Meeting Russians in exile in Uzbekistan

This story is completed under the guidance of the instructor of Short Story Life Writing Academy . The Short Story Life Writing Academy invites you to write your own personal story.

Walking into the youth hostel in Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, I thought I had come to Russia. The ear is full of Russian, and now it is full of Russians.

This youth hostel has just opened for a year, and the facilities are complete. In addition to the living room and kitchen, there is also an office. Most of the public space is occupied by Russians, more specifically Russian men. A Russian travel program introducing Georgia is playing on the TV in the living room, someone in the office is having a video conference in Russian, and the refrigerator in the kitchen is full of half-cut sausages and a pot of uncovered borscht Soup.

I was not unprepared for this scene. A comment on the reservation website pointed out: "This youth hostel is generally very good, but there are many people who live here because of the war. They can't speak English and don't want to socialize, which affects the atmosphere." Obviously, the people referred to are Russians. They came here to avoid military service.

Russian men are definitely not the most approachable group in terms of appearance. Most of them are not small, with beards, and their clothes are not sloppy but a little too casual. They shuttled through the corridors in slippers, as if they were declaring their home field. I felt the restraint of being an intruder, but mixed with sympathy. No matter how well-equipped a youth hostel is, it is not a real home. Six people are squeezed into a room, with only one bed for personal space. If there is no other way, no one should be willing to live for a long time.

I soon discovered that these men were not as unapproachable as they seemed. In those two days, I happened to have some online work to be done, shared the public space with them, and got to know them quickly. Among them, the one I can talk to the most is a young man named Artur.

When I first met Artur, he was sitting next to me in the shared office, typing on a keyboard. He was wearing a Nordic pattern sweater, his beard was neatly trimmed, and his temperament was quieter than others.

"Are you a programmer too?" He glanced at the programming page I had open and poked his head over to ask.

"It's kind of like that," I replied, "I'm doing research, about artificial intelligence."

Artur has taught himself about artificial intelligence online. We discussed basic algorithms, and he knew concepts like logistic regression, random forests, and neural networks by heart. But that's just a preparation for future opportunities, and it's not used yet. He is currently a software development engineer working remotely for a Russian company. His English vocabulary is not large, but his expressive ability is very strong, and he can piece together the exact meaning from the limited vocabulary.

"How long have you been here?" I asked Artur.

"I have been in Tashkent for three months, and I lived in Almaty for three months before that," he replied.

At the end of September last year, Russia began to recruit all citizens, and Artur immediately applied for a passport and prepared to leave. He successfully traveled to the Kazakh city of Almaty in October. Kazakhstan has a three-month visa exemption for Russian citizens, and after the period expired he came to Uzbekistan again.

Under today's division of camps in the world, the destinations available to Russians are extremely limited. They were rejected by most countries in the Western world, and it was difficult to obtain visas after the war broke out. Due to the extremely unbalanced domestic education and economic development, the vast majority of Russians have never been abroad and hardly speak English, so it is difficult to survive alone in a country that is too far away. Uzbekistan, a former Soviet country located in Central Asia, has become one of the best options. It has close geographical distance, low cost of living, people generally speak Russian, and Russian citizens are exempted from visas indefinitely.

"The risk of being drafted is the greatest in a situation like mine." Artur explained why he fled so urgently. He had only just left the barracks, and he had served compulsory military service in the Special Forces for two years before the epidemic. Because of his combat experience, he is extremely likely to be selected for this round of conscription. However, his experience in the army made him well aware of the chaos in the internal management of the Russian army. He didn't want to kill, and he didn't want to die in vain.

"I know how stupid they are. Many of their actions are simply sending bullets to the enemy." Artur said a little excitedly. "I have worked hard to live for more than 20 years, not for such an ending."

Earlier this year, Artur's former company had been ambushed, killing more than fifty people. His former commander was among them.

He didn't go any further, changed the subject, and invited me to dinner with his friends. Those were two other Russians, both slightly older than Artur. The two used to be electricians and traders respectively in Russia, and later found IT-related remote positions through Artur. They met Artur in a youth hostel in Almaty, and then came to Tashkent together.

We walked towards the restaurant along the main road in Tashkent. The streets were full of Uzbek-made Chevrolet cars, and the exhaust fumes lingered in the air, surrounding us from all sides. In order to protect its own car manufacturers, the Uzbek government has blocked the import of foreign cars by raising tariffs in disguise.

This is not an attractive city, most of the buildings were rebuilt by the Soviet Union after the earthquake in the 1960s, and there are no attractive Islamic monuments. Most of the tourists who come to Uzbekistan just use the airport in Tashkent to enter and exit, and will not stay for a long time. I am no exception. I will go to the ancient city of Samarkand tomorrow.

We walked into a restaurant decorated in Uzbek palatial style, the locals are fond of shiny things. Artur and his friends come here often and are familiar with the dishes. I saw Russian red soup among the Uzbek specialties. I guess it came from the Soviet era, so I pointed it out and asked them how it tasted.

"It's not bad, but it's completely different from the local ones in Russia." One of the friends replied.

"You should go to Russia and try the real thing," added another friend.

I nodded yes and asked if they missed their home in Russia and when they planned to go back. Unexpectedly, the three of them denied it at the same time.

"I'm a citizen of the world now." Artur said solemnly. He does miss his family in Russia, with his mother and sister still in his native city of Brussels. But he enjoys life now and never wants to go back to that small town.

He opened the map on his mobile phone, zoomed in on the northwestern part of Russia, found Brussels, and pointed it out to me: "I grew up here, and there is nothing here, not even a decent river."

Stereotyped Russians love brandy, but Artur has a soft spot for the strawberry milkshake in this restaurant. Miraculously, the milkshake also has the effect of inducing vomiting like alcohol.

Artur tells his own story. He was born in that small backwater city, went to a bad university, studied a useless major, once worked as a handyman, and was full of confusion about the future. The change started with the epidemic. He taught himself programming when he was bored at home. After he was forced to leave Russia because of the war, he found his current remote job, gradually becoming a supervisor of a small team from an ordinary software engineer, and his salary tripled. Half a year ago, he would never have imagined that he could be here today, doing a job he likes, and making friends with people from all over the world.

"The past six months, what a miracle!" Artur sighed, taking another sip of the strawberry milkshake.

We chatted for a long time that night, until the restaurant closed and urged us to leave. We go back down the same path. Tashkent at night is more beautiful than during the day, with colorful lights on both sides of the road, and the crowded traffic has dispersed.

The train from Tashkent to Samarkand is a legacy from the Soviet era. I bought the ticket late, and only the first-class seat with a slightly higher price was left. The seats are spacious, and the black leather seats are thick and soft, with only a few cracks open due to age.

Next to me sat a blonde woman in black high heels and lavender eyeshadow. She held out a box of Uzbek sweets in front of me. "Would you like to try one?"

I picked up one to thank her, and chatted with her. She's also Russian, and she's here for a lawyer's conference. In the past, Russian lawyers' conferences were usually held in tourist cities in Europe and the United States. This year, due to visa restrictions, the conference had to be held in Tashkent. The meeting had just ended, and she wanted to take the opportunity to spend two days in Samarkand.

I told her about the Russian men I met in Tashkent. She doesn't shy away from this topic: "Are they all here to escape military service?"

There was a trace of alienation in her tone, as if this matter had nothing to do with her. Some of her lawyer friends also fled Russia at the start of the draft, but recently returned. The Russian government has recently paid attention to the problem of brain drain, and has introduced policies to protect high-end talents and ensure that they are not included in the scope of conscription.

"Of course, this requires academic qualifications to meet certain standards." She added. In the youth hostels in Tashkent, no one seems to fall into this category.

The train travels in the direction of the Silk Road, with cotton fields on both sides. Because it is spring, the fields have not yet produced cotton, but the branches and leaves are lush. The sunshine that day was exceptionally good, making everything peaceful and full of vitality, making people feel that the concept of war is too far away.

I always love to visit the souks in every city. In Samarkand, I chose the Grand Bazaar next to the Bibi Khanum Mosque. Passing by a spice shop, an uncle in a bowler hat stopped me to speak Russian. I figured he was selling his wares, but I still tried to figure out what to do with gestures.

"Do you need help?" A handsome young man came from a nearby shop, "I can translate for you."

His name is Roman. He has exquisite facial features and slender limbs. He wears a baseball jacket embroidered with East Asian patterns.

Unsurprisingly, the uncle is introducing his own spices. The red ones can be used for cooking soup, and the yellow ones can be used for stewing meat. They are all made of local natural ingredients. You can also give me a small packet for free trial... But I am just curious, It was useless to take these, so I had to say thank you and leave.

"I'm Russian, don't hate me for it." This was the first sentence Roman said to me after leaving the spice shop.

Of course I know, he just translated Russian for me. However, just from the appearance, Roman and the Russians in the Tashkent youth hostel have a huge difference in style, and they don’t speak English with the slightest Russian accent. Instead, they look like characters from American dramas.

We walked out of the bazaar and headed towards Registan Square. I learned that Roman was just 21 years old, a "global" traveler who made a living teaching English online. It is said that it is Universal, but in fact it can only operate within the scope allowed by the Russian passport. In the past year, he has lived in Belarus, Georgia and Armenia, and just landed in Uzbekistan three days ago.

He didn't come to avoid military service. I noticed that he was missing two fingers on his left hand, so he should have been excluded from the draft, but he still didn't want to stay in Russia. During the first two months of the war, he had not yet left the country, suffocated by his isolation from the outside world. The stores of international brands in Russia have been closed one after another, some online platforms have also begun to restrict Russian users, and even credit cards with accounts opened in Russia have been frozen.

"I'm using a Belarusian credit card now. I lived there for a month before I was eligible to open an account." Roman explained to me. He also wants to get another card in Uzbekistan, for which he also has to live here for a while.

However, there was a more direct reason for his departure, which was artillery fire. Roman was born and raised in St. Petersburg, but a few years ago, his parents invested in real estate in the Crimean peninsula because of tourism, and the family moved to a house by the sea. Although Crimea is recognized by most countries in the world as Ukrainian territory, it is actually occupied by Russia. Since the start of the war, Ukraine has frequently projected missiles on the peninsula. Although they cannot break through Russia's interception system, they will still explode in mid-air with a deafening noise.

We finally reached Registan Square, which was once the center of ancient Islamic civilization. The square is composed of three schools of scriptures. The surface of the building is dominated by dark blue and turquoise green, embellished with gold, and painted with Uzbek-style animal and plant totems. It was already evening, and the afterglow of the setting sun added more brilliance to the already magnificent dome.

After only getting along for a while, I felt that Roman was an unusual person. On the one hand, it is almost exaggerated enthusiasm, on the other hand, it is naivety that does not know the world. He is prone to admiring what he sees and hears, using adjectives that always seem to me to be overdone.

When we came to the gate of the Ulugberg School of Scripture, Roman admired the towering minarets. A uniformed guard came up to us and asked if we would like to go to the top of the tower. It's not normally open to the public, but he made an exception to take us there if we paid $10.

"Really? This will be a special experience." Roman looked at me excitedly, thinking we were the lucky ones to be chosen. In fact, this is just a routine operation for the guards to make extra money, and most foreign tourists will be questioned. I've read about it in travel guides, but I don't want to spoil it at this point. We climbed up as Roman wished.

"I'm really happy to meet you, even though it was just one night, I think we have experienced a lot together." Roman said to me after returning to the ground. I'd be wary if it was a guy I'd just met saying something like that, but not Roman. On the one hand, he has always used exaggerated words, and on the other hand, I vaguely feel that he belongs to the sexual minority.

My guess was quickly confirmed. We sat down on the steps in front of the square and discussed the local anti-gay laws. Uzbekistan still uses the laws of the Soviet era, punishing same-sex contacts with up to three years in prison, and civil violence against minorities has also occurred.

"Even so, I don't think there is any danger." Roman's tone was brisk, "Uzbeks are short, and I can knock them down with one hand." He should be joking, but he seemed to be serious.

This particular kind of humor is not for everyone. Many times, I am really thankful that Uzbeks don't understand English very well. This feeling reached its peak on the second day.

When we parted, Roman asked me to visit the Shay Sinda Mausoleum the next day, but I had already made an appointment with a local friend to visit a traditional village. I offered Roman he could join, and he agreed almost without thinking.

The three of us hired a driver and drove into the mountains. The name of the village is Jilan. On the border between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, the residents are all Tajiks. The altitude there is very high, the transportation is inconvenient, and it is almost isolated from the outside world, and the most traditional houses and lifestyles are still preserved. This is a place that Uzbeks have never heard of, but I read it in a book and I always wanted to visit it.

The winding mountain road is very difficult to walk, but the scenery along the way is worth the bumps along the way. When we arrived at an open area, the driver stopped and let us go out to see. I saw layers of green mountains surrounding a lake in the center. The lake water is the color of turquoise, with a faint light, quiet and deep.

Roman showed me his outfit today, a green sweater embroidered with red carapace: "This is a natural color, I chose it specially for today." He jumped on the platform by the road and asked me to take pictures with the scenery as the background, A series of dramatic expressions and movements made the driver and friends a little uncomfortable. My friend has lived abroad for more than ten years and is quite open among Uzbeks, but it is inevitable that he feels uncomfortable with some of Roman's behaviors.

The car drove for a long time before reaching the village. The driver estimated that the journey would take two and a half hours, but it took more than four hours. Most of the houses in the village are the color of dust, made of mud and vegetation, only the door and window frames are painted bright blue. We walked along the dirt path that ran through the whole village, passing roosters eating by the side of the road, hearing the lowing from the cattle pen, and meeting an old man riding a donkey. The cloth on the donkey is particularly eye-catching, with blue stripes and large red flowers printed on it.

The villagers haven't seen foreigners much, and they are very curious about us, but most of them are shy, so they hide behind the windows to watch. Parents and children watch together as a family. When Roman found out, he smiled and waved to them. The other party often hesitated, then smiled and waved in response.

Passing by a yard planted with apple trees, the host invited us into the house for tea. This is a local tradition, and we should try our best to entertain guests from afar, whether they are acquaintances or not. It was not the first time we were invited in this village, but the host was indeed the most welcoming, and we followed him into the house.

The furnishings in the living room are very simple, with a floral carpet on the floor and a kang table in the middle. The host speaks to us, and his wife serves the tea. Not only tea, but also naan, dried fruit, cakes, baked buns and home-grown apples. During the fasting period, the host and friends could not eat until the sun went down, so they just watched Roman and I eat.

The three of them spoke Russian together, and would translate a few sentences for me from time to time, but I still couldn't understand most of the content, so I could only observe their expressions. Roman is very expressive, talking enthusiastically with the male host, with a happy face, but suddenly he made an exaggerated panic, raised his hands in front of his chest, and shrank back. Later, my friend told me that it was because the host invited us to stay for Iftar, roast whole lamb, and Roman was vegetarian. The friend seemed to have some complaints about Roman's reaction.

The male host did not express his displeasure, and continued to entertain us warmly. Before leaving, he even packed a bag full of apples for us. "May Allah bless you." He blessed us as he said goodbye.

Roman wanted to respond to this kindness, and decided to give his blessing in his own way. He once told me that he was studying astrology and magic, and had already obtained the qualification of a second-level wizard. At this time, he decided to give the family the blessing of witchcraft, chanting English spells, and gesticulating up and down in circles. It can be seen that the friend is very eager to stop him, and I am thankful that the spell is in English, which the family cannot understand.

It was late when we got back to Samarkand from the village, but I went to have dinner with Roman anyway. I was leaving Samarkand the next day and continued westward, but Roman insisted on seeing me off. He deliberately found a restaurant with a night view of Registan Square. We eat a local food called manti, which resembles a rough version of a steamed bun, under the dazzling lights. Roman asked for a vegetarian version with pumpkin instead of ground beef.

I asked Roman what his future plans are. He said that he also plans to go to several other cities in Uzbekistan, and after successfully opening a bank account, he will go to Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Kazakhstan.

"And then?" I asked again. I wonder how long his "round the world" trip is going to be.

"And then I still hope to finish my undergraduate degree." Roman's tone turned serious, changing from his usual jumping off.

Four years ago, he studied in Canada, majoring in journalism and communication, but before finishing his freshman year, he encountered the epidemic and his studies were forced to be interrupted. It was during that time that he started working as an online English teacher, and gradually accumulated a stable customer base. He also gradually realized that this major was not suitable for him, and planned to change his major and reapply for university. But when the epidemic was over, he reapplied, and the Russo-Ukrainian war began. He has already been rejected by a French university and a Polish university, respectively, because of visa restrictions.

"I will definitely not stay in Russia to study at a university," Roman explained, "Most countries in the world will not recognize Russian diplomas in the future."

At present, he has applied to a university in Austria and is still waiting for news. "The school is in the Alps, and you can see the snow-capped mountains when you look up. You want to travel with me." His tone was full of hope. "Okay." I replied with a smile. Roman got excited and started to plan the itinerary to find me in Paris.

It happens quite often in travelling, to meet another traveler by chance, spend a few days together, eagerly promise to meet again, but never actually see each other again. I have long adapted to the rules of the game, and only occasionally reflect on my hypocrisy, but Roman seems to be much more serious.

After we parted, I always received voice messages from him, reiterating our "friendship" many times, just as in face-to-face conversations, with fast speech and full of emotion. My reply became shorter and shorter, and he slowly stopped. Later, new "friends" appeared in his instagram feed. In the photo, his smile is bright, but I feel lonely, hidden under the hustle and bustle on the surface. Overly enthusiastic and exaggerated speech is a protective color, and one temporary "friend" after another is a way to dissolve it.

I took a crowded and battered night train to Khiva, the westernmost city on this trip. Khiva is an important post on the ancient Silk Road. It was buried in the Karakum Desert. It was once a place of near death, but now it has been developed into a unique tourist attraction. The ancient buildings here are rich and concentrated, but due to the remote location and backward transportation network, most tourists will not visit.

Even so, Russians can be seen everywhere. They believe in the Orthodox Church and it is the Easter holiday. For ordinary Russian tourists, Uzbekistan is also a popular destination because of visa restrictions. Wearing traditional costumes bought from souvenir shops, they walked through the streets and alleys of the ancient city. The men wear embroidered yarmulkes, and the women wear bright tie-dyed silk abayas. These costumes don't look too out of place on the blond Russians.

After all, the entanglement between Uzbekistan and Russia has a long history. It was conquered by the Russians as early as the Tsarist period, and was later incorporated into the Soviet Union. The ancient city of Khiva evolved into what it is today during the Soviet period. Adhering to the principle of "individuals obey the collective", the Soviet government relocated all the residents of the inner city to outside the city walls, leaving only those who operated homestays and shops, creating an open-air museum.

Under the same logic, a large number of Russians were also arranged to settle in Uzbekistan during the Soviet period to develop local industries such as agriculture, industry, and culture. This is a way of overall allocation of human resources within the federation. After the disintegration of the Soviet Union, most of them returned to Russia, but there were also a group of stranded people, most of whom lived in Tashkent. It's one of them that I'm going to meet next.

The itinerary in Uzbekistan is coming to an end, and I will go back to the capital Tashkent for another day, and leave by plane from there. I contacted Yura on the Couchsurfing website. Couchsurfing is an online platform that connects travelers with locals who are willing to provide accommodation for free, the equivalent of airbnb without money exchanged. I didn't need a free place so much, but I was attracted by the photography project in Yura's profile and sent a request for a stay.

Yura is Russian, but born and raised in Tashkent, and is a film photographer working on a photography project about travelers from all over the world. He received travelers from Tashkent, took portraits of them, and asked each of them to write a letter in their native language telling their own story, hoping to eventually assemble it into a photobook. Since four years ago, he has hosted nearly a hundred travelers, all of whom have left good reviews on his page. He quickly accepted my request and invited me to participate in his project.

"The purpose of couchsurfing is not free accommodation, but communication between people. I hope you understand this." He emphasized to me in the message. I agree. The prices in Uzbekistan are low, and it only costs about ten dollars to stay in a youth hostel for one night. I use the sofa to communicate with the locals. But then I found out that this kind of communication was not as easy as I thought.

I followed Google Maps to find Yura's place. It was an old-fashioned Soviet block, with rows of gray-brown tube buildings stacked one after another. Walking into the building where Yura lived, the air was filled with a cold musty smell, the walls in the corridor were cracked and peeled off one by one, the ground and steps were all exposed cement, stained with stains that hadn't been cleaned for an unknown period of time.

The door was opened to me by a tall man with a slovenly appearance in a baggy white tank top and equally ill-fitting jeans. His retro mustache made him look like a comedic character from an old Soviet movie. The furnishing of the apartment also looks like a scene from a Soviet movie. Both the furniture and the decorations are like old Soviet objects found in the second-hand market. Only the ethnic patterned carpet hanging on the living room wall reveals a little Uzbek style.

"I just made breakfast, waiting for you to eat together." Yura warmly invited me in. Due to space constraints, there is no formal dining table in the room. We sat at a folding table on the verandah and ate chow mein in a local seasoning similar to soy sauce, served with sliced ​​raw green radishes. "I wanted to add some eggs, but there just happened to be none at home." He said a little apologetically.

The balcony is closed and connected to the living room. In addition to the small folding table, there is also a wooden tripod on which a film camera is fixed. A small stool was placed opposite the tripod, probably for the subject to sit on. A simple photography studio was set up here.

The apartment has only one bedroom, and I'm going to live on the sofa in the living room. The sofa is also old, and there are several places on the worn-out cloth surface, and the stuffing inside can be seen. Yura explained that it was the result of the destruction of his pet dog Chandra. Chandra is a black puppy with no breed, very afraid of strangers, and kept barking at me when I walked in the door. But Yura assured me that she would be friendly with me soon, suggesting that we go for a walk with the dog after breakfast.

We took Chandra to the garden in the middle of the street in the community, and Yura, the other dog walkers we met, knew each other and would always say hello. "Did you notice that the dog walkers are all Russians?" Yura asked me. He explained that Uzbeks dislike dogs for religious reasons and consider them unclean creatures. Although the rope is pulled and the muzzle is worn, some people will dodge when they see Chandra. Yura then repeated in Russian over and over again: "My dog ​​is a good dog and does not hurt people."

In addition, Yura does not agree with some other practices of the Uzbeks. At the end of April, the sun in Tashkent was already a bit vicious, but there were not a few big trees that shaded the roadside, only many bare trunks remained. Yura said that Uzbeks like to cut down trees and sell them for money. All the trees planted in the Soviet Union were cut down by the new government. "Uzbeks don't have a long-term vision."

Yura also spoke about the imprisonment of women in Uzbek culture. The traditional houses here are a bit like courtyard houses, built around a small courtyard in the middle. All windows are on the courtyard side. "You can't open the windows facing the street, because they are afraid that the women in the house will be seen."

Different religious beliefs also largely limit the integration between different races. Local Muslim women will never marry Russians, and only a very small number of Uzbek men will marry Russian women. Even if they live here for generations, Russians will not learn Uzbek, their life circle is limited to the Russian group, and they lose job opportunities in government and other public institutions.

"In that case, why don't you go back to live in Russia?" I asked a somewhat naive question.

"It's not that simple," Yura replied. His family migrated to Uzbekistan many generations ago. Born and raised here, he has only Uzbek nationality, and he needs to apply for a visa to go to Russia, and the conditions are harsh. In his early twenties he tried to find a job in Moscow. It was a hellish time, working like a slave every day, but the wages were low and the cost of living was high, and he finally decided to return to Tashkent.

It seemed that from the moment he was born, he had no real home. Although he was born and raised in Uzbekistan, he does not agree with the mainstream culture here and still considers himself a Russian. But the distant mother country of Russia is not willing to accept him. In a way, he's stuck here.

"Then why did your ancestors come to Uzbekistan?"

"I only know that they came here during the Soviet Union, why my parents didn't tell me."

Seeing me a little surprised, he explained: "My parents never talked to me about this kind of thing, they just try their best to live."

After walking the dog, Yura received a call from his father, asking him to come over, saying that he had something very important to talk about on the phone. He decided to take me with him and show me the city of Tashkent along the way. Passing by an old car in the yard, he stopped and pointed it out to me. He said that this car belongs to him, but he will not drive it today and will take the bus. I'm actually skeptical that this car, which looks like it's falling apart, will even work.

Yura's parents' house is in a tube building in another area, the smell of the corridor is more pungent, and the size of the room is smaller. His father answered the door on crutches, and I waited in the kitchen, listening to their argument in the living room. We left after ten minutes.

It turned out that Yura's father lost cash equivalent to 100 US dollars, thinking that it was taken by Yura, so he asked him to come over for questioning. $100 is a lot, and his pension is just over $200 a month. Yura explained that he didn't take it, and it was probably put there by his mother with Alzheimer's disease. My father didn't want to believe it, and the dispute between the two was fruitless.

Yura's father has always looked down upon this "idle" photographer son. His mother loves him even more, but now he is suffering from Alzheimer's disease. While walking the dog, Yura had already received several calls from her mother, each time crying about losing the pension she had just received. He had no choice but to patiently explain again and again that the pension was not lost, but that it was not yet time to receive it.

I kind of want to leave. Although I have always been happy to experience life, this kind of life is too heavy, and Yura has repeatedly emphasized that "the sofa guest focuses on the communication between people, not a free residence", so I dare not arrange activities by myself, so I can only continue Follow Yura through his daily routine. He said that a German guest once abruptly dismissed him and went to the city center for sightseeing, but he politely asked him to leave when he came back.

I can understand Yura, he is trapped in this city, trapped in such a life, he needs an exit too much. Communicating with travelers from all over the world is his way to relieve depression. But after a long journey, I am also very tired at the moment, and I am unable to communicate with him anymore.

What made me decide to leave was the cockroaches in the kitchen. I originally found only one and called Yura to confirm. He picked it up casually, threw it on the ground, stepped on it a few times, and didn't bother to deal with the corpse. He said that cockroaches will not hurt people, and told me not to be afraid. He had tried to clean it, but the whole building had problems and he couldn't help it. Later, I discovered that the black spots on the stove were all dead cockroaches, which I thought were just oil stains.

I made an excuse and told Yura that I was leaving early and would not be staying overnight, but I was still interested in his photography project and willing to participate. He kept it for a while and then agreed, and began to show me his photographic works,

The portraits in the works are black and white, shot with old film cameras. Yura used the bathroom as a darkroom, developed the film, and scanned it into a computer for storage. He has taken portraits of 81 travelers before me. The photos have not been beautified, and the pores and fine lines on the faces of the characters, as well as the anticipation and anxiety in the eyes are all preserved. I was fascinated.

When Yura shows the photos, she will also tell the memories of each guest, as seriously as a child counting treasures. He purposely paused for a moment at a photo of a man, the only Chinese he had ever hosted before, a cyclist planning to cross Eurasia. Most of the guests he has received are hardcore couch-surfers like this.

Finally it was time to shoot. Yura played rock music, turned off the incandescent lights on the ceiling, and turned on the red decorative string lights on the wall. The atmosphere in the room changed immediately, the outdated furniture had an avant-garde style, and the messy furnishings became lively and artistic. Yura's state is also completely different from the daytime. He hums a rock tune to prepare the film, arranges the scene, and adjusts the camera, as if he has shaken off the pressure of daily life.

The film camera Yura used was mechanical, with an exposure time of about a minute, and manual delivery of the light source. He told me to keep my eyes on the camera, put my hands on my knees and not move. He pressed the shutter, and then came to my side, turning the aperture around me, as if performing a sacred ceremony. I struggled to open my eyes under the blinding light, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Yura, who also had something similar to light in his eyes.

It was getting dark, I thanked Yura and left, planning to find a hotel near the airport to sleep for the night. Tomorrow I will leave Uzbekistan for my next destination. I can withdraw and leave at any time, but more people are not so lucky.

I hailed a taxi and headed towards the airport. The driver spoke Russian, but I still couldn't understand it. But the land that I have never set foot on is no longer so strange. There are always more commonalities among human destinies than differences. Whether it is the embers of a glorious era or the victim of the game of great powers, the fate of individuals is always quietly rewritten in the corner of the times.

Row after row of tube buildings quickly disappeared in the night. The road was empty and there was nothing, except the high beams of the cars, shining into the dark and bottomless distance.

*This story is from Sandwich " Short Story Life Writing Academy "

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