Why Are Study Abroad Semesters Valuable for Students?
Meaning of These Programs – What Are They?
A study abroad semester is a life-changing experience – but how exactly?
Costs, Challenges, and Requirements
Nowadays, there are many foreign citizens in my country. Are they just tourists? Not quite. Today we see young people coming from abroad to various parts of our country. The reason is the global student exchange program. This program has a long history and began to develop in the 20th century. It was created to promote cultural and scientific cooperation between countries. A student exchange program allows students to temporarily study at a different university abroad. Through it, students gain knowledge and experience.
Historically, the United States was one of the first countries where such programs became popular, beginning with the Fulbright Program. One of the most well-known is the ERASMUS program – the oldest student exchange program in Europe, launched in 1987. Germany later developed its own version, with the DAAD program starting in 1925. These programs are highly popular among young people.
Experiences of Students:
Many students report positive experiences with exchange programs. Jabboraliev O., who studies at Kuala Lumpur University in Malaysia, said: “I expanded my professional experience through the exchange program. That’s why I’ve worked in many areas of my field.” This shows that exchange programs offer career benefits too.
Dilafruz, a student who studied in Japan, said: “My verbal communication improved significantly.” In particular, her ability to express herself in Japanese grew. This proves students can also benefit linguistically from exchange programs.
Advantages of Student Exchange Programs:
Exchange programs offer many benefits. Students gain new knowledge and boost their academic progress. But that’s not all. Studying abroad helps develop important personal skills, such as:
– Intercultural Competence: Students learn to understand and respect cultural differences by engaging directly with people from diverse backgrounds.
– Independence: Living in a foreign country forces students to organize daily life independently – from housing to daily routines.
– Language Skills: Constant exposure to a foreign language helps students improve their language proficiency.
– Better Career Opportunities: Employers value international experience, which signals flexibility and adaptability.
Challenges:
Of course, there are also difficulties. Many students face the following challenges when moving abroad:
– Financial Issues: Living abroad can be expensive. Students often need scholarships or part-time jobs.
– Different Education Systems: Learning methods may differ from those in the home country, requiring students to adapt.
– Cultural Differences: Adapting to new customs and traditions can be tough in a foreign country.
Conclusion:
In conclusion, student exchange programs are an excellent opportunity for young people to gain international experience, explore other cultures, and improve both academically and professionally. They help students adjust to new environments and foster mutual understanding between cultures.
During the program, students learn how to navigate life in a foreign country, speak new languages, and enhance communication skills. These experiences are valuable in today’s world and can improve future career prospects. Additionally, students form international connections that may benefit them later.
Despite the challenges, such as financial burdens, housing issues, or differences in education systems, these very obstacles help students become more independent and adaptable.
Overall, exchange programs are a key component of global education. They not only help young people expand their knowledge but also support personal growth. International exchange strengthens relationships between countries and universities. Therefore, such programs should continue to be supported so more students can benefit.
Oyatillo Jabboraliev was born in Fergana region. He is a student at Xiamen University in Malaysia.
Konstantinos FaHs has another article published following up on his Synchronized Chaos pieces about ancient Greek myths and their continuing role in modern Hellenic culture. He’d like to share his piece in The Rhythm of Vietnam,which is a Vietnamese magazine with a mission that seems similar to our own.
Also, disabled contributor, lyric essayist, and ALS activist Katrina Byrd suffered hurricane damage to her home and seeks support to rebuild and make ends meet while she’s getting ready to move. Whatever folks can contribute will make a real difference.
Now, for our new issue: Chaos Does Not Exclude Love. The reverse of a phrase from a review of Elwin Cotman’s urban fantasy collection discussing how Cotman’s work was from a loving place yet made room for the complexity of the world. At Synchronized Chaos, we are intimately acquainted with the world’s nuance and chaos, yet we see and find room for empathy and connection.
Neven Duzevic reflects on travel memories and reconnecting with an old friend. Dr. Perwaiz Shaharyar speaks to the awesome and transformative power of romantic love. Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai reflects upon the intensity of romantic feelings. Duane Vorhees speaks to loneliness and heartbreak and sensuality and various forms of human-ness. Kristy Raines speaks to the beauty of love and the tragedy of heartbreak.
Harper Chan reflects on his bravado and the reality of his feelings in the past year. Mickey Corrigan’s poetry shows how psychological and cultural shifts and traumas can manifest in our bodies. Abigail George speaks to how support from friends and family and a commitment to live in the present rather than reliving old traumas can help those addicted to drugs. Alan Catlin mixes cultural memories and touchstones with personal and societal losses.
Vo Thi Nhu Mai offers up a poetic tribute to the international vision of fellow poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou. Greek poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews Bangladeshi poet S. Afrose on how she hopes poetry and joint exploration through literary sci-fi will obliterate the need for war. Dr. Jernail Singh laments that morality and compassion have become passe to a generation obsessed with modernity and personal success. Priyanka Neogi speaks to the beauty of carrying oneself with noble character. Maria Koulovou Roumelioti urges us to remember the world’s children and create love and peace as Anwar Rahim reminds us to live with kindness and courage.
Mykyta Ryzhykh speculates on whether love can continue to exist amidst war. Haroon Rashid pays tribute to Indian political leader Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who loved peace but led through strength. Christine Poythress reflects on how easy it is for a once-proud and free nation to slide into fascism simply by admiring the fascist aesthetic and its seductive power. Ahmed Miqdad renders a global tragedy in simple terms: he’s too scared to go back to his home in Gaza to water his cactus plant.
Lili Lang probes the meaning behind things that seem simple: the work of a hairdresser, a family packing up the belongings of a recently deceased grandmother.
Mahmudova Sohibaxon offers up a tribute to dependable and caring fathers. J.J. Campbell writes of the visceral love and physical work of aging and caregiving, of inhabiting an elderly and a middle-aged body. Taylor Dibbert’s poetic speaker embraces age with joy, thrilled to still be alive. Bill Tope crafts an expansive and welcoming vision of perfection that can welcome more types of people and bodies as Ambrose George urges the world to maintain an open mind towards gender roles and identities.
Leslie Lisbona pays tribute to her deceased mother by writing a letter catching her up on family news. Stephen Jarrell Williams considers endings and beginnings and the possibility of renewal. Asma’u Sulaiman speaks to being lost and then found in life. Cheng Yong’s poetry addresses ways we hide from each other and ourselves, physically and psychologically. Mahbub Alam wishes for a romantic connection that can extend and endure beyond Earth. Dibyangana’s poetry touches on love, grief, and personal metamorphosis. Mely Ratkovic writes of spiritual contemplation and the nature of good and evil. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa describes souls who turn away from greed and evil and heal, in smaller and larger ways. Christopher Bernard suggests that creativity and storytelling might play a part in what makes life worth enduring.
Brian Barbeito speculates about intention and communication with the universe. Svetlana Rostova speculates on what spirituality might mean in the face of a seemingly indifferent world. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumnova’s piece conveys spiritual ecstasy, love, and beauty.
Sandro Piedrahita’s story highlights the power of enduring and sacrificial spiritual devotion in the midst of our human-ness.
Paul Durand reflects on teaching first-grade music in a time of hatred and divisiveness. Su Yun collects the thoughts and observations of a whole selection of schoolchildren in China about nature and their world.
Jibril Mohammed Usman shares a photograph of a person looking into nature, at one with and part of his world, altered in the same way as the trees and house. Mark Young’s geographies play with and explore Australia from new angles, turning maps into works of art.
Odina Bahodirova argues for the relevance of philology as an academic discipline because of its role in preserving cultural wisdom encoded in language and the ability of students to understand and think critically about language. Sevinch Shukurova explores the role of code-switching as a pedagogical tool in language learning. Surayo Nosirova shares the power of an educator giving a struggling student tutoring and a second chance. Nozima Zioydilloyeva celebrates Uzbekistan’s cultural accomplishments and women’s education within her home country. Marjona Mardonova honors the history of the learned Jadid Uzbek modernizers.
Nazeem Aziz recollects Bangladeshi history and celebrates their fights for freedom and national identity. Poet Hua Ai speaks to people’s basic longings to live, to be seen and heard. Leif Ingram-Bunn speaks to hypocrisy and self-righteousness on behalf of those who would silence him, and self-assertion on his part as a wounded but brave, worthy child of God.
Z.I. Mahmud traces the mythic and the heroic from Tolkien to Harry Potter. Poet Hua Ai, interviewed by editor Cristina Deptula, also wonders about the stories we tell ourselves. She speculates through her work about what in the human condition is mandatory for survival and what is learned behavior that could be unlearned with changing times.
Synchronized Chaos contains many of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves and our world. We hope you enjoy and learn from the narrative!
Why are these poems called ‘Echoes?” Are you referencing echoes of themes throughout history, or the myth of Echo and Narcissus, or something else?
“The title ‘Echoes’ operates on multiple resonances. In Mandarin, we have a proverb from the Buddhist poet-monk Li Shutong (李叔同) of the late Qing dynasty: ‘A thought that’s constantly in mind comes with an echo in its might.’ This captures how persistent thoughts reverberate through time and consciousness.
For me, poetry exists as a trifecta—history’s weight, mythic truth, and individual experience. These three elements form an indivisible triangle; remove one, and the structure collapses. When this hybrid translates through memory into verse, it becomes an echo—not unlike the relationship between sound and its aftersound, between experience and its poetic afterlife.
The myth of Echo and Narcissus haunts these poems too, particularly in how exile creates a doubling: we speak, but hear our words return transformed by distance. Every poem here is both utterance and return, original cry and its distortion through time.
We make the echo first, in our bodies and memories, before we ever write it down. The page merely catches what’s already reverberating.”
How and why have Lermontov and Akhmatova become your inspirations? What do you see in their works that you admire, and how have you brought that into your own pieces?
I knew this question would come, and even arranging these words brings me to tears—because Lermontov and Akhmatova represent the two chambers of my heart, the systole and diastole of my poetic existence.
Akhmatova embodies the terrible arithmetic of staying. Her choice to remain in Soviet Russia while others fled mirrors my own negotiations with homeland and exile. In ‘Requiem,’ she transforms personal grief—lamenting her imprisoned son—into an indictment of state terror. What strikes me most is her austere precision: barely a league of emotion, yet each line cuts like winter glass. Her contemporaries in the Silver Age either genuflected to power or dissolved into their own despair. She alone maintained that devastating clarity. The Swedish Academy recoiled from giving her the Nobel precisely because her truth was too graphic, too unadorned.
Her sacrifice illuminates my own: the mother tongue I’ve had to half-forfeit (in China, to write freely means surveillance; in the West, to be heard means English); the treasures left behind; the solitude required to build an inner world strong enough for creation. This ‘elegant restraint’ you detect in my work is learned stoicism—a necessary armor. Yet beneath it pulses radical empathy for all exiles, geographic or internal. Though we’ve never met, I hear their scream: ‘I want to live!’
If Akhmatova is my yin—witnessing, enduring, distilling—then Lermontov is pure yang: the romantic who transmutes oppression into fury. Where she documents, he detonates. His ‘The Poet’s dead’ and ‘The Cloud’ demonstrate how anger can become incandescent art. Those unsettling, haunting images in my work? They’re Lermontov’s ghost teaching me that sometimes the only response to injustice is to set the page on fire, even at the cost of forfeiting one’s own homeland to uphold one’s self amidst divisive currents.
Together, they’ve taught me that poetry can be both scalpel and flame, both witness and warrior. In my work, Akhmatova’s ice meets Lermontov’s fire, creating steam—that vapor between staying and leaving, between silence and scream, where my own poems breathe.”
Interesting that you identify Western and traditional Chinese poetic styles and take elements of each into your poems. What has it been like to craft poetry as a bilingual person? Do you compose in English or Mandarin, do you think in both languages as you write? Do you find that languages themselves, and their rhythms, shape the content or structure of your poems?
The chasm between Chinese and English poetic traditions has shaped me profoundly. Chinese poetry luxuriates in indirection—every plum blossom speaks volumes, each bamboo bend carries philosophy. The poet becomes a humble conduit between nature and reader, never presuming to explain what moonlight on water means. We trust the image to carry its own enlightenment. A closing line merely ‘dots the dragon’s eyes’—essential, yes, but the dragon was already alive in the preceding verses.
English poetry, particularly contemporary Western verse, demands the opposite: clarity as virtue, economy as craft. The poet must architect meaning, not merely channel it. During my first three years writing in English, feedback was consistent: ‘Powerful images, moving emotions, but requires multiple readings.’ Even my lightest lines carried what readers called ‘fatalistic gravity’—that ancient Chinese sense that every gesture contains the universe’s weight.
I spent years trying to reconcile these approaches: the Western praise for accessibility versus the Chinese understanding that ‘nature and human are one’ (天人合一). Only through accumulated life experience—exile, loss, resistance—did I find my synthesis. Now I can achieve ‘readability’ without sacrificing depth, can make a vestment ‘smile’ without explaining why, can connect continents through a seagull’s flight rather than abrupt temporal markers.
I compose primarily in English now, partly due to my Western-focused studies, but mostly because writing in my non-native language offers productive estrangement. It forces me to reinvent rather than inherit, to forge new synaptic connections between sound and meaning. When I write, what emerges isn’t English or Mandarin but something pre-linguistic—an unmodified rumble from my core that chooses its own linguistic vessel. In those moments, we touch the pure pulse of living through sound alone.
Language itself has never been my architect—at most, a carpenter smoothing edges or filling gaps. Emotion, urgency, and message determine form. A protest poem might emerge as experimental fragments (like Echo IV’s compact brutality) or as prose poetry (Echo III’s voice flowing like water from one throat to thousands). The content births its own container, not the reverse. This is perhaps my deepest inheritance from both traditions: the Chinese faith that form follows spirit, married to the English insistence that spirit must find communicable form.”
I notice a theme of human suffering at the hands of others: a violent husband and refugees who flee violence and find themselves still marginalized in their new lands. What draws you to those themes?
It’s a delicate and profound question. I’m drawn to these themes because I’m deeply intrigued by how systems can deform individuals, transforming ordinary or even decent human beings into figures capable of profound cruelty. Often, an individual’s personal agency is eroded or contested when societal structures thrive upon their trauma or tacitly condone violence. To explore this phenomenon further, one must investigate educational, cultural, and economic factors that silently breed violence and perpetuate suffering.
Crime and tragedy serve as the quietest yet deepest reflections of a society’s wounds—visible only to those who dare look closely. Similarly, the experiences of refugees reveal another dimension of these wounds. Throughout seven years living in the UK, I’ve formed friendships with individuals from diverse global backgrounds. Their narratives of familial histories in London, wars in their homelands, and the existential struggles of reconciling dreams with harsh realities have profoundly impacted me. I’ve realized that we all inhabit a liminal space between war and peace, where understanding and empathy are always possible if we actively listen, both to ourselves and to the voices around us.
Ultimately, my poetry aspires to provide solace, however fleeting, to those who feel exiled or alienated, offering a momentary sense of belonging or home within the shared recognition of our collective struggle.
You mention in your author’s note that “nature is also a teacher.” How do the natural motifs and the natural world function in your poems?
Nature serves as both messenger and medium. Whenever I encounter emotions too visceral for straightforward speech, I invite the natural world to translate. Trees, flowers, and coastlines vibrate on the same frequency as those gut‑level feelings, bridging the space between stanzas—and between reader and poet.
Nature also acts as a critical mirror: it reveals that the so-called “survival codes” running through our societies did not blossom from some higher ethical soil but from the stark physics of scarcity and fear. By foregrounding that origin, I aim to question whether these codes are immutable or merely inherited habits we’ve yet to dismantle. When I return to the image of a red beacon strobing across a storm-dark shoreline, I’m less interested in its drama than in its dual function—how a safeguard doubles as a boundary, how protection can slip into quiet temptation to what’s beyond. In that uneasy glow, I probe the complicity between safety and sanguine, asking what the comfort of eternity cost and how the sense aliveness ultimately pays toll of solitude without regret.
Do you think your writing has changed over time? How would you describe your style, and how you’ve developed it?
Absolutely. Writing evolves like any living organism. My first English poems were dense with elusive imagery, and my abandoned early novel—steeped in Woolfian stream-of-consciousness—never balanced character and plot in a way that felt authentic to me at nineteen.
Since then, I’ve forged a dialogue between poetry and prose. Poetry lends my novels an unshakable moral backbone, distilling complex ideas into crystalline sentences that anchor entire volumes. Novel-writing, in turn, lets me dissect psychology in slow motion, testing poetic abstractions inside fully realized narrative worlds. The result is a style that marries lyrical precision with narrative clarity, allowing abstraction and realism to coexist on the page.
What are you writing now, and where do you hope writing will take you in the future?
I’m currently developing a work of literary fiction that grows directly out of the remnants of my earlier, shelved Woolf‑inspired experiment. Rooted in Eastern European culture, literature, and the region’s stark natural landscapes, the novel filters wider Eurasian geopolitics through the intimate lens of a single life. At the center lies a decent man whose unhealed trauma becomes the very fuel a rigid system uses to reshape him, asking: When the machinery of power profits from pain, how much freedom of choice truly remains?
Alongside his story runs that of a woman determined to carve and protect a private sanctuary—“a room of her own”—in a world where every pane of glass has been forged by the system that would surveil her. Their intertwined narratives let me probe two core questions: What inner resources does it take for a person to resist the constant pull of manipulation, and what must be sacrificed to guard even a sliver of autonomy?
I hope this project—and whatever follows—will lead me toward sharper, more honest inquiries rather than easy conclusions, using language to expose the complex textures of lived experience and to keep testing the fragile boundaries of individual freedom.
Ralph sat upright in his recliner, his legs splayed out before him. His hands, resting between his knees, quavered furiously. Ralph sighed. How, he thought, could he ask Elizabeth to marry him when he couldn’t even hold out the engagement ring without shaking like a cornstalk in the wind?
Would she laugh at him? he wondered. No, Elizabeth wasn’t cruel, but how could she possibly not feel the revulsion that Ralph felt for himself? She wouldn’t give voice to that emotion, but that only made it worse. Ralph had once owned a three-legged dog, but his father had scolded him, saying he should settle for nothing less than perfection, and dad had the dog put to sleep. When Ralph subsequently developed his tremor, his father had regarded him as something less than he had before.
In 1930s Germany, Ralph knew, he would have suffered sterilization so that his infirmity could not be passed on to future generations. Or, he might have himself been put to death. He let out a breath. Why me? he used to wonder. At length, he had conjured an answer: Why not me? Besides, by now, he was used to it. He took up the jeweler’s box and extracted the ring, weighed it in his palm, contemplated his intense, primal love for Elizabeth for a moment, then said aloud, “I’ll ask her. Tonight!”
They sat in his living room, a fire crackling in the fireplace on this, the night before Christmas. The tree scented the room with balsam. Ralph was nervous. He had never asked anyone to marry him before; he’d never had the nerve. Also, he had never been in love before. She sat beside him on the sofa, waiting expectantly, he thought. He held the jeweler’s box behind a throw pillow; he didn’t want to frighten her away. Could she really accept him? he wondered desperately.
He was not anyone’s idea of perfection, certainly not his father’s. His childhood rejection by his dad figured prominently in Ralph’s memory, and it’s what made him the man he was today. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was perfection itself. He had never known a nobler, more exquisitely lovely creature before. If she said yes, then she would be his mate, his lover, his wife. A bead of perspiration appeared on his brow. Nervously, he wiped it away with the hand holding the box.
“What’s that, Ralph?” Elizabeth asked unexpectedly.
“Huh?” he said stupidly, hiding the box again. But it was too late.
“What have you got there, Ralph?” she asked anew, pointing to the hand holding the ring box.
Ralph brought the box into view and murmured, “Liz, I was going to ask you…ask you to marry me.”
“Have you changed your mind?” she asked boldly.
He blinked. “No…No, I…Will you marry me, Liz?” he implored. “I know I have a lot of faults,” he began. “But, I love you, and…”
“Shut up, Ralph,” she said gently. “You had me at “Will you marry me?’ “
Ralph smiled, leaned in for a kiss, being careful not to bump Elizabeth’s walker.
