About the hadiths of Imam Bukhari. Imam Bukhari. He is considered one of the most famous people of the Islamic world and is called the “Imam of Muhaddis”.
We can come across many hadiths during our life, but the hadiths of Imam Bukhari are very beneficial for Islam and cause a radical change in the way of life.
There are 7379 hadiths in the book of Imam Bukhari “Al-jame’ as-sahih”. These hadiths are about the good and bad sides of people, about honoring parents, about giving zakat to relatives, about pride and love. It is a hadith. After hearing the name of this hadith, I had a question. How can a person insult his parents, and I learned the answer to this question after reading this hadith. The hadith begins like this: A person does not insult his parents!
Abdullah bin Amri narrates: “The Messenger of God, may God’s prayers and peace be upon him”, said: “One of the greatest sins that a person commits is to insult his parents!” Then he said: “O Messenger of God, how can a person insult his parents?” they answered. I read this hadith and wrote down the sentences that I remembered for people. No one should insult the parents of another person, because the person who insults him is considered to have insulted his own parents.
Abdukakhorova Gulhayo was born in 2006 in Namangan region. Currently, he is a 2nd-year student of the Uzbek language Department of Philology at the University of Business and Science. Ambassador of the International Organization for the Protection of Children’s Rights in India to Uzbekistan. He is the author of many scientific and journalistic articles.
A village siren did not exist to start startling us to the flood, nor would one make us distrust luck to prevent it reaching me.
The deer running away made the dusk dulling the eye shine amidst the heaps of overturned trash with banqueting buzzards.
An indifferent moon had soothed the sunburnt arms of visitors who had not thought they held tickets to a deadly raceway of water.
An aviary display of confused birds aligned on telephone wires took off all at once like those assembled in Hitchcock’s story.
Headlights of escaping cars float their glint on a sudden rush of water in what was a quiet river that now swept along trees
near the deserted parking lots, trailer clusters, and summer camps, where a few hours before friends had gathered for a night’s bar-b-que.
And sometimes those headlights, broken one-eyed cyclops, targeted a leaping stag before the lights expired, replaced by lightning strikes.
Those able to wade to safety waited for the next day’s light to reveal what would startle even the old at such new absences.
Racing overhead, cirrus clouds of accumulated water in the heat could not hold the buildup of rain that now spiraled down.
Apparently a cheap wall calendar dropped page after page as penciled-in weeks rode the brown water with photos and toys.
Empty hopes left together as we tried to screen out what we all knew was coming, but maybe every fifty years or only each century.
And the wild flowers along the highways and those in the gardens that opened for each day’s bright morning had now closed forever. _____________________________________________________________
PHOTO FINISH
The photo I found in a plastic frame was a close-up made by the boyfriend of a rich girl who generously left me a set of Hitchcock chairs taken from her family’s heirloom barn. Her beau, balding and too friendly, had three cameras dangling around his sunburnt neck that endless day we stretched on a beach of singing sand. I was wearing non-tinted, rimless glasses, and turned my head to the dark, blinking eyes of each instrument he aimed. The image itself, like any process of creation, could not be trusted, as a property of lens and angle, shrinking me to a visual story. I understand more than before those religious people who shunned such ghost-catchers, knowing it was so dangerous, and each snapshot to be feared in the dots of gray worrying away the flesh fixed on paper, in time without any reference to time, true but not really accurate, or accurate but not true, like chaos when the picture breaks apart, indistinguishable from plain air. Looking across fathomless water we wanted to see what God sees, but what does God see? We had not replaced God, only refined our all-seeing eye in a solid sense of ourselves, but were forced to face at last things we prefer not to look at, trying to control the universe’s response, like anything we make, even the careful crafting of love I burned as completely as the photo. _________________________________________________
ON THE VIGIL OF ALL HALLOWS
On the vigil of All Hallows a tailfree, fuzzy comet made us face the sky as this omen’s glow burst by a factor over a million, not from an unknown nova, but an object leaving our space into a welcoming darkness with a final, gaseous flare, like a sign of our own good night. Along the village byways children hunting down treats at the gingerbread houses of strangers held flashlights to bathe their steps and chanted a rote threat. They dressed as fantasy figures; a hint of escape and longing clings to these flat imitations. In time they will wear the subtle costumes worn by their parents. This hallowed night the parade of original innocence keeps at arm’s length the spirits “roaming the world seeking the ruin of souls.” They await another time.
In the first light my car, coated in sugary frost, displays on its locked trunk a design, a childish squiggle, a mask of Potatohead, a clown, or a continent, and a child’s hand imprinted, an enigmatic token, like a palm on a horse’s flank from an owner riding the prairie or the perfect ochre outline on a cave’s smoky vault. The warmth of that phantom hand had melted the ice glaze and left a record of touch — a blessing.
Royal Rhodes is a poet whose work has appeared in literary journals in the U.S., the U.K., Canada, and India. He lives in a small village that is close to a nature conservancy, green cemetery, and Amish farms.
Behind the curtains Ayyiri was a sound of the drum of joy, but it is not same as the sound of mosquitoes wings moving around in the dark? Was it not same as the wails of the sirens from a far?
Was it not……. Was it not?. I regret the very first day i heard it, you’re his they said. I was overjoyed not knowing i was tied Not with those three strong ropes but with pain, They said ” marriage is form of worship” but didn’t told me i was going to the sanctuary, I didn’t know i was going back in time to the time of my forefathers that lived in slavery. Resistance in that place is seen as rebellion not as a form of bravery. ”You are now not only bonded by love, but patience and perseverance.
Love was for courtship ” my mother whispered to my ears, It made me wonder how love will end before it even starts? But it was the very last i shine this my 32 to the rising sun and the falling moon. The hands that i think would hold and caresses now grasp my neck and confines me The voice that was one my favourite now screams and defines, send shivers of fear to my spine He was the apple of these eyes that once shone with light, now dim with tears like he was a third layer of an onion. A heart that once beat with love now is suffering from tachycardia. I complained and they said ”a woman pride is in her husband’s house”
But where’s the pride when it was no longer her husband’s house but a dungeon in the early European empire As if living with a monster was better than a homeless shelter. As if the bruises he left on me didn’t go deeper than skin. How could you tell me ” the patient dog eat the fattest bone” when the water has dried and the stone either burst or burn and emit heat rays that send water raining down my cheeks? I was taught in geography class about earthquakes and erosion, but not heartquake and bloody eruption in the lumen of my Aorta?
Tell me my people how could you tell me ” stay for your children if you leave where do you want them to go” when i was dying every single day, that you are seeing me not seeing me. You said i should endure it but won’t want to walk with me even for a second when i embark on endurance trek? You said i can change him to be the man i want but this is a pendulum bulb A cycle that repeats like TCA cycle, a vicious spin like a wheel of fate yana gararamba a kan titi. It is a dance of dominance, that he enjoyed as if he’s at Davido’s show in O2 arena, it is like an athletic game–an olympic that has a medal to win I thought love should uplift, not tear apart.
I said I’m not staying you started calling me names, yes you belong to the same specie of monster. I left you said i wasn’t religious as if it wasn’t the religion that says ” a finger shouldn’t be lift on a woman to beat her”. It is not the religion that gave me freedom? Haaa? Abi i no read it well ne? Then you said i should remember culture, the one that said i wasn’t entitled to leave even when i was going through hell? The one that said man should carry his wrong doings like grace? Or the one that says woman was born to be caged? Who made the culture then?
You see these words ehn? They were not just arranged in lines But it carries the weight of a thousand cuts The silence screaming in my chest, i swallow my heart in my guts It carries the story of every woman shut down behind the curtains of GBV. A story of hearts that lives but still yearns for life…………. Deejasmah
Khadija Ismail is a student of Medical lab science, a Hausa novelist, writer, poet, essayist and content writer. Her works centres on society and romance, she uses words to address issues like GBV, Mental and public health. She is the writer of Nisfu Deeniy and Wani rabo. Her work will be published in Yanar gizo anthology.You can connect with her on Facebook as Khadija Bint Ismail and Deejasmah writer on Instagram and Tiktok.
Photo shows a young Central Asian woman with straight dark hair in a bun, a white collared shirt and black coat.
To My Beloved Teacher
(Dedicated to my teacher, Rajabova Sadoqat)
This world is but a fleeting dream,
A moment’s spark, a passing gleam.
Yet in this life so swift, so small,
You shine — a blessing to us all.
You brought the light where shadows lay,
You lit our minds, you shaped our way.
O dearest teacher, gentle, wise,
May peace forever fill your skies.
You gave us more than words could say,
Your time, your care, your heart each day.
You left your home, your rest, your part —
To warm the world with your pure heart.
Your every word — a golden tone,
Your every glance — compassion shown.
Among all teachers, you stand apart,
With prayer and love in every heart.
No poet’s pen could quite define
The grace that in your eyes does shine.
Each day we feel your tender art —
Your kindness lives in every heart.
At your soft call, we run, we race,
To see your smile, your gentle face.
In every class, your spirit’s near,
Our hearts rejoice — we feel you here.
May God preserve your days and years,
Protect your path, erase your fears.
May joy and health forever stay,
And blessings light your every day.
A thousand thanks I raise to you,
For all you gave, for all you do.
May Heaven guard, with mercy deep,
The soul whose love we’ll always keep.
Rayhona Sobirjonova💞Sadoqat Rajabova
Sobirjonova Rayhona, a 11th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school in Vobkent district, Bukhara region. She was born in December 2008 in the village of Cho’rikalon, Vobkent district, in a family of intellectuals. Her parents supported her from a young age. She started writing in the 3rd grade. Her first creative poem was published in the newspaper “Vobkent Hayot”. She has also published extensively in Synchronized Chaos Magazine, India’s Namaste India Magazine, Gulkhan Magazine, Germany’s RavenCage Magazine and many other magazines and newspapers. She has actively participated in many competitions, won high places and won many prizes, and she is still busy creating.
