Late last year, the world was alerted to the disturbing news that Russia was recruiting hundreds of young African women, aged 18–22, to manufacture drones in a military-industrial compound called Alabuga, 1,000 km east of Moscow.
Reports said that the recruits—from at least 15 African countries—were promised good salaries and skills training, but that once there, they were often trapped, facing tax deductions, dangerous working conditions, strict surveillance, and difficulties returning home.
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In the past six months, a ZAM team in seven African countries has investigated the Russian recruitment exercise—and why so many young Africans take the chance to go, sometimes even after being warned.
However, amid the many international reports about recruitment for Alabuga, only one has highlighted the plight of families left behind. Reporting for Deutsche Welle, Garikai Mafirakureva interviewed worried parents in Zimbabwe in June this year.
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At ZAM’s request, he went back to several of them to ask how they are doing now. “A senior government official asked me if I wanted my daughter to study in Russia. She is no longer communicating.”
Read the three testimonials below.
Ulita Semende: “We hardly speak these days”
I am 47, I live in Harare, and my daughter is 19. She was active in various youth programmes (1), and when she told me she was leaving for Russia, I was not surprised, and I wished her well. My daughter and I are very close, so when she stopped calling, I became very worried about her.
We hardly speak these days. Whenever she calls via WhatsApp—the last time was in May—she sounds like she is in a hurry. I am beginning to believe the stories I hear about the girls manufacturing drones because she is so secretive about her job or her schooling programme.
I received $400 via Western Union in May this year. I don’t know where to turn to. I am afraid to approach government officials, because I feel they would say that I am the one who is feeding the media with news.
Zimbabwe’s ruling party, ZANU-PF, organises several workshops and training programmes for loyal youth.
Sositina Mukatwa: “The government is mum”
I am 43 and I live in Chivhu (140 km south of Harare). My girl is 19. When she applied and went to Russia, she never told me about the programme.
The only thing I remember is that she was running around asking for money from friends and neighbours to process her passport. That’s when I inquired, and she then told me that she wanted to surprise me because she was leaving for Russia.
At first, I was so happy because I thought this was her opportunity to help me and her two siblings with school fees and the general upkeep.
Now, I am afraid, not knowing if she is fine, because she rarely communicates. She has only called thrice to say she is fine, but I could sense she was not free to talk, as if someone were listening or she had little time on the phone. In fact, we have only talked three times via WhatsApp since she left in 2023.
The last time we talked, she sounded drunk and hinted to me that she had been laid off and was living with a friend, but when she called me in June, she said she is back at work and sent me $200 via Western Union.
She doesn’t want to talk about her job, her living conditions, or even the school programme. She never said when she is coming back to visit. I am living in fear because the government is mum about the whole programme. I don’t know what to do now.
Ruzvidzo Masambaasiyana: “I feel like I sold my daughter into slavery”
I am 55, I live in Harare, and my girl is turning 20 in January next year. I heard of this programme from a friend, a senior government employee, who asked me if I wanted my daughter to study in Russia. So I facilitated the process.
When she left for Russia, I felt my connection to those in higher offices had now paid. I was not worried until I read and watched the news saying they are manufacturing drones used in the war against Ukraine.
I tried to talk to her about it when she last called me sometime in April, but she brushed me aside and told me I should not always believe what I watch on TV or read in the newspapers.
I am now worried because she is no longer communicating. She never sent me anything, but I am not worried about her sending me money or not, as long as she is safe.
READ ALSO: INVESTIGATION: Road to Alabuga: Shady recruitment of young Nigerian women to Russia
I approached my friend, the government employee, about the issue, and he joked that I should “stop expecting a bridegroom from Russia.” He never spoke to me again about the programme, and she is also not talking about it. I no longer trust him. I want my daughter back, but I can’t do anything about it. I feel like I sold my daughter into slavery.
All names have been altered for security purposes.
ZAM extends its thanks to Deutsche Welle and Garikai Mafirakureva for their collaboration.
This article was first published by ZAM Magazine here (hyperlink to original publication on ZAM’s website
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