“We are not forced, we are ‘asked politely,’ explains Vladimir, a young teacher of English in a local gymnasium, “but I told them I am not going to play this game anymore.” The “game” Vladimir is referring to is the Kazakhstani and Oblast governments’ policy of requiring public school teachers to purchase government-approved newspapers.

Few places in Kazakhstan is the soul-crushing bureaucracy felt as acutely as in public schools, and it is often teachers who bear the brunt of the Education Department and central governments’ administrative whims. Taken in this context, the practice of “asking teachers politely” to purchase government-approved newspapers is merely a “trifle,” according to one local college instructor. For her and for most teachers, the primary problem with this policy is the money it takes out of their pockets; thoughts of freedom of information or expression rarely enter their calculus. Still, for Westerners accustomed to a healthy oppositional relationship between the government and the press, there seem to be deeper issues here.

Approximately every three months, all public teachers in Kazakhstan are required to fork out about 400 or 500 Tenge to purchase newspapers from a list they receive from the government. While this is not an astronomical sum of money (equal to about $3.50 or $4.00 at current exchange rates), it is enough to cause some teachers consternation. And when multiplied by the thousands of teachers across the nation, it does become quite a significant source of funds for the papers. “Nobody would buy these papers [without this pressure],” stresses Vladimir, “and these papers would disappear in a year.”

Ostensibly, this policy is intended to keep teachers well-informed and provide information useful in their teaching. “Now we have a problem,” asserts a local school director, “because adults and children do not read enough. In these papers, teachers can write their own articles about teaching methodology… and find information about the whole republic.”

“If [the teacher] is not interested in [these papers], I would like to know what kind of a teacher they are,” the director continues.

It is not illegal for teachers to refuse the papers, but it is attitudes like those expressed by the director, and echoed by other authorities, which keeps teachers obediently handing over their money. And even the director acknowledges that the money can be a problem as “the teachers’ salaries are not large, especially for their education level.”

When the subject arises, most teachers give a little laugh and shake their heads resignedly; few have Vladimir’s young audacity.

“The papers are not interesting,” he declares, “they are rather official. What you find there is texts [of laws adopted]. What the hell do I need it for? I’m not a lawyer.”

Another teacher at a nearby lyceum agrees: “They are really boring,” she sighs, “I would rather buy my own paper or nothing at all.”

There are at least two kinds of papers teachers are “asked” to buy: the first is a local paper, with news, events, and the declarations of the Akimat (city hall). The second is a national paper, often containing news on economics, culture, and of course, the constant flow of rhetoric and pronouncements from Astana. Both of these papers are either published by the government, or by companies that have connections strong enough to make it on the lists. “Of course, these particular papers are never critical of the government,” states Vladimir.

“I do not think it is political,” defends the director, “except that some of the articles are meant to make children more patriotic. Many children want the news of our republic.”

The director may be right, in that the papers are not aggressively denouncing the opposition (what little exists). However, neither are they drawing attention to problems within Kazakhstan’s own government, or digging deeper into the nepotism, corruption, and inefficiency that continues to plague the administration. Certainly, those are topics teachers and students deserve to read about too.