“We are just a squirrel in the wheel.”

As I came into work on Wednesday, I could hear Rustam speaking angrily on his cell phone in Tajiki. His speech got louder and faster until he finally hung up and put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. After taking a few seconds to calm down, he turned to me and told me that his cousin’s wife in Moscow had given birth in December, and when they went to register the baby at ZAGS (like Russian city hall where weddings are officiated and births and deaths are recorded), even though they had all their paperwork and documents and IDs, the ZAGS clerk still refused to sign the registration because they were immigrants. Without this registration, the baby is unable to receive the Russian equivalent of a social security number and the necessary official papers to be seen by a doctor, go to the hospital, get public education, etc. “The majority of immigrants have no problem with ZAGS,” Rustam explained, “but every once and while things like this happen. That’s human rights in Russia.”

With that, he dialed up ZAGS on his cell phone, and loudly explained to the woman that his cousin had been trying to get his baby registered since December but that they kept being refused based on what they look like. “We don’t refuse anyone on the basis of their appearance,” the lady replied, in a robotic voice that I could hear through the phone. “Well, that’s funny, because my cousin has tried every month, SIX times to get this registration,” Rustam accused. “We don’t refuse anyone on the basis of their appearance,” the woman repeated, sounding bored. “You people keep telling him he is a foreigner when he has all of the required documents,” Rustam shouted, sounding exasperated. “We don’t refuse anyone on the basis of appearance.” “Right. Of course you don’t,” Rustam replied in a sarcastic tone, hanging up the phone. He turned to me and said, “That’s Russia for you. Oh, we have laws, and they work, they just change daily.” “They look at your face here, and if you don’t look Slavic, then they treat you completely differently. In the hospital, at ZAGS. You should write this down for your thesis. How they treat us here,” he said, pointing to my laptop.

The Mexican mariachi band strummed their guitars again as Rustam received another call, this time about an older Tajik migrant, Dzamshid, who had recently died. He had lived in Russia for a long time, leaving Tajikistan during the civil war, and had two kids here. He’d also been sick for a while, so his family had had time to save up some money for the funeral. His elderly uncle, the person calling, lived in Moscow and asked Rustam if he could help him find somewhere to have a Muslim funeral in Volgograd, over 900 kilometers (560 miles) from Moscow, where Dzamshid had lived. He explained that he and his son would be taking a bus down to Volgograd that night to help with preparations for the funeral, as it’s part of the Muslim faith to start the ritual washing of the body within hours of one’s death. As Rustam began making calls to Volgograd on their behalf, Borkhotun asked why Dzamshid had wanted to be buried here and not Tajikistan. Rustam responded “Dirt is dirt when you’re dead. I think it’s just as good to be buried here as back home. And it’s probably all they can afford.”  All I could think of was this sad article about the costs and corruption associated with Tajik migrant workers bringing their dead home to be buried. It really was a final gift to his family that Dzamshid had not asked to be buried in Tajikistan. 

While Rustam was talking to a woman in Volgograd about the funeral, a friendly man in his late 30s with tan skin and short black hair wearing a plain white t-shirt and belted jeans came in and made himself at home at our main table, flipping through the registration book and eating some cookies from the tea table. Once Rustam got off the phone, he introduced this man to me as the Director of Pamir Sports Organization, the group that co-sponsors and organizes the soccer tournament for the Tajik migrant workers. Rustam went over to a pile of papers on his desk and showed me the official registration letter for the Pamir Sports Organization from July 2011. “Maybe you can help us write English letters to European foundations for funding?” he asked. “Ones that like soccer and anti-racism?” “Of course,” I replied, thankful they’d at least picked a sport most Europeans can get behind.

(Footage below of this year’s Tajik migrant soccer tournament opening ceremonies. The man in the beige suit giving the speech is Davlat)

Rustam explained to Soccer Director that I am interested in human rights and immigrant issues, and the Soccer Director (I didn’t catch his name, so he will hereafter be referred to as “Soccer Director”) asked if we had immigrants that were discriminated against in America. I told him about our Mexican immigrants, and how politicians are always arguing about how to deal with the illegal ones. Soccer Director asked me, “Ok, suppose Mexicans helped the United States in the Great Patriotic War…err, I mean World War II, in the way the Tajiks helped Russia defeat the Nazis, do you think they would give them citizenship?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “This is the eternal question,” he said, “Although I know that the Indians helped Britain in the war, but I don’t think they got citizenship either. At least not right away.”

He asked me more about Mexico and their economy, so I told him that it was complicated, that while Mexico has some oil wealth, the drug trade dominates so many sectors of life, including the government, that it’s getting very unsafe to live there with the rise in kidnappings and murders related to competing cartels and gangs. “Oh, I see,” Soccer Director responded, “Where there is no government, there can be no real economy and no freedom. That is unfortunate. In Tajikistan, we have no resources, no riches, nothing. But we do have narco-trafficking from Afghanistan. No jobs, but a rise in crime. That’s what happens when you have a dictator. But, you know, Russia will not help us. They need us to be poor to get cheap labor and drugs. We are just a squirrel in the wheel.”

Soccer Director then asked where I was from. When I replied “New York,” his eyes lit up. “Oh, Occupy Wall Street! Was that real? Were there really that many people? In that park. Z…z…” “Zucotti Park,” I finished, “Yeah, there were. Thousands of people participated for months and camped out.” “Imagine that,” he said, sounding shocked. “I really thought it was all propaganda from our Russian news, but it is true.” I had never even dreamt of Occupy Wall Street being seen as some sort of anti-American conspiracy, but I guess it made sense, the Russian government wanting to show that the “perfect” American democracy had its problems and demonstrations as well.

Soccer Director asked me if I liked Russian food, and when I gave a non-committal “surrrreeee,” he laughed. “No one likes Russian food. It is very plain. What food do you like?” I told him Georgian food, Greek food, Middle Eastern food and most of all Mexican food, because I love spicy things. Borkhotun interjected, “You like spicy? Then you must try this!” She went to the small cabinet that housed all of the ingredients and mugs for tea and pulled out a plastic bag filled with what looked like neon yellow rice crispies with nuts and dried fruit. “This was a gift from India from one of our migrants,” she said, “but it is too spicy for any of us to eat. I try it and start coughing. Khoziat tries and needs water. You should try!” She poured me a tupperware container full of the Indian snack and places it right next to my laptop, like she was feeding a pet. Slightly wary, I sampled it and found it was just popped rice with curry spices, which is surprisingly delicious, like an Indian Chex Mix. All of my co-workers looked amazed at my feat, little did they know that the usual contents of my refrigerator in NYC are five different kinds of hot sauce, a jar of pickled jalapenos and little else (I’m pretty awful at feeding myself).

As I was taking my second handful of the spicy snack, Rustam shouted directions to our office into his cell phone, “ULITSA SHCHEPKINA, DOM SYEM. DOM SY..” “They just cut out,” he shrugged, putting his phone back on his desk. “Migrants all over the world have these problems,” Soccer Director said, smiling at me from across the table. “Don’t pay their phone bills, phones cut out, give fake addresses, lie about their names. Universal migrant problems,” he laughed. He scanned the bookshelf, while Rustam went back to his computer work. Picking up a book called “Djek Nikolson” aka Jack Nicholson (reminding me that Davlat was once a filmmaker), he thumbed through it. “I love Jack Nicholson, he is great. Pacino, De Niro, Schwarzenegger - I love them all.” Which goes to show you which US movies make their way over to Russia/Tajikistan.

Nekhbakhtbegim and Khoziat, my co-worker

An older Tajik man in a suit came in with his little six-year-old son and sat down at the main table. While the father was filling out the visitor log book, Borkhotun, who loves kids and is excellent with them despite not having any of her own, asked the little boy if he could read. “No,” he said in a soft voice. “What do you mean no? You are six, you should be reading!” Borkhotun said, looking at the father, her indignant tone only half joking. “But he can play chess!” the father said proudly. “He is an excellent chess player!” Former Soviet countries LOVE their chess, with diplomatic breakdowns and negotiations at times aided by the game. “But he can’t read?” Borkhotun repeated. “He can also use a computer!” the father added. Letting it rest, Borkhotun called me into her office. Borkhotun can be hard on migrant parents sometimes, but it is obviously comes from a place of concern for all these children growing up in unfortunate circumstances. With kids on the brain, Borkhotun asked me to help fundraise for Nekhbakhtbegim, an adorable four-year old who needed heart surgery for her congenital defects. Her parents had no money and we were their only hope for getting enough money for the surgery. I set up a fundraising website for her, which seemed to be my second miraculous accomplishment (after the spicy food). A few hours later, I fixed the router by resetting it via a button on the back, my inadvertent hat trick for the day, judging by the surprised look on Borkhotun’s face. Only in Russia would my sad excuse for technological skills and palate of steel be considered groundbreaking achievements.