Secondhand Time: The Last of the Soviets (67 page)

But I couldn’t stay in America. I was dying to get back to Dushanbe, and if it was too dangerous to go home, I wanted to be as close to home as possible. We moved to Moscow…I remember how once we were over at our friend’s house, she’s a poet. I was listening to their endless grumbling: Gorbachev is all talk…Yeltsin’s an alcoholic…The people are just cattle…How many times had I heard these things already? A thousand times! The hostess wanted to take my plate away to rinse it off, but I wouldn’t let her—I can eat everything off the same plate. Fish and dessert. I’ve lived through war…Another writer had a refrigerator full of cheese and salami—Tajiks had long forgotten what these things were—and again, all evening long, that same grumbling: The government is evil, the democrats are no different from the Communists…Russian capitalism is cannibalism…And no one was doing anything about it. Everyone was waiting for a revolution which was expected to come at any moment. I don’t like these disappointed people in their kitchens. I’m not one of them. The uprising I witnessed terrified me for the rest of my life; I know what it looks like when freedom falls into inexperienced hands. Idle chatter always ends in blood. War is a wolf that can come to your door as well…[
Silence.
]

Did you see those videos online? They wrecked me. I spent a week in bed after watching them…Those videos…They murdered people and filmed it. They had a screenplay, they wrote out the dialogue…like they were making a real movie…Now they just needed an audience. And we watched…they forced us to. There’s a guy walking down the street, one of us, a Tajik…They call him over, he comes, and they knock him down. They beat him with baseball bats. At first, he struggles on the ground, then he grows quiet. They tie him up and throw him into the trunk of their car. In the forest, they tie him to a tree. You can see that the person filming is looking for the best angle so he can get a good shot. Then they cut off his head. Where did this come from? Decapitation is an Eastern ritual. Not Russian. It’s probably from Chechnya. I remember…One year, they were killing people with screwdrivers, then they started using garden forks, then it was pipes and hammers…All death resulting from blunt force trauma. Now there’s a new trend…[
She is silent.
] This time they actually found the people who did it. They’re going to court. All of them were boys from good families. Today they’re murdering Tajiks, tomorrow it will be the rich or those who pray to a different God. War is a wolf…It’s already here…

IN MOSCOW BASEMENTS

We chose a building—a Stalinka right in the center of Moscow. These buildings are called Stalinkas because they went up during Stalin’s time, built to house the Bolshevik Party elite. They’re still upscale today. Stalinist Imperial style: elaborate moldings on the facades, bas-reliefs, columns, three- to four-meter ceilings. As the descendants of the country’s former leaders have gone down in the world, the “new Russians” have been taking their places. The courtyard is full of Bentleys and Ferraris. On the street level, the lights are on in the windows of swanky boutiques.

Such is life above ground; underground, it’s a completely different world. A journalist friend and I descend into the basement. We spend a long time winding among rusted pipes and mold-infested walls. From time to time, our path is obstructed by painted metal doors studded with locks and seals, but that’s all for show. If you know the secret knock, you’re in. The basement teems with life. A long, well-lit corridor is lined with rooms on either side; the walls are made of plywood, they have multicolored blinds for doors. Moscow’s underground world is divided between the Tajiks and the Uzbeks. We’ve found ourselves among Tajiks. Seventeen to twenty people live in each room. It’s a commune. Someone recognizes my guide—it’s not his first time down here—and invites us into his room. There’s a heap of shoes in the doorway next to a number of baby strollers. In the corner, a stove, a gas tank, and tables and chairs dragged here from nearby dumpsters, all packed tightly into the small common space. The rest of the room is taken up by homemade bunk beds.

It’s dinnertime. About ten people are already sitting around the table. Meet Amir, Khurshid, Ali…The older ones, who attended Soviet schools, speak Russian without an accent, while the young ones don’t speak any Russian at all. They just smile.

They’re happy to have guests over.

—We’re about to have a bite to eat. [
Amir sits us down at the table. He used to be a teacher. Here, he’s like an elder.
] Try our Tajik pilaf. You won’t believe how good it is! The Tajik custom is that if you see a stranger near your house, you have to invite them over and give them a cup of tea.

—

I’m not allowed to record them, they’re scared. I get out my pen. They respect people who write and that helps me. Some of them come from villages, others came down from the mountains. Suddenly, they’ve all found themselves in this enormous megalopolis.

—

—Moscow is good, there’s a lot of work. But living here is scary. When I am walking down the street alone, even during the day, I never look young men in the eye—they could kill me. You have to pray every day…

—Three guys came up to me on the commuter rail…I was heading home from work. “What are you doing here?” “I’m going home.” “Where’s your home? Who asked you to come here?” They started beating me up. Pummeling me, screaming, “Russia for Russians! Glory to Russia!” “Why are you doing this? Allah sees everything.” “Your Allah can’t see you here. We have our own God.” They knocked my teeth out…broke one of my ribs…A train car full of people and only one girl stood up for me. “Leave him alone! He didn’t do anything to you.” “What’s your problem? We’re beating a
khach
.”

—They killed Rashid…stabbed him thirty times. Tell me, why thirty times?

—It’s all the will of Allah…A dog will bite a doomed man even if he’s on a camel.

—My father studied in Moscow. Now he laments the loss of the USSR day and night. He dreamt that I would come here to study like he did. Instead, the police brutalize me, my boss beats me…I live in a basement like a cat.

—I don’t feel sorry for the Soviet Union…Our neighbor Kolya was Russian…He would scream at my mother when she’d speak Tajik to him. “Speak normally. It’s your country, but we’re the ones in charge here.” My mother would cry.

—I had a dream last night. I was walking down our street and the neighbors were all bowing to me, “
Salaam alaikum
…
Salaam alaikum
…” The only people left in our villages are women, old men, and children.

—At home, I made five dollars a month. I have a wife and three kids…In the villages, people go years without seeing sugar…

—I’ve never been to Red Square. I haven’t seen Lenin. It’s all work! Work! Shovel, pickaxe, wheelbarrow. All day long, I’m dripping in sweat like a watermelon.

—I paid this major for my documents: “May Allah grant you lasting health, good man!” But the documents he gave me turned out to be false! I ended up in a jail cell. They kicked me, beat me with their truncheons.

—Without ID, you don’t exist…

—A man without his homeland is like a stray dog, anyone can have their way with him. The police can stop you ten times a day: “Your papers.” You have this one document, but you don’t have that other one. If you don’t pay them off, they beat you.

—Who are we? Construction workers, freight loaders, street cleaners, dishwashers…You won’t find us among the managers here…

—My mother’s happy, I send her money. She found me a beautiful girl, although I haven’t seen her yet. Mama arranged it all for me. I’ll go back and marry her.

—All summer long, I worked in the suburbs of Moscow for this one rich guy, and in the end, he wouldn’t pay me. “Scram! Scram! I fed you.”

—If you’re the one with one hundred sheep, you’re right. You’re always right.

—My friend wanted to know when his boss was going to pay him. It took the police a long time to find his body afterward. They’d buried it in the forest…His mother received a coffin from Russia.

—If they kick us out, who’s going to build Moscow? Who’ll sweep the courtyards? Russians would never work for this kind of money.

—When I close my eyes, I see the water running through the irrigation ditch, the cotton all in bloom, its flowers a gentle pink, it’s like a garden.

—Did you know that we had a major war? After the fall of the USSR, they started shooting everyone…Only the people with machine guns lived well. I’d walk to school…Every day, on my way there, I’d pass two or three corpses. My mother stopped letting me go, so I stayed home and read Omar Khayyam. Everyone reads Khayyam. Do you know his poetry? If you do, you’re a sister to me.

—They were killing infidels…

—It’s for Allah to decide who is faithful and who is an infidel. He will be the one to judge.

—I was little…I never shot anyone. My mother told me that before the war, they lived like this: At weddings, there’d always be people speaking Tajik, Uzbek, and Russian. People who wanted to pray would pray, and those who didn’t want to didn’t. Tell me, sister, why were people so quick to start killing each other? They’d all read Khayyam in school. And Pushkin.

—The people are a caravan of camels that must be herded with a whip…

—I’m studying Russian…Listen: “pretty gurl, bred, maney…the boss is meen…”

—I’ve lived in Moscow for five years, and not once has anyone said hello to me on the street. Russians need “blacks” so they can feel “white.” So they have someone to look down on.

—As every night has a morning, every sorrow has an end.

—Our girls are more radiant than the ones here. That’s why it’s said that they’re like pomegranates…

—It’s all the will of Allah…

—

We ascend from the underground. I look at Moscow with new eyes—its beauty now seems cold and uneasy. Moscow, do you care whether people like you or not?

*1
Central Asian men’s cap; Gafkhar is emphasizing the scarcity of grain.

*2
Another name for the Eid festival, a Muslim holiday celebrating Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son as an act of submission to God.

Life’s a bitch! I can tell you…it’s no picnic. I’ve never seen anything good or beautiful in this life. I can’t think of a single thing…You could put a gun to my head, I still wouldn’t be able to think of anything! I’ve tried poisoning myself, hanging myself. Three suicide attempts so far…Most recently, I slit my wrists. [
She shows me her bandaged arm.
] Right here, in this spot…I got rescued then slept for a week. Just kept sleeping and sleeping. That’s how my body works…The psychiatrist came, she told me to talk, keep talking, just like you’re doing right now…What’s there to say? Death doesn’t scare me…You shouldn’t have come, and you shouldn’t stay. Won’t do you any good!

[
She turns to the wall and is silent. I want to leave, but she stops me.
]

Fine, listen…This is all true…

When I was still little…One day, I came home from school, went to bed, and the next morning, I couldn’t get up. They took me to the doctor—no diagnosis. So then we went off to find a wise woman—a magic healer. Someone gave us an address…The wise woman laid out the cards and told my mother, “Go home and cut open the pillow your daughter sleeps on. You’ll find a piece of a tie and chicken bones inside. Hang the tie from a cross by the side of the road and feed the bones to a black dog. Your daughter will get up and walk. Someone put a curse on her.” I’ve never seen anything good or beautiful in this life…As for this slitting my wrists thing, it’s nothing, I’m just sick of struggling. It’s been like this since I was little: There’s nothing but vodka in the fridge. In our village, everyone over the age of twelve drinks. Good vodka is expensive, so people drink moonshine and cologne, glass cleaner and acetone. They make vodka out of shoe polish and glue. Many young men die—from that vodka, of course—it’s toxic. I remember how one of our neighbors used to get drunk and fire birdshot at the apple trees. Call his whole household to arms…Our grandfather also drank into old age. At seventy, he could put away two bottles in a single night. And he was proud of it, too. He’d returned from the war covered in medals—a hero! For a long time, he’d just parade around in his army jacket, drinking, carousing, having a gay old time. While my grandmother worked. Because Grandpa was a hero…He would beat my grandmother half to death. I’d crawl around on my knees in front of him begging him not to lay his hands on her. He chased us around the house with an axe…We’d sleep at the neighbors’. In their barn. He hacked the dog to pieces. My grandpa made me hate all men. I was planning on staying single.

When I moved to the city, I was afraid of everything: all the cars, all the people. But everyone moves to the city, so I did, too. My older sister lived here, she took me in. “You’ll go to school and be a waitress. You’re pretty, Tamara. You’ll find yourself a nice army man to marry. A pilot.” A pilot—yeah, right! My first husband was short and had a limp. My girlfriends tried to talk me out of it: “Why him? There are so many good-looking guys who are into you!” But I’ve always loved movies about war, women waiting for their husbands to return from the front, no matter what condition they were in—no arms, no legs, just as long as they were alive. My grandma told me how one man came back to our village without any legs, so his wife would carry him around everywhere. And still, he drank and raised hell. He’d pass out in a ditch and she’d pick him up, wash him off in the trough, and set him down on a clean bed. I thought that that must be what real love is…I don’t really understand what love is…I took pity on him, coddled him. We ended up with three kids, but meanwhile, he’d started drinking. He’d threaten me with a knife. Wouldn’t let me sleep on the bed…I’d lie there on the floor…I developed a reflex, like one of Pavlov’s dogs: If my husband walked in, the kids and I would go out. Everything I can remember makes the tears run down my face…Or it makes me just want to say to hell with it all! I’ve never had anything beautiful or good happen to me, those things only happen in the movies. On TV. And that’s it…so you can sit there with someone and dream…think about good things…