Kremlin's Cash Crunch Prompts A Winter of Discontent for Retirees
A slightly prim, dignified woman in a wool flannel coat, she worked for more than 40 years at the same job as an accountant at a metallurgy plant in Tver, north of Moscow. Now she lives on her pension of $58 a month, which is just above the national average.Skip to next paragraph
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She last received it on Nov. 21.
The woman gets by with help of a friend in Moscow whose pension is paid on time. The friend just bought her a winter coat. "We're angry," she says with unaccustomed assertiveness, afraid to give her name. "We're blocking the roads."
Indeed, several dozen of the pensioners of Tver are blocking roads and even the St. Petersburg-Moscow railway line for hours at a time every Tuesday in protest against their unpaid pensions. But only a few of Russia's 37 million pensioners - 25 percent of the country's population - are making waves over their unpaid pensions, even though the delay currently averages about one month nationally.
With a growing population above retirement age and a declining number of workers, Russia is already drawing from its state pension fund faster than working-age people contribute. In addition, the inability to efficiently collect taxes has put the already cash-strapped Russian government into a fiscal crisis. Finding a solution is one of the top priorities of President Boris Yeltsin's new governing team.
For at least 10 million Russians, according the Laura Wolf, deputy head of the pension department of the Ministry for Social Protection in Moscow, their pensions are the only income in their households.
"Pensions are so small that I think some of them starve - and not just a few," says Ms. Wolf.
The vast majority of pensioners are getting by with the help of friends and family. But they are not happy, because this is not the life that they anticipated.
Vassily Rud, a ruddy-cheeked former oil and gas driller north of the Arctic Circle near Murmansk, and his wife, Tatyana, who worked in a state production facility and bore seven children, receive their pension checks on time. It gives them a monthly income of $117, half of which goes to pay for their apartment. The rest buys food at the expensive prices of the far northern outposts. They buy used clothes at second-hand stores or from families moving out and selling their belongings cheap.
The Ruds are among the hordes of Russians who followed high wages to work in the Arctic tapping the country's rich natural resources. Now they are trying to escape an economically dying community. This winter, gas was shut off to the town for a month and a half because of unpaid public bills. Indoors it averaged 48 degrees, there was no hot water, and no heat for cooking.
They hoped to sell their apartment and buy a small place in a southern region near relatives, with just enough land for a vegetable plot.
No chance. The price they can get for their apartment up north is less than a third of the cost of "the worst house in Volgograd." So now they are trapped in the stony, frigid, badly polluted north with 10 months of winter. Tatyana's eyes well up with tears when she considers the former doctors and teachers now reduced to the shame of searching garbage for bottles to sell.