When Kazakh businessman Dinmukhamet Idrisov appears in local headlines, it is
seldom with fanfare. More often, his name surfaces in court documents, corporate
disclosures, and the periphery of scandal. Yet, despite repeated references in high-
profile corruption cases and a network of offshore holdings spanning from Singapore to
Turkey, Idrisov continues to operate without visible interference from the Kazakh
authorities. The contrast is striking—between his financial reach abroad and the silence
surrounding him at home.
In recent months, renewed attention has turned toward Idrisov, following the death of
financier Bakhyt Ibrahim in Almaty in early 2024. The 51-year-old was found dead in his
home shortly after being questioned by Kazakhstan’s Financial Monitoring Agency.
Investigators had sought his testimony concerning the collapse of Qazaq Banki—a now-
defunct institution once controlled by Idrisov. Officially ruled a suicide, Ibrahim’s death adds
to a troubling list: three other individuals tied to the RBK Bank and Qazaq Banki cases have
died under unclear circumstances since investigations began.
Ibrahim’s name is familiar to Kazakh financial observers. The former executive—once
married to the daughter of former Almaty mayor and Prime Minister Bakhytzhan
Sagintayev—was convicted in 2020 for his role in the embezzlement of over 144 billion tenge
(roughly $320 million) from Bank RBK. Alongside him stood Jomart Ertaev, a former bank
advisor turned fugitive, who masterminded a scheme involving fictitious loans, inflated
valuations, and a paper trail stretching across multiple shell companies. Ibrahim’s job was to
identify the front companies through which the loans would be disbursed—many of which
were approved without collateral, documentation, or meaningful oversight.
While Ibrahim and Ertaev were prosecuted, sentenced, and—eventually—had their assets
seized, Idrisov’s name has remained on the margins. Public documents and media reports
suggest that Qazaq Banki’s collapse also involved questionable lending practices, some of
which may have directly or indirectly benefited entities tied to Idrisov. Yet the businessman
has not faced formal investigation, nor have authorities confirmed whether they are examining
his offshore structures.
A Guardian review of corporate filings and local investigations reveals a sprawling offshore
portfolio. At the centre of it sits a cluster of companies based in Singapore and
Turkey—nations that often serve as hubs for wealth routing in Eurasia. These entities are
either controlled directly by Idrisov or linked through nominee directors and interlocking
ownerships. In many cases, their functions remain unclear. What is known, however, is that
substantial sums were transferred abroad during and after the collapse of Qazaq
Banki—raising serious questions about capital flight and regulatory oversight.
The case of the Richard Mille watch, seized during the RBK investigation, is illustrative of
the opulence in question. Valued at over $740,000 and registered under the name of a relative
of Ibrahim, the limited-edition timepiece was part of a larger asset pool that included luxury
vehicles, real estate across three cities, and nearly 7,000 euros stashed in a Latvian bank. In
total, over 3 billion tenge in assets were confiscated from Ibrahim and his associates. Yet the
core architects of the financial ecosystem that enabled such transfers—banks like Qazaq
Banki—remain shielded from full scrutiny.
Idrisov’s defenders argue that no direct criminal case has been opened against him, and that
his investments abroad are legitimate. They point to his long-standing business interests in
logistics, construction, and energy, and his former advisory roles in the Kazakh government.
Critics, however, note that several of his ventures were supported by state-affiliated
loans—some of which remain unpaid.
Indeed, court records show that Idrisov and entities under his control have defaulted on
significant debt obligations to state-affiliated institutions. In some cases, the government itself
has initiated proceedings to recover the funds. Yet even when courts rule against Idrisov,
enforcement appears delayed or absent. It is unclear whether any of his overseas assets have
been targeted for recovery. The opacity raises broader concerns about selective justice and the
real limits of Kazakhstan’s much-touted anti-corruption campaign.
President Kassym-Jomart Tokayev has staked much of his international reputation on reform.
In speeches before the United Nations and at regional summits, he has reiterated his
administration’s commitment to transparency, economic modernization, and adherence to the
rule of law. Under his leadership, the country has sought to attract foreign investment and
position itself as a neutral, stable actor in an increasingly fractured Central Asia.
But the unresolved case of Idrisov—and the deaths that trail its margins—poses a challenge to
that narrative. Why, observers ask, has there been no full public inquiry into the collapse of
Qazaq Banki? Why has no independent audit been released? And why does someone with
confirmed ties to failed financial institutions and court-documented defaults continue to
maintain significant holdings abroad with apparent impunity?
Kazakhstan is not the only post-Soviet republic grappling with the legacy of oligarchic
capitalism. But its trajectory is under special scrutiny, particularly as it courts a larger role on
the international stage. With the global energy transition underway and regional powers
recalibrating their alliances, Astana’s bid for credibility may hinge not just on diplomatic
polish—but on domestic accountability.
For now, Idrisov remains a free man. His companies continue to operate. His name is still
absent from the sanctions lists or asset recovery bulletins that target other oligarchs in
neighbouring states. And despite the whispers of investigators, journalists, and bereaved
families, no formal charges have been announced.
As Kazakhstan looks outward, it must also look inward. Because until it does, the story of
Dinmukhamet Idrisov will remain not just a footnote in financial history—but a litmus test of
the country’s commitment to real reform.
