The Call of Home

Sometimes silence speaks louder than words.

In distant lands, surrounded by the noise of foreign cities, there lives a quiet space in my heart. And within that silence, there is always one voice — the call of Home.

One day, walking through a crowded street far from my country, I caught the scent of freshly baked bread. At once, my heart trembled. It was not just bread — it was the smell of my childhood yard, the warmth of my neighbors’ ovens, my mother’s voice calling: “Come, my child.” In that moment, I realized: Home never leaves us, even when we are thousands of miles away.

Every person carries a homeland within their heart. For some, it is a mother’s lullaby. For others, the shadow of mountains, the scent of rain on thirsty soil, or the laughter of children playing in dusty streets. Homeland is not just a piece of land. It is memory, it is root, it is the voice that follows you wherever you go.

I remember the soil of my childhood yard, soft and warm beneath my feet. I remember elders gathering at dusk, their words weaving history into my soul. I remember the vast blue sky of my homeland, so endless that it seemed to embrace me. Those moments became more than memories — they became my homeland itself.

And I know this: when an American remembers his homeland, he may see golden fields stretching endlessly. When an Indian remembers, he may hear temple bells and the chants rising into the air. When an Uzbek remembers, he may smell the clay-oven bread and hear the songs of ancestors. Different, yet the same. For homeland is the place where your heart first learned to beat.

Homeland is not divided by religion, race, or borders. It is a sacred whisper that says: “You are of this soil, you are of this root.” Even if years and distances separate us, even if we live on the farthest shore, one scent, one song, one word can shatter the walls of distance — and in a single breath carry us back home.

Home is love.

Home is longing.

Home is the soil that shaped us, the sky that watched over us, the dream that never dies.

And today, once again, I smell that bread. I close my eyes, and I hear the birds of my childhood, the gentle prayer of my mother. And I hear it clearly, unshakably — the call of Home.

Dilnoza Bekmurodova Navroʻzbekovna – 13 years old, born on January 31, 2012. Currently, she is a 7th grade student at the Presidential School in Karshi, Kashkadarya region, Republic of Uzbekistan. Dilnoza is interested in writing poetry, reading books, drawing, making things, and teaching others. She has been interested in creativity since the age of 7, and has been writing poems and various creative works. One of her biggest dreams for the future is to send her parents on the Hajj pilgrimage, open her own educational center, teach others, travel to many countries, and publish her author’s works. She is very interested in learning languages, and currently knows 2 more languages.