Today is the memorial day of my father, Yerkegali Rakhmadiev — a great composer, creator, and a man of honor and dignity, for whom the word “conscience” was never empty.

We grew up surrounded by immense love. Our father spoiled us a lot — and not only us, but all our relatives, his students, and artists.

Having lived through a harsh, hungry wartime childhood, he was always afraid that we might ever experience what he once went through.

The most valuable award for him was the medal for helping the фронт, which he received at the age of 11.

He recalled that it was during that period that he learned to smoke. Children were woken up at 4 a.m., and if they couldn’t wake up, nasvai was put into their noses and mouths — they would start sneezing and coughing, and that’s how they woke up. Then they would go to Lake Balkhash, enter the icy water, and pull out fishing nets.

He survived famine and the terror of Goloshchyokin. Many hardships fell upon him, but nothing could stop his pursuit of knowledge. (Music was in his blood — my grandfather Rakhmadi was an akyn who won festivals even in those times.)

Our father always remained a Man with a capital letter — generous, noble, brave, highly educated, and very witty. He was a true patriot who loved people and his homeland, and all of this was reflected in his music.

Dad, you have been gone for 13 years 💔
But I know you are in heaven 🙏❤️

@ Nyaila Rakhmadieva