Adopt a babushka scheme takes off

Two Kyrgyzstan women collect their sponsorship money

BISHKEK, Kyrgyzstan (CNN) -- An adoption agency with a difference is gathering force in Kyrgyzstan, where international sponsors are matched with lonely "grandmothers".

"Perestroika saw many pensioners who had been working for the country all their life lose everything," says Xenia Kirsanova, manager of Babushka Adoption, the Central Asian non-governmental organisation which seeks international sponsors for the elderly whose pensions were decimated amid the collapse of the Soviet Union.

"Since 1996 pensions have increased by 20 percent while public utility bills have grown by around 600 percent."

" Of course it is the same in other countries in the region but in Kyrgyzstan we can be more open," she adds.

A decade after the Soviet Kyrgyzstans gained independence, elderly, mainly Russian, women can be seen in all the region's major cities laying out meagre offerings -- used lightbulbs, tap washers, old slippers and rusty cans holding pot plants -- in a desperate attempt not to be seen as beggars.

Set up three years ago, the unique Swiss-backed foundation has so far had over 200 babushkas -- and the odd dedushka -- in the capital Bishkek and southern town Batken sponsored for $10 a month. Donors come from as far a field as Switzerland, the United States, France, Turkey and India.

Now the database of needy elderly, identified with the help of government social services, is slowly being placed online to allow sponsors to chose their own "grandmother" in cyberspace (www.babushka.org.kg).

Donors know their babushka

As loneliness is also a major problem, donors are encouraged to keep in contact with their babushka by letters or emails which are passed on -- one family receiving hand-knitted socks in exchange.

For Eugenia Tyndykova, life changed considerably after the collapse of the Soviet Union

For 83-year-old former ballerina Eugenia Tyndykova, a widow whose only son died aged 13, the money from her Swiss sponsors doubles her pension.

She lives alone in a small room provided by a local theatre after her home burnt down a few years ago. Nearly all of her pension goes on medicines, including some for painful legs, injured when a male ballerina dropped her.

Wrapped in a heavy housecoat despite the summer temperature, she says life has changed "considerably" since she first came to Kyrgyzstan from Russia in the 1960s seeking relief in its famous sanatoriums.

"I am very upset about it," she says sadly when asked about the demise of Communism.

The business people in designer sunglasses in the new central city cafes and bars visible from Tyndykova's window would probably not agree.

But the immediate aftermath of independence saw the small mountainous state experience massive inflation and industrial closures with around half the population of five million now estimated to live in poverty.

The elderly, says Lidia Fomova, director of the charity Organisation of Social Protection of the Population, bore the brunt of the changes with an average pension today of around 500 som ($11).

"There are now pensioners going through the trash. Drugs are no longer accessible. Products are very expensive ... Kyrgyzstan is considered to be full of fruit but one kilo of apples costs 40 soms (about 80c)."

Elderly hard hit

Kirsanova says that many ethnic Russians -- 15 percent of the population but the majority of those they work with -- were particularly hard hit as Kyrgyz elders often have wider support networks.

A number of the women never had children amid harsh working lives in the factories or fields. Others have seen offspring immigrate to Russia in recent years in search of work.

Grateful adoptee Antonina Tonanykina, 73, weeps beneath her red headscarf at her circumstances compared to her time driving heavy trucks on the front during the Second World War.

"I had nice things to eat then ... the best bread, meat," she says.

"But I would never go back," she adds, shuddering at the memory of the things she saw.

For another babushka receiving her monthly $10 is a happier occasion. She carefully counts it and painstakingly wraps it in a handkerchief before placing it in her large handbag.

"God bless you, God bless," she beams.