Adrea Stojilkov in “Life (and) death in “Harry Potter”: The Immortality of Life and Soul, 2015, surveys critical case study of popular culture of fantasy fiction novelistic tradition whilst examining the titular heroic protagonist archetypal fictitious character of Harry Potter. Voicing Harry to be the harbinger of loving survivor heroism for the witchcraft and wizardry, the stream of consciousness authorial narrative trope within the realm of imaginative essayist, endows the heir of the Potter to be temptress of the soul. As journalistic eucharist eschatoglogical revelation of the hermeneutic tradition is radicalizing springing forth to the foray of theological and metaphysical implications. For instance, “Basilisk venom and fiendfyre” are fundamentally instrumental unicorn of blood elixirs of the spiritual battles raged in destruction of animosity harboured by manipulative schemers such as ripped burdened souls of ghoulie-phantom spectre-like figures of transgression.  

After all the boarding school detective speculative gothic romance adventure fantasy fiction is hailed as superheroic agency of the witchcraft cult textual performativity of immersive theatricality through visceral evocation of experiential spectatorial gaze and/or phenomenal aurality of being “The Chosen One”, who thwarted Dark Lord Voldemort. However, hectic ordeal of seven books and herculean odyssey of seven corresponding years transcend as a triumphant victory over the diabolical agency of devilry. Being doppelganger Harry Potter resurrects the aural spectrality of Voldemort’s redemptive quest for salvation and atonement by the transfiguration of humane virtues. Stone-heartedness of sadomasochistic ambitious antagonist Voldemort is surrealistically patronizing Potter-esque charisma in Rowling’s gothic masterpiece, since the former vouchsafes earthbound enchantment spirit for the anticipatory fear of deathliness. 

In Life (and) death in “Harry Potter”: The Immortality of Life and Soul, Andrea Stojilkov (pg. 8) cites Harry and Dumbledore’s utopic space time travel through psychic farsightedness, then and there, Rowling herself states through Dumbledore’s words that Harry’s death is not definite. Furthermore, the white, misty King’s Cross seems too desolate for Heaven, believed to be inhabited by the souls of good individuals, God and angels, a place of fellowship. To my intuitive argument, Harry’s phoenix-like resurrected reawakening of the afterlife healing journey is transformatively rewarding by Dumbledore’s sacrificial boon’s forces. Despite the withered hand being healed, however, the crookedness of nose and piercing blue eyes of a half moon spectacles do not vanish in Dumbledore’s fate. Since then, the limbo child-leaving Voldemort inverted serpent soul whimpering of master theologian metaphysician sacrificial vouchsafing safeguards and shields Harry with immaculate vision and disappearance of lightning scar. Herein, Dumbledore’s lamb-like lamp sheds light by the glory of magical realism as envisioned by King’s Cross. 

However, essay writer’s conjuration of Harry’s admissibility through Barzakh ushers wholesome “wh(s) on earth” and “good heaven’s sake” subliminal textuality of Quranic allusion. Herein real and imaginary, life and death, spirituality and materiality, neither existent nor non existent, neither negated nor affirmed facsimile world; Harry’s metaphysical quest of pilgrimage in spirituality encounters phoenix-fawkes spirited guardian angel Dumbledore—the custodian and protector of souls; because of flesh and blood material bodied souls offered by veil or barrier “body can see anything and everything from everywhere everytime”. Life (and) death in “Harry Potter”: The Immortality of Life and Soul, Andrea Stojilkov (pg. 10) 

Because of ascetic and moralistic writers disposition of austerity and graveness, the literary critic Margarita Carretero Gonzalez in “The Lord of the Rings: a myth for the modern Englishmen” ( 1998)declares fantasy fiction and imaginative literature to be a depopularizing paperback bestsellers genre tradition amongst the Spaniards. Nonetheless, plurilingualism of other European worlds gracefully occasioned to wholeheartedly embrace translation of Tolkien such as Sweden and Denmark. This might be posited that perhaps beyond multilingualism, plurilingualism provided dynamic and interconnected nature of language repertoire, advancing code switching and cross-linguistic influences to appreciate romantic fairy-story mythlore of epic romance. 

Gonzalez (1998, p. 2) went on to argue that the Anglo-Saxon period, Victorian medievalism, idealization of the Middle Ages predominantly depicting spatiotemporality of the hobbits and the Shires to be the character and culture of the English way of life and the English rural countryside, might have been intriguing the denizens and locales of English native soil and clime. These Britishers have felt the urgency for environmental stewardship  and climate change campaigns due to the progressive disappearance of England’s natural environment. This paving of nationalistic internationalization predominantly springs forth in Northern European regions more than the Southern European regions. Furthermore affinity to the sagas in the North Atlantic peoples—— the Scandinavians and their heirs in Iceland, Greenland and England extrapolates critical commentary of Georgiana St. Clair in “‘The Lord of the Rings’ as a Saga” (1979). Thus facilitates acculturation of hybridized and diversified generic terms of fairy-story, epic, novel and romance.      

Much like J K Rowling’s Harry Potter series heroic idol of feminism Hermione, J R R Tolkien’s Eowyn is a star studded champion in advocacy of women’s emancipation and female empowerment. Eowyn, House of Eorl, a woman with a strong, stern and steel personality, ride and wield blade and does not fear pain or death resembles Hermoine’s association in the company of Ron and Harry in slaying Basilisk with the sword of Gryffindor. Both J K Rowling and J R R Tolkien are acquitted from misogyny and sexism after this literature review, thus challenging stereotypical gendered expectations of hackneyed microcosms. After all these heroines of chivalry crucially manifest themselves as iron ladies and shield maidens in redeeming their male counterparts to be defenders and protectors of life.  

If narrative history of chronicle like recording of events would postulate a saga of recovery, escape, consolation, that then J K Rowling’s Harry Potter sagas and J R R Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy emanate characteristic quintessential features of eucatastrophe in the inner consistency of reality and/ or the willing suspension of disbelief. In substantiation of this internally consistent fictional world, Georgiana St. Clair in “‘The Lord of the Rings’ as a Saga” (1979) states that, “These critics see in the Grey Havens the Christian Heavenly City: they see the ending as the joyful ascension, without death, of the heroes into heaven. However, in “The Hobbit-Forming World of J. R .R. Tolkien,” Henry Resnik reports that Tolkien’s long acquaintance with Norse and Germanic myths inspired the chillier, more menacing landscapes of middle-earth, and he makes no secret of having deliberately shaped the two major interests of his life—- rural England and the northern myths—— to his own literary purposes. In The Lord of the Rings Tolkien says, I have tried to modernize the myths and make them credible.” Consequently, if the Grey Havens is to be associated with Valhalla rather than the Christian Heaven, then the ending must reflect that interpretation. The Valkyries take the heroes from this life to Valhalla, to a magnificent banquet, sports, and fighting. But Valhalla is not an eternal refuge, only a waiting place until that final confrontation between good and evil. In this final battle, the Gods and the heroes will fight valiantly, but they will fall. The joy of Valhalla is the promise of one more combat, not the infinite gloria of Christian salvation and everlasting life. The voyage to the Grey Havens is not a eucatastrophic event.” 

Following this un eucatastrophic trajectory and after digression from Hans Christian Andersen and Dostoevksy a full fledged paper authorship is a swashbuckler challenging spectacle, whilst considering the limitations of JStor resources free accessibility. For instance, “The Lord of the Rings”: The Novel as Traditional Romance” by George H. Thomson is the least of the reading material I wish to endorse for citation. However, my two days work of independent scholarly research would proffer a standing ovation and libation tribute to the comparative literature and cultural studies curricula in the context and worldview of Rowling and Tolkien. Imagining a fiction writing master class workshop with J K Rowling positing the imperative pronouncement of poetic diction and I am delighted to craft a transliteration of a feast of the middle earth home: “Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold”. Author of the modern century and the modern medievalist delves into the subliminal aura of the readers with treasure trove of pale enchanted and long-forgotten gold.

Gender roles in society

Beyond the Binary: Gender Roles and the Diplomacy of Open Minds

Introduction: The Personal and the Spiritual

In a world that is increasingly interconnected, how we understand and respond to gender roles is more than a cultural footnote—it is central to our spiritual journey, governance, development, and personal relationships. Gender roles, as outlined in the Bible, are not fixed ideologies etched in stone; they are dynamic, evolving, and deeply contextual.

My own experience is proof of this paradox. In my family, gender roles have profoundly shaped the way we relate to one another. The traditional expectations we inherit dictate our responsibilities and aspirations, yet an underlying discord remains: each of us operates within the cusp of our acceptance and understanding. This limitation constrains our ability to evolve beyond preordained roles—yet the capacity for change exists, if only we make space for it.

A Brief Historical Backdrop

Historically, gender roles have been constructed through a complex web of religion, economics, war, labor, and culture. Ancient matrilineal societies like the Minangkabau in Indonesia or the Iroquois Confederacy in North America stood in contrast to the patriarchal structures of ancient Rome or feudal Europe. With the Industrial Revolution came a rigid divide: the public sphere for men, the domestic for women.

The 20th century shattered many of these binaries. World Wars I and II saw women entering the workforce en masse. The feminist movements—from the suffragists of the early 1900s to the second-wave feminism of the 1960s and intersectional feminism of today—challenged inherited norms and demanded new paradigms of equality and representation.

But progress is not linear. In some families and communities—including my own—tradition persists, creating tensions between progress and resistance.

Personal Reflections: The Limitations of Acceptance

Growing up, gender roles shaped my family’s dynamics in ways that often felt immovable. There were clear expectations—who was responsible for earning, who managed household affairs, who was granted emotional space, and who bore the invisible weight of cultural obligations. Yet, as our world evolved, these once-fixed roles felt increasingly impractical, if not outright restrictive.

At times, I saw my father wrestle with the idea that nurturing was not solely a maternal trait. I observed my mother balance professional aspirations against unspoken pressures to maintain domestic harmony. My siblings and I, in different ways, have questioned why we must conform to roles dictated by tradition rather than individual potential. This disconnect—between the roles we inherited and the realities we live—demands dialogue, effort, and an openness to change.

Case Studies: The Global Friction in Gender Roles

This struggle is not unique. Across the world, individuals and institutions grapple with the limits imposed by gender roles.

Example 1: The Japanese Corporate Landscape

Japan, a country known for both tradition and technological advancement, continues to struggle with gender equality in the workplace. Despite progress, corporate hierarchies often reinforce expectations that women should prioritize family over career. The result? Women frequently face the “M-shaped curve”—leaving the workforce after childbirth with limited re-entry opportunities. But change is happening policies advocating for parental leave and inclusive work environments are slowly reshaping these structures.

Example 2: South Africa’s Shift in Household Dynamics

In South Africa, gender roles intersect with economic realities. Historically, patriarchal structures placed men as primary providers. Yet, with shifts in employment trends and societal expectations, women increasingly assume financial leadership in families. This transition is not always met with acceptance, leading to conflicts where traditional masculinity clashes with contemporary survival needs.

Example 3: The Rise of Nonbinary Identities in Legal Frameworks

The recognition of nonbinary identities in countries such as Canada, India, and Germany marks a significant departure from historical gender binaries. However, legal acknowledgment does not automatically translate to social acceptance. Individuals navigating gender fluidity often encounter resistance—not due to inherent opposition, but because established frameworks struggle to adapt.

Why Keeping an Open Mind Matters

Open-mindedness is not about abandoning one’s values—it’s about making room for other realities. In diplomacy, this is especially vital. Misunderstanding gender roles in a host country can derail peace talks, foreign aid programs, or education campaigns. In everyday life, failing to listen to different experiences creates exclusion and resentment.

In my own family, I’ve seen that the mere act of listening—without immediate rebuttal—creates opportunities for dialogue that were once impossible. Understanding precedes transformation.

Five Ways to Keep an Open Mind About Gender Roles

Interrogate Your Assumptions

Ask yourself where your beliefs about gender roles come from—family, religion, media—and whether they still hold true in the face of new evidence.

Listen Without Rebuttal

Let people speak about their experiences without preparing a counterpoint. Listening is not the same as agreeing, but it opens the door to understanding.

Consume Diverse Narratives

Read books, watch films, and follow thought leaders from different genders, cultures, and identities. Empathy grows through exposure.

Be Comfortable with Discomfort

Growth often comes from discomfort. If something challenges your worldview, sit with it. Ask why it feels threatening.

Update, Don’t Cancel

You’re allowed to evolve. Holding a belief ten years ago doesn’t make you irredeemable—it makes you human. Be open to changing your mind.

Conclusion: The Diplomacy of the Self

Gender roles are no longer dictated solely by tradition or biology—they are in dialogue with economics, technology, global mobility, and generational change. In that dialogue, the most effective diplomats are those who can listen deeply, adapt respectfully, and think critically.

In my own life, I have seen that acceptance and understanding are the first steps toward change. A family, a workplace, a nation—none transform overnight. But a modicum of effort can create ripples that extend far beyond personal experience.

An open mind is not a passive one. It is a powerful tool for transformation—of policies, institutions, and most importantly, of ourselves.

---

References

• Beauvoir, S. de. (1949). The Second Sex.
• Butler, J. (1990). Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity.
• Maathai, W. (2006). Unbowed: A Memoir.
• Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media. (n.d.). https://seejane.org
• UNESCO. (2019). Gender Equality: Heritage and Creativity.

UN Women. (2024). Progress of the World’s Women Report.

MY TRUSTY MOUNT

He dedicates his life to you, gives everything, works day and night so that my child is not inferior to his peers. This is all for us. he brings you the best so that you don’t get cold. he doesn’t care that his legs hurt for several years, if you just say oh he will set the world on fire. for your father, for your mother, you are the dearest, incomparable person in the world.
He will give everything so that we can study and become mature and good staff in the future. He will pay your contract money even if he is in trouble. If he can’t deliver a little money, he can’t look you in the eye like he owes you.

In my opinion, the most valuable person in this life for all of us is our father.
It is our father who occupies the main place in our life. Our father is the cause of our birth in this life. Our father is the one who gave the first education in this life.
Our father is the reason for my success in this life. It is our father who will be the strongest encouragement to us in this life. Father is the best motivator in this life. We should appreciate them.

Father is pleased – God is pleased. This statement is a clear example of how great a father is. Therefore, it is our highest duty to please them and receive their blessings.

Mahmudova Sohibaxon graduated from Fergana State University.

Echo I: What The First Woman Swallowed

Shredding his sunlit vestments,
Priest’s weight silenced the equal woman.
Undisciplined eyes sheathe me—
a fury, charred on his pristine swords.

Deep down the abyss among nights,
I wrench my self-portrait—
Straddling unfamiliar blades,
the realm sears my throat,
and my lungs blister right to left.

My unbuttoned mouth swallows fuses
from the organs of men—
muffled, skinned, teeth dyed;
perished, rising, fangs lit.

Beneath Damoclean pikes—
each one signifying revenge.
A disobedient woman,
unworthy of tender touch—
her infant-bloom still sealed
beneath Rousseau’s tears.

They do not know this tiger-guiding woman.
Fiercer than wolves through salt water,
my eyes—two felines tarring raw light—
He sees the afterbirth
at the end of his lecture
as I clutch my hip-round of thoughts.

Offering me half the sky
after razing the one

I now return to Lord.
Thighs vise as we roar
through a venomous climax.
Swords lower as the rain strikes
through the force of May.

Thunder slips me from the virgin world.
I swallow as if I never swallowed a man.
You stand among storms —more effigial than any god.
Here, goblets rise at the cross reversed.

Each wrist rises, declaring
a wine coil bled from your heart,
threading straight into my rib.
Ha!

Spring wind ascends,
—splitting me widely awake.
A gluttony resurrects,
a virgin undone
and again—

REMADE.

Echo II: Frankenstein’s spring

Ice shatters its wintry silence.
Swarthy hands—once stitched—
motor themselves to sight,
raving by March’s final breath
toward April’s promise.
Swallows slice returning paths
through the thawing sky.

Green yawns from Earth’s dark mouth,
my body mirroring her restoration:
Spring’s underbelly upturned,
while an amber glow satiates
the polar bear’s hunger.
In fur that held December’s darkness,
sunlight reflects the sky’s refusal of night.

Illumination penetrates like truth:
hillside and mosses couple
among wetting rocks;
frogs mount their hunts across waters freed from ice.
But even in renewal, Death persists:
monarch butterfly wings tweezed mid-flutter,
the deer’s neck snapped in wolf’s jaws,

beggar’s rocking hands trampled in Mayfair,
daffodils unfurling between crushed bones and gold.
While jungle creeds drum through survival’s hierarchy,
labours’ palms rekindle the drowned sky.

Have we forgotten the passion Winter set ablaze?
My body once dedicated
as Christmas Solstice,

now binds Betelgeuse
to Venus
across the horizon’s clearing dome.

Did we crown the butcher and betray the jingled vows?
Did we kneel like the red star towards love
when Santa vanished in the hearth?

Swells from a distance—starmounds quicken in unrest—rise
through paint-oil gleam, inciting
sparks from Earth’s own burning door.
How sorrowful to forget the constellation’s inferno
that trudged through a vast night,
their beckoning thin as woman’s sigh when newborn tears
press against the womb that once sheltered.

Beneath black palls, Fear crawls:
yet glazed eyes
pump first blood through roots—
juvenile Frankenstein awakening.
We ask for nothing better than a spadix-like thrust
from corpse flower’s wound,
slicing
through the tendon that no longer feels.

Dawn undresses seed from shell,
and Earth unwinds her clock—
not a second more, not a day less.

Water returns to water.
In the bluing luminescence, faces buried

by last season’s sickle shield my sleet-rent mouth
while I await youthful lips beneath yellowed marshland—
breathing, at last, the fresh world April promised

and I…
reel alone.

Echo III: On the shores we lived

In woods where history hangs itself,
laments are sung for the chased skulls—
each a foreign season’s anthem,
even as they were broken in two themselves.
The collapsed libraries and lovers’ bridge
gutted the Sava River—
the mirror of Sarajevo’s wounds.1

How far does hunger drive flesh across borders?

Waves return wearing feathers of the condemned.
Seagull wings command tides that swallowed my first home.
I, ransacked, kneel while only the dead giggle at their release;

torch half-bare against icons gone cold in the blitz
while the spring winds lord over votive racks,
counterfeiting peace
that was never mine nor yours.
Steamboat hulls and exposed fish ribs
testify against
empires of deception, splitting history’s amnesia awake.

I stand shrouded in that shiver that follows bombardment—
water carrying us all, merciless as governments,
toward shores that reject our names.
Certainty arrives unwelcome as midnight deportation—

neck of movements snapped by yellow boundaries,
the twilight of our homeland forced down our tongues.
They promised us a land of honey and milk;

as diplomas vanish at customs,
and CVs rot in mailboxes.

They seduced us with wages in car wash’s suds,
rockstar’s fingerprints orphaned
from guitar chords and drum’s lambskin.
They wheedled away our rights to leave from contracts,
dreams of dancers and singers turned wannabes
beneath Soho’s red lights.

Tiny, tiny…, far away from the wonderland
of bow-tied gentlemen and English tea.
Faint… faint… breathing small
and counting the untidy tips
in the folds of whipped breasts.
The beggar’s hands,
cauterized
by childhood’s exploding fuse,

deafened us from omens whistling
through bullet casings.
Dozens of hatchlings canned in shells
watch mothers wade into the machine-gunned distance.
Their children—jagged languages—
face the Black Sea’s cargoes
salivated by traffickers of breath and skins.

They whisper, thin as rationed bread:
“In March, swallows will carve us
into petitions on camera-ready banners.
In May, peace doves will harvest
our skulls
for museum’s sorrow.

When we all lie alone
beneath this river’s militarized belt,
our blood will finally transmute into moribund blue—

connecting soils of countless unremembered cities
beneath a single bank that unites
all our scattered bones.”

Echo IV: Knotting Hands Under the Red Sky

Red rages rupture—a birth scream with no mother—
existence a slit throat under seagulls hovering
like scalp-white mourners.

Hair and fire snarl—
crooning ghoulish requiem through the gust’s sudden tug.

Speech drowns in its own soliloquy:
blackened ribbons crystallize on the survivor’s cheeks.

Bones in gloves, bluing fists,
nails preening through handcuff rust.

The hands know what the mouth won’t.
Stone lions’ neck serrated by two million fingers’ knots.

This is how I heave myself out:
Change this. Change that. Don’t look back—
or it drags you down, ankle-first,
into the gullet of the shuckled shore:

Beating death on their own breasts,
three borders sing in C minor
under a mountain’s whole rest.2

2 Whole Rest: In musical notation, a whole rest is a silence lasting the duration of an entire measure. It is visually represented as a small rectangle hanging from the second line of the staff. In poetic terms, it can suggest a full pause—a complete suspension of sound, breath, or motion.

Echo V: Red Beacons

Waves shudder—flee from shore’s dominion.
Salt voices whine when I ride the mirror of my reflection.
Night’s sharp anchor holds while fire ruffles water;
Dreams sob crimson through swamps of endless vision.

Across my untidy skin, mothers’ breasts were steadfast—
Flanking a silver of silence with their immovable tenets.
The feelings elders lack, carried forward by a whirlwind
And lording about lands; the barren eternity
That draws back the sky—afraid of its cadence.

Solstices wheel wild on butterfly wings! A kaleidoscope
Writhed in greenhouse glass, while the pale moon—hermit
Drained in dust—watches red beacons spin:
Too hot for earth, they fall, bleeding a colour of thunderous years
Into my waiting veins—

Pulse rising from the inner sea; shanks thinning beneath pants.
How many times has mortal clay rotted in terrible silence?
Passion greets desolate solitude like mirror-faces
On their nocturnal tasks—watching animals relish
Their breath and death at whistles before storms.

Eye to eye, the borders churn through waves—no rest in light or wind!
Red beacons burn eternal; moving water whispers to graying ears:
“There you are on the lighthouse—small hands, small reach,
against what sky and sea have always been.”
But this flesh-cage I consecrate, blazing, until mountains
Bow their lava crowns to the same brief fire.

Let the cosmos witness the dusk and dawn I kindle

That make all exiles sacred, equal and glad
In the wonderful Divine:
All flesh a temple, all darkness a doorway
To light that owes no century—knows no time.

Echo VI: Fell in love with the alpha wolf

Who would have known—a man’s violence, the strike from the love of your life,
Could spare the woman’s need for the presence of a proper shaman,
the bells and sages from the nature’s rogue, to enter into a trance.

The fire the matriarch refused to teach coming not from distrust,
But a glimpse she saw through: Another woman, mistook a wolf’s fangs in a deer’s throat,
A man’s fingers into a smuggler’s eyes, and a gun raised on all the unfairness’s skull—
As her fire because he turned and whispered: here, their apologies and flesh are your feast.

What about the law of the world that protects millions of both the good and the damned?
What about the order of yourself that once brought you to reclaim all the fairness?

Gone. You became the exhausted Prometheus who put hope on the hawk and Zeus
Who were supposed to prey on his liver and soul.

But— How the hell did you end up here?

You have seen the ugly face of the world at an age too tender
to even know it’s beautiful.

Parents wrapped you in burlap and sold you to the Bluebeards—
for not being a son.

The policewoman who saved you, sent you to sanctuary,
but never once showed her face—never once anchored who you are.

Then, hand to hand. From home to home.
Foster parents visiting your room, shaking their heads:
“We are not responsible for her trauma.”

You saw love in the steam rose through rice—a wife made for her husband
without his thank you, without his eyes lifting from his phone.

A husband came home carrying too much alcohol, too many cigarettes,
but praised for not carrying another woman’s perfume on his collar.

The Zhongkao teacher cracked your stepsister’s canvas in half for sleeping in math class.3
And you understood: this is what love should look like.

Women bleed. Men feed.

Friends—called distractions before even being made.

Boys—entitled to belittle you until you had to throw a dagger at their skulls.

Is that a lesson they teach? A decree to stop you from finding yourself?

Among all the predators in life, you were left with no choice
but to love the king of them all.

By the moment he liberated you through palms that lifted your hips—
blood bled from others poured into your mouth like communion wine.

But the tingles you felt in your hips—were not electricity.
The rumble from his mouth was thunder before the lightning struck.

Still you clung to the bruised color of the sky—so desperately.

For the luck you had—swirling Baileys he bought in his bedroom,
watching rain hammer the windows like fists.

Shivering at his sublime. His rage. The necks he snapped unashamedly—
in front of you and for you, like gifts.

3 Zhongkao is China’s high school entrance exam, a nationwide academic test taken by students at the end of middle school to determine placement in secondary education. It is intensely competitive and often shapes a student’s future trajectory.

And his plea for love made you almost forget his belt was meant to strike you—

until his hand landed on your throat, his belt on the shoulder
he once fed his own blood to like a sacrament.

You were once again forced to confront all the pieces
you evaded before meeting him.

In a system that never asked you to heal.
Never spared punishment when you tried to.

And made you fall in love the moment a man appeared
to take care of your evasion.

Because that’s the only option you are given—
so long as it doesn’t compromise their kingdom.

So that the fire of your own—won’t burn their empire down.

Author’s note

I execute literary devices in two very different classrooms.
The first was Mandarin, where meaning ripples under the surface and readers are trusted to swim toward it themselves. Poetry was not encouraged there—our exam rooms preferred formulas to metaphors—so a poem had to live in the margins of notebooks, in whispers after lights-out.

The second classroom was English, which I entered at eighteen when I left China for London. English came with its own gatekeepers: libraries full of classics, critics ready to decide what counted as “literature,” quick to stop at the first layer of a line. Between those
two worlds I have spent years running— from place to place, from one set of rules to another—looking for a page wide enough to hold both silences and storms.

If these six Echoes feel restless, that is why.

Akhmatova’s sorrow and Lermontov’s thunder travel with me. From Akhmatova I borrowed restraint: her way of hiding whole seas of grief inside a single tide-line. From Lermontov I borrowed motion: the urge to pace a frontier even while the sky is cracking open. Their voices taught me that a poem can stand absolutely still and still feel like a journey, that it can whisper and still shake stone.

You will meet that balance in Echo I, where the first woman does not fall but walks away; in Echo III, where a war-scarred river refuses every border drawn across it; and in Echo IV, where a human chain of protest hums with contained fire. Even the red beacon of Echo V
carries both lessons: it burns in place, yet its light travels farther than any fleeing ship.

Nature appears as a teacher too. An English Dot rabbit, a red signal light on the sea, the quiet orbit of a whole rest in music—all remind me that endurance can be tender, that flight can be faithful, and that silence is often the strongest note.

So these poems speak in two tongues at once. They keep the Mandarin habit of suggestion—letting objects do the feeling—and they lean into the English hunger for direct address. Between them, I hope, stretches a common ground where a reader may pause, listen,
and choose their own depths.

Thank you for sharing the path. If the poems leave you with a sense of movement held inside stillness, of fire banked beneath calm, then Akhmatova, Lermontov, and every hurried mile between languages have done their work.

1 Refers to the Siege of Sarajevo (1992–1996), the longest siege in modern history during the Bosnian War, marked by relentless shelling, sniper attacks, and civilian suffering.

I’m your friend

The time has come

When dreams of traveling appear

Other people, other women

I guess there’s room for me too

And it’s even cooler

When you say

That the place is by the sea..

Because everyone knows me here

The tenants of the building and the white walls

Always the same old story

Where my image and likeness are

And when you ask me how it’s going

I say everything the same old way, my old man!

I’m still your friend!

Neven Duzevic is from Zagreb, Croatia.

BENEATH THE WORDS

Creation does not begin with a word,
but with stillness
a pause, before the rush,
before the world insists on speaking.
It begins with the quiet observation
of a world moving without permission
a leaf, stubborn in its fall,
a cloud folding into another,
a glance exchanged across crowded streets,
never to be remembered.

Stories live in what is not said.
The visible is but a fragment
what matters lies hidden,
beneath the surface.
Like an iceberg,
its strength resides in the unseen,
where shadows move in silence
and thoughts drift like forgotten tides.

To write is to observe,
not merely to see,
but to feel
the weight of a shadow on a hot afternoon,
the ache of silence between words,
the whisper of wind through ordinary things,
the sigh of trees that have witnessed lifetimes.

Language is not decoration.
It is the pulse of the soul.
Every phrase must earn its place,
must be sharpened against the stone of truth,
must tremble with meaning
each syllable a heartbeat,
each line a breath caught in the throat.

An ending should not close
it should linger,
softly, like a thought that refuses to fade,
a door left ajar,
letting the mind wander,
finding its own way out.

There is no beauty
without attention
no truth
without the courage to face it.
No art
without the risk of vulnerability,
the surrender to what we do not know.

What we create
is not for applause,
but for connection
so that someone,
somewhere,
feels less alone,
when they find their own heart
hidden in the spaces between lines.

The work is not to impress
it is to remember,
to reveal,
to reach.

And if nothing golden is found,
then let the ink bleed honestly.
Let the silence speak.
Let the page carry the weight
of what we dared to feel.

Because in the end,
what matters most
is not how beautifully we wrote,
but how deeply we made someone stop
breathe
and remember
that they are not alone
in this vast, unspoken world.

— Author Haroon Rashid

ABOUT HAROON RASHID

Haroon Rashid is an internationally celebrated Indian author, poet, and humanitarian whose soul-stirring words transcend borders, cultures, and languages. Revered as “a movement of thoughts” and “a soul that breathes through verses,” he is a global ambassador for peace, education, and sustainable development. Through literature, he fosters empathy, cultural harmony, and a collective vision for a better world.

KEY LEADERSHIP ROLES
• Global Ambassador & International Member, Global Federation of Leadership & High Intelligence A.C. (Mexico)
• SDG Ambassador (SDG4 & SDG13), World Literary Forum for Peace & Human Rights
• National Vice Chairman, Youth India – Mother Teresa International Foundation
• Peace Protagonist, International Peace Forums – Mexico & Greece
• Honorary Founding Member, World CP Cavafy

AUTHOR & LITERARY CONTRIBUTIONS
• We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another – poetry book, translated by 2024 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Eva Petropoulou Lianou
• Author Haroon Rashid Quotes – A soul-deep treasury of reflections
• Works translated into: Greek, French, Persian, Urdu, Arabic, Chinese, Tamil, Hindi, Sanskrit, German, Indonesian, Bolivian, and more.

GLOBAL HONORS & AWARDS
• Diploma de Honor al Mérito – Mexico (2025)
• World Art Day Honor – Indonesia (2025)
• Friedrich von Schiller Award – Germany
• 4th World Gogyoshi Award – Global Top Vote (2024)
• 1st Prize – Silk Road International Poetry Exhibition (2023)
• Golden Eagle Award – South America (2021 & 2023)
• United Nations Karmaveer Chakra – 2023 & 2024
• REX Karmaveer Chakra – Silver & Bronze – India
• Global Peace Award – Mother Teresa Foundation (2022)
• Cesar Vallejo Award – UN Global Marketplace
• Honorary Doctorate in Humanity – La Haye, France (2021)
• Sir Richard Francis Burton Award – European Day of Languages
• Prodigy Magazine USA Award – Literary Excellence
• Certificates of Honor – Greece, Serbia, Indonesia, Mexico
• Honorary Award for Literature & Arts – Trinidad & Tobago

GLOBAL PRESENCE & RECOGNITION
• Invited Guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show
• Featured in O, The Oprah Magazine
• Speaker at:
• International Peace Day – Mexico & Greece
• 3rd International Congress of Education – Mexico
• Paper Fibre Fest – Represented India in China, Greece, Mexico, Peru
• UN SDG Conferences, Global Literary & Peace Forums
• Work featured in education campaigns, peacebuilding initiatives, and cross-cultural literary dialogues
• Admired by global celebrities, educators, artists, and policymakers

CULTURAL AMBASSADOR OF INDIA
• Embodies India’s timeless storytelling, spiritual ethos, and peace traditions
• Bridges Indian philosophy with global consciousness
• Revered as an ethical thought leader, visionary poet, and global voice of unity

PHILOSOPHY & SOCIAL VISION

Literature, for Haroon, is a sacred space for:
• Healing, empathy, and consciousness
• Advocacy for:
• Mental Health Awareness & Emotional Resilience
• Climate Action & Sustainability
• Spiritual Depth & Interfaith Harmony
• Youth Leadership & Cultural Preservation

He aims to inspire changemakers, dreamers, and peacemakers across generations.

GLOBAL PRAISE & LOVE

Described as:
“A movement of thoughts.”
“A soul that breathes through verses.”

Celebrated across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Americas, Haroon is loved for his:
• Authenticity
• Emotional depth
• Literary brilliance
Honored by governments, universities, and global literary councils.

TITLES & GLOBAL IDENTITY
• Global Literary Icon
• Award-Winning Author & Poet
• International Peace Advocate
• Global Educator of the Heart
• Cultural Diplomat & Ethical Leader
• SDG Voice for Education & Environment
• Voice of Peace, Passion, and Purpose

QUOTE BY AUTHOR HAROON RASHID

“It’s our responsibility to create a better world for our future generations.”

CONNECT WITH HAROON RASHID
Follow and engage across all platforms:
@AuthorHaroonRashid
(Facebook, Instagram, X/Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, Threads, and more)

The Bridge of Second Chances

Eliot Rivers was once a name whispered with admiration in the corridors of Oakville High. A natural leader, an academic achiever, and the captain of the school debate team, his future was painted in bright hues by everyone who knew him. Teachers predicted Ivy League acceptance letters, classmates envied his eloquence, and his parents believed they were raising a young man destined to change the world.

But Eliot was hiding something beneath the glow of success—a growing fear of imperfection. The pressure to remain excellent became a burden he could not share. He stopped enjoying what he loved and started fearing failure more than anything else. One mistake felt like the end of the world. When he received his first B+ in literature during senior year, he broke down. It wasn’t the grade itself—it was what it represented: he wasn’t invincible.

From that moment, Eliot changed. He began skipping classes, withdrawing from competitions, and isolating himself from friends. Rumors spread. Some said he was just tired, others guessed he was dealing with personal issues. But the truth was simpler and sadder—Eliot no longer believed in himself.

By the time graduation rolled around, Eliot wasn’t on the stage. He barely scraped through with passing grades. While others were sharing college acceptance letters, Eliot sat in silence, watching his dreams fade away like smoke from a fire he no longer had the will to rekindle.

One year passed.

Eliot found himself working at a coffee shop near the edge of town. He didn’t mind the quiet routine. He poured coffee, wiped tables, and tried not to think about what could have been. The occasional recognition by old classmates stung more than he cared to admit.

One rainy afternoon, as Eliot was wiping down a table, the door chimed and in walked a woman he didn’t recognize—middle-aged, with sharp eyes and a kind smile.

“You’re Eliot Rivers, aren’t you?” she asked.

He nodded, wary but polite.

“I heard you speak at the state debate finals two years ago,” she continued. “You were remarkable.”

Eliot smiled faintly. “That was a long time ago.”

“I don’t believe talent has an expiration date,” she said with a glint in her eye. “I’m Dr. Wren. I work with a youth center a few towns over. We help students who’ve lost their way.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure I’m who you think I am.”

“I think you’re exactly who we need,” she replied. “Not as a student—but as a mentor.”

Eliot froze. “A mentor?”

Dr. Wren nodded. “Someone who’s tasted both success and failure. Someone who can speak to teenagers not from a place of perfection, but from understanding. You’ve been through the fall. That’s powerful.”

Her words dug deep. That night, Eliot couldn’t sleep. His thoughts wandered to the idea of being useful again—not as someone perfect, but as someone real.

Three weeks later, Eliot stood before a group of ten teenagers at the youth center. Nervous, palms sweaty, heart pounding, he introduced himself.

“My name is Eliot. I used to think failure was the end of everything. But I learned something more important: sometimes, falling is the only way we learn how to rise.”

It wasn’t a grand speech. But it was honest. And for the first time in a long while, Eliot felt the spark of something that had once burned brightly in him.

Week by week, he met with the group. They talked about dreams, fears, broken homes, anger, and guilt. Eliot didn’t have all the answers, but he listened. He guided. He encouraged. One of the boys, Mateo, who had been suspended three times for fighting, began writing poetry. Another, Lena, who had dropped out of school, enrolled in a GED program.

Eliot started reading again—books he once loved, like To Kill a Mockingbird and The Alchemist. He found joy in small victories and rediscovered his voice. He began journaling his journey—not as a roadmap to success but as a bridge between brokenness and healing.

One evening, Dr. Wren pulled him aside.

“I’ve watched you grow, Eliot,” she said. “There’s a scholarship program for aspiring educators—people who want to help others the way you’ve been helping here.”

Eliot’s first reaction was doubt. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for college anymore.”

“You’re not the same Eliot who gave up,” she smiled. “You’re stronger now. Not because you’ve avoided failure, but because you’ve walked through it.”

He applied.

He got accepted.

And three years later, Eliot stood at a podium at his graduation from the university’s school of education. His speech was titled “The Bridge of Second Chances.” He told the story of a boy who once feared failure more than anything, and how that fear almost drowned him. But then, someone believed in him. Someone offered not a ladder of success, but a bridge of hope. He walked across it, slowly and shakily—but he made it.

After his speech, he was approached by a young man with tears in his eyes.

“Your story is mine,” he said. “I’ve failed, too. But you made me believe I can start again.”

And Eliot realized that this—this moment of connection, of healing, of shared humanity—was what he was born to do.

He became a teacher.

But not just a teacher of subjects. He taught life. He taught resilience. He taught the value of second chances.

Years later, when his own students would stumble, Eliot wouldn’t scold them. He’d sit with them, look them in the eye, and say:

“Do you know what bridges are made for? Crossing. Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.”

—

Moral of the Story:

Failure isn’t the end of the road; it’s often just the bend that takes you on a better path. Everyone deserves a second chance—especially when they think they don’t.

Surayyo Nosirova Elyor qizi was born on May 13, 2006, in the Narpay district of the Samarkand region, Uzbekistan. From an early age, she showed a deep interest in literature, languages, and creative expression. Her passion for learning and writing became evident during her school years, where she actively participated in various academic, literary, and cultural activities.

Currently, Surayyo is a first-year student at the Uzbekistan State University of World Languages, specializing in English Philology and Teaching. She is known for her strong academic performance and her dedication to mastering the English language. Her commitment to education extends beyond the classroom—she is the author of three published books: Heartfelt Thoughts, Voices in Writing, and Beyond Words: Mastering English. Each of these works reflects her insights into language learning, writing skills, and the emotional depth of student life.

In addition to her books, Surayyo has written numerous articles and short stories that have been featured on various literary platforms and online magazines. She is an active participant in youth development programs, literary competitions, and creative workshops, including camps such as the Anim Camp organized by the Youth Affairs Agency of Uzbekistan.

Surayyo also leads and contributes to several student initiatives, including reading competitions and motivational projects like the “Readers’ Championship,” which encourages young people to engage with literature in innovative ways.

Through her writing, leadership, and academic achievements, Surayyo continues to inspire her peers and the younger generation. She is a passionate advocate for education, self-expression, and lifelong learning, aiming to make a meaningful impact on her community and the future of language education in Uzbekistan.