Allamjonov's fault

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.

II

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.

I learnt to write my pieces out of sight of prying eyes, particularly those of the director. I’d beg for permission to use the camera, then edit everything under cover of night… But I ended up producing some good stuff that was deemed fit to be shown on television. For example, I did one short piece about the «Qutqaruv-050» rescue team that even Furkat Zakirov couldn't find it in his heart to criticise. He even ended up putting it in the show's lineup.

I then did a piece on Uzbekistan's Emergencies Ministry4. It went down well enough that I decided to go to the ministry's office and show them the clip in person.

You might call it being in the right place at the right time. I was walking along the street towards the Emergencies Ministry building when, at that very moment, the head of the press service, Capt. Begmatov, just so happened to be sitting in the office of the newly-appointed minister, Botir Parpiyev, getting an earful from the general about how the information service wasn't working. It wasn’t attracting people, wasn’t creating news, wasn’t getting any TV airtime. Capt. Begmatov cut a forlorn figure as he sat there wiping his neck with a tissue, at a loss as to what to do next. The minister was right.

Just as he was leaving the office, I popped into the Emergencies Ministry building and asked if I could visit the information service. Well, you wouldn't believe how pleased the captain was to see me!

«You know what, that's exactly the sort of thing we need!» he lauded after watching the piece. Then he looked me critically up and down and said: «Tomorrow dress yourself properly, in a shirt and trousers (I was wearing shorts at the time), and come back to see the minister».

The following day, I was already standing in front of the Emergencies Ministry's doors fifteen minutes before the official start of the working day. I entered the minister's office. A uniformed Botir Rahmatovich was sitting at his desk reading something. He was a huge, veritable mountain of a man. He looked up at me.

«As-Salaam-Alaikum» – I said faintly, stepping hesitantly towards his desk. Furkat Zakirov had taught me that people weren't obliged to respond when I greeted them. But something incredible happened. The minister got up from his desk and stepped to one side, offering me his hand.

«Wa-Alaikum-Salaam. How are you?» he said, pointing to a chair as if inviting me to take a seat.

I'd forgotten why I was even there. In that moment, I was in complete shock. A fully-fledged minister had stood to greet me, a nameless student. It was probably then and there that I developed my soft spot for that man, one that endures to this very day, along with an immense sense of gratitude.

Botir Rahmatovich watched my material and really liked it.

«Well done. Now grab a pen and paper and start taking notes». This man's tie is crooked, this one's uniform cap needs straightening…and here, you shouldn't be coming in from this side, but from over here…»

I was sitting there, writing, becoming more and more depressed as he went on. A video report isn't like a newspaper article, you can't edit it in five minutes. If I want to straighten someone's crooked tie, I have to shoot the entire thing again. And back then they weren't just handing out cameras to anyone down at NTRK. There was a schedule, and journalists had to wait their turn for whatever equipment. You would take what you needed, sign it out, and only then could you go and shoot: there were strict procedures. After all that, you would then have to edit and render it.

«Did you write all that down? Have it done by tomorrow».

I don't know how I managed it, but I did. I stayed up all night and then took it to him the following morning.

«Well done. There's just this little bit here we forgot to fix yesterday, just add this there. You'll show it tonight».

The deadline was even shorter. That was the first time I had ever gone the extra mile, and it certainly paid dividends. I did everything Parpiyev asked and showed it that very evening.

«Perfect» – said the minister. «You can air it».

«Botir Rahmatovich, sir» – I almost burst out laughing. «I'm a total nobody down at the TV station, even the director doesn't deign to speak to me, much less the NTRK president. In fact, I never even see him. And only he can sign off on a story for broadcast».

«You what?» exclaimed the minister with genuine surprise. «Well, that's no problem…» He picked up the telephone and called Kuchimov5. «My dear Abusaid, thank you for your valuable help. You've got such talented guys working for you, they've made a wonderful programme».

When I arrived back at work, my second railing from Furkat Zakirov was waiting for me. As I approached him, I could see he was incensed. This time he screamed so loud that all of Tashkent could hear him. About how I'd gone over his head, hadn't asked for permission, had taken a camera out of turn. How I was a jumped-up nobody, a clueless amateur, an idiot, a fool. How I'd better not dare «put pressure on him from above» again.

From that moment on, I was between the devil and the deep blue sea. On the one hand, I needed to make the pieces that the Emergencies Ministry was requesting, but then every time I did, I had to listen to the director's hysterics about them having to rearrange the camera schedule around me all because of a call from the ministry.

I was always back late from NTRK as there was always so much to do. The last train from Navoi station left at 00:03; it was my only ride home and it was absolutely crucial that I didn't miss it. At that time, the metro was completely dead: one solitary cleaner slowly sliding her mop from one end to the other and two half-asleep policemen. Empty, echoing, dimly lit, and that smell… How I loved the smell of the metro! It was the scent of my journey home. That breeze from the tunnel and the glimmer of the approaching train… I loved that moment more than anything, it felt like a wind of freedom, liberating me from another hard day's work.

My station was the last. I would occasionally fall asleep on the way, but it didn't matter, it's not like I could miss my stop. «We are now arriving at Beruni6 station, end of the line. Be sure not to leave any personal belongings in the train». These words were my wake-up call.

There was no public transport to Beruni after midnight. I would then have to make a beeline to the taxi rank to get to the Karakamish7. To make it to my final destination, Tansikbaeva street, I had to wait for three fellow travellers to appear. We all chipped in two hundred soms, and off we went as if it was a minibus. I would then sit down in the front seat and wait for others to turn up. When it was cold, I'd ask the driver to turn on the heating and then fall asleep hugging my backpack as a pillow. Sure enough, we would get to the required number of passengers reasonably quickly.

I was almost always the last to get out, and the taxi drivers would invariably end up arguing with me: «You said you were only going to Tansikbaeva, go on, get out!» This meant having to walk the last two hundred metres. But every time I'd convince them to take me just that little bit further as I sometimes simply hadn't the energy to make it on foot.

I typically wanted to eat more than sleep at this point. My twelve-entrance apartment block home always seemed as a loaf of bread while I ran towards it. I would imagine placing two slices of Caspian pink tomato on top of it carefully, along with a sprinkle of salt.

If I left work earlier, I could go by trolleybus and then walk two stops. There was a school on the way, and I would walk past that at a perfectly normal pace, but as soon as the school railings ended and the cemetery began, I'd start running and wouldn't stop until I'd passed it completely. It was scary and dark, and every rustle of leaves from the other side of the fence would make me jump with fear. It was best just to run.

Of course, mum was always waiting for me to get home, so she could feed me. Back then, we were living in a two-room apartment, all six of us: my dad, mum, grandma, two sisters and myself.

Us, the children slept in one room with granny, on kurpachas8. She taught me how to pray. The words of the prayer grandma used to say every night before bed are forever imprinted in my mind. Though I might not have had a clue what they meant, they were soothing words on which to end the day. Later, I started to pray myself, in my own words. As I was doing so, I would stare out of the window at the stars. That's because I was convinced that God was there somewhere watching me, perched on the brightest of them all, the one I had picked for Him. Helping me even. And that any day now I was bound to become successful, rich, famous and happy.

For the time being, though, I would have to sit and wait at the NTRK security desk for someone to take me to the studio. They didn't even give me a pass, so I could only go in clinging to somebody else's coattails. If I couldn't endure any more and called, Davr's coordinator, Dilshod, would bark at me like a dog: «Don't call, everyone's already had quite enough of you. Sit and wait!» I really hope he gets to read this chapter, may God grant him many more years to come. According to him, I wasn't even worthy of a pass. It still offends me today. And it was also pretty damn offensive that, come payday, all Davr's employees used to go home with huge wads of cash, between seventy and one hundred thousand soms, while I was only worth one-and-a-half to two thousand. No doubt if it had been up to the director, he would have had me pay for dirtying his precious studio floor with my shoes.

Then came the offer for me to go and work in the Emergencies Ministry. It was the first incredible stroke of luck I had. The Emergencies Ministry building was right in the city centre, on the very spot that the Senate stands today. It was a top-level ministry and was just as hard to get into as NTRK. Truth be told, I was delighted to be able to quit Davr. At the Emergencies Ministry, my job title was Senior Specialist. They gave me a uniform and even my own ID badge. To give you an idea of the extent of my good luck, I should let it be known that, by that time, I had been kicked out of the Institute for writing my own grade in the student record book.

Recording of the programme Tax Service in the NTRK equipment room.

In the journalism faculty of Tashkent State University9, where I wanted to go to study, there was huge competition for places. Following a rational assessment of my chances of getting in, I decided to apply to the directing faculty of the Arts Institute. The plan was simple: study there one year, then transfer to the journalism faculty. Transferring was always easier. The university's Chancellor had always been very nice to me, but I was missing grades for two courses from the autumn term. For one of the courses, my classmate Dilmurad and I just about managed to convince the lecturer to give us a grade. It was no easy task given that this particular lecturer had been demoted from Vice-Chancellor to ordinary teacher because of me. I had told the Chancellor that he was a drinker. But despite that, he was still willing to help us out. My other incomplete course was «Stage Speech». The lecturer had gone away on holiday and, without that grade, there was no way I could transfer.

I was stood at the campus snack bar with a friend looking at the marks in my student record book. I took a bite out of my somsa… and gave myself a «C». Not an «A», that would have been taking the mick, so a «C» it was. I wrote the same for my friend, too. We thought that the lecturer was bound to take pity on us. She had children of her own, and our fate was in her hands. The plan was to go to her later and explain everything; she would surely understand and forgive us. We submitted the transfer documentation and waited for the approval to come.

On 2 September, we went to see the lecturer. I started in a roundabout fashion, about how I was my parents' only son, and how it had been their life's dream for me to go to Tashkent State University…

«What do you want?» – asked Hatira-opa.

«We needed transfers, so we wrote our own grades in our record books, we only gave ourselves a «C», we truly are sorry, it's just you had gone away on holiday».

I really did not expect what happened next, if I'm honest. She pounced on me as if it wasn't a grade I had forged, but the signature on her will.

«How could you, Komiljon?» That's a criminal offence! It's against the law!

And the more she rebuked me, the more I understood the severity of what I had done. Then, forging a «C» didn't seem quite as trivial as it initially had. She dragged us in front of the Chancellor and set an ultimatum: if we were not immediately excluded from the Institute, she would walk. I couldn't fault her on principle. That's how it had to be. You simply cannot afford to forgive students for deception if those students will one day be responsible for ideology. No matter how much we begged her, she would not change her mind. It was an unwavering «no»! Money, connections, nothing helped.

They called my mum and told her that her son had been kicked out of the Institute. I thought she was going to faint on the spot.

We were walking together along Kosmonavtov’s Avenue in as low spirits as I ever remember us being:

«Don't worry about it, Komiljon. I knew all along you'd never be someone important. A working man's son is destined to be a working man himself. But it's not the end of the world. Now, let's go and see your dad at work and hope he'll take you on as an apprentice. Having a trade is a good thing, too. You'll be a car mechanic».

Compared to that, I would have much preferred a beating. I knew what hopes she had invested in me, how much she believed in me. And I had made her look a fool.

2002 y.

But now they were hiring this university dropout to work in a ministry. I didn't feel resentment towards my teacher for long; it was a harsh but valuable lesson and a strong push in the right direction career-wise. But most important of all, it made me understand that, sooner or later, dishonesty will always be discovered, and it is better to get your just desserts straight away than to live with that dishonesty eating away at you, in constant fear of exposure. And even if, initially, I really wanted to go to her in my uniform, with my Emergencies Ministry badge and say something like: «See, look at me, look what I managed to make of myself…», I later realised that she actually played a big part in how my life developed. I did go to see her many years later to tell her about my success, but the tone was completely different.

Inside the Emergencies Ministry press office. We are filming a report on the activities of the Kamchik specialist search and rescue unit.

As things were, I was happy. It felt as though all my dreams were starting to come true, and I was headed for a meteoric rise.

My meteoric rise continued for nine years. Nine years of working myself to exhaustion, with no weekends or holidays, under the guidance of an unforgiving perfectionist for whom every tiny detail mattered. Either you do it flawlessly or you're worthless. During this time, I also recognised another trait I had possessed throughout my life: the ability to quickly and irreversibly make enemies.

After a year, I was completely at ease in the Emergencies Ministry information service. I was constantly coming up new ideas that Parpiyev liked, but, most importantly, I knew how to implement them. I couldn't stand it when people would interfere with my work, and I was speaking with deputy ministers like equals. Within the space of a year, I was already thinking of myself as a real specialist hired to do something at which he was properly competent. But for some reason, the management's entourage always wanted to interfere in my business specifically, despite my never interfering in anyone else's. That really got on my nerves. It's like asking the cook to make you pilaf and then distracting him with comments about how he hasn't put enough rice in the pan, or too much oil; interfering in the process, basically. Wait until the dish is ready and then criticise it if you don't like it. But everybody wanted to stick their oar in my process. That was something I had no patience for, which is why everyone said Komil Allamjonov is too petulant and impossible to manage. I could understand if I was stupid and unreliable, but I did my job and a damn good one at that! Still, everybody wanted to know the reason for the excessively «arrogant» way in which I comported myself.

Nobody could understand why Parpiyev, a man who even government officials were wary around, who never let anyone into his circle of friends, and who was extremely insular and not particularly amiable, used to treat me almost like a son. He brought me into the Emergencies Ministry, then the Customs Committee, then the Tax Service. Why did he trust me so much? We were clearly related. That's how the rumour came about that I was the general's nephew, which explained why he was helping me climb the career ladder. The evidence was «ironclad»: Parpiyev was from Andijan, his father from Margilan and my grandfather from Fergana, so it was as clear as day that he must be my uncle. In the Fergana Valley, everybody is related to one another. Case closed.

The general truly was a hard-faced man, no fan of lies or trickery, and quite unforgiving of mistakes. I wasn't permitted to make even the smallest error. He never talked to me about his personal life or free time. With him, it was all work, all the time, and he expected the same of everyone else. I was a worker. I could never let him down. I couldn't say «I can't, I won't be able to, it won't be feasible» or that I'm tired and want to go home to mummy. I listened to his instructions and carried them out. I never dragged my feet or procrastinated. It was my job performance, my perfect track record of delivering results that he liked, and that's why he took me with him from one government department to the next. Botir Rahmatovich knows the value of true professionals. He only learned about my being his «nephew» many years later, from an article in Uzmetronom10.