THEY DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ANYONE
How Russia abandons political and LGBT refugees seeking protection
Refugees from Central Asia and African nations have been coming to Russia for years, fleeing political reprisals and persecution for their sexual orientation. To them, Russia seems “almost like Europe.” It’s a big country where one can easily lose oneself and live without pressure from the state.
However, new arrivals encounter xenophobia, which threatens their lives, the impossibility of legalisation, and the constant fear of deportation.
Cherta tells the stories of political and LGBT migrants as part of Memorial Human Rights Defence Centre’s 30 Years Before project. It also explains why they have been in even greater danger since the outbreak of the war.
However, new arrivals encounter xenophobia, which threatens their lives, the impossibility of legalisation, and the constant fear of deportation.
Cherta tells the stories of political and LGBT migrants as part of Memorial Human Rights Defence Centre’s 30 Years Before project. It also explains why they have been in even greater danger since the outbreak of the war.
In 2007, a 25-year-old Tashkent resident, Marko (whose name has been changed), was expelled from university. He was just one year away from graduating. He lost his place in the dormitory and was embarrassed to return to his mother, to his home town. His mother had gone into debt to pay for his education. Marko was forced to wander from friend to friend and sleep rough.
“The day I was expelled was a tragedy. I lost literally everything and understood one thing: I am nobody and nothing in this country. I don’t have any protection here,” Marko told Cherta. He felt like an outcast not only because he had been expelled.
Marko realised that he was gay when he was still a child. It was hard for him to hide it: he always had an affected manner, and his [sexual] orientation was “written on his forehead.” But homosexuality is illegal in Uzbekistan. Article 120 of Uzbekistan’s Criminal Code (“sodomy”) carries a penalty of up to three years in prison. Marko didn’t tell his father and mother when a neighbour raped him. He was just eleven years old and was afraid they would kill him. For the same reason, he didn’t go to the police either then or when the violence was repeated again and again.
Marko says that ever since he was a teenager, adult men often solicited him for sex. And he was expelled a second time after refusing to have sex with one of his teachers.
“I didn’t want to live. But somewhere I heard the word ‘Russia,’ and I had some hope,” Marko says. “My father has relatives in Kemerovo. We lived with them for a long time when I was little. When I heard about Russia in Tashkent, it gave me the strength to go on living.”
A few months later, Marko confessed to his mother that he had been expelled and asked her for a hundred dollars to live in Russia. He got on a bus and left Uzbekistan. He thought he was on the way to hope, but it turned out that he was headed for one of the greatest disappointments of his life.
“The day I was expelled was a tragedy. I lost literally everything and understood one thing: I am nobody and nothing in this country. I don’t have any protection here,” Marko told Cherta. He felt like an outcast not only because he had been expelled.
Marko realised that he was gay when he was still a child. It was hard for him to hide it: he always had an affected manner, and his [sexual] orientation was “written on his forehead.” But homosexuality is illegal in Uzbekistan. Article 120 of Uzbekistan’s Criminal Code (“sodomy”) carries a penalty of up to three years in prison. Marko didn’t tell his father and mother when a neighbour raped him. He was just eleven years old and was afraid they would kill him. For the same reason, he didn’t go to the police either then or when the violence was repeated again and again.
Marko says that ever since he was a teenager, adult men often solicited him for sex. And he was expelled a second time after refusing to have sex with one of his teachers.
“I didn’t want to live. But somewhere I heard the word ‘Russia,’ and I had some hope,” Marko says. “My father has relatives in Kemerovo. We lived with them for a long time when I was little. When I heard about Russia in Tashkent, it gave me the strength to go on living.”
A few months later, Marko confessed to his mother that he had been expelled and asked her for a hundred dollars to live in Russia. He got on a bus and left Uzbekistan. He thought he was on the way to hope, but it turned out that he was headed for one of the greatest disappointments of his life.
“I heard the word ‘Russia’ and had hope"
April 2, 2024
DISCLAIMER:
This article has been published as part of 30 Years Before, a project by Memorial Human Rights Defence Centre. The views of its authors and editors do not necessarily reflect the views of Memorial Human Rights Defence Centre, and vice versa.
Marko is hardly the only one who decided to leave Uzbekistan due to homophobia and violence, as LGBT rights are violated there all the time. There are now two republics in Central Asia where homosexuality is punishable by law: Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. But, according to Nadezhda Ataeva, president of the Association for Human Rights in Central Asia, it is in Uzbekistan that sexual violence and homophobia are used as ways of pressuring people undesirable to the state.
“Rape of political prisoners in detention facilities is one form of torture,” Ataeva says. “These men are considered social outcasts after being raped.” Their children will not be able to get married. The mahallah (the local community and its representatives) will not attend the wedding and will not support this family.”
Ataeva says that, due to criminalisation and homophobic attitudes in Uzbek society, LGBT individuals who are victims of sexual violence cannot get any protection. And if a family member finds out about what happened, it is the victims who become the perpetrators.
According the findings of the Memorial Anti-Discrimination Centre, Turkmenistan is the country with the highest number of prison sentences for “sodomy.” And convicted men often return to prison, where they are subjected to torture and violence. Upon release, they have almost no chances of finding a good job and adapting to life in society.
Members of the LGBT community fear staying in such an aggressive and intolerant environment and look for ways to leave. Ataeva explains that they often choose a country based on multiple criteria: whether there is visa-free travel, that there is no language barrier, and whether it’s possible to become a displaced person—in other words, to emigrate through one country to another, for example, to the US. So, people from Central Asia choose between Russia, Georgia, and Turkey. Before the war, they also went to Ukraine. In the case of Russia, many rely on its size. It’s a big country, there are plenty of places to live and work, so you won’t be unduly noticed. But this turns out to be wrong.
When Marko arrived in Russia, he did feel like he could behave more freely. For example, he began to look after himself more and bought even tighter jeans than he could allow himself to wear in Uzbekistan. He fell in love for the first time and started dating a young man. At first, he earned cash working as an extra on TV shows and slept with other migrants on commuter trains, in entryways and in cellars. Teenagers and young men that he describes as skinheads repeatedly beat him up during this time. Marko recalls that one time they took him to a forest, beat him, and urinated on him.
“I suffered racism in Russia every single day,” Marko says. “I would go into a store and hear the usual comment: ‘They’re overrunning the country.’ Then: ‘Look at how he’s dressed. Just get a whiff of that cologne. Maybe he’s a homosexual? He probably didn’t even have a comb in his Churkistan [a derogatory term for a non-Slavic Central Asian country].’ And that’s putting it mildly. They could have hit me too.”
What happened in 2012 was the last straw for Marko. He was living in Obninsk with a man at the time. He was in the business of renting out land and premises, so Marko knew some of the tenants personally. One day, he went outside to throw out the trash, felt a blow, and passed out.
“When I opened my mouth, I realised that something hard like metal or plastic was coming out of my mouth. It turned out to be my teeth,” Marko recalls. He recognised the man who attacked him as the friend of a tenant he’d seen many times. The man continued to kick Marko, who was lying on the ground. And when the tenant himself tried to drag the man away, he shouted: “Can’t you see, he’s an Uzbek fag!” After that, Marko spent several days in hospital and told his boyfriend that he couldn’t stay in Russia any longer because he would be killed there. He turned to the Civic Assistance Committee and, in 2013, got asylum in the US with the help of human rights activists from several organisations.
Marko still stays in touch with some Uzbek friends: some live in Russia, while others live in Uzbekistan. The ones who live in Russia say that it’s become harder to live there over the past several years because the xenophobia and homophobia have gotten worse. Those who live in Uzbekistan ask him to lend them money and help them move to Russia. When Marko tells them they will have a hard time in Russia, they reply, “At least we can survive somehow in Russia where there are many gay people. But how are we supposed to survive in Uzbekistan?” Marko’s friends hope they will be able to stay in Russia, where they can live in safety. But that’s an illusion: it’s virtually impossible to become legally established in Russia and obtain refugee status there. And migrants can not only be arrested. If there are issues with their documents they can also be deported back to their homelands—to the countries whose laws they already fled.
“Rape of political prisoners in detention facilities is one form of torture,” Ataeva says. “These men are considered social outcasts after being raped.” Their children will not be able to get married. The mahallah (the local community and its representatives) will not attend the wedding and will not support this family.”
Ataeva says that, due to criminalisation and homophobic attitudes in Uzbek society, LGBT individuals who are victims of sexual violence cannot get any protection. And if a family member finds out about what happened, it is the victims who become the perpetrators.
According the findings of the Memorial Anti-Discrimination Centre, Turkmenistan is the country with the highest number of prison sentences for “sodomy.” And convicted men often return to prison, where they are subjected to torture and violence. Upon release, they have almost no chances of finding a good job and adapting to life in society.
Members of the LGBT community fear staying in such an aggressive and intolerant environment and look for ways to leave. Ataeva explains that they often choose a country based on multiple criteria: whether there is visa-free travel, that there is no language barrier, and whether it’s possible to become a displaced person—in other words, to emigrate through one country to another, for example, to the US. So, people from Central Asia choose between Russia, Georgia, and Turkey. Before the war, they also went to Ukraine. In the case of Russia, many rely on its size. It’s a big country, there are plenty of places to live and work, so you won’t be unduly noticed. But this turns out to be wrong.
When Marko arrived in Russia, he did feel like he could behave more freely. For example, he began to look after himself more and bought even tighter jeans than he could allow himself to wear in Uzbekistan. He fell in love for the first time and started dating a young man. At first, he earned cash working as an extra on TV shows and slept with other migrants on commuter trains, in entryways and in cellars. Teenagers and young men that he describes as skinheads repeatedly beat him up during this time. Marko recalls that one time they took him to a forest, beat him, and urinated on him.
“I suffered racism in Russia every single day,” Marko says. “I would go into a store and hear the usual comment: ‘They’re overrunning the country.’ Then: ‘Look at how he’s dressed. Just get a whiff of that cologne. Maybe he’s a homosexual? He probably didn’t even have a comb in his Churkistan [a derogatory term for a non-Slavic Central Asian country].’ And that’s putting it mildly. They could have hit me too.”
What happened in 2012 was the last straw for Marko. He was living in Obninsk with a man at the time. He was in the business of renting out land and premises, so Marko knew some of the tenants personally. One day, he went outside to throw out the trash, felt a blow, and passed out.
“When I opened my mouth, I realised that something hard like metal or plastic was coming out of my mouth. It turned out to be my teeth,” Marko recalls. He recognised the man who attacked him as the friend of a tenant he’d seen many times. The man continued to kick Marko, who was lying on the ground. And when the tenant himself tried to drag the man away, he shouted: “Can’t you see, he’s an Uzbek fag!” After that, Marko spent several days in hospital and told his boyfriend that he couldn’t stay in Russia any longer because he would be killed there. He turned to the Civic Assistance Committee and, in 2013, got asylum in the US with the help of human rights activists from several organisations.
Marko still stays in touch with some Uzbek friends: some live in Russia, while others live in Uzbekistan. The ones who live in Russia say that it’s become harder to live there over the past several years because the xenophobia and homophobia have gotten worse. Those who live in Uzbekistan ask him to lend them money and help them move to Russia. When Marko tells them they will have a hard time in Russia, they reply, “At least we can survive somehow in Russia where there are many gay people. But how are we supposed to survive in Uzbekistan?” Marko’s friends hope they will be able to stay in Russia, where they can live in safety. But that’s an illusion: it’s virtually impossible to become legally established in Russia and obtain refugee status there. And migrants can not only be arrested. If there are issues with their documents they can also be deported back to their homelands—to the countries whose laws they already fled.
Fleeing homophobia
In 2017, Russia prepared to deport journalist Ali Feruz, an Uzbek national. He said that the Uzbek special services had attempted to recruit him in 2008. When that happened, he decided to go to Russia. There he tried fruitlessly for several years to get both refugee status and temporary asylum. Finally, on 1 August 2017 he was detained for violating the rules for foreigners staying in Russia. Feruz spoke openly about how he would face political persecution upon returning to Uzbekistan, that he would be detained and tortured. He tried to commit suicide in the court when he was handed the expulsion order. Feruz spent six months in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals. It was only thanks to media publicity and the intervention of the ECHR, Russian public figures, and Russian human rights ombudswoman Tatiana Moskalkova that he wasn’t deported to his homeland but was sent to Germany.
Quite often, those who come to Russia as Feruz did find it impossible to become a legal refugee because the Russian state hardly gives anyone that status. In 2023, Russia hit a new low record with only sixteen people granted refugee status. There were only 244 official refugees living in the country by the end of the year. The most applicants can count on is temporary asylum. Such status is granted only for one year. It is difficult to get extended and, in contrast to refugees, those holding temporary asylum cannot rely on the safety net. However, once a person has obtained temporary asylum, they cannot be deported and they are entitled to work. But few can count on even that. In 2023, “temporary asylum” status was granted only 6,828 times. That is fifteen times fewer than in 2022. And eighty percent of people who held “temporary asylum” status in 2023 were from Ukraine (5,435 people).
According to Memorial Anti-Discrimination Centre expert Stefania Kulaeva, because the asylum process in Russia is essentially doomed to fail, Central Asians rarely try to obtain asylum and more often come to Russia as migrant workers. This trend was particularly noticeable after the ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan in 2010 when attacks, murders, and robberies forced ethnic Uzbeks to flee to Russia. For several years, labour migration was a “necessary substitute for refugee status or temporary asylum.”
But some do seek asylum in Russia although there is little chance of getting it. That is because they simply cannot return to their homeland.
“It isn’t that a person is sitting in Tashkent and thinking ‘How can I get to a safe country where they will treat political persecution issues in my country with respect? I guess I’ll go to Russia.’ Of course not. They’re forced to take this step,” Kulaeva says. “It happens that people end up in Russia and they can’t go back. Political persecution is the only basis for being granted asylum. But Russia doesn’t acknowledge that it happens, for example, to radical Muslims or opponents of the regime. And those people understand they won’t get asylum, but they seek it anyway out of a sense of desperation.”
In 2019, researchers from the politics department at University of Exeter in the UK created a database of political emigres from the Central Asian countries. It counted 278 people by 2020. Most are refugees from Uzbekistan. The second most persecuted people are from Tajikistan. The list included not only politicians, but also journalists, human rights activists, and religious figures. According to the database’s makers, persecuted people most often move to Russia, although forced deportation is most widespread there.
Kulaeva says the most defenceless are those migrants who end up in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals, which is also called a removal (or deportation) centre.
“Unfortunately, journalists didn’t write about those detention centres much until some of them wound up there when Russia started seriously prosecuting people on administrative charges and there was no room left in temporary detention facilities. They were held there in terrible conditions and were shocked. In some ways, it was a useful ‘tour’ because migrants are imprisoned there not for just a few days, but for years. It’s important to know and report about this,” Kulaeva argues.
Conditions in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals are almost identical to those in a prison. The sanitary conditions are poor, there is no access to drinking water, you can’t leave the room, and mobile phone calls are allowed at a strictly allotted time. But being placed there is not the same as serving a sentence. Formally, it is a “preliminary injunction” (in anticipation of an expulsion order). Immigrants are sent to the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals for administrative infractions—for example, for letting their temporary registration expire. People await expulsion orders at the centre, but the wait can be very long.
In June 2022, it transpired that some Turkmenistan nationals had already spent two years in such a migration facility outside of Moscow. They had been placed there for overstaying their Russian visas. However, they couldn’t leave in time because of the pandemic, and transportation between Russia and Turkmenistan had been temporarily shut down. As a result, no one knew what to do next and the offenders were simply left at the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals. It happens that people wind up at the centre as an “preliminary injunction” for minor infractions, but spend more time there than some people do in penal colonies for committing real crimes.
In 2018, a Cameroonian national wound up in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals due to an error in a court decision. He had been detained in October of that year by immigration control officers who had written him up on administrative charges. But because the Cameroonian national had lost his documents, they wrote his name down wrong, as the senior inspector had dictated it to them. The man could not be deported because the name in the court order did not match the one in the repatriation certificate issued by the embassy. As a result, the court order was overturned and the Cameroonian national was released. But the proceedings took a year, and he spent the entire time in the prison conditions of the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals.
In December 2023, human rights activists managed to get the federal law on administrative offences amended. Now Russian law stipulates that a person can be held in a temporary detention centre for foreign nationals no longer than ninety days. After ninety days, the court has to decide whether to extend the person’s detention at the centre or release them. The Interior Ministry may apply for an extension, while the individual may request to be deported at their own expense or simply be released. And if the judicial review process works as it should, then, whether or not they are seeking asylum status, migrants will no longer have to stay in a detention centre for months and years without the hope of getting out. It took ten years for human rights activists to get this amendment.
Quite often, those who come to Russia as Feruz did find it impossible to become a legal refugee because the Russian state hardly gives anyone that status. In 2023, Russia hit a new low record with only sixteen people granted refugee status. There were only 244 official refugees living in the country by the end of the year. The most applicants can count on is temporary asylum. Such status is granted only for one year. It is difficult to get extended and, in contrast to refugees, those holding temporary asylum cannot rely on the safety net. However, once a person has obtained temporary asylum, they cannot be deported and they are entitled to work. But few can count on even that. In 2023, “temporary asylum” status was granted only 6,828 times. That is fifteen times fewer than in 2022. And eighty percent of people who held “temporary asylum” status in 2023 were from Ukraine (5,435 people).
According to Memorial Anti-Discrimination Centre expert Stefania Kulaeva, because the asylum process in Russia is essentially doomed to fail, Central Asians rarely try to obtain asylum and more often come to Russia as migrant workers. This trend was particularly noticeable after the ethnic violence in Kyrgyzstan in 2010 when attacks, murders, and robberies forced ethnic Uzbeks to flee to Russia. For several years, labour migration was a “necessary substitute for refugee status or temporary asylum.”
But some do seek asylum in Russia although there is little chance of getting it. That is because they simply cannot return to their homeland.
“It isn’t that a person is sitting in Tashkent and thinking ‘How can I get to a safe country where they will treat political persecution issues in my country with respect? I guess I’ll go to Russia.’ Of course not. They’re forced to take this step,” Kulaeva says. “It happens that people end up in Russia and they can’t go back. Political persecution is the only basis for being granted asylum. But Russia doesn’t acknowledge that it happens, for example, to radical Muslims or opponents of the regime. And those people understand they won’t get asylum, but they seek it anyway out of a sense of desperation.”
In 2019, researchers from the politics department at University of Exeter in the UK created a database of political emigres from the Central Asian countries. It counted 278 people by 2020. Most are refugees from Uzbekistan. The second most persecuted people are from Tajikistan. The list included not only politicians, but also journalists, human rights activists, and religious figures. According to the database’s makers, persecuted people most often move to Russia, although forced deportation is most widespread there.
Kulaeva says the most defenceless are those migrants who end up in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals, which is also called a removal (or deportation) centre.
“Unfortunately, journalists didn’t write about those detention centres much until some of them wound up there when Russia started seriously prosecuting people on administrative charges and there was no room left in temporary detention facilities. They were held there in terrible conditions and were shocked. In some ways, it was a useful ‘tour’ because migrants are imprisoned there not for just a few days, but for years. It’s important to know and report about this,” Kulaeva argues.
Conditions in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals are almost identical to those in a prison. The sanitary conditions are poor, there is no access to drinking water, you can’t leave the room, and mobile phone calls are allowed at a strictly allotted time. But being placed there is not the same as serving a sentence. Formally, it is a “preliminary injunction” (in anticipation of an expulsion order). Immigrants are sent to the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals for administrative infractions—for example, for letting their temporary registration expire. People await expulsion orders at the centre, but the wait can be very long.
In June 2022, it transpired that some Turkmenistan nationals had already spent two years in such a migration facility outside of Moscow. They had been placed there for overstaying their Russian visas. However, they couldn’t leave in time because of the pandemic, and transportation between Russia and Turkmenistan had been temporarily shut down. As a result, no one knew what to do next and the offenders were simply left at the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals. It happens that people wind up at the centre as an “preliminary injunction” for minor infractions, but spend more time there than some people do in penal colonies for committing real crimes.
In 2018, a Cameroonian national wound up in the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals due to an error in a court decision. He had been detained in October of that year by immigration control officers who had written him up on administrative charges. But because the Cameroonian national had lost his documents, they wrote his name down wrong, as the senior inspector had dictated it to them. The man could not be deported because the name in the court order did not match the one in the repatriation certificate issued by the embassy. As a result, the court order was overturned and the Cameroonian national was released. But the proceedings took a year, and he spent the entire time in the prison conditions of the temporary detention centre for foreign nationals.
In December 2023, human rights activists managed to get the federal law on administrative offences amended. Now Russian law stipulates that a person can be held in a temporary detention centre for foreign nationals no longer than ninety days. After ninety days, the court has to decide whether to extend the person’s detention at the centre or release them. The Interior Ministry may apply for an extension, while the individual may request to be deported at their own expense or simply be released. And if the judicial review process works as it should, then, whether or not they are seeking asylum status, migrants will no longer have to stay in a detention centre for months and years without the hope of getting out. It took ten years for human rights activists to get this amendment.
Trapped without asylum
A system that cares for no one
The Civic Assistance Committee says that not only Ukrainians and Central Asians seek asylum in Russia. Asylum is often sought by citizens of Afghanistan (who make up the majority), Syria, and African nations.
“The refugees come from places where war is raging,” says Civic Assistance Committee consultant Anna (her name has been changed). “We get refugees from Bangladesh as soon there are elections in their country because the current ruling party starts putting a lot of pressure on competitors and the situation creates political refugees. There have been many refugees from Sudan, Yemen, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Iraq.”
According to Anna, refugees from those countries choose Russia because they think it’s “almost Europe but easier to get a visa.” Some hoped to get asylum in another country via Russia, in other words, to become a displaced person. To do this, a person had to first request refugee status in Russia, clear all the bureaucratic hurdles, get rejected, and then prove to the UN High Commissioner for Refugees that they really need international protection and are unable to return home. In that case, the person could be sent to a safer country. “They were isolated cases, but at least there was a chance to leave if you were refused everywhere else and it was really dangerous for you to go home,” Anna says. “But unfortunately, then it stopped, because Russia didn’t want to be used as a steppingstone for resettlement.”
Those arriving from African and other countries become disappointed in the refugee system. They encounter problems at every turn: they cannot explain themselves at state institutions due to the language barrier; they do not understand how to obtain temporary registration, which is needed to apply for asylum, or how to draw up their documents. They think that since they have managed to save themselves and flee war, in Russia someone will gladly help them. But when they get here, they do not understand why it is impossible to get any assistance. Of course, they also have to contend with casual racism, but some do get lucky and meet people who help them without discriminating against them.
As Anna observed, the latest waves of refugees no longer hope to get either asylum or to resettle to a third country. But some think they can escape to the West through Belarus and try to cross the border illegally. Such attempts have even ended in death. For example, in the winter when asylum seekers from the South were not prepared for Russia’s subzero temperatures. Some decide to emigrate to Belarus because they despair of waiting for refugee status in Russia.
In 2014, Bozobeyidou Batoma, a former presidential guard from the Republic of Togo, fled to Moscow. Back home, he had refused to carry out an order to kill an opposition leader, so he was put in prison and tortured. He spent five years in Russia trying to get refugee status and managed to support himself with casual earnings. As Anna recalls, “He slowly lost his mind and decided that he had been betrayed and forgotten.” He went to Belarus and sought asylum there. However, after a few months he was refused and extradited back to Russia. Once there, he was placed in a temporary detention centre for foreign nationals and deported back to his home country, where he was threatened with the death penalty.
In October 2023, it was reported that Russia had deported the religious figure Ashyrbay Bekiev to Turkmenistan. The Turkmen authorities had persecuted him for his unorthodox religious views. First, Russia issued an extradition order that was later overturned. But Bekiev was deported once his passport expired.
So-called refugees sur place feel no less abandoned. These are people who initially came to Russia not seeking status, but for other reasons, for example, to study. But they were forced to stay in Russia and seek asylum due to conflicts that erupted in their home countries. Many Afghan nationals faced this necessity after the Taliban came to power in the summer of 2021.
Cherta was able to speak, on condition of anonymity, with a thirty-year-old Afghan national who had come to Russia to study just a few months before the takeover. He said that he had worked for a state agency that had paid for his studies in Moscow and paid him a stipend that allowed him to support his family, including his wife and small children. But, after the Taliban came to power, he lost his stipend and education contract. The Civic Assistance Committee helped him obtain temporary asylum, but he cannot to return to Afghanistan. He still stays in touch with his former colleagues. They tell him that they are hiding from the Taliban and living in fear. He feels safer in Russia. However, he cannot continue his studies or get a job. Instead, he earns money doing odd jobs at a construction site and works as a waiter and a cleaner.
His dream is to finish his studies and get a degree from a Russian university. While living in Moscow, he has also begun to like Russians, so he doesn’t want to leave. “When they [Russians] hear about my troubles they always try to help or at least give me moral support,” he told Cherta. He has not seen his parents, wife or children for three years.
Anna argues that Russia’s current system does not condone authoritarian states that want to get their political refugees back, but nor does it help those who seek help from it. The system is simply merciless in its indifference. “In the case of the Togolese refugee, did someone want to help that authoritarian regime?” she says. “No, no one wanted to do that. They don’t care about Togo. They don’t care about anyone. I think it’s a case of indifference and a focus on not letting anyone [into the country].”
“The refugees come from places where war is raging,” says Civic Assistance Committee consultant Anna (her name has been changed). “We get refugees from Bangladesh as soon there are elections in their country because the current ruling party starts putting a lot of pressure on competitors and the situation creates political refugees. There have been many refugees from Sudan, Yemen, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and Iraq.”
According to Anna, refugees from those countries choose Russia because they think it’s “almost Europe but easier to get a visa.” Some hoped to get asylum in another country via Russia, in other words, to become a displaced person. To do this, a person had to first request refugee status in Russia, clear all the bureaucratic hurdles, get rejected, and then prove to the UN High Commissioner for Refugees that they really need international protection and are unable to return home. In that case, the person could be sent to a safer country. “They were isolated cases, but at least there was a chance to leave if you were refused everywhere else and it was really dangerous for you to go home,” Anna says. “But unfortunately, then it stopped, because Russia didn’t want to be used as a steppingstone for resettlement.”
Those arriving from African and other countries become disappointed in the refugee system. They encounter problems at every turn: they cannot explain themselves at state institutions due to the language barrier; they do not understand how to obtain temporary registration, which is needed to apply for asylum, or how to draw up their documents. They think that since they have managed to save themselves and flee war, in Russia someone will gladly help them. But when they get here, they do not understand why it is impossible to get any assistance. Of course, they also have to contend with casual racism, but some do get lucky and meet people who help them without discriminating against them.
As Anna observed, the latest waves of refugees no longer hope to get either asylum or to resettle to a third country. But some think they can escape to the West through Belarus and try to cross the border illegally. Such attempts have even ended in death. For example, in the winter when asylum seekers from the South were not prepared for Russia’s subzero temperatures. Some decide to emigrate to Belarus because they despair of waiting for refugee status in Russia.
In 2014, Bozobeyidou Batoma, a former presidential guard from the Republic of Togo, fled to Moscow. Back home, he had refused to carry out an order to kill an opposition leader, so he was put in prison and tortured. He spent five years in Russia trying to get refugee status and managed to support himself with casual earnings. As Anna recalls, “He slowly lost his mind and decided that he had been betrayed and forgotten.” He went to Belarus and sought asylum there. However, after a few months he was refused and extradited back to Russia. Once there, he was placed in a temporary detention centre for foreign nationals and deported back to his home country, where he was threatened with the death penalty.
In October 2023, it was reported that Russia had deported the religious figure Ashyrbay Bekiev to Turkmenistan. The Turkmen authorities had persecuted him for his unorthodox religious views. First, Russia issued an extradition order that was later overturned. But Bekiev was deported once his passport expired.
So-called refugees sur place feel no less abandoned. These are people who initially came to Russia not seeking status, but for other reasons, for example, to study. But they were forced to stay in Russia and seek asylum due to conflicts that erupted in their home countries. Many Afghan nationals faced this necessity after the Taliban came to power in the summer of 2021.
Cherta was able to speak, on condition of anonymity, with a thirty-year-old Afghan national who had come to Russia to study just a few months before the takeover. He said that he had worked for a state agency that had paid for his studies in Moscow and paid him a stipend that allowed him to support his family, including his wife and small children. But, after the Taliban came to power, he lost his stipend and education contract. The Civic Assistance Committee helped him obtain temporary asylum, but he cannot to return to Afghanistan. He still stays in touch with his former colleagues. They tell him that they are hiding from the Taliban and living in fear. He feels safer in Russia. However, he cannot continue his studies or get a job. Instead, he earns money doing odd jobs at a construction site and works as a waiter and a cleaner.
His dream is to finish his studies and get a degree from a Russian university. While living in Moscow, he has also begun to like Russians, so he doesn’t want to leave. “When they [Russians] hear about my troubles they always try to help or at least give me moral support,” he told Cherta. He has not seen his parents, wife or children for three years.
Anna argues that Russia’s current system does not condone authoritarian states that want to get their political refugees back, but nor does it help those who seek help from it. The system is simply merciless in its indifference. “In the case of the Togolese refugee, did someone want to help that authoritarian regime?” she says. “No, no one wanted to do that. They don’t care about Togo. They don’t care about anyone. I think it’s a case of indifference and a focus on not letting anyone [into the country].”
Even before 2022, the situation was not great for refugees and migrants. But new problems arose after the start of the war in Ukraine. The chief problem is getting recruited to fight in the war. Those who have relocated from Central Asia and already obtained Russian citizenship have been threatened with losing it unless they went to the front. Meanwhile, stateless migrants have been promised citizenship in exchange for military service. In September 2022, the State Duma (Russia’s lower house of parliament) adopted a law stipulating that foreign nationals could obtain Russian citizenship if they signed a contract to serve three years in the military.
What is more, people from the Central Asian republics are also attracted by the contract soldier’s pay, which is at least 210,000 rubles a month [approximately 2,100 euros a month]. It has been reported that citizens of Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan are fighting on Russia’s side. There has even been a case where a Tajik national, instead of being deported, was sent from a temporary detention centre straight to a military unit for transfer to the front.
A person from another country who fights in foreign wars under contract is considered a mercenary. It is against the law in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. And almost immediately after the start of the war, the Uzbek authorities published a warning that serving as a mercenary is a criminal offence.
At the same time, according to Ataeva, some Uzbek nationals, including dissidents, honestly support Vladimir Putin.
“Even in the human rights community there are many people who support Putin’s policies. They still think that Russia is single-handedly fighting NATO, and so on. These people listen to [Russian TV presenter Vladimir] Solovyov and succumb to the propaganda. People need to get information and the most accessible resources are controlled by the Uzbek authorities. They feature pro-Russian information (news),” Ataeva says.
She has observed that the political regimes of Central Asia and their official media have long been “captive to the Kremlin,” so Russian propaganda is also effective in the former Soviet republics. For example, a 35-year-old Uzbek named Ozod, who was recently granted Russian citizenship, told journalists from Cabar [Central Asian Bureau for Analytical Reporting] that he was ready to go to the front because it was his duty. “Any sensible person has to understand that if we don’t fight, we will face an outside threat” was the reason he gave for his decision. And in January 2023 Investigative Committee head Alexander Bastrykin called it a constitutional duty for foreigners who had received Russian passports to participate in the war.
Kulaeva argues that migrants are actively being driven into the war, in part because, in contrast to most Russians, they have no relatives in Russia who could publicly demand their return from the front.
“This is a defenceless group that isn’t supported by other segments of the population. They usually have no family in Russia. And [the authorities] don’t need wives in white scarves speaking up. Nor do they need universal suffering and discontent with the losses. But they don’t care about these [migrants]. After all, their wives and mothers are far away. So, the authorities decided that they could easily try to use the migrants to fill this terrible gap although they are entirely unsuitable for the front.”
Kulaeva observes that attacks on immigrants from Central Asia, and particularly Tajikistan, got worse in the spring of 2023 after the security services conducted raids against migrants. At the same time, residents in many Russian regions suddenly started to record video clips for the local authorities, claiming that the immigrants were not behaving properly, and the issue of introducing visas for Central Asians is again being raised in public discussions.
The situation for LGBT migrants also got worse after the oppressive laws were adopted. Ataeva says that transgender refugees now find themselves in a trap. Due to the law banning transgender transition that was enacted in July 2023, immigrants can no longer change their passports or get the medications they need. They can no longer return home and now fear document checks even more. Marko told Cherta that his transgender girlfriend has remained in Russia. She hardly ever leaves her home now because she is afraid of running into the police.
Olga Baranova, project director at the Moscow Community Centre for LGBT+ Initiatives, told Cherta that queer migrants sometimes come to the centre. They face a double stigma. Since the war, they have felt even more oppressed, and the number of attacks reported by those who contact the centre has gone up.
“These people find it very difficult to survive at all in Russia, where they can be beaten up on the street simply because they look different. And that level of xenophobia, that level of aggression in society is growing due to the war and, accordingly, spilling over to the most vulnerable social group,” Olga says. “You can’t tell from their [LGBT migrants’] looks that they have a different orientation if they don’t act like a stereotype. So, it can’t be said that a person was beaten up because they were gay. No, they [the attackers] first noticed that the person looked different. But the victim is really finished if they find out he or she is also gay.”
Anna answers briefly when asked how refugees’ lives have gotten worse since the war started.
“Frankly, I don’t know how it could get any worse.”
What is more, people from the Central Asian republics are also attracted by the contract soldier’s pay, which is at least 210,000 rubles a month [approximately 2,100 euros a month]. It has been reported that citizens of Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan are fighting on Russia’s side. There has even been a case where a Tajik national, instead of being deported, was sent from a temporary detention centre straight to a military unit for transfer to the front.
A person from another country who fights in foreign wars under contract is considered a mercenary. It is against the law in Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. And almost immediately after the start of the war, the Uzbek authorities published a warning that serving as a mercenary is a criminal offence.
At the same time, according to Ataeva, some Uzbek nationals, including dissidents, honestly support Vladimir Putin.
“Even in the human rights community there are many people who support Putin’s policies. They still think that Russia is single-handedly fighting NATO, and so on. These people listen to [Russian TV presenter Vladimir] Solovyov and succumb to the propaganda. People need to get information and the most accessible resources are controlled by the Uzbek authorities. They feature pro-Russian information (news),” Ataeva says.
She has observed that the political regimes of Central Asia and their official media have long been “captive to the Kremlin,” so Russian propaganda is also effective in the former Soviet republics. For example, a 35-year-old Uzbek named Ozod, who was recently granted Russian citizenship, told journalists from Cabar [Central Asian Bureau for Analytical Reporting] that he was ready to go to the front because it was his duty. “Any sensible person has to understand that if we don’t fight, we will face an outside threat” was the reason he gave for his decision. And in January 2023 Investigative Committee head Alexander Bastrykin called it a constitutional duty for foreigners who had received Russian passports to participate in the war.
Kulaeva argues that migrants are actively being driven into the war, in part because, in contrast to most Russians, they have no relatives in Russia who could publicly demand their return from the front.
“This is a defenceless group that isn’t supported by other segments of the population. They usually have no family in Russia. And [the authorities] don’t need wives in white scarves speaking up. Nor do they need universal suffering and discontent with the losses. But they don’t care about these [migrants]. After all, their wives and mothers are far away. So, the authorities decided that they could easily try to use the migrants to fill this terrible gap although they are entirely unsuitable for the front.”
Kulaeva observes that attacks on immigrants from Central Asia, and particularly Tajikistan, got worse in the spring of 2023 after the security services conducted raids against migrants. At the same time, residents in many Russian regions suddenly started to record video clips for the local authorities, claiming that the immigrants were not behaving properly, and the issue of introducing visas for Central Asians is again being raised in public discussions.
The situation for LGBT migrants also got worse after the oppressive laws were adopted. Ataeva says that transgender refugees now find themselves in a trap. Due to the law banning transgender transition that was enacted in July 2023, immigrants can no longer change their passports or get the medications they need. They can no longer return home and now fear document checks even more. Marko told Cherta that his transgender girlfriend has remained in Russia. She hardly ever leaves her home now because she is afraid of running into the police.
Olga Baranova, project director at the Moscow Community Centre for LGBT+ Initiatives, told Cherta that queer migrants sometimes come to the centre. They face a double stigma. Since the war, they have felt even more oppressed, and the number of attacks reported by those who contact the centre has gone up.
“These people find it very difficult to survive at all in Russia, where they can be beaten up on the street simply because they look different. And that level of xenophobia, that level of aggression in society is growing due to the war and, accordingly, spilling over to the most vulnerable social group,” Olga says. “You can’t tell from their [LGBT migrants’] looks that they have a different orientation if they don’t act like a stereotype. So, it can’t be said that a person was beaten up because they were gay. No, they [the attackers] first noticed that the person looked different. But the victim is really finished if they find out he or she is also gay.”
Anna answers briefly when asked how refugees’ lives have gotten worse since the war started.
“Frankly, I don’t know how it could get any worse.”
How much worse could it get?