Time to read: 22 minutes(s)

Andrey Proshakov is a well-known Volgograd farmer. He became famous for his sharp tongue, Proshakov writes. stories, leads the author's speakers in the media and doesn't mince words when commenting on what's happening in the country. His Telegram channel Glass container collection The channel has nearly 3,5 subscribers—it was because of it that Proshakov was forced to leave the country in mid-September. Security officials summoned the farmer for a "conversation" and told him he had to delete the channel or be labeled an extremist. The former farmer now lives with his family in Yerevan. At 60, he works as a loader wherever he can find work—and is writing a book.

In an interview with NeMoskva, Andrei Proshakov explained why food is more expensive in the countryside than in the city, how the war is affecting life in the provinces, and why, in his opinion, the Russian opposition is just as pathetic as the current government.

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 Andrey Proshakov was born in 1962 in the Ilovlinsky District of the Volgograd Region. He worked in the restaurant business for many years and has been a farmer since the mid-1990s. In 2017, he launched the "All-Russian Loaf" campaign, where farmers from across the country sent him their grain to bake into bread. The campaign quickly became international and was renamed "Loaf of Peace."   Grain came from Ukraine, Belarus, France, Israel, Armenia, the USA and other countries. In 2019, at a meeting with Vladimir Putin I told He spoke to him about the difficult situation in the region's dairy industry. He served twice as a deputy of the Ilovlinsky District Duma. Andrey Proshakov has been writing prose and journalistic articles about rural life for many years. He hosted his own program, "101st Kilometer," on Ekho Moskvy-Volgograd radio. Every year, he hosts the "Medvedev Literary Readings" in his district, attracting writers and poets from across the country.

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— A farmer, writer, and publicist—an unusual combination. How did you get into farming? And how did you balance that with media appearances?

But I never went anywhere. I'm a peasant, born on a farm, and that's always been it—a vegetable garden, cows, pigs. A private farm, which is how the villagers lived in Soviet times. But I have a culinary background—after the army, I worked in the consumer cooperative system. At twenty-seven, I became the director of a large restaurant on the Moscow-Volgograd highway; it was called "Cossack kuren"I met the most famous politicians and artists there – Secretary of the CPSU Central Committee Anatoly Lukyanov, poet Rasul Gamzatov, satirist Arkady Raikin...

But the idea of ​​reviving, so to speak, the Russian kulaks lived within me—and in the mid-nineties, I slowly returned to farming. Back then, collective farms were falling apart, and land was being given away. I believed that small-scale producers would develop, as was happening in Holland or Poland—their farmers feed the whole world. At first, I kept pigs, but then the African scourge began. plague, and we started raising sheep. And then, naturally, cows, milk... We kept camels. At the peak of development in my peasant farm ("peasant farm", a legally registered status, in contrast to a private subsidiary farm note: "NotMoscow Speaking") There were almost two thousand heads of sheep, up to a hundred heads of cattle, and thirty camels.

As for speaking to the press, I've always written. Even in school, my stories were published in regional newspapers. After the army, I wrote a column for Molodoy Leninets. I never kept silent—I spoke out at every meeting with governors and ministers. I appeared on television, and until 2020, I hosted my own program on local radio.

Let's take a step back – tell us a story from your restaurant life? Which famous person was your most memorable encounter?

With Arkady Raikin. He arrived at the restaurant a little upset—he was expecting his son Kostya, but he was delayed. Naturally, Raikin and his troupe were met by the entire district party committee, the regional committee secretary… And so they led him to the banquet hall, he went up to the second floor and suddenly said, "Where are my escorts?" Everyone was confused; no one was planning on feeding them in the restaurant. He said, "Call everyone." He saw that we were making Turkish coffee, grabbed a Turk, and started making coffee for everyone himself. He seated the maintenance staff and drivers at the table—and only then went into the banquet hall.

And I've come to the conclusion that you always have to think about people. If the manager isn't at the restaurant, no one will notice. But if the cleaning lady doesn't wash the floors... Well, that's understandable.

I later kept this coffee pot as a souvenir. Thirty years later, Arkady's granddaughter, the actress Polina Raikina, read my stories at the "Moscow Author's Theatre" project, and I told her this story.

What has your business been like lately? they said, that they rolled it up before leaving.

It was a small, modest private farm. A few poultry, a dozen cows… I closed the [legally registered] private farm back in 2020. Its development required loans and hired labor. And I didn't want to depend on anyone. It was my decision to work alone, only with my loved ones. Now, of course, it's all over. I had a few days to leave—I didn't sell the equipment, I simply gave it away.

In one of your columns you toldThat the main problem in agriculture is monopoly and the "greed" of big business. Why is that?

Because big business rakes everything in, stifling small producers. When farmers own more than half the land in a village, they'll live harmoniously, buy a combine harvester together, and find a way to make money. And the village will prosper, because the peasant won't be a farmhand. But when all 15 hectares in a settlement belong to a single owner... That's when greed sets in. The country needs a clear law that there can be no land monopoly. Imagine a city with only one supermarket. What would happen? We'd immediately hear, "Where's the FAS?" But in the village, it turns out, it's perfectly legal.

Remember, in tsarist times, there was this Count Sheremetev, a major landowner? His family had been accumulating their lands for three hundred years. So today, compared to family [former governor of Kuban] Alexander Tkachev Sheremetev is just a summer resident with six hundred square meters.

In America, the average farmer has 100 hectares. Any more than that, and they lose government support. But here, big business is the main beneficiary. So, today, a schoolchild graduated from a farm school and wants to buy land. But there's none! Where can he find work? Of course, he'll leave the village.

I know rural communities where all the land is owned by one man, whom no one has ever seen. The only person who's seen is his manager, who arrives in a car that costs more than the entire community budget!

When I was a deputy of the district Duma (From 2009 to 2019 – Ed. "NotMoscow Speaking"), then he raised these questions everywhere – with numbers, names... But, of course, no one liked it.

What questions did you ask? And to whom?

The chairman of our Duma at the time, for example. He owned up to 80% of the arable land in the district, plus the grain elevator. He was also the district head, the local Cossack ataman, and the chairman of the district branch of United Russia. All rolled into one. And 20 percent of the Duma were foremen, and the director of the grain elevator were its employees.

What an "autocrat".

He's already dead, may he rest in peace. [But while he was alive], I could ask, for example, why is the asphalt paving program happening where your farm is? Right where you haul grain. Or, again, how do you always manage to get the best land for haymaking? Why did you buy a former bathhouse in the center of the district village for next to nothing—and then turn it into a restaurant? Why are you the only one receiving funds for developing livestock breeding? How exactly did you manage to open a hunting farm—and no one else? What's your genius? There are many such questions...

Have you had any problems because of these performances?

There was pressure, of course. How does this happen? I have a cattle pasture. And the district council decides to increase its cadastral value, equalizing it with arable land. And grazing land is usually not...уdobi (land in ravines and gullies that is suitable only for pasture – note from "NotMoscow Speaking"), their value cannot be compared with arable land. I ask questions to colleagues who voted for this – they lower their eyes: “What are we going to do? We work for this man (Chairman of the Assembly of Deputies – Ed. "NeMoskva Speaks"), he pays us a salary. That's what we were told.».

Another example. At the end of summer 2018, 2,8 bales of hay, all my winter storage, burned. This happened to all the pastures within a 35-kilometer radius. Fires raged across the region, and I wasn't the only one affected. And everyone was promised assistance, like subsidized loans and support. And they gave it to everyone. I brought my documents to the district office, and they told me, "They told you not to give it to them because you criticize United Russia."

I could list such nasty things forever. Once, someone threatened to poison my livestock. I couldn't prove it; it was just a one-on-one conversation between men. But then, for some reason, five hundred head of cattle were poisoned and died. Of course, when you're under such pressure, you start to think: maybe I should move on to something else?

Let's imagine you're describing life in your neighborhood to someone who's never been there. How is it organized?

Let's take an ordinary farmstead, right? Well, look. There used to be a state farm there—at the dawn of modern times, 30-40 farmers worked its land. Now there are only three left, and they have very little land. The rest of the land, as I said, belongs to a single farm.

The village's Soviet past remains, with a school, a club, and a kindergarten, which is almost empty of children. A shabby hospital remains, complete with a monument to Academician Pavlov, the first [Russian] Nobel laureate. He stands in the courtyard with a broken nose…

There are no permanent doctors at the hospital—an outpatient clinic operates once a week, if a doctor from the district center is available. There is also no pediatric nurse at the school or kindergarten, even though all sanitary regulations require that she be the one collecting food samples there. There is also no pharmacy; the nearest one is in a neighboring village or in the district center, 40 kilometers each way.

We go to the farm store. You'll be surprised – ordinary things are more expensive there than in the city, even groceries.

Why? Because producing meat, milk, or vegetables isn't profitable for local farmers. Even if they grow something, they can't sell it—there are no markets, and middlemen snatch it all up for next to nothing. In the early 2000s, I produced milk, and we sold it to the factory through a cooperative. Then middlemen appeared, and I realized they were making more money per liter of milk than I was getting from a cow. So I stopped doing that.

And finally, there's the local government. Each rural settlement has a staff of seven or eight people. The mayor, the chief accountant, the economist... The lion's share of the budget goes to their salaries. But as soon as you approach the mayor with a question, say, about healthcare, he shrugs: "It's not our responsibility."

Their main task today is to conduct elections [properly]. The electoral system is the only thing that works smoothly, whether in a small village or a stanitsa. Local authorities do practically nothing else.

Do you remember how you celebrated February 24, 2022?

Of course I remember. I was in the hospital at the time with COVID. I couldn't sleep, and I heard the roar of planes—they were flying overhead. In the morning, I read that the Second World War had begun. In the ward with me was a very elderly man who had survived the [Great Patriotic] ​​War. And when I told him that Kyiv was being bombed, he simply burst into tears. He said, "What is he doing?! Is this even possible?" The man was in shock. I also didn't believe that such a thing was possible. I described that morning in to lead – and I've publicly stated my position on numerous occasions. I'm against the SVO; it's the biggest mistake we've seen.

How did your fellow farmers react to the start of the war?

Oddly enough, with delight. Why, my colleagues—my relatives, my brother—were all euphoric: "Now we'll give those fascists what for." And I told them, "My dears, you see our life. We have no education in the village—in the hamlet, the singing teacher, a 68-year-old pensioner, teaches life safety and physics because there's no one else. There are no roads, you have to climb on a pile of manure to get internet. What makes you think everything is so good in our army?"

Why such a reaction? When it comes to inspections, fuel prices, or grain, farmers are quite critical of the government.

A farmer is no different from people in other professions. He lives in the same country, watches the same television. The propaganda worked perfectly.

Something else strikes me. When the first dead man from our village was brought in for burial, I went to see him. The boy was born under Vladimir Vladimirovich and died under him. The funeral was held in the village community center—the tiles had fallen off the walls, and a banner with pictures of war veterans was draped over the entire mess. Once again, they're protecting—in this case, this community center—from disgrace. They should be repairing it by now...

Well, anyway, district officials, speeches, an honor guard. And then the women are heading back—grandmothers, mothers. And one crosses herself, throwing her head back, and exclaims, "What a beautiful burial!"

I remember the beginning of the war in Afghanistan well. I remember the villagers taking their cows out to graze and whispering, "So, how are our boys doing?" They worried about them, cursed the war, Brezhnev... They bribed the military commissar to avoid being drafted. It was the same with the Chechen war. And now some of our grandmothers are outraged that their grandchildren aren't in the Northern Military District.

Did the mobilization have a significant impact on farming businesses? How did it play out in your area?

Mobilization was going smoothly, like a charm. Just imagine: a man has two or three children, a ton of loans, and is tired of his wife. A child is sick—he needs to find a car, take him somewhere… And then they promise him 200! Some people don't earn that much in a year! With the impoverished population, recruiting people [for the war] is no problem. People signed up—to deal with their own problems.

The farmers were also supportive, and then it began to dawn on them that tank drivers were actually tractor drivers. It's a tradition in our country. [The following year] the harvest came, and there was no one to work. They rushed to call in the elderly, whoever they could find: I personally saw a 76-year-old man get behind the combine this summer.

And they also hired Asians. But when they arrived, they saw there were no men, only free women. It was just nature. There had already been cases: in the village chat rooms, people would post about how so-and-so had gone out with an Uzbek. Are you familiar with the word "bastard"? That's what they called the children of German prisoners of war who appeared among us after the Battle of Stalingrad. Of course, there can be feelings. I'm not trivializing it—that's life, if a man is gone for a year... But gradually, the newcomers become the masters of the villages.

What's the overall situation in the industry? Has the war impacted the agricultural economy?

It's had a negative impact on both production and everyday life. Grain prices have fallen—the country is overstocked, and we can't sell it. And the cost of fuel and diesel fuel has risen. And even if there's no diesel fuel, it's clear where it's going. Spare parts are either unavailable, or they've become significantly more expensive. Everything has become more expensive.

But I don't expect a collapse – many farmers have a reasonable margin of safety. Previous years were favorable – preferential lending, support, good weather conditions. There was a good harvest and demand for grain. So, the accumulated "safety cushion" will be enough for crop farmers for a couple of years. The situation in livestock farming is, of course, more complicated. And in vegetable growing, too. I know one farmer who took out loans, planted a melon field, and went bankrupt. He then went off to fight to repay his debts.

And speaking of ordinary villagers, how is the war affecting their lives? Has anything changed in the last eighteen months? And in general, is it obvious in the countryside that the country is at war?

Nowadays, people try to avoid this topic in conversation. While at first it was a constant topic, with tractors and combines marked "Z," now it's gone. And those who do bring it up generally resort to obscene language.

And all those official funeral speeches, as if we'd taken Berlin, are over, too. Now they're trying to send some third-rate official to the ceremony, plus a military commissar. They look pale. It's all like a conveyor belt: a few stock phrases and they're gone.

I don't know how many people [in the area] died. That figure is confidential. But if you drive up to the village cemeteries, you'll see banners hanging from each one. You can already recognize them.

But overall, the war in the hinterland is unnoticeable. Except for the [rising] prices, the sad, gray faces… The people don't express it in any way. They've become more withdrawn, silent. Everything is driven deep inside.

How can this condition be characterized? What's happening?

Maybe the new laws really aren't conducive to frank conversations... But that's how it happens, you know—before it breaks, before it falls apart, any component, any mechanism, seems to freeze. Or take ice: it seems like the river is frozen, such silence. And then there's a crack—and the ice is gone. I think there's a kind of silence coming now. Something in people's brains is about to snap.

And what will happen then?

They'll start talking about all this, joking... They'll understand that all this absurdity is both scary and funny. They'll start laughing at themselves, and they'll feel ashamed. But not yet.

I thought you were going to talk about something like revolution, but you were talking about laughter...

Remember the 20th Congress of the CPSU? Khrushchev needed an hour of his speech to debunk the personality cult. Something like that is bound to happen: a bang, a snap, and everything changes. Gorbachev came in—what euphoria! But his career ended in failure. So many hopes were pinned on Yeltsin—and he left cursing. We remember how the people rejoiced when Vladimir Vladimirovich was elected. It will all end the same way; it has never been any other way in Russia. Some new Khrushchev will debunk the cult, and the portraits will be taken down. And everyone will say, "We knew it all along." as they said a hundred and two hundred years ago.

Let me clarify: are you expecting a quiet collapse of the regime? Many are predicting a bloody outcome, such as a war between Putin's supporters and opponents. There are many possibilities…

No, I don't think so. The only thing that could spark a resurgence is the nationality issue. The war will end someday, the men will return—and they might provoke some kind of conflict with the newcomers.

Tell us about your Telegram channel? When and why did you decide to start it?

I started it two years ago as a diary. It's a long-standing habit—to "write it out," to speak out, so as not to keep it bottled up and go crazy.

Let's say Putin said sugar shouldn't cost more than 50 rubles. But in the village, it's ninety. I wrote about it, and it made me feel better. I read the governor's report that our region has the best healthcare in the Southern Federal District, looked at the official reports, and was stunned – we're in last place. I went to the village hospital – there were no doctors, and to see a pediatrician, you have to wait a month. I explained [on Telegram] – that's how it really is.

Or, say, elections: you're sitting near a club where the polling station is, and 30-50 people come in a day. And the next morning, you read that seven hundred have voted. You're shocked again—and, of course, you write about it.

Have you ever had problems because of a Telegram channel before?

No, never. And I never thought it could seriously affect anyone. It's like a channel for one's conscience: "I didn't keep silent." So that my children and grandchildren won't be ashamed later. It's probably genetic—one of my grandfathers publicly condemned the start of World War I at a fair in Tsaritsyn. And he got a prison sentence from the Tsar for it. The case is preserved in the Saratov archives.

Tell me why you left? How did it happen?

On September 12th, an FSB officer from the Volgograd Region called me. He invited me in for a talk and emphasized that this was by no means a criminal case: "You don't need a lawyer, just come." I went to see them the next day. What did they talk about? Nothing new, if you've read Shalamov, Bukovsky, Archpriest Avvakum... They seem to be talking to you, but in a way that prevents you from saying anything. They're pressuring you—that you're not alone, that there are several of you writing there, that you're part of a group. And the gist of it is that my texts are extremist, that any of my texts will be subject to such expert scrutiny. So delete the channel, or you're an extremist. Oh, and you don't want to delete it? Then we'll bring your wife in right now, and she'll beg you on her knees to shut it down.

The funniest thing is that they were surprised that I knew the word “herbicide” (a chemical weed killer – note from "NotMoscow Speaking"). I once wrote on Telegram that today's electoral commission is like a herbicide for elections. Someone who hasn't been approved can't participate. And they say, "How could you even think of such a word?"

Funny. So what then?

I asked them for a day to think about it. I deleted the channel's texts, but I still have them all saved; when I have time, I'll slowly return them. I never planned to leave; I thought, who needs me? Although many people asked me, "How are you still free with such speech and thoughts?" And then there was the interrogation, the threats... And my close comrades advised me, "Here, I have a ticket to Armenia, fly away. We'll take care of everything for you, we'll sort out your household and affairs." They bought me a ticket, and on September 16th, I left. A week later, my wife and son arrived. So many people helped me—I'm very grateful to them! But of course, I can't name them.

As far as I understand, you are not planning to go back?

I'm planning to, but it's not up to me. As soon as Swan Lake is shown on TV, I'll be here. I want to finish watching it in Russia.

What are you doing now? How are you living?

I take on any job—loading crushed stone, clearing construction waste. I have to feed my family. It's all for next to nothing—I have no grants or connections. I can do a lot of things. But this requires Armenian, and I don't speak it.

By the way, here in Yerevan, I'm even more sad. I look at the local social infrastructure, the transportation, the playgrounds, the roads. The standard of living is roughly the same as in Russia. In a country with oil, gas, seas, gold, and human resources. Our ordinary people live the same way as in Armenia, where there are none of those hectares of arable land, forests, or minerals. They manage to live WITHOUT them. And here, anyone can go out on the street and calmly say whether they're for Pashinyan or against him. And no Armenian State Duma deputy will say, "Listen, those who are against us should be shot." Guruleva They dont have.

In one of interview You said: "All my characters live in the Ilovlinsky district. In the hamlets of Shirokov, Medvedev, and Ilovlya. They are ordinary people: peasants, shepherds, milkmaids, teachers, officials, local deputies, pensioners, creative people, slackers, creators, and antisocial elements."

In many ways, these are the same “common people” who now support the “special operation” and are happily going to “beat the fascists.”. Do you blame him for anything? Are you disappointed in your heroes?

No, why should I blame them? They've been deceived their entire lives, and they've grown accustomed to this deception. Even the highest church officials tell them today that war is a good thing! People believe it.

Of course, collectively, we as the Russian people are guilty, yes. And we will bear responsibility for this. Equally – those who left and those who stayed. But blaming this specific shepherd, Sidorov? What's the point? I blame myself even more – for not being able to explain to them why they shouldn't fight. I can speak, more or less, and I didn't talk through that box.

Many are clearly tired of the war, and there's no end in sight. What should the average person do in this situation? What should they do next?

Ordinary people are looking for a way out. No matter how we look at it, something is starting to awaken. But the ordinary person is entering a vacuum. It would seem there's an abundance of opposition right now. I have enormous respect for all these people—Navalny, for example, given his circumstances.

But they speak to a small segment of the population—intelligent, educated people. Have you heard anything from them for Shepherd Sidorov? Anything about rural areas? About how a village kid who did well on the Unified State Exam can go to school in the city? And he'll need to rent an apartment there, get some food—a sack of potatoes or something… A simple man, get off his combine harvester—he'll listen. dispute Katz and Volkov? He'll be shocked: "What are they even talking about?!"

A hypothetical opposition figure would respond to this: "Your ordinary people are most often 'Putin's electorate.' Why talk to them?"

Wait a minute. Let's say someone turns on YouTube. He doesn't yet know whose electorate he should be—Putin's or those who left. He listens, and they tell him about some... palacesWhy? For him, Putin is king and god. He's somewhere out there. But the most important thing for him is this village head, whom he didn't vote for, and who, for some reason, is the head again. And he has shops and cafes right there... And Putin, every now and then, says, "We need to build hospitals in the village." And the person thinks, "Oh, Putin is kind!"

The opposition doesn't tell him, "Look, collective farmer, you were promised work, loans, a pediatrician in every village! But there aren't any, Putin lied to you." No, no one says that.

And here's the paradox: the opposition has been criticizing the government for 20 years, saying it's so-and-so. But in those same 20 years, it hasn't achieved any results. We need to appeal not to ourselves, but to the common people. We need to look among them for opinion leaders, for new faces... The Bolshevik Party was founded in 1903. And 14 years later, they had already seized power. Meanwhile, let's just say that our opposition is as pathetic as the government.