Loe raamatut: «Allamjonov's fault»

Komil Allamjonov

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Allamjonov's fault

Komil Allamjonov

Foreword

Why did I write this book?

There are three reasons I might have for writing this book, and two of them simply don't stand up to scrutiny.

The first would be to make money. Well, I don't need any more of that.

The second would be to show the world what a hard-faced renegade I am. But many people both in Uzbekistan and abroad know me well enough that I wouldn't be able to pull the wool over anybody's eyes in that regard.

And then there's a third possible reason: I want to communicate with a certain group of people and tell them something truly important. Those between the ages of fifteen and thirty. Those who are looking at the world and thinking: «What's my next step? How am I meant to live in this ever-changing society? How do I survive? Is there any way for me to become someone important without the support or favour of somebody who's already made it? Who actually needs me and will my dreams ever come true?»

I will tell you about my own journey. What helped me grow up and become the man I am today. I will do my best not to leave anything out.

Until I decided to write this book, I always thought that I was just incredibly lucky. It seemed as if my life had been nothing but uninterrupted success. I mean, as I write, I am sitting here at my desk in my comfortable, warm home with my family; I have a successful business and my work is extremely interesting. Who am I if not Fortune's favoured son?

But when I actually took a moment to look back over my life so far, I realised that things didn't work out for me three or four times more often than they did. There were so many failures for each success that you simply couldn't call it simple luck.

As is well known, my mother was a nurse midwife. Now, midwives don't lead particularly privileged lives, though there is one privilege that they can rely on and that's the ability to give birth to their children at their own workplace, under the care of doctors they trust since, after all, they are all colleagues and friends. But do you know what? When the time came for her to give birth to me, mum's maternity ward, the same one she worked in, was closed for disinfection («cleaning»).

The Minister is here

As a little boy, whenever I was crawling under the grown-ups' feet, whining, throwing a tantrum, or just generally up to no good, my grandma always used to say: «Don't reproach the boy, leave him be. He'll be a minister one day».

He'll be a minister one day.

I really don't know where she got that idea from. According to her, none of the other kids in our family were destined to become-ministers, just me. If truth be told, there was absolutely nothing to suggest that I, the modest son of a car mechanic and a nurse, would ever go on to be someone important.

I asked my mum, and she was equally as perplexed as to why grandma thought so.

Yet here I stand, some thirty-odd years later, in the lobby of the UAPI1 building. As a minister. After all, Head of the Uzbek Press and Information Agency is a ministerial position. I'm stood on the first floor of a huge, echoing building with peeling walls, cracked ceilings, crumbling floors, and rubble and debris all around. Not to mention the unshakable stench of raw sewage emanating from my ministerial office. The UAPI building is a Stalinist behemoth. When it was last renovated, no one can say.

The edifice has a total of five hundred individual offices, every last one of which is occupied by someone or other: the Women's Committee, various political parties, assorted print media outlets, and a handful of businesses. The internal courtyard is completely chock-full of cars; people rushing here and there, but nobody pays me any attention at all. Then there's the second floor, with its unimposing left wing: the UAPI itself.

There to introduce me to the team was none other than Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Finance Jamshid Kuchkarov. He did so and then left summarily. A veritably ancient Head of Typography and various department heads of equal seniority were sat at the conference table. Each one of them to the last was recruited back in the Soviet era and had been working in that building for at least half a century. And at that very moment, I could immediately sense their collective reaction. It was exactly as if a little boy had just burst into the room, with his anxious grandmother in tow pleading: «Don't reproach him, he'll be a minister one day». They looked straight over my head and exchanged a few inaudible remarks, for it was far more pressing that they respond to the honourable gentleman sitting nearby than pay even the slightest attention to the bespectacled young upstart who had just walked into the room.

The UAPI had just 18 million soms on its books, and it was time to pay the wages. How were we going to manage it? I summoned the chief financial officer and asked what we were going to do. Where's the money? How on Earth is this even possible?

«Don't worry, Komil Ismoilovich, Typography will just transfer us 2% of the turnover and we'll pay them right away» – he said.

I asked him to explain how it all worked in more detail, and what I heard grabbed my attention. As you may have well guessed, all of those various organisations were subsidiaries of the UAPI. That means that, logically, they should have been transferring their dues to head office without a murmur. But they never did. Each month before paying the employee salaries, our CFO would go through the ritual of asking them for the money: «Please transfer your share of the wage bill!» to which they would always send the same arrogant reply: «All right, we'll send it. You'll get it as soon as we have a moment». Then, he would say to me: «Komil Ismoilovich, I'll talk them round, it's always worked before». I mean, they're all eager to impress, and if their superiors ask them to, they'll transfer the money. Five publishing houses: Uzbekistan, O’qituvchi, Gafur Gulom, Chulpon, and National Encyclopedia of Uzbekistan.

«That simply isn't good enough», I said.

«Oh, but Komil Ismoilovich, they're such big fish… There's really no need, don't trouble yourself with it, I'll straighten everything out myself».

The Chief Financial Officer, having believed for years that asking subordinate organisations for money was just part of the natural order of things, had resolved to shelter me from all such unpleasantness.

I called a large general meeting and invited the managers of all of UAPI subsidiaries. The director of the Alisher Navoi National Library said that he was a bit busy that day…«so if you don't mind, Komiljon, I'll come and see you later on my own. Okay?»

I arrived on time and sat in my ministerial seat. The rest came in and out as if I wasn't even there, showing nothing but total and utter disregard for me. I remained seated, waiting patiently. Then, I couldn't control myself anymore:

«Ladies and gentlemen, please sit down and let us get started. Show a little respect!»

They took their seats. Each had a sullen look on their face and was staring stonily at me. I suppose that's what I get for interrupting their chit-chat. I drew everyone's attention to the director of publishing giant Uzbekistan.

«Please tell me about your work».

To which he responded haughtily:

«If I were to tell you everything, we'd be here till tomorrow…»

«So let it be» – I said, «Now begin».

Instilling order was more difficult than talking about it now. I started by writing a letter to all the tenants in the name of the UAPI director with the following instruction: «I hereby request that you vacate the leased premises at the earliest possible opportunity».

The way the lease worked was fairly simple – an absolute pittance was paid into the Agency's account, mere kopeks, the rest being paid in cash. I did a rough calculation of the amount in question. No less than fifty thousand dollars a month. Where all that money had gone, I had no idea. That's precisely why nobody gave a damn about whether they paid head office or not. And it also explained why the building was a shambolic, crumbling mess.

I had no personal need of that money, which, of course, came as rather a surprise to my staff. They naturally knew that I was a businessman and had money of my own, but the generally held belief was that no one can ever have too much.

As if by clockwork, I started getting calls pleading for me to spare this or that organisation. Nobody wanted to leave; they were all trying to put pressure on the new director with calls from upstairs, from various ministers and other executives. One Tanzila Kamalovna2, then President of the Women's Committee, came in person to ask me to hold off a short while, as they were currently engaged in the construction of a new building and making preparations to transfer operations there. I couldn't refuse her, but when it came to the other lessees, I didn't budge an inch.

I held my ground. The building was ours, and I needed to make it fit for the people working there. We closed the internal courtyard, removed tons of waste and rubbish, renovated all the offices, lounges and corridors. Do I really need to say who paid for it all? The entire cost of the renovation was borne by my own family business, and we were far from finished yet.

I remember meeting First Deputy Prime Minister Ochilboy Jumaniyozovich Ramatov3 at an event, where he asked me what I was doing these days. I told him that I was heading up the UAPI.

«Remind me what organisation that is again?» – asked Ramatov.

It transpired that the UAPI was such an inconspicuous and somnolent organisation that even the First Deputy Prime Minister couldn't remember it off hand. The Agency's management was almost never called to meetings of the Cabinet of Ministers. The director only knew the editors of the newspapers whom they regularly sent chain e-mails instructing them to retract this or redact that. Indeed, the only time Mr. Tangriev4 enjoyed any measure of fame was after a certain publication by Uzbekistan Publishing House in which he pledged to put the screws on any journalist who failed to observe the standards of fellow publishing house Manaviyat – the concept of intellectual and spiritual value (as he imagined it, of course).

Naturally, renovating the building wasn't his chief concern. The most important thing for him was imposing his authority as director. And what do you need to impose your authority? Just waving your ministerial title in every subordinate's face and demanding respect won't cut it. You have to follow the rules of the art of war. First, you have to find out who the real top dog is, the person with genuine clout and influence, the one everyone takes their lead from…and then neutralise them.

The very next day I set them all a lengthy skills test and sacked everyone who failed or refused to take it. Next, external factors required me to relieve Hurshid Mamatov of his position as Director of the Monitoring Centre. Well, his entire team actually. and if ordinary journalists and bloggers hadn’t protected me, expressing their disappointment at my dismissal, they would have buried me.

The Monitoring Centre was the most opaque organisation in the UAPI, and no director had ever so much as set foot in its offices before. As I left the room, I saw someone scolding my secretary in an unacceptably aggressive manner. But the rest of the secretariat held its collective tongue in total silence.

«Who are you?» – I asked.

«I'm from the Monitoring Centre!» – came the arrogant reply. Everyone was afraid of them, which is why they walked around thinking they were masters of the universe and everything in it.

«Get out of here right now!» – I exclaimed. In real life, of course, it sounded much tougher. «Who do you think you are, speaking to my employees like that?»

He was understandably taken aback. He didn't expect that tone from a seemingly mild-mannered and intelligent man in glasses. Needless to say, he left. Then I went ahead and announced a meeting at the Monitoring Centre.

So over I go, and down they sit. All eyes are fixed on me, some with uncertainty, others with interest.

«All I can do for you now» – I said to the Centre's director and several other members of staff, «is sign your letters of voluntary resignation and then forget you ever existed».

Appointed as the new director of the Monitoring Centre was Dilnoza Ziyamuhamedova5, who had, in fact, been doing all the work up until then anyway. Currently, she is Deputy Head of the Presidential Administration. I assigned her some really capable and progressive deputies who had worked as frontline employees up until then. I gave her a concrete work stream with clear instructions, set deadlines, and established an operating procedure.

All that remained was the biggest and most untameable fish of them all, the Uzbekistan Publishing House, the same one whose director had said it would take far too long to tell us everything there was to tell. As it happened, he really did have a fair bit to tell the new minister: the story of doctored accounts, embezzlement and the personal enrichment of company executives stretched back as far as Soviet times.

The publisher's management committee had the system working like a well-oiled machine, as well as having connections at every level of government and contacts nationwide. Naturally enough, all their documentation was in perfect order.

Uzbekistan Publishing House used to ship paper into the country by the wagonload. By simply putting two and two together, one could assert with a reasonable degree of probability that it was buying this paper «for internal use» at a government-set rate and then selling it fraudulently on the domestic market. This added up to some serious cash, which is exactly why the publisher's director put me straight in the «ignore» box and failed to comply with any one of my directives. The real power behind the throne was Mahmudjon Zaytaev6, an elderly man with power and ambition who had worked in his position for fifty years and was truly fearless.

The way the government saw it, the press was a loss-making enterprise, but it printed textbooks, homework diaries and notebooks, so it always got plenty of government contracts. But all the money stayed in private hands, while the company's some 650-strong workforce didn't even receive their wages on time.

When I got to the bottom of entire scheme, I was amazed. They were even selling waste: rolls of leftover paper for making tissues and toilet paper. All under the table, of course. They made money from absolutely everything. Meanwhile, the publisher's equipment was on its very last legs; it was constantly breaking down and in desperate need of replacement parts and general modernisation. But there were under-the-table bungs to be had even from those replacement parts.

According to my calculations, millions of dollars ended up in their pockets every single year. At the same time, the biggest publishing house in the country had been utterly pillaged and was falling apart at the seams. However, these were just my own personal inferences and conclusions. I'm not the State Prosecutor, I have no power to launch investigations, indict people or demand evidence. But nobody was going to stop me from saying what I think.

So that's what I did.

As the New Year approached, I gave the order for all company staff to be paid a holiday bonus. We built a big stage, and I invited some of Uzbekistan's most famous artists to come and perform: Sherali Jo‘rayev, Yulduz Usmanova and other singers.

That was a party and a half!

After the concert and subsequent banquet, I addressed those in attendance.

«How's everyone feeling?» – I asked. «Some of you look down in the dumps. I can see sullen faces among the crowd, why's that? It's New Year, is it not? A time for celebration. I've even just ordered another bonus to be paid out…»

And that's when a ruckus kicked up. «What bonus? None of us received anything…»

At this, the management turned pale. Even more colour drained from their faces once I started to speak casually into the microphone about how I, as director of the UAPI, had fulfilled my own responsibility by giving the order for everyone to be paid a bonus. And your own management committee had simply ignored my instructions.

«Sorry, we didn't manage it» was all they were able to muster in response.

«If you don't carry out my directives, I will have no choice but to terminate your employment» I replied. In front of everyone. Over the microphone.

They paid the bonuses on the very next day, at the earliest possible opportunity. They were clearly terrified that I didn't recognise their protocols or conventions. I can say what I think in front of everybody; I can sack people in front of everybody. That way, there's no way they can go back later and edit their termination letter to read «resigned» instead of «dismissed», and then scuttle off quietly and calmly in their chapan7.

The bonus was nothing more than pocket change in the grand scheme of things, but it served to demonstrate that the new management meant business. Then I set about tackling all the accumulated problems facing the staff. I declared my office an open zone for anyone to come and discuss their troubles or ask me any questions they might have. We had some marathon sessions, starting first thing in the morning and finishing only at 01:00, weddings, wages, holidays, medical treatment, benefits packages, passports, documents, you name it.

As an incentive, I significantly raised the salaries of all Uzbekistan Publishing House employees.

I also warned the typography department staff that if they continued to steal, they would face the consequences. True, their wages amounted to less than the bungs and they weren't all able to resist the temptation. But whoever couldn't resist was sacked.

I should add that I also increased the director's salary. Before I did, I explained how much top managers like him are worth on the open market. When we ran the numbers, his salary ought to be almost 25 million soms a month, but, in reality, it was just 2.5 million.

After discovering how much he officially received, we ended up having quite the landmark conversation.

«To work for peanuts while being responsible for billions in turnover and a team of some 650 people, you'd have to be either a fool or a thief. So, which are you?» I snickered. «When it comes to myself and my employees, neither is acceptable as far as I'm concerned».

For the management, the threat of dismissal became a daily occurrence. Don't want to follow my directives? You're fired. The onslaught was absolute and unrelenting.

After a short time, the director came to me with a request to have his employment terminated «voluntarily». «No» was my answer. There's no «voluntarily» with me, I fire people only on real grounds.

One of the typography department units was at basement level. It hadn't been renovated for fifty years. It was wet, damp and dingy. I ordered it to be sorted out and renovated within a week's time. I didn't grant a single day more than was required. The next day, the director didn't turn up to work. He just vanished into thin air, dropping everything.

The situation with the publishing house management was aggravated further by the fact that they couldn't buy me or bring pressure to bear through phone calls; I was high enough up in the hierarchy that not everyone was able to just ring me up and tell me what to do. As such, all of the publishing house veterans simply left, closing the door quietly behind themselves.

That entire cohort of senior administrators had to be swept away, and I decided to start by kicking from under their feet the pedestal from which they had previously looked down on everyone. Otherwise, they wouldn't have let me do my job. They'd either be writing slanderous reports about me, plotting against me, or looking to frame me for something or other. Another benefit of this tactic was that it let those who remained know beyond any doubt that, with me, any violation or act of sabotage would be punished. And punished they would be, irrespective of age or track record.

A check of the corporate finances revealed that the

UAPI's subsidiary publishing house, Uzbekistan, was in fact losing money, despite receiving billions of soms from government contracts. We started to look closer and saw that the company's balance sheet, and that of the Agency at large for that matter, included all sorts of non-core assets and buildings, whose operation and maintenance costs were frankly exorbitant.

The most «expensive» building on the publisher's balance sheet was the dormitory for company employees. They had been living there for decades, generations even, each and every one of them paying rent.

able to just ring me up and tell me what to do. As such, all of the publishing house veterans simply left, closing the door quietly behind themselves.

A check of the corporate finances revealed that the

I ordered our legal team to look into the matter and find a solution that would provide each family with an apartment of its own. As for the building itself, it would become a residential block like any other in the city and simply pay for its own maintenance. The legal team came up with a solution, and we were able to hand out apartments to all those people. Fifty families in total.

I went to every apartment personally, sat down, drank tea with the people there and asked: «Were there any problems with the handover? Did anyone take money from you? Or did anyone hint you should pay something to get your apartment?» They all shook their heads unanimously.

It was a big win for me, since it meant that none of those responsible for distributing the apartments had dared take even a kopek for fear of my reaction. I promised the residents that we would renovate the apartments, and we did. Then the workers cooked a huge bowl of pilaf in the building courtyard and invited me to join them. I made a speech in which I told them that the apartments had been awarded to them on behalf of the President of Uzbekistan and the Agency, and that all the documentation had been drawn up such that even once I left office nobody would be able to take them away. The people wept and thanked me profusely. Their faces were beaming. All in all, it was a really good day. Improving the lives of ordinary people is the President's primary aim.

And I, as a member of his team, was pleased that I could make even the slightest contribution to this endeavour. So many years spent with no rights to speak of, having children, getting married at their own risk and peril, and living in daily fear that they might be turfed out at a moment's notice. I hope that all is now well for them and that they remember me kindly.

In addition to this, our balance sheet included the only print media vocational training institute in the country. And preparations were in swing to close it down.

The institute's director came and told me that they had been asked to vacate the building.

«Okay. But where are our future typographers supposed to train?» – I asked.

«Once we've been shut down, nowhere!» replied the director sullenly.

«A country with more than 1,600 print media organisations and not a single educational centre to train future printers? That's just not good enough!»

We kept the institute open and pushed for amendments to the relevant Cabinet of Ministers decree. We couldn't allow ourselves to be deprived of that institute, because the internet will never totally replace books, training materials, textbooks or posters.

I then had to solve the biggest issue of all: FREEDOM OF SPEECH. How can we achieve true freedom of speech if we are subordinate to the Cabinet of Ministers, formed of representatives of ministries and government departments, and any criticism is for the most part directed squarely at them? There was a general understanding that the Agency could not be on the same level as the ministries!

I wrote an internal report to the President in which I justified my point of view, stating that the Agency could only protect the mass media if it reported directly to the Presidential Administration. This was absolutely necessary to ensure that nobody could call us up and pressure us into silence. The leadership agreed.

We increased Agency employees' salaries many times over, as you can't expect honesty from people if you're paying them peanuts. Just so you can appreciate how much we raised average wages, I'll give you the figures: from half a million soms to 18 million. After all, for such minuscule amounts, you wouldn't be able to hire quality staff. Honest people would never agree to work for wages like that.

As many liked to say at the time, I couldn't have done any of the things I did if I hadn't been «Botir Parpiyev's nephew». Granted. All the same, his was definitely the school of hard knocks.

1 UAPI – the Uzbek Agency for Print and Information. A government body responsible for the development and implementation of government policy in the spheres of print media and information.

2 Tanzila Kamalovna Narbaeva – Uzbek government representative and public figure. Served as Head of the Women's Committee of Uzbekistan from 2016-2019.

3 Ochilboy Jumaniyazovich Ramatov – government representative, appointed First Deputy Prime Minister of the Republic of Uzbekistan on 15 December 2016.

4 Laziz Tangriev – Head of UAPI from July 2017 to November 2018.

5 Dilnoza Muradovna Ziyamuhamedova – Deputy Head of Media Affairs in the Presidential Administration of Uzbekistan and senior official in the department of media, television and print development.

6 Mahmudjon Zaytaev – First Deputy Director of the Uzbekistan publishing house and creative centre.

7 Chapan – uzbek national cloack.

Parpiyev's nephew

2001 y.

When I was a first-year undergraduate at the Arts Institute, my grandfather Bahtier made a deal with his friend Abdusattor, who was working in the fire service of the Uzbekistan television and radio broadcasting company (now NTRK1), to take me on as an intern there. My parents believed that I shouldn't just lay about once my studies were over; I ought to be working, if not for money, then at least for experience. I myself wanted to get my teeth into directing television programmes and become a real TV broadcaster.

Getting a foot in the door at NTRK was no small feat: it was a very private organisation. Even for the most entry-level of roles, landing any kind of job there required connections and acquaintances. Thanks to my grandad's friend, I managed to persuade the editors of the programme Davr2 to take me on as a student intern. Mum gave me clear instructions before starting work:

«Komiljon, please don't offend or contradict anyone. Just say «yes, sir, right away, sir», whatever anyone asks, do it quickly, make sure to be useful, helpful and unassuming…»

Which I did. I did my best to be as helpful as possible in my role as deputy assistant to the assistant director. I went to get somsas3, lugged about tapes, wrote down time codes.

The director of Davr then was one Furkat Zakirov. To him, I was a useless prick. I never heard one good word or ounce of praise from him the entire time I was working there. All I ever heard was abuse and threats to fire me. I hated him as much as he hated me. He thought nothing of humiliating me and chasing me out of the studio for some utterly trivial offence. Not once did he respond to my «As-Salaam-Alaikum» («Peace be upon you»), as if a response cost money. Even to this day, I wonder how it could be so hard for someone to exchange greetings with another person.

The first flashpoint in our relationship came after a tiny piece I did as part of the Davr Tongi programme about Sevara Nazarkhan's Valentine's Day concert.

«Valentine's Day?» – he shrieked. «Are you an idiot?» Valentine's?! What sort of crap is this!» He screamed so loud that all of NTRK could hear. After that I tried my hardest to stay out of his sight as much as was physically possible. It was insulting really, nobody had ever gone over the editorial policy and expected me to know it as well as an experienced member of the team. No one ever shared those unwritten rules of television with me, but nonetheless I did my best to do everything perfectly. And for that I got screamed at. I've never liked people abusing and humiliating me. But I didn't expect any special treatment either, I simply tried my utmost to do everything properly and on time, to avoid getting a clip round the ear.

The editing and viewing room of the Davr studio out of which Furkat Zakirov chased me, and the creative team of the Davr Tongi programme.

To this very day, everything I do, I do as if Furkat Zakirov is hanging over me with his scrunched-up face screaming about how he's going to bin me from the editorial team. That's probably why all my projects have gone off without a hitch.