If you can fill your heart with compassion for friend, foe and stranger alike; if you can out of your soul hatred strike and instead resolve kindness to fashion… If you can embrace with every fibre of your being empathy for each suffering living thing; if your soul can of love and tolerance sing and vow to only the good in all be seeing… If you can sincerely forgive and forget every slight and slur hurled like words of stone darts; if you succeed in mending broken hearts and offer solace to those running in fright… Then have you conquered your nature cynical, Raised your mere humanity to heaven's pinnacle.

I look over the students one at a time: there sits the one with yellow blouse, long dark hair, there the two (seem to be intimate friends) one with yellow short hair, blue eyes, with a short with a knot and the one with black curly hair with imposed facial expression, engaged in an animated conversation in low tone, looking over me once in a while. With Black hair, like a straw, and an oddly matched blouse and a skirt, I feel intimidated inside ‘will i ever get to be friends with them?'. Part of me propels me to think so, because it craved for such friendship so long after the lockdown. My storming thoughts are fueled by Tim – our English teacher at this education center – as well as the founder, leaving me with the question ‘Will I ever get to be a good student of his?'. ‘I'm not coming for the next lesson' I say, with fear piercing through my mind. ‘I wanted to try out another education center, but if I don't like it, can I come back?' Maybe because I was trying my best to be a responsible, honest, and loyal student, or maybe because I expected him to confirm that he is okay with that because he is sure of the quality of education he is providing for students, I was struck when he said ‘no' that easily. ‘You can go, but then you have to leave, we don't take back students who left us'. While part of me grew outrageous for his unfair and biased judgment, I couldn't resist the fear of losing a teacher, even if he doesn't seem to be promising. ‘Why not?' I go on. ‘Because this is how it works'. I had sort of promised myself not to expect anything from anyone after my big disappointment from my other education center teacher, whom I overly respected, who I saw as one of the closest people to myself that I expected him to care about. At least I was his best student before quarantine. At least he had taught me for 2 years. At least for the sake of all the laughter and jokes we shared with my groupmates and that teacher. But when the quarantine started, when my world turned upside down, I realized that it was all my fantasy – a teacher caring for a student. It was only after I fought with my bias and realized that a teacher is just a teacher and a student is just a student – expect no more, and if you don't pay, you're now not even a student, you're an outsider. Therefore I had sort of promised myself not to expect anything from any teacher other than just the lesson, but still the easiness that that ‘no' came with once hit me hard, extinguishing my last bit of hope towards intimacy, kindness, and caring for others. As I go home, I nail to myself over and over again my father's words “in this world, nobody but your family (parents, grandparents and siblings), cares for you”. ‘Well, maybe this is becoming strong – you accept there is nothing like proximity, kindness, and care in your relationships with others''. I was totally tired. Tired of believing in the existence of love of teachers, friends, other than family members. I accepted. In this world, everybody is for themselves. This black and white is what the world is. I learned to be cold and keep the distance with others all the time. Until I met my other English teacher, who is now a motherly figure for me. She melted the ice in my heart and convinced me that we're not just teacher and student in the classroom and strangers outside it, but we remain teacher and student anytime, anywhere, and in any case. She convinced me that I could actually turn to my teachers, friends, not just my family when tough times come. I was hesitant as to her intimacy in the beginning after it all happened. But over her closeness with her other students, caring for them like their mother, and trying to bond the students and make them like siblings, I felt love, care, and kindness. The image that my father described, my experience with previous teachers echoed, the one that is black and white became full of color – vibrant colors. Today, I look back and always try to remind myself, when I'm struggling with my academics, that there is love, care, and kindness; life is not just black and white. True, not everyone can paint it, but that doesn't necessarily mean people who can bring colour don't exist. They do, you just need to keep believing in and meeting them someday.

Warning: Depictions of self-harm. Readers discretion is advised. Harvey's music blasted from his laptop, causing everything on his desk to vibrate. His pens and keys shook against the commanding sound waves, which jumped from its epicenter like an earthquake. He had turned the basement of his rental house into a DJ club. He was surprised a neighbor hadn't come banging on his door yet with fire in their eyes, asking him to shut it. “I ain't no therapist, but ya'll got the gist!” He sang the lyrics to his song even louder. It was a Thursday evening, and tomorrow was going to be his debut as a DJ at a local bar. There was no choice but to erupt his basement into an eardrum-smashing destruction - practice was all that filled his mind. The next verse featured a harsh rap which Harvey chanted along: “Money, cash, bank, the coins are in my fanny! Ya'll fuckin' mofos want empty hands, saying love, love love!” The music then spun into a dubstep-style track for a half minute, until the next verse arrived: “Ain't no fuckas saying no to ya'll dimes, just buy them bitches before they mine! Love ain't real, ya mental shit only wants to feel-” Cling! Harvey twitched and stopped his rap abruptly, startled by the loud clang below him which pierced his ear, even through his rowdy music. He directed his gaze below the table at the source of the noise. His lucky penny, which dropped to the concrete floor of his basement thanks to the loud vibrations of his table, was finishing its twirl before flattening. Face-up was heads instead of tails. “God dammit, can't believe I lost my groove just ‘cause of a coin,” Harvey muttered, and paused his music. He bent down to pick his penny up under the table. And that's when he heard it. Not the sound of his music; not the clinging of his coin. It was a faint rumble from upstairs in the house. Harvey glanced up to the ragged ceiling of his basement, pretending to see through the wood. His own music still echoed in his ear, making it hard to tell if he was only hallucinating. He looked back at the coin, peering at its shiny heads surface. It reminded him of a certain conversation he had with his housemate, Samuel, just a few days ago. “Dude, what if I told you I'd off myself based on the flip of a coin?” Samuel asked while sipping a beer next to his friend at their dining table. “The fuck? You're messed in the head, my guy,” Harvey replied, putting his can down and raising his eyebrows to his friend's weird statement. “Then the coin better land as a tails. You gotta support me for Friday night's party, it's my DJ debut!” “Haha, true that.” Harvey's eyes glared at the penny for only another second before a dark feeling of unease filled him to the brim. Samuel had never made such a joke before during the three years he knew him. Wait, he can't be ser-! Before the thought fully passed through his mind, his body moved before his brain. Without picking the coin up, Harvey dashed down the hallway to the stairs of his basement. He leaped a few steps up and reached the first floor of his house without issue. That was when the rumbling noise from one more floor above had become real. There was shaking between the walls, yet no footsteps bounced into his ear. “Shit!” he gasped. He ran to the next staircase, and flung himself up to the top floor of his house. In front of him was the door to his housemate's room. Grabbing the doorknob, Harvey gritted his teeth when it wouldn't open. “You fucking idiot!” he screamed and clenched both his hands into stone to brace for impact, and readied the kick of his life. His body flung at the door, shoe first at the knob, and he jumped as if delivering a karate hit. Thump! He watched the knob cave into the cracked wood, until splinters emerged. Finally, on the fifth attempt - Thwack! - the knob fell through the crack of broken timber, and Harvey barged into his friend's room. He reached to the back of his pants for his pocket knife - a small Swiss Army blade which featured multiple tools - and glanced desperately around for the silent Samuel. After performing a three-sixty, his eyes landed on - The closet! Harvey gulped. With his head covered in sweat, goosebumps devouring his skin, and every limb jittering, he swung open the sliding door to Samuel's closet. “Fucking hell.” The sight of his unconscious friend, hanging on a rather thin rope tied into a noose, was almost enough to give him a heart attack. Instead, his chest sank like a ship, and his hands twitched while reaching for the rope to cut it. With every back-and-forth movement of his knife, the tears around Harvey's eyes grew. By the time his friend dropped to the floor, those tears had already trickled down his cheeks. “Wake up, please, I'm begging you!” He dragged the fainted Samuel out of the closet, laid him on his back, and began performing CPR on both his chest and his mouth. After what felt like forever, Samuel's eyes slowly opened.

Hooray! End of the exam week! I was feeling blissfully happy that unwelcomed exams finished. As usual, we started dancing to our favorite songs with the girls as we have just finished 20-day exams. There was an announcement on the radio: we are going home for a holiday! It was such good news for all of us. The holiday was planned to be for a week or so. Nobody even thought that it would take months to come back to school. I grabbed my stuff, including clothes and my favorite book "Aleph" and then went to the amphitheater with my sister for waiting for our taxi to arrive. We spent a week at home and were getting ready to continue our studies. But then, some tragedic news... The virus that started to spread in Wuhan was also recorded in my country and for that reason, Uzbekistan has also declared a quarantine. Everybody was shocked. The government was encouraging people to stay at home, not to shake hands, and to wear masks. Daily products in stocks were being sold rapidly and more and more people who were facing poverty were having tragedic times. My family was frightened even though we had money to survive because that virus was taking the lives of people who had comorbidities. I have a grandpa, who had had two heart surgeries and it was predicted that those kinds of people would not recover from Covid-19. Knowing about that, my brother, who was studying for his Master's Degree in the field of Anesthesiology and Reanimatology in Tashkent, decided to come back home to look after him. He was considered the only one at home who could go out and buy items without being infected. Everything was going smoothly at home, we were having online lessons on Zoom and telegram and all my family members were safe and sound. But my brother, Bunyod, was thinking of working at the Central hospital for infected patients from Covid-19 in Tashkent. When he told his plan at the family gathering, my grandma started crying because she didn't want to send her son where everybody was suffering. She was afraid that her son might also get infected. He started to explain that it was his duty to serve the population when there is a disease, he has taken the Hippocratic Oath and was now feeling guilty because he was at home while hundreds of people were dying. However, my daddy who was in Dubai at that moment encouraged him to do what his heart was willing. Then my brother took the first flight to Tashkent and got an occupation there. He sent us a photo of him. He was in a disposable protective suit, covering all parts of his body, even his face. As soon as he got there, he began working with all his effort, doing his best for protecting human lives. He was in an area where some people were hopelessly waiting for their destiny, where others were crying, craving for their children and family. It was a dramatic scene, an unbearable situation for each of us. Not every doctor could do this, some of them were caring about themselves and their lives while some of them were sacrificing it. My brother was that kind of brave doctor. He didn't lose himself, grabbed his courage, and was ready to face any upcoming challenge. Unfortunately, while he was striving for human lives, my grandpa got infected at home. The virus had already taken the 70% of his lungs. Doctors in Urgench were telling us that he cannot handle this, it is absolutely hopeless to cure him. But my hero brother as a perfect child brought grandpa to his working place. Grandad was lacking air, oxygen, and his blood pressure was extremely low, he could not even speak as a result of the pain! Brother was always monitoring and recording his temperature, saturation, and the food he was eating. He was doing the same for all the patients! Most of the days, he had no sleep, and no balanced nutrition, but still, he was able to work with such potential. My father Pulat, who was in quarantine in Dubai, immediately found a way to come back and help his brother. He is not a doctor but is a responsible and golden child. He was infected by this virus twice in Dubai while working in an airport, helping people to go back to their homes. Even after that, he was still fearless and went to the hospital daily, providing medicine and injections for grandad even if he was not able to get inside the hospital. After so many healings, grandad started to recover, he was so thankful for all the kindness and prayed for them both. Almost a month later grandad recovered and was transferred to another hospital to continue the healing. The professors who told us that it was impossible were amused, I guess they still say it was just luck. Yet, there is the result of hard work, there is a possibility in impossibility, there is always hope and there are people who are courageous to face difficulties, who can sacrifice anything just because people are suffering. There is power in a promise, in a sware. There are real heroes in life. And that hero is my brother. His name is Dr. Bunyod.

In 1992, due to my mom's failing health conditions, she moved in with me. Not long after, she was diagnosed with dementia. I suspected as much since I noticed a change in her dwindling memory. While dementia / Alzheimer's is nothing to be taken lightly, what I didn't realize at the time was that mom's health condition helped me provide her with better care. Mom was soon in a wheelchair. I'll get to why that helped in a minute. Mom's dementia raced through her brain and within last two years of her life, she was completely non-verbal. (I'm also getting to that.) Mom's been gone four years now and not a day goes by that I don't wish I could do it all over again. I miss her with all my heart. While I no longer have my mom, I was given another option. A few months ago, an ad by a local gentleman was posted in our community online newsletter looking for help with his wife who has dementia. I thought I'd apply for the position since I'd taken care of mom. Mr. J was impressed with what I offered and hired me immediately. Here's where his wife differs from my mom. Mom was unable to walk. Ann can. Mom was non-verbal. Ann is somewhat verbal. Mom was very placid. Ann is most of the time but not always. If mom's imagination still existed, she didn't have the capability to show it. Ann's is and she does. Now I'll elaborate. While mom couldn't walk and Ann can, I always knew where mom was. Ann seems to have a problem sitting still for more than ten minutes unless she's eating lunch. She wanders around constantly moving anything within her reach. That's okay but all too often, she'll move her husband's laptop and important business papers. No matter where he puts them, she'll find and move them. I'm thankful their home is small. Like all homes, there are two doors: front and back. Mr. J. found it necessary to put in a second deadbolt lock in the back door that is just above Ann's reach. I count my blessings each time I'm there as Ann tries constantly to walk out the door to “go home”. I keep inventing reasons why she shouldn't be leaving the house. I tried once telling her she was home and that didn't make her at all happy. I changed tactics and said we needed to wait for her husband since he had the key to the car. That calms her down. Don't misunderstand me. Ann and I leave the house and walk around the community several times a day, but she's determined that she needs to, as I said, “go home”. She surely keeps me on my toes. The second issue is speech. Mom's speech quickly became nonexistent, as if she had no vocal chords at all. Mom never uttered one sound. Ann, on the other hand, can utter a few words but most of what she tries to say is nothing more than buzzing sounds. I know she thinks she's speaking intelligently, but in reality, what anyone would hear is: “And that one, bzzzz, bzzz, bzzzz.” I have to study her facial expressions to have an idea of whom and what she's referring to and wonder, has it made her happy, confused, or angry and then reply with, “Oh Wow! I didn't know that!” Then Ann will say, “Yeah!” We have some strange conversations that only she really understands. Ann has also exhibited a few minor anger issues. She has a stuffed toy that she loves – sometimes. She'll cradle the toy as though it were a small child. She'll sing to it, speak to it, and often hold her imaginary conversations with it. On a few rare occasions, she'll buzz-ask the toy a question. No answer. (Reminder: it is a stuffed toy that can't speak) She'll ask again. Still no answer. This might go on for a few minutes and with each time, Ann waits for an answer that won't come, her patience wanes until finally, she snaps. She'll grab the toy by the head and shake it violently while demanding an answer, “Speak to me” “Speak to me”. When no answer comes, she abruptly stands up, still tightly holding the toy by its head, and slams it down on another chair and curtly says, “Then don't answer me! Bzzzz,, Bzzzz Bzzz.” By the time, this tirade is over (usually no more than five minutes), I've retrieved a piece of chocolate and when she turns to me, I say pleasantly, “Oh Ann! Look what I've found. I think you'll like this.” She accepts the candy, sits down next to me, and picks up her small photo album and points to each photo buzzing its description. Ann is, for the most part, a delight to care for. Easy? Not at all. Pleasant? Most of the time. Would I stop going to see her? Absolutely not! The other day right before I made her lunch, I suggested she wash her hands. She did. I stood next to her with a towel. Her eyes lit up as if I'd given her a great gift. She smiled, dried her hands and said, “Thank you. You're the sweetest lady.” And then she hugged me. It was the highlight of the day! While Ann in her own way can be much more difficult than my mom had been, she could do something my mom was unable to do. She hugged me.

I have absolutely no tolerance for rude people, especially when they're rude to the handicapped. There is really no excuse for them. Here is an example of what drives me absolutely batty: Mom and I were at a store and she needed to use the ladies' room. Okay, not a problem. Since mom uses a walker, we head straight for the handicapped stall where she can have more room to maneuver her walking aid. Only this time, the stall was locked. It was in use. There were still three other stalls that were vacant. I heard a voice coming from the handicapped stall indicating someone was using their cell phone. Okay, again, not a major dilemma. It happens. Leaving the walker outside the tiny stall, I helped mom inside then turned away to block the door and give her some privacy. Mom was almost done with “her business” when I heard the lock click in the door of the handicapped stall. Out walks a girl who looked about 16 years old, talking on a cell phone and absolutely no handicap. I stared at her and said, “Really? You used the handicapped stall when there is clearly nothing wrong with you?” She looked at me as if I had 5 heads and said, “I wanted to make a phone call. I wanted my privacy.” I told her everyone in the restroom could hear her so what was the point. Again, she looked at me as if I were crazy and left the room. Now, the way I look at it, these stalls were made bigger to accommodate people with wheelchairs, walkers, mothers with small children that need assistance and mothers with infants that need changing on the installed changing table. They are not made for kids who want to use their cell phones for what they think is a bit of privacy. I can't tell you how angry I was to know that my mom had to be so inconvenienced by someone so inconsiderate. And what if she was in a wheelchair and need me to help her from the wheelchair to the toilet? She would have ended up messing herself. And for what? For the use of a teen using her cell phone?

“Ana.”   I wait for her fun-loving smile to appear.  It doesn't.  “Ana…” I try again, softer.  Still nothing.    Cautiously, I venture, “Hey… what's going on? ...  Ana…?”  She shifts.  I can see that she's clearly not okay.  My heart, just in these last ten seconds, has taken on the same weight as hers is bearing.   I don't even know what it is.  I know she won't talk, but she's not going to do this alone.  “Come here,” I whisper gently.  Ah, that works.  She lets me hold her tight; long and tight.  She clings to me.   We'll be here awhile.  I love her.  I'd hold her for as long as she needed it. “Eye-luvoo so mush.”  My voice is muffled in her shoulder, but she knows exactly what I'm saying.  “Eye-luvoo too,” she manages.  I squeeze tighter.  After a good, long time, we let go.  I take both of her hands and look into my best friend's eyes with so much love.  More than I've ever loved anyone in my life...  I cast my eyes back down, giving her respect.  Still so there, yet honoring her inclination to process in privacy.  Privacy coated in the comforting, present support of your best friend.  The security of them utterly not knowing, yet profoundly knowing nonetheless, and feeling it right beside you.  Never alone.   We sit together, quietly bearing the weight of the world hand in hand.  Inside ourselves, processing, yet hearts beating inside each other's. Stronger this way.   Ana and I. The most roaring wordless message a friend can ever give:  I'm here.   A flash of eye contact checks in every now and then.  Tender empathy. Sisterhood, unbreakable and ever-present.  Before long, I pull her back in for another hug.  We just go back and forth, hugs and hands, until the funk passes and love settles in its place.  I pray silently, and occasionally my plea to God becomes audible. I never know what I'm addressing, but I just give her all the love I know how to give, and I feel the weight of her heart beside her.  She is not alone. I will make sure of this.  I'm still hugging her, all the while aware that I will never know exactly what's going on, what she's thinking, what set off these emotions, or even quite what they are.  We'll never talk about this, and we don't have to. She is hugging back so hard that I know this is all she needs right now. Just love.   I don't know all that Ana goes through.  But I do know how to hold her tight and love her with all my heart.   At the end of the day, that's all she needed from me — to be loved.   Accepted.   Held.   Cherished.   Safe.   So I make my embrace a safe place for her.  A place where she knows she can let it all out.  She deserves it.  She's my best friend.  “I love you so much, girly,” I say, my words clear this time as I pull away and take a good look at her as only a best friend can.  I beam. Her sunshine has come back.  “I love you too,” Ana replies.  

“Ana.”   I wait for her fun-loving smile to appear.  It doesn't.  “Ana…” I try again, softer.  Still nothing.    Cautiously, I venture, “Hey… what's going on? ...  Ana…?”  She shifts.  I can see that she's clearly not okay.  My heart, just in these last ten seconds, has taken on the same weight as hers is bearing.   I don't even know what it is.  I know she won't talk, but she's not going to do this alone.  “Come here,” I whisper gently.  Ah, that works.  She lets me hold her tight; long and tight.  She clings to me.   We'll be here awhile.  I love her.  I'd hold her for as long as she needed it. “Eye-luvoo so mush.”  My voice is muffled in her shoulder, but she knows exactly what I'm saying.  “Eye-luvoo too,” she manages.  I squeeze tighter.  After a good, long time, we let go.  I take both of her hands and look into my best friend's eyes with so much love.  More than I've ever loved anyone in my life...  I cast my eyes back down, giving her respect.  Still so there, yet honoring her inclination to process in privacy.  Privacy coated in the comforting, present support of your best friend.  The security of them utterly not knowing, yet profoundly knowing nonetheless, and feeling it right beside you.  Never alone.   We sit together, quietly bearing the weight of the world hand in hand.  Inside ourselves, processing, yet hearts beating inside each other's. Stronger this way.   Ana and I. The most roaring wordless message a friend can ever give:  I'm here.   A flash of eye contact checks in every now and then.  Tender empathy. Sisterhood, unbreakable and ever-present.  Before long, I pull her back in for another hug.  We just go back and forth, hugs and hands, until the funk passes and love settles in its place.  I pray silently, and occasionally my plea to God becomes audible. I never know what I'm addressing, but I just give her all the love I know how to give, and I feel the weight of her heart beside her.  She is not alone. I will make sure of this.  I'm still hugging her, all the while aware that I will never know exactly what's going on, what she's thinking, what set off these emotions, or even quite what they are.  We'll never talk about this, and we don't have to. She is hugging back so hard that I know this is all she needs right now. Just love.   I don't know all that Ana goes through.  But I do know how to hold her tight and love her with all my heart.   At the end of the day, that's all she needed from me — to be loved.   Accepted.   Held.   Cherished.   Safe.   So I make my embrace a safe place for her.  A place where she knows she can let it all out.  She deserves it.  She's my best friend.  “I love you so much, girly,” I say, my words clear this time as I pull away and take a good look at her as only a best friend can.  I beam. Her sunshine has come back.  “I love you too,” Ana replies.