About how I got to Moscow

I am from the Tashkent region, born in the Chimgan Mountains region. Mom is Tatar, father is Tajik. There were five children in the family: besides me, two more brothers and two sisters. My mother worked in a canteen in a sanatorium, my father worked in a company. We lived well: a large house in a tourist area - many hotels, spacious courtyards.

After I graduated from 9th grade, my older brother died - it became very difficult for both his family and our parents. I decided not to continue studying and go to work. I also went to the canteen as an assistant and after some time I met Dzhan Sulu Istambekova (owner of the “Products” store - BG ), who began to invite me to Moscow. She seemed to me then to be a very kind, simple woman who decided to help me. She said that she would have to work in a store run by “her own people,” the Kazakhs. She promised that I would work from 8 am to 6 pm, and that the hardest part would be putting bottles of champagne on the shelves. “They have their own people there, they are kind, they will pay you a salary, you will talk to your parents every day, after work you can go somewhere and relax.” And I believed it. I was 16 years old.

I already knew Russian then - only Russian was spoken at home. I wrote a note to my parents that I was going to visit my brother in Kazakhstan for six months, so that they wouldn’t be nervous. And off she went.

The first week was fine - they only forced me to wipe the dust on the shelves. But then I began to notice that some of the girls who already worked there were walking around with bruises. I then asked others: “Why don’t you stand up for those who are being beaten?” And they answered me that if I tried to put in even a word for them, the mistress would beat me to death. And I became very scared.

About working conditions in “Products”

They immediately took my documents and said that they would do the registration. In the meantime, there is no registration - you can’t go outside. So I didn’t go outside for 10 years.

After some time, my brother called the owner and asked him to give me the phone. They put it on speakerphone and made me tell him I was fine. Then my parents called again, they were told: “But Leila is not there, Leila is on vacation, Leila has gone somewhere,” or they didn’t pick up the phone at all, as I now know.

They didn’t pay me any salary, they said, you’ll work, and then we’ll give you the whole amount at once, and you’ll go home. And I believed in this for quite a long time.

Only the landlady beat us - her husband, Saken (Saken Muzdybaev - BG ), did not touch us, but was often present during the beatings. Behind the counter she made us smile. If she had beaten us badly before, she would cover up our bruises with foundation so that customers in the store wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong. But it was still visible, so many visitors asked: “Why are you always bruised? Are you being beaten? We had to smile and answer something like “I didn’t get along with my husband.”

One day my mistress beat me for two hours straight with a rolling pin until it broke.

One day she beat me for two hours straight with a rolling pin until it broke. Because I did not have time to remove the illegal goods - some kind of flatbread - before the inspection. I lost consciousness from the blows.

We slept right in the store hall - we close in the evening, lay foam rubber on the floor and sleep. We wake up in the morning, clean up, and go behind the counter. Since the store was almost 24/7, seven days a week, it closed at 2 a.m. until 7 a.m., so we slept for 3–4 hours. And then all day long they stood like drug addicts at the checkout counter - some visitors said: “What’s wrong with your faces - do you smoke or what? Are you injected? Aren't you ashamed?

Of course, we never celebrated any holidays. Some girls even forgot what year their children were born.

There was one shower for everyone - 1-2 minutes to swim. The owner herself lived in the same house - she has two apartments. And at home she watched us from cameras hung throughout the store.

A few potatoes, pasta and two onions for a large pot - what we ate all these years three times a day. The hostess gave us her clothes - and only so that the clients would not think anything bad, so that they would not say that we were naked, dirty and cold. The only shoes I had were slippers - I didn’t have any street shoes: why should we, if we can’t go out there? When they started letting me go to the market, I also went there in slippers.

Workers were also almost not allowed to talk to each other. If the owner saw this, she immediately separated him, interrogated him and forced him to work even harder.

And so for 10 years - the same program: you get up at seven in the morning, work until two, go to bed, get up in the morning - again. And all the time it’s scary, all the time you think: what kind of mood is the hostess in today? Will he mock or carry it away?

About why she didn't run away

Now everyone is asking us: why didn’t we resist, didn’t strangle the mistress, didn’t rebel against her. You see, they intimidated us so much that I don’t even know how to explain it. When we saw her, we were afraid to even raise our eyes, move our hands, and forgot all the words. I couldn’t not only go home, I couldn’t even tell her that I wanted to go home.

Run towards passers-by shouting “Help!” — useless, and we all understood that. When they beat us, the screams could be heard throughout the entire store - when, for example, Zarina’s fingers were broken in the middle of the working day, she screamed terribly. But none of the visitors reacted. Many times I heard someone screaming near a store on the street, and no one was even interested in what was happening there. Or another client told how a passerby was beaten by 10 people before his eyes, and no one helped him. I asked: “Why didn’t you help?” “Do I need this?” And as for us - the Kazakhs and Uzbeks - no one cares at all. Even if they killed us completely.

And sometimes the local police officers simply came in, took what they wanted from the counters - sausage, vodka, champagne - and left without paying

Periodically, one of us would run away and go to the police. At the nearest station, No. 140, we were constantly turned around. Some local residents also went there with complaints - to no avail. Our owners constantly paid bribes to the cops, so they, on the contrary, helped them return those who escaped back to the store

One day, the wife of my deceased brother called me and asked if everything was okay with me and if it was possible to send her daughter, Zarina, to me for the holidays. I couldn’t say “don’t, it’s bad here” - firstly, the relatives were sure that everything was fine, and secondly, the hostess was standing nearby. Plus, the hostess promised to let me and my niece go home later. I believed and thought that if they let me go, I would tell everything and save all the girls - that was my plan. But everything turned out as usual: they didn’t let anyone go.

Zarina's housewife broke her fingers because she overlooked expired yoghurts in the dairy department. She hit her with the door keys on her back - she still has holes from the blows. After that, I couldn’t stand it, I ran to the police again, to another department, I wrote a statement, but they sent it again to station No. 140. From then on, the mistress began to beat me even more.

The district police often came to us. And Zarina, for example, was a messenger - she brought them money from the hostess, most often 10 thousand rubles. And sometimes they just came in, took what they wanted from the counters - sausage, vodka, champagne - and left without paying.

About children and liberation

In 2006, we got married to one of the store employees, also Kazakh. Of course, we didn’t go to the registry office, we weren’t allowed to go out - they just started giving birth to children. I gave birth first to a son, then to a daughter. For the birth, the hostess took me to hospital No. 36.

My children spent almost all the time in the neighboring house - with a nanny and the owner's children. They rarely brought my son to me, about once every six months. He was also often kicked and hit with a rolling pin, and he constantly walked around with bruises.

And this year, on May 12, the owner offered to take my daughter away from me for good - she said, let’s send her to Kazakhstan so that she can be in the fresh air, go to kindergarten, swim in the pool - she will be better there. I thought: I work here around the clock, they beat me, my son too, and my daughter is fragile and won’t stand it, and I gave the owner permission.

Four months passed, the owner came, sobbed, and said: “Your daughter fell from the second floor and is now in a coma - most likely she will not survive. Such a case already happened several years ago: one of our girls gave birth to a daughter, and her mistress took her in the same way: “Your daughter is my daughter.” And a year or two later she came and cried: “Your daughter died, either from anemia or from meningitis.”

I was afraid to even ask: “Is my child even alive?” And then I firmly decided: I’ll run away. He will kill and kill - what's the point if they have already killed my daughter, and they are beating me and my son half to death.

Once the owner sent me to the market with her driver - she recently started letting me go there because she realized that I wouldn’t go anywhere without my son. And I called the driver’s phone to the girl - who worked for us many years ago and whose parents took her - so that she could contact my daughter-in-law Tajin and ask for help. As a result, Tajin reported everything to human rights activists, and they came for us.

When we were released, we were driven by car through the entire city - for the first time in 10 years I saw Moscow, the wide streets and the Kremlin. I really hope to have time to walk around the city before leaving home so that I have something to tell about Moscow.

How to become a slave