In our holy religion, acquiring knowledge is considered an obligation for every Muslim, both women and men. Why specifically for women? Because in the family, the upbringing, morality, and knowledge of a child largely depends on the mother. It is precisely intelligent, conscious mothers who raise a comprehensively capable, educated generation. In the development of such great figures as our great ancestors – Amir Temur, Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur, Alisher Navoi, Abu Nasr Al-Farabi, Abu Ali ibn Sino, there was a place and prayers for book-loving, enlightened mothers.
Unfortunately, in our recent history, in particular, during the last khanates, not enough attention was paid to women’s education. In some cases, there were even periods when they were strictly forbidden to study. But Uzbek women, whose blood reflected the spirit of courageous women like Tomaris, Bibikhanim, Nodirabegim, and Uvaysi, fought for education, to find their place in society, and to liberate their homeland from colonialism. They worked resolutely towards their dreams, despite all obstacles.
There have been many such heroes in our history. The Jadid movement was especially widespread in Bukhara. In the 1929s, many young people were sent to study in Germany and Turkey under the leadership of our Jadid grandfather Abdurauf Fitrat. Among them were future doctors like 17-year-old Khayriniso Majidkhanova and scientists like Maryam Sultanmurodova. They aimed to serve the country with science for the prosperity of the homeland. Because the foundation of any society that dreamed of independence was science and the experience of developed countries.
Unfortunately, the former Soviet Union did not allow this. They were afraid of the people who recognized their rights and fought for freedom. In 1938, along with intellectuals such as Fitrat, Abdulla Qodiriy, and Chulpon, young girls with lofty dreams were also shot. However, this tragedy did not make the girls who wanted to get an education give up their dreams or scare them. On the contrary, it strengthened their determination, perseverance, and thirst for enlightenment.
Omonova Sevinch Oybek qizi, 2nd year student of Tashkent Pharmaceutical Institute
Lola Ibrajter was born on 11.01.1996 in Uzice. She spent her childhood in Nova Varos, where she also completed high school. She studied at the Faculty of Law in Belgrade, where she still lives today.
Since early childhood, she has been writing poetry and engaging in drawing and painting. Since 2022, she has been a member of Young Artists of Culture (MUK), where in 2023 her poem titled “Ona” is published for the first time in the poetry anthology “5 to 12 Time for MUK”. Two years later, her poems “Sveto tlo” and “Deo ljudske duše” are published, and that same year the Spanish magazine “AZAHAR” translates her poem “U početku beše reč” into Spanish.
Annabel Kim is a high school student from Massachusetts whose artwork explores the intersections of memory, identity, and landscape. She often works in mixed media and oil, drawing inspiration from both everyday life and literature. Her work has been featured in student exhibitions, and she is excited to share her art with a broader audience through literary publications.
The wheat stalks breathe you in, Braid your letters for the evenings. And stir your songs the day they met Upon his face, the silence… the flock of stillness. Depart to where we began our journey, Indeed, the streams hold but fragments. To a time squandered, Forgive my death when I choose you, To the mercy of the devout, in protest, To the dwelling of the wound, The distance of desolation. And your endurance was to borrow From the star, the day of collapse’s rituals. Within you, the debasement of poems eludes, Towards the sunrise. And you quiet above some plains The languages of apprehension, In your sailing times. You soothe the blaze of solitude… cities, And pour into the eye the tears of reunion, Branches from the beginning we were, For the land of severance. We carry to it the beseeching letters, To write in love, The beloved’s spinning song. And you still swear by the earthquake, So as to prepare a new homeland, Which the questions lost in their lament, And the impossible bolted its gates With bursts of time that began to depart. You never left the harvests of remembrance, That we were quenching. With your silence, visions will not overflow The boundaries of emptiness. And we… Are in vain.
***
May God Strengthen You
When love confused you one day, And you melted into it, and you had no choice. That separation was coming for you, my heart, Anyway, may God strengthen you. Why did you obey him and walk with him? He got lost with you from the first step. You lived life after him, And the pain of his separation keeps you awake. When love called to you, You saw paradise with your own eyes, And you returned again with what’s inside you, In every glance, he makes you remember. Were his days a dream, or Was it a time that came and went? In it, my joy is absent from his presence, And my sorrow and worry destroy you. Believe me, a page has been turned, Like the hearts that were burned. From him, love and hearts intended To return to him again and command you. Anyway, may God strengthen you.
***
The Roofs of Houses
It peeks from the window of our hearts, And steps onto the paths that have drunk From its spring, the tales. Upon a thousand civilians who implore, And thousands of throats whose echo Is the roofs of houses. Their lament still embraces them, And gathers them, A million prayers, Except what it couldn’t contain. And you, who are ascetic within your prison, waiting For a glimpse of light, Just to caress your forehead. Your umbilical cord between you And the homeland, Knows you overcome your tears And split your chest for the cities, So that life may enter them, Free from the gloomy darkness clinging To every wall that the specter of silence Has demolished. These are thousands of throats whose echo Is the roofs of houses.
***
The Scars of Salvation
Let the halos of my heart fall from my brow, A light I thought I’d find while resting on the shoulder of the word, The one that hums a tune through the folds of this poem. Illuminate for others my journey, this bitter taste of a homeland’s pain, The anguish that fills it, stirring with every dawn That rises on a morning full of nonsense. The word was powerless then, Unable to forge a new space for confession, Or pluck a bejeweled pearl from its sky To gift to the poor, the orphans, the forgotten, Those on the brink of death. I know I am the zero from which all poets begin, The seed whose sprout only grew in the shadow of my ancestors’ verses. From them, I drew the strength to survive, Dreaming of their blissful, generous seas. I lean on them all with a pride that lifts me Into realms bright with the light of their wisdom, O Lady Poem. All I ever wanted from you was salvation, To end on your shores. I began you (or you began me) among the transients In a city whose streets had all gone dark, Forgotten by long wars, then awakened just once By the triumph of survivors, and drops of hope That thirst couldn’t defeat. Between tables of gunpowder and napalm, Scattered limbs and blood-stained walls, Jackets lie vomiting on the sides of ruins, With the words “I was here” scrawled upon them. A hemorrhage of questions. How I’ve longed for my poems to take them on, A path to grief and to release. I craft my shoot for the fated crowd, And belong to the march coming from those forgotten lands Hidden in the folds of shackles and prison cells, The torment of hungry stomachs, The gasping of tongues behind cries for departure, The absence of hope for a coming brilliance That carries on its face the radiance of the impossible. Lady Poem, I know glory in your proof. I know the secret in your river. This is how we meet, and with us, we meet A life that has no shrine, A life that only survived through an impossible bargain Between a bundle of thorns that grew just once From the pain of salvation. I am destined to live and to see the city Be the first to bless the burning heat of a step toward freedom, Swearing by the fading glory in its children’s eyes, The honeyed treasures flowing over a new homeland.
I was operating under a pseudonym at the time, blogging about Kaiser Permanente and the physicians whose decisions had left scars—some literal, some systemic. I was part of a loose network of Facebook groups pushing back against corporate medicine, calling out malpractice, and amplifying patient voices. One day, a notification popped up: Kari Lee Krome has sent you a friend request.
I blinked. The Kari Krome? The original visionary behind The Runaways? The teenage firebrand who helped shape the band’s early identity before being pushed out of the spotlight?
She messaged me almost immediately. “You’re my hero,” she said.
I told her who I really was. I told her I was the world’s biggest Runaways fan. And just like that, we were off—an unlikely pair bound by trauma, rebellion, and a shared disdain for sanitized narratives.
Kari had suffered a brain injury in a car accident, and later, she told me, was harmed by a medication prescribed by a Kaiser physician. She was raw, brilliant, and unfiltered. She’d pop into my DMs calling me “Mister,” and referred to herself as my “little sister on a skateboard.” It was a nickname that stuck, and one that still makes me smile.
She gave me an insider’s view of the world behind the Runaways mythology—the depravity of Rodney Bingenheimer, the sickness of Kim Fowley. “I’ll need therapy for life,” she told me once, and I believed her. She spoke of being “incredibly naive” at 14, living with Fowley, and of being “undiagnosed autistic.” Her stories weren’t just confessions—they were dispatches from the edge of a cultural moment that chewed up girls and spat out legends.
When I asked her about David Bowie, she said, “He was a vampire.” No context. No elaboration. I assumed she meant his proximity to the same predatory circles—Rodney on the ROQ, the Sunset Strip’s darker corners.
We collaborated. We co-wrote six songs together. She showed me her songwriting structure—tight, poetic, emotionally surgical. She sent me a story called Mootsie Tootsie, a scabrous, hilarious, and terrifying piece about shooting heroin in a Taco Bell restroom. I published it in my William S. Burroughs tribute anthology. Her poem North of No North appeared in White On White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, alongside contributions from Poppy Z. Brite, Caitlín R. Kiernan, and David J. Haskins.
She was only mentioned once in the Bad Reputation documentary about Joan Jett. It didn’t surprise me. Kari had little regard for the rest of the Runaways. She was the spark behind the band’s original concept, but her role was minimized, her voice nearly erased.
And then, about six months ago, she disappeared. No message. No goodbye. Just silence.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if she’s okay. But I know this: I will never forget our friendship. I still have mad love and respect for the woman who called me “Mister,” who gave me a glimpse into the machinery behind the myth, and who reminded me that the most powerful voices are often the ones the industry tries hardest to silence.
Kari Lee Krome is a survivor. A poet. A punk. A sister. And wherever she is, I hope she’s writing, skating, and slowly conquering her demons.
