ASTANA — I grew up in a Russian-speaking environment, but within deeply rooted Kazakh traditions — or at least, that’s how I’ve always felt. From childhood, I witnessed a world where everyday life intertwined with beliefs in the unseen. Superstitions and deep reverence for the tangible world blended seamlessly with an unshakable awareness of forces beyond what we could see.
Aida Haidar.
One of my earliest memories of this was in our old tiny ‘Khrushchyovka’ apartment in Kokshetau, where my family lived until I was ten. Like any good neighbors, we often borrowed kitchenware from each other. My mother would send me to fetch a pot or a dish, but when it was time to return it, she always placed sweets or small treats inside. Curious, I asked her why. She explained that this was a way of sharing our “yrys” — a Kazakh word meaning prosperity or abundance. To return an empty dish was to risk our own good fortune. As a child, this felt like part of a game, but over the years, it became an ingrained practice, something I carried with me into adulthood.
This was my first introduction to “yrymdau,” a Kazakh tradition of reading omens, recognizing signs, and taking or giving small tokens for good luck. It wasn’t about rigid rituals but rather an intuitive way of moving through life — an unspoken understanding that the seen and unseen worlds must be kept in balance. At least, this is how I understand yrymdau, and I do not claim to be a full expert on this topic.
For example, I try to start important tasks on Wednesday because I grew up believing it to be a lucky day. When I face financial difficulties, I donate to charity or find a way to help someone in need. Many might see this as the law of balance — giving before receiving — but for me, it is an extension of yrymdau, a way to align myself with fortune and goodwill.
Names, too, are often tied to this belief. During the Soviet era, the famous singer Aida Vedischeva was well-known, and my mother, a music lover, named me after her. In some way, that name shaped me. I’ve always had a deep appreciation for the arts, and I often wonder if that was an extension of the tradition, a kind of whispered hope passed down through a name.
I think Kazakhs have long understood that fortune is not just stumbled upon — it is invited. Our ancestors believed that if someone achieved success, a part of their luck could be shared. At large celebrations, people would take food from the feast or even ask for an item from the fortunate person, hoping this gesture would allow fortune to favor them as well. But yrymdau was never just about taking — it was about effort, too. Luck might knock on your door, but you had to be willing to welcome it in and do the work yourself.
That is what happened to me. When I was preparing to study in the United States after high school, I borrowed a pen from my sister, who had visited the country before me. And when I graduated, my younger cousins took something of mine, believing it would bring them luck in their own studies. It was a quiet, unspoken understanding passed down from one generation to the next.
At its core, yrymdau was a way for Kazakhs to navigate an unpredictable world and find a measure of control in the vast and often harsh landscapes of the steppe. Life here was never easy — endless raids, brutal winters, an unforgiving climate. Survival demanded more than just resilience; it required an acute awareness of the world’s signs. I believe this is why Kazakhs approach life with deep respect, not just for nature but for the unseen forces that guide our paths.
More than anything, I am convinced that yrymdau is an act of optimism. It is the belief that luck, happiness, and abundance are not just accidents but things that can be nurtured and encouraged. Only those who paid attention to the sky, the wind, and the movement of animals could survive in the steppe. This attentiveness, this belief in signs, has been carried through generations.
In their book, “Qazaq Yrymdary” (Kazakh Beliefs), authors Akhmetzhan Kaibaruly and Bolat Bopaiuly write, “Only those Kazakh beliefs that have been thoroughly filtered through centuries of nomadic life have survived. They are deeply ingrained in the nation’s consciousness and leave no room for doubt.” The book lists around 500 superstitions, including practical wisdom like: “If a dog follows a rider leaving the village, it should not be chased away. This is a sign of a safe journey, as a dog is loyal to its owner and wishes them no harm.”
And everyday customs, such as: “A teapot should be placed evenly on the fire so that boiling liquid does not spill onto the stove. If tea overflows, the burning water salts are believed to bring misfortune to the daughter of the house. A cauldron should not be positioned tilted toward the entrance. If it slides and topples over, it is a bad omen.”
In all of these, I see a deep reverence for the natural flow of life. There is wisdom in recognizing signs, believing that fortune can be encouraged, and knowing that even small gestures — a sweet in a borrowed dish, a borrowed pen, a Wednesday morning start — can tip the scales ever so slightly in your favor. Yrymdau is not just about superstition; it is about hope, resilience, and the quiet ways we try to shape our destinies.
