How villagers in Kyrgyzstan are dealing with modern impact of smartphones
Wick man Chris McIvor has recently returned from a trip to Kyrgyzstan where he discussed issues around smartphones with the local elderly population
Balykchy is a small town at the western end of Lake Issy Kul in eastern Kyrgyzstan, the second largest mountain lake in the world at 2408 square miles, and the third largest salt-water lake.
The town has the air of a place that time has deposited somewhere between the shores of tradition and modernity. There is a scattering of new Chinese factories in the outer suburbs, a hopeful tourism complex at the edge of the lake and some older buildings that hint at a more prosperous past when the country was part of the Soviet Union.
Its collapse in 1991 left many such towns struggling to find their economic identity. Balykchy is still searching.
I am visiting the town’s Older People’s Association. Many of its 25 members no longer have the company and support of their families around them, a common feature in a country where most of its younger people are now working outside it.
Russia, because of language and history, is a favoured destination for its more than one million Kyrgyz migrants. Nearby Kazakhstan, blessed with uranium and oil, also has a high demand for cheap external labour.
The centre where the older people congregate several times a week, a former school, has clearly seen better days. But it is not the declining facilities that attract them but the simple pleasure of each other’s company.
“All we need are a few chairs, a roof to stop the rain, a stove to heat our tea and a place to sit and talk,” claims Alexandre, the only gentleman I can see in a group of older women. “It is companionship that we are after. In the absence of our families that is one of the few comforts left us.”
I notice, like their much younger counterparts in town that we have earlier passed, that many of them have smartphones that on occasion they take out to send or receive messages. But I also notice, unlike their grandchildren as far as I can tell, that this does not seem to be a major preoccupation, that the space they have primarily created for themselves is to converse, interact and to tease Alexandre who gamely responds to the flirtatious ribbing of his female companions.
What place do phones have in their lives, I ask them. Has technology carried them with it or left them behind?
Some of the members answer by talking of the Covid pandemic which hit Kyrgyzstan severely, worsened by a high incidence of respiratory disease in the country, the poor state of health services and the long delay until a vaccine arrived.
Their phones allowed them to keep in touch with each other during a time when many remained isolated in their homes. Information on how to protect themselves was also shared and what measures to take if they were unfortunate enough to contract the virus.
“Shut away at home, unable to see anyone, our phones were a lifeline to the outside world. In that sense they probably saved many of us.”
But despite agreement, several of the women reminded their companions that once the pandemic subsided they were eager to return to their in-person meetings and that phones were no substitute for the interaction they wanted to have.
“One thing about people of our generation,” claimed another older lady, “is that we like to relate our stories. We like to share our laughter and tears directly with each other. Phones don’t allow you to do that. And it is something we are all worried about. Do young people know how to have a conversation today? Do they have the patience to listen?”
Another member of the group remarked that one of the things they looked forward to was seeing their families after a long absence when they returned to visit the villages they had left behind. But she lamented the fact that her grandchildren seemed more interested in spending time on their phones than joining a conversation.
“It is as if their attention is limited to only a few minutes before they have to click away on their phones. When I ask them what it is they are sending to each other all I can see are emojis and a sentence that is never more than a few words long. It is as if their phones are now doing their thinking for them.”
Kyrgyzstan culture, like that of many traditional societies, is transmitted between generations through the form of telling stories and sharing activities. Older people feel valued by having the space to relate their own histories. Yet among many I spoke to during my recent visit, they feel that this respect for their contribution is being lost, that the same technology that allowed them to survive the terrible pandemic a few years ago does not favour the transmission of wisdom and guidance but drowns it out instead with distraction and noise.
During the week I was there, the prominent story many people were talking about was the killing of a girl by one of the boys in her school. This echoes several such teenage killings over the last year. Many older people feel that social media and the influence of external culture is significantly to blame.
“How do we enjoy the benefits of this technology without inviting its hazards into our society? That is a question we have no answer to today,” claimed another older gentleman I spoke to. To which I responded that Kyrgyzstan was not alone in having to address this challenge.