Jumayeva Aziza, Director of Barkamol Avlod Children's School
 
A place where talented people are trained

Studying the interests of talented boys and girls studying in general secondary schools and their "BARKAMOL AVLOD" children's centers are launched in the regions in order to educate their abilities.

Their main goal is to make children creative and artistic according to their needs and interests to develop their abilities, to teach them diligence, initial training and vocational training inculcating skills, the history of the country, archeological and cultural heritage is deep
study, familiarization with the natural resources of our country and ecology and environment acquisition of basic knowledge in the field of protection, promising development of science and technology
by organizing the study of technical tools and computer technologies in accordance with the directions is to develop children's technical creativity.

Here are culture and art, tourism and ecology, technical construction and modeling, specializes in crafts and manual labor, physical education and sports, and learning foreign languages.

There are dozens of circles.
Pedagogical staff of the school meet the state requirements for extracurricular education and are established organizing the educational process on the basis of approved training manuals and programs. They carry out educational work at a high level, improve the content of education, and teach actively participate in the creation of tools. In children qualities such as hard work, kindness, compassion formation, loyalty to the Motherland, to the state language, national and universal, historical and cultural
respect for values, parents and older people, care for the environment. 

Educating in the spirit of relationship is also important.
The pedagogue constantly assumes the level of his theoretical knowledge, pedagogical skills and professional qualifications
takes the responsibility of constantly improving and working on himself. 

To the relevant information of higher educational institutions and vocational colleges, as well as professional individuals with training and high moral qualities. Taking pedagogical activities at the center
Also, in necessary cases, those who do not have relevant pedagogical education, but are professional training and high moral qualities and "Master", "Master of Sports" in technical and tourism
"or persons with the status of "Candidate for Master of Sports" also with pedagogical activity at the Center can be involved.

Forever London

London isn’t fuzzy 

And his memories

Of her 

Aren’t fading,

His forever London

Is here 

To stay.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. “Rescue Dog,” his fifth book, was published in May.

Reviewed by A. Iwasa

What’s it like to be an antifascist college professor facing termination for “soliciting students for potentially dangerous activities” while military recruiters have free range on your campus?

If you’re generally critical of academics, one thing you’ll have to understand about Josh Fernandez is that he’s hated teachers his whole life.  If you have any doubts, in this book Fernandez will take you back from fighting the community college bureaucracy he works for over their Campus Antifascist Network, Bash Back! and an off campus Antifascist Fighting Club he hosted, to the kindergarten classroom of a certain Mrs. Clark.  Though Clark maybe a changed name or composite character, you’ll get the drift.

Like many anti-authoritarians forged in post-industrial schools and equally dysfunctional families, Fernandez lays it all out going back and forth in time from his adult struggles to his wild upbringing.  Many people say one or both of their parents were crazy, but Fernandez’s biological father actually was.  I’m not trying to imply this an inherently bad thing, just a reality people frequently don’t take for the actual weight of the situation.

You’ll steadily follow Fernandez down what seems to me the well trodden paths of juvenile delinquency, but I think they’re largely the only ways to have any agency when you’re 12-15 years old or so in our society.

Skate boarding and punk rock fandom start to balance things out a bit for Fernandez, along with some relatively healthy family life aspects as a well intentioned step father enters his life.

The adult narratives move around in time also, back in time in the case of the day of Trump’s selection by the Electoral College when Fernandez attended a comically bad conference on diversity and education that day in 2016.

The youthful account contains a first hand telling of the show a Nazi stabbed Aragorn from Little Black Cart at.  I was shocked to read Aragorn’s roommate at the time, Paul, died the next day from a Nazi inflicted stab wound at that show.

A lot of young people seem to think this kind of brawling is all fun and games, and need to know these sort of stories.  Aragorn told me once he considered this part of his life to have been a waste of time, though I didn’t know any of the specifics until after he died.

The Hands that Crafted the Bomb is full of brutal truth that frequently borders on Too Much Information.  Though some accounts like this strike me as bragging or bravado, I’m strongly under the impression that Fernandez is just being painfully honest.  From the lows of physically fighting his bio father to trying speed, to the highs of becoming a father himself or punching bigots in the face; all the cards are laid out, good and bad alike.  Frankly, if Fernandez or his editors held anything back, I DO NOT want to know what it is!

Eventually working out in general, running in particular, college and 12 Step Meetings come into play as Fernandez gets it together in a somewhat conventional manner, without selling out.  But staying sober (and possibly employed or sane even) continues to be a daily struggle.

By Part 13, a part of the Investigation narrative at his work named “How to Say ‘Fuck You,'” Fernandez recounts one of the more recent and infamous antifa action in California, and a talk he had with Aragorn at the time.  Like talking with me around then, he told Fernandez it was a “Waste of time.”  Knowing what I know now about Aragorn’s youthful antifascism, it’s a conversation I wish I could have been a part of.

Later Fernandez ponders the bitter irony of being threatened with heavy charges for militant antifascism, when really people should be getting awards for it.

I don’t want to spoil it all for you, so please pick it up if you find this at all interesting.  I’ve sometimes wondered if hooliganism is simply baked into the coming of age of most young men.  If it is, I suppose at least some of us got on the right side of the barricades back in the ’90s and it was nice to read a lengthy, personal, and perhaps most importantly self critical account of someone who stayed true to their youthful, antifascist roots.

You can read more about Aragorn here: https://crimethinc.com/2021/02/13/remembering-aragorn-a-poem-and-a-zine

You can order Josh Fernandez’ book from PM Press here.

Uzbekistan

My country is always
My dear Uzbekistan.
This girl is rich in beauty,
Narcissus in my garden.

The so-called Uzbekistan
I was born in a beautiful place.
By and by
I pulled out the rock.

Have fun these days,
Flowers open every day.
Birds flying far away,
Happy girls.

Play and laugh at home
Sneak away.
Push your period,
You build the future.

The country is burning for you,
Both parents.
always burning for you
Sweating and burning.

For the value of such a country,
Enough dear friends.
Such a country from the world,
You will never find.


Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 8th grade of the 9th general secondary school of Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

Philip Larkin’s Whitsun Weddings

Examine a close reading of the poem “Whitsun Weddings” with critical analysis and textual references.

(Image of Philip Larkin, a black and white photo of a skinny middle-aged white man sitting on a couch in a room, wearing reading glasses).

Whitsun Weddings is a brandishing testamentary swashbuckler locomotive wedding party of ceremonial festivities and ritualistic observance of postcolonial and post industrial England. The impending wedding coach has been metaphorically epitomized by Philip Larkin as a means of celebratory cavalcade. “We headed towards London, shuffling gouts of steam. Now fields were building plots and poplars cast”

Whitsun Weddings occasion symbolically manifest old maidish Postcolonial British folks entrenched and rooted by a connubial affair in accord to the fiscal reformation aftermath of the beginning of a new financial year instead of that ending from a previous year. Philip Larkin’s vaticination and sortilege of the porters and mails bears to metaphorical connotations of pregnant women and their spouses respectively through avant garde impressionism. Poet laureate’s setting and locale of Whitsun Weddings is a treasure trove of observation, reflection and contemplation amidst “Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.”

“The secret like a happy funeral” encapsulates the oxymoronic ambivalence that is at the heart of this fascinating reading of Larkin’s litany poems. “While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared. At a religious wounding” might implicate references to saturnine temperaments and stony faced solemnity being exposed to sepulchral sombre melancholia. The affair of espousal is overall sultry dismay, gloomy despair, desultory grim and grave depression in accord with Larkin’s point of view. Expanses and vistas of England with drifting of Britannic legacy and British isles have been subjected to dismantlement and shrinkages afterwards of the Great World Wars. 

Whitsun Weddings is that seventh Sunday after Easter, Pentecost Christian holiday, commemorating the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles and disciples of Jesus Christ while they were in Jerusalem and 1950s Britain’s progressive levy reform position legitimizes financially beneficiary matrimonial alliance. The signature litany of verbal photographic memorabilia from the memorialization of a train travelling outside the carriage windows rattling through the British landscapes. Englishness and Britishness of the 1960s era symbolize cultural hallmarks of the charismatic poem as indicated by the parodies of fashion lurking beneath veils and heels of soon to be wedded maidens and already betrothed ladies. Language, speech, prosody and rhetoric has been alchemically metamorphosed from the bedrock of ordinariness to that extraordinary visual and auditory impact and emphases. For exemplary evidences point to uncles with smutty mouth, fathers with broad belts under suits and mothers with seamy foreheads, nylon gloves and jewellery substitutes and lemons, mauves and olive ochres.  

“A sense of falling, like an arrow shower/ Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain” herein the epilogue revealing epiphanic heavenly downpour onto earth as metaphorical connotations of anarchy being poured. Larkin, haunted and obsessed with marriage, conspicuously extrapolates the unforeseen on edge and fidgety ending. 

BBC has a radio show where Simon Armitage explores Philip Larkin’s poem The Whitsun Weddings.

                 New Curfew

Now it’s a “suggested” curfew, dusk till dawn

for certain towns and it’s not hard to picture

the citizens of those towns huddled in their

homes waiting out the night. It’s not Covid

this time, with its masks and hand washing

its safe spacing away from your friend and

neighbors. It’s not all that simple this time.

No, this time it’s Triple E, a disease that once

was confined to horses and some other farm

animals. Now they only “suggest” that we keep

to the curfew. Now there’s a culprit that has been

a character in our lives for what seems like for-

ever. Don’t we all remember coming home on

a summer’s day scratching mosquito bites and

taking them in stride. But now, this nuisance

from years back is playing a part in all this. It’s

not hard to imagine them hiding in the backyard

planning their attack on us, if we don’t follow

the “suggested” curfew – they’re planning, they’re

plotting their taking over after we are all killed

off. The mosquito, that formerly unimportant part

of our lives, our summers, has risen up to take

their shot at getting control. They’re out there buzzing

that faint buzz we remember, trying to reassure us

and lure us out some time between dusk and dawn.

               Proper Form

I’m filling out the form, filling in

the blanks, you know the kind that

levels the field for us. We become

as we fill in blanks, like Name___

and Address_________ andother

relevant points of our identities.

They know us by what we put down.

Before they can assign us a number

they need to know a bit about us.

They do ask if we are a robot, which

of course I am not. I make our mark

next to that point, as if a robot couldn’t

figure it out and fill this out. They want

my Date of Birth_______________

my Phone Number______________

and in this case, for this form, they want

Full Name of Emergency Contact___

and an ominous sounding Return Airport

which notes that this would be where 

in case of emergency I should be flown.

This is the form before me, the one I will

fill out today. It lets me know what is so

important about me that I must share if

I hope to get my name on their list of

properly identified individuals who will

fill out any form put in front of him/her.

                   The End of…

A character came up with, “you can’t hide

from the End of the World in a goddamn

bathtub.” This rings especially true when

applied to our tub, white plastic fitted over

the old one, even the look-alike tiles are

plastic glued over the originals. There I’d

be sitting in the tub as the world burned up

all around me. The white plastic pouring in

like heavy cream, and I’m, of course, sitting

there becoming a tub of human chowder.

That’s if the world ends in fire, with global

warming and wildfires that seems a real

possibility. But if the opposite in the end

happens, destruction by ice would suffice and

all that was said about all that. I’d be sitting in

my plastic tub, teeth chattering, losing feeling

in my extremities, dozing off, ending up still

wondering whatever happened to the hot or

even warm water. When and if it comes, I’ll

probably run outside, stand in the middle of

my front lawn, hands at my side, looking up

then down, then all around, as it all falls apart

with me smack dab in the middle. So much

for that goddamn bathtub.