Today, in order to develop the social importance of women in all fields of science and culture, a number of activities are being carried out.
In particular, several funds are being established to support women and girls.
An open election for the coordination of “Girls’ Voice” has been announced in all regions of the republic, and thus the problems and suggestions of regional girls are being studied.
In addition, the number of girls entering higher education institutions is increasing.
A number of opportunities are being created for girls who suffer from social conditions, are married and have children.
In particular, if a certain amount of their contract money is needed, all the amount is covered by the state.
Earlier, our wives and daughters studied only in pedagogy and medicine, but today they work in sports, construction, law, industry, department and even Ministerial positions.
If we look at world statistics, the social role of women and girls is active in developed countries, and on the contrary, the social role of women and girls is low in underdeveloped countries.
In the Republic of Uzbekistan, the establishment of the Zulfiya state award indicates how much attention is paid to our women and girls.
For example: Tanzilla Narbayeva is the chairman of the Senate of the Oliy Majlis, the president of the Cycling Federation of Uzbekistan, Sahkhnaza Joldasova is the chairman of the Youth Parliament under the Legislative Chamber of the Oliy Majlis, Marjana Jorakulova is the chairman of the Republican “Council of Young Professionals”.
Loans and subsidies in the amount of two trillion soums were allocated to more than 200 thousand projects and employment of more than 320 thousand women and girls was provided.
2,000 girls were admitted to higher education on the basis of a grant, and 190,000 women were trained in professions.
The “Business Women” program for 2022-2024 was adopted.
In particular, a project to support the education of women and girls will be developed for 2022-2026.
These indicators alone show how important our women and girls are in Uzbekistan.
Tanzilla Narbayeva is the chairman of the Senate of the Oliy Majlis , the president of the Cycling Federation of Uzbekistan.Shakhnaza Joldasova is the chairman of the Youth Parliament under the Legislative Chamber of the Oliy Majlis.Marjana Jorakulova is the chairman of the Republic’s Council of Young Professionals
Article is byKarakalpak State University named after Berdak, Faculty of Biology, 1st year student Atajanova Ogultuvak Magsat kizi.
Terrorists Ukrainian
So Vladimir has started a war,
A move the world will abhor,
Yet he is the one responsible—
War, war, war—
Homes, apartments, hospitals, stores
All destroyed,
Thousands killed—elderly,
Women, children,
Whole families—
Ukrainian culture
Devastated
By Russian soldiers
Impressed into service
In a war they hate.
Yet when a drone is suspected
Of trying to assassinate Vlad—
That’s Vlad the Mastermind,
Vlad the Murderer—
He cries “TERRORISTS!”
The Horror!
To think
Anyone would seek revenge
For his multitude of
War Crimes,
As he sits comfortable
In his Kremlin office,
Smirk of satisfaction
Gratifying his murderous face!
The Sun Also Swallows
Daily life—waking, sleeping, eating, cleaning,
walking, driving, learning, playing,
loving--etc!
This is how our time is spent,
Born to the Earth, growing up,
Filling our days with tedium,
With excitement,
Until time is up, and we move on.
Yet this mundane saga
Of our own self-importance
Is paralleled, overshadowed,
Dwarfed even—
By science!
Today’s paper told of a RED GIANT,
A star in the far reaches
Of our universe,
For countless years
Grown larger,
And larger,
Until one day
It swallowed—
Yes, that’s the word used—
SWALLOWED--
A nearby planet.
Thus today, as I bask lazily
In our sun’s warmth,
Must always be the thought
That our sun
Will one day do the same—
SWALLOW the Earth
That we love.
Do I want to wait the 5 billion years
To see it happen?
Pricing Out
cream detachment
heard a blast within
the many
and
another antic
gone
disaster commandeering
reveals
a digital scribble racket
*
dark songs
measured loose bits
as sacred
deeper, prescient
of swollen definition
more ale along the water bars
flavor bursts
replenish filched steel
Invigorating the spat
unlike no
*
the bars crack shut
their sea against marriage
roaming acclamations
across the surging gape
against
the chronically nostalgic
as place
colors
drift
no profit comes stainless
Cognitive Flight in the Day Cart
ontological waters
ear from a mattress sea
bubbling rise singing
postulate shaft zero
in monochord plan
bookmark prophecy cautious
of the weary regret
her delay cold vibrations
bleed
the scratched
feats precious militia culpas
parroting
the sound of wringer memories
rotor
torment supple slavering wings
turn the commissioned jitney
his lost waters punctuating rubric
plastered cigars
numbing forklift patterns
dark and strong
every supposition doorway
requires a widening alcove
the slump no victory
*
a speechless pent
scripted percussive exchanging
tidal ratcheting reflects
mitosis beans with membranes
along the garbanzo torn
with age laundering
the mashed clasp margins
stemming
rank turn juices
the cavernous claims clunk and scratch
the discerning frenzy installation
desecrated scattered truths
the roving self escaped pleasures
Christmas Spirited
vocalist workbench climb
bearded the somnolent hydrant
its fin stain
a wireless vacancy
morbid curls
motoring the gray inscription
portable volume gone menu
a past among therm
fetal homecoming revenue
manipulated
breath pageants
(the ravenous breathe frequency mustard)
*
a stateroom glower
from past celebrant
boiled the dreamer
the
delivering shaver
curriculum
palette temples
to spite swallowers
only one getaway fired
repentance scoreboard a facet achievement
the hinterlands
a predicated nostrum
glimpsing
a roast metallurgist
cackle before disparity
a spectral typescript
dreamers ration
Current Events Downstream
cornered eyeballs
lost their mimetic vibrations
torn without swords
traffic vibrations transformed
atonal hamlets
while masked
the raisin hippies outlined
galloping rejection
its repression invisibly dentist
a pawned handbag
spilled their watercourse keep
iteration punctuating
a dead period darkening ooze
nitrous eyeballs
burnt a lava memorial forward
old crease brickading
darkened the stalkers
dipping the bloodbath
a weary mist welled
scattered stapled trickles
retrofit removed the newsman
A Lost Season Coming Back
a sinking dock set flagons
steaming a leftward transit
lashed a nascent horsewhip
a fresco malfunction churning
fountains toward ruder color
turns the next night cautious
conjecture burns rumination
greatest hit payola memories
the jerk admonished to wait
silent over a nominal milestone
stowed a disconsolate elastic
in the ebb vat last welled out
fruition spinning from stucco
in dribbles traces their tingle
rudiments to fanlight colanders
spread through riot repression
an empty grip let bandwidth
ripple equinox emerges angry
tips the ether bottles round
billiard asset cruises a sleek
atrium habitat infernal meter
glints a habit lost to vacuum
simulacra subsidy scatters
skin play’s tingling symbols
BIOVernon Frazer’s latest poetry collection is Memo from Alamut.
The Graves of Heroes and Villains
On my weekend vacation to Chicago, I revisited the graves of labor activists and leaders I've long admired, as well as the graves of two genuine, absolute monsters.
On the hero side: the Haymarket Martyrs', Emma Goldman, Lucy Parsons, and all the other socialists, communists, anarchists, unionists, and other leftists buried in Forest Home Cemetery.
On the villain side: Allan Pinkerton and George Pullman - the mercenary and the industrialist, whose actions and power decimated the poor and working class during their eras, buried in Graceland Cemetery.
(Additionally, I also visited the grave of famous boxer Jack Johnson, and returned to the grave of Augustus Dickens, brother of Charles Dickens.)
I remember part of a conversation I had with a Grand Rapids comedian on my podcast awhile back, where we basically agreed that leftists generally care more about their comrades - living and dead - than reactionaries do.
Today, and yesterdays, grave visits reminded me of how right we were.
The graves and monuments on Forest Home's "Radicals Row" are visited often, and are abound with tokens of respect, remembrance, and Love - flowers, coins, buttons, handwritten personal
messages, and sometimes even discarded employee I.D.'s!
There have been numerous gatherings, lectures, vigils, and even concerts in this area!
People not only want to visit these comrades, they feel like they NEED to come here.
They need to honor those who have passed, those that are struggling now, those who will join the fight in the future, and to honor themselves - to know that their lives are not futile.
Pinkerton and Pullman's graves, on the other hand, show no such signs of visitations and affection.
Parts of Pinkerton's grave, along with his family members, and agents who I guess were deemed worthy enough to be buried next to their boss, are so washed out now that you can barely make out some of the inscriptions.
His grave had to be guarded 24/7 for some time after he passed because it was feared that the various peoples his organization oppressed, beaten, and murdered would dig him up and fuck with his
corpse.
You don't see the FBI, CIA, or other intelligence and "security" agencies coming by to pay respects to Allan's plot, even though they descend from his organization.
Other than being known as historical, strike-breaking, union busting thugs, the only real time you hear of the Pinkerton's these days is when they're suing games companies like Rockstar for
defaming their image by making them the bad guys in their games, or bands like Weezer for apparently infringing on their trademarks by titling one of their two great albums after a opera character who shares the same name.
What a shitty legacy to have.
(NOTE: this poem is largely made up of a Facebook post I made of this visit, and the best comment I got was "Pinkerton's went after Arthur Morgan too I’ll never forget")
Pullman's grave is much better off, but then you remember that he had his lead casket encased in cement, steel rails, and even MORE cement, because he feared the workers he exploited and attacked would still be so pissed at him that, after he took a dirt nap, they would dig him up and fuck with his corpse.
You won't ever see corporate maniacs like Musk or Bezos leaving flowers on Pullman's grave, despite their thought processes and business tactics descending from scumbags like him.
You won't see your typical small business tyrant looking up to Pullman as a hero, even though they have the same desire to control their workers, as well as their communities if it'll help them fill their pockets.
And you certainly won't see these sigma grindset, alpha male motivational influencers cite Pullman as someone to emulate - and you can be sure these huskers have NEVER even heard of him - even though they share the same fiery motivation to be looked upon as capitalist deities.
What a REALLY shitty legacy to have.
TLDR: if you gain money and power by fucking over people, you won't be honored nor remembered, even by those whose emulate your actions in the far future.
If you try to help mankind, even if you die early, penniless, and in pain, you will be honored, remembered, and Loved by those who continue the fight.
Keep that in mind.
(FINAL NOTE: Jack Johnson's grave was adorned with flowers, coins, and cigarettes, and Augustus Dickens had nothing, because who's gonna remember Charles Dickens brother other than literary nerds like me?)
Garret Schuelke is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), WHUP JAMBOREE: STORIES (Elmblad Media Group), and ANAMAKEE (Riot Forge Studios). He hosts The Garret Schuelke Podcast, and makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory. He currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and can be found on Twitter: @garretschuelke
Garret Schuelke is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), WHUP JAMBOREE: STORIES (Elmblad Media Group), and ANAMAKEE (Riot Forge Studios). He hosts The Garret Schuelke Podcast, and makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory. He currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and can be found on Twitter: @garretschuelke
STAND YOUR GROUND
When everyone is armed, we will be safe.
No crime. No problems. That’s the Promised Land.
So now we’re armed and strong on “self defense.”
We stockpile pistols, shotguns, rifles, air guns,
submachine guns, even AR-15s.
From coast to coast, we watch the bullets fly.
North Carolina—here’s a six-year-old
playing basketball. It bounces wide,
and into someone’s yard. Guy charges out--
he shoots her, and her frantic mom and dad.
“I told you kids stay off my frickin’ lawn!”
When everyone is armed, we will be safe.
Missouri, now, a teen-aged honor student,
comes to get his twin. He rings the doorbell.
Wrong door opens. Fearful man inside
shoots him in the face. No questions asked.
When everyone is armed, we will be safe—
unless you’re black, and knock on the wrong door.
Upstate New York has mazes of back roads.
A young girl, 20, looking for a house,
pulls into a likely driveway, hopes it’s right.
The homeowner’s irate. He shoots her dead.
When everyone is armed, we will be safe—
unless you’re searching for an obscure address.
New Mexico cops. Domestic violence call.
Police respond. Wrong house, Knock on the door.
Owner opens, handgun for support.
The lawmen open fire, and shoot him dead.
When everyone is armed, we will be safe—
unless some nervous cops come to your door.
Two Texas cheerleaders scanned the parking lot,
thought they found their car. Opened the door.
Wrong car. Apologized. The man inside
pulled out a gun, took aim, and shot them both.
When everyone is armed, we will be safe—
unless your car’s a common make and hue.
Angry people hole up in a fortress.
Frightened people think a gun gives clout.
Shoot first, question later; stand your ground!
Look what really happens at the door
when everyone is armed—blood, pain, and death.
When everyone is armed, no one is safe.
Copyright 4/2023 Patricia Doyne
Extra Points For Sarcasm
10:30 a.m.
I'm on my
way home after
a wild,
stoned night.
Feeling tired,
but having no
hangover feels
like a blessing.
Especially when
dealing with
dead head bus
drivers.
I don't know why,
but they never give
you a straight
answer about
their route.
I think that at
the interviews
they must employ
the nastiest people
they can possibly find.
The more of a twat
they are, the more
they want to employ
them.
Sarcasm causes
them to get extra
points too.
Or that's how
I imagine it to
be.
Eight Day Weeks
Between
sunny Sundays
and
blue Mondays,
laid a day
so dark
and full
of hate
that it shall
not be named.
Gray
There's no black,
there's no white.
There's no wrong,
there's no right.
There's no good,
there's no evil.
There's no dark,
there's no light;
because just before
the looming storm,
exists distant, infinite
shades of gray.
ThoughtsandPrayers
When a national tragedy
becomes just another day
and the news is always
"BREAKING",
grab a letter sized
white envelope
and fill it with all of the
thoughts and prayers
from your big heart
and your little head,
then lick and seal it
shut before they escape
into the open air,
stick on a stamp,
and wait until the
next day's tragedy
for the address
to mail it to
your child's school.
Hello Sorrow
Hello Sorrow
my first friend,
will you allow
me to drown
in burning rivers
of fire water,
or float like
a hollow log
as you hover over
the ghostly souls
of all who you
have met before,
until you arrive
to make the
skies cry,
or will you keep
me afloat like
a log flowing
downstream,
and we meet again,
my last friend.
Even When You're Dead
Even when you're dead
the neurons keep firing
ping-zing-bing-ding
against the inside of the skull,
but tricking others into thinking
that figeting, flickering and flinching
doesn't mean that you're still living.
