3. Parallel Worlds of Uzbek Migrants in Russia and Turkey

During our 15 months of ethnographic fieldwork in Russia from January 2014 through November 2019, we traveled extensively within Moscow, running from one side of the city to another in search of informants. This was due to the fact that there were no ethnic enclaves in Moscow, whereby Uzbek migrants were dispersed and lived in various parts of the city. Rather than having physical, face-to-face meetings, many Uzbek migrants stayed in touch with one another via smartphones and social media, virtual platforms enabling migrants to socialize and maintain their daily communication. Given their undocumented or semi-legal status, many of our Uzbek migrant informants kept a low profile, and, not wanting to visit public places such as cafés and shopping malls, preferred to be interviewed either at their workplaces or in their accommodation. Thus we had to travel to different districts in or around Moscow in order to interview our informants, a data collection process that took considerable time, effort and resources. Before beginning our fieldwork in Turkey, we assumed that a similar situation would greet us in Istanbul, requiring us to travel extensively within the megacity, jumping from one migrant network to another. However, in Istanbul, our data collection process became much easier and less time-consuming given the existence of several Uzbek migrant enclaves, such as Kumkapi, Aksaray, Yenikapi and Laleli, where thousands of Uzbek migrants resided and worked. It was possible to spot many Uzbek migrants freely walking and chatting on the streets without having to worry about their undocumented status and police raids. Although we traveled to sweatshops in different parts of Istanbul (e.g., Bağcilar, Bayrampaşa, Ümraniye, Zeytinburnu and Bakırköy), most of our interviews took place in the aforementioned Uzbek enclaves located in the Fatih district of Istanbul.

These data collection experiences refined many of our pre-fieldwork assumptions, leaving us to consider the role and importance of patterns of residence (absence/presence of ethnic enclaves), transnational communications, social networks and a shared sense of “the rules of the game” in migrants’ life trajectories in the host society. We specifically wondered whether the existence of ethnic enclaves provided a greater agency to and opportunities for Uzbek migrants in Istanbul than in Moscow. Based on these considerations, in this chapter we focus on migrants’ internal lifeworlds, agency and transnational communication practices as some of the crucial migration arenas in Russia and Turkey. In these arenas, migrants build their own parallel world based on its own legal order, information channels, social safety nets and networks of trust and reciprocity. We argue that the way in which migrants organize their transnational practices (i.e., parallel worlds) shape the outcomes of many of the practices migrants (and other actors) employ while in Moscow and Istanbul. These transnational practices may serve as some form of “informal legal orders” regulating interpersonal relations, contractual obligations and networks of trust and reciprocity. Before presenting the empirical data, we first provide a brief overview of the political economy of Uzbek labor migration to Russia and Turkey, showing how better economic opportunities, the existence of sociocultural links and relatively liberal immigration regimes have attracted millions of Central Asian migrants to find employment in Russia and Turkey. We will also present the basic characteristics of the case study group—that is, Uzbek migrant workers—upon whom the empirical data and our analysis focus.

Uzbekistan became an independent state in 1991 following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Following on the heels of global (Western) good governance discourse, the political leadership of Uzbekistan made multiple bold claims about their strong commitment to the ideals of democracy, a market economy, human rights and the rule of law as well as their intention to dismantle Soviet-style governance (cf. Perlman & Gleason, 2007). However, the complex and multidimensional nature of the challenges to political stability Uzbekistan faced in the 1990s for various reasons rendered the government skeptical of genuine democratization and market reforms. As such, the need to prioritize political stability over reforms was justified by the unstable political situation in Central Asia during the 1990s. This included ethnic clashes between Uzbeks and Turks in 1989, ethnic conflicts between the Uzbek and Kyrgyz people in southern Kyrgyzstan in 1990 and the civil war in neighboring Tajikistan between 1992 and 1997 (Fane, 1996; Megoran, 2017; Warikoo & Norbu, 1992). Consequently, Uzbek authorities made it clear from the beginning that the “big bang” or shock therapy approach to transition would not suit Uzbekistan (Ruziev et al., 2007). Instead, Uzbekistan adopted a gradualist approach, maintaining Soviet-era welfare policies and centralized control over the priority sectors of the economy (Spoor, 1995). Thus, Uzbekistan continued to depend on imported consumer goods, currency controls and the exploitation of rural labor. Authorities understood that a rapid transformation of the economy would affect the lives of millions, likely leading to social unrest. Hence, the Uzbek model of transition clearly reflected concerns regarding political stability and the peculiarities of the post-planned economy. In general, preserving economic stability and social and political order became the overarching rationale for rejecting all manner of economic and political reforms recommended by international institutions and for developing a strict border regime (Fumagalli, 2007).

However, that gradual reform strategy appeared to serve as a short-term remedy. Although the gradualist approach to transition helped prevent a sharp loss in output and a consequential increase in unemployment and social unrest during the early years of the transition, by 2000 it became clear that the economy had stagnated (Ruziev et al., 2007). This largely resulted from an active government intervention, creating significant administrative barriers and a high tax burden, thereby causing high transaction costs for national businesses and fueling the informal economy (Ergashev et al., 2006). As Kandiyoti (2007, p. 44) maintains, the partial market reforms the government implemented in pursuit of stability paradoxically resulted in the inefficient allocation of resources and widespread corruption requiring increased recourse to coercion. Simultaneously, the government took a series of severe measures to liquidate—or formalize—informal economic activities (bazaars and petty cross-border trade), which provided alternative means of survival for hundreds of thousands of people (Ilkhamov, 2013). This left little room for informal income-earning strategies. While the Uzbek economy has been categorized as experiencing above-average growth rates (about 7–8%) since 2004 (IMF, 2012), these indicators hardly reflected everyday life in Uzbekistan, where many people, especially in rural areas, struggled to make ends meet (Ilkhamov, 2013; Ruziev et al., 2007). Eventually, such developments compelled millions of Uzbek people to resort to labor migration as their primary livelihood strategy, with Russia and Turkey becoming the major destinations among Uzbek migrants.

Russia remains the primary destination for Uzbek migrant workers due to its visa-free regime, its relatively better wages and the high demand for foreign labor (Laruelle, 2007; Urinboyev, 2016). Labor migration from Uzbekistan to Russia began in the mid-2000s (Abashin, 2013). According to statistics from December 2020, more than two million Uzbek citizens were present within the territory of the Russian Federation (Florinskaya & Mkrtchan, 2020). The vast majority of Uzbek migrant workers in Russia are young men with a secondary school education (Eraliev & Urinboyev, 2020). Most of these migrants originate from rural areas, have a secondary school education and possess a poor command of the Russian language. Therefore, they are mostly employed in low-skilled and low-paying jobs. Owing to the high cost of accommodation and precarious working conditions, migrants rarely bring their spouses to Russia. They send the bulk of their earnings to their left-behind families, leaving little for themselves to cover cost of their basic needs. However, trends from recent years reveal a growing share of female migrants entering the Russian labor market. Women comprise around 15% to 20% of the migrants from Uzbekistan (Rocheva & Varshaver, 2017). While construction sites, farms and similar industries requiring physical strength required primarily employ men, female migrants can find jobs predominantly in trade (supermarkets and shops), catering (restaurants, hotels and food factories) and domestic (care) and cleaning services (Eraliev & Heusala, 2021).

Another popular destination for Uzbek migrants is Turkey. The first Uzbek migrant-shuttle traders appeared in Turkey as early as the 1990s. However, widespread migration began only in the 2000s and 2010s with economic improvements in Turkey coupled with growing unemployment in Uzbekistan. The share of Uzbek migrants to Turkey have increased rapidly since the mid-2010s due to the tightening of immigration laws, particularly the entry ban legislation, which forced many Uzbek migrants to reorient their destination (Urinboyev, 2020). Unlike Russia, female migrants constitute the majority of migrants in the Turkish labor market due to the high demand for the female labor force in sectors such as domestic care (taking care of children, the sick and elderly), cleaning services and the textile and garment industries (Toksöz & Ulutaş, 2012). Male migrants primarily work in services (hotels and restaurants), textile and garment factories as well as in the construction industry. The majority of Uzbek migrants find jobs in Istanbul, the country’s largest city and the largest transit hub in the region. There are no clear figures on the number of Uzbeks in Turkey. However, remittances sent to Uzbekistan through official channels provide us with a clue regarding the existence of a large number of Uzbeks in Turkey. In 2020, remittances from Russia (with more than two million Uzbek migrants) exceeded US$4.6 billion, while remittances from Turkey reached US$200 million (CBU, 2021). Moreover, given the existence of the shuttle trade between Turkey and Uzbekistan, a large proportion of the remittances to Uzbekistan are transferred through informal channels. This gives us reason to estimate that more than 100,000 Uzbek migrants are currently working in Turkey.

Being undocumented and employed in the informal economy represent a way of life for many Uzbek migrants in Russia and Turkey. In Russia, in an attempt to fight undocumented migration, the authorities further tightened immigration laws and introduced highly punitive measures. Among these legal interventions, the entry ban law was the most severe immigration law sanction. Migrants who committed two or more administrative offenses or who overstayed their permits were subsequently banned from entering Russia for three, five and ten years depending on the length of the overstay. By February 2014, 600,000 migrants, primarily from Central Asia, had received entry bans; this figure reached two million migrants by mid-2016 (Kirillova, 2016). These legislative interventions have produced mixed results. Some migrants learned to sidestep restrictions by buying “clean fake” (Reeves, 2013) immigration papers, while others limited their return trips home and concentrated instead on one long stay, during which they attempted to earn as much as possible. Simultaneously, a large number of entry-banned migrants returned home and were forced to choose other destinations for labor migration, such as Kazakhstan or Turkey, while awaiting the expiry of their entry ban. This led to an increase in the already growing number of Central Asian—especially Uzbek—migrants in Turkey.

Migrants experience a similar restrictive legal environment in Turkey. Unlike in Russia, however, it is not the employee, but the employer who applies for a work permit in Turkey. Because hiring a foreigner is more expensive and associated with difficult bureaucratic procedures, employers often hire foreign workers informally. Therefore, the large proportion of migrant workers in Turkey resort to the informal economy where they can find employment without any documents (Toksöz et al., 2012). Yet, unlike Russia, where foreigners who violate immigration laws face severe penalties, migrants in Turkey can work without documents, suffer less from police corruption and enjoy relatively unimpeded mobility in cities due to the relatively liberal legal immigration regime. Those who overstay have two options when leaving Turkey: they can either choose to receive an entry ban for a long period or pay a fine (the amount depends on the length of the overstay) at the border and return a couple of months later. Owing to such a relatively liberal immigration regime, informality is part and parcel for the migrant labor market in Turkey.

Notwithstanding the above similarities, considerable differences exist when it comes to Uzbek migrants’ patterns of residence in Moscow and Istanbul, two megacities in Russia and Turkey, respectively, with the highest concentrations of migrant workers. In other words, Uzbek migrants’ experiences in Moscow and Istanbul represent two different forms of migrant incorporation and adaptation into the host societies: the latter is based on an ethnic enclave, with its own spatial structure and border, and the former centers around a virtual environment (digital mahalla), where smartphones and social media serve as the means for place-making and networking (Urinboyev, 2021). These differences have an identifiable impact on migrants’ (and other actors’) coping strategies, transnational communication, social networks and trust and reciprocity-based relations. We provide a thick description of these processes in the sections that follow.

Unlike in Istanbul, there are no ethnic enclaves in Moscow leaving migrant communities dispersed and situated in different parts of the city. Some insignificant exceptions exist in parts of Moscow, areas that host industrial zones and fruit and vegetable markets such as Kapotnya (Cherkizon) or Food City (representing “migrant friendly” districts), where it is possible to see a higher concentration of Central Asian migrants. The absence of ethnic enclaves can largely be explained by the social mixing and the absence of spatial segregation in Moscow, inherited from the Soviet period, allowing migrants to find accommodation in any area of the city (Demintseva, 2017). While there are numerous Uzbek cafés in Moscow, these are not tied to any specific locality and often relocate from one place to another. Migrants typically work long hours without any days off in different parts of the city, leaving little or no time for physical meetings with their ethnic communities and networks. Another reason for the absence of ethnic enclaves results from the economic and social stratification in Moscow. Unlike in Istanbul where migrant-oriented jobs are concentrated in specific districts and neighborhoods, in Moscow jobs are not tied to a specific locality. Instead, Uzbeks’ insertion into Moscow’s labor market is much more dispersed, whereby it is possible to spot Uzbeks in any district. We must also consider the role of corrupt policing practices that compel migrants to minimize their presence in public places. Even if migrants possess all of the documents required by law, they are often asked for bribes when stopped by the police on the street or in the metro. Because of these experiences, Uzbek migrants do not congregate in public places in Moscow and try to make themselves as invisible as possible. Despite these challenges, rapid improvements in communications technologies (e.g., smartphones and social media) have enabled Uzbek migrants to create some form of permanent, smartphone-based transnational identities, communities and activities in Moscow. These smartphone-based networks typically involve migrants from the same village or town in Uzbekistan. The existence of such smartphone-based communities and identities creates a sense of social responsibility among Uzbek migrants. Migrants quickly inform each other and mobilize resources when someone falls ill, cannot get their salary for their work, is caught by the police, needs to send something home or desperately needs money (Fig. 3.1).

We illustrate these processes through empirical examples that focus on the everyday lives and smartphone-mediated communications practices of Uzbek migrants in Russia. The majority of Uzbek migrants included in our empirical examples hail from the same village located in the Fergana region of Uzbekistan. Owing to the extensive use of smartphones both by migrants in Moscow and their left-behind families in Uzbekistan, there is an everyday information exchange between migrants and villagers. Since most village residents have sons or close relatives working in Russia, daily conversations in migrants’ home villages revolve around the interpersonal relations of migrants in Russia, remittances, deportations and entry bans. One of key features of these social relations is the informal social control exercised by mahallas, local community-based organizations which can be found in all regions of Uzbekistan. As explained earlier, due to the inability of the Uzbek state to provide sufficient employment opportunities and social protection, villagers frequently rely on social safety nets and mutual aid practices that take place within the realm of their family, kinship group and mahalla. Villagers meet one another on a daily basis to discuss and arrange mutual aid practices, which, in turn, produce reciprocity, affection, shared responsibilities and obligations among villagers. These reciprocal relationships produce economic and social interdependency between villagers, generating an expectation that villagers should help and support one another, particularly when they are in vulnerable situations. Thus, social pressure and sanctions can be applied to a village member or their family and kinship group if s/he (or they) is (are) not acting fairly or not helping neighbors or village members who encounter difficult situations. In an effort to avoid social pressures, villagers often try to help members of their family, kinship group or mahalla.¹

These mahalla-level norms, identities and mutual aid practices continue to shape the villagers’ life trajectories and choices even when they are in Russia. When talking to migrants, it became apparent that their decision to migrate to Russia not only stemmed from economic considerations, but was also connected to kinship relationships between migrants, returning migrants and nonmigrants. Villagers believe that going to Moscow means joining mahalla-specific and village acquaintances there. Once they arrive at Moscow’s Domodedovo or Vnukovo airport, they are quickly met and picked up by fellow villagers. Thus, villagers imagine their future migrant life as integrated into their mahalla and village networks, which already extend to Moscow through smartphones and social media platforms (Fig. 3.2).

The use of smartphones is quite common among migrants in Russia (Urinboyev, 2021). The majority of Uzbek migrants we encountered in Moscow owned a smartphone (e.g., Huawei, Samsung or iPhone) with internet access, enabling them to use social media platforms and applications to exchange daily news with migrants residing in Moscow as well as with their left-behind families and communities in Uzbekistan. Telegram Messenger, WhatsApp and IMO are the most popular and widely used social media platforms among Uzbek migrants in Russia. Migrants hailing from the same community, village or town in Uzbekistan usually create their own social media–based groups (i.e., Telegram or IMO groups), in which they share various news items, videos and photos, as well as update one another with Moscow and village news and spread gossip and rumors when someone acts unfairly toward other migrants.

Although members of the migrant community we studied did not share communal living spaces or worked in different parts of Moscow, they remained in touch with one another in Moscow and made video calls to their left-behind families and village networks. These daily digital communications not only enabled migrants to be “here” and “there,” but also served as a tool to create some form of “digital mahalla” that provided an alternative social safety net under the conditions of a shadow economy and legal uncertainty. Given their precarious livelihoods in Moscow, Uzbek migrants “exported” many of their village-level mutual aid practices to Moscow in order to tackle the challenges of legal insecurity and shadow economic employment, such as the nonpayment of salaries, police corruption, exploitation and forced labor, street brawls and extortion and many other informal practices that occur beyond the law. Smartphones and social media applications served as platforms for carrying out such activities. For example, Uzbek migrants quickly informed one another and mobilized resources when someone fell ill, was caught by the police, needed to send something home or desperately needed money.

Smartphones are especially crucial in migrants’ daily encounters with law enforcement agencies. Take the following example, revolving around being stopped by corrupt Russian police officers, as explained by Abduvali (38, male), an Uzbek construction worker:

We usually avoid public places because there are hundreds of police officers on the streets looking to extort money from us [migrants]. Instead, we use smartphones and social media to resolve problems, socialize with our co-villagers in Moscow as well as to maintain daily contact with our families, mahalla and village friends in Fergana. It is Moscow, and things are unpredictable here; we rely on our village connections when we get into trouble. We are all migrants here, so we cannot turn our backs when our fellow villagers are in trouble. But, in order to reach your co-villagers, you must always have a mobile phone with you, and you must memorize their phone numbers. For example, let’s assume that you are a migrant worker who is caught by a police officer and brought to a police station. Normally, police officers keep you in the cell for a few hours and check your documents very carefully, a thing usually done to further scare migrants. After finishing the check, police officers give you two options: (1) you can pay a bribe immediately and go home or (2) if you have no money, police officers allow you to phone your friends so that they can bring money and secure your release. The second scenario is more common, and you need to call your co-villagers for help. Therefore, you must always have your mobile phone with you. A police officer might allow you to use their mobile phone to contact your co-villagers, but not all police officers are nice. If you do not have a phone with you and are caught by the police, there is a high risk that the police officers will transfer your case to court for deportation.

This is one of the many examples showing how the digital mahalla shapes migrants’ life trajectories in crisis situations. On April 14, 2014, we spent a day together with Baha, a migrant construction worker from rural Fergana. Baha does not have a stable job, but he usually receives various short-term offers from private clients to, for example, install windows or fix apartment doors. After we had dinner, we took a taxi to the parking garage in Moscow’s Babushkinskaya district, where Horin, another migrant from rural Fergana, works. Baha did not explain why we were going to visit Horin, but we assumed that he was going to introduce us to him. Horin and his boss Kolya welcomed us at the garage entrance and we all shook hands. After a brief chat, Baha told us that we would need to join Horin and Kolya and go to the Medvedkovo district where Kolya’s apartment was located. We did not know why we were going there, but we quickly learned that Horin had asked Baha to repair his boss’ broken door. We concluded that Baha had received a job offer and that he was going to earn some money now. It took Baha nearly two hours to repair the door. Based on our knowledge of pay rates in the construction sector, we were confident that he would get at least 1500 rubles (US$ 40) payment for his work. Surprisingly, Baha did not receive any compensation for his work, except that Horin promised that he would invite us for dinner the following week. Although we had a good understanding of the migrant labor market in Moscow, this situation puzzled us. In our view, Horin had clearly abused Baha’s kindness by just expressing his gratitude and not translating that thanks into some cash. When we asked about it, Baha explained:

Our musofirchilik [migranthood] life in Moscow can be compared to how we live in our mahalla in Uzbekistan. You know, in our mahalla people help one another during weddings, funerals, house construction, irrigation, infrastructure building, road asphalting and so on. It is the hasher — the collective effort — of the mahalla to solve day-to-day problems. Without hashar it is very hard to get things done. Since we are all musofir [migrant] in Russia, it is very important that we continue this tradition and support one another. We are nobody in Russia, the lowest class of workers, without any rights. Russians treat us worse than dogs, simply we are all churka [dumb] to them. Therefore, we need to stick together and live like one mahalla.

As you see, I helped Horin and did not ask for any payment. Horin enhanced his status (plyus bo’ldi), since he fulfilled his boss Kolya’s request at no cost. I know that Horin appreciates my help and he will also do some favor for me if I ask him for help. I helped him today, and he will help me tomorrow. If you ask for money for everything, you would be alone tomorrow when you get into trouble. You don’t die from hunger if you have a good relationship with your mahalla and village networks. We are all musofir here, so you must be kind and generous to your mahalla networks, otherwise you cannot survive in Russia.

We observed a similar incident on a Wednesday afternoon, July 30, 2014, when we and Zaur were in the car heading toward a construction site in Balashikha, a small city in Moscow province. Unlike his co-villagers who work in the construction sector, Zaur works as a clerk at a grocery store in Moscow city, a status that led to him being known as Russkiy (Russian) among his co-villagers, given that he receives a higher salary and is not obliged to engage in chornaia rabota (black/unskilled work). Because Zaur is considered more successful and better connected than other migrants, people from his village often contact him with requests.

As we neared the construction site, Zaur received a phone call from Uzbekistan. He usually picks up calls if they come from Uzbekistan and immediately answered. It was Zaur’s neighbor, Ozoda, who had an urgent request. From their phone conversation, we learned that Ozoda’s husband, Ulugbek, who works in a greenhouse farm in Vologda city, recently had an appendectomy and was on a train bound for Moscow. Ozoda was quite worried about her husband since he was physically unable to work and had no money to purchase train tickets to return to Uzbekistan. It was obvious that Ozoda had asked Zaur to help her husband with his return journey. After finishing the conversation, Zaur said that we needed to return to Moscow and meet Ulugbek at Kazanskiy railway station when he arrived from Vologda. On our way to the station, we asked Zaur to explain the details of the phone conversation in more detail. He provided the following account:

Ulugbek and I come from the same mahalla. He is in a critical situation now, since he has neither good health nor the money to return to Uzbekistan. There is no train from Vologda to Tashkent for the next ten days, so he must come to Moscow first and then take another train to Tashkent. Actually, Ulugbek could have taken a direct train from Vologda to Tashkent if he stayed there for ten more days. But, he knows that his mahalla networks would take care of him if he comes to Moscow. Therefore, he is now on his way here. Ulugbek is very clever. He didn’t contact me directly. Instead, he contacted me through his wife since he knew that I wouldn’t refuse if someone contacts me directly from Fergana. Of course, I have no other choice but to cover Ulugbek’s expenses from my own pocket. First, I am now driving from Balashikha to Kazanskiy railway station and burning gasoline. If you take a taxi, you will spend at least 3000 rubles (US$90) for this trip. Second, Ulugbek wants to return home as soon as possible, but train tickets to Uzbekistan are usually sold out. One needs to buy a ticket at least three days before traveling. This means I have to bribe the train provodnik (conductor) and arrange a place [without a valid ticket] for him. In addition, there are many thieves and racketeers in Kazanskiy railway station that extort money from migrants. I have connections there and I can make sure that Ulugbek safely boards the train and reaches home without any problems. Third, Ulugbek does not have any money to pay for his travel expenses. This means I have to bribe the provodnik from my own pocket, and I know that Ulugbek will not return this money to me. This would be treated as my “mahalla obligation”. But I hope he will appreciate my help and tell our mahalla about my odamgarchilik (good deeds). This is enough for me. You see how much trouble and how many expenses I have and the time I lose just to save face in the mahalla. If I refuse to help Ulugbek and other mahalla acquaintances, my mahalla community will spread gossip about me saying that I have no odamgarchilik. Of course, I am in Moscow now and could just ignore the gossip, but I have to consider my family members’ situation, since they are the ones who bear the consequences of my decision.

We arrived at Kazanskiy station at 4 pm. Ulugbek’s train arrived one hour later, and events unfolded exactly as described by Zaur. After meeting Ulugbek at the station, we all headed toward a small fast-food café where migrants can obtain work permits and residence registrations. There we met one Uzbek woman from Uzbekistan’s Andijan region who was well-connected with train provodniks. Zaur paid her 7500 rubles (US$210) and she then guided us toward the station and quickly arranged a special seat for Ulugbek on a Moscow–Tashkent train. After a short conversation with the conductor, she assured us that Ulugbek was now in safe hands and would be in Uzbekistan in five days. Zaur gave Ulugbek an additional 1000 rubles (US$35) and told him that he can use it for his food expenses during the long trip. We shook hands with Ulugbek and watched as the train departed for Uzbekistan.

The repatriation of a deceased migrant from Russia to Uzbekistan provides yet another relevant example of the role of the digital mahalla in migrants’ daily lives. Uzbek migrants, like other Central Asian migrants (Reeves, 2015; Round & Kuznetsova, 2016), experience difficult living and working conditions in Moscow, including discrimination, hazardous working conditions and physical violence. They are, therefore, aware that the threat of death is ever-present in their daily lives in Moscow. As one of our informants said, “Death can be the fate of any migrant in Russia, since we are working in a bespredel (limitlessness or lawless) country where anything can happen.” Cognizant of their own precarious livelihoods, migrants voluntarily contribute to repatriation expenses if someone from their mahalla or village dies from a work-related accident, disease or attack from a neo-Nazi skinhead. Given these risks, Uzbek migrants tend to capitalize on their mahalla traditions (such as norms of reciprocity and solidarity, as well as good neighborliness) as a means to cope with the challenges of being a foreigner in Russia. When someone died, news spread swiftly among villagers as migrants immediately contacted their village networks via smartphones and social media. Because the threat of death was ever-present in migrants’ lives, news of a death deeply affected everyone, and many migrants stepped forward to assist with the repatriation expenses. There was no standard amount for contributions, and migrants determined how much to contribute based on their own financial situation and income level. As such, Uzbek migrants viewed their contribution to body repatriation as a form of insurance in the case of their own death, as illustrated in the following:

I always make a contribution towards body repatriation, because I know my co-villagers would do the same for me if I were to suddenly die from a work-related accident or disease. Body repatriation is hashar — a collective, mutual-aid project to which everyone is expected to contribute. If you are greedy and do not contribute, there is a high likelihood that your body will not be taken care of if you die. Nobody wants his body to remain in Russia. We all want to be buried in our homeland. (Nodir, 26, male, Uzbek migrant worker)

Accordingly, smartphones and social media serve as the everyday technologies for reproducing the digital mahalla in the context of Moscow. Other studies have similarly shown that mobile phones do not “fracture” localities, but extend and reproduce them in migrant-receiving societies (Alencar et al., 2019; Awad & Tossell, 2021; Ruget & Usmanalieva, 2019; Urinboyev, 2017). However, the literature on migration and mobile phones tends to focus on their transnational role, primarily exploring how the availability of mobile phones increases the frequency and magnitude of transnational interactions, blurring the distinction between “here” and “there.” The case of Uzbek migrants demonstrates that smartphones and social media not only facilitate the intensity of everyday exchanges between Moscow and Fergana, but, also, and more importantly, reproduce a digital Uzbek mahalla that regulates the daily mutual aid practices and behaviors of village residents both locally and transnationally.

At the time of writing, the role of these smartphone-based mutual aid practices proved especially pivotal during the COVID-19 pandemic, which had dramatic and unprecedented effects on migrants’ everyday lives in Russia and beyond. As the number of coronavirus cases drastically increased, Russia, along with many other countries around the world, introduced strict lockdown measures to prevent the spread of the virus. While Russian regions had some degree of autonomy in defining the level of COVID-related restrictions, in Moscow, where many Uzbek migrants worked, the city government introduced strict lockdown measures. As a result, a considerable number of Uzbek migrants, particularly those working in the service industries, factories and bazaars, lost their jobs. This led to a catch-22 situation, whereby migrants neither had the savings necessary to cover their living expenses nor the possibility of returning to their home country due to travel restrictions introduced by the Russian government on March 18, 2020. Despite the COVID-related restrictions, some sectors of the Russian economy—notably, the construction sector—continued to operate. Since the majority of Uzbek migrants whom we interviewed worked in the construction sector, they quickly assisted their unemployed co-villagers, providing them with temporary jobs and accommodation at construction sites. In cases when it was impossible to find jobs, villagers collected money, pooled their resources and provided food products to community members who needed them. These mutual aid practices were possible owing to the extension of village-level social norms, expectations and obligations that created a strong intragroup solidarity among migrants.

In this section, we provide empirical examples of Uzbek migrants’ patterns of residence and adaptation strategies in Istanbul. Kumkapi, the most ethnically and culturally diverse quarter of the Fatih district, is now a primary hub for the Uzbek migrant community in Istanbul. Considered home to Armenian and Greek minorities for centuries, Kumkapi’s ethnic composition began to rapidly change with the emigration of those minorities during the 1950s and the settlement of internal migrants from various parts of Turkey (Biehl, 2014). Thanks to the neighboring shopping areas of Laleli, the Kumkapi quarter started attracting international migrants from countries ranging from Moldova to Pakistan, from Syria to Senegal in the subsequent decades. But, recently, Kumkapi has become a predominantly Uzbek quarter (with African-dominant adjoining streets), where thousands of Uzbek migrant workers reside and work. Like many migrant communities that have established their own enclave economies centered around shipping companies, ethnic restaurants and hairdressers (Biehl, 2014; Şaul, 2013; Yükseker, 2004), Uzbek migrants have also built their own economic infrastructure. The existence of such an enclave not only provides affordable and easily accessible services, but also serves as spaces for socializing and place-making.

Accordingly, Kumkapi, in the words of many Uzbek migrants we encountered there, is an “Uzbek mahalla,” where it is possible to spot hundreds of Uzbek migrants on the streets and almost everyone, even local Turks and Kurds, speaks or understands the Uzbek language. There are numerous Uzbek cafés and restaurants and many businesses involving Uzbek migrants. It is quite easy for Uzbek (as well as other) migrants to find accommodation in Kumkapi, which typically involves sharing an apartment with up to 10 to 15 other people. Uzbeks who live in other districts of Istanbul come to Kumkapi during weekends in order to meet and socialize with their friends in Uzbek cafés. Therefore, many newly arrived migrants stay in shared apartments in Kumkapi, undergoing their initial adaptation to the Turkish labor market. The emergence of an Uzbek mahalla in Kumkapi can be explained by the vicinity to the shopping areas of Laleli (frequented by a large number of shuttle traders from Uzbekistan) with its informal employment possibilities and the availability of cheap accommodation in the quarter. In addition, the availability of cargo services in the area means that during their holidays Uzbek migrants working in other parts of Istanbul can shop in the neighborhood and send their garments and remittances to their home countries directly from the Kumkapi area. Gradually, this led to a growing number of Uzbek cafés and businesses owned by and employing Uzbek migrants. Consequently, this recent transformation of Kumkapi into an Uzbek enclave led to the emergence of an informal adaptation and social control infrastructure, where it is possible to receive information about accommodation and jobs, meet new people and join different networks, learn how to navigate the immigration rules and gather information and rumors about Uzbek migrants living in Istanbul (Fig. 3.3).

During our fieldwork in Istanbul, we primarily focused on a number of Uzbek migrant hotspots in Kumkapi, where it is possible to find a large number of Uzbeks. Although there are many Uzbek dining places in and around Kumkapi, the most popular and well-attended place among Central Asian migrants is O’zbegim, a restaurant presumably owned by a well-known Uzbek singer Yulduz Usmonova. At O’zbegim, we observed that this restaurant is more than a dining place where migrants eat pilaf (a festive Uzbek dish), socialize, date and celebrate birthdays, exchange the latest news in their migrant life, share and ask around for potential jobs and accommodation opportunities and spread gossip and rumors about abusive shirkats and exploitative employers. The Golden Sky Hotel is another key Uzbek hotspot in Kumkapi, providing accommodation primarily for Uzbek shuttle traders who travel between Tashkent and Istanbul on a weekly basis. While shuttle traders typically buy garments in Istanbul and then take them to Uzbekistan to sell in local markets, on their way to Istanbul they bring Uzbek goods and products, such as dried fruits, rice, cigarettes, nos (Uzbek snuff), sausages and spices among others, items in high demand among Uzbek migrants. Given its dual role, both as accommodation and an Uzbek product distribution hub, the Golden Sky Hotel was almost always full of Uzbeks.

In addition to these hotspots, Uzbek migrants also had their informal social service facilities in Kumkapi, such as a health clinic, pharmacy and kindergarten, where migrants could receive treatment from Uzbek health professionals, buy Uzbek medicines and leave their children with Uzbek babysitters. There was also one mosque located in the middle of Kumkapi, which Uzbek migrants not only attended for daily prayers, but also received services such as nikah (religious marriage) and religious healing. In addition, many companies located in the neighborhood offer cargo services to Central Asian countries. Quite often, when passing by these cargo companies, one can see several Uzbek migrants, predominantly women, sitting inside the cargo office and talking about their daily lives and problems. Some Uzbek migrants speak loudly and angrily on their phones, often complaining about their financial problems (Fig. 3.4).

One of the noteworthy features of Kumkapi is that it serves both as a labor market site and a residential area for many Uzbek migrants. While walking through the streets of Kumkapi, it is possible to see many advertisements for jobs and shared accommodation written in the Uzbek language. Accommodation in shared apartments is a widespread practice among migrants, where up to 15 Uzbek migrants share one apartment. Some apartments are male or female only, while others are mixed: common facilities such as the kitchen and bathroom are shared by both genders, but individual rooms are male or female only. The turnover of tenants in shared apartments is rather dynamic in the sense that different tenants might rent a place to sleep in bunk beds on different days of the week or even different times of the day. For example, many Uzbek migrants living in other parts of Istanbul, particularly Uzbek female domestic workers who usually get one day off during weekends, come to Kumkapi to socialize, dine at Uzbek cafés, shop and send clothes to Uzbekistan through cargo companies. After which, they usually stay overnight at Kumkapi, paying about US$2 per night for a bed in one of the shared apartments.

However, despite the existence of a separate Uzbek enclave, there is little in the way of a tight-knit Uzbek migrant community in Istanbul. In Moscow, even though Uzbek migrants did not have their own ethnic enclave and organized their communication practices via smartphones, they did, however, create and maintain tight-knit digital mahalla communities fostering a sense of social responsibility and solidarity. As we described in the previous section, migrants quickly informed each other via smartphones when their fellow villagers in Moscow fell ill, could not get their salary or were caught by the police. These smartphone-based practices were centered around migrants originating from the same village or town in Uzbekistan. In Istanbul, even though Uzbek migrants were not dispersed to different parts of the city and instead concentrated in one ethnic enclave in Kumkapi, much to our surprise, there was a little social solidarity and few support networks among them. This largely resulted from the fact that Uzbek labor migration to Istanbul was not based on chain migration involving a large number of people from one village or town in Uzbekistan all migrating to Istanbul. Instead, village or town origin ties prevalent in Moscow were not strong in Istanbul; hence, many migrants did not share a common village or town origin. This suggests that migrants did not feel village pressure or face gossip or other social sanctions when they organized their livelihood strategies in Istanbul. These differences in Uzbek migrants’ livelihoods in Moscow versus Istanbul are captured by Juma (32, male, Uzbek migrant), who worked in both cities:

Even though we [Uzbek migrants] work and live abroad, our actions and decisions are still influenced by mahalliychilik (localism). For example, when I worked in Moscow, I could rely on my fellow villagers’ support when I faced problems. There were many people from our village working in Moscow. But after I received a zapret (entry ban), I could not return to Russia and, therefore, came to Istanbul hoping that I would earn more here. Unfortunately, I faced many problems here with shirkats and employers. But the worst thing here in Istanbul is that you have nobody to rely on when you are in some urgent trouble. Of course, you can find thousands of Uzbeks on the streets of Kumkapi, but they are not from my village and they don’t care if you ask for help. There is no unity among Uzbek people even though we have same ethnicity (millat). People help only if you are from the same village or mahalla.

These observations were confirmed in our daily observations of migrants’ daily life in Kumkapi. Having a shared village or town origin seems to represent an important source of social responsibility and solidarity in migrants’ life trajectories. While walking through the streets of Kumkapi, we came into contact with many Uzbek migrants who originated from different regions and districts of Uzbekistan. Despite our efforts to identify a pattern of chain migration during our numerous fieldwork trips to Istanbul, we found that village and kinship networks were not prevalent in Kumkapi in the sense that only a small number of migrants hailed from the same village or town. This lack of ethnic solidarity and support networks was especially visible in migrants’ daily lives. Even though up to 15 Uzbek migrants shared one apartment, there was little sense of solidarity when one tenant encountered problems or needed urgent help due to an illness, a lack of money or conflicts with abusive employers or shirkats (Fig. 3.5).

Another factor that contributed to the lack of solidarity was the perception—real or imagined—that agents of the Uzbek State Security Service (SNB) were collecting information about the daily lives and religious practices of Uzbek migrants in Kumkapi. Because Uzbekistan has an authoritarian regime which utilizes coercive strategies and extensive surveillance to control its citizens’ religious activities, there was little trust within the Uzbek migrant community in Istanbul. This is illustrated in the following interview excerpt:

There are many Uzbek SNB [Uzbek State Security Service] agents wandering the streets of Kumkapi. They dress like typical migrants and some of them even have beards. They do so deliberately in order to hide their identity and thereby collect information about migrants who read namaz (prayers). SNB agents specifically search people linked to ISIS and send people to Syria. There are also many migrants who committed a crime in Uzbekistan and escaped to Istanbul. SNB agents also hunt for them. As a result, everyone is afraid when talking to other Uzbeks they do not know well. In short, no one trusts anyone here and the more you approach Uzbeks, the more trouble you face. (Shunqor, 39, male migrant from Uzbekistan)

We also experienced these fears and suspicions during our fieldwork in Kumkapi. For instance, when we approached Uzbek migrants without gatekeepers to the community, individuals would typically refuse to interact with us. Even if they talked with us, they were quite cautious and reluctant to share their personal stories. The following interview excerpt also illustrates this:

I think those who have worked in Turkey for five or six years will be checked [when they return to] Uzbekistan. Their phones are checked. So, you should not “like” different kinds of videos [on social media]. Then, one should not download religious things [content on their smartphones]. When I returned from Russia [to Uzbekistan], I was called and interrogated. Here, I pray, learn the Arabic alphabet and keep fasting. Here, religious lectures at mosques are a free choice. But, I have to be careful to openly talk about these things to people I do not know, especially if they are from Uzbekistan. (Saida, 29, female migrant from Uzbekistan)

The lack or absence of tight-knit Uzbek migrant communities also serves to empower individuals in terms of exerting less social control and pressure. This is especially true in relation to [divorced] female migrants who experienced domestic violence and mahalla pressure in Uzbekistan and came to Istanbul in search of opportunities for a better life. While in Uzbekistan their choices and dating strategies were constrained by local social norms and traditions, in Istanbul they found themselves in a new social environment providing them more agency to make choices and freely organize their personal lives. Given the fact that the vast majority of Uzbek migrants in Turkey are female, male migrants were unable to influence Uzbek women’s choices. This was not the case in Moscow, where Uzbek male migrants had more control over the lives of female migrants (Eraliev & Heusala, 2021). Istanbul thus offered more agency to female migrants vis-à-vis male migrants. Paradoxically, even though Turkey is viewed as a Muslim-majority country with persistent gender hierarchies and male-dominated gender norms (Akyüz & Sayan-Cengiz, 2016; Ün, 2019), for many Uzbek female migrants we interviewed in Istanbul, Turkey represented a place of greater agency and opportunity than that available in Russia. This situation led to mixed feelings among migrants. Many male migrants we encountered complained about “spoiled” Uzbek women, stating that Uzbek women preferred to have Turkish male partners, as described by Murod (42, male, Uzbek migrant):

Unfortunately, many Uzbek women who come to Turkey are becoming “spoiled” after a few months. Back in Uzbekistan, they were under mahalla and family control. But here we have no mahalla, women are on their own and do what they want. Turks have more money than us and can buy our women.

But this perspective is not shared by Iroda (36, female, Uzbek migrant) who believes that only a small number of Uzbek women enter into relationships with Turks, while the majority of women try to avoid any romantic relationships:

There are all kinds of people here. The purpose of coming [to Turkey] is the same for everyone: to make money, but everyone makes money in different ways. There are also bad, filthy women. Even good women are considered bad because of them. As a result, many Uzbek men in Turkey think that most Uzbek women are bad and “spoiled” and gossip about us. The way local Turkish men behave towards us also may give such an impression. For example, on the streets, they [Turkish men] think you are one of them, and they try to flirt with you. There are many Turks who walk after you, suggesting that you have some tea or get to know one another. I had experienced the same thing. I chased him away, saying “yürü git!” The culture is different here, men are impudent. Even though they have never met this woman before, they would just come up and suggest getting to know one another. Maybe they think we Uzbek women are foreigners and we do not have anyone.

The lack of social solidarity and social safety nets among Uzbek migrants in Turkey became particularly discernible during the COVID-19 pandemic. Like many countries around the world, Turkey also introduced strict lockdown measures in April 2020 that lasted several months. This meant that many Uzbek migrants lost their jobs and had to remain indoors due to strict quarantine measures. Unlike Moscow where migrants relied on their village and kinship networks (i.e., digital mahalla) during the lockdown period, these fallback mechanisms were not available in Istanbul. This vacuum was filled in by mosques and Turkish employers who expressed their solidarity and offered various types of financial and in-kind support to migrants. These processes were confirmed by our fieldwork observations from July through August 2020 during the COVID-19 pandemic, when we visited shared apartments in Kumkapi and Aksaray asking migrants about their experiences during the lockdown.

To conclude, Moscow and Istanbul represent two different migrant lifeworlds in terms of organizing interpersonal and transnational relations and identities. The empirical examples presented here show that the existence of a separate ethnic enclave and the concentration of a large number of co-ethnic migrants in a specific locality do not necessarily translate into tight-knit communities with a strong degree of social control and solidarity. Rather, smartphone-mediated digital communities may produce more social responsibility and solidarity. These insights are instructive when we attempt to understand the role of patterns of residence and their impact on the modes of migrant incorporation into the host society and labor market.