Introduction

During our ethnographic fieldwork in Istanbul, we spent most of our time wandering the streets of the Kumkapi neighborhood, where it is possible to spot hundreds of Uzbek migrants who reside and/or work there. For us, two legal ethnographers who have conducted fieldwork among Uzbek labor migrants in Russia since 2014, these ever-increasing Uzbek migratory flows to Turkey and the emergence of an “Uzbek ethnic enclave” in the middle of Istanbul came as no surprise. Our daily observations and conversations in Moscow and Fergana already provided us with clues that Russia’s draconian “entry-ban” law (introduced in 2013–2014) would force many entry-banned Uzbek migrants to reroute their migration destination from Russia to Turkey or to Kazakhstan. These assumptions were confirmed during our daily chats and observations in Kumkapi: many Uzbek migrants we encountered were Rossiyskiy migrantlar (Russia’s migrants, i.e., migrants who previously worked in Russia) compelled to reorient to the Turkish labor market due to their Russian entry ban. Given these tendencies, the comparison between Russian and Turkish migration regimes arose spontaneously and frequently during many interviews with Uzbek migrants. When comparing their migrant adventures in Russia and Turkey, our informants drew a striking comparison between the two migration situations: one that goes a long way in explaining Uzbeks’ often-stated preference for Russia: “Turkda iymon bor, lekin insof yoq. Orisda iymon yoq, lekin insof bor”, which, roughly translates as, “Turks have faith [in Islam] but no sense of justice; Russians have no faith [in Islam] but a sense of justice”.

These remarks led us to rethink our pre-fieldwork assumptions that Uzbeks would feel “closer” to Turkey for a host of linguistic, cultural, religious, economic and legal reasons (cf. Bashirov, 2018). Unlike in Russia, where migrants endure a punitive legal environment and police corruption, Uzbek migrants in Istanbul need not pay bribes to Turkish police officers and can find work without any residence or work permit owing to the relatively liberal immigration legal regime. However, despite these challenges, many of the Uzbek migrants we encountered in Istanbul, especially those who had previously worked in Russia, were unhappy with their migration experience in Turkey, and planned to return to Russia as soon as their entry bans expired. The reasons for such negative comparisons often stemmed from the informality, the modes of incorporation into the labor market, the role of social networks and the importance of having a shared sense of “the rules of the game” under the conditions of informal employment.

Accordingly, the primary question driving our analysis in this chapter relates to an attempt to understand how and why, despite all of the challenges associated with navigating the repressive legal landscape in Russia, many of the Uzbek migrants we met in Istanbul felt that Moscow offered greater agency and opportunity than life in Istanbul. Our informants’ intriguing comments about iymon and insof and how they relate to Russians and Turks represent the “itch” this chapter attempts to scratch. Our key argument is that, no matter how liberal or restrictive the immigration legal regime is, migrants’ life trajectories, labor market incorporation and economic success in non-Western, nondemocratic migration contexts such as Russia and Turkey hinge upon informal regulatory practices, power geometries, extralegal negotiations, struggles and alliances. Thus, we suggest that the investigation of migrants’ experiences of the labor market and working conditions in non-Western migration locales should extend beyond “formal–informal” work (Schneider, 2014; Williams & Lansky, 2013) or “legal–illegal” status (Coutin, 2003; De Genova, 2002) binaries. Instead, such investigations should also examine the role of informal practices, struggles, alliances and extralegal negotiations among various actors involved in the migration industry. Such an approach may provide a more nuanced understanding of how things work within a migrant labor market.

Based on these considerations, in this chapter, we comparatively explore the Russian and Turkish migration regimes in terms of Uzbek migrants’ position in these migrant labor markets, patterns of incorporation into the labor market, gendered employment relations and experiences of agency and the capacity to navigate various risks and uncertainties under the conditions of informal employment. In doing so, we explore the Russian and Turkish migrant labor markets as two specific migration arenas with their own inner orders and regulatory structures, focusing on the daily interactions, struggles and alliances among employers, intermediaries, migrant workers and other relevant actors. In the sections that follow, we also provide a “thick description” to illustrate these processes.

The Political Economy of Migrant Labor Markets in Russia and Turkey

Russia has become one of the key immigration hubs internationally in the last two decades. The exact number of labor migrants in contemporary Russia has been the topic of speculation given that different state bodies as well as experts provide varying figures.Footnote 1 According to the World Migration Report 2020, the foreign-born population in Russia exceeds 11 million people, rendering the country one of the top five recipients of migrants in the world (IOM, 2019). More than half of migrant workers in Russia originate from the three Central Asian countries of Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan. These migratory processes were driven largely by the rapidly growing Russian economy and the declining working-age population, on the one hand, and economic stagnation, poverty, high unemployment rates and extremely low salaries in the Central Asian republics, on the other (Denisenko & Chernina, 2017). Another contributing factor was the visa-free border regime under a Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS) agreement allowing citizens from most post-Soviet republics to enter Russia without restrictions (Abashin, 2014). However, despite their visa-free regime, many Central Asian migrants become undocumented once they fail to comply with Russian immigration rules: that is, failing to obtain a work permit and residence registration. The costly and complicated legalization system discussed in detail in the previous chapter has pushed hundreds of thousands of migrants from Central Asia into becoming undocumented.

Mostly known as a country of emigration in the last century, Turkey has also become one of the key destinations for migrants in the last three decades, hosting 3.7 million refugees, primarily Syrians, in its territory (IOM, 2019). Neoliberal economic policies adopted in Turkey since the 1980s (Boratav, 2006) and economic growth in recent decades, on the one hand, and several geopolitical events surrounding Turkey, including but not limited to the collapse of the Soviet Union and military conflicts in the Middle East, on the other, gradually transformed Turkey into a destination for several millions of foreigners primarily as migrant workers, refugees and asylum seekers. While Syrians constitute the largest foreign population group in Turkey, there are also several hundred thousand migrant workers from the Caucasus, East Europe, Central Asia, South Asia, Middle East and Africa. To boost its tourism and trade sectors, Turkey maintains visa-free regimes with most of these countries. Foreigners enter Turkey for work, transit and asylum-seeking purposes; however, most remain undocumented due to the complicated work permit procedures and Turkey’s refusal to grant refugee status to asylum seekers.Footnote 2 Given the large number of irregular migrants, it is difficult to estimate the precise number of immigrants in Turkey. However, the number of Turkish residence permit holders has increased from more than 182,000 in 2010 to more than 1.2 million by September 2021 (DGMM, 2021), indicating that Turkey has become a dynamically growing immigration destination.

Most Central Asians working in Russia are seasonal or circular migrants, although the number of those seeking Russian citizenship has recently grown (especially among Kyrgyz nationals). Central Asian migrants are dispersed across various regions of Russia, from Kaliningrad and Moscow to Vladivostok and Kamchatka. They may remain in Russia from several months to several years. The majority of Central Asian migrants are young—the median age of those who obtained patents in 2015 was 31, 31 and 32 years old, respectively (OECD, 2016). At the same time, Russian government sources indicate that among those who held work permits (patents), almost half (45.3%) fall within the 18–29 age group, while another 45% are 30 to 59 years old (FMS, 2016). Laruelle (2007) distinguishes between two age groups of migrants from Central Asia: young people in their 20s who must pay for a wedding or seek to build a house; and older men in their 40s or 50s who need more sporadic financing for family celebrations such as their children’s weddings, circumcision ceremonies or the expansion of the family property. The older generation is statistically more educated and generally has a good command of Russian. As a result, they typically find better and more skilled jobs. The youngest migrant laborers constitute the largest proportion of migrants, are less skilled, have a poor command of Russian and, consequently, secure low-paying jobs.

In terms of gender composition, Central Asian labor migration to Russia, with the notable exception of Kyrgyz migrants, is mostly male-dominated. Women constitute at least 38% of migrants from Kyrgyzstan; this figure stands at 15–20% among migrants from Tajikistan and Uzbekistan, whereby that 85% of Tajik and Uzbek migrants are male (OECD, 2016; Rocheva & Varshaver, 2017). This gender composition is also reflected in the migrant labor market structure: male migrants are employed in areas where physical strength is required, such as on construction sites, in housing and communal services, and the agricultural, transportation, retail and manufacturing industries, while female migrants find jobs predominantly in trade (supermarkets and shops), catering (restaurants, hotels and food factories), domestic care and cleaning services (Marat, 2013; Tyuryukanova, 2011). While no comprehensive statistical information exists detailing the representation of Central Asian migrants in Russia’s labor market, relatively recent data indicate that labor migrants are mainly employed in the construction (34%), services (13%), manufacturing (10%), retail (7%) and agricultural (7%) sectors of the Russian economy (Demintseva et al., 2018). Such figures indicate that the construction sector is the largest employer of migrant labor.

In Turkey, although the great majority of foreigners are refugees from Syria (as well as from Afghanistan, Iraq and Pakistan among others), Central Asian migrants also constitute a significant share of Turkey’s migrant population. Most Central Asian migrant workers find jobs in Istanbul, the country’s largest city and the largest transit hub in the region. Central Asians also work in other cities such as Ankara, Antalya, Bursa and Izmir. Turkmens and Uzbeks comprise the largest Central Asian migrant groups, while the number of Kyrgyz and Tajik migrants remains insignificant. This ethnic composition is clearly visible when one walks through the streets of Kumkapi, Aksaray, Yenikapi and Laleli—Central Asian migrant hotspots in Istanbul’s Fatih district, where it is possible to spot thousands of Central Asian migrants. As the only country with the possibility of visa-free travel, Turkey has emerged as an obvious choice for migrants from Turkmenistan for many years. Turkey has also attracted large numbers of migrants from Uzbekistan, Central Asia’s most populous country with an abundant labor force, as the second-best choice after Russia. According to the Turkish Directorate General of Migration Management, there are close to 250,000 Turkmen and 130,000 Uzbek citizens, respectively, who hold short- or long-term student and family visas (DGMM, 2021). However, the actual number of Kyrgyz, Tajik, Turkmen and Uzbek migrants far exceeds official statistics given that the large number of Central Asians are undocumented. In addition, many Central Asians are also involved in a so-called hybrid form of income-earning that combines shuttle trade with short-term jobs in Turkey.

In Turkey, since many Central Asian migrants are employed in the informal economy, it is difficult to find accurate statistics on the age and gender composition of migrants. However, our daily observations from Central Asian migrant hotspots and the “throw away” comments from our interviewees suggest that female migrants constitute the majority of Central Asian migrants in Turkey (in contrast to Russia’s context described above). This reflects the demand for female labor in the structure of the Turkish migrant labor market. However, the gender composition in Turkey is shifting due to the restrictive immigration rules in Russia (entry bans) compelling many Central Asian male migrants to choose Turkey as an alternative and/or temporary migration destination. In terms of their labor market participation, Central Asian migrants work in labor-intensive sectors such as domestic work and manufacturing. There is a high demand for domestic work and domestic care (of children, the sick and elderly people). Formerly performed by Turkey’s internal female migrants from poorer rural areas, these jobs have gradually been transferred to foreign-born migrant workers. This transfer stemmed not only from economic concerns (e.g., the live-in characteristic of such jobs lowers foreign workers’ accommodation expenses), but also cultural factors (Akalin, 2007). Since domestic care work is one of the largest sectors in which the foreign-born workforce is employed and is performed by women, many female migrants from Central Asia find jobs in domestic care (Nurdinova, 2018). Female migrants are also employed in the retail, tourism, entertainment and sex industries. Other Central Asian migrant workers, both men and women, find jobs in manufacturing, specifically in the textile and garment industries and in the agricultural sector.

Despite the abovementioned differences, one pattern is common to the lives of Central Asian migrants in these two migration regimes. Both in Russia and Turkey, the legal routes to formal employment for foreigners remain complicated and restricted. This implies that it is nearly impossible for many Central Asian migrants in Russia and Turkey to work legally, a process we empirically demonstrate in the sections that follow.

In Russia, foreigners from visa-free countries need to obtain patents (work permits) to legally work. To do so, migrants must secure a whole list of documents including language tests and medical certificates (more detailed information about the list of required documents is provided in Chapter Three). All of the documents must be collected, and the patent must be in hand within 30 days of arriving in Russia. Patents are valid for a maximum of one year and include an obligatory monthly fee payment. For newly arrived migrants from Central Asia in search of jobs, it is quite difficult to satisfy all of these requirements within the stated period of time and, thus, many fail to secure valid patents during their stay in Russia. Moreover, in addition to monthly fee payments, migrants must renew their residence registration (registratsiia) every three months. As mentioned previously, migrants cannot typically find an apartment and a landlord willing to register them at that specific address, especially in large cities like Moscow or St. Petersburg. Even if they manage to do so with the help of intermediaries (posredniki), migrants do not typically reside at that specific address, a practice considered illegal by Russia’s immigration rules. Yet, given the large share of informality in the Russian economy, especially in the construction sector—the largest labor market for migrant workers—many employers prefer informal employment for tax evasion purposes (Round & Kuznetsova, 2021). Essentially, these complex, volatile and arbitrarily enforced laws and regulations on foreigners’ residence and employment status push large numbers of migrants into the domains of undocumentedness, rendering informal employment the only viable option (Urinboyev, 2020).

Migrant workers face a similarly restrictive legalization environment in Turkey. The “Law on Work Permits for Foreigners” (No. 4817, 2003) and its accompanying laws and regulations create an excessively complicated process for obtaining work permits. Both employer and employee simultaneously apply for a work permit and the permit is granted to the employer for job specified, provided that the application meets several difficult-to-satisfy criteria. Moreover, for those employers whose only goal in hiring a foreign workforce is cheap and submissive labor, formal employment through a work permit is financially and bureaucratically twice as burdensome as hiring a local employee. In other words, even if a migrant worker wishes to formalize their employment relationships with an employer, the latter has little to no incentive to do so. This leads to the situation whereby work permits are granted mostly to a limited number of white-collar specialists, while the vast majority of migrant workers find employment in the informal economy (İçduygu & Aksel, 2015; Ozcurumez & Yetkın, 2014; Toksoz et al., 2012). At best, migrant workers can secure residence permits (oturma izni), granting them the right to reside in Turkey, but not the right to work. Obtaining a residence permit is not as difficult as obtaining a work permit. There are many intermediaries (shirkats) who help individuals obtain residence permits for a certain fee. However, as described in Chapter Three, more than half of the migrant workers we met in Turkey during our fieldwork did not even hold residence permits. Those who overstay their visa-free period (up to three months depending on citizenship) and work illegally in Turkey have two options when leaving the country: they can either choose to accept an entry ban for up to five years or choose to pay a fine (the amount depends on the length of the overstay) at the border and may return after several months. Owing to this relatively liberal immigration regime, Central Asian migrants opt to bypass the legalization route and instead find informal employment.

Notwithstanding the aforesaid similarities, considerable differences exist with regards to Central Asian migrants’ experiences in the labor markets in Russia and Turkey, as reflected in our informants’ fascinating comments about iymon and insof. In other words, undocumentedness and informal employment do not necessarily translate into similar outcomes in terms of migrant precarity and exploitation. Instead, migrants’ agency and labor market experiences depend on the myriad informal practices, struggles, alliances and extralegal negotiations among various actors involved in the migrant labor markets. In the sections that follow, these processes are described using empirical examples from Uzbek migrants’ experiences in the Russian and Turkish labor markets.

Central Asian Migrants’ Daily Experiences from the Russian and Turkish (Informal) Labor Markets

The migrant labor markets in Russia and Turkey can be viewed as a “small state within state”, with their own gatekeepers, informal norms, power structures, hierarchies, divisions of labor and rule enforcement mechanisms. Informal actors like intermediaries or middlemen enter into alliances with employers and various labor market actors to establish their own order and monopolies within the labor markets. Migrant workers, as newcomers to the labor markets, either accept or challenge the established order and norms. Viewed from this perspective, a migrant labor market represents a social arena, where it is possible to observe multiple struggles, alliances and extralegal negotiations in order to establish the rules of the game. As we empirically show in this chapter, these struggles and negotiations take different forms and may lead to varying outcomes in the Russian and Turkish labor markets. Given that Central Asian labor migration to Russia is well-established and features a chain migration characteristic whereby migrant workers are organized around social networks linked to their village or town origin (Isabaeva, 2011; Reeves, 2013; Urinboyev, 2020), diverse actors and power structures exist within Russia’s migrant labor market. In other words, no actor in the Russian migrant labor market enjoys a full monopoly over determining the rules of the game. However, this is not the case in the Turkish migrant labor market, where Central Asian migrants are relative newcomers and do not possess their own networks nor informal channels that can compete with existing power structures. As a result, labor market intermediaries and Turkish employers wield considerable leverage in determining the rules of the game, leaving little or no agency for Central Asian migrants to cope with the risks and uncertainties of informal employment.

Posredniks in the Russian Migrant Labor Market

In the Russian migrant labor market, the term “posrednik” refers to intermediaries or middlemen whose main role is brokering and enforcing a deal between migrants and clients or employers. Some posredniks are multifunctional and operate within the labor market, as part of the migrant documentation, legalization and accommodation markets, offering a variety of services such as finding a job for migrants for a specific fee, assisting with buying fake documents or helping migrants with housing issues (Reeves, 2016; Urinboyev & Polese, 2016). These individuals are often experienced migrants, some of whom have already secured Russian citizenship or permanent residence and who have a network of connections in their area of specialization. Some migrants who worked in one place for years and earned their employer’s trust can also easily become a posrednik. When there is a need for another migrant worker, posredniks can bring people from their village or people they know in search of jobs to the workplace. In return, posredniks receive a specific proportion of the new workers’ salaries on a monthly basis as payment for their services. Some nimble posredniks go further and try to find jobs for other people among their connections. While this is not a regular income for a posrednik, they may occasionally expect additional earnings. Predatory posredniks also operate in the documentation business, individuals whose only income comes from their services (Fig. 5.1).

Fig. 5.1
figure 1

A posrednik is showing around a newly arrived Uzbek migrant his new workplace in a construction site outside Moscow

Full size image

Another type of posrednik can be found mostly in the construction sector and in private apartment/house renovations. An experienced foreman (known in Russian as a “prorab” or “brigadir”) strikes a deal with a client to, for example, renovate or paint a building and invites migrant workers to complete the job. This posrednik pockets the difference as their fee between what the client offered and how much they agree to pay the workers. In some cases, the posrednik may charge a dolya (share) for their service, whereby each migrant gives 10–15% of their monthly salary to the posrednik. In return, posredniks are expected to secure migrants’ salaries and help them when they experience problems with the law. Since most migrants work without patents, posredniks assume responsibility for (corrupt) police officers by giving them a dolya (share/fee) on a regular basis so that they do not harass and check the documents of the migrants “working under their protection”.

While posredniks are often condemned by migrant workers as con artists or thieves (cf. Reeves, 2016), their services remain in high demand given the structure of the migrant labor market in Russia. It is often those inexperienced migrants with limited knowledge of the local language and the modus operandi of the labor market who depend on a posrednik’s services. Experienced migrants remain rather independent and rarely approach posredniks.

Many of those who studied after [the collapse of] the Soviet Union did not learn Russian well at schools, so they need posredniks. Let’s take this guy from Andijan as an example. He does not know Russian at all, and he has worked here for two months. Now, if he knew Russian, he himself could directly negotiate with the Russian employer. But he doesn't know how to come to an agreement, so he needs a posrednik for that. If he knew Russian, he could get 40,000 rubles for the work. But, since he is negotiating through the posrednik, the latter puts 15,000 in his pocket and says the salary is 25,000. So, our guy is losing 15,000 rubles. Although he understands his loss, he doesn’t have another choice. (Abduvali, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 58)

In some situations, a posrednik may also be viewed by employers or clients as some kind of insurance policy, as shown in the extract below:

Locals don’t trust migrants, even skillful people. But, they trust posredniks who hold a Russian passport. If you don’t have connections, if you don’t know certain people, then you don’t have another choice other than turning to a posrednik for help. It's like insurance for them [locals]. For example, a local Russian hires a migrant to repair his apartment and brings all the construction materials. There are such migrants who can sell all of the construction materials to someone and then disappear. If a local person hires through a posrednik who has a Russian passport, he can make that posrednik responsible for any damage or loss. This is one way for Russian individual employers to insure themselves. (Mirsaid, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 45)

Takhir, a former migrant who also acted as a posrednik, justifies the demand for intermediary services as follows:

The role of posredniks is quite important. Since laws in Russia don’t work, such individuals solve various problems. Thanks to posredniks, they find jobs and get their salaries. For many workers, posredniks play an important role: they are confident that the middleman will be responsible for the timely payment of salaries. Posredniks are responsible if an employer refuses to pay. Posredniks perform many functions: documents, accommodation, jobs and salaries. They do what the state does not finish up. If the state did so, then it would be great in general. But, since the state does not do this [perform all of the functions], there is therefore a great demand for the services of posredniks. (Takhir, Uzbek migrant with Russian citizenship, 52)

That said, situations are not rare in which a posrednik fails to secure the timely payment of agreed upon salaries or migrant workers are deceived in other ways. As our informants Nigora’s and Nishon’s experiences illustrate, every migrant adventure is fraught with deceit, and posredniks represent the usual suspects in this regard. In cases of fraud and deceit, migrants are usually left with a limited opportunity to recover their salaries or the money they have spent.

Do women also need posredniks? It depends on the woman herself. If she knows the Russian language well, she goes straight [to the employers]. For example, I don't like posredniks at all. Well, I used to seek jobs through them too, but life teaches you everything. You must just go directly to the personnel department or the manager. But, when she does not know the language, she will have to turn to posredniks. I think in the beginning we all get deceived by posredniks. (Nigora, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 40)

Posredniks find workplaces and they hire people, and they take 5% from everyone’s salary. They find a job for you and earn money by doing so. They take the responsibility of securing your salary. If they cannot, they should pay with their own money. But, in fact, they don’t. For example, I worked in construction and the middleman told me that he would secure my salary, but he couldn’t. I didn’t get my salary, and he said that he didn’t have money. (Nishon, Uzbek male migrant from southern Kyrgyzstan, 34)

We note, however, that these experiences are not common to all migrants. Some resourceful and street-smart migrants may use various informal channels and strategies to recover their salary. When a posrednik fails to secure their salary, migrants have various tools at their disposal for recovering their salary. First, they may seek redress from street-level protection institutions and actors, such as racketeers and prison-based criminal authorities who provide alternative (to state law) contract enforcement, debt recovery and dispute resolution (see, e.g., Urinboyev, 2020). Second, and alternatively, transnational village-level social norms and sanctions can be applied to a posrednik if they share a common village origin with other migrants. The ties of kinship and a shared village origin among migrants and a posrednik often forces the posrednik to keep their promise and secure migrants’ salaries regardless of the circumstances, as described below.

On May 12, 2017, it was the birthday of Botir (male migrant from Uzbekistan, 35), who worked as a posrednik in Moscow’s construction sector. Among others, he invited one of the authors to celebrate his birthday at a park near the Otradnoe metro station in the north of Moscow. When the author arrived, much to his surprise, he was the only Uzbek invited to the birthday party and all of the other guests were non-Uzbeks (mainly, Azeris, Kyrgyz and Tajiks). Because Botir originated from rural Fergana and many of his fellow villagers worked in Moscow, the author took it for granted that there would be many Uzbeks at the party. A few days after the party, when the author met Botir privately at an Uzbek café, he politely asked Botir why he had not invited his fellow villagers to his birthday party. In response, Botir provided the following explanation:

I came to Russia right after finishing school, about 15 years ago. I live in Russia without documents and when the police catch me, I get away by bribing them. I protected my fellow villagers (Uzbeks) from Dagestanis many times. When I was a brigadir/prorab (foreman), I did everything for my workers. Three years ago, I had a serious dispute with some guys from Dagestan who employed us for one construction project in Orsk (the second largest city in Orenburg oblast, Russia). Those Dagestani guys did not want to give us our salaries and as a prorab, I took on the responsibility of securing our salary from them by any means. I fought for their salaries, even risking my own life. I argued with our Dagestani employer and demanded our salaries, but they refused to pay. I felt dishonored, so I stole the Dagestanis' expensive car and drove it to Moscow. I drove the car in Moscow for five or six days, and the Dagestanis ultimately found me. After some chase and when I ran out of petrol, I left the car and ran for my life. I thought I had escaped them.

After spending a few days in Moscow, when I got off an electric train and wanted to get in my car, someone hit me on the head and I lost consciousness. While I was unconscious, they threw me on the rails of an electric train. So, the train hit me and my neck, shoulders and hands were broken. When I opened my eyes, I was in a hospital. The police came every day to ask what had happened to me. However, I did not tell them anything because it would have brought me more troubles and the Dagestanis would likely kill me. Therefore, I just told the police that a train hit me so hard that I cannot remember anything. In this way, the case was closed. I stayed in the hospital for three to four days and then, I decided to escape from the hospital because I knew that the Dagestanis would come to the hospital and find me there easily. There was one cleaning woman who worked in the hospital. I noticed that she was Uzbek since she was talking on the phone in Uzbek. So, I asked her to help me escape from the hospital. Thanks to her help, I managed to leave the hospital and took a taxi. At first, I borrowed 10,000 rubles from my former Russian employer. Then, I stayed at the house of an acquaintance for a month until I recovered.

My entire brigada knew that I risked my life in order to recover their salary. But, they didn’t appreciate my efforts. Instead of supporting me during the razborka (showdown) with the Dagestani guys, they chose not to support me. On top of this, my cowardly co-villagers spread rumors about me in our village in Fergana, saying that I cheated them and ate their salary. Because of my bitter experience, I have become dikiy (wild) and don’t trust any Uzbeks in Russia. I always work with people from nationalities other than Uzbek. (Botir, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 35)

Religion can also be invoked by migrants as a pressure mechanism when posredniks fail to pay the promised salary. The salary dispute between Uzbek construction workers and Anvar, a posrednik from Tatarstan, serves as a relevant example here. Uzbek migrants, led by Bek, worked for Anvar for nearly three months on a construction site in the Moscow province, but were unable to receive their salary from the Tatar posrednik Anvar, who used various excuses to not pay their salaries. Frustrated with the posrednik’s endless tricks and stories, Bek, the leader of the Uzbek construction brigade, warned Anvar that he would report the incident to Moscow’s chief imam, an ethnic Tatar, who leads prayers at Moscow’s Cathedral Mosque at the Prospekt Mira metro station. Bek said, “Anvar, as you know Moscow’s chief imam is Tatar and you are also Tatar. So, if you don’t pay us our salaries, I will go to the mosque during Friday prayers and in front of everyone I will tell the imam that Anvar, who is Tatar, is refusing our halal salary and eating our money. I will take all of the brigade members as witnesses. If necessary, I will bring the imam to the construction site and show him our work, our poor living conditions and what we eat. Afterwards, the imam will deal with this issue and help us get our salary”. This strategy worked well and Anvar, not wanting to become entangled with religious authorities, paid the brigade’s salary the next day.

Shirkats in the Turkish Migrant Labor Market

In the Turkish migrant labor market, the term “shirkat” refers to intermediaries who serve as middlemen or a bridge between migrant workers and Turkish employers. While the term “shirkat” literally means a firm or company in both the Turkish and Uzbek languages, colloquially in migrants’ daily conversations it is used to refer to intermediaries in the migrant labor market who offer various services to migrants, such as employment, documentation and legalization assistance and help sort out housing issues. The profile of shirkats is diverse: (1) a shirkat can be a local Turk or Kurd who is well-connected to employers in various sectors of the Turkish economy or (2) an experienced migrant from Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan or Uzbekistan who is well-established in the labor market and who has an extensive network of connections. Some nimble and street-smart migrants who enjoy a good relationship with their employer may also act as a shirkat by bringing migrants they know when a vacant position becomes available at their workplace. In this sense, posredniks in the Russian and shirkats in the Turkish migrant labor markets are comparable in both their forms and functions.

However, despite these similarities, considerable differences exist between posredniks and shirkats when it comes to their position and power relations vis-à-vis migrant workers. As described in the previous section, in the Russian migrant labor market, posredniks take a dolya (share) from migrants on a monthly basis (especially in the construction sector) in return for their service related to finding a job for migrants and protecting them when they face legal problems (e.g., police), a mutually beneficial relationship which motivates both posredniks and migrant workers to maintain a long-lasting relationship. However, in the Turkish migrant labor market, the relationship between shirkats and migrant workers are based on a one-time transaction, whereby a shirkat charges a migrant only once for their service—a fee which equals half a month’s salary for a migrant. This temporary nature of the transaction leads to situations where shirkats do not take any further responsibility for a migrant’s working conditions or salary payment.

We are dependent upon shirkats to find a job in Istanbul. But many shirkats are insofsiz (have no sense of justice, are unfair). They take half of your first month’s salary. After you have worked for your employer for 15 days, the shirkat contacts your patron (boss) and collects your salary without even informing you. You take no part in this process. After getting their share, a shirkat never contacts you and leaves you on your own with your patron, who will make you work like a slave. If you don’t obey your patron, you will be fired. (Muzaffar, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 32)

There are many shirkats here. After getting a person a job, they receive half a month’s and sometimes a full month’s salary. Once they get you hired, they do not care. Will he be fired in three months or no? The shirkat does not take responsibility. (Husnullo, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 38)

This situation provides leverage not only for employers, but also for shirkats, whose financial sustainability depends on the availability of job-seeking migrants. In other words, the more frequently migrants lose their job, the more often they must seek the services of shirkats. After losing their job, migrants have no option but to again approach shirkats asking them to find a new job for them. These unequal power relations were described by many informants who lost their jobs due to insofsiz (unjust) shirkats:

I have changed jobs two or three times since I arrived, always because of the injustice (lack of insof) of shirkats. When I just started learning one job, they called the boss and said that there was another good employee. I waited a month to get my paycheck. Then, they [shirkat] got me fired, after taking half of my salary, they don’t have “insof”! Most employers are bad, too. You get a job, and then they [shirkats] call the employer and say that they have a better, younger, stronger worker. (Qurbonali, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 45)

There are many shirkats here, they find jobs. They fancy calling themselves shirkats even if they are not legal and have no office space. Only a few rich shirkats have their own office space. For example, they find a job for you and your salary is US$500. There is a rule here that when you get a job, you pay half of your first salary to shirkats. Many insofsiz shirkats, after taking half of your salary, they call your patron (boss) who gave you the job and say that if you don’t like the employee, fire them and I will give you another employee instead. So, they make money like that. They get money again from a new employee for the same job. (Nodira, female migrant from Tajikistan, 34)

There are also many Uzbeks who serve as shirkats in the Turkish migrant labor market. But, the ties stemming from a shared ethnic identity do not create any sense of solidarity among shirkats and migrant workers. Unlike in Russia where posredniks hold limited power and can be held accountable through street-level or transnational social pressure, Uzbek shirkats enjoy greater autonomy and power and can freely engage in predatory practices due to the absence of informal control mechanisms. This is largely due to the fact that Uzbeks are relative newcomers to the Turkish labor market and have not yet established their transnational networks and communities that can influence the abusive practices of shirkats. The absence of such informal accountability mechanisms were described by many of the informants we interviewed:

Here, Uzbeks screw each other. It is better to work with Turks. There are many Uzbeks shirkats, that is, posredniks. For example, if an Uzbek has worked here for two or three years, he has experience. He has worked in many places and has connections with those people. He knows the highs and lows. Such experienced Uzbeks usually cheat newly arrived, inexperienced Uzbeks. They say, if you give me US$250 a month from your US$500 salary, I will find you a job. Uzbek shirkats do what they want and no one controls them here. (Lola, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 28)

Uzbeks deceive one another here. I know many Uzbeks who call themselves shirkats. They help people find a job, but then they take 50% or sometimes 70% of your first month’s salary. Some dishonest shirkats take the whole month’s salary. If you refuse to pay half of your salary, the shirkat will go to your patron (boss) and take your money from them and ask the patron to fire you from that job. In most cases, the Turkish patron is the acquaintance of the Uzbek shirkat who found the job for you. Russians are not like Turks. If a posrednik tries to cheat migrants, the Russian employer doesn’t ally with the posrednik. Russians have insof. But, Uzbek shirkats and Turkish patrons are allies and pee in the same pot (Muhriddin, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 27)

Recently, I found a job through one Uzbek shirkat. I looked after a sick old woman. But, she also had her old husband. Her husband harassed me and wanted to have sex with me. First, I scolded him, and told him I would tell his wife. I said I would kill myself — jump off the balcony, and he said, “I don’t care, jump if you want.” Here, old Turkish men are really bad. I worked for a week, and left without being able to get my salary. But, the Uzbek shirkat, a man, didn’t care when I told him about this problem. If you can’t get your money, they won’t fight for you and get your money for you. They say, “It is your fault. Why did you leave the job?” No Russian man behaved like this when I worked in Moscow. Both Uzbek shirkats and Turkish patrons are Muslims, but they do dirty things and have no insof [sense of justice]. Russians have no iymon [faith in Islam], but they have insof [sense of justice or mercy] (Dilbar, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 35)

The above empirical examples from the Russian and Turkish migrant labor markets allow us to make two general observations regarding the relationship between posredniks, employers and migrant workers. First, power relations are more horizontally organized in the Russian migrant labor market given the existence of a variety of informal power structures and social control mechanisms that prevent posredniks from yielding absolute power. By contrast, shirkats in the Turkish labor market are less constrained and can freely engage in predatory practices given the absence of informal control mechanisms. Second, and connected to the first point, a comparison of intermediary–migrant relations in the Russian and Turkish contexts shows that migrants’ agency and labor market incorporation outcomes in terms of precarity and exploitation do not merely depend on the formal opportunity structures. Instead, we also need to consider the role of the myriad informal practices, struggles, alliances and extralegal negotiations among various actors operating within migrant labor markets.

Working Life and Conditions in Moscow and Istanbul

Another social field in the Russian and Turkish labor markets we explored focused on employer–migrant relations. Most of the migrants we interviewed in Turkey complained of difficult working conditions: long working hours, a hazardous environment (working without protective equipment, exposure to hazardous substances and unventilated and damp workplaces) and employers’ abusive attitudes. In some cases, migrant laborers compared conditions in Turkey with their previous experiences in Russia. The following interview excerpts illustrate the working conditions Central Asian migrant workers experienced in Turkey:

I work as a cleaner at a hotel. The work is not easy, they make us work ten times what they pay us. When I started my new job, my whole body hurt at night from the hard work. They make us work really hard. You can’t relax at all. They threaten that they will deduct from your salary. Even a robot can’t stand this pressure. I clean 12 rooms every day. I am used to it now, but when I started, I said to myself how unmerciful these people are. They really view you as a servant, not a person. They use us like a dog. They have iymon [faith in Islam], not insof [sense of justice or mercy]. In this respect, Russia was much better. Breaks are granted in every job. When I first came to Turkey, I quit several jobs without agreeing to the treatment I received. But, I finally understood why I came here, why I am here. As a slave, I have no rights or entitlements. I am an ordinary migrant who does all the work to get paid. Once I comprehended that idea, it became easier to work. (Shabnam, female migrant from Tajikistan, 32)

I have only had bad experiences here since I came to Turkey. Recently, I worked feeding cattle not far from Istanbul. I went and started working. They said my salary would be US$300 a month. But, after working for 15 days, they started demanding extra work — milking the cattle with a machine. I said I thought I was just supposed to feed the cattle and clean their pens. This is not the only example. Wherever I worked, the Turks would give me extra work depending on the situation after I began working. I didn't like this side to Turkey. They don't have insof [sense of justice or mercy]; they pretend to be so religious, they have a mosque every two steps, but they have eaten up their insof [sense of justice or mercy]. They try to increase the work without increasing the salary. Russia was a good place for me. Anyway, we Uzbeks are better off in Russia. They say that Uzbeks are also Turks, one nation and one culture. But, Russia is much better for us even if they are kofir (non-Muslims), they are fairer to us. If I had no entry ban to Russia, I wouldn't have come here at all. (Shavkat, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 44)

It has been two years since I arrived here. My current job with a Turkish family is very difficult. They make me wake up at six o’clock in the morning and keep me busy until late in the evening. When they invite guests, I even work until midnight. I have to clean the house, cook in the kitchen and take the kids for a walk and to play — this is when I relax a little bit, since this is the easiest part of my job. These kids are sweet, but they are capricious and careless; they litter a lot and leave their clothes and other belongings everywhere. But, the most difficult part is my relationship with the “abla”, the wife of the household, more precisely her attitude towards me. She checks after I clean to see if the sink is clean enough, if I wiped the dust off the wardrobe with her regular remarks. Moreover, she is jealous of her husband. I have nothing to do with her husband, he is an old and ugly person, but I feel her jealousy from her comments, from her suspicious looks. I just have to swallow my pride and keep a bearable smile on my face. I thought about changing my employers many times, but what I hear from my other friends doing similar jobs is that it is more or less the same everywhere. Some are even worse. And, it is not easy to find another job. They don’t just offer you jobs, they will want referrals and recommendations from your previous employers. The only thing that holds me to this job is that they pay relatively well and I don’t spend on accommodation since it is a yatilik [live-in] job. I have one day off on Saturdays and I spend the day meeting with friends and/or shopping in Kumkapi and Laleli and stay overnight at my friends’ shared apartment. (Feruza, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 35)

I worked as a nurse in Uzbekistan. When I first came to Istanbul, I worked in housekeeping for a year and eight months. It was a good job and I liked the Turkish family. I looked after one old woman. But, after she died, I had to look for another job. Since then, nothing good has come up. I go to one shirkat and find a job, I work for a month and give half of my salary, then I leave the job because I don't like it. I go to another shirkat and only work for a month and leave the job. I got tired of only working for the shirkat. At my last job, the Turkish patron had no insof [sense of justice or mercy]. He didn't even give me proper food. He had hired me to serve as a nurse to an old woman, but he also made me work as a maid alongside nursing. I didn’t get a minute's rest. People here in Istanbul don't have insof [sense of justice or mercy]. I worked in Russia before. While Russians don't have iymon [faith in Islam], they have insof [sense of justice or mercy] and treat you better [than Turks]. Here, in Turkey, they use us like donkeys saying that they are paying the money. (Soliha, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 35)

Here, in Turkey, the working conditions are quite difficult. I have also worked in Russia and I compare a lot of things. Russia is far superior in many ways. In Russia, everything is well-organized, people are good. People here in Turkey have iymon [faith in Islam], but not insof [sense of justice or mercy]. Turks are rather greedy, and Turkey is a mean nation, just like our Uzbeks. They pick on everything you do. Even if you do your job, they will still look for flaws. Russia is different, if you do what you were told to do, you won’t have any complaints. Here, too, not everything is bad, there are good people too, but 70% of them as I mentioned are mean. Turks try to exploit you and pay you less. For example, sometimes you finish your work and sometimes rest for five to ten minutes before you start another job, you just get tired. Even then, they say “don't rest, just work”. In Russia, Russians used to tell us to take a break. These Turks order tasks on top of tasks. Russians respected us. They treated us like humans. Patents and police are not an issue here in Turkey, but the employers are not good people. In Russia, police are quite annoying, and there is the “monster” called the patent. There are good and bad sides everywhere. I don’t have a document in Turkey. I even joke with the Turkish police. I tickle his hand when greeting. But, slowly, if more Uzbeks come to Turkey, they will teach Turkish police how to take bribes. (Holida, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 39)

But, a preference for Russia over Turkey was not always unanimous among the Uzbek migrants we met in Istanbul. There were some migrants who preferred Turkey to Russia for a variety of reasons, particularly for religious reasons:

There are a lot of advantages [to Turkey] compared to Russia. I worked in Russia between 2012 and 2016. I worked for four years until I was deported. Here, in Turkey, there are very good opportunities to pray for Muslims. There are mosques everywhere [in Istanbul]. In Russia, we even had to eat pork when a situation was really difficult. Unlike Turkey, alcohol is sold on every corner in Russia. Sometimes, we had to run from construction sites right into the forests or neighborhood areas to escape FMS [Federal Migration Service] raids. Walking along streets in Russia fills us with stress, since you have to be alert for police checks. Russians don’t like Muslims and some of them think that Muslims are terrorists. But, here in Istanbul, I can easily walk without any documents and the police don’t care much about us. I can openly and proudly display my Muslim identity. I remember I had a lot of stress working in Russia, but here it is a lot easier. Work is equally difficult everywhere, maybe because I have more faith in me now, it feels much easier for me here. For me, Turkey is much more comfortable and easier. But one negative thing is that the [US] dollar rate is increasing and the Turkish lira is losing its value. I don’t want to stay in Turkey for a very long time. My plan is to build my own house and have a small cattle farm of my own with 15 to 20 bulls in Uzbekistan. I know I can’t find a decent job. So, my farm would feed me. My father is now buying a bull every two to three months from the money I send from here. I want to work hard now so that I will be relaxed and look after my children when I am 35. My next dream is to send my parents on Hajj [Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca]. When I do these things, I will return to Uzbekistan. (Husniddin, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 25)

This is my first time in Turkey. Previously, I worked in Russia, but because of my zapret (entry ban) I had to come to Turkey. When I worked in Russia, I had a limited possibility to pray. The good thing about Turkey is that there are many beautiful mosques here and you can live like a Muslim and pray five times a day. If I want to go to Friday prayers, my Turkish patron (boss) never objects, but always encourages me to pray. The only problem here is that salaries are low [compared with Russia] and Turkish patrons try to use you as much as possible. (Shuhrat, male migrant from Uzbekistan, 41) (Fig. 5.2)

Fig. 5.2
figure 2

Uzbek migrants in a sweatshop in Istanbul’s Bayrampaşa district

Full size image

It is not rare that difficult working conditions lead to occupational diseases and even accidents. Interviewees in both Russia and Turkey described accidents at work as not uncommon: working on construction sites or on machines without proper protective equipment may lead to serious accidents, falls from high rises and crushed, burned or punctured hands or legs all served as typical examples. While these accidents do not happen every day, they are also not rare. In the case of work-related accidents, several of our informants preferred Turkey to Russia. Since workers are employed unofficially, in such circumstances they cannot count on healthcare services provided through medical insurance. When such accidents happen, Turkish employers, however, seemed more willing to offer assistance to at least provide emergency care. To recall one example from Turkey, retold by another migrant, an undocumented migrant from Pakistan had his hand crushed while working with equipment that makes zippers. Since the migrant had neither an official employment contract nor medical insurance, the only thing his employer did was take him to a private clinic for emergency medical care and reimburse the employee for a one-way ticket to Pakistan from his own pocket. In such circumstances, migrants can rely on the benevolence and kindness of their employers and the help of fellow migrants.

Unlike Turkey, there were many cases when migrant workers were injured on construction sites in Russia. Yet, Russian employers made the injured workers wait for an ambulance outside the worksite to avoid possible sanctions for unofficially employing undocumented migrants and failing to provide them with protective equipment, thereby precluding any claims for compensation. During such circumstances, migrant networks organize themselves to assist the injured person (see, e.g., Urinboyev, 2017, 2021). When a considerable amount of money is needed, whether to cover expensive medical care or to transport the deceased’s body to their home country, migrant groups using their networks and social media platforms quickly spread word about an incident, the amount of money required and provide the details of the person collecting money. Everyone, regardless of the personal connection with the person in need, contributes some amount of money in cash or through local money transfer platforms. Typically, this practice serves as informal insurance policies for migrants, which provides an assurance that when something happens, they can also count on contributions from other migrants.

Other than accidents, difficult and hazardous working conditions lead to occupational hazards. As Babahan, a 55-year-old male migrant from Turkmenistan, confesses:

You shouldn’t get sick here. Because of my work, I got hemorrhoids. I went to the doctor and had surgery, for which I paid 4000 Turkish liras (~US$600 at the time of the interview). When I went there, they immediately operated on me within two to three hours since my condition was quite bad. Doctors here think only about money. Within two hours after the surgery, when even the anesthesia had not yet warn off, they said I could leave. They let me go, and I hadn’t even fully regained consciousness. You don’t have any values, and you can die if you get sick. It’s good that my Turkish patron is a nice person. He said I could come to work after I rested and that he would compensate me for a part of my medical expenses. (Babahan, male migrant from Turkmenistan, 55)

Gender-Based Employment Relations

The element of gender-based employment relations is probably one of the important avenues providing a striking difference between the experiences of Central Asian migrant workers in Russia and in Turkey. Well-established from previous research (Coşkun, 2014; Erder & Kaska, 2003; Gülçür & İlkkaracan, 2002; Unal, 2016), since the 1990s migrant women from the former Soviet countries of Moldova, Russia and Ukraine are viewed as “Natashas” within Turkish society, a sexist term for a collective image of Russian or East European women coming to Turkey for sex work. With increasing numbers of women arriving from different parts of the world joining the cheap, informal labor market in Turkey, migrant women are viewed as sexually available. Yet, the term “Natasha” is still restricted to women from Russia and Eastern Europe. These women’s undocumented status transforms their “legal vulnerability to sexual availability” (Parla, 2019).

As our interviewees from Turkey confirmed, migrant women’s work is often fraught with sexual advances and obscene proposals from their male employers or colleagues. Employers’ dominant positions as a result of migrant women’s undocumented status and unequal employment relations often force women to either continue tolerating harassment from their male employers or to terminate their employment possibly risking remaining unemployed. The story of Mamura illustrates this quandary:

I have now been unemployed for several months and am doing one-off temporary jobs until I find a decent one. I have worked as a shop assistant and manken [live mannequin] in many places. It is difficult to find a decent patron [boss]. I try to find shops where the employer works with his wife there. This is safer. Otherwise, they [male employers] often want you to work both as a manken and their mistress. Because the shop I was working in went bankrupt, I had to look for another job. A couple of weeks ago, I found one place looking for a mannequin of my body size. The patron was almost ready to offer me the job, we had almost agreed on the schedule and salary. When I said I had a fiancé who also works in Istanbul, he started to deviate from our agreement. And, then, he said right to my face, “I want to hire you because I want you to also become my sevgili [lover]. I am even ready to raise your salary, but since you have a boyfriend, I don’t think we have an agreement here.” This is a common thing in Turkey. That’s why I say I have a fiancé to potential employers. Last week, I went to a shop after seeing a mannequin job ad. I saw two Uzbek women working in the shop and, while waiting for the boss, I asked them if the boss was a decent person. They said no and told me that he just posts a mannequin job ad and keeps the vacancy open until he chooses a girl with a nice body willing to have a romantic relationship with him. I had to leave the place without even talking to the boss. (Mamura, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 29)

“Routinized sexual violence against undocumented migrant women” (Parla, 2019) is prevalent, not only in the retail sector, but also in the garment industry, as well as the food, tourism, entertainment and domestic and care services sectors, as the following interview excerpts show:

I quite recently arrived in Turkey just a month before the Covid-19 pandemic began. I was originally planning to go to Antalya, but the person who had promised me a job changed her mind just after I arrived in Istanbul. So, I decided to stay at some distant friends’ places and find a job here. They recommended a small textile sweatshop to me, where I worked for just a week. My job was to put brand tags on ready-made sweaters and prepare them for packaging. Every time the boss passed by, he would touch me here and there. His molestation intensified even if I said no. Then, he asked me out to dinner. I refused because it was clear what he wanted from me. I had to leave that place. Then, I worked in a café kitchen washing dishes. That patron also turned out to be same. “I will add a bonus to your salary, but you must stay in a hotel with me once a week,” he openly said. OK, I am divorced and still young, I might be open to a romantic relationship, but I would never sleep with that old man. Why would I be a private prostitute for an old man in his late 50s? So, I worked for less than two weeks there and quit. Then, the quarantine started and everything shut down. We are holding steady somehow with daily jobs every now and then. I hope I will find a normal job when these lockdowns end. (Barchin, female worker from Uzbekistan, 27)

Before coming to Turkey, I worked in Piter [St. Petersburg] and Krasnodar in Russia. I heard different stories about Turkish men before, but I didn’t know they were that “hungry” [och]. In Russia, it is very rare for a nachalnik [supervisor] to sexually harass someone. If anyone harasses us, it is our male migrants who do. Since I am divorced, I had co-habitated with a man, also a migrant from Uzbekistan. I would not say there was love between us, but living together had its advantages, since I did not have to pay for rent and food. This allowed me to send more money home. After being deported from Russia to Uzbekistan, I could not stay long in the village, so I came to Turkey. Here, everyone thinks you are available for sex. I had relationships with two or three Turkish men, because I saw it as an opportunity to cover a lot of my expenses. But, they are hungry, and we call them “skovorodka” [literally, frying pan], ha-ha. That’s what we call men who perform oral sex. (Jamila, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 32)

I went to one shirkat recently. They offered me a job, and I asked what kind of a job it would be. They said it was an easy job. They said I had a good body, and they told me to do that kind of job. They said I can earn up to 200 to 300 liras [~US$28–43 at the time of the interview] per day. They asked if I would work as a “makon”, and, with my little Turkish, I thought it must be a cleaning job and immediately agreed. Right away, they put me in a car, and told me to pack my nice clothes. Then, on the way there, one of the girls in the car asked me whether I knew where I was going. I said, “Yes, it must be a cleaning job”, to which she said, “No, to a brothel… You will sit and drink with men, and then provide a service,” she said. Then, I immediately took off. I called the “shirkat” and scolded them severely. They said it was me who agreed to take the job. (Gulya, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 34)

I have mostly worked as a caregiver to children in Turkish families. Once I was called for a so-called job interview. That’s when you go to someone’s house and decide on the details of job. I went there based on my acquaintance’s recommendation. A man was standing at the entrance. I didn’t like his looks. I started to worry because usually it’s a mother who invites you for such a job interview. Since I started to have second thoughts, I decided not to enter the house and offered to discuss the job right in the street, because, if I entered the house, he might lock the doors and rape me. He asked me when I arrived in Turkey, because they look for newly arrived and inexperienced women. I knew this tactic and I told him to call his wife and show me his children. As a precaution, I called my male friend and spoke to him on loudspeaker. I told him the exact address where I was. My friend told me not to enter the house and to wait for him to arrive. The man who listened to all this just decided to leave. Then, I was sure that he was going to rape me. Possibly, he was not alone; there could have been other men inside. Because I have heard some similar stories when men lure powerless migrant women to a location and gang rape them. (Zumrad, female migrant from Uzbekistan, 38)

Our informants who worked in domestic work and domestic care reported that they experienced instances of sexual harassment while meeting their work obligations. However, they could not report these experiences to the police given their undocumented status as migrants and the lack of any formal agreement between them and their employers. Even if serious cases of harassment or rape become public, it is quite rare that an unbiased and fair investigation of such cases would proceed. This reality is exemplified by the recent death of a 23-year-old female Uzbek migrant, Nodira Qodirova, in the house of a well-known Turkish parliament member, a death that occurred in Ankara in September 2019. While several media reports claimed that Nodira, a live-in care worker, was a victim of sexual harassment (BBC Türkçe, 2019), the official police report considered her death a suicide. Incidents like this illustrate the lack of protection available to disposable and cheap labor provided by undocumented migrants.

Remarks on informality and iymon and insof in the Russian and Turkish labor markets

This chapter primarily provides a comparative exploration of Central Asian migrants’ experiences of the labor markets in Russia and Turkey. In undertaking this task, we emphasized understanding migrants’ positions and patterns of incorporation into the labor markets, their interactions with various labor market actors, the gendered experiences of employment and migrants’ agency and their capacity to navigate the risks and uncertainties under the conditions of informal employment. The main task was to understand how and why, despite all of the challenges associated with navigating the repressive legal landscape in Russia, many Central Asian migrants we encountered in Istanbul felt that Moscow offered greater agency and opportunity than Istanbul. Our informants’ frequent references to the “iymon–insof” binary served as a comparative lens via which we explored the role of informal norms, power structures and extralegal negotiations and struggles in shaping migration outcomes and migrant life trajectories alongside labor market incorporation in the Russian and Turkish migration regimes. Based on the empirical data from the Russian and Turkish migrant labor markets presented, we suggest that undocumentedness and informal employment do not necessarily lead to similar migration outcomes. In other words, the use of binaries such as “formal–informal” work or “legal–illegal” status cannot sufficiently explain migrants’ experiences within the labor markets and working conditions in different migration regimes. Instead, migrants’ agency and experiences from the labor markets are contingent upon the myriad informal processes and practices that determine the rules of the game within a specific migrant labor market.