THE ROLE OF THE FAMILY IN RAISING A CHILD

Termez State Pedagogical Institute Primary Education 
Student Of The II stage Ergasheva Mukhlisa Abdulla qizi.

Annotation: This article will talk about the role of children, that is, the foster younger generation, the role of the family in their way of life, the relevance of wise and ardent thoughts in the works of our great ancestors today and the importance of Family Education.
Keywords: Upbringing, child, pedagogy, family education, global, problem, person, organization, Rare works, parent, child, wise words, etc.

Upbringing is the most ancient and eternal value that ensures the humanity of a person. It is considered a practical pedagogical process aimed at the formation of certain physical, mental, moral, spiritual qualities in a person.Upbringing - " Arabic, being a word, means to care, to develop. It includes not only educational work carried out in family, school, children's and youth organizations, but also the entire social system, literature, art, cinema, radio, television, etc., which are its leading ideas. The main hearth of upbringing is the family. 

Today, the prosperity of not only one family, but also every country on planet earth is due to the unquestionable education and upbringing of the peoples living in it. There is no such thing as upbringing that is as influential to humanity and whose needs are transparent. For this reason, from time immemorial, famous Sages wrote valuable thoughts about upbringing and its foci. That is, the role of the family in the upbringing of a child is incomparable and unit. Any step in the family, any change will have a great influence on the consciousness, remembrance of the child, and most importantly, on his upbringing. So upbringing is formed only and again only in the family as the main fondant. Our people have such a wonderful saying: “the bird does what it sees in its nest.” 

Uzbek people the wise people did not utter such purhikmat words in vain. In the family, the child receives upbringing that is necessary for him, vital, which can be a double wing for the rest of his life. How the family is the environment in which it is pleasant, so much so that the child himself appears the fruit of perfection.The pedagogical process in the family, reading, the attitude of the family to history, the future, the heritage of ancestors, the values left by our ancestors, the mentality and traditions of the Uzbek family is also of great importance in upbringing.

Upbringing in the family is considered the budding criterion period of the child's life, its good fruiting, beautiful flowering, the persistence of his future depend on the parent who is the stronghold of the family. It is this shun process that is a very global issue today and is reflected in such basic disciplines as “family pedagogy", ”folk pedagogy", “family education”. 

All such feelings as the future of children, the day after tomorrow, a bright forehead, a sense of loyalty to parents are instilled through upbringing. In which nation,in which country, no matter what planet, any guardians who want to leave a mark on themselves, who want to see tomorrow in their child, who want to know him as an el parent in existence, who leave a mark on himself,without creating a healthy atmosphere in the family, without creating a plan tied to a great.

             In such works as “Pandnoma", “Politnoma", “Qobusnoma" , “moral muhsini", “moral jalaliy”, “moral Nasiri”, “the law of wisdom", “Turkish Gulistan yohud morals”, “Jovidoni Hirad",” upbringing and family relations are reflected in figurative meanings, that is, in these rare works, after commenting on some words and concepts related to morality and upbringing, the reader is provided with meaningful evidence to follow.

In general, the mature ideas put forward in them in their essence have not lost their relevance even today. The reading of works like this in the family, the saying of purhikmat words from the parental language, the fulfillment of actions that motivate upbringing at every step serve as the basis for the strengthening of the family. Chinese sage Syun-Szi says: "babies cry the same everywhere. And when they grow up, they do different things. This is a consequence of upbringing.” Under the influence of these thoughts, it can be understood that children can have the same age, gender, appearance, voices, however, their upbringing, manners, deeds, culture of treatment, their relationship with people will never repeat each other, since families are different with the specific habits, urfs, values and internal disciplines of all of them. Such wise words were uttered by the writers of the ancient world, scientists who expressed their opinion on the topic of upbringing a lot:

•	* German philosopher Immanuel Kant: "a person becomes a person only through upbringing, how he is the result of the upbringing he receives”
•	• The best School of discipline is family.
•	SSMEYLS
•	• The main task of a new family should be the task of raising a person and a grajdan.
•	A.GRAMSHI
•	•The main term and purpose of family life is the upbringing of children. And the main School of child education is the interaction of a husband and wife, parents.
•	V. A. SUKHOMLINSKY
•	• Family upbringing means self-education for parents first of all.
•	N. K. KRUPSKAYA.

 A parent who is the pillar of the family grows a child through very big goals and wants to see good from him. The child is considered a mirror of the family-family environment. At the moment, in today's advanced time, upbringing in the family is also very prosperous as a pedagogical process. Family education has a deep impact on the mental World, feelings and feelings of children in relation to social education. 

Well-known pedagogue A.S.Makarenko noted that upbringing under the age of five is extremely important in the formation of the child's personality. He wrote about this: “the main basis of upbringing comes to an end at the age of five, which means that what you did before the age of five is 90% of the educational process, and further education continues on the basis of re-education.” In this process, it is necessary to be extremely attentive to the upbringing of the child. Most of the child's life passes in the family. Therefore, under the positive influence of existing traditions, traditions, paintings and rituals, the child will gradually mature.

Tradition and ritual are powerful weapons of Family Education. Only if the upbringing of the family is inextricably linked with social education, the expected results can be achieved by the husband-edema. Achieving success in family education is also due to the fact that parents have pedagogical knowledge, experience in family education is alma-shishi, and intense involvement of parents in educational work. Every parent should have a deep understanding of their duties and responsibilities in the upbringing of the family. A Normal family environment, timely involvement of a child in reading books, work is also a guarantee of the success of Family Education.

A child brought up in a family, more or less realizing his rights, reaches school age, and now he becomes a member of society, a small member. In the process, his responsibilities on the shoulder of jajji increase. If the parent first demonstrated his “knowledge” within the family, in the circle of children, now it becomes necessary for the child to be able to check the formation in the neighborhood, at school, in the circle of friends , in the social environment, to be able to apply his knowledge in those conditions. At home, in the structure of the family, an inextricably linked parent now forms a connection with the school and the neighborhood, street-blue, as well as with the comrades of his child. A parent whose child went to school must remain a member of the school team. Both the teacher and the class leader must establish a strong relationship with the family of their student. In family education, cooperation of parents with neighborhood activists, labor veterans is also important. Family upbringing can be successful only if favorable conditions are created for the comprehensive maturation of children. In family education, each family manifests its own characteristics.

In conclusion, we should say that the main object of the family is the child. And the hearth of children's education is the family. Throughout his life, a person seeks to constantly live well, leave a trace of himself, build a meaningful tomorrow, no matter what circumstances. Upbringing is considered the greatest blessing that parents give to a child. No matter how much satisfaction we make Boas grow up with the family, all our spiritual and material assistance will lose its value if we have not been able to educate them more or less. We must be able to realize our inner and outer feelings, which are formed in the process of spiritual education of children, to express that their future is our being. The strength, level of upbringing that we give our children begin to bear fruit as soon as they take a step next to us. 

How many attempts we can never give after our upbringing, which the child could not give when he was in the arms of the same family. 
 In a word, who we are, who we will be tomorrow, in what way we will live life, wear crowns of thanks to our parents, a flash of arrows from every step, a sharp reflection of the nation, El, the people in the spark of those arrows, it all depends on upbringing. After all, we cannot imagine our present day without a family mentality, without the values of the Uzbek people, without their true essence, without upbringing, without traditions that have passed from century to century.

Used literature:
1.	 Karimavi.A., The perfect generation-the foundation of the development of Uzbekistan, T., 1997; Abdulla Avlani, Turkish Gulistan yohud akhlok, T., 1992; Gafbullayev N. R. and other, pedagogy, T., 1999
2.	 R. D. Norkobilova, S. K. Zoirova, B. M. To tajimirzayev. "Near spiritual generation-third Renaissance builders". Journal of Asian Studies in social sciences and humanities. ISSN: 2249-7315 Vol.12, Issue 05, May 2022.
3.	R. D. Norkobilova. "Pedagogical foundations of interdisciplinary communication in the educational process". International Journal of Orange technology. www.journalsresarchparks.org/index.php/IJOT e-ISSN:2615-140|p-ISSN: 2615-7071 volume:02 edition: 10 / Act 2020. 108-111.
4.	R. D. Norkobilova, S. K. Zoirova, B. M. To tajimirzayev. "Near spiritual generation-third Renaissance builders". Journal of Asian Studies in social sciences and humanities. ISSN: 2249-7315 Vol.12, Issue 05, May 2022.
5. R.D.Norkobilova. "Pedagogical basis of interdisciplinary communication in the educational process". International Journal on orange technologies. www.journalsresarchparks.org/index.php/IJOT e-ISSN: 2615-140|p-ISSN:2615-7071 Volume: 02 Issue:10|Act 2020. 108-111.
6. A.Mosurmonova, X.Ibragimova textbook "general pedagogy". Tashkent.:   "House of youth publishing house" 2020.

Why is this on my Timeline?
 
 
I trip down the staircase of corporate medicine, wrestling with red light insomnia, and lace my hiking boots to a Stone Age snare drum. I feel sheer delight as I hang from electric waves, and as the scene fades, a microbe haunts the selection of Nazi memorabilia—then the mic is cut.
Next up is the holy war with a milk carton kid, dancing to the hiss of a desktop computer rattling along a German highway like a fragile toaster.
Beneath a dusty camera lies the picture book trees, the night club vapers, and the TV knives drenched in sand.
The threat of a free press and an hourglass figure, lurks.
Further down are the alien visitors embroiled in slave trade lotto, and letters from the government stinking of bad breath.
In a way, chaos reigns over a grand piano, and the future of a lightbulb sobbing by a hotel window, hangs in the balance. But there’s hope—outside is a carpark teeming with Covid dinosaurs giving blood.
If you search carefully there is a pattern: youths jump through glass and eat cigarette ash, and as the death toll grows, fugitive armies yo-yo through the sickening mist. So, the rules are simple—never venture out of your home without white lines in your pocket, or a mirror and a razor blade, or else ghostly apparitions will want their wallet back.

The Cemetery and the Asylum

A girl named Rachel Sunshine had a birthmark. It smelled of bruised apples under native trees, sinking into the soft earth. Rachel’s gravelly voice carved the sky into cigarettes while her feet were tectonic plates stomping on lost Coke cans.
In The Night Heart Hospital, an asylum for submarine junkies dipped in pots of boiling gum, Rachel flipped coins as ballerinas set eyebrows on fire with Zippo lighters.
Opposite the asylum was a cemetery for dystopian hitchhikers who travelled under buckets of moonbeams with tobacco scars. 
Rachel escaped to the graveyard every new generation, where hipster grandmas knitted pillars of salt and tangled candy floss. Rachel sucked the dirt from her fingernails and then aborted her husband.
Stoic nurses spat jazz and then carried her fake body home, letting her flop into her room where her bedsheets felt like sawdust and wax. 
When Rachel wasn’t dreaming of fashion houses and opera finales, she was staring through a chain-link fence with all her junky soldiers, taking a final look at the fallen regime. 
Why do we fiend for aspartame and girls in windows? asked Rachel. And when can I go back to the source? 
She gazed into a lagging clock and saw ancient hysteria mocking her frustrated mother. It was a simple game of arithmetic: all that mattered was the tinnitus leaping down sand dunes and how the noise arm-wrestled braille into submission.

Television 

Come seek TV wisdom with me and we can blast Noah’s Ark into a brave new world. Let’s fix the leaking pipes in the local skyscraper and spread cash like an aging troubadour. 
A crime channel freezes.
Where have you been? a lady with white eyes asks a deformed detective resting on a bench by the lake.
He says, Take me away from this horror and place me in the real world where water tastes like ginger ale and the trees wear blankets of rain.
On another side, three children play rock, paper, scissors, and explode dark matter with their dreams.
Hold tight, their mother says, we have each other for twenty more minutes and even that is not enough time to dole out lots. 
They cry together as music builds.
An advert appears from the depths of the sea—crawling, creeping, groaning. Ha, ha, ha, it says with satisfaction.
In a small aspect of paradise, nudes lay on boulders as the sea camouflages drag queens and baby powder on a mirror. The smell is putrid.
At night footballers play to the beat of a restless brain, brimming with antipsychotics and chocolate fudge. 
It’s time for bed, the lights go out—but soft cushions and a firm mattress can’t hide the tire tracks of a day’s TV. The blare of the screen from the flat above, watching replays of the shows you saw earlier that day, means you’ll never be able to forget. You’re not sure whether you want to.

The sun’s orb resembled a mosque’s dome rising in the east. Palm-tree columns and smoky columns from burning rubber met a roof of light whose magnitude belittled our delusions of control, Tariq beside the driver, Marwan behind Tariq, James and I on the third seat, the non-English-speaking driver taking an unforeseen route, the usual driver replaced that morning. Instead of charging down the Baghdad-Amman highway we were in the heartland of horror.    

Tariq said: “I’ve got no idea why we’re here.” 

A dead dog’s roadside head, facing away from its paws, epitomised horrid inevitability.

“Imagine,” James said, “if the normal driver wasn't sick.”  

A town rose over asphalt’s converging edges. Palms towered over low buildings. Fast-rising, black-smoke pillars, inexplicably ascending from flaming tyres, evaporated into celestial ambivalence.     

“I think,” Tariq said, “it’s Falluja.”     

Orange flashed in a hole in a fence, gas veins sucked up into permanent annihilation. 

Blue, red, yellow, and green doors, men in white, women in black, people rimmed with light; multicoloured minarets, rusting cars, bleating horns, a long traffic island, criss-crossing pedestrians, honk-bleat, mono-syllable traffic language honking, bleating. 

I gawked through a crack between my window’s curtains, my nose meeting glass. A girl’s ivory corneas slithered with surprise when seeing me. Mica-island dots floated shocked in her eyes’ milky lakes. I thought. Girl–don’t say anything! Why did I stuck my stupid face against this glass!  

She was on the traffic island, a baby in her arms. James drew his curtains. The baby, wrapped in the same fabric the girl was wearing, resembled a reference to an inevitable future, our futures now unclear. We sat in gloom. Metal glittered outside in sharp light.

The girl looked away. My temples ceased pumping. 

“It’s Falluja,” Tariq confirmed. 

War places places on the map by blowing them of it and Falluja was again on the map. 

Traffic lights ahead. Concern fizzed in the lake of hope that desire had excavated in my head. Lights green. We shouldn't have been in Falluja! Who the hell was this driver!?    

“Sometimes,” Tariq added, “the Americans close the highway. Maybe that’s why we’re here?”

The real reason, I feared, was because the driver had masterminded infiltration.      

One by one, cars shot past green. People were on the traffic island beside the road, lights green. Two men’s faces were covered by red scarves, lights green. Thin slits in the scarves sat above the men’s eyes, lights still green. A glimmer appeared where an eye should have been, lights still green. My lake temples boiled. Lights still green. The car ahead of us shot through, lights orange. The driver accelerated. Temple-lake steam thickened. Lights red! The last vehicle through! A gap opened behind us. James hissed: “What are we doing here?” 

“Having fun,” I replied.

Beeping, honking fume-exhaling cars bleated arcane speech. 

We left the main street, houses twenty metres from the road, streets again unpopulated, vision less checked. A swirl disappeared on the lake’s surface where that fizzing had been, newness again attractive, passing jade-coloured minarets like stems of exotic plants, the green bulb between two stems displaying white and yellow tiles beneath blue, green, and gold on the mosque’s walls. The people entering the mosque resembled colourful specimens lured into a wondrous plant.

A tank turret faced us. An armoured vehicle beside the tank. A black soldier’s eyes’ whites–like ivory in ebony–became even more ivory with amazement as our eyes passed, thin glass separating our corneas, his ivories shining astonished in black. 

We were as ignorant as he was as to why we were there. 

“A short cut?” Tariq suggested. 

“The driver must know,” James replied, “what’s happening here?!”

“I hope not,” I said.

Marwan cackled. 

Two tanks, separated by a dirt traffic island, spun and faced us with perfect synchronisation, an armour dance, exoticism obliterating my concern. 

The driver darted onto the island. The tanks brushed past on each side of us, vision blocked by dust. Disappearing dust revealed machine gunners poised to shoot from the tanks’ tops. Eyes, like stagnant pools of coldness, stared down at me; a gun barrel faced my window. No sympathy, intrigue or compassion coloured the machine gunner’s irises. Buoyed by thermals of hot information, I floated in wonder. 

Death happens just like that. 

“This,” James said, “isn’t the highway.”

We returned to paved road. I still felt elated because of those spinning tanks. I had never imagined such bulk being so nimble, wonderful seeing the unimaginable–sometimes.    

Women in blue wearing pink headscarves were whipping black-and-white cows up an incline. Dawn’s violet ringed Earth’s lip. A woman in burgundy-pink apparel emerged from a palm grove. Yellow dates hung under the trees’ boughs like golden eggs under mothering branch arms, colours colliding gorgeously before rainbow horizon bands. Buzzing with gladdened fulfilment, I now didn’t care about the highway. Maybe soon I’ll regret this. But I’m going to love it before I do.

An oil tanker slowed us at a bridge at the Euphrates, morning’s blurred eye reflected with fuzzy palms in the river’s pale-blue glass. Tightening wire-time strapped us in, opposite-direction, bumper-to-bumper drivers observing us like cats observing humanoid chickens, unshaven, sharp, cold, feline faces spouting whiskers, steely curiosity glinting on dark faces. The traffic crawled. Faces stared. The tightening wires snapped on the river's other side when we accelerated, leaving the tanker behind.

We followed the river, relief like cruising at high altitude, men wearing white under palms on the other bank, heads wrapped in red-and-white scarves. The palms’ Bangalore-tube trunks produced green eruptions; worry obliterated by exoticism’s cleansing alleviation. Mosque domes, amid high palms, sparkled with elegant tastefulness. Pleasure and wonderment struck again before the magnitude of Iraq’s tourism potential, like a brilliant future emerging from a troubled past. 

Vehicles, rushing along the distant, umbilical-cord highway, flashed into the horizon, their occupants escaping with fascinating information–and soon we would be joining them.

But the driver, leaving the umbilical cord, joined a queue entering a petrol station, relief disappearing like those smoky columns into an engulfing sky. Our mouths sagged open. He, I thought, dismisses reality! 

Two other queues were waiting. Only people were moving inside the station, cars still, the people inside the cars also still. Only men, with heads covered by scarves, were wandering around–carrying guns! 

James gasped: “Jesus!”  

Tariq, raising his hands, said: “The petrol gauge is almost on FULL.”

His forehead furrowed. 

The gun-carrying men wandered, observing. The station’s roof produced a rhombus of darkness, the highway like false hope disappearing into the horizon. 

My temples simmered, vision sharpening and hazing simultaneously. I now yearned for boredom, for what normal people adore–predictability. What a turnabout in thinking! I had spent all day oscillating around a thin line of difficult-to-sustain, rewarding sensibility, abstractions removed, feeling a purity of emotion like being a part of nature. Now I was feeling too much like a part of nature! Often my mind had sat contented on that line, but you never know how close intolerability will get, and the potentially intolerable–in this unpredictability–was now making dullness attractive. Maybe, I thought, it’s better having a coward’s imagination, for this restricting blessing would be an intelligent restraining device, like morality. 

“Marwan, lay my jacket down,” Tariq said.

The Western jacket screamed against Marwan’s window. Tariq’s left arm, along the back rest of the vehicle’s front seat, exuded pretentious relaxation. Marwan laid the jacket down slowly–no fast movements. James and I drew our curtains slowly, gloom our only protection. Only our eyes shifted in our still heads. 

I hissed: “If something happens, and I survive, I won’t be responsible for my behaviour.” 

My lips hardly moved.

I was referring to the driver’s mutilation at my hands. He was risking our lives for cheap petrol, Jordan much more expensive than Iraq, risking death to make quick bucks–assuming he even knew the risks existed!

The armed men stared, James’s left-right-then-back-again eyes glinting, his head still. Subdued amazement smeared his stony face. Stacked-up seconds battled to break through uncertainty’s barrier. 

James hissed: “Idiot!”

Who was this driver? Nobody can be trusted here! Everyone could be a killer! Especially him! 

Speculation swayed my mind, howling possibilities creating blustery cerebral clashes, everything focussed down tight, like staring into wide-lens binoculars. 

Tariq, gesturing, expressed: Another place? The driver waved this off, shaking his head, the driver client and supplier simultaneously–a new venture in business practise.

“Just when I thought we’d made it,” I said, “we get a trendsetter in exotic business practices! We’re paying him! He’s supposed to be doing what we want!”

James groaned. One of those scarf-hidden faces filmed before Arabic slogans–groomed to heighten martyrdom’s mounting mountain–knocked on the driver’s window, the “martyr” clutching an AK-47! That gun, with its bony metal braces, resembled a steel skeleton, a cold, bony instrument of annihilation creating cold, bony skeletons. 

Molecules, previously unknown, swum up my veins. They felt like the transparent blue spheres of deep-sea creatures. Now I understood terror. The spheres shrunk my ego, sucked, by foul information, into nothingness. My name was supposed to get etched into history’s bedrock through my unusual experience. Because I was supposed to live long enough for this to happen, my possible impending death attained the sad grandeur of tragedy–at least to me. Dying prematurely, without my "vast potential" getting itself realised, smashed all other considerations as I plunged into microscopic insignificance.    

The driver’s window fell. James whisper-hissed “Idiot!” like steam escaping from a crack in a pipe, Head Scarf Head persistent with inquiry–a head full of what? Eyes gleamed in the split in the scarf that covered Head Scarf Head’s face. The only visible part of his body were those gleams, James mumbling: “Gawd…” Chemicals swirled like one of those black smoky columns from my feet to my temples, a coiling dread-snake slithering around my heart, squeezing it, Head Scarf Head, of machinegun Arabic, splattering words, driver hands rising exasperated, Tariq staring straight ahead, Head Scarf Head facing Tariq, chemicals sweeping from my feet through my legs and exploding in my head. We resembled street entertainers specialised in immobility. The driver’s hands and head shook again before he tossed them up with recondite annoyance. Was a deal involving us now off? 

The driver grabbed the steering wheel. We reversed, swinging around. Then: hollow swat, tight-drum-skin boooom….our roulette-wheel eyes spun, dumb-surprise gapes…A round?....Tariq said: “He was trying to buy petrol! And a car backfired!” We yelled: “A car backfiring!!” The van shot past the burnt skeleton of an upturned bus that resembled the fossil of a creature that had withered aeons before, our Nile-relief laughter flowing amid parched earth. 

“Petrol!” the vehicle streaming down the highway. “A car backfiring! Haaaaa!”

We cruised under heavenly vastness. The space now had the levitating beauty of a precious gift. A gigantic horizon rimmed the desert. Relief loosened our limbs. Our heads lolled between wakefulness and sleep. Glinting-dot traffic, a moving diamond necklace, fell over the earth’s edge. The speck of the most distant vehicle glinted where hazy barrenness met gargantuan heavens. 

Pylons, twisted into frozen-melt falls by air attacks, lined the road. 

James, who real name was Jamal, said: “I’m now worried about my visa.”

He smiled self-deprecatorily. He was Indian. He didn’t have a visa for Jordan. 

“You really would be worried,” I replied, “if they shot people for false entry.”

Half-melted pylons disappeared and reappeared behind his grinning face. The road narrowed where buildings, like ivory nuggets at the base of an enormous sapphire dome, dotted the horizon. Those buildings possessed for James a significance that disassociated them from the past, James’s present expanding, future contracting, nuggets expanding. We shot straight at them.

A goat herd throbbed like a moving black carpet. The driver pulled into a petrol station. The carpet halted besides the station’s paved surface, the border just ahead. The driver removed plastic containers from the vehicle’s boot. 

The goat herder filled a bucket with water so his goats could drink. The orderly way the goats took turns to drink unconsciously mocked human greed. 

The driver filled his containers with petrol. We stretched our legs. 

“He loves petrol,” James said.

“Imagine if the Jordanians confiscate it all,” I replied.

“They might,” James said.

“He’d go crazy.”

“He already is.”

Between two border fences was a refugee camp of tents bordered off by barbed wire. Women wearing overcoats and headscarves moved between the tents, their fabrics shimmering like precious stones against tent whiteness. The camp was divorced from normal chronology. You could feel it; it wasn’t just a staging post between more fluid physical states, but an incident freeze that fate had absorbed into the giant-backdrop sky. Time in that camp had geological scales. 

“Refused entry,” James said, referring to the refugees. 

We passed the first fence, stopping beside a hut. The driver asked for our passports. James wanted to get out. He leant forward, hands on the top of the facing backrest. His nose almost touched the backrest. There wasn’t a door adjacent to our seat.

“Don’t worry,” Marwan said. “The driver will take care of it.”

Marwan’s unflustered casualness suggested destiny was in the hands of Almighty Good. 

The driver entered the hut with our passports.

“Please!” James insisted.

James believed his destiny was in the hands of Almighty Earthly Influence. 

“It’ll be alright,” Marwan said.

“Please,” James continued. “I really have to get out.”

Marwan let James out. James raced into the hut, clutching a letter from the Indian ambassador obtained through a family connection. I followed him into the hut’s gloom. A man shrouded in half-light behind a desk looked stripped of sentiment. A fan swished. A map of Jordan covered a wall. The man was studying James’s passport. 

James said: “Excuse me sir, I’ve got a letter from the Indian ambassador.”

The man read the letter. He was formal, but relaxed, eyes solid with concentration. His facial expression didn’t change. 

He said: “I’ll fax the letter to the authorities in Amman for verification.”

“Thank you,” James replied. 

“How long are you intending to stay?” the man asked.

“Two days,” James replied. “I’ve got a flight from Amman to Madrid.”

“Can you show me the ticket, please?”

James dashed back to the vehicle, relieved his destiny had returned to his mitts. We were too rational to believe in universal protection–hence we had rational fear. James had a long stride for a short man; he used it to the full while returning to the hut, stretching out with the purposeful enthusiasm controlling fate induces. The letter was in the fax machine. The man studied the airline ticket; then said: “Thanks.”

The fax machine fell silent, the fan humming like summer lethargy.

“It’ll take a few minutes,” the man said. 

The driver, drinking tea beside the fax machine, possessed the inoffensive distance of one pursuing vital business. Being in the oil business makes all other activities irrelevant as any oil man can tell you.

The black moustache on a man in a white ensemble on a chair outside the hut contrasted vividly with his apparel, his red headscarf lurid against the hut’s whiteness. Smoking a shisha, he was as sedate as the desert. James paced around in front of him. The curious, non-judgemental pipe smoker observed the pacing James, fretting foreign to the pipe smoker as terror had been to me only hours before.  

James, hearing the fax machine, dashed back into the hut. The immigration officer, studying the response, remained mysteriously impassive. Concern's leaf-structure pang sprang inside James’s head–or, at least, it appeared that way to me. The immigration officer’s distance was joyless, no desire to help or hinder.    

He picked up a stamp, silence engulfing fan humming. Light from the door left the man’s eyes aglow with lifeless sparkles as if the hut’s gloom had drained those irises of enthusiasm; repressed intransigence could have ignited into something regrettable had any false moves been made by James who observed the stamp with that look that dogs have when they suspect that their food bowls could be filled. The threat the bureaucrat offered to Jamal’s immediate future altered Jamal’s perception of time, trapping him in refugee-camp abeyance, feeling he could have ended up in that camp, separated from progress.

Fear gushed out of him when the stamp struck his passport. The wheels I had imagined spinning in his temples stopped as his stamped passport re-entered his hands. The refreshing light he drifted back out into made things look younger.                                               

In the vehicle, we headed towards another white building where men in blue uniforms were waiting for us. James’s head fell against our seat’s backrest. He glanced out a side window. A self-absorbed disassociation from possibility left him incurious with contentment. The uniformed men’s black moustaches made hairy crescents upon their faces. 

We had to get out with our possessions, the driver instructed to place his vehicle over a rectangular hole. A man entered the hole through a door. A metal detector swept over the vehicle’s underside. 

Was the driver making Molotov-cocktails? I imagined the man in the hole discovering bottles pasted to the vehicle’s underside.

“He’s just seen Molotov cocktails,” I said.

James hid his amusement. 

“He combines driving,” I said, “with Molotov-cocktail manufacturing.”

Marwan and Tariq were asked to enter another hut with the documents and disks they had brought with them from Iraq, Tariq walking head down like a condemned man. Bureaucracy emerges from the territorial instinct. Everyone unknown entering a new space is suspicious until proven otherwise, the more important the space, in the minds of the occupiers, the greater the suspicion.

Tariq conjured up worst-case possibilities. Bureaucracy does that to consciousness, especially as he had to say–exactly–what was on the disks.

“You don’t know?” he heard.

“Only generally,” he replied.

“Generally–what do you know?”

“It must be information about our projects in Iraq.”

“And what projects are they?”

He explained.

“Okay. Wait outside, please.”

Tariq paced around, staring at the hut, terror now distant, like it had occurred to someone he once knew, who now faced paedophilia or planning-terrorism charges, torture and beheading again things that only occurred to others, circumstance elevating or relegating experience with subjective shuffles.

The driver’s hands flew in response to questions about the petrol filling his boot, his vehicle a powder keg. The immigration officer, concerned about a blaze on the road to Amman, listening with pleasant reasonableness, found the driver curious for the driver exuded a disarming oblivion that made the driver look harmless. With spirited determination, the driver convinced the officer that a rear full of petrol wasn’t dangerous, driver hands describing circles, Tariq staring, pacing, stopping, pacing, repeating: “Nawful–what did you put on those disks!?”    

“Don’t worry,” Marwan said.

Marwan breathed calmness. He and Tariq had prayed together in Nawful's house in Baghdad that morning. I had reached a conclusion: Only Marwan was a consistent follower of eternal optimism. 

We had to put our luggage through an X-ray machine. A conveyor belt entered a grey, metal box. Vents lined the box, other people ahead of us in a queue. 

A television monitor sat before a security officer’s face. The solid objects in other people’s bags made schematic representations of reality on a screen. Security is now big business, money made by creating schematic representations of reality in the minds of TV viewers, terrorism, like an oil field requiring exploitation, power’s latest money-making scheme. 

I relaxed until seeing a black plaque on the machine’s side. Crosses lay over a sign showing film. Tariq was still staring at the hut. I felt he had little to worry about: his staff would have been careful about what they had put on those disks. But it still didn’t stop him from staring.

“Don’t worry,” Marwan repeated. 

I raced to the other side of the machine. My backpack was moving on the conveyor belt towards the X-rays. I removed the film from my bag. The security officer confirmed my suspicions by saying: “Good idea.” I put my backpack back onto the belt. Bending over, I studied the vents inside the machine, trying to convince myself that the rays started past where my backpack had been. I couldn’t determine anything definitive because the purpose of the vents was unclear. Niggling fear arose–a great loss might have occurred! Dread smothered me. I may have lost photographs of a unique phase in history, radiation possibly having obliterated a “glorious” past. And what is death–total obliteration! And now, not directly confronted by real obliteration, I had become sensitive to trivialities, the ego smashing perspective, things swollen by narrowness. My photographs may have been destroyed! My very being may have been compromised! 

Tariq, still facing the White Hut of Fate, hands on head, muttered: “Nawful–what did you put on those disks!?” That hut had become a place of grave import in Tariq’s imagination, like a Versailles or a Reichstag, where he felt his future was being decided.

“It’ll be alright,” Marwan calmly insisted.

Tariq’s tight face quivered. I studied those vents. James looked around like a satisfied visitor. He had his visa. I needed evidence to sustain a desired view that had achieved monumental importance. I now had to endure a frustrating wait to discover if X-rays had obliterated a dramatic part of my past. I chastised myself for having been lax. I hadn’t controlled destiny when I should have. What an idiot I was! The fact that I had possibly survived being murdered now wasn’t enough for Fate’s goalposts had moved.  

A policeman appeared with Tariq’s disks. Tariq’s temples, if his eyes were any indication, seemed to throb like frogs’ cheeks.

“Here,” the policeman said. “Have a good trip.”

Boyish glints appeared in Tariq’s eyes. 

“See,” Marwan said. 

Marwan knew what follows death. He had it clearer than anyone I’d ever met, like a pebble of unbreakable consciousness washed smooth by belief’s caressing waves.                                          

“What a relief,” Tariq said.

I hoped to say the same after picking up my developed films; anything could bother me because permanent annihilation was for me the likeliest end, fretting hence inevitable when ideal illusions of destiny got hit.

I breathed again after collecting the undamaged developed films. That happened as two Americans got hung on that bridge near Falluja. I wondered who the driver had been.

Feeling truly lucky lifted me with volcanic grace as it should have when the Jordanians were checking us out. 


THE END

April 26 is the birthday of the People's Poet of Uzbekistan,  Muhammad Yusuf. In this regard, various activities are being organized throughout the republic. Critics and creators are publishing articles on the work of Muhammad Yusuf in the press.

The People's Poet of Uzbekistan, Muhammad Yusuf was born in 1954 in Andijan region in a peasant family. He studied at the Institute of Russian Language and Literature (now the University of World Languages) in Tashkent. He served in the Republican Society of Book Lovers, the newspaper "Tashkent Aqshomi", the Publishing House of Literature and Art named after Gafur Ghulam, the magazine "Tafakkur" and the newspaper "Voice of Uzbekistan". After studying at the Academy of Public Administration under the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan, he spent f
1998 to the end of his life in the Union of Writers of Uzbekistan.

His "Sleeping girl", "We will be happy", "I will take to heaven", "Ulugimsan, Watanim" and other poetic collections have become a golden heritage of Uzbek literature.

MUHAMMAD YUSUF
     ( Poems) 

There are many books that you love to read.
Dreams are one world, the world is narrow to it,
Tolei-happiness is good luck,
The singer of my country - MUHAMMAD YUSUF!

My Uzbeg, introduce my people,
Sometimes to the desert, sometimes to the flood,
Why?
MUHAMMAD YUSUF is the pride of Uzbeks!


Surkhondarya region
The city of Termiz
Adiba Pardabayeva 

Pardaboyeva Adiba Shuxrat kizi

Nukus State Pedagogical Institute, Faculty of Uzbek Language and Literature, 1st- year student, member of the scientific girls’ community “Kizlarjon” and the participant of the “Unity forum”

Pardabayeva Adiba Shukhrat qizi was born on September 4, 2003,  into the family of a businessman. She lives on A. Nabiyev street, Khojango MFY, Angor district, Surkhondarya region.

In 2010, she was admitted to the 1st grade at the primary school N3, situated in the district of Angor Surkhandarya region.  She actively participated as a screenwriter and presenter in the cultural and educational events held during the study period and became an example to her peers as she was active in public affairs. At school, she differentiated herself from other pupils with her hard work and interest in books as well as her talent in various other fields.
In 2017, she took part in the district stage of the “Knowledge Competition”  in the subject of the French language.  In 2019, she graduated from school with excellent marks.

That year, she was admitted to the academic lyceum of the Termez State University in the field of social and humanitarian sciences.
As a result, she mastered history, English, her mother tongue, and literature with excellent marks. During her studies, she was active in various activities and public affairs and became the winner of many competitions held at the lyceum

For example:

The winner of the nomination for “The most talented student”,

The winner of the “Highly Spiritual Generation” essay writing contest.

– 1st place in the “Orasta girls” audition contest (2020).Winner of the “Most Talented Student” nomination.

– The winner of the “Highly Spiritual Generation” essay writing competition,

– She took the proud 1st place in the “Orasta girls” audition contest (2020).

In 2020, she finished college honorably and was awarded a diploma from Terdu Academic Lyceum. Additionally, she is also the recipient of internationally acknowledged awards such as
The Certificate of THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH, LEARNING FOR SUSTAINABILITY SCOTLAND AND BRITISH COUNCIL,
Organizational member of Quality council India- QCI NATIONAL HUMAN RIGHTS AND HUMANITARIAN FEDERATION of India.

With an insatiable thirst for knowledge,
she has never stopped working on herself and trying to strengthen her knowledge constantly.
Moreover, she became a member of many forums and won the heart of a lot of teachers as a young girl who is willing to get more and more knowledge. She actively participated in different conferences, trainings, and events organized by the writers’ association and attracted their attention with her skills.
In 2019-2020, she studied at TerDu Academic Lyceum in Termiz. In 2021, she graduated from the “Yosh Jumalists School” in Tashkent.

Adiba actively took part in more than 80 district and regional contests and forums. Her first book was published in the 9th grade under the name of  “Kongil Gunchalari.” Her poems are included in the poetry collection “Sparks of Hope.” Her poems were published and still being published  in the press and newspapers. She was a reporter and presenter in several TV shows. To make a count of her achievements, there is no way but to stop to pay attention to the following:
Adiba Rainbow stars”-2017,
“Captain of the year”
The most active captain”,
“The best reader”,  the awarder of  the 1st degree diploma in essay writing in the competition titled: “We are against oppression”.
Her poems were well appreciated by the philologists of the Republic, and she won the “Two Great Figures” competition. She has achieved a number of achievements in the field of creativity. In 2021, she was awarded a certificate by Amirkhan Umarov. She is a participant in the Unity Forum. Currently, she is a student of the Uzbek language and literature department of the pedagogical Institute of Nukus.  She is a natural learner and an exemplary girl.
Her aspirations and interests are very high. From a very young age, her  interest in poetry began.
In the near future, Adiba’s next collection is expected to be released in cooperation with the Double Wing Foundation of the Republic of Kazakhstan.
In the future, a capable and knowledgeable Adiba has a desire to learn the Turkish and English languages.
Her dream is to study abroad on a grand basis and become the winner of the state award named after Zulfiya. We wish our young poetess good luck in her future dreams and goals.

Pardabayeva Adiba is pure, loyal to the ideas of the national ideology, embodies a high sense of patriotism, philanthropy, self-sacrifice and hard work on the basis of national spirituality.
She is a real Uzbek girl whom we might recognize as an example to others proudly and as a young exemplary girl who can do her favor to help her motherland flourish.

smitten

I’m flying above the clouds,
eyes closed and arms expanded;
I’m laughing like an idiot
with my chest about to burst
and I wonder if you feel the same,
every time my name appears
on your screen.
I wonder if I’ve put a smile
to your lips
as you have done to
mine.
I hope that your
friend across from you
teases you for your
stupid, smitten
face
and I hope that you
say my name.

say that I’m
yours,
say that you’re
mine.

gumdrop

why don’t we try something different?
you know very well how it feels to have me
like a gumdrop in your hand
or between your teeth
why don’t you get to know how it is
to truly taste me?

damn the critics who’ve rotten
your innocence,
making you believe such saccharine
bliss could never exist
without its own health complications

i suppose if diabetes runs in your family
as it does in mine
it’s best to be wary of the thoughtless, uncontrollable
consumption of delectable confections
but one gumdrop wouldn’t hurt you

now, watch as I do and place
your gumdrop against the cushion of your lips
smooth edged and firm
now, take it in with a pop as if it were
a pill– don’t swallow though

sink your teeth deep into it
and taste what it truly feels to have something
forever irrevocably yours
for I am endlessly longing to be
either on your hand or between your teeth
all I ask is for you
to cherish me

now you know

if you place a rose
and let it bloom in the sky,
it means that she wonders
about your touch–
traces of lemon
(spunk),
of blueberry
(charm),
and of strawberry
(mirth).

if you don a daffodil
and let it smile on your chest,
it means that she’s given
you a second chance–
accents of dew
(clarity),
of rose quartz
(healing),
and of olive
(forgiveness).

but if you leave an orchid
in a cardigan’s pocket
it means she has
left–
notes of pining
(for gazes unmet across crowded rooms),
of hoping
(on the accidental brush of shoulders or skin),
and of regretting
(to have done something to preserve it)

if you’re left with a flower
slowly slipping from your grasp, it means you have lost
what can never be found
 again

if you didn’t understand this before
well,
 now you know

Back (as though) //not//colour


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or          ▲▲            so

             

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....................................................
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Nathan Anderson is a poet and artist from Mongarlowe, Australia. He is the author of numerous books and has had work appear widely both online and in print. He is a member of the C22 experimental writing collective. You can find him at nathanandersonwriting.home.blog or on Twitter @NJApoetry.

SPIRITUAL HERITAGE OF ABDULLA QADIRI

Valijonova is the daughter of Nigora Bakhtiyar
In the city of Namangan, Namangan region

Abstract. In the article, the creativity of Abdula Qadiri, one of the factors that raise the morale of the reader in the work "The Past Days" was devoted to the analysis of the pictures aimed at developing reading.

The author also noted that the role of reading literary works in instilling the love of literature and national and universal values in the minds of the young generation is incomparable
Key words: Spirituality, reading, reading, creativity, healthy environment

Literature is an endless ocean, it knows no boundaries. Along with many great personalities, small amateurs also create in it. Only some of the creators make a radical change in literature, update it. One of such geniuses is undoubtedly Abdulla Qadiri.With his works, he contributed to the spiritual development of the peoples of not only Uzbekistan, but also Turkestan.

Honor, honesty and truthfulness are one of the main principles of the life of Abdulla Qadiri, because the talent gifted by nature combined with true Uzbek hard work, his pen created works that will not become obsolete for centuries. 

His works are of special importance in the formation of the spiritual world of every student. The characters of Otabek, Kumush, Yusufbek Haji, Mirzakarim Kutidor created by him strengthen the feeling of appreciation of positive qualities in people. Although the author states with his own language that "the power of the pen is weak for the image...", the goodness expressed in the words in the process of reading the work cleanses the human soul.The example of Kumush's parents shows a truly healthy family atmosphere typical of the Uzbek nation, which is rarely found in works.  Mirzakarim answers to the suitors who came from Otabek: "I would consider myself one of the luckiest fathers if I could have the honor of making a boy like Otabek, but everything is up to me." There is also a woman who is not in lim, but in the meantime she is breastfed..." the box worker's wife advises the mother of the sun.Look how beautiful the environment is in this family. This one word, said by Kutidar, shows mutual solidarity and respect in the family. Every father who reads the work reflects, maybe some of them take an example, and the mother who reads the work appreciates the author's understanding and image skills. 

Why is this work so popular?

"Abdullah Qadiri's works raise the morale of the student," we say. The content of meaning and the range of expressive language of the work "O'tkan kunlar" created by him is extremely wide. While reading this work, the writer as an intelligent person motivates the students to read the book.  The reader who first read Fuzuli's words from the Otabek language, "You should read Fuzuli carefully", in addition to Kumush's "Fuzuli is a good book, I couldn't take my head off this book when I was alone..." not knowing what kind of artist he is or the "taste" of his poems it is possible, but it is clear that there will be interest in Fuzuli and his work. For some readers, it is a reason to get acquainted with Fuzuli's work. In the work, it is stated that Otabek was busy reading not only Fuzuli, but also such a magnificent work as "Baburnoma": “…Hasanali got dressed from his room and went to Otabek. Otabek was busy with the fabric "Boburnoma."

What aspects of Fuzuli's book and "Boburnoma" fascinated Otabek. Adib wanted to show that his hero has matured to the level of "a young man worthy of a Khan's daughter" by reading books and receiving spiritual nourishment from them.In a certain sense, the writer promoted book reading among the people. He skillfully describes how interesting and enjoyable the process of reading a book is, during which the reader forgets his sufferings and life's worries for a moment:."After the evening prayer, Otabek is in the mood to get rid of his marital worries, he sits by the oil pan and takes Fuzuli Divan in his hand. For some reason, he had "a feeling of depression for some tragedy." When a person is in pain, he tries to do some things involuntarily, not willingly. He also devoted himself to the reading of Fuzuli seriously," he said, noting that reading the book not only gives a person spiritual nourishment, but also helps to forget life's worries and depression for a while.

One of the main factors that extended the life of "Days of the past" as a work of art, and gained value in the eyes of current fans, is the presence of artistic visual tools that encourage the reader to think and observe, as well as encourage his people to read the book. it is no exaggeration to say that there are exhorting and promoting aspects.

List of used literature
1. Abdullah Qadiri. Past days. Tashkent "Sparks of Literature" 2018
2. Khurshid Dostmuhammad. Creativity is the enlightenment of the soul. Tashkent. "Classical word" 2011.