"We’ve got fed up. We are heading to Moscow" 

Water Day

On a Saturday morning, Ulus appears quiet and deserted. The residents are still in bed recuperating from the workweek. Dogs reluctantly emerge from their kennels, barking hoarsely when they spot a stranger with a camera on the street.

 

Ulus has a history of 400 years, and in 1997, the town became part of the regional center. Despite its proximity to Kemerovo and its appearance of prosperity, with well-maintained houses and families with children, the settlement has never had a centralized water supply. It does not have access to natural gas either; there is no kindergarten, and no clinic since 2001. This is why on June 12, the locals arranged a community meeting, sending invitations through social media to the Mayor of Kemerovo, Dmitry Anisimov, and the first deputy-governor of Kuzbass, Ilya Seredyuk. The latter is also Anisimov’s predecessor in the mayoral office and leads the Government of the Kemerovo region.

Prior to the meeting, someone displayed portraits of the officials at a bus stop, demanding the fulfillment of promises to construct a water supply system by 2024. Banners with an identical message were stretched along the roadside. 

However, Anisimov and Seredyuk ignored the invitation. Instead, Sergey Lysenko, the head of the Housing and Utilities Department of Kemerovo, arrived with two police teams in tow.

Around a hundred residents gathered for a meeting, some bringing bottles and buckets with dark reddish liquid to demonstrate what kind of water they had to use in their homes. As Sergei Lysenko was unable to give clearly answers on the water supply issue, the crowd began chanting, "Seredyuk! Seredyuk! Seredyuk!" Lysenko claimed that he was in support of their needs but said that no water main should be expected in 2023. He promised to report the situation to the administrations of Kemerovo and the region.

Every Saturday at noon, Ulus springs to life. A blue tank truck labeled "Water" emerges from around the corner and stops at a gate, where an empty bucket indicates request for drinking water. People step out, placing containers of various sizes—canisters, flasks, plastic bottles, buckets, basins, pots, and pans—on the street. Clean water must be stored in advance for several days, enough for the entire family's cooking, washing, and laundry needs.

Half of the families (180 out of 318 households) have their own wells, but the water there is unsuitable for drinking. Only a handful have costly filtration systems. Most rely on water delivery. The wells are primarily for watering vegetable gardens, but only after the water stays still for two or three days and clears a bit.

The locals say that this summer there is less water in the wells. They attribute this to the blasting operations at a nearby stone quarry, as ground fluctuations had likely disrupted access to the aquifers. Because of the hot weather, people had to ask the City Hall for weekly deliveries of technical water for their gardens. 

Drinking water is delivered to Ulus twice a week—on Saturdays and Tuesdays. Those who work on Tuesdays have to stock up on Saturdays, enough for the entire week.

"Taking Action"

The water truck comes to a halt near one of the houses. Two women in their forties step out, accompanied by a dog. While the women collect water, the dog eagerly drinks from a puddle below the faucet.

"In our family, there are five of us. Every drop of clean water is precious. We constantly hesitate: should we wash the dishes now or reuse them before washing? In summer, we can store water in barrels outside, but in winter, it's pointless to collect that much. The house is already packed with water, no space for more. So we have to manage with what we have," one of the women explains.

She fills a large aluminum canteen with water, loads it with difficulty onto a cart, and rolls it to her yard. 

The water truck continues its journey down the alley, stopping at the next house occupied by a young family. A woman appears in the street, cradling a two-month-old baby in her arms. Her husband, Sergei, stands beside her and shares their experience:

"We collect water once a week, on Saturdays. I'm at work on Tuesdays, and my wife can't handle heavy loads. We used to work on Saturdays too, which left us with no water at all."

Sergei, born and raised in Ulus, had constructed his own house ten years ago and then got married, moving away from his parents. He works in Kemerovo at a company specializing in outdoor advertising. Before maternity leave, his wife also worked in the city.

"I recall that back in the 1990s, people tried to get a water pipeline built. But the authorities always provided explanations as to why it couldn't be done. At that time, people weren’t particularly eager to fight. They would complain, but nothing would change, and they would fall silent. Now, there's activity and resonance. People are determined to change their life. It is them who are actively pushing [for the construction of a water pipeline]," Sergei says.

Over the past two years, an initiative group has emerged in Ulus, rallying around activist Svetlana Khametova. She wrote appeals to the administration and even visited the prosecutor's office. Thanks to this group, there is now hope among the residents, including retired and disabled persons, and a 90-year-old World War II veteran. Sergei believes that the administration listens to the activists every other time, which is “already some progress.”

People are more efficient today because of smartphones and the Internet. While touring the town, the 7x7 correspondent was being photographed, and the pictures were sent to the community chat, where people usually discuss water-related matters such as when a water truck arrives and what is its route so that neighbors wouldn’t miss the delivery.

According to Sergei, if there is an agitation online, the administration has to come over, make excuses, and do something—or at least make promises. In the past, because of the shortage of trash cans, there was garbage dumping in Ulus near the creek and bushes. But more containers have been set up and the old makeshift dumping sites are being cleared out. Also in response to the towners’ requests, more streetlights have been installed.

While the journalist talks with Sergei and his neighbors, the empty truck leaves Ulus and returns with a fresh supply of water. The town, including its summer residents, has a thousand people here. To supply them with water, the truck shuttles between the city and the outskirts from eight a.m. until six p.m.

"My mother passed away a decade ago, and there is still no water"

A water truck pulls up outside the next house. A woman hastily drags a 200-liter plastic barrel towards it.

This woman is Valentina Bocharova, 65. Valentina's grandfather, who was born in the late 19th century and lived in Ulus, worked as a stableman at a collective farm. His house, a dark, dilapidated hut, still stands on the Bocharovs' property. Valentina had inherited it along with the land. But Valentina and her husband live in a new house covered with light-color siding panels.

When offered help to bring the barrel into the yard, Valentina declines, saying, "My husband will wake up and handle it.” He is a 73-year-old work veteran, who had spent 50 years as a machinery specialist at the local chemical plant. Valentina is a seamstress by profession, but along with this job she has also worked as a dispatcher and elevator operator.

In the past, some had wells with technical water. In the Soviet era, the authorities constructed several public wells. However, in the 1990s, the administration ordered to close them all, choosing instead for delivering drinking water.

"I didn't allow them to close my well," Valentina shares. "I said I didn't have one. I kept it just in case, mostly for irrigation. Besides, back then, no documents were required for wells. I had already realized that relying on our authorities was futile," she adds.

In the early 1980s, folks used to fetch water from the nearby Tom River. The Bocharovs still have an old wooden rocker in their barn. In the past, the rocker, balanced across one’s shoulder, was used to carry buckets of water hooked up to each tip.

“And it's not just another river bank here. Now it got a bit flatter, but before it was very steep. You walked uphill, it was exhausting. People used to carry water in large flasks, barrels, buckets. If you had a cart, you were lucky. It used to be a deficit. People built their own carts. It was hard with water. But they kept promising to bring it to us," Valentina says.

The woman steps inside and returns with a pile of papers. These are responses from the administration to her letters over the past 20 years.

“Back in Soviet times, I wrote to them, asking for a water main. I had to write the papers by hand and take them to the city. I have a whole stack of them at home. But it was of no use, the answer was the same: ‘There are no funds. We'll do everything as soon as we find money. We will remember you.’ And these 30 years they still remember us," Bocharova says sarcastically.

Among the papers in the woman's hands are photographs from the late 1970s. One shows people lined up at a water tank. One of the little girls in the picture is the same age as her daughter Valentina, who is now 45.

Bocharova thinks that in previous years people lost their fight with the authorities because they were fragmented. Many wrote to the administration, but individually. A group appeal was rare. Now Ulus is united.

“We‘ve got fed up! We will go to Moscow! I have no patience anymore. I have twice an umbilical hernia removed. One - about 15 years ago, the second - last year. It's all from loads, from weights. Look, it's all cut up,” she shows a big purple scar on her stomach. “My husband has sores, too. We are not allowed to carry heavy things, but we have to carry water because we have no choice.” 

“My mother used to carry water, she hoped the water pipe would be installed. She died ten years ago, and there is still no water.”

"I will wear a 'Water for Ulus' T-shirt"

By the gazebo on the Bocharovs' property, stands a metal barrel. The water inside it is tinged with a dark orange hue, covered by an iridescent film.

"Our water contains the entire periodic table," Valentina laments. "Even after two or three days, it is still muddy when you fill a watering can. You water the garden with this stuff, and it sticks to the can," she complains.

Valentina has made various attempts to seek help. She visited the offices of ex-Governor Aman Tuleyev, the local branches of LDPR, and a predecessor of United Russia. She even tried to contact Vladimir Putin through his direct line and wrote to Governor Sergey Tsivilyov. All was useless.

Valentina and her husband, like many of their neighbors, are adamant about not leaving their settlement.

“We are locals, and we have lived here our entire lives. I have my vegetable garden, my flowers. Where would I go without them? When we get too old, we might move to the city to be with our children. But what would we be doing there now? Our town is peaceful, with no bums, and no drug trouble. People are hardworking. Why should I abandon my home?"

Valentina believes that today they have a chance to make a difference. Thanks to a group of activists, the place got two wells drilled in February 2023 for central water supply. Water samples were taken in the spring. Now the challenge lies in finding the funds to build the distribution network and treatment system.

"People are furious, ready for anything. On June 12, we announced the rally, and everyone came. People have run out of patience. If there is no water supply, we will march with canisters and buckets to the central square. We will be parading around the square. I will wear a T-shirt that reads 'Water for Ulus.' Will I capture attention? Surely. Let them take pictures. It will go viral. All will know. Gas can be replaced with coal or firewood. Water is irreplaceable. Water is life, and we have none."

"Bureaucrats refer  as 'land' to Ulus residents"

A white Hyundai Solaris rushes through the town. It is Svetlana Khametova, 41, a local activist. Her cell phone is busy, but a few minutes later, she calls back.

"I have one matter to take care of. Let's meet near the store in 15 minutes," Svetlana quickly proposes.

Born and raised in Ulus, Svetlana is in business. She and her husband are raising two daughters. She became an activist when she watched the authorities fail to fulfill their promises.

"I had hoped that the government would awaken and take action. That never happened. So, I decided to get involved," she explains.

According to Svetlana, resolving the issues would be easy if only the authorities were willing to do so. For instance, there used to be no bus stops in Ulus. People complained to the prosecutor's office and contacted the traffic police. Soon, they got bus stops. "You got to demand everything," Khametova says.

In Svetlana's opinion, the officials are indifferent to Ulus because none of them lives here. Besides, the territorial administration of the Zavodsky District in Kemerovo, to which Ulus belongs, might withhold information from the city's mayor and their deputies.

In 2002-2003, the local three-year school in the settlement was shut down. The building was replaced with a pub and a club, which deeply upset Svetlana. Later, the property changed hands again, and the new owners went bankrupt. The former school now stands as a dilapidated ruin, slowly being dismantled.

"If the building had survived, it could have been transformed into a kindergarten. However, with each successive head of Ulus, the place only deteriorates. For instance, alleyways were only fixed in the areas where their friends lived. Streetlights were non-existent until last year. It feels like we're living in the 17th century. Yet, according to the law, this should not be the case. Therefore, it is a matter of principle for me to help my fellow towners. I made a personal vow to God," Svetlana says.

In 2021, the activist organized the inaugural meeting of the residents. The same year, they elected from their midst Natalya Vysotina as the settlement’s new head. 

"I approached the territorial administration and requested to see the electoral documents for the head of Ulus. The response was, 'We don't have them.' So, they had conveniently appointed an individual who did nothing. He simply impeded any initiative. I said, 'Then there will be elections,'" Svetlana recalls.

She provides assistance to Vysotina in her pursuit of running water, a gas supply, and a kindergarten. Currently, children have to travel three kilometers to the neighboring village of Mozzukha or the city.

"I feel sorry for the people, seeing how they have to transport water. Personally, I have a well and a filtration system. I take a little of [delivered] technical water for irrigation. Officials treat us like garbage. They would never say ‘hello’ at City Hall. They refer to Ulus folks as ‘land.' We are ‘land’, while they are kings. The only way to make them respect you is to get them afraid of you. They get scared when you go with your problems public, through social networks and the media. They respect me because I stand my ground, and I’m not corrupt. Plus, I’m legally literate," Svetlana says.

In the town, the activist greets everyone. People are delighted to see her; some ask questions, while she is curious about others’ problems. She mentions buying a rope for a bungee cord, and now it should be secured on a tree in a designated area for teenagers.

"We have officially assigned them a spot so they won't go to the minors’ playground and disrupt them. Parents are aware of their whereabouts but keep a certain distance. When a teenager had graffitied the playground, I discovered the culprit, and his mother made him clean it up. We also have a juvenile ex-convict who monitors and prevents kids from driving around in cars at night and causing disturbances. The people here understand that all our efforts are for their benefit," Khametova explains.

The towners are constructing a park. The territorial office passed over a few damaged benches, which activists are repairing. The residents have installed a memorial stone where the inscription "1941-1945" will be engraved. Upon completion, the park will serve as a venue for communal celebrations.

"People in Ulus are not passive. Some may fear the authorities, while others may lack time," Svetlana says. "Many reach out to me, saying, 'Sveta, I can't speak up. I don't know how to write. But I will go out and simply be present there.' 95 percent of the people here are like that. Everyone has a tipping point, a breaking point. No matter how passive someone may appear initially, there comes a moment when their patience runs dry, and they will take action. If they don't act publically, they will support activists silently by going to the church and praying."

"Without me, bureaucrats will destroy the people"

Four days after the gathering on June 12, Kemerovo Mayor Dmitry Anisimov visited Ulus, but as Svetlana says, furtively. However, people immediately notified her upon spotting the mayor on the street.

"He was wearing a white shirt, accompanied by a cameraman and a few others. He walked past my car, fully aware of who I am. But he only paid attention when I asked him, 'Why are you here secretly?' His response was, 'It has to be this way.' There are certain norms of decency that should be observed in all situations, regardless of one's position. Yet here you are, visiting people who are waiting for you to address their issues, filming footage as work material, hiding from them, and treating them disrespectfully. I said, 'It's not me who came to you. You came to me,'" Svetlana says.

After his visit to Ulus, Anisimov posted on his Telegram channel that in December 2023, the authorities would collect the final water samples from the exploratory wells. The expert review for the water pipeline project should be ready by the spring of 2024. However, the authorities intend to finish preparatory work and start construction in 2023 because they want “to avoid losing precious time.”

Svetlana is confident that the water pipeline will be constructed, as officials have all the necessary technical documentation prepared, and the design of the treatment system is underway.

"Once a water pipeline is installed, plus the kindergarten and gas, it will be Ulus-City."

Meanwhile, her youngest daughter is studying English, and Svetlana wants her to emigrate to Australia.

"I have already made contacts there and gathered all the necessary information. She [her daughter] will attend Kemerovo Polytechnic and then proceed to a college in Australia. Perhaps I will accompany her for some time and then return to Ulus. Without me, the officials will destroy the people here," Svetlana concludes.

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