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!
He dedicates his life to you, gives everything, works day and night so that my child is not inferior to his peers. This is all for us. he brings you the best so that you don’t get cold. he doesn’t care that his legs hurt for several years, if you just say oh he will set the world on fire. for your father, for your mother, you are the dearest, incomparable person in the world. He will give everything so that we can study and become mature and good staff in the future. He will pay your contract money even if he is in trouble. If he can’t deliver a little money, he can’t look you in the eye like he owes you.
In my opinion, the most valuable person in this life for all of us is our father. It is our father who occupies the main place in our life. Our father is the cause of our birth in this life. Our father is the one who gave the first education in this life. Our father is the reason for my success in this life. It is our father who will be the strongest encouragement to us in this life. Father is the best motivator in this life. We should appreciate them.
Father is pleased – God is pleased. This statement is a clear example of how great a father is. Therefore, it is our highest duty to please them and receive their blessings.
Mahmudova Sohibaxon graduated from Fergana State University.
Shredding his sunlit vestments, Priest’s weight silenced the equal woman. Undisciplined eyes sheathe me— a fury, charred on his pristine swords.
Deep down the abyss among nights, I wrench my self-portrait— Straddling unfamiliar blades, the realm sears my throat, and my lungs blister right to left.
My unbuttoned mouth swallows fuses from the organs of men— muffled, skinned, teeth dyed; perished, rising, fangs lit.
Beneath Damoclean pikes— each one signifying revenge. A disobedient woman, unworthy of tender touch— her infant-bloom still sealed beneath Rousseau’s tears.
They do not know this tiger-guiding woman. Fiercer than wolves through salt water, my eyes—two felines tarring raw light— He sees the afterbirth at the end of his lecture as I clutch my hip-round of thoughts.
Offering me half the sky after razing the one
I now return to Lord. Thighs vise as we roar through a venomous climax. Swords lower as the rain strikes through the force of May.
Thunder slips me from the virgin world. I swallow as if I never swallowed a man. You stand among storms —more effigial than any god. Here, goblets rise at the cross reversed.
Each wrist rises, declaring a wine coil bled from your heart, threading straight into my rib. Ha!
Spring wind ascends, —splitting me widely awake. A gluttony resurrects, a virgin undone and again—
REMADE.
Echo II: Frankenstein’s spring
Ice shatters its wintry silence. Swarthy hands—once stitched— motor themselves to sight, raving by March’s final breath toward April’s promise. Swallows slice returning paths through the thawing sky.
Green yawns from Earth’s dark mouth, my body mirroring her restoration: Spring’s underbelly upturned, while an amber glow satiates the polar bear’s hunger. In fur that held December’s darkness, sunlight reflects the sky’s refusal of night.
Illumination penetrates like truth: hillside and mosses couple among wetting rocks; frogs mount their hunts across waters freed from ice. But even in renewal, Death persists: monarch butterfly wings tweezed mid-flutter, the deer’s neck snapped in wolf’s jaws,
beggar’s rocking hands trampled in Mayfair, daffodils unfurling between crushed bones and gold. While jungle creeds drum through survival’s hierarchy, labours’ palms rekindle the drowned sky.
Have we forgotten the passion Winter set ablaze? My body once dedicated as Christmas Solstice,
now binds Betelgeuse to Venus across the horizon’s clearing dome.
Did we crown the butcher and betray the jingled vows? Did we kneel like the red star towards love when Santa vanished in the hearth?
Swells from a distance—starmounds quicken in unrest—rise through paint-oil gleam, inciting sparks from Earth’s own burning door. How sorrowful to forget the constellation’s inferno that trudged through a vast night, their beckoning thin as woman’s sigh when newborn tears press against the womb that once sheltered.
Beneath black palls, Fear crawls: yet glazed eyes pump first blood through roots— juvenile Frankenstein awakening. We ask for nothing better than a spadix-like thrust from corpse flower’s wound, slicing through the tendon that no longer feels.
Dawn undresses seed from shell, and Earth unwinds her clock— not a second more, not a day less.
Water returns to water. In the bluing luminescence, faces buried
by last season’s sickle shield my sleet-rent mouth while I await youthful lips beneath yellowed marshland— breathing, at last, the fresh world April promised
and I… reel alone.
Echo III: On the shores we lived
In woods where history hangs itself, laments are sung for the chased skulls— each a foreign season’s anthem, even as they were broken in two themselves. The collapsed libraries and lovers’ bridge gutted the Sava River— the mirror of Sarajevo’s wounds.1
How far does hunger drive flesh across borders?
Waves return wearing feathers of the condemned. Seagull wings command tides that swallowed my first home. I, ransacked, kneel while only the dead giggle at their release;
torch half-bare against icons gone cold in the blitz while the spring winds lord over votive racks, counterfeiting peace that was never mine nor yours. Steamboat hulls and exposed fish ribs testify against empires of deception, splitting history’s amnesia awake.
I stand shrouded in that shiver that follows bombardment— water carrying us all, merciless as governments, toward shores that reject our names. Certainty arrives unwelcome as midnight deportation—
neck of movements snapped by yellow boundaries, the twilight of our homeland forced down our tongues. They promised us a land of honey and milk;
as diplomas vanish at customs, and CVs rot in mailboxes.
They seduced us with wages in car wash’s suds, rockstar’s fingerprints orphaned from guitar chords and drum’s lambskin. They wheedled away our rights to leave from contracts, dreams of dancers and singers turned wannabes beneath Soho’s red lights.
Tiny, tiny…, far away from the wonderland of bow-tied gentlemen and English tea. Faint… faint… breathing small and counting the untidy tips in the folds of whipped breasts. The beggar’s hands, cauterized by childhood’s exploding fuse,
deafened us from omens whistling through bullet casings. Dozens of hatchlings canned in shells watch mothers wade into the machine-gunned distance. Their children—jagged languages— face the Black Sea’s cargoes salivated by traffickers of breath and skins.
They whisper, thin as rationed bread: “In March, swallows will carve us into petitions on camera-ready banners. In May, peace doves will harvest our skulls for museum’s sorrow.
When we all lie alone beneath this river’s militarized belt, our blood will finally transmute into moribund blue—
connecting soils of countless unremembered cities beneath a single bank that unites all our scattered bones.”
Echo IV: Knotting Hands Under the Red Sky
Red rages rupture—a birth scream with no mother— existence a slit throat under seagulls hovering like scalp-white mourners.
Hair and fire snarl— crooning ghoulish requiem through the gust’s sudden tug.
Speech drowns in its own soliloquy: blackened ribbons crystallize on the survivor’s cheeks.
Bones in gloves, bluing fists, nails preening through handcuff rust.
The hands know what the mouth won’t. Stone lions’ neck serrated by two million fingers’ knots.
This is how I heave myself out: Change this. Change that. Don’t look back— or it drags you down, ankle-first, into the gullet of the shuckled shore:
Beating death on their own breasts, three borders sing in C minor under a mountain’s whole rest.2
2 Whole Rest: In musical notation, a whole rest is a silence lasting the duration of an entire measure. It is visually represented as a small rectangle hanging from the second line of the staff. In poetic terms, it can suggest a full pause—a complete suspension of sound, breath, or motion.
Echo V: Red Beacons
Waves shudder—flee from shore’s dominion. Salt voices whine when I ride the mirror of my reflection. Night’s sharp anchor holds while fire ruffles water; Dreams sob crimson through swamps of endless vision.
Across my untidy skin, mothers’ breasts were steadfast— Flanking a silver of silence with their immovable tenets. The feelings elders lack, carried forward by a whirlwind And lording about lands; the barren eternity That draws back the sky—afraid of its cadence.
Solstices wheel wild on butterfly wings! A kaleidoscope Writhed in greenhouse glass, while the pale moon—hermit Drained in dust—watches red beacons spin: Too hot for earth, they fall, bleeding a colour of thunderous years Into my waiting veins—
Pulse rising from the inner sea; shanks thinning beneath pants. How many times has mortal clay rotted in terrible silence? Passion greets desolate solitude like mirror-faces On their nocturnal tasks—watching animals relish Their breath and death at whistles before storms.
Eye to eye, the borders churn through waves—no rest in light or wind! Red beacons burn eternal; moving water whispers to graying ears: “There you are on the lighthouse—small hands, small reach, against what sky and sea have always been.” But this flesh-cage I consecrate, blazing, until mountains Bow their lava crowns to the same brief fire.
Let the cosmos witness the dusk and dawn I kindle
That make all exiles sacred, equal and glad In the wonderful Divine: All flesh a temple, all darkness a doorway To light that owes no century—knows no time.
Echo VI: Fell in love with the alpha wolf
Who would have known—a man’s violence, the strike from the love of your life, Could spare the woman’s need for the presence of a proper shaman, the bells and sages from the nature’s rogue, to enter into a trance.
The fire the matriarch refused to teach coming not from distrust, But a glimpse she saw through: Another woman, mistook a wolf’s fangs in a deer’s throat, A man’s fingers into a smuggler’s eyes, and a gun raised on all the unfairness’s skull— As her fire because he turned and whispered: here, their apologies and flesh are your feast.
What about the law of the world that protects millions of both the good and the damned? What about the order of yourself that once brought you to reclaim all the fairness?
Gone. You became the exhausted Prometheus who put hope on the hawk and Zeus Who were supposed to prey on his liver and soul.
But— How the hell did you end up here?
You have seen the ugly face of the world at an age too tender to even know it’s beautiful.
Parents wrapped you in burlap and sold you to the Bluebeards— for not being a son.
The policewoman who saved you, sent you to sanctuary, but never once showed her face—never once anchored who you are.
Then, hand to hand. From home to home. Foster parents visiting your room, shaking their heads: “We are not responsible for her trauma.”
You saw love in the steam rose through rice—a wife made for her husband without his thank you, without his eyes lifting from his phone.
A husband came home carrying too much alcohol, too many cigarettes, but praised for not carrying another woman’s perfume on his collar.
The Zhongkao teacher cracked your stepsister’s canvas in half for sleeping in math class.3 And you understood: this is what love should look like.
Women bleed. Men feed.
Friends—called distractions before even being made.
Boys—entitled to belittle you until you had to throw a dagger at their skulls.
Is that a lesson they teach? A decree to stop you from finding yourself?
Among all the predators in life, you were left with no choice but to love the king of them all.
By the moment he liberated you through palms that lifted your hips— blood bled from others poured into your mouth like communion wine.
But the tingles you felt in your hips—were not electricity. The rumble from his mouth was thunder before the lightning struck.
Still you clung to the bruised color of the sky—so desperately.
For the luck you had—swirling Baileys he bought in his bedroom, watching rain hammer the windows like fists.
Shivering at his sublime. His rage. The necks he snapped unashamedly— in front of you and for you, like gifts.
3 Zhongkao is China’s high school entrance exam, a nationwide academic test taken by students at the end of middle school to determine placement in secondary education. It is intensely competitive and often shapes a student’s future trajectory.
And his plea for love made you almost forget his belt was meant to strike you—
until his hand landed on your throat, his belt on the shoulder he once fed his own blood to like a sacrament.
You were once again forced to confront all the pieces you evaded before meeting him.
In a system that never asked you to heal. Never spared punishment when you tried to.
And made you fall in love the moment a man appeared to take care of your evasion.
Because that’s the only option you are given— so long as it doesn’t compromise their kingdom.
So that the fire of your own—won’t burn their empire down.
Author’s note
I execute literary devices in two very different classrooms. The first was Mandarin, where meaning ripples under the surface and readers are trusted to swim toward it themselves. Poetry was not encouraged there—our exam rooms preferred formulas to metaphors—so a poem had to live in the margins of notebooks, in whispers after lights-out.
The second classroom was English, which I entered at eighteen when I left China for London. English came with its own gatekeepers: libraries full of classics, critics ready to decide what counted as “literature,” quick to stop at the first layer of a line. Between those two worlds I have spent years running— from place to place, from one set of rules to another—looking for a page wide enough to hold both silences and storms.
If these six Echoes feel restless, that is why.
Akhmatova’s sorrow and Lermontov’s thunder travel with me. From Akhmatova I borrowed restraint: her way of hiding whole seas of grief inside a single tide-line. From Lermontov I borrowed motion: the urge to pace a frontier even while the sky is cracking open. Their voices taught me that a poem can stand absolutely still and still feel like a journey, that it can whisper and still shake stone.
You will meet that balance in Echo I, where the first woman does not fall but walks away; in Echo III, where a war-scarred river refuses every border drawn across it; and in Echo IV, where a human chain of protest hums with contained fire. Even the red beacon of Echo V carries both lessons: it burns in place, yet its light travels farther than any fleeing ship.
Nature appears as a teacher too. An English Dot rabbit, a red signal light on the sea, the quiet orbit of a whole rest in music—all remind me that endurance can be tender, that flight can be faithful, and that silence is often the strongest note.
So these poems speak in two tongues at once. They keep the Mandarin habit of suggestion—letting objects do the feeling—and they lean into the English hunger for direct address. Between them, I hope, stretches a common ground where a reader may pause, listen, and choose their own depths.
Thank you for sharing the path. If the poems leave you with a sense of movement held inside stillness, of fire banked beneath calm, then Akhmatova, Lermontov, and every hurried mile between languages have done their work.
1 Refers to the Siege of Sarajevo (1992–1996), the longest siege in modern history during the Bosnian War, marked by relentless shelling, sniper attacks, and civilian suffering.
Creation does not begin with a word, but with stillness a pause, before the rush, before the world insists on speaking. It begins with the quiet observation of a world moving without permission a leaf, stubborn in its fall, a cloud folding into another, a glance exchanged across crowded streets, never to be remembered.
Stories live in what is not said. The visible is but a fragment what matters lies hidden, beneath the surface. Like an iceberg, its strength resides in the unseen, where shadows move in silence and thoughts drift like forgotten tides.
To write is to observe, not merely to see, but to feel the weight of a shadow on a hot afternoon, the ache of silence between words, the whisper of wind through ordinary things, the sigh of trees that have witnessed lifetimes.
Language is not decoration. It is the pulse of the soul. Every phrase must earn its place, must be sharpened against the stone of truth, must tremble with meaning each syllable a heartbeat, each line a breath caught in the throat.
An ending should not close it should linger, softly, like a thought that refuses to fade, a door left ajar, letting the mind wander, finding its own way out.
There is no beauty without attention no truth without the courage to face it. No art without the risk of vulnerability, the surrender to what we do not know.
What we create is not for applause, but for connection so that someone, somewhere, feels less alone, when they find their own heart hidden in the spaces between lines.
The work is not to impress it is to remember, to reveal, to reach.
And if nothing golden is found, then let the ink bleed honestly. Let the silence speak. Let the page carry the weight of what we dared to feel.
Because in the end, what matters most is not how beautifully we wrote, but how deeply we made someone stop breathe and remember that they are not alone in this vast, unspoken world.
— Author Haroon Rashid
ABOUT HAROON RASHID
Haroon Rashid is an internationally celebrated Indian author, poet, and humanitarian whose soul-stirring words transcend borders, cultures, and languages. Revered as “a movement of thoughts” and “a soul that breathes through verses,” he is a global ambassador for peace, education, and sustainable development. Through literature, he fosters empathy, cultural harmony, and a collective vision for a better world.
KEY LEADERSHIP ROLES • Global Ambassador & International Member, Global Federation of Leadership & High Intelligence A.C. (Mexico) • SDG Ambassador (SDG4 & SDG13), World Literary Forum for Peace & Human Rights • National Vice Chairman, Youth India – Mother Teresa International Foundation • Peace Protagonist, International Peace Forums – Mexico & Greece • Honorary Founding Member, World CP Cavafy
AUTHOR & LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS • We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another – poetry book, translated by 2024 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Eva Petropoulou Lianou • Author Haroon Rashid Quotes – A soul-deep treasury of reflections • Works translated into: Greek, French, Persian, Urdu, Arabic, Chinese, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, German, Indonesian, Bolivian, and more.
GLOBAL HONORS & AWARDS • Diploma de Honor al Mérito – Mexico (2025) • World Art Day Honor – Indonesia (2025) • Friedrich von Schiller Award – Germany • 4th World Gogyoshi Award – Global Top Vote (2024) • 1st Prize – Silk Road International Poetry Exhibition (2023) • Golden Eagle Award – South America (2021 & 2023) • United Nations Karmaveer Chakra – 2023 & 2024 • REX Karmaveer Chakra – Silver & Bronze – India • Global Peace Award – Mother Teresa Foundation (2022) • Cesar Vallejo Award – UN Global Marketplace • Honorary Doctorate in Humanity – La Haye, France (2021) • Sir Richard Francis Burton Award – European Day of Languages • Prodigy Magazine USA Award – Literary Excellence • Certificates of Honor – Greece, Serbia, Indonesia, Mexico • Honorary Award for Literature & Arts – Trinidad & Tobago
GLOBAL PRESENCE & RECOGNITION • Invited Guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show • Featured in O, The Oprah Magazine • Speaker at: • International Peace Day – Mexico & Greece • 3rd International Congress of Education – Mexico • Paper Fibre Fest – Represented India in China, Greece, Mexico, Peru • UN SDG Conferences, Global Literary & Peace Forums • Work featured in education campaigns, peacebuilding initiatives, and cross-cultural literary dialogues • Admired by global celebrities, educators, artists, and policymakers
CULTURAL AMBASSADOR OF INDIA • Embodies India’s timeless storytelling, spiritual ethos, and peace traditions • Bridges Indian philosophy with global consciousness • Revered as an ethical thought leader, visionary poet, and global voice of unity
PHILOSOPHY & SOCIAL VISION
Literature, for Haroon, is a sacred space for: • Healing, empathy, and consciousness • Advocacy for: • Mental Health Awareness & Emotional Resilience • Climate Action & Sustainability • Spiritual Depth & Interfaith Harmony • Youth Leadership & Cultural Preservation
He aims to inspire changemakers, dreamers, and peacemakers across generations.
GLOBAL PRAISE & LOVE
Described as: “A movement of thoughts.” “A soul that breathes through verses.”
Celebrated across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Haroon is loved for his: • Authenticity • Emotional depth • Literary brilliance Honored by governments, universities, and global literary councils.
TITLES & GLOBAL IDENTITY • Global Literary Icon • Award-Winning Author & Poet • International Peace Advocate • Global Educator of the Heart • Cultural Diplomat & Ethical Leader • SDG Voice for Education & Environment • Voice of Peace, Passion, and Purpose
QUOTE BY AUTHOR HAROON RASHID
“It’s our responsibility to create a better world for our future generations.”
CONNECT WITH HAROON RASHID Follow and engage across all platforms: @AuthorHaroonRashid (Facebook, Instagram, X/Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, Threads, and more)
Eliot Rivers was once a name whispered with admiration in the corridors of Oakville High. A natural leader, an academic achiever, and the captain of the school debate team, his future was painted in bright hues by everyone who knew him. Teachers predicted Ivy League acceptance letters, classmates envied his eloquence, and his parents believed they were raising a young man destined to change the world.
But Eliot was hiding something beneath the glow of success—a growing fear of imperfection. The pressure to remain excellent became a burden he could not share. He stopped enjoying what he loved and started fearing failure more than anything else. One mistake felt like the end of the world. When he received his first B+ in literature during senior year, he broke down. It wasn’t the grade itself—it was what it represented: he wasn’t invincible.
From that moment, Eliot changed. He began skipping classes, withdrawing from competitions, and isolating himself from friends. Rumors spread. Some said he was just tired, others guessed he was dealing with personal issues. But the truth was simpler and sadder—Eliot no longer believed in himself.
By the time graduation rolled around, Eliot wasn’t on the stage. He barely scraped through with passing grades. While others were sharing college acceptance letters, Eliot sat in silence, watching his dreams fade away like smoke from a fire he no longer had the will to rekindle.
One year passed.
Eliot found himself working at a coffee shop near the edge of town. He didn’t mind the quiet routine. He poured coffee, wiped tables, and tried not to think about what could have been. The occasional recognition by old classmates stung more than he cared to admit.
One rainy afternoon, as Eliot was wiping down a table, the door chimed and in walked a woman he didn’t recognize—middle-aged, with sharp eyes and a kind smile.
“You’re Eliot Rivers, aren’t you?” she asked.
He nodded, wary but polite.
“I heard you speak at the state debate finals two years ago,” she continued. “You were remarkable.”
Eliot smiled faintly. “That was a long time ago.”
“I don’t believe talent has an expiration date,” she said with a glint in her eye. “I’m Dr. Wren. I work with a youth center a few towns over. We help students who’ve lost their way.”
He frowned. “I’m not sure I’m who you think I am.”
“I think you’re exactly who we need,” she replied. “Not as a student—but as a mentor.”
Eliot froze. “A mentor?”
Dr. Wren nodded. “Someone who’s tasted both success and failure. Someone who can speak to teenagers not from a place of perfection, but from understanding. You’ve been through the fall. That’s powerful.”
Her words dug deep. That night, Eliot couldn’t sleep. His thoughts wandered to the idea of being useful again—not as someone perfect, but as someone real.
Three weeks later, Eliot stood before a group of ten teenagers at the youth center. Nervous, palms sweaty, heart pounding, he introduced himself.
“My name is Eliot. I used to think failure was the end of everything. But I learned something more important: sometimes, falling is the only way we learn how to rise.”
It wasn’t a grand speech. But it was honest. And for the first time in a long while, Eliot felt the spark of something that had once burned brightly in him.
Week by week, he met with the group. They talked about dreams, fears, broken homes, anger, and guilt. Eliot didn’t have all the answers, but he listened. He guided. He encouraged. One of the boys, Mateo, who had been suspended three times for fighting, began writing poetry. Another, Lena, who had dropped out of school, enrolled in a GED program.
Eliot started reading again—books he once loved, like To Kill a Mockingbird and The Alchemist. He found joy in small victories and rediscovered his voice. He began journaling his journey—not as a roadmap to success but as a bridge between brokenness and healing.
One evening, Dr. Wren pulled him aside.
“I’ve watched you grow, Eliot,” she said. “There’s a scholarship program for aspiring educators—people who want to help others the way you’ve been helping here.”
Eliot’s first reaction was doubt. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for college anymore.”
“You’re not the same Eliot who gave up,” she smiled. “You’re stronger now. Not because you’ve avoided failure, but because you’ve walked through it.”
He applied.
He got accepted.
And three years later, Eliot stood at a podium at his graduation from the university’s school of education. His speech was titled “The Bridge of Second Chances.” He told the story of a boy who once feared failure more than anything, and how that fear almost drowned him. But then, someone believed in him. Someone offered not a ladder of success, but a bridge of hope. He walked across it, slowly and shakily—but he made it.
After his speech, he was approached by a young man with tears in his eyes.
“Your story is mine,” he said. “I’ve failed, too. But you made me believe I can start again.”
And Eliot realized that this—this moment of connection, of healing, of shared humanity—was what he was born to do.
He became a teacher.
But not just a teacher of subjects. He taught life. He taught resilience. He taught the value of second chances.
Years later, when his own students would stumble, Eliot wouldn’t scold them. He’d sit with them, look them in the eye, and say:
“Do you know what bridges are made for? Crossing. Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.”
—
Moral of the Story:
Failure isn’t the end of the road; it’s often just the bend that takes you on a better path. Everyone deserves a second chance—especially when they think they don’t.
Surayyo Nosirova Elyor qizi was born on May 13, 2006, in the Narpay district of the Samarkand region, Uzbekistan. From an early age, she showed a deep interest in literature, languages, and creative expression. Her passion for learning and writing became evident during her school years, where she actively participated in various academic, literary, and cultural activities.
Currently, Surayyo is a first-year student at the Uzbekistan State University of World Languages, specializing in English Philology and Teaching. She is known for her strong academic performance and her dedication to mastering the English language. Her commitment to education extends beyond the classroom—she is the author of three published books: Heartfelt Thoughts, Voices in Writing, and Beyond Words: Mastering English. Each of these works reflects her insights into language learning, writing skills, and the emotional depth of student life.
In addition to her books, Surayyo has written numerous articles and short stories that have been featured on various literary platforms and online magazines. She is an active participant in youth development programs, literary competitions, and creative workshops, including camps such as the Anim Camp organized by the Youth Affairs Agency of Uzbekistan.
Surayyo also leads and contributes to several student initiatives, including reading competitions and motivational projects like the “Readers’ Championship,” which encourages young people to engage with literature in innovative ways.
Through her writing, leadership, and academic achievements, Surayyo continues to inspire her peers and the younger generation. She is a passionate advocate for education, self-expression, and lifelong learning, aiming to make a meaningful impact on her community and the future of language education in Uzbekistan.
