the wild tulip
by dana kurmasheva
O deserts of the vast, rugged steppes of Kazakhstan,
You cradle a child, innocent yet untamed, open-minded and wild.
She is fragile, delicate—like the petal of a flower,
Born amidst the red carpets of wild tulips,
Her neighbors—prickly, rebellious tumbleweeds.
The wind scatters countless specks of dust, erasing trails and footprints.
Its cruel, careless freedom presses heavily, demanding humility.
The sun scorches with its fiercest rays, testing endurance,
Burning strength into sinew, forging resilience—
As every season becomes a trial of nature’s unyielding forces.
No wonder only camels reign as kings upon your barren ground.
Yet camels are the spirits to adore.
The Wild Tulip bows her head,
Both hands clasped in awe.
She thanks them…
The Wild Tulip blooms, lonely among the others;
She feels unique, authentic, pure, and true.
Her reality stirs dreams and visions in her mind,
And she fights to remain as strong as she can be.
Her scratches, bleeding, her wounds in salty tears,
Cannot diminish her beauty—brave and bold.
Her heart overflows with faith in a better future,
Subconsciously trusting in the purpose of her existence.
She calls herself Wild Tulip for a reason.
Each day, she battles for her place in the world.
Don’t be deceived by her delicate appearance—
You cannot know the struggles she’s faced,
Or the fight it took for her to live today.
Betrayed, rejected, unloved by those who were close,
Misunderstood, ignored, and used by others around her.
She knows how to love, though it often brings confusion,
And she forgives, even when it feels like she never did.
The desert camel is her spirit and her rescuer.
The camel nurtured her, offered shelter, warmed her heart and soul.
The Wild Tulip feels blessed to be well protected
By the desert camel, who loved her more than any parent.
Grace, resilience, and undeniable stubbornness—
These qualities shape the strength needed to face life’s challenges.
The Wild Tulip is reminded once more
To cherish memories, follow the camel’s great example,
For in its strength, she senses the presence of her own heritage.
a joy called Arman
by dana kurmasheva
The phone rang late in the day, its shrill sound breaking the quiet of the house. Dad answered with a nervous glance, then smiled, a little relieved. “It’s a nurse from the hospital,” he said, his voice soft with excitement. “The airplane has landed and brought us a baby boy. Your little brother!”
I could hardly contain my excitement. I had been waiting for this moment, imagining what it would be like to hold him, to see him with my own eyes. The very next day, my aunt came by with chicken soup and tea for Mom, her usual thoughtful gesture. Inspired, I decided to contribute my own offering—a pot of freshly boiled pasta and ten hard-boiled eggs. I imagined this would be my ticket to finally meet my new baby brother.
With my younger sister at my side, I set off to the hospital, the two-mile walk feeling longer with each step. The hospital was in an old building, tucked away on the right side of the bridge over the Ural River, its walls weathered and familiar.
When we arrived, the disappointment hit hard. The nurse told us we could not come inside. Instead, we were allowed only to stand at the window, waving at our mother as she held the small bundle in her arms. We could not see much of him, just a hint of a new life, wrapped in swaddling clothes. I trudged home with the jar of pasta and ten uneaten eggs, my heart heavy with the feeling of being so close, yet so far.
But that disappointment quickly melted into joy a few days later when Mom came home. She gently placed my baby brother in my arms. I will never forget that moment—the warmth of his little body, the softest skin, the tiny sighs he made as he settled into my embrace. I felt a love I could not describe, as if the universe itself had entrusted me with a treasure I never knew I needed.
His name was Arman—a name that means “Dream” or “Desire” in Kazakh, carefully chosen to carry the weight of family hopes and tradition. In our culture, the birth of a son is a dream come true, the continuation of a legacy, and Arman was a dream come to life for my parents—and for me.
From the moment I held him, I could not let go. Arman became the center of my world. I spent every waking moment with him, holding him close, breathing in the sweetness of his baby scent. His gurgles and little burps became music to my ears. When he fell asleep in my arms, I stayed perfectly still, savoring those moments of peace.
As he grew, I read to him daily. He had an incredible memory, and soon he could recite his favorite books right alongside me. I tried to teach him about life, sharing the wisdom I thought I had, but in truth, I was learning alongside him. Arman had many affectionate nicknames, but to me, he was always my "Amonya," and I was his "Apashka." It began simply enough when I suggested he call me “Apa,” meaning older sister in Kazakh. But, as only he could, he transformed it into “Apashka,” a name that was just for us. I also called him “Amoshka” and other playful variations, but "Amonya" became the one that stuck. These nicknames, born from love and tenderness, became our own secret language—a bond no one else could understand.
Time passed, and our bond deepened. When I left home to study in another city, a part of me was left behind. I missed him terribly. But the summers he spent with me were the brightest part of my year. I sent him to camps, took him hiking, signed him up for swimming lessons, and gave him money for computer game clubs. Those summers were filled with laughter and adventure, memories we both cherished.
After high school, Arman moved in with me. It was not easy at first—he was used to being pampered by Mom, and now he had to learn to cook, clean, and take care of himself. I pushed him, sometimes with tough love, but we found joy in our little moments together. We hiked the mountains, hosted his new friends for dinner, and grew even closer. It was not always smooth sailing, but it was ours, and we made it work.
In time, I realized that my love for Arman was not just the bond of siblings. It was the fierce, protective love of a mother. I had nurtured him, cared for him, and watched him grow into the young man he was becoming. He was my heart in a way that words could never capture.
At university, Arman discovered his passion for rap music and adopted the stage name BADKOMPOT. Though I did not always understand his admiration for certain artists, especially his deep connection to Tupac and other rap legends, I began to see how their music mirrored his thoughts on life, the struggles he witnessed, and the challenges he faced. He was a deep thinker, and the lyrics spoke to the chaos inside him—his search for meaning in the world. I saw how his artistic soul blossomed, revealing a complexity and beauty I never knew existed.
Determined to overcome his childhood lisp, Arman worked tirelessly. I always found it endearing, but he hated it, so he practiced the Russian “R” until he could pronounce it clearly. He also worked hard to improve his English, always striving to achieve more. It was not just rap—it was his drive to better himself, no matter the challenge.
As an oil and gas engineer, Arman quickly earned the respect of his colleagues. They remembered him as intelligent, honest, and compassionate, always bringing warmth and sincerity wherever he went. His professional life was marked by a quiet excellence, but it was his heart that truly defined him. His friends, who shared his joy for life, knew him as a “golden friend”—adventurous, kind, and endlessly supportive. Arman would do anything for them, whether helping them find jobs, lending financial support, or simply being there when they needed him.
To me, Arman was so much more than a brother. He was like my firstborn son, my heart outside of my body.
Now, I will never hear him call me Apashka again, but Amonya will forever hold a special place in my heart.
Arman’s memory will live on, a light that will never fade. His life was a gift, one I will carry with me always. I will love and miss him for eternity.
May your beautiful soul rest in peace, Arman.
With endless love,
Your Big Sister Dana (Apashka)
sing, mom, sing
by dana kurmasheva
"Sing, mommy, please sing to me," I pleaded hopefully when Mom entered our bedroom to tuck us in bed. This was one of those evenings when Mom was home at night. Perhaps she didn’t go to work the night shift or visit with her girlfriends. But it didn't matter to me.
Sometime before, Mom had sung to us at bedtime and I just loved it!
Cinderella’s song from a Soviet cartoon was my favourite. I was clueless that my mom would know this song, and was greatly surprised when she suddenly sang it for us. I had been begging her since then to sing it to us once more, but every time she refused to do so. This time, I asked her again.
Mom, not really wanting to, sighed and sat on the edge of my bed. Finally, my pleadings were heard, and she began to sing Cinderella's song. Her tired face, illuminated by the glow of the moon through the thin tulle in the window, looked very beautiful and peaceful. I liked my mother at such rare moments when she was calm. This was not the mother I knew during the day or even on some evenings. This mother did not scold or beat me up; this mother did not yell or attack me in raging anger. This was a gentle song, a gentle voice of my mother, and it seemed to me that she loved me very much. This is what the love and tenderness of a mother is.
It’s one of the warmest childhood memories of mom I have. In fact, it’s the only one. It nourished me with faith and hope that my mother truly loved me, even in moments when it did not seem to be true. In the most difficult times of misunderstanding and indignation in my relationship with my mother, this faith aroused in me a feeling of guilt and an even greater thirst for her love.
Mom had a very beautiful and gentle voice when she was young. At the age of 18, she actively participated in amateur performances, was a soloist in an ensemble, and performed in a local club. She really liked singing, and she flourished on stage. However, my father's jealousy made her give up her passion, her only breath of air, and the place where she truly was the queen. The stage life made her kinder and sweeter. I think it gave a deep meaning and significance to her inner essence.
Over the years, my mother became more confident in her grandeur and in the uniqueness of her voice. She always loved to sing, especially at every party she went to. Over time, her voice lost its resonance and elasticity, but still, she often compared herself with famous performers and sincerely believed that her voice sounded no worse, and maybe even better than the voices of those famous women on the TV screen.
Mom never sang to me again, no matter how much I asked her to.
“Sing, mom, sing” - I would like to go back in time to that moment and stay in it for much longer, and feel again the power of love. Maybe I made up for myself that she loved me, and not her own voice. But I want to believe this lie again, to be deceived and to drown in its warm embrace, and imagine how my life could have turned out if it were true.
my grandfather was a war hero
by dana kurmasheva
The very first and only memory of my grandfather, my mother's father, is when my mother took me with her to visit him at the hospital. I was about five or six years old. It was a warm summer day and we walked to the hospital. The courtyard of the old post-war buildings of the hospital was very cozy, with huge spreading trees that provided the necessary shade on hot days. I never knew before that I have a grandfather. I always had a grandmother, whom I simply adored and she loved me very much, that my mother was even jealous of me for her, for her love. I have always believed that it is quite normal to have only one grandmother, and it never occurred to me to ask where my grandfathers and other grandmother were. Never, until this moment.
Mom said we were going to visit grandpa at the hospital. He got there because of the wounds he received during the war. An older man came out to us, with a wide smile and small round glasses on his face. He was wearing a blue hospital robe over his pajamas. In those days, hospitals gave out such pants, a sleep shirt, and a robe to their patients.
I studied this stranger, who was my grandfather I never knew, and he looked at me with equal curiosity. He talked to my mother, took the treats from her which we brought for him, and then we walked back home. I do not remember him hugging and kissing me, as close people usually do. But maybe it did not remain in my memory, because this was the first and last meeting with him, and it was so long ago. Or maybe because all these years I tried to remember his face and completely forgot about his actions.
I asked my mother: "What wounds did he get?" Mom replied: “Left eye and a thigh. His wounds do not heal well and from time to time he goes to the hospital.” This explained to me why my grandfather had a bandage on his left eye. We never visited grandfather again, or they never took me there. Later, when I learn that my grandfather passed, I will think to myself that he died from those non-healing war wounds and that he died in that hospital. I was nine years old when my grandfather passed away.
A couple of years later, I was dusting the furniture in our apartment and wanted to put something away in the top drawer of my parents' bedroom bedside table. When I opened the drawer, I saw old papers lying carelessly in it, old photographs, orders, and medals. It became very interesting to me to look at all these things. They smelled of history. Such things are usually in the museum, and I saw them right in front of me, and I could touch them. On old tattered papers, grandfather's award letters, typewritten letters of thanks from Mr.Stalin, and other important documents were written in small handwriting and smelled of old ink.
Among these yellowed, inked papers, I found my grandfather's military ID, two Red Stars - the highest awards of that time, and a lot of different kinds of orders and medals. I developed incredible pride in my grandfather, I recognized him as such a brave and courageous person, such an honorable person to whom Mr. Stalin himself wrote letters of thanks for his dedication and heroism. My grandfather was a real war hero.
In our family, they never talked about my grandfather, as if it were an unspoken taboo. But after his death, I increasingly heard about these letters from Stalin, about his two Orders of the Red Star, about his heroic deeds as the Commander of Military Intelligence. My grandfather's ten adult children recounted and discussed all these documents and awards after his death - they themselves had just learned about their father - a warrior and hero of the Second World War of 1941-1945.
My grandfather went to the battlefront in his last year of university. He proved himself to be a decisive, courageous, strong leader and in a short time became an Intelligence Commander. He went through the whole war as a hero and led a platoon right into Berlin. He and his men captured more than a dozen German officers and soldiers. For these acts, they received the highest awards for their courage and bravery.
After the war, my grandfather taught higher mathematics and physics and was the Principal of the High School. He was an honorable veteran and was repeatedly invited to the Victory Parade in the Red Square in Moscow.
Despite being an honored and respected math teacher and a war hero, my grandfather regrettably lived in another town and saw neither his children nor grandchildren. He did not have a second family and passed away all alone in his small apartment.
The sad story of a divorce from a grandmother after the birth of twelve children, two of whom died shortly after their birth, and the youngest was a newborn baby, is shrouded in mystery and it is not customary to talk about it with anyone.
Any war has dire consequences for every person on earth. Although my grandfather survived and returned home, albeit with severe wounds, it crippled his soul. For many years afterward, he contributed to education and science, helped to raise young generations for the country he always loved and risked his life for in the war. However, his own children were left without a father-hero, without a personal mentor and example. These post-war traumas echoed in more than one generation in the family.
Grandfather passed away at 63 in 1983. All his services and sacrifices for the country remain in several documents that are now in the museum, and in a few medals that his children carefully keep. Unfortunately, most of the papers and medals were recklessly lost.
On the day of the Great Victory, I want to remember my grandfather - the war hero, the honored teacher of Kazakhstan, the person thanks to whom my children and I live. I did not get to know him during his lifetime and tell him the main words: “Thank you, my dear grandfather! I am very proud to be your granddaughter. I love you very much."
I convey these words of gratitude and love to my grandfather through the Angels in Heaven.
Eternal remembrance to my hero.
Your granddaughter Dana
9 May 2021.
music school
by dana kurmasheva
The courtyard of the one-story old school was buzzing with the sonorous voices of children and adults, it was recess. We were running around the dusty grounds and someone pulled my pigtails again. I never liked this. I also didn’t like it when one boy only ran after me and tried to tag me, because it’s not fair. Out of breath, feeling thirsty and dusty, we ran back to class when the bell rang. It was a typical school day.
However, it stopped being typical when several men and women entered the classroom. The whole class sat upright, arms folded tightly on the desk, and curiously looked at the adults. First time in grade one and we wanted to make a good impression on our guests.
An announcement was made about admissions to a music school, everyone was invited to come to the next-door building tomorrow for an audition. I got instantly eager and could not wait for the end of the lessons to run home and tell my mother about it. All my thoughts were about this news and I imagined how I would play wonderful compositions I heard on the radio and on TV.
In the evening after dinner, I told my mother that in the morning there would be an audition for enrollment to a music school and that I would very much like to learn to play the piano. To this day I don't know if my mother heard me, if she understood what I was saying, or if she did not care. There was no answer from her, except for the next task to clean up in the kitchen and go to bed.
The next day, my little sister and parents went somewhere. From the window, I saw my neighbor Alena leaving with her mother towards the school. I hastily dressed, locked the apartment with a key, and ran down the stairs from the third floor where we lived. I didn't want them to see me, so I tried to walk behind, keeping ample distance between us.
It was overcrowded in the narrow corridor of the small building of the music school.
I asked: "Where do I sign up for piano lessons?"
“One queue for all the instruments, line up after me,” one lady answered me.
I signed up and stood with the crowd, waiting for my turn to audition. While looking around, I saw all the children had one or both parents with them. Feelings of loneliness and abandonment swept over me. All my confidence vanished, replaced by waves of fear and helplessness.
I was completely at a loss when the door opened and the man loudly called out my name. A chill washed over me and my frozen legs could hardly move. In the room, I saw a woman sitting at the desk and writing down something. To the right of the door, against the wall, was a dark piano. I saw a real piano for the first time and feelings of nervousness and curiosity mixed inside me.
The next unpleasant surprise for me was the disappointment that it is not the woman at the desk, but the man who auditioned in this room. He sat down at the piano, and I had to stand in front of him. He gave me a pencil and told me to repeat after him. Then he hit the piano lid several times with his pencil and looked at me. Embarrassed by the man's attention, I awkwardly, somehow, knocked on the piano lid after him. We repeated this several times and each time my awkwardness increased, my body resisted being adequate. Trying to gain my confidence, I imagined this man as my uncle, a relative with whom we are just playing and it’s fun.
I was expecting that now he would let me sit at the piano and show me some scales, or I would be allowed to try playing it, and touch this live instrument. But instead, the man suddenly told me to sing a song. I was confused and not ready for such a request. Puzzled, I asked: "What should I sing?" “Sing what you know and remember,” he answered dryly.
At a music lesson at school, we learned the Russian folk song “In the Field, a Birch Stood”. Panting with inner embarrassment and awkwardness, I began to sing. I tried, but the words got messed up and I looked foolish again.
The man interrupted my lingering chanting and stated the verdict: “Tone deaf. Not accepted. "
I left the room and went home, deeply grieved and completely alone. I did not see anything around me and did not hear birds singing, only my legs guided my path. The voice of a man from the admissions office echoed in my head: “Tone deaf. Tone deaf. Tone deaf. Not accepted”. All-day I was feeling down and something was broken inside of me. Nobody will know that at the age of seven I myself went to audition at a music school. No one. Even Mom.
My sister is three and a half years younger than me. When she went to first grade, our parents enrolled her in music school to learn to play the dombra, without her own desire. Dombra is not a piano, but I was interested anyway. I tried to repeat after her and practice with her when she rehearsed at home. Several times a week parents took her to a music school, where she also took Solfeggio lessons. She did not finish it, but dropped out after a few years, never mastering the instrument. All this time, I was overwhelmed with feelings of sadness and unworthiness for my parents did not give me such a chance and my desire did not matter.
My belief in the absence of my musical ability grew stronger from year to year. However, in middle school, I fell in love with opera. I often listened to it on the radio while cleaning and doing my chores in our apartment. Then I started making them up myself and singing when I was alone. As a teenager, singing arias about issues with my mother and injustice in my life was a peculiar way to release my emotions and feelings. It was clear to me that opera arias are lively conversations in singing. While performing my saddest arias, I cried and let my anger and resentment come out of me. I often imagined myself as a real opera singer and saw myself on the bright stage of a spectacular theater.
“The bear stepped on my ear” is one of my favorite expressions which I use often to cover my feelings of inferiority and shame. All my life I have lived with the firm belief that I am tone deaf and have no musical talent, although I love music, especially classical music. My love for music led me to take time to go to symphony concerts, ballet, and opera performances. As a mother of two beautiful girls, I encourage their music education, believe in them, and enjoy hearing them play. "One word can bless or kill a person" is an old statement. Words spoken by a teacher, parent, and any other adult have the power to destroy a child or give him faith in himself. I am deeply convinced that every child has talent and potential. The responsibility we carry as adults are to help them to open up and enable our children to build their lives without fear, labels, and boundaries.
This piano piece is performed
by my daughter Sara. May 2021.