National values are the elements that make a nation truly itself and ensure its identity as a people. They distinguish us from other nations and, with their unique charm and originality, arouse curiosity and admiration in people.
Through our values, we come to know our roots and our true identity. National values are the spirit of the nation — the heartbeat that keeps it alive. Their sincerity, uniqueness, and inner beauty captivate every human heart.
What differentiates one nation from another are its language, traditions, clothing style, celebrations, and moral values.
For instance, our national values include the Navruz festival, the Uzbek people’s unique hospitality, respect for elders, and strong family unity.
Unfortunately, in today’s era of globalization, some young people are influenced by foreign cultures and begin to forget their own national identity.
The excessive impact of the internet, fashion, and foreign lifestyles can weaken our national values. Mixing languages in speech, ignoring national attire, or considering ancient customs as “old-fashioned” are dangerous tendencies.
Therefore, preserving national values is not merely about remembering the past — it is about protecting our future.
Young people play the most crucial role in safeguarding these values. If today’s generation deeply understands its history and culture, the future of our nation will be bright.
National values are first instilled within the family. Children learn from their parents’ behavior and their respect for traditions.
In educational institutions, subjects such as history, literature, and culture help awaken a sense of national pride among students.
Hence, every family and school must firmly uphold the fortress of national values.
In the age of globalization, national values are our greatest treasure. They not only distinguish us from other nations but also serve as a source of inspiration for the entire world with their unique beauty.
Our values are the bridge connecting us with our ancestors.
If each of us contributes to preserving them, future generations will take pride in their roots and heritage.
To preserve national values means to protect one’s homeland and one’s people.
Matnazarova Munisa Mahmud qizi was born October 2, 2006, in Xonqa District, Khorezm Region, Republic of Uzbekistan. Currently a student of Urgench State University.
The heart / the liver / the empty balloon of the stomach
all the machinery that made it alive
is piled into a plastic bag.
My mother washes the body until it is clean.
Until it forgets it ever had protection.
We burn it in oil and call it dinner.
But later, in the shower,
I find a single silver scale stuck to my collarbone.
A piece of the armor.
A fragment that refused to be swallowed.
Prototype_v1
00:00 [Fade in]
The project file is heavy.
I drag the timeline cursor back to the start.
We are trying to build a woman
out of mp4s and jagged pieces.
00:12 [Clip: Mother]
Zoom in: 200%
There is a track of water running down her cheek.
A silver tear / high definition / too sharp to look at.
Action: Add Text Layer.
I type the promise in bold font:
I will fix this. / I will carry the roof so you don’t have to.
I crop myself out of the frame
so there is more room for her comfort.
This is the First Daughter preset:
edit everyone else’s sorrow / until your own timeline is blank.
01:45 [Effect: Green Screen]
I stand in the center of the frame / head high.
But looking at the monitor / I know it is a trick of the light.
Opacity: 50%
I feel like a fraud in every scene / a special effect / a glitch in the system.
I am holding my breath / waiting for the error message.
Waiting to mess it all up.
If you turn off the filter
you will see I am just a scared girl
standing in front of a blank wall
waiting for the director to yell “Cut.”
02:30 [Import: New File]
My hard drive is full of corrupted footage.
Hearts that failed to export. / XYs that turned into static.
I was ready to shut the system down.
Drag and Drop: Him.
He appeared out of the blue / no color grading needed.
Suddenly the audio is clear. / The waveform is steady.
But I am hovering over the “Delete” button.
My hand is shaking.
I am terrified that if I press play
he will shatter into pixels like the rest.
Please, I whisper to the screen, don’t crash.
04:00 [Rendering…]
98%…
99%…
The fans are spinning loud / the laptop is burning my thighs.
I am waiting to become something permanent.
To be exported into a format that cannot be hurt.
But the cursor blinks.
Error: File still in use.
I am not finished yet.
[Cut to Black]
THIS LAND SPEAKS WOMAN
They found our bones beneath grinding stones,
hips wide as hunger,
ribs bent like spoons
from feeding everyone else first.
Our skulls still had hair in tight rows,
as if we were plaited even in death.
We did not die wives.
We died witnesses to how
the earth split for men
and swallowed women whole.
We were the cloth on the table,
the table,
the floor beneath it,
and still, we were asked to kneel.
You want to heal this land?
Then start with our names —
the ones stitched shut
into the hems of our mother’s wrappers.
We are in the dust,
the scent of turaren wuta and ash.
We are in the rivers,
flowing like truths too old for tongue.
We are in the cracked heels of ndị nne,
who crossed war zones
to pick pepper for soup.
Our voices grew sideways,
through floor cracks,
through the hum of songs,
through pestles beating yam to tears.
Our silence is not consent.
It is fury wrapped in ìrọ́ and bùbá,
a scream ground into millet
and spread in the sun to dry.
So when we speak, do not flinch.
For we do not knock.
We bloom through the rocks,
we crack the earth from inside out,
with bosoms plumped by famine,
and stretch marks like thunder
across a waiting sky.
Glossary
ìrọ́: Yoruba — a traditional wide wrap skirt worn by women
bùbá: Yoruba — a loose-fitting blouse, usually worn with an ìrọ́
ndị nne: Igbo — “mothers” (plural form of nne)
turaren wuta: Hausa — fragrant smoke used to scent homes and clothing
Farida Yahaya Tijjani is an 18-year-old Nigerian poet, scriptwriter, essayist, and spoken word artist. Her work explores themes of identity, resilience, and social justice, using creativity as a tool for healing and transformation. Her writing has appeared in national newspapers and is forthcoming in Aster Lit Issue 15. She also lends her voice weekly to NTA’s Nigerian Navy in Focus, where she scripts and edits the “Operation Delta Sanity” segment. Merging poetry with powerful storytelling to inspire change, Farida has performed across diverse platforms and has been recognized in both poetry and short story competitions.
Imagine a world where every morning smells of gratitude,
where hands are raised not to harm, but to embrace.
Where words are not weapons, but seeds of understanding,
and every glance becomes a prayer of silence and peace.
In that world, the old walk upright —
for the young have not forgotten them,
but follow their steps with respect.
Children play on green fields, pure of heart,
while bees whisper to them the secrets of flowers,
and the trees grow tall,
toward a sky that finally breathes
without smoke or pain.
Rivers flow clearer than ever,
carrying songs of gratitude to the earth,
each drop of water knowing its name,
each spring shining like a prayer of life.
No one measures the worth of life in gold,
but in kindness that glows from within.
Hunger is a forgotten word,
for every table is sacred,
and every heart an open temple.
Imagine cities that sing softly,
where streets smell of hopes
planted by human hands,
where people have understood that the earth is a mother,
not a servant.
That the bee is an angel,
and the forest — a cathedral of light.
And if we decided,
just once, all together,
to be thankful for every breath,
for every drop of water,
for every living being —
the world would change.
Evil would lose its home,
and happiness would find its path —
among us.
For the path to happiness does not
lead through struggle,
but through understanding.
Not through power,
but through gentleness.
Not through walls,
but through hands that plant,
and eyes that see the good.
Let the poem come alive.
Let it echo softly,
in every person who dares
to believe —
that the world can still be beautiful.
Maja Milojković was born in Zaječar and divides her life between Serbia and Denmark. In Serbia, she serves as the deputy editor-in-chief at the publishing house Sfairos in Belgrade. She is also the founder and vice president of the Rtanj and Mesečev Poets’ Circle, which counts 800 members, and the editor-in-chief of the international e-magazine Area Felix, a bilingual Serbian-English publication. She writes literary reviews, and as a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and international literary magazines, anthologies, and electronic media. Some of her poems are also available on the YouTube platform. Maja Milojković has won many international awards. She is an active member of various associations and organizations advocating for peace in the world, animal protection, and the fight against racism. She is the author of two books: Mesečev krug (Moon Circle) and Drveće Želje (Trees of Desire). She is one of the founders of the first mixed-gender club Area Felix from Zaječar, Serbia, and is currently a member of the same club. She is a member of the literary club Zlatno Pero from Knjaževac, and the association of writers and artists Gorski Vidici from Podgorica, Montenegro.
Lakshmi Kant Mukul is an Indian writer, poet, critic, rural historian and serious scholar of folk culture, born on 08 January 1973 in a rural family in Maira village, District Rohtas, Bihar province, India. His literary journey began in 1993 as a Hindi poet and since then, he has published three books in Hindi and has been published in more than two dozen anthologies and hundreds of journals. Apart from Hindi, he also writes extensively in Urdu and Bhojpuri and also translates them into English himself. His two published poetry collections are- “Lal Chonch Wale Panchhi” and “Ghis Raha Hai Dhan Ka Katora”. His published book on rural and local history is- “Yatrion Ke Najriye Mein Shahabad”.
He has received many awards for his work, including Aarambh Samman for his poetry writing in Hindi language, the prestigious Hindi Sevi Samman of Bihar Hindi Sahitya Sammelan. His English poetry has been published in many international anthologies and translated into many languages. The notable achievements of his literary career are – recognition as a farmer poet and expertise on the changes taking place in the rural environment in the global era. Having studied law, he has adopted the modern style of farming.
Postal address -LAKSHMI KANT MUKUL Village _ Maira, PO _ Saisar, SO _ Dhansoi, Buxar, Bihar [ INDIA] Mob.no._6202077236 Postcode – 802117 Email – kvimukul12111@gmail.com mob.no
“GO HOME!” I heard shouted by a biker as he sped past. I was bewildered. I was north of Chicago, visiting the continental Bahá’í House of Worship for North America in Wilmette, Illinois. Located on a ridge of land beside Lake Michigan, it can be seen from some distance. With its ribbed dome rising over the tree tops, it is a distinctive feature of the North Shore. It is a unique structure which attracts visitors from all over the world. All are welcome.
It is my spiritual home and has been for over half a century. I was not raised Bahá’í, no one is automatically Bahá’í. That is a choice each person must make for themselves. It was my choice as a young man out of high school on my own. I had been raised in a conventional Christian church in an unconventional family. My father’s mother was devout, so much so that, living on the farm next to ours, she began to come to our place every Sunday morning as soon as I was old enough to go, and would take me to Sunday School, then the church service afterwards. I was too young to put on my own pants, Dad had to hold them for me to step into, so I may have been just two or three. The sermons were long and boring, so Granma entertained me with quiet games. I eventually learned to sit still. As more children came into the family, they were added in the car too. Sunday mornings were the only times our parents had alone.
Granma taught Sunday School while we attended our classes. She had been a founding member of the church. Actually, I should say, her husband, son and brothers had been founding members, women were not allowed to vote or serve on the church board. Granma was one of the most active members of that church, yet she regretted that never once in her ninety-seven years of life had she been elected to head any of the many organizations or committees she belonged to there. She belonged to lots of community neighborhood organizations and had been elected president of them all at one time or another, more often than once, but not at her church.
Even though I was recruited for the ministry, I had my own reasons for finding another spiritual home. I never accepted the idea that everyone other than members of that church were going to Hell. I always thought God was bigger than that. Bahá’í scriptures teach that the Creator of the Universe (God) has provided Messengers/Saviors to all peoples, so none is left out. No one is condemned due to geography or time of birth. When I found the Bahá’í Faith, I embraced it immediately.
The Bahá’í Faith is as different from the belief system of that church, as the church building is from a Bahá’í House of Worship. For one thing, in a Bahá’í House of Worship, no preaching or weddings or funerals are undertaken. There is nothing in the edifice to separate people: no images, items or symbols – there are none at all. In this one, but not all, there are some brief quotations from Bahá’í scriptures around the top of the walls, in English because that is the dominant language in North America. No rituals or ceremonies are performed in this house of worship, because Bahá’ís have none to perform. With none of that, there is no altar to perform in front of. Likewise, there is no pulpit for preaching, because preaching is forbidden, as is collection of money. With no rituals, ceremonies or preaching, there is no clergy, no priest to perform these actions. There are brief worship services consisting of readings from the world’s religious scriptures, not just Bahá’í. There is no commentary on the scripture. The purpose of the building is for meditation and prayer. Though it is five hundred miles from my home, I try to go once a year just to keep in touch. There are few of them around the world because more effort, and money, has gone into providing schools in places where governments can’t. There are close to a thousand of them.
Not only is the building open to the public, but Bahá’ís consider each House of Worship they build as a gift to mankind. These structures are places where people can take a break from the world around them and pray and meditate. Anyone may enter as long as they are quietly respectful of others. It is a peaceful, quiet place for meditation and prayer for each soul.
Bahá’ís have erected Houses of Worship on each continent and more are being built. All are similar with no distractions for the worshiper, yet each is very different regarding the style of its construction. Some, in tropical climates, are open to the air. All reflect in some way the culture in which they are built. The one in New Delhi, India is in the form of a lotus blossom, often referred to as the Lotus Temple, and has been used by others to represent the entire country.
Gardens surround the nine-sided buildings (they all have nine sides, in a circular shape, that is the major architectural requirement). The gardens serve as a transition space before entering for worship. In Wilmette, a circling bench is a feature of each of the nine gardens. One does not have to go inside to pray. Each garden has a fountain in a pool to help mask surrounding noises, but they cannot obscure them all. Some of these gardens are next to a major street that nearly encircles the structure. I was in one of those gardens when a motorcycle passed by and words were shouted into the air.
“BAHÁ’ÍS GO HOME!”
The biker had rapidly passed before I could process the words. They were not words I had expected to hear. I had actually never heard them before in my presence. Then I reflected.
‘Yes, in a few days I’ll be going home, back to Kansas, but I’m sure that’s not what he meant. I could conceivably ‘go home’ to the home of my ancestors. Several came from Germany, some came from Ireland, but one of those was really Scottish, yet there are others. But part of me IS home! My Native American ancestry IS home!’
That led to a new train of thought.
‘You sir, are more likely the invader. My Native people have been here since some last ice age. Your people may well have come since then; why don’t YOU go ‘home?’
Of course, I couldn’t say any of it, and what would have been the point if I had?
Is this a slight bit of the rejection my German ancestors felt when they settled in the part of Kansas where I grew up and now live, when they tried to build a new life here in the 1860s? They were resented because they tried to make a living by the way they knew from home – making apple cider. They made two kinds: hard and soft. It was the hard cider that was objectionable, associated with drunkeness and unseemly behavior. I don’t know what all else.
After a century here, my family is well respected here (someone must have liked the cider), so this rejection was a bit startling and slightly amusing. He drove on past with no more than venting whatever he needed to express.
I thought what an impossibility it is to send people “home” when our only true “home” is planet Earth – and we are ALL home, wherever on Earth we happen to live. And, some people have little choice where that may be.
The shouter undoubtedly assumed that members of the Bahá’í Faith had come to this country from somewhere else, when that’s only partially true. The first Bahá’ís in America were born here before they knew of the religion. In fact, most Bahá’ís at this time in every country are people who were born there and learned about the religion, then adopted it as adults. The shouter was unaware that one is not born a Bahá’í. A person can be born into a Bahá’í family, with Bahá’í parents, but to be a member of the Bahá’í community must be a conscious choice sometime later in life, usually after age fifteen. One can’t make that decision for anyone else. Parents can’t make that decision for their children.
The Bahá’í Faith is based on the teachings of Bahá’u’lláh, a member of nineteenth century Persian aristocracy who spent the last forty years of His life as an exile and prisoner due to His teaching such things as there being a Messenger of God after Muhammad, the equality of women and men, and that the human race is one race. He gained nothing for His efforts. He lost all of his possessions and all worldly status. His entire family were prisoners and two sons died under those conditions. He gained nothing and lost everything, but He did not give up.
Today, millions of people around the planet read and study His words and use them to improve their lives, their families and their communities. They are demonstrating His teachings that: “The earth is one country, and mankind its citizens.” The human race is at “home” on planet Earth. We are ALL home; we ALL belong HERE, on Earth!
