The Kazakh poet Dzhambul won fame very late: he became known only in 1936, when he was already very old

The Kazakh poet Dzhambul won fame very late: he became known only in 1936, when he was already very old. It cannot be said that nothing had been heard of him before. Dzhambul Dzhabayev was surrounded by a large family and was, by all accounts, a distinguished akyn, the victor of many poetic contests within his clan, the Shaprashty, which belongs to the Senior Zhuz. However that may be, his first appearance before a wide public was connected with the Decade of Kazakh Art and Literature in Moscow, held in May 1936.

To acquaint the Union with the cultural achievements of Soviet Kazakhstan, an imposing delegation of 200 actors, musicians, artists and men of letters arrived in Moscow. Among them was Dzhambul. According to the recollections of contemporaries, on the occasion of this visit the First Secretary of the Kazakh ASSR regional committee, Levon Mirzoyan, "suggested" to the officials of culture that they find, among the akyns for whom the Kazakh land is famed, someone every bit as venerable as the elderly Dagestani poet Suleiman Gasanbekov, who had become famous throughout the USSR.

By some accounts, Dzhambul, unknown or at least little known, was a poor man, an akyn, and very old. In 1936 he turned 90, while Gasanbekov was only 67. A clear advantage! A charismatic elder with a dombra fitted the role of representative of the steppe republic with remarkable naturalness, and his appearance before the Moscow public did indeed prove a sensation.

Naturally, the journey was preceded by serious preparation: Dzhambul's verses were recorded, translated and printed. Malicious tongues began to say even then that it was not for nothing that the verses of a simple old man were being "recorded and translated" by the foremost young poets of Kazakhstan. I would prefer to leave these versions outside the brackets of my account of the inimitable akyn and, as it seems to me, excellent man that Dzhambul was.

The very fact that the aksakal lived to a great age with a musical instrument in his hands, a clear mind and a lively style deserves great respect.

Not without the help of administrative resources (but is he any the less deserving for that?), Dzhambul at once became not only a national favourite and an all-Union celebrity but also a calling card of the multinational land of the Soviets on the international stage.

The obstinate old man, however, declined endless protocol events and preferred to withdraw to his estate near Alma-Ata. He was widely printed and translated into languages whose existence he had never before suspected. The government built Dzhambul a residence where he could receive international delegations: an eleven-room house (if I am not mistaken), luxurious even by present-day standards, meant to impress foreign guests, journalists, admirers of his talent and simply visiting officials from other republics. See with what respect the Soviet people treat their poets! So it was, but few knew that the intractable Dzhambul refused to live in the new mansion and modestly asked for a small yurt to be set up in the courtyard, where he both lived and composed, content with little. For the arrival of guests he would, of course, leave the yurt, be clothed in a richly embroidered chapan and seated in one of the rooms of the house.

As for his work, a whole crowd of secretaries was assigned to Dzhambul, all of whom would later become major figures of Kazakh literature. I have heard it told that he would often mount his horse, sling a rifle across his back and gallop off towards the Kastek mountain tract, away from his attentive advisers and assistants, while they ran about the steppe catching the first akyn of Kazakhstan.

Personally, a great deal connects me with Dzhambul, and though many blank spots and omissions remain in his biography, he was a unique man who lived a whole century, sincerely loved his native land, bore all the hardships of two eras, became famous yet did not betray his convictions and customs. And of course in these days I cannot but recall Dzhambul's piercing song "Leningraders, My Children", written during the siege by an akyn who had lost a son in the war, and sounding sincere and alive to this very day.

And for the mood, footage of Dzhambul's life: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VoND_7od24Q