In today’s rapidly changing world one of the most pressing topics is the great importance of books in developing children’s thinking. We can say that by reading books, children are finding solutions to the world’s most complex problems, thereby contributing to the development and future of our countries.
Today, the only thing that leads children to perfection and success is the book. In my opinion, every child has read a book at least once in their life. For example, a piece of work, a novel, a drama, or simple literature from a book. By this, I mean that books primary invite children to reading and literacy. Furthermore, through reading books children are enhancing their mental intellect and critical thinking in serious areas. That is to say, easy solutions to the economic, social, and spiritual-culture problems of our countries are being found with the help of books. Another aspect is that the gems of Uzbek literature teach children the roots of our history; the reason is that it shows how humanitarian, brave, and most importantly, patient the Uzbek people are.
Based on this, I want to say that to build the future, one must look back at history; as a result, history will pave your way to success, drawing from it is own hardships. This opinion of mine is, on the contrary like a battle on an reflected stage. Because in the war, thousands of our grandfather fought putting their lives in the line, and if necessary, sacrificing them. Do you think they did not have fathers, mothers, spouses, or children waiting for them anxiously at home? Of course they did! But they possessed pride, honor, and a sense of responsibility. I can say with confidence that these books will help children take steps toward a great future. Furthermore, children learn how difficult life can be and how to respond to it appropriately. In my view, reading books can be useful not only for children but also for adults. For instance, Yu Hua’ s famous work ” To Live” helps to further increase the patience and resilience of our women today. In my perspective, this book reflects the hardships of an entire family, and even the suffering of a woman who lost all her children and her ability to endure these difficulties. I believe that this story can serve as an example for our women.
In final conclusion, a book is not just an object that leads people to perfection, but rather a guide that shows them the way. It is known that for many children, a book is a source of knowledge and one of the most enjoyable activities
My name is Ismatova Dilnura. I was born on October 11, 2010, in Shahrisabz district of Qashqadaryo region, Uzbekistan. Moreover, in order to expand my worldwide and mental capacity, I have been learning various languages and reading books. In addition, thanks to my knowledge of foreign languages, I have been participating as a volunteer in my events, festivals, and large pavilions. And also, currently, I am continuously developing myself and further increasing my knowledge in order to realize my many dreams.
Dada siz-mening faxrim, suyanchim, yagona togʻimsiz.
Dad is my rock
Dad, you are my rock,
Your calm gaze is my whole being.
Even if I fall,
you have raised me without me noticing,
You have taken my heavy pain on yourself.
It seems that your hands do not know fatigue,
You live for us every day, always.
One word from you is strength, trust and salvation,
With you, life does not fade in my heart.
You carried me on your shoulders when I was a child,
Even if I grow up, you have kept me in your heart.
One look from you is more than a thousand words,
You are my world, my paths are open.
Dad, I cannot imagine myself without you,
From you I learned patience, the right word.
For me, you are not only a father, but also my world,
Dad, you are my pride, my support, my only rock.
Berdinazarova Jasmina Mirshod qizi was born on July 28, 2007 in the Pastdargam district of the Samarkand region. She is currently a 1st-year student of the Department of Philology and Language Teaching: Uzbek language at the Samarkand campus of Oriental University. Her article “The main ideas and theoretical principles of the Montessori methodology” and the poem “Dadam-suyanch togim” were published in the creative anthology “Ilm nuri”. She was a guest on the “Assalom Samarkand” program, which will be broadcast on the Samarkand TV channel in 2026. Her dream for the future is to interest young people in literature and achieve great success.
THEY DON’T IGNORE WHAT HURTS YOU, THEY STAND WITH YOU THROUGH IT.
FRIENDSHIP IS NOT JUST VIBES AND LAUGHTER…,
IT’S LOYALTY, EFFORT, AND SHOWING UP WHEN IT MATTERS.
THAT’S NOT JUST FRIENDSHIP, THAT’S REAL ONE.
Hassan Musa Dakasku is a Nigerian writer, a passionate advocate for youth well-being, a microbiologist, and a performance poet. He is an author whose work is rooted in vulnerability and personal expression, and he maintains a personal blog where he shares his insights and creative pieces.
Robert crouched beneath the kitchen table, listening to music that conjured every evil thing he had ever dreamed.
Maybe his upstairs neighbors were simply enjoying their weekend too much, playing music at full volume and drinking until it was Monday again. But why would they choose something so haunting, so strange, for their brief respite?
This otherworldly melody contained a few elements that Robert struggled to describe despite his extensive knowledge of music theory. It seemed to be played on the flute or some similar instrument. But once he peeked from under the table, the upset piano, whose sounds transformed the room into the landscape of dreams, suddenly joined the flute.
Although the music wasn’t too loud, he felt uncomfortable as he huddled under the table, expecting at any moment the room to go silent, and with it his heart. He pictured himself having a heart attack on the cold floor of his kitchen. He pictured months or maybe years before his body would be discovered. The smell, the horror of his decomposing remains! He shook his head to banish the unpleasant vision and focused on the sounds of the flute and the piano that filled his apartment. That was all he could hear, that and the sound of his nervous heart.
“Shit,” Robert muttered as the music grew in intensity. He placed his hands over his ears, intending to block the sound. But it slipped through his fingers, through the skin of his hands, through the bones and the muscles and the joints. As the music made its way into his brain, it became excruciatingly sad. He pressed harder until his ears pulsed with pain, but, despite the discomfort, he refused to relax his hands even a little.
The music conjured up memories of his father, a musician and a quiet man who once brought home a child’s corpse and then shot himself in the heart while Robert’s mother was calling the police. Blood was still dripping from the girl’s mouth when two dark-eyed officers entered their living room. No, it was wrong. The child couldn’t have bled. She was dead, dead. Robert squeezed his head harder. Even though the music had succeeded in luring him into this particular nightmare, he knew better. Yes, his father had shot himself, but there was no child, and his mother called the police only after she had wiped her husband’s blood off the wooden floor of their bedroom. One had to keep up appearances after all.
“Why would you do that? Why?” His voice was nothing more than a faint echo of those memories.
He lowered his body so his forehead was almost touching the floor and pressed his palms hard against his skull, hoping to prevent it from receiving these agonizing messages and seeing these strange things. It didn’t work. He still saw the faces of his father and the little girl, corrupted by death and resentment, faces from the depths of his private hell.
Beside the kitchen table, near Robert’s outstretched legs, a little girl was thrashing around, her mouth opening and closing in rhythm with the music. When she opened her blue eyes, he screamed, or he thought he screamed; neither he nor anyone else in the apartment complex heard his voice. And then something cracked, and blood spilled from his mouth onto the floor.
And when he finally crushed his skull, there was a moment of pain and then silence that carried him into the blackest eternity of his most evil dreams.
Maria Barnes teaches English and writes dark fiction. Her work has appeared in The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead edited by Scott Dwyer, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Samjoko Magazine, among other places.
