Annotation: This article provides a literary and philosophical analysis of “Jimjitlik” (Silence), a work by one of the prominent representatives of Uzbek literature, Said Ahmad. The study reveals how the author portrays the contrast between external silence and inner rebellion, the contradictions within the human psyche, and the issues of injustice and indifference in society. Through the characters of Tolibjon and Mirvali, the writer artistically interprets the struggle between good and evil, awakening and heedlessness. The article explores the symbolic and spiritual essence of the concept of “silence”, arguing that a person’s habituation to silence becomes one of the main causes of social tragedies. This study aims to deepen the understanding of the social significance of Said Ahmad to highlight the educational and awakening power of literature.

Keywords: Said Ahmad, Jimjitlik ( Silence), silence and rebellion, heedlessness, justice and oppression, human psychology, society and the individual, artistic character, spiritual awakening, social responsibility.

REBELLION BEHIND SILENCE: THE TRAGEDY OF STILLNESS IN SAID AHMAD’S WORK

Introduction

  One of the most distinguished figures of Uzbek literature, Said Ahmad, portrays life’s realities, human emotions, and social transformations with remarkable depth in his works, offering consolation through words to the unspoken pain and suffering burning in people’s hearts. The author elevates everyday realities to the level of art. The work “Jimjitlik” likewise raises pressing social and spiritual issues, confronting the reader with a truth wrapped in comforting illusions, even if only for a moment.

  Where does silence exist? Is it in the mountains caressed by clouds, in the steppes filled with blooming tulips, in streets resonating with children’s joyful laughter, or in hearts where childhood id buried, or perhaps in graves where hearts that once sheltered goodness now lie?

   The work depicts the inner storms hidden behind external silence, the contradictions within human psyche, indifference toward social changes, and how those in high positions, with bloodstained hands, rock the cradle of the people and hinder the awakening of a new generation. It reflects the lives of individuals struggling through the complexities of existence and their responses to social injustice.

  The characters in the work are vivid, convincing, and genuinely representative of the people. Each character is a product of their environment. The narrative begins with Tolibjon – who has suffered the merciless blows of life, whose unfortunate fate has left him disoriented, and who seeks a quiet refuge from the turbulent, noisy storms of a restless era – silently swallowing his bitter tears. His heart’s mute cry and wordless rebellion unfold within the embrace of “silence”. He wishes for the mountain children growing up in heedlessness to receive education, to advance not only through physical labor but also through intellectual development.

  “My youth lives in Tolibjon. The best part of my life remained in the chest of this young man”, he would say.

 At first glance, these words seem to touch the heart. Yet they belong to Mirvali – a man whose eyes have hardened like mountain rocks, whose conscience does not tremble at the sight of death, who has destroyed the lives of countless young women.

  Know this: when a person commits a sin, the face of the heart darkens. If one is fortunate, that darkness emerges outward so that they may quickly refrain from sin. But if one is unfortunate, the darkness remains hidden within, unnoticed even by the person themselves. As a result, they sink deeper into sin. Thus, Mirvali – transformed into a “frog prince” by the swamp of sin – soils his hands with the blood of countless innocents, driven by his eyes that can never be filled except with soil and by his fear of losing his seat of power.

Conclusion

 Such Tolibjons and Mirvalis can be found in every era and every place – only under different names and appearances. As you read the work, you fell an urge to caress the head of the orphan and to seize the banner of Truth from the hands of the righteous, raising it high. Yet this is not something achieved through empty words or mere imagination. First and foremost, one must refuse to accept silence and prove resistance through action. Knowledge is essential both to give voice to the emotions surging within the diminishing their power. A reader of this book comes to understand that the root of all ignorance lies in heedlessness and indifference

References

1. Said Ahmad. Jimjitlik – Tashkent: G’afur G’ulom Publishing House, various editions.
2. Said Ahmad. Selected Works. – Tashkent: National Encyclopedia of Uzbekistan Publishing House.
3. Qo’shjonov, M. Modern Uzbek Prose and Artistic Thought. – Tashkent.

Jumanazarova Mohlaroyim Islombek qizi was born in Uzbekistan on April 6, 2007. Currently, she is studying at Denou institute of entrepreneurship and pedagogy. She has successfully obtained a B2 level in English and holds several international certificates

Critical Reading of Beyond Heaven Beyond Hell 

By Jernail Singh Anand

(Critical Reading by Mauro Montacchiesi)

*

Beyond Heaven Beyond Hell is not JUST an epic poem: beyond that, it’s a philosophical inquisition staged as verse play, where divinity and humanity alike are compelled to give testimony, along with technology and conscience. Anand builds a cheeky metaphysical architecture where Heaven and Hell are no longer places you go, but states of being, and Earth is the fiercely contested reach between them. The epic posits an extreme thesis: Modern man’s moral crisis surpassed the traditional eschatology, requiring other ethical tools — judiciousness with AI, say — to read the ledger of handiwork.

At the heart of the work lies a brutal dichotomy: good is punished, evil prospers and divine justice seems slow, opaque, even corrupt. Such tension constitutes the dramatic engine of the poem.

Figures such as God, Dharmaraja, Chitragupta, Narad, Craza (the techno-king), and Robertica (the sentient machine) are not ornamental allegorical figures; they are dialectical catalysts through which Anand examines power, obligation and crimes against clear conscience. “ICU of AI” is most striking: a chillingly modern purgatory where conscience is scanned, intention weighed and punishment optimized. Here, speed replaces mercy, efficiency takes the place of mystery — and even the gods get nervous. So be it, kind of: progress goes both ways.

The epic is an artificial form that combines scriptural cadences, dramatic dialogue, chorus and philosophical treatise. The prose is deliberately plain-spoken — sometimes plain-old spoken to the point of bluntness — forgoing florid beauty in service of moral clarity. Such refrains as “Language has been used on an enormous humanity scale to delude the masses” are not poetic metaphors but moral axioms. The power of the epic lies in repetition, accumulation, relentless questioning: Why do people pray yet not act? How is it that the leaders are well and the good are ill? 

How fear triumphs when wisdom loses. Anand refuses such easy comforts; he insists on responsibility.

But a corner is turned when the poet finds himself brought before God, while still alive.

The epic’s social critique is just as unsparing. Religious heads, power brokers and the socalled “Club of the Wise” are revealed as empty holders of delegated authority. Shrines are turned into stages, rituals become form without meaning and wisdom the mask for greed.

When catastrophe at last rouses humanity’s fear, the poem compels its bitterest irony: terror restores faith where conscience had failed. What teaching failed to accomplish, thunder does. That is the verdict, as chilling as it is unforgettable.

Ultimately, Beyond Heaven Beyond Hell claims that there is nothing to look for in Heaven or Hell— both places are already instantiated in human behavior. The epic is a moral seismograph of our times: technologically advanced, ethically beggared — theatrically devout, spiritually adrift. Anand writes with prophetic urgency, not to entertain or please, but to warn. You do not close this book comforted; you close it implicated.

ALFONSO REYES: CARTOGRAPHY OF THE SPIRIT AND THE WORD, BY BEATRIZ SAAVEDRA GASTÉLUM.

By Angelina Muñiz Huberman

It is an honor to present the new book by Beatriz Saavedra Gastélum, which includes my prologue and the introduction by Adolfo Castañón, as well as the back cover blurb by Javier Garciadiego, all of whom are great connoisseurs of the work of Alfonso Reyes. Cartography means guide or maps, and we know that Beatriz belongs to the National Academy of History and Geography, as well as institutions such as the Capilla Alfonsina. She has received national and international awards and distinctions, and her work has been translated into several languages. This book, published in Spain by Sial Pigmalion, received the 2025 Aristotle International Prize for Thought and Essay.

Throughout the essays collected in “Cartography of the Spirit and the Word”, Beatriz Saavedra has managed to identify the central theme of Alfonso Reyes’s work. It is exile, with its multiple variations, contributions and losses, substitutions and discoveries, that determines the actions and creations of his prolific career. The parallels with other exiles highlight the figure of María Zambrano in her poetic-philosophical dimension. Reyes and the philosopher engage in dialogue and embody the word for a greater understanding of the world itself. “Both understood that exile is an ambiguous space: division and openness, pain and possibility.”

Regarding exile, Beatriz Saavedra says: “Life in exile, marked by the feeling of estrangement, resembles in many ways a life of fiction, where the boundaries between the real and the imaginary become blurred.”

Finally, “Cartography of the Spirit and the Word” concludes with a reflection on the metaphysics of absence in relation to the friendship between Borges and Reyes. Both were experts on absence and admirers of each other’s work. Both agreed on the essence of poetry and knowledge. Image and metaphor as suggestive projections and openness to free interpretation. Poetry as “a necessity of the soul.” Poetry in the realm of revelation where time and space are transcended.

The fitting way to end *Alfonso Reyes: Cartography of the Spirit and the Word* is with the transcription of the poem “In Memoriam,” written by Borges upon Reyes’s death, whose final lines read:

Let not my tear profane this verse

That our love inscribes in his memory.

In “Cartography of the Spirit and the Word”, Beatriz Saavedra has achieved an ideal overview, providing the reader with a panoramic view of Alfonso Reyes’s work. Thank you, Beatriz.

Smoke, Pepper, and Dancing Scars 

I like the smell of smoke and pepper that sits in the air during Christmas. And now that I am telling this story, you should know that that was the only thing I loved about Christmas this year.

It’s December 27th. I’m sitting cold and mad at the psychiatric hospital here at the Lagos Teaching Hospital. Oh yes, real mad, not angry mad. But I’m telling this story, so jokes on them, whoever they are. 

Mum used to call me her prophet, and I always hated that. I asked her once why she called me that and she said I’d only understand if I knew myself and paid more attention to what happens around me. 

I never wanted to come home for Christmas.

…

I lost my train of thoughts. Maybe because the nurse came to torture me yet again, injecting me with ugly liquids. I’ve lost count of how many times she has asked for my name. Today, I answered by reading her name to her from the name plate pinned above her chest. I thought it was funny. She thought it was further proof of my mental instability. Heck, she wrote something down. I regret it now. Let me continue. But I’m not mad. 

…

Christmas had become a religion in my family. It was so systemic and methodical, you could almost say it like a prayer. The harmattan dust clung to the cars outside, pale skies above, windows and doors thrown open with complete disregard for my photosensitivity, curtains tied back, plastic chairs rented from our Muslim neighbors stacked outside, big coolers and big pots everywhere, our loud generator ravaging in the background because NEPA hates festivities, and of course, children running in and out barefoot, some crying like viragos, some spilling food like retards. But for the smoke and pepper. 

My name is Tayo and I’m a prophet. I see things. I went home for Christmas from school, Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, by 3 p.m. on the 25th of December. The house was full of both familiar and unfamiliar faces, all parts of the annual rituals in this Christmas religion. Mum was so happy to see me and started the showoff party to people asking if I remembered them, telling tales of my three-year old self. I guess that was my most adventurous year. I saw my sisters, Tolu and Glory, then my dad, sitting in his special chair with his phone in one hand, then his brother, Uncle Deji, then mum’s best friend, Mrs. Odedele, then dad’s half brother, Uncle Jackson. Now, Uncle Jackson. 

…

My head hurts now. I might pass out. Read the previous paragraph fast-paced because that was how I wrote it because that was how I saw it. Faces flashing past like a film reel on fast-forward, naming them one by one, then suddenly the doctor lunged out at me. They say I started shaking a lot. Another ugly liquid. Where is the nurse? I need another paper. 

…

When I saw Uncle Jackson, he was snacking on the chin-chin the maid, Tolani, placed on the stool in front of him. He looked like a mafia boss lost in thoughts, deliberating his next move, mindlessly like that. He looked different from the last time I saw him, which was four years ago. There was a scar on the left side of his neck, like a burn. I started walking towards him and when he noticed me, it seemed like the scar was alive, breathing, noticing me too. It reached his eyes and when he smiled at me, the scar stiffened. I didn’t like that sight. I reached him and greeted him with a slight bow and a handshake. But Uncle Jackson is a cool uncle, so he hugged me instead. We talked about school, my work, his work, his wife, mostly his wife. But that scar. He noticed me struggling to take my eyes off it, but he didn’t seem to be interested in talking about it. He’s a cool uncle, so I figured maybe I should ask him. “Uncle, what happ…?”

 “Tayo! Tayo! Tolu go and call your brother for me.” 

That was my mum, almost screaming louder than the ravaging generator. He gave me a nod like he was giving me the permission to go to my feisty mum who wouldn’t hesitate to knock my head with a turning stick if I didn’t respond on time, even with my big age. So, no, I didn’t need his permission. 

On the way to meet mum, I knew with the confidence of a seer that something was awfully wrong. She was at the backyard, in the company of the women she hired to help with the large cooking. There was a big pot of water boiling on the firewood, and that too looked wrong. Mum said to pay attention to what happens around me, to know myself. I wasn’t putting my ears to the ground or my eyes to the invisible. I’ve never really been able to pay attention to anything. But something was calling out to me, telling me to look. 

Mum was half-smiling and half-frowning. That combination makes a fake smile and a deadly frown. Thank goodness the smile, though fake, was directed at me. She asked if I had freshened up, why my bag was still on me, called Glory to take it from me. Glory. 

…

Something is dancing in my head. I’ve felt it now for a long time. I keep hitting my head to get it to stop, but it wouldn’t. “What do you remember about the 25th, Mr. Tayo?” “At what point did you ‘realize’ and how? “Mr. Tayo, are you here?” I hate the questions, and of course, the air quote on ‘realize’, but what I hate more? “Mr. Tayo”. 

…

I looked intently at Glory when she came to take my bag. I looked intently because I saw the same scar Uncle Jackson had, on her right hand. It was the ugliest scar I had ever seen. It was breathing too. But hers was worse. It was dancing. I could see it move for real. I was about to ask her about it when mum interrupted me again, the one who asked me to pay attention. She told me to go in and freshen up so that I could eat and help her deliver food to our Muslim neighbors. 

I went in, walking fast, my feet matching the pace of my racing mind. I wondered at the oddities. Christmas was a religion here, but this was a different prayer. On my way to my room, I saw toys littered all over the passage. Water was all over too. They looked untypical. They were creepy, shapeless,… charred. 

…

Smoke and pepper. 

…

I picked one of the toys up and my fingers turned grey with ash. It felt warm, too warm, and soft in the wrong places. 

“Where in the world did these children get ashes from?” I thought.

I got to my room, opened the door, walked in, noticed how carelessly Glory dropped my bag on the bed. Did Glory drop my bag? Had I seen Glory that day? Then I remembered the scar, then Uncle Jackson, and dad, and the women cooking. I started to smell smoke and something else. It wasn’t pepper but something horrid. I dashed out to find out what it was. When I got to the passage again, I didn’t see toys. I blinked hard, but the shapes stayed the same. They were limbs. And the water? It was blood — thick, dark blood. I heard sirens and tried to rush out, but I tripped over a body. Uncle Jackson’s body. Then I blacked out, and now I’m here.

Edit: 

“Mr. Tayo, I read your paper. I am so sorry about the incident, but all that you explained could never have happened. You got a call while you were still in school from the Muslim neighbor you mentioned, telling you there had been a fire accident in your house. That was why you came home. The news must have hit you so hard that you started hallucinating at that level. I am so sorry, but everyone was lost to the fire. The fire was triggered when your late uncle was drunk and threw a knockout under a car.”

She paused for a long time.

“I will leave you now.”

She left.

It was the nurse who kept asking for my name. They let me keep these papers. They say I should keep writing. But all I can think about right now is smoke and pepper and dancing scars. 

Nothing Matters

Help me understand 
why nothing matters.
Repeatedly, I listen to
a joke that is not funny.

Maybe my ears do not
work. Maybe I am drunk,
too drunk, and my mind,

my poor mind is gone. I
could barely hear my own 

thoughts. In my head
I hear dogs barking and
a tarantula dancing and
time beating backward.

I grow tired of sound. If
a tree falls, I cannot hear
it when I see it drop in
front of me. In my head
an orange sunset swallows 
a burning plane whole.

I hear my heart racing.
I pretend my heart has 
stopped. Believe me
that nothing matters.

When I think back, I 
could never find my
footing. The ground
broke my fall. Above

the sky stood witness
all day and all of the night.

Kicking Stones

I will not go along
the road without kicking 
stones that are in the way.
I kicked one so far that
it was not seen again.
I believe it went up
to the clouds. I think it
put a hole in the sun.
I believe it brought down
a satellite. The others
only exploded right
after I kicked them,
too brittle for this world.

Go Nowhere

If I could anywhere, 
I want to go nowhere.
With these eyes as
my windows, I could
see far and wide. 
I could see inside 
myself. I could hear
everything I have 
ever forgotten. I
can see the truth
which is basically 
nothing depending 
on what you believe.
I can see nowhere.
It is where I want to go.

See the Mountains

I was born where I could not

see the mountains from the

street I grew up from birth to

seven years of age. When I

moved across the border, I

saw rivers, places named after

words I did not understand,

and I saw the mountains from

the street where I lived. I had

to relearn the alphabet, to 

learn the new words, the new 

language I would use to fit in,

to get by, to make a life, a

living in this country. On a

bright early morning I saw 

people who came to this

country like me, people who

worked hard to make a living,

to feed their family, being taken

away by masked goons. I could

see the mountains where I

stood. I wondered if I went there,

if I would be safer than living

in suburban or the urban streets.

My Suits

My suits have not been used for years.

They hang in the closet worn by a man

who was more slender in those times

the suit came off the hangar. My body

has transformed over the years, been

on the operating table, cut into to get

the cancer out to allow me to live one

more decade if the fates will allow. In

this daily existence I have measured 

my steps, counted the minutes, and

worked at a mind-drudging job to pay

the bills, care for my family, and help

those less fortunate than me. My suits 

gather dust, speechless, non-judgmental

in the same place I left them. I would

need to shed twenty, thirty, fifty pounds

to wear them well, to button at least

one button, or maybe two. My ties

have suffered from the same neglect.

The Retired French Gangster to his new Yoga Master

« Nothing remains to me

Anymore, I have lost

My wife in Miami

And which is maybe worse

All my money in Nice…

But then why would I care

It was not mine, I guess

The life of a gangster

Full of speed and distress

Drags you to the abyss…

And… Life is a true chance

If you like what you do

As my friend Mamadou

Used to tell me in France

In two thousand and two

I will start from anew

And while I stay with you

I will be happy to

Settle in Bangalore !

And I will learn some more

Of your science, Hindu…

You will open the door

For a karmic rescue,

To lift me from the floor ! »

(a moment of silence)

…

« Do you know Nice ?

It’s very nice ! »

*****

A Parisian party fiend (What he did last summer)

Partied, party again,

Toast for Amanda Lear,

With my mate Édouard Baer,

At festival de Cannes…

Moved on to Athens, Greece…

Big one in Mykonos…

The second was a loss !

Epic comeback to Nice…

Casual gig in Paris,

A place called “Trois souris”.

But, the weather was dull…

Two weeks in NYC,

Dropped it with the MCs,

Flirted with a fit girl…

Ended in Normandie,

Bound to homeland again…

Party with some old friends !

*****

The Mansion

There are trees, lawns around, a mansion and the skies…

The Sea is not here though, or as a remembrance,

The Sun plays hide and seek and a fly there dances

Trees, lawns, the Sun, the skies, this house and a fly…

And there are you and me, and we read the poems,

With a glass of juice, and smoke dims the indoor lights

As the afternoon passes and runs out of sight…

We are quiet children in the mansion of dreams !

*****

The Sea (Discussion)

The beauty of a wave

The deep warmth of the Sun

And I dream ! And Dream on

With joy for this day saved…

– Sail the Seas o my pale

Wild Dreams – I will stay here

With my girl on the clear

Sand shoreline stream – She’s Kale… 

Could you buy cigarettes ?

Asks Kale

Honey they’re off

But I Have Davidoffs

In my blue jeans pocket 

– Poke

– Once they will be back

We have a plane to take ! 

– Yes… Berlin sounds great !

I can’t wait ! 

– Please, give me a kiss…

Darling Miss !

*****

The wizard’s in love

« – I am your wizard !

Sweet Ma Margot !

What should I catch ?

Three days of blizzard ?

Or a snatch ?

Or a gin-cargo ?

A crown of dandelions ?

Or a French mansion ?

Or maybe a lark,

Singing on a birch ?

Or a bench in a church ?

Or a ship and its pavilion,

Sailing far and far ?

Or a dimension,

Of our perception,

Where we look bizarre,

And I wear a trench ? »

« -Can we light a torch,

And walk in the dark ?

Then sit to watch,

The stars ? »

*****

Kalina

Kali, o Thy, love of Shiva,

Reign onto me, with all Justice !

For my few instants : Glory, Bliss,

Of you o Thy Kali, deva…

To Kali my life will provide,

I will revere Her, night and day,

Until a new heart grows inside,

My heart ! Rectified from astray…

“- Serve ! Whisper the echoes… – Serve Her !

– You might be in Her Graces, flare !”

I dear, and I dear my prayers…

The noble Mysteries we glean,

Praying Kali, drive on a lane,

Of flowers, the thoughts of Her priests…

“Kali ! Asceticism ! Feist !”

*****

Ode to the Sun

If one looks right into the Sun

For a second the sight grows dim

Then varies the actual esteem

Of Futures, Presents and Times Gone

O Thy Sun Keeper of our Dreams

Lead us ! For an Eternal dance…

We will not forget the immense

Love you showed as laced on your beams…

When we darling buds of a tree

From Earth live the scope of our lives

Light our ways ! Everlasting Wise !

Galactic

     Glorious

           Memories !

*****

What did the French do ?

(Cock a doodle doo !)

Frenchmen are well known for their meals

Since the dawn of Time -And they set

Up many useful things : they let

To day Stew, Barrels, Omelet

Mayonnaise, Mustard, Red Wine, Ale…

After these, they hosted the Christ

Back from revival -In Marseille

He taught them Courtesy, and stayed

For a while -Till Temple’s betray…

-He left with His long kept secrets…

Then the French found out Vinegar

Of the four birds, a medicine,

Measured the weight of oxygen

With Pascal -“They think thus they are”

Had said Descartes…

Then : White Sugar

Then : Aspirin

Spleen…

Rimmel

Modern Art…

Cinema

Bras

Atome

Perfume

Swing…

Air Mail…

…

Let’s stop with Bikini !

“Et les filles

Qui habillent

Leurs menus

Coeurs Nus

Dans le Gris

Paris

Sourient…

Dis !

C’est le Paradis !”

*****

Prayer

O Thy

Lord

In the Skies

Up High…

At your

Chords

Love pours

The Hours

Angels

Orb

Channels

Eternal

My Faith

Ore

Thy Blesseth

Forever !

*****

T.26.