Crossing Thin Ice: Investigating Lake Balkhash's Fading Fishing Industry

In an Instagram video we stumbled upon, Manat Ainekov, a fisherman from the village of Kopbirlik, speaks about poachers using nets to strip Lake Balkhash of fish regardless of their stage of life.
An Orda.kz correspondent has looked into the matter.
Ainekov recalls how he could catch a carp as big as a person right by the shore.
Balkhash, which once fed thousands of families, now feels abandoned.
Kopbirlik village sits on the lake’s edge. A newly paved road was built just a year ago, making reaching it easier.
We found Ainekov on a village street—he was expecting us. Not wanting to be the only one speaking out, he went looking for fellow fishermen to share their experiences but to no avail.
We reassured him, highlighting potential fear:
They are, No one wants trouble.
Ainekov insisted we go to the lake ourselves. We loaded a crowbar and shovel into the car—essential tools for any fisherman.
The lake was just a stone’s throw away.
Amid the reeds, we found boats nearly buried in snow — rusted and worn out, with rotten sides and peeling paint.






They looked long abandoned, but Ainekov assured us this was still the local fishermen's working fleet.
The boats stay moored in winter while fishermen take to the ice on motorcycles and old UAZs.
There used to be a pier here. Huge fishing boats would dock. Now, only a concrete slab remains. The water has receded. And every year, the distance to the shore grows. says Manat Aga.
Manat continued to share his recollections:
In Soviet times, fish factories operated here with strict regulations. Spring was a protected spawning season, and fishing was active but controlled in the fall. Fry were released into the lake so the nets would not be empty tomorrow. But after the collapse of the USSR, everything fell apart. Factories disappeared, poachers took over, and greed replaced sustainabilitythe fisherman said.
The lake was frozen, so to find poachers’ nets, we had to drive across the ice to the village of Karakum, 18 kilometers away.
Manat instructed us how to react if we fell through:
Don't panic, shout, or move suddenly.
The worst mistake would be trying to open the car doors, as the water’s pressure would suck us under.
Instead, we would need to shatter a window with the crowbar.
He also warned against wearing seat belts — removing them underwater would be almost impossible.
The ice cracked softly under our wheels, intensifying our already present fear.
At the lake’s midpoint, panic set in. A warm southern wind met the cold air, and the ice beneath us let out a deep, terrifying crack.
If we go back now, you’ll never know what’s happening to Balkhash, Ainekov replied to our request to return, calm and firm.
Stopping near a seemingly widening crack, silence surrounded us.
Ainekov stepped out, tapping the ice confidently. When he returned, he pointed to a narrow passage through the crack. “We can get through—but only at full speed.”
Our hearts pounded in our ears as we prayed.
A swift motion floored the gas pedal.
We made it.
The ice still groaned under our wheels, but we pushed forward.
That’s Kuigan, where the Karatal River flows into Balkhash. Fishing is prohibited here year-round because it’s a spawning ground. Fish lay their eggs in spring, and the young need time to grow. Protecting such places is important because this is where a new life cycle of Balkhash fish begins. In Soviet times, a fishery inspector patrolled this area constantly. No one dared fish here. But now? It’s abandoned. Not a single inspector in sight. Fishermen have already taken everything. At this rate, in a year or two, no fish will be left here at all,” says Manat.
By the terms of the tender, fishing companies awarded quotas must restock the lake with fry annually.
But Ainekov swears he hasn’t seen any restocking in 12 years. He says that the big owners only care about instant profit.
We continued to Karakum, where poachers set their nets in droves.
On the way, we spotted a car parked on the ice. Suspecting poachers, we approached, but they were just frustrated fishermen with small rods. They had been fishing since dawn, yet by noon, they had caught nothing.
In the past, one hole could yield five kilos of fish. Now, it’s empty. they told us.
We wished them luck and continued to Karakum.
With a population of just 500, Karakum is the only settlement in the Jetysu region on Balkhash’s northern shore. It’s closer to Qaraganda than to its administrative center.
The village’s history dates back to the 1940s when a major fish factory was established. Balkhash teemed with fish at that time, and local carp were even sent to Moscow.
As the ecosystem changed, industrial fishing declined, the factory shut down, and people were left without a stable source of income.
Today, Karakum is eerily quiet.
Rusting, half-sunken boats line the shore like relics of a forgotten past. The old fish factory is falling apart — its windows are shattered, and the walls barely stand. The streets are empty except for stray cattle.
Broken fences and aging houses are stark reminders that life here is fading.
There’s no drinking water, no roads, no basic amenities.
In summer, the only access is by boat; in winter, by the treacherous ice, where people and vehicles drown every year. Illegal fishing only worsens the situation.
Locals fear that soon, there will be nothing left to catch.





As we left Karakum, we spotted small holes marked with sticks—fishermen’s markers for their nets. We stopped, and Ainekov pulled out a thin, nearly invisible, and illegal net.
Fishing in Balkhash is allowed only with nets of size 55+. But here, poachers use whatever they want, wiping out the young fish before they can grow," says Manat.
On the Kopbirlik side, we didn’t find a single marked fishing spot or even a hole in the ice.
We had covered the entire lake surface — no fish were left there. But here, on the other side, fish remain.
The problem is that they’re not given a chance to survive.
Many responsible fishermen — mostly local villagers — have already switched to using legal nets.
We met some of them in the eastern part of the lake. Their catch was modest—maybe 10, maybe 20 kilograms of pike perch.
Still, they were grateful for whatever they could get. Today, they would sell their catch to the buyers for 1,000 tenge per kilogram, just enough to cover their costs. Meanwhile, at the market, that same pike perch sells for 3,800 tenge per kilogram.
Back in Kopbirlik, we visited the four fish reception points. The moment we arrived, they all shut their doors. Officially, it was a day off, but unofficially, no one wanted to show us their paperwork.
Locals, on the other hand, kept engaging in their decades-old trade — fishing, selling, and getting by.
Meanwhile, fishing tenders benefit only those who win them, and authorities remain silent.
We’ve contacted the Balkhash-Alakol Interregional Basin Inspection of Fisheries of the Fisheries Committee of the Ministry of Agriculture of the Republic of Kazakhstan and await answers.
Original Author: Sandugash Duysenova
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