Ulan Mussaev was born in the small town of Shu in the Zhambyl region, the eldest of four children, a boy whose life began under the heavy shadow of cerebral palsy. “Up to the age of twelve, I didn’t walk,” he recalled. “My legs and arms didn’t move, and even my speech was hard.”
His parents loved him, but the emotional center of his childhood was his grandmother and grandfather, two figures whose tenderness, belief, and unwavering presence shaped the earliest contours of his life. “They always noticed me,” he said softly. “They gave me spirit, they told me, ‘You are the fastest, you are the smartest, everything is temporary.’”
His grandmother carried him on her back everywhere, through cold mornings, across village paths, up and down the small steps of the home where he spent most of his childhood watching the world from windows and doorways. Her arms became both his mobility and his faith; her voice, a reminder that life was not defined by the body but by qairat (will), the inner strength that Abai described as the backbone of moral courage.
School came to his home in those early years. Teachers visited, leaving assignments, but it was really his grandmother who sat beside him, teaching him the rhythms of discipline, the tastes of letters, the feeling of discovery. He studied not for grades, not for the future, but for her, for the trust reflected in her eyes. Life was quiet, contemplative. He remembers thinking deeply even as a boy, wondering about people, fate, fairness.
When his grandfather passed away, he felt the foundations of his world tremble, but his grandmother pulled him through grief with soft firmness: “This is temporary. Keep moving forward.”
Everything changed at twelve. He was sent to a sanatorium in Rostov-on-Don, a place where children with conditions like his were gathered from across the Soviet Union. It was the first time he saw others like himself, some with no legs, some with no arms, some blind, many with pain he could recognize immediately.
One boy, born without limbs and without sight, left a mark on Ulan so deep it became the seed of his later transformation. “He had such a strong heart,” Ulan said. “He wanted to live. Through him I learned the meaning of life.” Six months later, the boy died, his heart transplanted to save another child. That moment became Ulan’s earliest calling.
“We all cried,” he remembered. “We said: ‘God, thank you for the life you gave us.’ And after that, I began progressing … forward, forward, forward.”
In Rostov, doctors performed nerve stimulation, laser therapy, massage. Slowly, astonishingly, his body began to wake. One day he stood. Another day he walked. When his mother returned after two years apart, she didn’t recognize him, her son who had left without words now speaking Russian fluently, his speech clear, his eyes bright with awakening. He returned to Qazaqstan no longer only a boy with disabilities, but a boy who had tasted rebirth.
Yet home was still a place of poverty. His father, a plant worker, earned 60–70 rubles and drank much of it. “We lived poor,” Ulan said. “Black bread, no condensed milk. And I thought, why can others have more than me?” Pride stung him, not the arrogance of comparison, but the fire of dignity.
At thirteen, he helped his mother sell fruits and vegetables, standing for her when she was sick, managing the stall when she cooked lunch, and learning the ways of the bazaar. He saved every kopeck, refusing to waste anything. And at thirteen years old, he bought his first one-room apartment.
“I saved,” he said simply. “I didn’t scatter my money.”
Alongside economic struggle was emotional yearning. His school director told him plainly that he wouldn’t manage past ninth grade. “Why not?” he had asked. “I can.” But the director gently insisted that “logic would not develop further.” Those words lit a fire in him, a refusal to accept limits imposed by others.
He asked his grandmother for permission to leave home for Almaty. Though his mother cried, worried for her vulnerable son, Ulan stood firm. “If I stay, I will be nobody,” he told them. “I have to go.”
Arriving in Almaty with a dream of studying Arabic and religion, he faced rejection after rejection. “You cannot stand on your feet,” one mufti told him. “How will your logic work?” But the boy who had risen from paralysis would not step backward again.
With no place to live, he slept in Panfilov Park, hid in the mosque at night, slipping out at dawn before the muftiate arrived. “Two years I wandered,” he said. “Two years without housing.” He survived by weighing tourists on Green Bazaar scales for a few tenge at a time.
Then compassion came unexpectedly. A man who lived alone invited him to stay. Together, they began selling watermelons and melons. Ulan noticed even the “night butterflies,” women working the streets, bought fruit from him. “They too are people,” he said. “Of course they buy.” That was the foundation of his philosophy: everyone deserved dignity.
Determined to study Arabic, he prepared day and night in libraries. At that period the person who supported him died suddenly in front of him. Ulan collapsed emotionally, sleeping for days. His exam performance suffered, and he felt the sting of failure deeply. But he tried again, and again, “by force,” he said, and finally was accepted into an Arabic college.
For the first time, he lived in a dormitory, surrounded by students from across the CIS. “Life continued,” he said. “I kept studying.”
But he also needed money. He began selling small goods — Chinese brushes, bags — at bazaars. Seeing his limited mobility, people helped him. They supported him with purchases, trust, encouragement. It was entrepreneurship in its rawest form, born from necessity, shaped by resilience, fueled by sheer will.
Later, he enrolled at Al-Farabi Kazakh National University, studying religious studies and political philosophy. He lived in the dormitory again, this time becoming a producer and organizer for young musicians. He formed a group, arranged gigs, and recorded studio tracks.
“They dug toilets for $50,” he laughed. “And we used that money to record songs.” Soon they were performing on squares and weddings. His entrepreneurial spirit expanded into creativity, community, and leadership.
Then came his greatest calling: building a public association for people with disabilities, a dream rooted in childhood memories of the boy who died in Rostov, and in his own journey of being carried on someone else’s back.
“Healthy artists had concerts,” he said. “But disabled people, no one showed their talents.” His first concert in the early 2000s featured leading Qazaq performers supporting his cause. Today, twenty-five years later, he still organizes concerts where deaf, blind, and wheelchair-using performers shine on stage. “People always say thank you,” he says. “I’m doing this because I have a healthy spirit.”
He also became a history teacher. Fifteen years in the classroom, teaching grades five through nine. “When I teach, I relax,” he said. “Everything I do — concerts, school, business — gives me peace.” His students adore him, especially because he is also a blogger with more than 70,000 followers.
“I show who I am,” he said. “I dress simply, walk on Arbat, hand out sweets. I motivate people.” When he posts, thousands respond, calling him Audan-ata — the affectionate father of the district.
Life was not without setbacks. Diabetes struck him hard; he traveled to Istanbul for surgery that many said would not work. “When I got sick,” he said, “all the people who said ‘dear friend’ disappeared.” Only his wife and children remained. He mortgaged his house, went through surgery, and rose again, just as he had risen after paralysis.
Today he walks, teaches, organizes concerts, mentors youth with disabilities, advises his district’s akim, and continues to grow his public association. In 2023 he won a nomination as Organizer of the Year on Zhuldyz TV. This year he was awarded a medal on Teachers’ Day.
“What am I now?” he asked. “I am an independent person. I didn’t give in to anything. I conquered my illnesses. I conquered life.”
He is a strict but loving father, soft with his daughter, firm with his sons. “I tell them: when I am gone, you must be better than me.” His wife maintains the home atmosphere, sensing his moods, keeping peace with quiet strength. His friends, many with disabilities more severe than his, are his anchor, “scolding me when I get lost,” reminding him of the opportunities he still has.
He dreams not of wealth, but of purpose. “My goals?” he smiled. “Only my family. My children. That they stand firmly on their feet. My own dream? It already came true.”
Looking back, he regrets nothing. “If I tripped anywhere, it wasn’t a call to turn back,” he said. “Only forward.” His life became a testament to Abai’s harmony of aqyl, zhurek, and qairat — mind, heart, and will — lived not as theory but as survival, dignity, and service.
From a boy carried on his grandmother’s back to a man who carries others, his story embodies the Tolyq Adam ideal: a life of conscience, courage, and compassion.
“Success?” he reflected. “It’s not wealth. A successful person is rich inside. Some poor people are happy. Some billionaires are miserable. It depends on the human being.”
And in that simple truth, Ulan revealed the quiet philosophy that shaped his entire journey: that true worth is measured not by what life gives, but by how one transforms it, how one keeps walking even when the world says it’s impossible.