In August 2024, the first edition of Qyzgaras, a festival dedicated to screening films by women from Central Asia and beyond, took place in Almaty, Kazakhstan. In this piece, filmmaker, curator and festival founder Malika Mukhamejan offers a personal reflection on how this festival came to be—a triumph of hope and resourcefulness in the face of financial barriers and political indifference.

“Does your festival really have to be about women?” the city official asked, leaning back on his chair. “Why do you always have to separate yourselves?” The irony wasn’t lost on me—my friend and I, the only women in the room, sat across from a table full of men. Why do women always need to talk about themselves and assert their rights? What an exhausting question…

His question wasn’t new. I had heard variations of it before—sometimes as an attempt at humor, sometimes as outright hostility. But beneath every version lay the same assumption: that women’s contributions to cinema are secondary, an afterthought. That assumption has shaped the industry for years, quietly erasing women’s voices and keeping their names from the conversation. And that invisibility is still happening today in Kazakh cinema. For years, only a handful of female directors have managed to break through the industry’s barriers, yet their names remain largely unspoken in public discourse. One of the few exceptions is Zhanna Issabayeva, who made a series of bold and intimate films throughout the 2010s, yet today receives far less recognition than she deserves. In documentary filmmaking, Katerina Suvorova made waves after her Tomorrow the Sea premiered in Locarno in 2016, while Madina Mustafina became a notable name in Kazakh documentary filmmaking at the time.

For a long time, it was true—there weren’t many women in Kazakh cinema. But that’s changing. In 2024, Asel Aushakimova won Best International Narrative Feature at Tribeca for her film Bikechess. Aizhan Kassymbek has made two films, Fire (2021) and Madina (2023), which screened at major festivals in Tokyo and Busan. Sharipa Urazbayeva continues to craft sharp, uncompromising films about Kazakh women’s realities. One of 2025’s most anticipated films is A Winner is Seen at the Start by Zhannat Alshanova, whose short films have already been recognized at Cannes, Locarno, and Sundance. And this list could go on—Kazakhstan’s new generation of female filmmakers is fearless, inventive, and growing fast.

 Yet despite these successes, their struggles at home persist. Recognition abroad doesn’t always translate into opportunities within Kazakhstan, where funding structures remain closed off to women, and institutional support is almost nonexistent. Despite critical acclaim, nearly all of these films are made without state funding, relying instead on international grants—or, in many cases, sheer determination and personal sacrifice.

Yes, there are more female directors now, but the overall picture is still far from ideal. Men dominate the key positions in the industry and are in no hurry to share their privileges. Censorship, traditionalism, and deeply ingrained hierarchies don’t make things easier either. Play by the rules of the men’s world, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll be tolerated. Step outside those lines, challenge the system, and at best, you’ll be ignored. At worst? Mocked, dismissed, and made to feel like you never belonged in the first place.

And even after overcoming funding hurdles, the fight isn’t over. Where do you show these films? Finding an audience remains another battle, as distribution remains an even bigger challenge. Making a film is one battle, getting it in front of audiences is another. The situation with film distribution is yet another uphill struggle. To put it simply—getting a film onto the big screens in Kazakhstan is difficult and expensive. For many independent and auteur films, festivals are often the only way to connect with audiences. Yet in Kazakhstan, such platforms are scarce—especially independent ones. 

I remember sitting there, looking at that same city official—the one who asked why our festival had to be about women—and trying not to laugh. It wasn’t just the absurdity of his question; it was the frustration bubbling inside me. Instead, I asked, “What, are you forbidding us?” He looked startled, stammering, “No, no, no one is forbidding anything, we just won’t be supporting it…” As if that was some kind of revelation. Well, I wasn’t counting on their support anyway. Just don’t get in our way, and the rest—we, the girls—will handle ourselves. So when the system offers you nothing, you build something of your own. You carve out the spaces they refuse to give you. And before you know it, an idea becomes a movement.

Qyzqaras didn’t start out as a festival.  Our original vision was much smaller: an independent initiative showcasing films, mostly shorts, by women directors from Kazakhstan. The idea came easily: my friend and I were sitting in my kitchen, drinking tea and thinking, “Why not create screenings for women’s films?” We knew that there were many women making films in the country (surprisingly many, given the circumstances), but frustratingly few people knew about them. As a filmmaker, I had spent years away from Almaty and, upon returning, felt isolated from the local film community. In many ways, the Kazakh film industry felt like a closed brotherhood—one where belonging seemed to depend on having the right connections—or the right chromosomes. So Qyzqaras was born from my desire to connect with other women in film and from the anger I felt witnessing the sexism in the industry—there was a lack of visibility and a lack of conversation.

We held our first screening in November 2023. Screenings took place once a month, gathering 50–60 people in the cramped space of the rave club bULt, where we set up our own screen and borrowed a projector. A community quickly began to form—not just of filmmakers, but of cinephiles, feminists, and people who simply cared. These gatherings laid the foundation for what would become our festival. It was never just about showing films; it was about creating a different kind of atmosphere. One of our key principles during discussions was never to compare directors in terms of who was “better” or “worse.” If we critiqued films, we made sure not to attack the filmmakers personally. These seem like basic principles of decency, but at first, they weren’t always easy for audiences to follow. These screenings also taught me how to moderate engaging discussions and foster an environment where audiences weren’t afraid to ask questions, share impressions, and where directors felt comfortable. As a filmmaker, I know firsthand how nerve-wracking Q&A sessions can be. Over time, I began introducing experimental films, pushing beyond traditional cinematic language, and in turn, our audience became more engaged in decoding the layers of meaning filmmakers embedded in their work.

Growing from small screenings into a festival was kind of our dream goal — almost like something out of science fiction. I thought that maybe by 2025, we’d have the opportunity to make it happen, or even 2026… Well, I always knew our screenings were important, but they remained a niche event, reaching only a small, dedicated audience. But I wanted more. I wanted the buzz about the incredible films made by women in Central Asia to be everywhere —to be inescapable, to make ignoring us nearly impossible.

Honestly, I never imagined we’d create a full festival in under a year. But when we received a grant from the British Council in May 2024, there was no turning back. Two months to prepare a festival—well, not exactly a piece of cake, but luckily, we didn’t realize just how hard it was going to be until we were already in too deep. Eyes full of fear, hands at work—that became our team’s motto, since none of us had experience running a film festival. What we did know was that we wanted to preserve the atmosphere we had cultivated in our smaller screenings. From the start, we agreed that this wouldn’t be a festival where we crowned a “best film” or “best director.” That didn’t align with our values of sisterhood and solidarity. No prizes—just films and meaningful conversations. We wanted the festival to be a space for connection, warm encounters, and, of course, the discovery of extraordinary, challenging, and sometimes divisive films by women.

Even with the grant, we were far from fully funded. Finding financing was tough. I had to take on debt, but at least this allowed us to remain independent in our film selection—because, as the saying goes, whoever pays, calls the tune, and we had no desire to dance to the rhythm of our not-so-democratic state. We’d rather stay small than compromise. Luckily, there were always people willing to help; we managed to secure some things for free and others at major discounts.

It was especially important for us to create stunning screenings of films from Central Asia. In 2024, several Kazakh feature films premiered at major festivals, marking a groundbreaking moment for women directors in our region. Our lineup included: Madina (Aizhan Kassymbek, 2023), The Gift (Dalmira Tilepbergen, 2023), an incredible film from Kyrgyzstan, my film Longer Than a Day (Malika Mukhamejan,2024), Bikechess (Assel Aushakimova, 2024), and Mental Loneliness (Sharipa Urazbayeva, 2024). This year felt unique—not just in numbers but in what it signified: Kazakh auteur cinema had a distinctly female voice. Many of these films could never get a theatrical release for various reasons, and we saw it as our mission to create a celebration for both their creators and our audiences. To our surprise, the local films generated the most excitement—each of our five screenings played to full houses.

Of course, we had no idea how things would turn out until the very last moment. Every day after ticket sales opened, I’d check the app, hoping for some movement. But nothing. Sales weren’t taking off, and at the time, we didn’t realize that people in Almaty tend to buy tickets last minute. So we started brainstorming backup plans—roping in friends to fill seats, staging a crowd, pretending that women’s cinema actually mattered to people. Thankfully, we never had to resort to such tactics. In the end, people came, and all the screenings were full. And really, what could be more fulfilling than that?

The festival program featured debut British films – Hoard (Luna Carmoon, 2023), How to Have Sex (Molly Manning Walker, 2023) and Scrapper (Charlotte Regan, 2023) – Central Asian premieres, two short film programs (one narrative, one experimental), as well as open lectures on documentary cinema and music in film. One of our major highlights was an online lecture from Laura Mulvey and the screening of Riddles of the Sphinx (1977), along with a special screening curated by the Belgian feminist collective Ursula, who traveled to the festival in person. In them, we found not just collaborators but new friends and like-minded allies from Antwerp.

Another key part of the festival was our pitching session for short film projects. We selected projects through an open call, and with ticket sale revenues, we were able to support two projects with cash prizes, while three others received special awards from our partners. For our closing film, we were honored to present Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine as Light (2024) —a true gift to our audience, as it was screened shortly after its premiere at Cannes.

Sometimes, I think it wasn’t real, because before Qyzqaras I never, ever imagined I would help create a festival. It sounds almost absurd, especially given the financial struggles we faced. But despite all the challenges, it was incredibly rewarding. At the closing party, as I hugged my team, members of the audience, and filmmakers, I felt an overwhelming sense of joy—perhaps even more than when I presented my own film at other festivals.

For a while, I feared that stepping into this role would overshadow my identity as a filmmaker, that people would see me only as the curator of Qyzqaras. But that fear was unfounded. It turns out you can be both—and even more. This journey has reminded me, once again, why I fell in love with cinema in the first place. The work of so many great directors shaped me, inspired me, and now, I feel honored to celebrate the powerful, talented, and fearless women filmmakers of Central Asia and beyond.

As we prepare for the next edition of Qyzqaras in August 2025, I know this: the festival is not just for emerging women directors. It’s for the audiences who find something unexpected in these films, for the people who come together in a darkened cinema and leave feeling a little different than when they arrived. We are determined to make this year’s festival even bolder, more joyful, and more expansive—connecting with feminist collectives and film communities around the world while continuing to champion the voices of Central Asian women in film.

For me, the true purpose of a festival is not to rank films, not to declare winners or losers, but to create a space where stories are shared, perspectives are broadened, and conversations spark something new. Let others worry about who’s “the best.” We’ll keep focusing on what truly matters—bringing people together through the power of cinema.

Malika Mukhamejan is an emerging curator and film-maker. Her work centers on elevating diverse voices in Central Asian cinema, exploring women’s representation, and fostering community through film. She is the founder of Qyzqaras, a platform celebrating Central Asian women film-makers, and currently curates film programmes in Kazakhstan and internationally. Mukhamejan studied film directing at VGIK in Moscow, graduating in 2021. Recent projects include Qyzqaras Film Festival, 2024. Mukhamejan lives and works in Almaty.