In the cold
Bartanga Valley is at an altitude of 3000 m. There are no roads, no connection, no forest, no industry and very often turn off electricity.
Previously, it was the Soviet Union – HPP worked, coal and aluminum were produced, and cultivated cotton. The forest was here so that people have firewood.
Now it is the Gorno-Badakhshan Autonomous Region of Tajikistan. People still live here, but there is nothing here now.
In Russia, it is believed that migration stifles our cities, our schools, our metro wagons. Migration is a flood, she pours over the edge, and we are all thin. But, in truth, the flood is not there, where migrate, and where – where. Migration and its scale are becoming tangible and understandable only when you find yourself there, at the source. All January I lived in the valley of Bartanga, filmed the valley and people.
Here, at an altitude of 3000 m, in the emptiness and silence of the destroyed roads, you enter the store, you see the covers for cans, an overdue sour cream, frozen oil and toy blue machines. Since the disintegration of the Union, no single plant is working due to a lack of electricity. There are no jobs here. What do we do? Nothing. Winter holidays last three to four months, because the school does not protrud. At night, we go to bed and breathe a day in the light-chimney, and inhale cold and sleep. What do we do? On Friday everyone will gather in the same house on a quiet prayer. The day after tomorrow the neighbors will celebrate. Safar worked for six years in Moscow, and now he was deported, and he returns. Parents will cut the ram, and two days the whole kislak will feed the pilaf. In the light of one light bulb and the rustle of the TV, all women in the house wind color threads and knit warm socks – Pamir jurabs. They know the entire pattern for memory – three green, five orange, seven red, two white, three green. If extra 5 cm snow fall, the road will be closed and you can get stuck until spring.
Every spring from Tajikistan, hundreds of thousands of people migrate to Russia. They leave their homes, their parents, their children and leave for someone else’s country, because they have nowhere to make money on life.
In the morning we get up early and go to the water, then for firewood, a wrinkle to the stove, put an aluminum jug on it, wash it, again for firewood. For breakfast here are also eating breadcrumbs – in the warm tea with milk, butter and salt spin slices of cakes. Then wash the dishes again, then again to the river, you need to wash. So goes day – just to live, eat, sleep and do not freeze. When I returned from Tajikistan, I was looking for and met with the children of those families with whom he worked on the Pamire. I removed the stories about 30 families. Several heroes deported before I managed to meet him, some of those I saw there, have already managed to be here. You hear spine? I realized that their life in Russia is no different from that rustic survival. Every day comes only with one goal – to help your family, which remained there. Work, sleep, work, buy some food, pay for the apartment, sleep. Everything to send $ 200-300 home. In the cold.
Every day at the subway, in a minibus, in the store, in the yard people are surrounded by people about which we do not know anything, people with one person. Here in Russia they have new names – Dima, Andrei, Misha. And even among themselves, they begin to call themselves so.
Behind this person who speaks Russian badly, believes in Allah and makes Namaz, there, in the mountains, there are older people, his parents, they will be drunk burgundy and boil nuts. Lingerie in the yard will dry for the third day, the water flows from it and freezes. In the corner playing a girl of six years old with a transparent yellow ball, she never saw her father, because she was born here, on the Pamire. He never saw his daughter because it works in Moscow. Maybe soon it will turn out to accumulate money for a ticket and go. And see it. If fate comes, I will get up and go. And I will do. Pain is given fate.
In Khrushchev, in a two-room apartment, five to eight people in the room. Here is very pure and few things. On Sunday, everyone is sitting on the floor around the tablecloth laid on the carpet, drink tea and eat from one common plate. Like at home. Somewhere in the corner it stands a stack of mattresses, covered with the bedspread, at night they spread them on the floor and sleep like it all together, just like on the Pamir, – so as not to freeze. Only marzed here and there in different ways. In the cold.
Each migrant has parents, children and home. He stands on Earth, which breathes heaven and God. Ancient tradition. No matter what we say in different languages. No matter what we come from different cultures. In their culture there is value for every person. People must respect each other and compassion themselves like.