Bitch, plucked the longest strands and held the roots till smoke rose
Bitch, plucked the longest strands and held the roots till smoke rose
Bitch, burned the fruit of the scalpel, acres of land encompassed in flame
Bitch, bowed before the fire and called it becoming
Bitch, said pain meant progress
Bitch, caught flame in the name of approval
Bitch, praised the fire that undid mirrors and frames
Bitch, spread the ash like makeup, smiled and saluted the heat
Bitch, juggled through the fiery circus rings and wooden splinters
Bitch, aimed and threw fiery plastics at the cool blue marine flag
Bitch, saw the glow, mistook it for freedom
Bitch, still burns like it should
Gabriel Kang is a poet whose work interrogates hunger, inheritance, and the quiet violences that shape intimacy, family, and identity. His poems often braid domestic imagery with moral tension, exploring how love can fracture into consumption, silence, and grief. Through precise lineation and restrained lyricism, his writing resists sentimentality while remaining emotionally direct. Kang’s work is informed by his background in competitive rock climbing and creative writing, disciplines that demand both control and risk. This influence appears formally in his poetry through compression, physical imagery, and an attention to pressure—what the body carries, endures, and gives way to.
His poems frequently examine the cost of survival, particularly within immigrant households, where love and necessity are often indistinguishable. He is currently a student at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in San Francisco, where his work has been developed through workshops, public readings, and literary analysis of contemporary and canonical poets. His writing engages with themes of violence, care, appetite, and moral inheritance, often using animal and food imagery as recurring motifs to expose power dynamics within relationships.
Uzbekistan’s Quiet Transformation: How a Young Nation Is Redefining Central Asia
In a world that grows noisier by the day, not every transformation announces itself with fanfare. Some unfold quietly—steadily reshaping the cultural and political geography around them. Uzbekistan is one such story.
For many Americans, Central Asia remains a distant concept: a region glimpsed through brief headlines or geopolitical maps. Yet, at the heart of this vast land lies a young nation rewriting its identity with remarkable speed and confidence. Over the past decade, Uzbekistan has emerged from international obscurity to become one of the most dynamic reformers in its region. Once known primarily for its Silk Road past, the country is now building a narrative equally rooted in innovation, openness, and civic awakening.
More than 60% of Uzbekistan’s population is under the age of 30. This demographic reality is not just a statistic—it is a driving force. Across universities, research centers, cultural hubs, and digital platforms, young Uzbeks are redefining what it means to be a modern Central Asian citizen. Many of them are multilingual, globally connected, and ambitiously future-oriented. They launch start-ups, initiate community projects, lead volunteer movements, and participate in nationwide reforms. Their voices are increasingly heard in public policy, education, environmental protection, and cultural revival.
In a region often portrayed as traditional and conservative, Uzbekistan’s youth represent a bold new energy—one that challenges stereotypes and invites the world to reimagine Central Asia. Since 2016, the country has introduced sweeping reforms in governance, economy, education, and international openness. Visas were liberalized, markets diversified, civil society strengthened, and new digital platforms created to support transparency. These policies do more than modernize the state; they reshape the everyday lives of citizens—particularly young people.
Public activism is growing, with youth councils, debate clubs, environmental movements, and anti-corruption initiatives taking root. Programs such as the national “Honesty Map,” created to promote integrity in public services, demonstrate a new wave of civic consciousness rarely highlighted in global media. For the first time in decades, the world is watching Uzbekistan not as a relic of the Silk Road but as an emerging actor with its own vision for progress. Uzbekistan’s transformation is not limited to politics or economics—it is deeply cultural. Cities like Samarkand, Bukhara, Khiva, and Tashkent are experiencing a creative revival. Museums are being renovated, festivals expanded, and heritage sites restored with global expertise. At the same time, contemporary art, fashion, literature, and film are gaining new platforms. Young designers mix ancient patterns with modern aesthetics; filmmakers explore social themes; writers introduce Uzbek identity to wider audiences. This blend of history and innovation creates a cultural mosaic that is uniquely, unmistakably Uzbek.
For decades, global narratives about Central Asia were shaped elsewhere. But today, Uzbekistan is increasingly telling its own story—and telling it well. Its young reformers, artists, scholars, and activists are contributing to a new regional identity: one that values openness, creativity, and responsible leadership. In a century defined by chaos, uncertainty, and shifting world orders, Uzbekistan offers an alternative model of growth—slow, steady, and grounded in the power of its youth. Uzbekistan’s transformation is ,,quiet” only in the sense that it has not yet dominated international headlines.
But for those who look closely, the signals are clear: a young nation is rising, and with it, a new vision for Central Asia. As global attention increasingly shifts toward emerging regions, Uzbekistan stands ready—not just as a country with a rich past, but as a society boldly building its future.
Dildora Khojyozova, 3rd-year student of Geography at Urgench State University named after Abu Rayhon Beruni.
Tonight we stare at white floodlights and children all costumed in rainbows. There is the pop-pop-pop of a mother and clinking glassware, in rainbows.
It is not enough that they are in my thoughts and prayers, my hands are sandy And hooking into flowers. Slick with my own privilege, I repent in rainbows.
When I see their little backpacks all lined up I realize chasing spirits doesn’t bring them back. And the only colors shining: red, white, and blue, not rainbows.
There is a little red man on the white house’s shoulder and he screams and screams and screams. There are little children in schools and they scream and scream in rainbows.
There is a tin toy rattling beside a steel thing with the same small grip There is a hand reaching for both, oil slicking in rainbows.
Sometimes when I look in the mirror I worry that my brother will never come home. So yes, for me, it is political. How can we speak in rainbows
With loaded AK-47s? And the scenes that flash across my TV Where no-one seems surprised at all by those police lights casting rainbows
And there is a crowd packed tightly like kindling on this summer street Their faces tilted upward for anything that flares like rainbows
And there is the slow fall of spent fireworks, Their glow brushing the pavement until i feel myself again, only smaller and in rainbows.
And these bursts fall across the country, flashing in their own strange order And I sit with it, reckoning in rainbows.
When we look back at the turn of the 20th century, we are flooded with a general feeling that the old times were good. The people were good, and its reason too was obvious, they were God-fearing, believed in goodness, visited holy places, undertook pilgrimages, and, it was joint family system, which was helpful in nurturing fellow feeling, empathy and compassion.
As the time passed, modernism took over, which meant the fall of the agrarian life, and the onset of the mechanical age. The peace of the village life was lost to the lure of the market town. As the times moved forward, the village was discarded and the people started migrating to the city. Villages were left barren and this process has kept pace even today. Migration from the villages to the cities is still going on unchecked.
What I am going to focus here is how the quality of man has dwindled over time, as machination has increased. Prosperity appears to have grown but along with it, men who enjoy thousands of amenities, have lost something very precious. I can draw a line too, with which many perceptive readers may not be in agreement. There was a generation which started working during the seventies. Before them, there was a generation of great scholars who inhabited the universities. The 2nd generation starts with seventies, in which the young men who joined services, were still touched with some sort of idealism. Actually, sixties and seventies were the times when in our country the socialist movement was in full swing, and reading Russian literature was in vogue. These young men found idealism injected into their blood and their thought too.
The generation which took to work in eighties too was touched by that idealism. They had a feeling of being true to their profession. These were the times when people felt that copying was a moral aberration. Teachers still believed in teaching the students most of the times without getting any remuneration. Morality was still a subject of debate in Colleges and Universities.
However, nineties saw an abrupt change in the sensibility of the people, and it transformed the sensibility of the time as well. This was the moment when ultra-modern times had set in. Desktop had given way to the laptop, mobiles to smart phone. These were the times when people realized there was a city called Kota in Rajasthan. Now, the race was between money and success. The more the money, the greater the success. The students were after packages. Teachers were after tuitions. It was a world of the go-getters. Those who had money could get seats in medical colleges.
It was here that the growing civilization completely shed its idealistic credentials. Now, the teachers, the students and even parents had only one passion. Job. Money was no consideration. And during these times, we gave legitimacy to a thousand things which were considered taboo in previous times. The most important thing were money and success, followed by a sense of freedom, which shook the family from its foundations.
Today, the teachers have lost all idealistic orientation. Religiosity has increased, though its internal content is missing. There is more and more knowledge and great and great success, yet students and even teachers lack basics of human behaviour. In other words, knowledge has given them fat marks sheets, top positions, without bringing to them the most precious virtue which was essential to make life meaningful: wisdom.
Today, we have a generation which has no faith in wisdom. We have administrators who have no faith in creativity. Paperwork, data, and keeping the teachers busy is the basic framework of educational policies. We know a thousand things, without understanding the basics of human character. The electronic revolution and now the AI have further reduced the man-hours which man could use for himself. The great issue today, in my opinion is, man has no time for himself, for his family, and for his mind. It is the phase when philosophy is dead, the philosopher is dead. The academic has been reduced to a paper tiger. He is forced to become a scholar where his only job is to cut and paste the available knowledge, which makes no sense to the man in the street.
We are passing through the worst phase of human development where facilities have increased, but man’s humanity is in decline. We need to arrest this fall. We need to return to a routine where we have free time for ourselves. Where we could slow down the pace of time. We need to revert back and retrieve the values we have lost in our passion for growth.
Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 180 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards. His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.
The novel opens with a shocking scene resembling a crime scene: the body of a young man named Yam is found in the square of Bran Castle in Germany, pierced by a metal rod engraved with the symbolic phrase: “You have water, but you do not have the soul.” The author uses this opening scene as a reverse introduction, beginning the narrative from its end before moving back to the past of the protagonist Yim and her struggle. Events unfold through a temporal overlap between past and present, as information about Yam (the transgender character) is gradually revealed through Yim’s memories, diary-like narration, mobile phone entries, and messages.
The narrative relies on a stream-of-consciousness technique (internal monologue), immersed in the free flow of the protagonist’s thoughts. Memories and reflections move non-linearly through Yim’s consciousness, shifting at times to her childhood in the Ghouta region of Syria, and at others to her migration or transition experience in Europe. The text highlights the tension between childhood memories (the absence of the mother and family disintegration) and present challenges (war, displacement, and integration into Western society). Thus, time and space intersect: the setting shifts from “traditional Syria” to “liberal Europe,” and time oscillates between the era of war and the era of exile. Critics have noted that this technique powerfully conveys the protagonist’s inner alienation, as Yim/Yam’s character gradually unfolds through narratives of travel and the hardships of asylum.
Characters
The novel centers on the main character Yim, who embodies the core conflict, surrounded by secondary characters, most notably: her deceased Syrian husband (the initial motive for migration), the German woman Ferdwald, who encourages her transition, the Lebanese friend Elena, and the emotionally absent and abusive father who traumatized her childhood. Through these characters, the novel dramatizes the dichotomy between the conservative East and the open West, between the “original conscience” and the “acquired self.” This character construction reinforces the idea of a triple identity: the protagonist exists as a blend of an Eastern woman, a Western man, and a lost child, locked in a continuous struggle with a fragmented self.
Core Themes and Issues
The novel fundamentally revolves around questions of identity in both existential and gendered senses. It portrays Yim’s suffering in her search for a stable self and a meaningful life, followed by her gender transition into Yam as an attempt at psychological healing from inner conflict. The work highlights the tension between her original identity and her acquired one: Yim experiences alienation from her new body and contradictory thoughts, caught between what her Eastern culture shaped in her and what the liberal West promotes. One critical study notes that the novel “examines Yim’s experience and interactions while crossing into a third gender, and how individual identity is formed and shaped by social conditions,” presenting gender transition as a decisive choice that confronts the protagonist with conflicting identities and leads to profound psychological turmoil.
The inner conflict is closely linked to external circumstances: life trials—parental loss, war, and patriarchal oppression—push Yim toward radical choices. Critical analysis suggests that these surrounding conditions drove her toward gender transition as a fateful option, yet the narrative demonstrates that this decision did not bring inner peace but instead intensified her sense of alienation and non-belonging. The protagonist’s opening testimony reflects this fracture: “I am merely the ghost of a lost man… living in a body that does not belong to him…”, underscoring the duality of gender and the impossibility of harmony between its poles.
The novel also addresses sexual liberation and homosexuality. It presents Ferdwald, a lesbian German woman who supports the transition, alongside other lesbian female characters, while criticizing sexual stereotyping in Arab societies. At the same time, it emphasizes that Western “enlightened” practices—encouraging homosexuality and transition—do not prevent the protagonist’s tragedy, but rather intensify her conflict. A journalist remarks that the novel shows how “the alleged freedom of the West quickly reveals its hidden complexities when the protagonist confronts the tragedy of integration and the exploitation of migrants,” placing the work in a critical position toward both Eastern and Western behaviors.
Additionally, the novel incorporates political and social entanglements such as asylum, smuggling, and addiction. It sheds light on refugee hardships, including the dangers posed by smugglers, and criticizes cultural fragility and the absence of social support. Although the plot centers on an individual tragedy, it ultimately projects a broader human catastrophe: the search for identity within constantly shifting environments.
Symbolism and Significance
The novel employs powerful symbols that deepen its thematic dimensions. Foremost among these is water, which recurs at pivotal moments (Europe, transition, death) as a dual symbol: on one hand, life, fluidity, and hope for freedom; on the other, drowning, destruction, and fear of collapse. Water emerges as a witness to the bleeding and fragmentation of the soul; the engraved phrase “You have water, but you do not have the soul” unites hope with tragedy, turning water into a symbol of contradiction between survival and loss.
Another prominent symbol is the number three. The title “Third of Three” suggests fragmentation and disintegration, implicitly pointing to a triangular identity (masculinity, femininity, and lost childhood) and the imbalance between them. Critics argue that the number three in the novel “indicates a state of fragmentation between past and present, self and other, and between beautiful dreams and bitter reality.” Each transformation or decision by the protagonist thus reenacts this fragile triadic condition, where the desired harmony remains unattainable.
Overall, the novel employs these symbols with expressive eloquence, suggesting that the battle over identity unfolds on rich symbolic ground. Tattoos, slogans, and blood recur in a dense network, turning each dramatic scene into a direct reflection of the inner struggle.
Style and Language
The language of the novel leans toward clear analytical narration with occasional lyrical descriptiveness. Some critics have praised Al-Mismar’s engaging style and adherence to narrative structure, combining dialogue, description, imagination, and internal monologue (including writings and mobile messages) within a cohesive plot. The protagonist’s narrative voice is personal and dynamic, marked by strong metaphors—such as “a raging sea whose depths cannot be reached”—and an intense expression of femininity and inner violence.
However, some observers note that the novel allows ample space for direct social commentary. At times, its style tends toward explicit didacticism, reinforcing its message through repetition and moral emphasis. One critic argued that the narrative structure lacks the familiar artistic complexity of tightly plotted novels, occasionally approaching a socially motivated discourse clothed in fictional form. Conversely, many readers believe that the open, poetic, and descriptive language—driven by the rhythm of stream of consciousness—draws deeply into the protagonist’s psyche, granting the text emotional authenticity.
Aesthetically, the work relies on the repetition of key terms (water, soul, loss) and figurative imagery (simile and suggestion) to reinforce its message. The title itself—“a ghost of a lost man”—functions as a poetic metaphor, infusing the text with lyrical tension throughout the protagonist’s internal expressions. At the same time, the author presents events in accessible, readable language, avoiding explicit sexual scenes and instead focusing on the psychological and existential struggle of identity, rather than sensational description.
The Novel within Contemporary Arabic Literature
“Third of Three: Fragments of the Self” occupies a distinctive position in contemporary Arabic literature, as it addresses issues of sexual and gender identity with unprecedented frankness. The novel belongs to a small body of Arabic works that tackle such sensitive themes, surpassing the customary limits of the local literary canon. Critics have observed that Al-Mismar does not follow Western writers (such as Leslie Feinberg or Jeffrey Eugenides) in affirming a “third identity” as a final resolution; instead, he adopts an opposing approach that exposes the psychological fragility of such identities. In this sense, the novel is bold in its proposition and has been described as “a daring literary work that addresses issues of identity and gender transition.”
The importance of the novel lies in its call for the Arab East to reconsider assumptions about imported notions of freedom and openness from the West. It urges Arab readers to confront inherited stereotypes about gender and migration, and calls institutions and societies to engage with these dilemmas realistically. From this perspective, the novel represents a qualitative shift in the treatment of gender issues in Arabic literature, moving beyond traditional debates about women’s roles to delve into the deeper contradictions between masculinity, femininity, self, and other.
Critical and Popular Reception
Third of Three received multiple critical readings following its publication. Critics wrote extensively about its boldness and psychological depth, with Al-Mayadeen describing it as one of the “daring literary works” addressing identity. Detailed analyses appeared in newspapers and literary platforms such as Al-Ra’i, Nakheel Iraqi, and Radar Al-Arab, examining its structure, themes, and style. The author also participated in book signings and literary discussions (in Beirut and Hermel, for example), attended by audiences and activists concerned with human rights and gender issues.
At the popular level, the novel attracted attention on digital reading platforms, with approximately 9.9 thousand readers on Kotobati and a high rating of 5.0/5, reflecting strong engagement with the text. Despite criticism of its direct style, the novel sparked debate and discussion in cultural forums and gained a reference status among Arabic works attempting to engage with gender identity issues.
In sum, reception indicates that Third of Three has been described as an exceptional and significant novel. Through a skillful blend of narration, psychological analysis, and symbolism, Ashraf Al-Mismar raises sharp questions about selfhood and belonging. Despite differing opinions about its style, the novel has undeniably left its mark on the contemporary literary scene by pushing the boundaries of subject matter and narrative courage.
The Drama of the Snow and Sebastian Sumac in that Season
-words and picture by Brian Michael Barbeito
It kept descending in the night, and for the most part, seemed like a wild secret or strange dream. It was pretty, certainly, like silent music orchestras floating around the industrial grade electric lights of town roads curt and organized or the playfully amidst Christmas bulbs residential and red, blue, yellow, green, and even purple.
And there were dreams when Sebastian Sumac did fall asleep amidst his books. A Malcolm Lowry book, a Charlie Brown book called, You’ve Got a Friend Charlie Brown, and a few others. He dreamt of clothing and people that he had outgrown, situations that didn’t fit him anymore. The subconscious was figuring things out. Many of the dreams had him lost in large cities with multitudes around, a populace that he didn’t know or fit into. He tried always to find his way home, or a sympathetic soul, but rarely encountered either.
And out there the winds northern blew the new snow to and from, and made wild crazed drifts across country roads, roads that had white outs for there was nothing to break or block the snow drifts. Finally, if one were travelling from the north to the south, the first structure of the town was an impossibly old church with stained yellow bricks, a marker of another time. It had a graveyard in the back with about thirty or forty souls buried and the stone markers though tall and well built, didn’t have the names any longer as time and seasons had eroded them. Now, each it was just a memory a soul anonymous, as perhaps little, or no other souls knew who the departed were.
Then places where the nocturnal animals travelled widely. Deer. Coyote. Perhaps other things. Their tracks could be seen on the bright of days after the snowstorms and sometimes it seemed they had gone along the very middle of frozen streams, beige reeds, and bushes on the sides very still then in time like artifacts from photographs. Sebastian pictured them, and how beautiful all the creatures looked then, say, under the quiet bright moon and going along more like a painting or dream, a separate and somehow dignified world that little to nobody ever saw.
Then the big box stores, their humungous parking lots, some abandoned vehicles on the edges and the odd large transport truck or trailer. The new world had taken over the old world and was spreading like a wave intent on overcoming coastlines and having the pulse and prowess of a seemingly infinite world behind it. Urban sprawl uniform and intentionally unoriginal, and each set of kilometres displaying a series of the same petrol stations and strip plazas and inhabitants also.
In the days Sebastian, who had shed his old name and named himself after the trees that remained red deeply and always struck his consciousness in faraway meadows and fields in a benevolent manner. He had read that some cultures had even used the sumac for dye in clothing. In an ever changing world all one really had was oneself and oneself in that situation was like the sumac when it succeeded…colourful, upright, a unique phenomenon under the azure sky…all and everything peaceful and unique up the way from labyrinthine paths in the whimsical wondrous woodlands and far enough away from the sky infrastructure of troubled and over populated cities and towns.
He stopped often and sat with a warm coffee. The shops had decorated the windows with stickers of towns themselves, towns decorated with trees and snowflakes. Again, the snow. He watched the sticker snow and the light sprinkles of snow arriving outside. And the patrons often talked of such also. ‘They are calling for more on Tuesday,’ or ‘Soon, like last year, we are going to run out of places to put it all…’ Some people were with friends and others with family, but Sumac was mostly alone. Alone with the vision of the snow, the idea of poems and travel logs or epistolary. And with the nights. The drama of dreams, books, and writing…and that snow…sometimes wafting down easily, like a languid journey being had, but also at moments fast, vexatiously even, in a rush, some gods of the other upper world intent on making winter a true winter certainty.
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. His most recent book, a compilation of prose poems and landscape photography, is titled The Book of Love and Mourning.
