Memories Carved in Stone: A Kazakh Love Story
Astana – While Valentine’s Day on Feb. 14, introduced through Western culture, is widely celebrated in Kazakhstan, a homegrown celebration of love on April 15, known as Kozy-Korpesh and Bayan Sulu Day, is gaining traction. First marked in 2011, it honors the legendary love story from Kazakh folklore.
Unlike the bustling chaos of mid-February, April 15 feels gentle and unhurried. A day that belongs just to the two of you – for walking hand in hand down your favorite street, spontaneous picnics, or simply stargazing in silence.
This year, as I reflected on what to write for the day, I found myself in Taraz. By chance, I visited the Aisha Bibi mausoleum, a place I had heard of many times but had never truly considered. Standing before its ancient terracotta walls, I was unexpectedly moved. There was something in the silence, in the delicate ornamentation that made the story come alive. I realized then that this wasn’t just a legend about love, like that of Kozy-Korpesh and Bayan Sulu – it was a timeless testament to devotion.
The legend tells of Aisha, a daughter of a nobleman, and Karakhan, a young ruler. Their love was genuine and profound, yet forbidden. Her father refused Karakhan’s proposal, so Aisha, determined to be with her beloved, ran away with only her loyal nursemaid beside her.
Her father cursed her departure: “You may cross six rivers, but you will never cross the seventh. You will see his hat from afar — and no closer.”
But before she could cross the seventh river, fate intervened. She stopped to wash her face, unaware that a venomous snake had crawled into her headdress. When she put it back on, the snake bit her. The poison spread quickly and proved fatal.
Upon hearing the news, Karakhan rushed to her side with doctors and imams. Realizing they were too late, he married her as she lay dying, whispering into her ear, “Aisha, now you are my wife.” Those were the last words she ever heard.
He buried her on that very hill and ordered a mausoleum so beautiful that her name would live forever. And it does.
Located just 18 kilometers from Taraz, the structure they built is unlike any other in Kazakhstan. Its walls are covered with more than 60 types of terracotta tiles, each bearing delicate floral and geometric patterns. The western wall remains untouched since the 12th century. Craftsmen used juniper wood instead of iron for reinforcements. One column features 16 rows of tiles, said to symbolize Aisha’s age at the time of her death.
One inscription, still preserved after centuries, reads in ancient Kufic script: “Autumn… Clouds… The earth is beautiful…”
Beyond its design, the mausoleum holds mysteries. Inside the mausoleum, the acoustics are so strange that even a whisper echoes like music. Some believe the bricks were mixed with copper and minerals to create a kind of xylophone effect. They call them “musical bricks.”
Her mausoleum faces the one built for Karakhan — across the landscape, but visible. Just like her father said. For decades, they were the tallest buildings in Taraz. From one, you could see the dome of the other. Karakhan visited her tomb every morning, carrying five red roses in a jug.
Today, women come here to pray for love, for a child, for happiness. I saw them — silent, reverent, standing before Aisha’s resting place with hope in their eyes.
Standing there, I felt something shift. As if love — real, eternal, bittersweet — was still alive between those walls. I placed my hand on the carved tiles and felt the warmth of the sun, but also something else: the memory of someone who loved, and was loved, beyond the limits of time.
April 15 is not just a date on the calendar. It’s a reminder that great love stories do not fade, not if we keep telling them, visiting them, and feeling them.
