My grandad was repressed from Tatarstan in 1937 under the political article of law. Which is why father was born in the Perm district and returned to Kazan when he was 17 – he came to study.

So I was born and grew up in Kazan. After graduating from the Aviation Institute, dad was sent to Sverdlovsk [modern-day Yekaterinburg – Ed.] for work experience and so we only managed to come back in 1990.

My mum is such a Kazan patriot (like a full Tatar loyalist and all that). She really wanted to return back to Kazan. She did not like Yekaterinburg, those grey Ural mountains. I remember during my childhood when we lived in Sverdlovsk, mum would listen to Tatar vinyls with tears in her eyes. Basically I feel that I inherited a lot from mum.

We came back to Kazan and I went to school here. We lived around the Teplokontrol suburb, Tyap-Lyap [infamous bandit organization in Kazan – Ed.], you know. Just like all the other teens in those days, there were all sorts of brawls, but I avoided any tricky situations in different ways – including both diplomatic and non-diplomatic.

My parents were interested in politics.

I knew that we were going through perestroika, Gorbachev, all that, the Soviet Union broke up, referendum about the sovereignty of Tatarstan. I remember the NTV channel back when they showed programs like 'Kukly', 'Results with Evgeniy Kiselev'. All that was interesting to observe. At school, most of all I liked history, literature and geography. All that paved my way to the History Faculty.

Opposite Kazan University there's the National Library in a very beautiful pre-revolution residence. I remember really well how in the summer of 1998 I was sitting there, studying for a competition, writing an essay about Speransky. It was a beautiful day, windows open all the way. And through an open window I saw students walking out from the main university building. I watched them and thought: this is where I want to study.

I had a similar thing with Paris: in my last years at school I read a lot about it, I was enthralled by this city.

I visited it. And the funny thing is that I didn't really like it there and so I never went back.

Kazan is also a very beautiful city, no less beautiful, probably, than Paris. I actually remember really well how I would go up from the Leninskiy Gardens by the Chernoye Ozero Lake towards Universitetskaya Street, the park on the right…and I thought: damn, it's really beautiful here. As in it was this discovery I happened to make for myself when I was 14. And all that area around the University – it was like this magnet for me, let's say, plainly architecture-wise, atmospheric.

With a lot of stress I was accepted to the History Department. There I found my calling – science. I liked to write, and read and talk about science. We organized all sorts of science groups, we'd travel on expeditions, study at the library a lot.

But at the same time, the university was also a place to hang out – not just the university area around Skovorodka [the round-shaped hang out area outside the university the students lovingly nicknamed 'the frying pan' in Russian – Ed.], but also the subculture life around it. I became interested in techno and submerged into Kazan's club culture – exclusive parties, books and movies.


I remember 'Drugoye Kino' where they sold different conceptual art films, the little 'Ozone Pro' stand at UNICs, where apart from music you could also get flyers for interesting upcoming parties. It's like 'Knizhki' on Bauman Street for rockers, but we sorta didn't respect rockers, we were into techno. Back then we had the 'Doctor' club, 'Grot Bar', there was 'Stanciya' – that's one of Kazan's most oldest clubs, as in it truly was a community, there was some kind of like gathering of people who listened to techno and took it really seriously. As in it wasn't just for the sake of hanging out, drinking beer, but you know that you're listening to this because you adhere to practically certain ideological views.

Back then I still lived in Teplokontrol and, well, I would wear these colourful beaded necklaces, harem pants with some patched pockets sewn on, backpack, I shaved the back of my head, I had these plaits, like an informal clubber of sorts, but by the way, no one would touch me in Teplokontrol because by then I was a local.

After graduating university I wanted some new experiences, new knowledge and to simply live in a different context. I first left for St Petersburg, and applied to the European University and graduated with a Gender Studies Major from the Political Sciences and Sociology Faculty.

And they came back to Russia, because they wanted to do something here. That's probably one of the most important lessons that I learned for myself.

To some extent I'm a supporter of the ideas of American sociologist Michael Burawoy who promotes the idea of public sociology, and not only sociology, it applies in general to all humanitarian scientists: they must write not only scientific articles, but also some things based on their scientific work, specifically for a wider audience. And that is in actual fact quite difficult.

I lived in St Petersburg for 2.5 years. I had a conflict with St Petersburg as a city. I love St Petersburg but its grey walls, especially in the city centre, like that depressiveness really beats me down. I think my national identity grew stronger there.

And there, I, by the way, clearly understood that I am a Kazanite and a Tatar. It's hard to explain why. But in Kazan back then all that stuff was starting up – Tatar alt music evenings, all sort of home gigs…and I was yearning for Kazan.

To leave was an important decision for me because otherwise, it was just us stewing in our own juices and it wasn't that great. It sounds pretty banal but you have to get out of your comfort zone.

One of my friends wrote to me: "Amsterdam University just announced a contest in a field very close to yours," and he sends through the info. I looked through it, sent in my application and got in. And so I went to Amsterdam for a few years.

I remember the night before I left really well. I was going to sleep and there was this feeling as if I'm jumping into space or something. Literally – I was imagining that I'm standing on the shore and am jumping into space, that was the feeling I had.

In Amsterdam I was engaged in scientific work. For me that was really important. I chose the field where I could say things that no one has said before me, and without any fake modesty I have to say that I was able to do that. I studied the origins and propaganda of Russian-speaking jihadist ideology: I was able to show how that ideology developed from the Soviet and post-Soviet culture during the intellectual and ideological crisis of the 1990s.

I'm talking about how Lev Gumilyov, Chingiz Aitmatov, Herzen, like, Solzhenitsyn, Soviet bard music didn't simply influence the jihadist ideology, but to some extent it grew out of this intellectual environment. We see this in the example of, say, Timur Mutsurayev. I tried to show that the study of this topic should be attractive not only for Islamic scholars, but also for Slavists, that is, it is also about Slavic studies, as in, the study of Russian Slavic culture, Soviet, post-Soviet Russian language culture, in the broadest sense of the word. I am attracted by the interdisciplinary approach.


I didn't just study something new in my field, but I was also trying other living standards and practices – physical ones included. Over there, riding a bike happens on the daily…For example I don't like cheese, there I fell in love with cheese, I totally fell in love with fish. In Kazan I miss good cheese and good fish. I lived there in this nice place, in the northern part of Amsterdam, near an old fishing village, which became part of the city a long time ago. Everything in terms of upkeeping traditions is adhered to.

As in the great-grandfather, grandfather, grandmother would go to that bar – and that all must stay, it has to be like that.

And so it was a very productive time. I could truly concentrate on my work, without getting distracted by anything else.

The level of support of the scientific process – the financial, material support, provided by western universities is a very, very serious thing. In actual fact you really don't need to worry about anything. If you want to print out a book on the printer, like a really thick one, you just print it. And no one will say that you're like using up too much paper or something else – no one will even bat an eye. If you need some sort of monograph, the university library will order it for you. The level of bureaucracy in the university if very low.

They are similar in size, in terms of population, and it seems, on a household level, they – one and the other, are pretty comfortable cities, something I cannot say about Moscow nor St Petersburg, for example.

There's something in the air, this kind of light easy-goingness.

The thing that initially surprised me is that in Amsterdam, and in Holland in general, people aren't in a rush, but even so, everything still works. I think that it's partly to do with discipline and the ability to correctly plan your working schedule. I had a conversation with a professor there, I suggested we meet. The conversation took place in May. And the professor says: "second of August at 3:00 pm".

The level of scientific discussions in Amsterdam is much lower, for people with conflicting viewpoints the level of mutual aggression is much lower. And there's much more empathy.

People with less aggression discuss all sorts of scientific topics, and that, in actual fact, is very nice.

I think it's because on one hand, it's some sort of feeling of stability, which they have internally, it kind of helps that you don't need to defend your point of view with aggression. Obviously, there's a lot of competition there, the western academic system is very competitive, as in that's a given, but you still feel some kind of pillar behind you, which won't let you fall.

As in you've come from Eastern Europe, you have to get grounded, you have to show that you really are cooler than everyone else. Well, that's not quite it of course, but there's something to it.

In Amsterdam I realized that the city, being not too big, can still be global. Officially it's a little bigger or smaller than Kazan, but it has one of the world's best universities, one of the best museums of this world, it houses headquarters of large transnational companies.

After defending my PhD in Amsterdam I was initially invited to work in Kazakhstan as part of a group that was researching the changes in values in the post-Soviet space. It's a new scientific project which includes Russia, Kazakhstan and other countries. I agreed, and worked for a bit there.

Over there, a local oligarch bought a university which he studied at, and invested a whole lot of money into it. He invited an American from Harvard University to be the Rector. And they started getting an international team together, they started to look for researchers who had prestigious western accolades, who were a good fit in terms of their field.

After there was a proposal to work at the Institute of Psychology and the study of Social Issues in Tatarstan. And so my wife and I decided to go to Kazan.

And so the awareness that I am back in Kazan again, that for me was a kind of internal calling. In 7 years I lived in 3 cities, mostly in the Netherlands. And so, I returned to the city again – the City (with a capital letter for me), and I see all sorts of places, that are changing.

I sorta remember that old Kazan really well, and I think that there's a significant amount of people who have a nostalgia for those times, they have a nostalgia more for their youth, rather than the actual current state of things.

But the actual real state of things were the following: my grandma in the centre of Kazan had to go to the standpipe for water. The toilets there, too were…in wooden houses, there weren't even toilets! We understand it all too. As in I'm not sorry for all that. But having said that, a lot has been torn down that wasn't supposed to be torn down – that's true. Quite a lot of historically significant buildings were demolished and sometimes some absolutely ridiculous things were built in their place, there's a bit of that too. But there are also good examples too, quite a few. In this sense I also take more of a neutral position.

My grandma lived in the place where the houses have been demolished, on Sverdlov Street – that's the current-day Peterburgskaya Street. I too have these conflicting childhood memories. On one hand there's a kind of nostalgia, but on the other – these were very old, rotting houses with rats and in any case, it's good that they got torn down. Anyway, it's all just nice words.

I like the parks that they're building here, I like 'Smena'.

To me it seems that on one hand, no one is being forced to stay in the place where they were born, but if that place allows to do something here, then you should try return to do it. You will have a fresh outlook, you have new experiences, and it's very important for a city to have more people like that.

I'm sad that Tabris supermarkets closed down, because there was a lot done there in terms of developing the Tatar city culture. It's a shame that Mubai stopped writing and performing. I want to meet him and say to his face: "How can you hide away from people, you have no conscience!". He's a super-talented guy. Mubai, come back!

In Kazan you can still come across, of course, some suspicion or irritation towards those who have returned back, something like that, like this passive aggressiveness.

I like the embankment given all the criticism. I remember the cement path from NKC to the Kremlin, where at some point I spent a lot of time…

Sure, growth has its downsides, and from the point of view of aesthetics there are questionable points. But I compare the past with the present – and I like the present more.

I believe that Kazan is a worthy city to live in. It's a place which has its identity, it's a comfortable and modern city with its own history. I like that there's a lot of water there – rivers and lakes. It's great when home is in a place like this.