The First Step Toward the White Coat

Rakhmonova Gulzoda Sodiq qizi

A second-year student of Bukhara State Medical Institute named after Abu Ali ibn Sino

The mornings of Bukhara are unique. Especially on the days when a new chapter of life begins, those mornings feel even brighter, even more exciting. On one such morning, with endless dreams in my heart, I stepped for the very first time onto the grounds of the Bukhara State Medical Institute named after Abu Ali ibn Sino.

As I walked through the gates of the institute, the atmosphere around me immediately drew me in. Students in white coats, young people hurrying to their classes, and dedicated teachers who approached their work with seriousness — all of it conveyed one simple truth: this was not just an ordinary place of education; this was a sacred institution where future doctors, who would fight for human lives, are trained.

The moment I took my first step past the entrance, I paused. The grand building of the institute stood tall, as if proudly saying, “Welcome.” At that very moment, the thought deeply settled into my heart: I will study here. My eyes filled with tears — but they were tears of joy.

I did not come to this institution by an ordinary path. In the 2025–2026 academic year, after graduating from a medical technical school, I was admitted through an interview process based on the opportunities created for young people in our country, especially under the initiatives of our President. For me, this was not only an achievement but also a great responsibility and trust. From the bottom of my heart, I express my deep gratitude — this opportunity completely changed my life.

In truth, deep within my heart, the dream of studying at a medical institute had always lived. I imagined it many times: large lecture halls, students eager for knowledge, wise and experienced teachers… And one day, those dreams turned into reality.

My first days were not easy. A new environment, new subjects, complex terminology — all of this intimidated me a little. At times, I even wondered, “Did I choose the right path?” But every time, the kind yet demanding looks of our teachers guided me back to my path.

One day, during a practical lesson, our teacher said: — “Being a doctor is not just a profession; it is the art of entering the human soul.”

These words made me think deeply. From that day on, I began striving not only to study my lessons but also to understand people. Because a true doctor must be able to feel not only physical pain but also the pain of the human heart.

As time passed, I gradually adapted to this environment. Difficulties gave me strength, and every small success increased my confidence. I realized that I was no longer just a student gaining knowledge here, but a young individual confidently walking toward becoming a doctor who will help people in the future.

Today, as I look back at my very first step, my heart is filled with one feeling — gratitude. Because this institution taught me not only to dream but also to strive toward making those dreams come true.

From my very first days at the institute, I found a special source of inspiration. On social media, I had been following a highly qualified and accomplished professor, PhD Muslima Akhatovna. Deep inside, I used to think: “If only one day I could attend her classes and learn from her…” And finally, that dream came true. It is difficult to put into words what I felt at that moment — it was not just a lesson, but an inspiring encounter.

Muslima Akhatovna is not only a highly skilled specialist in her field, but also a true teacher who can find a way into the hearts of students. Each of her lessons is not just a lecture, but a meeting full of inspiration and motivation. Her love for knowledge, dedication to her profession, and sincerity inspire every student to follow in her footsteps.

I had admired her scientific potential and broad thinking through social media, but sitting in her class in person is a completely different experience. Every topic she explains leaves a deep mark in my heart and motivates me to learn even more. Muslima Akhatovna is not just a teacher who gives knowledge — she is a guiding star leading us toward our dreams. Her presence is a great blessing and a source of inspiration for students like me.

In addition, I would like to mention my teachers from Karakul Medical Technical School, who played an invaluable role in my first steps on the path of knowledge. Dedicated mentors like Oltiboyev Ravshanbek, Haqqiyev O‘ktam, and Hasanova Mehriniso greatly influenced me with their teachings, support, and belief in me. It is their knowledge and encouragement that today I am confidently moving toward my goals.

Now I look at life differently. Before, I only had dreams — now I live with clear goals. Because I have realized that dreams are just the beginning, while goals are the force that brings them to life.

Student life at the institute is an entirely new world. New classmates, a new environment, a new way of living… All of this has changed me. Sometimes lessons feel difficult, but I never stop trying. I know that behind every difficulty lies a new opportunity.

Since childhood, I used to tell my mother: “I will become your personal heart doctor,” because she often suffered from heart pain. Today, I understand that I want to become not only my mother’s doctor but a doctor for all mothers. My greatest goal is to become a skilled therapist-cardiologist — a doctor who welcomes every patient with a smile, who treats them not just as patients but as close and dear people, and who can give not only treatment but also hope to human hearts.

There is still a long road ahead of me. I have many goals. But I firmly believe in one thing: if a person strives sincerely, their dreams will surely come true. I have chosen my path — a path toward the white coat, toward serving humanity.

“The First Step Toward the White Coat” is only the beginning. Ahead lie many challenges and many achievements. But I believe that this path will lead me to become a true doctor.

Why Can’t We Say “No”?

Why is it so difficult for us to say “no”? It’s an interesting question. Throughout our lives, we often believe that we are living for ourselves, when in reality, we may be living under the expectations of others without even realizing it. Naturally, we all have our own needs and desires, but so do the people around us.

If we fail to set boundaries with others—if we cannot say “no”—we will continue to live under their demands. This is not just an unfortunate situation; it can be deeply harmful. Let me tell you this: learn to set boundaries with the people around you, even if they are very close to you. Until you define those boundaries, you will gradually become a prisoner of others’ expectations, because they will always continue to demand more.

Only when you stop living for others will you truly begin to live for yourself. I once read in a book: “If you consider burning in fire to be natural, you will turn into ashes and come to believe you deserve every suffering.”

Be courageous. At this point in your life, your primary responsibility is to be able to say “no,” not to wait passively like a sacrifice. Never forget this. Living under the pressure of others’ expectations will only harm you and slowly extinguish your self-confidence.

Archaic Torso of Apollo

After Rilke

 

He has no head. He has no eyes

to pin us with his godhead. But his torso

is itself a gaze in which there grows

from inside, like a covered lamp, a fire.

 

Without that rising surge, divinity

would not ravish you, nor would a lip

trace the gentle curve of thigh and hip

to the shadowed center of fertility.

 

Without it, the stone would seem a broken thing,

chipped, cracked, dead, a stone,

and would not glisten like a wolf’s dark mane,

 

and would not from its remnants blaze and singe

you like a god. Of all its parts, there is not one

that does not see you. Your life must change.

THE HAUL

The apostles

learned to equip

their gospel ship

with hooks cross-shaped

and Christ as bait.

And they employed

muscle and wit

to deploy nets

of iron strength

at untouched depths.

Mighty fishers,

they spent their catch

on wishers’ masts,

sinners’ anchors,

and sure harbors.

THELONIOUS STRAIGHT

The monk in

habit black attacked

attacked        attacked

his devil — devil grinned 

on four legs — — attacked —

blue monkish evangelist fanatic

he went afterafter his 

4legged infidel foe —

with fingers uncurled 

straight for the eyes, for their whites and 

for their blacks

until they scream in blind

NO CHASER

the unsquare monk

the monk melodious

prayed and prayed

mystic irre

ligious

prayed his round midnights with

out even a chaser of

sunny Cannonball blues

attackattacked, in bflat

solitude

YOUR GARDEN

is filled

with forget-me-nots

but I can’t

find

any rue.

HOMESICKNESS 

In my childhood

homesickness was a cheap stamp.

I was here

and Mom just over there.

When I was grown,

homesickness a boarding pass

and bride just beyond.

But then

homesickness became a tiny tomb.

I stayed outside

but Mom was deep within.

And now

Homesickness is a narrow strait.

I on one side

continents on the other.

–after Yu guangzhong

BL IN KI NG unedited by

Life starts when some man rams his Dodge

into some garage and guns the engine,

then gets lost somewhere between debacle and apocalypse.

Time unscrolls itself outside the windshield,

vibrates and alters again just beyond attention,

in constant motion from mist to liquid to real to uncongealed.

 Not every stage equates to hajj,

but no ride’s just road nor map nor engine

nor even mere pathway among all the altars and the crypts.

If life’s the shimmer between death and sex,

the interplay’s the thing! The strength is in the tension.

In our yinyang universe, concave shapes itself toward convex.

…

SEIZE THAT TROUBLEMAKER—

AND HER TORCH!

After the “No Kings” rally in LA,

signs and costumes milled around, blocked traffic–

until the cops showed up.

Picture this: riot-gear police

seizing blue-gowned, blue-faced Lady Liberty.

They confiscate her torch, then loop a chain

around her waist, cuff hands behind her back,

and march her off, one lawman on each side.

So—Liberty’s too dangerous? Too woke?

Welcomes the tired and poor, asylum-seekers?

Says no one– NO ONE– is above the law?

We the People came downtown today,

seeking solace, strength in shared resolve—

rejecting ICE, that preys on immigrants,

but won’t apply laws to rich pedophiles;

rejecting millions spent to build a ballroom

while health care’s cut, and hospitals shut down;

rejecting war with no goals, no way out,

while old bone-spurs plays golf at Mar-a-Lago;

rejecting loss of three-branch government,

while faux-king stamps his name on doors and dollars.

We twice elected this convicted felon

with track records of insurrection, racism, and rape.

He raised the cost of living, and attacks

free speech, free press, and now, the right to vote.

Eight million, coast to coast, reject this future.

and gather to share anger, fear, and strength.

But in the end, when all the chanting’s done–

there goes Lady Liberty in chains.

A zip-tied symbol of a vision lost.

Copyright 3/2026

Patricia Doyne

Rules for War Photographers

Recognize what the war is,

and where, then patiently wait for

the photograph to happen

Be objective and never

interfere

Even when the baby is

drowning

when the village is

burning

when the women are on their

hands and knees praying, begging

you to stop

where the girl is running with

her back on fire

Do not become the subject yourself

even when captured by

the enemy

Especially when captured by

the enemy

To not take these pictures

so we will never know what

you have known,

to see what you have seen

these pictures are too terrible

for words

Violate all these rules

whenever possible

The Crime Scene

after Stan Rice

All the faces in the ill-lit street

are wearing masks like equity

actors off-stage in guerilla theater,

a strange interlude with police cars,

emergency flashers, real murder

weapons and riddled bodies 

emboldened by death, their heads

covered by rags, a black plague

mask for disease prevention in

a rat-infested tin pan alley awaiting

a visitation of wisemen from another

vision drawn with white chalk and 

defined by yellow caution tapes,

Caucasian chalk circles drawn

on stained concrete for filling in 

the spaces with blood evidence and

severed finger prints; the muffled

hooves of a mounted police cordon

nearby indicate the pale horses,

pale riders, have arrived.

Found Photo, “The Garden of Earthly Delights” in the Background 

The talk here is

not of Spain

nor of the Civil

War

Not of Picasso

bleeding,

a failing century’s

grief

but of the harm

men do to other

men

the held-breath

silence of just-

before-the-end

and what

comes after

Mayakovsky at 3 AM

Eyes closed, stuffed head in

a noose, broken arms

wrenched aside useless as

foam, the smoke of many

cigarettes in glass ashtrays

on the littered, low table,

dealt playing cards folded

into hands, played tricks

amidst litter: empty clear 

bottles, overturned shot glasses,

spent cartridges, dueling pistols,

barrels still crossed on the wall

above the torso of a bald, 

black veiled woman, painted 

eyes half-open, false lips

the color of dried blood.

Enola Gay, the result: details 

Three wisemen with gas masks,

their asbestos suits alight; dis-

colored babies, the egg heads and

the deformed; body parts of the afflicted

blue and exploding; peace bridge

over a river, running red as ink, collapsing,

a conveyance, a memorial no more;

railroad trestles melting, steel matchsticks

pliable as plastic; graveyard markers

reduced from stone to ash; altars

for the ancients and the newly dead

wiped away; great beasts rising from

the human muck, primordial, simian,

their eyes white as heat lightning,

as atomic mushrooms after the fire

storm, after the manumission of these

wandering souls; the black impressions,

shadows frozen in flight.

Portrait of the Artist, Photo of a Mock Turner in the Background

Brought back to life, his eyes

have seen it all on both sides

of the bar, the swarthy demons,

the headless huntsmen, range

riders on white buffalo shooting

the dead warriors when artificial

respiration won’t do what jesus

did, making a mockery out of 

mortality by raising Lazarus three

days gone, decayed and festering,

an incomplete new man cursed with

vision once the white scabs of his

eyes have been removed, once new

uncanny visions of resurrected pain

have been felt; the risen elk on steep

promontory wait amid the unearthly

swirl of colored mists, the creator’s

face suggests what cannot be said,

“nothing I can say will make it better.”

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Falling faster 
      than skies can 

Just to find ground.

The stable beginning 
     where particles meet 
        to find a rhythm 
     As Love rests my
        Heart safely 

Told a thousand truths
    each different without 
   source   until I touch 
  Harmonious Light with 
    direction.
      Myself I AM

    Best upon
       needless to 
          say.

  .............................................


A morning script 
    by John Edward Culp
      April 6, 2026
   All Rights Reserved 


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