In the modest, mountainous town of Batken in southern Kyrgyzstan, schoolteacher Nur Akhmatov watches intently as workers lift beams into place. What rises before him is more than just a building — it is a symbol of transformation. A new library, conference hall, and women’s sports centre are taking shape, largely thanks to the money sent home by migrant workers laboring in Russia.
This local project, though small in scale, encapsulates a vast and growing regional reality: remittances — money sent by Central Asians working abroad — are not only sustaining families but shaping the physical and economic landscape of entire communities. From the dusty plains of Tajikistan to the dense suburbs of Tashkent, these transfers are funding schools, roads, health centres, and sports facilities, at a scale that dwarfs traditional foreign aid or government funding.
According to the World Bank, 2024 marked a historic year for remittances in Central Asia. Kyrgyzstan received a record $3 billion, equal to about a quarter of its gross domestic product (GDP). Tajikistan, with $6 billion in remittances, topped the global list relative to GDP — nearly 50 percent of its economy was sustained by these inflows. Uzbekistan, Central Asia’s largest nation by population, recorded $14.8 billion in remittances, contributing around 14 percent to its GDP.
As remittances surged, so too did hope — and ambition — in regions long mired in poverty and underdevelopment.
In Batken, where the average monthly wage hovers around $235, small donations can go far. “When I worked in Moscow, I donated 300 som ($3) a month,” said Akhmatov, now back home and overseeing the construction project. That monthly contribution — modest by any standard — is mirrored by thousands of others. In total, Akhmatov estimates around 1,500 migrants contributed to a recent project to build a new school.
Teacher Abazbek Abdinabiyev beams with pride as he shows off a newly completed indoor sports court. Painted in vibrant blues and yellows, the court now hosts children who once played barefoot in the dust.
“The contribution made by migrants has been enormous,” Abdinabiyev said. “Despite being far away, they have all helped to ensure that their children and brothers could have this opportunity.”
In neighboring Tajikistan, similar scenes are unfolding. In the northern town of Mehrobod, community members are coordinating roadwork, school construction, and even bridge building, financed almost entirely by emigrants’ savings. A government banner stretched over the main road declares, “Beautifying the country is the duty of every citizen.”
Abdukakhor Majidov, a local fundraiser in the town, says the model is simple: each district solves its own problems. “As soon as one street is repaired, we move on to the next,” he said.
These projects are not just infrastructure — they’re a lifeline for rural communities whose governments lack the resources to fund local development. The Kyrgyz government has acknowledged this directly, estimating that without remittances, the national poverty rate would spike from 29 percent to 41 percent.
Yet this economic lifeline is not without risks. For over two decades, Russia has served as the primary destination for Central Asian migrant workers, offering jobs in construction, transport, manufacturing, and services. The remittance boom in 2024 is largely attributed to Russia’s booming wartime economy, driven by surging arms production and infrastructure projects tied to its ongoing war in Ukraine.
But even as job openings proliferate in Russia, many Central Asians now view the country as a place of danger and instability. The war has not only reshaped Russia’s domestic labor needs, but also its policies toward migrants.
Moscow has faced criticism from its Central Asian allies over what appears to be a growing practice of recruiting or pressuring naturalized migrants into military service. In May 2025, Russian authorities confirmed that over 20,000 Central Asians who had received citizenship were now serving in the Russian army. Although some may have enlisted willingly, human rights groups and regional leaders worry that economic coercion or administrative threats are being used to push migrants into uniform.
Tajik President Emomali Rakhmon recently alluded to the growing concern in a national address, referencing “hundreds of repatriated coffins” from Russia — men who, he said, had “left to earn bread for their families.” Without directly naming Russia or the Ukraine war, his message was clear: Tajikistan is paying a human price for its economic dependence on Russia.
The situation worsened following the March 2024 terrorist attack at the Crocus City Hall near Moscow — Russia’s deadliest such incident in 20 years — in which over 140 people were killed. Russian authorities arrested four Tajik nationals as suspects, and while their involvement remains under investigation, the event triggered an eruption of anti-migrant sentiment across the country.
Sweeping security raids, mass detentions, and a spike in street-level harassment followed. The Russian government responded by tightening immigration rules and expanding powers to expel foreign workers. Thousands were detained for minor infractions — expired registration documents, failure to update addresses, or traffic violations. Critics say these laws are being selectively enforced against Central Asians.
Kadyrbek Tashimbekov, a 29-year-old from Kyrgyzstan, is among the nearly 300,000 Kyrgyz migrants who have left Russia since 2023 — either expelled or by personal choice. “I was expelled after working there for eight years,” he said. Now, back in Batken, Tashimbekov has found work operating a crane on the new school site.
Back in Kyrgyzstan, President Sadyr Japarov has pledged to reverse the tide of emigration. His administration has launched incentives to encourage skilled workers to return — offering subsidized loans, tax breaks for returning entrepreneurs, and rural development grants. Public messaging now encourages patriotic investment in local communities.
“We are building this with the hope that if we have such centres, we will train them in the right professions, guide them,” said Akhmatov. “And maybe there will be less emigration.”
It is a delicate balance: Central Asian economies depend deeply on the money migrants send home — yet their overreliance on a single, unstable partner (Russia) leaves them vulnerable to geopolitical shocks and domestic crises.
To break that cycle, experts say governments must shift from survival-mode remittance dependency to sustainable domestic development. That means building local job markets, strengthening educational institutions, and investing in small business ecosystems.
There are signs of hope. In 2024, Kyrgyzstan recorded its highest rate of small business registration since independence, with returning migrants starting food services, IT businesses, and construction firms. In Uzbekistan, remittance-financed start-ups in renewable energy and textile manufacturing are beginning to scale.
Moreover, the relative decline of the Kyrgyz and Tajik somoni against the Russian ruble has paradoxically increased the real value of remittances, giving returnees greater purchasing power at home. In Mehrobod, Majidov says the money now stretches further than ever before.
With Russia’s role as a migration hub facing increasing scrutiny, some Central Asian governments are exploring alternative labor destinations. Kazakhstan, Turkey, South Korea, and even Gulf nations like Qatar have been floated as potential partners for temporary labor programs. Yet these relationships are still in their infancy and unlikely to replace the volume and convenience of the Russian pipeline.
Regional cooperation may hold part of the solution. The Eurasian Economic Union (EAEU), of which Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan are members, offers some freedom of labor movement. There is growing interest in expanding such arrangements to minimize dependency on Russia and create a more resilient migration strategy.
But the true change, say locals like Abdinabiyev and Tashimbekov, must begin at home — with each returning worker investing not just in their village’s buildings, but in its future.
As the walls of Batken’s new school rise higher, the air rings with the noise of construction — saws, drills, shouted instructions. It is the sound of a society being rebuilt — not by politicians or foreign donors, but by the very people who once had to leave it behind.
“We went abroad to survive,” said Tashimbekov, pausing his crane. “Now we are home, and we want to build something better.”
