“In the Land of White Lilies” – The Country of Wonders

“Fate placed swamps and rocks in our way, but we cultivated them and built a civilized country.”

Humanity often reflects only on the present moment, on what it sees today. Unfortunately, we sometimes fail to balance the positive and negative aspects of an issue—or, in pursuit of the present, we forget the past. Grigory Petrov’s book “In the Land of White Lilies” tells the story of Finland, now regarded as one of the happiest nations in the world, and how it emerged from its dark and difficult past into the bright present we know today.

First, let us pause to consider the title. Why “the land of white lilies”? The lily is known as a symbol of grace, beauty, and purity. Finland, in turn, is compared to a lily blooming in the swamps—because geographically it lies in an inhospitable land, deprived of nature’s abundance. Its terrain was long covered with marshes and rocks, with very little fertile soil. Much of its grain had to be imported from abroad. Yet the people strove tirelessly to survive amid these swamps, bringing fertile soil to the rocky lands, and creating for themselves the conditions of a dignified life.

Today, Finland is recognized worldwide, yet it is, in fact, a young state—barely 70 to 80 years of independent history. For centuries, the Finnish people endured the pain of colonial rule. At first, under Swedish domination, they were considered ignorant and backward. Children of the Swedish nobility who were unfit even for modest education and worthless at home were sent to Finland to occupy high administrative posts. Naturally, these shallow rulers continued their lives of ease here as well. The misery of the people under such leadership is not hard to imagine.

After Finland was ceded to Russia in 1816, the country’s condition improved somewhat. True national heroes arose—leaders we might call the Finnish “Jadids,” who called their people to enlightenment, to education, and to a dignified way of life. Among them, J. Snellman holds a special place. He awakened in the Finnish heart a deep sense of homeland, nation, and belonging. Finnish officials gradually replaced foreign administrators, and special emphasis was placed on education to nurture new, capable generations. At Snellman’s initiative, old books were collected and distributed to rural and remote areas.

When Napoleon’s defeat brought a wave of imitation of America and Britain—especially in football, which glorified brute strength—Snellman reminded the youth that without intellect and wisdom, strong legs were worthless. Just as the ball is kicked upward to move forward, he said, so too must the nation be lifted upward by thought and knowledge. The people united! From within its swamps, Finland blossomed into a graceful and cultured state.

As the book highlights, one cannot help but be amazed at how Finland resolved social issues. There are no homeless people. Problems like poverty and unemployment are approached with practical solutions. I was astonished to learn that Finland is also among the most “online” nations in the world, with unrestricted internet access, 100% coverage, and even free usage.The book also sheds light on Finland’s unique approaches in many spheres, especially education. Finnish education is a subject in itself—a system based on a fresh vision and beautiful national values. Petrov describes Finnish schools so vividly that you find yourself longing to enter one. Single-story buildings, spacious gardens, glass-walled classrooms, and freedom in learning—such features are truly astonishing! There are no rigid examinations or strict grading systems. Yet, classes are regarded as sacred, and teachers hold the highest respect in society. Finnish education seeks to nurture free thinking, broad perspectives, responsibility, and the sense of happiness in children—through lessons harmonized with values, music, and play.

This “land of lilies” also ranks high on the global happiness index. According to Petrov, one of the secrets of Finnish happiness lies in reading. Finland is recognized as the world’s most book-loving nation. The Finns consider their very existence a blessing. For them, happiness lies not in wealth or luxury, but in cherishing small and simple things.

The book also tells the stories of remarkable figures such as the “King of Confectionery” Jarvinen and the pirate Karokep—individuals whose lives, achievements, and contributions to the nation’s progress and welfare deserve recognition.

Dear friends, never accidentally pick up “In the Land of White Lilies”! Otherwise, like me, you might fall in love with its title. Do not read it, my dear peers—otherwise, you will find yourself longing to travel to Finland, to embark on a beautiful journey there. Of course, I am joking! Indeed, you must read it. For it teaches us to love our people, to recognize the power of a nation, and to learn how an awakening people can progress. And most of all, it invites us to reflect—by comparing Finland’s path of development with our own present day.

SHAHNOZA Ochildiyeva 

2nd-year student, Philology and Language Teaching: English, Faculty of International Relations and Social-Humanitarian Sciences, University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan.

ROULETTE

I finger your empty chamber

put you to my lips

BANG

ALL DECISIONS OF THE COMMITTEE SHALL BE FINAL

Your hand is your destiny,

slight or calloused.

So, whether you be an artist

or you be a thief,

no matter where your heart is,

you’ll come to grief.

There’s a Hanging Committee

for the gallows,

and one for the gallery.

ISES MAY BE ISN’TS

It’s rape, not sex, unless it is

reciprocal, enjoyable,

spontaneous, and synchronous.

Sabers and foils, not visors, veils —

What we may get’s not what we want.

When we need sails we may have gales.

Land that’s fragrant’s also vacant.

No interval is eternal.

All that’s secret is not sacred.

THE DANCE: NANCY

I said I wouldn’t dance with you;

Your hair’s too blond, your eyes too blue.

A loaded gun and fully cocked,

dynamite cap set to go off.

I swore I wouldn’t dance with you.

She’s too proud of humility.

Her giant modesty towers from her knees.

She’s so proud of humility, the giant Modesty towers from the knees.

Even us healthy ones she treats like disease.

I said I wouldn’t dance with you.

Your arms, I knew, would hold like glue

No neon ever hijacked us,

I refused to be target practice

I knew I’d never dance with you.

Oversharp in her ignorance, she’s

indisputably a genius between the knees.

Oversharp in her ignorance, undeniably she’s a genius between her knees.

The peacock preens, pretending that no one sees.

I said I wouldn’t dance with you:

The night’s too young, too bright’s the view.

But that bandit moon lit the fuse,

and insurgent night made the news,

though I’d said I’d never dance with you.

dancing in the moon

light with Nancy and kissing her good –

Night

comes quickly this time of year

and icily as well: the wind

bites nicely and to the quick –

oh these thoughts! are dancing nicely

through the wind kissing this memory

somehow – I can hear the

memory embers

hissing in the wind (is sharp

this time of year) like java in the night

comes dark and sharp and bitter.

spring it was or was it fall? (no matter)

(no matter at all the season) the reason

I recall at all is Nancy her name

whispers in the moon light, or

is it the night

wind that’s light

or was it the fall –

– no matter –

it was time and she was mine and we were

hours until the dawn (comes quickly, this time)

and I must go on:

I wanted to go on, to bound

fast as the hound Wind

and as free too but I was bound too fast to this ground

and ground too far down and

ground far too fine too but I danced on

with Nancy ‘til I was out of time

and out of mind (but I must go on for now)

I dance with my mind I dance

with the wind and the night and the ice and

but where is the Nancy?

I dance with memory and death and death and memory

and now the dancing’s through, for

every spring one makes fall’s not far behind –

and life and mind and the night and the wind

go quickly this year of time and mightily as well

and all matter

(but no matter)

…

Different Feathers?


Has free verse been freed from tradition?

Was the latter determined adverse?

Is different different than better?

Just what is the price of free verse?

 

Does free verse have better transmission?

Is tradition decidedly worse?

Is better better than different,

and will the twain ever converse?

 

Be Realio-Trulio

Sonnets ill-used,

erroneous meter,

perhaps a reader

will be confused

 

when it’s perused—

although by name

it may be the same.

If form is abused,

 

rhyming refused

(not really a rose),

it clearly shows

its poet accused.

 

Though enthused,

none are excused.

 

The Piper’s Sonnet

Although I write this sonnet silently,

clandestine, as it were, so none may see,

I wonder whether someday I’ll allow

its light to shine and break its silent vow.

 

So why express in secret on a page

the thoughts in which I currently engage?

It’s hard to say, although on August 3rd

no surreptitious sonnet is absurd.

 

By that, I mean that none would not suffice;

by writing one, at least, you pay the price

the Piper calls for on this special day

so that his tune won’t swoon each muse away.

 

To write or not? I’ll do it secretly.

For now, a covert action just for me.

 

I Come to Raze Your Ears, Not Praise Them!

I went to a poetry reading

with a follow-up open mic.

It’s the first time that I’d been to one—

didn’t know what they might like.

 

So, alrighty then,

I could listen without care,

since diversity of poetry

wasn’t what had brought me there.

 

We all heard the featured poet

reading from his new chapbook.

It’s the first time that I’d been to one

and I read the one I took.

 

Well, alrighty, then,

they could listen without care,

since diversity of poetry

wasn’t what had brought them there.

The second poem, “Be Realio-Trulio,” is a “minison,” a form established by The Minison Project (https://theminisonproject.com/): 14 lines, 14 letters per line, and a 14-letter title.   

The third, “The Piper’s Sonnet,” was written a month ago for Surreptitious Sonnet Day, August 3^rd.

The last, “I Come to Raze Your Ears, Not Praise Them!” was written to the tune of Ricky Nelson’s 1972 hit tune “Garden Party.”

Too Quiet

In this country
sons are born and sons are dying
in streets, in prisons, and in wars.
This country is too quiet,
so quiet, that the truth gets buried.

Why are the sons in the streets?
Why are they so poor they need 
to rob, steal, and kill?
Why are they so desperate to escape
this life with booze, drugs, and
instant gratification?

Why are the schools, teachers, and
families not given the support to help
the sons succeed?
Why are the rich given government 
handouts to amass more wealth at 
the expense of poor families, sons,
and daughters?

In this country 
no one wants to hear the truth.
This country is too quiet,
so quiet that the truth is buried.

*

Doors

Doors open at 7pm.
Songbirds sing all day long
10-dollar cover charge at the door
Songbirds do not charge one dime Dirt and dust cover
The soles on the feet of the poor
Being unable to afford the show

They settle for the birds that sing
For them outside the door all day long

The feet of the poor need
Socks and shoes, ointment for 
Blisters, dryness, and sunburn
Something for the hunger

A room to rest their tired bodies
Some still dance on tired feet
Songbirds sing for them at no charge
The door will close at 2am
*

New Suit

New suit
Same me
Nothing
Will change

New suit
Same me
It fits
Barely

Haircut 
Fresh shave 
About
Time now

Same me

Just so

You know
My friend

New suit
Same me
Let’s go
Out now

Same you
Same me
Like it

Should be

*

Here We Are

Here they come.
They know my name.
They see me.
I am their prey.
Here they come
To take my voice.
Their masked mugs 
Are all I see.
My time comes.
The masked men come
Like mad dogs.
These masked men,
A flock of them,
Will banish 
My rights. I watch
Them burn with
Rage. Behind them,
The moon shines 

On. Here they come.

Here we are.

Born at the Museum

I know your name.
Weren’t you born at the museum?
You came out of a painting.
A brush and oils created you.

You lived in a boathouse.
At fourteen you used to
like eating coconut meat.
Weren’t you born at the museum?

I hardly recognize you.
The wind tossed your hair around.
You came out of a painting.

The museum is closed on Holidays.
You lived in a boathouse.
That is my memory from childhood.

The coach behind MMA’s determination and victories

Many people have different opinions about MMA. Some consider it a bloody fight, a competition without rules. Some even criticize it as a “game of street thugs.” In fact, MMA is a mixed martial arts, which also has strict rules and regulations. People who know this sport well understand that skill, discipline, and hard work are in the first place.

In 2018, the MMA Federation was established in our country, opening the doors to the international arena for our athletes. After that, MMA quickly became popular in Andijan, Bukhara, Kashkadarya, Samarkand, and Fergana regions. Today, Chiraqchi district is also becoming one of the leading regions in this regard.

Bahrom Haydarov’s role in this development is incomparable. He is a 10-time Uzbek champion, 2-time Asian champion, and world champion in MMA. He has also achieved many victories in professional MMA. Today, he is sharing his experience with young athletes.

Bahrom Haydarov’s training is a school of its own. He trains his students as if they were fighting in the octagon. The requirements are strict: an athlete who is late for training will not be allowed to compete. Of course, where there is order, there will be progress. Although the coach is very strict, it is a good experience for his students. “Where there is no discipline, there will be no progress,” he says. The strict coach teaches his students not only the secrets of fighting, but also life lessons.

Our hero is training more than 100 athletes. About 20 of them have already won championships in our country and international competitions. Students such as Anvar Pardayev, Mirjalol Yusupov, Aziz Nurjonov, Jasmina Abdumoʻminova and Shahboz Ortikov are his pride. They are flying the flag of the country high and introducing the younger generation to MMA.

Bahrom Haydarov’s work proves another thing: true heroism is not in the ring, but in teaching others his knowledge, inspiring young people. Today, young people who train under the guidance of their teacher have big dreams and are working tirelessly to achieve them.

Therefore, the young champions emerging from the Chiraqchi MMA School are becoming the pride of our tomorrow.

Abdisattorova Khurshida Suvon qizi was born on November 9, 1997 in the village of Almazar, Chiroqchi district, Kashkadarya region. She is a 3rd-year student of the Sports Journalism Department of the University of Journalism and Mass Communications. Currently, her articles have been published in the newspapers “Hurriyat”, “Vaziyat” and on the websites “Olamsport” and “Ishonch”. She is a participant in the international scientific and practical conference “Future Scientist _ 2025”.

Joan McNerney

Butterfly

Wrapped in ashen clouds

pale shrouds of sadness.

Retracing each dimension of

my heart yet finding no refuge.

My head bent recounting

all the days of my life.

Lost in this blur, this landscape.

Where am I? Where can I go?

Wanting only one fine thought to

fill this empty haze of hours.

One fine contour, touch, color,

one fine tone to breach the silence.

Who stole my sparkling sky

leaving only memories?

What remains is only minute after

minute of more and more loss.

Always searching to find harbor in

oceans where waves rise to heaven.

Within deep quiet, small awakenings begin.

Fragile butterfly…radiant blue winging up up.

Live Oak Boughs

Boughs build archways as tips
of trees touch each other. What
was shaded green becomes
nocturnal shadow. A crescent moon
hangs from heaven. Light tracing
foliage falls dropping
dusty deep upon ground.

Secrets lie inside edged shadows.
Animals hide under darkness
resounding through night
as leaves rustle. All changing
except this pattern of what
is now formed.

When The Moon Is New

Groping through darkness

knocking everything down.

Down into enormous night

where thoughts unravel.

Memories moan past us as

shadows quiver across walls.

We lie pinned to bed sheets

like captive butterflies.

Dry butterflies, our throats

are brittle, eyes turning

from light. Sore arms reach

for anything soft to hold.

Remembering seasons gone by.

So many lost promises.

This huge moment surrounding us.

Wide awake we wait for the new day.

Nightscape

Fog horns sound though

air soaked in blackness.

All evening long listening

to hiss of trucks, cars.

Shadows brush across walls

as trees trace their branches.

Gathering and waving

together then swaying apart.

While I sleep, stars glide

through heaven making

their appointed rounds in

ancient sacred procession.

Dreams as smooth as rose

petals spill into my mind

growing wild patches in

this dark garden of night.

Almost Asleep

Curling into a question mark

eyes shuttered

lips pursed

hands empty.

Dropping through

long dusty shafts

down into dank cellars.

Leaving behind faded day.

That last cup of sunlight

pouring from fingertips.

Lulled by rattling trains,

sighs of motors.

Bringing nothing but

memory into night.

Now I will untie knots

tear off wrappings opening

wide bundles of dreams.

Direction

            Before things turned bad, Jason’s father taught him to shave against the grain. The blade might draw blood, but the results were closer.

            Jason’s stepfather shrugged. “With the grain works too.” Stepfathers could be replaced, he knew, so he went easy.

            During this month’s prison visit, Jason’s father slid his son’s hand across his newly smooth skull. “Nobody can grab my hair,” he said. “You should try it.”

            Jason’s stepfather drove him there every month and waited in the parking lot. It was the least he could do since the boy lost his mother in a way no one should.