Now in their late twenties, Sevara* and Aziz* are two of the almost two million children who were subjected to forced labour in the cotton fields of Uzbekistan between the 1990s and 2020.

“The stories I’ve read in the press do not reflect reality. I’ve seen reality.” says Aziz.

For almost three decades, as an expansion of the Soviet legacy, the Uzbek state compelled people, including children, in rural areas to pick cotton to meet state-set quotas. There had been forced labour in the Soviet Union, which worsened when supply chains collapsed after 1991. Formerly the fifth largest producer in the world, until 2020 the Uzbek government ran a repressive cotton monopoly and required local officials, as well as public servants such as teachers, to mobilise citizens to work on the fields. Cotton was procured from farmers at below-market prices and resold globally for a profit largely to the benefit of a small elite.

In 2022, the International Labour Organisation announced that Uzbek cotton was “free from systemic child labour and forced labour”. Uzbekistan was finally reaping the fruits of the sweeping reforms under president Shavkat Mirziyoev, who came to power in 2016 promising democracy. Abolition of cotton slavery, currency liberalisation, and limited media relaxations are among the changes that earned Uzbekistan The Economist’s “country of the year” award in 2019.

But while Uzbekistan has been lauded for moving away from forced labour, the cotton economy’s insidious influence on regular people’s lives, and, especially, on children’s development and the splintering of rural communities, remains untold. Under the former regime’s tight grip on the media, anyone who spoke out was faced with beatings and intimidation by authorities.

“Every night we slept hungry. Such was the work,” Aziz adds.

Sevara’s and Aziz’s stories are part of this slow coming to terms with this painful past. Their contrasting narratives convey the human aspect of cotton-picking, where the collective pain of exploitation, community strife and trauma is dotted with feelings of ambiguity.

Sevara’s pride in her cotton-picking abilities and fond memories of picnics in the sun contrast sharply with Aziz’s memories. For him, cotton-picking is associated with shame around the violence he was pulled into, and the trauma he endured from witnessing his grandfather’s debilitation and the death of one of his friends.

A bittersweet childhood

Human Rights Watch reports that, prior to 2012, the use of child labour was particularly acute across Uzbekistan. In response to international pressure, the government allocated a larger share of the total harvest to adults and older children.

Sevara describes her early cotton-picking days with unexpected fondness: “Villagers liked picking cotton. We did picnics in the sun and played together,” she reminisces. “I liked picking cotton, because I was good at it. I would meet my quota in the morning and take a nap in the afternoon.”

Sevara was about five years old when she began harvesting cotton. She participated in the harvest every year from 2000 until 2017. At first, she lived in a cotton-growing region, meaning she could return home at the end of the day to her village nearby. Other children from other regions were more unlucky: they had to travel for tens of miles and were forced to remain next to the fields during the harvest season from September to November. They were put up at someone’s house, at a nursery or in an empty building for thirty to forty days at a time.

For Aziz, talk of cotton dredges up distressing memories. He remembers when, at age 13 in summer 2006, he witnessed the third round of watering for cotton – a particularly tense time for farmers as they competed with fellow villagers who were similarly reliant on water for subsistence crops such as potatoes, wheat and onions.

“In the middle of July, if the cotton was not watered for the third time, the harvest wouldn’t be good,” Aziz explains. “All the farmers paid attention to the third irrigation.”

During a 10-day period of cotton irrigation, Aziz had to ride his bicycle day and night, sleep-deprived, along a three-kilometre canal to ensure that water reached his grandfather’s cotton farm, which served the state-mandated quota.

The job was essential as villagers would often divert this water to their private plots by opening their sluices. “If I saw water diversions, I would close the water supply, and if I had to beat that person, I would, or I would use a stick,” Aziz recalls.

“If it was a woman, she would beg and ask me to give her water. The villagers also didn’t have water, but if I gave it to them, I got the stick from my uncles. I hate myself when I remember those times.”

On one of those feverish nights, Aziz’s grandfather tried to prevent such a diversion, leading to a violent clash. “My grandfather resisted, and those people beat him up. After that, he went to the hospital and got sick.”

Aziz resents the tensions that spread in the community because of cotton irrigation. “We used to fight with a lot of people during irrigation,” he said. “People hated the farmers and looked at them with a bad eye.”

Yet, such dynamics were nearly inevitable at a time when non-compliance with the state quota was punished with the Uzbek state confiscating farmland and the ensuing loss of livelihood for the farmers.

The narrative darkens

As Sevara progressed into middle school and, eventually, to university, picking cotton in the field became harder.

She explains that, between the ages of 11 and 13, teachers could no longer ensure children went to the fields to help with the cotton harvest so they made them live in the colleges. Sevara and her classmates were required to bring their own mats to sleep on in empty classrooms, where it was cold and uncomfortable. Sometimes they remained in these colleges long after the end of the harvest, as the government would not give them permission to go back. Then, the food would get worse and, with winter progressing, the weather would get colder.

Still, Severa reiterates that she did not mind picking cotton, and she would collect up to 100kg, significantly more than her 70kg quota. Later, however, she developed kidney problems due to the harsh working conditions that recurred well into her pregnancy.

“When I was picking cotton during university, we lived in an old house where there was no bath, only a toilet. We would go to a public bath every week, which we had to pay for ourselves,” Sevara says. “But with cotton there is so much dust and you sweat all the time, and your body gets really dirty. If you had your period, it was especially difficult, because you could not wash yourself. You couldn’t pray either.”

Amid these unsanitary conditions, Sevara had to sleep on the cold ground near a drainage channel, which led to complications with her kidneys. The teachers who monitored the cotton harvest let her off for one day to see a doctor. The doctor urged Sevara to stop working as her condition was poor, but this was impossible.

“The teachers let me rest only for two days in the fields and then made me work again,” she recalls. “I had to take strong painkillers, but they gave me stomach issues. The teachers liked me because I was a very fast worker.”

Despite these health complications, Sevara blames herself for her lack of caution, and seems to hold no grudge against her teachers for the harsh treatment she received. “It’s my fault,” she says. “I should have been more careful,” she says.

Aziz’s experience with the cotton harvest ended in a tragedy that marked him for life.

“One pupil of a neighbouring school fell asleep in the cotton field. I knew that boy, because sometimes we played games together,” he says. “When a tractor came to collect the cotton, the driver didn’t notice the boy and ran him over, killing him instantly.” Shock and confusion ensued, as children and teens saw blood on the tractor wheels. The teachers called for an ambulance and the military who, in turn, responded with more violence: “The military came and beat the teachers.”

As we spoke, it was evident that Aziz was struggling to unearth these horror scenes, but he reassured me it was important to share what had happened. He doubts anyone was punished, or that the boy’s family received compensation for his death. “It was very secret. At that time, evidence of such events was buried without a trace.”

It has been seven years since the inauguration of a new government in Uzbekistan under president Shavkat Mirziyoyev. With the pace of change in the country, one may even start to believe in a future free from arbitrary violation of basic freedoms . However, with the Uzbek government’s recent chain of persecutions of journalists and bloggers, the window of hope for a free Uzbekistan is now closing.

In the meantime, Sevara and Aziz’s stories are a stark reminder that decades of forced labour do not just vanish, but live on in those people who had to endure them.

*Names have been changed