# Allamjonov's fault

Komil Allamjonov

The book you are holding in your hands contains the story so far of my not-quite-yet long life. It is not a work of fiction nor is it intended as a treatise. If a young person reads this book and finds even the slightest motivation in it, it will only make me happy. And if you find some mistakes (spelling, stylistic, etc.), don't judge me too harshly. While working on the book, we had our fair share of differences of opinion. In my own personal opinion, if someone has a pure heart and pure intentions, then Allah will protect him or her.Books like this one should be commonplace and not sensational; our country ought to produce many such works. And if we do manage to inspire someone to read it, despite our fears about publishing books in this novel format, then we'll just keep on in the same vein. Many times in my life, I have relied on Allah and achieved that which I set out to do. As I intend to do the same on this occasion, it means that whatever happens was always destined to be.

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»).


I

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.

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.

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.


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.

Many people simply cannot understand that trust is earned with hard work and loyalty – by being fair and honest with people. They can't even get their head around it as a concept. For them, the only justification for someone trusting somebody else is that blood is thicker than water.

I didn't stay much longer at the Emergencies Ministry after Parpiyev left. But I do believe that the qualitative improvement in that department's information service was down to me personally.

Back then, nobody knew anything about the Emergencies Ministry; people had no idea that rescue personnel even existed because they were never shown in the media.

Meanwhile, the head of the department, Colonel Irgash Ikramov, was a stickler for cleanliness. Whenever he came to the building, the yard had to have been watered and his office had to smell like rue. For that reason, every single day, the yard would be scrubbed clean, and the rescue equipment polished until it sparkled, despite the fact that it was new and completely unused.

Initially, in a bid to drum up interest, we did some staged shoots inspired by past events, as-it-happened reconstructions. In actuality, we splotched ketchup on drivers to look like blood, like in films, and recreated floods and fires as they do for training exercises. We broadcast heroic content to show people how the Emergencies Ministry operates. Later, we started going to incidents with our camera and putting together pieces from live footage.

When the programme started to gain serious traction and real calls to the Rescue Service started to come in on the emergency number 050, the rescuers couldn't keep up. They made all sorts of rescues, from cats stuck down wells, to people trapped in lifts.

I remember one time, at the Zhemchug11, a man had decided to end it all by jumping from his ninth-floor apartment balcony. All the different services arrived together, and the rescuers were barely able to talk him out of jumping. They talked with him for four hours in affectionate, soothing tones. They persuaded him that we are only given one life, that everything was going to be okay. It was just like in a Hollywood movie. But when the man finally came down, they gave him a boot up the backside, swore at him and packed him off to a mental hospital as a suicide risk. To be fair, he'd just stolen four hours of their lives!

The rescue teams were often called out to accidents, where they would have to pull out people trapped in their cars. We started to show such incidents, making sure to highlight any incompetence by employees of the State Road Traffic Safety Department. Announced as the new Emergencies Minister was Bahtier Subanov, who up until then had been the Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs and who, in addition to the Emergencies Ministry, was also in charge of the State Motor Vehicle Inspectorate. It all looked like an act of revenge between former colleagues.

Subanov handed control of the press service to his own man, who then banned us from showing deaths or criticising the Ministry of Internal Affairs in our programme.

I fell in line and continued airing the kind of material I felt was needed. Oh, how it used to get on the nerves of Minister of Internal Affairs Zakir Almatov! You should have seen how they used to talk to me. The Ministry of Internal Affairs even got an addressing down from the Presidential Administration because of my stories. The Tashkent Internal Affairs Directorate went as far as to set up an «Allamjonov gagging unit». I was told that the Tashkent IAD was planning to plant cannabis on me and lock me up. That was a typical tactic they used on uncooperative individuals.

I arrived one morning at work to find police everywhere; they were looking for Allamjonov. Once again, I found myself at the centre of a scandal. It was Colonel Ikramov who saved me that time, interceding for me, saying that it wasn't right to destroy my life. For a month after that, I lived in fear. I wouldn't leave the house. Every day the traffic police would stop my driver on the street and give him grief for some nonexistent reason.

My entire first salary at the Emergencies Ministry went on drinks with my old colleagues. They referred to it as «popping the cork». So, after waiting all that time to be able to take it home to show my mum, I went and poured it down my drinking companions' necks instead. They reserved a table at a cafe just beside Shark12. Nothing of my first salary left that table with me. Only a few kopeks, which I took home.

My second salary, too, went the way of the first. But what could I say to those two dashing soldiers? Nothing.

The third time I had to use all my cunning and ask the cashier to give me my wages after everyone else. I took them and quickly ran home, so that my enthusiastic bosses and friends couldn't find me this time.

2005-2006 yy.

When he was President of the State Tax Committee, Parpiyev's first deputy was a man named Erkin Fayzievich Gadoev. Now, at the time, Islam Abduganievich Karimov pursued a divide-and-conquer policy. Ministers' deputies were always secretly opposed to them. It's possible that this gave Karimov more information about what was really going on, but it killed teamwork dead and only encouraged back-room dealings and intrigue. In the hierarchical structure, everyone was loyal to somebody: there were Parpiyev's people, Gadoev's people, Azimov's people. If you wanted to govern effectively in such conditions, you had to develop your own unique tactics. When Parpiyev came to the Tax Committee, he asked everyone to submit letters of resignation. He said he was going to put a new team together. They all handed in their resignations. Then Botir Rahmatovich sat down, set up calls to everyone he wanted for each position and put together an entire recruitment map for the Committee. Incredible!

It always amazed me how Parpiyev's deputy would kill all of his directives right off the bat. I was «Parpiyev's man». At that time, I was already working for the State Tax Committee press service.

«What are you here for?», «Why do we need that?» were the rhetorical questions Gadoev would ask every time I came in to see him, even if it was about something urgent. He wouldn't offer any help either, of course.

We planned to release a photo album book celebrating the sixteenth anniversary of Uzbek independence. It was to include all the changes and achievements that had been made both in the department and in taxation at large. A working group was set up, with me at the helm; the only snag was that I had no official authority. So, there I am running around, collecting information, trying to get people to bring me statistics, and everyone is just fobbing me off, ignoring me or, if they did give me something, it invariably turned out to be completely useless.

I decided to go and see Parpiyev. The album was all but finished, there were just a few bits and pieces we needed to add.

«Get this book finished sharpish, I want to show it to the President in a few days» he said. He then called Gadoev and told him to help me; «I'm on it» came the reply.

I went up to Gadoev.

At one of many State Tax Committee staff meetings.

«What on Earth are you thinking? How can we have a book ready in four days? Who writes a book in four days?»

«Erkin Fayzievich» I said, «It's almost ready, I just need…»

Gadoev wouldn't listen to what I needed. Instead, he started to grumble and talk down to me in his usual manner. He didn't give me any information either.

That's what it means to be between the devil and the deep blue sea. Later, the bigwigs would work things out between themselves, and I'd be left out in the cold. I'd be the one to blame, naturally, of that I had no doubt. Anyone can be destroyed and replaced in this world. What does that mean for a nobody like me? It truly was scary, I felt like a little fish caught between two huge whales that can't even sense my presence. One thing that made Parpiyev unique was that he never forgot anything and was able to monitor every hour of every day whether things were getting done or not. I told him I was on the case, but nothing was actually getting done.

There was no other option. I had to go and see him.

«Botir Rahmatovich, I won't be able to get the book finished on time. Erkin Fayzievich shouted at me and kicked me out of his office. He says it's a waste of time. What should I do?»

It was clear that the general was extremely annoyed. But he kept silent before issuing a curt: «Go…»

There was a meeting on Monday. I hated all those Monday morning meetings with a passion, and this one even more than usual. I almost overslept because I hadn't got to bed until the early hours. I legged it to work and put on my uniform. The meetings always started on the dot, being late simply wasn't an option.

I sat down, sluggish, blue in the face, with puffy eyes, only half-listening to what the committee president was saying. But I noticed that every time he said something, he would turn to his deputy. He would float an idea and then ask Gadoev's opinion, whereupon Gadoev would delicately and eloquently tear it to pieces.

Then, all of a sudden, Parpiyev banged his fist on the table so hard all the tea pots went flying, jolting us all awake in an instant.

«Erkin Fayzievich, do you think I'm an idiot? You say 'no' to all my directives. You take issue with all my ideas and frustrate all my efforts at reform!»

He stood up, sending his chair flying off to one side. He snapped the pencil he was holding and threw the pieces onto the floor. A deadly hush fell over the room, everybody was on edge.

«Take Allamjonov here!» He scanned the attendees with his eyes until he located me. I gripped my chair tightly and felt a sudden strong urge to visit the toilet. «I told him to make me a book, but you sent him away. Why did you tell him it was a waste of time?»

«I didn't say that, I mean…» – said Gadoev attempting to defend himself. It was obvious that he was terrified.

Parpiyev took off his glasses, threw them onto the table and left the room, slamming the door so hard that the walls shook.

Meanwhile, I stayed where I was, hoping my chair would swallow me up. Gadoev gave everyone a look as if to intimate that the meeting was over. Everybody went their separate ways in silence.

Then he approached me.

«May I talk to you for a second? Where's your office?»

We stepped into my office, and he immediately started backing me into a corner with question after question.

«What did I ever do to you? Why did you set me up like that?»

In an effort to save my skin, I had to think on my feet:

«Erkin Fayzievich, Botir Rahmatovich asked me a question, and I answered it… I said you were concerned that the book wouldn't be good enough if it's written in four days. He asked and I answered, that's all there is to it. He just didn't understand me correctly».

Naturally, he didn't believe me.

The truth – that I had indeed set him up big time – became apparent a few minutes later. Everyone received a message telling them to go to their offices and that nobody was to leave. We stayed in the building well into the evening, in our offices. The president, on the other hand, did not. As I later realised, that was to prevent any information from leaking out. To make sure Gadoev couldn't muster his men, tanks and heavy artillery.

The very next day Prime Minister Shavkat Miromonovich Mirziyoev13 came for a meeting and Gadoev was relieved of his position. However, he had been first deputy for many years and had still managed to rouse his tanks into action. They kept him on as Deputy President of the Committee and Chancellor of the The Academy14; he just left the State Tax Committee and stopped interfering in our internal business.

In his place came current Deputy Prime Minister Behzod Anvarovich Musaev. The liberal wing of our political landscape. He was an easy man to work with.

Then came my turn to give up working for the State Tax Committee, and indeed government service altogether. The decision was neither spontaneous nor long-considered, simply the only option I had.

In every government department that Botir Rahmatovich ran, he wrote the agendas of the weekly meetings himself. They were nothing like the typical get-togethers with boring reports that were over in a flash and then back off to work you went. Every single one was an inquisition. His aides would prepare questions for every department with the potential to really trip up their respective heads. Information was collected, which Parpiyev would then distribute at the meeting. Whoever took to the podium to give an account of what their department had achieved was taking a big risk. All the department heads would resort to cunning and ask Dilshod Turahonov not to include their division in the order of business. Perhaps they paid him not to, I don't know. The end result was that I tended to be the one who took the podium and suffered on everybody else's behalf. But the General wasn't about to feel sorry for me. Meanwhile, Chief of Staff Dilshod Turahonov had taken a particular disliking to me and tried to make me look a fool every time.

In the end, I'd had enough of it all. Surely there were other issues of importance in the Tax Committee besides me? I put together a reporting schedule that included all the departments, even the chancellery (the only exception was security), took it to Parpiyev and told him that the meetings had been far too one-sided of late. Let everyone give their reports one by one, every department should be able to demonstrate its work. He agreed and signed the document.

After that, whenever they dragged me up onto the podium, I would talk about everyone who wasn't doing their job. As a result, my esteemed colleagues decided to move me to «Turahonov's list», so that I wouldn't be called up to speak. They probably all chipped in together.

They never forgave me for that move, and I ended up paying dearly for it. They put together some sort of false report. I can't even remember what they accused me of, it was so absurd and unjust. For the first time in nine years, Parpiyev tore me to pieces in a meeting in front of everyone, and I couldn't even defend myself. That's when I realised my time there was at an end.

But I wanted to leave on good terms. Even after nine long years I still hadn't forgotten his first «Wa-Alaikum-Salaam» when I greeted him. The fact that he treated me like a grown-up and not some errand boy. I came to see him.

«Let him in» – said Botir Rahmatovich to .

The following day, I came to his office and told him that I wanted to leave to start my own business.

«Are you upset about something?» – he asked.

«No, of course not! What would I have to be upset about?»

«You're upset…» said the General. «I can tell. Go on then, give me your resignation. Best of luck to you».

I left, but to this day I'm still eternally grateful to Botir Rahmatovich for the life lessons and the discipline he taught me. To always roll with the punches and believe in the impossible. And that there's no such thing as «can't». Come to think of it, he basically raised me as if he really was my uncle.

Anyway, off I went into business, where I earned my first million. I had been trying to make money since I was a young boy, but it hadn't always worked out.

1 NTRK – National Television and Radio Company.

2 DAVR – collage of informational programmes produced for NTRK's Yoshlar channel.

3 Somsa – baked uzbek dish similar to patty with meat.

4 Emergencies Ministry – Ministry of Emergencies of the Republic of Uzbekistan.

5 Abdusaid Kuchimov – Uzbek journalist, President of the National Television and Radio Company of Uzbekistan from 1997-2005.

6 Beruni – the last station on the Oʻzbekiston line of the Tashkent metro.

7 Karakamysh – an area in the Almazarskiy district of Tashkent.

8 Kurpacha – uzbek mattresses with cotton filling.

9 Tashkent State University – Tashkent State University, renamed in 2000 to the «Mirzo Ulugbek National University of Uzbekistan».

10 Uzmetronom – an independent website in Uzbekistan. Blocked until May 2020.

11 Zhemchug – experimental building in Tashkent which houses the famous Zhemchug store.

12 SHARK – a publishing company.

13 Shavkat Mirziyoyev – from December 2003 to December 2016, Shavkat Mirziyoyev held the position of Prime Minister of the Republic of Uzbekistan. Then, from 14 December 2016 to the present day, he has been the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan.

14 The Academy – Tax Academy of the State Tax Committee.


III

Sugar, a Bath,


a Press, and


a Measuring Jug

During the nineties, our family wasn't rich, but at least we had stability. Mum was a midwife and dad was a car mechanic; children were constantly being born and cars were constantly breaking down, which meant my parents were always in demand. My parents’ greatest wish was to give their children a good education. That's why when I reached sixth form, mum transferred me to the gymnasium at Tashkent State University, which later went on to become an academic lyceum. She made the transfer without paying any bribes, she simply didn't know that you were expected to.

Money is a remarkable thing, and it had always fascinated me. I'll start by saying that I had no intention of living like everyone else, from paycheck to paycheck. I was utterly convinced that when I grew up, I'd have lots of money and would be able to buy myself anything I wanted. The only thing was, I didn't want to wait that long. I wanted to get rich right now and be like the new idols everyone in our neighbourhood looked up to: shopkeepers, tea bar owners, pasta industrialists, popcorn merchants. They had new cars, trainers, jeans, tracksuits – they were on top of the world.

By that time, the communist ideology had completely disintegrated. All our neighbours were talking about was business, about how to make quick, easy money.

We were thirteen and always wanted pocket money. Among my peers, there were many who had part-time jobs. Some used the money to help their families, while others used it to fund their own little dreams. One day I went to work for my cousin at his popcorn factory. I immediately realised that such a life wasn't for me, slaving away all day for a few kopeks.

What did they have me doing there? Well, I had to load the corn into the grinder, then transfer it to a special machine that used high pressure and hot air to pop the corn and turn it into the tasty treat you buy at the shop. They paid you per kilogram of finished product. So you'd think you'd done a boat-full, like ten kilos, but in the end there'd only be half a kilo at most. After calculating the output, my cousin didn't pay me for the work I'd done. When I got home, I put my «earnings» on the table and collapsed on the bed fully clothed, sleeping through to the morning. The following morning, I realised that being a hired hand wasn't my cup of tea.

And it wasn't because the work was hard. It was because you had to work for peanuts while lining someone else's pockets; I could never forgive capitalism for that. I tried making popcorn myself (my friends and I sold it at school). Then, it didn't seem half as exhausting. Because we were working for ourselves. Sure, our popcorn wasn't in particularly high demand. It was always burnt and didn’t taste particularly appealing. That was my first business lesson: you’ve got to have a good product if you want people to buy it.

Thus, at the tender age of thirteen, I decided to become a sugar baron. Then I'd be able to buy myself a bike. No one with a bicycle would let me ride theirs anymore, and my parents had told me firmly: «No bike for you, Komiljon. Even without one, you get up to all sorts of mischief: you've already run away from home and, if you had a bike, how would we ever find you?»

My business plan was as following: buy a sack of sugar, turn it into sugar lumps and sell them for slightly more than I paid. The difference in price would be my profit.

I rented a fully equipped, turnkey sugar processing plant. «Fully equipped turnkey sugar processing plant» makes it sound better than it actually was. In reality, it was an old, abandoned residential building that no one lived in anymore. In terms of equipment, it came with a mill, a press, some plywood board, a bath, a hot air blower and a 1.5-litre measuring jug. First things first, you had to turn the sugar into powder. Then, you had to tip it all into the bath and pour in one and half litres of cold water. The powder would then become crunchy and moist, a bit like snow. Next, you had to squash it down with the press, place the resultant sheet on the plywood board, and then cut out perfectly shaped cubes. Finally, you would dry them in the room with the hot air blower. In the space of a day, you could turn one sack of sugar into the sort of sugar cubes people would buy as presents on national holidays.

Dad's clientele at the garage included many shopkeepers. He also asked his friends to sell my sugar.

My sugar-processing plant was a one-man band: I was simultaneously the workforce, the cleaner, the delivery boy, and the CEO. Before I leased the plant, I offered my friends the opportunity to be my partners, but they refused. They probably made the right decision as, two weeks later, my business was rocked by its first financial crisis. Granulated sugar suddenly disappeared from the markets and then, when it returned, was more expensive. That meant that the small difference in price that had allowed me to a make a profit was now gone. But the interesting thing was that my friends hadn't refused because they saw the crisis coming, but rather because they couldn't be bothered and didn't see the point. We had grown up together, but now our outlooks on life were poles apart.

Now, I'm not saying that everybody should pursue wealth. There are some people who genuinely don't need it and who have their own dream to follow. People have all sorts of dreams and aims; they might want to be a doctor, a mountain climber, a pilot, a traveler, a journalist, or a writer. For the new generation of such children, money is becoming more and more of an inconvenience. However, if your aim is to get rich, then just one dream and an education is not enough. You need to have a good work ethic. If you're not willing to go all in on your business, it's best not to bother starting one. Enterprise is not for the lazy.

I wasn't lazy. I was just unlucky with the economic situation and didn't manage to make it as a sugar baron. But I never gave up trying to get ahead. I found it interesting, the process itself, exercising self-control over money, organising my own business. And the failures only made my desire to succeed stronger.

Anyone who remembers the nineties will agree with me. The economic and political situation in the country was very interesting indeed. We were suddenly presented with a whole host of ways to make money. You were no longer a black marketeer, you were an entrepreneur. Like mushrooms after rainfall, pharmacies, pool halls, saunas, and retail shops started popping up. It was unbridled freedom to do whatever you wanted.

With a classmate after a concert at the Palace of Culture.

But at the same time, following the shattering of communist ideals, there was no clear idea of what direction the country ought to be headed. It was also a time that saw immense growth in religious extremism. Many people became borodachi («bearded ones») of the sort Karimov was constantly fighting. It was a truly anxious time, filled with terrorist acts, explosions, and the like. And the government's official ideology became Musaffo osmon1. It stated that the most important thing was that the sky above us should be peaceful and there ought to be no war. As an idea, it wasn't bad, but it didn't fit with the emergence of the super-rich. The country's government was concerned that this new class could threaten the peaceful status quo. By all means, earn money, but don't get too big for your boots. You can buy yourself a car, a home, even keep a stash of gold in your biscuit tin, just don't have ambitions of becoming an oligarch.

That's why it was so hard to get into manufacturing; they only let their own into that business. Generally speaking, everyone was interested only in making a fast buck: something you invest in today and start seeing a return tomorrow, a business that you could painlessly bin off anytime and switch for something else. There weren't many people who planned to build a business empire to last a century. That's why, in our country, there are so few stories of people becoming rich from owning long-standing manufacturing or production businesses.

1998-1999

At the gymnasium, my classmates included the child-ren of public prosecutors and members of parliament, and I felt a constant need to prove to everybody around me that I was no less worthy than them. It wasn't bribes and phone calls that got me in, I was there for my brains. My parents may have been simple folk, but they never let anyone look down their nose at them. One notable example of me following in their footsteps came after our headmaster commented in front of everyone:

«Focus on your studies, Allamjonov, you'll never get a contract. I mean, your parents aren't exactly going to give you one».

In response I slashed the tires of his new Moskvich car. That's how I coped with being humiliated in front of the entire class.

My classmates began treating me nicely, especially after I formed my own group, Fun Boys, and we started to put on shows. I was the group's director. We used to make fun of the teachers. Not all of them, of course, just those we thought were bad at their job, excessively strict, or who took bribes.

One I remember is the «D and a half» teacher. No matter how well you did your homework, she'd always give it a «D and a half» That grade didn't even exist. She invented it herself as a way of putting us down. In our performance, «she» came out on stage and said:

After the Fun Boys show with classmates.

«I'm a physics teacher, my name is Muhtazar, and even after forty years, I haven't found a man who'll marry me».

Sure, it was harsh. It was after that that they called me in to see the headmaster. I listened to everything he had to say. But I didn't stop doing the shows.

At first, tickets were free. Then I thought, why? We were all putting so much effort into the lineup, the sketches, the music, and we were successful, so why should everybody get to enjoy it for nothing?

I went to my mum for the start-up capital we needed to organise the shows. I had to print tickets and flyers. Mum offered to ask dad for me, but I admitted I was afraid what he'd say. I was especially scared of telling dad what I needed the money for. My mum had always believed in me, and so she gave me 10,000 soms out of her own savings.

I got my friends to agree to sell tickets. None of them went to their parents for financial assistance; that was the organiser's problem or, in other words, mine. And my parents helped me.

I managed to secure us sponsors. The owner of the Turkish biscuit brand Aylin transferred 25,000 soms to the school's account. Of that, the headmaster gave me one and a half grand for amplifiers, I never saw any of the rest. He obviously swindled us.

Another one of our sponsors was Radio-Page2, which advertised our shows for free. Nestle gave out little plastic cups of their coffee and also put up some of their branded umbrellas. I had to ride all over the city making pitch after pitch to find and land those three sponsors. Nobody else apart from them agreed to help us at all.

I called Ravshan Sobirov's, Gulya Talipova's, and countless other artists' managers, asking if they'd consider appearing for free at our show. They agreed.

We didn't sell over a thousand tickets, of course, but we did sell a whole two hundred. The rest of the places we filled with courtesy tickets. To avoid looking bad in front of the sponsors, I got the director of the children's home to bring along his pupils.

Everybody had arrived. But…none of the artists had turned up. I called everyone, nobody was picking up. The audience were all clapping, an hour went by and still not one artist. After much scrambling, we managed to find one.

Fledgeling singer Davron Ergashev came and kicked off proceedings. Then we found a professional MC, who luckily agreed to host our event. Next, we found some guy who looked like the singer Otabek Madrahimov; we turned out the lights, hit the special effects, and out he came miming over a backing track.

We ran a few quizzes; the guests drank Nestle coffee. My career as a producer was safe.

Granted, someone did steal one of the Nestle umbrellas. They called my mum about it, and she went to fetch her own umbrella to give as a replacement. But they told her that they had paid for it in dollars, a currency my mother had never even seen with her own two eyes.

I managed to convince the CEO of Nestle to forget about the theft. I don't know why he agreed to drop it, probably because of how equally sad and honest I looked. As you might expect, I split the money from the ticket sales with my friend and partner, Sardor. We bought ourselves some cool sunglasses and trainers. It felt as though we were like real big-time events managers. I gave mum back a grand of the ten she'd given me and, with that, all the profit was gone.

But I didn't mind. For eight hundred people to come to the show, I think there was definitely an element of luck involved. And even some help from on high. I simply don't know what would have happened if we hadn't found the artists, most likely I would have had to get up and sing myself.

During my younger years, any foray into business was always an adventure. Nowadays, budding entrepreneurs learn how to put together clear and exhaustive business plans, count their money and calculate opportunities, analyse the market and evaluate their competition. Back then, though, we just latched ourselves onto an idea and ran with it, without any sort of plan. Our boat didn't need a rudder or even an oar, we just used to go whichever way the wind took us. And then, only once we'd set off on our journey did we realise what we needed to do to make money. That experience was the inspiration for my project Soliq-Info.

1 Musaffo osmon – «Serenety sky» the ideology widely used in Uzbekistan to exaggerate the public value of peace in the country

2 Company Radio PAGE Semurg – a paging company.


IV

Soliq-Info

During Karimov's reign, the only truly independent outlet, the editor of which everybody knew by face and name, was Uzmetronom. We would use a proxy server to visit it every day and read insider news, which editor Sergey Ezhkov used to present as «letters to the editor». But I have since realised that this resource was nothing more than an instrument for settling scores and had nothing to do with true freedom of speech.

At that time, if you wanted to go to President Karimov with a report, you needed grounds, so they would take a printout from Uzmetronom and say: «Look, this is what the press is writing…» The «press», meanwhile, was quite happy to pump out anything you asked them to. My name dominated the pages of the publication, Sergey Aleksandrovich took every step I made and put his own deft, artistic spin on it. His writing style was always top-class, but facts were rather lacking. There was just enough truth to give it an air of credibility.

It was he who «designated» me as «Parpiyev's nephew», and all of my successes, which were in actual fact failures, he attributed to my family connections.

An article in which he criticised the newspaper Soliq-Info for its compulsory subscription model featured the caption: «We already have a paper called Tax and Customs News, why does our country need another?». However, he neglected to mention that NTV was also a private publication that lived off compulsory subscriptions, just like all state-run publications, and even self-sustaining ones like Pravda Vostoka, Narodnoe Slovo, Na Postu, as well as a whole other host of newspapers and magazines. Virtually 99% of all the country's publications were compulsory subscriptions, but it was me who got all the «credit», even though I wasn't breaking any laws. The owners of all the other publications were kind enough to keep quiet. But that was to be expected. In those days, the harsh censorship regime wouldn't let you write the truth and, if a newspaper doesn't have anything inflammatory in it, no one will buy it. The government ensured subscriptions in exchange for loyalty.