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“Radiation Became a Presence—Almost Like a Mythical Force”: Zhanana Kurmasheva on We Live Here
We Live Here “Some places on Earth carry a weight that is almost impossible to put into words” is how Zhanana Kurmasheva puts it in her director’s statement for We Live Here, which world-premiered at CPH:DOX and next screens in the World Showcase section at Hot Docs. Fortunately, Kurmasheva has a way with images that allows her to artistically convey both the gravity and eerie specificity of the Semipalatinsk Test Site. Set in the breathtaking Kazakh steppe, it’s an otherworldly place where the Soviets spent over four decades — until 1991 when Kazakhstan gained its independence — conducting a whopping 456 nuclear tests; from which the radiation, unsurprisingly, continues to linger in the air, water and soil today.
Indeed, more remarkable is the fact that, as the title alludes, folks live — and have always lived — nearby for generations (including the filmmaker’s mother who carries the stigma of being born in a test site-adjacent village). And by focusing on the ecologists struggling to map the fallout, along with one particular family — a grandfather documenting collective memories, a son fighting for government intervention to keep his daughter alive, and a tween girl who’s never known a non-nuclear existence — a bigger picture of cataclysmic environmental damage emerges. One that will eventually come for us all.
A few weeks before the doc’s North American debut (May 2nd), Filmmaker reached out to the Kazakh director to learn all about this uniquely personal and political film (and how a documentarian goes about crafting such with funding from an authoritarian government).
Filmmaker: How did you meet all your characters? Was it difficult to get folks to appear on camera given the stigma of being from that area?
Kurmasheva: When I first discovered the former Semipalatinsk nuclear test site, I was overwhelmed. I knew I needed to understand it more deeply. So I began researching the history and impact of the area, and came across environmentalist Dmitry Kalmykov. He had long been one of the most active voices advocating for the site to be fenced off and made safe. His words helped answer so many of the questions I had been carrying. Naturally, he became both a central figure in the film and an important consultant throughout the process.
On our first expedition together, I planned to meet local residents and hopefully find the people whose lives could help tell this story. Dmitry introduced me to Bolatbek, and we had a long, meaningful conversation. He spoke about his granddaughter and his fear that her illness was caused by radiation exposure. That moment stayed with me. I had always wanted to explore the medical aspect of this tragedy, and his story felt like a heartbreaking window into that.
I began reaching out to Bolatbek’s son Nurbol, asking about his daughter’s condition and whether the family might be open to participating in the film. However, it was complicated. Her father was afraid — of school bullying, of stigma, of the emotional toll it might take on his daughter. And of course, he also wanted to protect her physically. Her immune system is very fragile, and even a mild infection could be dangerous.
I kept looking for other characters, but eventually I was able to build a connection with Nurbol. We realized we shared the same concerns: he was actively pushing for changes in the law concerning radiation victims, and that was something I deeply cared about as well. That shared purpose brought trust.
It was a very difficult decision for them to allow any filming of their daughter. Her presence in the film is thus limited — not just because of fear or stigma, but because her health truly couldn’t withstand constant interaction with people. It was a delicate line between telling an important story and respecting a family’s boundaries. And that line shaped how the film was made.
Filmmaker: Given the government’s inaction in fencing off the test site, let alone in addressing the health concerns of its inhabitants, I was quite surprised to see the doc supported by Kazakh Cinema. Have the authorities actually seen the final film, and if so, what’s been the reaction?
Kurmasheva: I totally understand your thinking. We actually went through all the official screenings with Kazakh Cinema, and everything was coordinated with them from the start. We were honestly surprised — and also very glad — to see that our government is willing to look at this topic with open eyes. It feels like they’re ready to face the past and talk about the problems that are still affecting people today. It’s becoming safer to speak up.
But we also wanted the film to go beyond just local issues. The test site, in a way, is like a tiny version of our world. Wars are still happening. Nuclear powers still justify having weapons by saying it’s for protection. That’s something we wanted to highlight too. I think Kazakh Cinema saw the importance of that message.
Filmmaker: Could you talk a bit about your artistic influences? The cinematography and sound design really viscerally reflect the otherworldly quality of the region.
Kurmasheva: I was deeply influenced by the stories I heard from local residents — especially the ones about people who would go down into the old mines to scavenge metal and never come back. Those stories stayed with me. I began to imagine that the dead were still there, living in a kind of parallel world. In my mind radiation became a presence — almost like a mythical force or a monster — that returns to the village again and again to claim its next victim.
That feeling shaped the entire creative process. While working on the film I revisited Tarkovsky and reread Márquez – poetry and magical realism have always fascinated me. I’m also deeply inspired by the work of Andrew Wyeth, his love for quiet, unchanging life. In terms of documentary influence, Zhao Liang’s Behemoth had a huge impact on me — the way it blends the real with the allegorical, turning industrial landscapes into something mythic and terrifying. Wang Bing’s films also shaped my understanding of duration, silence, and the dignity of human endurance. Both directors showed me that you can approach harsh realities with a kind of visual poetry.
It was extremely important for us to convey the essence of the steppe poisoned by radiation. We tried to show what a place scarred by hundreds of nuclear explosions could be like — a space that simultaneously feeds local residents and slowly kills them, hiding harmful radiation in its soil. We discussed the visual part of the film a lot with the film’s cinematographer Kuanysh Kurmanbayev, who knows how to subtly capture reality and delve deeply into the topic.
Getting the right collaborators was equally personal for our producer Banu Ramazanova. It was important to work with people who could carry the emotional weight of this story, who approached each frame and sound with the same empathy and care. That’s why we brought on Akmaral Mergen as our composer. She had worked on a film about the 1930s famine, one of the most painful chapters in our history, and we knew she would bring deep sensitivity to this story as well. It was important for us to convey the breath of this earth and the whispers of invisible and inaudible radiation. What does radiation sound like? How do you express something invisible but deeply felt?
From the beginning, we knew the soundscape needed to be rooted in Kazakh culture. We used the qobyz, our sacred instrument traditionally played in laments and mourning rituals. Its haunting, resonant tone became the emotional anchor of the film — the voice of the land itself, grieving and remembering. Akmaral, along with our sound designer Ilya Gariyev, managed to create a truly Kazakh sound, which was framed by the notes of the danger of the nuclear threat hanging over all of us.
Though we had many visual and sonic ideas we couldn’t fully realize due to limited resources and technical constrains, we held onto the essence of what we wanted to express: a world suspended between memory and presence, between silence and aftermath. A place where history isn’t past. It’s still breathing, still echoing.
Filmmaker: I’m also curious to hear what it’s like being a filmmaker in Kazakhstan. What restrictions are placed on nonfiction filmmakers and journalists? What topics are off-limits?
Kurmasheva: Being a filmmaker in Kazakhstan means accepting early on that you probably won’t earn a living from cinema — at least not from the kind of films you pour your heart into. Most directors either make personal, auteur-driven films and fund them with income from other jobs, or they turn to commercial projects that do better at the box office.
When it comes to restrictions, it’s a bit nuanced. Officially, there aren’t clear-cut “forbidden” topics. You can, in theory, make a film about anything. But in practice there’s a sense of self-censorship — certain lines most of us just don’t cross. For example, we tend to steer away from commenting on wars involving neighboring countries, or anything that challenges the law or openly depicts sexuality. It’s not that there’s an outright ban, but you learn what’s safe and what could raise red flags.
Filmmaker: Finally, what are your — and your characters’ — hopes for the film, especially since it won’t be screening theatrically in Kazakstan?
Kurmasheva: The characters in the film are hoping for real change. They want the film to spark a response — to push the government to finally fence off the test site, to revisit the outdated law on radiation victims, and to invest in more hospitals and clinics in Semey so that people can get the care they need, when they need it.
We share those hopes, and more. We want the world to see this film and understand our history — that such a nuclear test site even existed, and that real people died because of it. It’s a deep wound for us. The test site was built where people were already living. The Soviet authorities denied the harm and silenced those who tried to speak up. So much was hidden.
It’s important for us to recognize what was done to our people — not just in the past, but also to understand what it means for us now, as a country in Central Asia. We want to live in a safer world. Maybe it sounds naive to be anti-nuclear in a world still full of war, where powerful nations continue to build weapons. But we believe that true progress means putting human life first. And nuclear weapons will never lead us there.
There won’t be a wide theatrical release in Kazakhstan like fiction films usually get, but we are planning a limited release in theaters that support documentary cinema. What matters most is bringing the film back to the people who lived this story. We hope to screen it in Semey on August 29th, the date the test site was officially closed. And we also hope that one day it will be completely normal for documentaries to make it to the big screen. These stories deserve to be seen, heard and felt just as much as any fiction film.
