Kazakhstan’s Remote Uranium Country

A narrow road winds through the rugged Karatau mountain range toward Sozak, a district in Kazakhstan's southern Turkestan region. The journey is a study in contrasts: ancient, fractured rock gives way without warning to flat expanses of scorched grass, swept by a constant wind.

That wind, locals will tell you, is somewhat of a blessing, carrying away the worst of what uranium mining leaves behind. Known as the Uranium Steppe, Turkestan produces 60% of Kazakhstan’s uranium output, making it the world’s most significant source of the nuclear fuel. It is also one of the country’s poorest regions.

Vlast visited several of Turkestan’s towns and villages in the spring of 2025 to report on life above the mines. A parallel investigation from the same trip found high levels of uranium and other toxins in the local water supply. 

The journey from the city of Turkestan to Taukent is a bumpy three-hour drive. Outside the window, the occasional abandoned gas station or cafeteria fly by the roadside in an otherwise bleak and empty landscape. The town itself, home to around 8,000 people, sits at the foot of the Karatau mountains. On the approach, spots of green begin to appear in patches beside residential areas, relief from the endless yellow steppe.

Most people here work in uranium. The nearest mining company in Taukent is Kazatomprom-SaUran, a subsidiary of the national uranium company. Others travel further to work for KATCO, a joint venture between France’s Orano and Kazatomprom, or Inkai, owned by Kazatomprom and Canada’s Cameco.

Unlike the other towns scattered across the Sozak district, Taukent has multi-story residential blocks, though several now stand empty. In the middle of the town, a school, veterans’ center and the House of Culture are all falling apart. Nearby, a group of men sit on old sofas set out under awnings passing the time. There are a few cafes and shops nearby. It has the unhurried atmosphere of a place where there is not much left to do.

“We don’t see any growth, we don’t see any benefit from these companies,” says one man. “There’s no work except for uranium. My son has been to every mine and can’t find work. I’m a trained drill operator and I can only make a living as a taxi driver.”

Askar Syrgabayev, 67, says he is receiving treatment at the local clinic, as are many of his neighbors. Poor health is a common complaint here, yet almost nobody has been tested in any way that might connect their symptoms to the mines. For many, a diagnosis is near impossible given the district lacks an oncology center, or MRI and CT scanners. In fact, there are only five ultrasound machines and a single oncologist, who must refer patients elsewhere for further examination.

Diana Nauryzbayeva was born in Taukent and has taught Russian language at the local school for eight years. She and Zhanar Umirova, an English teacher, both say uranium negatively impacts their health.

“The only clean water is from springs,” she says. “Technically, we are above the mines, but the byproducts are coming up through wells in Sozak, Tasty, and Zhuantobe.”

The extraction method used here is in-situ leaching, or ISR. It involved pumping sulphuric acid up to 700 meters underground to dissolve uranium and then bring it to the surface. It is cheaper and less disruptive than conventional mining, and Kazakhstan has embraced it enthusiastically. The majority of mines here rely on the process and Orano boasts on its website that KATCO’s mine became the world’s largest ISR operation in 2009.

In 2015, the US Environmental Protection Agency concluded that current ISR environmental standards required review, citing the risk of groundwater contamination with arsenic, lead and other toxic metals. Whether that contamination is reaching Taukent’s residents is a question the district is unequipped to answer. There is no oncology center to diagnose diseases linked to the mines, and a shortage of doctors at the local clinic is forcing residents to travel 40 kilometers for treatment.

“By the time you get there, you’ll already be dead,” Nauryzbayeva says. “We call an ambulance and it arrives an hour and a half later. For anything serious, you’re going to Turkestan or Shymkent, both over 130 kilometers away.”

​​Local government records show that Taukent has a clinic that employs mid-level health professionals, a family doctor, a primary care physician, and a paediatrician, “all on call.” Therefore, “a separate ambulance team is not provided.”

Life was better with the Kazatomprom-Demeu fund, Nauryzbayeva says. Set up in 2004, the fund channelled money from the uranium companies into local infrastructure and social projects. But in 2016, the fund became an investment company, and the charitable initiatives disappeared.

“Once it was disbanded, chaos ensued,” says Nauryzbayeva. “Many people want to leave. Many already have. Now those who couldn’t move to Shymkent are coming to us.”

Umirova suggests that corruption is part of the explanation, citing the recent conviction of members of the Sozak District Education Department for evading taxes intended for environmental conservation. 

“There are no after-school clubs, no activities - just this bleakness. If we want to go anywhere, we drive to Shymkent, four hours away. This feels like a place where pensioners come to die, and that’s it,” she says.

Nauryzbayeva says she wants to leave too. But her mother is here, and believes that those who have spent their lives in Taukent have become, in some sense, acclimatized.

“People say you shouldn’t move here after fifty,” she says. “We’re used to the radiation.” Some do still choose to relocate to Taukent, drawn by salary add-ons that compensate for the poor environment. “You will pay for it with your health,” she counters.

A 30-minute drive away lies Kainar, a village of just 1,100 people that seems to belong to a different landscape entirely. Where the surrounding steppe is parched and bare, Kainar is dense with trees and greenery.

Medeu Kopenov, 70, has spent most of his working life here. He ran the local post office for 41 years and has been a spokesperson for his community for the past eight. He speaks about uranium mining positively and believes his village is prospering: 500 hectares of wheat under cultivation, a new water tower, and sustained support from a uranium exploration company operating nearby.

Sharapat Mukhamedaminova, 61, a teacher whose son operates equipment at Kazatomprom, takes a similar view: “Apparently, because we’ve been here since childhood, radiation doesn't affect us,” she laughs. No one in her family has health problems, she says, but does complain about the lack of gas and local amenities for her grandchildren.

Behind her, a man herds cattle past wearing a KATCO work uniform. The company’s logo is a familiar sight on the streets here, often worn as ordinary clothing outside of work.

“The local government does a good job,” says Murat, a local resident who spoke to Vlast using a pseudonym. “But there’s unemployment, prices are high, there are plenty of poor people.” His son, like so many others, works in uranium. “Thanks to Kazatomprom, this district is alive.” 

Ten minutes away is the town of Sozak. It’s home to around 10,000 people and has a busier feel about it with restaurants, larger shops, and a small park. Once the capital of the Kazakh Khanate, the surrounding area still hosts the mausoleums of scholars and clerics and ruins of old mosques. In 1928, it was the site of a significant uprising against Soviet forced collectivization when rebels seized much of the district before being suppressed in 1931. After that, the administrative center was relocated to Sholakkorgan.

Near a car wash on the edge of town, Khurshit is helping fix a tractor. Despite being trained as a geophysicist, he owns a farm, because getting work in his field turned out to be harder than expected.

“I went to the district mayor looking for a job, but they turned me down. Didn’t even offer an internship. You need connections to get into Kazatomprom’s training programes.” He describes being eventually taken on to work for the company and training in Taukent. “People used to be reluctant to work there,” he adds. “There were rumors that men lost their virility.”

He is candid about the environmental cost. “Our environment is deteriorating, there’s drought, salt levels are rising, it’s all because of the Aral Sea. Then there’s the air itself. But we can’t do without uranium,” adding that “there's no other work.”

Several residents say that getting work often requires bribery, describing it as almost routine. In response to a request from Vlast, KATCO said that government agencies had found no evidence of corrupt hiring at the company, and that it maintained a zero-tolerance policy towards corruption.

Lack of healthcare is also an issue here, according to Khurshit. Sozak has no maternity hospital, despite its significant population, meaning women must travel 70 kilometers to Sholakkorgan to give birth.

“There’s only one ambulance. My daughter was sick, we called one, but they didn’t even arrive within an hour. So I called some neighbors who are doctors, and they helped,” Khurshit complains.

He would move, he says, if he could afford to. “I have five children – how would I provide for them?” He describes how younger residents are buying property in the cities and waiting for the mines to close so they can leave without looking back. 

The road to the northeast, still bumpy, leads to the villages of Tasty and Shu. By midday, there are almost no other cars. The landscape shifts from steppe to semi-desert – only thorns and salt marsh surviving in the bleached soil, the ground itself crusted white with salt. Both villages sit very close to KATCO’s mining sites.

Tasty, population 1,700, is almost completely still in the midday heat. A group of children play football in the street; otherwise, there is little sign of life. Dariga sits in her yard with her grandchildren, a dog sheltering in the thin shade of a small tree nearby.

“It’s all drought, snowstorms and dust,” she says. “Uranium mining probably plays a part, but I still can’t imagine living elsewhere.” She says that people here either graze cattle or leave for work at uranium mines. Her two sons work at Inkai and KATCO, and her daughters moved to Shymkent.

Water shortages are a problem here. “A pump has been installed in front of every house. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. You can't plant anything,” according to Dariga. The local government's account differs: it insists all settlements in the district have drinking water, and that Tasty and Shu are supplied around the clock via two wells producing 384 cubic meters a day.

Her neighbor Marzhan moved to Tasty four years ago when her husband took a job at KATCO, while she teaches at the local school. “Everything’s fine,” she says, “but there’s something wrong with the water, like the taste and smell. We've been getting ill a lot. My husband never had high blood pressure before he started working in uranium. Now he does.”

Like most others in the district, their village is not connected to gas. In winter, Marzhan runs home from school between lessons to stoke the heating before her children get cold.

The neighboring village of Shu, home to just over 600 people, is reached by a road that dissolves into dirt and sand at the village boundary. Local man Yerzhan remembers how the arrival of foreign companies in the 2000s felt like a turning point.

“They built community services, supported pensioners and veterans. When KATCO came, they promised full social support and jobs. But we don’t see any of that anymore,” he admits.

Yerzhan worked at KATCO for two years. Now he is unemployed and, by his own account, disillusioned with both the company and the authorities. “KATCO isn’t legally obliged to provide for us. But within its environmental responsibilities, surely it should have created jobs for at least half the people in these villages?”

Another resident, Khanymgul, returns to the question of water. “KATCO once sealed our water source with cement. They said it contained uranium, that the water was unsafe. Ever since then, we’ve had problems.”

Three days before we spoke, the pump motor had broken down entirely, leaving the whole village without water. “The environmental situation is dire. I remember my parents growing melons and watermelons here. You can’t grow anything like that now.”

The district’s administrative center, Sholakkorgan, presents a different picture. With a population of 20,000, this town is where most of the visible investment has landed: a new sports center, a renovated stadium, a school, medical facilities, fire stations. Indoor football pitches are planned for several other villages, including Shu and Tasty, before the end of the year.

In terms of investment, the numbers aren’t negligible. Under its founding agreement, KATCO is required to contribute 300 million tenge ($650,000) annually to social projects in the district, as well as just under 1.6 billion tenge ($3.5 billion) to the Turkestan regional government. The company says its social contributions have doubled since 2022 and that it has invested over 6,3 million tenge ($13 million) in the region across roughly 490 infrastructure projects. 

That includes the commissioning of a 74.7 million tenge ($162 million) uranium processing complex at the Moiynkum deposit; another, costing 69.7 million tenge ($150 million), is due at Budenovskoye by the end of 2026. A solar power plant, a sulphuric acid facility, a mineral fertilizer plant, and other projects are in the pipeline, with hundreds of jobs promised. Inkai, meanwhile, plans to build a refinery.

As for local government, authorities claim that road quality in the villages has improved from 48% to 88% since 2022, and that Sholakkorgan’s gas network is now fully installed, with 3,200 homes to be connected once construction is complete, though no date has been given for that. On unemployment, the official figure is 4.8%, but authorities acknowledge that a further 4,683 working-age people are classified as self-employed in “unproductive work” which, in practice, amounts to hidden unemployment.

The question of corrupt hiring practices was put twice to the Sozak’s local government. Neither time did they respond. That silence is one of several things in this region that authorities appear to be in no hurry to address. It joins many other grievances heard again and again along the Uranium Steppe, such as the effects of groundwater contamination on residents’ health – which remain unestablished and untreated because the facilities aren’t here – or that the funding for local services that disappeared in 2016 has not been replaced.

The uranium beneath this ground has made Kazakhstan the world’s greatest producer of nuclear fuel. It has brought infrastructure and jobs, in most cases for a limited period of time, but largely it has failed to deliver anything resembling long-term prosperity for the people living near the mines. Because of that, many have already left, and many more are waiting for the chance.

Additional reporting by Galiya Biseyit.

An edited version of this article was translated by Maria Hille.