During our ethnographic fieldwork in Istanbul—in the Kumkapi neighborhood where the majority of Uzbek migrant workers reside and work—we encountered many Uzbek migrants who were compelled to reroute their migration destination from Russia to Turkey following the introduction of the entry ban legislation in Russia in 2013 and 2014. Since that ban, Turkey has become a popular destination since Uzbeks can travel visa-free and can work and reside there without any immigration documents.
Introduction
During our ethnographic fieldwork in Istanbul—in the Kumkapi neighborhood where the majority of Uzbek migrant workers reside and work—we encountered many Uzbek migrants who were compelled to reroute their migration destination from Russia to Turkey following the introduction of the entry ban legislation in Russia in 2013 and 2014. Since that ban, Turkey has become a popular destination since Uzbeks can travel visa-free and can work and reside there without any immigration documents. One of the primary factors contributing to these new migratory trends is the relatively liberal migration regime in Turkey, where authorities tacitly accept cheap and undocumented migrant labor. As such, more than 90% of the migrants we met during our fieldwork did not have a work permit (çalışma izni). Even those migrants who identified themselves as “legal” only possessed a residence permit (oturma izni), which only grants a holder the right to remain in Turkey, although they are not legally entitled to work. Despite their undocumented status, Uzbek migrants enjoyed relatively unimpeded mobility in the Istanbul since Turkish police and immigration officials turned a blind eye to undocumented migrants. These observations allowed us to infer that informality represents a way of life for many Uzbek migrants in Istanbul.
Our Istanbul observations sharply contrasted with developments in Russia, where authorities introduced draconian immigration control laws and punitive measures in order to combat undocumented migration, enacting more than 50 laws and regulations between 2012 and 2015. The most punitive measure was the introduction of an entry ban (zapret na v’ezd) for three to ten years, a sanction that applied to foreign citizens who committed two or more administrative offenses (e.g., violations to the length of stay, migration laws, employment laws, traffic rules, etc.). In mid-2016, Olga Kirillova, head of the General Administration for Migration Issues of the Ministry of the Interior of Russia, reported that the total number of foreign citizens banned from entry approached 2 million people (Interfax, 2016). The vast majority of these migrants were citizens of Tajikistan and Uzbekistan (Troitskii, 2016). In addition to legislative barriers, migrants must contend with corrupt state officials. Today, anyone walking on the streets of large Russian cities (e.g., Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Yekaterinburg, etc.) can easily witness police officers checking the documents of Central Asian migrants. This is particularly visible on the Moscow metro, where police officers frequently stand at the top of escalators to stop migrants (Round & Kuznetsova, 2016). Thus, migrants in Russia are compelled to minimize their visibility in public places in order to avoid hungry Russian police officers and immigration officials often seeking reasons to extort bribes from migrants (Dave, 2014; Urinboyev, 2020).
Advertisement
This brief overview of Turkish and Russian immigration controls and measures demonstrates that Russia relies heavily on punitive measures to manage labor migration, while Turkey adopted a laissez-faire approach by loosely enforcing migration laws. If we view these differences at face value, we may conclude that fewer undocumented migrants exist in Russia than in Turkey. However, in Russia, it is nearly impossible for migrants to remain “legal” due to the legal uncertainty, arbitrary bureaucratic practices and weak rule of law (Kubal, 2016; Reeves, 2013). As a result, legal restrictions and punitive measures further contribute to the increase in the number of undocumented migrants. Migrants learn to sidestep restrictions by buying “new passports” or “clean fake” immigration papers from the numerous “legalizing firms” operating in Russia (Reeves, 2013). They also limit their return trips home and concentrate instead on one long stay, during which they attempt to earn as much as possible, understanding that this might be their only opportunity to do so. Thus, the frequency of border crossings has decreased, and many entry-banned migrants have begun overstaying in Russia without valid documents, thereby increasing the share of undocumented migrants in the labor market. Recent statistics have confirmed this trend, revealing that more than 1 million people have overstayed their visas and are illegally present in the territory of the Russian Federation (Yushkovskaya, 2021).
Unlike in Russia, Turkish authorities take a more pragmatic and commercial approach to undocumented migration. Migrants who overstay in Turkey can choose to avoid an entry ban by paying a fine (ceza parasi) when leaving the Turkish territory, a legally accepted practice enabling migrants to return to the country several months later. While Turkish authorities regularly conduct raids to apprehend and expel undocumented migrants (VOA Turk, 2019), these raids are rather unsystematic given that they focus on migrants from select countries (e.g., Afghans, Iranians and Pakistanis) and remain incompatibly small given the scale of undocumented migration. As a result, a large proportion of migrants can and continue to reside and work in the country without immigration documents. Thus, comparing Russian and Turkish migration regimes shows that, despite their varying approaches to immigration control, both countries have arrived at similar migration outcomes, a process which we empirically illustrate in this chapter.
This comparison of Russian and Turkish migration regimes also fits with broader discussions in the “migrant illegality” literature. A wide swath of research explores how immigration laws produce various forms and categories of “migrant illegality” (Calavita, 1998; De Genova, 2002; Goldring et al., 2009; Jordan & Düvell, 2002; Kubal, 2013; Menjívar, 2006; Ngai, 2014; Willen, 2007). For instance, De Genova (2002) argues that immigration laws should be viewed as a deliberate strategy nation-states deploy to produce cheap and legally unprotected undocumented migrants enabling their inclusion in the labor market under the condition of “enforced and protracted vulnerability”. In her study of immigration laws in Spain, Calavita (1998) also found that immigration laws were written and enforced in a way making it nearly impossible for immigrants to retain legal status over time. This implies that Spanish immigration laws primarily aim to control the lives of immigrants rather than control immigration. Thus, migrant illegality represents not simply a form of legal status and a sociopolitical condition, but also “a mode of being-in-the-world” (Willen, 2007).
The insights developed within non-Western migration contexts suggest that an undocumented status is not a “dead end”, but rather may also be a conscious adaptation strategy. The growing body of literature focusing on migrants’ experiences in non-Western migrant-receiving countries argues that undocumented migrants’ experiences are not uniform everywhere, but rather contingent upon the sociopolitical context, legal environment, economic system and various cultural factors (Anderson & Hancilová, 2011; Dave, 2014; Fargues, 2009; Garcés-Mascareñas, 2010; Killias, 2010; Urinboyev, 2020). The bulk of these studies maintain that an undocumented status may actually enable migrants to escape the constraints imposed by immigration laws and policies. Olivia Killias (2010), through the narrative of Arum, an Indonesian undocumented migrant worker in Malaysia, describes how working legally leads to greater subordination and exploitation, whereby migration through illegal channels represented a strategic choice and enabled Arun to circumvent the “legal”, state-sanctioned migration scheme. Examples from the Gulf States also demonstrate how an undocumented status does not necessarily lead to exploitation and subordination (Fargues, 2011; Fargues & Shah, 2017; Pessoa et al., 2014). Fargues and Shah, in their edited volume Skillful Survivals: Irregular Migration to the Gulf (2017), show that for many migrants working in the Gulf states undocumentedness is preferred, even though such migrants understand that it may lead to arrest, a jail term and deportation. They prefer this status because undocumented migrants enjoy greater freedom over their working lives and can make independent choices, whereas migrants working legally typically remain tethered to one specific employer for a fixed sum of money unable to move between jobs. Thus, migrant “undocumentedness” or “illegality” does not automatically deprive migrants of their agency, but may actually entice them to seek alternatives, thereby allowing them to avoid any constraints imposed by draconian immigration laws and policies (e.g., Donato & Armenta, 2011; Garcés-Mascareñas, 2010; Urinboyev & Polese, 2016).
Advertisement
The above considerations thus lead us to suggest a context-sensitive analysis of migration regimes, analyses which account for the gap between migration outputs (migration laws and policies) and migration outcomes (actual implementation, or what happens on the ground). Overemphasizing the role and impact of migration outputs may result in underestimating the interactions and struggles that take place within specific migration arenas. In other words, we argue that only focusing on migration outputs cannot satisfactorily explain “what happens on the ground” given the existence of a variety of actors and interests surrounding a migration industry. This task becomes especially important when we comparatively investigate the migration regimes of different countries, particularly those with similar migration outputs, but different sociolegal and political contexts, a factor potentially leading to different migration outcomes. In what follows, we highlight these processes through empirical data on Uzbek migrants’ daily encounters with the host country’s legal environments in Russia and Turkey.
Migrants’ Documentationand Legalization Strategies in Russia
As we described in Chapter 2, Russian authorities are continuously tightening migration laws and further developing the border control infrastructure. As of January 1, 2015, patents (work permits) became the primary channel for legal employment for all foreign workers (including CIS citizens) entering Russia under the visa-free regime, regardless of whether they worked for an organization, an individual entrepreneur or an individual. To obtain a patent, migrants must complete numerous requirements within 30 days of their arrival. These include (1) holding a migration card received at the border upon which the purpose of entry to the Russian Federation must be indicated as “work”; (2) proof of residence registration; (3) a certificate verifying that the individual has passed a Russian-language, law and history exam; (4) a medical certificate clearing them of drug dependency and infectious diseases such as tuberculosis and HIV among others; (5) proof of medical insurance obtained through their employers or purchased from a private insurance company approved by the regional government; (6) a receipt indicating payment of the patent fees and the first month’s taxes and (7) a translated and notarized copy of a valid passport. Patents are typically issued for a period of between 1 and 12 months, after which migrants should exit the Russian territory and reenter on a new migration card. After obtaining a patent, migrants are required to pay a monthly fee for the patent, the amount of which depends on the region in which the migrant works [e.g., 5000 rubles (US$80) for Moscow].
While the introduction of a new patent system was put forward as a liberalization to the Russian immigration legislation (Romodanovski & Mukomel, 2015), in reality it offered little help to migrants aiming to legalize their status. For newly arrived migrants with little or no money, it is exceptionally difficult to fulfill these requirements within the 30-day period, both from a bureaucratic and a financial standpoint. Given that the majority of migrants entering Russia are not well-educated, do not speak Russian, have poor knowledge of laws and originate from the rural areas of Central Asia, it is highly unlikely that they can satisfy these cumbersome legalization procedures. Financially, even those migrants who manage to overcome these challenges often subsequently fail to maintain their legal status. For example, many migrants initially obtain an authentic patent and work legally. But, after a few months and owing to the costly monthly patent fee or delays in salary payments, migrants cannot afford to continue paying the monthly patent fee and begin buying fake patent payment receipts from intermediaries. When stopped by police officers, migrants typically present these fake receipts. This strategy often works, since police officers do not have the capacity to check the authenticity of various receipts. Such trends are confirmed by the statistics, which reveal that the number of migrants in Russia significantly exceeds the number of officially issued patents. For example, in 2019, 1.7 million patents were issued (Izvestiya, 2021), while the number of migrant workers in Russia was estimated at between 9 and 18 million depending on the source (Abashin, 2016; Florinskaya & Mkrtchan, 2020). Such examples indicate that Russian migration control policies have resulted in additional undocumented migrants rather than simplifying procedures intended to legalize the foreign labor force.
To maintain the validity of their patents, migrants must not only make monthly payments, but also must renew their residence registration every three months. The primary problem with acquiring residence registration (referred to as “registratsiia” in migrants’ everyday language) is that migrants cannot typically find an apartment and a landlord willing to register him/her at that specific address. This is especially difficult in larger cities such as Moscow and Saint Petersburg, where the majority of migrants are concentrated. According to the so-called law on rubber apartments adopted in 2013, it is illegal to register a large number of residents at the same address. Furthermore, given that a migrant’s average monthly salary falls between 15,000 and 25,000 rubles (US$250–400), it is unlikely that migrants can afford to rent an apartment on their own (that is, a modest two- to three-room apartment), which in the suburbs of Moscow typically costs around 30,000–40,000 rubles (US$450–650) per month. Therefore, migrants normally rent a “koiko mesto” (a mattress-sized sleeping space) for 4000–5000 rubles per month (US$60–80) in an apartment shared by up to 15–20 people. This practice itself puts migrants in an illegal residence situation since they must buy a bogus residence registration at an address where they do not actually reside (Reeves, 2013). Although migrants do not live at these places, such registration addresses exist somewhere in the city and can be found in the official database when checked by the police. This reality remains an open secret among both migrants and state officials in Russia. Thus, when stopped by the police, migrants are vulnerable to being caught and fined for violating residence laws. Under such circumstances, it is crucial that migrants act street smart and “perform” residence at their fictitious address, by knowing how to get there, which metro stations are situated nearby and general details about the building. Having a “legal” residence largely depends on migrants’ street smarts and their ability to play by the rules of the game. Should they fail to perform residence at the fictitious address, migrants offer bribes to police officers, a strategy widely employed by migrants in Russia (Schenk, 2021; Urinboyev, 2020).
As discussed above, Russian laws and regulations concerning the residence and employment of foreign citizens remain complex, volatile and arbitrarily enforced, creating numerous legal inconsistencies and ambiguities. As a result, most migrants can barely follow and understand the bureaucratic procedures and legislative changes. Furthermore, migrants typically rely on their social networks and intermediaries as sources of information regarding legislative changes, information often based on rumors and false knowledge. Even lawyers from nongovernmental human rights organizations find it difficult to fully understand Russia’s immigration laws and bureaucratic procedures (Malakhov and Simon, 2017). This also rings true for migration service officers, who begin their workday by checking the latest news and amendments to immigration laws (Nikiforova & Brednikova, 2018). Consequently, the ambiguous and arbitrary nature of immigration laws and practices generates an immigration legal regime that pushes masses of migrant workers into domains of undocumentedness, rendering shadow economy employment the only viable option. These processes are particularly visible in the three court cases below, all of which illustrate the legal experiences of Uzbek migrants in Moscow.
Case 1: Maneuvering Around the Legal System and Performing Legality
On October 26, 2018, migration service officers, in collaboration with the police, raided an apartment in the north of Moscow, where Alisher (male, 42) and his 12 co-tenants, all Uzbek migrants, lived. The decision to raid the apartment followed numerous complaints from Russian neighbors who lived in the same apartment building and were disturbed by the noises and late-night routines of Alisher and his co-tenants. Alisher usually managed to solve such problems by bribing the police and migration service officials, but this time they refused his bribe given the presence of a high-level superior. Since 13 people lived in the apartment, the police asked them to show their residence registrations. Neither Alisher nor the other 12 tenants were registered in the apartment, quite obviously indicating that all of them were in breach of the residency rules. As a result, police took all of them to the police station, telling them that they would go to trial the next day and then be deported to Uzbekistan for violating migration laws. In truth, all 13 migrants possessed a legally valid patent, but they were living at an address different from that indicated in their residence registrations.
Before placing them in a holding cell, the police made them sign several documents. Alisher repeatedly asked the police to let them read the documents they must sign, but the police used physical violence and forced them to sign all of the documents. After signing them, the migrant workers were transferred to a cell with no beds. Since the following morning was Saturday, they had to sleep on the floor for two more nights until Monday morning. The police provided no food or water, forcing Alisher and his friends to ask their co-villagers to bring them food and drinks.
On Monday morning, the police took all 13 migrants to court in a car designed for 5 people. However, the judge postponed the trial, explaining that the documents submitted by the police were insufficient to issue a deportation order. Back at the police station, the police again forced Alisher and his friends to sign additional documents, including blank forms, without providing any explanation to them. Since they were all under the impression that they would be deported regardless, the migrant workers signed all of the documents simply to avoid further harassment and violence.
During the next hearing, the judge asked if the migrants needed an interpreter. Because Alisher is fluent in Russian, he declined the interpretation service and stated that he could speak on behalf of all of the migrants, stating: “We don’t want to be deported. We are working in Russia, not stealing. We all have a real work permit that we received from the migration service in Sakharovo”. Nevertheless, the judge issued a deportation order referring to the fact that they lived at an address where they were not registered. According to the court decision, they were given ten days to leave Russian territory on their own and to pay a fine of 5000 rubles (US$80). They were also provided with an additional document in case they wanted to appeal the court decision within the next ten days. After filing some paperwork, the police released all 13 migrants and told them to pay the fine and leave the country as soon as possible.
While all of the migrant workers decided to stay in Russia regardless of the court decision, Alisher took a different route—appealing the court’s decision—a strategy rarely chosen by migrant workers in Russia. Owing to his extensive network, Alisher was able to find a lawyer who had just launched his legal career and was therefore eager to win his first court case. After reviewing the court decision, the lawyer advised Alisher that he should ask for an interpreter and not say a word without an interpreter. Most importantly, the lawyer advised Alisher to change his story and tell the judge that he did not actually live in the apartment where he was caught, but explain that he was visiting his friends as a guest. Alisher was also advised to reveal all of the details regarding how they were badly treated by the police and forced to sign numerous documents during their five-day detention at the police station.
Alisher followed his lawyer’s instructions precisely. As a result, the new evidence and narrative changed the course of events. Since Alisher skillfully played the role of “guest” at the apartment where he was caught, the judge concluded that there was no legal basis for his deportation, thereby reversing the previous court’s decision. These developments allowed Alisher to return to a documented status owing to his network and his ability to perform “legality” during the trial, while the other 12 migrants, living under the exact same set of circumstances, had to resort to “illegality”.
Case 2: Overcoming Legal Barriers Through Informal Channels
On October 25, 2015, Musa (male, 28), a taxi driver in Moscow, returned to an apartment shared by 13 migrants. When entering the apartment building, Musa noticed that two police officers were following him, but he did not know that they were planning to raid the apartment and catch him and his co-tenants for possible deportation. Attempting to avoid them, Musa quickly took the elevator to the eleventh floor and quietly entered his apartment. Musa warned all of the tenants that he saw two hungry police officers who might come to inspect them. As expected, half an hour later, the doorbell rang and two police officers showed up saying that they came to check their documents. Since Musa and all of the other tenants were registered at a different address, it was obvious that they were in breach of residence registration rules, a sufficient justification to take all of them to the police station. Musa, like all of the other tenants, did not have a patent so he took all of his savings with him so that he could later bribe the police.
After Musa and the other tenants reached the police station, the police took all of their documents and belongings including their cell phones and placed the tenants in a holding cell, telling them that they would be deported to Uzbekistan after their trial. Musa and all of the other migrant workers spent two nights in the cell without any food. Since their cell phones were also confiscated by the police, they could not reach out to their friends to seek help. Knowing that all of the police officers take bribes from migrant workers, Musa offered a bribe amounting to 60,000 rubles (~US$1000) to the police officers. But, because the case had already been officially registered, the police officers were not in a position to accept the bribe.
On the third day, Musa and 12 other migrants were taken to a court in the north of Moscow for a hearing that lasted only ten minutes. Interestingly, although all of the migrants were undocumented and caught at the same apartment, the court’s decision was different in the case of Musa and two other migrants. While ten migrants were ordered to leave Russian territory within ten days on their own and to pay a fine of 5000 rubles (US$80), Musa and two migrants received an administrative expulsion order and a five-year entry ban. Based on this decision, Musa and two migrants were sent to SUVSIG (a special temporary detention facility for foreign citizens) in the Moscow province, where they were held for 12 days until their deportation to Uzbekistan. Musa could not understand why 13 migrants with a similar undocumented status received different decisions: the judge was kind to ten migrants and was tough on Musa and two other migrants. The former could appeal the court’s decision or at least stay illegally in Russia, while the latter had no recourse to negotiate their stay. After spending 12 days at SUVSIG, Musa, along with many other Uzbek migrants, were taken to Sheremetyevo airport in handcuffs. As Musa explained, “At the airport, everybody was looking at us like we were criminals and we felt quite badly about it. Our only mistake was to come to Russia and work halal (honestly). We did not kill anyone or steal anything; we simply did not live at the address stated on our registration. Unfortunately, it was enough for them to treat us like criminals”. The deportation took place in mid-November 2015.
Shortly after his arrival in Uzbekistan, Musa began exploring different possibilities for returning to Russia. Since Musa worked as a taxi driver in Moscow, he knew a few intermediaries who were well-connected with influential people at the Main Directorate for Migration of the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Russian Federation (GUVM). One such intermediary was Shuhrat, who knew Zarina, a high-ranking official at GUVM with access to a government database. Shuhrat, with the help of Zarina, temporarily changed Musa’s entry ban status to “pending due to appeal” for a fee (i.e., a bribe) of US$800. Musa also had to quickly renew his passport since it had an “administrative expulsion” stamp, which would reveal his real status upon entry to Russia. Thanks to these informal strategies, Musa was able to reenter Russian within one month of his deportation. The last time we met him in November 2019, he was working at a meat warehouse with a fake Kyrgyz passport, allowing him to avoid frequent document checks.
Case 3: Following the Law Honestly, But Ultimately Losing in the End
On Friday, May 31, 2019, Gulom (male, 38), a taxi driver, was returning to Moscow city from his friend’s birthday party, which took place in Zelenograd. Because Gulom liked vodka, he knew that he would be unable to drive when returning to Moscow. Thus, he took his friend Abror, so that he could drive on the return journey to Moscow. As planned, after the party, Abror was behind the wheel, while Gulom fell asleep after consuming much alcohol. While Abror had a driving license, he was an inexperienced driver and did not know how to navigate a traffic jam. After engaging the clutch too many times, the car stalled. Abror woke Gulom up and asked for help. Gulom noticed that Abror was driving in the wrong direction—not toward Moscow city, but heading toward Moscow province instead. So, they both pushed the car in the opposite direction (toward Moscow). Since the car was not moving, Gulom had to call to his friends for help. But, Gulom’s phone battery died, and he then sat in his car searching for a charger. Suddenly, a traffic police officer showed up and asked for their documents. The traffic police officer also asked whether Gulom had consumed any alcoholic beverages. Gulom immediately told the police officer that he was not driving, but that his friend Abror was driving the car. They both showed their documents to the police, but the police did not believe them.
Gulom insisted that car was broken down due to problems with the clutch, but the police officer continued accusing him of drunk driving. It was quite obvious that the car was inoperable because the clutch was not working. Nevertheless, the police officer took Gulom to a nearby hospital for a blood alcohol test. There, Gulom was asked to blow into a tube, which showed a blood alcohol content (BAC) of 0.3–0.4%. To cite one for drunk driving, the BAC needs to reach at least 0.5%. So, the police officer forced Gulom to blow into a tube over and over again, but it never registered above 0.4%. In Gulom’s retelling, the police officer’s zeal was because his salary could increase significantly if he could prove that Gulom was driving under the influence of alcohol. For this reason, the police officer continued to accuse Gulom of drunk driving. Giving up on the alcohol test, the police officer took Gulom to his patrol car and began issuing a ticket. Realizing that the police officer would not let him go easily, Gulom offered him a bribe of 3000 rubles (US$40). The police officer refused the bribe, even after Gulom raised it to 6000 rubles (US$80). Despite Gulom’s protestations, the police officer filled in the citation for drunk driving and called a tow truck to impound Gulom’s car. After completing the ticket, the police officer asked Gulom to sign it without explaining anything to him. When reading the citation, Gulom noticed that he was accused of drunk driving and that the citation was signed by two witnesses who had never appeared at the site. In other words, the police officer himself made up the names and contact details for two witnesses and signed on behalf of them. Despite Gulom’s protests, the police officer forced him to sign the citation. After getting his signature, the police officer left Gulom and his friend in the middle of the road at midnight. This incident led to a series of court appearances, during which Gulom challenged the traffic police officer and eventually won the case. Yet, the final outcome led to a three-year entry ban, as Gulom narrates below:
The next morning, I went to the traffic police station. There they said that my driving license was suspended due to drunk driving and I cannot drive anymore. They also gave me a notice for my upcoming trial. Afterwards, I went to Sergiev Posad (Moscow province) in order to get my car back. An old man who works there asked me which car was mine. When I showed him, he told me that the car was not running. So, I had one witness that the car was inoperable. This was important, because the policeman wrote in the citation that he caught me while I was driving the car. Then, I paid a 7000-ruble fine (~US$110) in order to get my car back from the impound. I brought a mechanic with me to fix my car. Afterwards, he fixed it and we drove my car home.
Then, the trial took place on the 14th of May. But, the traffic police officer did not come to the hearing. The judge read what was written on the citation and asked if I had any objections. I objected to all of it and told the judge the entire story. Then, she (the judge) told me to bring Abror, my friend who was driving the car on that day, for the next hearing. The judge was a good person and she scheduled the next hearing for the 28th of June.
On that day, I brought Abror, but again the police officer did not show up. I told the whole story again, just like I told it during the previous hearing. I knew that she was verifying if the story remained the same. Abror also explained what happened and how the police officer manipulated everything. Since the police officer was not present, the judge had to schedule another trial date and assured us that he would be present the next time.
On the 10th of July, we arrived at the court. This time, the judge did not ask us to retell the story. The judge also asked us whether there were two witnesses while the police was writing the citation. I told her that except for me, Abror and two traffic police officers, there were no witnesses. But, in order to follow the legal procedures, the police officer faked and wrote in two random persons’ names and contact details. Based on our account, the judge called the numbers listed for the two witnesses, but as expected these numbers turned out to be fake. The judge was quite frustrated during the hearing, because the police officer did not come again, which meant that he did not take the judge seriously. The judge again set a new hearing date and stated that she would force the police officer to attend next time, regardless of any circumstances.
The next hearing took place on the 30th of July. The police officer was again not present. The judge asked us to wait outside for an hour. Finally, the police officer showed up. The judge made some sarcastic comments to show her frustration. She read the citation and asked the officer if everything was correct. He answered “yes”. Then, the judge asked if he had any real witnesses and how he had found them. The officer said that he found the witnesses in the traffic jam travelling towards the Moscow city center at about 21.00. Since the officer was lying, I interrupted him and explained to the judge that in the evenings traffic jams always flow towards Moscow province rather than towards Moscow city, because many people are returning home from work. The judge agreed with me and asked the officer if he had the phone numbers of the witnesses. The officer said that he wrote the numbers on the citation. The judge said that the people at those numbers did not confirm that they were witnesses. Thus, the police officer was placed in a bad situation.
Next, the judge asked the officer why he had to call a tow truck to take the car if he caught us while driving. The officer could say nothing in response. I said that I wanted to charge my phone and that's why I was sitting on the driver's side when the police officer arrived. The judge was quite tough on the officer and told him to do his job properly and not blame innocent people. She was furious that he did not come to all of the previous hearings. After ten minutes, the judge read her decision, according to which the citation was dismissed and my driving license was reinstated. I don’t think I would have won the case if the police officer had come to the previous trial dates. The judge was offended and wanted to show her power over the police officer. Otherwise, I would probably have lost the case. After all, I am not a Russian citizen and, therefore, I am nobody here.
Gulom’s case is illustrative of the “unrule of law” culture characterizing the Russian legal system. Despite the fact that the police officer’s action caused material and psychological damage, Gulom made no further claims seeking compensation and was happy he was able to retain his driving license. This case is noteworthy not due to the fact that Gulom as a migrant won the case, but because it shows how non-legal factors affect the outcomes of legal procedures. Gulom is right in saying that the judge ruled the case in his favor not because she wanted to protect his rights, but because of her anger and frustration toward the police officer, who ignored and humiliated her several times. However, this case was not the end of Gulom’s story. Six months later, when Gulom returned to Uzbekistan to visit his family, he learned that he had received an entry ban, issued due to his administrative law violation associated with drunk driving. Simply, even though the court annulled the police officer’s citation, the court’s final decision was not enforced and the alleged violation had already been registered in the police database, an arbitrary action which led to a three-year entry ban.
The three court cases presented above would fit well Alice in Wonderland: when maneuvering around the law (case 1: Alisher) or resorting to informal and illegal practices (case 2: Musa) keep clear of troubles, then enthusiastically following the law and claiming your rights through legal channels will land you in trouble. This situation is not uncommon among migrant workers in Russia, reminding us of classic debates in legal consciousness where different types of legal behaviors are conceptualized under “before the law”, “with the law” and “against the law” (Ewick & Silbey, 1998), “under the law” (Fritsvold, 2009) and “around the law” (Augustine, 2019). Accordingly, arbitrary police actions, poorly enforced and contradictory court decisions and unpredictable bureaucratic practices leave migrants skeptical of the law and more accepting of informal and illegal practices.
In order to provide some empirical substance to our argument, we also provide several relevant observations. On October 27, 2019, during our fieldwork we met our old contact Bakhtiyor, an Uzbek migrant who works as an intermediary. During our chat, he told us about his friend who was caught during a raid and was awaiting an administrative expulsion from Russia to Uzbekistan. He asked us if we could help in any way to stop his friend’s deportation to Uzbekistan. We suggested that he should appeal the court decision through migration lawyers, such as Botirjon Shermuhammad or Valentina Chupik, individuals with extensive experience handling similar cases. However, Bakhtiyor laughed sarcastically and said that we were too naive to believe that the Russian legal system treats migrants fairly. Bakhtiyor added that even his powerful contact at the Russian Federal Security Service (FSB) could not help his friend.
This example and many similar observations in Moscow illustrate that migrants rely on informal and illegal channels and have an exceptionally low level of trust in the legal system. As a result, unverified information circulating among migrants is more appealing to migrants than any information provided through formal channels. On August 5, 2018, we visited Tolib’s “rubber apartment” in the north of Moscow, shared by 15 migrants. While observing migrants’ conversations, we noticed that the main topic of the discussion was on the entry ban and how to navigate it through the assistance of intermediaries closely linked to migration service officials. One of the tenants in this apartment was Homid, a registratsiyachi (a residence registration intermediary) who claimed that he had his entry ban removed thanks to his close contacts at the migration service. Since then, he claimed that he had helped many migrants erase their entry bans from the government database. To do so, migrants would give him US$800 along with copies of their passport, which he then forwards to his contact at the migration service. As an example of how powerful his connection was, he talked about the case of two migrants who tried to cheat him. Homid, through his contact, removed the entry ban of two migrants from Uzbekistan’s Andijan region, who were supposed to pay US$800 each. However, they paid only half of the agreed amount and departed to Russia by bus the next day. Following this, Homid immediately contacted his acquaintance at the migration service, asking her to reinstate their entry bans. As a result, these two migrants were denied entry to Russia when they reached the Russia–Kazakhstan border.
Homid’s stories, true or not, sparked intense interest among the tenants who were looking for different ways to legalize their status in Russia, which would allow them to visit home once a year and then reenter Russia without any problems. Despite repeated calls from prominent migration lawyers in Russia, such as Botirjon Shermuhammad and Zarnigor Omonillayeva, who suggests that it is impossible to erase an entry ban from the database, many migrants we encountered continue to believe that the entry ban can be removed if the right amount of money is paid to the right person. According to Nasiba, another registratsiyachi operating at Moscow’s Otradnoe metro station, the idea of removing an entry ban from the database is a scam. This is how she explains it:
Do you know how they are doing it? You give 50,000 rubles (US$800) to a person and he asks his acquaintance in the migration service to suspend the entry ban for some time. During that period, the system will not show your entry ban for a period of about one and a half months. A made-up reason allows an entry ban to be suspended, a reason for which you hired a lawyer to take this case to trial. Following this, your acquaintance tells you to go to the border to leave and reenter Russia and you get a stamp from the border crossing. Then, you believe that the entry ban is removed entirely. You immediately apply for new documents like a patent. Some migrants manage to secure new documents during that period, some do not. Next, they reinstate your entry ban in the database. So, the ban is never entirely removed; it can be temporarily invisible when your entry ban is suspended. Thus, based on such circumstances, many migrants tend to believe that it is possible to remove an entry ban. (Nasiba, female migrant, 45)
Given various uncertainties and arbitrary law enforcement, intermediaries appear more credible in the eyes of migrants than the formal avenues to legalization. Rather than trying to become “legal”, an unrealistic and unattainable migration status in Russia, many migrants rely on various illegal and extralegal documentation schemes run by intermediaries who operate under some sort of “protective roof” (krysha) provided by the police, the immigration service and border control officials (Urinboyev, 2020). Intermediaries may consist of a broad range of individuals, such as migrants, lawyers, migrants’ associations, diaspora activists and legal and commercial firms offering documentation and legalization services which provide various fake (fal’shivka) and “clean fake” (chistaya fal’shivka) residence registrations, patents, temporary and permanent residence permits as well as fake Russian and Kyrgyz passports (Dave, 2014; Reeves, 2013; Ruget, 2018). This trend is substantiated by Russian government statistics, which show that the most common crimes committed by migrants are associated with document counterfeiting (Golunov, 2014).
One can easily spot numerous intermediaries (with a migrant background) in Moscow’s Kazansky railway station. This is due to the fact that Kazansky vokzal, situated at Komsomolskaya square, is one of nine railway stations in Moscow serving the Trans-Aral railway line (among others) departing to Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. Therefore, many migrants arrive from and depart to Central Asia from this specific railway station. Given the high concentration of migrant workers at Kazansky vokzal, many cafés serve Uzbek food and many underground printing houses produce fake immigration documents. Our informant, Nozim, who works as a registratsiyachi (an intermediary in residence registration) explains how migrants “legalize” their status at Kazansky vokzal (Fig. 4.1):
You can become “legal” if you go to Kazansky vokzal. If you pay, you can get a Kyrgyz passport easily. If you pay more, you can even get a much-desired Russian passport. Sometimes, it is even possible to buy a clean Uzbek passport for 7000 rubles (US$100). It is quite easy to fake an old Uzbek passport (non-biometric). You just need to replace the photo. All of the other details remain the same and you can carry someone’s lost passport. (Nozim, male Uzbek migrant, 34)
Fig. 4.1
Document intermediaries in Moscow’s Kazansky railway station
×
This account was confirmed by our personal observations during our fieldwork. On August 3, 2018, Bekzod (an Uzbek migrant) invited one of the authors to accompany him to a birthday party in Moscow’s Bibirevo metro station. After the party on the way home, Bekzod accidentally lost his passport (non-biometric). Since he was drunk, he did not notice the loss immediately. However, the next morning after realizing that he had lost his passport, he immediately informed his friend Juma who was well-connected with various intermediaries at Moscow’s Kazansky vokzal. Juma knew that all lost passports would go to Kazansky and, therefore, he contacted his acquaintance there to check whether they had received a non-biometric Uzbek passport. After checking their “database”, Juma’s contact confirmed that they had indeed received Bekzod’s lost passport, but it was too late because the passport had already been forged and sold to someone for 7000 rubles (US$100). Of course, Bekzod could have reported the incident to the Russian police, asking them to register his lost passport. But, given that he himself was undocumented, he decided not to approach the police, fearing that this might lead to additional troubles. Thus, Bekzod sought Juma’s help to find alternative ways of becoming “legal”. This time, Juma suggested that he pay 15,000 rubles (~US$200) and obtain a fake Russian passport from his contacts at Kazansky vokzal, a “high-risk/high-gain legalization strategy” that would either land him in prison or in a well-paid job. Armed with a new Russian passport, Bekzod secured a job at a construction site located inside the territory of a local municipality in Moscow province. Since it was a government building, it was guarded by police and only Russian citizens were allowed to work there. Bekzod knew that this job required a daily check by police when entering the premises. But, given his ability to remain calm and confident, he managed to enter the building and later obtain a daily pass (employee ID) from the construction firm. This new employee ID not only allowed him to enter the municipality building, but also enabled him to move freely in the city since his employee ID identified him as an individual working for the municipality in Moscow province.
Given the realities described in this section, migrants understand the near impossibility of being “fully legal”. Even those migrants who manage to obtain all of the required paperwork cannot be certain that they are fully “legal” and that they will not experience problems when stopped by Russian police officers and migration officials (Reeves, 2015; Round & Kuznetsova, 2016). Thus, becoming “legal” or “illegal” greatly depends on contextual factors (the time, space and circumstances of encounters with the law) and migrants’ individual skills such as street smarts, knowledge of informal rules, connections and their ability to adapt to the rules of the game. Hence, the only path to becoming “legal” requires the use of various semi-legal and outright illegal practices (Dave, 2014). As such, the Russian migration regime is characterized by a punitive legal environment and a draconian immigration control infrastructure. However, in practice, rather than regulating undocumented migration, these immigration control measures further pushed migrants into the realm of undocumentedness. This is due to the fact that Russian legal system is plagued by corruption, a weak rule of law and arbitrary enforcement (Hendley, 2009; Ledeneva, 2013; McAulley et al., 2006). In this respect, the functioning of the Russian migration regime is simply emblematic of the “unrule of law” culture in Russia (Gel’man, 2004), which is characterized by the prevalence of informal rules and norms over formal institutions. Under these circumstances, the more restrictive are the immigration laws, the broader the scale of undocumented migration in Russia.
Migrants’ Documentationand Legalization Strategies in Turkey
As discussed in Chapter 2, there are two primary legal instruments to consider when discussing the entry, residence and employment of foreign nationals in Turkey. First, the Law on Foreigners and International Protection (adopted on April 4, 2013, LFIP, No. 6458) is the main legal instrument regulating Turkey’s migration policy and migration processes, specifying the rules for entry to and exit from Turkey as well as clarifying the rules and conditions foreigners must observe in order to stay and obtain a residence permit (ikamet/oturma izni). The General Directorate of Migration Management (GDMM), established under the Ministry of Interior, is the main government body responsible for (1) implementing policies and strategies related to migration, (2) ensuring coordination between the related agencies and organizations in these matters and (3) carrying out the tasks and procedures related to foreigners’ entry into, stay in, exit and deportation from Turkey, including international protection, temporary protection and the protection of victims of human trafficking. In this respect, one of the key tasks of GDMM is to establish coordination between law enforcement units and relevant public institutions and organizations to combat irregular migration and to develop measures and monitor the implementation of measures taken to that effect (Article 104, the Law on Foreigners and International Protection). While the law emphasizes the need to combat irregular migration, it does not specify the rights of irregular migrants aside from describing detention and deportation procedures. In terms of illegal employment, there are two provisions in Article 54 stating that a deportation decision may be issued against foreigners (1) who make a living through illegitimate means during their stay in Turkey and (2) who are identified as having worked without a work permit. This implies that a foreigner who enters or leaves Turkey or is present in Turkey while not complying with the aforementioned immigration rules (i.e., via passport, visa, residence permit and work permit legislation) is considered undocumented or irregular.
The second key legal instrument pertaining to the employment of foreigners in Turkey is the “Law on Work Permits for Foreigners” (No. 4817, 2003) and its accompanying laws and regulations. This law aims to regulate labor migration and prevent illegal employment and exploitation by outlining the legal basis for hiring foreign nationals. According to the law, the Ministry of Labor and Social Security is the sole authority responsible for issuing work permits. Work permits (çalışma izni) are granted for one year, then for three years and only subsequently for six years provided the individual continues working in the same industry. Although the law provides the legal grounds for employing foreign nationals in Turkey, hiring foreigners remains a complicated and expensive process. This is because foreign citizens wishing to work in Turkey cannot independently apply for a work permit. Instead, the Turkish employer must initiate the work permit application in order to hire a foreign citizen. To do so, the Turkish employer must pay an employment tax and make social security contributions, requirements that increase employment costs and, thus, discouraging the legal employment of foreigners. This situation is further exacerbated by the complicated bureaucratic procedures prompting employers to hire foreign workers informally with no formal employment contract.
Notwithstanding these legal restrictions, the Turkish migration regime remains relatively liberal, largely because Turkish authorities tacitly accept irregular migration and loosely enforce immigration laws. For example, immigration raids at workplaces and public places are infrequent and rather unsystematic. Many migrants we encountered during our fieldwork in Istanbul worked without documents, did not experience police corruption and enjoyed relatively unimpeded mobility in the city. Turkey’s liberal stance can also be explained by the commercial approach to irregular migration. Unlike Russia, where foreigners who overstay and violate immigration laws face severe penalties and receive an entry ban for up to ten years, migrants in Turkey who overstay have two options when leaving Turkey: they can either choose to receive an entry ban for a long period of time or pay a fine (the amount of which depends on the length of the overstay) at the border allowing them to return to Turkey several months later.
Accordingly, informality is a part and parcel of migrants’ daily lives in Turkey. Many migrants we encountered in Istanbul possessed neither a residence permit (oturma izni) nor a work permit (çalışma izni). This in part reflected Turkish police and immigration authorities’ leniency toward undocumented migrants, who allow migrants to go free even when they are clearly working and living without documents, as shown in the following extracts:
It has been more than five years since I started working in Istanbul. During these five years I have never had a serious problem with the police or immigration authorities. Sometimes, the police stop me to check my documents, but I usually tell them that I left my documents at home and they let me go. (Zilola, female, migrant from Uzbekistan, 35)
I can't remember the police stopping and giving me trouble since I came here. They may have stopped me once or twice, but it didn't take more than two minutes. (Husniddin, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 25)
The police never stopped me, although there are now raids on the streets. But, the situation is not like in Russia. Here, there is much more freedom. (Ali, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 29)
Almost every migrant I met in Istanbul worked without documents. No documents are needed. You get the same job and salary even if you have documents. If you do have documents, you will receive US$300 to 400. It is also possible to be deceived by the fraudsters who say they will get the documents [for you]. Here, in Istanbul, what’s the point of spending money on documents if the police do not come across you and cause a headache? Here, the system itself is built in such a way that encourages you to work without documents. This method of punishing through “ceza para” (fine) is good for all migrants. We earn the money in the end if we want, we can choose either to get deported or just pay the fine and return to Turkey after a few months. (Ozoda, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 42)
Some interviewees thought that a shared religious or ethnic identity also played an important role in their interactions with Turkish police officers:
I sell watches and often walk in public places. I always say I'm Senegalese when the police stop me, and they say no problem. Because we are Muslims, we are not treated bad by the police. He knows that the situation in our country is difficult. They stopped me several times, but let me go because I am Muslim. (Mohamed, male migrant from Senegal, 45)
Even if the police stop us, they only ask who you are. If you say, “I am Uzbek. I came to work”, they do not speak rudely [to you]. Here, many police officers say that both Turks and Uzbeks have the same roots and that Uzbekistan is the historic homeland of the Turks. My acquaintances say that in Russia it is difficult to walk freely on the streets there. It is not possible to breathe freely. The police in Turkey respect Uzbeks. (Bakhrom, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 40)
Many of our interviewees noted that even if the police take them to the police station for a further document check, migrants are often released despite their undocumented status without facing any legal consequences:
The raid is carried out mainly by the police, who stand in the subways or in crowded places and check anyone who seems suspicious. Even if the police catch us during such raids and take us to the police station, they keep us there for five or six hours, check our passports and then release us. (Nazira, female migrant from Kyrgyzstan, 31)
Sometimes the police conduct a raid to catch illegal migrants. Even that is not scary. They let you go eventually. Recently, my four Turkmen acquaintances got into an argument with the police. The police took them to Karakol (the police station) and said they would be deported. But, they were not deported. The probability of deportation here is very low. (Berdy, male migrant from Turkmenistan, 32)
I don't have any documents here. Police have arrested me many times, but they have never caused a problem. Here, I look after myself and dress well, so they don't think I don't have documents or that I’m a refugee. They stop and cause headaches for people who look dirty and don't look after themselves. One day a woman was walking alongside me. They didn’t stop me, but they stopped her. She was a Turkmen woman, wearing her national costume, so she might have appeared as a yabanci (foreigner). I was dressed like a Turk. (Amirahon, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 34)
When we asked whether the police in Turkey accept bribes from migrants, many interviewees, particularly those who previously worked in Russia, often compared their encounters with the police in Moscow and in Istanbul.
I did my best to look legal and carried my documents with me every day when I worked in Moscow because in Russia the police check migrants everywhere and try to find any reason to “milk migrants” (extort bribes). In Turkey, I do not have any documents. Women in particular here are not checked by the police. Even if the police catch you, they will let you go if you speak without fear. At one point, the police caught me and asked for my passport. I told them that I had left my passport at home. Then, he let me go. I do not think anyone would carry their passport with them here. (Rukhshona, female migrant from Tajikistan, 28)
The police have not stopped me here yet. I worked in Russia before coming to Turkey and I am surprised that the police in Istanbul do not demand bribes from us. When I worked in Russia, I was stopped by the police so many times. No problems with the police here. Turkey is paradise for those who previously worked in Russia. (Boymurod, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 25)
There also other factors that incite migrants to reside and work illegally (kaçak iş) in Turkey. First, many migrants do not have the money to pay for legalization services when they arrive in Turkey. Second, it is easy to find jobs without documents since many Turkish employers do not ask for any documents when hiring migrant laborers. Third, when deciding whether to legalize their status or not, migrants perform a cost–benefit analysis. Fourth, it is quite difficult for migrants to understand the bureaucratic procedures associated with residence and work permits in Turkey. The interview extracts presented below exemplify why migrants adopt an undocumented lifestyle.
Most migrants do not have the money to prepare the documents when they come to Istanbul, so 90% of migrants work without documents. (Bakhar, female migrant from Turkmenistan, 45)
The reason why so many people don't get documents is that not everyone comes from Uzbekistan with their own wish or money in their pocket. Someone comes [to Turkey through] a loan, and before they make that amount of money, the month ends. With a 10- to 15-day delay, it takes a while to get a salary and start moving. When we arrived, nobody told us about who to meet, what to do. (Farida, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 28)
I do not have any documents. I tried to do get them in the beginning, but many people said that it is very difficult to get clean documents. It would be better to receive a deportation order when leaving, or to pay “ceza parasi” (fine), which would be the same amount, if you want to come back to Turkey. Besides, having a document or not has little effect on finding a job. I have no interest in securing documents if the Turks themselves hire people without documents. (Qurbonali, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 45)
I have heard that it is not easy to secure documents in Turkey. So many things need to be submitted. For this reason, I was in no hurry to get my documents. There is another element to it. If you do not have a work permit, it is actually easier to get hired in some places. No employer would be willing to hire you legally because they have to pay taxes and insurance to the state. It is good both for the employer and employee and you do not need to deal with the document headache. (Abobakir, male migrant from Tajikistan, 34)
While police and immigration checks are not systematic and remain infrequent in Turkey, some migrants preferred to be “legal”, as illustrated below.
I do not have documents yet. I am now saving money for documents. It is good to have documents, because you don’t walk in fear in the streets. No fear and stress. Inshallah, when my documents are ready, I will walk on the street like a lion. (Sohila, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 48)
The benefits of working with the proper documents are enormous. You walk on the street without fear. If you have documents, you will not have to pay a ceza parasi (fine) when you return home. That is why I paid 2100 liras (US$300) and secured documents through my acquaintance who works at shirkat. (Nargiz, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 38)
During our fieldwork, we noted that migrants who had an oturma izni(residence permit) believed that they were working and living legally in Turkey, while, in fact, it only allowed them to reside legally in Turkey. Based on this understanding, migrants approached document intermediaries (shirkats) who offered both authentic and fake oturma izni. It is, therefore, not surprising that, while walking the streets of Istanbul, one may spot numerous shirkats (intermediaries), who offer legalization services to migrants. According to estimates from one of the intermediaries we interviewed, there are at least 100 document shirkats operating in Kumkapi, Aksaray and Yenikapi, three neighborhoods known for their high concentrations of Central Asian migrants. The average price of an oturma izni is around 1800–2100 liras (US$230–270). Many document shirkats are operated by Turkish citizens. Central Asian migrants usually work for Turkish shirkats for a salary 2500–3000 liras (US$310–380). Their primary job is to find customers or migrants for shirkats. But, it is also possible to spot shirkats run by Central Asian migrants themselves. On February 2, 2019, we visited Alisher (male migrant from Uzbekistan, 42) who presented himself as the head of a shirkat, who helps migrants obtain residence permits. During our visit, we met Hakim, an Uzbek migrant who wanted to obtain a residence permit despite having overstayed in Turkey. Seeing that Hakim had overstayed his visit, Alisher explained that making him legal would be easy if he paid the required fees:
It's been more than four months since you arrived. Citizens of Uzbekistan can stay in Turkey for a maximum 90 days without a visa. This means that now you have to leave Turkey and come back in starting a new period. Since you overstayed your visit by one month, you have to pay ceza parasi (fine) when leaving Turkey. If you don't exit the country, it won't be possible to secure documents for you. Here, I have calculated the ceza parasi for you. From the day you mentioned, the fine is around 1000 Turkish liras (US$120). On top of that, you also need to buy an airline ticket. The cheapest ticket is to Odessa, so you fly to Ukraine. Tickets are about 600 liras (US$70). So, the ceza parasi and ticket will cost you a total of 1600 liras (US$190) and you will reenter Turkey pure and innocent, like a newborn child. After that, we will meet with you again and prepare a document for oturma izni. When you land in Odessa, you only need to be there for one day. If you want, you can sleep at the airport or you can call the numbers for some Russian ladies. They will collect you themselves, for US$10 a night. They have all conditions there. If you go to and return from Odessa this week, your oturma izni document will be available in two to two-and-a-half months. You give us 1800 liras (US$215) and we will prepare your oturma izni, which will be valid for one year. This is the average cost. Altogether, this will cost you approximately 3500 liras (US$410) if you want to get a clean oturma izni.
At the same time, Alisher also offered a fake oturma izni, which would be ready in three days. The fake oturma with a one-year validity period cost US$200. If a migrant is stopped by the police on the street, the police will likely not notice anything and let him/her go. But, if the migrant is stopped and checked by immigration officials (Göç İdaresi), a process that usually involves a check of the government database, then they would easily discover that document is fake.
As shown above, the majority of migrants work and reside in Turkey without documents. As one of the document intermediaries (shirkat) we interviewed noted, “Turkey’s migration system is commercialized to such an extent that it is possible to render legal even those migrants who work and reside illegally for several years”.
I recently helped one Uzbek migrant who came to Istanbul in 2016 and since then has worked and lived here without any documents. He paid US$3000 for our legalization service. We checked his file and paid his fines and fees for the past four years, during which time he lived illegally in Turkey. Now, he is fully legal and can walk on the street without any problems.
Our observations and interviews indicate that the political economy of the Turkish migration regime is largely based on commercial logic, leveraging migrants’ decisions to remain “legal” or not. The Russian migration regime, however, is largely based on a punitive logic leaving little or no option for migrants to return to “legality”, while allowing Russian state officials in charge of immigration control to generate payments from undocumented migration. This is particularly visible in the words of Mukhtor, who, at the time of our interview, worked in Istanbul (Fig. 4.2):
Soon, I want to go home, but I do not have the documents. I will pay ceza parasi when leaving. That is the good thing here. I know many people who worked in Russia and received an entry ban. If you break laws in Russia, there is no ceza parasi there. Russians do not even ask you, and simply put “deport” or “entry ban”. It is not like that here in Turkey. Here, the state tries to get money from you. Deportation is quite rare here. Probably, it almost does not exist. Because, I heard that if they deport you, the government covers all of the costs. Maybe that is why they don’t deport you. But if you pay ceza parasi, you can come back in 15 days. (Mukhtor, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 33)
Fig. 4.2
Uzbek migrants are waiting in line to pay visa violation fines at Istanbul Airport
×
Accordingly, any visitor to Istanbul airport may note the large crowd of Central Asian migrants queuing to pay ceza parasi. Given the large queues, migrants sometimes miss their flights since it can take for one to six hours to pay the deportation fee or ceza parasi. The case of Holdor (male migrant from Uzbekistan, 25) is illustrative here. Holdor was booked on a flight to Uzbekistan on January 15, 2020. Since he had worked and lived in Turkey for two years without any documents, he had to pay an overstay fine (ceza parasi), a penalty each foreigner who overstays must pay before leaving Turkey. He arrived at the airport five hours before his flight, assuming that he needed a maximum of two hours to sort this out. However, much to his surprise, there were more than 200 migrants queuing, waiting to pay their own ceza parasi. In Holdor’s estimate, at least 80% of those queuing foreigners were citizens of Uzbekistan. Given the large number of people queuing, Holdor was unable to pay his ceza parasi and, as a result, he missed his flight to Uzbekistan without being able to rebook his flight. This meant that he lost the cost of his original airline ticket and was forced to buy a new ticket, an unfortunate incident which also forced him to stay an additional two months in Istanbul in order to earn enough money to purchase a new ticket.
Reflections on Migrants’ Documentationand Legalization Strategies in Russiaand Turkey
As shown in this chapter, Russia and Turkey represents two extremes of migration governance: the former heavily relies on punitive and restrictive measures making it nearly impossible for migrants to be “legal”, while the latter takes a relatively liberal approach to undocumented migration, tacitly allowing migrants to reside and work without any documents. If we compare these two different migration regimes from a legal centralistic/positivistic perspective, one possible inference could be that Russia has more “legal” migrants due to its draconian immigration control measures. However, as we demonstrated empirically in previous sections, this is not the case in Russia, where the large majority of migrants reside and work without immigration papers. Our empirical data illustrate that both the Russian and Turkish migration regimes, despite their divergent approaches to immigration control, have arrived at similar migration outcomes, an observation visible in the analysis of migrants’ documentation and legalization strategies. This suggests that the sole focus on migration outputs is insufficient when comparing different migration regimes. Instead, we should also examine how migration policies and laws work on the ground where street-level bureaucrats, employers, intermediaries, migrant workers and various non-state actors shape migration outcomes.
Open Access This chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons license and indicate if changes were made.
The images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons license and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.
