This article analyzes the medical, social, and psychological impacts of pandemics on public health. It examines health-related challenges caused by the widespread transmission of infectious diseases, changes in mental well-being, and the increasing burden on healthcare systems.
Keywords: pandemic, public health, infectious diseases, mental health, prevention.
Introduction
A pandemic is the widespread outbreak of an infectious disease across large regions, including multiple countries or the entire world. Throughout history, pandemics such as plague, influenza, tuberculosis, and COVID-19 have significantly affected all aspects of social life, particularly public health. In the modern era, pandemics are considered not only a medical issue but also a major social challenge.
Main Part
Pandemics primarily affect public health through physical illness. The rapid spread of infectious diseases increases morbidity and mortality rates among the population. Elderly individuals, children, and people with chronic illnesses are especially vulnerable and belong to high-risk groups.
Another important aspect is the impact of pandemics on mental health. Quarantine measures, social isolation, fear, and uncertainty contribute to increased stress, anxiety, and depression. These psychological consequences highlight the growing need for mental health support within society.
During pandemics, healthcare systems face severe challenges. Hospitals experience shortages of beds, medical staff are exposed to excessive workloads, and there may be limited access to medicines and medical equipment. As a result, the stability of healthcare systems is put at risk. Therefore, prevention and early diagnosis play a crucial role in protecting public health.
Pandemics also emphasize the importance of improving public health literacy. Adherence to hygiene rules, vaccination, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle are key factors in reducing the negative consequences of pandemics.
Conclusion
In conclusion, pandemics have a serious and multifaceted impact on public health. To minimize their negative effects, it is essential to strengthen healthcare systems, expand preventive measures, and increase attention to mental health. Only through a comprehensive approach can the consequences of pandemics be effectively managed.
References
World Health Organization (WHO) materials.
Fundamentals of Public Health. — Tashkent, 2021.
Educational materials on infectious diseases and their prevention.
The Chinese girls and various aloha purveyors bade me stay
So here sits I, on a balcony green with plants, envy and Green Edition Red Bull
I can see the pink Royal Hawaiian where my sister stayed, just across from where she rocked like Gin Blossoms and counted koi
Now I am a more mundane working-class guy, portrayed as teacher and coach
My staycation has stretched out to 29 years on this island
I’ve taken trips to Arizona, China, Georgia, Seattle, and California, but always leave my heart (sacrificed?), on Oahu and sometimes hide it in our small Chinatown.
Been to Maui, Kauai, and Hawaii, but my heart and soul are on Oahu.
Adriano Aragozzini: The Most Extraordinary Artist Manager in the World
Rome. It’s the last day of 2025, and Adriano Aragozzini, the most extraordinary impresario in the world, has dedicated his latest book to me, a bestseller not only in Italy, entitled: “Tonight who sings is me “(Questa sera canto io), 462 pages that you devour in a few hours.
Adriano has an irresistible personality, and his book reflects it, taking us on a journey around the world with Tina Turner, Domenico Modugno, Sammy Davis Jr., Patty Pravo, Ray Charles, Gino Paoli, Sarah Vaughan, Luigi Tenco, Gloria Gaynor, and the Sanremo Festival, which Aragozzini made popular worldwide.
In this adventurous panorama, film stars such as Gina Lollobrigida and my mentor Federico Fellini and Andy Warhol, who competed with Fellini for my image, stand out.
Aragozzini recounts with unusual sincerity the “splendors, miseries, passions, betrayals, secrets, and transgressions,” as written on the book cover, of celebrities who are part of the fabric of our history from the 1960s to today.
An important chapter of the book tells of a truly unique experience, also because the protagonist of the episode, which spans years, is a singular character: the singer Patty Pravo, brilliant and iconic in all her manifestations and often in conflict with Aragozzini’s plans to increase her fame.
Aragozzini introduces Patty Pravo to Federico Fellini, who offers her a role in his film “Casanova”: Casanova duels with a man, and with his sword, tearing his antagonist’s shirt. This action reveals a breast, the true sex of this person.
At that time, in 1975, Fellini was the most famous and well paid director in the world, and Patty Pravo the most special and famous singer in Italy.
A considerable chance for Patty Pravo to probably establish herself worldwide.
Do you think the artist said “yes”? Of course you do!
It was, instead, a firm “no” from Patty Pravo and a consequent disappointment for Aragozzini.
The reasons?
Patty Pravo has a rather masculine voice and an androgynous physique.
Perhaps, then, Fellini’s idea didn’t seem very original to Patty Pravo.
Aragozzini introduced Patty Pravo to Andy Warhol, who didn’t offer the artist a role in his film, as Fellini had done, but instead proposed that the diva be the protagonist of his film.
Do you think the artist said “yes”? Of course you think the diva said “yes” to Andy Warhol!
Andy Warhol talked and talked, and Patty Pravo remained quite silent.
Aragozzini was embarrassed.
Then Warhol, rather annoyed, left Patty Pravo’s apartment in Rome , and after the legendary Warhol’s departure, she performed magical rituals to ward off Warhol’s energy, which she perceived as negative.
Another great disappointment for Aragozzini, but one can’t judge: if you perceive negative vibrations from a person, it might not be a good idea to have a project in common with that person, since obstacles and conflicts could be anticipated.
However, Aragozzini did help Patty Pravo sell millions of records and increased her fame, which is a priority for an impresario.
And Aragozzini did this by launching songs that have made history and are themselves part of history and culture.
Aragozzini, an impresario who was skilled at creating significant synergies between Italian and international music stars, who made the Sanremo Festival, the Italian song festival, known throughout the world, and who, if he likes an artist, launches them internationally.
There’s great news regarding Aragozzini: a few days ago, he added a new and unique award to the thousands he has already received: the “Courage for Freedom Award” for his tenacity and courage in promoting artists who symbolize freedom and supporting musical institutions to the entire world.
The award is based on the principles of the hero of two worlds, Garibaldi, who fought for the freedom of many peoples and countries, including Italy and Rio Grande do Sul in Brazil.
Garibaldi was a hero, also a writer and poet.
The award originated in LA, during an exchange of ideas between me and the hero’s descendant, Francesco Garibaldi Hibbert and on that occasion, the multi-award-winning film “Anita” was also conceived, based on a sublime poem by Giuseppe Garibaldi about the premature death of his companion, the heroine Anita.
Francesco Garibaldi and Adriano Aragozzini, an honorary citizen of NYC thanks to me, have become great friends, and Aragozzini rightfully joins the award’s honorary committee, along with other distinguished recipients, including Michael Poryes, author of Hannah Montana, Moe Rock, founder of the Los Angeles Tribune, Elena Panarella, a renowned journalist for the widely read newspaper “Il Messaggero,” Ibrahim Shehata, president of the Egyptian “The Times International “ , Enrico Bernard, writer and screenwriter, and Victoria Wilder, daughter of the absolute Hollywood cinematic legend Billy Wilder, about whom I will share sensational news exclusively for Synchronized Chaos.
The cinematic version of the “Courage for Freedom Award,” is named “Courage for Freedom Film Award ” and was assigned to Angela Alioto for “Kamilah the Miracle Filly,” to Emily Letran and Jenny Thai for “Book of Death,” awarded by Pope Francis, Pope Leo XIV, and the Dalai Lama, and to “Chrysalis,” on the life of Daniel Winn, which we will see starting in April 2026, masterfully directed by Jordan Robert Schulz.
There was no door she opened only a thought. And suddenly, she was there, in the city no one ever comes from.
Maya had no idea how she had arrived. There was no bus, no train, no discernible route from past to present. She remembered only the urge to run from what she did not understand, and from those who did not understand her. Everything around her seemed to continue, to move forward, while she remained still suspended in a reality that felt either irrelevant or unreadable.
And then, there was nothing. No sound, no wind, no weight. Only a void that refused to let her forget. Her breath did not feel like her own. The city was unreal or perhaps she was. She felt no hands, no feet, only the aching distance between what had been lost and the emptiness that had taken its place.
Maya looked around: streets that led nowhere, houses that seemed to breathe. Everything blurred mist-wrapped, undefined, refusing form. The sky bore no color, or at least none she could name, yet it folded around her like an invisible presence. The city was full of people nor rather, figures. Shapes that drifted through the streets, faceless, yet moving as though they remembered being human. And Maya, caught in her paralysis, seemed to mirror their strange stillness. But she was not one of them. Not really.
She stepped into a street, her feet gliding over the soft ground, which gave no sound in return. She looked up at the buildings or were they houses? Everything was in motion, yet the shapes refused to settle into anything familiar. The city itself shifted with every step, every thought. And yet, it always remained the same: a grey swirl that promised nothing but the quiet ache of loss.
It wasn’t the first time she had been here, she realized just as she caught sight of a woman in the distance. Maya understood, without knowing how, that the woman had been waiting for her. The woman had no face or perhaps it was that her face always slipped away, dissolving into the air itself. Maya stood still, her gaze fixed on the woman. There was something about her, something that struck a chord deep within, though she couldn’t say why.
She wanted to speak, to ask something but her voice was gone, like an echo you can’t catch, like sound turned inward. The woman looked at Maya or rather, seemed to look through her, as if Maya were not really there. It wasn’t coldness, nor absence, it was something else. A kind of stillness that held everything. A silence that embraced.
“Where am I?” Maya asked at last, the words dragging from her mouth with great effort. Her voice sounded hollow in the space, so hollow that it startled even her. The woman smiled, though it was not a smile meant to comfort. “You’re simply here,” she said. “Where you don’t belong, but cannot leave.” Maya wanted to ask her something else, but a strange sensation overtook her. She couldn’t quite name it, but it felt as though the question itself had slipped away. Or perhaps it had always been lost, long before she stepped into the city.
“Am I dead?” Maya asked.
The woman shook her head. “You’re alive, but not truly here. This is the city where the living and the dead never meet. Where you arrive when you’ve lost your grip on reality.” She paused. “You are at the edge of the world. At the edge of what’s real”.
Maya felt her heart begin to race. Was this real? Was this all that remained? The woman looked at her like a mirror, her eyes reflecting everything Maya wished she had never lived through.
Stretching between them like a string that may break if one of them breathed too loudly, the quiet was tense. Maya looked over her shoulder, wishing to see a doorway, a street, some remnant of the life she knew, but she saw nothing. All she could see was a huge, moving cloud that pulsed like thinking, retreating anytime she attempted to concentrate on it. The ground underneath her didn’t feel steady or strong, but soft, like standing on a vague memory. She moved ahead cautiously one step a time, as if walking might help her remember where she was. There were tiny murmurs in the air, more like incomplete phrases circling in search of someone who could still listen. She believed they were calling her name, but every time she tried to hold the sound, it vanished. Maya realized for the first time that she might not be following the lady at all, but rather that she might be going into the shape of her own absence, as the woman remained.
Longing
The sky is not breath, but the trace of somewhere I once belonged. The city is not a street, but a path I’ve long forgotten. Where am I, and where are you, if home is never a place we reach together,
Grief is the presence of what shaped me, but also the absence of what can never be. What I seek I cannot find, because it is not the city,
This place reflects quietly who I’ve become,
In the absence of what held me.
“How can I leave?” she asked finally.
The woman ignored her. “That depends”
“On what?”
“On wheter you still believe that you must.”
Maya parted her lips, then shut them again. The response didn’t feel incorrect, but it also didn’t make sense. There was a long pause, that neither of them filled. Maya started to notice that you weren’t rushed here. The things you often tried to outrun were able to sit with you.
She looked at her feet. They were bare, though she didn’t remove her shoes. The ground felt soft, like walking on recollection. Something behind her echoed, it might have been laughter, it might have been nothing.
“What if I spend too much time here? Maya enquired.
The lady cocked her head. “Nothing. That’s the danger.”
A bird flew overhead, or she believed it was. It had too many wings, Maya’s gaze was unable to focus on it. Her looks might be deceiving. It disappeared before she knew for sure.
“I’m not sure how to return” Maya remarked.
“You will.”
“And if I’d rather not?”
“Then you’ll remain. Until it becomes too much.”
She looked up at the anonymous woman. “Have you spent much time here?”
The woman didn’ respond.
A City Without Maps
I walk without knowing
Unsure if I’ve just wandered here
Or simply drifted here.
Nothing happens,
Everything waits.
Time loses its manners.
Doors open without hinges.
Shadows emerge.
Before the light knows why.
What’s the search?
The city keeps showing me things I nearly recall.
That’s plenty for now.
Maya didn’t really follow the woman as she kept walking next to her, unsure if they were actually going forward or just repeatedly going around the same area of the city.
Every now and then, they went by someone, a blur of a person, drifting by with their eyes obscured or perhaps not there. Nobody said anything or made contact. There was too much silence in the air surrounding them for sound to seem normal. There was light even though there was no sun. It was all dark yet discernible.
Maya was unsure of her feelings. She kept expecting to feel panicked, afraid, or even sad, but she didn’t. Everything felt muted, as if her emotions had chosen to take a break while the rest of her continued to move.
“Do people live here?” She asked eventually, breaking the silence.
“No” the woman said. “They wait.”
“For what purpose?”
“To remember who they are. Or forget why they came.”
Maya scowled. “That sounds passive.”
The woman gave a nod, nearly grinning. “That is grief.”
The walls leaned too closely together as they turned down a tight lane. Maya sensed the breathing of the bricks, as though the city itself was dreaming while it slept. A flicker, a slow flash of something like lightning but without thunder, was visible somewhere above them. The sky rippled as she peered up.
Maya slowed. “I feel as though the city is observing me”.
“It is.”
“But only because it remembers what you don’t”.
Maya wasn’t sure what that meant, and didn’t ask.
There was a dim glow behind the glass of a window they passed. A figure inside stood motionless, gazing at nothing. A plate, a fork, and a glass of water are on the table next to them. Untouched.
Maya gazed for a while. “That looks like.. .”
She stopped herself.
The alley eventually led to a larger area that wasn’t exactly a square or courtyard. It was nameless. A fountain stood in the center, dry, yet the sound of water was audible.
Maya took a seat at the edge. Even though she hadn’t realised it yet, her legs were beginning to hurt.
She whispered, “did I bring this place with me? Or has it arrived already?”
The woman sitting next to her answered, “both, this city doesn’t build itself. It reflects.”
Maya tried to examine the woman’s face once again, but it kept slipping. The hint of a smile. A crease that might have been a scar. Or a shadow. Or a trick of the light.
She questioned, “why can’t I remember?”
“You do, but not all at once.”
They spend some time there.
Maya observed a partially formed cat moving across the stones. With every stride it wavered, as though it wasn’t sure it wanted to be there. Nevertheless, it walked. Determined.
She became strangely emotional over it. She refrained from crying. It didn’t seem permitted by the city. But her chest began to feel heavy. Not crushing, just a heavines she was unaware off.
A few figures went by them. One of them paused and glanced at Maya, so it looked. The figure then continued to move. Not intentionally, just … moving
She said, “I don’t want to be one of them.”
The woman remained silent.
“Will he be here? Maya asked, without glancing at the woman. Her voice gently rose above the wind.
Maya thought she hadnt heard the woman, since she was silent for so long.
“You might see the shape of what you miss, but not the person.”
“Why not?”
“Because he isnt here, just what you remember about him.”
“That’s unfair”
“No.” The woman said softly? “It isnt.”
Once more, they walked.
The city opened into a park. The trees had pale, drooping leaves that resembled coiled papers. Not a bird no breeze. All that was waiting was the soft hum.
Maya sat again, by a bench near one of the trees. Her body had become calm, as if it wanted to do nothing except remain motionless, but she didn’t feel exhausted.
The woman stood a couple of feet away.
Maya studied her hands. The outlines of her scars were visible. The ones she recognized from childhood scrapes, one from a cabinet corner, and one from something she couldn’t even recall. She still had them. Her body seemed to remember all her head had forgotten.
Maya closed her eyes and layed back on the bench.
She felt still inside, for the first time since arriving.
Auto pilot
I didn’t come here seeking healing,
Or closure,
Or acceptance.
Just arrived
Where I miss you
after the world turned sideways.
This is not a place,
It’s a moment between pain and comprehension,
A pause.
The day, or what passed for it here, deepened into a sort of dark gloom, and the air became heavier. With windows that flickered like half remembered eyes, the buildings leaned closer. Faint chimes might be heard somewhere in the distance, the sound of a clockstriking an imaginary hour that never happened.
Maya, not sure why, stood up. Already, the woman was moving. Her motion was more like the drifting of fog. Maya trailed faster, but every step seemed like a silent rewriting of herself. The streets grew narrower, doors ermerging where walls had been, each with symbols that disappeared is she stared too long.
The air was heavy with the scent of paper, rain and something metallic. Now the city seemed older, weary or overly nostalgic. At that moment, Maya saw a door standing where no building should, with a faint blue glimmer in the distance. The structure had no windows, just a door. She wasn’t sure why but felt drawn to it. She stretched out her hand for the handle, but hesitated when her fingers touched the cold doorknob, pausing a few seconds to see if she felt panicked but the only thing she felt was wonder.
She pulled the door open.
Inside, there was more room than she had anticipated. There was a high ceiling, wooden floors, the smell of old paper lingered and what smelled like coffee, although there was no cup in sight. File cabinets were arranged in endless rows along the walls. Every drawer had a label with a name that vanished as soon as she attempted to read it. A table in the center of the space caught her attention. There lay an unopened letter on it. No name. No adress.
She remained still. Something delicate and serene hung in the air of this place. As though one had to be very adept at being silent to be in this place. She ran her hand over the envelope. Nothing happened. She didn’t open it even though she wanted to. Maya flinched, the woman was suddenly behind her. She seemed to have heard her thoughts when she said, “you don’t have to know everything.”
“But I would like to,” Maya replied quietly.
“And that’s the start,” the woman stated. “But not of responses. Of inquiries you can tolerate.”
Maya looked at her. “Is it awful that you don’t know who you are anymore?”
“Just if you think you ever truly did.”
The letter was left behind. Without turning around they left the building.
They walked again. It seemed different even though the scenery had barely changed. Everything felt a bit lighter, as though something had been released by the air itself.
She saw a woman who was sitting on a bench farther down, writing in a notebook. Her face was a whirl of shadow, not empty, like the moments before waking up from a dream.
She grinned as she looked up. Maya wasn’t afraid, just calm. The woman next to her remarked, “she writes what no one dares to say.”
As though she understood Maya nodded. Perhaps she did.
They eventually arrived at a gate. Open, rusty and simple. Grass beyond it, no fog, only a tree and a field. Not magnificent, not enchanted. Just a big tree.
Without being asked, Maya approached it. There was a stone underneath the tree. Her name, but in a different font, was on it. The letters seemed incomplete. She sat down on her knees and took the stone in her hands to take a closer look. And suddenly she realized that you don’t just vanish, you maintain your shape while you slowly slip away.
Falling or fading?
We don’t dissapear,
We deteriorate.
Like breath on glass,
Every layer thinner than the one before it.
Tougher to see, but still there.
More difficult to keep.
The same appearance, the same voice
Something shifts
An absence perceived.
And by the time you realize it
It has already shaped who you are.
Maya spent a long time near the tree. Weighing less than it should have, the stone lay in her palms. When she looked back down, her name had disappeared. Even the stone seemed to have forgotten, leaving only the faint impression of the letters.
There was no sign of the woman.
Maya briefly believed she heard her voice, but it was more like something grazing her mind than a sound. Not so much a message as a suggestion: It’s time to leave.
So, Maya got up, there was no breeze, but the grass swayed. The air had started to stretch into a sort of stransculent sheen. Behind her the tree leaned into as mall sigh, like an exhale.
Maya started to move, but she wasn’t sure which way she was going. Despite the lack of path, or the woman that felt like a support, her feet managed to find one.
She lost the ability to look back, which is why the field behind her appeared to fade rather than actually disappear. Quietly, the horizon curled in on itself, rewriting proximity and erasing distance. Every footfall conveyed the tiniest sound, like a heartbeat, yet left no trace. The air ahead trembled, but it was neither light nor shadow, only a shaky hint of both. It felt like the universe was starting to knit itself around her as she extended a hand and felt warmth. Walls gathered instead of rising and corners formed. Above, the sky grew thinner until it reached the ceiling. When she blinked, the field vanished and was replaced by a hallway that had always existed, only for her consciousness to catch up. She could still smell the grass somewhat on her skin, but it was now mixed with an electrifying hum of a world that had been breathed into existence, rather than constructed. It seemed thin, infinite and echoing at first, like wandering inside her own breath.
The same pattern seemed to permeate every hallway, like a whisper without a mouth or an echo without a source.
Maya did not walk to get away, but rather because the silence here made her feel as though she had to give up on something she didn’t fully comprehend. As if the world were composed of the leftovers of thought, the air had thickened into a milky delicate form of light.
She ran her hand along a wall. Warm and slightly shaking, it was like the skins surface recalling a touch. She thought she heard her name again from behind her. But here, she knew, names were pointless. They simply indicated the forms of those who had already moved on. She questioned whether this was what sadness turned into when it forgot itself, a building of unfulfilled need rather than agony or sorrow.
Every hallway was like a breath that was never entirely released. Unfinished sentences pressed into the walls, waiting for a listener who might never come, caused the air to tremor with what could have been voices. As if the labyrinth required her movement to survive, the light changed in time with her heartbeat, growing brighter when she moved ahead and diminishing when she halted. She experienced a sense of both necessity and haunting, as if walking prevented the world from falling apart.
The hallways curved gently never sharply, it wasn’t like a maze. There was a corridor or a reflection of one at each curve. There wasn’t actually a ceiling, only a slight bend in the sky that wavered when she inhaled too deeply.
“Is there an end?” Maya asked.
The light faded, as if breathing before speaking, but the walls remained silent
She started to notice faint markings along the walls as she descended further. It was more like the residue of words that had been considered too often, than words or language. She felt a pulse when she put her fingertips on one. She briefly had a glimpse of another person’s memory: a kitchen table, a hand going over a picture, and a voice calling out to return. Then it disappeared, leaving nothing but warmth.
She came to see that every wall was constructed from memories that were no longer her own. A sort of collective forgetting. It occurred to her that perhaps this was what the deceased had left behind. Traces of attention rather than ghosts or spirits. Their gestures and incomplete affection were still present in the planet itself.
The labyrinth was a huge archive of things that could not be stored, not a tomb. Every surface was a storehouse of almosts: nearly understood, almost expressed, almost forgiven.
Maybe this was where the labyrinth first appeared, a place of relics rather than traps. Everything that was unreleasable had gathered here, waiting for someone with the courage to continue moving forward.
She recalled a passage she had read in a book named looking for Alaska written by John Green. He had described living in the labyrinth of suffering and constantly worrying about how you might one day get out of it. His persona had questioned whether the path out was dying, truly living, forgiveness or something more subdued like choosing while still lost in it.
She had read the book more than once in the hopes that the solution would become clear. But the author concluded it with an opening rather than a question. She was stuck in suspense, wondering if there would ever be a way out.
Now when she was most in need of an explanation, she discovered that she still lacked one.
However, his words now remained in her like a dim light flowing along the walls, asking her how to stay with the anguish without breaking rather than how to escape.
Then Gabriel Garcia Marquez silent query from the general in his labyrinth, “isn it straight and fast?” Emerged. It was an older line that had been carried over decades and oceans. He had also been talking about getting away.
Maya reasoned that perhaps all escapes start out as echoes, murmuring endurance rather than exits.
These writers, each carrying a lantern that merely lit a portion of the walkway, seemed to be strolling beside her like echoes. In her imagination their inquiries had become into doors. She wanted to ask them why it still hurts if forgiveness is the solution. Why does love resound more after death, if death is the release?
But, what if grief didn’t follow you, but in stead became a part of who you were, weaving itself into the way you walked until the labyrinth wasn’t around you but within you?
Mayas eyes were closed. Her chest began to fill with air.
The hallway moved slightly as she let out a breath, moving through rather than away.
At that moment, she understood that she was learning to breathe differently rather than looking for a door. Like a lung, the labyrinth adjusted to her beat. It’s gradual patience and readiness to continue remaking itself until she ceased resisting the shape of her own suffering were almost palpable to her.
She started to see that each time she believed she had identified a path, it was altered. It curled inward each time she attempted to map it, bringing her closer to an unidentified object. She questioned whether that was the definition of “healing”.
Learning to walk without demanding an exit, rather than figuring a way out.
She was afraid of the idea. It had always been said, that healing was an arrival, but what if it was simply constant movement? What if serenity was a rhythm rather than a state of calm, an understanding with time itself that everything would keep coming back until it was sufficiently visible to remain?
There was a location were the air shimmered differently, far ahead, or maybe below?
She instantly followed it.
At first it appeared like a mirror. But as she approached, she saw it was reflecting her. It was showing a series of lives she might have lived. Versions of herself untouched by loss.
One laughed effortlessly.
One had never left the city of the living.
They all had a serene, even convincing appearance. None of them felt real.
Maya walked away because she understood that serenity without recollection was a different type of death.
For the first time she started to cry, not out of sadness, but out of clarity. The labyrinth had shown her what she believed she wanted: ease and happiness. But she realized, with a weird sense of appreciation, that she no longer wanted those things without the weight that made them real.
A life devoid of sadness would be shallow.
An appetite for myself
How does one become?
When the self lies beyond reach,
Searching for what I cannot see,
Towards a self I do not know,
The seeking only fueling more pursuit.
Pure existence,
Flowing naturally,
Growing without the weight of what its mean to be.
1st-year student, Faculty of English Philology, Uzbekistan State University of World Languages
Annotation
In today’s era of globalization, tourism occupies a special place among the most developed and profitable sectors. This article provides information about the role of the English language in the development of international tourism.
Keywords.
English, tourism, development, culture, communication, language
Introduction
Today, the tourism sector is developing rapidly throughout the world. The increase in the number of tourists and the strengthening of cultural and economic ties between countries also increase the demand for qualified specialists in this field. This process is directly related to foreign languages, especially English.
Main part
English is not only a means of communication but also the heart of the modern tourism system. It is known that English is not only an international language but also the native language for half of the world’s population. From this, we can see that English is the most widely spoken language in the world. The main goal of tourism is to provide high-quality services to tourists from different regions. For this reason, it is important and mandatory for tourism industry employees – guides, administrators, transport drivers, restaurant and office workers – to know foreign languages. Because employees who can communicate in a foreign language improve the quality of service, increase the number of tourists, positively affect the country’s reputation, and enhance the overall service quality. Therefore, knowledge of foreign languages – particularly English – ensures the sustainable development of tourism and its competitiveness in the international arena. It is no coincidence that many countries of the world do not recognize English as the “language of international communication.” It should be noted that almost every tourist traveling internationally first asks for help in English.
Advertising banners, websites, brochures, orders, and invitations are often made in English. The reason for this, of course, is that this language has an audience of global speakers. Tour companies with employees with excellent language skills are always among the top positions. And allows you to attract a large audience around the world. After all, tourists primarily pay attention to information in a language they understand.It is vital to have a general understanding of English when referring to routes, safety regulations, evacuation instructions, and providing and requesting medical assistance. The information provided to guests of standard service processes, I mean, they, the definitions – all are in hegemonic languages in order to adapt to international standards. International flights and services at international ports are also conducted in English. If there are no misunderstandings from travelers during the trip, no difficulties related to language, and if tourists are satisfied with the trip, repeat visits will increase. Forms a positive image of the regions
Additionally, regardless of your field, having a solid knowledge of foreign languages, particularly English, is the key to securing a well-paid, prestigious job with a welcoming atmosphere in the tourism sector. This includes positions in hotels, airlines, travel agencies, and at international meetings and events.
With the help of the English language, it becomes easier to understand other cultures, customs, and values, as well as to establish good relationships with tourists. Knowledge of English not only facilitates communication but also fosters mutual understanding, respect, and cultural exchange between different peoples. This is the main strength of tourism – bringing the peoples of the world closer together. Language serves as a bridge in this process. The majority of today’s global media and Internet platforms operate in English.
This strengthens the role of the English language in introducing national cultures to the world. The publication of English catalogs, guides, and articles about historical monuments, along with the maintenance of YouTube channels and Telegram blogs, serves as the primary focus for promoting cultures. In the process of explaining pilgrimage sites, mausoleums, historical buildings, works of art, museums, and mosques, there are many special concepts. While their correct translation and interpretation in English is important for conveying the true meaning of the culture without distortion, understanding and speaking English makes these processes easier and makes the journey meaningful. The soft power of states is manifested through cultural diplomacy. Foreign tourists get their first impressions of countries through cultural heritage and communication with people.
Conclusion
In the sphere of tourism, the role of foreign languages, including English, is invaluable. Because in this field, there is a high demand for qualified personnel who are fluent in foreign languages. If we want to travel the world, discover new knowledge and places, stay informed about news, we need to learn English. We know that they are the first to tell the world about events in English. Moreover, the Uzbek people don’t say in vain: “A nation that knows a language knows.”
