Prologue: The Beginning

The days I spent in a Russian prison changed my life forever. But those days were the result of a chain of events, none of which was accidental. Each of them pushed me closer to the edge.

I was born and raised in Samarkand, graduated from a Tajik-language school with top marks. After my final exams and entrance tests, I was placed on a paid-contract basis at the Institute of Foreign Languages — something I disagreed with. At that time, those who paid bribes were admitted to government-funded places, while even top-scoring students who couldn’t pay were forced into contract-based studies. A couple of years later, that very rector was caught red-handed for bribery. But by then, it changed nothing for me.

I moved to Moscow. After a short preparatory course, I entered Moscow State University. It seemed like life was finally getting better. But a couple of months before my first exams, I was attacked on the street by skinheads — Russian nationalists — on my way home. For no reason at all. I was in shock, mentally crushed, and lost my will to live. And right at that moment, when I was standing at the edge of despair, she came into our rented apartment — my future wife. She came with her aunt. They had arrived from Urgut, thinking Moscow was a safe place for a young unmarried woman. How naive.

I started protecting her — from persistent stares, from vulgar propositions, from the Moscow pack of hungry wolves. That won her aunt over. We became friends, returned to Samarkand together, and got married. Later, we had two wonderful, healthy children. I thought — my happy life had begun. And it really seemed that way… until everything changed. We lived modestly, but we were happy…

Moscow, January, minus thirty. Snow up to my knees. I worked as a bicycle courier. It wasn’t a job — it was a struggle. A struggle for pennies, for survival. Frozen hands, cracked lips, brakes covered in ice. Sometimes I couldn’t ride — I had to drag the bike through the snowdrifts.

Once, I tried riding on an icy road — and fell. My support foot slipped, and I landed on my back. Pain pierced me like a knife.

I thought — that’s it, I broke my back. I lay on the cold ice, and couldn't breathe. A Russian man, around thirty-five, came up to me and offered his hand:

— Скорая нужна? Как сам?
(Need an ambulance? Are you okay?)

I just nodded. I couldn’t stand up or even speak. An old woman stopped nearby:

— Сам виноват! Сел на велосипед в такую погоду!
(Your own fault! Who rides a bike in this weather!)

The man snapped back at her:

— Осуждать всегда проще, чем помогать.
(It’s always easier to judge than to help.)

Since then, I’ve remembered those words. It’s easier to judge — harder to help. And that’s how the world is divided.

A month before this, I had been hit by a car. I was crossing the street, pushing my bicycle beside me. A taxi driver from Osh — Asian appearance, young guy — didn’t yield at the turn and crashed into me. I flew two or three meters. My leg was smashed, my American Trek bicycle got dented. There was a female passenger in his car, terrified by what she saw. The taxi driver got out:

— Ака, ГАИ чақирманг. Любой ёрдам керак бўлса, телефон қилинг.
(Brother, don’t call the traffic police. If you need anything — call me, I’ll help with anything.)

We exchanged numbers. I lay at home for ten days. Losing money, losing work — and not a word from him. When I finally called and threatened to go to the police, he transferred me… two thousand rubles! It was humiliating. That’s when I realized: brotherhood in faith is a myth. There’s only self-interest.

But my main pain was my family. Every evening — video calls with my wife and kids. I spoke in the Samarkand dialect of Farsi:

— Ман шумоя ёд кадам, хона мерӯм.
(I miss you, I want to come home.)

My wife replied:

— Ҳоли набед, ин ҷо кор нест. Мо аз гушнагӣ мемурем.
(Don’t come back yet, there’s no work here. We’ll starve to death.)

I argued:

— Ту худаш кимчанд марта омада-рафтӣ: мана ёд куни пеши манба Москваба, бачоя ёд куни хонаба пеши бачоба, ман бошад панҷ сол бачоя надидам.
(You yourself traveled back and forth several times: when you missed me — you flew to Moscow, when you missed the kids — you went home to them, but I haven’t seen my children in over five years.)

She stayed silent. I could see our family falling apart.

But back home, it was even worse. A few years ago, my older younger brother, Behrouz, got married. Then he took over the part of our family house where I lived with my family. We made a deal: I give him my share, he gives me an apartment in Samarkand. We shook hands. Knowing our mother’s nature and what this could lead to, I asked him not to tell her. He promised… and told her anyway.

That’s how it all started. My mother began turning my wife against the family. One day, this brother sent me a video from surveillance cameras installed all over our house: my wife was getting out of a white car.

— Занатон шумонба хиёнат кайсас!
(Your wife is cheating on you!)

I went mad: fights, scandals. Later, my son showed me through an app — it was a taxi. That’s when I realized who my real enemy was.

Then it got worse. My brother almost beat my wife. He hit my son. I called the police — useless. My brother declared:

— Квартира нест шумонба. Ҳамун хоначаба мишини акнун.
(You won’t get the apartment. Now you’ll live in that little room.)

He offered to let me live in the place where, during the construction of a two-story mansion in our shared yard, he kept building materials and animals. There used to be two big rooms by the gate with a bathhouse and kitchen. Now — ruins, with my mother’s fitness club facing the street, where overweight women jumped to loud music every day, shaking even the neighboring, that very same, room.

Worst of all, it turned out that for the past several years, my brother and mother had been secretly recording my conversations to make me look like a scoundrel in front of my family, neighbors, and authorities — working with a personal lawyer. They wanted custody of my father with Alzheimer’s — to control the house. To squeeze me out.

My wife sobbed on the phone:

— Ман намерӯм. Агар равам, ҳама чиза аз даст митием. Бачома ҳаққаша намитиям.
(I won’t leave. If I do, we’ll lose everything. I won’t give up my children’s rights.)

I bought her a ticket to Moscow — twice. I wanted to protect her, she refused both times. Money down the drain. I tried to hold on.

Renting a place was no easier. Finally, before leaving for Samarkand, Behrouz introduced me to the apartment owner — Magomed from Dagestan. He said:

— Акнун вайба прямой худатон пулаша митиед.
(Now you’ll pay him directly.)

It turned out he owed two months’ rent. Magomed demanded the debt from me. I paid for one month — there was still another month and the upcoming rent. By April fifth, I had to find the money.

Soon, another truth surfaced. When Behrouz bought himself a luxury apartment in an elite building and moved there with his wife and three kids, the apartment I was renting — he left in ruins. His kids were so spoiled they tore off all the wallpaper and broke all the furniture. When Magomed came from Dagestan to inspect the apartment, he was horrified.

— Это что за свинарник?! — he asked me. Ты или делаешь ремонт, или съезжай.
(What kind of pigsty is this?! Either you fix it or you move out.)

I stood there with my eyes down. I had nothing to say. This was rock bottom — and I stood there alone.

That’s how I lived. Beaten, betrayed, drowning in debt. With cracked hands on Moscow’s streets. With a family torn apart by intrigue. With rent arrears. With family set-ups. Crushed. Humiliated. I kept going forward — until one day, everything changed.

The day that marked the beginning of my fifty-three days of hell.

*Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.