Kindness and Humanity in the 21st Century

In a world driven by technology, competition, and constant change, the true value of humanity often fades behind the screens of our digital lives. The 21st century has brought incredible progress — artificial intelligence, global communication, and medical miracles — but at the same time, it has created a silent crisis: the decline of kindness and genuine human connection. Kindness, once seen as a natural part of life, is now a conscious choice that must be protected and practiced every day.

Kindness is not just about smiling at strangers or offering help to the poor. It is a universal language that connects hearts and builds trust between people. A kind word can heal emotional pain faster than any medicine. A single act of generosity can inspire hope in someone who has lost faith in humanity.

Unfortunately, modern society often measures success by wealth, power, and fame — forgetting that true greatness lies in compassion. In today’s world, many people are so busy chasing their goals that they forget the importance of simple human gestures. We scroll through social media seeing tragedies and suffering, yet we often move on without feeling empathy. Virtual likes have replaced real emotions, and digital messages have replaced face-to-face communication. But humanity cannot survive on technology alone. Without empathy, the world becomes colder, lonelier, and more divided.

The COVID-19 pandemic reminded us of how fragile life is and how much we depend on one another. During that time, we witnessed incredible examples of kindness — doctors risking their lives, volunteers helping the poor, and neighbors supporting each other. Those moments proved that no matter how advanced technology becomes, the heart of humanity still beats with compassion.

To restore kindness in the 21st century, we must begin with ourselves. It starts with small things — listening carefully, forgiving easily, and helping without expecting anything in return. Educational institutions and families should teach young generations not only knowledge but also empathy, respect, and moral values. Governments and organizations must promote social responsibility and create opportunities for people to do good. Kindness is contagious. When we treat others with respect and care, they pass it on.

Imagine a world where every person chooses kindness — there would be less hate, fewer conflicts, and stronger communities. Humanity’s future depends not on machines or money but on how we treat one another. The 21st century is not only the era of innovation — it should also be the era of compassion. Kindness does not make us weak; it makes us human. In every heart, there is a light of goodness. When we let that light shine, we make the world a better, warmer, and more peaceful place for all.

Dildora Khojyozova is a third-year student at Urgench State University, majoring in Geography. She is an active, creative, and ambitious young researcher with a strong passion for education, honesty, and environmental protection. Dildora has successfully participated in various academic projects, conferences, and writing competitions, earning several certificates and awards for her outstanding achievements. She is also one of the active members of the “Map of Honesty” project, which promotes transparency, integrity, and fair competition among organizations and educational institutions. Through this initiative, she aims to inspire young people to value honesty and social responsibility. Dildora believes that kindness, hard work, and knowledge can change the world for the better. Her ultimate dream is to become a well-known scholar, continue her studies abroad, and contribute to the sustainable development and bright future of Uzbekistan.

Golden child,

On the dark red of the earth

Mark your tracks

In weakness and Uncertainty.

Barren roads, disturbed and Flooded

Of the vile nature of the one Who has decided to steal Everything from you

Of whom in his ignorance The I AM was believed.

Golden children,

May your shine never fade

Access to believe, to dream, To grow

To have clean air and Electrifying food.

May the rain caress your feet

Multiply bonanzas

Let the rain irrigate you Hope

To build your story and build.

I apologize

For the damage done to the earth

On behalf of my parents, my grandparents,

The ancestors, who by doing nothing, we did everything

I ask your forgiveness for those who

They watered the crop with blood

That today reaches your Mouth as the only food.

There’s no way to erase the past

I don’t mean to

there is no coupon that exchanges life

if there is, I don’t have it…

what I have is hope and will

I want to share with you and inherit your resistance and resilience

Invite you not to give up even in the biggest fires

Invite you to dance life

Every time you can.

What I can do and do is give you my voice

for the calling

share my passion for this life,

Activate awareness and decision

impact transformative leadership

and fight hard in the face of uncertainty.

Let us consistently stop the actions that lead us to this deterioration and devastation.

The tension at the maximum limit found a home,

the earth catches fire, little will freezes us,

natural imbalance is our reality

we have to write, paint and dance

the world we deserve to have

as long as the oxygen reaches.

Nepantla, The Tipping Point, Deep Time: A Conversation Between Worlds

By Kandy Fontaine

In an exclusive interview I conducted last year with Weird Fiction master and vertebrate paleontologist Caitlín R. Kiernan, she spoke with haunting clarity about the concept of Deep Time:

“Human history is nothing more than a thin film floating atop the abyss of geologic time… Lovecraft’s god things… creatures that had ‘filtered down from the stars when earth was young.’ … Gothic literature where the phantoms do not haunt castles merely ancient by human standards, but by the standards of the cosmos.”

Kiernan’s words do more than illuminate a literary device—they expose a rupture in perception. Deep Time is not simply a scientific framework; it is a psychic terrain, a confrontation with scale so vast it destabilizes the ego. It is the abyss beneath our myths, our politics, our identities. It is the stage on which cosmic horror unfolds, but also the backdrop against which our most intimate transformations occur.

We are not merely living in historical time. We are drifting in Deep Time, where the boundaries of self and species blur, where the past is not behind us but beneath us, pressing upward through the thin crust of human memory.

The Tipping Point

We are at a tipping point in planetary history. The forces of what Hunter S. Thompson called “old and evil” have rebelled against the inevitable progress that comes with mutation and sudden shifts in consciousness. These forces are not abstract—they are embodied in regimes, in cultural gatekeepers, in the machinery of repression that clings to outdated notions of power, gender, and identity.

As a transfemme author, I have had to negotiate multiple spaces—some of which rejected me outright, others that claimed radicality but recoiled when I didn’t fit their aesthetic mold. The question isn’t whether I’m “better” than those gatekeepers. If Caitlín R. Kiernan—a writer of staggering intellect and vision—entrusted me to curate a literary tribute to her work, the answer is already clear.

What strikes me most about the current despotic regime that has nested itself in the White House is not just its corruption, but its fear. Fear of mutation. Fear of multiplicity. Fear of people like me and Kiernan, who embody a future they cannot control. They cling to an ignoble and outdated concept of masculinity while covering up for systemic abuse and moral rot. These things are not separate issues. They are symptoms of a deeper refusal to evolve.

Imaginary Crimes and the Politics of Projection

Among the most risible accusations leveled against Caitlín R. Kiernan are claims that she is a white supremacist and a transphobe. These are not critiques—they are projections, often made by individuals who have not engaged with her work, her life, or her legacy in any meaningful way.

Kiernan is a transfeminine author whose fiction has consistently challenged normative boundaries of gender, species, and time. Her protagonists are often liminal beings—neither fully human nor fully alien, neither male nor female, but something else entirely. Her work is not just inclusive; it is expansive, offering readers a vision of consciousness that transcends binary thinking.

To accuse Kiernan of transphobia is to ignore the lived reality of her identity and the radical empathy embedded in her narratives. To accuse her of white supremacy is to flatten the complexity of her Southern Gothic heritage, her critique of American mythologies, and her deep engagement with the monstrous as metaphor.

These accusations are not just false—they are symptomatic of a cultural moment in which nuance is sacrificed for outrage, and where the politics of purity often mask deeper insecurities. They are part of a broader pattern of imaginary crimes, invented to discredit voices that refuse to conform to the aesthetic or ideological expectations of the moment.

Kiernan’s work is difficult. It is unsettling. It does not offer easy answers or moral clarity. But that is precisely its power. It invites us into nepantla—the space between worlds—where transformation is possible, but never comfortable.

Nepantla: Walking Between Worlds

What many critics lack—especially those who’ve passionately excoriated Kiernan for imaginary crimes—is a nuanced understanding of nepantla, a Nahuatl term popularized by Gloria Anzaldúa. Nepantla is the space between worlds, the liminal zone where transformation occurs. It is not a place of comfort. It is a place of friction, of contradiction, of becoming.

To live in nepantla is to be a walker between worlds. It is to inhabit the gulfs of Deep Time while navigating the immediacy of cultural violence. It is to be trans, bi, straight, neurodivergent, nonbinary—not as fixed categories, but as fluid rotations on an axis. This is not chaos. It is rhizomatic, as Deleuze and Guattari described in A Thousand Plateaus—a network of overlapping consciousness, not a hierarchy.

Sexual identity, gender, and orientation are not static. They are dynamic systems, evolving in response to pressure, trauma, joy, and revelation. We are not fixed points. We are constellations.

Beyond Speciesism

To walk in Deep Time is to recognize that speciesism—the belief in human supremacy—is a delusion. We are not above the plants, the fungi, the microbial intelligences. We are among them. Our pleasure, our delight, our grief—they are not uniquely human. They are part of a larger ecology of being.

We must evolve. We must embrace mutation. We must see ourselves not as rulers of the earth, but as beings in Deep Time, destined to be recycled, reimagined, and reborn. This is not a metaphor. It is a biological and spiritual imperative.

Let us explore the manifold species of pleasure and delight. Let us decenter ourselves in the fullness of being aware that consciousness is multiple and overlapping. Let us maintain our grip on logic, even as we dissolve the boundaries of identity. Let us walk between worlds—not as exiles, but as architects of the future.

This is the work. This is the walk. Between worlds, across gulfs of time, toward a future that is not merely inclusive—but expansive. 

About Kandy Fontaine: Kandy Fontaine is the transfemme alter ego of author Alex S. Johnson, first manifest in the story “The Clown Dies at the End,” published in truncated form in 2015 in Imperial Youth Review. Their short stories, poetry and essays extensively explore liminal states. Forthcoming from Fontaine/Johnson as of this writing is the first issue of Black Diadem: Magazine of the Fantastique, which reproduces the Kiernan interview in full alongside “Ballad of a Catamite Revolver,” a story written by Kiernan for her Sirenia newsletter. Next year Fontaine helms The Language of Ruins: A Literary Tribute to Caitlin R. Kiernan, at her request. 

Evergreen

Daphne and Stu stood at the picture window overlooking the front yard of their mother’s home, talking quietly. 

“I don’t know,” said Daphne, “something’s not right with Mom.” 

Together they peered out the window at Mildred, who was busily watering her vast garden. “How do you mean?” asked Stu. 

“She talks to her plants,” whispered Daphne. When Stu gazed at her skeptically, she said, “Really. She even has names for them.” 

Stu laughed unconvincingly. But when his sister didn’t share the humor, he grew concerned. “Well, Mom’s always been a little edgy, Sis.” 

“No,” she disagreed. “That doesn’t even begin to describe it, Stu.” 

“What would describe it, then?” he asked. 

“Try bat-shit crazy,” suggested Daphne. 

Out into the garden they walked, stopping behind Mildred at a safe distance, observing. 

“Ooh,” said Mildred, upending a watering can over a peony. “There, that’s good, take a long drink.” Mildred tittered. 

Daphne and Stu exchanged a glance, looked back at their mother, who moved onto an azalea bush. “You take a drink too, Bob.” 

Stu nudged his sister, whispered the word, “Bob?” 

Daphne made a twirling motion with a forefinger next to her head. 

“Mom,” said Stu quietly, “come on into lunch.” 

Mildred shook her head. “Nope. I’ve got to feed my babies.” 

“Babies?” he asked. 

“Of course,” replied Mildred, taking up a huge bottle of liquid fertilizer. Dipping an eye dropper into the bottle, she began dispensing plant food, drop by drop, onto individual blades of grass. 

“Mom, lunch is ready. How long do you expect this to take?” asked Stu worriedly? 

“Well, the last time I counted,” said Mildred, “there were more than 400,000 blades of grass.” She began humming a merry tune. 

“Mom,” said Daphne, stepping across the lawn and reaching for her mother. 

“You’re crushing them!” shrilled Mildred in horror. “Get off, get off!” 

Daphne leaped back onto the pavement. 

“Ooh,” wailed Mildred. “You hurt Aaron!” 

“Who’s Aaron?” asked Stu? 

“The dandelion,” replied Mildred, cosseting the bent weed in her age-spotted hands. 

Stu made a pained face at Daphne, who rolled her eyes. “I told you so,” she mouthed silently.  

The next day Stu called Mildred’s doctor with what they observed.  Dr. Zeel thought they were overly alarmed, but agreed to have Mildred in the next week.  

Dr. Zeel told Mildred at their appointment why her children were concerned. Mildred laughed and told the doctor “Oh, that’s just a game I play to keep myself amused. I know the plants don’t listen to me. I’ll try to be more discreet around the kids.” The doctor did some tests and told Mildred everything looked good and not to worry. 

 After she got home Mildred called her children and scolded them. “You shouldn’t have gotten my doctor involved,” she said. My plants won’t like you after I tell them what you did.”  

Daphne and Stu were more concerned than ever about Mildred, but couldn’t think of what to do next. Mildred wouldn’t speak to them.  

In the following weeks Mildred’s children had to rethink Mildred’s relationship with her garden. A three hundred foot redwood which didn’t grow within seven hundred miles sprang up overnight in Stu’s backyard. Dandelions broke through Daphne’s sidewalk and driveway, fracturing the concrete. Other mysterious botanical phenomena occurred throughout the world. 

 Even Mildred did not know that her plants talked to other plants.  Fruit trees refused to grow fruit, wheat and other plants that normally provided the staff of life did not cooperate as well.  While sympathetic with the plants, Mildred recognized that she had to prevent a global catastrophe. She convinced her children to apologize to her plants so they could pass along the forgiveness to humans.  

Stu and Daphne felt really stupid, but based on the gravity of the situation, they knew they had to do it. With Mildred helping to prepare their remarks, her children addressed the plants in the garden.  

“Plants in Mildred’s garden, we were foolish,” muttered Stu. 

“We didn’t consider your feelings. We were wrong in thinking that you didn’t really understand what Mildred was saying,” added Daphne. 

Stu added: “We know plants have rights too.” 

In tandem they murmured, “We beg your forgiveness and hope that you can convince the other plants that humans depend on to provide food for them again.” 

 Mildred has listened in.  When Daphne and Stu were done, Mildred bent to the ground, then rose up and told them how her plants answered. “They will do what you want under one condition.” 

 Stu and Daphne answered in unison “Whatever they want. We’re good for it.”  

Mildred assured them, “Oh, it’s easy and I’ll do it. All they ask for is a double ration of the fertilizer treat I give them.” 

 Stu asked “It’s that easy? Can you start now?” 

 “I’m on it in the next five minutes. It’s a good thing I stocked up on their treat.” 

 Good to their “word” Mildred’s plants passed on the kids’ apology and worldwide, the plants returned to their normal behavior. 

 Four prosperous years passed before food crops went on strike again, protesting overcrowding, abrasive weed killers and that pesky hedge trimmer thing. 

Swallow wings

Cat guts

A flower peeks out

From under the snow

A newborn’s ugly

Introduction to reality

***

Someone will prepare the order for pickup and burn the burger on the fire of memories

You can feel the bloody ketchup of feelings mixed with the ashes of the past

A little mayonnaise on top of the fumes from the fire of misunderstandings

The product must be consumed before:

Bombed fast food will never be able to issue an order to a customer

***

the inquisitor with the eyes of the night

where the bloody water flows

the waves of time take away our bodies

we are nowhere

***

A folder with documents falls out of your hands

I get nervous every time before an important report

The amputated heart does not make itself felt at all

Somewhere far away someone else is kissing your buttock

But I don’t care because my cheeks are too cold for tears

I bloodily threw you in the trash [can]

My veins and capillaries no longer warm my body

I threw you away along with my heart

But why do you still live inside my head no matter what?

***

the sniper

pregnant

with death

gives birth

to silence

The Current State of Uzbek Literature

Uzbek literature today stands at a fascinating crossroads between tradition and modernity. Rooted in the rich legacy of classical poets such as Alisher Navoi and modern writers like Abdulla Qodiriy, contemporary Uzbek literature continues to evolve in response to rapid social, cultural, and technological changes.

In recent years, there has been a noticeable revival of interest in national identity and language within the literary scene. Many young writers are exploring themes of self-discovery, cultural preservation, and the tension between globalization and tradition. The use of the Uzbek language in literature has expanded, with a growing number of poets and novelists choosing to write in their native tongue rather than in Russian, which dominated much of the Soviet era.

Digital media has also played a significant role in shaping the new literary landscape. Online platforms, blogs, and social media have provided young authors with the opportunity to share their works widely, bypassing traditional publishing barriers. This democratization of literature has led to a more diverse range of voices and perspectives being heard.

However, challenges remain. The publishing industry in Uzbekistan still faces financial and logistical difficulties, and there is a need for stronger international promotion of Uzbek literature. Many talented writers lack access to professional translation and global literary networks, which limits the global reach of their work.

Despite these challenges, the future of Uzbek literature looks promising. The new generation of writers is bold, creative, and deeply connected to both national heritage and global culture. Their works reflect the complexities of modern Uzbek society—its hopes, struggles, and dreams. With continued support for education, publishing, and translation, Uzbek literature is poised to gain wider recognition on the international stage.

Toshpo’latova Muxayyo Shokirjon qizi  Student of the faculty of Philology,Uzbekistan State university World Language 3rd Year

ORH (Duane’s wife)

As the sunset swallows the day,

love incorporates identities.

You are the rain

who washes my dust away.

NO CROSSWISE STRIPES

Oh, Orh, that first spontaneous smile in the night:

I was lost and didn’t know it, and

then

your beacon found me

and now

I walk with no bear tracks beneath my feet

and no coyote in my path.

No eclipse darkens my meal.

No snake sheds in my sight.

And I can spend hours filling your well with a stone.

SACRIFICIAL

The praying sadist decapitates

her mate

for climax’ sake.

“love’s addition sometimes subtracts”

The successful huntress offers up

a corpse

on God’s doorstep.

“artists always execute their works”

You are that cat,

that mantis

and I the mouse,

the mate.

MANDALAS

The moon woos the maiden waves.

They waver between care and greed,

coyly approach or recede,

as moon acts an inconstant knave.

A worn and generous field

marries the magnificent sun,

and grainy children soon come

who inherit both Daddy’s gold

and their mother’s charity.

A river surrenders herself,

and her union with the gulf

enlarges her identity.

Maned clouds graze in bluebell skies.

When they’re spooked their hooves of thunder

will tear the air to flinders

and waken baby lighting’s cries.

WHISPERS

Your spirit’s in the Whispers–

I can’t go there anymore–

it’s haunting all the places

where we went before,

the movies, the restaurants,

the sidewalks and liquor store.

I’m mute in all the arias

I once used to score.

Our friends are sore reminders

of those joyous days of yore

when we formed a pair of selves

combined at the core.

But now the twins are severed–

reminiscences, a bore–

locations, open wounds–

Whispers’ silence roars.