Dushanbe- At first glance, as you wander through the streets of the Tajik capital, Dushanbe, you will notice that the smell of the Soviet era in the country is strongly present, in the buildings, the letters of writing, the language spoken on the street, and life.
The breadth of the sidewalks, the regularity of the gardens, and the sternness of some of the old facades tell the visitor, especially if it is his first visit, that the remnants of Soviet history are still here, but at the same time you will see the state’s persistent attempts to repaint this history, not delete it, so that with the post-independence stage, it becomes a Tajik identity that does not disavow the past, but rather develops, modernizes, and creates an identity based on its heritage and history, both modern and ancient.
When you raise your eyes a little, almost everywhere you will see symbols of modern Tajikistan taking their place in the form of a huge statue of Ismail Samani, Sadruddin Aini or Rudaki, as if Dushanbe wants To say two things at the same time: We are an independent country, with our own flag, language, and symbols, but we also have not emerged from the past the way a person leaves a room and closes the door behind him.
In the streets of Dushanbe, not all buildings are beautiful, and not all of them are modern, but they carry a striking mixture: something of Soviet memory, something of the ambition of the new state, and something of a Central Asian spirit that is completely unlike any other.
Rudaki’s paradox
On the main street bears the name of Rudaki, a great poet that Tajikistan is reclaiming as a symbol of language, identity and culture. Giving the name of this poet to the largest and most important street in the capital is an important message that says that the story of this country located in Central Asia begins with poetry and not politics, from Persian roots and not from the years of the Soviet Union.
But the irony is that as you walk on this street, you will hear and see the Russian language around you, through a word in a clothing store, or a sentence between two young men, a short conversation with a driver, or a large sign written in Tajik Cyrillic similar to Russian letters, to reach a strong impression that despite the strong presence of Tajik in history and culture, it does not erase Russian from the scene, as they are adjacent to each other just as the classes of the city itself are adjacent.
Of course, this is not a colonial echo, nor nostalgia for the past, but rather a practical reality. Russian is not only an ancient relic, but the key to work, study, travel, and a long, uninterrupted relationship.
Historical layers
In the center of Dushanbe, national symbols are strongly present. The Tajik flag, the statue of Ismail Samani, the names of poets and historical leaders, the museums, parks and squares that declare that the country is building its own memory after independence.
But the eye, as it moves between these symbols, cannot ignore the background. There are wide buildings with Soviet features, straight facades, heavy concrete blocks and wide public spaces that remind you that the modern city was born, in important part, within Soviet planning.
Some of the ancient architecture doesn’t look amazing, but it is important because it gives the city its depth. Wide office building, strict facade, similar balconies, simple residential blocks. They are not classic tourist photos, but they say something about the country: here people lived for decades within a large system, then left it, but the walls continued to tell the story in their own way.
On the other hand, there are new facades, larger buildings, and polished spaces, as if the capital wants to precede its memory. This paradox makes walking around Dushanbe enjoyable for those who like to read about cities and wonder: Is this building from the time of the Soviet Union? Or from the time of independence? Or from trying to combine the two?
In this scene, Tajikistan does not completely erase the past, nor does it let it rule the image alone. Rather, it places a new layer on top of it: clearer national symbols, the Tajik language in the official facades, and urban projects that say the capital wants to appear more modern and luxurious.
As a visitor, you may sometimes feel that Dushanbe is repainting its memory. It does not destroy everything, nor does it preserve everything. It chooses what it wants to highlight, and leaves other things behind the facade, or at the edges of the picture.
In cafes, shops and taxis, Russian seems more like a useful language than a language of the past. Maybe not everyone speaks it to the same extent, but it is present enough to understand that it has not become a distant memory.
Language stayed there
On the way back to the hotel, after a long day of sessions at the Dushanbe International Water Conference, the Russian language seemed present not in the official halls, but in the details of daily life. We tried to explain our destination to the taxi driver in English, but he picked up almost nothing.
If it were not for a Kazakh journalist who was accompanying us, and who intervened to explain the place to him in Russian, we would have remained in a circle of signs and ambiguous phrases. As soon as she spoke Russian, the scene changed; The driver immediately understood the destination, and the car drove quietly through the streets of the capital.
Russian does not appear to be a direct competitor to Tajik identity, but rather a tool by which people live in a complex region. The language that came with the Soviet Union remained after it because it was linked to livelihood, education, and movement. Therefore, its presence on the street cannot be understood only as nostalgia, but also as an economic and social reality.
As you listen to this language in a city bearing the names Rudaki and Samani, you realize that identity is not one straight line. They are classes, and some old classes do not disappear simply because a new class is placed above them. This is a fact that does not constitute an offense, but rather an expression of an overlapping identity that was formed over the ages that Tajikistan has passed through.
Building an identity without erasing the past
Saidjan Shafizadeh, Deputy Head of the Department of Information and Press and the official spokesman for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Republic of Tajikistan, told Al Jazeera Net that the Russian language is considered the second language in Tajikistan and is spoken by more than 90% of Tajiks, in addition to the Tajik-Persian language.
He adds that his country does not seek to erase what remains of the Soviet period, but rather seeks to modernize the country in a way that suits the times and preserves national identity.
The attempt to build Tajik identity after independence is not only evident in museums and statues, but it also appears in the most common item among people: currency. The Samani banknotes do not carry passing faces, but rather carefully chosen characters to say something about the country that emerged from the Soviet cloak in search of its own identity.
There is Ismail al-Samani, after whom the coin was named, as a symbol of the state and its historical roots, Rudaki, the great Persian poet, Ibn Sina, the scholar and physician, Sadr al-Din Aini, one of the faces of the modern literary renaissance, and Babajan Ghafurov, the historian and politician.
Thus, the small banknote turns into a symbolic space that rearranges public memory. From symbols of the Soviet era to heroes of language, culture and history, in a quiet, daily attempt to remind Tajiks of who they are, and where they come from.
Tales from the road
Talking to people a little, Moscow does not seem like a distant capital, but rather as part of family life. The taxi driver tells us that a relative of his works in Russia, and that he seeks to go there where job opportunities and wages are better, while the restaurant owner talks about a son of his who is traveling there. Immigration to Russia is not an external detail in the lives of many Tajiks. It is part of the household economy.
In a mountainous country with limited resources, Russia has become for many an extension of the labor market and a place where young people go in search of a better income. Perhaps this is also why Russian remains important, and the relationship with Moscow is not easily severed.
You don’t just see this facet of the Soviet legacy in a building or statue, but you also hear it in stories. In a mother’s concern for her son, in a young man’s dream of traveling, in a house built with money that came from abroad, and in a language that a child learns because it may open a path for him one day.
According to data from the International Organization for Migration, hundreds of thousands of Tajiks work in Russia annually, and as of September 2024, about 618,000 Tajiks left to work abroad, approximately 98% of whom went to Russia, while remittances from workers abroad amounted to about 6.8 billion dollars in 2024, approximately half of the country’s gross domestic product.
A city that does not live in the past or forget it
Despite all these shadows, Dushanbe does not seem like a city stuck in the Soviet era. There is a clear desire to build a different national image. The flags, parks, historical symbols, Tajik names and celebration of ancient poets and kings all say that the country wants to see itself as more than just a former Soviet republic.
But the strength of Dushanbe, and perhaps its sincerity, is that it cannot hide everything that it went through. Cities that completely hide their past sometimes seem soulless. But here, the past appears and disappears, and this overlap is what makes walking around Dushanbe a different experience.
In the streets of Dushanbe, Tajikistan looks like someone walking with two languages and two memories. Tajik gives the place its soul, name, and Persian extension, while Russian opens the door to work, education, and crossing into the post-Soviet space.
But the question that is approaching as a new generation learns English, looks at Turkey, and deals more and more with China: Will Russian remain an indispensable bridge, or will it become one of many languages in a country trying to balance its memory, identity, and future?
