t have much in common,” he tells me.
He grew up surrounded by his grandmother’s boundless love. She taught him everything and made him who he is today. But even her devotion could not fill the void left by a mother’s absence.
“I felt the same thing many others like me feel. You grow up with this sense that you’re not really needed. And that feeling stays with you for life,” he says.
“Some people cope, others become aggressive, and some suppress it. For me, it fuelled creativity, expressed through film.”
Kuchinchirekov knew his parents, but he never bonded with them. They didn’t see his first steps or help him with his homework. Compared to his grandparents, who cared for him when he was sick and cheered his first words, they were strangers.
“I don’t believe what they say – that a psychologist can fix it. That feeling of abandonment never goes away. You’ve never lived with these people; you don’t share any experiences. That barrier remains. They weren’t there when you scraped your knee or fell in love for the first time,” he says.
Although he adored his grandmother, their relationship wasn’t the same as mother and child. She was gentle – even when she scolded him. There were no strict boundaries or rules.
“I had very few restrictions and enjoyed great freedom. And that freedom profoundly shaped me,” Kuchinchirekov says.
As a teenager, he began to notice how his life differed from his classmates. He wasn’t discriminated against, yet he felt different. He envied his peers who had a “normal” family – namely, a mother and father. Resentment grew within him.
The first time I witnessed bauryna salu in real life, no one could name it for me. It was in 2015, during my first visit to Karakalpakstan, Uzbekistan. Through Couchsurfing, an app connecting travellers with local hosts, I met Timur, a Karakalpak man around my age, eager to host tourists for free.
Timur lived in Nukus with his wife, son and beloved parents, who had an apartment just across the hall on the same floor. While my companion and I stayed with Timur and his wife, their son slept with his grandparents. Initially, I assumed this was a temporary arrangement, but Timur soon explained the family’s rules.
As the youngest son, he was traditionally obligated to remain close to his parents. However, working abroad in Russia, Timur was rarely home. To bridge this gap, he entrusted his first son to his parents – a sign of love, respect, and appreciation for all they had done, meant to compensate for his absence.
Timur’s son called him “brother,” reserving “mom” and “dad” for his grandparents. He spent most of his time with them – riding in the car with his grandfather, shopping at the market, and visiting relatives.
Timur insisted this was a mark of respect, but I couldn’t help noticing how hard his wife restrained herself from touching her firstborn, calling him her child, or hugging him too tightly.
Unlike her husband, she hadn’t grown up with this tradition. She came from Andijan in the Ferghana Valley, on the other side of Uzbekistan, about 1,380 km from Nukus – a 20-hour drive, according to Google Maps.
They met by chance in the 2010s when Timur’s friend randomly called phone numbers, hoping to connect with young women open to chatting. This was a not-uncommon practice in Uzbekistan’s conservative communities, where strict social norms often separated young men and women.
His friend struck gold – he reached a woman his age but he did not speak Uzbek. He passed the phone to Timur, who could. The two began talking, quickly growing close. They spoke for hours daily. Eventually, Timur and his mother travelled to Andijan to propose.
Andijan and Karakalpakstan could not have been more different. Andijan Uzbeks are conservative, deeply religious, and have led a sedentary life for centuries, while Karakalpaks were nomadic, spoke a language closer to Kazakh, and followed different customs.
Despite their differences, the couple wanted to marry, and after negotiations, the woman’s father gave his blessing.
I don’t recall her name and never learned her perspective, as we didn’t share a common language. According to Timur, she had never heard of bauryna salu before their marriage and hadn’t imagined giving up her child. Yet she knew that arguing with her in-laws was unthinkable.
Three years later, I visited Timur again in Nukus, where he was on holiday from his job at a mountain resort in Western Europe. He now had two children, a boy and a girl, both living with his parents and calling their mother “sister.” His wife was pregnant again.
Though understudied, bauryna salu (or nebere aluu) has gained attention in recent academic research. A 2022 study by Elena Kim and Zhibek Kenzhebaeva explores the experiences of women compelled to give up their children, while a 2023 study by Kim focuses on the perspectives of grandparents.
Kuchinchirekov doesn’t want to think too much about his parents’ perspective. He never shared his feelings with his father, as he saw no point in stirring up pain, especially given his father’s illness and need for peace.
His biological mother is still alive, but he avoids reopening old wounds, believing it would change nothing. She hasn’t seen his film, though he hopes she might one day.
Kuchinchirekov’s grandmother passed away four years ago, dying in his arms.
“We were together my whole life. There was a time I studied in Almaty and she stayed in the village, but when she got older, she moved in with me,” he says.
Kuchinchirekov now has three children. He tries to spend as much time with them as possible. When he’s not on set, the family stays close. He kisses them, and they learn his smell. He wants them to feel his presence – to remember it.
To him, bauryna salu is not just about giving children to grandparents. His film resonates with audiences around the world who, due to migration, demanding jobs, or the isolating nature of modern life, grew up separated from their parents.
“Today, people live apart from each other. Each child has their own room, their own world. I’m not sure this is right. When people sleep together, they share a smell, and that smell unites them,” Kuchinchirekov told me.
“The very essence of humanity is to unite. Yet the modern world only deepens our separation.”
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