Starting in 2026, Russia is implementing new policies affecting labor migrants and their employers. The changes include increased costs for work permits, employment restrictions, limited access to healthcare, and new oversight of migrant children. Here’s a breakdown of the key changes.

Work permit costs increase

As of January 1, 2026, the cost of work permits (patents) for migrants has increased in many regions due to annual adjustments tied to labor cost indices.

In Moscow, the price has risen from 8,900 to 10,000 rubles, and in St. Petersburg — from 6,000 to 8,000 rubles.

Stricter access to free healthcare

The required legal stay period to qualify for the state health insurance (OMS) has been extended from three to five years.

This means that during their first five years in Russia, migrants will have access only to paid medical services or private insurance.

Free healthcare under OMS will be available only in emergency situations threatening life or health.

New employment restrictions

From 2026, migrants are banned from working in alcohol and tobacco sales across all regions except Moscow.

Similar restrictions already apply to pharmaceutical sales, non-permanent retail points, and markets.

New quotas limit the number of foreign workers in certain sectors:

·         Passenger and freight transport — no more than 24%

·         Construction — capped at 50% (down from 80%)

·         Agriculture and forestry — limited to 40% (previously 50%)

Employers who exceed these quotas must reduce their foreign workforce. Starting March 1, 2026, this will become an official legal ground for dismissal.

Oversight of migrant children and potential future changes

Starting January 28, 2026, Russia will introduce a data-sharing system between the Interior Ministry and educational institutions concerning the children of migrants.

The Interior Ministry will provide schools with information on whether a foreign child is registered for migration purposes or removed from the register. In turn, schools will report whether parents have applied for enrollment, whether the child was admitted, and whether they passed a Russian language proficiency test.

Authorities say the measure will allow for more accurate tracking of migrant children and help identify those who are living in the country but not attending school.

Changes under consideration for the future

In 2026, Russia’s State Migration Policy Concept for 2026–2030 comes into force. While the document does not introduce immediate bans, it outlines the government’s strategic priorities for the next five years.

Expanded digital monitoring

The authorities plan to complete the creation of a “Digital Profile of a Foreign Citizen” — a centralized electronic file managed by the Interior Ministry. It will consolidate all data on migrants, including biometric information and records from the ruID system.

Stricter integration requirements

Migrants are already required to demonstrate knowledge of the Russian language, history, and basic law to obtain work permits, temporary residence, or permanent residency.

Under the new policy concept, the emphasis on integration is expected to increase, likely leading to higher language and civic knowledge requirements.

Priority for organized recruitment

The government intends to encourage employers to rely more heavily on targeted, organized recruitment of foreign workers for specific projects and enterprises. Officials believe this approach will help reduce illegal and unregulated employment.

On January 1, 2026, Muhsin Muhammadiyev passed away at the age of 59 after a prolonged illness. A former national team player for Tajikistan, he also represented several well-known clubs, later becoming a coach, football analyst, and one of the most influential figures in the history of Tajik football.

His passing is a tremendous loss not only for the country's sporting community but for all those who associate the rise of Tajik football with personal dedication, professionalism, and lasting contributions.

For Muhammadiyev, football was never just a profession — it was his destiny, his calling, and a lifelong form of service. His journey spanned the Soviet era, the post-Soviet transition, and the years of Tajik independence, always remaining central to the story of national football.

His name is inseparably linked with Dushanbe's "Pamir", the first major successes of Tajik football at the union level, and later efforts to rebuild and stabilize the sport in the 21st century.

Muhsin Muhammadiyev was born on October 21, 1966, in Dushanbe. From a very early age, his life was deeply intertwined with football. His father, Muslim Muhammadiyev, played for Leningrad’s “Admiralteets” in the 1950s, but a serious injury during the USSR Championship cut his career short.

His father’s unfulfilled dream gradually became his own. Home training sessions, endless football talks, and real match balls brought home from work helped shape Muhsin’s character long before his first official practice.

At age ten, his father took him to the “Hosilot” football school. In the USSR, the youth football development system was an integral part of national sports policy. Muhsin quickly stood out among his peers thanks to his talent and work ethic.

At School No. 54, he would draw portraits of famous footballers, memorize jersey numbers, and dream of playing in big stadiums. His mother, Mahbouba Jalilovna, who worked in the Council of Ministers of the Tajik SSR, affectionately called him “my champion.”

Life dealt him harsh blows. In 1982, his mother passed away after a serious illness. Just two years later, in 1984, his father also died. At just 17, Muhsin and his younger sister became orphans. This was a pivotal moment: he matured quickly, took on responsibility for the family, kept training, and worked night shifts unloading freight cars. During this time, football became more than a dream — it became his lifeline.

After eighth grade, he enrolled in a sports boarding school, where everything revolved around professional athletic development. Coaches like Salimjon Sultanov, Sergey Li, and Georgy Kukushkin played a major role in shaping his skills. Special influence came from Yuri Fedosov, who helped Muhsin transition from youth to senior-level football.

In 1983, at age 17, Muhsin made his debut for Pakhtakor (Qhurgho Teppa, currently Bokhtar) in the USSR Second League. His performance caught the eye of professionals, and soon Pamir’s head coach, Vladimir Gulyamkhaidarov, invited him to join the training camp.

Muhsin was scoring regularly and also enrolled at the Tajik Institute of Physical Education. In 1984, Pamir was taken over by Yuri Syomin, who recognized the young striker’s potential but chose not to rush his full debut.

By October 1985, Muhsin had become a first-team player for Pamir, which at the time was seriously competing for promotion to the Soviet Top League. A defining moment came during a match against CSKA, when Pamir was allegedly “advised” to lose. However, they won 1–0, after which seven starting players were abruptly drafted into the army. Despite this, the team’s fighting spirit remained strong — its resilience forged during that exact period.

Muhsin Muhammadiyev entered the 1990s at the height of his career. The collapse of the USSR, civil war in Tajikistan, and a general atmosphere of instability coincided with his move to Moscow’s Lokomotiv in 1992. In 1994, he fulfilled a lifelong dream by joining Spartak Moscow.

During this period, he became one of the few players to represent two national teams — Tajikistan and Russia — reflecting the complexities of the era and his unique personal journey.

His career went on to include stints with Turkiye’s Ankaragücü, Austria’s Austria Wien, and Russian clubs such as Torpedo, Arsenal Tula, and Shinnik. He also played for Uzbek sides Bukhara and Samarkand. These experiences made him a versatile football figure, deeply familiar with various footballing cultures and systems.

After retiring from playing in 2006, Muhammadiyev transitioned into coaching and football administration. He worked with clubs including Vityaz, Ordabasy, and Bukhara, and served as Sporting Director of Rubin Kazan for four years. In 2013, he took charge of the Tajikistan national team, and in 2022 became vice president of Istiqlol. In 2024, he returned to his home club, Vakhsh, embracing what he saw as a mission — to rebuild the club and restore its competitiveness.

Muhsin’s personal life was equally rich. His wife, Mohira Nasyrova, is the daughter of well-known youth coach Sobirjon Nosirov. The couple met in football circles and married in 1988. They had three daughters.

At home, he was a devoted father who made up stories for his children, loved history and poetry — especially the rubai of Omar Khayyam. His home was always open to friends, and his signature pilaf and omelets became legendary in the family.

The final years of his life were particularly difficult. Immersed in developing Vakhsh, Muhammadiyev gave himself entirely to the job. During a flight to a training camp in Turkiye, he suffered a stroke but continued working. A second, more severe stroke followed, which he kept secret from his family. Despite the efforts of doctors in Turkiye and Russia, the illness proved insurmountable.

Muhsin Muhammadiyev left behind more than just titles and statistics — he left an example. He showed how to live for football, to serve the system without betraying oneself, and how to remain human even in the most difficult times.

It is hard to speak of him in the past tense. He will forever live in the memory and hearts of those who knew him and appreciated his contribution. The Asia-Plus Media Group expresses sincere condolences to his family and loved ones.

As the Year of the Horse approaches — specifically the Red Fire Horse, as it's known in the Chinese calendar — we at the editorial office decided it was time to move beyond symbolism and meet a real horse.

What is the Tajik breed like? And does the legendary “Aspi otashin” — the fiery-red horse dreamt of by romantics — truly exist?

“Horse geography”

We headed to the Dushanbe hippodrome at the Navrouzghoh complex, accompanied by horse expert Mirasil Mirzoyev. Along the way, he spoke of horses as if recounting tales of heroes — tracing bloodlines, treating names with reverence. Many horses he names after figures from the Shahnameh, to ensure that each name carries legacy, not randomness.

The hippodrome welcomed us not with celebration, but with a work rhythm: chill air, the scent of hay, and the deep smell of horses. Walking along the track, city noise faded, replaced by snorts and hooves.

Inside the stable, trainer Sadriddin Sattorov awaited us. He has worked in the field for decades and is closely tied to the “Mir” farm in Khovaling — the heart of this horse story.

At the entrance, a pot boiled with linseed (zaghir), releasing a warm, oily, almost homely aroma. Nearby, a wheelbarrow full of barley stood ready. “We mix it with vegetable oil,” Sadriddin explained. Everything here reminded us of a household — except instead of children’s voices, there were snorts and the soft rustle of straw. It was clear: the horse here is not just a symbol, but a family member.

From Khuttalon horses to a new breed

Feeding here is a science — done by schedule and recipe. “We give them carrots at lunch, and sometimes apples or honey as a treat,” says the trainer. You can tell by his tone: for a racehorse, a treat is more than a snack — it’s a gesture of care and trust. One nearby horse stretches its head forward, almost confirming his words.

Then the conversation shifts naturally to the core subject — the breed.

Mirasil speaks like a scholar you want to quote. The Tajik riding breed is a refined combination of three bloodlines: approximately 20% English, 30% Arabian, and 50% Tajik. “Stamina from the Tajik, beauty from the Arabian, speed from the English,” he explains — a simple formula rich with pride and meaning.

The lineage traces back to Khuttalon horses — native to the mountainous terrain of Tajikistan. The harsh environment demanded a breed that could endure long hours of work, high altitudes, and rugged trails. English horses were not historically used in Tajik breeding, so the current breed is a result of years of selective, intentional work — not random mixing.

At the Khovaling farm, horses live in herds. Selected stallions are brought to the hippodrome for training and care, then returned to the pastures to breed. Mares give birth there. Their offspring are evaluated, and the most promising are brought back to the city. This cycle creates high-bloodline horses — animals with a proven mix of genetics and performance.

Champions in the bloodline: Razgrom and Vodif

That’s when they introduce us to a champion — a stallion named Razgrom. Calm in the stall, but with an inner force you can feel. “He has won multiple international tournaments. Now, we’re preparing him for stud work,” they tell us. Here, a race win is just the beginning — legacy is what follows.

Nearby is a colt named Vodif, the son of another champion, Varf. Vodif will turn three in the spring — the age when serious training begins.

Mirasil smiles: “I often choose names from the Shahnameh. Imported horses keep their original names, but their offspring receive true Tajik names.” And so, heritage lives on — not only in genes, but in words.

Discipline before romance

Trainer Sadriddin brings us back to reality. Poetic as horses may be, a racehorse relies on three non-negotiables:

1.     Cleanliness — of the body, the food, the water, and the environment.

2.     Nutrition — precise and on schedule.

3.     Training — consistent, daily work.

“Break one of these rules, and you won’t get results,” he says, counting them off. There’s no harshness in his tone — only the calm clarity of someone who’s seen too many mistakes made by humans, not horses.

He also points out physical differences: English breeds are usually taller (over 1.60 meters), while Tajik horses are more compact (around 1.50 meters). “That’s nature,” he adds simply. But in the mountains, height means little — endurance and spirit matter more.

Horses start racing at age two. By five or six, many are either sold or transferred to farms for work or traditional sports like buzkashi (goat grabbing). But some — if health and strength allow — keep racing for longer.

Lightweight, heavy responsibility: the jockey’s role

We ask about jockeys, knowing that on the track, horse and rider are one.

Sadriddin speaks from experience: over 43 years in horse training, starting as a child at the hippodrome, and officially a jockey until 1991.

“A jockey should weigh no more than 52 kilograms,” he explains. That’s not just a rule — it’s essential. The rider must lift the horse, not drag it down.

A jockey isn’t just a passenger. It’s someone who feels the horse — its energy, mood, and signals. “Most important thing is to love the horse,” he says without drama. And somehow, that simple truth feels more powerful than any technical advice.

Intelligence and personality in every glance

The moment we stepped into the stable, we could sense the horses’ awareness. “They’re very intelligent and sensitive,” says Mirasil. “When a stranger enters, they get uneasy. They need time to get used to you. But they always recognize their own.”

And indeed — at first, some horses stared cautiously, some snorted, others stepped back. But within minutes, the tension faded. They allowed themselves to be photographed, as if they understood we meant no harm.

“Each one has its own personality,” Mirasil adds. “Some are curious, others shy, a few distant. It’s not just about the breed — much depends on the horse itself.”

They introduce us to a “troublemaker” — a stallion who expresses dissatisfaction in his own way. “If you’re five minutes late with food or water, he starts jumping, and he’s broken the stall more than once,” says Sadriddin with a chuckle.

All the shades of red

The stable is filled with color. We saw turuks, jirans, bay horses — shades and tones that experienced horsemen speak of like a language all its own.

Sadriddin explains it simply: there are four primary coat colors — bay, chestnut, gray, and black. Everything else is a variation. Here, turuks and jirans are most common — various shades of bay and chestnut.

And while color doesn’t define personality, each horse seems to wear its coat like an identity — like a name or a passport. No random hues — everything feels alive, real, and uniquely beautiful.

We came looking for a fiery-red horse — the kind tied to the poetic name Aspi Otashin, the Red Fire Horse. We didn’t find it.

But leaving the stable, we realized: a symbol doesn’t have to be a color. A symbol is what stays with you — the warmth of the zagir cooking, the neat cart of barley, the trainer’s calm hands, and the eyes of the horses — intelligent, diverse, alive.

Year of the Horse: Chinese dates and the Tajik mujal

The year 2026 is the Year of the Horse. But in the Eastern calendar, it begins not on January 1st, but mid-February. According to the Tajik mujal system, the new year starts with Navrouz, on March 21, 2026. Until then, it remains the Year of the Snake.

Tajik mujal (or Munjal, meaning 'annual horoscope') refers to the Tajik system of astrology, a Persian-influenced branch of Vedic astrology focusing on annual predictions using the Solar Return Chart (Varshphal) for yearly insights into career, health, etc., using special techniques like Sahams and unique planet/house genders, unlike standard Vedic astrology's focus on birth charts.   

In "Solnoma" (“Chronicle”) by Hakim Termizi, it is written that the Year of the Horse will bring an abundance of grain, vegetables, and fruits.

These are the hopes with which we welcome the coming year.