O Human, master of all creation, Why do you ignite the malice within them? No plant is safe from your evils, Nor bird, nor land, nor human being, Even the universe complains of your arrogance.
*****O Human, be mindful! All that your hands destroy will demolish you. Return to your senses, and let us come together to build bridges of love for tomorrow. How many nights were lost in wars, And how many eyes spill tears, And hearts beg for safety, Pleading for peace to prevail upon the Earth. A peace that irrigates every heart, Dispels fear, and summons delight. If love spreads throughout the universe, goodness will reign. For in the palm of Peace, the gardens of happiness sprout.
******Come, let us plant the olive tree as a symbol, And release the white dove, the symbol of peace, And strive for harmony with every effort, To mend what we have corrupted with our own hands. And let us pray to God to grant every heart, A pure, endless peace. A peace that fills the universe with light, And overwhelms the Earth with joys and protection.
tethered to the whims and folly of the men who came before me.
Then they set me loose
and called me a free woman.
My mother taught me how to live in ignorance
to pretend my anklets were made of gold,
and the chime of their trailing chain
nothing but the sound of love.
For what else, if not love,
would ground a bird
whose wings ache
only to soar?
My mother
she is a time traveller
with no particular destination.
She carved time capsules
out of the living flesh of her daughters
and bid them stay in place
With muffled shrouds of her love.
Her daughters held her chains still.
She forgot her need to wander.
My mothers’ anklets were not made of surrender
My mothers mother
linked her daughters chains with memories
and the resonance of duty
She did not teach her ignorance.
For my mothers mother was a placid lake with deep burrows.
she buried calmly any hints of dissonance In the music of her anklets.
Her chains were long
Buried deep she thought them nonexistent
But my mothers chains They were shorter
Her generation was adorned with brighter lengths that shimmered
Lengthens and shortens at the whims
Of a man’s fickle heart
So they taught themselves the art of forgetting
My mother told me I was born with anklets
Gaudy beautiful things forged to sing the world into order
But here they lay unpolished
Their bells broken at birth
Their song stilled
Only their chains stretching at the whims of unchained monsters.Â
Calling Home
after all the years away
Mother calls from the deeps,
curled at the edge of that land’s healing cracks where now, the trees shed fruit with no prompting,
where Sister’s bloodied feet once painted love between the cloaking robes of monsters.
Where, beneath Mother’s watchful eyes, she spun over broken bones called Father.
She calls, she calls, says,“Come home, daughter.”
Home, to the taste of smoke on Grandmama’s soup,
the sweat that beads on her hilltop forehead, the smile that stains that craggy hard face when Father brings his broken laughs home.
Home
that belonged to a girl who saw monsters not beneath the bed but spinning past in Sister’s tear-soaked skin,
bloodied feet piercing the bones of Father’s love and care.
Home
that flows between nausea and nostalgia, the feel of stone and sand between toes.
Stone is stone and sand always sand but the sands of home, they hold the imprint of memory,
Of a 5-year-old palm pressed beneath the scorching red of a termite’s home, a 5-year-old tongue tasting what remains of the ancient one’s hold, learning the difference between concrete and clay.
Home smells of Mother’s miyan kuka, no fish or meat to wash the stickiness down,
only Mother’s voice carrying the dark away with tales of Bayajidda, Zulke, and Alhaji Imam in the light of a single candle on a bed in a mud house built on memories.
Memories of Brother, who once carried water for Mother on his back, the same way he hauled years of Father’s dreams to a country where faces stared at his melanin-spiked tone and learned to call it home.
To crank the heat up to 40, 45, inhale deeply when the new snow falls and try to remember when snow used to be red and winter was harmattan.
Now Brother plucks cherries from fruit stands, cherry that held no memory of sour hands or wild trees
Cherry that is too sweet, too soft, and smiles, swallows, and calls on Sister.
Sister who dances now on waves, where the sea salt sweeps the blood from her soles and seals into the wounds the broken bones of Father.
Her stamping feet screams over the waves and cover the thousand voices of Mother rising from the deeps,
the crags from that once crumbling pit at the edges of what used to be home for a cared soul who loved Mother.
Calling, Calling, Come home, daughter.
The Hive
I want to learn this world like a beloved book
Seek its every hidden crevice between the eyes of mother
The hands of daughter
Between a wife’s parted thighs that form the gateway to God’s greatest gift
I want to write this world into paper
Soak it in waters pulled from the hope that lives
In a first time mother
The hope that presses her hands against a swollen belly
Shares her body with alien life that could
take and take and take
swallow her whole and from her body to her mind
Take every inch every piece
drink it down and know
Know the meaning of love
And the love of meaning
Of knowing
Of letting go
Of your self
Of every part that makes you
Of becoming Maman amra
Matar Ahmad
Your being subsumed within the hive mind
That is wife Mother
I want to take the tears of daughter
Roll it within the black threads of duty
To create the blackest ink
That drips with expectations
I’ll call it Yar fari
Use it to draw this world to paper
Draw the blurring line that separates
Mother from daughter
That entrusts a child between frail arms
And calls it love
That cradles fear like newly found clay in a children’s playground
Rolls it between the fingers of an overeager child
And name it art
Lets it twist and fall in on itself
Try to mould its little wet handles into works of art
To make itself into art
Use Yar fari to paint art across the stained face of this world
Let daughter be daughter
Then sister
Before she subsumed into the hive
And become one with wife
With mother
I want to learn this funny world
That breaks before it ends you in all the wrong places
Chew it softly between clenched teeth
Like a
delicious soup spiced with maggots
Roll it under my tongue
Taste its fragrance
And spits it out
At your feet
And cook a better meal
To feed my cravings.
Habiba Malumfashi is a writer, podcaster, project manager and curator. She is the programs Officer and coordinator of the open arts development foundation, a creative hub for artists and writers in Kaduna. Her work revolves around womanhood, resilience and the inherent feminist ethos of northern Nigerian cultures. Her writings can be found on The Kalahari review, Beittle Paper, Ayamba Litcast among others.
Student of Urgench Ranch University of Technologies, Faculty of English Philology
The greatest victory in life is not over others – it is the victory over yourself. Every person holds within them limitless potential and hidden strength. Yet, this power can only be awakened through one decision — the decision to work on yourself. No one can change you better than you can.
We live in a rapidly changing world. Those who stop improving are left behind. Success is never an accident — it is built through patience, discipline, and endless hard work. Change begins within. Many people dream of changing their lives, but only a few have the courage to start by changing themselves. Real transformation begins within the mind. Once you change your thoughts, you change your destiny.
Success is not about being perfect. It is about being a little better than you were yesterday. Every small step forward is a part of a bigger victory. My family – my source of strength. My family is the biggest source of inspiration in my life. We are a large family of twelve — my parents, five sons, and five daughters. I am the fifth child, followed by five younger brothers.
My parents have devoted their lives to us. They sacrificed their own comfort so that we could study, learn, and grow. Their love, patience, and belief in us are the foundation of who I am today. Every success I achieve is a way of honoring their sacrifices. My parents have taught me an important lesson: “Never give up, work hard, and fight for your dreams.”
Who am I? I am Gulizebo Matniyozova Adilbek qizi, born on June 22, 2006, in Khiva city, Ichan Qala, Pahlavon Mahmud Street, Uzbekistan. I am currently a first-year student of English Philology at Urgench Ranch University of Technologies. Since childhood, I have been in love with books. Every story I read opened a new world, a new thought, and a new dream. That is why I aspire to become a professional translator, to bring the beauty of Uzbek literature to the world, and to introduce world literature to my people.
Self-improvement – a philosophy of life
Self-improvement is not only about learning; it is about living. It is about growing a little more every day, keeping faith even when it’s hard, and never stopping the pursuit of your dreams. Some people wait for opportunities. Others create them. I choose to create mine — with courage, persistence, and hope.
Conclusion
Self-improvement is not only the key to success — it is the essence of a meaningful life. Those who master themselves can master their destiny. I believe that every young person who works hard on self-development will one day shine as a bright star of the future.
And I, too, am walking that path — learning, dreaming, and striving — because I know a simple truth:✨ Those who work hard never lose.
Matniyozova Gulizebo was born on June 22, 2006, in Khiva city, Uzbekistan. She lives in Ichan Qala, Pahlavon Mahmud Street, house number 92. She is a first-year student at Urgench Branch of the Tashkent University of Information Technologies, majoring in English Philology. Gulizebo is hardworking and ambitious. Her dream is to become a professional English teacher and translator in the future.
Films “Anita”, “Book of Death”, “Chrysalis”, “Kamilah the Miracle Filly” Honored with the “Courage for Freedom Film Award”
“Anita”, “Book of Death”, “Chrysalis”, “Kamilah the Miracle Filly“ Honored with the Courage for Freedom Film Award
This is the first time in the history of cinema that an award has been given on the subject of “Courage for Freedom,” and it is the first time that a film award has been linked to the values of freedom imbued in heroes for freedom.
The “Courage for Freedom Film Award” is linked to the hero of two worlds, Giuseppe Garibaldi, so named because Garibaldi brought independence to countries on both sides of the world: Italy and Rio Grande do Sul (Brazil), but the hero also fought for the cause of independence of Uruguay.
From October 28th to November 4th, with the participation of the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the founder of this film award, Hon. Francesco Garibaldi Hibbert, a descendant of the hero Garibaldi, was welcomed to the celebration of the 150th anniversary of Italian immigration to the state of Rio Grande do Sul.Â
The tour included thirteen cities in the Brazilian state, where the film “Anita,” produced by Assisi Suono Sacro and featuring Wardal and music by Andrea Ceccomori, was presented as a world premiere.
On November 9th “Anita“ received three awards at the Herbst theatre for SF New Concept INT Film Festival : Wardal : USA Excellence for acting a motion picture monologue, Maestro Andrea Ceccomori : best Score, Francesco Garibaldi: Best Concept .Â
The film centers on the powerful, poignant lyric “Anita” by Giuseppe Garibaldi, about the agony and death of his wife Anita.
The grand debut of the “Courage for Freedom Film Award,” founded by Francesco Garibaldi, artistic director Wardal, will take place on December 13th in Pompeii , at the Vesuvius Film Festival (Vesuviusfilmfestival.it) directed by architect Giovanna D’Amodio.Â
This year, the Vesuvius film festival is dedicated to Federico Fellini, with a photographic exhibition on Fellini curated by Giovanna D’Amodio and Graziano Marraffa, president of the historical archive of Italian cinema.
The “Courage for Freedom film award“ will be assigned, in addition to the film “Anita”, to three major productions such as the soon-to-be-released film “Chrysalis”, a human story of survival, on the life of Sir Daniel Winn, with Daniel Winn, directed by J. Robert Schulz and “Kamilah the Miracle Filly“ by Angela Alioto about the freedom to live and produced by Moe Rock, founder of the LA Tribune and Emily Letran, its co-founder, the documentary awarded by Pope Francis and the Dalai Lama: “Book of Death” by Jenny Thai on the drama of the refugees in Vietnam.
I lay on my side upon the woven carpet in the living room of my two-leggers’ home in the gated community we all inhabited in the Pacific Northwest. My breast heaved and I expelled breaths stertorously. I was in pain. Felix, the alpha male of the household, regarded me uneasily. He wasn’t comfortable around the sick. He didn’t even like my kind, truth be told. I had been diagnosed with feline leukemia only weeks ago.
Marjorie, on the other hand, fawned all over me, coaxing me to take this elixir or that, rubbing my furry belly with gentle fingers or stroking my fur with the slicker brush. It did little to salve my distress, however; I knew that the end of the 7th of the 9 lives accorded all cats was at hand.
I had no regrets. I had lived with the Handlebergers for almost 14 years, since I had been reborn a kitten following the end of my 6th iteration. That life had expired after just 4 years: I was run over by a car on HY 70 outside St. Louis, MO. After the road crew had scooped my bloody carcass off the pavement and into the bed of the truck of the Highway Dept., I had gone through the “magic” of transformation once more.
But for a select few wiccans, shamans and other mystics, all two-leggers remain blithely unaware that cats do in fact enjoy nine lives, in rapid succession, before finally reaching feline nirvana. Even cats don’t know what happens after that, for no one had ever returned to spread the glad tidings–or otherwise.
In the beginning…
“Ooh, isn’t she a sweet little thing?” gushed Aubrey, my first “owner,” so-called. Aubrey wasn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp; she couldn’t tell a girl cat from a boy cat, which is what I was–and still am.
“This is a male, Honey,” said Aubrey’s father, the vet. “He gets a little older, we’ll neuter him.”
At the time, in my overweening youth and ignorance, I didn’t know what that meant. Looking back, I see that going under the knife is all for the best. I’ve had the operation each time and been the better for it. Once, I lived for almost a year before the surgery, and was very unhappy: tense, oversexed, uptight. I got into fights incessantly, and all over a little pussy. What a waste of energy. That first time I had the operation at 3 months; it was October of 1964–the St. Louis Cardinals had just won the World Series. The other neighborhood cats soon lost interest in me, as both a companion and a competitor.
Doc Fenster, Aubrey’s father, had rescued me from a litter of 7; my brothers and sisters had been consigned to death by drowning at the hands of a farm hand assigned the dastardly task. At the last moment, Aubrey, visiting the farm with her father, interceded on my behalf and I was saved. Yay!
“You’ll have to take care of him, Honey,” the Doc told Aubrey. She readily agreed. After a few months of home care and following the surgery, I became the office cat and remained at the veterinary full time. It wasn’t a bad life: fawning animal lovers, interesting companions, plenty of treats. I became very proprietary and checked out every creature, four-legged and otherwise, who crossed the threshold. Aubrey had christened me Mr. Whiskers. Yeah, very original.
Aubrey, 6-years-old, was very attentive for the first five or six years, but eventually she entered junior high school and began running with a gang of friends and then discovered boys. After that, I saw little of my personal two-legger.
“Aubrey,” inquired Doc often, “did you feed Whiskers?”
“Aw, Dad, I got cheerleader practice,” she’d say.
“Cat’s gotta eat,” said Doc.
“Can’t Rita do it?” whined Aubrey, naming the vet’s assistant who became my newest best friend.
And so it went.
When I turned eleven, I began to feel miserable. I mewled and cried and carried on until Doc ran some tests and discovered the awful truth: I had liver cancer. Since that problem was out of Doc’s purview, he had to get another vet to consult. The other doc decided that the operation, which would be expensive, probably wouldn’t work. It was decided not to do the surgery.
They thought I was oblivious to the prognosis, but not so. Cats are keenly aware of their mortality; they know when their number comes up. Doc told Aubrey the sad news and she was beside herself with grief. She stroked my fur and I nuzzled her hand, just to rub it in a little that she had been ignoring me. She lost it and sobbed bitterly. Touche! I thought.
“Isn’t there anything you can do, Dad?” she blubbered.
Doc explained that there wasn’t and that to delay my ultimate fate would make me needlessly suffer. Aubrey skipped cheerleader practice that day, which I marked as a personal triumph. After Aubrey and Rita had said their tearful goodbyes, Doc shot me up with a long needle. Already in pain, I didn’t even feel it.
“Goodbye, Mr. Whiskers,” whispered my two-leggers, as my soul arced across the universe to be born anew.
The transformation is a bit difficult to explain, inasmuch as I’m a cat and not a scientist or a poet. Deep, sweeping expanses and heady heights and star-filled skies and all the rest. In the end, you are without form and without substance and you’re in the hands of God or something and he’s stroking your fur and telling you it will be alright and not to be afraid. And you’re not. You’re confident and safe and secure. Content. Then this ethereal entity places what must be your soul in the womb of another mother cat and sometime later you are born anew. It’s really quite wonderful and magical.
Birth happens. Wet and magical and abrupt. Sometimes the mother goes crazy and begins devouring her kittens; sometimes it’s the jealous tom. If you make it through the first couple of weeks, you’re practically home free, because you’re cute and cuddly and virtually irresistable to two-leggers.
So now I found myself on the floor on the woven rug in the living room of the fancy home in the gated community, being watched closely by feckless Felix and magnificent Marjorie. I could tell that the end was near–we always know–and I further knew that just two more phases in my life were in the offing. I did a little mental arithmetic and calculated that my compartmentalized existence had spanned almost 60 years, not bad for a cat.
I looked forward to meeting God again, but dying was always a bit of a buzz kill. All I knew about the future for sure was that I would be reborn. In every previous incarnation I had been born in the West, though I knew some cats who’d done time in Egypt, Jerusalem, even China. I sighed.
“Ooh, Felix,” said Marjorie, “I think he’s in pain.”
I was.
“Should we take him to the vet and have him put down?” she asked.
Felix snorted. “$150 to euthanize and cremate? Too expensive. I’ll put a round in his skull and then bury him in the back yard.”
“How can you be so callous?” asked Marjorie?
That’s what I wanted to know.
“Huh!” said Felix. “Next time, we’ll get a dog!”
“You go to the devil,” said Marjorie venomously.
Felix withdrew.
Marjorie held me close, nuzzled me. “What can I do for you, Dreadlocks?” she asked softly.
I suppose a new name is out of the question?
Marjorie’s slender fingers kneaded the flesh on the back of my neck, just the way we cats like it, and she bent her head and gently kissed my fur. Just then, I felt the release once again, the breathless sensation of soaring at great heights over great distances. I heard Marjorie’s voice cry out and then I was back in the arms of God.
Memory
A large promenade over my head
The sound escapes as riverfalls
Bright blue steamy like the divine ocean
My mind blows over the Meadows
The chickens chirp as evening goes by
The ocean mast fall over its deduction of masses
The prairies blow high over the alters
I skim and pine for the forests
The nature's handgrown misery till it saddles over my
Ghost naming diaries
The fisher queen stays at night
Between the bright barricades
The sylvan spree took a leap high
For it
