Investing in girls’ education

If you educate your son, you educate one person, but if you educate your daughter, you educate an entire generation.

My name is Sarvinoz Mamadaliyeva. The problem I want to talk about is related to the education of young people, continuing their education, and entering the workforce. And I am going to talk mainly about girls’ education. Because it is better if the girls of the nation study! We know that in our country, that is, in Uzbekistan, an 11-year compulsory education system has been introduced. Post-secondary education is optional. Good education is also provided in schools, but nowadays it is difficult to enter university without going to additional classes and courses. That’s why, in Uzbekistan, the majority of girls’ education is deficient at the university or tertiary level. In postsecondary education, the gross enrollment ratio (GER) for female students (ages 19–23) is a mere 6.33 percent. This small number, however, does not indicate that young women are content with the status quo or that they are hesitant to pursue further education. Rather, it is a result of the expensive additional lesson and then university fees, insufficient support, and outmoded social norms that require young women to enter conventional family responsibilities following secondary school.

For example, when I was studying at school, I had a classmate who was good at biology and chemistry, but her family didn’t have enough money to teach her. After we graduated from school, she became engaged and married. But what if she studied? Wouldn’t she become a good doctor?

Once, I heard about Malala Yousufzai, who is a girls’ education activist. She had contributed to girls’ education in Pakistan. Nowadays she also has fund and spends it on girls’ education. Her actions really inspired me.

I have searched for solutions for this problem and found that some actions have already been taken in this field, such as educational credit, without any percentage. If a girl is accepted for a master’s degree, the tuition fees are covered by the government. But there is also a solution I want to share. And I think it will help a little to improve the lives of girls in my community. Of course, right now I can’t have a fund and provide girls financially, but I’m going to launch a project called “Her Opportunity” to teach English to 13 girls for free for 10 months I want them to take at least B2 after that course. Besides I have a friend who studies in Russian faculty at university and she also can help me to teach Russian for other 13 girls.

Well, in conclusion I want to give those girls an opportunity to make their dreams come true. Because investing in girls will certainly pay off.

About the author

Sarvinoz Mamadaliyeva, born on September 5, 2004, in the Tashlak district of Fergana region, is a dynamic and ambitious 19-year-old. Demonstrating her commitment to education, she is currently a 2nd year student in the Foreign Language and Literature Department at Namangan State Pedagogical Institute.

Sarvinoz’s journey is marked by passion for language and literature, reflecting her dedication to personal and academic growth. As she continues her studies, she embodies the spirit of promising individual poised to contribute meaningfully to her community and beyond.

We arrive in Rome to the Ryanair fanfare that really means “You’re twenty-four miles away from your destination,” and not “You’ve arrived on time”.

I have pre-booked the coach from Leonardo da Vinci–Fiumicino which will take us to Termini Station in the city centre which is just as well because there are wildcat train strikes and taxi drivers have joined in unexpectedly.

It’s charcoal dark by the time we arrive at Termini and painted sex workers are beginning to ply their trade. Hectic hustle and bustle of unloading cases segues into other coach passengers melting away into the darkness and, when it’s our turn, I try to ask the driver how we’ll get to the hotel near the Vatican but he shrugs and suddenly doesn’t speak any English. My Italian is inadequate for unrehearsed conversations. 

It looks too far to walk at night from my tourist map opened up under a streetlight and it’s in the days before smartphones and Google maps.

I am swithering about trying to get a room at the seedy hotel on the same street when a small man appears and asks, “Are you looking for a taxi? I can take you.”

I could take him in a fight, I think, so let him put our cases into the boot and we buckle up in the back of his tiny car.

Any feeling of relief disappears quickly when a huge, thin man squashes himself into the front passenger seat and childproof locks click down.

Trapped!

I grab my teenage daughter’s hand as she gives me the side eye. I want to remain calm for her sake, but my hands are clammy and there’s an acidic burn in my throat. My head throbs.

The driver and his partner chat away in their own language, and I stare out of the window trying to get my bearings. It suddenly twigs for the driver as he catches my eye in his rearview mirror and he starts to tell us where we are, pointing out the Colosseum, and “That way to the Trevi Fountain. You’ll get nice gelato there.” Il Vittoriano, Monumento looms like an old fashioned typewriter in the distance, the men laugh.

He drives too quickly through the cacophony of city streets. He seems to be an expert at driving too close, too quickly and weaving in and out of lanes without signalling. Horns scream and shriek and brake lights burst and spark in front of us. We seem to be washed by red light inside the car, faces eerily devilish.

I weigh up whether it would be preferable to die in a road accident or murdered in a strange city.

Finally I see a landmark close to the hotel – the rotunda, Castel Sant’Angelo – that I had been looking out for. Hadrian’s mausoleum looming above us might signal that this car ride isn’t as dangerous as it seems.

Miraculously, we arrive at the drop off point for hotel reception. I give the driver a twenty Euro note over and above his asking price.

The driver’s just been a chancer trying to earn extra during a strike, not a murderer or slave trader in cahoots with his lumbering friend.

€20’s a small price to pay, I figure.

-------------------------------------------------------
simpatico
 

the soft brown skin

 

all the inside jokes

 

no one understands

us

 

it shouldn't work

 

love shouldn't be

anywhere near

whatever this is

 

but i see the look

in your eyes

 

simpatico

 

fuck the world

 

stack all the fucking

decks against us

 

we will break them

all down with glee

 

with love

 

with a never-ending

sense of what is right

 

i lick the honey off

of your finger and kiss

you with all of what i

have left to give

 

everything doesn't

do it justice

 

rescued an old soul

from the bitter edge

 

hopefully now,

we jump together
------------------------------------------------------
if we could get away with it
 

i remember being on vacation

with the family and my father

got us lost while hiking in

the great smoky mountains

 

it might have been the first time

i ever thought i wonder if we killed

him here if we could get away with it

 

trust me, it wasn't the last

 

as the dysfunction grew, the vacations

became crazier and crazier

 

eventually, i was driving and the

thought became a notion that i

actually had a say in

 

never did kill him

 

but i sure was a happy motherfucker

when he did die

 

i'm sure his family reads these poems

 

part of me wonders if they ever

understood the monster he became

 

the other part of me is pretty

damn sure they don't care

 

which is fine

 

not everyone is cut out

for the family life

 

one of the genes my father

has passed along to me
----------------------------------------------------------
like a beautiful woman
 

i treat my pain like

a beautiful woman

 

it will kill me and

it is a race to see

who gets there first

 

i'm just a bystander

along for the ride

 

sometimes, i even

get to participate

 

the pills never seem

to work but jack daniels

is always in my corner

 

every once in a while

i'd love for that beautiful

woman to grab the shotgun

in the corner and use me as

target practice

 

somewhere, burroughs is

shining up an apple

 

a soft embrace

on a sweaty night

 

two lost lovers

trying to make up

for all the moments

that have escaped

 

along the way, the pain

became love and love

will kill us all
--------------------------------------------------
the endless temptation
 

hopelessly devoted to

the last beautiful soul

i ever want to know

 

longing for that kiss

 

the look of desire

 

the endless temptation

on the tip of her tongue

 

dancing under a full moon

 

the autumn crisp in the air

 

she whispers i love you

into my ear

 

my heart starts to skip

a beat

 

if i'm lucky

i'll die in her arms

 

before either of us get

a chance to ruin the

moment
--------------------------------------------------
mister right now
 

remember the one that gave

you the stevie nicks vibes?

 

the one that you had the

most sexual chemistry

with

 

i was only mister right

now for her

 

she never was going to settle

for anything less than forever,

with whom she is still with

 

welcome to the other side

of the coin

 

where you are nobody's forever,

at least anymore

 

hell, mister right now hasn't

seen the light of day for years

now

 

there comes a time when you

can't deny how much reality

fucking sucks sometimes

 

losers are the glue of society

 

you remember writing that

a lifetime ago?

 

sure, still believe it

 

still understand my place

in it all

 

more people die alone than

you happen to read about

in the newspapers



J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is slowly wasting away in the suburbs, drinking away the pain from arthritis. He's been widely published over the years, most recently at The Asylum Floor, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Rye Whiskey Review, Horror Sleaze Trash Quarterly and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

A Way to Go

Often I wake up
in the middle of the night
unable to go back to sleep
writing this
like so many others

We wait for the light
on the edge of dawn
trying to make sense
of ourselves and others
with a few words rambling
off into the blur of forgetfulness

It's  sad and silly and maybe smart
to be wise in our own eyes
giving ourselves a sigh of completeness
as we fall
and we do fall
back into the loneliness
of ourselves not knowing what we're doing.

Notice the period on the above line
that shows a good place to stop
but I keep going
hoping
something comes out of all of this....

Maybe a prayer
that I'm still involved
and finding my way to go.

All of us...
finding
a way to go.

Is that why
we wake up
in the middle of the night?



With Whispers

So I'm back
with a line of light
on the horizon...

Do you see it?
At least imagine it...

Or are little Leprechauns
dancing around on the floor
pointing at your cold feet

old feet that almost never
get out and run in the dry soft sand
of freedom

and where is the freedom
we use to read about?

Sorry...

I didn't want to go back into this...
The Leprechauns are nervous now...

But think of it...
A sunny day at a beach
where the waves are gentle and warm
and make you believe
you're young again
with someone walking toward you
to love and cry with under the covers
of a bed
safe
and silent

with whispers
of love
lasting forever.



Upward We Bend

This is the end
of another rattle of lines

hoping you read between the skips
and look up to the sky

where clouds move slowly
showing the way

of how to sit beside
all those you love

and fly Baby Fly!

Those Lost Words of Love

In your eyes I can still see the shadow of passion 
that once stormed between us 
like the force of a rushing river never ceasing 
Our talks were exciting and our interests
were so similar, as if we were one person
Then the day came when words became silent
and tears told the world our painful tale 
At times I hope that you will find the beautiful
lines of the never ending love story once again
Even now, I remember the words you once spoke,
and I swear at times you want to speak them again
Those lost words that you still refuse to say to me
sit on tip of your tongue, yet you will not utter them
But I refuse to accept that those words of love for me are not still there 
Just speak them to me once more ❤




"God! Do You Cry Too"?

Today while trying to make sense of it all
When I look around and see so much evil
When what was created so perfectly 
has become so wrong, I wonder...
Does God cry?

When I read He made me in his likeness
and He tells me clearly through his word
that there is no other love greater than His
I think of how sensitive he has made my heart
and I can't help but ask... "God, do you cry too?"

And when I see a child who has been abused
And you have called them our greatest treasures
Do you take vengeance on such evil?
"God!  How do you cope, when you see their tears?
Tell me!   Do you cry too?"

I think He must.  Because the One who taught me
how to love; Who taught me about faith; Who commanded me to love one another must have a heart as sensitive as mine.. 
and I think, "God, I believe you cry and grieve just like me."

"Because no other could care as deeply as You do."

"You count every tear I cry.. But Lord, who counts yours?"



Longing for Spring

The clouds cried again today as a cold wind blew across a sunless sky of gray.
I watch an orange fall off my tree and I wait until the rain becomes a sprinkle to collect it.
I walked outside feeling the mist hit my face
to pick up the fruit that lay on the wet earth while admiring it's vibrant orange color.
As I peel the fruit which uncovers its perfume, I close my eyes and savor it's sweet nectar.  
I enjoy seeing the green grass in the garden covered with rain, which brightens it's color. 
Spring is waiting to burst out as Narcissus flowers now show off their yellow faces.
I long to see the the blue sky of Spring again; 
Waking up to the scent of jasmine that will soon bloom, and the  gentle morning song of the sparrow that lightens my mood.
Once more will I be able to hear the owls call to me while sitting on my porch in the dark, as the coyotes howl an eerie song in unison. 
I welcome again the warm breeze that lightly touches my skin as it blows gently through the sheer curtains covering my bedroom window. 
And I will fall asleep to the calming sound of the crickets and the croaking frogs as the stars twinkle behind a bright full moon on a beautiful Spring night. 





Kristy Raines was born  in Oakland, California, in the USA. 
She is a poet, writer, author and advocate.
She has five books getting ready to publish soon, one with a prominent poet from India which will launch hopefully soon called, "I Cross my Heart from East to West", two fantasy books of her own called, "Rings, Thins and Butterfly Wings" and "Princess and The Lion", and an anthology of poems in English,"The Passion Within Me" and her Autobiography called "My Very Anomalous Life"
Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing.

1)

lingering

1,000 explosions

welcome to

the masquerade.

 2)

you trespassed

on my rituals

through slaughter

my deeper dreams

turn to black.

3) 

nearly touching

energy expanded

from

melting flesh.

 4)

sweet relief

substitute

bones for

reality.

 5)

i met you in

the metallic

kiss

your eyes

focused

on

babylon.

6) 

sparse infinity

tragedy them rocks

our unfortunate union

leading ultimately

to a death mask.

 7)

taking the coastal path

where i left your lifeless

body

in several parts

sand induced

      hysteria.

 8)

clouds over your hope

ballooning your integrity

lost within virginity.

 9)

i have a thousand

internal sons

dividing the world into

ectoplasmic futures.

 10)

dripping jewel

you brought me rust

on diamond legs

with frozen epithets.

i climbed into

your empty spaces.

 11)

you stretched across my rack

to convince me of your devotion

take your time now

to recall those old days

but take care

as the farewell leaves your lips

the scream of past days follows you.

 12)

fairy tales

surround the wooded path

where lurks the foetus

whose curses shatter

on the leafy tongues.

(ends)

Clive Gresswell is a 65-year-old British innovative writer and poet. He has several books out obtainable through Amazon or LJMcD Communications.