A refuge for Russian 'sinners' and casualties of capitalism

For some this peasant farm in Siberia is a place to dry out and restart their lives, but others grumble the work is too hard and the wages too meager

By Steve Nettleton
CNN Interactive Correspondent

CNN Interactive Correspondent Steve Nettleton is traveling east across Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railroad. His dispatches from towns and cities along the way will report on what ordinary Russians beyond Moscow and St. Petersburg are thinking and feeling during this uncertain time in their nation's history.

Gena came to "Kindness," or "Dobrota," to escape his drinking problem. Alexander Lubimov, the farm's owner, describes it further as a "resurrection of Russia."

IRKUTSK, Russia (CNN) -- Busying himself with sawing spruce logs inside a barn deep in the Siberian taiga (forest), Gena finds a short-term solace from alcoholism.

Severed from the nearest city by 70 kilometers (40 miles) of snow-covered fields and forest, he is safe from his temptation to indulge in the bottle. Instead, he drowns in 12-hour workdays -- cutting firewood, repairing cattle stalls or building a new storage shed for crops.

"I had a big problem with drinking," Gena says. "Some friends suggested I go to a clinic, but then I heard about this place. Here, I can be isolated from alcohol."

Gena and a dozen other men and women brought together by misfortune live on a primitive, 25-acre farm named "Kindness," a 90-minute drive along a half-visible track of slush from the regional capital, Irkutsk.

Most have fallen on hard times. Some, like Gena, suffer from an addiction to alcohol, brought on by the stress of living at the bottom end of Russia's seesaw economy. Others simply have no place to call home. All must follow two strict rules: work hard and don't drink.

A place to purify the soul

Scenes from "Kindness" Click arrow to advance pictures Pictured first is the farm's main building, which includes an office, an area for socializing and storage space. The lower level is a barn that holds tractors, other farm equipment and several tons of crops. Pictured second are the greenhouse and the entrance to the stables for cows (third picture) and goats.

"The people who come here are sinners," says the farm's owner, Alexander Lubimov. "By coming here and working hard, they confess. They are creating a future for the children and family they have left behind."

Lubimov, a rugged Russian outdoorsman with long, flowing hair and a thick beard, encourages Russia's down-and-out to come live on his land, which he calls a "peasant household."

His farm is no homeless shelter. Guests must adhere to a rigid, exhausting work schedule and share meager accommodations. Some even sleep next door to the livestock.

The austere lifestyle Lubimov imposes is necessary to purify the soul, he says.

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"Living here is like living near a temple," Lubimov says. "They need to be looked after. Otherwise, it's frightening what they might do. Their life rhythm has been broken. They need to be educated."

'A sign from God'

Lubimov was given the farm in 1992, taking advantage of a government campaign to increase Russia's agricultural production by offering free land to prospective planters.

The state also promised financial help to get him off the ground. The aid never materialized, however, and Lubimov was forced to borrow money at high interest to begin construction. He now pays off his loan in cash and barter, sometimes potatoes, sometimes meat.

In 1994 Lubimov had a change of heart. While attending a farming conference in Moscow, he took a break to go to a church. As he was praying, a homeless man entered and stood several feet in front of him. Disgusted, Lubimov moved back several pews. The homeless man followed.

Farm work Click arrow to advance pictures Roman, who has lived at "Kindness" for four years, works in the woodshop

"I realized it was a sign from God: 'Here is your cross. Take it and carry it.'"

Since then, he says, he has welcomed 700 "unfortunate wretches" -- drunkards, ex-convicts, homeless -- to his property, although few stay more than several months.

Grumbling among the ranks

Not all of Lubimov's guests see "Kindness" as a bucolic utopia. Some accuse their host of ruling like a feudal lord, taking advantage of their free labor.

"I've been here nine months," says Boris, a 50-year-old unemployed electrician. "Know how much I've earned? Four dollars. You see how we live? We work from 8 in the morning to 8 at night. No breaks. No weekends. No holidays, not even during Easter."

Boris came to "Kindness" because he has no money. He lost his job when the shipbuilding factory in Chita shut down. He had to sell his apartment for cash to survive. When the cash ran out, so did his options.

"We are here because we have no other way out. If we had any other choice in life, we'd take it," Boris says.

Roman, a Tatar from Azerbaijan who has lived on the farm for four years, nods his head in agreement.

"Look at what he calls us. He says we suffer from mental diseases. But our life circumstances brought us to this place," Roman says.

"We don't want to complain too much," Gena says. "He is not evil. He does good things. But he uses us to get humanitarian aid [from charity organizations and abroad] and he doesn't share it with us."

Gena's frustration with Lubimov has driven him to leave the farm more often. Once away, he returns to his drinking.

Marina, one of Lubimov's three daughters (he also has three sons), feeds calves at supper

"There's no way to hide from your own nature," he says.

'I'm like a father to them'

Lubimov brushes aside their complaints. "What do we need money for? Money is evil," he says.

"This is their psychology, to demand a lot and produce little. If they aren't given what they think they ought to be given, they steal," Lubimov says. "I'm like a father to them. I tell them, 'Do you agree to live in our monastery, work hard and confess and get God's forgiveness?' I'm 100 percent sure they don't need money. What they need is love, care and attention."

All Boris wants is a way out.

"I'm leaving soon," he says. "I've made up my mind. I'm going to find a job somewhere else. Maybe it will be worse, but I have no place here. I have no future."