A Short Journey into Tajikistan

Tajikistan - once one of the smallest and poorest republics of the USSR.

A land of more than 90% mountains.

I am Khayrulla Fayz, and this is where I was born.

In the last 20 years, my country has moved from communism

to capitalism, from atheism to a rediscovery of Islam.

These changes have had a huge impact.

Two decades after independence from the Soviet Union,

how do my fellow Tajiks feel about their past and their future?

What's their relationship now to the old power, Russia?

And does anyone still remember Lenin?

Crossing the mountains on the long journey home.

We are heading north to the very heart of central Asia.

It's a six-hour drive from the capital Dushanbe

to my village, Isfisor.

Tajikistan has been through tough times since the end of the Soviet Union.

The economy collapsed, and a civil war

devastated the south of the country.

20 years on, I want to know what's changed.

What is it like growing up in Tajikistan today?

The familiar streets of home.

Isfisor is one of the biggest villages in the country.

In my childhood, most people here worked on cotton farms

or in local factories.

The official language of Tajikistan is Tajik - a form of Persian.

-Salaam alaikum!

-THEY GREET EACH OTHER

In Isfisor we speak Uzbek, the language of the country's second-biggest ethnic group.

At school, we also learned Russian.

When I was a boy, it was normal to hear all three languages on the streets of our village.

This is my street, and it's called Enlightenment Street.

Number 16 is my house. You can see grape vines there.

Those are a typical feature for any Uzbek, Tajik household in our area.

Now, this is our front door. It was built probably 70 years ago,

older than my dad,

and it was brought from a house where he was born. Let's go inside.

It's so good to come home. This is my mum and my sister.

And my favourite aunt, Husnuzhon, who has joined us for tea.

In the 1970s, Auntie Husnuzhon was trying hard to be modern and Soviet.

We all looked up to her.

She worked as a technician in the local cotton processing plant.

She lived in a block of flats with all mod cons.

She'd even been to the Baltic Sea on holiday,

the height of glamour back then.

Many of Auntie Husnuzhon's colleagues were Russians,

and it was clear where the real decisions were being made.

Tajikistan was one of the 15 republics that made up the USSR.

Under the Soviet system, everything, from education to industry,

was run centrally from the capital, Moscow.

Soviet citizens who wanted to be successful

had to speak Russian as well as their native language.

Lenin was the father of our great state,

the embodiment of the Communist ideal.

We all took it for granted that the Russians were in charge,

but looking back now, wasn't it strange that an Uzbek cotton worker

from Tajikistan was taking orders from a Russian from Moscow?

Not everyone thought the Russians were better,

but their way of doing things seemed more exciting and sophisticated.

Cotton was Tajikistan's biggest cash crop then, and today it still is.

Like all Tajik children, I missed months of school working in the cotton fields.

Abduali Abdumanonov has been a cotton farmer all his life,

and I bet I can still remember my cotton picking skills.

My turn now.

It's coming back to me.

Or maybe not. But what's so special about Tajik cotton?

In Soviet times, Tajikistan used to produce a million tonnes of cotton every year.

They sell a lot less now.

But it is hard to see how a job picking cotton can make you prosperous any more.

An average worker picks 50 kilos a day,

and earns the equivalent of three dollars.

With the cost of living soaring, it's not surprising

that most young Tajiks no longer see this kind of work as a viable option.

LIVELY TRADITIONAL SONG

In the days when cotton was profitable,

it was organised centrally.

Thousands of workers served a Soviet-wide system.

Manufacturing operated in the same way.

Our area was the heart of industrial Tajikistan.

The Kairakkum carpet factory supplied carpets all over the USSR and Eastern Europe.

7,000 people used to work here.

But it's a very different story today.

When the Soviet Union collapsed,

the carpet factory's network of suppliers and customers fell apart.

Abdumutalib Abduloev is the general director.

Now those Soviet ministries are gone,

and it's up to Mr Abduloev to rebuild the business.

Facing tough competition, Mr Abduloev has decided

to carry on the tradition of making carpet portraits.

They are popular, but the orders are coming in slowly.

There is only work for 400 people here now.

It's a story repeated all over the country.

So if cotton doesn't pay, and manufacturing jobs have dried up,

what do Tajiks do now to find work?

The answer is, they leave and go to Russia.

Tajikistan has become a nation of migrant workers.

About a million of them work in Russia now,

and the money they send home is keeping the economy going.

It's Wednesday afternoon, and the weekly train to Moscow is just about to leave.

These migrant workers know it could be months

or even years before they see their families again.

I wondered how that must feel.

Anwarjan has been doing this journey for 13 years.

More than 10% of the Tajik population is now working away from home.

It's tough for those who leave,

but it's also really hard for those who are left behind.

This is Tohva. Her husband, son and two daughters are all working in Russia.

She lives alone with her four-year-old grandson, Mahsudjan.

With the money the family sends from Russia, Tohva has done up the house.

But she misses them a lot, and wonders if they'll ever come home.

So what about those who decide to stay, like my old friend Abdujalil Ortikov?

CAR HORN BEEPS

He's always been up for a challenge in life.

At school, we called him Gorbachev,

after the reformist Soviet president.

-Salaam alaikum.

-Salaam alaikum. Hello.

'These days he's one of northern Tajikistan's most successful businessmen.

'We are on our way to his haulage company.'

Abdujalil employees 70 people

and transports goods all over Tajikistan.

The World Food Programme is one of his big customers.

Almost all our classmates have gone to Russia.

So why wasn't Abdujalil tempted to leave?

TRANSLATION:

'Abdujalil and his brothers bought the company in 1998

'when it was being sold off by the state.

'Like many Tajik entrepreneurs, he is now using new technology

'to make contacts and to build up the business.'

But it isn't easy doing business in Tajikistan.

Official reports rank it as one of the most corrupt countries in the world.

Is this a problem for Abdujalil?

Of course, everyone's experience is different.

But since I've been in Tajikistan,

many people have complained to me about corruption.

And it's a hot topic in the local press.

Our local market is twice the size that it used to be.

And trade is booming.

But the goods on sale are mostly cheap imports from China.

Competition like this is a huge challenge for Tajik business.

But Abdujalil is taking it in his stride

and he's determined to remain upbeat.

TAJIK MUSIC PLAYS

Driving into Khujand, the regional capital,

I can see how it is changing.

Heavy traffic, foreign cars, adverts everywhere.

And so many young people on the streets.

They seem much more relaxed and sure of themselves than we used to be.

What's giving them this new sense of confidence?

Khujand's newest attraction.

A popular spot for wedding parties.

A place to pay respects.

This is Ismail Samani - a revered 10th century king.

And a new hero for a new country.

What does this new statue say about the new Tajikistan?

I asked Mansur Hajibeyov, the man who designed it.

TRANSLATION:

Ismail Samani was always important to people here.

But it was Emomali Rahmonov, the Tajik president,

who chose him as a new Father of the nation.

History says Samani was a wise ruler

who saved his people from destruction.

President Rahmonov would like modern-day Tajiks to say the same about him.

He took office in the dark days of civil war.

Tajiks fought Tajiks in a bitter struggle for power.

When peace finally came, he led the new government.

And almost two decades later, he is still very much in charge.

'Before Ismail Samani, Lenin used to stand on this spot.

'His statue towered over my childhood.'

In the run-up to independence, he was finally taken down.

I asked Mansur where Lenin is now.

This is Lenin's new home - a field on the edge of town.

I like the fact he's still here.

To me, it says that even though communism has gone,

it's still a part of history.

Unlike some other Soviet states,

Tajikistan isn't trying to rewrite the past.

The Soviet era also had a sinister side - an obsession with secrecy.

And a sometimes scant regard for public safety.

This is one of the legacies of Tajikistan's Soviet past.

This hill is actually a uranium dump.

Just up the road from here is the factory that produced

the material for the first Soviet atom bomb.

It's not far from my home.

In my childhood, we used to come here to play.

The Leninabad Mining and Chemical Plant

used to be one of the most secret places in Tajikistan.

It was built in the 1940s

to process uranium ore being mined in the surrounding area.

A whole town was built to support the factory.

Most of the people who lived and worked here were Russians.

MAN SINGS PASSIONATELY

Viktor Butenko was one of them.

He came to Tajikistan in the 1960s

to sing in the uranium factory choir.

TRANSLATION:

For me, Viktor embodies the image of the loyal Soviet citizen.

Because it supplied the defence industry,

the factory often had important visitors from Moscow.

Us locals had no idea what went on at the uranium factory.

We knew they were making something secret and precious.

We thought, maybe it was diamonds.

It seems incredible now.

My village is less than 10 minutes' drive from the plant

but we might as well have been living in another country.

VIKTOR SINGS

When the USSR collapsed, work at the plant dried up.

Most of the Russians left. Only some older people stayed on.

These days, Viktor lives alone and he supplements his pension by busking.

His audience are the same locals who weren't thought good enough

to work at the plant in the old days.

They're looking after him now.

APPLAUSE

The beliefs of Communist times are gone now.

A new faith has taken their place.

Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.

This is Isfisor's new mosque.

Allahu Akbar.

Alla-aa-aa-hu Akbar.

It didn't exist in my day.

Now it's the focal point of the village.

Before communism, Central Asians were Muslims

and we never completely forgot the traditions and beliefs of the past.

In the privacy of our own homes we would mark important

milestones by reciting players, handed down from our grandparents.

Ahmadjon Rahmatullaev is the deputy imam.

He was our neighbour.

And he remembers the time when studying Islam could get you into serious trouble.

TRANSLATION:

Friday prayers are now part of the rhythm of life in Isfisor.

Islam gives structure to the day and hope in uncertain times.

Imam Ahmadjon says Islam is also the glue helping to stick Tajik society together.

WOMEN SHOUT EMOTIONALLY

But for some Tajiks, Imam Ahmadjon's gentle brand of Islam is not enough.

Disillusioned by poverty and unemployment at home,

and inspired by jihadi abroad, some people have turned to radical Islam.

Several hundred Tajik men, including some from Isfisor,

have been jailed for belonging to banned extremist groups.

President Rahmanov's response to the problem

has been to introduce a new law banning anyone under 18 from going to a mosque.

I noticed there were still some children at Friday prayers.

So I ask Imam Ahmadjon how the new law was affecting him.

'I didn't push Imam Ahmadjon further

'because I could see this was a subject he found uncomfortable.'

In Tajikistan, no one is ever very far from the watchful eye of the authorities

and at a time when Islam is often in the news for all the wrong reasons,

Imam Ahmadjon has a difficult path to tread.

If there are fewer children in the mosques these days,

then they seem to be more than ever in the schools.

This place brings back lots of memories.

I spent 10 years of my life running up and down these corridors.

Tajik poets on the wall.

In my day, it was pictures of Lenin.

I dropped in on Year Nine and their teacher.

Here we are in the classroom.

It has been 24 years since I have come back.

Nothing has changed, except now they teach Tajik.

Like me, these young people all come from Uzbek-speaking families.

When I was a pupil here, they didn't teach the Tajik language at all.

TRANSLATION:

'I wondered who these teenagers look up to now.'

CLASS: Lenin.

Beckham.

Ismail Samani.

'So they still know who Lenin is.'

'Just about.

'But in the classroom, like out on the streets, Ismail Samani has

'definitely taken his place.

'But when you ask about their real heroes,

'things don't seem so different.'

Popstars and sportsmen,

just like in my day.

'Watching the lesson here it strikes me

'things are more relaxed than when I was a pupil.'

Speaking freely was not something we were ever encouraged to do.

Even today, many people in Tajikistan seem scared to say

what they really think.

After all, this is still a country where you can get

arrested for saying the wrong thing.

I hope, when these 15-year-olds finally leave school,

things will be different.

SINGING

It's Independence Day.

Time for everyone to put on their best clothes to celebrate.

We've come to watch the parade organised by our local council.

TRADITIONAL BAND PLAYS

They are putting on a pageant about recent history.

The tragedy of the civil war.

GUNFIRE, SCREAMING

MOCK GUNSHOTS RING OUT

WOMEN CRY

I think the civil war defined our new nation, bringing us together.

Determined it would never happen again.

In Communist times we had parades just like this -

with slogans, portraits and flags.

UPBEAT MUSIC PLAYS

Although Tajiks are singing to a different tune now,

the shadow of the big northern neighbour firmly remains.

When I look at this crowd, there aren't many men.

They've all gone to Russia to work.

People are still waiting for real independence with jobs at home in Tajikistan.

But until we turn our economy around, that is just not going to happen.

As I think back over my journey and the people I have met, it seems

everyone is crossing their fingers and hoping things will get better.

For some Tajiks, life offers more chances now than it used to.

Many people are struggling, but there is a determination to get on.

There is a lot of optimism, despite the challenges ahead.

So what about Lenin? Does he still matter?

I think he is feeding into the past.

Yes, he is still a presence in street names and statues,

but the younger generation are on a new path now.

Tajikistan is moving on.

Subtitles by Red Bee Media Ltd